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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 days ago

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jen!!!! you're gonna make me cry!!!!!!

do i not fear death, but just pretend to?

part II

Pairing: Dean x Deergirl!Reader

Summary: Dean grapples with feelings he doesn't understand. You aren't his usual hunting partner.

Warnings: mild pining, loneliness, implied age gap, skinny dipping, (that's all for now.)

Word Count: 4,102

Dean didn't expect to find you like that.

You were curled in the moss just beyond camp—a doe again, legs folded beneath your body, eyes half-lidded as the light cracked gently through the trees. The air was still cool, dew clinging to the earth like breath held overnight. Birds stirred, tentative and sleepy, but you? You hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. You were watching.

You had been watching.

Your ears twitched first—soft, subconscious flicks at some insect's buzz. Then your nose. A subtle tremble as you sniffed the morning, read it like scripture, catalogued every breath. And when his boot scraped the earth—

You looked at him.

Big, dark eyes. Deep as wells. Gentle as dusk.

Dean stopped walking. His whole body did. Froze, somewhere between reverence and regret. His heart thudded heavy against his ribs.

You blinked. Slowly. No fear. No flight. Just you, and the sunlight pooling in the hollows of your fur, dappling your white-spotted sides in gold.

Cute, his brain whispered, stupid and soft. Fucking adorable.

Then immediately: What the hell is wrong with me?

You were a monster. A creature. Something he'd been trained to kill. Something that shouldn't exist. Something unnatural. But all Dean could do was stare at you like a man staring down the barrel of a truth too beautiful to name.

She's just a deer.

No. Not just. You made a small sound—a chuff, not quite a huff—ears twitching again as you turned your head slightly, like you'd allow him this moment, but only this one. And then, with fluid grace, you stood. It wasn't abrupt. It wasn't jarring. You unfolded like something the forest had made tenderly, piece by piece. Then you stepped behind a cluster of birch trees without a sound.

Dean exhaled, sharp through his nose. He wasn't sure if he should look away. He didn't. From behind the tree, he saw the ripple of change—bones cracking soft, spine shifting, limbs reforming.

And then—

You. Human again. He caught only a glimpse. The bare curve of your back. The pale line that slashed across it—a scar, wide and deep, like someone once tried to cut the wild out of you and failed.

Dean's breath hitched.

Then the shift of fabric—your fingers pulling that white dress, thin and worn and weightless, over your shoulders. It floated down your body like a sigh. Like mist.

You stepped back out into the light. Hair wild. Eyes calmer now. The dress hanging just below your knees, loose and soft, like something old and sacred.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

Dean looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time—because maybe he was.

"You were up all night?" He asked, voice low, rough from sleep and restraint.

"I don't sleep much," you replied, brushing a leaf from your shoulder. "I listen."

Dean nodded once. His gaze flicked to your bare feet, then back up—past your throat, your collarbones, the still-damp ends of your hair.

"I saw the scar," he said, after a beat too long.

You didn't flinch. But something in your eyes darkened.

"Most people do."

"What happened?"

"Later."

Dean nodded again. Tucked it away. He didn't push. Wouldn't. But the image of it stuck to him like sap.

You turned, facing the trees.

"It's moving again. Whatever's watching us—it doesn't sleep either."

"You sure?"

"I felt it last night. Breathing against the branches."

Dean swallowed hard. "And you just stayed out here with it?"

You looked back over your shoulder. Eyes catching the sunlight like secrets.

"It's not me it wants." A beat passed. "Not just me."

Dean stepped up beside you, machete sheathed at his side, jaw clenched. He was too close. The air between you was too warm. Too quiet.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Always," you said. And then you were walking again, barefoot through the undergrowth, slipping between trees like you belonged to them.

Dean followed, slower. Quieter. And behind his ribs, something sharp and unfamiliar bloomed. Not fear. Not yet. But something close.

You moved through the trees like a shadow folded in half. Dean followed, steps quieter now, more deliberate—closer to how you moved, though not quite the same. You left no trace. He left bruises in the earth.

The morning sun filtered down in splinters. The birds were cautious, singing only in patches. Everything else was quiet.

"You never told me your name."

You said it without turning, your voice calm and even, like you'd been holding it for the right moment.

Dean looked up.

"Didn't I?"

You shook your head once. "You asked for mine. You never gave yours."

He blinked. Paused mid-step.

"Huh."

He hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had, somewhere beneath the noise of wanting you.

"Dean," he said, clearing his throat. "It's Dean."

You glanced over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifted—just barely. "Dean," you repeated, like you were tasting it. "It suits you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that it sounds like the kind of name a man wears when he doesn't expect to grow old."

Dean didn't answer.

You moved ahead of him, quiet as the wind through pine. The moss barely shifted beneath your feet.

Dean followed in your wake, every step louder than he wanted it to be. It wasn't just the boots. It was him. The weight he carried. The blood in his history. The way the woods never quite seemed to accept him the way they accepted you.

The forest stretched around you in slow green shadows. You paused now and then to touch a tree, press your hand into the soil, tilt your head like you were listening for something ancient buried in the bark. Dean watched. Pretended he wasn't watching.

But he watched everything.

The way your dress brushed your calves like a whisper. The way your hair tangled at the ends. The shape of your fingers when they curled over moss or reached for low branches. The breath you took before speaking. The stillness you wore like armour.

Then you hummed—quiet and wordless.

Something in his chest went hot. Sharp. He cleared his throat.

