#i’m posting a dean fic this week

[moyazaika]

ao3 put me off the waitlist and give me an aCCOUNTTTT PLEASEEE

[quietwingsinthesky]

.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[gilverrwrites]

Against The Wall (/Bathroom Door)

Pairing: Dean Winchester/AFAB! Reader

Feminine pronouns used.

Plot: Dean and the reader are unable to keep their hands off each other during dinner. They sneak off together for a 'quickie' in the restroom.

Rating: M/18+

This is a re-written/edited fic I wrote and posted on a now deleted tumblr. If I recall correctly, it was originally a request for 'against the wall' sex.

Please remember: to be kind to yourself.

Content: Swearing, (really cheesy) flirting, established romantic/sexual relationship, nipple play, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk, semi-public, clothed sex, size difference, biting, (non-sexual) peeing.

Excerpt: "Give me rough and ready any day.”  “Ohhh, don’t worry Darlin’...” Dean smirked, the hand on your thigh slipped to cup you through your jeans as he almost closed the gap between you, his lips less than an inch away. “I intend to.”

“Why are we staying here? Why didn’t we check in to that place down the road?” You groaned. You couldn’t help but feel like a sore thumb, as you needlessly examined the well-dressed wait staff and their high society patrons. If the side eyes, and tight smiles they shot back at you were anything to go by, they also thought your table stood out.

Attempting to avert your gaze, you glanced over the menu and had to stifle a gasp. Tired and sore from the hunt, you’d collectively decided that it would be faster and easier to just dine at the hotel’s restaurant, but $37 for a burger, FRIES NOT INCLUDED! Daylight robbery! In hindsight, you wished you’d bothered to walk the extra 10 minutes to the nearest greasyspoon, just on principle. Besides, the motel down the road was next door to a pizza joint, double whammy. “It would have been a helluva lot cheaper.”

“Because it was full up. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate somewhere a little more sophisticated.” Dean replied. If the grin on his face, and the hand on your thigh was anything to go by, he didn’t really care where he was, he was just happy for the food and the company. And to be done with the ghouls you’d been hunting down all week. He winked at you as he leaned in and snatched the menu from you, and you giggled when his brows shot up. Likely also outraged at the price of a burger, WITHOUT FRIES.

“Deano, sophisticated; we, are, not.” You stated as matter-of-factly as you could, trying to ignore his hand as it inched higher and higher up your leg.

“Speak for yourself Sweetheart.” He quipped, locking his eyes with yours and wiggling his eyebrows, “I’ve always had a taste for the finer things in life.”

“HA.” You deadpanned, but he didn’t budge. You leaned in closer, lowering your voice to a purr. “Well, not me. Give me rough and ready any day.”

“Ohhh, don’t worry Darlin’...” Dean smirked, the hand on your thigh slipped to cup you through your jeans as he almost closed the gap between you, his lips less than an inch away. “I intend to.”

You would have leaned in to kiss him, had the sound of Sam clearing his throat, signifying his discomfort, not distracted you both. Embarrassed at having forgotten his presence you both leaned back in your chairs. Dean promptly placed both his hands on the table and shot Sam a very unserious thrown.

“Sorry, Sam.” You extended a brief apology and the three of you sat in awkward silence until someone came to take your drink orders.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room.” You announced shortly after the waiter had left. “10 bucks says this place has attendants.” You joked as you stand from the table and walk away.

“Wait up, I gotta take a leak too!” Dean declared. “If they come back for food, just order for his. No green shit.” He instructed his brother before wrapping an arm over your shoulder and following very, very close behind you. You really did need to pee, but if Dean had something else in mind, you wouldn’t object.

Together you manoeuvred your way through the labyrinth of busy tables and ‘atmospherically’ dim hallways until you found a vestibule of doors labelled ‘la toilettes’.

Dean held you at arms-length as he poked his head through one and looked around. From what you could see, it seemed to be a single occupancy bathroom. “Score!” Dean turned to face you as he backed the rest of his body into ‘la toilette’, pulling you in with him. “Plus, no attendant, you owe me 10 bucks.”

The moment you heard the lock click behind you he pounced, arms either side of you, fingers against your scalp, caging you between his firm chest and the door. Your lips crashed together; a shiver ran up your spine as he groaned into your mouth. It wasn’t a soft kiss, it was harsh, demanding, just how you liked it. You snaked your hand under his shirt and ghosted your fingers up until they rested on his chest, there you could feel his heart beating a mile a minute.

Briefly, you felt high on the effect you had on him. The moment abruptly ended when he snatched your waist, twisting you around, and pushing you face first against the cold wood.

In this new position, you could feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your ass, instinctively you reached an arm back to rub against him.

“F-fuck.” Dean spluttered, grinding into your open palm. “You’re so sexy.”

“You’re not too bad yourself.” You replied, “But can we get a move on please.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He rasped, before sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of your shoulder. Strong hands begin roaming your body. One hand skirts along the curves of your upper body before gliding back up, beneath your shirt, under your bra and begins squeezing at your breast. His calloused fingers pinch at your sensitive nipple, rolling it between the tips of his fingers.

His bite softens, and his tongue flicks against the tender skin before he begins to ghost his lips over your neck, kissing, licking, sucking, marking. Meanwhile, his other hand deftly works on your belt, whipping it open in no time, he nabs the hem of your jeans and yanks down, forcing them down to your knees, underwear following soon after.

You sucked in a breath and arched your back against him when you felt a finger begin running against your slit. A second finger quickly joined, and you withered at the feel of his coarse digits splitting your lips open. The heel of his palm pressed against your clit, sending a shockwave through your body, two fingers gently prodded at your entrance, but he didn’t push in straight away.

Needlessly you rocked against his hand, hoping to garner some friction against your clit, trying to sink yourself onto his fingers, but you just couldn’t quite hit the right spot.

“Dean stop!” You whined. “I need you.”

“Need me?” He chuckled, his hot breath tickling the back of your neck. You knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face, and he was lucky you were too needy to care. “Need me to what?”

“Need you inside me.” You whispered back to him, cheeks ablaze. “Need you to fuck me.”

You felt your hole slowly spread open as his fingers inched in, stretching you around them, but no sooner had it started when he halted again.

“Dean, please!” You begged, and seemingly that was exactly what he needed to hear.

Within seconds his long fingers were buried inside you. Leaving no time to adjust he started pumping in and out, scissoring your insides, while the heel of his hand massaged your sweet spot, both actions sending an unbearable pressure through your body.

It wasn’t long before he slid in a third, and you were seeing stars, panting and rutting as a tight knot surged in your core, your climax was fast approaching, tittering on the edge when Dean abruptly pulled himself from you.

An exasperated cry leaves your lips as you attempt to reach for him, to pull him back but you’re barely able to brush your fingers against his arm. Accepting failure, you spin around to face him, ready to pout at him, to demand an explanation but before you open your mouth his hands are cupping your thighs. He lifts you off your feet, forcing your arched back against the door once again. With some shuffling he managed to bring your knees up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders, his face embedded in your concealed cleavage.

“Hold still.” He instructs, balancing your weight between one hand and the door, as he makes quick work of his belt, jeans, and boxers. You bite your lip, repressing any instinct to wither or jerk as his cock springs free.

“Ready?” He asks, his half-lidded, lusty green eyes gaze up at you as he positions himself at your entrance.

“Ready, and very, very eagerly waiting.” You confirm.

You suck in a breath as he enters you all at once, relaxing his grip on your body slightly so you sink down, taking every single inch of his shaft.

“Fuck.” He shudders against your body, his eyes rolling back already. His voice to low and guttural. “You feel so good. So fucking wet.”

Hands gripped tight against the wall for support, ankles firmly angled against his shoulders, you roll your body, grinding your pussy up and down his cock. His fingers dig tight into your thighs, surely leaving bruises as he savours the feeling.

“Fuck me, Dean.” You plead, rocking on his dick once more. “Need you to fuck me.”

“How could I say no to that.” He groans, adjusting his grip on you, slipping his hands up until they’re wrapped tight around the back of your knees. He slowly leans back, sliding his cock out until only the tip remains inside, before brutally slamming back in. It doesn’t take long for him to find his pace, slow, hard, and so fucking deep.

If he registers the creak of the old wood supporting your back, he clearly didn’t care. Neither of you had really made an effort to disguise what you were doing, why start now?

You were soon twitching at the feel of each thrust, murmuring his name. You didn’t expect to last long after he’d brought you so close once already, and you were right. He rebuilt that tension almost instantly, you felt dizzy, hot and wet. Barely able to feel anything but the throbbing, burning heat between your legs. With one last strangled moan, you tightened around him as you reached your climax.

Dean soon followed behind, the feel of your cunt tightening around his dick setting him off. His muscles clenched around your body, and his pace slowed as he released inside you, grunting with each spurt.

Flushed and panting you both remained in your positions as you came back down. Cum began to seep out of you as Dean softens.

“That was….” Dean pursed his lips as he searched for the right word. A smile spreads across his lips as he seemingly finds it. “That was, awesome.”

“That was awesome.” You reiterated as you began lowering your body. Dean's firm hands steadied your feet return to the floor. He reached down to pull your jeans up for you, but you stopped him, shooing his hands away.

“I really do need to pee!” You answered his puzzled look as you waddled over to the toilet.

“Right!” He laughed, as he pulled up his own trousers. “Plus, you should always pee after sex, right?”

You nodded affirmatively as you did your business. There was something weirdly intimate actually urinating in front of your boyfriend without shame. You really did have nothing to hide, he knew every gross detail.

“We should head back out there.” You said as you finished up. Readjusting your clothes and washing your hands. “Sam will probably think we fell in or something.”

“Nah, he may look it, but he's not that dumb.” Dean joked. “He better have ordered something good, I need more than rabbit food after that.”

“Agreed! Oh, and Dean?”

“Yeah, babe?” He answered as he drapes his arm over you.

You press your head into his shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes. “Round two after dinner?”

“If I ever say no to that, I want you to shoot me.”

[winchester-24]

I am SO gonna need a part two to Sam choosing between reader and ruby. I loved it and I’m CRAVING angst. I can only imagine how you’d continue the story I KNOW it would be good

I'm so glad you loved it! The response to this specific fic has been mind-blowing to me as someone who just started posting, and I am super humbled by it! Thank you for your support <3

Imagine Sam having to choose between you and Ruby (Part 2)

Cold. If any hunter was asked about you, that is how they would describe you. When Bobby came and picked you up that day, he let you sit the entire ride home in silence. When you two reached his house, he popped a beer for you. When you went to take it, he held it back and demanded,

“Sit.” You sighed and sat at his kitchen table, drank the beer he offered, and told him everything. He comforted you Bobby-style, meaning he told you it would be alright and the two of you would figure it out. You finished your beer, thanked him, and asked if there was any car he didn’t care to part with. While he had none running, he permitted you to fix any of them.

It took you a month to fix up a car. Everything you knew about cars you learned between Dean and Bobby. It was nothing fancy, but it would get the job done. Every morning, Bobby would make you eat breakfast, and every night, when you came in, Bobby would make you eat dinner. You would then shower, sleep, and repeat. It was like you were a zombie. When the car was completely ready, you packed your things, left Bobby a note thanking him and saying that you would call, and left.

During your month there, your phone would begin to ring non-stop. Calling, text message, voicemail. Sam was using any way you could communicate on the phone. In the beginning, you would listen to the voicemails.

“Hey, baby, it's me—again. Please pick it up and at least let me know you are safe. We can talk about this. I love you.”

“I know you’re mad- you have every right to be. I was selfish and stupid, thinking about what was best for us without consulting you. It was dumb, and I took full responsibility. Please call me. I miss you so much; I love you.”

Every voicemail sounded like that, but the contact became less frequent. Instead of all day, it was in the morning and at night. Then it turned into just at night. Then it turned into every other day until it became once or twice a week until the last week you were at Bobby’s, Sam didn’t try to contact you once. Good.

You went from town to town, trying every crossroads demon. Trying to get information, make a deal. Anything. Every demon denied you a deal, and no one would tell you anything. You were getting frustrated. In between finding demons, you would pick up solo jobs. The roadhouse became your home away from home, wherever your home was supposed to be. Some nights, you would end up like Ash, asleep on top of a pool table or bar; other nights, Ellen would give you the spare back bedroom.

Hunters would come in and try to flirt with you. You would be cordial and say no; however, every hunter was the same- stubborn, and thinking no would eventually turn yes. After the fifth hunter came through and tried to put hands on you, you grabbed his hand, twisting it like Sam taught you, and caused the wrist to snap.

That was the last time a hunter hit on you at the roadhouse.

Every so often, Sam Winchester’s name was brought up around you. Hunters loved to talk, and now you know how every hunter seemed to know you three when traveling, but you never knew them. Each time you heard Sam’s name, your heart became colder, and another shot was poured into your body.

Three more months had passed, and you were no closer to figuring out how to get Dean out of hell. A few times, you thought about calling Sam to see if he was close to saving Dean but decided against it. When your phone rang, you were in a hotel room, just finished clearing out a vamp’s nest. Bobby.

“Bobby.” You say that was your greeting now to anyone; you have no spark of joy left in you.

“I need you to come home.” That was all Bobby said. You sighed and flung your boot off, working on the other one.

“I mean, I can; it will be tomorrow, though; I just finished a hunt; is it that important?”

“It needs to be now,” Bobby said. I stood up.

“Bobby, what’s going on?”

“You’re going to want to see for yourself, get your ass over here and stop arguing with me.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. I’ll be there in a few hours.” You say before you hang up. You look down at all the blood on you and then make eye contact with yourself in the mirror.

“But first, I’m going to shower.” You mutter to yourself.

Freshly showered, you were at Bobby’s five hours later. You turn the ignition off and step out of the car. The afternoon light was setting in, and you started to get nervous. Nothing seemed out of place, so what was the big deal? You opened the door and called for Bobby.

“Bobby, it’s me; what’s so important,”  You stopped as you looked in the living room. Bobby stood there, along with- Dean. You gasped. Dean smiled.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” He spoke. He went to walk towards you.

“Don’t move a muscle.” You say, grabbing your silver knife and keeping it under your shirt and pants.

“Y/N, I already did the checks, it’s him.” Your eyes looked over at Bobby and narrowed again.

“How do I know you’re Bobby?” Dean smiled.

“You’re good here; test me.” Dean held out his arm, and you did all the testing. When he didn’t react, you looked into his eyes, and tears started to form.

“You’re back.” You whispered.

“I’m back,” he said. You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tightly. After a few minutes, he broke the hug and rubbed your arms.

“Bobby told me about Sam.” Hearing his name iced your heart over once more. You looked away from Dean.

“He made his choice; I made mine. I haven’t talked to him since I left.” Dean nodded his head.

“I was going to try to find him if you wanted to come.”

“Thanks, Dean, but I’ll pass.”  Dean sighed and nodded while Bobby said he was going and was going to finish getting packed. You hugged Dean again before ensuring he still had your number and left.

A few weeks after that, you saw Sam Winchester for the first time in months. You heard rumors from the roadhouse about everything going on with Demons and hunting in packs and were looking for a girl, but you never went and checked for yourself. You knew the brothers would be there. Instead, you took up your usual gigs, hoping to stay away from the war.

It was a little salt and burn hunt. You were dressed in your FBI outfit, questioning the latest victim’s wife when you heard it. That low rumble you used to ride in. You quickly finished up your goodbyes, gave her your card, and started to walk back to your car when they stepped out. Sam’s eyes were wide, and he stood frozen at the vehicle. Dean was walking around the car. Surprise flashed in his eyes, but he kept advancing towards you. Dean wrapped you in a hug, and you returned.

Sam walked up to you and Dean. His eyes stared into yours; his mouth kept opening like he was going to stay something but then would shut it again.

“Are you still seeing her?” It is all that came out of your mouth. The distaste was evident in your voice. Sam looked taken back for a second but then regained his composure.

“No.” That was all he was able to muster up and speak. You looked at Dean for confirmation.

“I haven’t seen her.” That is all he said. That raised suspicion in you. You decided to let it go.

“If you want to help on this case, I can tell you what I have gathered so far; I was about to go get lunch- you guys are buying.” You walk past them and get in your car, not waiting for them to reply. You drove to the diner you saw on the way to the victim's house and noticed the Impala was not too far behind you. You grabbed a booth at the restaurant, and the boys slid to the other side of you. After you three ordered it, you started discussing the case and everything you learned.

“So, what’s your theory?” Sam asked after you gave them everything you learned.

“These men are not correlated to anything except they all went to the same bar. They were all at the bar the night they died. I’m not sure I would have to go back and ask all the victim’s wives, but I think these men were all unfaithful in their marriages. See, Kathleen Voss’ husband was unfaithful and wanted to be with his mistress, who, get this, was a bartender at that bar, so he killed Kathleen and tried to cover it up. Of course, he was caught but died in jail the same way as all the other victims.”

