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luci-in-trenchcoats · 5 months ago

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Headcanon: How They Meet Their Plus Size Girlfriend

I'm officially trying my hand at headcanons (only a few years behind the ball there)! If these go over well, I might start to incorporate them more around here.

Special thanks to @zepskies for the idea (okay, it's a little different than we talked about but I think it still fits the bill) and getting me on the headcanon bandwagon! 😘

Warnings: language, implied smutty times, implied body insecurity

Dean Winchester

Dean’s always been the kind of guy to think if a woman’s beautiful to him, she’s beautiful. Case closed. Which was exactly his thought when he caught a glimpse of Y/N at a dive bar outside of Lawrence. He’d do a double take, not being shy about how he took you in or hiding the smile on his face when he saw you watching him. One quick look away before you were looking back and that was more than enough invitation for him.

He’d be on his feet, at your table in under ten seconds, not deterred by the furrow of your brows. In another ten he’d have laid out one of, in his opinion, his best lines. His confidence fell a sliver when all you did was stare back at him but that was alright. He wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“Why don’t you try that line on the blonde over there that’s mentally undressing you?” you’d say, fighting back the urge to say something snappy at the ridiculously handsome man in front of you. Before he had even come over, you knew he was trouble, knew his type. He surely had made a bet with the longer haired man at his time and had come over to play a game with you. There was no way in hell he was actually interested, not when there were at least five different women at the bar ready to jump at the chance to take him home.

The man would smirk, lifting his head as if he realized something. To your annoyance, he’d slip into the empty chair beside you, taking a short sip of his beer along the way. He’d adorably rest his elbow against the table’s edge, leaning his head against his hand as he slumped down, all the while smiling at you.

“If I wanted to talk to her, I’d have gone over there. Now you can tell me to get lost or you can give me a chance.”

“Chance to what?”

“Take a beautiful woman home,” he’d grin, looking up through his lashes. You’d laugh, gesturing down to yourself, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Hey now. Don’t tell me when I think a woman is hot and I won’t tell you.”

You’d raise your eyebrows, the mysterious stranger inching closer, lifting his head with a certain boyish mischievousness. “C’mon sweetheart. One drink.”

“Fine. One drink.”

One drink turned into five. One night turned into six. Six nights turned into Dean spending the night and making breakfast for three weeks straight.

Dean smirked when you let him inside the house, his hands immediately shooting to your hips and pulling you crashing into his chest.

“Down boy,” you’d teased as he tried to kiss under your jaw, his grip keeping you from returning to the kitchen. “Dean. It’ll burn.”

“We can order takeout,” he mumbled, nipping at your neck. You rolled your eyes, smiling when Dean chuckled. “How’s that one drink working out for you, sweetheart?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you said, Dean walking you back against the front door, his hands shooting to your face, capturing it like he had been starved all day. “Someone miss me?”

“My favorite girl? Always,” he hummed, body jerking when a waft of cherries floated through the room. He tilted his head, eyes wide. “You…made pie?”

“Well you said you like-” He’d slam his lips to yours with an almost bruising force, leaving you breathless before jogging away. “What are you doing?”

“Saving the pie!” You crossed your arms, laughing as he scrambled to put on an oven mitt and yank it out of the oven. “Crisis averted. You didn’t say it was pie, sweetheart. We never let a pie burn.”

He walked back over much slower as it cooled on a rack, Dean placing his hands on either side of your head, a dangerous smile on his face. “Now, where were we?”

Beau Arlen

Beau would wait a while before making a move on you. He had to prove it to himself that he was ready for another relationship and that Emily was doing better after everything that happened over the summer. So he quietly waited and settled for your friendship. There was no reason in his head to drag you into his crap or jump the gun when he knew it’d cause problems. But he didn’t miss the way you caught him staring during movie nights, dinners, at park yoga (that truth be told he only did at first because Emily’s therapist thought it was something nice to do together but didn’t want to admit he actually enjoyed).

Beau knew he would be sending conflicting signals. Eyes that said for the love of god I want this, words that said this is platonic as hell. He had to go so far as to keep his hands off of you completely for fear he would break his resolve and just plant one on you. Naturally when he finally felt like he was in a good place to give things an honest shake, you’d tell him on his lunch break that you had a date that night.

“Cancel it,” Beau blurts out. He’d watch you scrunch up your face but he’s already let the cat out of the bag. Might as well go all in. “Go out with me.”

“Beau, we can hang out tomorrow. I want to go out with this guy, see where it leads. I'm not getting any younger. I need to get serious about finding someone.”

“Yeah and I’m serious about going out with you. Let me take you out on a date.” He’d understand your hesitation. He was the one backing off whenever you’d put out feelers in the past. Beau knew he had to go all in if he wanted to earn that trust with you.

“Beau. Come on. I know I’m not your type.”

Beau rose from the other side of his desk, striding around it and stopping in front of your chair. “You are my type and before you open that mouth of yours to argue, I thought I owed it to you to get my shit together before I did this. I ain’t perfect but I am ready to try.”

He’d rest a hand on your thigh, waiting for your reaction, inching up ever so slightly to make it clear that was more than a friendly gesture.

“Beau, I don’t…you never seemed interested-“

“I am. In all of you. But I wanted you to get the best version of me. The one that is emotionally available and that’s taken time.” He’d lean down closer, sliding his hand up your leg, grazing your hip, your ribs, all the way up to your cheek. “I’m ready if you want me.”

“Of course I want you. But…” He’d hum, leaning in close, pressing his lips to yours.

“But you don’t think I want you?” He frowned when you looked away, his hand catching your chin. “I’m a big boy and you’re a big girl. I think we’re both old enough to trust that we’re telling each other the truth. So go out with me tonight. I promise it will be a million times better than whatever guy you were going to go with.”

It’d take a moment but he’d grin as you texted your date you had a change of heart, Beau already planning the perfect evening together.

Not long after that first date Beau would be spending most of his nights with you, whether that was at home with Emily, out at your favorite bar, or exploring town. He’d constantly have an arm around you, your waist, your shoulders, your hips. Beau liked to keep his girl close. Maybe he’d worked through a lot but he was still protective through and through and that meant he was always watchful of you. Including the occasional stray eye when you were out. Beau always made sure to give them a look to back off and that you were taken.

“What are you doing?” You’d ask one night, catching him with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing, dear,” he said, tucking you into his side, forcing a smile. “Just fending off the sharks.”

“Sharks?”

“You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you.” He’d watch you do that thing with your nose which meant you were fighting back the heat trying to rise to your cheeks. But he wouldn’t fight his own, smirking as he kissed you deeply. “Thank god you’re all mine.”

Soldier Boy/Ben

Ben would make a move on you the second he saw you. Long strides across the club and an arm draped around your shoulders as he almost ignored your presence in favor of order a round of shots. He’d keep you close even as you attempted to pull away, turning his head with a coy smile.

“Where you going, gorgeous? Didn’t you come out tonight to have fun?” he grinned darkly, enjoying the mixture of disgust at his arrogance and the intrigue hidden underneath your frown. “Someone in a skirt like that is looking for a good time. Well, here I am. No strings attached”

He’d lick his lips as you’d take your shot without breaking eye contact, Soldier Boy’s eyebrows raising in surprise. He wouldn’t have been sure if it’d be that easy but he’d take it. Until he’d watch you down the other shot and turn around, walking off to the dance floor with a wave over the shoulder.

Challenge accepted.

He’d follow you out, letting you take the lead, growing frustrated every time you’d teasingly pull him in only to push away. His desire would only grow when you gave him the slip at the end of the night, no longer a game in his mind. You weren’t simply a conquest anymore. He was curious about the woman in the leather skirt and how on earth she was resisting everything he was offering.

Finally, finally, he’d find you outside the club, leaning against the cold brick wall, hands clasped behind your back.

“Now don’t you run off on me again,” purred Ben, taking your hand in his, eyes dark and hungry. He’d smirk at your feigned disinterest, putting on his most innocent expression he could muster. “My place. Let me do wonderful things to that body of yours, gorgeous.”

He’d take your nonchalant shrug for a yes and before he knew it, he’d have you in his apartment, down on his knees, making good on his promise. Before he could get his head on right though, he’d hear the click of your heels on the marble floor. With a wobble and fixing the tent in his pants, he’d catch you halfway out the door, his eyes wide in bewilderment. “Where you going, baby?”

“Like you said, I was looking for a good time and I had it. I don’t remember saying you were getting any more than that.” He’d lean against the wall, cocking his head and letting the coil in his gut unravel.

“Baby, stay and I’ll keep on chasing you until you’re sick of me. Scouts’ honor.” He’d smile at your laugh, jutting out his lip. “Aw, don’t make me beg.”

“What a shame. I bet you’d beg real pretty.” Soldier Boy wouldn’t fight the way his breath hitched. He’d been with plenty of teasing women before but they always wanted him in control. Something about that threat, promise, whatever it was would make his skin itchy with need.

“Want to see if you can make me?” He’d know his hook was in the moment the words left his mouth, the way your eyes raked over his body. “No one’s ever been able. Think you’re that good?”

“Oh sweetie, you’ll regret that.”

Two months later, Soldier Boy wouldn’t regret it for one second. Not just for what you’d brought out in him in the bedroom. You challenged him, called him on his shit and damn he liked you putting him in his place. He wouldn’t quite understand it but somewhere he likened it to something akin to deeper feelings. Everything had started out at pure sex but there was something about you that stayed under his skin, something that him taking you out on real dates, to movie premieres and parties. Something that made him want this to last. He’d growl at the man that once tried to lay a hand on your ass, not even pretending to be sorry when you’d chastised him for breaking the guys arm.

Soldier Boy knew his anger was quick and he wasn’t the easiest person in the world to deal with but he didn’t care. Nobody laid a hand on his girl. Not unless they wanted to lose theirs.

Russell Shaw

Russell didn’t love going in the office. He considered the field his true workplace. But every so often he had to go in to deal with contracts, paperwork, or in this case, get reimbursed for a phone that’d been destroyed somewhere along the Amazon river.

So that was how he’d turned the corner too quick and slammed straight into you. He’d fall smack on his ass and look across the way, finding you in a similar position, coffee staining your peach colored blouse and a shattered mug on the ground.

“Oh fuck,” he’d say as he’d notice the red streaks coming from your hand. He’d slide across the floor, pulling the forest green handkerchief he kept on him and quickly covering your bleeding palm. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was an accident,” you’d say, wincing as he tightened it.

“Let me take you to get that stitched. You shouldn’t drive like that,” he’d say before ducking into a nearby room and alerting an admin to what had happened. Russell would stay in the waiting room the whole time you got checked out and after getting you out of work the rest of the day, he’d take you down the street to his favorite food truck, encouraging you to get your blood sugar back up even if you’d barely lost any in the first place.

“I’ll happily pay for the dry cleaning or new clothes,” he’d say as you sipped on a glass of sweet tea, finding his nervous energy kind of adorable. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Well, you know you contract guys. Break into enemy territory in the dead of night? No problem. Walk down a hallway? Now that’s dangerous.” Russell would smile hard at your teasing, more than happy to not have incurred any of your wrath in the long term. He had the feeling you were uncomfortable in your messy clothes though, despite the cardigan you were holding closed with one hand over your shirt.

A gust of wind would come through and threaten to throw all your food to the ground, both of you reaching and grabbing before it could fall. In that instance, Russell would spot that you weren’t just uncomfortable. Your peach blouse had turned completely see through and was revealing a light pink bra.

“Here,” Russell said without thinking, shrugging out of his jacket on the cool day and standing, handing it across the table. You’d blink up at him before slowly taking it, holding the much thicker material to your chest. As much he might have liked, he kept his mouth shut about the bra, instead letting you eat your lunch quickly and quietly.

Russell would insist on driving you home with an offer to take you into work to get your car in the morning.

“Sorry about ruining your clothes again,” he’d say on your front porch, holding up a hand when you tried to give his jacket back. “You keep it. Not like we’ll never see each other again, right?”

“Right. I’ll uh, see you tomorrow then.”

Russell would pause halfway down the steps, feeling your gaze on his back. “Do you want to maybe…get dinner later? I don’t have any jobs lined up for a few weeks and I’m a sucker for pink.”

He’d turn around with a hesitant smile, one eyebrow raised as you lifted your chin. “Seven. Don’t be late.”

Russell smirked when he picked you up that night wearing a pink zip up, enjoying the smug look on your face.

“So where you taking me, Shaw?” you’d ask, Russell opening the passenger door for you. “I normally don’t wear jeans and a hoodie on a first date.”

“Maybe you’ve been dating the wrong men,” he’d wink as he closed the door. “It’ll be fun and no coffee will be thrown or shrapnel will occur, I promise.”

“Oh well, is it even a first date without those?” He’d chuckle, quickly hoping behind the wheel.

“I guess that makes this our second date then,” he’d shoot back with a smile.

Russell finds out after his first job away that he doesn’t like being away for weeks at a time from you. Phone calls and face time aren’t enough. He puts in a word with his supervisor about taking shorter missions only from then on out. He’s absolutely giddy to pull up to your house when he gets home from the airport, even if you haven’t been answering his texts today.

“Hey,” he says when you answer the door. He doesn’t like the sliver of doubt on your face. “What’s wrong?”

“I should have asked them before but when you go away…are there others?” He’d hate how small your voice sounded, the way you’d rub your arm absently. “I mean, I know we’re new and didn’t really talk about it and you go to some places with some very beautiful women-”

“I got a beautiful woman right at home and she is all I want. Just me and her. Understand?” Russell would kiss away that worry until it was a faded memory, one he would be more than happy to dispel to you over and over again.

___________

#headcanon #Dean Winchester #Beau Arlen #Soldier Boy #Russell Shaw #Dean WInchester x reader #Beau Arlen x reader #Soldier Boy x reader #Russell Shaw x reader

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

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malevolence

part I

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: You've had a crush on Dean for longer than you even remember, but Uncle Bobby told you not to play with fire. When Dean returns home from a hunt, you knew something was off... you just didn't expect it to be this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 5,887

A/N: Oh my god. This has been in my drafts forever and I'm so happy I've finally put it out. I'm thinking... three parts? If I get all of the story down as it is in my head, then for sure... should be about three parts. It's set not long after John's death, so Dean is still a baby boy. <3 I found these gifs ages ago and I was like, "oh, I need to do a Demon!Dean fic where he's early seasons Dean." because ugh, the potential. You know the drill. If all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet? They will be. Oh, boy, will they be. I hope y'all like this. All the love.

You didn’t remember when it started. Maybe it had always been there, tucked beneath your ribs like a secret. Something soft and patient, biding its time in the dark. A seed waiting for heat and blood and something wicked to make it bloom.

Dean Winchester had been in your life for as long as you’d had a life worth remembering.

Not family, not really. But close. Tangled up in the same blood-and-oil world that raised you. The golden boy in your uncle’s long, strange shadow. Loud, sharp, sunburnt around the edges—he came and went like a storm, shaking dust off his boots and filling every room he entered with too much heat.

He was six years older, which had once felt like a canyon.

When you were ten and he was sixteen, he may as well have been a movie star. Too cool. Too fast. All swagger and sarcasm and smudged knuckles from a fight he didn’t bother to explain. You remembered the first time he called you sweetheart—just a tossed-off thing, barely looking at you as he handed you an ice pop in the middle of a sweltering July.

“Here ya go, sweetheart.”

And you remembered the way it made you freeze. How the word hung in the air like cigarette smoke, thick and confusing and too warm. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that your name had never sounded like that before.

He’d swung you up onto his shoulders that same day—hands sure, grip steady, like he didn’t mind your weight. Like you belonged there. You’d clutched fistfuls of his hair and shrieked with laughter while Bobby hollered from the porch to “cut that damn foolin’ around before someone breaks a bone.” Dean had just grinned and jogged faster.

You were twelve when he taught you how to throw a punch. Fourteen when he handed you your first switchblade, silver and wicked and gleaming like a promise in your palm.

“Keep it in your back pocket. If a guy gets too close, don’t hesitate.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed you the sharpest thing you'd ever owned and trusted you not to flinch.

He always trusted you not to flinch.

That was the difference.

You knew what adoration felt like long before you understood it. You knew you liked his voice, liked his hands, liked the way he’d lean against the hood of the Impala and call you trouble when Bobby wasn’t looking. You hated the way your stomach twisted when he brought girls around. Hated the way you’d listen for laughter through the thin walls of Bobby’s house and feel sick when you heard it.

You were seventeen when it changed. When it stopped being something soft.

You’d grown into yourself by then. Still not tall, still not loud, but sharper in the eyes. More aware. And Dean—he’d started looking at you like he wasn’t supposed to.

It was in the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed him in the hallway. The way his voice dropped when he asked you how your day had been. The way he smirked when you snapped back at him, low and dark, like he liked it. Like he was daring you to try again.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. But you started wearing tank tops when he was home. You started sitting a little closer on the couch. You let your fingers brush his when you passed him a drink.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Bobby, of course, saw it all.

“That boy’s got too much fire in him. You don’t go pokin’ it just to see if it burns.”

But by then, it already had.

You were twenty-one now. The canyon had closed.

That afternoon, like so many before it, you sat curled in your usual spot on the porch swing, the cushion beneath you faded from years of sun, the book in your lap more of a habit than a distraction. Your bare legs were pulled up under you, one foot tucked beside the other, your back pressed to the peeling white wood of the armrest. The breeze was warm, sticky with late-summer heaviness, and the cicadas sang like they didn’t know how to stop.

Out in the yard, Bobby cursed low under his breath as he wrestled with the rusted insides of a pickup that hadn’t run since the Reagan administration. His ball cap was pushed up on his forehead, sweat darkening the brim, grease streaking his arms all the way to the elbows. There was a glass of sweet tea beside you, sweating rings into the wood, forgotten in the quiet rhythm of turning pages.

The world hadn’t shifted yet. Not that you could tell. Everything was still where it belonged.

You’d been half-asleep in the sun, lulled by the rhythm of cicadas and the creak of the porch swing, when Bobby’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Son of a bitch!”

You blinked, looked up from your book. A moment later—

“Goddamn bastard bolt won’t budge—get in there, ya stubborn piece of shit—”

Yep. Classic Bobby.

You closed your book around one finger to mark your page and leaned forward, peering past the porch railing toward the truck hood and your uncle’s hunched figure.

“You need a hand, Uncle Bobby?” You called, voice lazy with the warmth of the afternoon. “Or want some tea?”

There was a pause. A soft clank of metal against metal. Then, gruff:

“Tea, girl. And ice this time—I ain’t drinkin’ lukewarm leaf water in this heat.”

You huffed a laugh and stood, arms stretching up overhead as your back arched, joints crackling from the hours spent curled on the swing. The hem of your tank top slid up your stomach, bare skin catching the last of the sun as you padded barefoot across the porch.

Your cutoffs were frayed at the bottom, threadbare in the way only your favourite ones could be. Your legs had picked up freckles over the summer. You felt them heat now under the open air as you reached for the screen door.

Inside, the house was cooler, dim and familiar. You moved on autopilot, pulling a glass from the cupboard, grabbing the pitcher from the fridge. The ice clinked softly as you poured. You lifted it, turned—

And froze.

That sound. That rumble. Low. Hungry. Home.

The Impala.

You nearly dropped the glass right there on the kitchen tile.

You turned so fast your bare feet squeaked against the floor. The screen door banged open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch, tea sloshing over the rim, eyes locked on the long black shape pulling into the drive like it owned the world.

She slid to a stop in a slow growl of gravel. The driver’s door creaked open.

And then—there he was.

Dean climbed out like a scene from a movie. One hand on the roof, the other shoving the door closed. His boots hit the dirt and your heart tripped over itself. He looked broader than you remembered. Taller somehow. His hair was longer than it had been last time—curling just slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, and he moved like he hadn’t just been on the road for hours. Like his body didn’t get tired the way other people’s did.

Bobby looked up from under the hood.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, already wiping his hands on a rag. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

Dean just smiled, that lazy half-smirk you knew too well.

And then you called his name.

“Dean!”

His head snapped toward the porch so fast it almost startled you.

And when his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed from the sun, standing under the porch roof with your tank top clinging to your ribs and the glass of sweet tea still trembling faintly in your hand—he grinned.

Not like he used to. Not like the soft smirks he’d given you when you were younger, teasing and warm and safe.

No. This one was sharp. Wolfish. Like he’d been starving and just spotted his first meal in days.

“Well hey there, sweetheart.”

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

The second his voice hit your ears, smooth and warm and laced with something low and dangerous, your body moved before your brain caught up.

The glass of tea hit the porch rail with a clatter, sloshing again, forgotten as your bare feet left the wood and hit the gravel, sharp stones biting into your soles. You winced but didn’t slow, teeth catching your lip, eyes locked on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Girl!” Bobby hollered from the front of the truck, voice sharp as a whip. “You’re out here barefoot on the goddamn gravel again—what’re you, feral?”

You didn’t answer. Just ran faster.

Dean was already grinning by the time you reached him. One brow quirked, his whole face lit with smug delight like he’d known you’d come running. Like he wanted it.

You could see it in the way he stood, relaxed and ready, arms just starting to open. Like he was expecting to catch you.

And God help you, he did.

You threw yourself into him without grace—without shame—legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. His hands caught you under your thighs, rough palms settling against bare skin, fingers pressing. Harder than they needed to.

He smelled like heat. Like leather and road salt and motel soap and something darker curling beneath it. Something you couldn’t name.

Your voice came out soft, pressed close to his ear as you held onto him tighter than you meant to.

“We missed you.”

His hands flexed where they held you—gripping tight. You felt it. The possessiveness in his touch. The way his thumbs slid just slightly against the crease where your thighs met the curve of your ass. The quiet exhale that ghosted down your neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grunted from behind, but even that sounded weaker than usual. More bark than bite.

There was a pause. Then:

“Dean,” he said flatly. “Put my niece down. Don’t think I ain’t seen where your hands are, boy.”

Dean turned his head just slightly, that grin never leaving his face. Still holding you.

“Just catchin’ her, Bobby. Can’t help it if she’s a little…” His gaze dragged back to you. Slow. Heavy. “Squishy.”

Your breath hitched. You felt heat rise all the way up your neck.

Dean’s fingers squeezed again. Barely perceptible. Just enough for you to feel it. For Bobby to notice.

“Dean,” Bobby snapped, and this time there was steel under it.

With infuriating ease, Dean let you down. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs as he lowered you, only releasing when your feet touched dirt and your balance returned.

You took a half-step back, suddenly too aware of the heat between your legs. Of the gravel under your soles. Of the way he looked at you like you were his to pick up again whenever he pleased.

Bobby was already walking past, muttering to himself and wiping his hands again.

“Damn fool boy…”

Dean just chuckled, low and satisfied. His eyes never left you.

“Miss me, sweetheart?”

The house smelled like garlic and onions and whatever Bobby had pulled from the freezer that morning and declared dinner. The table was set with mismatched plates, forks with dull edges, and two sweating bottles of beer you’d pulled from the fridge yourself. One slid in front of your uncle with a thunk, the other nudged across the table toward Dean with just enough force to draw his eyes back to you.

He caught it easily, grinned like he knew the touch of your fingers on the bottle had been deliberate, and then tipped it in a mock toast before popping the cap with the edge of the table. You pretended not to watch the way his throat moved when he took the first sip.