"That a song?" He asked, voice low.

You glanced over your shoulder.

"It was."

"Old?"

"Everything I know is."

You smiled—just barely. And for a moment, so did he.

A clearing opened ahead, bathed in slanted light, shadows rolling like soft waves across the ground. You stepped into it first, then crouched low beside something in the grass.

Dean joined you, kneeling beside you.

"Here," you said softly. "Its path curves. Whatever it is, it isn't moving in straight lines. It's herding."

"Herding what?"

You looked up at him, and suddenly he was too close. The words were slow on your tongue:

"Maybe us."

Dean's breath caught. Because now you were looking at him, and he was looking at you, and the space between your mouths felt charged, like it might burn if the wind moved the wrong way. Sunlight glinted off your lashes. Your lips were parted, soft and unsure, and then you said his name—

"Dean."

You said it like it mattered.

He stared at you, the world narrowing to your voice and the heat of your body next to his.

You reached for him—bare fingers brushing his wrist, light as a tremble—and everything tilted. For a second, it was unbearable, the need to close the gap, to hold your face in his hands, to lean in and not stop.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flicked to his mouth. And he leaned in. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the shape of the choice. But he stopped. He stayed there for a breath that hurt. Then he pulled back, slowly, deliberately, like he meant it. He straightened his spine like a man putting on armour.

"We should keep moving," he said, and his voice had gone cold.

You blinked, lips pressing together. You nodded, soft.

Just like that, he stepped away. He didn't meet your eyes again—not really—not for the rest of the walk. He kept his distance. Walked ahead of you by a few paces, not far enough to call it rude, just enough to make it clear. His hands stayed busy. Checking gear. Adjusting straps. All pointless.

When you spoke—little observations, soft things—he responded in clipped tones.

"Yeah." "Maybe." "We'll see."

And you... didn't question it. You just adjusted. Fell into step behind him instead of beside. Kept your hands to yourself. Said less.

But he saw it.

He saw the way your eyes dipped toward the ground when his voice went flat. The way your mouth curled like you wanted to speak, and then didn't. The way you touched the trees a little longer now, like grounding yourself was easier than reaching for him again.

You didn't hum anymore.

And Dean? Dean hated himself for how much he noticed.

Don't touch her, he told himself. Don't want her. She's not yours. She's not human. She's not safe.

But none of that was what stopped him. What stopped him—what chilled him—was the fear that he'd already crossed the line. That he already wanted something no hunter should.

You stayed by the fire that night as the last light died behind the trees.

Dean didn't speak. Neither did you.

He moved through his usual motions—checking the perimeter, adjusting the tent flap, unrolling his sleeping bag. His hands were mechanical. His shoulders were tight.

You didn't sit as close as you had the night before. You didn't hum. You just stared into the fire, your dress haloed in ash-gold light, curls half-shadowed, eyes unreadable.

He could feel it, thick in the air—the distance he'd created, brick by aching brick. And now it lay between you like a grave. He glanced up once, caught you watching the fire, your face blank but your fingers twitching—just a little. Like you wanted to reach for something that wasn't reaching back.

Say something, he told himself. Invite her in.

But he didn't. He stared at the tent flap. He stared at the fire. He stared at you. And then he retreated into the tent like a coward. The zipper whispered closed. But he left it unlatched at the bottom. A useless gesture. A silent maybe.

He lay there for a long time, staring at the roof, hands behind his head, guilt boiling slow in his chest.

She should be inside, he thought. She's not a damn animal.

But you were. And weren't. And that was the problem, wasn't it?

He rolled over. Pulled the sleeping bag up. Didn't sleep. Outside, he heard the soft shift of hooves in the grass. You had changed again. He knew that sound now—your deer form didn't rustle like a predator. You moved like the trees were letting you pass.

You kept watch. Quiet and loyal.

And Dean hated how badly he wanted to unzip the tent and ask you to come in. Not for protection. Not for warmth. For forgiveness. But he didn't.

He woke before the light.

The woods were still ink-dark when he blinked awake, sweat dried cold on his back. He sat up slow, bones aching from a night of guilt and half-sleep, heart weirdly heavy.

You weren't outside the tent. Not in deer form. Not in human.

He stood, tension pulling tight through his chest. "Fawn?" He called, quiet.

No answer.

Something tugged at him then. Not panic. Just knowing. He slung on his jacket and walked, slowly, into the trees. The dawn was beginning to touch the sky—gray and blue, light bleeding slow between the branches. It was quiet. Still.

He stepped through the last stretch of woods and found the clearing. Stopped breathing for a moment.

There, across the field, was a herd.

Deer. A dozen of them or more. Grazing, nudging each other gently. A stag stood tall at the centre, his rack wide and regal, flanked by smaller does. A few fawns darted between them, spring-legged and clumsy, chasing shadows, kicking at nothing but joy.

Dean stood in the hush of it. Watching.

And then he saw you. Off to the side. Still in your deer form—quiet, small, white spots catching the light. Not grazing. Not playing.

Just watching.

You were angled slightly away from the group, ears perked, eyes fixed—not with hunger. Not even longing. Just... distance.

Dean's throat tightened.

You were part of them. And somehow not. The herd didn't shy from you, but they didn't draw near either. They didn't treat you like other.

But you stayed other anyway. Alone. Silent. Still.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. He just watched you watching them, standing half-lit in the gold spill of the morning, hooves planted in soft grass like roots trying to find home.