“So, you think these men are sleeping with a bartender?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know if they are unfaithful with a bartender or just in general, but I’m assuming that’s where Kathleen sticks around since that’s where her husband started cheating on her.” The boys nodded their heads in agreement as our food came. You ate, they paid, and then you told them where you were staying. Before Sam could even have a chance to talk to you, you turned around and walked to your car.

Back at the hotel room, you let out tears that had been hiding behind your eyes the entire time you were around Sam. Old wounds opened, and while you gave a brave face, you were crumpling and fast. You headed for the whiskey in your bag and drank it straight from the bottle. The burn hurt on the way down, but you hoped the effects would start soon. You changed out of your FBI gear into lounge clothes to do more research on these men. When you were about to open your laptop, you heard a knock at your door. You grabbed your gun and made your way to open it. Sam.

“Can I come in?” He asked. You didn’t reply; you just opened the door for him. He walked in and stood in the middle of the room awkwardly. You set your gun down and folded your arms across your chest. Sam let out a breath and started talking.

“I know you are still pissed, hurt, sad, everything. I meant what I said. I don’t see her anymore. I haven’t had contact with her in weeks. There are many things I want to tell you that I’m going to tell you; I want to know if I still have a chance.” You looked at him like he was stupid.

“I left MONTHS ago. You only stopped seeing her WEEKS ago? You know that first month I was at Bobby’s? You know I didn’t tell him not to tell you where I was? You could have shown up any time you wanted to, Sam! You didn’t! Sure, you left messages on my phone, but let's be honest- you were still with HER! You still chose HER! Now you want to walk into my hotel room and ask if you have a chance when I haven’t seen you for months, and it’s only been a few weeks away from that demon? Do I look like a fucking convenience store to you? You want me back; you have to earn me back. That starts with no contact with her. That starts with you showing me you want to be with me.”  One tear left your eye while Sam just looked at you. He nodded his head and started to walk out of the room. Before he crossed over, he looked at you and said softly.

“I still love you.” You didn’t reply, and he walked back to his room. You shut the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, letting out all the emotions you had been holding in for months.

A little while later, in your measurement time, about half a bottle later, another knock sounded at your door. You got up and stumbled over to your door, opening and seeing Dean. He looked at your state and softened his eyes but then tensed again.

“We need to talk.” That sobered you. You nodded your head and let him in. Dean walked in and turned to face you.

“Sam lied to you.” That is all he said. Your jaw clenched.

“What do you mean?”

“He is still seeing that demon; I’m pretty sure they are together now.”

Red. That is what you saw. In your lounge clothes and all, you grabbed your gun and knife; Dean already had the demon knife on him that Ruby gave the boys a while ago.

“Where the fuck is he?” You asked. Dean led you to Sam’s room. He stopped in front of it.

“Kick it down, Dean.” You spoke. Dean complied, and both of you rushed into the room—the sight before you ripped your heart out and disgusted you simultaneously. Ruby was on top of Sam, no shirt, just a black lace bra and panties. Sam only had boxers on, and he was drinking her blood. His mouth and cheeks had blood on them, and when you two busted through the door, they broke apart, and it was all over his mouth.

Sam’s eyes were wide that he had just been caught, and Ruby had that stupid ass smug smile on her face that you remember all too well. You felt your face heat us as you locked eyes with the demon bitch.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

[smoky-lucine]

Back from the Dead

Dean Winchester & Little sister!reader After Dean dies, Y/N is stuck mourning for months. When he is freed from hell, he tries to call her. Angst, Sam's mentioned but not actually there, more Bobby than anything 💀 This is my first fic i'm posting omg! hopefully it turned out alright

After Dean died things quickly fell apart. Sam clearly wasn’t okay, and neither were you. You got new cases here and there, but it wasn’t the same without Dean. You and Sam decided to slow down on hunting for the time being to grieve. Days turned into weeks, crying turned into drinking, praying turned into attempting crossroad deals, and eventually you woke up one morning alone in the motel with no trace of Sam.

You tried calling his phone for days, tracing any of his aliases, looking into any cases nearby hoping he found one on his own. He was completely gone.

After a couple weeks of searching, you called Bobby. He hasn’t heard from Sam in weeks and offered for you to stay with him instead of living from a motel. You took a bus to his home, and he greeted you with a big hug. You both don’t like to admit it, but he’s been more of a father to you than your actual dad ever was.

He let you move into his spare bedroom, and that's where you spent the first few weeks. Bobby would leave food at your door. He would sometimes try to come in and talk to you, but you weren’t very talkative anymore. Occasionally he’d practically drag you down to the library. He either needed help researching for other hunters or would tell you, “Spending all your life in that damn room won’t help you at all. I know it’s hard. We’re both hurting Y/N, but please just talk to me instead of suffering up there all day.”

Most nights he could hear your nightmares. He wasn’t there when Dean died, but he was there when you all buried his body. He couldn’t even imagine what it looked like actually seeing him die. Bobby could hear you crying in your sleep, begging Dean to keep breathing. He would come in and wake you up when you would start to scream. He couldn’t stand hearing you relive your brother's death every night.

Eventually the two of you were able to talk and mourn Dean together, slowly grieving and beginning to move on. You started to spend more time downstairs, researching, watching TV with Bobby. He even got you to go out to dinner one night.

The two of you would talk about Sam sometimes. Bobby would hear you late at night sobbing on a voicemail to him hoping he would finally pick up. You both knew he was alive, making your confusion on why Sam wouldn’t talk to you even more saddening. Bobby didn’t have much to say to comfort you anymore.

“I’m sorry kid. I know he’s out there somewhere; he’s just trying to mourn and move on too.”

One day you were cleaning up the library while Bobby made lunch, when you got a call. Nobody calls you anymore. Looking at the unknown number you cleared your throat and answered, putting the call on speaker.

“Hello?” You say, still putting away books.

The person on the line gasped. “Y/N?”

“Who is this?” Bobby hears you on the phone and stands right outside of the library to listen in.

“Y/N! It-It’s Dean! I can’t get a hold of Sam where are you guys?”

Your eyes pop out of your head, and you drop the book you were holding. “Dean? You can’t be Dean.” Your eyes cloud up with tears and Bobby runs into the library.

“Y/N it really is me please listen to me kid. Listen I don’t know-” Bobby grabs your phone and takes it off speaker.

“You listen to me idjit I don’t know how you got this number or why you think this is funny, but I better never hear you playing these kinds of damn tricks on us ever again.” You hear the person on the line start to talk but Bobby ends the call. You sat down at the desk and broke down. You hadn’t heard Dean’s voice in months, but it really did sound like him.

Bobby pulled a chair up and put his arm around you. “Kid I know you weren’t expecting for that to happen but we both know that wasn’t him.”

“How was it not?” You sobbed. “That was his voice. I know that was his voice.”

You lean into Bobby, and he holds you as you sob. He tried his best to comfort you, but he wasn’t very good at it, and he wasn’t exactly sure what was happening either. It took a while, but eventually you calmed down and you guys decided to just relax and call it an early day.

Later that night you were in your room getting your things ready to shower. You grabbed your clothes and started to make your way to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door. You weren’t sure who could be here at this hour. You put your stuff in the bathroom and start going down the stairs when you hear Bobby grab his knife and you hear a fight break out. You take your own knife out of your pocket and run to the front room.

There you see Bobby and Dean fighting. “Bobby! It’s me!” “My ass!”

You couldn’t believe Dean was right in front of you. He looks completely fine, like he wasn’t torn apart by hell hounds just a few months ago. Like you didn’t bury him just a few months ago.

“Wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed. You’re about the closest thing I have to a father.” Dean looks terrified and Bobby stands still. You drop your knife in shock and they both turn to look at you.

“Dean.” Your face is white as a ghost, your heart pounding.

Dean’s eyes soften and he stands up. “Y/N.”

He starts to walk towards you and Bobby blocks him. He stares at Dean for a second and touches his shoulder. He still doesn’t believe it. You run up and push Bobby’s arm away, hugging Dean as hard as you can. Dean hugs you back and you both sigh a breath of relief.

You pull back and take it in. Deans alive. Right in front of you.

You can’t help but to start crying for the second time that day. Dean tears up a little too. “Baby I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that happen to me.”

“I knew it had to be you calling. I was right.” You both pull back into the hug.

The three of you sit down to talk about what happened. Dean asks where Sam is, and you have to explain how he left you with no warning and you had to come here. He can’t even believe it. Bobby explains the last few months and that in the morning we can start looking for Sam again.

In the meantime, Dean takes a shower and eats an actual meal. Bobby tells him that he can either take the couch or share a bed with you. He chooses the latter.

You and Dean get in the bed and it’s still a shock that your oldest brother is right here in front of you. You lay on his chest and take a deep breath. Months ago, he wouldn’t let you come close to him if he was tired, but he thinks that tonight and possibly the next few weeks could be an exception.

“Y/N, we’re going to fix all this. I’ll make sure of it. We’re gonna find Sam, we’re gonna figure out who brought me back, and I’m going to make sure you never have to go through this again. I promise.”

“I can’t believe you're actually back. I’ve been praying for this for months.” You yawned. It’s been a long day and you both were quickly falling asleep. “I missed you.”

“I know you did kid. I missed you so much.”

[bimbosicko]

GET HIM BACK ! (DEAN'S VERSION)

you're sam's girlfriend and when you find out he cheated on you, you have to get him back ۶ৎ

pairings ! dean winchester x fem! reader

warnings ! english isn't my first language, soulless sam, S6E9, aka fairy episode lol, sam cheats on you so you fuck his brother ><, but there are feelings involved, i promise. fluff! angst! sex! what more could you ask for?, creampie (wrap it before you tap it guys), 69?, cheating but at the same time no??, oral (female and male receiving) and that's it i think! :3

author's note ! dean is literally the loml (⁠��⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) idk how this got so long like i literally am a sam girlie idk what happened!!! remember!! my asks are open and everything you need to know ab myself is in the pinned post in my blog, ily<33

words count ! 10k omfg, i need therapy.

sam's version (there's no connection between these two fics)

The cabin was silent when you woke up. Outside, the wind battered the windows fiercely, making the wood creak with every gust, but inside, everything was still. Too still.

You reached out almost instinctively, searching for the familiar warmth beside you, but all you found were cold sheets. And like almost every night lately, Sam wasn’t there.

You sat up slowly, blinking to adjust to the night’s darkness, and then you saw him.

Standing by the window, back to you, his silhouette rigid, his head barely tilted toward the darkness outside. The same posture you had seen every night for weeks. As if something out there made more sense than everything in here. As if he was trapped in this place with you, and not out there chasing the freedom he seemed to seek with every flicker of his gaze through the glass.

“Can’t sleep?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Sam took his time to respond. He didn’t turn to look at you—if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he hadn’t even heard you. He just stood there, unmoving, like a statue.

“I’m not tired,” he whispered after a few seconds.

The same answer as always. The same empty, lifeless phrase, with not even the slightest attempt at reassurance.

Before, Sam used to wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your hair, and fall asleep with his breath in sync with yours against your skin. Before, his mere presence was enough to make you feel safe. Now, you barely even shared the same space.

You moved carefully, ignoring the chill of the cold floor against your feet as you approached him. Every step felt like a test, like you were trespassing into forbidden territory. Finally, you lifted a hand and placed it on his back, waiting… for something. Any sign of recognition, a glimpse of the man you once knew.

All you got was the immediate tension of his muscles under your touch.

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t react either.

You pressed your lips together and tried to pretend that didn’t hurt more than it should.

“Sam…” you whispered, feeling the words catch in your throat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Another silence followed. A heavy, unbearable silence that stretched for too long. Finally, Sam turned his face slightly toward you.

And his expression knocked the breath out of you.

There was no trace of the person you remembered. His eyes, once full of life and every emotion you never needed to put into words, were now an empty void. Black in the dim light, expressionless, as if he were looking at you without really seeing you. If he hadn’t proven himself to you weeks ago, you’d be convinced you were dealing with a demon, not your boyfriend.

“Nothing.” His voice was calm. Too calm. So devoid of emotion that it chilled your blood. “Things just… changed down there.”

A shiver ran down your spine. It wasn’t the first time you’d talked about Hell, but never like this. Never with this cold indifference.

You swallowed hard.

“But you’re still you, right?” you asked, hating how weak your own voice sounded. Like you were afraid of the answer.

Sam tilted his head in an almost mechanical motion. As if the question confused him. As if it was ridiculous to even suggest otherwise.

Then, he smiled.

But it was an empty smile, devoid of warmth, almost soulless.

“Of course.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to believe him, you really did. But everything in his demeanor told you otherwise.

Still, you forced yourself to smile too, even though it hurt. Slowly, you lifted a hand, trying to touch his cheek. Just a simple touch. A simple connection. Something that could bring you back to him.

But before your fingers could even reach him, Sam turned his face away. Not abruptly, not in anger. Just with that same cruel indifference, as if the idea of your touch was completely foreign to him. As if you were nothing more than a shadow in his world now.

Since he had come back, he hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t held you. He had barely even spoken when you tried to reach him.

You lowered your hand, feeling your throat burn. You didn’t say anything else. There was no point.

You just turned around and went back to bed, wrapping your arms around yourself to fill the icy emptiness in your stomach.

But no matter how much you curled under the blankets, the cold never left.

If you were being honest with yourself, pretending to be surprised when Dean called to say something was wrong with Sam was harder than expected. You had already noticed. You had felt it in every empty stare, in every touch that never came, in every silence that stretched too long.

But you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t admit that, deep down, you already knew.

“He… doesn’t have a soul.” Dean’s voice was tense, tired, carrying that unmistakable weight of someone who has seen too much and still keeps going. “We don’t know who took it. We don’t know anything.”

You bit your lip, processing the information as you overanalyzed everything you knew about the supernatural world your boyfriend and his brother were trapped in. A world where souls could be taken like objects. A world where the impossible happened far too often.

“Maybe…” you started, but Dean cut you off before you could finish.

He said your name. Not like he usually did. Not with the teasing tone he used when you argued over stupid things. Not with that slow, arrogant drawl that sometimes drove you crazy. No. This time, it was different.

Lower. Deeper. More… personal.

“No, stop doing that.” His voice was firm, frustrated. “You always defend him. And lately, more than ever.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms.

“I wasn’t going to defend him, I was trying to think of solutions.”

Dean scoffed, and you could almost picture him running a hand down his face, exhausted.

“There’s no solution for this.” His tone softened just a little, but when he spoke again, he said your name once more. And that was worse.

There was something in the way he said it that made you tense up. Like every letter weighed too much on his tongue. Like he was fighting himself just by saying it.

You didn’t like it. Or rather… you liked it too much.

Quickly, you tried to change the subject.

“How are Ben and Lisa?” you asked, forcing yourself to sound casual.

Dean was silent for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for you to feel a knot in your stomach.

“Don’t do that,” he finally said.

“Do what?”

You didn’t need to see him to know he was clenching his jaw.

“You know exactly what.”

You swallowed down a nervous laugh. But of course, Dean caught it.

“Are you laughing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I can hear you laughing.” His voice took on that tone he always used when he wanted to sound annoyed but really wasn’t. “I’d recognize that sound anywhere. It’s the same as Smurfette’s.”

You smiled, even though you knew you shouldn’t.

“Sorry for emitting emotions, Terminator. Won’t happen again,” you said with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

On the other end of the line, you heard Dean inhale sharply, like his lungs had forgotten how to function for a second.

There was a pause. Not the comfortable kind. Not the ones that felt natural. This one was heavy, loaded with something you didn’t want to name.

“Speaking of Terminator,” he finally said, and you rolled your eyes at his nickname for his brother.

He’s not just his brother. He’s your boyfriend, you reminded yourself harshly.

“He… confessed some things.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Confessed?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Dean took a second to respond. Not long enough to be suspicious, but long enough for you to notice.

“I roughed him up a little,” he admitted, and even without seeing him, you knew he was uncomfortable. “Sorry about that.”

A part of you wanted to be angry. But that part was small, almost insignificant. Instead, you sighed and shrugged, as if that could somehow translate through the phone.

“I’ll assume he deserved it.”

There was silence, and then Dean let out a short laugh.

“He really did.”

But the lightness didn’t last long. A second later, he sighed, and you recognized the sound of someone bracing themselves for something difficult.

Then, he said it.

“Sam confessed to cheating on you.”

The world seemed to stop.

The air in your lungs grew thick, impossible to inhale without pain. Your eyes welled up instantly, but you didn’t let the tears fall. You blinked rapidly, pressing your lips together tightly, as if that could hold back everything that was about to break inside you.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t deny it.

You just said the first thing that came to mind.

“Are you okay?”

Dean said your name in a tone you couldn’t quite decipher. Damn it, he seemed obsessed with your stupid name. He always said it differently than anyone else. With a different weight. As if it meant more than it should.

“I’m fine, Dean.” You bit out each word, swallowing the anger, the pain, everything you couldn’t afford to let out in that moment. “Do you need me to come?”