You took your usual seat to Bobby’s left, legs tucked beneath you, sipping your water slow and quiet. The table was warm and familiar. A little too small for three grown bodies. A little too crowded in the heat.

Dean and Bobby talked like no time had passed at all.

“So where’s your brother?” Bobby asked around a mouthful of food, squinting at Dean like he expected bad news.

“Chasin’ some lead out in Idaho,” Dean replied, casual. “He’ll meet me back on the road. Said somethin’ about needing space.”

“From you or the case?”

Dean just smirked. Shrugged. “Probably both.”

You didn’t join in. Just twirled your fork in your noodles, dragging them across the plate like you were thinking hard about something. You weren’t. You were trying not to look at Dean. You were failing.

He looked good. Too good. Tanned and broad and infuriatingly comfortable, leaning back in his chair like it was his own damn kitchen. Like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You caught yourself staring and dropped your eyes back to your food.

Then something brushed your foot. Just a light nudge. The kind that might’ve been an accident. The kind that would’ve been nothing, if you weren’t barefoot and hyper-aware of every single thing about him.

You froze. Fork paused mid-twirl. Eyes still on your plate. The nudge came again—more deliberate this time. A soft push against your arch.

You looked up. Dean was still talking to Bobby. Still sipping his beer, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But his eyes cut to you. And he grinned. Slow. Shit-eating. Wolfish.

Your stomach dropped straight to your knees. You cleared your throat and took a sip of water, suddenly warm all over. Bobby was still muttering about Sam, something about demon omens in Ohio, and you tried to focus. You really did.

Dean’s foot slid along the curve of your ankle. A slow, lazy stroke like he was petting a dog. You flinched. He didn’t.

You jabbed him back without looking, your toes kicking out under the table—more annoyed than anything else. But all it earned you was a harder nudge, right against your calf this time, like a shove disguised as affection.

You looked at him again. He didn’t break eye contact. He arched one brow, lips twitching around the mouth of his beer bottle.

What’re you gonna do about it, sweetheart?

You wanted to kick him. You wanted to crawl into his lap. You wanted to do something reckless. But you just stabbed a piece of meat with your fork and tried not to choke on your own pulse.

Bobby looked up, finally catching the flush on your cheeks.

“You alright there, girl?”

You smiled too quickly. “Just hot.”

Dean chuckled. Low and full of teeth. His foot bumped yours again under the table. You didn’t look at him this time. But you could still feel him.

You barely touched your dinner after that. Every bite tasted like heat. Every sip of water failed to cool you. You could still feel the press of his boot against your ankle long after he’d stopped. Like his touch had sunk straight through your skin.

You were the first one to stand when the plates were empty, scraping your chair back with a little too much force.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” you said quickly, already stacking yours and Bobby's plates, trying to busy your hands so they didn’t shake.

Bobby looked up with a lazy arch of his brow.

“Someone’s in a damn hurry all of a sudden.”

You forced a small laugh, ducking your head. “Just trying to be useful.”

“Mhm.”

You were already halfway to the sink, rinsing plates under warm water, grateful for the hiss of the faucet and the hum of muscle memory. Plate, rinse, stack. Forks, soak, scrub. Your feet shifted over the cool tile, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders started to melt.

Behind you, a chair scraped back.

“I’ll help.”

Dean.

Bobby snorted from the table.

“You? Since when do you ever lift a damn finger after supper?”

“Feelin’ generous,” Dean said, all smooth edges. You could hear the grin in his voice. “Must be the company.”

Bobby huffed and pushed to his feet with a grunt, grabbing the last beer and heading toward the living room.

“Well, bless your heart. I’ll be in my chair, pretendin' not to hear whatever dumb shit you’re about to break in my kitchen.”

And just like that, you were alone.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing the last plate, shoulders a little too stiff, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest. You heard him behind you—soft bootfalls, the clink of glass against glass as he gathered the empty bottles and his dish.

Then—

Heat. He was behind you. Close. Then closer.

The heat of his chest pressed flush to your back, hard muscle and worn cotton, and you froze. Completely. Your breath caught in your throat. The plate in your hand nearly slipped from your fingers.

Dean reached around you, casually, his forearm brushing the side of your breast as he slid his plate into the sink with a quiet clink.

He didn’t move. He lingered, then stepped back a beat too slow.

“Oops.”

Your whole body burned.

You turned your head, wide-eyed, and found him just watching you. That smile on his face wasn’t sheepish. It was smug. Knowing. Unholy.

You tried to say something—tried to form any kind of reply—but your tongue felt thick and your heart was pounding in your throat.

Dean leaned one arm against the counter beside you, his body angled lazily toward yours. He was close enough that you could see the faint pink line of a healing cut along his collarbone. Close enough that his scent wrapped around you again—leather, motel soap, motor oil, and something else. Something you couldn’t name. Something dark.

“You always clean up this fast, sweetheart? Or just when I’m watching?”

Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slow across your face, then down your neck, then back up.

“You've never been shy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out breathless.

“You’re messin' with me.”

Dean’s smile widened, teeth flashing.

“Am I?”

You shook your head—barely. “You don’t… You don’t look at me like that.”

“Don’t I?”

His voice was low. Deliberate.

You turned back to the sink, trying to hide your face, the blush crawling down your throat. Your hands moved automatically, scrubbing at a plate that was already clean.

Dean didn’t leave.

“Been gone a while,” he said, voice softer now. “Did you miss me?”

Your hand paused on the dish. Your voice was almost a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

He leaned in closer again, heat at your back, breath on your neck.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And behind you, he chuckled. Low and dark and pleased.

“Good.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dean was still behind you, heat pressed too close, breath ghosting somewhere near your ear—and for a second, it felt like he might lean in further. Might say something else. Might do something else.

But before anything could shatter, Bobby’s voice cut through the house like a crack of thunder:

“You two done makin’ out in there or can I start the damn show?”

You practically jumped.

Dean chuckled—soft, smug, low in his throat like he was deeply entertained by your reaction—and stepped back just far enough to let the heat leave your skin.

You scrambled into the living room a little too fast, like Bobby’s voice had tugged you from the edge of something you couldn’t name. Your skin was still warm, your breath still not quite steady, but you dropped down onto the couch with a half-hearted exhale, like you could shake it off with the right posture. You curled your legs up beside you, pulled a throw pillow into your lap, and clutched your glass of water like it was going to save you.

“Eastwood or MASH*?” You asked, too quick, too light.

Bobby looked up from the remote, squinting at the ancient television like it had personally offended him.

“Whichever channel works. If I get static again, I’m throwin’ the damn thing out the window.”

You smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The house had settled into its familiar hum—floorboards creaking under the weight of time, cicadas still buzzing low through the open windows, the faint clatter of Dean moving around in the kitchen.

You heard him before you saw him.

He entered the room like a slow-moving shadow—easy, casual, like he belonged there more than the furniture. Your stomach twisted.

He didn’t say a word. Just met your gaze for a moment—sharp, amused—and then reached down, hooked his hands under your ankles, and lifted your legs without asking. You startled slightly, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt so easy for him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he dropped onto the couch beside you, your legs falling across his lap like he’d planned it that way all along. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch, close enough for you to feel the heat of it at your shoulders. The other—casual, lazy—settled over your shin, fingers tracing an idle path along your skin.

You tried not to tense. You tried not to breathe. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

And Bobby noticed. He turned his head slowly, one eye narrowing as it moved from the screen to your legs across Dean’s lap, then up to the hand that hadn’t stopped moving. His jaw clenched. His beer bottle landed on the side table with a quiet clunk.

“Touch her like that again,” he said, voice low and dry, “and I’ll break your fuckin’ hand.”

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even stop. Just kept rubbing slow, maddening circles along your shin with the pad of his thumb. He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Aw, c’mon, Bobby,” he drawled, the smile curling across his lips like smoke. “Ain’t like I’m doin’ anything wrong.”

Bobby didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

“You think I don’t see it?” He asked, and his voice was sharper now, honed to an edge. “The way you been lookin’ at her since you pulled up? I ain’t blind, Dean. And I sure as hell ain’t stupid.”

There was a pause, a hitch you felt more than heard. Dean’s smile wavered for the barest second. Just long enough for you to wonder if Bobby had struck a nerve.

Then it returned, just as cocky, just as easy.

“She’s not a kid anymore,” he said, casual, like that settled something.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were cold. Steady.

“No, she ain't. Which is exactly why I’ll put you in the goddamn ground if you so much as look at her like she ain’t got a choice.”

Something shifted.

You didn’t understand it, not fully. But you felt it. Something sharp beneath the surface. Something not quite right. Like there was more to what Bobby said than what he said.

Dean’s silence stretched long enough to be dangerous. Then he tilted his head, eyes still on Bobby, and smiled.

“She looks like she can make her own choices to me.”

You tried to move your legs. Tried to pull away, just a little. Dean’s hand pressed down. Not painfully. Just firmly. Deliberately. Bobby was still watching. And so was Dean.

“You touch her like that again,” Bobby said, lower this time, the threat coiled beneath each syllable, “and I’ll remind you who the hell you’re talkin’ to.”

Dean didn’t answer.

The television filled the silence, tinny dialogue from a rerun you couldn’t focus on. And under the hum of it all, Dean’s thumb resumed its lazy stroke against your skin, like nothing had happened at all.

The house was silent, save for the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet.

The kind of silence that came only after the heat of the day had broken—after the static between bodies had faded into cool sheets and shallow sleep. Bobby had gone to bed not long before you had, muttering something about his bad knee and early mornings, casting one last look between you and Dean like he was waiting for something to ignite.

But nothing had.

Not then.

Now, it was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. You didn’t check the clock—just blinked awake with your throat dry and your skin too warm beneath the sheets. The house had cooled but your body hadn’t. Something restless sat in your chest like a live wire humming under your ribs.

The floor was cold beneath your feet, quiet in the way old houses only were when everyone else had gone to bed and the world had softened into stillness.

The air felt different after midnight—cooler, heavier somehow. The way it settled in your lungs felt like a warning, though you couldn’t say why. You moved without thinking, sleepy and restless, fingers trailing along the hallway walls as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by nothing more than the dryness in your throat and the weight of something unnamed sitting beneath your skin.

Bobby’s old shirt hung off one shoulder, worn soft with age, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked. No panties. No bra. Just that and bare skin and the ghost of sleep still clinging to the corners of your vision.

The fridge opened with a low hum. You filled your glass slowly, letting the cool water slide over the ice and kiss the rim, the glow of the open door painting your skin in pale blue light. You lifted the glass to your lips and drank.

And that’s when you heard it.

The creak.

Not the house settling. Not the wind. Not the sound of an old man in the hallway. Boots. Slow, deliberate.

You turned just as the light from the fridge caught the edge of his silhouette, cutting him out from the dark like something carved from smoke and heat and half-formed sin.

Dean.

Leaning in the doorway like he hadn’t been asleep at all. Like he was waiting. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. And when he did? Something in his expression made your stomach twist—not with fear, not yet, but something so thick and dark and electric it almost knocked the air out of you.

That grin.

It was the same one he’d worn when you were sixteen and he caught you staring at his mouth. The same one he used when he fixed cars with the sleeves of his flannel rolled high and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Familiar. Easy. Pure Dean.

But something about it wasn’t right anymore. It was too still. Too slow. Too hungry.

“Well,” he said, and his voice was rough in that way it always got when it was late and he hadn’t talked in hours. “Aren’t you a sight.”

You swallowed hard. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes dropped down your body. Then rose again. Like he had every right.

You didn’t move. Didn’t cover yourself. You should have.

“You always walk around like that?” He asked, stepping into the room. “Wearing nothin’ but some old shirt and a smile?”

You didn’t answer. The question didn’t feel like a question.

Dean smiled again, slower this time, head cocked to the side as he watched you over the rim of the glass in your hand.

“Bobby know his niece’s struttin’ around like a damn centrefold at two in the morning?”

You flushed hot. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, stepping closer. “Yeah. I can see that.”

He was close now. Close enough to smell—leather and heat and that undertone you still couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. Something sour-sweet and unplaceable. It made your knees feel unsteady.

His hand lifted—not fast, just steady—and pushed the fridge door shut behind you. The kitchen plunged into shadows again, save for the faint light of the oven clock. He was still grinning.

“Didn’t think you’d grown up this much.”

You laughed, shaky and quiet, trying to ease the weight of his stare. “Been a year.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s showin’.”

Your breath caught.

He took another step. Close enough now that the fabric of his shirt brushed your arm. He tilted his head down, voice dropping just slightly.

“You used to look at me funny,” he said. “Back when you were younger. Always staring. Thought I was imaginin’ it.”

You blinked, pulse pounding. “You weren’t.”

“No,” he murmured, and his eyes flicked to your mouth. “Guess I wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath on your skin. The heat of him. His fingers brushed the side of your thigh—light, just once, and then gone. It burned like fire anyway.

“You’ve really come into yourself, sweetheart.”

He said it like a confession. Like a revelation. Like it was all finally clicking into place.

And you couldn’t breathe.

His voice went softer. Meaner.

“You want me to look at you like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to. Because he already knew.

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was his hand on your hip or the tilt of your chin or the way the space between your bodies seemed to vanish all at once—like the air itself had given up pretending there was still a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

All you knew was that you were suddenly there. Back pressed to the counter. Dean’s body crowding yours like gravity had finally remembered what it owed you.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not hesitantly. Not like a maybe. No, Dean Winchester kissed you like he was claiming you.

His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressed against your cheek, fingers curling behind your neck as he pulled you in and kissed you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like he’d been waiting too. Starving for it. For you.

You gasped into it, lips parting without thought, and he groaned—"fuckin’ finally"—and kissed you deeper, tongue slipping past your lips like he knew exactly how to take what he wanted. And he did.

You were drowning in him. Pressed between cool counter and burning heat, chest heaving, hands fisting into the hem of his t-shirt just to keep from sliding down the cabinets. Your knees had gone weak. Your body was molten.

When he pulled back, it was barely an inch. His breath hit your lips. His grin carved into you like a knife.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick and low and already wrecked. “I always knew you’d taste this fucking sweet.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand was already moving. Down your side. Over your hip. Between your thighs.

You gasped.

He grinned harder.

“No panties,” he murmured, dragging the hem of the shirt up your thigh with his knuckles. “You really were asking for it, huh?”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to deny, to confess every filthy thought you’d ever had about him—but then two of his fingers slid between your legs and found you already wet, and the words died on your tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and hungry, lashes low. “You’re soaked for me. All this time, and you’ve been walking around just beggin’ for me to get my hands on you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He slipped one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate, watching your face as your jaw dropped open around a gasp. Then another, stretching you perfectly. You choked on a sound, back arching, thighs trembling.

“Shhh,” he crooned, lips at your temple now, the hand at your jaw moving to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, sweetheart. Bobby hears you moaning like a whore in his kitchen, he’s gonna come down here and shoot me.”

His fingers curled.

Your eyes rolled back.

You moaned—muffled, desperate—against his palm as he started to fuck you with those fingers like he meant it. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.

And maybe he had.

His hips were pressed against yours, his breath against your cheek, his mouth dragging along your jaw as he fucked you slow and filthy and completely possessed.

“You ever think about me, baby?” He whispered. “Late at night, all alone in your bed? Bet you used these pretty fingers trying to imagine mine, didn’t you?”

You whimpered under his hand, your body jerking with every pump of his fingers, slick and obscene.

“Bet you used to fuck that little pillow, huh? Crying into it thinkin’ about me pinning you down, stretching you open…”

You were going to come.

It was embarrassing how fast it was happening—how quick he’d found every nerve, every want, every buried need you’d never let yourself speak out loud. But now it was all on the surface, raw and exposed, dripping down his wrist.

He growled in your ear, soft and dark and lethal:

“Come for me, sweetheart. C’mon. Be a good girl and come all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You did.

You shattered—silently, somehow—body writhing against his hand, nails digging into his shoulders, whole frame trembling with the force of it. His fingers didn’t stop, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave from your body until you were limp in his grip, gasping into his palm.

He finally pulled his hand from your mouth, cupping your jaw again, kissing you slow and deep, like the filth he’d just whispered into your skin meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

He pulled his hand away, brought it up to his lips, and licked his fingers. Then smiled.

“Told you,” he said. “Sweet as goddamn honey.”

Then his lips were back on your neck.

You were still trembling, thighs slick and trembling where he held you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other back between your legs, slick with everything he’d pulled from you. You were floating, dizzy, pressed between the cool of the counter and the heat of his body, his mouth trailing kisses up your throat like he was about to say something—

And then the kitchen door slammed open. You barely had time to register the heavy feet pounding across the floor before—

Splash.

Dean staggered back with a sharp, visceral hiss, smoke curling from his shoulder where the water hit, his skin bubbling in a flash of red.

You gasped, shoved back into the counter, heart leaping into your throat.

“What the fuck—!”

Dean growled—growled—low and guttural, his spine arching with the burn, lips curling back to reveal teeth that didn’t quite look like his own.

And Bobby was standing there. In boxers and a flannel and socks. Holding an empty mason jar in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Breathing hard. Rage in every line of his face.

“Get. The fuck. Outta my house,” Bobby said, each word like a shotgun blast. “Now.”

Dean turned his head slowly. Eyes flashing black for a moment before shifting back to the green you'd always known.

“Well, shit,” he rasped, voice raw. “Knew you were smart, old man. Didn’t think you’d catch on so fast.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby snarled, stepping forward, “I’ve seen a lot of demons pretend to be worse things. You just happen to be wearin’ a face I liked.”

Dean smiled—teeth too sharp, too wide.

“I’ll be seeing her again.”

Bobby raised the shotgun in his hands.

“Not if I have anythin' to say about it.”

Dean looked at you once. Only once. That same smirk, but now you saw it—really saw it—for what it was. Too smooth. Too slow. Something evil wearing something you used to love. And then he vanished. Not in smoke, not in fire. Just… gone. The air thinned out. The heat left the room. And the absence of him was a screaming thing.

You were still shaking. Still pressed to the counter, shirt rumpled, legs slick, skin flushed. The high hadn’t even left your blood yet. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Bobby lowered the shotgun, then turned to you.

“It ain’t safe anymore.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He crossed to you slowly. Gently. Like approaching a spooked animal.

“That thing,” he said, voice quieter now. “That thing wearin’ Dean’s face? That’s a demon. And he’s been here all day.”

You stared at him. Everything in you recoiled. Denied. And yet—you knew.

Bobby exhaled hard. His hand came up to your arm, grounding you. Steady.

“I’m sendin’ you somewhere safe.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Somewhere he don’t know. Somewhere he can’t get to you. You’re leavin’ in the mornin’. No arguments.”

You were still in Bobby’s shirt. Still barefoot. Still breathless. And now the world had cracked open beneath you. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3

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spitefulsatanfics · 8 days ago

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✦ 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓸𝔂 ✦

❝You know, I’ve been thinking… I’d die for her. I’d kill for her. And not just because I love her — because she’s my family.❞

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural (TV Series) Tones: soulmate-level sweetness, soft domesticity, lovesick Dean, injury angst, hunter x hunter banter, established relationship, fluffy romance, protectiveness, emotional vulnerability, one-bed trope vibes

Rating: 18+ (mild injury, swearing, heavy emotional intensity, physical intimacy — minors do not interact)

✎ 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 ♡ written and published May 29, 2025™ Based on: Supernatural, Seasons 1–2 (no specific episode — canon-adjacent storyline) (Note: Show is rated 17+)

Synopsis: Y/N gets the honor of driving Dean’s most sacred possession: the Impala. But one drunk driver, one wrecked car, and one shaky phone call later, she realizes she was never just his passenger. She is the thing he treasures most.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The call came at 9:27 PM.

Dean’s phone rang from inside his jacket pocket where it hung on the back of a rickety motel chair. He was halfway through cleaning his favorite sawed-off when the shrill buzz set his pulse on edge. There weren’t many people who had that number. Sam was in the next room, grabbing takeout. Bobby always called the landline. That left one person.

You.

And sure enough— Y/N was glowing across the screen in stark white letters.

He answered it in less than a second.

“Sweetheart?” he said immediately, already on alert. There was a siren wailing faintly in the background—far too close for his liking.

“Hey, I—uh…” your voice came through ragged, breathless, like you’d just been running or crying or both. “I need you to not freak out.”

Dean’s heart plummeted straight to the motel carpet. He was already out of his seat, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“Where are you?”

“I’m okay,” you rushed out, panicked and shaking. “I mean—I think I’m okay. Just scraped up. But Baby—Dean, I’m so sorry. The car—”

The line went blurry with static for a second, but he’d already heard everything he needed to.

A crash. An apology. The word “Baby.”

Dean didn’t even need directions. He’d find you—if he had to rip up every road sign in Kansas to do it.

He was gone before Sam even made it back with dinner.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The car was barely recognizable.

She lay crooked at the shoulder of the road, one headlight blinking like a dying firefly. The passenger door was warped in on itself, hood twisted open like a jawbone snapped mid-scream. And then there was you—sitting on the bumper of the ambulance, legs swinging like a schoolgirl trying to pretend she wasn’t bleeding through her jeans.

Dean didn’t speak. He just jogged across the gravel, dropped to his knees in front of you, and cupped your face in his calloused hands like you were spun from smoke and starlight.

You tried to joke. “Didn’t even dent the paint, right?”

His hands trembled. His jaw clenched. His lips parted like he wanted to say something that wasn’t a prayer.

But all he managed was, “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head. “No. I mean, not really. Just bruised, maybe a cracked rib. EMTs checked me out. Said I was lucky.”

Lucky.

God. He’d never hated a word more. Because you weren’t lucky. You were a damn miracle. Breathing, warm, alive in front of him. That car could be rebuilt. But you?

You weren’t replaceable.

“I thought you’d be mad,” you admitted softly. The sentence cracked at the end, a jagged edge slicing through all your bravery. “About the Impala. I know how much she means to you.”

Dean’s thumb brushed over your cheek, sweeping away a streak of blood you hadn’t noticed. His eyes—green like a stormy coast, wild and wide—locked on yours with so much force it almost hurt to look back.

“Y/N,” he said, voice raw, “I love that car. You know I do. But if it was you or her…”

His throat caught. He looked down, like the truth was too big to stare in the face.

“She’s just steel,” he whispered. “You’re everything else.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

It was quiet in the motel room that night. You sat on the edge of the bed in one of Dean’s old t-shirts, the smell of leather and motor oil cocooning you like armor. Your ribs ached, your body throbbed in patches of dull heat and yellowed bruises. But you’d never felt safer.

Dean returned from the bathroom with a warm cloth, kneeling beside the bed like he couldn’t stand being even an inch higher than you right now. His fingers moved with reverence—cleaning your scrapes, pressing bandages, whispering apologies into the dips of your skin like your body was holy.

“Y’know,” he said, half-smiling, “I only let you drive her ‘cause I trust you more than anyone else.”

You gave a wobbly smirk. “Guess I broke that trust, huh?”

His hand froze on your thigh. His eyes darkened—not angry, but gutted.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

You blinked. “Dean…”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was gravel and gravity all at once.

“I could’ve lost you,” he murmured. “And you’re sitting here worried about my car.”

You swallowed. The truth hit you like a tidal wave.

“You really mean that?”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you clearly. His hand slipped to the back of your neck.