You flicked your ears. Lifted your head. Looked at him across the clearing. Your nose twitched. Your eyes met his.

And Dean understood—really understood—for the first time that you were lonely. Not just alone. Lonely. And he'd made it worse.

You looked at him a moment longer. Still. Waiting. Eventually, you turned your head. Took a step. Another. And then you walked—slow, silent—back toward the trees. Back toward the place you always stood just outside of. Not part of the herd. Not part of him.

Dean stayed where he was. Watched you slip into the woods like you were fading from a dream.

He looked back once more at the meadow. The stag stood regal, unmoved, nostrils flaring. The fawns still bounded. The does grazed in soft rhythm. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. And yet... all he could think about was how far away from it you had been.

By the time he made it back to camp, the fire was nearly out.

You were human again, crouched by the pit, your white dress catching the light of the dying coals. Your curls were wild from the shift, leaves tangled in the strands. Your bare shoulders were streaked with dew and ash. Your hands were smudged with soot as you brushed dirt over the embers.

You looked up when you heard him, but only briefly. You didn't smile. You just went back to what you were doing—tidying. Making ready to move. Just like always.

Dean stood there a second longer than he meant to.

"You didn't have to put it out," he said.

"I always do," you replied softly. "I don't like leaving things burning."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. Stepped a little closer. The fire crackled once more and then sighed out, dead.

"Hey," he said. "Back there... at the clearing..."

You didn't look at him.

"It's okay."

"What is?"

You shook your head, standing slowly. Brushing your hands off.

"You don't have to explain, Dean."

"Explain what?"

"Any of it."

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were unreadable again, and that scared him more than anything else.

"Once we find whatever this thing is," you said, "I'll be out of your hair."

There was no anger in it. No bitterness. Just... resignation. You weren't pushing. You weren't clinging. You were offering him distance. Mercy.

Dean's heart dropped through the forest floor.

"Fawn..."

You turned away, started rolling up the tarp that had protected his few supplies from the dew. Your fingers moved carefully. Precisely.

Dean watched you, jaw tight, words stuck somewhere deep in his throat. He thought of the way you'd stood at the edge of that herd. Alone. Still. Watching like something that remembered what it was like to belong but hadn't in a long, long time.

And he hated it. He hated how beautiful you were. How soft. How strong. How wrong it all was. He hated that he wanted to reach for you and hadn't. And he hated himself more for doing exactly what he thought was right—only to see you shrinking from it.

Say something, his mind whispered. Fix it.

But he didn't. He just helped you pack. Silently. And the distance between you grew like frost between trees.

The two of you walked for a long time without speaking.

The trees began to thin, light spreading wide and warm across the forest floor. The sound of water reached you before the view did—soft and trickling, a quiet invitation.

You were the first to step through the last fringe of trees, and Dean followed behind—slow, unsure, still carrying the weight of what neither of you had said.

Then the lake opened up in front of you.

Small, still. Tucked between low hills and sun-dappled moss. Lily-pads floated across the surface, flat and wide, blooming pale yellow and white. The water was clear near the shore, darkening to rich green in the centre. A heron stood knee-deep in the far shallows, still as a statue, surrounded by reeds.

You stepped forward and stopped—completely, utterly still.

Dean nearly walked into you, but paused just behind. Watched the way your body softened. The way your fingers twitched at your sides like they ached to reach for the light, the water, the peace.

You took a breath. One of those real ones. Deep and open, like it came from the centre of your chest. And then you smiled. Not the tight, quiet thing you'd been offering him since yesterday. Not the gentle curve of survival. A real smile.

Dean stared at it like it was sunlight itself.

Your fingers pulled the white dress over your head with easy grace, baring your skin to the morning without hesitation. You wore nothing underneath. Just yourself, wild and unafraid.

Dean's throat went dry.

You waded into the lake slowly, the water rising up your calves, your thighs, your waist. You didn't look back. Not at first. You just leaned your head back and let the light spill over your face, and Dean saw your shadow cast long across the surface of the water.

And in the shadow—antlers. Not on your head. Not in the light. Only in what followed you. Curled and crownlike. Elegant. Impossible.

Dean stared.

What the hell were you?

And why—why—did he want to follow you into the water like it meant something?

He didn't let himself think too long. Boots off. Socks stripped. Shirt, jeans, everything discarded in a messy trail behind him. He stepped into the lake, breath catching at the cold, but kept going.

You turned at the sound—just a glance over your shoulder. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. And then you smiled again. Smaller this time. Softer. Like you didn't know if you were allowed to.

Dean melted. Just a little.

"Didn't think you'd come in," you said.

"Didn't think I'd want to," he replied, wading deeper.

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering if I ever want to get out."

You didn't laugh. But something in your face lit—like it might.

Dean swam out a little, the water moving cool and clean against his skin. You stayed closer to the lily pads, fingers trailing across their wide green backs.

You looked at him then—really looked.

"This is the first time I've seen you let go."

Dean raised a brow. "I'm not exactly frolicking."

"No," you said, smiling again. "But you're not carrying your weapons."

He glanced at the shore. At the pile of his clothes, his gear. His belt, his machete, his gun.

"You feel safe?" You asked.

He looked at you. At the way your hair floated around your shoulders, the droplets of water beading along your collarbones. The tiny scar beneath your ribcage.

"No," he said honestly.

Your smile faltered.

But then he added: "But I don't feel like I need to run either."

You stared at him a long time.

"You're afraid of me," you said.

"No."

"You're afraid of what I make you feel."

