#in which dean keeps the mark of cain | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

godmadeaterribleerror · 6 months ago

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Chapter 5 - It's Not Enough

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), light fluff, mutual pining, angst, light smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh, kind of sick Dean? You'll see.

Summary/Warnings: You confront Dean, and the betterlust starts to become a problem. Usual Warnings, little extra angst.

Author's Note: Welcome to feelings town, USA, population 3 (Dean, Her, and us)

Chapter title from Untouched by The Veronicas

Word Count: 6.5k

Read on A03!

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

You haven’t seen Sam in three days. He’d walked out of the garage and seemingly vanished, not present at dinner, or in the library, or the Dean Cave. You’d poked your head into his room the next morning, frowned around the empty space, and felt your heart almost stop when you’d realized his bag was gone. His bag, and gun, and phone, and—as you’d learned after shifting through his dressers—enough clothing for at least a week. Later, after you’d told Dean, you’d noticed that he’d taken one of your spare, stolen cars with him.

“I mean,” you’d run your hand over the roof of a disgustingly expensive Jaguar—stolen because you had been certain the owner wouldn’t miss it—and sighed. “At least I was right.”

When you’d turned to look at Dean—practically hovering over your body—he’d just been staring at you. You’d raised your brows and nudged his shoulder with yours, and he’d blinked like you’d just shaken him out of a dream.

“Right, uh,” He’d rubbed where you’d touched him, looking between you and the car. “Right about what?”

“The cars. I’d said they’d be useful, so me and Sam could drive without taking the impala.”

He’d chuckled. “Sure, Sweetheart.”

“I was right-“

“Hey,” Dean had raised his hands in surrender. “I said sure-“

“No, you said sure.” You drop your voice to mimic his tone, holding his innocent expression with a glare, and he shrugs.

“I’m not really seein’ the difference-“

You’d rolled your eyes and turned back to the car. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

He’d taken a step closer—suddenly pressed right against your back—and his voice had been low and gravely and wholly unhelpful in your ear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t hear your own voice, Dean.” You’d mumbled, keeping all your attention on the glint of light off the paint. “I can. That’s your sure when you’re, um…”

You’d trialed off, and his hand had somehow moved to your chin, turning you to face him. “When I’m what.”

“Making fun of me?” You’d said it breathless, like a question, and Dean’s nostrils had flared.

“Well then.” He’d muttered, and you could’ve sworn he’d looked down at your lips. “Lemme make it clear, Sweetheart. I wasn’t makin’ fun, you were right. Real helpful.”

He’d lingered there for a second—long enough to make the air electric, long enough for you to wonder if this was just a really weird dream—then jerked back, leaving you a little hollow and sunken and bitter.

But he hadn’t left.

He wouldn’t leave.

You haven’t seen Sam since the garage. Dean didn’t seem worried—which was incredibly worrying within itself—and you know Sam’s a least alive, because he texted you twice a day.

Not dead. Back soon.

Tell me if Dean does anything weird.

You might have looked for him. Called him and made him tell you what the fuck possessed him just up and leave you here, tell you where the hell he was, demand to know why he wasn’t helping you deal with this. Deal with Dean, who was doing everything weird. Not chasing after or calling Sam, not trying to find another case, not leaving the bunker for anything.

Not leaving you for anything.

Because it’s been three days, and you haven’t stopped seeing Dean.

He’s with you all the time. Behind you, across from you, at your side, always touching you just a little. A hand on your shoulder or back, fingers brushing your skin or poking your arm, a foot pressed against yours under the table. Following you around like he’s a bodyguard and you’re in grave danger, sitting wherever you sit and eating whenever you eat. Standing outside of the bathroom when you go and refusing to acknowledge your questioning looks, walking you to bed every night—but refusing to ever actually look at or enter your room—and waiting for you in the kitchen every morning.

He’s always waiting for you in the kitchen. Already up and shuffling around, and you’re not quite sure he’s actually sleeping, because when you see him his skin is a little sallowed, and his eyes are heavy with bags, and he leans on the counter like his knees feel weak. Dean looks sick, every single morning, and every morning you wonder if you’d imagined it. Because his eyes meet yours and suddenly he’s full of color. Flashing you a smile and saying teasing words, no longer the hollow, deadened man you’d just seen. When you walk in he looks like an animal or husk, and then seconds later he looks like Dean.

And you’re so confused.

Sam’s gone, doing Sam things. Dean’s not avoiding you anymore, but there’s clearly something up with him, and nobody will give you a straight answer for what the fuck is going on. You’d even texted Rowena to see if she could look at the spell again, and never gotten a response back. Not even a fuck off, Dearie, I know how to do my job.

It must be the spell. It’s the only logical explanation. Rowena fucked up the spell—and she knows it, which is why she won’t respond to you—and now Dean’s trapped on you for some reason. Maybe he’s feeding the Mark with things you want—him—because Rowena had used your hair, and she wasn’t supposed to do that. It must be why Sam’s gone, to track down Rowena and get her to fix this.

And you should be ill with concern. You should be consumed by doubt about why no one trusts you with this, and drowning in worry for Dean, for what this means for him.

But you’re selfish. Dean is talking to you and smiling at you and touching you, and you’re so confused as to why, but you never want it to end. You never want Dean look anywhere else again, or guide anyone else through another door, or smirk and wink at a face that isn’t yours.

Towards the end of the third day, you don’t think you’re going to be strong enough to find out what’s going on. It’ll crumble this perfect illusion of Dean really, at least in some way, wanting you. Destroy this world where he’s lounging at you side in the Dean cave, he’s pulled your legs over his, and he’s rubbing the skin of your calf like that’s just something he does. Like it’s not something you’ve dreamed of, something that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life when Sam fixes this and it’s gone forever.

You have to ask him what’s going on now, before you get lost in a drunken haze of this perfect moment and forget your sworn duty. Help Dean. Sitting with Dean isn’t helping him. Feeding your own desire isn’t helping Dean. Indulging a fucked-up spell isn’t helping Dean.

So you push up slightly, bracing yourself on flat palms, and clear your throat.

Dean looks over to you with a drawn brow. “What’s up, Sweetheart?”

He can’t keep calling you Sweetheart like that. The same way he’s always said it, but deeper. Richer. Like there’s something you’ve never noticed in the word that’s suddenly bigger.

“I, um,” you swallow as he scans over your face, and force the words out of your mouth like vomit. “I need to know. I can’t keep, um, I don’t want to just sit here. I need you to tell me. Tell me the truth, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong-“

“Don’t lie!” You almost yelp, and he might have flinched. “I know you’re trying to like, protect me from it or something, but don’t. I’m fine, I’m a big girl, I can handle it, I can help, you just need to tell me how.” You lean forward, your voice becoming almost a plea. “Please, Dean, tell me how-“

“You can’t.” He snaps, and it’s firm but not loud. Tired but not angry. It’s worse. “Don’t bother.”

“Dean-“

“I said-“

“I know what you said!” You shake your head, growing a little frantic. “You said I ‘can’t’, which means there is something, and you won’t tell me! Dean, please tell me-“

“No.” He grunts, something heated in his eyes as they bore straight into you. “Drop it.”

“I can’t.” You try and pull your legs away, and his hold on you tightens. “Just, at least tell me why you won’t tell me!”

The room fall into a long, heavy, weighted silence as Dean just stares at you. He’s squeezing on your calf, and his jaw keeps clenching like he’s fighting the words in his mouth.

“Dean,” you whisper, moving your hand to cover his. “Please.”

His eyes shoot to your hands, his grip like iron, and he looks almost feral. Like he’s afraid of your touch, or caught in a trap, or something’s about to snap in his body.

But you try to pull back, guilt eating at the edges of your every nerve, and he holds you there. You can hear his breathes, see the tension in his body, and when he speaks it sounds painful. Growled and strained and pushed through teeth.

“I’m handling it.” He mutters, still staring at your hands. “Got a hold on it. You,” he lets out a long, slow exhale, and his hold on you loosens slightly. “Just, it’s not dangerous. Nothin’ for you to do.”

“But why won’t you tell me-“

“Cause.” His jaw twitches. “I can’t. That’s it.”

“Can’t?” You mumble. “Or won’t?”

He shakes his head, drawing another circle on your skin. “Both.”

He’s not going to move on this. Dean won’t meet your eyes, but he also won’t stop touching you, and he’s one of the most stubborn assholes you’ve ever met. If he’s not going to tell you, you probably couldn’t waterboard it out of him.

But you were right. Something is wrong, and Dean won’t tell you what. He’s almost certainly told Sam, but he hasn’t told you. Because you’re not Sam. You’re not someone he loves, or someone he implicitly trusts. He doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you, doesn’t think you could help. And it’s igniting something that stings behind your eyes, sets something heavy and choked inside your throat.

You can’t look at him. If you look at Dean, fully look at him, he’ll look handsome and sad and angry, and you’ll give in. You’ll stay here, where you’re not really wanted, and eat your own worry and fear and love until you know how to pretend that this is fine. That you don’t feel so small and useless, that Dean didn’t just take a bite out of your heart and leave you a little emptier than before, without even knowing.

He doesn’t want you to help him. He may even think you can, but it doesn’t matter, because he isn’t going to let you.

And you can’t stay here or you’ll start crying, and he’ll think you’re weak and emotional. Or worse, he’ll try to comfort you. He’ll ask why you look like he’s kicked you in the gut, and you’ll have to lie to him.

You don’t want to lie to Dean. Not right now. He’s lying to you, but you can’t lie to him. You’ve never even been able to stomach lying to Dean. It’s always make you feel itchy and sick, and right now you already feel so terrible that lying to Dean might make you vomit.

“Okay.” You whisper, tugging your legs away, and this time he lets you. “I got it.”

He says your name as you stand up, and he sounds like he’s in pain, and you can’t look at him to check. “Where are you going?”

“Bed.” You turn away, and every step to the door is mechanical and forced. “I’m tired.”

Dean’s silent behind you. He doesn’t call after you, or chase you down the hall, or even say goodnight. He just lets you go.

You don’t think he knows he had you in the first place. You don’t think he knows that, if he grabbed your arms and asked you to stay, you would’ve. If he apologized, you’d forgive him before he was even done speaking. He’s done worse than this. You fought over less, and forgiven him for more.

But he doesn’t seem to be seeking your forgiveness. And you still have enough pride to not demand it of him. To not stomp back into the room and either scream at him like a scorned lover, or crawl on your knees and beg him to tell you. Either way you’d make a total, desperate, pleading fool of yourself, and right now your dignity—or your fake mask of dignity—is all you have left.

So you’ll hide until this passes. Until Sam gets back, and Dean gets better, and you can all pretend nothing ever happened in the first place. You’ll spiral into thoughts of what could be wrong, and busy yourself with things that don’t quiet the voice in your head. The one that keeps hissing why would he have ever trusted you, you’re not that important, and you’ll force yourself think about anything but Dean. You’ll get ready for bed and not worry about if Dean will even sleep tonight. You’ll shower and try to deny yourself of the usual fantasy’s where Dean’s under the water with you, and he’s grinning at you as you fall to your knees for him in the steam.

Then he would carry you to bed, keeping you wrapped in a towel after he’d insisted on drying you off. He’d set you down on the mattress—which suddenly feels far too big and far too lonely—and crawl over your body, with a smug, annoying grin that’s far too innocent for the predatory look of hunger in his eyes. He’d kiss you all over your face until you’re giggling, and then press his palm against your core and you’d make a loud, needy gasp as he moved to nip and kiss at your breasts-

There’s a knock at your door, and you have to a long unsteady breath to clear your head. You’d somehow ended up with your back flat on the bed, your own hand between your thighs as you’d lost yourself in the empty dream of Dean wanting you, just like you’d sworn not to. You can’t speak right now, not until you’ve stopped grinding against your own fingers, stopped arching off the bed, stopped thinking about Dean’s pretty, full mouth wandering over your skin, moving lower, sucking on your clit and tongue fucking you until you screamed his name-

There’s another knock, and this time you hear your name. Grumbled through the door as Dean’s shadow shifts around outside your room, cruelly not leaving until you answer.

“What, Dean.” Your voice is flatter than you’d meant it to be, but you are tired, and if you use emotion you’ll cry or scream. And you really don’t want to do either right now.

“Are you, uh, you gonna open the door?”

He sounds uncertain, and you sigh as you push off the mattress and. You could say no. You don’t want to say no.

“What.” You yank open the door with a glare, and your mouth almost falls open as you take him in. He looks horrible. In an hour his skin has turned gray, his eyes bloodshot, and his lips are in a thin, tight line.

Any anger you’d felt vanishes in one, sharp breath.

“Jesus, Dean, are you-“

“Look, I know I don’t have the right to, but I gotta just ask-“

“Dean-“

“Can I sleep in here?” He scratches the back of his neck, his words barely a mumble as he stares at the floor. “Please.”

You blink at him in surprise. You’ve slept in the same room—even the same bed—as Dean countless times. In cheap motels when you couldn’t afford two rooms, on stiff mattresses when the only other choice was an oddly stained couch. But never at the bunker, where you all get your own rooms, and comfortable beds, and personal space. Dean’s never even been in your room. He’s knocked on your door to grab you for dinner or a last-minute hunt, staring stubbornly at the floor like he is now, remaining a solid step from the threshold like even a toe in your room would kill him.

He’s at the mantle of the door now. Still refusing to meet your eyes, still tense, but also braced like he’s waiting for permission. And you know, if you slammed the door in his face, he’d shuffle away

And you’re a selfish, lovesick dumbass, so instead of kicking him out with his tail between his legs, you look over him wearily and ask, “Why?”

“I, uh,” he glances up at you, and makes a face as if you’d shot him, his voice dropping to a low mumble. “Wanna. If you’re still pissed, I get it, but I just-“ He takes a step back, looking more and more sick by the second. “You know what, forget it. Stupid idea-“

You catch his arm, and he freezes, staring at you with something like fear in his eyes.

“I didn’t say no.” You say, because you’re a helpless dumbass, and maybe this is how he needs you. Dean isn’t good at asking for things, or apologizing, or saying please, and the fact that he’d even done one of those things tells you he means it. You can kick his ass for being such a weird dick later, when this is fixed. Right now he looks like he’s on death’s door, and if this is all he can offer you, you’ll take it.

And that’s pathetic and desperate and probably not that healthy.

And you don’t care. Dean lets you guide him into your room, over to your bed, and he won’t stop staring at you, so you don’t care. You’re not speaking, but you don’t feel like you need to. He’s listening to you in the silence of your movements, laying down when you push slightly at his chest, pulling his sheets up when you hand them to him, and waiting for you as you flip off the lights and round the mattress to your side. When you rest your hand over his, he laces your fingers together and doesn’t go further.

You don’t know how long you lay there, staring at the ceiling and holding Dean’s hand. He coughs after what might have been a minute or a year, moving his thigh to press to yours under the covers, and you don’t think before you give into his silent request. Rolling on your side so you’re facing him, where you find him already staring at you. He looks better. There’s more color on his face, less taut strain on his shoulder, and when he speaks his voice is still low, but less hoarse.

“I can’t tell you what’s goin’ on,” he mutters your name, squeezing your hand. “But you gotta trust me. It’s for your own good.”

You sigh, and give him a sad, soft smile. “It’s not.”

He says your name again, almost as a warning, and you shake your head, holding his gaze.

“Don’t argue, Dean. You know it’s not. But I’m tired of fighting.” You scoot a little closer, and—in the bravest move of your life—drop your head against his chest. “So I forgive you.”

You can’t hear his breathing. He’s stiff against you, and for a second you think you’d fucked up. Made him uncomfortable, made whatever the fuck is happening come to an abrupt end. And you don’t understand this at all, but you know you don’t want it to stop. Ever.

So when Dean, wraps his arm over your body, keeping you against him in the dark, relief explodes through you like a bomb. It’s a brief, hazy moment where it’s just you and Dean in the dark, and he’s touching you like you’re more than a body, more than a friend, more than important. Touching you like you’re an anchor. A cure.

It—combined with Dean’s heartbeat near your ear, and his hand cradling your head—lulls you to an easy sleep, and sparks dreams where Dean touches you like this for a long, long time.

And you’ve really, truly forgiven him.

But you’re not sure how you’re going to live once this goes away.

——————

Dean didn’t know where he was. It was his room, and every motel in America, and his car. Blurred and melded together, so familiar and simple and Dean’s.

Everything in here was Dean’s. The leather bench he was sitting on, the clothing tossed on the floor around him, his mattress across the room. Her.

She was here. She was naked on the bed, waiting on her knees for Dean with a smile, and so damn hot something inside him was going to explode.

And Dean didn’t know what the hell was going on.

The room kept changing. A pair of boots he’d lost years ago on a hunt were near the door, and then gone. Gone with the door. The wallpaper kept shifting between solid colors and floral patterns and stripes, and then he was in Baby, but still in his room, and the ceiling was a roof. There was wind in his face but no windows, and wheel in his hands for only a second before it was gone. He was on the impala’s bench, then in a wooden chair, then on the bed. Next to Her.

She kept changing too. Her skin was clean one moment, then covered in dirt the next. Her hair was longer, then shorter, then tangled and natty before being well-groomed and framed around Her face. She was naked, but in a strange way where Dean couldn’t actually see her body. The space between Her legs was smooth like a doll, and her boobs were just as amazing as always, but blurred at the nipple. Odd patches of Her body seemed to be covered in static, and Her hands moved in a strange, impossible way, and everything felt off.