Dean hesitated, and for a moment, you thought he’d tell you no. That it would be best if you stayed where you were, far from all of this. But instead, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“We’re fine.”

It was soft. Too soft. Like he was trying to wrap you in something he couldn’t allow himself to give you.

You scoffed, “I’m coming anyway.”

Dean didn’t try to stop you. He didn’t argue. Somehow, that made you feel worse.

Your grip on the steering wheel was so tight you could feel your nails digging into the rubber. The trembling in your hands was subtle, but enough to make your knuckles turn white under the pressure.

You kept trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that this wasn’t the end of the world, that you and Sam were going to get through this like the totally functional couple you were.

You took a breath. Then another.

Everything could be fixed. Everything.

It didn’t matter what Dean said—what the hell did he even know about this anyway?

But doubt crept into your chest like a slow poison.

He knew. Dean always knew more than he let on, and when he had called, his voice had that tone that made you want to throw the phone out the window. That tone of I know you’re lying to yourself, but I’m gonna let you figure it out on your own.

Your breathing started to turn erratic, your grip on the wheel tightening even more.

You knew Sam didn’t have a soul. You knew it. Something inside you had known all along.

But goddamn it, you couldn’t stop it from hurting.

Things were changing, and you hated it. You knew what you were signing up for when you started dating him, but… how the hell were you supposed to fight something you couldn’t even see?

The pain was diffuse, hard to pinpoint, but it was there, under your skin, in the way his eyes didn’t shine anymore, in the way his hands no longer reached for you.

You blinked, and by the time your vision focused, you had already driven past Bobby’s place.

Shit.

You slammed on the brakes so hard that the force sent your forehead crashing against the wheel. Any harder, and you would’ve left a mark.

You huffed, running a hand over your face before reversing and parking properly.

By the time you stepped out of the car, Dean was already waiting at the entrance, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he had been standing there forever.

His expression was tense, but his eyes scanned your face quickly, analyzing every flicker of emotion you weren’t sure you could hide.

“Oh, fuck, what happened now?” It was the first thing that came out of your mouth, because if there was one thing you could still do, it was pretend you weren’t about to break.

Dean let out a sharp exhale, tilting his head like he was debating whether to tease you or let it slide.

“Well, hello to you too, princess.”

You rolled your eyes with fake impatience, like hearing him call you that didn’t make you feel things you really shouldn’t be feeling.

“Your boyfriend’s inside.”

That sentence—so simple, so casual—hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend, who didn’t have a soul. Your boyfriend, who didn’t touch you, who didn’t look at you the way he used to, who had cheated on you and didn’t even seem to understand why that was wrong.

Your boyfriend, who felt more like a stranger with every passing day.

You swallowed hard, forcing your expression to stay neutral.

“Great.”

You took a step toward the entrance, but Dean moved before you could pass him—not exactly blocking your way, but not stepping aside either.

His eyes flickered downward.

It was only then that you realized your hands were still shaking.

The shift in his expression was almost imperceptible, but you caught it. The tension in his jaw, the way his gaze hardened for a second before he masked it with his usual attitude.

“Tell me you’re at least gonna kick his ass when you see him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked at him, and for a second, it was hard to remember that he was with Lisa and you were with Sam.

Dean wasn’t soft when he spoke—he never had been. But somehow, when he looked at you like that, when he said things like that in that irritated yet protective tone, the stupid tension in the air became impossible to ignore.

You shook your head, as if that could clear your thoughts. “Just tell me how bad the mess is this time.”

Dean tilted his head, his eyes still locked on you.

For a moment, you thought he was going to say something else. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

But then he just huffed and shrugged.

“Nothing we can’t fix.”

You knew he had changed his mind at the last second just to make you feel better.

You appreciated the effort.

Seeing Sam sitting at the kitchen table, casually drinking a beer like nothing had happened, sent a wave of fury so intense through you that, for a moment, you had to clench your fists just to keep yourself in check.  

You wanted to yell at him.

You wanted to shake him.

You wanted to make him understand what this meant to you, what he was making you feel.

But it was useless.

Because he didn’t care.  

Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was doing this out of malice, but because… he simply couldn’t care.  

And that indifference, that complete lack of emotion, was worse than any lie he could have told, worse than any excuse he could have given.  

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, to not let the desperation seep into your voice.  

“Dean.”  

Just like that, he caught the hint instantly. With one last glance between you and his brother, he turned on his heels and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

The sound of the latch clicking into place felt like a sentence being passed.  

Sam sighed, resting his elbows on the table, wearing that same vacant expression that was driving you insane.  

His eyes skimmed over you, as if assessing how much you knew, how much you had to say to him.  

He whispered your name, his voice hesitant.  

“I’m guessing Dean told you.”  

You let out a humorless laugh. Of course he did. Of course he fucking did.  

“Yeah, he told me all about your little ‘I’m unstoppable and have no feelings’ monologue.”  

Your tone was pure venom. A sharp-edged mockery, laced with more anger than you wanted to admit.  

Sam blinked slowly, unfazed.  

“You two are really close, huh?”  

You knew it wasn’t meant as an accusation.  

But it still felt like one.  

Your chest tightened instantly.  

You coughed, trying to shake off the embarrassment. “I… I’m disappointed.”  

He nodded, as if mulling over your words, then, with the same lack of emotion as always, murmured:  

“Yeah. I’d be disappointed too, honestly.”  

That simply was the final blow.  

No anger, no guilt, not even the bare minimum of an attempt to reassure you.  

You wanted to wipe that blank expression off his face with a punch.  

You let out a bitter laugh, because if you didn’t, you were going to break right there.  

Both hands landed on the table as you leaned forward slightly, forcing yourself to keep it together.  

“I understand your… situation. I really do,” you whispered, though the lump in your throat made it hard to speak.  

And the moment the words left your mouth, you felt like an idiot for calling it that.  

A situation.  

Not having a soul wasn’t a situation.  

It wasn’t a temporary crisis, something that could be solved with an honest conversation.  

It was a void. A bottomless pit.  

“That’s why I thought of coming to an agreement.”  

Sam raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.  

“You did?”  

You nodded.  

“An open relationship.”  

The very idea of it made your stomach turn.  

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to say these words.  

But you didn’t have another choice.  

For the first time in this entire conversation, Sam actually looked confused.  

“What?”  

He didn’t ask the question as if he was in shock. He didn’t say it because he was hurt, or because this was affecting him.  

He just… didn’t get it.  

Like the idea seemed unnecessary to him.  

Like he had already accepted what he was doing anyway.  

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to smile.  

“I don’t want you to keep cheating on me,” you said firmly. “And I know you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway, so I’m giving you full permission to fuck around.”  

Your smile didn’t reach your eyes.  

Sam tilted his head slightly, watching you. Analyzing.  

“And you… are you in this open relationship too?”  

You rolled your eyes.  

“Oh, tell me, Sam, who the hell am I supposed to be sleeping with?”  

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Just asking.”  

He stood up with that same unbothered calm, as if this conversation hadn’t affected him in the slightest.  

Your whole body tensed when he walked past you to grab another beer from the fridge.  

The fact that he didn’t notice…  

The fact that he didn’t even realize…  

It made you want to break something.  

The clink of glass against wood as he set the bottle down pulled you out of your thoughts.  

“Dean and I have a case coming up. Some missing people in Indiana.”  

You knew the only reason he was telling you was because Dean would mention it if he didn’t.  

The anger inside you burned hotter.  

“I’m going with you.”  

Sam turned his head, his expression showing just how much he hated that idea.  

“If you come, you’re just gonna slow everything dow—”  

You cut him off instantly.  

“Sam, you are in no position to tell me shit.”  

His lips pressed into a thin line.  

That seemed to shut him up.

You stepped outside, desperate for air.

Not that the air in Bobby’s scrapyard was particularly fresh. It always carried the scent of rusted metal, motor oil, and damp earth—a suffocating mix that clung to your throat. But even that was better than staying inside.

Better than being in the same room as him.

Your boots crunched against the gravel as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your throat burned, your chest tightened, and there was this unbearable pressure, this sensation that you were about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

You leaned against the wall of the garage, bending forward slightly, hands gripping your knees as you tried to breathe.

Don’t cry. Don’t scream.

Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

“Get a grip,” you whispered under your breath. “You have to get a fucking grip.”

The door behind you slammed shut.

You flinched at the sound, your body tensing instinctively.

Dean.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

His presence was unmistakable—the way he moved, the weight he carried like the world rested on his shoulders, and yet he still walked with that unshakable confidence, like he’d fight the whole damn universe and somehow win.

He followed you outside, stopping a few steps away, watching.

Then, without warning, his hand settled on your shoulder.

You jolted as if you’d been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ!” you yelped, clutching your chest. “Are you insane?”

Dean raised both hands in defense, giving you that classic ‘what the hell is your problem?’ look.

“Relax. I was just checking if you were alive.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Oh, I’m perfect, Dean. Just freaking fantastic.”

Your tone dripped with venom, but Dean didn’t take the bait. He just stood there, watching you with that damn patience of his, the kind that somehow managed to be both frustrating and grounding at the same time.

His eyes flicked over you, scanning, assessing—seeing more than you wanted him to.

Then he exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

“I broke up with Lisa.” His voice was calm, almost casual. “Haven’t seen her in months.”

Your breath hitched.

“…What?”

The word came out louder than you intended, and as soon as it did, you slapped a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for reacting so strongly.

“I—Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine.”

And there it was.

Subtle, nearly hidden beneath the shadow of his usual exasperation.

A smirk.

Dean Winchester was enjoying your reaction.

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What happened?”

Your voice softened without you realizing it—less biting, more curious. And that was when it clicked.

The bastard had done it on purpose.

He was distracting you. With his problems.

And the worst part? It was working.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just held your gaze, his expression shifting, growing heavier.

“…It just didn’t feel right.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into your chest.

Because you understood exactly what he meant.

Because you knew what that felt like.

Because you were standing here, feeling the same way about his brother.

Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek as you nodded slowly.

Dean smiled at that—just a small, fleeting thing. And then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flickered down to your lips.

Your stomach clenched.

The moment was so quick, so subtle, you could’ve imagined it.

But the air between you thickened, charged with something neither of you had the right to feel.

Then, as if snapping out of it, Dean cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck—a rare, almost awkward gesture coming from him.

He coughed, looking away immediately, like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“Yeah, well… whatever,” he muttered, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “Tell your boyfriend to get his ass in gear. We’re leaving.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

Boyfriend.

It almost felt like a cruel joke.

But you didn’t let it show.

“No need,” you said evenly, standing up as well, though something inside you twisted violently. “I’m coming with you.”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, one eyebrow arching.

“You’ve been real eager to tag along lately.”

You shrugged, your expression unreadable.

“What, afraid I’ll slit your throat in your sleep?”

He let out a dry chuckle, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. But his eyes—his eyes—they never left yours.

Studying.

And for the first time in this entire conversation, you realized…

He was crossing a line, too.

“If you wanted to kill me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly, “you’d have tried already.”

The drive was uncomfortable.  

Like, parents-on-the-verge-of-divorce-while-their-kid-sits-in-the-backseat-clueless level of uncomfortable.  

Except in this case, Dean was the kid, he had full control of the car, and he was very aware of absolutely everything that was going on.  

Sam had spoken exactly two words the entire trip. And as if the tension wasn’t thick enough, the second you arrived at the motel, he left you in the room without a second glance and grabbed his brother by the arm, dragging him along to do interviews.  

He didn’t even give you the chance to fix Dean’s crooked tie.  

Twenty minutes later, you had two missed calls from Dean.  

You sighed, already knowing that if you didn’t call him back, the idiot would just keep ringing until he drove you insane.  

As soon as he picked up, he didn’t even let you breathe before snapping.

“You didn’t answer.”  

His tone was irritated, impatient.  

You rolled your eyes on instinct.  

“I was doing this thing called showering. You should try it sometime. Even cats do it.”  

You heard him exhale sharply, like he was debating whether it was worth it to argue with you.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I can’t stand Sam anymore.”  

That made you raise an eyebrow. Fast topic change.  

“He’s really wearing you down, huh?” you murmured, a trace of amusement in your voice.  

“He doesn’t care. Not even enough to pretend he does,” Dean practically growled.  

The frustration in his voice was so thick you could almost see him gripping the wheel too hard, his jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white.  

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.  

“Dean—”  

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he snapped.  

“I wasn’t going to.” Your voice softened just a little. “I was gonna offer you a massage when you get back.”  

Silence.  

One second. Two.  

Your heart pounded so hard you felt it in your ears.  

“…Oh.”  

Dean’s voice dropped lower, quieter.  

“That… uh. That actually sounds nice.”  

Nice? That was all he had to say? Because suddenly, you were regretting offering at all.  

You cleared your throat, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.  

“I figured it would,” you said, keeping your tone light, pretending like it wasn’t a big deal. “So… should I wait for you?”  

“I’m checking out the crop circles. Sam’s with the missing guy’s father.”  

“Alrighty,” you said, standing up. “I’ll get dressed and head out to find a grocery store or something.”  

Silence.  

“…Get dressed?”  

Dean’s voice dropped lower, rougher.  

“…Are you naked?”  

You blinked.  

And then you smirked.  

“I told you I had just showered.”  

“You never said—!”  

You rolled your eyes, amused.  

“Sorry, Dean, bad signal, you’re breaking up, bye-bye.”  

And you hung up before he could say anything else.  

As soon as you put the phone down, you exhaled sharply, realizing how fast your heart was beating.  

This wasn’t right.  

None of this was right.  

And yet…  

For some reason, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face.

It had been hours since you first walked into the grocery store.  

But somehow, you were still standing in the candle aisle, completely hypnotized.  

You absentmindedly picked up a pack of red candles, turning them over in your hands. Would that be too much? Would it make the massage feel… whore-ish?  

You chewed the inside of your cheek, debating.  

Then, with a sigh, you tossed them into the cart anyway.  

After all, you had plenty of time to set things up. Dean hadn’t called yet, which meant he was still out there, handling whatever the hell had happened with the case.  

And if he hadn’t called, it also meant that he hadn’t even thought about you.  

That shouldn’t sting.  

But it did.  

Shaking the thought away, you finally pushed your cart toward the registers, scanning the near-empty store. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner, the kind of artificial sterility that only existed in convenience stores.  

The cashier barely looked up as she started ringing up your items, her hands moving automatically over the scanner.  

You glanced at her wrist, catching sight of her watch.  

And then you frowned.  

“Hey… what time is it?”  

She glanced at you, then down at her watch. “Four in the morning, miss.”  

You froze.  

That—  

That wasn’t possible.  

You had only been here for a few hours.  

Dean would’ve called by now.  

Hell, if you disappeared for too long without telling him, he usually lost his mind.  

“…Are you sure?” You let out a nervous chuckle, suddenly uneasy. “Isn’t the store supposed to be closed by now?”  

“It’s a 24-hour store.” She smiled politely.  

“Oh.”  

You blinked.  

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.  

He forgot, didn’t he? 

Of course, he did.  

You felt stupid for even entertaining the idea that he wouldn’t.  

There were more important things to do—things that had nothing to do with you.  

Sam had already made it clear, hadn’t he? You were a burden.  

So, really, what kind of idiot offers to give a massage to a man whose brother lost his soul?  

No wonder Dean hadn’t called. You had probably embarrassed him so much that he just decided to ignore you completely.  

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral.  

But before the weight of that thought could settle—  

“Miss, your phone is ringing.”  

The cashier’s voice pulled you out of your spiral, and you barely had time to register that she was scanning a pie—one you’d grabbed for Dean—before you glanced down at your phone.  

Dean.  

You picked up instantly.  

“Need you back at the motel. Now.”  

His voice was low. Steady.  

And yet…  

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.  

Your grip on the phone tightened.  

“Where are you?”  

“In the field.”  

Your brows furrowed. “Still?”  

“It hasn’t been that long. Just—” He exhaled sharply. “Meet me at the motel.”  

You frowned.  

“What do you mean it hasn’t been that long? Dean, it’s literally—”  

“Can’t hear you,” he cut in quickly, voice suddenly light, teasing. “You’re breaking up… See you at the motel.”  

And just like that, he hung up.  

You stared at your phone in disbelief.  

Then, before you could stop yourself—  

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.  

Asshole.

The walk back to the motel was quick, the cold air biting at your skin as you hurried down the street. You spotted Dean just as he was about to cross, his broad frame illuminated under the flickering streetlights.  

A familiar warmth spread through your chest at the sight of him.  

You barely registered the exhaustion on his face before you picked up your pace, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

“Hey,” you called, shifting the grocery bags in your hands. “What was so urgent that I had to rush back?”  

Dean turned, his own grin surfacing when he saw you.  

“Oh, you’re not gonna believe it—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, reaching out automatically. “Here, let me get those.”  

Your breath hitched.  

It was a small thing. Simple.  

