#like he's not there but of course he is. because sam and dean are

[queermania]

one of the things that gets me about people saying dean is controlling is that sometimes yes he is but it's also kind of a result of like... the fact that when sam or cas (or jack) do something stupid, dean is always the one who has to deal with the fallout. and half the time the fallout gets blamed on him. like there are dozens of examples over the course of the series but one of my favorite ones is cas unleashing the leviathan and then... refusing to help clean up the mess. and dean's "nobody cares that you're broken" gets used as proof that dean's insensitive and a bully or whatever but the context of him saying that is that cas created a problem and now cas is the only person that dean knows of in the entire universe that can do this one tiny thing to help dean clean up cas' mess and cas is refusing to literally help save humanity because he's upset by what he's done. like yeah sure in a perfect world cas would have the time and space to be able to unpack his trauma and sort through it safely but they don't live in that world so yeah in this one instance nobody cares that you're broken. clean up your damn mess.

[wincestwhispers]

Their masks are also directly related to how they were raised. For Dean, he had to be unaffected, by his mothers death, his father leaving all the time, all the monster encounters and hunts, etc. etc. Dean always had a job to do, always had to take care of Sam and protect them when John was away. If Dean did show any emotion (weakness) he would be punished.

Sam on the other hand, rebelled against their family’s status quo and questioned things— this is important because this was seen as him being empathetic or sensitive by John and Dean. And on some level he was, but not how they thought. A lot of the time Sam’s complaints and arguments stemmed from a place of want. He wanted to be like normal kids and get to do normal things, he hated moving all the time and the stupid rituals and training he had to do. He hated how his brother didn’t want those things like he did, that he made him feel wrong for wanting a “normal” life. In reality, of course Dean wanted a normal life, he always did and we see evidence of that throughout the show. But he couldn’t, he’d already worked it out and knew he wasn’t allowed to have that so he pretended he didn’t want it in the first place. It was easier.

The other part of this is that Sam is intelligent, he realized that not only did he want a normal life but normal people don’t react to trauma or other people in general how he does. He intentionally presents himself as empathetic and ‘sensitive’ to fit in with normal people. Later on, this evolves into a manipulation tactic often used with the victims or other citizens involved in a case to get them to trust him and open up. Sam’s also able to recognize when acknowledging or siding with the empathetic response is the pragmatic approach, often paired with a secret plan.

Dean acts on his training and instincts most of the time, and given that he learned it from John it’s almost always, “keep moving, focus on the task at hand.” Except for times when shit really does hit the fan and Dean can’t help but get more emotional about the situation, whereas we’ll see Sam still trying to find a way out.

I don't know how to explain it coherently but Dean is an empathetic person who uses a pragmatic mask to try and convince himself that he is unaffected so he doesn't have a breakdown whereas Sam is a pragmatic person who uses an empathetic mask to force himself to be affected because he could easily just move on if needed and they're both trauma responses and it's also the reason why they fundamentally misunderstand each other all the time

[fuckedupfate]

⭑𓂅 . ☘︎ ܁˖ ﹕ SAFETY NET.  

leading roles ﹕ dean winchester , f!reader

notices ﹕ swearing dean trying to ignore the fact he's in love fluff author's entry ﹕ this has been in my wip folder for WAY too long, but it's now here! made this while listening to safety net by ariana grande over and over again (i think i listened to it at least forty [maybe fifty] times) so i could get the vibe correct. so let's pray it helped and worked.

it isn't a secret that dean has trouble opening up, letting someone in. especially when that someone is of romantic interest. someone who he looks at and he feels his heart skip a beat, shoulders relax, expression soften. something he hasn’t felt for so long. and he wasn't even aware of it until he caught himself looking at you for longer than a second. or two. he looked at you for ten seconds. admiring you, head tilted to the right, eyes full of admiration, affection, and.. love? love? dean winchester looked at someone with love in his eyes? he was shocked himself, going into a deep rabbit hole of confusion and fear that he, for once in years, was falling in love. 

but he was. as much as he wanted to fight it, wanted to deny it and push it away, it was there. even if he hated it to be true. love. it was there. every time he looked at you. of course, he cared for you. of course he cared, and got worried, when you were hurt. or upset. or something happened. it didn't mean anything that he always felt inclined to help you. to grab anything that was out of your reach, to make sure you came out of fights unscathed, or without any major injuries. he’d hate himself if he let you get hurt. 

he saw the way sam looked at him after he, too, saw dean zone out while watching you. he saw it. the way sam raised a brow, gave him the ‘what was that about?’ look after dean—may have—gone a little overboard about you not getting hurt or putting yourself into a dangerous situation. he knew sam knew. he knew that sam saw the way he looked at you with complete and utter affection. softness. care. love. that fucking word again. love. he hated that he felt this way. he couldn’t get attached to you—no, he couldn't. because he knows how it’ll end. like it always does—you’ll be targeted. you’ll be hurt. killed. taken away from him. like everyone else he's ever loved, or decided to get close to. so he always chooses to never get close—even if he wants to. especially with you. 

but you’ve got him hooked, lined, and sinkered. despite all of his worries, fears, and paralysation, he was falling further and further. falling into a love with someone where there wasn’t a safety net for him to land into. there was no surface. no landing point. no stop. not even a pit stop. each and every day—without his permission—he finds himself slipping. falling at a speed faster than light and sound itself. getting sucked in by every single thing about you. your smile. your eyes. your hair. how you hold yourself. your confidence. every.single.thing. he tries, so desperately, to push you away, to keep you at arms length. not wanting you to get close to him. because he’ll be responsible if something happens to you. for if you get hurt. physically, emotionally, and mentally. every single way. he could scar you. lash out and hurt you. make you never want to get close to him ever again. he could lose you. you. and he won’t be able to save you, won’t be able to keep you safe, won’t be able to make sure nothing ever hurts you. and he hates it. it’s so unfair—and he’s the first man to ever know about unfairness. it’s his life. every thing in it. 

he’s unfair. cursed. 

he sits at the the table inside the bunker’s library, scrolling aimlessly on his laptop, searching for some sort of crisis which has happened so he and sam could potentially have a case on their hands. it’s been quite quiet lately within the supernatural world, so he doubts there’ll be anything. just as he’s roaming through the different websites and news outlets for anything, he hears footsteps. not heavy ones like sam’s, or ones that sound like cass’, no. they’re softer, more quiet, calculated. they’re your footsteps. he can tell. and as soon as he knows that you’re walking towards the library, his heart quickens without his permission, breath hitching slightly, and his mind races with what to say if you talk to him. 

a small smile graces your lips as you catch sight of dean. “whatcha doing?” you ask, head tilting to the right ever so slightly as you continue to walk, walking closer to him before you’re sitting down across from him at the table. shit. you’re sitting down too? his mind races, clearing his throat slightly to make sure his voice sounds as normal as he can make it. “just.. looking for a sign of any cases.” dean responds, voice even and sounding as it always does, but perhaps it’s a little softer? hopefully you don’t catch onto it. but what is he thinking? of course you’ll be able to hear it. damnit. 

“find anything?” you ask simply. and god it’s such a simple question, but for him? everything you say is more than simple. everything to him is a gateway for his brain to ramble with thoughts, for his body to fill with different feelings and emotions, for his heart to quicken, and for his eyes to glisten with admiration whenever he looks at you. fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuck. he gulps slightly, managing a small, rugged nod. “yeah—yeah.” it’s a complete lie, and when he catches that, he’s quick to backtrack. “no. no. actually. no. i didn’t. nothing out there, apparently.” he so badly wants to look at you, so badly wants to admire you, see the way your eyes are on him, see the way you’re looking at him. not sam. not some random person. him. but he doesn’t. he can’t. not with how he’s acting. not with how his heart is pounding and rushing blood quickly throughout his veins. 

he doesn’t see it, but he swears he feels the way your eyebrow raises at his response, at how quick he had spoken. he swears he can feel the way you’re letting your gaze flick over him, skeptical on what is going on with him, because he knows he is acting odd. acting differently to his usual self. get it together, dean. “..right.” you finally say, voice laced with skepticism and confusion, maybe even a hint of amusement. “and.. everything’s alright?” you ask, head tilting to the right slightly as your gaze remains on him. 

his heart skips another beat—which is like the fourth time in the few minutes you’ve been sitting there with him. he takes a beat of a moment before nodding slightly, clearing his throat once again and offering you his, watered down version of, signature smirk once he’s—finally—glanced up from the laptop screen and met your eyes. “perfectly fine, sweetheart.” he manages, ignoring the way his heart drops to his stomach when his eyes meet yours. 

you let out a quiet huff of amusement, nodding slightly as the corners of your lips twitch up into a small smile. you don’t push it, even if you can feel that there’s something off with him. “alright.” you hum and slowly get up from the wooden seat you have been sitting at, tapping the table with your fingertips before walking away and out of the library. 

and once you’re gone, it feels as though a weight has been lifted off of his chest, finally allowing for a normal amount of air to enter his lungs. finally allowing for his heart to slow down and go back to normal. finally allowing him to breathe. finally allowing for his brain to quiet, but not as much, because he can still smell the lingering scent of your perfume. the lingering presence. your voice echoing inside his mind. fucking hell. 

as you’re sat in the backseat of baby, talking with sam, dean is sat in the driver’s seat—driving, of course—but his mind is elsewhere. focusing on how your voice sounds. how he can smell your perfume. how he can hear the soft riffling of book pages from the book sat on your lap, which he found that you fiddle with mindlessly whenever you’re not reading it. in all honesty, the sound of sam’s voice is just a background sound in his mind, muffled and deafened by the workings of his mind, so he can completely focus on yours and yours alone. even if he doesn’t mean to. even if he doesn’t want to. 

he can feel you lean forwards, leaning into the front of the car’s space, arm reaching over in sam’s direction, trying to grab ahold of the bag which sits in his lap. keep it together. together, dean. keep.it.together. he forces his eyes to not stray from in front of him, from off the road before them. he hears the rustling of the paper takeout bag, hears you protest against sam’s disapproval of trying to grab the bag, hearing the quiet laughs which come from you. he then hears the sound of victory you make when you’re successful in grabbing the bag, laughing at sam and beginning to eat the fries which are inside. much to sam’s (faux) annoyance. on the road. keep your eyes on the road. 

eventually, the impala comes to a stop outside of the outer entrance of the bunker. sam moves, opening his door and getting out, the door shutting shortly after. along with your own door. dean is quick to get out, watching sam walk down the steps and to the door, and he stops you before you can. “wait—” he manages to get out, gently grabbing your wrist, causing you to turn and look at him. calm and collected, dean. ease it out. 

you quickly glance down to his hand wrapped around your wrist, but you quickly avert your gaze back up to his eyes. you tilt your head, raising a singular brow at him. “mm?” you hum out, looking at him confused and expectantly. 

he takes a shaky inhale, glancing away for a moment. don’t be an idiot. god, don’t do this. just.. “i—fuck.” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall back down to his side. this is such a bad idea. push her away, go inside. don’t do this. he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes, afraid of what your expression will be like, even if it’ll be the softest expression ever. he can’t bring himself to do it. he can’t look at you. it’ll just make everything harder. make speaking harder. make his heart beat quicker. make his mind ramble on quicker. “i just—i—” he’s never felt like this. well, sure, he’s felt his heart be like this before, and his head, and the blood rushing through his veins, and the hardness of breathing. yes, of course he’s felt like this. but this is more than he’s felt. more than he’s ever felt with his not so little crush on you. he doesn’t even think he can call it a crush. it’s like an obsession. a need. a longing. he yearns for you. 

what makes it worse is that you don’t speak. you haven’t said anything. it’s as if you’re trying to let him take his time, let him do all the speaking. he doesn’t know if he hates that or if he’s grateful for it. he’s on a line of confusion. at a stop in the road, and he can only go one of two ways. tell you how he feels, tell you the truth. risk getting closer to you. risk being with you. or he can lie, say something about something random. ignore his feelings. risk not being with you. risk never being able to touch you. risk never being able to feel your love, feel your softness. feel your lips against his. 