But Her face was as gorgeous as it always was. And she was looking at Dean like she always did. With bright eyes and smile that Dean knew could fall so quickly, with something harsher behind her features that Dean had learned not to unleash, and something odd he could never figure out.

She said something Dean couldn’t hear, and his mouth moved like a puppet, saying something back he didn’t understand. She seemed to like it, though, because She laughed and crawled onto Dean’s lap.

She was on his lap. She was under him. She was on her knees.

She was on her knees, and She was touching Dean. Palming him through his jeans, watching him with wide, soft eyes and a smile, taking his cock into Her mouth and moving like she’d done it before. Like She was every great blowjob he’d ever had, but still just her. Those were Her lips wrapped around Dean like he was a popsicle, and his hand was in Her hair, guiding her up and down as she moaned and whined and started to grind onto the air.

Her fingers playing with his balls. Her tits between his cock, before it was suddenly Her mouth again, then her hand, then just her tongue. Licking over the head of him before her teeth grazed the base.

It was Her voice, however muffled and faraway, that whimpered his name around his cock. Her eyes that fluttered when he hit the back of Her throat.

Her mouth Dean came in, and her nails that dug into his thighs as he face-fucked Her through his orgasm. He was high and spinning and dying and so alive, he didn’t know where he was, but he knew he’d never come down. She was so good, she’d touched him, and everything was fucking awesome, and Dean’s whole body felt limp and wired as Her hand pumped him through the last of his release.

And it was Her thumb that swiped a dribble of cum off Her chin. Her lips that closed around that same thumb and sucked Dean off her skin.

He had to touch Her. Dean needed to touch Her, to hold her and make her come apart like that. To knead on Her skin and kiss between her breasts, to shove his fingers deep inside Her at make her unravel, to see if she’d feel even better when it was Her pussy wrapped around his cock instead of her mouth-

Dean’s eyes snapped open, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. He could barely move or think or speak. His eyes were open but filled with black spots and everything was in a painful blur. His blood was burning and heavy in his body, but his skin felt like white-hot ice, and he could taste the salt of sweat falling from his brow.

He could smell it, smell how he was drenched in that same sweat over his body, could feel how the linen sheets tangled over his body felt made him feel like he was being crushed under a mountain. Dean could taste how something foul like bile was up his throat and over his tongue and filling his nose like blood. It clouded over something sweet fruity and familiar, something that he needed to fucking devour before all his muscled seized up and his heart pounded out of his chest.

The better smell came from something he was clinging to like a goddamn teddy bear. It was firmer and warmer than the sheet, but didn’t hurt or ache to touch. It didn’t need to be tangled against Dean’s body, because it fit against him easily, molded into his hold and shifting in shallow movements, and smelling so good. Sugary and a little sour, slightly artificial but natural in Dean’s nose, and he couldn’t place it over the fog eating at his brain, but he needed it-

He inhaled deeply, a little of his vision cleared, and felt a weight drop into his lungs when he realized what he was smelling.

Cherries. Her hair was a little in his face, and it was Her body in Dean’s arms, and he was fucked. The betterlust had an iron grip on his whole body, so he could only see if he was looking at Her, only breath when he buried his face in her hair—like a fucking creep—and only move if it was to touch Her. She was knocked the hell out, and Dean wouldn’t be able to leave the bed until she woke up and he could trail after her wherever she went.

Then he remembered their fight, remembered that She might not want him near her, and it was like a stab right into his gut. Ripping through is organs and tearing a low groan from his chest, because he was a fucking idiot and now she probably hated him. He was only in here because She’d pitied him, and Dean didn’t want her pity. He just wanted Her.

He couldn’t have Her. Especially not now, when she was probably sick of him and his bullshit. When She’d left him, and he’d deserved it. He’d make the same choice again—if Dean told Her how she could help him, She’d do it out of obligation and he’d lose her forever—but that didn’t make him any less of a dick. If he was a better, stronger man none of this would be a problem. He’d be able to sit next to Her and not only think about how gorgeous she’d look under him or straddling him or with his cock in her mouth-

Another flash of pain cracked over his bones, and he couldn’t move but he had to. All the betterlust wanted was Her, and Dean couldn’t have Her, but it didn’t seem capable of getting the memo. Dean could either have Her, or die.

So he was done. He’d never be able to live with himself if he made Her do that. His own love for Her was just stronger than the betterlust, and it was telling him that She deserved better than him. That Dean couldn’t offer Her anything good, and if Dean hurt Her he might as well do the betterlust’s job for it. At least this way She’d mourn him instead of remembering him as a monster. It was the last thing Dean had managed to keep from Her, how truly horrible he was, had been, was doomed to be. How the only lines he’d never crossed were the unforgivable, unjustifiable ones.

And he wouldn’t cross them now. Even as he felt another tear carve over his brain, Dean would make sure he was put down like the feral dog he was.

Over the ringing in his ears, Dean could hear his phone. The sound was muffled in his pants, and the only thing that allowed him to grab it was the knowledge that, if he didn’t, the buzzing would wake Her up.

He managed to roll over to answer the call, not bothering to look at the ID and forcing words through his teeth.

“Who is this.”

“It’s Sam? Your brother?” Sam sounded concerned through the static of the speaker. That didn’t matter. Lately, Sam always sounded concerned.

“What.”

“That’s it? Just what? No questions about where I’ve been-“

“Sam, I’m not in the fucking mood for this-“

“Why?” Sam was suddenly urgent, his voice sounding a little further away. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.” Dean grunted, glancing over his shoulder to where She was still asleep. “Don’t feel great, but I’ve had worse. It’s fine, Sammy, go back to your secret mission.”

He was lying. Dean had been through a lot of shit, but he’d never died slowly like this, with the cure only a foot away and unable to be taken. And Sam must have heard it in his voice or something, because the little shit pushed on.

“Dean, do you feel sick?”

“Just the flu or somethin’, it’ll be fine-“

“What about your, uh,” There was a pause, something shuffling around on Sam’s end before he spoke again. “Your stomach? Have you thrown up?”

He had. Last night after She left, he’d heaved over the toilet until he was spitting up bile.

“I’ve got the flu, dude, I’m gonna throw up-“

“How does your head feel-“

“Like shit, but I’m fine-“

“Do you have a fever?”

Dean rolled his eyes, and it was getting harder and harder to speak, let alone answer dumb questions. “How the hell would I know, I’m not a thermometer-“

Sam said Her name, and he might as well have shot Dean in the heart. “You can ask her-“

“No.” Dean snapped, lowering his voice to a hiss. “We’re not involving her in this, Sam, that’s it-“

“Because you love her. And you can’t stay away from her right now.”

Dean almost cracked his jaw. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re getting at-“

“Did you guys get in a fight?”

“Watch it-“

“Dean.” Sam sounded exhausted, his long sigh buzzing in the speaker. “Please. Just answer the question, and you can beat me up when I get back.”

If he was stronger, Dean would’ve told Sam to shove it and hung up. But he wasn’t positive he’d make it until Sam got back, let alone be in any condition to kick his ass. And he couldn’t stand the thought of one of his last conversations with his brother being all lies and anger. Dean was getting really sick of lies and anger.

“We got into it last night,” he muttered. “She must’ve figured out somethin’ was up. She asked to help, and I told her no.”

“Why did you-“

“Because I’m not that much of a fucking asshole.” Dean rolled onto his back, running his hand over his face. “I’m not gonna, I don’t know, coerce her into fucking me-“

“But that would help.”

Dean thought it would. It probably would. There weren’t a lot of ways out of this, but that seemed to be one of them. And it was only slightly less impossible than the other one.

Not that it mattered. Dean wouldn’t, couldn’t, have either of them.

“It doesn’t matter.” Dean muttered. “I’m not doin’ that, Sam.”

“Okay. Is that enough?”

Dean frowned. “Enough for wh-“

“More than enough, Samuel.” Rowena cut Dean off through the phone. “You could’ve stopped the poor boy when he almost started whining after you said her name.”

“Sam.” Dean growled, his grip on the phone white knuckled. “Why the hell am I talking to Rowena.”

“Well, Dearie, your dear brother is quite worried about you and the little spell we did, and I wanted to check and make sure you were, as Samuel put it, being a fucking dumbass-“

“Rowena, just,” Sam sighed again, and his voice became a little clearer. Dean must have been taken off speakerphone. “Look, Dean, I know you. If what Rowena told me is right, you probably feel like death right now, and-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted. “Even if I do feel like I’m bein’ ripped open and stuffed with fucking spikes, I’m not gonna-“

“I know. I’m not going to tell you to. You just gotta hang on until we get back, and we’ll fix this.”

Dean swallowed, turning his head to watch Her as he spoke. “Fix it how.”

Sam sighed. “Reverse it.”

“No, Sam, I’m not goin’ back to before-“

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, man, but we’ve got two options. Rowena undoes this, or you tell her.”

“I’m not telling her-“

“Then Rowena’s undoing this.” Sam’s voice became almost stern, still lined with exhaustion, and Dean felt even more like a piece of shit. “That’s all we’ve got, Dean. We’re heading out now, don’t die until we get back. Okay?”

“Fine.” Dean held back a wet, painful cough because that probably wouldn’t help anyone. “See you.”

He hung up the phone before Sam could, and stared at the ceiling until his gaze blurred once more and everything faded into a haze. Moving in and out of darkness, the only sign of any rest being how he’d suddenly be on his stomach, or side, or under the sheets. Feeling worse and worse and worse until it was all just horrible, stabbing, blinding pain.

Then he was holding Her again. And when the world came back into focus Her pretty eyes were on his, her face barely an inch away, and something loosened over Dean’s throat.

“Dean?” She whispered, and she sounded so sad, it made Dean’s heart twist. “You’re hot.”

His tongue was loosen by the betterlust, and his judgment was washed in a craving for Her, and he was high on cherries and shea butter and something awesome he’d never smelled before—but he’d also never been this close to Her before—so Dean wasn’t able to stop his own stupid mouth from grinning at Her like a lovesick, drunken idiot.

“You’re hot.”

She flushed, and Dean was barely conscious enough to register why Her lips were slack and her eyes were wide. “What?”

“I dunno,” he mumbled, his hand drifting up Her back without a thought. “What’d you say?”

“I said you’re hot, Dean.” Her hand moved to rest over Dean’s brow, and he might have moaned. “Jesus, you’re burning.”

“Huh.” Dean moved his own hand to cover Her’s, keeping it against his skin and never breaking her gaze. “Damn.”

“Dean-“

“You smell good,” he blurted, because there didn’t seem to be anything left to stop him. He felt faint and hollow and buried, and the betterlust wouldn’t let up until Dean really touched Her, so all his willpower had to go into not fucking touching her. “And I like, uh, your mouth. ’S nice.”

“You,” She shook her head, her brows knitting as she scans over Dean’s face. “What?”

“I like your mouth. And your voice. You got a nice voice,” Dean slurred out Her name, and he wasn’t even sure what he was saying anymore. “Sounds good. Like whiskey.”

“My voice sounds like whiskey-“

“Uh huh,” he nodded, strange little lights starting to cloud his vision. “And a pie.”

“I’m gonna go call Sam-“

“No!” He was still lucid enough to keep Her hand against his forehead, to keep Her here. At his side, before he went. “Stay.”

“Dean, you look terrible-"

“You look pretty.” Dean couldn’t see Her, but She sounded worried. She was always really pretty when she was worried. “Don’t go.”

She sighed, somewhere near his cheek. “I have to. If you won’t tell me how to help you, I need to get someone who can-“

“You can help.”

There was silent for a long moment, and then a sharp, “What do you mean I can help.”

“Could make it better.” Dean let himself roll a little further into Her touch, because it kept him conscious just a little longer. “You make everything better.”

“Dean, I need you to tell me what to do, now-“

“Nah.“

“Dean Winchester,” Her other hand was on his cheek now, slapping him lightly. “I swear to fucking God if you don’t-“

Her voice faded into a sweet, calm song in the background, and Dean didn’t feel well. She sounded pissed. She was pretty when she was pissed too. She was always pretty, and Dean really didn’t feel good.

There was one more thing he had to say. Something that always lived on the back of his tongue, and was finally fighting its way to his teeth. Something he had to tell Her, had to do, or there was no chance he wouldn’t end up in something worse than hell when he was done.

He murmured Her name, and everything stopped. It was just Her hands on his cheek and brow, Dean’s own ragged breath, and silence as he dragged everything he had left to the surface to look at Her. Really look at Her.

She looked beautiful, but she also seemed ill. And worried. Maybe after this She’d never have to be worried again.

This was probably a dick move, if Dean’s really headed where he thinks he is. But the betterlust demands he say it, and maybe this small offering of something will keep him alive a few hours longer. To see Sam.

“Love you,” Dean told Her. Whispered to Her. Breathed at Her. She might not have heard it, so he said it again, starting with Her name. “I love you.”

If She responded, Dean didn’t hear it. The pound of his blood in his ears became overwhelming, and he could only taste rot, and something pulled him up into warmth and cherries and whiskey as his vision went white.

He hoped She’d heard it.

He hoped She remembered how Dean loved her, and not how he’d been such a fucking dick.

Dean really hoped, when this was done, She’d smile again knowing he’d loved her, and never have to worry again.

End Note: I'd apologize for this one, but I'm not sorry. Trust it'll pay off BIG TIME next chapter.

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supernotnatural2005 · 3 months ago

Text

Lebanon

Paring: Dean x Reader

Summary: 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.

Word Count: 7.4k (yikes 😬)

Warnings/tags: Major spoilers!! S14 Ep 13 especially, angst, fluff, canon (semi) divergence, episode rewrite (kinda).

AN: Okay so this was a lovely request from an anon which you can read here. The summary of it was John interacting with his grandson, fathered by either Sam or Dean. Ofc I went with Dean on this one. Personally I struggled finding a way to fit this in and be faithful to the boy's journey. The only thing that felt right to me was what I have written. I hope that is okay anon? ❤️

Main Masterlist

You sit at the library table with Bobby, your three-year-old son, surrounded by scattered crayons and sheets of paper filled with colourful scribbles. His tiny fingers clutch a crayon tightly as he drags it across the page, his little tongue peeking out in deep concentration. His brows furrow—just like Dean’s do when he’s focused—and the sight tugs at something deep inside you.

“Good job, baby,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his soft, sandy hair.

Even now, three years later, you still found yourself in awe of him. Of the fact that he was yours. That despite everything—despite the life you’d lived, the battles you’d fought, the countless times you weren’t sure you’d even see another day—you had him.

You never thought you’d even be able to have a kid after all the knocks your body had taken over the years. But then Bobby happened—an accident, sure, but never a mistake. Not once. And Dean… Dean had loved him from the second he knew he existed. He loved him with everything in him.

A lot had happened since you first met Dean. You’d bumped into him and Sam on a case years ago, all of you unknowingly hunting the same thing. Sparks flew instantly—partly from attraction, but mostly from the sheer force of your clashing egos. Neither of you were the type to back down. He was cocky, you were stubborn, and together, you were like gasoline to his flame.

But somewhere between the banter and the bickering, a friendship formed. The three of you started meeting up more, sharing research, trading expertise. And then, one night, that tension between you and Dean finally broke.

After that… Well, life never stopped moving.

Losing Bobby Singer. Dean being dragged to Purgatory. Losing him for a year. Getting him back. Then the angels fell. Metatron. Almost losing Sam. Sam being possessed by Gadreel. Losing Kevin. Losing Charlie. The Mark of Cain. Losing Dean again—only to get him back as a demon. Getting rid of the Mark, but unleashing something worse—God’s sister, the Darkness. Oh and God was Chuck? Then Mary came back. Then Lucifer and he had a son, Jack—a Nephilim who, against all odds, had become family. And then there was the discovery of other earths, alternate realities bleeding into their own, which had led you here.

To Michael.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, you’d fell pregnant and raised a, now, three-year-old.

Bobby had been the one good, untouchable thing in all of it.

But since Michael… Everything was different, because of your son.

Dean had been in turmoil. He hid it well most days, but you saw it—in the clench of his jaw, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake off a weight he couldn’t see.

Michael was still there, buried deep, locked away—for now. And that terrified him. Not just for himself, but for you. For Bobby. Because no matter how strong his will was, no matter how hard he fought to keep control, there was always that lingering fear…

What if the lock didn’t hold?

So you did what you always did. You held everything together. For him. For Bobby. For all of you.

Because no matter how much the world took from you, you still had each other.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still holding out for another miracle.

The heavy bunker doors creaked open, and Bobby’s head snapped up. His green eyes went wide with excitement, his crayon slipping from his grasp.

“Daddy!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the library.

You barely manage to help him down from his chair before he bolts, little legs pumping as fast as they can across the cold bunker floor. His tousled hair bounces with each hurried step, arms swinging as he races toward the only person in the world who could make him forget everything else.

Dean barely has time to brace himself before Bobby collides with him, tiny hands grabbing at his flannel. A tired but genuine laugh escapes Dean as he scoops him up with ease, holding him close. The exhaustion lining his face softens, replaced by something warm and unshakable.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head. “You miss me?”

Bobby nods enthusiastically, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

The sight pulls at something deep in your chest—Dean, looking worn from whatever they’d just faced, but still lighting up the second he has his son in his arms. His perfect little double. The same green eyes, the same cluster of freckles dusting his little nose.

Sam steps forward, offering you a tired smile before ruffling Bobby’s hair. “Hey, little man.”

Bobby grins, immediately stretching his arms toward his uncle. Sam chuckles, taking him with ease, and Bobby squeals as he’s lifted high, giggling when Sam playfully swings him in the air. Your son has them both wrapped around his tiny fingers, and they don’t even try to hide it.