But the way he said it—so natural, like it was second nature for him to take care of you—sent a quiet ache through your chest.  

You handed him a few of the heavier bags, shaking off whatever that feeling was.  

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Okay, so… the field?”  

Dean let out a short laugh. “Yeah, the field. So, I was out there, minding my own damn business, when suddenly—”  

He pushed open the motel room door, stepping aside to let you in first.  

Only—  

The second he did, his smile faltered.  

And yours vanished completely.  

Your hands slackened, the grocery bags slipping from your grip as your brain registered what—who—you were looking at.  

“Dean!”  

Sam’s voice was sharp, filled with something dangerously close to surprise.  

Your stomach dropped.  

“What the hell?”  

You slapped a hand over your eyes instinctively.  

Because, standing right there, half-undressed on your boyfriend’s bed, was some random hippie chick.  

“Oh! That’s Dean?” The girl’s voice was way too chipper for the situation. “Sam, they brought your brother back!”  

You let out a slow exhale, keeping your eyes covered, because if you didn’t, there was a very real chance you would absolutely murder someone.  

Preferably the soulless bastard in the room.  

Dean, meanwhile, looked seconds away from strangling Sam himself.  

“Okay. It’s all right, Sam,” the girl continued, completely unfazed. “I so totally understand that you need time as a family. But it’s just—what were they like?”  

Dean let out a sharp huff, eyes flickering toward yours.  

“They were grabby, incandescent douchebags,” he said flatly. “Goodnight.”  

You almost smiled at that.  

Almost.  

“Too soon?” The girl hesitated before shrugging, completely unbothered. “Okay.”  

Then, finally, her attention shifted to you.  

“Hey! We haven’t met yet.” She reached for her shirt, slipping it back over her head. “Who are you?”  

Dean turned his head slightly at that. You felt his gaze on you, heavy, expectant.  

You forced a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.  

“Sam’s girlfriend.”  

Silence.  

“Oh,” she said slowly, blinking. “I… didn’t know—”  

“It’s an open relationship!” you blurted out before she could finish whatever sentence would’ve absolutely ruined your night.  

Dean coughed.  

The girl perked up instantly. “Oh! Cool! Since when?”  

You swallowed.  

“…This morning.”  

Dean let out a strangled noise beside you.  

The girl laughed, shaking her head. “Wow. You guys really adjust fast.”  

And with that, she grabbed the rest of her things and strolled right past you, completely unaware of the tension crackling in the room.  

The second the door clicked shut behind her, you dropped your hand from your face and turned on your heel, fully prepared to rip Sam a new one—  

But before you could even look at him, Dean was already moving. 

Fast.  

One second, he was by the door. The next, he was grabbing your wrist, his fingers curling just enough to make you stop.  

You froze.  

Your breath caught in your throat.  

Dean didn’t say anything right away.  

He just stood there, eyes flickering between yours, his grip firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should let go or pull you closer.  

The tension was thick.  

Too thick.  

Because for a second—a stupid, fleeting second—you forgot all about Sam.  

Forgot about the girl.  

Forgot everything.  

And all you could think about was the way Dean’s hand felt against your skin.  

“Hey.” His voice was low, steady. The kind of tone that made your stomach clench. “You good?”  

You forced yourself to breathe.  

Then, with a practiced ease you weren’t even sure was real anymore, you pulled your wrist free.  

Flashed him a smile.  

“Never better.”  

And then you walked away.  

Because if you didn’t—  

You weren’t sure what would happen.

You heard Dean yelling, but the words barely registered. His voice was raw, edged with frustration. You didn’t even try to process half of what he was saying. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. Not really. 

Eventually, his voice lowered, the edges of his words smoothing out. That meant he and Sam were actually talking now—probably about whatever the hell he was trying to tell you before you walked in on that hippie disaster.

You sat on the curb, pulling your lighter from the pocket of your jacket. It was simple, worn at the edges, your initials etched into the metal. A birthday gift from Dean back when you were just Sam’s girlfriend. Back when he only knew you as the girl who lasted longer than the others.

You flipped it open, flicking it alight. Then off. Then on again.  

A small flame danced at your fingertips, hypnotizing in its simplicity. A quiet distraction.

The motel door creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now, exhaustion slipping into his tone. “I’ll get you another room. Away from that idiot.”  

You smiled, barely, eyes still fixed on the flame.  

“It’s almost morning,” you murmured. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.”  

Dean sighed, then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. He held out his hand, palm up. Without thinking, you handed him the lighter.

He turned it over in his palm, rubbing a thumb over the engraved initials, studying it the same way you had.

“I miss when things were easier,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it out loud.  

“You and everyone,” you muttered.  

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m sorry. For all this.”  

You frowned. “What do you mean?”  

“You used to have a normal life. Friends, a job, y'know.” His voice was rough, like he hated acknowledging it.  

You shrugged, letting your shoulders drop as the exhaustion hit you all at once. “Doesn’t even sound like me anymore.”  

Dean said your name.  

For the first time since he’d sat down, you looked at him.  

His eyes were glassy, his jaw tight.

Your stomach twisted.  

Dean Winchester did not cry.  

And yet—  

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he broke eye contact.  

“I really am sorry,” he murmured. “Told Sam you were a bad idea.”  

If you didn’t know him so well, you might have been insulted. But instead, you just leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.  

“You should’ve tried harder,” you whispered.  

Dean huffed a soft, almost humorless laugh. “Yeah.”  

The two of you sat there, the silence heavy but not unbearable. The kind of silence that held years of things left unsaid.  

Then, slowly, you moved your hand toward his.  

Your fingers brushed his knuckles.  

Dean didn’t pull away.  

So you intertwined them, heart hammering in your chest like a teenager with a school crush. You took his hand properly, feeling the rough calluses against your skin.

“At least we have each other,” you said quietly.

Dean let out a breath, shifting slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. His grip in your hand tightening.

“At this point,” he admitted, “I think you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”  

A soft, breathy laugh escaped you.

Dean released your hand, only to push himself up. “I’ll go get you a room.”

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “Will you stay?”  

Dean’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything.  

Not right away.  

He just looked at you for a long moment, then nodded.  

A few minutes later, he returned with a new key. He held out his other hand, silently offering to help you up.

You took it.

Once on your feet, you dusted off your jeans, hyper-aware of the way Dean watched you.

Every movement. Every shift.

His eyes traced your hands, the way your fingers brushed against your thighs, the way you adjusted your shirt.

When you finally looked up, he didn’t look away. Didn’t even try to hide it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You could feel it. The weight of everything between you.

You swallowed, nerves buzzing under your skin.  

Dean inhaled sharply, as if trying to convince himself not to do something.  

Then, before you could second-guess anything—  

“If I’m wrong about this,” he said, voice low, deep, “you can slap me.”  

You frowned. “Wrong about wha—”  

Dean kissed you.  

It wasn’t hesitant.  

It wasn’t soft.  

It was years of tension. Of almosts. Of stolen glances and lingering touches and things neither of you ever dared to say. 

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he’d been holding back for too long and finally—finally—let himself have you.  

Dean’s hands were firm, rough fingers cradling your jaw, tilting your head just right as he devoured you. 

You gasped against his mouth, barely managing to process the sheer intensity of it before he was pulling you closer. He kissed you deeper, tilting his head, his lips parting against yours as he swallowed the quiet gasp you let out.

Your fingers tangled in his jacket, fisting the fabric desperately as heat coiled in your stomach.

He needed this.

You could feel it.

The way he kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like he’d been starving for this and didn’t know how to slow down. 

You were dizzy. Burning.

You met him with equal force, matching every movement, every press of his lips, every quiet sound he made against you.

Dean groaned, and the sound alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Then—his hands.

One sliding to your waist, gripping you like he was scared you’d disappear. The other curling into your hair, tilting your head back just enough to deepen the kiss.

The heat of his body, the scent of leather and gunpowder and Dean surrounding you—

It was overwhelming.

And you didn’t care.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

Just him.

Just this.

Finally.

After years of pretending.

After everything.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads touching.

Dean swallowed thickly, green eyes flickering between yours.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips tingling from the kiss.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you needed to.

Because whatever this was—

There was no coming back from it.

Your breathing was erratic, your chest rising and falling as you tried to process everything. Your eyes slowly dropped to the keys in his hand.

“Room?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean nodded, his gaze locked on yours—dark, intense, filled with something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Room.”

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything else.

The kiss was desperate, raw, almost clumsy in its urgency. Dean pressed you against the door, his body firm against yours, his fingers threading through your hair as his lips claimed yours like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your fingers fumbled with the lock, somehow managing to turn the key. With one hand gripping the doorknob and the other still tangled in Dean’s hair, you pushed the door open without breaking the kiss.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked between ragged breaths, his lips brushing against your skin.

“Uh… college?” you said, breathless and unsure.

Dean chuckled against your neck, the sound vibrating through you.

“You’re gonna have to teach me that.”

“Relax, tiger, we’ve got time.”

The words had barely left your lips before you felt the sharp graze of his teeth—a soft bite, enough to send a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The door shut behind you with a dull thud, and before you could process anything else, Dean was pushing you toward the bed.

He hovered over you, his weight barely there, the heat of his body making your skin burn. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, trailing lower with each breath.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his voice thick with something almost reverent.

You tried to focus enough to respond.

“Let me guess… the first Thanksgiving we spent together?” you teased, remembering the turkey you had made just for the three of you.

Dean shook his head, his lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“Nope… my second birthday with you.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head.

“What? What was so special about that birthday?”

Dean smirked against your skin before lifting his head, eyes locking onto yours.

“I remember watching you spend the whole afternoon making a pie just for me.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was just food, Dean. I don’t see the connection.”

Dean chuckled. “It wasn’t about the food. It was the fact that, after all that, you stayed up just to sing me happy birthday at exactly midnight. Because you said it made it more special.”

Your face flushed.

“Well… it does make it more special.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You woke me up.”

“Are we gonna argue, or are you gonna kiss me?”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips into his with a hunger that rivaled his own. His hands moved quickly to the buttons of your shirt, fumbling slightly in his impatience before finally undoing them.

When his eyes raked over the newly exposed skin, his jaw tensed, pupils blown wide.

“Jesus Christ, you look fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitched at the way he said it, raw and unfiltered.

Dean didn’t give you time to react. His mouth was back on yours, slower this time, more deliberate. Like he was savoring every second. His hands moved along your sides, fingers skimming your bare skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

His lips traveled lower, down your throat, over your collarbone, and lower still, each kiss softer than the last, teasing, torturous.

You were dizzy, overwhelmed, every nerve in your body attuned to his touch.

His hand reached for the button of your jeans, unbuttoning it quickly.

His fingers opened you with ease. You saw him lick his lips in a movement so fast that if you had blinked you wouldn't have noticed.

He slowly, carefully inserted a finger into you. All his movements were filled with affection and love that made you melt under his touch.

Your head tilted back against the pillow, a sharp gasp escaping before you could stop it.

Dean groaned, his movements fastening slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with want. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Dean,” you moaned, your voice barely more than a breath, needy and desperate. “Please—I want it now.”

Dean smirked, the kind of cocky, infuriating smirk that made your stomach tighten. He pressed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, teasing.

“A little desperate, are we?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’d like to call it eager,” you shot back, rolling your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Dean chuckled, his fingers grazing over your hip, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “Smart ass.”

“You love my a—”

The words died in your throat the second you felt Dean slide another finger inside you. Your breath hitched, your back arching slightly, heat pooling in your core.

Dean’s eyes darkened, his gaze fixed on your face as he watched you unravel beneath him.

“You feel so damn good, baby,” he murmured, his voice husky, thick with something possessive. “You’re sucking my fingers in like it’s my cock.”

A sharp gasp escaped you, your fingers tightening around the sheets.

“It could be your—”

Dean shot you a look, a warning, the kind that made your stomach flip. Automatically, you clamped your mouth shut.

His lips curled into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Without warning, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you could even protest, he was on you again, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, desperate and unrestrained.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, his hands mapping out every inch of you like he was memorizing the way you felt.

His hands moved, grabbing the hem of his shirt and discarding it across the motel floor. Your hands roamed over his back, nails digging in slightly as you pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything.

"Dean," you whispered, and that was all it took.

His breath caught, his pupils blown wide with something dark and hungry. His hands moved to his belt, fingers working the buckle open with urgency.

But before he could go any further, your hands covered his, stopping him.

His eyes snapped up to yours, concern flickering across his face. "What?" His voice was rough, husky. "You okay?"

You swallowed, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. You weren't hesitating—you knew exactly what you wanted. Your gaze softened, lips curling into a small, teasing smile.

"Can I suck your dick?" you asked, bluntly.

Dean blinked.

"You what?"

"Can I... suck your dick?" This time, your voice was quieter, almost uncertain, but the intent in your eyes was clear.

Dean’s mouth parted slightly, like his brain had short-circuited.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before covering his mouth for a second, as if trying to get a grip. “Of course you can, pretty girl. Only if you let me do the same.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in your expression.

"Like... at the same time?"

Dean smirked. "I suppose you're familiar with the number sixty-nine."

You burst out laughing, your forehead falling against his shoulder as your whole body shook with amusement. Dean laughed with you, the moment light yet still buzzing with heat.

When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with that damn smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Come here,” he murmured, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips.

Then he kissed you, and this time there was no hesitation, no teasing.

It was deep, consuming, the kind of kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and left you dizzy. His hands explored, memorizing the curves of your body, tracing fire along your skin. He pulled you onto his lap, pressing you down against the hardness of him, making you gasp into his mouth.

"You feel that, sweetheart?" he whispered against your lips. "That's what you do to me."

You whimpered, grinding down slightly, and Dean let out a strangled groan, his fingers gripping your hips like he was barely holding on.

"Fuck, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, before flipping you onto your back, his lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, lower—

And then he was gone, shifting down the bed, his mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your stomach.

His hands moved to your thighs, parting them with ease.

"You still sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough, edged with restraint.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer.

"Dean," you breathed. "Shut up and get to work."

Dean chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.

"Yes, ma’am."

And then he did exactly that.

Dean shifted his body, leaving his crotch above your face.

“Damn”

“Thank you” he said, you laughed again.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you slowly lowered the fabric of his boxers, freeing him completely. His cock was long, thick, and already aching for you. The sight alone sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly.

Before you could react, you felt the first hesitant stroke of Dean’s tongue against your cunt—tentative at first, almost testing the waters. The sensation sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your spine, making you groan softly.

"Just like that," you murmured, voice dripping with approval before you finally wrapped your lips around his cock.

A deep, guttural moan escaped Dean's throat, a sound that vibrated straight into your core. His whole body tensed beneath you, his fingers digging into your thighs as if he was trying to ground himself.

Your spit coated his length, dripping down as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. His cock throbbed against your tongue, and a part of you—some sinful, smug part—loved knowing you had this effect on him.

Dean’s response was immediate. His hands gripped your thighs tighter as his tongue pushed deeper, licking into you with new urgency. It was messy, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough. He buried his face between your legs, his nose pressing against your clit, groaning as if he was drunk on you.

Everywhere, he was surrounded by you. He could taste you on his tongue, smell you, feel the way your legs trembled under his touch. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—like being worshipped just for existing.

The more you moved, the more he lost himself in you. His tongue flicked over your clit in tandem with the bob of your head over his cock, and he let out a muffled curse against your cunt, his hips jerking up slightly.

"Shit—" he groaned, voice wrecked. "You're gonna kill me, sweetheart."

You hummed around him, sending vibrations through his cock, and Dean choked out a curse, his grip tightening even more.

Your rhythm quickened, lips gliding over him with purpose, and Dean matched your pace, his mouth working you open with relentless hunger. His hands spread your thighs wider, keeping you right where he wanted you, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away.

The room was filled with the sounds of pleasure—his groans, your whimpers, the wet, filthy noises of tongues and lips working in tandem. The tension that had been brewing between you for years was finally unraveling, raw and unfiltered.

Dean’s breath turned ragged, his movements becoming erratic. You could tell he was close—his thighs tensing beneath your hands, his moans turning desperate.

"Fuck, baby, if you keep going like that—" His warning was cut off by a deep, shuddering groan as you took him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat.

His body trembled beneath you, and you knew he was about to fall apart. It was okay, because so were you.

"I'm about to—" Dean's voice came out strained, ragged with pleasure.

You nodded, your lips still wrapped around him, determined to take everything he had to give. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as thick, hot ropes of cum hit the back of your throat. At the exact same moment, his mouth latched onto you even harder, and the sheer sensation sent you over the edge. Your body trembled as your release coated his tongue, making him groan into you.

The pleasure was dizzying, all-consuming. Your moans mixed with his, lost in the heavy, humid air of the motel room. Every nerve in your body was buzzing, oversensitive, barely able to handle the aftermath of everything you'd just felt.