“i need you with me.” he manages to blurt out, words quick but sincere. and it’s easy for you to see that he is being sincere, you can see it in his averted gaze, on his face, in his tone of voice. your expression softens, though your confusion doesn’t disappear exactly. “i’ve—i’ve been—” he stumbles over his words, unable to figure out how he’s supposed to tell you how exactly he feels. he’s never been a sharer, never been one to be vulnerable, never been one to tell a woman that he wants to be with her. that he needs her to be with him. “i can’t let you go. i—i can’t—you feel good with me. i feel good around you. i’ve tried to ignore it. tried to ignore how i felt. but fuck. you’ve got me feeling things i have never felt. you’ve got me thinking things i’ve never thought about. and i’m terrified. i’m scared of what i feel. of what i want to do. of what i want between us.” 

he knows he’s oversharing, but he’s started and now he can’t stop. everything he has been keeping inside, locked and shoved away, never allowing to escape the depths of his mind. it’s all coming out, all at once. and he can’t stop. 

“i’ve tried to avoid it. tried to convince myself that it’s all in my head, and i feel as though it is. i—” he cuts himself off, exhaling quietly. “i don’t know how to do this. all i know is that i want to do this. i want to be with you.” 

after a few moments of silence between you and him, after you’ve stayed silent for some time, he finally dares to let his eyes drift over to you. finally allowing for his eyes to meet yours. to see the expression on your face. to see the way you’re looking at him. 

he sees your lips part, and both relief and dread wash over him. he’s scared. what if you don’t feel the same way? what if he has just blurted out all of his feelings, all for you to say you don’t think that about him? what if you don’t want him back? his fear, heavy and poisonous, fills his veins. freezing his blood, making his heart stop. 

“it’s not in your head.” you say. words and voice soft. truthful. sincere. not at all a lie, nor a cruel joke you’re wanting to play on him. but he has second guesses. concerns. doubts. and you see that, feel it rolling off of him in large waves. “it’s real, dean.” you add on, in hopes to reassure him. in hopes that he relaxes and trusts you. “i feel the same way. i’ve felt scared too. worried that this won’t go well if i let it happen. worried that i’ll tell you too late and you’ll have moved on from me.” your words are so impactful. to him, they’re more than a simple confession. it’s an arrow into his heart, allowing for the fear which froze over him to break and thaw. letting his heart beat, blood rush through his veins. 

he finds himself stepping closer to you, his hand which he forced to stay by his side finally moving. finally drifting up and pressing against the soft, warm skin of your cheek. he lets himself feel. for the first time for years. he just takes you in. takes in the feeling of your skin beneath his. takes in the warmth and comfort which washes over him. takes in how much he truly feels for you. 

“never let me run away.” he all but whispers. voice soft within the silence of the night, mixing in with the soft breeze which is felt against skin, brushing through hair. “i won’t.” you whisper back, giving him a wave of hope to wash over. a small smile now tugging at his lips. 

his lips then meet yours. soft, warm, safe. beginning to feel the same thing he’s been dreaming of ever since he started falling down the abyss of love. he doesn’t ever want that safety net to come. he wants to let himself fall so far down the way that he can’t get back out. that he can’t let himself push you away and run. 

tag, you're it ﹕ @littlesoulshine @h8aaz @multiversefanfics @blossomingorchids ⟆ transportation ! ∿ quickie back to the hub ∿ be in charge of a fic! ∿ join the game of tag!

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

superboy & supergirl

content warnings & word count: swearing, mild angst, mentioned/implied pining, underage drinking, drug consumption (weed smoking), nostalgia. 4.9k

✧ SCENE TWO — "WINCHESTER HOUSE" ✧ Now Playing: "superboy & supergirl" - Tullycraft

Dean’s name drops into the middle of the conversation like a stone into glass water, and the sound around you doesn’t stop—it just shifts.

Jack’s still rambling. Charlie’s halfway through a joke. But it all goes tinny, faraway, like someone pressed play on an old cassette tape with warped audio. And suddenly you’re not in the diner anymore.

You’re seventeen again.

It was a summer party. One of those nights that felt like it had no end. Everyone barefoot, red solo cups scattered across the lawn, laughter echoing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker stuck in a tree. The house was Benny’s—of course it was—and Dean had only shown up because his people were there.

Not yours.

You'd known Dean Winchester your whole life, but only in the way you know the sun burns if you stare at it too long. Always there, always too bright, always too far away.

He was the older brother. The bad boy. Leather jackets and calloused fingers, gravel-thick voice and lighter-flick reflexes. You were just Sam’s best friend. The one with scraped knees and stickers on your skateboard, who always got teased for collecting sea glass and pressing flowers into the pages of overdue library books.

But that night… something changed.

You’d slipped away from the party when the music got too loud. Ended up on the porch steps, alone, nursing a warm beer you'd snatched when no one was looking. Your heart was doing that thing where it thudded too hard for no reason. Everything felt like it was about to happen, even though nothing had.

And then—you heard boots on the wood.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Dean sat next to you without asking. Didn’t say anything for a second, just leaned back on his palms and looked up at the stars like he was trying to pick a fight with the sky.

Then:

“You always run off when the music gets good?”

You shrugged. Didn’t trust your voice. The air smelled like salt and cigarettes.

He tilted his head to glance at you. His mouth curled at the edge.

“You looked sad. That’s not allowed at Benny’s. It’s basically a crime.”

You scoffed, rolled your eyes. “I’m not sad.”

“Right,” he said, like he didn’t believe you. Like maybe he knew you. “Then why’s your face doing that thing?”

You didn’t answer.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with that little click-flame like muscle memory. You watched the way his fingers cupped around the lighter, the way he exhaled smoke through his nose like it was an art form. You hated that it made your skin buzz.

He looked back at you, flicked ash onto the step between you.

“You ever been kissed?” He asked, out of nowhere.

Your heart fell out of your body. You didn’t respond at first—just stared at him, wide-eyed, blinking slow.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

You whispered, “No.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t smug. It was soft. Sad, almost. Something else.

“Wanna change that?”

You didn’t say yes. Didn’t say anything. You just leaned in.

It was slow. Careful. His hand came up to cradle your jaw like you might spook and run. He kissed you like he didn’t want to scare you. Like the whole world had stopped spinning for exactly that one second.

Your first kiss tasted like cigarette smoke and vanilla and summer night heat. Like something you weren’t supposed to have but took anyway.

And then—he pulled back. Blinked like he’d just woken up. Stared at you for a long second, lips parted like he might say something.

But he didn’t. He just stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered, “Don’t tell Sam.”

And that was it. No explanation. No follow-up. Just a secret folded between your ribs and left there to ache.

“Earth to burnout,” Charlie says, snapping her fingers in front of your face.

You blink. The diner rushes back in, too bright, too loud.

“Huh?”

“I said,” she drawls, eyes narrowing, “you are coming to the party tonight, right?”

You hesitate. Glance down at your coffee. Swirl the spoon like it’s hiding answers in the cream.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on—”

“She’s coming,” Jack interrupts confidently, licking syrup off his thumb. “She has to. Summer doesn’t start without her.”

Frenchie raises a toast with his fork. “To first parties and bad decisions.”

Sam gives you a small, quiet smile. Doesn’t say anything.

But you can feel it in your chest:

He remembers, too.

You blow on your coffee and don’t answer.

Not yet.

You say “I’ll probably just wear this,” and the booth goes silent.

Charlie’s straw squeaks against her cup. Annie’s face twists like you just told her you were going to prom in a burlap sack.

“You’re absolutely not,” Annie says, blunt and merciless, already reaching across the table like she’s going to physically tear your sweater off herself. “We’re pre-gaming at mine. Girls only. We’ll get you into something appropriate.”

“I am appropriate,” you protest, already laughing.

“Sweetie, you’re dressed like a cigarette break in a coming-of-age film,” Charlie deadpans.

“Which I am,” you fire back.

Kimiko raises one perfectly unimpressed eyebrow.

Across the table, Hughie blinks. “Wait, so what? I’m not invited?”

“You’re invited to shower, Campbell,” Annie says, patting his hand. “With the boys. Go wrestle or throw rocks or whatever you all do.”

Jack perks up instantly. “Can we throw rocks at each other?”

Sam groans. “Jack—”

“I'm kidding! …mostly.”

Butcher snorts. Frenchie claps Jack on the back like he’s just promoted him to chaos lieutenant. Cas doesn’t react. He might not have blinked in the last five minutes.

Outside, the sun’s finally burning through the overcast—soft golden light melting the edges of the streets, making everything look sweeter than it has any right to be. The sidewalk is hot beneath your sneakers. The sea breeze tangles your hair. For a second, it all feels like a Polaroid in motion.

You split off at the corner. The boys peel away toward the beach to kill time or throw knives or talk about music like it’s a religion. And the girls?

The girls go home.

Annie’s house is a monument. Three stories, white picket fence, flower boxes under every window. The kind of house you lie about on forms because no one believes it’s real.

Her mom greets you at the door with a tray of mocktails and a nervous giggle. She's got a French manicure and a pink velour tracksuit that says YOUNG AT HEART across the back.

“Oh my gosh, look at you girls—so grown up!” She chirps, already leaning in for a hug. “You need anything? Towels? Drinks? Protection?”

“Mom,” Annie groans.

“I'm just saying! It’s the first party of the summer. You never know what kind of decisions people make. Better safe than awkward in the Walgreens parking lot.”

Charlie wheezes.