“Y/N,” he said, slow and certain, “you’re not just some girl I date. You’re not a partner in the field. You’re…” He laughed under his breath, almost bitter. “You’re the thing I pray to when I’m bleeding out. You’re what I see when I close my eyes. You are my home.”

You didn’t say anything. You just kissed him—long, slow, desperate.

It tasted like grief and gasoline and relief all tangled into one. It tasted like everything he thought he lost, now found again.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Later, with the light off and the storm moving in through the windows, Dean wrapped himself around you like a shield. His hand was splayed over your ribs, gently, as if he could take the pain into himself. His breath was warm against your hair.

“I’ll fix her,” he murmured. “She’ll run again.”

You nodded sleepily. “And me?”

He chuckled softly, kissed the nape of your neck.

“You don’t need fixing,” he said. “You’re my pride and joy.”

You turned over to face him, voice low and teasing. “Isn’t that your car’s title?”

His smile was so soft, it felt like a sunrise.

“Used to be.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn imagines #supernatural imagines #supernatural x reader #supernatural family #spnfandom #spn #spn imagine #sam and dean #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader

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wendichester · 5 months ago

Text

✧₊‧˚⁀➷ best friends,

summary. dean's tired of being your best friend.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 697.

The bar was dimly lit, a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. You and Dean had claimed a corner booth, the same way you always did after a hunt—him nursing a whiskey, you with your usual. It was supposed to be a casual, no-drama kind of night.

Supposed to be.

Instead, you were leaning just a little too close to some guy by the dartboard. Dean’s whiskey sat untouched as he watched you laugh at whatever dumb joke the guy had just told, your smile brighter than the neon beer sign over your head.

He tried to ignore the twist in his stomach, the heat that crept up the back of his neck. It wasn’t like this was new. You were gorgeous, funny, smart—people gravitated to you. And you weren’t his. Not really. Just his best friend.

But damn if it didn’t sting every time he saw someone else try to steal your attention.

Dean scowled into his drink, muttering under his breath. "What’s so funny, anyway?"

Sam, seated across the table, raised an eyebrow. "You could just go talk to her instead of staring daggers at the guy."

Dean shot his brother a look. "I’m not staring."

"You’ve been staring for ten minutes, man." Sam smirked knowingly. "Jealousy’s not a good look on you."

"I’m not jealous," Dean snapped, too quickly, too defensively.

Sam just hummed, leaning back in his seat, clearly unconvinced.

Dean gritted his teeth, his gaze flicking back to you. The guy leaned in closer, his hand brushing your arm, and Dean’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"That’s it," he muttered, pushing himself out of the booth.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his amusement. "Good luck."

Dean ignored him, his boots thudding against the sticky bar floor as he made his way over to you.

"Hey," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut.

You turned, your eyes lighting up when you saw him. "Dean! What’s up?"

He ignored the guy next to you, who was already shrinking back under Dean’s glare. "We’re leaving."

You blinked, surprised. "What? Why?"

"Because I said so," he bit out, his tone gruff.

Your brows furrowed, but you didn’t argue, sensing something in his demeanor that told you not to push. You said a quick goodbye to the guy, who looked relieved to escape, and followed Dean out of the bar.

The walk to the Impala was tense, the night air cool against your skin. Dean’s pace was brisk, and you had to jog to keep up.

"Okay, what’s your problem?" you demanded once you reached the car.

He spun around, his green eyes blazing. "My problem? Really? You’re in there, cozying up to some guy you don’t even know, and I’m the one with the problem?"

You gaped at him. "He was just being nice!"

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed. "He was hitting on you, and you were eating it up."

"So what if he was?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "It’s not like I’m dating anyone."

Dean froze, his anger momentarily replaced by something else—something raw and vulnerable.

"Maybe you should be," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. "Dean…"

He looked away, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. Let’s just go."

But you didn’t move, stepping closer instead. "No, I’m not forgetting it. What are you trying to say?"

He met your gaze then, his expression unguarded in a way that made your chest tighten. "I’m saying I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t kill me to see you with someone else. I’m saying I want it to be me."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing his.

"It’s always been you, jackass" you said softly.

The tension between you broke like a dam, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours—fierce, possessive, like he’d been holding back for far too long.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless.

"So," you said, a teasing smile creeping onto your lips, "still jealous?"

Dean chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. "Damn right I am."

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555

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

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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 4 days ago

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AMERICAN TEENAGER- D. WINCHESTER

day one of the june bug masterlist

pairing: older bf! dean winchester x fem! reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: you and dean spend your few "days off" in the impala, exploring and hitting the open road-finding yourselves in the backseat on occasion to make love to eachother- in true summer fashion.

warnings: fingering, dry humping, heavy praise kink, pet names, making out, very light face/ cheek smacking, little bits of spanking, some bondage? (dean holds readers wrists together above her head) teasing, swearing, and lots of fluff :)

"grew up under yellow light on the street, putting too much faith in the make-believe and another high school football team”- american teenager, ethel cain

It had just begun, and yet you feared it was almost over.

That's how it always felt with Dean though, with these little moments of calm.

The summer months seemed short, but you begged to stretch them out. With Dean though, it was easy to get lost in the moment.

You felt his soft green eyes looking over at you, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the flesh of your thigh softly. A gentle squeeze broke you from your trance, hair whipping out the window as you turned to flash him a smile.

“Eyes on the road mister!” you laughed as the engine of his Impala revved, the speedometer flying as you two sped down empty back roads- nothing but empty fields and abandoned churches ahead of you.

You drank your slushie, the one you had begged him to get you at the last dingy gas station- because who was he to say no to you, especially in those little jean shorts?

It stained your tongue red, making your kisses extra sweet as you littered them across his jaw and neck as he drove.

Taking a breath of fresh, country air- you tried not to think of this ending.

This picturesque moment was permanent in your mind- your painted toenails on the dashboard, arm whipping in the wind as it rested out the window- vocal cords nearly fried from screaming along to some cheesy rock song with your boyfriend.

“How am I supposed to keep my eyes on the road when you look that damn good?” he teased, flashing you a flirty little smile, making you giggle.

You shuffled in your seat, the leather sticking slightly to your thighs as you sprawled across the gear shift consul, tracing a finger across Dean's jawline, nipping at the clean shaven skin- making him shudder.

“You keep doin that, we're gonna crash god dammit you.” he groaned, letting you wrap your hands around his arm, resting your head on the muscle.

“You wouldn't.” you smirked, playfully wrapping your lips around your straw, taking another big gulp of the slushed ice- the chill shooting straight up to your brain, making it fuzzy. Or maybe that was Dean, and the way he kept looking over at you, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip- eyeing you up and down.

“You’re right I wouldn't. But you’re makin it harder n harder to focus sweet thing. Sit down n be good.” he teased as you snuggled up, getting comfy on your new pillow as you let the dust kick up behind the wheels.

It wasn't long before the reds, whites and blues of the American flag captured your attention at a local highschool- empty for the summer. There was only Dean's Impala in this rundown parking lot, facing the empty football field.

You stretched, uncurling yourself from the passenger side as Dean got out, slamming the door behind him. “Just gotta grab some water sweetheart. I’ll be one second.” he said, nodding over to the near empty convenience store that was just beside the school.

“Can you get me a soda?” you asked as he walked over to you, pinning you up against the car door and gave you a soft, needy kiss.

“Course baby. Jus stay pretty n right there, kay?” You nodded, watching him jog over, your eyes slithering over to the empty field.

The old wooden bleachers were slightly faded, some cracks starting to form at the ends. It looked so pretty as the sun started to set, tinting it a gentle pink. Your hands went up to start to play with your hair, twirling the ends around a manicured finger as Dean quickly started to walk over, two drinks in hand. It was so nice out here, you almost wanted to stay.

By the time Dean had returned, setting the drinks on the hood of the car, your mind was made up. He barely had time to react before you bolted, hopping over the fence and sprinting onto the empty field.

“Hey!” You heard Dean call behind you, sending you into a fit of giggles as he sprinted after you, long legs watching strides with yours.

You whipped your head around, hair blown across your face as he caught up with you, arms wrapping around your middle. You shrieked as he brought you down to the grass, rolling over so you were pinned under him.

“I thought I told you to stay there?” he teased, squeezing your wrists gently above your head. You smiled confidently. “Well I stayed pretty.”

“That you did. Though that's not very difficult for you, is it? You just can't sit still.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Can too.”

He scoffed, eyes widening in surprise. “Can too? Do you see the predicament we’re in right now? We’re sprawled out in some football field like we’re teenagers.” He rolled off you, so he lay beside you, hand in yours.

The two of you gazed up at the pink and orange clouds that rolled past, and you couldn't help but smile at nothing, like some love sick idiot. He did make you feel like you were a teenager again, with some deep rooted crush on the cool kid.

“That's a good thing, silly. Having this young love with you, it makes me feel… whole.” you said, turning your head so you could look at him- take him in fully, imprinting a sketch of him in your mind.

He was so beautiful it hurt. Like Lucifer, before he had fallen. He mirrored your expression, eyes full of love- smile beaming as bright as the stars and the spangles that flapped in the wind.

“You make me feel whole.” he replied, squeezing your hand in reassurance. “You are my home sweetheart. Wherever you go, I go. On the other side of the country, or chasing you into football fields.”

ﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟ

It was dark by the time the two of you made it out of the little town you had stopped in, too preoccupied with making out to realize the sun had barely had any light left to give the two of you.

The old street lights flickered on, as you two sped past the old store, firewood tarps fluttering in the breeze. It wasn't long before you had become too needy, too touchy for him to not do anything about it.

He couldn't keep his attention on the road any longer with the way you kept biting your lip, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, letting his hand wander across your thigh, up towards where you needed him most.

A little side clearing had been your save and grace, and without a warning he spun into the opening. The car was put into park, the key pulled from the ignition before you could process what was happening- but your body knew.

“Baby…” he growled as you reached your hand over, squeezing his thigh softly.

A glint in your eye. He knew that look. He knew what came after it.

“You’ve let your hands wander quite a bit tonight, don't you think?” he asked, a chuckle leaving his lipsas you battered your eyelashes, all doe eyed and innocent appearing.

“I don't know what youre talking about Dean.”

His eyebrows raised, clearly amused at your games. You wouldn't have the upper hand for long. You both knew that.

“Hmm. I’m sure you don't sweetheart. Don't you think its my turn now?”

You tilted your head, in confusion. “Your turn to what Dean?”

He smirked. Leaned in a little closer, until his breath warmed your chilled skin, teeth nearly nipping at your shoulder as he spoke. Sinking into you with his dog teeth.

“My turn to touch.”

You swallowed. “Touch how?”

You knew how. Fuck, the two of you were teasing eachother like horny teenagers who snuck off in the middle of the night to fuck- but had to fill that sexual tension on the drive over with something to pretend the deed was innocent.

But the tension was too good to let go of. You wanted to hold on, just a little longer.

“Why don't you crawl that pretty lil ass of yours to the back and I can show you?” he murmured, planting a kiss to your shoulder, eyes flickering up to meet yours- following the rise and fall of your quickend breath.

“You started this sweetheart. You’re gettin exactly what you wanted, so don't go actin all miss innocent like you weren't begging for this. I ain't dumb.”

You scurried to unbuckle yourself, wiggling ontop of the console,- feeling a smack to your ass. You squealed, tumbling back until you lay sprawled in the back, thighs rubbing with anticipation as you watched Dean get out and open the back door.

In no more than a second he pounced on you. Pinning your arms above your head, letting you try and squirm, bucking your hips up into him.

“Baby…” he tsked, clucking his tongue as if he were scolding a child, gripping your wrists tighter as you still squirmed. “Enough of that. Let me have my fun.” he cooed, smacking your cheek softly before squeezing your cheeks together as he held your jaw firm, making you look at him with wide eyes.

“Want you now.” you pouted. He sighed.

“Now sweetheart, y’know I can't let you yet, right? You were teasin me, so now its only fair I do the same.”

You sighed, putting up a little bit more of a fight before he gave you another gentle smack, making your brain turn all foggy. You went limp as his fingers traced little circles around your harded nipples that poked at him through the fabric of your flimsy tank top.

“But I need you.” you whined, trying to give your best puppy dog eyes, letting your forehead crinkle and your lip quiver. Sometimes if you looked sad enough, he felt bad and gave in. But it seemed like tonight, you’d be talking to a brick wall.

You had been too hansy with him, too bold when you teased. And now, you were getting the same treatment.

“Now you know how this works honey. Gonna let me touch you wherever I want, yeah? N’ your gonna be my good lil girl and take it.”

You nodded, letting out a squeak as he pinched your nipple, tugging on it.

“Words sweetheart. Or I’m gonna be a lot slower.”

“Yes Dean.” He nodded, satisfied with your answer, letting your wrists slip from his tight grasp- wanting both hands to explore each and every one of your curves.

Knowing you wouldnt squirm if you knew what was good for you. You were good that way.

His other hand came down to cup your other breast as he wrapped his lips around the other through the fabric, leaving a massive wet patch in his wake.

“S’all messy Deannnn..” you whined, bucking your hips again as he stared up at you with a hunger in his eyes, using his free hand to grab hold of your hip and pin it to the leather seat. Fingers digging into your skin so hard it was sure enough to leave a mark in its wake.

“My dirty girl likes messy. And she likes to get handsy, doesn't she?” You shook your head as he sucked again, making you moan and whine.

“Doesn't she sweetheart?”

“Yes Dean, I like when you’re messy…” you confessed, making him smirk.

“Gotta use your words for me honey, you gotta remember you're not the one in the drivers seat anymore.”

“Well I was never in the drivers seat-” your smartass words were cut off by a another pinch to your nipple- hard.

“Arms up girl. No more being smart with me.”

You quietly obeyed, lifting your arms and let him tug off your shirt. He eyed your jean shorts expectantly, his tone stern.

“Hips up.”

You watched with lustful eyes as he shimmed them off your legs, tossing them somewhere in the front with your shirt. You were bare before him- and yet, he remained fully clothed.

Was this how he felt as you pawed at him?

“See, that wasnt so hard now was it? You can listen baby, I know you’re a good girl. You just tease more than you should when I'm driving.” he cooed softly, something like a sympathetic frown etched on his face as he stroked the back of his hand across your cheek, letting it trail down to your bare breasts.

“M’sorry…”

“I know, I know. Gonna let me touch you to make me feel better?” he asked, and you nodded quickly. He smiled.

“Such a sweet girl…”

His hands traced their way down your curves, resting on your hips as he squeezed them gently. Then lower. Then lower. You squeezed your thighs together in anticipation, certain that you were already staining the seat beneath you with your juices.

“M’gonna touch you everywhere baby. Everywhere.” he promised, making you whimper as he kissed you deeply, tugging on your lower lip teasingly, kissing you until your lipgloss was smeared and your lips were swollen.

You let out a gasp as his hand slid between your thighs, parting them as he cupped you. Bare. Laid out, just for him.

“Everywhere..” you murmured as he smirked, the moonlight illuminating his green eyes- his blown out pupils.

He was hypotized by you. The way you responded to every touch, every flick of his finger, every lick of his tongue as he lapped at the bite marks that he left in your neck.

It was bliss, having you unravel for him, so easily. The two of you were nothing but free spirits in this world, on the run from problems that struggled to catch up, like a dog after the speeding wheels out the driveway.

Your eyes widened into little saucers, mouth parted in a gasp as he slipped two fingers into you, curling them ever so slightly. You reached for him, a hand gripping his bicep firmly, the other tugging strands of hair tight enough to hurt.

But instead of wincing- he moaned. “Fuck sweetheart d’that again. I wanna make you do that again.” he panted, hitting that sweet spot inside your walls that had you seeing stars- not from the sky above but with your eyes pinched closed.

“D-dean I need… I need more-” you begged- no, practically cried as he quickened his pace, thumb coming up to rub sweet little circles on your clit, as if he wasn't assaulting your pussy.

“I know sweetheart, I know. I’ll give her what she needs in a minute. Just let me have my turn.” he cooed gently, planting a kiss to the curve of your breast, letting it trail upwards towards your collarbones.

“Such a pretty pussy… you’re doin so good f’me sweetheart. Jus like that. Jus a little longer.” he promised.

And god if only you could believe him. Because knowing him- he needed the upper hand. And that meant your teasing had to be miniscule compared to his.

You’d be in for a long ride, and yet the Impala remained at a stand still in the cool, gentle whispers of the summer night.

ﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟ

june bug has started and i hope you all enjoyed the first installment! i love you all, happy reading and don't forget that you are wonderful and loved! -c<3

#dean winchester fluff #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester spn #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles

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sturnsdarling · 8 months ago

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teenage dirtbags, introduction

Skater!Matt needs help with his essay, and Overachiever!reader is the smartest girl on campus

vibe check: enemies(?) to lovers au, childhood acquaintances, no warnings this is just a blurb to set up the vibes.

1k words

A/N: This is just the intro to what I plan on being at least a five part series. I don't ship blair and dan but lowkey this is them (i've fallen down an edit rabbit hole and now i kinda ship them lol)

part one, part two , part three, part four

love and cigs, merc

You and Matt had never really liked each other, you were completely different people, and despite going through every grade together, and somehow ending up at the same college, you definitely wouldn't classify yourself as friends, or even acquaintances. Honestly, you couldn't stand him, with his boyish charm, eye watering smile and breezy attitude, he was insufferable.

Matt was interesting, to say the least. You never saw him without his head phones in and feet planted firmly on his skateboard. His wardrobe seemed to consist solely of dirty band tees, cargos that didn't fit him and beat up sneakers. He was the furthest thing from a scholar, his idea of an extra curricular activity being how many screws he could loosen in the Deans office before the man had a brain haemorrhage over his chair or desk falling apart every other day. Every grade he got was just above average, 'consistently uninspiring', as he called it, and despite the fact that he was actually quite smart, he never wanted to be anything other than exactly that, average.

You on the other hand, we're almost the exact opposite. Your grades were the highest in the entire college, the best they'd seen in years, actually. You ran multiple clubs, were the president of not one, but two societies; philosophy and classic literature; and tutored everyone from under to postgrads. You were clean cut and classic, pleated skirts with knee high socks and a collared shirt, tucked under a vintage sweater was your personal uniform; you looked as smart as you were. You were every schools dream, painfully smart and ridiculously driven, everyones favourite over achiever. From the bows in your hair, to the Plato or Dostoyevski tucked in your arms, all the way down to your vintage platform loafers, you were extraordinary.

The day it all started,

Your books were tucked neatly in size order against your chest, hair tucked behind your ears and knee socks tight against the bottom of your thighs as you headed to your second lecture of the day. The halls of the literature building were as busy as you'd expect it to be on a Wednesday, filled with people all going about their days and trying to sound as smart as possible in front of their new pretentious friends.

The sound of skateboard wheels against the brown linoleum echoed behind you, followed by the huffs and puffs of said pretentious people.

Matt rode through the halls, swerving through the students with ease as he tried to catch up with you, eyes trained on the way your hips moved in your pleated skirt. He called your name, and the sound of his voice made your eyes roll to the back of your head, so you kept walking.

Matt picked up his speed, pushing off with his leg to reach you. he called your name again, this time as he pulled up next to you, kicking his board up and holding it in his hand, jogging slightly to walk shoulder to shoulder with you.

"you walk way too fast" Matt said, only slightly breathless.

"people tend to do that when they have somewhere to be" you said, attitude thick in your voice as you kept your eyes trained on your destination.

Matt was looking at you, grinning at your consistency in hating him.

"where ya headed?" He said, stepping in front of you with a light jog, walking backwards and finally gaining your eye contact.

You huffed, a faux smile forming on your face in response to his cheesy grin.

"what do you want, Matt" you said, continuing your pace and slightly impressed at Matts ability to walk backwards without bumping into anyone.

"how do you know I want something?" Matt shrugged, squinting his eyes at you in bashful accusation.

"because we haven't had a conversation in... three years? and you look like you want something" You stopped walking, tilting your head to the side, "so what is it?" you looked him up and down quickly.

Matt pressed his tongue to his teeth with a smile, stopping in front of you, "I need your head"

Your face screwed up instantly, "I beg your pardon?" you scoffed.

Matt chuckled, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with his palm, "not like that, I mean, I need your brain"

You cocked your eyes to the side, waiting for him to say words that actually made sense, "I'm gonna need a bit more clarity than that, Matt"

"I need your help with an essay" Matt said, biting his plump lip slightly with pleading eyes.

"no" you shook your head with a scoff, stepping out from his figure blocking your path and continuing your stride down the hall.

"come on, y/l/n, please?" He jogged after you, "I'm desperate", gently pressing his shoulder against yours.

"why would I ever help you?" you scoffed, looking straight ahead and ignoring the sentiment of him still calling you by your last name after all these years.

"cause I'm desperate" Matt was looking at your profile, repeating his earlier claim, "and we're friends"

you scoffed again, "we are not friends, Matt" you said, rolling your eyes.

Matt searched his brain for an example of your friendship but came up blank, "okay, fine, we're not friends" he grinned, "but we've known each other forever and.... it's nice to help people" it was the only thing he could think of.

You ignored him, shaking your head with an uncontrollable smile attempting to form on your face at his persistence. Matt continued to walk with you, begging, pleading and saying your last name over and over again like an irritating child, telling you that you're the smartest person he knows, and that he'll fail without your help.

"whats the essay on" you rolled your eyes, giving in and looking to him.

"existentialism" Matt said, his ears perking up at your interest.

You huffed, stopping once more. People continued to rush past you and Matt as you stood face to face in the centre of the hall.

"if I help you, you'll leave me alone?" You questioned.

"absolutely" Matt nodded

you rolled your tongue over your teeth, deadpanning at Matt.

"fine" you said, bluntly.

"yes!" Matt cheesed, "you are an angel sent from heaven, thank you"

"come to my dorm tonight, seven o'clock and we'll get started" blatantly ignoring his compliment.

"I'll be there" Matt said, placing his board on the floor.

"it's the franklin building, room three, if you cant find it then i'l-" The sound of Matts wheels rolling away cut you off.

"i'll just follow the smell of vanilla and academic overachievement, I'll find you" Matt said from over his shoulder, skating away from you down the hall.

You rolled your eyes as you watched him weave in and out of students, dropping out of sight as he rode his board down the flight of stairs to the exit.

taglist: @sturniozalt@mattslolita@shaquilles-0atmeal@blahbel668@sleepysturniolo@le4hsblog @sarosfilms @joemamaaa42069 @2muchofaslvt @seluky10 @cherib3lla @jetaimevous @witchofthehour

#©sturnsdarling #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt x reader #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo fluff #Spotify

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according2thelore · 1 month ago

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i just know sam is quietly pleased that he's turning 42 this year. it's a good number.

it's the last time dean will help him celebrate his birthday, but he doesn't know that yet.

he wakes up before dean, like always, taking miracle and jogging a few laps up and down their large access road, even dropping through town to pick up a few donuts from the store that he and dean frequent.

he can't jog back with donuts, so he takes the "scenic" way home, the gravel road instead of the paved one. miracle tries to eat three different pinecones. it's going to rain later today, but sam's always been a fan of the rain.

twenty years ago, he thinks, he was spending his birthday taking an ethics exam. jessica took him out to dinner at a steakhouse that they could only afford with their friend's employee discount.

ten years ago, his brother still mostly wouldn't look him in the eye, fresh off of demonhood. sam had spent the day in a medical supply store, buying himself a new, smaller brace for his arm.

today, aged forty-two, sam finds dean in the kitchen, scrambling eggs. he's still got little bruises on his neck from sam's teeth, sam's too-big shirt going past the worn-out elastic edge of his boxers. he's yawning when sam comes in, hair mussed and eyes blearily.

dean wilts when he sees the box in sam's hands.