Dean pulled away first, his breath uneven, his hands still gripping your thighs like he needed something solid to hold onto. Slowly, he shifted, moving up to hover over you, his emerald eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His lips were swollen, wet, glistening with the taste of you.

He reached for your face, his thumb swiping at the saliva on your lower lip with a tenderness that felt almost out of place after everything you'd just done.

"You okay?" His voice was low, husky, but there was something softer beneath it—something vulnerable.

You nodded, unable to speak, still lost in the haze of pleasure. Instead, you pulled him down, capturing his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. He tasted like whiskey, like heat, like you, and for a moment, the world outside the four walls of that room ceased to exist.

Dean groaned into the kiss, deepening it, his tongue sliding against yours with unrestrained hunger. His hands roamed your body, rediscovering every curve, every dip of your skin like he was memorizing you. There was nothing hesitant anymore—no more second-guessing, no more resisting.

This was years of tension, of longing, of stolen glances and unspoken words, all unraveling in the way he pressed you down against the mattress, in the way your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

"You drive me fuckin' insane," he murmured against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. "You know that, right?"

You smirked, brushing your nails down his back, reveling in the way his muscles tensed under your touch. "I had a suspicion."

Dean chuckled, but the sound was cut off when you rolled your hips up against him, making him suck in a sharp breath.

"Jesus, sweetheart—"

"Dean," you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. "Don't stop."

And he didn’t.

He captured your mouth again, hungrier this time, as if he was afraid this would all slip away if he let go. His hands slid between your bodies, fingers teasing at the last pieces of clothing that still separated you. Finally taking what was always meant to be his.

Dean's cockhead dips between your folds, teasing your entrance with agonizing slowness. A desperate, keening moan escapes your lips, your body arching instinctively toward him. You're dripping, your slick coating him, making it easier for him to push in—just the tip at first, stretching you open inch by inch.

"Fuck, sweetheart…" Dean's voice is hoarse, strained with restraint, like he's holding himself back from completely losing control.

Even with just half of him inside you, your breath is already coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your walls flutter around him, sucking him in, silently begging for more. And Dean, never one to deny you, pulls back just enough before slamming forward with a deep, firm thrust.

A sharp cry rips from your throat, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. He groans at the way you take him, the way you clench around him like you're made for him.

"Goddamn, baby," he mutters, his forehead pressing against yours as he buries himself deeper, stretching you until the burn melts into pleasure. "You feel so fuckin’ good."

His thrusts are precise, each one landing with an intensity that has you seeing stars. Every movement sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, each stroke hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

You're already shaking, the pleasure mounting too fast, too strong. Your hips roll against his, chasing more, needing more.

"Dean," you whimper, your voice wrecked, hands grasping at the sheets beneath you.

He tightens his grip on your hips, shifting the angle just enough to push even deeper, dragging another cry from you.

"That’s it," he breathes, his voice thick with lust. "Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

You can barely speak, reduced to moans and gasps, your body wound tight like a string about to snap. Your legs tense, your muscles locking up as the coil in your stomach tightens, tighter, until—

"Dean!" you sob, your back arching as pleasure consumes you, your release hitting so hard it steals the air from your lungs.

Dean groans at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and that’s all it takes for him to follow. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, before he buries himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan.

He collapses onto his forearms, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. His breath fans against your skin as he presses his forehead against yours, grounding himself in you.

"That's it," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "You did so good. God, you should see yourself right now… you're so goddamn beautiful."

You can’t help but smile, the exhaustion settling into your limbs as the warmth of his words wraps around you like a blanket.

"Thank you, Dean," you whisper, curling into him. You know better than to overthink this—to question what it means. Because the man lying beside you? He doesn’t do confessions, doesn’t do mornings-after. And if this is all you get, you’ll take it.

Dean presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, so tender it makes your chest tighten. Your eyes sting, emotion creeping in where you least expect it.

He looks like he wants to say something, his mouth parting, his brows drawing together in that way he does when he's struggling with something real, something serious. But before he can get the words out—

"What the hell—" He suddenly stiffens, eyes snapping toward the corner of the room.

You blink, barely able to keep yourself from slipping into sleep. "What?"

Dean's jaw drops slightly, his expression shifting from post-orgasmic bliss to sheer disbelief.

"Is that a goddamn fairy?"

"You look oddly happy," Sam commented as he walked past.

"Okay, asshole move," you shot back, rolling your eyes. "Am I not allowed to be happy that we found a way to get your soul back?"

"Oh, I get it—you just want your boyfriend back," he said, smirking.

The word boyfriend made your stomach twist uncomfortably. If Sam actually got his soul back and everything went back to how it was before… things were going to be awkward. Really awkward. Considering you had just fucked his brother.

Sam walked into the motel room, searching for something you didn’t really care about. Your mind had been thoroughly occupied with someone else since the hippie incident.

Speaking of Rome…

Dean walked in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, carrying himself with that same cocky ease that could knock down even the strongest walls. His presence alone felt like a gravitational pull, one you had no business indulging in—but damn, was it tempting.

He gave you a small nod in greeting, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

"How'd you sleep in jail?" you asked, biting back a grin.

Dean smirked. "Had better nights."

The words hit deeper than they should have, sending heat creeping up your neck. The memory of two nights ago burned behind your eyes—his hands on your hips, his breath against your skin, the way you whispered his name like a prayer. You forced yourself to swallow it down.

Sam walked back out, his own duffel bag in hand, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Dean.

You slid into the backseat of the Impala, letting out a small yawn.

"Still don’t get why you woke up so early," Dean muttered as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

"To gloat," you teased, stretching your arms behind your head.

"Uh-huh. And you’re just gonna pass out again in a couple of hours."

You opened your mouth to argue—but damn it, he was right.

Dean caught your expression in the rearview mirror and smirked, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. His fingers tapped lazily against the steering wheel before he spoke, his voice casual—too casual.

"Guess I’ll have to find another way to keep you awake, huh?"

The words were innocent enough. Sam didn’t react, didn’t even seem to register them. But the way Dean said it, the way his eyes flicked up to meet yours in the mirror—

Yeah. You weren’t done with him.

And worse? He knew it.

[zepskies]

Okay, I loved the reader smacking Ben's ass, so can we do an uno reverse of the situation, but lmao it would probably not end well because knowing Ben it probably would've been done during a terribly inappropriate time like a meeting or something, also I know that you didn't explicitly say it was BMD ben and reader but I did read it as such, lmao - salvadoreña anon (lmao it feels a little weird to call myself that because Im also desi lol)

Hello my Latina Lovely! 😘 (Wow! Love that you're also Desi. ❤���)

Aw, hell, you done uno-reversed me…

See this imagine for context: Repaying Soldier Boy for a job well done.

(And yes, I had Break Me Down-verse SB x Reader in my head writing that one as well lol. They're ingrained in me. 😂)

Word Count: 350

Imagine: Ben gets a little payback.  

Your heels clacked on the tile floor brusquely as you made your way back to your office, over in Surveillance. You carried a stack of paperwork that had to be sorted through—and on Grace Mallory’s desk by end of day today.

Your hair was falling out of its loosening bun, and you tried in vain to blow a piece of it out of your face. The elevator on the opposite end of the hall dinged. The doors opened, and out came your boyfriend, strutting into the hall in his supe suit.

You smiled. “Wow, that was quick. You caught Metallo?”

“Being booked with bendy straws for arms as we speak,” Ben replied with a cocky smile. He headed toward you down the hall. “Gonna grab a bite to eat. Care to join?”

You raised a brow at bendy straws for arms. He really needed to work on how badly he roughed up these supes when bringing them into custody.

“Can’t right now,” you said, gesturing with your eyes to your workload. “But I’ll let you know when I’m ready to head home, if you want to wait for me.”

While you spoke, Ben was busy taking in your white blouse, the dark red lipstick, the pencil skirt, the sexy little heels. It was straight out of one of his fantasies…

Maybe you’d be down for a round of sexcretary after work. His lips curved at the thought.

But then, he remembered how you’d got him to accidentally shatter a nice crystal wine glass the other night, and it got him contemplating some retribution.

“All right. See you then, baby doll,” he said mildly.

When he finally reached you, he gave you a nice smack on the ass as he passed by.

You jolted with a wide-eyed yelp. Ben smirked at the sound.

He’d gotten you with a little more force than he thought though, as it made you lose your grip on your files. They flew from your hands and scattered onto the floor.

You twisted back to meet him with a glare. Ben’s hand clenched and curled back…

Then he gave you a sly grin.

“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”  

AN: So I don't typically post two new fics within the same day (sorry for the spam), but this one was short and essentially a sequel to the other imagine lol. (And my weird brain doesn't like a packed drafts folder. 😉)

I have at least one more SB imagine coming this week. I got a ton of requests this weekend, so thank you all! I really am so flattered. 🥰🥰

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[whimsyfinny]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: None (Yet) in chapters to come there will be smut (and lots of it) and possible violence/blood/gore

Chapter Word Count: 2803

—-MDNI—-

A/N: My first Supernatural fic so I hope it doesn’t suck ass. Only proof read by myself, so pls let me know of any errors so I can correct! Also I know at this point in the series Dean is more serious, however I love pre-Hell Dean so imma bring some of those vibes in here. This is also posted on my AO3.

——————————————————————

Please read the below first:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

I’m Not Your F*cking Maid

Chapter 3

The rest of that day was pretty uneventful. Charlie practically threw my sad lone duffle bag through the front door and left before I could give her a piece of my mind for just leaving me here. I helped Sam put away the groceries he’d bought, emphasising that ‘we don’t put things down, we put them away’, otherwise we end up living in filth again. I also cleared some space around the study area that seems to be the centre of the bunker, and much to my dismay, threw out even more take-out boxes and beer bottles. I arranged all of the research that had been left on the desk in a mess, organising it into piles of read and unread; or at least what looked read and unread to me. The whole time Dean sat at this very desk and was watching cartoons on Sam’s laptop whilst his brother was in the shower, letting me do all the dirty work as he just sat there and relaxed. When I was finally done, I slumped down in the chair opposite him and slid all of the neat stacks of research towards myself. Dean looked up at me, his relaxed ‘cartoon-watching’ expression fading slightly.

“What are you doing?” He asked. I looked up at him like he was stupid.

“What do you think? I’m catching up on what you guys have been researching.”

He closed the laptop and folded his arms across his chest, the cotton of his flannel pulling tight over his large biceps.

“That’s such a waste of time.”

“And why, pray tell, is it such a waste of time Dean?”

“It’ll take you days, maybe weeks to catch up on what we know - either me or Sam can give you a rundown on what’s most important in an hour,” his tone was very matter-of-fact, like he didn’t want to be argued with. I sighed, crossing my arms on the table in front of me, leaning forwards.

“That’s great, you can still do that, but the more clued up I am as to what is going on then the more chance we have of finding what you need,” I paused for a second, a thought flashing across my mind. “Come to think of it, you haven’t even told me why I’m here, other than to ‘do research’. What are you looking for that has you so stumped?” Dean sucked a breath in through teeth, shifting slightly in his chair.

“The Fist Blade,” his tone had a thickness to it that I couldn’t place.

“The First Blade? As in Cain and Abel? THAT First Blade? ”

“Bingo.”

“But surely that’s long gone by now, it’s been two millennia at least. Nothing can last that long…can it?” I asked almost rhetorically. Dean shrugged.

“That’s what we want to know too,” his eyes flicked up and caught mine, his gaze burning into mine for only a moment with such intensity I felt my breath catch in my chest. The dark purple bruising on his face around his eyes made that forest green even more vibrant and alluring. There was a pause - for some reason I couldn’t look away and I had to catch myself before glancing at his bruised lips, which I knew already were devilishly charming. Right as I gave in to temptation and saw the corner of Deans poor split lip twitch into a smirk, Sam saved the day by striding in, towel-drying his hair. He paused, looked at us and frowned quizzically, almost like he was more surprised that we weren’t throwing furniture at each other. He didn’t say anything on that topic though, because as he looked around he noticed I’d cleaned. Again.

“(Y/n) you really have to stop cleaning up our mess,” he smiled, hanging his towel on the back of his chair as he took a seat next to me, his long legs grazing mine slightly.

“Sam just say ‘thank you’,” I tilted my head up to him - he was still enormous even when he was sitting down. He laughed slightly, almost bashfully as he looked down for a second at his twiddling thumbs before locking his eyes with mine again.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I returned his smile at last, holding it for a few seconds before continuing: “So Dean has just been explaining to me what you’re looking for. Surely the First Blade is long gone by now? How would it have survived this long, and still be functional - not just some pile of dust?” Sam huffed out an already exasperated breath, slouching back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, much like how Dean was sitting.

“I have no idea, at this point I feel like we’re grasping at air,” we all mumbled in agreement, suddenly sitting in a solemn sort of silence. It was short lived though as Sam leant forwards, pushing his damp hair from his eyes and trying to lighten the mood.

“Guys why don’t we just leave it for a few hours and get something for dinner? It’s getting late and we should really eat.” Dean suddenly sprang forwards, sitting up straight and lacing his fingers together on the desk with a grin on his stupid face.

“Good idea Sammy - I can’t wait to try her cooking. If she can cook half as well as she cleans then we’re in for a treat.”

“You son of a bitch!” I jumped up, grasping the first thing I could find (a file on God knows what) and smacked him across the face with it. Deans head turned with the force - albeit not much - and another stupid grin crept onto his stupid lips. He chuckled his deep, chesty laugh and tenderly touched his already sore face, wincing slightly.

“Just for a second I forgot you hated my guts,” he drawled, rising to his feet.

“Well you don’t do yourself any favours by talking to me like that.”

“Yeah? Well maybe if you weren’t such a hot head you’d be able to take a joke.”

“A joke? You call that a joke? Jokes are supposed to be funny, Dean, there wasn’t even a punchline,” I had started to raise my voice slightly and he gave me an extremely puzzled look.

“Hold the fucking phone - are you mad at me because I ‘insulted’ you or are you mad that there was no punchline?”

“I’m mad at YOU, because you’re just trying to rub me up the wrong way on purpose!”

There was a pause, and a smirk and a twinkle in Deans eye.

“Well I’m sure if you ask Sam nicely he’ll rub you up the right way.”

“DEAN!” Sam and I both cut in at the same time and when I glanced at him I noticed a faint pink glow on his cheeks.

“What?” He threw his hands up, “Sam you’ve been acting like a schoolgirl around her since we met her at the diner, always jumping to her aid first. Just admit you have a crush ok?” Dean gave his younger brother an ‘all knowing look’ as Sam covered his face.

“Dean I’m going to pretend you never said any of that and just move on,” Sam turned to me and said in a hushed tone “I’m so sorry,” before looking back at his brother, who was now reaching for his jacket. “And where are you going?” Sam quizzed.

“To get dinner, that’s what this whole conversation escalated from right? About what we were going to eat? Well I’m going to get takeout, what do you both want?” Dean said, throwing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Dean sit down,” I chimed in, my voice sterner than I intended.

“What?”

“Just sit the fuck down. Both of you. Carry on researching and making yourself useful,” I said, moving away from the table.

“Why?” Sam did as he was told but Dean looked at me like I’d asked him to eat tofu.

“Because I’m not letting you boys eat yourself to death with E numbers and MSG. I’ll cook something,” and as the words left my mouth I saw Deans eyebrows raise so much I thought they might push his hairline back. Before he could get a single word out Sam spoke on behalf of both of them:

“If you’re really ok doing that, (Y/n), you’ve already done so much today-”

“Sam it’s fine, I really don’t mind. I actually enjoy cooking, and since Bobby’s been gone I’ve had no one to cook for. So yeah it’s ok,” I smiled at him reassuringly, and he smiled back.

“Ok, if you’re sure,” he paused, looking to his older brother who had removed his jacket and was taking a seat again, “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to just because Dean-”

“Really Sam, I’m fine with it. I was planning to cook even before the jackass opened his trap.” The younger Winchester gave me a final ‘ok’ before I spun on my heel and walked towards the kitchen, not even bothering to give the older Winchester a second glance.

I guess it’s time to find out what these boys have lurking in their pantry.

*

I’d been cooking for maybe half an hour when I was finally done and called the boys to the kitchen. I set three places at the table, and placed down three beers and enough cutlery for all of us, alongside various condiments they might want. I was just serving up as they walked in, muttering to themselves about something they’d researched. As they both sat down, I placed two plates in front of them and watched their faces light up.

“STEAK!” They both had wide grins as they picked up their cutlery and immediately dug in.

“Don’t get too excited, it’s nothing special. Plus the fries were frozen and the mac ‘n’ cheese was instant,” I said, placing down my own plate and taking a seat between them.

“Don’t care, ‘s home cooked,” Dean said with a mouthful of food, reaching for his beer. Sam just nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Well ok then,” I smiled to myself, I guess a little happy that they were happy. And for once that Dean had nothing smart to say. Yet.

*

Dinner was pretty uneventful - and short - as the boys practically inhaled their food. When their plates were empty they just sat at the table in a happy silence, rubbing their full bellies.