But your gaze flickers back to Dean, and you immediately notice the weight in his stance. The way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shake something off but can’t. The way his smile, as bright as it is for Bobby, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

Dean and Sam exchange a look—silent, heavy, something unspoken passing between them. And then, after a beat, Dean finally meets your gaze.

“A Baozhu?” you echo, brows knitting together as you absorb everything Dean and Sam just told you. The day they’d had sounded like something straight out of a horror novel.

It started with them tracking down an old friend—well, former hunter—who had been murdered. His death led them to an antique shop owner who had a whole damn room full of occult objects. Dean had rattled off some of the inventory like a bad joke—dragon’s breath in a perfume bottle, a skull supposedly belonging to Sarah Good from the Salem witch trials.

And then, just when things couldn’t get crazier, a couple of idiot teenagers stole Baby, along with all the cursed artefacts they had loaded into the trunk. Dean’s jaw still ticked when he mentioned it, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing—because, yeah, it was serious, but the way he got so damn worked up about his car was just so him.

That would’ve been enough of a headache, but then came the kicker. One of the stolen objects contained a spirit. And not just any spirit—the ghost of John Wayne Gacy.

“Seriously?” you’d blurted when Sam told you. “Like, the John Wayne Gacy?”

“Yup,” Dean had muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Evil clown and all.”

Sam still looked a little queasy at the memory, and you knew why—his fear of clowns was legendary. But thankfully, the boys had handled it, no one got hurt, and the worst that came out of it was a couple of traumatised teenagers who now knew the truth about what lurked in the dark.

But out of everything, the most important discovery was the pearl.

Sam sits at the table now, flipping through an old lore book, his eyes scanning the pages. “It’s supposed to grant the user their heart’s greatest desire,” he explains. “Like a wish.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of those words pressing into your chest. “A wish? Like, an actual wish?”

Sam nods. “That’s what the lore says.”

Your mind starts racing. If it works… if Dean uses it…

You glance at him, and you can tell he’s already there, thinking the same thing. Michael. The archangel still locked inside his head, slowly eating away at him.

It hasn’t been easy. Not for him. Not for any of you. The sleepless nights, the migraines that leave him clutching his skull, the way his hands sometimes shake when he thinks no one’s looking. The moments where he just stares, zoning out, fighting a battle no one else can see. You’ve watched him struggle, pushing himself beyond his limits, trying to hold it together when you know he feels like he’s falling apart.

“Dean…” you murmur, reaching across the table, lacing your fingers through his. “You're sure?” You ask softly and his grip tightens, warm and solid. He exhales, steadying himself, his voice quiet but firm.

“Yeah,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “If this thing works—Michael’s gone. For good.”

All Dean had to do was hold the pearl and concentrate—wish Michael away for good. Simple.

But the moment he did, the bunker’s lights flickered violently, plunging the room into an eerie, stuttering darkness. Then, without warning, a deep, unnatural red glow pulsed around you, filling the air with a static charge that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Your breath hitched as you clutched Bobby tighter against your chest. His little fingers fisted into your shirt, his small body trembling.

“Dean?” you called, alarmed, but his sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“Take Bobby to our room. Now.”

The authority in his tone left no room for argument. Your heart pounded, panic clawing at your ribs, but keeping Bobby safe was all that mattered.

You turned and bolted down the hall, his small arms locked around your neck as you ran. Behind you, the sounds of grunting and scuffling echoed—something was happening, something bad.

“Mommy?” Bobby’s voice was small, uncertain, his wide green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. His bottom lip trembled, and the sight of it nearly broke you.

You placed him gently into his cot, cupping his soft cheeks between your palms, forcing yourself to smile. “Mommy’s just gonna make sure Daddy and Uncle Sammy are okay, alright?” You kept your voice steady, though your pulse pounded erratically.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the bunker fell silent. The flickering lights steadied. The air no longer buzzed with electricity.

You swallowed hard.

“You’ll be my brave boy and stay here, yeah?”

Bobby hesitated, then gave you a small nod despite his fear. You kissed his forehead firmly, lingering just a second longer than usual, then forced yourself to pull away. You slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind you, willing your hands to stop shaking.

As you rounded the corner, your steps slowed, your breath catching in your throat.

Dean and Sam stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of shock and something almost… reverent. But it wasn’t fear in their eyes. It was disbelief.

A man stood before them, his stance rigid, a gun poised tight in his grasp, not aiming, but gripped tight. He wasn’t Michael— you’d met that bastard before he possessed your boyfriend. No, this was someone else entirely.

“You boys better tell me what the hell is going on.” The stranger demanded, his voice deep, weary.

Your grip on your gun tightened as you raised it, the chamber clicking into place, shattering the heavy silence.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You demanded, voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

All six pairs of eyes flickered to you at the sound of your voice, and the moment the strangers gaze met yours, a chill ran down your spine. You knew that face.

It took another heartbeat before the realisation struck like a freight train.

You’d seen him before. In the small collection of worn photographs Dean kept tucked away—memories of a childhood long gone.

John Winchester.

After leaving Dean, Sam, and John to catch up, you had gone to check on Bobby. He was still curled up in his cot, clutching the stuffed moose Sam had gotten him for Christmas last year. You’d learned quickly that it was his comfort toy, and seeing him holding onto it so tightly made your heart clench.

His green eyes found you instantly, and he climbed to the edge, making grabby hands. His bottom lip jutted out, a clear sign of distress.

You scooped him into your arms without hesitation, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey, sweetheart.” Your voice was soft as you ran a soothing hand over his back. Truthfully, you needed the comfort just as much as he did. John was back. Just when you thought life couldn’t get any crazier…

“Where’s Daddy?” Bobby mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“He’s with Uncle Sammy and—” You hesitated. How exactly do you explain to a three-year-old that his grandfather—who’d been dead for over a decade in your timeline—was alive and plucked from another?

Bobby frowned. “I wanna see Daddy.”

His voice wobbled, and that was all it took for your hesitation to crumble. You weren’t sure if barging in with a toddler was the best timing, but Bobby didn’t understand that. Right now, he just wanted his dad.

“Alright.” You kissed his forehead. “Let’s go see him.”

He clung to you as you carried him down the hall, his little fingers curling into your shirt. As you neared the kitchen, low murmurs drifted through the doorway—John’s voice, rough and gravelly, eerily similar to your boyfriends.

“So, you’ve, um… been busy,” John said, amusement laced with something softer.

Before Dean could respond, Bobby stirred in your arms. The second he spotted his father, his whole face lit up.

“Daddy?”

The room fell silent.

Dean turned at the sound of his son’s voice, surprise flickering across his face before his eyes found yours. You mouthed a quick I’m sorry before setting Bobby down.

John’s gaze never left the toddler as he toddled toward Dean, arms reaching up without hesitation. Dean scooped him up with practiced ease, a small, uncertain smile tugging at his lips as Bobby buried his face in his neck.

John let out a slow breath, eyes flicking between you, Dean, and the boy in his son’s arms. His voice was quiet as he added.

“Really busy.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just awe.

Dean swallowed, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure how John would take this—learning he was a grandfather, seeing a piece of Dean’s life he’d never expected to, but John’s eyes glistened with something unreadable, his throat working around words he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, his gaze softened.

“What’s his name?”

Dean hesitated for just a second before answering, shifting Bobby slightly. “Robert John Winchester.”

John inhaled sharply. His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flickered between Dean and Bobby, something glassy and overwhelmed in his expression. Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat and reached out, hesitating.

His voice was quieter than before, rough but vulnerable.

“Can I?”

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Carefully, he passed Bobby over. John took him like he was made of glass—almost reverently—his arms wrapping securely around his grandson. Bobby, unaware of the weight of the moment, gripped onto John’s shirt with tiny fingers, tilting his head curiously.

John let out a shaky breath, one hand settling on Bobby’s back, the other gently cupping the small boy’s head. A tearful huff escaped him as he whispered, “Hey, little man.”

Bobby blinked up at him, studying his face with quiet curiosity. Then, slowly, his tiny hand reached out, cupping John’s cheek. John froze for a moment, his breath hitching as Bobby assessed him with those big green eyes—the same shade Dean’s had been at that age.

Then, Bobby giggled at the prickle of John’s beard, the sound breaking the heavy air in the room. A small, watery smile pulled at John’s lips as he let out a quiet chuckle, his hold on Bobby tightening just slightly.

You, Dean, and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

But after a moment, Bobby shifted, his little arms reaching back toward you. Instinctively, you stepped forward, and John, though reluctant, carefully handed him over.

His eyes lingered on you, then flickered to Dean and Bobby—his grandson, his son, this family he had never gotten the chance to know.

His voice was rough with emotion as he admitted, “I just… I just wish I’d been here to see it all.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He knew John wasn’t just talking about Bobby—he was talking about everything. The years they’d spent fighting, losing, surviving. The pain, the victories, all the impossible things that had led them here.

Dean met his father’s eyes, his voice steady when he said, “Dad, none of this would have happened without you.”

John looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes flicking to you, to the boy in your arms, before landing back on Dean with a soft, knowing smile.

Then, as if needing to ground himself in something familiar, John let out a breathy chuckle. “Well, I went out taking out Yellow Eyes. I mean, that was the point, right? Get the thing that killed Mom.”

The shift was instant. You felt it in the way Dean’s grip on your hand tightened, in the way Sam tensed across the table. The air in the room seemed to still.

He didn’t know.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, the same realisation hitting them both at once.

And then, before anyone could figure out how to tell him, the bunker door creaked open.

“Boys? Y/N?” Mary called out and John’s face twisted in recognition and something deeper.

John turned as she approached, pausing in the doorway, eyes wide, breath catching the second she saw him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared. The kind of stare that cut through time, through decades, through life and death itself.

Then John stood and surged forward.

She barely had time to whisper his name before he was there, pulling her into his arms, kissing her like he’d never let her go.

It was raw, desperate, a reunion, decades in the making.

You felt Dean exhale beside you, his grip on your hand loosening as he watched his parents cling to each other like the world had stopped moving.

You met Sam’s gaze, then tipped your head toward the hall. A silent suggestion. He gave a small nod.

You turned back to Dean, giving him the same look, and he sighed before nudging his head toward the hallway.

Giving them this moment was the least you could do.

You followed Sam and Dean out of the kitchen, Bobby tucked securely in your arms. Dean let out a breathless chuckle, running a hand through his hair, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exhilaration.

“It’s Dad,” he murmured, like saying it out loud might make it feel real. His eyes flickered between you and Sam, wide with wonder. “This is amazing. I’m—I’m freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, his own voice tinged with the same stunned disbelief. You met his gaze, both of you thinking the same thing.

Sam turned back to Dean, grounding him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “But Dean—Dean, listen.” His tone was steady, cautious. “How did this happen?”

Dean blinked, still reeling. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, stumbling over the words. He was overwhelmed, barely holding onto the moment, and as much as you loved seeing him like this, you couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your gut. When did anything this good happen without consequences?

“You said the pearl gives you what your heart desires, right?” He continued, looking to Sam for confirmation, who nodded pensively, “so my heart desired—“ He shook his head, trying to articulate it clearly, “I’ve wanted this. Man, I've wanted this since I was four years old.”

Your hold on Bobby tightened, the weight of Dean’s words settling deep in your chest. His gaze lingered on you, desperate and vulnerable, like you were the only one who could truly grasp what this meant to him.

And you did.

Dean had carried this ache his whole life, a longing so deep it had shaped the man he became. How many nights had he wished for just one more moment? One more chance to have his dad back—to have his family whole again?

“Okay, I know,” Sam began, voice softer now, careful. “And I—I love this too, Dean, really I do…” He sighed, not in frustration but in that way that said he knew better. “But messing with time… You know how this ends. Things change—”

“Yeah, great—we got our family back together. I’ll take that change,” Dean interrupted, voice sharp with defensiveness. You could see the way his shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched like he was bracing for a fight. And damn it, you wanted so badly to agree with him. To ignore the reality Sam was trying to lay out.

“That’s not what I mean—”

“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Dean cut in, his voice tighter now, more upset. He looked between you and Sam, his expression pleading. You knew he wasn’t delusional—just desperate. Desperate to hold onto something that never should’ve been taken from him in the first place.

“Look, can—can we just have one family dinner?” Dean’s voice cracked slightly as he exhaled, his walls barely holding up against the weight of this moment. “Just one. Us—All of us together. That’s all I want. Can you just give me that?”

Before either of you could respond, Dean turned on his heel, walking off, his frustration radiating from every step. He didn’t want to hear the truth. Not now.

And your heart broke for him.

Because even knowing what Sam was saying was right… What was so wrong with just one dinner?

Sam sighed, exasperated, his expression torn. He turned to you, searching for some kind of understanding, and you squeezed his hand gently.

“This means everything to him, Sam,” you murmured, your voice quiet but certain. “Just one dinner can’t hurt, right?” You weren’t just pleading for Dean—you were pleading for both of them. Because you knew how much this meant to Sam, too. Even if he didn’t want to admit it. Even if it hurt to be the one pointing out the reality of it all.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Yeah… maybe.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before squeezing your hand back. Then, with a sigh, he kissed Bobby’s head and walked off, leaving you standing there, staring after them—standing in the wake of something you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

You found Dean in your shared room, shrugging on his jacket like he was heading out. He barely looked up at first, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Hey,” you said quietly, not sure if he still needed space or if he was ready to talk.

Dean hesitated for a second, then glanced your way, his expression softening just a little.

Bobby had started dozing off on the way to the room, his small head resting against your shoulder, warm and heavy with sleep. You carefully lowered him into his cot, tucking the blanket around him. He barely stirred, his little chest rising and falling steadily, completely lost to the world.

A quiet sigh left you as you straightened, only to startle when you felt Dean’s hands slide around your waist from behind. He pulled you in against him, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looked down at Bobby. You felt the deep inhale he took, like he was trying to memorise this moment—like he was afraid to blink and lose it.

When he finally turned you in his arms, his hands found your hips, his forehead pressing to yours in that familiar way that made the world go quiet. You let out a slow breath, your fingers instinctively sliding up his arms before wrapping around his back, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

You shook your head, but he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hands tightening on you like he needed you to hear this.

“I really did wish for Michael to be gone,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “But I guess… this just won over that.” His lips pressed together like he still couldn’t believe it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“My whole family—together again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And after Bobby was born…” His voice broke just slightly, and he let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering to his sleeping son with something deeper, something that made your heart ache. “God, I wanted it even more.”

You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, bringing him back to you. His stubble scratched against your palm as he leaned into your touch, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment like he was grounding himself in it.

“Dean,” you whispered, aching for him.

He opened his eyes again, searching yours, something pleading in them. “I know the risks,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “But just for tonight… I just wanna pretend.” His fingers traced soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, his forehead still pressed to yours. “Pretend this is how it’s supposed to be.”

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with how much you understood. How could you not? You knew what it meant to him. Knew what it was like to want something so badly it hurt.

So instead of answering, you kissed him.

Soft, slow, tender.

Dean melted into it immediately, his hands gripping you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away. His lips were warm, familiar, desperate in a way that made you feel like you were the only thing holding him together. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself pour every bit of understanding, every ounce of love into that kiss.

When you finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his forehead dropping against yours once more. His hands lingered at your waist, his thumbs brushing gently over your sides.

“I was just gonna grab a list of ingredients from Mom,” he murmured after a beat, his lips ghosting over yours. “She wants to make dinner.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, your fingers carding through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Then I guess you better go make sure she has everything.”

He smiled against you, but there was something fragile in it, something that made you brush your lips against his one last time before stepping back, your arms slipping from around him reluctantly.

Dean lingered a moment, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before finally heading for the door.

For tonight, you’d let him have this.

For tonight, you’d pretend too.

After Dean left, you turned to one of your most reliable coping mechanisms—cleaning. If your hands were busy, your mind had less room to spiral.

You started small, straightening the blankets on the bed, smoothing out every wrinkle with practiced hands. You fluffed the pillows next, then folded Dean’s shirt—the one he’d tossed carelessly over the chair earlier. The fabric was warm from the heat of him, smelling like him, like home. You exhaled, a quiet ache settling in your chest.

Then there were Bobby’s tiny socks on the floor. You picked them up, rolling them together, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weight pressing down on you. It was funny, really. You were standing in the middle of another damn apocalypse, juggling the chaos of archangels and time travel, but here you were, folding laundry like it could anchor you.

But no matter how much you focused on the small, mundane tasks in front of you, the worry still crept in. About what came next. Not just with John but Michael, too.

A sudden knock at the door shattered your thoughts. You flinched slightly, blinking as you turned.

And then you saw him.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was the same man from the stories—the ones whispered among hunters, the ones Bobby had grumbled about over a glass of whiskey. And yet, he wasn’t.

You knew enough about him to form an opinion. Maybe more than an opinion. You resented him for what he put his boys through, for the way he shaped them into men who never got to just be. And yet... you understood grief. Knew how it could twist a person into something unrecognisable. You had lost Dean before—more than once—and each time, the world blurred at the edges, reality tilting until you weren’t sure how to stand up straight again.

John was staring at you now, his expression unreadable. But something in his eyes—something raw—made your breath hitch.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” His voice was rough, quieter than you expected. He raised a hand, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, straightening. “No, it’s fine.” You set a folded pair of Dean’s jeans on the bed and turned to give him your full attention.

His gaze lingered on the crib. You followed his line of sight, your lips twitching at the edges. You supposed it must be surreal—coming from a time when his sons were much younger, still in the thick of his mission, only to find himself here, where Dean was not just a man, not just a hunter, but a father.