"man, i was making your weird keto eggs. with mushrooms." he says it like sam likes his scrambled eggs with live worms or sticks of chalk, but sam dutifully--and a bit surprised--puts the donuts on the counter for later.

dean has no idea how to cook mushrooms in scrambled eggs, so they're rubbery, but sam eats it all. later, they go out to dinner in town, just their regular spot--holey jeans and threadbare flannel--and dean disappears for a bit and comes back with a slice of carrot cake. their usual waitress winks at sam from behind the counter.

sam rolls his eyes, and rolls his eyes even harder when dean whips a gas station lighter out of his pocket and nods at sam to blow it out.

"c'mon, sammy. a man don't turn sixty-two every day."

"that would mean you're what, eighty?" sam retorts, shooting him a glare. he blows it out, though. dean pesters him about what he wished for the rest of the night, even after dean reveals he's wearing something pink and small and distinctly lacy underneath his worst pair of jeans and they lie together, still breathing hard.

but, honestly? sam didn't really wish for anything.

dean hauls himself to his feet, joints popping the entire way, to let miracle--who's been scratching at the door since they closed it--back in.

sam's shoulder creaks when he stretches, and there's an ache in his lower back. he has little grey hairs at his temple. he thinks he's probably going to need glasses soon. dean flops back on the bed, making exaggerated spitting noises as sam's hair on the pillow slips into his mouth. miracle hops on the bed and steps on his stomach as she comes to lick at his face, before settling down and snoring on his calf.

no, sam didn't wish for anything.

for six more months, sam's got everything he wants.

anything he could ever need.

#lizzy writes #happy birthday sammy!

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nizhspo · 28 days ago

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haikyuu characters and their colleges!

genre: haikyuu headcanons

chars: atsumu miya, hajime iwaizumi, kei tsukishima, keiji akaashi, kentaro kyotani, kiyoomi sakusa, koutaro bokuto, osamu miya, rintaro suna, tooru oikawa

notes: in honor of college decision day last week

𖤐 ATSUMU MIYA, louisiana state university

psychology major. says he picked psychology to “study bitches,” but when attachment theory came up in class, he got real quiet. said, “nah, that explains a lot,” and didn’t speak again the whole lecture.

his dorm’s a double, but his roommate’s always at his girlfriend’s place, so atsumu basically lives alone. there’s a yellow LSU flag thumbtacked to the wall, crooked. purple string lights he never turns off. there’s always a protein shaker on his desk and an air fryer on top of his mini fridge that he’s definitely not supposed to have.

only asian in a d9 sorority. line name: “hurricane.” loud, reckless, unforgettable. most likely omega psi phi w/ his unpredictable ass.

he’s got school spirit like it’s his job, bro. tailgates in body paint, posts “GEAUX TIGERS” every saturday, and cries when they lose. he’s a campus menace, but professors like him ’cause he participates with just enough charm to keep his grade alive.

would definitely fuck one of the basketball player's girlfriends on accident. wasn’t even his fault—she came onto him, but word got around fast. now any time someone says “bro don’t let your girl near atsumu,” it’s not even a joke. he laughs it off in public, but he definitely switches routes to avoid the gym hallway.

when he likes you, it shows up in acts of chaos. sneaking into your lecture just to pass you a note that says u miss me? or waiting outside your class with an iced drink, grinning like a golden retriever. he’s loud, but when you talk, he listens for real.

𖤐 HAJIME IWAIZUMI, university of florida

kinesiology major. in class, he’s focused, raises his hand. he’s not loud about being smart, because he isn’t—not really, he’s just a hard worker. makes the deans list once. kinda falters off after that. schools hard man.

he’s got a dorm in athlete housing, but it’s clean. bed made, shoes lined up, weights by the closet. he’s always up early, always in motion. jogs before class, stretches while microwaving rice.

he didn’t pledge a frat. didn’t need to. everyone already knows him. football players dap him up, med students ask for his notes. he’s the guy people trust to hold their drink at parties.

he’s got school spirit, but only for game days. wears his hoodie, shows up to cheer, but doesn’t scream in the stands. he’s not flashy about pride. this is mainly because he got too into betting on the basketball team freshman year during march madness and literally went so broke he couldn’t afford groceries for 2 weeks until his next paycheck (work study).

when he likes you, it’s in how he shows up. carrying your books when you’re tired. fixing the strap on your backpack. standing between you and the guy who got too close at a party.

eater eater eater eaterrrrr!! bro would eat coochie in a public bathroom if you asked. #sorrythatsnotverycollegerelated.

anywaysss iwaizumi’s love isn’t loud. it’s reliable. it’s strong hands (y’all and i’m talking strong) and a softer voice than you expected.

𖤐 KEI TSUKISHIMA, university of chicago

paleobiology major. please don’t ask me what that means guys.

tsukki’s dorm is cold. literally and emotionally. he shares a double with a music major who’s always practicing guitar, and he hates it. his desk is perfectly organized. his bed’s made military-style.

he despises greek life. his social circle is small: one lab partner, one sarcastic roommate, and the girl who sits next to him in ancient ecosystems. if i called him a loser would y’all be mad LMFAOOO? sorry he just gives very didn’t-take-full-advantage-of-the-college-experience-because-he-was-too-busy-trying-to-aura-farm vibes. or maybe he takes more advantage his 2nd or 3rd year. starts to drink. allows himself to loosen up and goes to parties.

his first ever hook-up is his 2nd or 3rd year and she’s an upperclassmen. rides him so well he tries to ask her out like 2 days later. obviously gets shut down and probably becomes a shell for like a month. probably inspired a hoe era from him, too. good job, girl.

he doesn’t do school spirit. doesn’t do pep rallies. doesn’t even wear the merch unless it’s raining even though he was a prick in high school about how he got into uchicago.

in class, he’s absurdly smart. the kind who corrects professors smart. it’s a combination of too much time on his hands to study and genuine passion for that dinosaur shit. people think he’s arrogant. he is. but he’s usually right. doesn’t get all a’s though because he’s such an asshole to profs.

𖤐 KEIJI AKAASHI, columbia university

english & philosophy double major. was definitely an asshole in ap lit during highschool and got a 4 and almost crashed out. also always makes sure to specify he goes to columbia in ny and not chicago because he’s a pretentious bitch.

he’s got a single in a brownstone-style dorm that smells like bergamot and old books. it’s quiet. floor lamp, clean desk, moleskin journals stacked neatly beside a bluetooth speaker always playing something soft.

he didn’t even think about rushing. greek life isn’t his thing. instead, he edits for the campus lit mag and drinks espresso with the creative writing kids in dark cafes.

he never wears school merch on campus but has two columbia hoodies he likes to wear at the airport incase any wealthy alumni decide to bless his pockets. also has a little keychain.

never misses class. started off showing up in fitted sweaters and long coats, always prepared, until the 2nd week hit him like a truck and he realized everyone was just as great as him. it’s been sweats and dark circles ever since.

his essays however are hauntingly good. he quotes philosophers mid-conversation and makes it sound like poetry.

was long-term fucking w/ this aspiring-director-art-hoe from nyu until his grade dropped to a whopping c and he found himself on the subway train visiting her and sending letters more than he found himself in the library. tries shrooms for the first and last time with her.

when he likes you, it’s not a confession. it’s a gradual, undeniable presence. he saves you a seat in lecture. he remembers your coffee order. he leaves a book for you with a note that says, thought of you on page 84.

𖤐 KENTARO KYOTANI, university of oregon

undeclared. he’s got a double dorm but sleeps alone because his roommate transferred out by october. his side’s a mess of black hoodies, tangled chargers, and a punching bag duct-taped to the wall. there’s an air freshener clipped to the vent, but it’s not doing much. his window’s always cracked for his vape smoke.

he doesn’t do frat shit. hates being told what to do. parties off-campus at athlete houses or with randoms he met at the rec center. there’s always a blunt in rotation, a shoe missing, someone jumping off the roof.

doesn’t own a single piece of duck gear, but you’ll catch him in the student section during football games, yelling his throat out.

he’s technically undeclared but hovering around a kinesiology degree because a counselor told him he could work in sports without writing essays. he acts like he doesn’t care, but when his grades dropped too low to play intramural, he got pissed. started showing up to class with a hoodie over his head, earbuds in, hood still up.

he’s got a stupid, stupid crush on one of the girls from the track team (i mean y’all have you SEEN the oregon track team). walks past the field “on accident” every day.

when he likes you, it’s not obvious. not at first. it’s letting you steal his hoodie without a word. it’s sending you a pic of his dinner with the caption “ate today.” it’s leaning back on two legs of his chair and looking at you instead of the professor.

definitely has beef w/ one of the frat brothers or some shit because his mouth is slick as shit!! there’s atleast 1 frat house that has him banned for life!!

𖤐 KIYOOMI SAKUSA, university of michigan

microbiology major. ok no glaze because i was just lowk on akaashi’s dick but this guy is brilliant. high GPA, terrifying in labs. he’s just one of those people that get the whole college thing. professors love him, classmates avoid him. knows when to ask the write questions, when to challenge the professor and when to kiss-up.

he’s got a single in the newest dorm building, top floor, near a fire exit so no one has to pass by his door. everything’s black, white, or navy. there’s sanitizer by the bed and lint rollers in every drawer.

he hates frats. thinks they’re germ farms. instead, he lowk keeps to himself besides maybe like one club or society related to his major. shows up to class early, sits far back, never shares pens. ALSO is at every single internship job-fair and finds it absolutely disgusting how many hands he has to shake and vaguely considers being broke the rest of his life.

he doesn’t care for school spirit but owns one michigan hoodie because his cousin got it for him. he only wears it when it’s clean.

but when he likes you? you know. he wipes your phone screen when you’re not looking. he texts, drink water. he lets you wear his hoodie home and doesn’t ask for it back. when you’re sick, he shows up with meds and soup and mumbles, “you’re annoying when you don’t take care of yourself.”

guys i’m gonna be honest i’m trying to figure out how i wanna characterize him still y’all gotta let me work through it.

𖤐 KOUTARO BOKUTO, university of alabama

communications major. whatever the fuck that means. he takes class seriously when he connects with the professor. when he doesn’t? he’s doodling mascots in the margins or texting in the groupchat about lunch. still pulls a B+ average on sheer charm and effort. fails like two classes though because charm can’t win em all. also takes badminton as an elective.

and LAWDDD them bama girls love him down!! if he was in any type of relationship leaving high school that is done by orientation week! and don’t let him put on a damn cowboy hat and some boots lord they finna fuck him right there in the stands @ the football game.

he’s in a triple dorm, and somehow all three of them actually get along. there’s a group chat called “THE BOYS” in all caps, a giant whiteboard on the wall with their gym schedules, and a disco light they use for impromptu room raves. it prolly smell like a little bit of shit in there though.

definitely one of those dudes walking barefoot in the communal bathrooms with his NASTY ASS. also takes unapologetic shits in there too.

bokuto pledged and thrived though!! he’s the social chair of his frat, known for making the best playlists and leading the most unhinged chants during rush. he’s the heart of game day, standing on coolers, shirt half-off, rallying strangers like it’s a religion.

definitely had some poor girl make him a frat cooler though. he’s so lovable it’s easy to get sucked into his orbit but girl.. he really is just like that w/ everyone.

BUT on a contrary note when he does stop being a campus whore and finally gets a crush.. it’s loud. when he likes you, it’s so loud. he makes you a friendship bracelet in your school colors. he shows up to walk you to class with two iced coffees and a grin so wide it makes you forget what you were mad about (probably him being a friendly ass bitch). you meet his frat brothers, his favorite professor, the gym receptionist, everyone. he introduces you like he’s proud, like he’s won something.

and when he gets drunk at a tailgate, he grabs your face and slurs, “i love you so much, it’s not even funny.” but in that lovebombing way dudes like to do. there’s probably like seven girls on campus by the time he graduates who he’s told he loves. he’s got a big heart, y’all it’s not even his fault he rlly believes it!!!

it’s never quiet with him. but the love’s loud in the best way. also i forgot he does manage to score a good ass internship through a job fair because he’s goated when it comes to talking his way into shit.

𖤐 OSAMU MIYA, university of georgia

culinary science & business major. in class, he’s quiet but respected. professors know his name. he’s never late, never flashy, just consistent. the kind of student who emails thank-you notes after a good semester (what a sweetheart). does has beef w/ one professor who doesn’t believe in a’s and his praying for her to croak.

osamu’s dorm is off-campus housing by junior year. a small one-bedroom with a balcony herb garden, cast iron skillet on the stove, and a shoe rack by the door that he actually uses. smells like garlic, rice, and comfort.

he skipped the frat route. never saw the point. he’s got a tight group of friends who show up to his pop-up food stand every friday without fail.

he doesn’t care about school spirit but owns two UGA hoodies that he wears on rotation. one has a grease stain he swears isn’t permanent.

when he likes you, he feeds you. always. he packs you lunch “just in case” even though you already ate. he asks about your allergies before your first date. he notices when you’re low energy and hands you a snack without saying anything. PREPARE TO END UP A FATASS.

he’s not romantic in the traditional way. he’s practical. steady. but one night, he leaves a note on your container lid that says, you looked pretty today. eat up.

on a hoe-ier note, he probably only gains like 3-4 bodies during college. much better than his brother who most likely ends up burnt by the time he pledges LMFAOOO #iykyk. osamu ends up settling down pretty quickly.

𖤐 RINTARO SUNA, arizona state university

film major. destined to be broke. a24 asshole. his parents probably convince him to add business in there atleast so their son doesn’t end up spending the next 60 years of his life at 7/11.

freshman year, he lives in a shared dorm, second floor, end of the hall. it’s basic as hell. blinds always shut, a fan in the window humming low, vape clouds hanging lazy in the air. one bed’s made perfectly, the other’s always a mess. his desk is cluttered with film cameras, empty yerba mate cans, and one lonely cactus he never waters.

BRO DOESN’T DO LAUNDRY. definitely a sniff test type of guy (yeah we see that shit stain buddy). but no LMFAOO it rlly does take him to like mid-way freshman year when he realizes the onion smell is him to turn it around 180°. gets rlly into cologne after that. yay improvement!!

he didn’t plan on rushing. at all. thought greek life was weird. he liked pulling up to parties where nobody knew his name. liked being the mystery with the good music. he always had the aux. always. people let him cut the line just to take over. does sometimes get too carried away w that slow shit. why are you playing frank ocean dawg you’re abt to make us cry?

but anyways sophomore year, when a couple of his close friends started pledging, they convinced him to come meet their frat. and surprisingly? he vibed with it. no toxic hazing. no fake shit. just a solid group of guys who threw good parties and respected boundaries. by junior year, he was living in the frat house top floor, corner room, two big windows he never opened, a record player spinning slow. he never wore the letters loud, never posted about it. but when people asked, he’d just shrug, “yeah, i’m in.”

he’s got a reputation. the chill guy who controls the aux like a god. discovered baby keem. was gatekeeping lucki until he blew up and now he’s listening to random underground that sounds like a samsung refrigerator. and gaslighting girls to the 1975 and pink pantheress.

don’t let him hit your pen or vape. this man is addicted. “i can quit whenever” ass!! will chief your shit AND chiefs the blunt too!!

anyways i’m hating too much so.. when he likes you, it starts in silence. he hands you the aux for ten minutes just to see what you’ll play. he saves you a seat on the roof during after-parties. he doesn’t kiss you in front of people, but when the night ends, you’re the one in his hoodie, laughing at nothing, walking back with him under campus lights.

also always has money on the game. friends w/ a couple of the basketball team and tell them he has money on that shit so they better not fuck up. you’ll catch him on the couch during march madness, hoodie up, phone in hand, whispering “don’t fuck this up, bro” like he’s coaching from the couch.

𖤐 TOORU OIKAWA, university of miami

sports management major & public relations minor. he’s a demon in class, but also kind irritating sometimes. talks just enough to sound smart, is saying absolutely NOTHING in the most amount of words possible on his discussion boards, and turns in perfect assignments at 11:58PM. also gives presentations that feel like TED talks.

he’s a little too polished first semester. too flirty with his professors. never seen in sweatpants. but all that shit crumbles second semester. he still looks presentable, but he’s in sweats and slides and basketball shorts way more often.

decorated the fuck out of his room. warm lighting, scented candles, beach towels. a mirror by the door for last looks before going out, and he always checks his hair twice. didn’t really like his roommate at first. fucked 2 girls on his bed (not at the same time.. or maybe at the same time shit who knows!) and then started to become cool w/ the guy so he never told him.

he didn’t pledge. says he’s “above that.” instead, he’s built a curated circle of beach volleyball guys, fashion majors, and business girlies who all adore him. a hoe, but not even that bad fr like he has good standards if that makes sense.

but when he likes you? all that polish starts to slip. he texts you good morning before he even opens his laptop. he lets you see him in glasses, hair messy, eyes tired. he brings you back souvenirs from break and writes notes in spanish on post-its (yes he’s a prick taking advanced spanish.)

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 days ago

Text

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 5: Who Has Spoken Through The Prophets]

A/N: We're over halfway done, besties! Bless you for reading 🙏

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.2k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“What name will you choose?” you tease Aemond as reporters stand on the other side of the glass doors, strobing flashes of camera clicks and the deadened drone of their voices as they recount his second miracle into their microphones, one take, two takes, wanting to get it just right. Aemond is clasping your right hand as he sits beside your hospital bed. Neither of you speak to the reporters, or talk to the doctors and nurses about anything except medical care; you don’t want anyone to be able to say the vow of secrecy was broken. But you are posing for the audience, you the nearly-lost sheep, Aemond the benevolent shepherd. You’re just happy you get to touch him. The nurses cleaned his blood from your hair and your face, and you wish they hadn’t. “You should bring back something really wonky and old school. A name that hasn’t been used in centuries. Maybe…Pope Zosimus?”

“Pope Dionysius,” Aemond says, grinning. “No unfortunate connotations there.”

“Pope Hilarius. You do have a great sense of humor.”

“Pope Simplicius.”

“Pope Valentine, so romantic.”

“Pope Telesphorus!”

“Pope Caius, wasn’t that a character in the Twilight movies?”

“Pope Peter,” Aemond says. “After the apostle and the founder of the Church.”

“You’re proud enough for it.”

“Even prouder than you think. I already have a name picked out.” This is a grievous fault, one that no good cardinal would admit to. But Aemond reveals things to you that are unfit for even the confessional booth. You have a concussion, Aemond has fifty stitches, and you are both wearing pale blue hospital gowns; you could almost be mistaken for a normal couple.

Beyond the glass, nurses are telling the reporters that their time is up and shooing them off, down the hall, down the staircase, out into the world where they will tell billions of people what they’ve seen: Aemond’s saintlike selflessness, his chaste devotion to his flock. You will be a footnote: A nun was nearly killed, a nun’s life was saved, now let’s talk about the man who performed a miracle in Saint Peter’s Square.

You can’t ask anybody what is going on within the brick walls of Vatican City, but you have caught the nurses exchanging whispers. A representative for the dean Cardinal Seaborn released a public statement that voting would be paused for three days, allowing time for the cardinals to reflect and pray on recent events. Priests hailing from parishes across the globe are giving sermons declaring that serious consideration should be given to the signs God has made so visible. The Third Miracle Challenge has gone viral on TikTok, documenting people achieving things they once thought were impossible (for example, waking up at 5 a.m. to go jogging, or calling to schedule their own doctor’s appointment). #SexyPope is trending worldwide on Twitter.

If he wins, I’ll never be able to touch him again.

Two nurses enter your room—you’re being held for observation for twenty-four hours, and will be released this evening provided no worrying symptoms develop—and yank the mint green curtains shut, the tiny metal hooks clanging on the rods. They give you a cursory once-over and then spend several minutes chatting to Aemond in their thick Italian accents: “Cardinal Targaryen, will you say a prayer for my sick grandmother?” “Cardinal Targaryen, what is your favorite psalm?” “Cardinal Targaryen, how do you learn to forgive people who have wronged you?” Then they skuttle out of the room and close the door behind them. No impropriety is suspected; Aemond is now above reproach.

I already have a name picked out, Aemond had said. Your eyes drop to the thin gold chain that holds his medallion, concealed beneath the scratchy blue cotton of his hospital gown. “Who are you wearing?”

Instead of answering, he leans in so you can see for yourself; his uninjured left hand sinks into the mattress, the remnants of the cologne he put on yesterday morning steal into your lungs, warm honeyed light like the flame of a candle, vanilla, cinnamon, amber. Your fingertips slip under the chain and follow it down to the gold disk, freeing it from beneath his gown. It’s Saint Thomas Aquinas, his name inscribed in an arc above his portrait. You hold the medallion in your palm as Aemond waits patiently; you like him this close, you don’t want him to leave.

“Pope Thomas,” you muse. “A papal name that’s never been used before.”

“He was a great thinker. He established the doctrine of natural law, which informed the rise of just legal systems, human rights, democracy.”

“And he is very, very famous. He’s worshiped by intellectuals.” You turn over the medallion. On the back is etched one of the saint’s quotes: The things that we love tell us what we are. You ask, only half-serious, perhaps afraid to be more: “What do you love, Aemo?” Power, fame, triumph, me?

He shrugs and smiles, small and crooked. “A few things.”

The disk glints in the midday sun that streams in through the windows. “Why gold?”

“Why not? It’s the best.”

“Greedy,” you say, releasing the medallion. Aemond hesitates before returning to his chair. “Thomas suits you. It was also the name of the apostle who was so skeptical of Christ’s resurrection. He had to feel the Lord’s wounds with his own hands before he was convinced.”

“And I have doubts,” Aemond says, amused, still smiling.

“Most people do, it seems.”

“You don’t?” A pause, a tad self-conscious. “About anyone?”

“I believe in the Faith, and I believe in you. But those are two very different things.”

Aemond looks down at his bandaged palm, meditative, perhaps even regretful. There’s no going back now. The whole world saw what he did.

“You weren’t like this before,” you say softly. “On the beach, you weren’t…” You stop to think of how to word it. “You weren’t as sharp, or as ambitious, or as…wrathful.”

“That was a long time ago. Twenty-nine years.”

You watch him, seeking. What is there beneath the surface? What runs through him like arteries of magma under the earth? “Do you ever go home to Nisyros?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Not even with all your diplomatic missions and your interviews and your YouTube videos?”

Aemond looks at you, direct, hard, like it’s a warning. “No.”

“Did something happen there?”

“I told you. I never felt like there was really a place for me. Why would I want to go back?”

“But your family is still in Nisyros, aren’t they? You don’t see them?”

“They take the ferry to Santorini when they want to visit me.”

You consider this, tugging restlessly on your own medallion: cheap plain iron, a humble saint.

Aemond asks before you can say anything else: “How’s your head?”

“The codeine is helping.”

“You’ll have to be very careful when we get back to Vatican City.”

You are startled, unsure of what he means. Careful not to touch him? Careful not to want him?

Then Aemond clarifies: “You need plenty of rest each night. No physical exertion, no stress.”

You chuckle nervously. “Oh, right. Sure thing.”

“You still want to assist with the conclave, don’t you?”