“Considering you just used what we already had and didn’t go shopping for anything, that was fucking beautiful,” Dean said, stifling a burp. I looked at him in surprise.

“Oh… Thanks Dean,” I half smiled down at him as I stood to collect their plates. He put his hand out to stop me, taking them from my grasp and pushed gently on my shoulder, urging me to sit. He returned the half smile, standing up.

“No problem. Now let me do this, you’ve done enough for us today already. Take a break,” his voice was low and strangely kind towards me, and I was almost lost for words as I felt his firm chest brush against my arm as he took the plates from me, his body heat reaching my skin through the fabric. Was he being serious, or just leading up to be a dick in a rather roundabout way? Who knows. But I should try to appreciate the moment at least.

Dean washed up whilst Sam dried everything and put it all away, and I sat sipping my beer as they bustled about for a few minutes. Once they were done, Sam took his seat back at the table and Dean grabbed the tea towel, roughly wiping the surfaces and flinging it over his shoulder when he was done.

“And now it’s pie time,” he said suddenly, sparks of joy in his voice. I grinned.

“Oooh, can I have some?” I asked. Dean turned to look at me like I’d asked him to shoot a puppy, and Sam muttered an ‘oh boy’ under his breath.

“Can you have some?” Dean repeated my request back to me, those sparks of joy in his voice no longer there.

“Yeah…please? I saw it in the fridge earlier, there’s definitely enough to share,” I stated, starting to feel like I was missing something here. Sam cleared his throat and I turned to look at him, an unusual expression on his face.

“Uhhh…(Y/n), Dean doesn’t share his pie. Not even with me.” Dean slammed the fridge door closed, said pie now in hand.

“You’re Goddamn right. The pies mine, now back off,” he gave me a warning look as he grabbed a fork and sat back down next to me again.

“Fuck me; really? What are you, a child? Who the fuck won’t share a pie made for four people?” I asked, getting exasperated with Deans bullshit. I knew the kindness wouldn’t last.

“Me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Guys, I’m gonna go and get some sleep - I’ll be back in a few hours. Thanks for dinner (Y/n), it was great,” Sam stood and pinched the bridge of his nose, not being inconspicuous at all about being done with bickering between Dean and I. He smiled softly at me before he left, patting my shoulder as I said a quiet ‘sleep well’ to him before he exited the room. Then it just left me and Dean. Again.

“Just one slice,” I asked abruptly, watching him shovel pastry into his face.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Dean I made you dinner and tidied your shit, the least you can do is give me a slice,” I slid forward in my chair, inching closer to him in a new attempt to get him to share.

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“Fuck,” I threw my hands up before leaning forwards a little more so I was now close enough to smell him. And annoyingly he smelt divine - his cologne mixed with the scent of old leather and woodsmoke, perhaps a little gunpowder too. I breathed in, trying to get to the sweet smell of the desert he had, but all I could smell was him. I tried to ignore it. He was still a douchebag.

“One bite?” He sighed and turned to look at me, noses almost touching as I flinched back, not realising how much I’d shuffled towards him. He sighed, dropping his head slightly.

“Ok, just one bite,” he said as I did a very quiet squeal of delight. I reached for the fork in his hand but he held it up out of my reach, shaking his head.

“No. Not you.”

“Dean, come on.”

“Open.”

“What are you-”

“Open your mouth,” he said sternly, those evergreen eyes finding mine.

“Wait wha-”

“Open your Goddamn mouth (Y/n)” he said, his voice turning gravelly as I felt his breath on my face. I felt heat start to flood my cheeks and I couldn’t tell what emotion it was coming from, as I had started to feel a lot of things all at once. What made my head spin a little though was hearing my name fall from his lips - he hadn’t said it before, at least not to my face. And I hated myself for liking how it sounded. I didn’t say anything to him as I eventually did as I was told; opening my mouth and instinctively sticking out my tongue a little. I wasn’t sure where to look, so I looked at him - the concentration on his face as he scooped up an acceptable amount of pie to part with was amusing to say the least. Happy with my tiny portion, he turned to me and put the fork on my tongue, to which I closed my lips around as he slowly pulled it from my mouth, leaving the amazingly sweet desert behind. With my eyes now closed, I couldn’t help but hum in delight, savouring every flavour before I swallowed it down. Slowly opening my eyes again, I wasn’t expecting to see Dean still watching me, lips slightly parted as his gaze flickered between my eyes and my sticky lips, which I was now licking clean. He seemed to catch himself quickly though, immediately scooping up more pie for himself and cramming it into his own mouth. I sat back in my chair, picking up my beer and draining the bottle.

“Next time you buy a pie, Winchester,” I started, standing and tossing the bottle in the bin, “buy one for me so we don’t have this problem again.” He looked up at me just as I turned to leave.

“No promises,” his lip quirked slightly - so slightly that I wondered if he’d even smirked at all. I scoffed, giving him one last look as I rolled my eyes before I left the room to continue researching.

“Fuck you.”

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Up Next:

Chapter 4

[deadly-kalopsia]

okay ik im mostly a dc account but little known fact is that i’m unfortunately obsessed with supernatural (tragic, ik.)

i’m also obsessed with a certain adam milligan (less tragic, he’s great)

when i see posts about midam i see that people are typically saying that they were in the cage for 1,200 years ish (generally just saying over 1,000 but semantics)

now this would be true if the cage worked in the same time as normal hell, but we know from sam that it doesn’t.

using deans time in hell (4mo=40yrs) you would absolutely get that 1,200, HOWEVER, that’s just normal hell time.

when sam gets dipped in the cage for for 2(ish) minutes, he says that it felt more like a week(ish)

now i can’t math so idk if this is quite accurate but i THINK (please correct me if im wrong) that time moves 42x faster (slower? i’m honestly not sure which word to use) in the cage than in normal hell.

this means that rather than midam being in the cage for 1,200 years, they were in the cage for 50,400 years.

sam’s soul was in there for 18 months. that’s 7,560 years.

only 15% of the time that adam was in the cage did he have another human with him, and who knows if they ever actually interacted.

all of this to say that when fic writers are writing the good trauma for the boys, i BEG of them to use it to give even more. i eat it up, it’s my favorite.

thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[unfortunate-brat]

Skin | shifter!dean x latina!reader

pairing: shifter!dean winchester x latina!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: drinking, deception, character death, unprotected sex, angst, missionary and doggy style sex, fluff, choking, this one is kinda dark 👀

yazzy’s comments: phew, this one is a little longer as i was feeling inspired by @deansbeer shifter!dean fic. honestly surprised i wrote this in two hours. not proofread !!

18+, must have age in bio to interact. minors and ageless accounts will be blocked !!

💌 follow @unfortunate-bratfics for just new posted imagines !!

there’s nothing but bodies in this frat home, your own included as it joins those on the dance floor. red solo cup in hand filled with something you didn’t bother asking about tonight, what mattered was the buzz that filled your veins. the sweat pouring out your skin as your hips matched the beat of the loud music blaring from someone’s speaker. tonight wasn’t going to be wasted on school assignments for once.

your eyes focused on those who were walking into the kitchen, getting refills of the fruity liquid and after taking a glance in your cup, decided to get some more. chugging what little remained on the way there as you squeezed between other bodies.

finally reaching the counter with all the drinks, your eyes darted between the makeshift punch bowl that was just some giant storage container and the beer keg. now momma taught you not to mix your poisons but you kinda wanted a beer now. though as you pour, someone’s hand covers your own, strangely cold in such a heated environment.

you looked to see it was dean, flashing his signature smirk right at you. “allow me.” your hand pulls back as he gets the beer for you, getting one for himself as well.

there’s a million questions swirling in your mind, as dean dropped out a long time ago. leaving without a trace and saying something about finding his brother. it had pissed you off then when weeks would go by and he didn’t even bother to send a text. yet to see him standing here in the flesh made you the opposite. “there ya go sweetheart, come on.” his hand pulls yours as he led you outside into a more secluded area of the backyard.

you needed to clear the air at least. “look, i’m glad you’re back but you left me. least you could have done is send a text you know?” you take a sip of beer after, looking into his eyes and noting they seemed a bit…off. maybe its just been a while since you last saw him, things can change.

“i know, but shit hit the fan. i wanted to come back as soon as possible,” his hand lingers on your arm, squeezing gently and you take a moment to glance at it. he’s still cold. “missed you gorgeous.”

you narrow your eyes at him while taking another sip, dean had never been so touchy feely before. nor had he really been one to showcase so much emotion. but again, your mind reminds you that things can change. “missed you too, jackass.”

your admission makes him smirk again, his hand cupping your cheek for a moment before pulling away. glancing off to the side for a moment before meeting your own again. “look i don’t wanna waste tonight begging you on my knees to forgive me alright? rather be on my knees for something a little more sweet.”

his bold nature makes you blush, had dean gained some charm in his absence? “i mean i’m not super mad, you’re lucky i’m just drunk cause sober me would slap the shit out of you.” you finished the rest of your beer, needing some liquid courage before meeting his eyes again. “but i guess you could make it up to me with ice cream, remember willies?”

for a second, annoyance flashes in his eyes before its replaced by something else. chugging the rest of his beer, he discarded the red solo cup somewhere and closed the distance between you both. “i was thinking of a different sweet treat.” his face moves closer to your own, the two of you sharing the oxygen between you. “you get what i’m saying?”

you assume that dean’s drunk too, otherwise he wouldn’t be so forward with his words. it’s getting quite annoying to question everything he’s doing, maybe you should take his advice and not waste tonight. with a sigh you meet his lips, hoping that you’d make the right choice tonight.

·̩͙།† ͝ ︶ ͝ ⏝ ͝ ︶ ͝ †། ·̩͙

the mattress creaks with every thrust from dean’s hips, his harsh pace practically ripping your body apart as your nails sink into his flesh. his skin was still cold but you didn’t mind helping him warm up.

“you’re still thinking, that’s not a good sign.” he pulls out, much to your protest and suddenly your face meets the pillows. “need you to just feel.” his dick pushes back inside, your pussy remembering his shape as it practically welcomes him with open arms. he smacks your ass, chuckling darkly. “he doesn’t even know what he left behind.”

you whimper as his thrusts resume, his tip hitting deeper into your cervix. “w-what?” you manage to choke out, gripping onto the sheets for dear life as he gets faster. it’s almost inhumane in a way.

“nothing, just keep taking my dick like the slut you are.” he leans over just a bit, using his thumb to rub your clit as your walls tighten around him. “f-fuck, who knew you had such a good little cunt?”

you struggle to stay in place with every thrust, nails digging into the memory foam and you know the damn protector is ripping from your grip. your skin shines in a layer of sweat, as does his. finally he wasn’t so cold anymore. a slap to your folds draws you away from your thoughts as dean practically growls. “thought i said to not use your head, you don’t need it.” another slap hits your folds. “not with me at least.”

sticky cum fills your insides as you both struggle to catch your breath, his dick still inside and throbbing like crazy. you wonder if his abuse against your poor cunt was over. though as he pulls out and chuckles darkly again, you’re not so sure. “fuck, she is quite the sight.”

you turn to lay on your back, your legs still spread open for him as he runs his thick digits between your folds. “keep it inside,” dean pushes the cum that had begun to ooze out back inside, smirking as you let out a groan. your folds were swollen and there’s no doubt you could walk. what pissed him off was that you weren’t too stupid to think, that still brings up an opportunity for his plans to fail.

“dean,” you whisper, reaching a hand out to him but he slaps it away. opting to pin your hands above your head instead. “dean wait—”

once again, he pushes inside without warning. this time though, his thrusts are a bit gentle. slowly working up a new pace as you attempt to free your hands, aching to touch his skin. “relax, i’m trying to memorize this. god you’re perfect. it’s a shame.”

your brows knit together as he reaches over for something in your bed, tying your wrists to the bedpost. “dean what the h-hell? what’s going on?” though your words are met with silence as he tightens the buttoned up shirt he wore earlier, ensuring you couldn’t escape. “this isn’t funny anymore.”

his hands fold your legs into your chest, his dick hitting you at a new angle as you whimper. thrusts picking up to a similar pace as earlier, no longer so gentle. “you know what is funny though?” dean grins, one of his hands coming to wrap around your throat. “he could have walked away, left the fucking case alone but a winchester never backs down do they?”

his words confuse you as he starts to squeeze your throat, though the combination with that and his harsh pounding makes you torn between fear and arousal. “i will admit, seeing you in his memories and finding out how he feels about you, shit. I get it.”

dean applies more pressure, enjoying the sweet noises you were making as he spots your phone going off on the bedside table. “its too bad he didn’t give you a proper goodbye. but hey, it worked out in my favor.” it’s not long until he cums inside you again, meeting your swollen lips with another bruising kiss, forcing his tongue inside.

the words made alarm bells go off in your head but the pleasure was too overwhelming to ignore. making you dizzy with every touch just like dean had originally wanted. besides how could this be dean and not him at the same time?

the phone goes off again and he swipes it, checking the name on the small screen of the blackberry. “damn, guess playtime is over. but i guess i can make a lasting impression.” dean answers the phone, placing it on speaker while keeping his animalistic pace. “sorry, they’re a little busy, might i take a message?”

“where is she?” the voice on the phone makes you freeze, it sounded exactly like dean’s. “sweetheart you there?!”

there’s no proper response you can give him and you can’t help but moan when not-dean starts playing with your clit again. “again, she’s a little busy. ain’t that right baby?”

you want to scream, to get some answers as to what’s going on and who was currently rearranging your guts but this imposter doesn’t provide much. only fucking you harder as if that was even possible, though with the light of your blackberry you can catch his eyes. they seem to be a little reflective, going to white before changing back to the same green pupils dean had. “what…”

just then the door busts down and you spot dean with a gun in his hand. wasting no time to shoot the damn bastard inside you now and you scream as he slumps onto you.

the real dean’s quick to pull the monster as it shifts back to its true form. you’re still very naked as the ties around your wrist loosen up. immediately dean’s covering your body with the blanket and sighing, cupping your cheek. his hand is warm. “i’m sorry you had to witness that.”

you’re shaking, glancing from dean to the monster that was laying on the floor beside your bed. just what the fuck was going on? though as you try to reply, a tall figure appears in your doorway. he seems to be taller than dean and has shaggy brown hair.

“that’s my brother sammy, he’s nice don’t worry.” dean glances to sam, giving him a certain look and his brother walks away. “there’s a lot to explain and if you wanna know i’ll tell you. but let’s get you dressed.” with gentle touches, dean carries you to the bathroom. drawing a bath and helping you get inside, making sure to be respectful of your private areas.

“he looked like you.” you whisper as dean hands you the loofah to wash your body. the soap suds covering your body and you are grateful dean looks away.

“i know and don’t feel bad because you thought he was me. you don’t know about shit like this cause i tried to keep you away from it.” dean takes the time to wash your hair, smiling softly when you close your eyes. at least he knows you’re comfortable with him here. that’s the most important thing on his mind. “this world is…cruel.” when he’s done, dean is careful to rinse your hair without getting the water on your face.

you pull the plug, watching the water go down and dean’s quick to grab a towel. “i’ll be outside okay? you want some clothes?”

you shake your head, holding onto his hand. “it’s okay, i don’t have any reason to hide. i kinda gave it up.” those words make dean frown, kneeling down in front of the tub.

“don’t say that, he’s a fucking freak and you didn’t do anything wrong. plus, i rather you wait to show off how gorgeous you are. and that’s with clothes on.” he meets your eyes, ignoring that you’re now bare in the empty bathtub. the still towel folded in your hand.

“okay.” you reply, covering yourself in the towel as he helps you stand up. he doesn’t carry you this time, though you wish he would. his touch is more gentle, something you wanna remember versus the monster that had been all over you earlier. had time machines existed, you’d stop yourself from going to the party entirely. sober you would have far better judgment than the one who chose to play naive.

“hey. what i say?” dean checks you out of your thoughts, walking with you into the room. the corpse of the monster now gone and dean takes this time to fix the door he bust down. his back to you for some privacy. “don’t blame yourself, that only makes it worse. take it from me.”

you pull out some sweats and a hoodie, eager to cover your skin down to even your toes as socks hide them. your hair still sitting on your shoulders, dripping down your back. with the same towel, you dry to absorb some of that water into the plush fabric as your eyes focus on what dean was doing.

he may not have his tools, but dean makes a mental note to find a screwdriver to fix the hinges. for now he props up the door against the frame, a problem for future him to fix. “i’ll check baby’s trunk tomorrow,” the hunter turns back to look at you, noting how every inch of skin was nowhere in sight. “hey, how about we hit willies like old times? i’m kinda craving some ice cream.” least he could do is help you forget for the rest of the night. in due time he’ll tell you everything.

·̩͙།† ͝ ︶ ͝ ⏝ ͝ ︶ ͝ †། ·̩͙

Please note; I do not allow translations or redistributions of my work by anyone else except myself. MDNI, if your account is ageless or empty, I will block you !! Minors are NOT welcome here.