John exhaled, shaking his head slightly. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, he looked at you. “You know, I owe you a thank you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For taking care of my boys.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. “For giving Dean something real.”

Your throat tightened.

John glanced at the crib again before meeting your gaze. “I know I should’ve been—could’ve been—a better father to ‘em.” His jaw clenched, his voice thick with something heavy. “But seeing Dean with Bobby... It’s proof of how much better he turned out than I ever could’ve hoped.”

He took a slow step forward, stopping just short of the crib. He didn’t reach for it, didn’t intrude, just stood there, watching his grandson sleep. His fingers curled into his palms at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to be here.

The hardened hunter was gone. In his place was a man who carried the weight of too many regrets.

“You weren’t always a good father,” you admitted, voice even but not unkind. “You did things that left scars. On both of them.”

John nodded, accepting it without argument. He didn’t try to justify himself. Didn’t try to fight you on it.

“But they’re still here,” you continued. “Despite everything, they’re still standing.” You huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “And knowing them, they’d probably say they’re proud to be your sons.”

John’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering with something close to pain.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.” A beat of silence. “I’m proud to be their father, too.”

For the first time since you met him, you saw it. Not the soldier, not the myth—but the man.

And before either of you could say anything more, the bunker door creaked open.

The boys were back.

“A temporal paradox.”

John repeated the words slowly, almost like he was testing them out, rolling them around in his mind. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he couldn’t quite believe it. But that glimmer of amusement was fleeting. The weight of the situation pressed down, the reality of what it all meant sinking in fast.

During Dean and Sam’s trip into town, they were faced with all the reasons why you should never mess with time. It wasn’t just that things were different—it was that if they didn’t undo what Dean had unintentionally wished, they could lose a hell of a lot more.

“That’s what Sam’s calling it.” Dean shook his head, huffing out a small breath. “Egghead.”

John chuckled softly, a flicker of something warm in his expression. But then, as quickly as it came, the smile faded. The truth settled in. He’d suspected as much.

“Basically, uh,” Dean started, exhaling through his nose, like the words were heavier than he expected. “If you don’t go back, Sam never gets into the life, and Mom, she, uh…” He trailed off for a second, his throat tightening.

John’s expression shifted—something sad, something knowing.

“Well, without everything that we did, with God, the Darkness… she never comes back.”

Dean cast his gaze downward, the words pressing into his chest like a tone of bricks. He’d already told you, and you’d left him to have this moment with his father while you tended to a restless Bobby. But saying it now, out loud, made it all feel so much more real.

“And, uh—” His voice wavered, betraying him. John caught it immediately, and his face softened in a way that Dean wasn’t used to.

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard. “I never meet Y/N,” he admitted, voice raw. “And, uh… Bobby is never born.”

John let out a slow breath, nodding in understanding. “Sam thinks they’ll just fade away,” Dean added, his voice barely above a whisper, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

John then looked at him—really looked at him. His mind already made up. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

“Okay.”

Dean blinked, caught a little off guard. “Okay?”

John nodded again, firmer this time. “I mean, me versus your Mom? Your family?” He scoffed slightly, shaking his head. “That’s—That’s not even a choice.”

Dean looked away, but nodded in agreement. Despite how impossible of a choice this was, his heart and soul had already picked you and his son.

John studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze flickering with understanding before he tilted his head slightly. “Does she know?”

Dean exhaled. “Sam’s telling her now.”

Before anything else could be said, the quiet moment was broken by the sound of tiny, excited babbling from the hall. Bobby.

Dean and John both instinctively turned toward the sound, and despite the weight of everything hanging over them, a small smile pulled at their lips.

“I think that’s your cue,” John chuckled, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

Dean let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

With that, Dean turned, already set on making a beeline for you—until John’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

Dean hesitated, glancing back.

“I, uh…” John exhaled slowly. “I never meant for this.”

Dean shook his head immediately. “Dad, we pulled you here.”

“No, son.” John’s voice was steady, unshakable. “My fight. It was supposed to end with me, with Yellow Eyes. But now you—” He trailed off, eyes scanning Dean’s face like he was taking him in for the first time. Like he was seeing just how much his son had lived through, how much he had lost, how much he had become, and Dean held his breath.

“You’re a grown man,” John said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. A small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “And I am incredibly proud of you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

For years—his whole damn life, really—he had chased those words, hunted them down in every action, every sacrifice, every order he had followed without question. He’d needed them more than he ever wanted to admit.

And now, hearing them…

He didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

John let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I guess I always hoped, eventually, you’d get yourself a normal life. A peaceful one.” His lips twitched in something between amusement and regret. “But you did get a family. And boy, what a wonderful one you got.”

Dean’s chest ached. Not in the painful way it usually did, but in something lighter, something warmer, and he nodded, voice thick. “I really do.”

John placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. His eyes were glassy, his expression proud, happy, even.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before they both let out small chuckles, both clearly not used to this kind of open emotion between them.

John cleared his throat, smiling. “Alright. What’s next?”

Dean patted his dad’s shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We eat.”

The library was quiet—too quiet. The usual warmth of the bunker felt dimmed, weighed down by the unspoken grief hanging thick in the air. The large wooden table was set with plates of home-cooked food, a rare sight among the usual takeout containers and beer bottles. Dishes of mashed potatoes, roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread were carefully laid out, though none of it seemed as comforting as it should have been.

At the head of the table, Bobby sat in his high chair, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak surrounding him. He kicked his little feet, happily munching on soft baby carrots, babbling to himself between bites. The sound was a bright contrast to the silence of the adults, their appetites dulled by the weight of what was to come.

Mary sat beside John, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze downcast. Her expression was unreadable—except to those who knew her well. The tight set of her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve—it was grief, raw and quiet. She was trying to hold herself together, but you could see the cracks forming. Your heart ached for her, for all of them.

Dean sat beside you, his posture tense, his grip on his fork loose. Sam sat next to him, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between his parents. No one knew what to say.

And then, John cleared his throat.

“Near as I can tell, we have two choices,” he announced, his voice steady but thick with meaning. He looked around the table, making sure each of you heard him. “All right, we can think about what’s coming, or we can be grateful for this time that we have together.”

A smile ghosted his lips as he reached for Mary’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The tenderness in his touch, the way she squeezed back with slightly trembling fingers—it was enough to make your throat tighten.

“Now me,” John went on, his voice quieter, but firm, “I choose grateful.”

He lifted Mary’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin. The small, simple act of love shattered something inside you, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You discreetly wiped it away, exhaling a shaky breath—until you felt Dean’s hand slip into yours under the table.

His grip was firm, grounding, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining—not just with unshed tears, but with love, with quiet adoration. His lips quirked into a barely-there smile, as if to say I’ve got you. And you squeezed his hand back, a silent I know.

John cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “So, to whatever brought us together,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “We owe you one. Amen.”

You swallowed hard and echoed softly, “Amen.”

John’s gaze landed on you, warm and grateful, before Dean murmured his own amen, followed by Mary and Sam.

And then, as if on cue, Bobby lifted his sippy cup with both hands, grinning as he let out his own version of an, Amen, but without the A. The moment of it—so innocent, so sweet—broke the tension, and laughter rippled through the room, soft but genuine.

Dean chuckled, kissing his son's head, lingering a little before lifting his own beer bottle, and with a glance around the table, everyone followed suit, toasting together.

The warmth lingered long after the laughter had settled, weaving through the quiet moments that followed. Plates clinked softly as forks scraped up the last bites of dinner, the heavy weight of earlier conversations giving way to something lighter—something cherished.

Bobby remained in John’s lap for the rest of dinner, small hands grabbing at whatever was within reach. He giggled happily, his little voice rising and falling as he gestured animatedly, as if telling the most important story in the world. John listened intently, nodding along, his expression soft in a way rarely seen. Mary reached over, brushing Bobby’s soft, blonde hairs from his forehead, her smile tender, her eyes brimming with emotion as she watched her husband and grandson together.

Across the table, you and Dean sat close, his arm draped around you, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes against your shoulder. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he exhaled deeply, soaking it all in. When Bobby let out a bright burst of laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—your heart clenched.

Dean must have felt it too because he pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your temple. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were already on you—shining, full of something deep and unspoken. He didn’t need to say anything. It was all there.

The moment stretched, the low hum of conversation, the occasional bursts of laughter, the soft clatter of dishes—it all melted together into something perfect. Sam leaned back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement as Bobby shoved a piece of bread into John's mouth, earning a chuckle from the older man. Mary shook her head fondly, her fingers tracing small circles on John's forearm.

It was a picture of something rare.

A family—whole, just for now.

The air felt impossibly heavy, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to happen. The time they had borrowed was running out.

John turned to Mary, his eyes soft, glassy with unshed tears. He reached for her, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear before cradling her face in his rough hands. "My girl," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

A choked sound left Mary's throat as she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. They kissed—slow, lingering, as if they could hold back time just a little longer. Your heart clenched as you clutched Bobby closer, rocking him slightly as if to soothe both him and yourself.

When John turned to you, his expression was unreadable for a moment, but then, with a tremble in his voice, he asked, "May I?" He gestured toward Bobby, and your throat tightened as you nodded, tears spilling over. Carefully, you passed your son to him, watching as John pulled Bobby close, pressing his lips to the little boy’s hair.

"I'm so grateful I got to meet you, buddy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Bobby blinked up at him, small hands reaching out to cup John's scruffy cheeks. The gesture made everyone smile through their tears, the sheer innocence of it grounding them all in the moment. John closed his eyes, pressing another lingering kiss to the top of Bobby's head before exhaling shakily.

When he looked back at you, his expression was serious, but not heavy. There was something lighter in his gaze now, something settled. "You watch out for these boys, yeah?"

You swallowed past the lump in your throat and nodded. "Always."

John lingered, giving Bobby one last kiss before handing him back to you. As you stepped away, Dean's hands found yours, holding tight, grounding you as you passed.

Then, John turned to his sons.

"I'm so proud of you boys," he said, voice breaking, eyes shining as he looked between them. The words hung in the air, sinking in deep, and neither Sam nor Dean could stop the tears from spilling over as they stepped into their father’s embrace. He held them tight, arms wrapped fiercely around them, as if trying to memorise the feeling, as if trying to make up for lost time in a single moment.

You couldn't hold back your own tears as Bobby nuzzled into you, his small arms wrapping around your neck. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he sensed your sadness, and in his own little way, he was comforting you.

John stepped back, his fingers intertwining with Mary’s as he took one last look at his family. His gaze swept over all of you—his boys, his grandson, you—before he nodded, a final acceptance settling in his features.

"Okay," he murmured, squeezing Mary’s hand. "Okay. I'm ready."

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he laid the pearl on the table and then the sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the quiet space.

Everyone watched in wonder and sadness as John Winchester faded into nothingness.

A heavy silence followed, the air still trembling with his absence. But as the initial grief settled, something else remained—a sense of peace, fragile but real.

And yeah, maybe this wasn’t how things were meant to be. Dean’s wish had rewritten fate. But if it gave them this—a chance to say what had been left unsaid, to mend wounds that had ached for too long—then maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

AN: Okay so this one was a long boi 😅. But I would love to know everyone's thoughts? Did you think this fit well for the request? Also I know John Winchester is a bit of a sensitive topic, not everyone likes him and it's understandable, but I feel I catered more to his human side a little here. Plus this episode was pretty heartbreaking. Anywho I hope you guys enjoyed and thank you anon for the request! 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #Sam Winchester #john winchester #jensen ackles #spnfamily #spn #spn fanfic #anon request #gifs not mine

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starkglory · 1 year ago

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Empty eyes | Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean doesn't take Charlie's death too well and because of the Mark of Cain affecting him, he tells you things that will regret.

Warnings: moc!Dean Winchester, Dean being a dick, minor mentions of injury, swearing, ANGST, major character's death

Pairing: Dean Winchester × reader

Featuring: Sam Winchester

Word count: 2,3k

We watched in agony as Charlie's body, wrapped around a white sheet, burned in the flames. This should never have happened to her kind soul. She died so we could save Dean. I couldn't help but feel guilty; my heart ached because I lost a friend, again. I knew Sam felt the same. We both asked Charlie for help with the Book of the Damned, and we both lied to Dean about the book being destroyed. Now it was too late to make things right. Memories flashed through my eyes, making me tear up. I remembered when she helped us with the Dick situation, or when I taught her some hunter-kind-of-tricks. How happy she was and wouldn't stop thanking me. She didn't deserve this, anyone but her.

“Charlie,” Sam started, grabbing my and probably Dean's attention. “We are gonna miss you. You're the best.” He stopped when his voice cracked, and now I was sure he felt far worse than me because looking back, he suggested not telling Dean about the Book of the Damned not being destroyed, which I didn't agree with at first. But seeing Dean, my Dean, slowly fade away right in front of my eyes changed my opinion. Maybe it was selfish, me and Sam both were. But we couldn't let Dean become something he fears, a Monster. We couldn't lose another person, another family member, but we didn't realize who we were putting in danger on this path.

“We love you, Charlie, and I'm so sorry,” I said, blinking through tears.

“Shut up,” Dean said coldly, making Sam and me look at him. “You got her killed. You don't get to apologize.” He continued.

“Dean-“ Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

“You too, you two are the reason she is dead,” he said, not taking his eyes off the flames.

“We were trying to help you,” I said, still looking at him.

“I didn't need help,” he said bitterly. "I told you to leave it alone.”

“What were we supposed to do, just watch you die?” Sam asked, not letting me be the only one receiving the cold tone from his older brother.

“The mark isn't gonna kill me.”

“Maybe not, but when it's done with you, you won't be you anymore,” I stated. “Dean, you're all we got. So of course we were gonna fight for you because that's what we do,” I said softly.

“Yeah, she's right, we had a shot-“ Sam was cut off again by Dean.

“Yeah, you had a shot. Charlie is dead.” He finally turned his head to look at me and his brother, who was standing next to me. His dark emerald eyes bore into mine, and I couldn't recognize them. Never have I ever seen him look at me with those eyes. Because no matter how much crap we went through, he always made sure I was fine, and his eyes held nothing but sweetness and, on most occasions, worry. “Nice shot.”

“Are you even listening to me? You think I'm ever gonna forgive myself for that?!” I snapped, not being able to keep my voice down anymore. He is grieving, but so am I. If I could, I would trade places with her.

“You know what I think,” he started, still with the same voice tone. “I think it should be you up there and not her.”

I felt my heart break for the hundredth time today. I parted my lips, not taking my teary eyes off him, which clearly showed how hurt I was. Sam let out a small gasp and widened his eyes after he heard Dean's words, clearly not expecting his brother to go that far.

I knew he blamed me, probably even more than Sam. But knowing that he wanted me dead hurt more than any physical torture I've experienced.

Sam called his name, still shocked after what he heard, but his brother just walked away, breaking my heart more and more.

—————

It has been a week since I lost Charlie, since I lost my Dean. He has been searching for the Stynes ever since but has been having a bit of trouble finding their location. So meanwhile, he went on a few solo hunts. He hasn't said a word to me and to Sam, just a few like ‘buy some beers’ ‘did you find anything about the Stynes’.

He found another hunt for today and was packing his bag in his own room. We both haven't stepped in our shared room ever since the accident, which meant we weren't even sleeping on the same bed. I'm done with being ignored, so I knocked on his door and opened it without waiting for any response. He didn't even turn around, probably knowing it was me.

“Dean,” I called his name, not even knowing what I wanna talk about, but getting him to look at me was the first step. “Dean,” I called, this time louder, and when he still didn't turn around, I walked towards him and grabbed his arm. “Alright, I'm done. When will you finally stop ignoring me?!”

He looked at my hand, which was grabbing his arm, and slowly turned around, finally looking at my face. “I'm not ignoring you, I just don't want to talk to you or be near you,” he said bitterly, pulling his arm away and reaching for his door.

“Dean, you know you're not the only one who lost someone, okay? And believe me, I know it's my fault she's gone, and I'll never forgive myself for that. But, god, you're practically killing me. I miss you,” I said desperately, waiting for something in his eyes to change, waiting for him to embrace me in his strong arms, but... Nothing. His eyes didn't even hold hatred anymore, just emptiness.

“I don't know what you expect me to say, ‘I'm sorry you were so stupid’ ‘I'm sorry you got another person killed off’ ‘I'm sorry you're so fucking useless’ Huh?! Is that what you want me to say? You want me to feel sorry for you?!” he yelled, showing the anger and darkness in his eyes while he harshly slammed me to the wall, making me whimper slightly. His words cut deep into my skin, but I tried my best to ignore them, knowing this Dean wasn't really my Dean.

“I want you to understand, I want you to know that I'm sorry. I want you to tell me that we're gonna go through this like we always do,” I said softly, looking deeply into his eyes, trying to crack him.

He let out a dark chuckle and grasped my shoulders, lowering his head to be on the same height level with me. “You want me to tell you that we're gonna go through this? Well, baby, in that way, I'd be a big liar.”

“Dean, me and Sam, we are so close to saving you. Please, just don't let the mark control you,” I begged, feeling small under his touch.

“I don't want nor need you two saving me, and believe me, at this very moment, I'm trying to not let the mark control me, so don't provoke me,” he whispered against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

"I thought you trusted me.”

“Well, that trust was destroyed when you got someone who was like a sister to me killed. Have you ever noticed how many innocent people died because you were being too stupid?” he said harshly.