You press a hand over your mouth to hide your laugh. Kimiko doesn’t even blink. Annie’s mom winks at her. Kimiko tilts her head, disturbed.

“Alright, well—I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Or not! You don’t need anything. Just scream if something’s on fire.”

She disappears, and you all stare at the closed door for a beat.

“God, I love her,” Charlie whispers.

“No you don’t,” Annie says flatly, already pulling out her makeup bag like she’s about to perform open-heart surgery.

An hour later, the room smells like coconut-scented setting spray, hot straighteners, and drama. Annie has one leg propped on her vanity chair, leaning in close to Kimiko with an eyeliner pencil.

“Hold still.”

Kimiko does not move, but the look she gives Annie is somewhere between “I will kill you” and “I am silently filing for divorce from this friendship.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” Annie mutters, “because your attitude is deranged.”

Kimiko signs something sharp and quick.

Charlie cackles. “She said you’re only saying that because your eyeliner’s crooked.”

“YOU CAN’T EVEN SPEAK SIGN—”

“I don’t need to. I speak fluent judgment.”

From your spot on the edge of the bed, you’re holding a glass of something pink and too sweet, watching them all like they’re characters in a movie you accidentally wandered into. You’ve got Annie’s dress on now—a tight black number that clings in places you’ve tried to keep unimportant. It’s not you. Not really. But you’ve still got your scuffed-up Converse on underneath, and that helps. Like a secret handshake with yourself.

Annie flops beside you dramatically, clutching a lip gloss. “Okay. Lip check. Pout.”

You oblige.

She smooths something glossy and strawberry-scented across your lips. “There,” she says. “Now you look like heartbreak in a good way.”

“I already looked like heartbreak,” you say.

“Yeah,” Charlie adds, “but now it’s intentional.”

Kimiko leans against the closet, arms crossed, watching you all like a disappointed guardian angel.

You lean back, letting the music swell around you—bubblegum pop humming under the air conditioner hum, Annie’s soft singing, Charlie laughing, Kimiko’s eyes tracking every move. Your drink’s half gone. Your legs are bare and sun-warmed. You’re wearing armour that doesn’t quite fit, but it’s armour all the same.

And you’re going to see Dean Winchester tonight.

That thought alone feels like a match held too close to your skin.

Annie fluffs your hair and announces, “Okay, ladies. Let’s go ruin someone’s life.”

Charlie cheers. Kimiko shakes her head but opens the door. You don’t say it—but something in your chest agrees.

Let’s ruin everything.

You don’t even make it to the end of the block before you pause, turn, and say, “Shit—hold up. I need to run in and grab my weed.”

Annie groans like you just declared a war crime.

“Seriously?” She says, arms crossed. “We can’t go anywhere without the weed detour?”

Charlie grins, eyes glinting. “It’s tradition.”

Kimiko raises her brows, nods once in agreement, then shrugs like, she’s not wrong.

You flash a smug smile and jog ahead, gravel crunching under your soles as the streetlights hum quietly overhead. Your house looms in that familiar way—warm windows glowing, door slightly ajar, TV light flickering like an old ghost.

You slip inside like you never left.

Your mom’s at the kitchen counter, drinking wine out of a floral mug, and her eyes go wide the second she sees you.

“Well don’t you look nice,” she says, like it surprises her.

You hitch a shoulder, already halfway toward the stairs. “Just going to Sam’s for the night.”

From the living room, your dad pipes up without looking away from the TV. “Don’t come stomping in at stupid o’clock again.”

You pause. Glance in his direction. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

He scoffs. Your mom gives you a look—half exasperated, half fond. The kind that says, I used to be you.

You bolt up the stairs two at a time.

Your room greets you like a secret. Familiar and messy and yours. The posters still peeling. The crystals still catching the last light. Your windowsill still littered with ash and memory. You grab your party tin off the shelf—a beat-up metal box with band stickers and chipped corners. Inside: five perfectly rolled spliffs and a pack of gum. Legendary. Beloved. Iconic.

You tuck it into your jacket pocket.

Then you pause.

The perfume Annie sprayed on you earlier still clings to your skin—overly sweet, too bright, like a scent that belongs to someone else. You cross to your desk, grab your own bottle—earthy, grounding, tobacco blossom and sandalwood—and spritz it once, twice, down your chest and neck. The contrast hits immediately. It smells like you again. Smoke and salt and something softer underneath.

You check yourself in the mirror. The dress is still too tight, still a borrowed kind of confidence, but the scuffed Converse on your feet make it bearable. Make it real.

You nod once.

And leave.

The girls are waiting at the curb, leaned up against the fence like cover art for a band that only plays once a year and never records. Charlie’s mid-laugh, Kimiko blowing a bubble with her gum, Annie scrolling her phone like it’s a job.

You slip a joint from the tin and pop it into Kimiko’s mouth. She raises one brow in approval as you spark the lighter.

Click. Flame. Inhale.

Then your own.

Click. Flame. Familiar burn.

You pass the spliff to Charlie, who kisses your cheek in gratitude and takes her hit like she’s been waiting all day for it.

And then, the four of you start walking.

The sun’s almost gone now, sinking low behind the line of rooftops like a secret being swallowed whole. The sky has gone cotton candy—pink and bruised orange and streaked with gold. Everything’s dipped in glow. The wind’s warm. Your legs are bare. Your laughter sounds louder in the open street.

You walk with that particular kind of swagger girls earn after years of being underestimated.

A little wild.

A little don’t look at me unless you’re brave.

The closer you get to the end of the road, the louder the music gets—bass rumbling through the pavement, vibrating in your ribs. Someone’s already yelling. A bottle crashes somewhere. The party has begun.

Charlie’s arm is looped through yours, joint balanced between her lips, and she nudges you with her hip.

“Ready to make some mistakes?”

You grin.

“I always am.”

Ahead, the Winchester house is lit up like it’s daring you to come closer. Porch light glowing. Windows pulsing with colour. People spilling out onto the lawn like static.

And somewhere inside it:

Dean.

The front door swings open and the party hits you like heat.

Music—loud, messy, with too much bass. Bodies pressed into furniture. Laughter sharp and bright as bottle caps clatter across the hardwood. Someone’s already spilling beer down their front. There’s yelling from the second floor, and the unmistakable sound of someone taking a running leap into the couch.

The Winchester house hasn’t changed. Not really.

Same off-white walls. Same framed family photos lining the staircase—John in his military uniform, Mary with her soft blonde hair and warm eyes. Sam’s awkward middle school smile. Dean, younger but already smug, grinning like he knew he'd always be the favourite. The furniture looks the same. The carpet. Even the chipped ceramic bowl by the door where everyone throws their keys. The air smells like nostalgia and bad decisions.

You haven’t been here since last summer. Since before.

Annie doesn’t pause. She weaves confidently through the crowd, Charlie behind her, dragging Kimiko along like a well-dressed shadow. You follow in their wake, always a step behind. Always watching.

The kitchen’s just as packed—shoulder to shoulder with people laughing too loud, flirting too hard. You pass by the fridge covered in magnets and half-faded “Happy Birthday Sam” photos. The linoleum under your shoes sticks, faintly tacky from god knows what.

You’re halfway through when it happens.

You feel it—eyes on you.

Not subtle. Not passing.

Watching.

You turn, heart a little louder than before, and—

There he is.

Dean.

He’s leaned back against the far kitchen counter, red cup dangling from his fingers, saying something to Jo Harvelle. She’s laughing, hand on his arm, lipstick smudged just enough to mean something.

They don’t look at you. Not directly. But something about the angle of Dean’s jaw, the way his eyes don’t quite meet Jo’s anymore, makes your breath stick.

He looks older.

Rougher, somehow. Tired in that way only people who carry too much ever look.

You don’t give yourself the chance to stare.

You turn back, fast, eyes locked on the girls disappearing through the side door toward the garage—the usual hangout spot. You start after them, head ducked, focused, almost safe.

Then you collide with a chest.

Hard.

Strong hands catch your arms before you can stumble.

“Whoa there, sweetheart.”

You freeze. Look up.

And find yourself looking into the amused, sharp-cut face of Ben Hargrove.

Ben Hargrove, who graduated two years ahead of you. Local legend. Former football captain. Homecoming king. The guy every girl in school either crushed on or hated—usually both. You haven’t seen him in person since senior year, but he still looks exactly like trouble.

Green bomber jacket over a tight black tee. Dog tags around his neck. Jeans that hug his thighs a little too well. And a smirk like he’s always in on the joke—especially if you’re the punchline.

“You alright?” He asks, voice low and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world. “Or do you make a habit of walkin’ into people chest-first?”

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Just—wasn’t looking.”

“No shit,” he says, one brow cocked. “Could’ve hurt yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t let go.

“Pretty face like yours, you should watch where you’re goin'. Never know who you might crash into.”

You inhale through your nose, steadying yourself, about to speak when—

Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the girls disappearing into the garage, the soft hum of fairy lights glowing through the window. Home base. Safety. The laughter’s already bubbling out.

Ben notices your shift in focus. His grip loosens.

“What’s the rush?” He asks, voice dipping slightly. “Got somewhere better to be?”

You look at him again. Really look.

He’s tall. Solid. Smells like whiskey and cologne and summer sweat. Everything about him says you should know better.

You smile.

“Always,” you say.

And slip past him.

His eyes are still on you as you open the door and step out into the night, the last streaks of pink sky curling above the roofline.

Behind you, the house vibrates with music, bodies, memory. Ahead of you, the garage glows like a secret. And somewhere in the middle of it all? You.

The garage door creaks open and the hum hits you like a lullaby made of static and sweat.

It smells like engine grease and coconut vape, faint weed smoke, spilled beer that never fully dried into the concrete. The fairy lights are still strung up across the ceiling—soft and gold, casting shadows that make everyone look prettier than they are. There’s a half-collapsed couch in one corner, blankets over the torn parts. The poker table’s long been repurposed for dice games and red solo pyramids. A lava lamp flickers blue in the back. Someone’s drawn a heart on the wall in Sharpie, and someone else—probably Charlie—wrote fuck u <3 next to it.

And your people are here.

Sam’s the first to look up. He’s sitting with a beer in one hand, long legs folded under him, hair a little too neat for a party. The way his face shifts when he sees you—like he’s been holding his breath and finally exhales—it makes something twist under your ribs.

“You okay?” He asks, instantly, quietly. Just for you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He tilts his head. Not convinced. But he lets it go.

Annie’s already narrowing her eyes.

“Something just happened.”

You raise a brow, toeing off your shoes by the door. “What?”

“You look—different.”

“Less haunted,” Charlie offers, sprawled out across a beanbag, already halfway through her second drink. “Or more haunted. I can’t tell.”