[kaleldobrev]

Shiny New Toy (5) - Finale

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: After everything that happened, how will your relationship change with Dean? Will it be for better or for worse?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Age Gap (a “warning” that I kept forgetting to put on these fics but have been updated now), Cursing (9x), Mentions of kinks (pain, degradation & praise), Sad Dean, Self-Blaming Behavior, Smut (P in V - unprotected)

Authors Note: Okay gang! Here is the 5th and final part of my Demon!Dean mini-series! I just want to thank everyone who has read, commented & shared this. Originally when I posted part one, I wasn’t sure how well this was going to be received, but it was received incredibly well and I’m honestly in awe. Thank you for coming on this little journey with me. This may be the end of “Shiny New Toy” but this won’t be the end of Demon!Dean content from me (I love the man too damn much) | 18+ Only Please | MDNI | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

Shiny New Toy Masterlist

You were lying in bed completely under the sheets as if in a cave. All the lights were off, and the door was closed. Despite the hallway light always being on, Sam had turned it off for you so it could be completely dark — and for that you were grateful. Complete and utter silence filled the room, and it amazed you how quiet the Bunker truly was despite what was happening down the hall from you. Sam was in the dungeon with Dean finally curing him. It took Sam two weeks to find you and Dean, and during those two weeks it was day after day of Dean using you as if you were this shiny new toy. After the first day you expected the novelty of you being a virgin to wear off, but it didn’t. You remembered something that he said to you during one of those long days (you honestly lost track after day three or four). “You’re mine, no one else’s,” he whispered aggressively in your ear as he came deep inside of you.

There was a part of you that strangely enjoyed the sex that Dean and you had. It was the kind of sex you never expected you’d ever have (let alone with Dean). It was rough, needy, almost animalistic in nature. There was a certain type of pleasure that you seemed to have when slight pain or degradation was involved — something you never found yourself ever gravitating towards previously.

When Sam had finally found the two of you it must of been an absolute sight for him to see. His older brother balls deep inside their best friend, someone Sam considered a sister. You remembered the evil type of laugh that exited Dean, how amused he was when Sam walked in. "Want to try her out? She's a good fuck, loves it real rough too," Dean had said. The worst part of it? You remember clenching around him and almost came at his words, which only caused his smirk to grow wider.

You didn't know what you were going to say when you ultimately faced Dean again. What even was there to say? Would he remember doing any of those things to you or would he go about his business like nothing ever happened? To be honest, you weren't sure what you had wanted more: for him to remember or to forget.

Dean found himself in his room again after months of being away and it was in the exact same condition as when he had left it, besides the note he had left for you and Sam. Turning on the light he stared at the empty bed before him and there were two thoughts in his mind. The first was how much he just wanted to lay down and fall asleep for the next couple of months (the tiredness was now starting to hit him); the second was to just find you and apologize. Well, more like beg for your forgiveness.

He remembered everything, everything that he did to you over the course of the two weeks that he had you down in Hell. He remembered all of the degrading things he said to you, called you. He remembered all of the things he made you do, did to you. Despite everything that happened between the two of you during those two long weeks there was something that he was having trouble with: the way you reacted to his touch and how it changed over the course of the two weeks. On the first day he had you, the way you acted wasn't unreasonable, you were afraid and you had every right to be — there was no telling what he would do to you. But throughout the first day, he started to notice small changes in your behavior, in your reactions when he touched you; but he wasn't entirely sure if he was just misremembering or not (a lot happened in those two weeks). But, he could have sworn that you were actually enjoying it, enjoying the way he was speaking to you, essentially using you for his own pleasure. "It's not about you," he told you — and it wasn't. That's what he was struggling with, he was unsure if you were actually enjoying it or just pretending: he could see cases for both.

Dean walked over to his closet and pushed some clothes aside, his whiskey stash was still intact. Picking up the still full bottle, he held it in his hands and contemplated if he was even going to bother to get a glass or not. "Fuck it," he said, unscrewing the cap and taking a giant swig from the bottle. He stood there for a moment in front of the closet taking a few sips before settling down on his bed, the bottle practically glued to his hand.

As he attempted to relax, he reached for the remote but before he could there was a subtle knock at the door. "What?" He said, far too aggressively.

"Sorry I'll...I'll come back later," it was you and you sounded disappointed, sad. Within seconds he heard you walking away down the hallway, and he was mentally kicking himself to responding the way he did. As soon as he heard your door close he placed the bottle of whiskey on his bedside table and got up from his bed.

Once closing your door you sat down in front of it hugging your knees close to your chest. You heard footsteps outside your door and a soft sigh before someone knocked — it was probably Dean. "Hey, it's...it's me," he said, his voice sounding relatively more calm than it did not even two minutes ago.

"What?" You responded back, your voice matching what his sounded like previously.

"I deserve that," he mumbled, "and a lot worse..." he trailed off. "I uh, did you want to talk or...I didn't mean to snap like that, I thought you were Sam."

"Even if it was Sam you shouldn't have snapped like that," you said, Dean couldn't help but agree. "But I'll let it slide given the situation." From the way your voice sounded, it was like you were the one apologizing — something that you shouldn't be doing.

"Can I come in? Or did you want to talk through the door?" He asked, his tone was serious. "I'm fine with either I just...whatever you're comfortable with Sweetheart." The way he said Sweetheart had almost sounded as if he was actually struggling to say the nickname, like he felt bad saying it.

"Yeah you can...you can come in," you said, your voice low as you started to get up from in front of the door. As you opened the door you heard Dean step back a few feet in order to give you space. Upon opening it he was leaning back against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his pants. "Hey," you slightly mumbled.

"Hey," he replied back. You stood off to the side and looked at him, gesturing him to come inside your bedroom. At first the look on his face was hesitant, unsure if he had actually wanted to come in even though that's all he had wanted to do. After a moment of exchanging looks and a reassuring smile from you, he slowly made his way past you into your room, making sure he didn't touch you.

"You can sit down on my bed if you want to," you stated as you started to close the door behind you.

"Are you sure?" His tone hesitant.

"Of course," you reassured him.

"Okay," he nodded and sat down on the edge of your bed. Despite how comfortable your bed was, Dean somehow looked extremely uncomfortable sitting there. "If you want to keep the door open you can."

"Why would I want to keep the door open? Closing the door is more private," his comment confused you slightly.

"I just want you to feel safe," his voice low.

"I always feel safe with you," your voice matching his, but yours sounded more confident. He scoffed at your comment, "What?"

"After everything I did, I should be the last person you should feel safe around," the usual warmness he had in his voice wasn’t there, his voice sounded hard, cold, with slight amusement. Like he sounded genuinely surprised that you stated you still felt safe around him.

"You're not a demon anymore Dean, so there's really no reason for me not to feel unsafe. I mean, you're not planning on...hurting me right?" You hated asking that, but you had to prove a point to him.

He scoffed again. "Of course not. I would ne—" he didn't bother to finish his sentence, he just looked down at the ground no longer making eye contact with you. "Hurting you is the last thing I'd want to do," he sighed, mumbling his words. "And look how that turned out."

"It wasn't entirely your fault Dean. You weren't completely yourself," you said. "You were a demon, and you became one against your will, it was something that was out of your control."

"Don't try and justify the way I treated you Y/N," he sounded so hurt, and you felt your heart breaking again. "What I did to you was beyond fucked."

"Then I guess I'm the fucked up one because I enjoyed 95% of it," your eyes grew wide, you didn't mean for those words to come out but they did. You felt your heart starting to sink now, and you felt your cheeks start to get hot — they were probably bright pink with embarrassment.

Dean looked at you, trying to process the sentence that you just said. Your statement had confirmed his suspicions, well, more like confirmed what he was trying to remember. "You weren't faking it?" He asked, trying to make sure he understood.

"No," you let out a deep breath. "At first I didn't enjoy it but after a while I don't know I just..." you felt slightly embarrassed saying it, but it was the truth, you knew how fucked up it sounded. "The only thing I pretended was you not being a demon during it."

"Sweetheart, I don't mean to make light of the situation but I do have a slight question," he said.

"What's your question?" You asked.

"Do you have a, again, I'm not trying to make light of the situation but, I just need to clarify to make sure I'm understanding what you're telling me." He got up from the bed and started making his way toward you, your back was still leaning up against the door. "Do you have a pain and degradation kink?"

"It sounds so simple when you put it that way," you stated. "But uh...I guess I do."

"Huh," was all he said. "Don't take this the wrong way but, I never pegged you as someone into that kind of thing," his voice sounding slightly amused.

"I'm just as surprised as you are," you let out a breathy type of laugh, almost embarrassed. "But um...I do want to experience normal sex."

Dean's lips turned into a grin. His once sad self-blaming face turning into the complete opposite now; it now radiated a certain smugness or amusement. "Normal sex uh?"

Six Months Later...

You were lying on your back underneath Dean, one of your legs over his shoulder as he slowly moved in and out of you, hitting the exact right spot each and every time. Letting out a tiny moan you shut your eyes, and you moved your hands so they were now gripping the headboard behind you. "So fucking beautiful," Dean slightly whispered kissing your inner thigh; his slight scruff feeling nice against your skin. He felt you starting to clench around him, and the smirk that he had on his face had started to grow. "So good for me," he praised, slightly whispering again.

"Dean..." you moaned softly, almost a whimper.

"Yeah Sweetheart?" He asked, kissing your inner thigh again.

"Can I..." you started to say, but your thoughts got quickly interrupted when Dean completely pulled himself out of you before practically slamming himself back inside of you, "Fuck," you said a bit louder than you were expecting.

"Sweetheart I am in the middle of fucking you," you could hear the smirk on his lips.

"Sm-smartass," your voice coming out as a slight moan. "Can I...can I please cum?"

"Well since you asked so nicely..." his voice trailed off, his movements picking up their pace. Based on the speed and the way his hips were moving, you could tell that he was starting to get close too. He took your other leg and draped it over his other shoulder, which caused him to feel even deeper than he had been before. "You may."

With a few more thrusts and praises from him, you felt yourself starting to let go, coming around his cock, your orgasm hitting you harder than you had expected it to. "Fuckk," you threw your head back, shutting your eyes.

"That's it Sweetheart," he praised again. You couldn't help but curse again, a long string of profanities leaving your mouth. They almost didn't even sound like curses; more like whimpers and moans mixed with words that didn't even sound like anything. Dean was close behind you, the sounds that had escaped you had gotten him to a point where he was moments away from coming. He heard you say his name, and upon hearing you moan it he started to cum deep inside of you, his own orgasm hitting harder than he had thought, similar to how yours was.

Once both of you had come down from your highs, Dean laid down next to you on his side propping himself up with his elbow as he looked at you, breathing slightly heavy next to him still on your back. Your legs and arms were completely flat, almost as if you were afraid to move. "You okay Sweetheart?" He asked, giving your bare shoulder a kiss.

You turned to him, giving him a soft smile, "More than okay," you replied. "Round three in ten?"

He chuckled at your question. "How about thirty?" He asked, and your face dropped. "We need to refuel baby," he explained, his hand patting your thigh.

"Fine," you said, your voice slightly stubborn.

Tag List: @roseblue373 @beansproutmafia @queenie32 @deanwanddamons @missy420-0 @fullbelieverheart @little-x-wolf @angiebangiee @spnfamily-j2 @freewastelandstrawberry @mira-dystopiancore @kalliwinchester @violettavirus @jo7465 @jackles010378 @syrma-sensei @k-slla @justletmereadfanfic @ilikw If you want to be added to a tag list let me know!

[happilyfeatherafter]

Happilyfeatherafter’s ficrec Fridays

Good friday y'all. Welcome back to a new fortnight of fics that I’ve read and loved recently. I took my first holiday of the year and IMMEDIATELY caught a cold that knocked me out for the week but at least it meant I got reading done. Save me, destiel, save me.

If you want to find more you can see my previous rec lists here!

29 March 2024

virga(e) by @shineforthee (art by @neversleepuntilfive) has gone straight to the top of the favourite fics ever pile, oh my god you guys, please read it immediately and admire the art that inspired it as part of @deancasreversebang. This fic is a thing of beauty from start to finish. In one version of the story of Dean and Cas, we find Castiel perpetually waiting in the desert, when a 26 year old Dean stumbles upon him drawn to the location mid-hunt. They must learn to trust each other, to figure out what's causing the push and pull that bonds them. The poetry of this fic, run through with this yearning devastating emotion on their journey together, coupled with the incredibly evocatively descriptions and research into the setting, come together to make the most gorgeous picture, the desert a place that seems desolate but is teeming with life. Much like the slowburn romance that flourishes between them. It also links back to post-canon in a way that is seeded so carefully and cleverly, and made my heart explode. It's funny, romantic, devastating, emotional, moving....I can't do justice to this fic with such a short snapshot, please read it for yourselves and come yell at me about it. It's so beautiful. shineforthee also has a great 9x06 fanfic gap one shot and an ongoing wip now too and I can't wait to read that! (Somehow need any more convincing? Check out @bloodydeanwinchester's Virga(e) liveblog).

It's all very complex by artichokeflower okay that was all very serious, so let's turn to a short and sweet smut fic that had me giggling gleefully throughout. 'After walking in on Dean's private time, Cas decides to do a little research and experimentation of his own and gets magically trapped in a book about sexual fantasies. And if that means Dean has to go in after him, well what are buddies for, right?' The thing that is just GOLDEN about this fic aside from the hot smut is the dry sense of humour, borderline French Mistake parody level porn and dialogue between Dean and especially Cas which just gets them so well...the cowboy scenes in particular. Glorious: “I’m sorry, Dean. That’s the end of the erotic violence. Are you hurt?” “Is there going to be any sex in your sexy fantasies?” Dean wheezed. “Not that the whole shoot out wasn’t fun. I just wasn’t expecting as much plot is all.” He coughed. That had probably sounded too eager.

Just Being and Just Having by Englandwouldfall I have recced before but is now complete!! This the post-canon fic series delves so incredibly beautifully into Dean and Cas’ history of miscommunication and gives them the chance to truly talk things out, finding themselves falling more deeply in love as they do so and understand their own mistakes but also what makes them work so well together when they’re no longer under Chuck’s thumb. Each chapter feels like therapy and a brain and heart massage! It sticks the landing so well and I just love these boys so much.

Something Happening Somewhen by allthismusic (@folkbloodbaths, art by @eggchef) aaaahhh time travel young Dean brought to the future to meet older Dean and Cas fic trope my beloved. A @deancaspinefest fic, Allthismusic is a fan of the trope too and this fic is a gorgeous tribute to it and the fics that came before. Cas saves 24yo Dean from an accident and brings him to the future when he witnesses what his life will be. Will Cas have to remove his memories to stop a paradox? Sweet and heartfelt, a joy to read.

Books, Pies, and Roommates by @seidenapfel (art by @kitshay) is a @deancaspinefest two-person love hexagon, with some excellently farcical misdirection. Cas moves in to the spare room of Dean's house, but he doesn't meet him, he meets Sam, as Dean is busy working. Cas is professor but helps his cousin out as a barista and his favourite customer is Deano. Dean's intrigued by the barista but he's not his online penpal and best friend Angel. Lines blur, connections are made, and hearts are gonna get broken...or are they?

Tag list under the cut, let me know if you'd like to be added! Please reblog <3

@dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you

[ambiguous-avery]

Chasing Shadows, Part 1

Dean Winchester x OC fem!Touched!Reader/You | WC: 2,999

Summary: She’s never been afraid of the dark, not really. She’s more concerned about getting lost in it. He’s haunted by every dark deed he’s ever done. It’s constantly nipping at his heels like a hell hound. He’s her light in the dark, and she’s the one bit of darkness he’s willing to embrace.

A series of murders has drawn the Winchesters to your small town, and for some reason, you’re at the center of it all. What are you hiding? And why does it seem to be painting a target on those around you?

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, eventual romance,  eventual smut,  fluff and angst, POV alternating (sometimes a little all over the place), no beta we die like men

Disclaimer: The base concept of Touched comes from @aylacavebear and is used with permission. I’ve taken creative liberties with it.

A/N: I’ve never posted any of my work anywhere before, so this is a huge leap of faith for me. I’ve just gotten into the Supernatural fandom, so forgive me if there are things that don’t line up with the canon. I’m still in the early seasons of the show! I’m also new to writing x reader fics, so feedback is always welcome! I'll probably end up adding warnings as this goes on. Chasing Shadows Series Masterlist

This was the fifth murder in two weeks. The reports Sam had found had hinted at possible ritual killings due to the bodies reportedly being bloodless, but really, the Winchesters knew better. Everything about the deaths screamed vampires, so the question was less about ‘what’ was killing and more about ‘how many’ were doing the killing. Dean adjusted the collar of his suit and squared his shoulders before knocking on the door in front of him. Their initial snooping into the cases had led them to the most recent victim’s best friend. You.