That one landed. Dean didn't answer.

You didn't push. You just turned slowly in the water, letting your fingers trail behind you as you moved, circling around him like something made of dusk and myth.

"You don't have to pretend," you said, voice low. "I've seen the way you look at me."

Dean looked down into the water. Saw both of your reflections—soft, rippling. Yours crowned with antlers. His fractured.

"Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper. "I know."

And for a moment, the water felt holy. And dangerous. And like home.

Dean watched you turn slowly in the water, your fingertips trailing ripples like memories. You weren't smiling now. But you weren't closed off either. You were open. Quiet. And for once, not waiting for him to say something.

"Why weren't you with them?" He asked.

Your brows pulled just slightly, not in confusion, but in something softer.

"I was."

Dean shook his head, wading closer—but not too close. His voice was low.

"You were near them. But you weren't with them. You were watching."

You turned your eyes to the far side of the lake where the trees had swallowed the herd again.

"I don't let myself get too close," you said.

"Why?"

"Because they're peaceful. And I don't want to change that."

Dean stared at you, frowning faintly. "I don't get it."

You didn't answer right away. Your fingers dipped beneath the surface, stirring the water absently. Then you looked out at the lilies, the reflections. The sky.

"I've been like this for as long as I can remember," you said finally. "This shape. This age. Frozen around twenty, maybe twenty-one. I don't really know anymore."

Dean stilled.

You kept speaking, voice steady, like you'd rehearsed it in your own head a thousand times but never said it aloud.

"I don't remember my parents. Don't remember if they were like me, or part of a herd. Maybe they left me in the woods when I was born—with little antlers poking out of my skull like a bad omen. Maybe they didn't want to risk the others."

Your voice went thinner. Not weak—controlled.

"I've been on my own longer than I can measure. I've stopped trying. I stay that way. Because I don't think it's my place to take companionship. To take anything."

The water lapped gently at your waist. The heron lifted from the reeds then, rising in silence. Its wings stretched wide, slow. Effortless.

Dean watched it go. And then he said, quiet: "That's what I was afraid of."

You turned to him, blinking.

"When I didn't kiss you. That's what it was. I didn't want to take it. Like it wasn't mine to want."

You didn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes falling back to the place where the heron had stood. You sighed. Deep. Honest.

Dean's chest ached.

He didn't want to feel sorry for you. That wasn't what this was. It wasn't pity—it was recognition. It was the gnawing, hollow sameness of it all. The way your loneliness mirrored his own so closely it made him want to drown in it.

You had given so much without asking for a single thing in return. And he had met that gift with distance.

Dean moved closer—just a little. Enough to be beside you in the water. Enough to let the silence feel less like a wound.

He didn't touch you, but he wanted to.

"I was cold," he said. "Back there. After that moment."

"I know," you murmured.

"You didn't deserve that."

You didn't say thank you. You didn't reach for him. You just stood in the water with him, morning light catching the edge of your profile, eyes reflecting the sky. And that—that—was worse.

Because Dean had never felt closer to someone he couldn't hold.

You stood beside him in the water, the silence wide between you. And then you turned. Slowly. Carefully. Your eyes met his—soft, unreadable, reflecting the sky and the shadow of the trees behind him.

"I think we're more alike than you want to admit," you said.

Dean blinked. Swallowed.

"What do you mean?"

You tilted your head, the way deer sometimes do—curious. Gentle.

"Your loneliness," you said quietly, "it calls to mine."

The words sank deep. Like a knife made of light.

Dean's breath caught. His chest tightened. The ache that had been riding under his skin all morning surged, and before he could stop himself, he reached for you. His hand found your waist. The curve of your bare hip just beneath the water. He pulled you toward him—not roughly, not desperately. Just gently. Like he needed to feel that you were real.

You didn't resist. You let your body come to his, weightless in the water, and you wrapped your arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The lake was still. Murky green beneath the surface, bright above.

You were warm against him. Chest to chest. Legs brushing. Your skin dappled with gold light, water droplets clinging to your shoulders, your collarbones. Your pulse soft beneath his fingers.

Dean didn't speak. Couldn't. He was looking at you like you were something holy. Something impossible.

Your eyes were wide—doe eyes, always. Vulnerable. Knowing. Your lips were parted, not in invitation, but in wonder. And god, the freckles. He couldn't stop staring at them. Like stars across your skin. Like someone had placed every one with intention.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured, voice hoarse.

You didn't look away.

"I know."

"You're not what I'm supposed to want."

"I know that too."

His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw. The curve of your cheek.

"But I do," he said, barely above a whisper.

You smiled then. Just a little. Sad. Knowing.

"I understand why you were afraid of me," you said.

Dean's hand stilled against your cheek.

"Everyone else has been."

He felt the words like a bruise spreading beneath his ribs.

"They see something they don't understand. Something wild. And wild things make people afraid. So I stopped asking. I stopped expecting to be anything but alone."

Dean pulled you tighter. Not to claim. Not to possess. To comfort. To answer that call.

You tucked your head against his shoulder, your breath warm on his neck. His arms circled you fully now, hands resting on your back, fingers brushing the ridge of the scar that ran beneath your shoulder blades.

You didn't flinch.