Kimiko squints up at you from her place on the arm of the couch, legs tucked under her, a drink in one hand. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

You exhale, lean back against the wall, and smile like you didn’t just get hit by a human truck with dog tags and a jawline.

“Ben Hargrove just spoke to me.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Annie and Charlie practically fall over themselves—screeching, laughing, grabbing your arms like you just said God proposed to you in the hallway.

“YOU’RE LYING,” Annie gasps.

“He TOUCHED you?” Charlie shrieks.

“I didn’t say he touched me.”

“But did he?”

You shrug, helpless. “A little.”

Kimiko smirks, raises her drink in mock toast.

From across the room, Butcher rolls his eyes so hard it’s audible. “Jesus Christ, would you lot stop squawking like you just won the fuckin’ lottery?”

He kicks a can out of his path, strides over, and holds a beer out to you. “C’mere, burnout. Prove you’ve still got some fight in you.”

You grin.

Take the beer.

Crack it.

And shotgun it in one long, clean pull.

The group erupts.

Charlie’s laughing so hard she drops her cup. Jack lets out an ear-splitting “YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!” and nearly knocks over the lava lamp. Frenchie claps like he’s at the opera. Hughie stares in awe, hand over his heart. Annie’s screaming, “THAT’S MY GIRL!”

Butcher just smirks. “Atta fuckin’ girl.”

Cas lifts his beer in your direction, expression unreadable but eyes… fond. Like he’s proud. Or at least amused.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, chest warm, ears ringing. It’s not about the beer. It’s not about Ben. It’s about being here. With them.

The best part of this place.

Drinks flow.

Games start.

Frenchie pulls out a deck of cards and declares a game of Kings that somehow mutates into “truth or dare but more dangerous.” Kimiko wins three rounds in a row without blinking. Jack makes Hughie snort beer out his nose with a story about falling off the roof last year trying to impress you.

Annie keeps reapplying lip gloss like it’s war paint.

Charlie’s braiding your hair between rounds, tipsy and humming off-key. She mutters, “You’re still the prettiest one here, you know. Even in Converse.”

Cas is leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching like he’s not really sure how he ended up here but doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Sam keeps glancing over at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Butcher’s arguing with Annie about the real rules of beer pong, and Kimiko’s already setting up the next game with silent, determined chaos.

The music outside is louder, but in here? This is the heartbeat. The place where everything real actually happens. Where you’re not the girl who left or the girl who came back.

You’re just you. And for the first time in a year—you feel like that might be enough.

The night folds in on itself, like the last page of a summer novel too good to end.

The house is still alive—muffled whoops, laughter bleeding through the drywall—but it’s softer now. Settling. A little slurred. You can hear someone vomiting in the bushes out front. Someone else is crying upstairs about a breakup that definitely didn’t happen. The stars have come out, but only the brave are paying attention.

In the garage, though?

It’s still golden.

Your sacred space has filled. As it always does.

Charlie’s tangled in the corner with Ruby, her laughter thick and wine-warmed, fingers brushing the other girl’s wrist like she’s plucking a note from her skin. It’s electric to watch. Charlie’s always been a little too much, and Ruby’s always loved it.

Annie and Hughie are in the other corner, half-hidden behind the broken amp, locked in a kiss that’s soft and stupid and entirely theirs. You stopped teasing them about it years ago. They’re the only ones who know what it means to feel safe in each other’s hands.

Sam’s leaning against the garage door, talking with Frenchie and Kimiko, his smile lazy, his eyes kind. Kimiko signs something fast, Frenchie snorts beer out of his nose, and Sam’s face goes red trying not to laugh.

The couch has become the battleground. Butcher and Cas are deep in it now—playing flip cup with an intensity that feels religious. Jack cheers like he’s watching the Super Bowl. Marvin and Earving throw trash talk like darts. Benny sits with one leg crossed, grin sharp and slow, sipping his drink like he’s been waiting all night for the perfect moment to pounce.

And you—

You’re perched on the workbench, one leg folded under you, the other swinging lazily in rhythm to the beat in your head. You’re humming something to yourself—something soft and familiar—and twisting your braid between your fingers, cigarette balanced between your lips.

Your smile feels effortless. Not plastered on. Not forced. Just… there. And then—

The door creaks open behind you.

New footsteps. Boots. Confident. Familiar in a way that makes the air shift. And when you turn your head, there he is.

Dean.

Leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. Eyes cutting through the crowd like he’s always known exactly where to find you. Jo at his side, all sun-bleached curls and beer-kissed smirks. They’re laughing about something. You can’t hear what.

They say they’re here for Benny and MM. But they don’t leave.

Dean tosses a nod to the couch. Jo does the rest.

The second her eyes find you, she lights up.

“Button!”

She crosses the room like a force of nature and before you can move, her arms are around your waist—pulling you off the workbench and into the air like you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist like they always do. She smells like tequila and vanilla chapstick.

You giggle into her shoulder. “Jo—”

“Shut up. Let me love you,” she mutters, squeezing you tighter.

You lean back, hands still on her shoulders, grinning. She looks at you like she’s cataloging every inch. Like she’s missed you even more than she realized.

“How’ve you been?” She asks. “College treating you okay?”

You nod. “It’s… different. But good. I’m glad I went.”

“Still stealing lighters?”

You smirk. “Only the pretty ones.”

Jo laughs, full-body and bright. “That’s my girl.”

Then she tilts her head. “You playing flip cup or what?”

You open your mouth to answer, but your eyes flick over her shoulder—instinctive.

And there he is.

Dean, leaned back against the fridge, red solo in hand, brow arched just slightly like he’s waiting to be caught looking.

And he is.

Smug. Sharp. Eyes dark with something that doesn’t quite name itself. That same damn expression from the porch two summers ago. The one you still feel under your skin. Your heart thuds once. Just once. But loud. Jo doesn’t notice. Dean does. You shake it off. Look back at Jo. Shrug like your chest didn’t just split open a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “Deal me in.”

Jo doesn’t set you down right away.

She carries you across the garage like it’s a sport, like you weigh nothing and she’s already won something. Your legs still looped around her, arms around her shoulders, her boots clunking heavy against the concrete as the group shifts to make room.

“Jo,” you mutter, laughing, “you can put me down now.”

She just grins, teeth sharp, eyes bright. “But you’re such a cute button.”

You groan. “Why are you so obsessed with me?”

That makes her laugh—low and delighted—and it earns a few chuckles from the crew, too. MM smirks from his spot at the table. Benny actually wheezes.

“She got you there, Harvelle,” he says.

Jo winks. “I like cute things. Sue me.”

She finally drops you back down to your feet, but not without a dramatic little spin first. You catch yourself against the edge of the table, cheeks warm, hair a little mussed.

Benny reaches over and ruffles it anyway.

“Hey!” You bat his hand, grinning.

“How’s college?” He asks, settling back into his seat with his drink. “Still pretendin' to be smarter than you are?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not pretending.”

From the couch, Butcher snorts. “Oi, don’t let the compliments get to your head, burnout.”

You whip around, grin wide. “Better a burnout than a grumpy, tea-guzzling asshole.”

The whole room laughs.

Charlie barks a laugh so loud it startles Ruby. Frenchie leans into Sam, howling. Even Kimiko grins, flashing teeth. Jo almost drops her beer from laughing so hard. And Butcher—Butcher just raises his cup and nods.

“Fair fuckin’ play.”

The game sets up in a matter of minutes.

The table is cleared. Cups are lined up. Beer is poured sloppily, foam sloshing over the sides. Everyone finds a spot—paired up, cheering each other on, arguing about exactly how many seconds a cup has to rest before flipping. The usual. Music hums low from a speaker someone left on top of the mini-fridge.

It’s light. Loud. Familiar.

Then Dean steps forward. And the temperature shifts. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans in, picks up an empty cup, flips it between his fingers, eyes lazily scanning the group.

Then he looks at you. Right at you. Smirk curling slow like a secret.

“Alright,” he says, voice just loud enough to carry, “trouble. You’re with me.”

The way he says it—like he’s assigning you to his team, and blaming you for it at the same time—makes your stomach tighten. His tone has that rough edge, that low gravel you remember from two summers ago. That you still hear in dreams when you let yourself have them.

You raise a brow. “You sure you can keep up, Winchester?”

Dean steps around the table, slow, like a predator making it look like a dance.

“You still flip like you drink?” He says, eyes locked on yours. “Then I’ll be fine.”

You scoff, but your grin betrays you. “We’ll see about that.”

You both take your seats—opposite each other. The table stretching between you like a line neither of you have crossed yet, but both of you might.

Sam notices.

He shifts where he’s still sitting with Frenchie and Kimiko, attention flicking toward the table. His smile slips just slightly, replaced by something quieter. Something measured. But he says nothing.

Kimiko nudges his knee.

Frenchie, watching too, mutters, “Oh, boy.”

Dean cracks his knuckles. Winks.

“Try not to choke, sweetheart.”

You line up your cup.

“Try not to lose.”

Someone counts down. The first round begins. And the game is on.

← PREVIOUS PART NEXT PART →

author note/s: i'd like to state, for the record, that i'm picturing young ben as cj braxton, hence the cj still in the moodboard. okay, okay. i fucking love this series so much already. i am 23k words deep on docs, so i'm just copying and pasting sections to post here. i'm not even sure how long each section is gonna be. i imagine it'll vary between 2k and 7k words per post because i'm trying to cut it in places that feel like a natural spot to stop/start... if i'm making any sense there. ooh, ben and dean both introduced in the same part??? exciting fucking stuff hehehe. let me know if i'm actually serving what i think i am. because i fear i'm perhaps being delusional. it wouldn't be the first time. until the next one, smin signing off. all the love.

soldier boy/ben & dean taglists: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @ohgodimgoungtodie @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @ambiguous-avery <3

[jollyhunter]

Ahh thank you so much Alex!! 🧡 Also for your grand contribution of three flirty Dean gifs! 😍 (and so very fitting lol!)

lmfaooo I can't with him. 🤣 But I really liked the later moment of sincerity from him, plus this part made me start to realize there was something more going on here...

Hehe I just love Dean's relentlessly cocky and flirty attitude of the very early seasons! 😂

That reveal when he meets up with Sam is so great. But now I have even more questions about this curse! And if the reader's doing it unintentionally or not! 😮

The moment you realize you're part of a case 👀

If there's already a part 2 to this, or if you'd feel so inclined to continue, I'd love to see what happens next between these two. 💜 (Also, I'd love to be added to your Dean tag list if there's still room!)