"We all have made mistakes, Dean," I said, as I thought about the hunts where innocent people died, and I couldn't save them. I didn't want Dean to know how much his words were affecting me, but, god, I felt like a crumpled paper.

“Seems like that's the only thing you ever do,” he smirked, letting his eyes fall on the floor again before looking up at my eyes again. “Tell me, how does it feel knowing you don't mean anything to anybody and you're just a burden in our lives? How does it feel knowing nobody loves you?”

That's it. That was the punch line to make me break into tears.

“Y-you love me, you said that before.”

“You know I lie to get laid,” he said, smirking, proud of his response.

My heart was racing more and more, and I felt nauseous.

“Dean, please-“

“You're nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!” he grabbed my cheeks harshly. “Your existence doesn't matter. You.don't.matter.” he said, spitting the words out before letting me go. He took his bag and walked out of the room, not even glancing at me. I slid down the wall as I started sobbing silently.

Then I heard a buzz from my phone.

New message from Sammy:

“Y/N, Dean just said he found a hunt, probably three to four werewolves, and he told me to go with him. I was really surprised but didn't question him. I think he's getting better. I'll also talk to him on the road. Next time, he'll definitely ask you too, just like old times. Don't stay up and don't worry; we got this :) love you.”

He asked Sam to go, but not me. If he hadn't told me that he hated me a few minutes ago, I'd think he was worried. But if it was really 3 or 4 werewolves, there's nothing to be worried about. He just wants to stay away from me. He told me I was a burden to them; he'll probably throw me out of the bunker soon.

Dark thoughts ran through my mind, and suddenly a rush of anxiety ran through me. What if there were more than a few werewolves? What if they get hurt? What if Dean hates me even more?

I checked Sam's message again and saw that he sent me the address of where the werewolves' location is and where the hunt would probably take place. I quickly rushed to my room, grabbed my car keys, and went to drive to the location.

—————

I was hiding behind some of the trees in the forest, watching as each of the boys fought one werewolf, two already dead ones on the floor.

Everything seemed good so far; I mean, their guns were on the floor, but they were fighting each werewolf single handed and there was no need for me to make my presence known. The boys were winning as always. And that's when I realized they don't really need me in their life. I knew the words that came out of Dean's mouth tonight weren't really Dean's, my Dean. But he was somehow right; before I became the hunter I am today, I made many mistakes. Some were small, and some led to people getting hurt or even killed. I also put their lives in danger multiple times because I was being reckless. Finding the demons that killed my parents blinded my vision. I was ready to get back to the bunker when I saw both of the werewolves giving up until I noticed something.

A werewolf close to Sam's back, and it seemed like none of the brothers noticed him. I searched for my gun but remembered I forgot it in the backseat of my car. I cursed under my breath and did the only thing possible right now to save Sam. I couldn't let Dean lose another person, especially his brother, who I knew meant the world to him. I couldn't put him through something like that again when there's a chance to save the younger Winchester.

So I ran towards Sam, trying my best to not slip because of the woods on the floor. The Werewolf was close, and nobody noticed him. I'm not the only stupid one after all. The boys turned their heads to me for a slight second, surprised at my presence, but didn't stop fighting the other werewolves.

Until I pushed Sam away from the werewolf he was fighting onto the floor. He seemed confused at first, until he saw it. I assumed Dean did too but couldn't be too sure since he was behind me. I let out an agonizing scream when the werewolf grazed his claws into my stomach and the other one, which Sam was fighting before, grazed his claws into my back before my lifeless body fell on the floor. Dean didn't hesitate more seconds before getting his gun from the floor and shooting all the werewolves.

I was bleeding like a waterfall from my body and my mouth. But the good thing is-

I didn't feel any pain, or anything in that matter…

Dean Winchester’s Pov:

No no no.

This can't be happening.

It's all a nightmare, just another stupid nightmare.

I heard Sam's crying voice telling the love of my life, his best friend, to wake up, holding her torn apart body in his arms, asking her why she pushed him away. But there was no answer.

It's a nightmare happening in real life.

Her beautiful y/e/c are open but so empty, unrecognizable.

I stood over her body, not being able to move from my spot.

There is so much blood everywhere.

Her blood.

This is hell.

No, I’ve been to hell and it's worse than hell.

I started tearing up more and more, reality hitting me more every second.

I let out an angry scream and fell on my knees when I remembered my last words to her.

“You're nothing, do you hear me? Nothing! Your existence doesn't matter. You.don't.matter.”

She wasn't nothing, she was my everything.

She mattered, she was the reason I kept going, now she's gone and it's all my fault.

All my fault.

All of the words I said came back to me, making my chest hurt.

As I knelt beside her lifeless body, surrounded by the aftermath of our shattered world, I whisper into the silent abyss, "I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."

And deep down I felt the Mark laughing…

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manwiththemagic · 9 months ago

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The writers of s11 were cowards. If IIIIIIIIIII was in charge I'd made Lucifer's weird obsession with Sam show up more. Like the writers have very obviously included it and yet when Lucifer is processing the same vessel as cas, and therefore pretending to be cas, he just fucks off and tortures Crowley with fucked up bdsm pet play.

Like the few times casifer and Sam interacted were GOLD. because Sam sees it as his best friend cas, and Lucifer (who keeps talking about Sam like they're toxic ex's) is pretending to be him!! Although not to well. Like his freaky smirk when sending Dean into the past and coming back to harass Sam? Dude lives off of sadistic pleasure.

The way he full on LAUGHS when Sam says he trusts him bc Sam thinks it's cas?? Like gold!?!? Don't know why the writers didn't do more with that.

Also why not do more with the 'lucifer sent Sam visions to get him down to hell'. Like Lucifer is Obsessed w/ sam because that body/vessel is "supposed to be" his. And yet after revealing himself he doesn't try and convince Sam anymore?

He's just given up? Like nah man I don't believe that. I feel like he woulda fucked with Sam more in cas' body. And like it woulda been a way better not-romance-romance plot then whatever the fuck Dean and Amara were..

Like that came outta no where... I mean I get it.. but ew?? We saw her grow up, and maybe id argue "well there were two versions of her!! One physical on earth, the other her actual form and memories as a celestial being!!" BUT NO. SHE CALLS CROWLEY UNCLE CROWLEY.

cause he like raised her for a day or wtv..

Idk s11 is better than s10. Like the episode from baby's prospective?? PEAK CINEMAAAA!! also not that I dislike s11, no I quite love it, I just wish the dean plots were more fleshed out, and that it was more "Dean and Sam vs the world!!" Then Dean vs Sam yk??

Like where's my dynamic duo??

That's part of why I didn't like s10. Like no I loved the IDEA of Mark of Cain dean, and demon dean was hilarious (although I HATE him) but it was just Dean vs Sam, Dean vs cas, Dean vs the world. And idk I liked the idea, cause this time it was sam doing everything to save Dean, but man I just didn't like the fighting..

Also s11 had a mention of TMNT, S10 did not so... points!!

S1 and 2 of spn were peak ofc, and s3 was good but not really memorable for me?? Idk I'll go back and rewatch once I finish the series (just finished s11)

S4 and 5 were also really good, we got Castiel who is peak, blood junkie Sam, which was one of my favorite plots!! And of course a lot more bobby. Rest in peace king!

And unlike some I loveeeed s6-7 like.. the soulless plot, and death? Dean dealing with soulless sam?? Chefs kiss I mean mwah. Then Sam tweaking because of hallucinations. NOT TO MENTION GODSTIEL?? loved him sm stg.

8-9-10 is where it kinda fell off. I mean idk the leviathans?? Weak. Hated them ngl. Idk if they were s7 but either way.. mid. I didn't like purgatory bc no way Sam would do that?? But I did like how it developed deans character..

I don't remember what happened in what season but I lovedddd kevin, hated metatron (but in the "it's because he's well done" kinda way), the tablets were aight, Mark of Cain was uh... something.. (I hate demon dean but he was peak..)

So like idk.. show is peak though, I'm just at that point in the hyperfixtion where it's like "BUT I COULD DO IT BETTER!!" ykwim?? NVM I'm sick with a fever, supernatural is all I have going for me man.

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chiisana-sukima · 10 months ago

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What's your opinion on the take that Sam is always running away?

The short answer is I think spn's ethics are insane.

The longer answer is that if you did a rewatch and counted up all the times that Sam objectively "runs away" from a problem/his family/etc and all the times Dean "runs away" from the same, I'm not sure who would actually win. But I do think the narrative frames Sam as the one who runs, and that, over the long term, it treats "running away" as his cardinal sin.

For example, when Dean runs away from his mistakes in Road Trip, the narrative does frame that as immature and self-destructive, and punishes him with the Mark of Cain. But by s11, this is reframed briefly as a "we" problem in s11a (Sam: "if we don't change, right now, all of our crap is just gonna keep repeating itself") and then never held against Dean personally thereafter. Whereas Sam's equivalent attempt at running away--the s4 demon blood arc--continues to be held against him by the narrative until at least 13x21 (Cas: we let Lucifer out of the Cage.)

Even more interestingly, at least to me, with the exception of Stanford, the narrative also tends to treat Dean's episodes of running away from Sam as "abandoning" him, but Sam's episodes of running away from Dean as "betraying" Dean.

This is Dean abandoning Sam to his fate as Lucifer's vessel. The narrative punishment is extreme, but not only does Dean get a do over in the same episode and it never comes up again, but the quote is remembered by fandom primarily as a quote about how close they are. And I do think that's borne out by the narrative. If Dean abandons Sam, the world will literally end.

Meanwhile though:

When Sam screws up with Dean, he's betraying him. The problem isn't just that Sam is an addict or that he ran away from Dean's attempt to forcibly detox him for his own somewhat questionable "good", but that he did so with a demon whore. It's portrayed as a personal betrayal in a way that Dean abandoning Sam to Lucifer is not.

In some ways, Sam is even the more steadfast brother. He may physically leave Dean at times but he never stops believing in Dean's capacity for good. When it's his turn to lock Dean in the panic room because Dean gives up and runs to destruction at the hands of Michael, he doesn't do it. And in the Mark of Cain arc, he affirms that even if Dean kills him, he accepts it as necessary and still believes Dean is a good man.

Which brings me to spn's ethics and fandom's response.

If there's one single thing that spn is entirely, completely, one hundred percent consistent on, it's that tumblr is wrong. You can't just walk out; leaving is always wrong and will usually end the world. It's wrong if it's temporarily for the evening because you'd like to have Thanksgiving dinner and your family doesn't do that, or for four years because you want to go to college, or for forever because all your remaining loved ones have been killed before your eyes, or if it's only a partial withdrawal because you want better boundaries in the face of years of violence and autonomy violations. (To be clear, spn thinks the violence and autonomy violations are wrong too; it's just especially adamant that the only appropriate response is self-sacrifice.) The only reason Sam is finally allowed to temporarily leave in the finale is because he so obviously no longer wants to.

And all of this, to be completely blunt, is batshit fucking crazy. And I mean that in the clinical technical sense of the word. As a system of ethics it's an enormous mess, as a behavioral guide it's guaranteed to result in inappropriate assignment of blame and unnecessary suffering, and it's hard to interpret it all for me personally as anything but a response to trauma.

I do think that on an emotional level there's something wildly compelling about it though, and it's fiction, after all, so there's nothing wrong with it as a fantasy. The idea that if only you could prove your loyalty strongly enough your family would finally accept you, flaws and all, is an impossible wish many of us have spent a lot of our real lives trying to actualize. And seeing it happen on screen when it can't happen irl can be cathartic, much like revenge stories can be cathartic even though irl revenge is a terrible idea. The vibes are, in short, without flaw.

The thing that's hard for me though is remembering that everyone irl grows at their own speed. Not everyone is in a position to cleanly separate their emotional enjoyment of a plotline or theme from their intellectual calculus about whether or not it makes any fucking sense--especially when those plotlines or themes are about violence, betrayal, abandonment, and abuse. And it's hard for me to remember sometimes that huge swathes of meta aren't actually the result of [insert negative judgement here] but are just reflective of a different series of experiences than the ones I happen to have had.

Honestly I find it frustrating. I wish people would be better about separating out what the story is saying from what they think of that message themselves. I feel like the format of fandom meta is often kind of a disaster. It adopts an authoritative, academic tone, but is usually actually used to express personal feelings and wishes without acknowledging that it's doing that.

It's not that I think people should have to disclose their personal experiences to write meta--on the contrary, sometimes that's helpful but sometimes it just makes it worse. Rather, I wish people would get in the habit of using more "I" statements and acknowledging their subjectivity more overtly. Back in the days when dinos roamed the earth and I was an undergrad, I learned that the use of the third person passive voice in academic writing is a political choice. It grants the illusion of more authority and objectivity than actually exists. I wish fandom would take up my professor's call to abandon it to some extent and say "I feel hurt that Sam left Dean alone with John to go to college" rather than "Sam is always running away".

#spn meta #sam winchester #saved #canon-critical #god tfw you make a spelling error on the text on your screen cap #its so much worse than when its in the body of your post #i edited it now but sobbing in the club

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charles-leclerc-official · 7 months ago

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Formula 1 Drivers as Supernatural Episodes

I have selected 2 episodes from the CW's hit show Supernatural for each driver in the 2024 F1 season. Enjoy!

These are episodes I feel fits a driver's personality/vibe/style/history and are meant to be complimentary. This is very vibes based XD

Presented in team order <3 (also I guess spn spoilers warning)

Charles Leclerc: Lazarus Rising x The Man Who Would Be King

Charles and the angel Castiel have a lot in common. Charles is seen as this figure that is leading Ferrari currently and into the future and his first season in Ferrari was iconic (Lazarus Rising) Dare I say some of his drives have been as insane as pulling a man out of hell. However it's been a bumpy road and the burdens of one of the most iconic teams is enough to try the patience of any man (The Man Who Would Be King) There are a lot of faith and religious parallels to be made here. If there was one driver insane enough to try to single-handedly fix heaven (Ferrari) Charles is that driver. Also you could cast him as Cas and I don't think anyone would complain. I could go on about the Charles-Cas parallels but we do have to get to the rest of the grid, so he gets two stand-out Castiel episodes.

Carlos Sainz: Trial and Error x The Devil You Know

Carlos sometimes smashes through plans like a hammer, sometimes you need schemes other times you need to throw them out the window and start punching (The Devil You Know). He's also been through the Ferrari trials which is no small feat, often requiring a lot of pressure and sacrifice (Trial and Error). I also feel like he could wrestle a hellhound and come out winning.

Lewis Hamilton: Swan Song x First Born

I felt that one of the most iconic final battles in Supernatural of Swan Song was fitting to encapsulate Lewis' many hard fought WDCs. In addition to First Born, where Dean goes to take the mantle of the mark of Cain from a man who keeps bees in his retirement (Lewis taking WDC from Seb parallels) Both massive turning points in the show and iconic, like Lewis. A lot of small plot and emotional beats in these two that really touch on some career moments.

George Russell: Defending Your Life x Girls Girls Girls

If there was any driver on the grid who would enter into a legal battle against an ancient god and win it's George Russell (Defending Your Life). Additionally George is one of the few who could pull off witchcraft with ease while looking iconic doing so (Girls, Girls, Girls) I just think George and Rowena would get along and get up to some trouble with the book of the damned.

Max Verstappen: The Executioner’s Song x In The Beginning

The parallels of young talent coming in to take down the former bearer of the mark of Cain to Max's 2021 WDC are strong. It was hard, it was messy, and it was one hell of a fight (The Executioner’s Song). Then we have more emotional nuance (In The Beginning) a guy who just likes cars and is kind of old school about them too. These episodes are nuanced and plot centric and that felt fitting. The vibes are here you have to trust me on this.

Sergio Perez: Our Father Who Aren’t in Heaven x Criss Angel is a Douchebag

Do not underestimate Checo, much like you should not underestimate an arch angel that is related to you, and yet. The parallels between Adam, the third Winchester brother, and Checo are not lost, especially in meta context (Our Father, Who Aren’t in Heaven). Then of course Checo does have a flair and charm about him, he can pull a trick or two out of a car when people least expect (Criss Angel is a Douchebag).

Fernando Alonso: Good God Y’all x Weekend at Bobby’s

Fernando is chaos, he's here to cause unapologetic trouble, if he were to be a horseman of the apocalypse he'd be War and he'd have a hell of a time (Good God Y'all). Of course if there was one driver on the grid I know could figure out how to get his soul back from a demon after selling his soul in the first place Fernando would be that driver (Weekend at Bobby's) Naturally there are many Nando and Bobby parallels.

Lance Stroll: Scoobynatural x Hibbing 911

Of all the drivers on the grid at risk of getting sucked into a children’s cartoon I feel like Lance is at the top of the list (Scoobynatural). In addition I think he would be the chill hunter just casually explaining that ghosts are real to Scooby and the gang. Lance would also reluctantly become a vampire hunter if they invaded his small community (Hibbing 911) And he very much reminds me of both Donna and Jody in various ways.

Oscar Piastri: About a Boy x Jack in the Box

I feel like Oscar would be a good witch hunter, I also think if he was hit with a de-aging spell he'd be able to handle it and not panic and figure out how to get out of that situation, worry about the soul crushing curse later (About a Boy). And of course with the way his second season in F1 has been going it very much feels like Mclaren have been holding back a young driver from reaching his potential because they are afraid of his capabilities, you could say they have been putting a nephilim in a box designed to hold back his power (Jack in the Box). Also I cannot be the only one who sees the Jack and Oscar resemblance.