And he didn't let go.

a/n: oooooh, we are getting deeper into their dynamic now. I LOVE THEM. This is so different to any of my other works and I'm kinda living for it. Like, I know... I know there's no smut yet. I promise y'all it's coming... and it'll be worth it. But for now? I'm really enjoying the plot and building this story. The slowburn hoe in me is thriving right now. Hope you guys like it. The shift in their relationship has begun. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @bitchykittenconnoisseur <3

#love my moots <3

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 days ago

Text

jen 🥹🫶🏻 you’re literally the most sweetest bby ever 😭😭😭 i’m so glad you like it!!!!

i hope everything goes smooth with your grades, darlin, drop me a message if you need to! proud of you <3

you were lonely like me

part III

Pairing: Dean x Deergirl!Reader

Summary: Further into the forest, further into you. Dean's hunting, but he really isn't sure of what anymore.

Warnings: 18+!, language, age gap, pining, guidance, smut (kissing, clitoral stimulation, cunnilingus/oral, mild dirty talk), tension and dread, that's all for now.

Word Count: 4,525

The sun climbed higher, slow and golden, casting its warmth across the surface of the lake. Mist rose from the water in delicate veils, curling like breath from a sleeping mouth. Lily pads bobbed with the quiet movement of the water, soft ripples radiating out from where your bodies stayed pressed together, still as the trees around you.

You hadn't moved. Neither had he.

Dean held you like he might never again. Not tight. Not desperate. Just... close. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

Your arms were around his neck, your skin warm beneath the water, your breath slow against his throat. You smelled like moss and woodsmoke and something floral he couldn't name. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, and he could feel your eyelashes brush his skin every time you blinked.

And still, it wasn't close enough.

Dean let his eyes roam—slow, reverent. The freckles across your nose, scattered like stardust. The curve of your lips, parted slightly in thought. The wet tangle of your curls. The way your nose twitched, soft and instinctive, like some part of you never left the forest entirely.

Even here—wrapped in his arms, surrounded by sunlight and silence—you carried the deer with you. You were the forest. And Dean felt like a man trespassing.

"You don't even look at things the way most people do," he said, his voice low and husky from disuse.

You stirred a little, not pulling away, just shifting to meet his gaze.

"No?"

He shook his head.

"You look like you're always trying not to scare something off. Like the world's made of fragile things, and you're scared to break it by accident."

You smiled, quiet and sad.

"Sometimes I am."

He let his hand rise, fingers brushing back a wet curl from your cheek. His thumb lingered at the edge of your jaw.

"I've never met a hunter like you before," you whispered, almost like it wasn't meant to be said aloud.

Dean exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. His mouth tugged upward at the corner.

"Pretty sure I've never met a... well. You."

Your eyes stayed on his.

"Most hunters don't look at me. Not like this. They don't ask. They don't... stay."

He swallowed. "They don't know what they're looking at."

You blinked, soft and slow.

"And do you?"

He didn't answer at first. He just brushed his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.

"I'm still figuring it out."

"You don't have to." You leaned in, forehead to his. Your breath warmed the space between you. "I'm not meant to be understood. I've made peace with that."

He shook his head, eyes flicking to your mouth.

"That's bullshit."

You laughed, just a little.

"Is it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Someone just has to try harder."

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes fully. Something shimmered in them—hope, maybe. Or memory.

"Then you'll be the first."

Dean didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Instead, he kissed you. Not hard. Not hungry. Just true. His lips met your forehead, then the apple of your cheek, then your shoulder, where water clung to your skin like dew. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering shut, your hands sliding up into his hair.

And there, in the middle of the lake, bathed in gold and surrounded by the wild, you held each other like you had all the time in the world.

Dean pressed his cheek to your temple.

"I don't know what this is," he murmured.

"Me neither."

"But I want it to last."

Your fingers curled into his shoulder.

"So do I."

And neither of you said what you were both starting to feel deep in your bones:

That things this beautiful don't last. Not in the forest. Not in lives like yours. But still—you held on. Just a little longer.

You were still in his arms, the water warm now, sunlight high above, dappling across your bare shoulders. The lake had gone quiet around you. No birds. No breeze. Just the sound of slow, steady breathing.

Your eyes were on his face. You were looking at him like you were trying to memorise something you didn't want to lose. Your gaze traced along his brow, his cheeks, the faint scar near his temple, the curve of his lips. Dean stayed still, letting you look. Letting you have this.

"What are you looking at?" He asked, voice quiet and rough.

You didn't answer.

You just kept studying him, your expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as if a thought hovered there, not ready to land. Your eyes flicked over him again—so soft, so wide, and then, you leaned forward. Slowly.

And pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Dean barely breathed. The kiss was small. Tentative. Just the barest brush of lips against skin. But it sent something sharp and electric through his chest.

Before he could think better of it, he turned his head. Found your mouth with his own. Pressed a kiss back—firmer. More sure.

You made a sound. A tiny, involuntary sound—half breath, half hum—and it went straight to his gut. His grip on your waist tightened, just slightly, just enough.

He pulled back a breath's width. "You okay?" He asked, watching your face.

Your eyes opened slowly. And what he saw there—

Your pupils were wide. Blown. Your cheeks flushed from more than sun. Your breath caught in your throat like you weren't used to needing this much air.

"You liked that," he said softly, almost in awe.

You nodded, lips parted. Eyes dazed.

Dean's chest ached.

"Come here," he murmured, and leaned in again.

This time, your mouths met fully. Soft. Open. Slow.

You kissed him like you were learning how. Like it wasn't just new—it was strange and beautiful and maybe a little frightening. And Dean let you explore it. Let you take your time. His lips moved with yours, gently, reverently, letting the moment bloom between you like something sacred.