“Hello,” Dean said your name and flashed his fake FBI badge with practiced ease. “I’m Agent Ehart; this is Agent Greer. We were hoping we could ask you some questions.” You gave each of them a quick visual once-over before you stepped aside and opened the door wider for them. They each gave a quick, appreciative nod and situated themselves on a couch in the living room, looking wholly out of place against the decorations and outdated couch fabric.

“Can I get either of you something to drink?” you asked. Sam shook his head.

“We’re alright, thank you. I’d like to start off with "we're very sorry for your loss." I’m sure it isn’t easy,” he began, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

“Thank you,” your tone was clipped as you sat down across from them. Your body language spoke volumes. The way your shoulders were hunched. The way you almost seemed to curl in on yourself, trying to be as small as possible. Your eyes were still red and swollen, the result of at least one recent cry session, probably more. “I already spoke with the police.”

“We understand. See, we’re conducting our own investigation. With so many recent incidents happening in such a short span of time, we’ve been called in,” Sam said, keeping his tone polite but professional.

“So… five deaths is the threshold for the police to bring in the big guns, huh?” They thought you might have been trying to make a joke, but there wasn’t any humor in your voice. Dean wet his lips before responding.

“Something like that… if it isn’t too much to ask, could you go over the night it happened? Anything stand out in your memory?”

You thought for a moment, running the night through your mind. As you reiterated the evening to them, they listened with rapt attention. You had been over the story so often and in so much detail that it was beginning to sound rehearsed. In a way, it sort of was. 

“We were out at a restaurant. We’ve both been so busy lately that we haven’t had some girl time, so we were catching up. It was uneventful, really,” you said with a half shrug. “The strangest thing about the night was a guy who crashed into her on our way out. But again, I’ve already told the police about him.” You looked at Agent Ehart, trying to get a read on him. Unsurprisingly, he wore a sort of grim determination on his face, but there was something else there. You weren’t sure you could put your finger on it. He seemed a bit young to be an agent – both of them did – but he carried the world-weariness of someone who had lived many more lifetimes than appearance would suggest. You wondered what kind of stories he might share over a drink or two.

“Tell me more about this guy,” the one with longer hair – Agent Greer, was it? – cut in. You jerked your head to look at the other agent, abruptly pulled back into the present moment.

“I dunno. There’s not much to say about him. We stepped out of the restaurant, and he walked right into her. Knocked her purse to the ground. All her stuff spilled out, and he couldn’t even be bothered to stop and apologize. Kinda seemed like he was drunk with the way he was stumbling on his feet.” You shifted a bit in your seat. Now was hardly the time to get distracted, not when you were a hair's breadth away from falling to pieces.

“Have you seen him around town before?” the same agent continued.

“Can’t say I have. Then again, I tend to keep to myself when I’m out and about. I don’t think I’d be able to recognize the barista I see every few days if I passed them in a grocery store.”

“I see… and you’re sure there’s nothing else you can think of that seems… odd to you? Really, any detail you might feel doesn’t matter might end up being quite significant. No matter how unbelievable it might be.” You were quiet for a moment, debating. “I promise, there’s nothing you can tell us that we haven’t heard before,” Agent Greer pushed. Something about the hazel-eyed agent’s tone made his words heavier, like there was a more profound meaning behind them than he was letting on. You swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the ground. 

The first chink in your carefully curated mask showed as a flicker of something flashed behind your eyes. The short-haired agent leaned forward, the movement catching your attention. You looked up, and you’re sure that if circumstances were different, you could’ve gotten lost in the agent’s green eyes. 

“Sweetheart, please. We want to catch this guy and keep him from killing anyone else.” His voice was soft and sounded more genuine than the other officers who had questioned you the day before, and somehow, the ‘sweetheart’ nickname didn’t grate on you coming from him. Maybe it was the way his voice rolled over you. Or maybe it was because he had a pretty face.

“I didn’t do this,” you said quietly. 

“I know you didn’t.”

“I feel like I’m going crazy or I’m being vain or something.” You maintained your eye contact with him as though it would make him believe you. “I knew them. All of them. Not well, mind you. Some more than others.” The crack in your mask splintered further. “I know how this looks, but I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it. I know you don’t believe me, but I promise on everything that matters to me.” Your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, the familiar feeling of stinging tears behind your eyelids. The sound of fabric rustling drew your attention, and when you opened your eyes, the agent who called you ‘sweetheart’ was standing beside you, a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You leaned into the touch slightly. He was warm, and the touch was comforting.

“Don’t worry. You can tell us anything. We’ll get him,” he said.

They didn’t get much more information out of you. Your inability to give them a solid description of the guy you saw outside of the restaurant was a real damper on their investigation. However, Dean had left a card with his name and number with you on the off chance you remembered anything else. With a heavy sigh, Dean set the duffel bag he was holding onto the motel bed, running a hand through his hair. Sam was seated at the small table in the room, typing away on his laptop. 

“What do you think, Sammy? Still dealing with a vamp?” The two had done away with the stiff suits, and Dean was happier back in his t-shirt and denim.

“I mean, every report I find talks about the bodies being exsanguinated. I don’t know many other creatures that would do that.” Sam turned his computer, letting Dean look over the documents they had gotten from the local police.

“What about a chupacabra?” Dean suggested.

“Everything I can find about those says they go for livestock rather than humans. Vamps fit the bill the best.”

“Yeah, but… the thing that I can’t figure out is ‘why her’? She said she spent time with each of them the same day they were attacked. Vamps don’t usually have a pattern that centers around one person,” Dean said, leaning over to skim the computer screen.

“Maybe it’s a vengeful spirit that’s latched onto her?”

“That would explain the victims’ connection to her but not the blood loss. Unless it has something to do with how the spirit died. But even then, there’s no report of the crime scenes being particularly bloody.” Sam leaned back in his seat as Dean spoke, drumming his fingers on the table. 

“And we’re positive she’s not a part of all of this? She said she didn’t tell the police about her connections with the first vic because she didn’t want eyes on her. That’s not something that someone innocent says,” Sam asked while taking his laptop back and scrolling through the reports again, as if some new detail would stand out to him. 

You had said that you knew all the victims, but the extent of which varied greatly. The first one was an old friend of your parents who you didn’t interact with much, but the one time you did, he was attacked. Victim two was a coworker in a different department who was attacked after a lunch meeting with you. Number three was a taxi driver who had driven you home after a late night at the office, and number four was someone you had met at a bar and shared a drink or two with. Ultimately, though, you hadn’t ended up going home with him. And the most recent one had been your best friend, one you had just hung out with the night of the attack. You weren’t wrong. It was extremely suspicious that you had a connection to all of them, no matter how insignificant it seemed. You had never mentioned your connection to the first victim, and the next three had far stronger connections with others that the police never really glanced your way. Number five was the first time they had looked closely at you, but without the knowledge of your link to any of the others, nothing looked suspicious to them. 

The Winchesters weren’t buying it. 

They spent the better part of the day doing as much digging into the cases as they could, even managing to schmooze their way into the morgue to see the body. As the medical examiner pulled back the sheet to reveal the body, both Dean and Sam’s gazes locked onto the very obvious bite mark on the victim’s neck. 

“Kinda gruesome, isn’t it?” the medical examiner asked. He was a younger kid, probably in his mid twenties, if they had to guess. 

“You can say that again,” Dean mumbled, slowly looking up and down the body.

“All the victims have the same kind of wound on them?” Sam asked, motioning to his own neck. The examiner nodded. 

“Unfortunately so. I try not to jump to conclusions, but I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors of these being ritual killings. Hard not to assume the worst when everything’s pointing in the same direction. Have you guys seen anything like this before?”

“Not exactly like this,” Dean said, shaking his head. 

Everything pointed to a cut and dry vamp nest except for the way they were targeting victims. Why you? More specifically, why those around you but not you directly? Maybe one of the vamps had a vendetta? That would’ve only made partial sense. Only two of the victims seemed to have a more profound connection to you – the neighbor and the best friend. They spent the drive back to the hotel running through every possibility. The sun was sinking behind the hills by the time Dean got out of the shower and dressed. 

“There has to be something we’re missing,” he said as he took a seat on the bed.He grabbed the jar of Dead Man’s Blood from the duffel bag he had shoved beneath the bed and spun it in his hands, his leg bouncing. They had exhausted just about every avenue including variations of vampires in different myths and lore across the world. Nothing was fitting the bill.

“We can always go back and ask her more questions tomorrow,” Sam offered.

“Yeah but what do we even ask? She already said she has no idea why anyone or anything would target her. And I know lying isn’t completely out of the realm of possibility, but it just seems... unlikely. Our last option is that she’s in on it, and something’s telling me that’s not the case.”

“You sure you’re thinking with the right head about that?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh please, do you think I’m blind?” Sam scoffed, a light smile playing on his lips. “You’re a sucker for those big, doe ‘help me’ eyes.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, “She’s a pretty girl in a shitty situation.” The jar of blood was still in his hand, the liquid sloshing around as he tilted it back and forth. Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah, and you’re gonna swoop in, save the day, get the girl, and ride off into the sunset.” Dean flashed him his signature boyish grin, the kind of grin that Sam knew was going to get them into trouble sooner rather than later. “Look, just keep it in your pants until we figure this out, yeah?” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair. Maybe if they looked more into your connection with the victims, something else would show up. 

Dean’s phone went off in his pocket, and he set the jar down on the bedside table before fishing it out of his pocket. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it.

“Hello?” He asked, hitting the speaker button.

“Dean?” your voice crackled over the phone’s crappy speakers. You sounded scared. Dean was on his feet, grabbing the Impala’s keys from his other pocket as you spoke. “I think I’m being followed.”

“Where are you at, sweetheart? We’re on our way.” You rattled off a cross street then for good measure, gave a landmark for reference. “Stay around other people, anywhere with lots of foot traffic.” There was no response.

The part of town you had directed them to was the opposite of what Dean had advised. It was a commercial area some distance away from the downtown shopping district several blocks over. What in the world were you doing out this late with all the recent incidents? You had better not have been trying to solve this yourself. Dean had parked, and the two of them armed themselves for a fight. On second thought, maybe it was a blessing in disguise that you had been out of the way of others. There was no one to judge them as they briskly moved down the sidewalk, checking down the alleys between the buildings. The sound of a scuffle and a pained cry from the next building up caught their ears, and the two of them hoofed it.

The boys turned the corner just in time to watch the vampire sink his teeth into you. The scream in your throat died to a soft whimper, hands uselessly grabbing at the vampire’s arms as it held you against the brick wall. Dean was the first to respond, firing off a bullet soaked in Dead Man’s Blood before Sam even had a chance to aim. It took two more shots before the vampire finally relented, dropping you to the ground, fangs still holding a chunk of your flesh it ripped from you. It clutched at its side where the bullets had sunken in before turning and booking it around the corner. Dean and Sam shared a knowing glance before Dean chased after it. Sam tucked his own gun into the waistband of his pants and knelt down beside you, worry and concern and anger etched into his features. Your eyes had slid closed, and your own blood soaked your shirt, oozing from the open wound in your neck. Sam gingerly eased you so you were sitting up rather than lying in a crumpled heap on the cold ground. He winced, quickly finding your wrist to check for a pulse. Even with his expectations on the ground, Sam was still disappointed when he didn’t feel anything.

“Shit... I’m sorry,” he breathed, brushing stray hair from your face. “I’m sorry we weren’t quick enough.” He stood up, pulled out his own gun, and chased after Dean, mentally promising that he’d make it up to you by killing this son of a bitch.

“I’m telling you, Sam, it was weird. It was like the Dead Man’s Blood had no effect. No lethargy, no weakening of his abilities, nothing. We saw his teeth. If that thing ain’t a vamp, then I’m the queen of England.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s because we caught him mid-feed? Maybe the fresh and dead blood cancel each other out in a way?”

“I dunno. But if there’s one, there’s bound to be a nest of them. And we’re gonna need a lot more blood than what we have on hand. Which alley did you leave the vic down?”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam stopped abruptly, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and staring hard at him. Dean ran a hand over his face and pressed his lips together in a tight line.

“Look, it’s better to do it before the body’s locked behind yellow tape. We need every advantage we can get, and we might as well make her death worth something. Plus, she gets revenge on her killer. It’s a win-win situation.” Sam sighed and shook his head, letting his hand fall away from Dean.

“I hate it when you make sense,” he grumbled, turning the corner. The two of them stopped dead in their tracks.

“Sam...” Dean began slowly, “where’s the body?” Sam gaped at the empty alleyway. For a moment, he thought maybe he had made a wrong turn, but he recognized the dumpster with the mattress sticking out of it. 

“That is a great question...”

---

Thank you for reading, please feel free to leave a like, comment, or reblog! I would be forever grateful! 💜💜💜

Part 2

[properiguana]

This is my first fic - all thanks to encouraging Tumblr posts I've come across. Y'all motivated me to write for fun and I appreciate that!

Summary: Castiel comes to meet Dean, who is in the midst of his sex, alcohol, and violence fueled new demon life with Crowley, only to receive an unexpected offer.

“Cassie.” The way Crowley said the name made it clear he was far from happy to see the angel. Frankly, the past few weeks he had spent with Dean were fun, and the last thing he wanted was for the holier-than-thou brother-and-friend duo to show up and ruin everything. At least this time, he knew it wouldn’t be so easy. Dean wasn’t the same person. The demon side of him didn’t want to be around Sammy at all. And that was something no one could have ever expected—the two had been practically siamese twins. “To what do we owe the displeasure of your charming presence?” Crowley asked, his lips pressed into a thin, annoyed line.

“I’m here to talk to Dean.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Of course he was. The guy had gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition once, and it was like he would never let go again.

But a small smirk appeared on Crowley’s face.

“He’s a little busy,” he replied, pointing to the bar.

Dean was busy. Like most nights lately, he was chatting up some pretty thing at a bar—or more than one. Hell, Crowley and he had had quite a few adventurous nights with a wide variety of people. He couldn’t even remember all their names anymore—not that he cared to. All he cared about lately were alcohol, sex, and violence. A lot of violence.

Tonight, he had managed to fish out two beautiful women—both blonde, both curvy. With them under his arms, he turned to Crowley, who was meant to join them, but his green eyes landed on someone else instead. 

Castiel.

The three approached the two men, Crowley briefly approvingly eyeing up Dean’s picks for the night.

“Cas. What are you doing here?” Dean asked—his face couldn’t be any less interested.

“I need to talk to you.” Castiel’s voice was as monotone as usual, but he stepped toward the other, staring at him, brows slightly knitted together as he examined his face.

“Well, as you see, I’m kinda busy right now.” Dean vaguely gestured to the women beside him and Crowley. “So it’s gonna wait till the morning,” he stated firmly. He was not going to waste his time talking right now when he had two hot ladies hanging off his arms and Crowley, who, thanks to hundreds of years of experience, knew his way around things very well. “Unless…” He let go of the two women and approached Castiel, not leaving much room between them. He tilted his head slightly. “You want to join.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Do you mind?” He asked, but the ladies shook their heads no.

“He’s kinda hot, to be honest,” one of the women said, biting her lip as she checked the angel out.

Crowley couldn’t help but roll his eyes again and mutter, “Why does everyone find him attractive? The man looks like an accountant.”

Dean turned back to Castiel, who watched them with his emotionless look.

“I know what you want, Cas. I’ve known for a while,” he told him, the corner of his lip curling slightly in a cocky smirk, his eyes traveling from the man’s eyes to his

//Continue on ao3 (tumblr char constraint?)

[xlynnbbyx]

I know I haven’t been around much but I have gone through things mentally. Then last week I had a medical situation that was scary at first. Idk how else to say it but Friday Nov 15th I found a lump on my left breast. I have anxiety and OCD so seeing that sent me on a tailspin. Went to Urgent Care Saturday turns out it was an abscess cause it started bleeding. It burst open Monday had tests done to show it was an abscess cause the ultrasound showed the infection and nothing more. I am still healing from when it busted open. I had an appointment 2 days ago for it to be looked at. It’s healing like it should I just have to keep it covered and put ointment on it til it scabs over or closes. So I been through a good bit but I am doing great. What way to come back by post a Jensen IG post!! Glad he blessed us with a post and I am so excited for Countdown!! Can’t wait to post more Jensen goodness!!

PS- My asks are open if anyone wants to ask me anything. It can be about Jensen, Supernatural, Any show you think I watch, horror movies, or anything about me. All I ask is no drama or hate.

Fan fic readers: Also I would like to build a reading list of series to read. Well more like add to it. So of course looking for any and all Jensen x Reader & any of his characters x Reader like Dean, Soldier Boy/Ben, Beau, Russell etc. Of course all have to be X reader female of course. No huge age gap highest I will go is 10 years between reader & jensen(or his characters) I say that cause I am 10 years younger then Jensen. He is 46 I’m 36 so it’s why 10 years is highest I will go. No incest or anything gross! So please send some recommendations!