Lando Norris: Swap Meet x I Know What You Did Last Summer

Tell me Lando would not somehow end up practicing black magic accidentally on purpose and somehow survive (Swap Meet). That and I think he would also really like this episode in general. I feel like the duality between Ruby and Anna presented in I know What You Did Last Summer captures a very specific vibe about Lando, is he the demon trying to trick a guy into drinking his blood? Or is he the angel that decided to become human because he was done with heaven's shit? Depends on the day honestly.

Kevin Magnussen: Rock Never Dies x Survival of the Fittest

If there was any driver on the grid that would make crashing the Impala part of the plan to take down eldritch monsters it would be Kmag (Survival of the Fittest). Rock Never Dies just fits Kevin, iconic, villainous, Lucifer comes back a second time and is ready to cause chaos. The whole vibe of this episode is insane and it fits Kevin's particular brand of heart and unique driving. He's loud, you are not going to forget he's there, you should be afraid.

Nico Hulkenberg: Shut Up Dr Phil x My Heart Will Go On

Nico just has the look of a man who would time travel to get rid of a single Celine Dion song (My Heart Will Go On). He does have a lot in common with Balthazar, fun loving but powerful and can execute a plan, he might just end up adding his own flair to it. And I think Nico's spats with others are not frequent, but when they do happen they are memorable (Shut Up Dr Phil) Plus he reminds me of these old witches who have been married a few centuries and keep the chaos alive.

Ollie Bearman: The Girl with the Dungeon and Dragons Tattoo x Reading is Fundamental

Including Ollie in the Haas section since he's raced for them the most this year on the F1 grid. But his story starts as the young talent called at the last minute to solve a huge problem, driving a Ferrari in Jeddah with an hour of practice. I'd say that's similar to being suddenly asked to single-handedly go against some of the most dangerous monsters in the world with no training in monster fighting (The Girl with the Dungeon and Dragons Tattoo) but also being surprisingly good at it. Then we have another team needing young talent to step up and drive their car when things were down, you could say Ollie is in advanced placement in terms of being an F1 rookie now (Reading is Fundamental) I think the Ollie Kevin Tran comparisons are strong. Overall these two episodes of young talent needed at the last minute to save the day really sum up Ollie's 2024 F1 experience.

Yuki Tsunoda: The Gamblers x A Little Slice of Kevin

Sometimes luck is on Yuki's side, and often times it feels like it's not. But then again he's been fighting and sticking around longer than most other drivers in the face of more bad luck than one man should deal with, so perhaps he's won against an old roman god for a bit of luck, who's to say (The Gamblers). Then we get to the duality in A Little Slice of Kevin, young talent being used as a pawn in the larger scheme of Red Bull, more likely than you'd think. Is he escaping purgatory or being captured by demons? Probably both.

Daniel Ricciardo: Frontierland x Blood Brother

I know one thing about Danny, he would time travel back to the wild west to hunt down a rare monster no questions asked. He would bring his own cowboy hat as well (Frontierland). Danny also has that quality of guy who doesn't ask for much, so when he asks for a favor you gotta help. He also does have similar vibes to Benny, don't tell me he wouldn't make a great southern vampire (Blood Brother).

Liam Lawson: War of the Worlds x Bad Day at Black Rock

Similar to Yuki, Liam's luck is a tricky thing. He was in a will he won't he situation at Red Bull for so long. If he had a rabbit's foot he kept losing and picking up again I wouldn't be surprised (Bad Day at Black Rock). I think the episode really captures that kind of swinging pendulum of luck his junior career has seen. Then of course now he's been called to the seat he's caught up in a pretty intense battle at the end of the season, with a lot of demands being made on top of the constant turmoil within the team. Imagine Lucifer is telling you not to do a spell another powerful arch angel is commanding you to do, I feel like that about sums up how he's been thrown into F1 (War of the Worlds).

Alex Albon: Heart x It’s A Terrible Life

Alex was a rookie that went under the radar, at first, but something bigger was brewing in the background and then boom he was suddenly at the center of the driver market and was thrown into the spotlight. A feeling reflected in It's A Terrible Life. Alex is also the type of try to help someone against all odds, even when they seem impossible (Heart). Also I am not denying I am possibly calling him a werewolf fucker, here but tell me I'm wrong.

Logan Sargeant: Jump the Shark x Dog Dean Afternoon

Logan would do well being able to communicate with a dog and would adapt well to taking on dog-like traits to solve a case (Dog Dean Afternoon) I don't even think he'd question it. Forgotten, overlooked, massively unlucky I don't think there is a better Supernatural parallel for Logan than season 4 Adam (Jump the Shark). He was a great guy who got caught in the middle of something dangerous and paid the price.

Franco Colapinto: Red Sky at Morning x Sharp Teeth

Franco is one of the guys who I just think would be able to make it work for him if he were accidentally turned into a werewolf. He'd take a few months off, come back and be totally fine (Sharp Teeth). I cannot fully explain but Franco does give me Bella vibes, the mix of mischief and amusing self confidence perhaps, or maybe he just has the look of an international occult thief? (Red Sky at Morning) He'd be able to steal rare artifacts using his looks and charm I know that.

Valtteri Bottas: Party On Garth x Everybody Loves a Clown

Valtteri strikes me as the most like Garth. Fun, a little silly, but good at his job and scary when he needs to be (Party On Garth). His methods may seem a little out there but he gets the job done. How could I not include the introduction of the best mullet on Supernatural? I know Valtteri would love Ash and call him #mulletgoals (Everybody Loves a Clown). Another character who seems a little unserious out of the profession but Ash is brilliant and knows how to lock in.

Zhou Guanyu: Hunteri Heroici x Wayward Sisters

Zhou would 100% interrogate that cat and get information. He's probably an expert (Hunteri Heroici). I think his level headed mindset would also really help in a case where the world is literally going Loony toons. Zhou also has been through it, but is strong, and iconic in his unique way (Wayward Sisters). He's been fighting an uphill battle in that Sauber car, new hunter learning on the job has a similar experience, add a little dimension hopping in there for flavor.

Esteban Ocon: Beyond the Mat x Hollywood Babylon

Esteban is a sweetheart but do not be fooled, he absolutely would take down his childhood hero if he needed to (Beyond the Mat). I also think that he'd absolutely be one of those hunters looking for all the old Hollywood ghosts, he'd be an expert about which myths were real or fake and have that locked down over there (Hollywood Babylon).

Pierre Gasly: Monster Movie x Simon Said

I am not saying Pierre is a shapeshifter, but I am saying that if he was he'd be doing the over the top camp and theatrics seen in Monster Movie. Also he like Dean has a way of finding out how to have fun even when things are extremely stressful. If he did have mind control powers he'd use them for good or not use them at all, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to use them or that he's not strong (Simon Said).

That's the end! Thank you for reading. This was just something silly I have been working on. It's mostly vibes based but I had a lot of fun putting it together.

*Carry on Wayward Son + F1 theme mashup starts playing*

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autisticandroids · 9 months ago

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free space: medium-sized destiel

so in my reclists for @spnficrecfest i haven't been including many fics that are very "big destiel."

this is partly because i've been trying to keep the kudos count lower (though obviously this hasn't been absolute), and also because i actively did not include any "post empty destiel fix it" type fics in the dabb era reclist because they're kind of a genre unto themselves. nor have i intentionally made space in other reclists for fics that have a particular destiel romance novel vibe. obviously there's some, but those tend to dominate reclists, and i wanted to highlight smaller fics.

so this is my "big destiel" reclist, except i still did not include anything that had >2k kudos, because those are generally speaking pretty well known already.

some of these fics are small and just have the big destiel vibes, but a lot of them are more in the 1k kudos range than the hundred kudos range, on account of being big, or medium-sized, destiel.

in order of word count:

ain't that the worst thing you ever heard? by everytuesday, 1k

a couple of takes on the confession scene. very special to me.

rot and grace by extemporaneous, 3k, violence warning

cas watches dean murder the world. corruption kink.

some dying star looks dull in the light by sp8ce, 4k

heaven angst with a happy ending, post-empty.

one step closer by rhinestoneangels, 4k

an empty rescue. i love the empty geography in this one.

i didn't feel it on the first day, and now i got it in the worst way by wintertree, 6k

meg pov on a post-widower arc destiel.

the doorway to a thousand churches by sonatine, 6k

cas and the deans from goodbye stranger.

if you try sometimes, well you just might find by jenthesweetie, 9k

cas pov on dean's wants.

godot ain't got nothing on me and my baby by ilovehowyouletmefall, 10k

post empty, cas became death. the only way dean could see him is by dying.

before and after breakfast by spocklee, 10k

a silly little case where cas and dean realize how they see each other.

solitudes by ilovehowyouletmefall, 21k

cas sees dean see cas die. a wonderful little melodrama. i actually really liked how it handled dean's alcoholism (not really as something to be solved but just as a... reality to be dealt with) and i'm OBSESSED with the director's commentary. if this had been published in 2021 instead of 2023, every heller would have read it three times over.

powerless in dreams by calicoyak, 24k

a post-empty fic. i really liked some of the cas stuff in this one.

between a rock and a hard place by amidsizefrog, 24k

dean's dick doesn't work. also cas is dead. maybe the two are related.

every single thing by thestoryinsideme, 37k

a charming and goofy season nine fic. dean is a shitty little man in a very canonical way that is also deeply sweet and adorable.

a light above descending by hedderstheowl, 38k

a mark of cain fic with chefkiss angel stuff. a recent favorite of mine. really put this author on the map for me.

with understanding by apokteino, 427k, chose not to warn and noncon warning

yeah it's with understanding. you've heard of it. go read it now chop chop.

and if your wondering which fics (that you've probably read) got the axe for having too many kudos: it was on labor, the bee movie fic, time has come today, and r/supernatural. that's my taste. if you were curious.

#spn #spnficrecfest

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bettystonewell · 3 months ago

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The Mark of Cain: Chapter 3

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Aussie!Reader

Summary: Together with Dean's help, you're trying to figure out what happened so you can find a way home. But as you arrived with nothing except the clothes on your back, you need to get some basic necessities. Can't keep wearing the same set of clothes over and over again now can you?

Chapter Word Count: 2.8k words

Tags/Warnings: language (but it’s tame compared to my other fics)

Aussie Stuff: the first appearance of Vegemite, and a reference to its slogan “it puts a rose in every cheek.” Dean attempts to use ‘mate’ and fails. The very first “yeah, nah,” “servo,” and “tosser.”

Oh, and me using arse over ass which looks super weird now.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

December 2013

Dean escorted you through the front door of the diner, his hand over the middle of your back, guiding you towards one of the booths at the back of the small establishment. He barely touched you except on occasion when you or he would misstep to avoid other patrons and tables. His outstretched fingers tapped you accidentally then.

In his other hand he held a cream-coloured manila folder, which he placed on the table when you both took your seats.

As you perused the menu, a young waitress soon came over with a pot of coffee in one hand and a small notepad in the other. “Coffee?” She gestured towards the upturned mugs sitting in front of you.

Dean glanced over at her and produced a very charming smile. And was that a wink?

‘Okay. Dude’s a major flirt.’

He nodded at the waitress and then looked over at you, questioning with his eyes.

“Thanks,” you said with a sheepish smile. Caffeine sounded good, even if it was black and not made by a barista.

The waitress filled your mugs and proceeded to take your breakfast orders. Dean, opting for waffles and a side of bacon, while you were torn with indulging or being frugal after your ordeal.

Fresh fruit, pancakes, eggs, steak. It all had you salivating. Something so simple as hot buttered toast with Vegemite would’ve done wonders since the station, but it was cold when it arrived, and of course, no rosiness for your cheeks.

After you’d both finished eating and your plates had been cleared away, Dean handed you the manila folder.

On the side index, Jane Doe, 12/10/2013 was written in a scrawl. You’d grown accustomed to the dates being backwards now, so reading the twelfth of October when it should’ve been the tenth of December, didn’t phase you. What did was the tosser’s refusal to use the name you’d insisted was yours.

The contents revealed themselves to be documents from both the police station and the hospital. There were police reports, a witness’s statement from the man you’d learned had found you on the highway. Doctor’s notes, photocopies of your driver’s licence front and back, and even your credit card details made an appearance.

There were also photographs of your purse and the things you kept in it, and ones that showed the markings that now covered your body.

You were thankful that the photos were zoomed in on the marks themselves and that there were no full images of your naked skin, saving your modesty to some degree. Dean had more than likely perused the file and everything in it.

Just perfect, because the photographs were clearly of you.

You recognised your skin tone and the odd freckles in places that made you, you. Your hair was visible in some shots, as were close-ups of your hands and feet. The creases of your fingers and the shape of your fingernails were exactly the same as what adorned your hands now.

The police officers had even contacted the Australian consulate just as they’d said, going as far as to contact your employer and the friends you’d told them you’d seen that night. Little notes here and there and the words, undetermined and false, jumped out at you.

“Underdressed?” you said, looking down at the clothes you wore. You’d been out clubbing that night, you wouldn’t say you were underdressed. Jeans and a top. A little revealing but nothing flashy.

“For the weather. That’s not your jacket, right?” Dean’s voice carried over your thoughts.

Right. It was summer back in Australia and this jacket you now wore had come from the lost property at the hospital. Luckily, your lazy-arse hadn’t been bothered to shave your legs that night and hadn’t worn a dress.

The detectives had also tried to access your phone by the looks of it, but according to the document labelled cell phone, it had been wiped clean. The report stated, no contacts, no photos and nothing beyond the factory settings. Shit…

You closed the file and pushed it away from you as you felt the tears start to well in your eyes once again. ‘How was this even possible?’

“You need a minute?” Dean asked.

Even though your whole world felt like it was crashing down on you, you just shook your head at him and whispered, “No, I’m okay.”

Dean pulled out a pen from his jacket and took a few of the files from the folder, turning them over to their blank sides. “So this is all we have so far. It’s not a lot, but at least those guys started the leg work for us,” he said as he began to write headings at the top of each piece of paper.

One he titled family and friends, the next, locations and the third and final, supernatural.

For the next two hours, the two of you brainstormed as he asked you question upon question about your life.

He wanted to know the names of your parents, their birthdays and their occupations. Your siblings, if you had any. Cousins, grandparents, friends, coworkers. Anniversary dates that you could remember and where these people all lived, if they were still alive or dead.

He had you list down every house you’d ever lived in, too, and the exact addresses if you could remember them. He wanted to know where you went to school.

“Did you go to college?” You frowned at that word but said nothing about its usage.

Where did you work and what other jobs had you previously held?

Any vacations? When and where did you go?

He even went as far as to have you list all your childhood friends and acquaintances. Teachers. Lecturers. Your kindergarten teacher, not that you could remember..

“Nobody is insignificant,” he told you.

Finally, he wanted to know if you’d ever had any strange encounters. You know, had you seen anything that could be classed as supernatural? And you told him, “Nothing.”

Your brain was fried.

“Well, looks to me like you’ve led a pretty normal Apple pie kinda life,” Dean remarked as he jostled the papers back inside the manila folder

“Apple pie?” you repeated, speaking the words as if you’d heard them for the first time.

“Yeah. You know, normal. A mom and dad, siblings, a white picket fence, got to go to school, college, working for the man. Living the American dream, except in Australia. With, y’know, kangaroos and koala bears.” Dean shrugged as your ears pricked up. “An apple pie life.”

You weren’t impressed. “They’re not bears.”

“Whatever.” Dean swiped his hand. “The point is, nothing stands out here. From what I understand, you’ve done nothing to piss off any angel or demon. And you haven’t seen anything odd, that you remember, at least. But then again, you were drunk that night, so—”

“I told you I wasn’t drunk!” You regretted your outburst the second Dean smirked at you. The bastard set you up.

You moved your thumbs and middle fingers up to your forehead, spreading them across both temples. “So is any of this” you motioned to the manila folder in front of Dean, “going to help, you think?”

“No idea,” Dean said, shaking his head. “But hopefully Google will be our friend and something will come of it.”

You’d one day learn that line to be true.

You left the diner after that and from there, Dean drove the two of you to a large store on the outskirts of town. He led you down to the back, into an aisle that was marked luggage, and walked over to a shelf full of bags, similar to his army green one. He pulled out a dusty red, handed it to you and then chuckled, “There ya go. I reckon that’s your colour.”

He then led you back to the front of the store and purchased the bag for you, along with three Visa gift cards. “These are for the short term. They should cover what you need. If this mess ends up taking longer to sort out, then I’ll organise something more permanent for you,” Dean explained as he handed you everything.

“Also, take this.” He pulled a phone out of his jacket, different from the one you’d used at the police station, and handed it to you. “Give me yours and I’ll see if I can get it up and running for you. In the meantime, you can use this. There’s a contact listed as main, in case we get separated.”

“Umm, thanks,” you said as you took the phone from his hand. You fished out your own from your purse and handed it to him in exchange.

“Why don’t you go back in and grab what you think you’ll need? But stick to the basics. We don’t know how long we’ll be on the road. Whatever you get should be able to fit in that bag.” He nodded in the direction of the duffle you now held in your hand. “Meet me back here in an hour.”

Dean turned to walk away, but then stopped abruptly and turned back. Once again, he reached into his jacket, only to pull out a small pocket knife this time.

This man was a walking junk drawer.

“In case you get into any trouble.” He winked. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” And with that, he turned around once more and walked off.

You set to work on picking out everything you might need. Clothes, shoes, toiletries. Whatever you’d pack if you were taking a trip, only most things you picked from the bargain racks, and weren’t that glamorous. Jeans, sneakers, underwear. Toothbrush and paste, period supplies. You hoped you would be back home by the time that arrived, but you did not want to be caught out.