“Defo. If they’ll let me stay.”

“I’ll insist upon it,” Aemond says. And Cardinal Seaborn will listen; who could question a living saint, an intermediary between mortals and God? “I overheard a nurse on the phone earlier. She was talking to Mother Maureen Ashwell from your convent in Sydney. It sounded like she was asking a million questions about you, trying to make sure you were alright.”

You smile wistfully. “I wish I could call her. Or text her, or send an email or an Instagram DM or something.” But you can’t without breaking seclusion. You’ll have so much to tell her when you return; you can be honest with her in ways you can’t with Rhaena.

“She seems like a very kind person.”

“Mother Maureen is a blessing to us,” you say, distracted now as you think of her, long dove grey hair always running down her back in a braid, oversized sweaters with cats or ducks or koala bears on them. You gaze out the window at the gleaming silver serpent of the Tiber, where Saint Beatrix fished out the bodies of her martyred brothers in the 300s. “The time she grew up in was very different from ours. She got pregnant when she was in secondary school, and her parents sent her into the bush to stay with her grandparents, and when the baby was born the nurses took him away. He was adopted out to a family someplace, but Mother Maureen doesn’t know where. She’s never been able to find him. She doesn’t even know if he’s in Australia. But she’s still looking, and she’s created all these resources for parents with similar experiences, databases and support groups and brochures made by pro bono lawyers so people know their legal rights. It didn’t make her bitter. She’s the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. And I think that’s so beautiful, when a soul endures something horrible and can still find comfort in the Faith. Can still use it to make the world better.”

But Aemond—scarred, faithless, his sins as loud to you as the roar of an ocean—just studies his bandaged right hand again, not saying a word.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is nightfall when a driver arrives at the hospital to take you and Aemond to Vatican City. You have been given clothes from the donation bin to wear until you can change at the Domus Sanctae Marthae. You look like you’re back at your relaxed convent in Sydney: maroon jumper, Levi jeans, pink Converses. Aemond dons a black button-up shirt and matching trousers and loafers, like he’s going to a funeral.

Cardinal Seaborn is there to meet you at the gate, or rather, he is there to meet Aemond; he gives you a wary glance and then, when Aemond shoots him a daggerlike stare with his head held high, Seaborn smiles accommodatingly.

“Brother, we are so glad to have you back among us,” Seaborn tells Aemond warmly, and reaches to pat his shoulder but then stops short, like he’s not sure if it’s proper to touch him, if perhaps Aemond might be too far above that now. You and Aemond follow Seaborn to the entranceway of the Domus Sanctae Martha. From the other side of the brick wall, you can hear that the crowds gathered in Saint Peter’s Square are singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.

Cardinal Seaborn escorts Aemond upstairs to his room, while to walk alone to yours. You change into a rose pink jumper and lavender skirt, then cover them with a white wool habit. In front of your bathroom mirror, you adjust your veil and snare pins into your hair to hold it in place.

I don’t want to wear this, you think, more clearly than you ever have since you’ve arrived in Vatican City. This isn’t me. This isn’t necessary to serve God. But ancient places have intractable rituals, and here you must oblige them.

In the dining hall, the cardinals are enjoying wine and water and bread and spaghetti with basil pesto. Nuns are scurrying around with pitchers and plates. When you and Aemond walk in with Cardinal Seaborn—you several steps behind the men—the over one hundred cardinals draped in red stand to applaud Aemond: his survival, his bravery, his miracle. The loudest cheers come from Aemond’s usual table, Kazi cupping his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn. Across the room, Jahoda and his companions are clapping listlessly with stony expressions.

Lucky sees you, frowns for only a fraction of a second, marches to the center of the floor. “Brothers!” he proclaims, and they will listen to him more than they would to any of the others, Cam because he is so young, Lando because he is so quiet and unassuming, Kazi because he is Kazi. “There has been much suspicion and slander levied against Cardinal Targaryen. Yet God’s design is always shown in time if we have the patience and the good sense to see it. Those of us who know his character and his spiritual gifts never doubted him. But for you who did, let now your consciences be soothed. God brought the cardinal and the sister close together in friendship, grounded in their mutual Faith, so that when she was in mortal peril Cardinal Targaryen would be there to save her from an agonizing death and reveal God’s enduring capacity to perform miracles to the world, to renew our Church, to bring countless lost souls back to the light...”

Rhaena sprints through the thunderous shouts and thumps of fists on tables, then halts with a jolt before she can crash into you, her runners squeaking against the tile floor. “Sorry, didn’t want to jostle you, mate,” she says, laughing, and she gingerly touches your head, your hair covered by your veil. “You good? You’re not in pain or anything?”

“I’m a little banged up, but she’ll be right.”

“You aren’t burned?” Rhaena inspects your face, your hands. “Cardinal Seaborn told us about the fire.”

“Aemo,” you begin, then quickly correct yourself. “Cardinal Targaryen got me out just in time.”

Rhaena’s mouth quivers, then she throws her arms around you and sniffles into your shoulder. And a memory comes back to you from across the globe: taking the guests staying in the shelter to Murramarang National Park to hike and see the roos, and as you were distributing tuna sangers for lunch Rhaena had asked you: Mum, do we have any Tim Tams? And she was mortified when she realized what she’d done, but you only smiled and replied: I can be your mum if you want.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Rhaena whispers.

“Me too.”

“And they’re letting you stay until the conclave is over?”

“Well I can’t leave you here alone with these dinosaurs, can I?”

Rhaena giggles, swiping tears from her cheeks. Now Sister Penny, Sister Helvi, and Sister Nuru have arrived to welcome you back too. Then Sister Penny, flustered and apologetic, asks if you wouldn’t mind helping and hands you a pitcher of red wine.

Aemond sits down with his friends. “Now you are mutilated just like Jake!” Kazi says too loudly, raising Aemond’s bandaged right hand into the air. From several tables away, Cardinal Jacob Green of Iran glares at him.

“They’re saying you will restore the Church’s numbers and more,” Cam tells Aemond, his eyes alight like torches behind his round glasses. “Cardinal Seaborn only told us the bare facts, but he cannot insulate us from something as massive as this. The people out in the square have been chanting your name all day. Good Lord, I can’t wait to get out of here and be able to watch the news and see the posts for myself.”

“It will be over soon,” Lucky says, beaming. “Two more days of deliberation, and then you’ll win the very first ballot. I guarantee it.”

“Unless you go belly-up like that fossilized nun, of course,” Kazi jokes with a wink.

Aemond smiles and takes his rosary out of a pocket of his scarlet cassock. It is red, just like the one you once gave him on the beach; but now the beads are ruby, not glass, and the chain and cross are flashing, polished gold. “I’ll say a few extra Hail Marys to be safe.”

“I’m relieved God has put his thumb so definitively on the scale,” Lando says, twirling pesto-green spaghetti onto his fork. “Now whoever is voting for me can stop.”

You tease as you refill his wine glass: “You know, Cardinal Almazan, there was a Pope Lando once. Way back in the 900s, I think.”

Lando chuckles and waves his hand. “Please Sister, do not speak it into existence, the notion is horrifying.”

“No one can stop Aemond now,” Lucky says in his low gravelly voice, satisfied, victorious, at peace. “You are a living saint. And you have no skeletons in your closet.”

Aemond nods, but is peering somberly down into his wine glass. “If I win, I’m giving you a position here at the Vatican.”

“And I won’t take it.”

“You will. I’ll make you. You can’t argue with Saint Peter’s successor.”

Lucky grins widely. “Sure I can. I’d argue with you anywhere.”

“Lucky, I need you to do this for me.”

“Why?”

Aemond is exasperated. “Because they are kidnapping and ransoming priests in Haiti. They murdered a nun last year. You can advocate for your country from here. You can organize aid missions and continue your calls for an international intervention to build stability there. You can make France fund it. I’ll support you. I’ll champion Haiti more forceful than any pope ever has.”

Lucky gnaws on a piece of bread, unmovable. “We are doctors of the soul. We must go where the disease is.”

There is the screech of a chair against the floor—deliberate, meaningful—and Cardinal Green stands. He walks slowly to Aemond’s table, as if gathering his strength. His hands are clutched together, five fingers on one, only a thumb left on the other. When he stops, his eyes sweeping around the table to acknowledge Cam, Lando, Lucky, and even Kazi, Aemond stares up at Jake uncertainly, touching his fingertips to the gold cross that replaced the one he snapped in half to free you from the burning car like Saint Catherine shattered the breaking wheel.

“Cardinal Targaryen,” Jake says, and the whole room is watching him. The nuns peek between refilling glasses and clearing plates. Cardinal Seaborn fidgets fretfully with his zucchetto.

“Cardinal Green,” Aemond replies tentatively, not knowing what sort of trap is being laid for him. Lucky is rapping his knuckles against the table. Kazi and Cam exchange a skeptical glance. Lando eats his spaghetti.

“I ask that you remember the Catholics of the Middle East,” Jake tells Aemond. “They are small in number, but their love for God is great, and they are so often in danger of persecution, torture, execution. Please do not overlook them.” Now his voice is tremulous, pleading. “Please do not allow the Church to forget them. Please do what you can to foster a just peace between all people there, Christians, Muslims, Jews. There is enough land for everyone. It is an ancient and beautiful part of our world, not a lost cause. Please listen when the people there speak.”

Aemond is so stunned that it takes him a moment to respond. “I will,” he swears.

Jake places his maimed hand on Aemond’s shoulder, and gasps ripple through the dining hall. Jake says: “I think you’re too young. I think you’re too at home in high places. But God has made His favor towards you so apparent, and His judgment is infinitely wiser than my own. Therefore, I submit to it.”

He’s surrendering. He’s withdrawing from the race.

“Thank you, Cardinal Green,” Aemond says, and to you he seems genuinely rattled.

Jake bows his head, then leaves the dining hall. Across the room, Jahoda wears a mask of stoicism, cracks splitting through porcelain. Auclair is glaring venomously at Aemond. Ferarri, his hair still ink-black but his face creased with deep wrinkles, turns to mutter something to Koppel and Nemerenco. If Aemond wins, they have lost the Chair of Saint Peter for two generations. Aemond is only forty-one. He could live another half a century.

When dinner is over, the cardinals flow in a sea of red out of the dining hall and towards the elevators. You and Rhaena are near the back of the crowd, specks of white in red currents.

“I hate this building,” Kazi is complaining to Cam as he puffs on his vape. “If I wanted to see sad rectangular architecture, I could have stayed in Poland...”

“Rhaena, I want you to know something,” you tell her as you walk together.

She is still buoyant, still so relieved that you are back. “Yeah?”

“Look...even if I ever wasn’t a nun for some reason, we would still be close. I would still see you all the time, we would still talk every day.”

Rhaena spins to you, alarmed, panicked; and now you see this wasn’t the right thing to say. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be a nun?”

“I just...you know...life can change, and I never want you to worry that—”

“You’re thinking about leaving?”

And the terror and grief on her face is so frantic that you instantly shake your head and laugh, like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. “No, of course not!”

“You have a concussion,” Rhaena says resolutely.

“Righto.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yeah, I might still be a bit gone.”

“Let me make you a cuppa for once,” Rhaena says, smiling, and zips off towards the kitchenette on the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae.

Dear God, what am I going to do?

Before you can follow Rhaena, Lucky splits off from the red river of cardinals and approaches you. Your thoughts still whirling, you knit your hands together and bow your head demurely.

“Cardinal Louissaint, thank you so much for what you’ve done for Aemond—”

“Sister,” he says, cutting you off like a blade. Then he leans in close so no one else can hear. You can smell cigar smoke and the vivid green of basil. His large dark eyes are not cruel but urgent, grave, imploring you to understand. “If you care anything for this conclave, and this Church, and this Faith, you will go back to Australia. And you will never speak to Aemond again.”

You’re so stunned that when your mouth falls open, at first nothing comes out—I’m sorry, I never planned for this to happen, I’m burning up with thoughts I never knew were possible, I can’t lose him again, I can’t stop—and he’s gone before you can find your words.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rhaena is snoring softly in her single-sized bed across the room, but you can’t sleep. You stare up at the unembellished wooden cross on the stark white wall, ghost-grey in the moonlight and crawling with shadows, wondering if you are a visionary or a traitor.

I’ll always want to help people, but I don’t have to be a nun to do that, you cannot stop thinking, voices in your skull like the intercessions of angels or saints. I could work for a women’s shelter, I could go back to school to be a social worker, I could be a foster parent, I could work at the Asylum Seekers Centre in Sydney.

And you could have a lover, a boyfriend, a husband, words you once thought would never again hold significance for you. You were a bride of Christ, the man of no vices, no deceptions and no pain and no threats. But now...

I don’t just want a chance to find someone. I want Aemond.

As quietly as you can, you climb out of bed, slide on your white wool slippers, and sneak out of the bedroom without disturbing Rhaena. In the hallway, the yellow incandescent lights are bright and the air is still and silent, the dry heat of the furnace, the cold sand-colored marble tile of the floor. You meander towards the kitchenette to fix yourself a cuppa, something herbal and caffeine-free, maybe chamomile or peppermint. Yes, peppermint would be Christmasy.

As the clock ticks on the wall, you sit alone sipping your tea at the same table where Sister Augustina died, and if she had lived then it would have been her accompanying Cardinal Bogdi Marcu to the airport, and you would never have been trapped in the car, and Aemond wouldn’t have been waiting by the gate to hear the crash and the panic of the crowd, and there would be no second miracle, and news of it would not have spread to cover the world like the flood Noah withstood in his ark, and Aemond’s victory in less than three days would not be all but assured.

What happens to me if he wins?

You’ll fly home to Australia with Rhaena, and you’ll spend the rest of the holiday season at the convent with Mother Maureen and all the other sisters, lighting candles, wrapping presents, baking bikkies, cooking ham and prawns and mince pies and Christmas pudding, playing games, singing the songs you miss so much here on the hushed island of seclusion...and then you’ll decide what to do next.

What happens to the world if he wins? Is it better, or is it worse?

Your peppermint tea is gone, but you are no closer to sleep. You wander out of the kitchenette, down the hall, and into an elevator. You are wearing only your pajamas—white with red and green stripes, and the crimson silhouette of flying reindeer—but no one else is awake to see you out of your habit, hair uncovered and body unclaimed by Christ. Or at least, you assume no one else is awake until you unlock Aemond’s door to find his room empty. You stare at his bed, perplexed; the sheets are tangled, and when you glide your hand beneath them there is still warmth clinging to the soft white cotton. You lift them to your face and inhale: cologne, smoke, sweat, something so familiar it feels like it has been with you your whole life.

Where is he?

You leave Aemond’s room, relock the door, and give it one last puzzled frown. His room is at the end of a hallway all by itself. He doesn’t even have a neighbor anymore since Cardinal Marcu returned to Romania.

You walk back to the elevator, then pass it when you notice the sealed room at the far end of the corridor, the door barred by a blood red ribbon and wax stamped with the Vatican seal. According to custom, it will remain untouched until a new pope is chosen. The late Holy Father eschewed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace—roomy, regal, a gem of the Renaissance—and chose instead to reside here in the same spartan guest house where he stayed as a cardinal, before his name was scrawled onto the ballots of over two-thirds of his peers and white smoke billowed from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.

Fat pope, thin pope; will the next Holy Father be modest too, a man who strips away the gold trimmings and the dignified distance and the erudite speeches in Latin, and fades into the simplicity of a servant? Or will he be someone who reminds people of the ancient power of the pope: an emperor with over a billion subjects, a messenger chosen by God, the trustee of the Keys of Heaven?

By the sealed door is an altar of candles, white and red, still flickering, dimming, burning down to pools of wax in small clear cylinders of glass. Sister Penny, in one of her scatterbrained moments, must have forgotten to extinguish them. You blow the candles out one by one, then pick up a glass vessel full of melted red wax, hot and fluid like molten rock. You pull back your sleeve and then, tilting the glass carefully, spill drips of wax onto the underside of your forearm, where they dry into irregular splotches like blood drops. You close your eyes as the searing pinpoints of heat bite through you, remembering: his palm on your face, his tongue parting your lips, fire on your skin but an inferno below, blood turned to magma ready to erupt. Then you peel off the dots of wax, imagining that Aemond is the one doing it.

You take the elevator back down to the ground floor and then realize, when you are perfectly still, that you can just barely hear a mechanical humming coming from down the hall. Quizzically, you follow it. There is a small gym here in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, mostly used by geriatric cardinals who plod effortfully along on treadmills or lift 10-kilo weights in the bright morning hours. But now it is after midnight, and the rest of the building is slumbering, and someone else is afflicted with your restlessness.

When you open the door to the gym, you find only one person inside. Aemond is jogging on a treadmill, looking not at all like a cardinal: grey crewneck, grey trackies, white runners pounding on the belt. His clothes are damp with dark spreading pools of perspiration; rivers of it pour down his face. His sand-colored hair is wet. The thin gold chain of his medallion gleams against his throat. You let the door close behind you with a soft click.

Salt, you think dazedly, staring at him. Like the sweat on his sheets, like his blood on my lips.

Aemond looks up at you and raises his eyebrows, not breaking his stride.

You ask when you shake off your trance: “What are you doing?”

“Jogging, obviously.”

You glance down at his right hand, still bandaged. “Should you be doing that?”

“Well I don’t need my hands to run, Sydney.”

“Can’t sleep?” Just like me?

“Can’t sleep,” he agrees, breathing heavily. He hits a button on the treadmill and the belt slows to a stop. When it is motionless, he sits down on the side rail, slicking back his dripping hair, panting.

You go to Aemond, kneeling in front of him on the floor. As he mops the sweat from his face with his crewneck—momentarily revealing that he is wearing nothing underneath, vulnerable belly, sparse hair on his chest—you see that his eye catches on the front of your reindeer pajamas, no shapeless habit, no bra. You smile guiltily. “Sorry.”

Aemond chuckles. “No, don’t apologize. I have to practice resisting temptation.”

Because soon he’ll be the pope. “It feels real now.”

He nods, biting the corner of his lip, dragging his fingers through his hair again.

“Aemo, are you...are you alright?” Are you sure you want to do this?

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Aemond says, his breathing still rapid, sweat still glistening on his scarred face. “This is all I’ve thought about for years. For decades. And nothing else could ever compare to it. I was so sure it was what I wanted. And when I was made a cardinal and I met Lucky and Kazi and Lando and Cam...I felt like I’d found the family I should have been born into. People who saw value in me. People who protected me. And their faith in me is so powerful. They’re so convinced I’ll be able to help the people they’ve spent their lives fighting for. But...”

His blue eye flicks to your face, and you know what you see there because it is the same thing that fills your arteries, your lungs, your skull: doubt. “Now you don’t know what you want.”

“You’re such an aberration,” Aemond says quietly, almost a whisper.

You reach for him, your right hand clasping his left, and beneath your palm his knuckles are warm and slick with sweat. “I feel drawn to you in a way that I can only understand as divine. If God brought us together again, there must be a reason.”

Aemond is tormented; there’s no way to know for sure. “For me to be chosen as the next pope by this conclave, or for me to leave?”

We could leave together, you almost say, a thought that stuns you in its clarity. Is that God’s design, or the Enemy’s? Is it a sin or a revelation, like Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus?

Aemond continues: “And there is one skeleton I’m worried about.”

“It can’t be bad enough to overshadow all of the good that you’ve done.”

But when he looks at you, the fear is radiant Aemond’s scarred face.

His miracle on Nea Kameni wasn’t real, you think without any evidence. If it was, he’d believe in the Faith. But how could anyone ever prove that? All the eyewitnesses told the same story. “Aemo, what is it?”

He still doesn’t answer.

Something else? Embezzlement, violence, coverups, a woman? And now there is a stab of envy, the point of a blade scraping around in your bone marrow, the notion of him loving someone who isn’t you and never will be.

“I have a son,” Aemond says.

You’re so shocked you fall over, catching yourself with your palms as you collapse to the cold white marble floor. “What?”

Aemond speaks slowly, like it takes herculean strength, like he’s lifting the world on his shoulders. “I have a son I’ve never met.”

That’s impossible. But of course it isn’t; cardinals have had bastards for thousands of years. Even some popes did, before modernity made such a thing almost impossible to conceal. “Who knows?” Lucky, Kazi, Lando, Cam?

“No one,” Aemond says. “Me and the mother. And you, now. Nobody else.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

Involuntarily, you’re shaking your head. That can’t be right. “You were…sixteen?”

“She was one of my Mum’s friends,” Aemond says. “I was home from boarding school for the summer, and…” He swallows noisily, he can’t look at you; he gazes at the wall, ashamed, haunted. “I felt terrible about it the whole time. Not because it was a sin…” No, he doesn’t believe in the seven deadly sins, first enumerated by Pope Gregory I, later defended and expounded upon by Saint Thomas Aquinas. “It was just wrong. I knew it was, I could feel that on a corporeal level, in my stomach, in my ribs. But I did it anyway.”

“You couldn’t consent to that.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it is a weak excuse. “I never said no.”

“It wasn’t your responsibility to.”

“Alys, she knew I wasn’t...” He gestures vaguely, decades-past horror he doesn’t want to revisit. “She knew I couldn’t handle it. So when she broke the news to me, she made it clear that she didn’t expect me to be involved. She told everyone the father was some American tourist she had a fling with. But I knew the truth. And I just wanted to get away from everything, that island, those people, who I was back then. And the Church was my ladder to climb as high as I could...and it’s also the one place on the planet where I could never be claimed as a father or a husband. I was never with another woman after Alys. I didn’t want to be. And then you showed up out of nowhere and it’s like...all the sudden, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m that kid on the beach again. My whole life was erased and I’m back at the start, and I want to do everything differently.”

I know how that feels. “Do you know where your son is now?”

“Yeah,” Aemond says, and smirks at how absurd it is. “I found him on Facebook. He’s living in Athens, and he and his wife own a shop where they sell soaps and lotions made out of goat’s milk. They’re doing well, I think. They have a lot of five-star reviews. And they have two little kids, Andreas and Athena.”

“You have a family,” you realize.

Aemond winces. “Not really.”

“Do you want to meet them?”

“I never did before. It was my worst nightmare, the possibility that any of them might show up on my doorstep one day. Now...I don’t know. I have all these thoughts I don’t recognize.”

Voices. Visions. Revelations. “I do too.”

He gazes at you, the blue of his eye shimmering as you lay your palm against his cheek, ghost your thumbprint over the ridge of his scar, wish that souls could be stitched back together as cleanly as flesh. “I feel like we both left that beach and nothing was ever alright again.”

“We were just kids, Aemo,” you say gently.

“But I knew that I loved you.”

He stands, hands sliding into the pockets of his trackies so he won’t touch anything he shouldn’t. You watch him walk to the door and open it, thinking: Don’t go. Don’t leave me again.

Then he looks back at you from the doorway, and he sighs, and the weight seems to shed off of him and all at once he isn’t so sad. “You should return to your room now, Sydney.”

“My room?” you say numbly, and you are that nine-year-old girl sitting in the corner booth of a pizza place on the boardwalk, a song you won’t be able to remember drifting from the radio.

Aemond smiles, a slight taunting curl of his lips, the bend of a crescent moon. “Where else would you go?”

He passes through the threshold and vanishes, and all night you dream of oceans and fire and sand sieving through the gaps in your fingers.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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loggiepj · 9 months ago

Text

illicit affairs

part 1 | part 2

"Y/N?"