Of course I'll add you, dear! 💕

And there's no next part (yet? 👀). I hope I get to continue this fun idea though, because I would like to find out, too! lol! Especially the part where we learn how to break the writer's curse *hrm* 😂

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x Writer!Reader [Early seasons vibe]

WARNINGS None! No use of Y/N. English isn't my native language.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You're in your favourite diner; Got your coffee, breakfast, laptop in front of you. It's the perfect time to write. If it wasn't for the writer's block that's holding you in a chokehold. Oh, and the guy who has decided to join you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES This silly little thing's dedicated to all my moots who’ve fallen victim to the writer’s curse just like me. I feel you. We can do this!! We can break the curse!!! 🫂

"Doesn’t suit you." A playful voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"..Huh?" You look up just in time to see a well-worn leather jacket brush past your shoulder.

The booth seat across from you is being filled as a stranger slides in. A plate in one hand and a spoon in the other. Your eyebrows rise, and for a moment you debate whether to tell him the seat is taken.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice your thoughts. He’s busy ogling his food, humming a curious ‘hm’, and then shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. All the while he continues to mutter, his words now half muffled, "That thing you’re doing to your face."

You blink at him.

He puffs his cheeks, and green eyes travel up to meet yours for the first time, "Makes you look like the Grinch." His lips quirk into a smirk.

What? The audacity.

You stare at him with a deadpan. "Thanks for the compliment." He continues to chew, the flakes crunching. Accompanied by a content hum. Well, at least someone’s enjoying their breakfast.

"Just sayin’." He purses his lips before he eats another spoon, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s and an eyebrow arched. "What’s up with the face, sweetheart?"

"Uh," - is all you can manage at the moment. Too distracted by the way he's guzzling his yoghurt like a starved caveman. All eyes fluttered closed and nodding to himself like he's thinking ‘Finally, some good fucking food’.

He swallows. Tongue darts out to swipe a white dribble off his upper lip. When his eyes suddenly snap open, you avert yours in record time.

Your gaze's now fixed to the edge of the table, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. Left and right of it an elbow each. Of course you had to drop your gaze right between his arms. Well, this is awkward.

"You working on somethin'?" He suddenly asks, and you startle like a deer.

Your lips part - ready to form an answer - when you watch him splotching your notebook in slow-motion.

Your eyebrows twitch in irritation. You dart out a hand, just managing to pull your papers back before another dribble of his slobber taints your notes.

"Dude, please, you’re eating like a barn animal," you comment under your breath, face scrunched up as you wipe the stain off your paperback. Way to lose ones charm.

"But a handsome one," he quickly retorts. And stuffs another spoon into his wide grin, swallows and jerks his chin at your laptop. "So?"

Okay, fine. Maybe he still does have charm.

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the screen facing your way.

"I’m writing," you reply flatly, trying to hold his curious gaze as you tuck your papers safely under your forearms.

His expression flashes into a surprised one. Probably more at your tone than the answer itself.

Granted, the words 'I'm writing' should have come out enthusiastic. They at least used to. But that was before you’d been staring at a white screen for what felt like weeks.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, the sound muffled as he keeps shovelling the muesli down his hatch. "Can I see?"

"W-what?"

How- how dare he? Only an uncultivated potato would ask that. This is like the biggest No-No. One does not simply ask a writer to look at their unfinished work. You don't stare at a painter when he's still painting. That's like asking someone to strip naked. And then have them bend over.

Let’s ignore the fact that there’s not a single written word to be ashamed of. Because there’s literally not a single written word in your doc.

"No." The answer probably came faster and more obvious of your inner panic than it should have, because to him it clearly translated to; 'Oh? Then I‘ll see it all the more.'

"Aw, c‘mon." His teasing grin spreads, the spoon tipped against his lower lip, "I won‘t judge." Damn it, why does he look kinda adorable?

Before you can react, the guy clamps the spoon between his lips, reaches over the table with his free hand and tilts your laptops screen back down.

"Hey!" you smack his hand away but it‘s too late - his grin just grows and he chuckles.

"Writing, huh? You mean you’ve been staring at a white wall. Here I thought you were writing some spicy stuff about me. What’s all the fuzz about?"

"I- I'm just... I'm still thinking..." you mutter and avoid his gaze behind a hand, trying to cover up the slight tint of embarrassment that’s crept onto your face. "I've got it all in my head, though." You try to back up your answer. He tilts his head back with a chuckle.

"All in your head, huh? For how long this been going?" he quips, lips twitching amused.

"Well, uh-" you begin, then clear your throat with an awkward rub of your neck, "A few days... or... weeks... maybe..." Your voice lowers more with every word until it's reduced to a sheepish whisper.

"Damn, that sucks." he huffs.

"Yeah," you admit with a heavy sigh, "It does."

For a moment you just share a look. His green eyes watch you closely. Calm and curious. But without ever being obtrusive. More like he's trying to get a read on you, like he's patiently waiting, allowing you to open up and reveal more.

And for some reason you find yourself to do just that.

"It's so frustrating, you know?" You begin and slump back in your seat. But he holds your gaze, the entire time and nods subtly, silently telling you to go on. "Like I've got all the ideas in my mind. I can see the scenes play out, can hear the characters talk. But the same moment I try to write it down, it all just-" you break off with a huff, gesturing a 'poof' with your hand.

After a moment, you add another frustrated sigh. "Honestly? Feels like the damn pipeline between my brain and hand's constipated." His eyebrows shoot up at that description.

"You’re an odd one," he laughs and sets the emptied plate down, "I like it."

"Pfff - look who’s talking. Mister 'handsome barn animal'." You jab and can’t help the chuckle. He smirks satisfied at your reaction, tugs at his leather jacket and winks at you.

You roll your eyes with a wide smile.

"What's your name?" You ask curiously.

"Dean," he answers simply. Then leans forward to rest on his forearms, "And you, sweetheart?" Your ears flush when he comes closer and you suddenly become very much aware of the effect his intense gaze has on you.

"I- uh, I'm -" you introduce yourself with your name and he repeats it with a smile, like he's committing it to his memory.

There's a moment of silence again and you don't quite know what to do or say - luckily he seems to have picked up on your inner distress.

"So," he begins, his face suddenly taking an air of - what was it? Business-like? Professional? You couldn't quite tell. "Back to your constipation."

"Yeah? What about it? You interested in my constipation?" You return the question, trying to imitate his new tone.

"Y-yeah," He tries to stay serious, but you both have to bite back a chuckle. "I am, actually."

"What about it?"

"This may sound stupid, but..." He mutters and rubs his forehead like he knows the question that'll follow isn't formulated very well, "Can’t you just, write? You know, like will it through?"

"No- That’s not how it works... it’s - it’s not that damn easy- it's - you don’t understand… It's not that I don't want to. I - I just - ugh-" You groan, face dropped to your hands.

You take a deep breath. The frustration of the past weeks threatening to break down on you again. Your eyes begin to sting and you screw them up in an effort to keep yourself from having a full on breakdown in front of a stranger. In a full diner no less.

"Hey, it’s okay, I believe you." he says with a lower voice now, the flirty attitude gone. The sudden change in his tone and his last words catches you off guard.

Your eyebrows pull together and you lift your head just enough to meet his gaze over the edge of your screen.

The air gets caught in your throat when you notice how close he is. He’s leaned across the table, emerald glinting pools searching your face for a trace of an escaped tear. His hand twitches but he puts it back down before it brushes yours.

"Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not your fault, ‘kay?" He murmurs. Almost like he’s sharing a secret with you.

"What? What are you talking about..?" And your voice drops to an equally low level to match his.

"You’re doing great, sweetheart. Trust me." He reassures you but avoids your question with another cheeky smile.

Although this one seems different. Genuine. And soft at the corners.

Unfortunately you don't even get to fully take it in when he's suddenly up on his feet. His eyes dart around the diner before they return to you, a hand raised to ruffle through his dark blond hair.

"I gotta go," he mutters, his attention suddenly drawn down to his empty plate, "Ah - Could you pay for that? You're a real sweetheart."

"..What?"

He doesn't wait for your answer as he slides out of the booth and rounds the table. When he's next to you, he stops for a moment and leans in.

"Oh and - Don't do anything stupid, okay?" He whispers. Then straightens his back again, throws you a flirty wink and a wave of his hand while he bounces off with a casual, "See ya~"

"Uh-" your gaze follows him, perplexed, before you echo his words under your breath, "Yeah... see ya."

You kinda hoped you would.

Wait- why would you do something stupid?

The diner door jingles when Dean steps outside. After a glance left and right, he walks towards a taller guy. He looks not much younger than him, but longer brown hair frames his face, his focus on the papers in his hands.

When their eyes meet, Dean jerks his chin at him and he follows him round the corner and out of sight of the diner.

"And? You got a lead?" He asks hopefully.

"Yep." - He pops the ‘p’ - "Looks like it's our lucky day, Sammy. I think we've got our patient zero." Dean takes charge and heads over to a black Chevy, his hands fidgeting in his pants pockets for the car key.

His bow legs bounce off the concrete floor while Sam follows him with long strides.

"You think it's a deal gone wrong? Or maybe some sort of black magic that backfired?" Sam thinks out loud as he flips through the journal in his hand.

"I don't know man. She seemed pretty clueless to me. Maybe Bobby was right, and it is a curse." The car lock clicks and the trunk flings open.

He pulls out a shotgun and props it up against the lid before he starts rifling through the various contents. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." He sighs.

Sam rubs his temple with equal frustration, "Great. How the hell do we get rid of a writer’s curse?"

"Beats me." Dean huffs, then tosses a set of wooden stakes aside and leans back to run a hand through his hair, "Maybe we should call Bobby again…" - he turns to flash a boyish grin at his brother - "...and then check her out some more?"

Sam groans, "Dude, can you not think with your dick, for two seconds please?"

"What? She’s cute. Plus, she’s got that whole ‘tormented soul’ vibe."

"Seriously? Chances are, that she’s the cause for all of this crazy crap that’s going on in this city."

Dean’s smirk doesn’t falter. Instead he shrugs his shoulders unperturbed, "Let’s pay her a visit tonight. If she turns out to be a witch, we just gank ‘er."

"Dean," Sam scoffs and drags a hand down his face, "I know that look." Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head, followed by an incredulous chuckle, "Come on, man, you know you can’t charm your way into her pants. She's clearly not the type for a quick fling. And you’re not exactly Shakespeare."

Dean gets the shotgun out from under the lid and throws it back into the boot. "Oh Sammy, you've still got to learn a lot about women," he says, slamming it shut.

Sam rolls his eyes when his older brother turns to pat him on the shoulder, before he takes off to round the Impala. He pulls the driver's door open while Sam does the same on the opposite side.

"Mark my words, Sammy." He laughs and points a finger gun at him across the roof. "Every girl likes it dirty. Some just don’t show it."

If you reblog, I demand at least one gif of Dean that fits the last line. Cuz I couldn't find the one I was looking for and I want to wake up to many many flirty Dean gifs 😂

Dean Tag List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99

@salemslostwitch @supernotnatural2005 @lamentationsofalonelypotato (I'm tagging you for this because our talk partially motivated me to write this ♡ and to post it even though I hate it lmao 😂)

[castieldelamancha]

Dean hits the side of the vending machine getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. He pointedly ignores the pain he can feel in his hand now.