Your hands fisted into his shoulders. Your lips parted further. Your tongue brushed his, tentative. You hummed against him, and Dean felt it vibrate through his bones. You pulled yourself tighter to him, like instinct, like your body had decided before your mind could catch up.

"I haven't..." you whispered, barely able to speak between breaths. "I haven't felt this before. This... pull."

Dean nodded, lips brushing yours.

"I know."

"It's—my body—it's... it's responding. To you."

The way you said it—soft and full of wonder, not shame—made heat pulse through Dean like wildfire. You were describing desire, and you didn't even know the words for it.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low and thick. "That's what this is."

"You make me feel... full. And empty. And burning."

Your hands moved over his chest, slow and searching, as if trying to find the place where the ache had started.

And Dean was gone. Completely undone by the fact that you wanted him. Not with skill. Not with experience. But with truth.

The kiss deepened—soft, then breathless, then trembling. You were shaking in his arms, not from fear, not from cold. From something new. Something blooming low in your belly like fire and wonder all at once. You didn't know what to do with it. You just knew you needed more.

When you pulled away, eyes dazed and lips kiss-swollen, your fingers found his.

"Come on," you whispered. "Please—come on."

You tugged gently toward the shore, stumbling a little as your foot met soft mud, too eager, too breathless, like the need had become something urgent.

Dean followed—of course he did—but his hand caught your wrist before you could lead him too fast.

"Slow down," he said, voice low and steady. "We don't have to rush it."

You turned to him, wide-eyed, uncertain.

"But I need—"

"I know," he murmured. "Me too." He cupped your cheek. "But let's take it slow. Let's make it right."

Something in your chest shuddered. You nodded.

The two of you stepped from the water, damp and glistening in the dappled sun. The shore was soft earth and moss, a little wild, still warm from the day's early heat. Dean pulled his boxers on over wet skin, his movements quiet, steady.

You didn't reach for your dress. You stood there, bare, your hair clinging to your collarbones in wet curls, your skin glowing, flush rising in soft pinks across your chest and cheeks. You didn't try to hide yourself. You didn't want to.

Dean looked at you like you were something carved from reverence. His gaze didn't wander. It lingered. It learned.

He walked to his pack, pulled out his sleeping bag, and unrolled it slowly onto the forest floor. The zipper whispered open. He smoothed it out. Then he turned and offered his hand.

You took it. You moved onto the sleeping bag with him, your knees damp, your breath short. He laid you down like you were meant to be laid beneath open sky.

Not to be taken. To be worshipped.

Dean leaned over you, his body propped on one arm, the other trailing from your shoulder to your wrist, just barely brushing your skin.

"You okay?"

You nodded, unable to speak for a second.

"Just... don't stop looking at me," you whispered.

He didn't. He kissed you again—slow. Parting your lips with his, letting your breaths mingle, his hand moving along your ribcage, learning the rhythm of your shiver.

"You're coming undone from just kissing me," he murmured, half-wonder, half-warning.

You nodded, panting.

"I don't— I don't know what's happening. My body—Dean—"

He hushed you with another kiss.

"You're just feeling it. That's all. That's what this is. Let it happen."

Your hands roamed his shoulders, your thighs parting instinctively as you drew him closer. Every movement was clumsy and open and achingly honest. You arched into him like you were trying to understand the shape of this longing.

Dean kissed your neck. Your collarbone. Your shoulder. His mouth moved like worship, like language. Like he could spell out you with lips alone.

And you whispered his name—like you were learning how it tasted.

"Dean."

He pressed his forehead to yours.

"I got you," he said. "I'll take care of you."

Your breath caught. Your fingers curled into his back.

And beneath the trees, with sunlight pouring through branches and the world holding its breath—you learned what intimacy felt like. What it meant to be wanted without fear. To be touched without pain. To be seen and still loved.

The forest had gone quiet around you, the trees holding their breath.

You lay bare against Dean's sleeping bag, the earth beneath you soft and damp with morning. Your skin still kissed with lake water, your curls sticking to your shoulders, your thighs trembling just slightly where they brushed his.

Dean knelt over you, boxers clinging wet to his hips, his hands gentle as they skimmed your sides. He was looking at you like you were something carved from divinity—like he didn't know where to start, only that he wanted to worship.

"God, look at you," he murmured, voice thick. "You're shaking."

"I don't know what's happening to me," you whispered, breath already catching.

"Yeah, you do," he said softly. "You just don't have the words for it yet."

He leaned down and kissed your lips—slow, warm, open-mouthed. You whimpered into it, arching beneath him, your hands rising to fist in his damp hair.

"Dean—Dean, I—"

"I know, sweetheart," he breathed, brushing his nose along your jaw. "I got you."

His hand slid lower, dragging down your ribs, over the curve of your hip, settling between your thighs. You gasped, eyes flying wide, hips twitching.

"Easy," he whispered. "Let me touch you. Just like this."

His fingers parted you slowly, sliding through the wetness already slick between your legs.

You cried out—soft, startled, overwhelmed. "What is that?"

Dean's lips curved into the faintest, crooked smile. Not cocky—tender.

"That's your body telling me it wants more," he said, pressing his fingers against the softest part of you. "You're so damn wet for me, baby."

"Wet—?"

"Means you're ready. Means you want this."

He leaned in again, kissing your mouth as his fingers circled your clit—soft, slow, measured.