Which led to birth control and the thought of your pills sitting back at home on your kitchen counter. Couldn’t exactly see a doctor in the time you’d been left alone. It would all have to wait, and you picked up an extra packet of heavy duty pads and tampons just in case. You’d be due any day.

Certain you’d gotten everything you needed, you purchased the contents of your basket, removed the tags and packaging, and neatly packed everything away into your new bag once you were done. You were pleased with yourself that there was still plenty of room left over inside.

Glancing at the clock that sat high on the wall above the check-outs, you decided it would be a good idea to get out of the clothes you’d been wearing the past few days and located a bathroom to change into.

When you returned to the meeting place, wearing clean jeans and a couple of extra layers up top, Dean was there waiting for you.

He smiled and handed you back your phone, along with a charger. As you took it from his hands, the slight tilt from your movement lit up the screen and you realised it was working.

On closer inspection and to your dismay, however, it was indeed restored to its factory settings, as the police reports had documented. Your home screen wallpaper, PIN, apps, account details, passwords, music library and photos had all been wiped.

“I got it working and added some contacts into the address book,” Dean said. “But yeah, nothings on it.”

You opened the address book icon and noticed eight contacts listed in the app. They were as follows:

Dean 1

Dean 2

Dean 3

Garth

Jody

Sam 1

Sam 2

Sam 3

“I’ve also saved your new number into mine. Besides my cell, those other numbers are for people who can help you if you can’t get a hold of me first. Sammy is my brother, and the other two are good people. Garth is a hunter too, and Jody’s a Sheriff.”

“Okay.” You nodded in understanding, but you were screaming on the inside.

It was time to hit the road again, or so Dean had told you. You weren’t exactly running your own show anymore and were now obliged to follow the man everywhere.

This being told what not to do and where not to go made you feel like a teenager who’d been grounded, and you realised it was going to become frustrating very quickly. But what choice did you have? It was Dean or Officer Tubby and Homeland Security waiting for you back at the small Kansas police station.

So you once again found yourself sitting in the front seat of Dean’s Impala, which you soon learned he affectionately called Baby.

“So, do you have a car back in Australia? Or is your licence there only for show?” Dean had already heard your entire life’s story back at the diner that morning, but he still wanted to hear all about your ‘Apple pie’ life, expertly avoiding most questions about his in the process.

“Yeah. You kind of have to back home. Public transport is useless unless you work in the city. And even then, it’s still shit.” You would always feel fond of Australia, proud even, but you were also allowed to complain about the faults.

“From memory, we’re about the same size as the US, give or take, and everything’s spread out, so it’s better to drive.”

“So what do YOU drive?”

Right. Of course. He was a car man.

Yours was modern-ish and sleek compared to this beast. “Just a small Toyota hatchback, two doors and a boot-I mean trunk.” You tried to save yourself. If this American guy was into cars, he was definitely going to catch that Aussie quirk.

“The boot?” he said, trying to imitate your accent. “A boot goes on your foot.” And he moved the leg that currently wasn’t pressed on the car’s pedal up and down in emphasis.

“Po-tey-toes, po-tah-toes,” you sighed. You were going to have to be more careful with the slang from now on. God forbid he heard you use petrol or fuel over gas and service station. Better yet, servo.

“Point is, my car is much smaller than this thing,” you said, hoping to move on from the boot comment.

“This thing is called Baby.” Now it was his turn to be insulted.

“Okay. Baby.” You rolled your eyes. “Do you and Baby have somewhere you call home? Or is it all motels and highways?”

You couldn’t help but be curious about Dean’s life. The guy had told you he hunted monsters for crying out loud. But that still just wasn’t plausible, and you were determined to get to the truth, at least as long as you were his travelling companion.

Dean seemed to be considering your question carefully. “There’s somewhere we call home.”

That was it? Somewhere he called home? He knew your address back in Sydney, down to the apartment number and that’s all he was going to give you? So you looked at him and gestured an ‘and?’, hoping he’d continue.

“Lebanon, Kansas.” Because that helped. The guy sounded like he was having a hard time remembering his address.

As for Kansas? The side of the road you had been found on was in Kansas. As was the hospital and police station you’d found yourself in the coming days after. You assumed you were still in Kansas, but you had no idea, to be sure.

“So is that close to here or where we were even?” you asked as you realised you hadn’t even found out where he was taking you yet. “Wait, where are we even going?”

He laughed at you. “Took you long enough. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the cooperation, but you’ve been really trusting. No wonder someone managed to pull all this off.”

You sat there in thought for a moment. He was right, you had put all your trust in him. But he was the first person that had been kind to you, besides the hospital staff who had tried at least to be understanding of your situation.

“You’re the first person who believed me,” you said, rubbing your wrists again, remembering the feel of the handcuffs before Dean had freed you of them. “The people I would normally turn to, my family, my friends, none of them remember me. Maybe I am too trusting, but you’re the first person who seemed to care, so I guess that makes us friends.”

You turned to see Dean looking at you, studying you closely. You wished he’d keep his eyes on the road.

“I don’t know anything about you, but you kind of know everything about me, so it’s a start at least. Sometimes you gotta take what you can get, I guess.” You turned your lips into a meek smile.

“Well, you got me. I’m Dean. My Birthday is January 24th. And I like pie.” He winked. “So I guess you could say we’re mates now?” he put on another horrible Australian accent as he held his hand out to you.

“Yeah, nah. Friends,” you said, and you shook his hand.

One friend in the whole, entire world.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Admittedly, I’ve cleaned things up a bit. I couldn’t post this without a SPAG check, and removing a few things. Originally I’d listed everything she bought… Very, very unnecessary lol, but at the time, I wanted to focus on the details. Like when Mary gets a new wardrobe at the start of season 12. It’s night time when Dean finds her and they’re focused on finding Sam - when did they go to the shops? So, yeah, I wanted an explanation here, hence the chapters title. Looking back, two and three could probably be combined.

To my fellow Aussies, I’m not a Sydney girl so apologies if I get anything wrong about your lovely city. I’m in Brisbane and when it came time for the flashbacks, I didn’t want to reference our Brown Snake (the Brisbane River) and her clubbing in the Valley… Anything relating to trains is based on a Google search and my time living in Tokyo. The night clubs, too, if I’m honest.

Next up, Sam’s first appearance! And Garth, so you can probably guess where we are in the timeline. That one needs a bit more of an edit. I’ll do my best to deliver on Tuesday, as listed.

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberthomas @levine-23

#abducted series #aussie!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #spn x reader #spn reader insert #reader insert #x reader #supernatural fanfic series #supernatural fanfiction

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vyladerz · 1 month ago

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I’m basically done with my classes so now I can post this late ranking for season 9. Continuing to stay positive, overall this season didn't really stick out to me compared to others. There were a few things holding it back but what the hell who cares.

What did stick out to me was the mark of Cain plot line. The episode "First Born" does such an amazing job at setting up the mark of Cain and it's parallels between Cain and Abel versus Sam and Dean. Oh I eat that shit up. I'm also guilty for some Sam and Cas quality moments. With the addition of an entertaining Crowley and Dean duo, which I didn’t know I needed. Too bad we don't get more focus on the mark of Cain arc this season (Which is why I'm happy it'll be set up for the next season rather than just going nowhere).

I loved exploring Castiel's relationship with humanity and the best example was the scene with the baby he was babysitting. It's one of his best moments in the show that encapsulates his best qualities and he has come such a long way since season 4. Him being human was such a great way to allow him to connect with humanity on a deeper level. I will say he’s much more passive this season but it makes sense after having so many losses at the cost of him gaining free will. Laying low would be the best move here and I’m glad they did it this way.

The angel storyline with Gadreel was not as memorable (or as well done in my opinion) as the mark of Cain plot line but I still found it interesting. Sam getting possessed by angel was NOT on my bingo card (I don’t know how I avoided spoilers for this). I’m surprised I haven’t thought about this concept before. I hope this isn’t a hot take but I really liked Gadreel. His backstory and motives expanded the lore of the angels in the show. I would have liked if it was explored in more detail but that’s just cause I find anything angel related really interesting. Metatron is pretty entertaining as a villain, not my favorite but he works pretty well here. Overall the one real gripe I have about it is that I wish the whole Gadreel arc didn't come at the expense of Dean's character. Also to the degree of Sam's character.

I do loathe the characterization of Dean this season (mostly just the beginning). I understand why his impulsiveness was pushed to a higher degree to further brotherly drama. To show how far Dean is willing to go for his brother especially as a stark contrast to season 8. However, I thought his build up of lies was a bit irritating. It's so painfully predictable how everything played out. Gadreel just going along with Metatron, (he does protest a bit but he was still too trusting for my liking) Dean digging his grave with really unbelievably stupid lies, Sam being super passive for no good reason and not questioning Dean whatsoever. Is it a crime to want more from these characters?? Okay that’s as negative as I’m getting here.

The last episode was good though, we needed that scene with Dean dying in Sam's arms (I'm not okay) to tip the scales on their relationship for the next season. That's also something that has grown a bit predictable. If Dean goes over the line then Sam has to go over the line. But I'm honestly too invested with the mark of Cain and the concept of demon Dean to care about that right now. When I was watching the earlier seasons I heard about this arc and I have been waiting to get some much needed focus on Dean (I've been yearning for this since Dean came back from hell).

Also Kevin is done dirty in this show, free him from this hell let him rest for good.

I’ll continue to keep an open mind and I’m pretty hooked for the next season. (As of posting I’ve finished season 10 so that will be posted very soon).

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supernaturalsophie · 2 months ago

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Dean winchester: a character study.

Dean's role: Dean is one of two main protagonists in the american tv show supernatural. His role is to be a hunter of the supernatural with his younger brother, sam. Dean is 6’1. He has short brown hair and green eyes. He is often described as “pretty or handsome” from other figures. When dressing, Dean often sticks to the classics. A flannel, jeans, combat boots, a leather jacket or the occasional work jacket, and a long sleeve shirt.

Deans traits and personality: dean is a complex character. He is stubborn, brave, kind hearted, he's known for his protective nature. He's a skilled hunter. Sometimes, Dean will want to kill a monster just because they are one, because that is what he was raised to do. Dean often talks about pushing on no matter what. He also talks about if anything happened to his brother Sam, he wouldn't be able to push on. “Here aint no me if there aint no you.” Some of Dean's last words to his brother were “always keep fighting”. Because no matter what their battle with evil will never end even if Dean isn't there physically. Dean's mannerisms are normally gruff, reckless, and protective over the people he loves.

Deans motivations and goals: Dean's number one motivation since he was a child is taking care of his younger brother, sam. Sam is the only family that Dean has left. He raised sam. He only wants what is best for his family. Dean's goals were to get out of the hunting business, have a family, become a firefighter. Dean grapples with his past, his fathers legacy of being a hunter, and the burden that comes along with the job. He strides for a sense of self acceptance and peace. Trying to find a balance between his duty and a lifelong dream of living normally.

Dean's relationship with others: (Sam, castiel.) Dean's relationship with Sam is the most important to him, it's the start of a foundation of deep trust and brotherly love. Dean acting as the protector and Sam being the one that needs protecting, they both still have moments of vulnerability. As the show carries on, their relationship gets tested by obstacles that lead to arguments and tension between the two. But no matter what, Dean and Sam will love each other deeply. Dean's relationship with the angel Castiel is more complicated. Dean at first, had initial scepticism. Castiel introduced himself as the angel that raised Dean from hell. Which wasn’t a lie. Castiel's actions and consistent loyalty is what got him deans respect. As they continued to work together to hunt the supernatural, the two grew unwavering respect for eachother. Dean and Castiel saw each other as brothers. When Castiel passed away, Dean was broken, losing a brother.

Dean's purpose: Dean's purpose was to be a guardian. He was a fighter from a young age. He took the family role and John's legacy. Dean later found out he was destined to be the vessel of the archangel michael. He consents to the role to battle lucifer. Dean values his family's safety over anything else, going as far to kill a demon in their human host in order to save sam.

Dean's growth throughout the show: throughout the show, Dean has shown growth in character. In the early seasons, Dean is shown as a strong protective, confident figure. Taking the role after his dad, becoming a hunter. He's extremely loyal to his family's name. He continues to carry grief and responsibility wherever he goes. Dean grows into the later seasons, he continues to learn to lean and trust others including Sam and his friends. He learns with a greater understanding of compassion and empathy. Dean struggles with moments like the mark of Cain, which leads to isolation. He also struggles with having to grieve his brother's death in the earlier part of the show, the death of his friends, like charlie. And actually finding happiness for himself.

#castiel #dean winchester #destiel #supernatural #spnfamily #tumblr fyp #character analysis #jensen ackles #tv show supernatural

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godmadeaterribleerror · 6 months ago

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Chapter 2 - Sick and Full of Pride

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, fluff, mutual pining, smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: You, Dean, and a sleeping Sam drive back to the bunker. Usual Warnings, plus light smut.

Author's Note: Dean driving does Things to me have a whole chapter with it.

Title from Drive by Halsey

Word Count: 5k

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

You’ve been in the car for almost eleven hours. The drive home was supposed to be eight, Dean is by no means going slow, and—as he’s told you many, many times—he doesn’t get lost, so you’re starting to suspect that you won’t be home any time soon.

As such, you’re now trying to find a reason to very casually and inconspicuously bring up that, if you’re looking at another three hours in the Impala, you’d appreciate it if you and Dean could make the team effort to kick Sam into the back so you can move to shotgun. You rarely get the opportunity—it arises exclusively when Sam wants to sprawl across the larger bench, you made Dean pie to get on his good side, or Dean and Sam are fighting, so Sam loses shotgun privileges—so you plan to take full advantage of this one.

Dean beats you to it. He’s been drumming on the wheel for about an hour in a beat you can’t find any real pattern to, he keeps shifting in his seat, and when he meets your eyes in the rearview mirror, there’s something that’s not quite stress—but close to it—on his face.

“Do you, uh, you wanna come up here?”

You blink, leaning forward between the seats to whisper in his ear. Don’t want to wake up Sam, and, really, any excuse to whisper with Dean is one you’ll take. “Yeah, but,” you glance at the sleeping lump of Sam. “What about Goliath?”

Dean shrugs. “He can sleep in the back. He’s lanky,” Dean says your name, shooting you a small grin, and you almost fall forward. “And I want you up here.”

“Oh.” You flush, but force yourself not to read into it. Sam’s asleep. Asleep people are worse company than awake people. “Okay.”

“You’ll talk to me, right? Up here?”

He sounds a little nervous, and your words fall out in a rush of reassurance. “Of course I’ll talk to you. I lo-” You catch yourself, and focus your attention on a dial on the dashboard as you continue. “I like talking to you. I’ll always talk to you.”

“So yeah?” Dean’s voice is casual, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s staring at the road—which he probably should’ve been doing the whole time—and his grip has become white-knuckled and tight on the wheel. “You’ll come up here?”

“If you can get Sam out, sure-“

Dean pulls off the side of the road, pushing his door open, and stomping around the hood of Baby. You’re a little dumbstruck, not entirely sure what’s happening, and a small rap of Dean’s knuckles on the window pull you back to your senses.

You push your door open, frowning up at him. “What-“

“Let’s go.” Dean’s hand moves to your arm, but he flinches back almost immediately, like you’ve burned him. Even in just the streetlights, you could swear he’s blushing. “C’mon, Sweetheart, need some backup.”

Once you’re out of the car, rubbing your arms and watching Dean and Sam exchange low words—Dean’s sounding urgent and Sam’s just sounding a little irritated—you try to look up and down the street for some clue of where you are. It’s mostly bushes, yellowing grass, and telephone poles—so literally anywhere in the Midwest—and this old dirt road isn’t really that different from any other dirt road, but it still feels familiar. Like you’ve been on it before. And the track marks on the upcoming path look suspiciously similar to the track marks behind Baby-

Sam stands up and shuffles to the backseat with a few grumbling sounds, and Dean holds the door open for you.

“M’lady.” He makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the seat, and you give him an amused, dry look as you walk up to his side, trying not to get high on how incredibly real his boyish, proud smile looks.

“You’re very cheesy sometimes, you know.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t seem bothered, and his eyes never leave yours as you climb into the seat. “Part of my charm.”

There isn’t a good answer for you to offer him that isn’t God, it really is, so you just make a half-hearted shrug and sink into yourself, letting Dean close the door and return to the wheel.

The first few minutes are silent, and the longer you look at the passing fields, the more you feel like you’ve seen them before.

“Hey, Dean?”

He hums, and you turn your head to see his gaze flicking between you and the road.

“Do you know how much longer we have left? Before we’re home?”

“Few hours.” He shrugs, and it’s a loose movement, which is a good sign. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

You glance out the windshield to the completely empty, dark street. “Traffic.”

“Yep.”

It’s not worth pushing him on. You’re fine here—you’re fine anywhere if you’re next to Dean—and Sam looks a little more comfortable, so if the drive ends up going until morning, you won’t care that much. You might become a little more worried about Dean, but you’ve gotten used to being worried about Dean. You’d rather the worry be about he might be losing his sense of direction, or developing short-term memory loss, because we’ve definitely taken this right before instead of he’s shattering glass and doesn’t seem to do anything but look sad and it’s going to make you cry.

“So, um,” you keep your eyes on the dial from before, because looking at Dean while you talk to him is never a good idea. “You’re still feeling okay?”

“I’m feeling great. Whatever hocus pocus shit Rowena did worked wonders, Sweetheart, I’m feeling amazing.”