You quickly turned your head to the sound and saw two teenagers who looked alike behind you.

There was something familiar about the way they looked, the shades of green hues from their eyes or the way they grin from ear to ear towards you. You had nightmarish dreams about them. And then it suddenly clicked.

As if you still haven't figured it out, one of them walked forward and offered his hand for you to shake.

"Billy?" Then he pointed his thumb to the guy beside him. "And Tommy? You used to babysit us when we were eight years old?"

Forcing a nervous chuckle, you said, "Of course, Billy and Tommy. How could I forget?"

How could you ever forget?

Ten years had passed and it was as if it was only yesterday when you last saw them.

"Gosh, you're both so tall, you had outgrown me," you said, now laughing as you compared each other's heights. Although you hoped it wasn't a shaky laugh.

They both joined in laughter. "Nah, I'm taller than Billy now," Tommy added.

"By an inch," Billy protested. "And that doesn't even count."

There was a short pause as you tried to regain your calm posture. You wouldn't want the twins to know how their presence truly affected you. But you couldn't stop the rapid beating of your heart for what was about to come no matter how hard you tried.

So you placed your hand on your chest as you said, forcing a smile, "It's been so long."

"Yeah, it is," Billy confirmed. "We haven't seen you around in Westview anymore. Do you live here now?"

"In New Jersey actually," you replied. "I'm just here for work."

"Wait, you work here?"

You shouldn't have said that but you nodded. "I teach Creative writing."

"No way," Billy said excitedly, clutching Tommy's arm. "We're actually planning to enroll here for College. Mom's at the lobby right now talking to the Dean. Tommy here hasn't fully decided yet on what course to take."

Upon the mention of Wanda's name, you immediately tensed, clutching your chest a bit harder, as if you forgot how to breathe.

"That's— That's great, you guys," you stuttered a reply. "You'll both gonna love it here."

"Wait, Mom's heading this way," Tommy said as he waved at someone from a distance.

Quick as lightning, you glanced at your wristwatch and moved a step backwards. "Shoot, I'm terribly sorry but I have to be somewhere five minutes ago. It's great to see you guys though."

"Oh, it's okay Y/n," Billy said. "We'll just see you later then."

YOU MUST have run like crazy after you left like you were really in a hurry. You had joined marathons in the past couple of years yet you weren't trained to avoid someone like this as fast as you could.

Your heart was still thudding so loud in your chest upon reaching your office. Closing and locking the door, you leaned your back against it as you closed your eyes and tried to regain your own breathing.

That was a close one, you thought.

"I didn't know you jog in your suit," Kate greeted, making you jump.

You opened your eyes and saw Kate on her table. You had completely forgotten you shared the office along with three other faculty members.

Exhaling heavily, you turned around to peep through the glass door. No sign of any brunette that had haunted your dreams.

"You okay?" You jumped again when Kate suddenly touched your shoulder.

"Sorry," you answered as you looked at her.

"Why so jumpy?" Kate gave you a concerned laugh.

"I- I just. . ."

Kate stopped laughing and held your shoulders. "Okay, breathe, Y/n."

It took you almost a minute to regain your normal breathing. Then you stepped away from your bestfriend and took a seat on the side of your desk.

"I just saw Tommy and Billy," you began breathlessly.

Kate waited but when you didn't add any more words, she asked, "Who are Tommy and Billy?"

"Wanda's twins," you replied.

Her brows furrowed deeper as she thought for a while. "Wait, Wanda the milf you hooked up with in college?"

You glared at her before she quickly apologized. "Sorry, but I also have eyes, Y/n, she was definitely a milf back then. But what are they doing here?"

"She's looking up universities and colleges for her boys."

"Does she know you work here?"

"Probably, I don't know. I just told Billy and Tommy though, so they probably told her."

And when you started to hyperventilate again upon the realization, Kate stepped forward.

"Look, calm down-"

"How am I supposed to calm down?"

"Because you're already safe, Y/n."

"What?"

"She can no longer threaten you for something that happened ten years ago. Gee, she might even have saggy skin that you would no longer recognize her."

Kate was right. You had your own apartment now. Your own car. Your own stable job. Plus, you were finally having your book published. You have built your own reputation here.

And you won't ever let her destroy that. She doesn't have the upper hand right now.

"You're right," you said, smiling. "I'm no longer a helpless student."

"Right, and if any, she'd be the one who's stupid to think she can actually scare you."

Kate had a point. You shouldn't be scared as you were ten years ago. That little old you did not exist anymore.

BUT WHEN the first person you saw the next morning standing outside your office was none other than the woman herself, it would seem that all the self assurance you did last night vanished at the sight of her.

And of course, she didn't have saggy skin like an old woman do. Wanda still looked like a goddess with perfect long brown hair and the mesmerizing greenest pair of eyes you have ever seen. She looked like she hadn't aged a bit. It was unfair.

When yours and her eyes met, you completely froze, as if you haven't gotten used to look at her like that. It used to end up with you screaming at her in your nightmares, for how cruel she was for making you both love and hate her.

"Y/n," Wanda called softly. And you hated to admit her voice still sound so angelic in your ears.

"Miss Stark," you greeted back, clutching the strap of your bag tighter, as if you needed it as a weapon in case she'd attack.

"I . . . I'm not anymore." She smiled shyly as she waved her fingers sporting no rings at all. "So you can still call me Wanda."

You simply just nodded back and wondered how you completely lost your voice.

"Ummm, my twins," Wanda began, noticing the awkward tension between the two of you. "Billy and Tommy, they told me you met them yesterday and I just missed you. We're still looking where they wanna go. But I think Tommy now likes it here because of a familiar face."

You tried not to overthink it. But Wanda's smile brought you shivers.

"What's he taking?" you managed to ask.

"Either Psychology or Biology."

You nodded, now avoiding her eyes. "Well, it's in another building, right after the entrance. You might have missed it, the pathway was covered with shrubs as tall as lamp posts."

Wanda swallowed as she nodded then shook her head. "Yes, no, I mean yes, I have been there this morning. I talked to them earlier before I got here. Do you know Dr. Hill? I kind of asked her about you and my, you're famous around here, she told me where your office is," she chuckled shakily, "and here we are."

You licked your lips nervously. "Yeah, here we are."

Wanda took a small step forward, her fingers appeared to be trembling. "I actually kind of wanted to talk to you about—"

And you immediately knew what she was going to speak about.

"It's a long time, Miss Maximoff. I kind of forgot about it now," you interrupted with a forced smile.

You knew Wanda tensed upon the mention of her maiden name. She hadn't heard you use that name before ever directed at her.

She smiled back rather forcefully as she nodded. "Right, right. Regardless, I just really want to apologize. What I did was so—"

"Heartless?" you suggested coyly.

She stopped and looked at you, her green eyes piercing right at you.

You chuckled as you stepped towards your office. "Believe me, my younger self would really hate you right now. But years have gone by, let's just forgive and forget as the saying goes."

After inserting the key into the keyhole, you entered the office rather hurriedly. But a soft delicate hand grabbed your wrist, stopping you. She pulled away instantly and you cursed youself for feeling disappointed, for wanting to touch her.

"If it's not any bother, Y/n. Can we have this talk over some coffee? You know, catch up with all those years that passed. I . . . You’re having your book published and I'm really excited for you—"

"Really preoccupied right now," you butted in, forcing a frown. "Sorry-"

"Not right now." She laughed as she went on. "Me and the twins were actually staying at The Avengers hotel just right around the corner just beside this-"

"Yeah, I know where that is."

Wanda nodded. "How about tonight then?"

"Tonight," you appeared to be in thought, "I got to be somewhere." And you knew you really sounded like you were only making things up just to avoid spending time with her. You still hoped Wanda would catch that.

But she didn't.

"Okay, how about tomorrow then? Tommy will be looking forward to talk with you about this university. I'm also kind of thinking if I should rent him an apartment or apply him to the dormitory, whatever suggestion you have will be greatly appreciated."

God. You had no idea how Wanda could get so desperate.

"Okay, sure. Sure," you finally relented, wanting to just get rid of her.

This brought a genuine huge smile on Wanda's face as she reiterated what time and if she could get your number. You gave her a fake one, although it appeared only as a typo.

SOMEHOW, Wanda still figured out later that night and you received a message from an unknown number you knew was from her.

See you tomorrow :)

But you didn't go the next day, as promised.

Even the next day after that, as you replied you couldn't to her messages. At least, you were still nice to respond back.

"I HEARD some hot lady was looking for you," Kate teased the moment you entered the office one morning. It had been a week since your last encounter with Wanda.

The other faculty member, Yelena laughed. "Look, I didn't know who she was when I bumped into her. I might have hit on her but that's besides the point."

You completely ignored them as they went on laughing.

Kate added, "Okay, from now on, when you guys see Wanda, you should tell her to get lost."

You turned this time. "Nobody would do such a thing."

Kate frowned. "Don't tell me you've already gone soft for her. Do you even remember what you went through—"

"I do, unfortunately I still do, Kate. But I don't want it to appear as if she still affects me that much."

"Hate to burst your bubble Y/n, but why are you still avoiding her?" Yelena asked after a small pause, noticing you nervously taking a seat at your desk. "I mean if you want to move on from someone, you need to have closure."

Kate disagreed. "There needs to be no closure between them. Wanda doesn't deserve that. She deserves to rot in hell for what she did."

"And I wish for that too, Kate," you said. "But nothing good comes out of it, it's been ten years."

"Well, do it for yourself then," Yelena suggested.

"What?"

"Closure for yourself, not for her."

IT WAS finally nighttime when you reached your apartment. It wasn't a shady area, you had grown accustomed to it. But you were still cautious.

You knew you could afford a much safer place but it would have to do for the meantime. You were saving up for a house someday in the suburbs, far from the city, with white picket fence and small little feet running around the backyard. Although, it would require someone special to spend that life with and you had not been active on that part. The gods above wouldn't just send you an angel to love, readily available for you. Life doesn't work like that.

The guard stopped you the moment you almost hopped into the elevator of your apartment building.

"Some woman was looking for you, Miss Y/l/n," he said, straightening his eyeglasses. "I think her name starts with one, but I couldn't remember if it's one the number or something else."

You sighed, immediately knowing. Then you stepped out the elevator. "Did you tell her where I live?"

He shook his head. "No. I told her to text you and wait."

"But we have no waiting area?"

"I think she went inside that coffee shop across the street."

BUT SHE wasn't in there when you went to check. The shop was barely empty with last few customers for the day.

"Y/n," the barrista named Christine called. You were a regular in that shop, having to buy coffees every day before you go to work. "Some lady was looking for you."

She said it with a flirty smile, but you hadn't really noticed it until Kate pointed it out one time she visited your apartment and you both decided to get coffee.

"Yeah?" You were hopeful, but glancing around, not a familiar brunette could be seen.

"But she was also looking for alcohol and we don't serve them," she explained. "She probably went to Hydra's bar, I think it's still open."

You knew then to go after her, suddenly panicking as you grew worried for the older woman. You're still a human. You still care for her.

And right you were, there was a commotion inside the bar as two men appeared to be in a heated argument with Wanda on the counter.

"I already told you I'm not interested," you heard Wanda snap drunkenly, although she had no success in getting the men's hands off her.

Growing furious at them, you quickly stomped towards the counter. "Hey, Mom! You're here," you said, forcing a smile.

"Mom?" one of the men asked, making him disinterested and step back. "I didn't know you're already a mother."

You pulled Wanda from the counter as you paid the bartender. He only smiled apologetically your way.

The other man maintained his stance. "Don't worry. I could handle you being a milf."

But you shoved him away, making him lose his balance and stagger until he fell on the floor.

Anger filled you as you hurriedly made your way to the exit with Wanda in tow. She was holding unto you tight, although the way she was swaying, made you wonder if she had waited for you for a long time and had a couple more drinks.

"Mom? I like that." She giggled. "You hadn't called me that for years and outside the bedroom."

Your face flushed red as you carefully crossed the street and led her to your apartment.

"You smell so good, Y/n," she went on, her head on your neck and hand cupping your face, as she laughed heartily. Then her nose leaned in and sniffed you noisily, lips barely touching your skin bringing goosebumps. "I miss you terribly."

Quickly apologizing, you climbed off her and hurriedly went to your drawers.

You had managed to carry her into your apartment. Once you had placed her unto your bed with difficulty, her eyes opened wider as if waking up when both of your faces were merely inches away. You even staggered from her grasp, falling right down on top of her. It would seem others would see this as coupling. You panted breathlessly as your gazes met, your arms holding yourself on each side of her head while hers wrapped around your neck, bodies pressing against each other. Oh, how you miss her too.

Although very against your will, you lent some of your fresh clothes for her to wear for the night. And she looked so much beautiful with her in it as she made her way to your bed. You could feel her eyes at you on the comforter on the floor but you stayed silent, wanting her to understand how you want nothing to do with her. This was just a nice gesture, nothing more.

As you slept, you dreamed about that one night she saved you.

Now you completely don't owe her anything anymore.

#wanda angst #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen

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marginofthought · 4 months ago

Text

I know we've talked about Sam's interest in serial killers but Dean's follow up is much better

Oh yeah, bass-fishing and needlepoint, the two most common hobbies there are.

Of course Dean had to pick something super "feminine" as an option for Sam. He could've said reading or jogging or whatever else but no, it has to be needlepoint (he might as well have said doing his makeup or something like it)

#sam winchester #dean winchester #feminized!sam #supernatural #samdean #spn #season 10 #spn s10 #s10e14 #The Executioner's Song #gencest #weirdcest

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 11 months ago

Text

Imagine...Meeting Dean On A Bad Day

Summary: The reader is dropping her brother off at college when she bumps into a stranger who makes a very awkward assumption...

Pairing: Dean x reader

_______

“So where’s orientation again?” asked Lonnie, scrolling through his phone. You rolled your eyes and dug some papers out of your bag, handing them to him. “What’s that?”

“A campus map doofus and you orientation schedule. I told you to print it. Wifi on campus can be shitty,” you said.

“Yes mom,” he said, making a show out of it.

“Freshman orientation is over in Jub Hall. Giant banner in front of it on the quad. Can’t miss it,” said a guy walking past.

“Thanks,” said Lonnie, taking the papers and jogging off.

“I’ll meet you back here for dinner!” you shouted.

“Yeah see ya!” he said, running off. You shook your head, the guy smiling.

“It’s a great school. He’ll like it here,” said the young guy. You smiled, taking a deep breath. “First one?”

“Hm?”

“First kid at college?” You narrowed your eyes and dropped your jaw, the guy swallowing.

“You think I’m his mom? I’m his sister. He was being sarcastic.” You scoffed and headed back for the parking lot, the guy groaning. “Yeah I look old enough to be his mother, thanks a lot.”

“No, no I was thinking must have been a teen...” he trailed off as you spun around. “Preg...”

“Oh so I’m not older, just a teen mom. Got it.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I just...sorry.” He took off past you and you calmed down for a minute before walking to your car. You had to laugh when you saw the guy kicking a flat tire at the car next to yours. He looked up and sighed. “Today’s not my day.”

“It’s fine. I get it,” you said, tossing a few empty boxes in the back of your SUV. “Lonnie is my kid brother. I take care of him.”

“I got a little brother myself. He’s in the law school here.”

“Moving him in?”

“No. I uh, I work here. Worked here,” he said. “Department cuts.”

“For how much they’re charging tuition I would hope that’s not true.”

“Didn’t like the job very much anyways,” he said.

“You need a ride or...”

“Nah I got a spare in the trunk. Like I said, just not my day.”

“Well I have a feeling my brother is ditching me for dinner tonight. First round’s on me for your shitty day.”

“I’m the one that should be buying you one after assuming.”

“You can buy me one after. Unless you’re gonna call me old again.” He smiled, cocking his head. “Don’t push it.”

“Elk Tavern has some pretty good food.”

“Elk Tavern is a very nice restaurant.”

“Good. So you’re local.”

“Never said I wasn’t. There you go assuming things again, pretty boy.”

“I assume we can get that drink over dinner?” You rolled your eyes, leaning back against your car. “Come on. At least my day won’t be completely shitty that way.”

“Alright. Elk Tavern. Eight.” You started to turn and head towards the door when you paused. “Put the reservation under Impala.”

He smirked, stepping aside as you backed out.

“What’s your number? Or you know, name,” he asked when you shifted into drive. You smiled, the guy raising an eyebrow. “Oh that’s how you’re gonna play it?”

“If you want the answer to that you better fix that tire in time for your date.”

“Alright sassy. But I want that number after you inevitably fall for my charm tonight. Deal?”

“You got a deal casanova,” you laughed. “See you later.”

“Not such a crappy day after all,” he said before you drove off grinning.

_______

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xoxoavenger · 4 months ago

Text

Heat of the Moment

pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

summary: Sam's stuck in a time loop, watching not only Dean die but also Y/N's reaction to it. Every. Single. Day. (Mystery Spot Rewrite)

word count: 11227 (this took literally almost 6 hours just to write I thought it could be done for Groundhog Day but holy fuck)

warnings: major character death (lol), cannon typical gore, time loop, not proofread bc I finished this four hours before I have to wake up

main masterlist

Day 1

Sam shoots straight up, and from her space in the bathroom, Y/N smiles around her toothpaste. She spits it out as Dean turns up the music, making her way out of the bathroom to pack up and let the boys in to get ready.

"Got your gun?" Y/N asks when they're about to walk through the door. Dean makes a face and turns right back around, digging through his bag.

"He'd forget his head if you weren't here." Sam says under his breath, but Dean still hears it. He grabs one of Y/N's bras and holds it up, causing her eyes to widen.

"I think Sammy accidentally put his clothes in our bag, sweetheart." He smiles at the two of them, who are both giving him bitch faces for different reasons. "Ha!" He laughs, grabbing his gun and dropping the bra.

"Let's go, douchebag." Y/N rolls her eyes as she lets him go through the door first, smacking his ass and grinning as he flinches.

"I wasn't kidding earlier. I will kill myself." Sam threatens, but when Y/N looks up he has a small smile on his face.

"Go get breakfast, you mammoth-man." She tells him as she locks the door. He smiles, turning to follow his brother. Y/N isn't far behind, jogging to catch up to Dean and grab his hand.

They walk into the diner, sitting in a small booth that they barely fit in but Dean insists (they all know it's so he can sit as close as possible to Y/N).

"Why do you have to make up an excuse? You share a bed with her because she's your goddamn girlfriend. I think you can handle sitting two feet away at the breakfast bar." Sam argues.

"You're on the other side anyway, Sam. You don't have to complain." She tells him as she looks up at the menu. Sam rolls his eyes, and Y/N takes a deep breath. She loves the brothers, she really does, but they drive her crazy sometimes.

"Hey, Tuesday. Pig 'n a poke." Dean gestures up at the menu. Y/N furrows her brows, trying to get more information.

"Do you even know what that is?" Sam asks, and Dean doesn't have a good answer to this. Luckily, their waitress comes up to greet them, and Y/N smiles up at her.

"Are you three ready?" She asks with a smile. She's an older lady, with dark, short hair curled in an oldies style to match the bright yellow uniform.

"Yes! I'll have the special, a side of bacon, and a coffee." Dean orders, then turns to Y/N.

"Can I order lunch for breakfast?" Y/N asks, and the waitress sighs.

"I would let ya, but our kitchen isn't set up for it." She says it kindly, and Y/N nods.

"I'll just have coffee, then." The waitress jots it down, and they turn to Sam, who orders his coffee and pancakes. "You got it." The waitress says, and leaves them be. While the boys start to argue about Bela, Y/N looks around the diner. It seems like just a normal, old-fashioned diner, but something in her gut is telling her that this place isn't what it seems.

"Where the laws of physics have no meaning?" Dean asks, reading off the pamphlet Sam handed over. Y/N focuses back in, seeing 'Mystery Spot' on the front.

"This town has a mystery spot?" Y/N asks, grabbing the pamphlet from Dean. Sam shrugs, the boys looking up as the waitress comes back with their coffees. She spills the hot sauce, which ends up getting on Dean because of how far out in the booth he is. Sam can't help his small smile, and Y/N can already feel a headache coming on from this day.

After breakfast, the three walk through town, Y/N looking at the Mystery Spot pamphlet.

"Sweetheart, you're wasting your time. Places like this are just tourist traps." Dean says, gently grabbing the pamphlet from her hands. She frowns, snatching it back.

"There are plenty of places in the world that have strange occurrences that aren't tourist traps." She argues, looking over at Sam for some help.

"There's the Bermuda Triangle, The Oregon Vortex. This could be one of them." Sam defends, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"The Broward County Mystery Spot?" He asks as if it's the stupidest suggestion he's ever heard of.

"It could be? How would you know if you haven't even gone there?" Y/N asks, and Dean takes the pamphlet once more.

"Alright, let's say I believe this. What's the lore?" He's looking down at the pamphlet, and Y/N's looking over at Sam, so neither of them see the blonde who walks right into Dean.

"Excuse me." She says, but Y/N's already turning around. She's used to people hitting on Dean - she's not blind, of course she knows her boyfriend is attractive. But it doesn't make her happy, and usually Dean doesn't do much to stop it before it's too late.

"Hey!" She yells, but Dean's grabbing her arm before she can march over to the blonde chick and ask if she was born yesterday, because she clearly doesn't know how to walk.

"Come on," Dean says quietly, which enrages Y/N even more.

"Seriously?" She asks, talking her hand from Dean's arm. They all start walking again, Sam looking ahead to make sure no one is about to witness the nuclear fight that's about to occur.

"Sweetheart, she ran into me on accident. We don't need to start a fight over that." Dean tries to calm her down, but Y/N isn't having it.

"That's the thing, Dean. You never even stop it. I'm always the one that has to say something." Y/N isn't even sure why they're having this fight right here, right now, but she doesn't want to have to keep it in anymore.

"Does it really matter? You and I both know that I'm yours. I thought you trusted me enough to know I wouldn't just do that." Dean seems actually hurt, which makes Y/N even more mad.

"You clearly don't understand." She huffs, fighting the urge to walk ahead of the bothers. Instead, she looks over the Sam. "So, what's the lore?" She asks, as if they didn't just have a fight.

"Uh," Sam scrambles to recover. "They say these places can bend space and time, sending victims anywhere, or when, I guess."

"That sounds like X-Files." Dean grumbles, clearly still not over the fight. Y/N rolls her eyes.

"Our life is basically X-Files." She argues as they walk past two guys struggling to get a piano through a door. They all stare for a moment, then get back to the conversation.

"Alright, look. I'm not saying that's what's really happening. But if it is, we gotta check it out, see if we can do something." Sam tells them, and Y/N nods.

"Alright, alright. We'll go tonight, after they close, get ourselves a nice, long look." Dean agrees, and Y/N nods.

"Great, see you tonight then." She makes to turn left when the brothers turn right to go back to the hotel.

"Where are you goin'?" Dean asks, pausing just before he crosses the street.

"I need some space. I'll meet you there an hour after close, promise." She says, then walks away. Sam turns to Dean, who's frowning as he watches his girlfriend walk away.

"Dude, you've got to learn how to apologize." Sam says with a sigh, starting to cross the street.

"Shut up!"

Y/N's waiting at the Mystery Spot an hour after close, like she promised. The boys nod to her, and Dean hands her a flashlight before they walk in. There's tons of wacky rooms, but they don't find anything interesting.