Inside the machine the chocolate bar he has been trying to get for the last ten minutes stares back smugly at him. It doesn't even have eyes to stare back, or a face to look smug, but Dean can feel its condescending judgment anyway, same as those stale chips watching from the second row that probably expired back in 1986.

"All these stupid motels with their stupid, ancient, vending machines." He mutters.

He is well aware in some corner of his tired brain he isn't this mad about something as insignificant as a damn chocolate bar, he is frustrated because he hasn't slept more than two hours in a row, he is angry because neither him nor Sam seem to know what they are after, the trip here was long and the case seems overly complicated.

Right when he is about to give up with an exhausted sigh and go back to their room to stare at their files again, he hears that telltale flutter of wings he is so familiar with at his back.

He turns around, his exhaustion and frustration all but forgotten at the sight of Cas.

He looks tired too, but he is smiling at Dean, that small, private thing he has only for Dean and that makes his eyes shine bright. His trench coat is a bit wrinkled, as is the white shirt he is wearing underneath, he is not wearing a tie today, and Dean hopes Cas isn't annoyed at him for taking the blue one he prefers to use with him the last time they saw each other to wear it with his fed suit.

Cas doesn't say anything, he does stares past Dean at the offending vending machine, squinting his eyes at it, Dean turns around once more to look at it too when he hears the sound of something falling on the tray at the bottom.

"My hero," he exclaims, a little out of breath, he had wanted it to come out as amused but he sounds too in love for the joke to land, "thanks babe." He throws a glance and a cheeky wink at Cas over his shoulder before bending down to retrieve his loot. "Awesome." He had been sure he had lost his money and the chance to get any food but Cas has miracled him a bunch of bars and some water.

They could debate if his grace was intended to be used this way and then Cas would get that intense look on his face and say some shit like "it was created to help humans, to care for them, and I love doing those things for you, no better use for my grace, Dean." and Dean would get all teary-eyed and he is too tired for all of that.

He simply stands straight again and looks at Cas.

"Of course, Dean, always." He always, always, replies that to Dean whenever he shows he is thankful.

Dean transfers all the drinks and food he is carrying to the crook of his elbow, freeing one hand that he closes around Cas' own hand, allowing the angel to tangle their fingers together and slowly rock their hands back and forth as they walk back to Dean and Sam's room.

"You gonna stay for a while or is this just a quick visit? Because, huh, we need some new ideas and perspective for this case and all," he wants to smack himself, this is Cas, for goodness' sake, no need to act like a nervous teenager with a crush, he can just tell him 'it would be nice to have you around.' and Cas would be delighted.

Luckily for him Castiel's inability to read any human interaction or its meaning doesn't apply to Dean's own lacking communication skills, he just smiles again and nods once, "I would love to be of assistance." and what he means is 'it would be nice to be around you too.' Dean's heart can't almost take it.

"Cool, gotta tell Sam to get his own room, though."

[holylulusworld]

Don't fear your kinks (27) - Dr. Sexy at your service

Summary: Dean and the reader continue their kink party. This time: Dr. Sexy and Patient!Reader.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Characters: Sam Winchester

Warnings: role-play, light smut, unprotected sex, language, doctor kink, medical play, voyeurism, finger sucking, doggy style

Don’t fear your kinks Masterlist

Catch up here: Don’t fear your kinks (26) - Pimp my car

Divider by @firefly-graphics

You always hated doctor visits. Especially when you do not know what’s wrong with you. Today, you’re very nervous about seeing the doctor. He’s new in town, and you’re not sure if you’ll like having a stranger look at your most private parts.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” the nurse calls your name. You wince as the nurse looks at you angrily. “Ms. Y/L/N is next. ” They huff as you hesitantly walk toward her. “About time.” The nurse snaps at you while guiding you toward the examination room.

Ignoring their bitchy attitude, you walk inside the examination room to meet your new doctor.

“Miss Y/L/N,” a deep voice purrs as you nervously step further inside the room. “Welcome to my practice. I hope you will feel comfortable having me as your doctor.”

“I—” Crap—the most handsome guy you ever met sits at the desk, looking back at you with a stunning pair of green eyes. There are light freckles all over his face, and a cocky smirk telling you he knows how good he looks.

“So—” He clears his throat to get your attention. “What brings you here today, miss? A regular examination, or are you feeling ill?”

“I have a little problem,” you swallow thickly and drop your gaze to your crotch. “You know, down there.”

His smirk widens. “Can you describe the problem, miss? You don’t have to be shy. I’m a professional. Everything you tell me will stay between the two of us.”

“I,” you hesitate for a moment. He’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. How can you tell him about your problem? “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“Sweetheart.” He leans back in his chair to look you up and down. “I swear, you can trust me. I’m your doctor today and won’t judge you. Just tell me.”

You get up to pace the room, clasping your hands together. “I—” You shake your head, unsure how to tell the doctor about your problem.

“Relax.” He gets up to stand in front of you, hands running up and down your arms. “You can tell me everything. I’m Doctor Sexy.”

“Oh, Dr. Sexy,” you choke out a sob, “I ruin all of my underwear lately. My panties are always soaked.”

“Why, Miss Y/L/N?” He sternly asks. “What is the reason for your ruined panties? What do you do?”

 “I ruin my panties because I cannot stop thinking about this doctor I saw on TV. He looks so hot and just can’t help but touch me all the time. Can you please help me?”

The doctor clears his throat. “Of course, I’ll help you. What kind of doctor am I if I do not help a patient in need? Let me help you.”

“Yes, please.” You eagerly follow the doctor toward an examination couch. “Please, I need your help, Doctor Sexy.”

“Miss, I need you to put your hands on the examination couch and arch your back. I’m going to do a few tests now.” He says and watches you follow his orders.

You feel his hands on your hips, moving slowly over your thighs and under your skirt. Suddenly he slides your panties down, but you don’t think much about it.

“Let me find out what’s wrong with your pretty pussy,” he murmurs. “I’m the best, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about a thing?”

“Thank you so much, doctor,” you choke out a moan, feeling his index finger tap your clit. He hums and examines your pussy lips with his skilled fingers. You hold your breath, waiting for the doctor to tell you what’s wrong with you, as he pushes his index finger into your soaked hole.

“There it is,” he hums. “I think I found your problem.” A second finger joins his index finger, slowly moving in and out of you. “I see it clearly, miss. Do you want me to cure you?”

“YES! PLEASE! I can’t live like this anymore,” you cry and whimper. “I need your help, doctor. Oh, help me, please!”

“Your wish is my command, miss.” His fingers leave you empty and wanting for more. You had hoped coming here would cure your illness—now you’re not sure anymore. “I need you to bend your upper body over my desk and lie still. I’ll help you now.”

Again, you do not hesitate to follow the doctor’s order. He knows best. If he wants you to bend over his desk, you’ll do it.

“Perfect,” he groans behind you, hands pawing at your ass. “I’ll heal your disease, sweetheart. No need to fret. This is all you’ll ever need.”

Your eyes widen, feeling something bigger than his fingers probing at your entrance. You bite your index finger to keep yourself from moaning as the tip of his cock pushes inside.

“That’s it, take it.” He sounds a little too excited, but you assume he’s a good doctor and happy to help you with your problem. “Such a good whore for her doctor’s dick.”

He slams into you, not holding back to fill you to the brim. “OH, DOCTOR! I think it’s working.” You hold back a giggle hearing Dean grumble behind you. “Please help me…”

“I’ll help you, miss,” his voice sounds strained. “So good, baby. Always so fucking good you’ll scream my name.” Dean falls out of his role the moment he starts moving inside of you. He’s right, it’s always fucking good with Dean. Your husband knows how to pull your strings without any effort.

“Yes…always…so…” You try to keep it low, but the way Dean’s thick cock rubs against your walls has you teetering on the edge in no time. “Fuck.”

You don’t hear the door open before it’s too late. Sam, still in his nurse uniform, angrily glares at you. “Guy, again?” He huffs. Lately, he’s a little pussy when it comes to your sexcapades. “We have a job to do. Yours was to check on the files!”

“Sammy, almost there,” you whimper and grasp for Sam’s large hand. He’s taken aback but doesn’t stop you from wrapping your lips around his long index finger.

“Fuck. Shit…Baby!” Dean slams one hand between your legs, furiously rubbing your thrumming clit. “You’re squeezing me like a vise!” He pants.

“What…fuck…” Sam groans as you swirl your tongue around his finger. “Guys. We've got to find the file. I didn’t let grannies grope my ass all day for nothing.”

You release his finger with a pop and smirk. “If you drop those pants, you’ll get something nice.”

Something flashes in Sam’s eyes. A flicker. A glimmer. Maybe a raging fire he immediately extinguished – but it was there. Only for a second.

“You get dressed,” he grunts and points at his brother. “I’ll get the file, and then we are out of here…”

“I think you broke my brother,” Dean laughs as the moment you entered the bunker, Sam excused himself to take care of the raging boner in his pants.

“I cracked him a little more,” you coo, and hop onto Dean’s lap. “I bet next time, he’ll let me jerk him off…”

[thewayhouse]

'A Rough Night With Empathy'

Castiel x Dean

-> Destiel -> Hurt / Comfort -> ! CW ! : Homophobia, referenced suicide, internalised homophobia. -> 3.1K words -> Author's note at the end -> Also on Ao3

'A Rough Night With Empathy'

Summary: After a depressing case, Dean struggles to stop thinking about how much he related to the ghost they'd hunted, but he can't figure out why. The stress turns into alcohol, and a nightmare, and a plea for Castiel to help him. But with Cas' unconditional care and kindness towards him, it sparks even more thoughts that spiral to an answer that Dean battles to come to terms with.

It had been a late night for Sam and Dean, the stars speckling the pitch black sky being one of the few sources of illumination aside from the odd streetlight. The motel they were staying at was on the side of a quiet country road, isolated from the rest of the town. Crickets’ songs filled the silence that surrounded the brothers, small cracks heard in the distance from a bonfire happening on a neighbouring property. The fire reminded them of the hunt they’d just finished. Another burning of a corpse, nothing too spectacular, but it hit the brothers harder than expected, especially Dean. A young boy, barely an adult. Cause of death: suicide.

They’d been able to talk to his mother about his life, trying to gauge why his spirit stuck around, why it was full of malice. He’d been such a “charming young man, full of hope” as his mother had described them. Though it was difficult to talk to her, her words jumbled together and spit mixed with tears flew from her mouth if she tried too hard to accentuate something. Eventually, she went outside to get some air, leaving Sam and Dean with her husband, the boy's father. He was jsut as difficult to talk to, but not for the same reason. Apparently, he “had it coming,” and that he hoped his son could “repent even in death for the way he turned out.” The boy had taken his life because he was gay, clearly it wasn’t taken well by his parents.