You smile, and something that’s been tight around your heart for months loosens. “That’s really good, Dean. I know you didn’t want to try this, but-“

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” You see another loose shrug in your periphery, and your smile grows. “I gotta listen to you and Sam more, sometimes your ideas can actually be good.”

That makes you look up at him—primarily to glare—and it’s immediately a mistake. The shadows and ripples from the streetlight, cutting over his lips and jaw and cheekbones in the night, are making him look somehow more attractive, and you think it’s because of the joy. Dean’s grinning between you and the road, and there are no burdens pushing his shoulders down or weighted over his handsome features, and his whole face looks happy.

“Um,” you swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from Dean. “What’s the betterlust feel like? What does it want?”

Dean pauses, and he clears his throat in a deep, rough sound that is incredibly unproductive for actually focusing on his words.

“Feels like the bloodlust, I guess. I don’t, uh, it’s like a hunger.” Dean runs one hand carefully over the wheel, glancing at you with darkened eyes you can’t read, but want to watch you forever. “But for really specific things. And if it doesn’t get those things, I get…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “I feel like shit.”

“Like a craving?”

“Exactly like a craving.” Dean shoots you a grin that’s all pleased teeth, and you couldn’t look away from him if you tried. “Kinda like when we’re on a stakeout and suddenly you want a burrito, and if we don’t get you a burrito you start to get all mean and whiny.”

“I do not get mean or whiny-“

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “You get very mean and whiny. I ain’t gonna forget when you threatened to castrate Sam because he brought you a salad.”

“And I won’t forget that you backed me up, Winchester. You offered to get my knife.”

“Because you were being mean and whiny, and I’m not looking to ever get castrated.” He gives a fake, overdramatic shutter. “The loss of Dean Jr. would hit many people very hard.”

You flush, whacking his arm. “Asshole, I was not going to castrate you-“

“You would.” He shoots you a wink. “But don’t worry about it. I appeased the monster, and everything’s intact and functional down there.”

It takes effort to roll your eyes, because you know he’s not even taunting you on purpose. Dean has no way to know that you’d never castrate him—you probably weren’t going to castrate Sam either, the point was more to put the fear of God in him for thinking salad was an acceptable alternative to burrito—because the monster he was teasing you about lived in your abdomen and only roared for him. It reared it’s head at the deep, rolling sound of Dean’s voice, grew warm and sensitive at every brush of a big, rough hand on your skin, and was fed by any sliver or scrap of attention he threw you. The only way to truly appease the monster was to let it out of where you’d trapped and desperately ignored it, and the only way to let it out was for Dean to look at you, and not stop.

But you’d learned to deal with that. As long as the monster was tended to, kept in line and from falling out of your mouth with a shout of Dean! I love you! Please look at me, because I really, really love you! You’d be fine.

“Fine.” You sigh. “I’ll give you mean, but I have never been whiny in my life-“

He gives you a flat look of amusement. “You’re a little whiny right now, Sweetheart.”

There’s no way for you to win this argument, Dean’s backed you into a corner you’re more than happy to be in—it means he’s smirking at you, unbelievably pleased with himself, and he’s drumming on the wheel again—so you just roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Uh huh.”

You flip him off, he lets out a loud laugh, causing Sam to stir in the back seat.

“Dean,” you hiss, your hand shooting up to cover his mouth. “Quiet-“

He scoffs, pulling your hand down. “Sam’ll be fine, he’s slept through more than me laughing. Don’t know where the hell his hunter instincts go when he knocks out, but nothing short of a hurricane is gonna wake him up now.”

“I know that, I’m just,” you glance at your hand, back in your laps as still buzzing where your palm had covered Dean’s lips. “He’s been really tired.”

Dean’s grin drops slightly, eyes flicking between you and the road. “What about you.”

“What about me?”

“Are you tired?”

You pause, trying to get a read on your own body. Your eyelids do feel heavy, and your body does have that strained feeling of exhaustion between your muscles and bones, but you’ve been more tired. And moments like this—just you and Dean, talking without any worries or sadness or pain—are so rare, you don’t want to miss any of it.

“I guess. But-“

“Get some sleep,” Dean says your name in a stern voice, his attention fixed back onto the road. “We’ll be home soon.”

You blink at him, and realize he’s taking the first left turn in almost three hours. “I’m fine, Dean-“

“You and Sam have been working overtime for me,” he grunts, shooting you a firm look that’s not angry, but firm. “You both deserve some rest. I’ll get you up when we’re back.”

You’re going to argue—to push back and try to explain that you can sleep later, you’re not really that tired and you’d choose talking to Dean over almost anything—but he turns up the music and that’s it. You’re not moving him on this, and if he thinks you need rest, he won’t talk to you until he deems you’ve rested.

It’s insufferable, and annoying, and so fucking impossible to fight with how he won’t stop looking at you with concern, until you sigh, curl into your seat, and pretend to close your eyes.

You’ve gotten good at faking sleep around Dean. At keeping your eyes just open enough to watch him like, admittedly, a creep, and savoring the moments where he’s just himself. He’s not trying to perform the big hero and protector and fighter role for you and Sam that he’s so good at—despite what he seems to think—because you and Sam are both, allegedly, asleep.

Well, Sam’s definitely asleep. But you’re drifting, toeing the careful line between the hazy fantasies that run through your head on loop and the reality of Dean, right next to you and so damn pretty.

He’s always so pretty, and right now he’s alive. He’s purely Dean—entirely himself, which is and always has been more than enough—and it makes his every movement electric. Every dart of his tongue over his lips—pink and full and probably soft and well fit on your own—makes you salivate, and that makes you wish he’d run a broad, thick finger over your mouth, wiping away the slight drool.

He’s drumming on the wheel again, and it turns into some sort of rhythmic lullaby, moving you higher and higher until everything is Dean.

It’s his strong, firm arms wrapping around you and flexing as he moves the wheel, and pinning your hands above your head with big, calloused hands you could swear keep brushing over your cheeks. It’s those lips that drive you insane pressing small, soft kisses all over your body before moving to your lips and turning desperate and rough. Dean’s tongue down your throat and his nose suddenly bumping against your clit.

He’s moved, down, down, down your body—you can feel marks that never really formed but are still sensitive and blissful from Dean’s presence—and suddenly you’re so needy you might die from it. You can still see Dean—the actual Dean, his eyes locked on the road in reality but focusing only on you in your head—and you can’t focus on anything else. His hands gripping the wheel are suddenly holding and kneading at your hips, but still deep inside you, pumping in and out in the same rhythm of the song.

It’s mostly fantasy now. You can smell the leather and whiskey and amber of Dean, your Dean—not your Dean, not your anything unless it’s here, in your half-dreams—and hear his humming, feel the heat radiating off his body. And it’s all feeding into each other, and now you’ll never come down. It will just keep being Dean’s hands on you—tossing you around like a ragdoll but touching your skin in a way that’s painfully careful—and body caging yours in. His full lips sucking and nipping at your neck and breasts and inner thighs, his tongue flicking at your nipples and clit and running over your teeth. Dean hold you down, up, under him or above him or against him, touching you however he wants because God, you’re not needy and desperate by any means but it would feel so good for him to use you. To be the cause of his post-sex swagger walk—as you and Sam have deemed it—or receive one of those cocky winks over breakfast. To hear him praise you, or praise him, or do anything he asks because he always does most anything for you.

Except this. This one thing—playing with you until you’re screaming his name and seeing stars—is the only thing Dean hasn’t done for you. Won’t do for you. You’ll never ask of it, you won’t be able to handle it when he says no aloud in a deep, gruff apology, and so you’ll just live here. In fantasy, where Dean’s attention is fixed on you and never strays. Because in this fake world, it’s only you and Dean, and you could like that forever.

And, right before sleep pulls you under, you could swear that Dean’s eyes on your are deep and blown-out with hunger, and realer than anything else in the world.

——————

Dean was starting to get the hang of this. It was surprisingly easy to do most of what the betterlust demanded, because they were things Dean already did all the damn time. Driving was an obvious one that he’d latched onto almost immediately—something in Dean’s brain had always felt a little easier to live with when he drove, and his hands never felt dirty when he was holding Baby’s wheel—and was easy to feed. Dean had to drive, because that’s how they got around. She and Sam knew him well enough to not try and ask and drive themselves, and it was part of Dean’s job to drive them between cases and the bunker, so satisfying the betterlust had pretty much been handed to him as a quick, easy fix.

But the trick seemed to be not feeding it too much. Taking just enough to satiate the betterlust into something that didn’t make him feel sick and hot, but keeping it from going overboard, because it was really fucking easy to go overboard. To get in the car and know that the drive could be short, but Sam had knocked himself out and She probably wouldn’t be far behind, so if Dean missed two or three turns or drove in an overly complex circle for two hours, nobody would stop him. They were only an hour from the bunker, nobody seemed to be upset by the additional time in Baby, and driving sent Dean’s head into some sort of humming, blissful joy he’d never felt in his damn life. It was like the quiet ease of driving had been duplicated, amplified, then shot right into his blood.

And two or three turns turned into nine or ten, and two hours became four. And She didn’t fall asleep, and the betterlust started to get hungry again. He couldn’t stop glancing in the rearview mirror at Her drop-dead gorgeous face that couldn’t be his, and wanting her. Wanting Her to say one word to him, or smile at him, or sit just a little closer so he could offer the betterlust something. Anything that wasn’t this starving, tortuous, ugly need for Her. Closer closer closer, never close enough and She needs to be closer so Dean doesn’t rip off his own skin from how it’s boiling or pull out his tongue because it’s starting to cave in with words he’s not allowed to say.

Dean didn’t trust himself to talk to Her, but the longer she was awake, within his reach, and invading his head with Her everything, the closer he felt going batshit insane. He had to keep himself in fucking check, and figure out what he could be allowed to do with this.

He could not be allowed to touch Her. Touching Her was dangerous. Touching Her made this high feel like he’d died in the best way possible. Touching Her was like all the simple easy of driving and the sweet taste of pie and humming strength of a good drum line in a song that pounded in Dean’s chest were rolled into one thing that was soft and warm and just real good. The betterlust fall entirely silent just when his hand brushed against Her’s, then became loud and feral when the contact was taken away. Touching Her was so good that it made everything else became pointless. Touching Her was the best, so Dean could not be allowed to touch Her because then he’d never stop.

And this wasn’t dangerous. It was just driving, and everyone knew Dean loved driving, and Dean felt like he could walk away from this. That, when they parked and She and Sam shuffled back inside, Dean was strong enough to ignore the hungry voice in his head and itch in his hands to just start driving again. Just like how he’d eat a cheeseburger, but he didn’t always need to eat a cheeseburger. He’d eat pie, and then walk away. Dean could control this. The betterlust was easy to feed, and better to feed—She’d really nailed it on the head with that—and nobody got hurt.

As long as Dean kept himself under control, nobody got hurt.

So Dean could talk to Her. Be near Her with the knowledge that, if he let his gaze linger on Her peaceful, sleeping face for too long, he’d be more of a goner than he already was and never be able to look away. It was safe to do in the car, where he could pull his attention away because of safety and immediately offer the betterlust some more driving the fill the loss of Her. Dean could keep driving, and look at Her in moderation, and nobody would have to freak out about certain people being in love with certain other people, or an annoying, third person who was a massive lump in Baby’s back seat getting a smug I told you so face.

Sam was wrong, though. There wouldn’t be anything to be smug about with Her and Dean, because Sam was wrong. As they neared the bunker—for real this time—it was just Dean, the rumble of the engine, and the music, Dean fell further into his head. Usually the music could drown his thoughts out, but the betterlust was so determined to have Her that he needed to grab it and shout that having Her wasn’t a fucking option. Dean could offer the betterlust whatever it wanted, except Her. He tried to reason with it—She’s too good, Dean isn’t close to good enough, and She doesn’t want him so he can’t lose her over something dumb like feelings—but it didn’t seem interested in Dean’s flawless, rational logic. The betterlust just wanted Her in every way possible, and Dean couldn’t get Her, and this might be worse than the bloodlust. This was unfixable, and Dean wanted it just as much as the betterlust, and his chest was going to cave in on itself and take his heart down into his stomach, pressing it to tiny pieces and pushing it out so everyone could see how little control Dean had over his own goddamn body.

He’d have to get through this. They were only ten minutes from the bunker, and he’d work out how to see Her in moderation, and She wouldn’t get uncomfortable from how much of a sick, twisted, perverted son of a bitch he was, and he’d have Her as he was allowed to and never lose Her. He’d do every other thing that fed the betterlust, and nobody had to get hurt. The whole point of this was to stop the hurt, so Dean would get a fucking grip and live with what She and Sam had worked so hard to get him.

Then She started moaning. Dean thought it was just a noise of discomfort at first—he even slowed down so he didn’t disturb Her—but then she did it again, and it was breathless and needy and he was going to die. He could feel his face turn red, feel how his jeans were suddenly painful to wear and all the blood in his body was focused and throbbing where Dean needed Her, and all his plans of keep Her close but still at a manageable distance went out the window. Her lips were parted as Her breathing became heavy, She was squirming slightly in the seat under the touch of whatever the hell was doing that to her in her dreams, and Dean might have be forced to jump out of the car if he wasn’t already pulling into the bunker.

There was a long moment—right after he turned off the engine—where the only sounds were Sam’s snoring and Her moaning, and Dean wondered if this was hell. If Rowena had actually just killed him in that kiddie pool, and he was being tortured with Her looking and sounding and being like something he wanted to eat but was just out of his reach, all while his little brother slept in the back seat.

Dean adjusted himself in his seat—hiding his boner from Her view and blocking Her from Sam’s—and cleared his throat as loud as he possibly could.

Her eyes blinked open—hazy and blown out from either sleep or Her dream—and even Her adorable, sleepy yawn made Dean twitch in his pants.

“Hey,” She rolled a little onto her side, pushing herself upright, and Her voice sounded airy and soft and Dean could not look Her in the eyes. “Are we home?”

Dean grunted, nodding, and he had to get out of here. If he didn’t, he’d either kiss Her or explode. “Just parked,” he muttered, clenching his fists on Baby’s wheel in a slow pattern that usually calmed him down, but right now was doing jack shit. “Gonna go get some food.”

She hummed, leaning forward into Dean’s periphery with an expression he recognized as Her Dean, please be okay one. She was trying to kill him.

“Are you-“

“I’m fine. Hungry.” That wasn’t a lie. Dean was starving, just for something that wasn’t exactly food. It was right at his side, and probably wet and bitter in a way that would be so fucking good, and moan and whimper like a song, would shiver at his touch and grind on his hands and face and cock and-

He had to get out of here.

“Got pie in the freezer,” Dean said, pushing Baby’s door open in the way that he always yelled at Sam about. Too rough and reckless, practically punching her open, and he didn’t have the time to chastise himself or apologize to his car, because he had to go. “Wake up Sam for me.”

“Dean-“

“I said I’m good.”

“I know, but can you, can you please just look at me-“

Dean’s head turned of its own will, and it was the biggest mistake of his life. Her face was still slightly flushed, and she looked so nervous and worried, and her eyes were scanning over his face the same way they did in his dreams. Where he’d be covered in blood, and She’d look him over with care that never seemed to waver with doubt, and guide him into the shower. Strip them both, pull Dean under clear, steaming water and kiss him as all the blood was washed away. He’d be allowed to roll Her nipples between his fingers, and shove his knee between her thighs, and kiss Her until she said his name-

“Dean-“

He had to shake his head, force the spell of Her out of his vision and head and blood, and grab the betterlust by the throat to stop it from grabbing Her face and pulling it to his. She wouldn’t want that, and She shouldn’t do things she didn’t want to do, and Dean couldn’t be near Her like this. He still couldn’t control himself, and all of this had been a mistake because he could hurt something bad and sit in the guilt and hatred but still have Her, but now he couldn’t have Her at all.

He wasn’t even sure what his excuse was, but within the next ten seconds he was half running out of the garage, into the bunker, and locking himself in his room like some sort of feral animal. A beast that had to lock itself away from the people he loved, because they didn’t deserve him and he couldn’t force them to do more for him, and couldn’t stand to ask for what he wanted and be denied.

But he could get control back. He could find the smaller things that the betterlust wanted and keep feeding them. Drive and eat and maybe watching some fucking TV. Listen to music until he went deaf and work on Baby and stay the hell away from Her. She was dangerous to him. Not Her herself—She was awesome and cool and hot and Dean wanted Her on his face or lap or under his body, which was the problem—but the way the betterlust seemed to tunnel vision onto Her. The way Dean would just look at Her and his whole body would start to ache and boil and twist until he was talking to Her. And the more he spoke to Her the more he needed to touch her, and a little more control would slip, and eventually he’d just be unable to leave her side.

The distance was going to hurt Dean more than Her anyway. He’d figure out how to control this and immediately seek Her out when he did—She probably wouldn’t even notice he was avoiding Her—but until then he had to stay away. He’d agreed to this for things to be easier, not for himself, but for Her and Sam.

Staying away from Her would be easier for everyone. No complicated, emotional, chick flick conversations. No rejection. No showing Her that he wasn’t the strong, immovable man she was friends with and being tossed out onto the curb. Dean didn’t ever want to lose Her, this would make Her walk away—She wouldn’t want him, because she’d seen every single part of him and nobody would want them all—so Dean had to keep himself under control.

And it would be fine. Dean had control now, and he could feed the betterlust with so many other things, so this would be easy.

End Note: Answer to the last note - I am incapable of writing a short and sweet chapter, I had to make the whole mini-series an extra chapter, send help.

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