"Wow. Uncanny." Dean says after they walk through a green and black spiral hallway and into a room with furniture on the ceiling. Sam's scanning for EMF, and Y/N's looking around for anything other than these random attractions that only give her the spooks because of the dark.

"Find anything?" She asks Sam.

"No." The younger brother answers. She keeps looking around, but she has no idea what the hell they're even trying to find in this place. She's crouched down, looking underneath things just to satisfy Sam at this point.

"Do you have any idea what you're looking for?" Dean asks, seemingly giving up even pretending to check the attractions.

"Uh, yeah." Sam says unconvincingly.

"Don't lie, Sammy." Y/N sighs as she stands, looking over at the boys.

"No, I don't." Sam amends, and Dean shakes his head. The two haven't talked since that morning, when they fought, but Y/N knows that by tonight it'll all be find. They just needed some time.

"What the hell are you doing here?" A man rasps quickly from behind them. Y/N gasps as her heart tries to escape her throat, the two boys pulling their guns quickly. She reaches into her waistband before she remembers that she left her's at the hotel that mooring, thinking she was going to go back. Shit.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. We can explain." Dean says, seeing the man has a gun. He looks over at Y/N, who pulls her lips in when he realizes she doesn't have a gun.

"You robbing me?" The man asks, swinging his gun to Sam.

"Nobody's robbing you," Y/N tries, the gun swinging to her.

"Calm down!" Dean shouts, trying to get the gun back on him. He has his hands up, and Y/N can tell he's a little more worried because she doesn't have her gun. God, she's so stupid.

"Don't move. Don't move!" The man yells, but Dean continues to move, keeping the gun on him.

"I'm just putting the gun down." Dean explains, but the man is firing the gun, and Y/N screams as she watches the bullet hit Dean's chest. He falls backward, and she rushes to him and drops to her knees, forgetting all about the gun.

"Dean!" She shrieks, picking his torso off the ground and putting it in her lap. He's struggling to breathe, his eyes not even seeing her.

"Call 9-1-1!" Sam tells the man, rushing to Dean's other side.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

"Do it!" Y/N screams at the same time Sam yells "Now!"

"Hey," Sam says to Dean as he starts to choke on his own blood. Y/N knows that there's nothing they can do, that the bullet clearly went through his lungs and now Dean's last moments on this earth are going to be full of pain. He doesn't deserve this.

"Dean, hey," She whispers, watching his eyes finally meet hers. "No, you can't do this, come on, we never had makeup sex." She's trying to joke, trying to make his last minutes bareable, but even though he smiles slightly she can see the panic flooding his eyes. As the light leaves them, and Y/N's tears start to fall, she realizes that she's going to go to Hell to get him back, because their story can't end that way.

"Y/N," Sam whispers, causing her eyes to flick to his.

"This can't be happening." She says, so soft and yet so full of pain that Sam's heart breaks into a million little pieces.

Day 2

Sam looks a little lost as he walks in, staring between Dean and Y/N like he thinks they may be monsters.

"Are you okay, Sam?" Y/N asks as she leans on the doorframe, watching her boyfriend gargle water like a toddler.

"I don't know." Sam says as Dean spits out his water. The couple makes eye contact, confused by this answer. "Man, I had a weird dream." Sam finally settles on, and Y/N nods as she goes back to their bag to finish packing.

"Don't forget your gun!" Y/N calls before Dean can walk out the door.

"Dean doesn't usually forget his gun." Sam mutters, and Y/N turns to the younger brother.

"Are you sure you're alright, Sammy?" Y/N asks as Dean digs through their bag.

"Are you bringing your gun?" Sam dodges the question, and Y/N furrows her brows.

"I never bring my gun to breakfast." She says, watching Sam's face for a few seconds until Dean walks through the door.

"Come on, sweetheart. Sammy, you lock up." Dean says as he grabs Y/N's hand. She tosses the keys to Sam, who turns toward the door.

They walk into the diner, choosing a booth. Y/N looks up at the menu, wondering if they'll let her order lunch for breakfast.

"Hey, Tuesday. Pig 'n a poke." Dean gestures up at the menu. Y/N furrows her brows, trying to get more information.

"It's Tuesday?" Sam asks, and Y/N turns to look at him.

"Yeah." Dean nods, his forehead slightly crinkled as Sam looks a little worried.

"Are you three ready?" The waitress comes up and asks with a smile. Y/N smiles back at her.

"Yes! I'll have the special, a side of bacon, and a coffee." Dean orders, then turns to Y/N.

"Can I order lunch for breakfast?" Y/N asks, and the waitress sighs.

"I would let ya, but our kitchen isn't set up for it." She says it kindly, and Y/N nods.

"I'll just have coffee, then." Y/N smiles, and they all turn to Sam.

"Uh, nothing for me. Thanks." Sam says, causing Y/N to furrow her brows.

"Let me know if you change your mind." The waitress says, and leaves them be. While the boys start to argue about Bela, Y/N looks around the diner. It seems like just a normal, old-fashioned diner, but something in her gut is telling her that this place isn't what it seems.

"Hey!" Dean snaps his fingers, and Y/N turns to see that he's snapping them at his brother, who seems to still be out of it. "You with me?"

"What?" Sam asks, and Y/N feels like something is off. Clearly, Sam isn't fine.

"Are you sure you feel okay?" Dean asks, leaning forward.

"You don't... You guys don't remember any of this?" He asks the two of them. Y/N and Dean look at each other, then back at Sam.

"Remember what?" Dean questions, and Y/N can't help but let her mouth hang slightly open, because she thinks Sam may have lost a couple marbles.

"This. Today. Like - like it's - like it's happened before?" He clarifies, which really only serves to make things muddier.

"Are you talking about déjà vu?" Y/N asks, hoping Sam just didn't get a good night of sleep.

"No. I mean like it's - like it's really happened before." Sam seems very intent on this, and Y/N just stares.

"Yeah, like déjà vu." Dean says with a nod.

"No, forget about déjà vu! I'm asking you if it feels like-like we're living yesterday all over again." Sam looks very agitated now, and Y/N looks at Dean, who she knows is about to talk about déjà vu again.

"Maybe you just need some sleep, Sam." Y/N suggests. Sam looks at her, as if remembering something, but before she can ask the waitress come back over with their coffees. The hot sauce teeters off the edge of the platter, but Sam catches it. Y/N blinks as this happens, but Dean smiles.

"Nice reflexes." He compliments, but Sam is staring at Y/N.

"What?" She asks, but he shakes his head. They eat the rest of their meal in peace, as if Sam hadn't fully admitted to being crazy, before they take a walk outside.

"Are you guys sure that today is Tuesday?" Sam asks, and Y/N takes a deep breath as they pass a barking dog.

"Sam, what the hell are you on about?" She asks, watching him look around as if everything was out to get him.

"Okay, look. Yesterday was Tuesday, right?" He asks, and Y/N and Dean both look at each other once more (Y/N's lost count of how many 'your brother is crazy' looks she's given him). "But today is Tuesday, too." He sounds out of his mind, and Y/N is genuinely starting to get worried.

"Yeah, no. Good. You're totally balanced." Dean says.

"So you don't don't believe me?" Sam practically yells. They both turn to him, missing a blonde lady come out of nowhere and run into Dean.

"Excuse me." She says, but Y/N's already turning around.

"He-" She barely makes a sound before Sam's hand covers her mouth, turning her around and getting them to start walking again. "What the hell?" She asks, pushing Sam off.

"Look, I'm just saying that it's crazy, you know?" Dean gets back on track, briefly distracting Y/N from the fight she was about to start. "Even-for-us crazy. Dingo-ate-my-baby crazy." Dean says.

"Dingo at my baby?" Y/N repeats, looking over to Dean. "Maybe it was a premonition?" She offers before getting too off track.

"No. No way. Way too vivid." Sam shakes his head. "We were at the Mystery Spot, and then," But he trails off.

"And then what?" Dean asks, but Sam looks down at Y/N.

"Then I woke up." He says as they walk by two men arguing about a piano, but Y/N knows he's not telling the full truth. "Wait a minute! The mastery spot. You think maybe it," He trails off again, and Y/N wants to shake him.

"Maybe what?" Dean asks.

"We gotta check that place out." Sam says, but Dean does't seem convinced. "Just go with me on this." Sam begs.

"Alright, alright. We'll go tonight, after they close, get ourselves a nice, long look." Dean agrees, and Y/N nods.

"Wait, what?" Sam stops them, and Y/N turns on the sidewalk to face them. "No." He says, as if it's a terrible idea.

"Why not? You suggested it." Y/N argues.

"Uh," Sam looks at Y/N, as if for help, but she has no idea what he needs. "Let's just go now. Right now. Business hours. Nice and crowded." He says instead, and Y/N blinks.

"My God, you're a freak." Dean says, and Y/N drops her jaw to try to stop from laughing, hitting Dean's arm.

"Dean!" She says, looking at Sam's bitch face.

"Okay! Whatever. We'll go now." He agrees, walking past Y/N and Sam.

"Y/N," Sam keeps her from following Dean so close, the two of them walking a bit behind him as he steps into the road.

"What? Are you sure you're okay?" Y/N asks once more, but Sam doesn't answer but a car speeds through the stop sign and hits Dean, who was only a few feet in front of them. Y/N watches his body go flying before landing face down.

"Dean!" Sam yells, and the two of them race over to his body. "No, no, no." He begs as Y/N flips his body over, holding his bloody face in her hands. He's struggling to breathe, but only for a couple moments before he's not breathing anymore.

"Dean?" Y/N whispers, shaking him slightly. "Dean!" She screams, tears starting to fall down her face.

"Y/N," Sam looks over at her with an unreadable expression, but she doesn't care because Dean is dead.

"This can't be happening." She says, and Sam's eyes widen.

Day 3

"I'm in a time loop." Sam says quietly, not getting out of bed. Y/N pauses, looking over to him.

"What?" She asks, but Sam glares at her.

"This has happened before. This all has happened before." He gets up, and Y/N nods slowly.

"Alright. Why don't we go get some breakfast, and you can tell us about it then." She suggests, which seems to calm him down a little bit.

Y/N reminds Dean to grab his gun, not grabbing hers, and then they're off the breakfast.

"Hey, Tuesday. Pig 'n a poke." Dean gestures up at the menu. Y/N furrows her brows, trying to get more information.

"Would you listen to me, Dean? Cause I am flipping out." Sam says lowly, and Y/N and Dean look at each other before looking back at Sam.

"Are you three ready?" The waitress comes up and asks with a smile. Y/N smiles back at her.

"He'll take the special, side of bacon, and they both want coffee. Nothing for me, thanks." Sam says quickly. Y/N's eyes widen.

"You got it." The waitress turns and leaves, and Y/N looks over at Sam.

"I wanted lunch." She complains with a small pout, but Sam doesn't seem to care.

"They don't do lunch this early, the kitchen isn't set up yet." He's still speaking fast, and it's starting to upset Y/N.

"You don't know that." She argues, and Sam finally looks her dead in the eye.

"Yes, I do. That's what I've been trying to tell you guys. I'm stuck in a time loop." Sam insists, and Y/N nods.

"Like Groundhog Day." Dean suggests, as if this is crazy.

"Yes. Exactly like Groundhog Day." Sam seems happy with this, and Y/N knows that her boyfriend does not believe him at all.

"Uh-huh." Dean's almost smiling, and she sighs.

"So you don't believe me." Sam says, as if it's the most believable thing in the world. Dean laughs at this.

"It's - It's a little crazy. Even-for-us crazy. Ya know like, uh,"

"Dingo-ate-my-baby crazy?" Sam finishes the sentence, and Y/N's eyes widen.

"How'd you know I was gonna say that?" Dean asks, as if Sam hasn't been explaining it the whole time.

"Because you've said it before, Dean. That's my whole point." Sam says, and Y/N's starting think that maybe Sam's not crazy. The waitress come back over with their coffees. The hot sauce teeters off the edge of the platter, but Sam catches it. Y/N blinks as this happens, but Dean smiles.

"Nice reflexes." He says, but Sam looks like a kicked puppy because Dean doesn't believe him.

"No. I know it was gonna happen." Sam argues. Y/N sighs as she takes a sip of her coffee before putting it down.

"I'm not saying we don't believe you, Sam, but I'm sure there's some sort of explanation for this." Y/N says, and Sam's eyes snap to her.

"I'm sure there is." He says cooly, and Y/N flinches back.

"I haven't done anything yet. This is the first Tuesday I've lived through this week, sorry." She says, rolling her eyes at Sam's attitude.

"Alright, everyone calm down." Dean suggests and this fires both Y/N and Sam up.

"Don't tell me to calm down! I can't calm down because," Sam stops, and he looks between Y/N and Dean.

"Because what?" Dean asks, waiting for the answer.

"Because you die today, Dean." Sam says, and it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

"I'm not gonna die. Not today." Dean says, as if this is an idiotic thing to say and Sam is just trying to get a rise out of him.

"Twice now, we've watched you die." Sam says, looping Y/N in on this even though she hasn't been going through the time loop with him. "And I can't. I won't do it again, okay?" Sam's voice is low, and Dean sits back at this. He can tell his brother is serious. Sam looks over at Y/N, who's staring back at him. "You're just gonna have to believe me. Please."

"Alright. I think still think you're nuts, but," He nods a couple times. "Okay. Whatever this is, we'll figure it out." Dean promises, just as his food comes to the table.

After breakfast, they take a walk outside, back to the hotel. Sam pushes his way to be on Y/N's left, even though Dean's always on the left, but she lets him. A girl bumps into him, and Y/N turns to eye her before continuing walking. They're talking about the Mystery Spot, about why Sam thinks it's the root of the entire problem. The brothers are fighting, and Y/N is tired of it.

"Alright! Let's just go tonight after they close." She says, but clearly this was not the right thing to say.

"No, no, no, no!" Sam says, looking at her like she's crazy. "We can't." They're standing on the sidewalk now, Y/N turned to face the other two.

"Why not?" Dean asks, and Sam takes a deep breath.

"Because you," He starts, and Y/N realizes immediately what Sam is trying to say.

"I what?" Dean asks, and Y/N rolls her eyes.

"You die there." She says, causing Sam to scowl at her. She squints instead of asking what his problem is, because clearly he has a lot.

"Okay then, let's go now." Dean says, walking off the sidewalk and onto the street. Sam knocks Y/N over as he grabs Dean, stopping him from being hit by a car that's blowing through a stop sign. Y/N's elbow is bleeding, but otherwise she thinks she's fine, and Dean is fine too.

"What the hell?" She grumbles as she stands, going over to Dean and Sam.

"Did it look cool, like in the movies?" Dean asks, and Y/N rolls her eyes and she holds her elbow.

"You peed yourself." Sam says, and she starts laughing.

"Of course I peed myself. A man gets hit by a car, you think he has full control over his bladder? Come on!" Dean asks, before looking at Y/N. "You alright, sweetheart?" He asks, and Y/N nods even though she can feel the blood staining the long sleeve she has on.

"What the hell was that, Sam?" She asks, turning to him.

"I was saving Dean." Sam argues, mood soured even more.

"You didn't have to push me to the ground!" She argues, and Dean snaps his head to her.

"Why are you pushing her, man?" He asks, stepping closer to Sam.

"Let's just go." Sam mutters, knowing he won't win this. "Don't forget your gun this time, Y/N." Sam calls as he crosses the street. Y/N turns to Dean, who grabs her hand and crosses the street with her.

"I don't know what he's on about, I never forget my gun."

"I hate to say it, but that place is exactly what I thought - it's full of crap." Dean says as they walk the same walk they had been in the morning. It's dark now, and they had spent the day at the Mystery Spot trying to figure something out. They had gotten absolutely nowhere, which doesn't bode well for Sam.

"So what is it, then, Dean?" Sam is clearly freaking out, and Y/N is exhausted of all this. "What the hell is happening to us?"

"I don't know." Dean says lowly, and Y/N knows he's exhausted of this too. "Alright, let me just - so, every day I die." Dean states. Y/N has half a mind of just continuing on to the hotel.

"Yeah," Sam confirms.

"That's when you wake up again, right?" Dean asks, and Sam looks over at Y/N. She has no clue why he keeps doing this, but it's driving her crazy.

"Yeah," He says finally.

"So, let's just make sure I don't die." Dean says, as if it's obvious. "If I make it to tomorrow, then maybe the loop stops and we can figure all this out."

"Great, I love this plan. Can we go to bed now?" Y/N asks, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him along.

"Let's get some take out. Who want's Chinese?" The words are barely out of his mouth with a rope snaps, and Y/N turns to see Dean's body flattened underneath a piano. Blood is everywhere, and his head has been decapitated. She's so shocked, she can't do anything but stare.

"Y/N, wait!" Sam calls, and she looks up at him.

"This can't be happening." She whispers, and Sam lets out a yell as everything goes black.

Day 4

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam yells, and Y/N's eyes widen as Sam crowds her.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, but Sam doesn't care about whatever threats his brother his about to make.

"I know it's you. I know you're doing this. And I get it, okay. I don't like it either. But if I have to listen to that song one more goddamn time!" Sam is in Y/N's face, and she looks terrified.

"What are you talking about?" She asks, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Don't play dumb! I know you're behind the time loop! Look, we can stop Dean from dying, but you have to work with me and stop doing this!" Sam begs, and Dean finally pulls Sam back.

"What the hell are you on about, man?" Dean asks, getting between Sam and Y/N.

"I am stuck in a time loop where you die every day and Y/N is causing it!" Sam accuses, and the two of them stare at him as if he's crazy.

"How!" Y/N shrieks, coming out from behind Dean's back. "How would I even be doing that?"

"I," Sam pauses, because he actually hadn't thought that far. "I don't know. But every time Dean dies, you say the same thing." He says, and Y/N takes a deep breath.

"Great. Good deduction work, Sam." She says, and now he's starting to doubt himself. But if it isn't Y/N, and it isn't the Mystery Spot, then what is it? "I'm going to get some food." She tells the two of them, walking out the door.

"Don't forget your gun." Sam says weakly, and she turns sharply to him.

"I never bring my gun to breakfast." She grumbles, making a point not to grab it before walking out the door.

"What the hell is your problem?" Dean asks, more angry than Sam's seen him in awhile.

"I have watched you die over and over, Dean." Sam says, but Dean is still pissed off.

"That doesn't mean you go after my girlfriend, bitch." Dean says, leaving the room without grabbing his gun.

Sam wishes he was surprised when Y/N comes running into the room, tears streaming down her face as she tells Sam that Dean choked on his breakfast.

"This can't be happening." Y/N whispers through her tears, and Sam just lays back in his bed, thinking you have no idea.

Day 5

"No going out today!" Sam says, making everyone pause. Dean turns the music off, then looks at his brother.

"Alright, I know you've been pretty upset lately, but,"

"I'm trapped in a time loop." He says quickly. "No, it's not déjà vu. No, I'm not going crazy. You die every day. We can't go get breakfast because you'll choke on your food. We can't check out the Mystery Spot after hours, because you get shot. We can't go during the day, because you get hit by a car. And even if we narrowly avoid those two fates, a piano crushes and decorates you. So you are gonna sit in this hotel room, and we are going to get to tomorrow." Sam tells Dean, then finally looks at Y/N. They're both looking at him like he's crazy.

"I'm taking a shower." Dean says simply, getting up and looking at Y/N. "Can you please un-crazy him?" He asks, before shutting the door to the bathroom and turning the water on.

"Are you on drugs?" Y/N asks, because it's the only thing she can think of. Sam sighs, shaking his head.

"I know how it sounds, okay. But I swear, it doesn't matter what we do, Dean ends up dying and the day restarts. It's an endless stream of Tuesdays." He puts his head in his hands, and Y/N frowns.

"Well, something had to of caused it. Do you know what it is?" Y/N asks, sitting on the bed next to him. She's not sure she fully believes him, but they also hunt demons and monsters for a living and her boyfriend has a death sentence that ends in hell which saved Sam's life, so she can't say he's completely crazy.

"At first, I thought it was you, somehow. But yesterday I called you out and realized that it wasn't." Sam admits, and Y/N narrows her eyes.

"Why would you think I had something to do with this?" She asks, a little hurt.

"Because Dean kept dying and you always say the same thing after he dies. I thought you somehow made a deal or something to try and get him back, but for some reason this is the day he dies." Sam says the words with pain lacing his voice, because he doesn't want to give up trying to save Dean's life. As much as he hates watching Dean die over and over again, he'll go through it if the end means he'd save Dean's life.

"Ahh!" They hear Dean's yell from the bathroom, along with a loud thud. Y/N's eyes widen, and she looks over to Sam. He thinks they're going to go look at the body, that she'll want to confirm that Dean's really dead, but instead she grabs his arm, hand shaking in terror.

"This can't be happening." She says, and Sam's mouth drops open just as the world goes black.

Day 6

"Let's order in breakfast." Sam suggests on a whim, hoping to keep Dean inside without setting him off. He has no idea what causes the deaths, or why they happen at different times, but he can't figure it out if Dean keeps dying at the beginning of each day.

"There's a good diner down the road, why don't we just go there?" Y/N asks as she zips her bag, turning to the boys.

"I just really want tacos." Sam lies, and it's a stupid lie but he needs them to stay in.

"I could go for tacos." Dean shrugs, and Y/N sighs, knowing she's lost this battle. They drive to the drive-thru (because Sam insists he cannot go inside and doesn't want to sit on those chairs, they aren't made for men of his size) and take the tacos back to the hotel. Once they're all spread out, Sam can breathe a little easier.

"So, are you ever going to explain why we had to get tacos instead of going to the diner?" Y/N asks as she bites into her taco. She stares at Sam as she chews, but her face turns as something wrong hits her taste buds.

"Do these tacos taste funny to you?" Dean asks, mouth full.

The only good thing, Sam thinks as he watches Y/N slump against the table only seconds before Dean does, is that he doesn't have to hear Y/N's heart shattering whisper again.

Day 7

"Dean!" Y/N screams as Dean falls to the ground after trying to plug in his razor, ending up electrocuted with hair sticking up and skin burning. "He's not breathing! Sam!" She calls, but Sam stays in bed. He takes a deep breath as he prepares himself for the next line, which although he's heard it five times already never fails to make the hair on his arms stick up.

"This can't be happening."

Day 8

Sam doesn't have time today. He's going to figure out what the hell is going on at the Mystery Spot.

He lets the day go on as normal, Dean getting his bacon and Y/N asking about lunch. He forgets to stand in Dean's spot, and Y/N gets in a fight with the Dean, which means they end up meeting her after hours at the Mystery Spot.

"I think Sam's gone crazy." Dean says when they spot her.

"Why's that?" She asks, taking a flashlight from him. She forgot her gun at the hotel, having thought she would be going back after breakfast. They enter the building, weaving through some rooms and hotel to get to the main attracts

"Dean, you said you would trust me." Sam complains, and Dean sighs.

"I will, I will." He promises. "Sam says he's been through today before. Like Groundhog Day. He said the first time, I died here."

"Listen," Sam stops them both in a green and black spiral hallway. "The first time we were here, Dean died because the owner caught us sneaking around. This time, we're gonna catch the owner so I can figure out what the hell is up with this place. Because if I wake up tomorrow and it isn't Wednesday, I'm gonna lose my mind." Sam tells them, then marches out. Y/N nods, looking to Dean.