Dean couldn’t take his mind off it. Not when they finished the hunt; not when they got in the car; and now, not when they'd gotten to the motel. He was bothered by it, big time. Of course for obvious reasons like uncaring parents, blatant homophobia, and such a preventable death of someone so young; sad stuff, sure. But something stirred in Dean as he shuffled about the kitchenette with his beer in hand, watching Sam set down their black duffle bags, having made him drag them in from Baby. It felt like… empathy, and specifically empathy. Anyone could sympathise with what the kid had gone through, but it was more than that for Dean. It was frustrating beyond the norm. It was personal. He didn’t even know this kid, why the fuck was he feeling this bad?

'It's not like I'm gay or anything' he thought '-not that there's anything wrong with that, and hey, who can't appreciate a fine looking man when they see one?' Dean paused, caught a little off guard by his own thoughts. 'It doesn't make me gay to like looking at attractive guys, does it?' He felt his heart slow to a pain-stakingly slow pace; loud, strong thuds pulsing in his ears. For a moment it felt like he stopped breathing, he had found men attractive before, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about... having a fun night with some of them. But it was all fantasy to Dean, nothing he could bring himself to act on, because if it stays in his head then he stays straight - right?

He took a swig from the bottle in hand and tried hard to forget about it, plopping himself down on the dusty green couch and turning on the TV, ready to be mind-numbingly bored by whatever was on at this time of night. Sam ignored him. He had a feeling he was in a grouchy mood and didn’t want to get involved in it, so he left Dean to his own devices as he made his way to bed, crashing out almost instantly.

A few hours passed and Dean was asleep on the couch, empty beer loosely clutched in his hand, snoring away. That peaceful slumber didn’t last long enough for the hunter though. He turned and shuffled and groaned, rolling around on the couch like a pig in mud. His breathing soon became erratic and his arms and legs began twitching involuntarily. He shot up from his sleep with a gasp for air, drenched in a cold sweat, and almost dropping his beer to the ground. The hunter coughed into his elbow, his throat scratched up from hyperventilating. 'For fucks sake', he thought, he couldn’t even escape his worries in his sleep.

Although tense and aching, he pushed his body up from the couch. It was a less than pleasurable place to bunker down for the night, so Dean placed his beer bottle onto the coffee table in fornt of the couch and trudged his way over to an actual bed.

Before he could bring himself to go back to sleep however, an overpowering urge to pray came over him. Praying? Seriously? It felt moronic to him, he only prayed when he was desperate or when they needed divine assistance with a case; specifically from Cas. But, in the current state he was in, drunken and jittery from the hunt, he definitely classed as desperate. He needed that divine assistance to fall asleep and stay asleep. He needed Cas. Sighing, mumbling a curse to himself under his breath, he prayed:

“Oh Castiel - you dorky little guy - you need to come down here. I need you here, man. I feel stupid for saying this, but I can’t sleep and I just- I need you. So… yeah, if you hear this, please, come down here. Thanks- er, Amen.”

He ran a trembling hand over his face. The whole praying thing was still fairly new to him and it felt odd, and left him vulnerable. He didn’t like that. Castiel was fast to respond to Dean’s prayer, and within the minute, the angel appeared at the foot of his bed.

“Hello, Dean.” The low, scratchy voice of the angel cut through the silence of the night, and brought momentary relief to the hunter's ears. The sound never ceasing to put him at ease.

“Hey, Cas…”

“I heard your prayer. You can’t sleep? Did you want me to-” Castiel moved forward towards where Dean sat on the bed and reached out his hand to touch his head, attempting to knock him out with his Grace. Dean put up a hand, halting him.

“No, no, you don’t need to do any of that, I just… I don’t really know why I called you here,” he admitted. The smell of alcohol reached the angel and he guessed this was just a random, drunken call. Cas nodded and stepped back, signalling he was going to leave again, Dean wasn’t going to have that. In fact, he looked panicked at the idea of Cas leaving him. His eyes widened and he quickly went to stand up from the bed and reach out towards Cas, begging him not to go.

“Wait! No, uh, don’t go. Please.” Cas paused and titled his head, Dean was acting strange, stranger than usual. Of course it could just be the alcohol in his system, but Castiel knew that Dean could easily handle his liquor and wasn’t one to get clingy when drunk. It was odd to see him like this, so desperate for company instead of pushing it away as per usual. Intrigued, and not wanting to miss this opportunity of seeing a different side to his best friend, he stayed. Dean let out a long breath that he was holding when he realised Cas had listened to him. He slouched back down onto the creaky motel bed and rested his head on the headboard, closing his eyes as he spoke, his voice cracking.

“I think I just need someone here with me. Someone to, I don’t know, stay a while.” Cas nodded and sat down on the end of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under the added weight.

“I’ll watch over you.” Usually that sentence would annoy Dean, he thought it was, mildly put, creepy - the idea that someone was watching him while he slept. With anyone else it would send shivers down his spine and put him on high alert, but not with Cas. He felt more at ease now that the angel had decided on keeping watch through the night, more secure, something that was a scarcity with his kind of lifestyle. Dean nodded, thankful, yet he didn’t lay down to sleep. He just sat there, silently, holding and fidgetting witth the covers with his shaky hands from the earlier nightmare, like he wanted to say something else.

“Is something wrong, Dean?” Castiel bowed his head down, trying to make eye-contact with the nervous man in front of him. “You’re shaking, are you cold?”

“No, I’m not cold.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Just-” Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to disclose what was keeping him awake. He looked up, meeting the angels piercing blue eyes, glinting with the moonlight that trickled in through the blinds. Dean couldn't help but admire them for a moment. 'Gorgeous...' he thought to himself before refocusing on the conversation.

“I’m fine,” is what he decided on. Cas didn’t like that answer, “You’re clearly not. You’re not sleeping and you’re shaking. I can see it in front of me, Dean, I’m not stupid.” The hunter scoffed, attempting to play off his skittish behaviour. 'Damn him and his observations.' His mouth opened to speak again, but finding the words to explain what was going on was a herculean task. How could he explain something that he didn’t even have an answer for himself? So he settled for the vague answer of, “I had a nightmare.”

Castiel’s gaze softened and Dean noticed he hated it. He felt weak and useless for being rendered so afraid by something that isn’t even real; he hated being pitied. What most made him irritated however, was that of all people to see him like this, it was Cas. Obviously he brought it on himself, he’s the one who called him down in the first place, he was silently regretting it. 'This is what I get for praying.' He refused to make eye contact again.

“What was it about if I may ask?” The angel treaded lightly with his words, understanding the fragile state the other man was in right now. His heart twinged at seeing his best friend so vulnerable, but he couldn’t help but feel prideful? He was honoured that Dean had reached out to him of all people when he was feeling down. It was shameful, to feel this elated by someone coming to him in their desperation, but Cas couldn’t push it away. Dean trusted him to see him like this, to ask him for help, and to know that Cas could help him. Dean trusted him, and that thought would keep Cas elated for the next few days. He quickly snapped out of his thoughts when he saw Dean looking back up at him tentatively. Dean’s hand rubbed the back of his neck and he tried to straighten his back, like he was bigger and better than whatever he was about to say. Clearing his throat before he began, Dean answered.

“It was kind of about this case we did today.” He spoke slower than usual, as though he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say until he said it out loud. The angel waited patiently for him to elaborate, not taking his kind, drooping eyes off of him. Dean swallowed the lump that’d formed in his throat before continuing, “There was this kid, and I mean- I don’t even know him, so it’s stupid that I’m even feeling this way- but-” He started choking up on his words, but he forced his tears down, not wanting to make a mess over something he thought was so small.

Castiel instinctively shuffled closer to Dean, now sitting on the edge of his bed right next to him. He let one of his legs drape over the side while the other curled up so he could sit comfortably and still face Dean, and he moved his hand towards Dean’s shaking ones. It was just a light touch, but it had calmed Dean significantly, at least that’s what Castiel had gathered by Dean’s hands halting their shakes as soon as Cas had touched him. Though for Dean, it was more of a shock. It short-circuited his brain for a moment, and all he could do was stare at the angel with his eyes wide and mouth agape.

He knocked himself back into the moment though as soon as he felt heat creep up onto his cheeks. Must be from the nightmare, blood rushing to my head, yeah that’s it. He reassured himself as he attempted to refocus on what he was saying.

“He’d killed himself,” Dean paused, “In all honesty I think it’s the parents fault.” Castiel remained quiet to let Dean explain further, to give him space to vent his frustrations. “The father’s an absolute ass, and the mum, well she just didn’t help either. Sometimes ‘ts worse to do nothing about a situation than being apart of it yourself.” He rolled his eyes and scoffed at the idea of bystanders in such a situation, “I don’t get it- I just don’t- how could you be so hateful, and towards your own child no less! I just can’t help but empathise with the kid.” He hung his head, shaking it, he couldn’t believe the absurdity of some people. Castiel hummed and thought Dean’s words over for a while.

“What did you have a nightmare about then?” His gravelly voice made Dean look back up again, “You said you empathised with him, why?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Dean.” Castiel shut his snarkiness down immediately, he’s here to help him, and he can’t do that with Dean being resistant. He mumbled an apology and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know, Cas. I don’t know why I empathise with him." That was a partial lie, he had an inkling, but by god did he hope he was wrong. Surely, it was something else, like he understands the difficulty of being a teenager or something... definitely. "I think it’s just… I get it. Parents not understanding things and feeling hopeless about it.” Dean, for a moment realised what he was saying and how ungrateful he sounded. Looked up to his father so much, but everytime he thought about him for too long an arrow of resentment shot into his chest. John just never understood Dean. He understood how good of a hunter his son was, and how he credited himself for raising him like that, but he didn’t understand Dean. Who he was, what he liked, nothing. Sometimes Dean wished that he couldn’t remember his father or his influence, that he could just wash it all away and start afresh. It was never that easy though, was it?

Castiel watched the emotions stir in Dean’s eyes as he tried to explain his thought process. He was making sense, it was all very reasonable, but it felt like he wasn’t getting straight to the point. Dean was trying to avoid saying or thinking about something and Cas’ curiosity got the best of him.

“You feel hopeless about people not understanding things about you.” He repeated, making sure that that indeed was what Dean was telling him. The hunter nodded. “Let me understand then, Dean.” The angel squeezed Dean’s hand in reassurance, “I don’t want you feeling like you can’t be yourself.”