You mewled. Your legs trembled wider. Your chest arched. You clung to his shoulders like they were the only solid thing left in the world.

"Is this okay?" He asked, voice low. "Can I keep touching you?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Please—Dean, please—"

"Good girl," he murmured, and fuck, the way you moaned for that broke something open in him.

He kept working his fingers—one hand stroking your clit in slow, teasing circles, the other braced beside your head as he kissed down your throat. You didn't stop moving, couldn't. Your hips rolled up into his palm, your thighs twitching with every pass of his fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered, his voice thick with heat. "That pressure building? That heat in your belly?"

"Yeah—yes, I don't know what it is—"

"You're gonna come, Fawn. That's me bringing you there. Just let it happen."

You were panting now, your eyes glassy, mouth falling open in a gasp every time his fingers hit that spot just right.

"Dean—Dean, I can't—"

"You can," he said, voice firm but soft. "You're doing so fucking good for me."

He kissed your jaw, your temple, your mouth. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I feel like I'm gonna—gonna break—"

"Break for me, sweetheart," he whispered. "That's what I want. Let go. I've got you."

And then you did. You shattered—legs shaking, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in a soft, helpless cry as you came against his hand. And Dean kissed you through it, whispering praises against your lips, grounding you with his hands and his voice.

"That's it. So perfect. So fucking perfect. God, look at you..."

You collapsed against him, breathless, boneless, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

"What was that?" You whispered, stunned.

Dean smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

"That was me making you feel good."

You blinked up at him.

"I didn't know I could feel like that."

His smile turned soft. Loving.

"You've barely scratched the surface, baby."

There, beneath the rising sun, Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead, still holding you like a promise. And you were still catching your breath.

Your limbs trembled softly where they tangled with his. Your skin glowed with heat, flushed and dewy, and your eyes were wide and dazed—still lost in the high he'd given you, still stunned by the depth of it.

Dean lay half over you, chest heaving, hair damp against his forehead, one hand brushing along your side like he couldn't stop touching you. Like he didn't want to.

You looked up at him. Still breathless. Still soft.

"Can you..." you swallowed. "Can you do it again?"

Dean's breath hitched. A beat of silence. Then a low chuckle, more relieved awe than amusement.

"Damn fucking straight I can," he murmured, leaning down to kiss you. "Question is... you want the same thing, or you wanna try something a little different?"

You blinked up at him, flushed and confused.

"Different... how?"

He kissed you again, slower this time. His palm cradled your jaw as he pulled back just far enough to whisper against your lips.

"I can use my mouth, sweetheart."

Your eyes went wide.

"Your mouth... down there?"

Dean nearly groaned, his brows drawing together like it physically hurt him not to touch you already.

"Yeah, baby. That's exactly what I mean."

You stared at him, stunned.

"You want to do that?"

That wrecked him. He looked at you like you'd asked if he wanted to breathe.

"More than anything," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You have no goddamn idea how much."

You swallowed hard, something electric flickering in your chest.

"Then..." your voice trembled a little. "Show me what you want."

Dean's jaw flexed.

He kissed you again—deep, reverent, grateful. And then he trailed kisses down your throat. Down your chest. His hands stroked your sides as he moved, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his mouth lowered, as he kissed down your belly, slow and sure and soft.

You gasped when his lips brushed the inside of your thigh.

"Just relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

And then he kissed you there. His mouth opened over you, warm and slow, tongue pressing flat and soft and perfect—and your hips jerked.

You moaned—high, helpless. "Dean—what—?"

"Just feel it, baby. That's all I want."

He devoured you, slow and sinful, like it was his religion, like the earth itself had made you just for this. His mouth moved in gentle circles, his tongue curling up to taste every drop of you, and his hands held your thighs like you might float away if he didn't anchor you there.

You were crying out now—broken little gasps, fists curled in the sleeping bag, your body arching for more.

"Oh—oh my god—Dean—Dean—!"

"That's it," he growled against your skin. "So damn good for me. Taste so sweet. You gonna come for me again, Fawn?"

"I—I think—oh—Dean—"

He hummed into you and the vibration tipped you over. You came again—harder this time, wrecked and trembling, a mess of mewling, panting, pure feeling.

Dean didn't stop until you were gasping, tugging at his hair, overwhelmed. He kissed your thigh. Your hip. Crawled back up your body and kissed your mouth like it was nothing, like he hadn't just ruined you with his tongue. You kissed him back. Tasted yourself on his lips.

"That..." you whispered, breathless. "That's what you want?"

Dean cupped your face.

"You are what I want," he said, forehead to yours. "In every damn way."

And you believed him. With every ache, with every breath, with every part of yourself you'd never let anyone see before.

You were still shaking. Not from the orgasm—though that still shimmered along your skin like aftershocks. But from something deeper. Something you couldn't name. You clung to Dean like the world might vanish if you let go. Your arms around his neck. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder. Your legs tangled with his.

And he—he held you right back. One hand at the small of your back, the other curling around your head, fingers buried in your damp curls. His chest rose and fell against yours, heart steady, breathing slow.

But you could feel it. The way he held himself tight. Tense. Restrained.

"Do you want..." you whispered, unsure. "Do you want something else?"

He stilled. Then he kissed your temple. Soft. Warm.

"Yeah," he said, voice quiet and raw. "God, yeah."

A beat.

"But we should slow down."

You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him.

"Slow down?"

"I'll show you everything," he said, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. "If you want that. But not all at once. Not like this."