"He's lost his marbles." She's agrees, following Sam.

It's not hard to tie up the owner with the duct tape Sam had brought, but Y/N and Dean both just watch as Sam starts to tear into the walls with a sledge hammer.

"Everybody's fine. Nobody's gonna get hurt, okay?" Dean says enthusiastically to the owner. Y/N is sitting on the floor next to Sam, watching with wide eyes as he goes crazy.

"Sam, maybe we should drop it and let the poor man leave." She suggests, watching Sam stagger back. He looks like a wild man, and Y/N fights the urge to slide away.

"Something's gotta be goin' on here. I intend to find out what." He heaves, and Y/N just nods. They've been here for the better part of the night, and Sam has gone through most of the walls.

"Place is tore up pretty good, dude. Time to give it a rest." Dean says, but he doesn't move toward his brother.

"No!" Sam yells, startling Y/N. Now she does slide back to Dean's side, not wanting to be near the axe. "I'm gonna take it down to studs." Sam goes back to chopping, and Y/N runs a hand over her face as Dean lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Sammy, that's enough. Give me the axe." Dean pushes himself up, and Y/N stays sitting as she watches the two boys fight.

"No!" Sam yells, pulling it away from his brother.

"Give me the axe! This is crazy!" Dean argues, and the two start yelling over each other. Y/N stands as Dean grabs the handle, the axe balancing between them.

"Guys, I think we should drop the axe and quit fighting." She's trying to sound calm, but her heart is racing. She doesn't like the look of this. She begins to walk forward as Sam loses his grip on the axe and it slices right across Dean's neck, not quite decapitating him but killing him quickly.

"Oh, no. Dean?" Sam doesn't sound too concerned, but Y/N feels like she's going to throw up. There's blood covering her face and clothing, Dean's blood, and he's dead. He's dead, and Sam killed him. She looks up at him, and he just tilts his head and sighs.

"This can't be happening." She says, confusion laced in her voice.

Day 100

Y/N reminds Dean to grab his gun, he grabs her hand and tells Sam to lock up, and then they're on their way to breakfast. On the way, Sam tries to tell them about the time loop, but it goes about the same as it did the last time. They sit in the too small booth again, and Sam almost rips his hair out when Dean starts to speak.

"Hey, Tuesday. Pig 'n a poke." Dean gestures up at the menu. Y/N furrows her brows, trying to get more information. Before she can, Sam sets a set of keys on the table. "What are those?" Dean asks, looking up.

"The old man's." When he says it, Y/N realizes that Sam seems tired, like he didn't sleep at all last night. "Trust me, you don't want him behind the wheel." He says tiredly, like he's had this conversation before. Y/N furrows her brows, but before she can ask the waitress shows up.

"Are you three ready?" She asks with a smile. Y/N smiles back at her.

"Yes, we are. I'll have the special, a side of bacon, and a coffee." Dean orders, then turns to Y/N.

"Can I order lunch for breakfast?" Y/N asks, and the waitress sighs.

"I would let ya, but our kitchen isn't set up for it." She says it kindly, and Y/N nods.

"I'll just have coffee, then." The waitress jots it down, and they turn to Sam.

"Hey, Doris. What I'd like is for you to log in some more hours at the archery range." Sam says, and Y/N opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She has no idea how to excuse what Sam has just said. "You're a terrible shot." He says it like it's funny, which makes him seem even more crazy.

"How do you know," She starts, but Sam doesn't let her finish.

"Lucky guess." He nods. Y/N can feel Dean looking to her, probably to see if this is real or not, but Y/N cannot take her eyes off the younger Winchester. They all smile at Doris, who leaves, then turn to Sam.

"Okay, so, you think you're caught in some kind of what again?" Dean asks, because clearly the display he just put on caught his older brother's attention.

"Time loop." Sam is looking at the table, slouched in his seat with a sad expression.

"Like Groundhog Day." Dean suggests, and Y/N watches Sam shrug.

"It doesn't matter. There's no way to stop it." He grumbles quickly, and Y/N sighs.

"Jeez, aren't you grumpy?" Dean says, and Y/N closes her eyes at her boyfriend's dense nature.

"Yeah, I am. You wanna know why?" Sam asks, and Y/N puts her head on the table. Sam may have actually lived through this Tuesday a hundred times, but Y/N has lived through this fight a thousand.

"Why?" Dean can't resist poking.

"Because this is the hundredth Tuesday in a row I've been through, and it never stops. Ever. So, yeah, I'm a little grumpy." Sam tells them, and Y/N picks her head up to try and comfort him.

"We'll figure this out, Sam." She tells him, because even if she's not sure if Sam is truly crazy or if he's actually living through a year of Tuesdays, she knows they will help him.

"Hot sauce." Sam says, and Y/N can only blink at this.

"What?" Dean asks, but then the waitress come back over with their coffees. The hot sauce teeters off the edge of the platter, but Sam catches it.

"Nice reflexes."

"I knew it was gonna happen, Dean." Sam barely lets his brother get the words out. "I know everything that's gonna happen."

"You don't know everything." Dean snarks, and Y/N wonders if in one of these hundred timelines, her boyfriend ever just leaves things be instead of challenging them.

"Yeah, I do." Sam counters, and Y/N is about to split up the fighting before it's even started when the two begin to talk at the same time.

"Yeah, right. Nice guess." Dean looks up at that, and Sam just smirks.

"It wasn't a guess." Sam says, but of course Dean can't leave it at that.

"Right, you're a mind reader. Cut it out, Sam. Sam! Sam!" They both lean into the table, getting close to each other. "You think you're being funny, but you're being really really childish. Sam Winchester wears makeup. Sam Winchester cries his way through sex. Sam Winchester keeps a ruler by the bed and evermore when he wakes up-"

"Okay, stop it!" She says, but Sam says it in time with her, causing her to stare at him. He cowers back, knowing he crossed a line.

"Sorry." He mutters, and everyone takes a deep breath. "But that's not all. Randy, the cashier? He's skimming from the register." They all turn to look at the guy at the front, who seems none the wiser to Sam knowing this information.

"Sam," Y/N starts, but Sam doesn't stop to listen to her. Whatever he thinks she's said before, it clearly wasn't important.

"Judge Meyers? At night, he puts on a furry bunny outfit." Sam says it loud enough that Judge Myers hears them and drops his drink, spilling it everywhere. "Over there, that's Cal. He's gonna rob Tony the Mechanic on the way home."

"What's your point?" Dean asks, eyes wide with this information.

"My point is I've lived through every possible Tuesday. I've watched you die every possible way. I even watched you die once." He turns to Y/N, who is still staring at him. "I have ripped apart the mystery spot, burnt it down, tried everything I know to save your life, and I can't. No matter what I do, you die. And then I wake up. And then it's Tuesday again." Y/N and Dean look at each other, and Y/N wonders how many times Sam has watched them do this. She wonders how many times Sam has gone through this exact speech, how many times it took for him to get to where he is now.

They're walking back to the hotel, and Sam's still dejected.

"Dog." He says, and on cue, the dog starts barking.

"There's gotta be some way out of this." Y/N says, even though she's sure Sam's tried almost everything.

"Where's my dang keys?" Sam asks, and a moment later they walk around the old man from the diner asking the same thing. "Excuse me." He says, and then a girl brushes past Dean.

"Excuse me." She tells him, and Y/N turns around, about to yell at her.

"Don't yell at her, you'll only start a fight." Sam says as he grabs her arm. She's starting to get annoyed with his futuristic bullshit, so she rips her arm away from his.

"I wasn't going to." She says, and before Sam can tell her that he knows she was, Y/N feels the need to do something different, just to prove him wrong. "Excuse me!" She calls, causing the blonde girl to turn around. Y/N jogs to catch up, leaving the brothers behind her.

"Has she ever done that?" Dean asks, starting to walk back.

"No," Sam says, sounding shocked. Y/N's grabbing a paper by the time they get there, and the girl is walking away. She looks down at the paper, then back up at Sam.

"You've done this a hundred times, and you never thought to check and see what she was carrying?" Y/N asks, and Sam shakes his head.

"Most of the time, I was keeping you from a fight." Sam says, and Y/N rolls her eyes.

"It's a missing poster." She says, holding it up. "For her father." When Y/N drops the last part, Sam's eyes widen and grabs the paper, jogging toward the girl. The dog next to them is barking, and Dean smiles down at them.

"Hey, buddy. Someone need a friend?" He asks as he crouches to pet them. Y/N smiles and leans in closer, and then the dog goes for Dean's jugular as if it's a rabid animal.

"Dean!" Y/N screams, pulling him away from the dog. But he's already gone, blood all over his front and eyes wide still. "Sam!" She calls, and Sam turns to see the scene.

"Shit," He mutters, but at least he figured something out before he had to restart. Something useful.

"This can't be happening."

Day 103

Sam is ready to get to breakfast, and after Y/N reminds Dean to grab his gun they're off, Sam bringing his laptop to do some digging into the case. They order from the waitress, sitting in the small booth, and Sam starts to report on his findings from the day before, when he had talked to the missing guy's daughter.

"He writes about local Mystery Spots, debunking them. He's already put four of them out of business. Here." She turns the laptop around so they can see what Sam's found, and the couple start to read up.

"The 'Truth Warrior'?" Y/N asks, with a roll of her eyes.

"More like a Pompous Schmuck, if you ask me." Dean says, leaning over her shoulder.

"Yeah, tell me about it. I mean, I've read everything the guy's ever written. He must've weighed a ton, he was so full of himself." Sam says, and Y/N pauses on that. How has Sam read everything he's ever written if they just started researching this morning?

"When did you read all that?" Y/N asks, and Sam just stares for a moment as the couple looks at him like he's crazy.

"Come on." He avoids the question, grabbing his laptop.

"It's funny, ya know? This guy spends his whole life crapping on mystery spots and then he vanishes in one." Dean says with a chuckle as they stand, and Y/N nods with a smile.

"Kinda poetic." She says, following Dean out the door. They pass when Sam isn't right behind them, turning back to see him staring at an empty plate.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Guy has maple syrup for the past hundred Tuesdays - all the sudden, he's having strawberry?" Sam watches the man that was just in the diner as he walks outside.

"That's not a very funny punchline." Y/N comments, looking at the plate.

"It's a free country, Sam. A man can't choose his own syrup, huh? What have we become?" Dean jokes, causing Y/N to let out a small giggle. Sam doesn't find either of their jokes even worthy of a smile.

"Not in this diner. Not today." He says, completely serious. Y/N's smile begins to fade, because she thinks Sam may actually be crazy. "Nothing in this place ever changes - ever. Except me." Sam says dramatically. Y/N opens her mouth with a small smile.

"This cannot be happening." She says, Sam's eyes widening as he turns to her. "Sam, it's too early for you to lose your marbles."

"No, wait!" He yells, but it's too late.

Day 104

"I'm caught in a time loop, and I think I just figured out how to fix it but we have to go to breakfast now." Sam says quickly, rising and going to his bag, changing his clothes without even caring that Y/N is standing right there. She covers her eyes dramatically, even though she's seen it all through the years when she's had to fix him up after hard fights.

"Breakfast sounds good to me." Dean agrees, completely skipping the time loop part as if Sam had told them the weather.

"Don't forget your gun, Dean. I'll lock up. We can talk about it later." Sam says, pulling on his shoes and grabbing Y/N's arm to lead her out the door.

"What the hell are you doing?" She asks, snatching her arm out of his grasp.

"I promise, it will all make sense soon. I just have to get to the diner." He lets Dean and Y/N go ahead before goes back into the room to grab what he needs. He doesn't even complain about the small booth, doesn't snap when Y/N asks for the hundredth time about lunch, and grabs the hot sauce when it falls. When Dean's food finally comes, he seems to be in a better mood.

"So, you think you're caught in some kind of what now?" Dean asks through a mouth of bacon. Y/N scrunches her face in disgust, but she doesn't say anything.

"Eat your breakfast." Sam snaps, and Y/N gives Sam a look, if only because she doesn't dare to say anything to him when he's acting like this. As soon as the man sitting at the bar across from them gets up, Sam follows with the bag he packed.

"What's in the bag?" Dean asks, and Y/N sighs as she stands.

"Nothing good, I'm sure." She says as Dean follows, putting money on the table. Sam follows the man far enough that there aren't a lot of people around before he pushes him against a chainlink fence, a stake pressed to his neck.

"I know who you are. Or should I say 'what'?" Sam says, and Y/N looks at Dean, unsure what to do.

"Oh my God. Please, don't kill me." The man begs, and Y/N steps toward Sam, hand on his bicep.

"Uh, Sam," She starts softly, but he shrugs her off.

"It took me a hell of a long time, but I got it." Sam is acting like nothing else exists, and it's kind of scaring Y/N.

"What?" The man asks, as if Sam really needed prompting to continue.

"It's your M.O. that gave you away. Going after pompous jerks, giving them their just desserts. Your kind loves that, don't they?" Y/N looks at Dean once more, because she is completely lost.

"Yeah, sure. Okay. Just put the stake down." The man begs, and Y/N grabs Dean's arm to try and get him to help.

"Sam, maybe you should-"

"No!" Sam yells, voice deep. It startles Y/N, but Dean is still staring intently. "There's only one creature powerful enough to do what you're doing. Making reality out of nothing, sticking people in time loops. In fact, you'd pretty much have to be a god. You'd have to be a trickster." Sam says, and Y/N suddenly realizes what Sam is saying.

"Mister, my name is Ed Coleman. My wife's name is Amelia. I've got two kids. For crying out loud, I sell ad space!" Y/N's not sure if the trickster is just putting up a great show, or of if Sam has gone off his rocker and this is his breaking point. She briefly realizes she'd be losing both Winchesters if this is true, so she needs this man to be a trickster. She needs Sam to be right.

"Don't lie to me! I know what you are!" Sam screams. Y/N flinches again, and Dean grabs her hand and squeezes. "We've killed one of your kind before!" The words are barely out of Sam's mouth before Loki is there, in the flesh. The trickster they thought they killed, not actually dead.

"Actually, bucko, you didn't." He says, and Y/N feels Dean push her behind him slightly.

"Why are you doing this." Sam says, keeping the stake pointing to his neck.

"You're joking, right? You chuckleheads tried to kill me last time. Why wouldn't I do this?" The answer makes Y/N angry, but Dean opens his mouth first.

"And Hasselback, what about him?" Dean asks, as if that's the most important thing right now. It's nice he's thinking about the victim, but a trickster they thought they killed is actually alive, and apparently has been putting Sam through time loops.

"That putz? He said he didn't believe in wormholes, so I dropped him in one." The trickster says, and Y/N groans, because of course nothing can be easy. "Huh? Then you guys showed up. I made you the second you hit town." He's saying it all with a smile, and Y/N can't stop herself.

"So this is fun for you?" She asks, and Sam pushes the stake in more.

"You killed Dean over and over again." Sam says, and Y/N can't help but squeeze Dean's arm tighter; Sam hadn't told them about that part of the time loop.

"One - yes, it is fun. And two - this is so not about killing Dean. This joke, is on you, Sam." The trickster says, before he looks over to Y/N. "It could've been on you, too, but I knew you'd figure it out way faster. But Sam, having to watch his brother die every day. Forever. Having to listen to you say the same words again and again." He's smiling, and Y/N feels sick even though she doesn't even know what words he's talking about.

"You son of a bitch." Sam says, but he has nothing else, no other comeback.

"How long will it take you to realize you can't save your brother, no matter what? Hell, sometimes, you can't even save her." Loki taunts, and Y/N wishes Sam would just kill the motherfucker and end this.

"Oh yeah?" Sam asks, pushing him into the fence even more. "I kill you, this all ends now."

"Oh, hey! Whoa, okay, okay. Look, I was just playing around. You can't take a joke, fine. You're out of it. Tomorrow, you wake up, it'll be Wednesday. I swear." Loki says, and Y/N shakes her head.

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" She asks, and he turns to Sam.

"If I'm not, you know where to find me. Having pancakes at the diner." He says simply. Sam looks over to Dean and Y/N, who look at him with the same expression. He knows what he has to do.

"No. Easier to just kill you." He says.

"Sorry, kiddo, can't have that." Loki snaps his fingers, and suddenly he's gone. Y/N groans, rolling her eyes and flopping her body dramatically.

"Don't," Sam says, but it's too late.

"This can't be happening." She complains, and Sam thanks the trickster that at least this time, it wasn't soft and sad.

Day 105

Sam shoots straight up, and from her space in the bathroom, Y/N turns to see him looking wide eyed.

"What, are you gonna sleep all day?" Dean asks around his toothbrush, one hand on Y/N's hip and the other brushing his teeth behind her.

"No Asia." Sam says, and Y/N furrows her brows as Dean leans over her to spit his toothpaste out.

"Yeah, I know. This station sucks." He complains, going over to his bag. Y/N spits out her toothpaste and rinses her mouth, freeing up the bathroom for Sam.

"It's Wednesday!" He says, and Y/N pursues her lips in confusion.

"Yup, it usually comes after Tuesday." She says, going to her shared bag.

"Hey, turn the music off, would ya?" Dean asks, getting in Y/N's way of packing the bag.

"What, are you kidding?" Sam asks, as if Dean was crazy. "This isn't the most beautiful song you've ever heard?" He dramatically jumps out of bed, causing Y/N and Dean to just stare.

"No." Dean says flatly, and Y/N tilts her head slightly.

"Are you alright, Sam?" She asks, walking over to the bed. "You were pretty out of it yesterday." She feels his forehead, and he only lets her because he knows Dean would kill him if he smacked her hand away.

"What happened?" Sam asks, too scared to hope.

"I mean, you were acting all strange, and we ran into the trickster." Dean explains, and Sam smiles as he finishes putting on his shirt.

"Alright, pack your stuff. Let's get the hell out of town, now." Sam says, and Y/N turns to Dean.

"What's up with him?" She asks, and he frowns.

"I don't know, but I want breakfast." Dean says as he walks out of the room, Y/N following.

"No breakfast!" Sam shouts, and she rolls her eyes.

"We can stop somewhere." She whispers as they make their way to the car. Dean puts their bag in, then Y/N's small personal bag, not closing the trunk because Sam's supposed to be right behind them.

"I feel like we made a mistake, letting the trickster go." He says, and she sighs. Before she can respond, however, they turn to see a man pointing a gun at them.

"Give me your wallet." He's shaking, and Y/N can tell this is his first time.

"Hey, woah, we can talk about this, alright?" Dean tries, hands up. Y/N reaches for her gun, but she forgot it in their bag, thinking they were just going out to the car. A stupid, stupid mistake. "Why don't you just put the gun down, we can talk about this." He says, but the man doesn't like the answer. He gets closer, and the second Dean shifts to grab a gun the man shoots. He must've realized his mistake quickly, because he's running before Y/N even screams. She hits the ground, grabbing his body and staring at the bloody mess and the bullet hole on the front.

"Dean?" She whispers, but she knows it's futile. The man may not have had much experience with a gun, but he hit Dean perfectly to kill.

"Dean!" Sam shouts as he runs over. "No, no, no, this wasn't supposed to happen, not today!" He says, and Y/N has no idea what that means but she lets it go as she watches her tears fall onto Dean's freckled face. The love of her life, gone.

"I'm sorry," She says, because she doesn't know what else to say. She should have had her gun on her, should have been able to stop that guy.

"I'm supposed to wake up." Sam says, and Y/N looks up finally.

"What?" She says, cradling Dean's body close to hers.

"Say the thing." He demands, and she flinches back. It's silent for a couple moments as they stare at each other.

"What thing?" She asks, looking back down at Dean. She pushes some stray hairs out of his face, brushing her fingers down his stubble.

"You always say it!" Sam snaps, and Y/N startles. "You say it every time, right before it resets. You have to say it." He begs, and she thinks he must be going crazy.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She whispers as more tears fall down her face.

"'This can't be happening.' Say 'this can't be happening.'" Sam tells her, and she just shakes her head.

"Why?" She doesn't understand, everything feels wrong. Holding Dean's lifeless body is wrong, not feeling his breath is wrong.

"Just do it!" He yells, and she can't help the sob that escapes.

"This can't be happening." She repeats, but nothing happens.

Six Months Later

"Hey, Sam, it's me. I just wanted to let you know that I'm back from Cabo, where I spread some of Dean's ashes. I wish you could've come, Bobby said he hasn't heard from you in awhile, so I figured I should reach out. He said you've been hunting still. Taking care of business. I want to help, Sam. Don't push me away." She takes a deep breath, and Sam can hear the hesitation over the recording. "I know this is hard, Sam. But you've turned into a machine, and I know Dean doesn't want that." She hesitates again, and Sam almost wishes she'd end the call. "Call me, Sam. Please." Finally, the end tone plays, and Sam presses on the gas harder. He knows that Y/N wouldn't approve him summoning the trickster, but he has to do it, he has to get his revenge or get Dean back.

Sam has been on the fringe, he knows, but killing Bobby was a wake up call. He would promise that trickster anything, to just have Dean back. Bobby's voicemails are bad enough, but Y/N's break his already fragile heart. He can barely listen when she does call. He would have sold his soul. But thankfully, he doesn't have to do that. Loki snaps his fingers, and for once - no, this makes twice - Sam doesn't have to hear the God forsaken words come out of Y/N's mouth before everything goes black.

Wednesday

Sam shoots straight up, and from her space in the bathroom, Y/N turns to see him looking wide eyed.

"What, are you gonna sleep all day?" Dean asks around his toothbrush, one hand on Y/N's hip and the other brushing his teeth behind her. Sam continues to stare, and Dean spits out the toothpaste over Y/N. "I know, no Asia. This station sucks." Dean complains, and Y/N rolls her eyes as she spits out her own toothpaste.

"It's Wednesday." He says softly, and Y/N briefly wonders if he had a nightmare. She didn't hear any tossing or turning, but that didn't mean much.

"Yup, it usually comes after Tuesday." She says, going to her shared bag.

"Hey, turn the music off, would ya?" Dean asks, getting in Y/N's way of packing the bag. She smiles up at him, but then Sam comes over, grabbing Dean around the shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. She steps back to let them have their moment, but Dean is looking at her confused over Sam's shoulder.

"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?" He asks, and Sam breathes deeply.

"Enough." He answers, then pulls back. "Wait, what do you remember." He looks at the both of them, so Y/N answers.

"You were pretty out of it yesterday." She says, recalling how erratic he had acted at the diner.

"Yeah, you were acting all strange, and we ran into the trickster." Dean says, and Sam nods. "That's about it."

"Let's go." Sam finally says with a small smile.

"No breakfast?" Dean asks, and Sam chuckles.

"We can get breakfast on the way." She tells him, and both of them nod. "Are you sure you're okay, Sam?" She knows something's up, but Sam is trying to play it off.

"I just had a really weird dream." Sam says, and Y/N nods. "And Y/N, don't ever leave the hotel without your gun again. Ever." He says, and Y/N furrows her brow.

"We're literally going to parking lot." She says, but Sam shakes his head.

"Trust me, don't do." He picks up his bag, and Y/N shrugs, grabbing her gun out of her personal bag before following Dean out, Sam bringing up the rear.

"I really hope this is happening." Sam says as he looks at the bed that he woke up in over a hundred times, then closes the door.

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @one-sweet-gubler @theoraekenslover @king-of-milf-lovers @lyarr24

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader rewrite #supernatural rewrite #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine

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