“Since when did you get all lovey-dovey, Cas?” He chuckled, glancing down at their hands, the heat returning to his face as he realised that - he didn’t hate it. In fact, he was mesmerised. Watching the skin glide over the tendons as the angel moved his hand smoothly over his, holding them with something akin to reverence. Dean couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so gentle around him, let alone touch him so gently. 'Fuck- no...' His thoughts were leading him to very unplatonic scenarios now, he hated that he was having them at such an innapropriate moment, but the way Cas was touching him made him feel things he wished he wouldn't feel.

He closed his eyes for a second, wanting to forget about all the pressures of the world, and all the pressures of himself; and just let himself bask in the care of an angel, focusing solely on the warm circles that Castiel rubbed on the back of his hand. It was beyond comforting, something so small overwhelming him so much - he felt water pricking beneath his eyelids. He was succumbing to his emotions, exhaustion making it harder for him to resist. He yielded.

Cas was taken aback at first, hunter had given way to all of his strength, slumping his head onto Cas’ shoulder. Luckily, he responded quick enough and steadied both himself and Dean, moving his second hand to Dean’s back, holding him in place. “Dean-” He was lost for words, never had he seen this man so vulnerable before, it sent alarms into Cas’ mind and his grip on Dean tightened out of instinct to protect. He spoke softly, lowering his head to whisper into the crying man’s ear. “Dean, hey, what’s wrong?” Dean’s back shook and a quiet sob was made in response, “Please, talk to me.” Castiel gently pushed Dean backwards, helping him sit up straighter, so that they could speak eye to eye. His hand lingered on his arm, stroking up and down soothingly.

In between sniffles, attempting to regain composure, Dean’s mouth opened and closed and opened and closed again. “Take your time, Dean.” He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, moving it out of his face so he could get a better look. His face was flushed and puffy and wet from crying, worse than he’d ever seen it. He assumed it was even the worst it’d ever been. He shifted his hand down to his cheek, holding the red skin tenderly, as if careful not to break a porcelain statue. His thumb wiped across the underside of the hunter's eye, taking with it shining tears.

Dean’s breathing slowed, eventually to the point where the only tears left were excess ones. Cas didn’t let go of his face though, nor his hand, he needed to remain close to him, to make sure he was okay. This didn’t seem a problem to Dean, tilting his head further into his palm and his own hand holding onto Castiel’s wrist, scared he would stop. Of course, he would never do that; he would never leave Dean in a state like this alone.

He hung his head, eyes scrunching harder like them being closed wasn’t enough. He took a deep, shaky inhale, the crisp midnight air hitting the back of his throat. “What is it, Dean?” Cas asked, cautious of what the answer might be, but whatever it was, he was going to be here for Dean, always.

“I think I might not be straight, Cas…”

Author's Note:

Heyy, sorry I've been on a bit of a hiatus, lots of shit has been going on. But I should be back to writing more again! The next chapter for this shouuullllddd be coming out soon, but we'll see. Fingers crossed. Hope you're all well in the mean time!

(also in case of any confusion, I use '...' for thoughts, and "..." words being spoken!)

-> divider made by @/benkeibear

[vivitalks]

i'm thinking john winchester thoughts tonight is it obvious

[shanastoryteller]

it is so unbelievably, exceedingly obvious to me that part of s4 sam's determination to kill lilith is rooted in the question of could he have killed lilith? could he have really saved his brother from hell?

did he choose his moral high ground over his brother's life?

and if he did it, how can he ever bring himself to do that again? how could he make that same mistake twice?

of course he drinks the demon blood. how it even a question?

before, he abstained. he refused to become a monster. he thought his worst nightmare was becoming something dean would have to kill

then his brother went to hell for him and he realized his real worst nightmare

dean is gone and it's his fault - is it his fault? there's only one way to know for sure. which is to find out if he'd been capable of killing lilith if he'd just listened to ruby from the beginning

then he does kill lilith and frees lucifer and starts the apocalypse and okay, that's bad, but his first wash of horror has nothing to do with that

it's because it's true. he could have saved his brother

and he didn't

[lambmotifz]

i gave him what he needed. and it wasn’t some bitch in a g-string. it was you. a little brother that looked up to him, that he could trust. and now he loves me.

is that why you’re slutting all over town?

i get bored, like we all do. and i wanna fall in love again.

they really wrote the siren clocking dean as a brotherfucker (not that it wasn’t obvious) i love my wincest show ♡

[fuckedupfate]

𓂃 ۶ৎ   ﹕ WELCOME BACK , ANGEL.

leading roles ﹕ dean winchester , sam winchester , ange (aka angel!reader)

notices ﹕ none .ᐟ (don't think you're safe from the smut takeover though. you'll never be.) author's entry ﹕ quick little fic for the comeback season of my writing *everybody screams and cheers*. i'm going to be feeding you guys SO many fics this week (and maybe even next week 🙈) i'm soooo happy to be able to provide for you all again!! and i've been meaning to add another part to the angel!reader series since i began it, so here we are!! (i'm cooking up some more as well) credits ﹕ i owe the layout credits to the lovely @deansbeer , you need to stop cooking so hard with the layouts because i cannot handle them!!

you have been with the winchester’s now for a few days. you had stayed with them in a motel room, throughout a mission, and despite dean wishing you hadn’t, it was harder to tell her to leave that he had hoped for. you stayed inside the room, sitting naturally and unmoving in a chair, not at sleeping—dean and sam knew that you wouldn’t, as angels don’t sleep—but it was unnerving. to live the same period of time which they had with castiel at the beginning of meeting him, again. but with a different angel. a new angel. 

but now, instead of being with them in a crappy, dingy motel, you’re in their bunker. after a long, but short, argument between sam and dean, dean finally caved. allowing you to come with them to the bunker, but only if you kept out of their business. which meant no hunts. just stay inside the bunker, and keep out of everything. 

listen, it isn’t as if dean hated the poor girl. no. he was just.. used to angels being absolute dicks. complete—and utter—dicks. so he was—and is—wary around her. making sure you’re not conspiring anything. not whispering stuff into the angel radio about them. but you’re not. you’re just as confused, intrigued, and interested, about how the human world works now that you’re on it. now that you’re amongst humankind, and an youl, you’re trying to figure out the differences between the two worlds. between the homosapiens and the celestial beings. 

now sam, well.. he was more welcoming to you. much more kinder, more gentler, than dean. he was more than happy to explain how certain objects and gadgets worked, especially the ones in the bunker, along with the ones out in the world. more than happy to explain the sayings that humans say, along with the references of shows, movies, and songs, dean and he happen to make. and, plus, he enjoys the curiosity and confusion that fills your expression and eyes as you look at him while he’s explaining something, or when someone has said something that you don’t understand. it’s cute. really. he enjoys it. he enjoys talking to you, explaining to you about what something does, or what something means. and he enjoys the softness you bring. he feels calm around you. 

you’re like a newborn giraffe. stumbling and learning how to walk, but with.. everything the human’s have to offer. you were staring at dean in complete awe as he made burgers. looking at him like he was some sort of wizard. well, to you, he was. he was doing something you haven’t ever seen before. the process of cooking. amazing and never seen by you. and when he turned to see you standing right beside him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, head tilted. of course at first he was stunned to see you standing right there, not having expected it, but then he just gave a slight smile and a raised brow. asking you simply, “what’re you staring at, huh?”, while your eyes then just flicked up to him. “how did that…” your words trailed off but he saw the way you looked to the raw patty which was sat on a plate beside him and then to the cooking one, which were two completely different shades, even though you were sure that they were the same items. though despite knowing what you were trying to say, he wanted to play with you instead. “how did what?” he coaxed, a small smirk on his lips as he watched as you tried to gather your words on how to explain it. “that was… that—it was.. pink and now it.. isn’t?” he stops himself from just laughing at your confusion, knowing that’ll get you even more confused on why he’s laughing at her. “it’s called cooking.” is all he had said, simple and short. earning a more confused, though curious, expression to form on her face. “...cooking?” you questioned back, looking at him expectantly. and he knew what exactly what he was about to retaliate with, a now cocky smirk forming on his lips. “yeah. sam’ll explain more about it. why don’t you go ask him?” he said, smug and cocky. and he knew exactly what you were going to do.  you heard those words. 'why don’t you go ask him?' it was a smart idea. you all but nodded and happily walked out, prancing your way out of the kitchen and beginning to find sam. and when you did you asked about what cooking was, which left him a tad confused at the sudden, and slightly random, question, but he understood why you were asking when you mentioned that dean had been doing it and said that sam would explain it for you. which, of course, had him subtly rolling his eyes at how dean just sent you over to him to explain, but he couldn’t deny that he very much enjoys explaining things to you.

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[samgirlie-gn]

Dean shows up to Stanford unannounced and the little sister who left home a few years ago is now a not-so-little brother. Dean reacts badly. Of course he does. When Sam says "I was never your sister" Dean hears "I was never YOURS". Because if he got this fundamental thing wrong about Sam for all these years, it means he never really knew Sam the way he thought he did. As far as he's concerned he had Sammy memorized, every aspect of her personality noted down in his brain like a private religion, and Sam's telling him that all of that was wrong. He's losing Sam. He's losing the idea that he ever had Sam. It's all about ownership, his little sister belonging to him, and now he's having that essential part of his world challenged. Dean's response is denial - "this is a phase, she's just confused". Until eventually he has to reconcile the Samantha he knew with this Samuel who's come into his own as a man. He has to recognize that he did know Sam - because despite this missing piece being put into place, Sam is still Sam. And he has to realize that if he wants to have (or frankly, own) Sammy in the future he has to adjust. If he doesn't get his head out of his ass he'll lose him forever.

[shallowseeker]

6x01

///

So, he HAS thought about this.

///

6x21

The only way for them not to be in danger, logically, is if the two of them not viscerally attached to Dean's head/memories. So, you'd think he'd have asked Cas to remove them from his own memories, too.

(And even that might not be fool-proof.)

But that's clearly not the case because...

[youchangedmedestiel]

Here's my personal headcanon about Supernatural nobody asked for:

I think Sam was wrong when he said Dean kept saving him because he didn't want to be alone.

He's wrong imo because Dean is used to it since he has been alone most of his life anyway.

Alright, bye, have a nice day.

[sastielsfandom]

I love the idea that Dean wants Sam to agree that Cas is like another brother. The third Winchester brother and Sam is immediately like no. Dean is offended because wtf Sam he's laid his life down for us. While Sam is trying to actively get it through Dean's mind that there is already another brother which Dean waves off. And also it's cool that Dean sees Cas as a brother figure he just doesn't have that type of relationship with Cas. Which is the wrong thing to say apparently. Because well why aren't the two closer? What does it take for Sam to consider someone a brother huh? Does only blood count is that why he considers Adam a brother and not Cas? Meanwhile Sam is just sitting there thinking of all the reasons it would be very concerning if he saw Cas as a brother figure.