You searched his eyes. He looked so wrecked. Like holding himself back was hurting. Like he'd never wanted anything more in his life—and still chose to wait.

"Why?" You asked, soft.

Dean leaned his forehead against yours.

"Because you're not just some girl, Fawn," he said. "You're not like anything I've ever known."

You curled closer.

"I'm scared," you admitted.

Dean pulled you tighter.

"I know," he whispered. "Me too."

The forest stayed quiet around you. Still. Reverent.

And Dean found himself thinking—he didn't care. He didn't care that you weren't human. That you were something wild, something ancient, something he didn't fully understand. He didn't care that he couldn't explain what you were.

Because he knew what you weren't. You weren't cruel. You weren't dangerous. You weren't a monster. You were soft. You were good. You were the most pure, aching, living thing he'd ever touched.

And then something caught his eye—just past your shoulder. Your shadows. His, long and crooked across the mossy forest floor. And yours...

Antlers. Curled. Sharp. Crown-like. Rising from the silhouette of your head like they belonged there.

Dean's breath hitched.

"Fawn," he said, voice tight. "Why does your shadow have antlers?"

You turned your head slowly, your body still pressed to his. Your eyes tracked the shapes, the way the light cut through leaves and turned your silhouette into something half-woman, half-deer. And your face changed. Just slightly. A flicker. A shift. Like something had been tugged loose behind your eyes.

"It's always had antlers," you said slowly. "I don't know why."

You looked back at him.

"I don't think I've ever asked."

Dean studied you—your profile glowing in the gold light, your expression calm but not settled. Like something had started to turn deep inside your mind. But you didn't say anything else, so he just pulled you close again, wrapping you up in his arms like he could hold the questions at bay for a little while longer.

And you let him. Even as something inside you began to stir. You were warm against him. Breath steady. Skin soft. Pressed to his chest like you'd always belonged there.

Dean lay on the sleeping bag, arms around you, the filtered morning light gilding the curve of your bare shoulder. One of your legs lay between his, tangled like a secret. Your cheek was over his heart.

He hadn't moved in a long time. He didn't want to.

You'd fallen asleep with your mouth still parted. A soft sound in your throat with every exhale. It killed him, how peaceful you looked. How small. How safe in his arms, like you didn't even know he was supposed to be the thing that kills what can't be explained.

She's not a monster, he thought. She's not even close.

You hadn't hurt anyone. You hadn't lied. You'd just... been. Gentle. Wild. Lonely.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe this had set him back. Maybe he wasn't any closer to finding what he came for. But he didn't give a damn.

How could it be wrong when it feels like this?

And then something shifted. It was small. Subtle. The breeze that passed through the trees changed. It wasn't colder. Or warmer. Just deliberate. Like the forest was making room.

Dean's eyes opened. He didn't move. Didn't startle. Just... listened. Birdsong had fully stopped. The light looked different now. The shadows had thickened under the canopy. A sound, far off—soft. Not footsteps. Not wind. Something... else.

And still, you slept. Pressed to him. Breath warm against his ribs.

Dean's hand curled instinctively around your back. He could feel your heartbeat through your chest, slow and steady and—

No. Not steady anymore. You stirred. Just a twitch, then stillness. Then a breath that wasn't quite right.

"Fawn," he whispered, barely audible.

You didn't open your eyes.

But you heard him. And he felt it, the moment everything changed inside you. Like something ancient had woken beneath your skin. Your hand fisted against his chest. You sat up—slow, fluid, every movement suddenly too quiet.

Dean propped himself on his elbows, tension bleeding into his spine.

"What is it?" He asked.

You didn't look at him. You turned your face toward the trees. Eyes wide. Unblinking.

"Be still," you whispered, like the forest itself was listening. "It's here."

Dean went still. So did the air.

You rose to your knees slowly, your spine long and graceful, curls tumbling down your back. You weren't trembling. You weren't afraid. But your body held a stillness that wasn't human. Something watching. Something ancient. And then you shifted.

Dean had seen things shift before—violent, grotesque, forced.

But this wasn't like that. This was natural. Beautiful. Inevitable. Your body folded inward like breath. Your limbs lengthened and narrowed. Your skin dappled, spine arching as soft fur replaced flesh, your face elongating, eyes staying just the same—wide, brown, mournful.

It wasn't magic. It was truth. You had always been this.

You stood before him now on trembling legs, delicate hooves digging into the moss. A small, perfect doe. Your ears twitched. Your nose lifted.

Then you bolted.

Dean scrambled to his feet.

"Fawn!"

You didn't look back. You ran. And the moment you vanished into the trees, he felt it. The presence—thick and watching, oppressive as smoke—lifted. Like it had followed you. Like you'd taken it with you.

Dean's chest tightened.

"Goddamn it—"

He yanked his damp jeans up, fumbled with the buckle, pulled his shirt over his head inside out, didn't care. His hands were already on his weapons—blade at the hip, gun in his grip. The sleeping bag was left behind, cooling in the light. The forest was different now. And you were gone. But not for long. He ran after you—chest tight, heart pounding—not to kill. To find you. To protect you. Or maybe—just maybe—to understand.

The forest felt wrong now.

Dean wasn't new to woods like this—dense and wild, shrouded in shadow—but something about the air had changed. The light. The silence. It wasn't quiet. It was holding its breath.

He moved fast but careful, boots skimming over soft ground, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. His jeans were still damp. His shirt clung to him. Sweat gathered at the base of his spine and the pulse behind his eyes thudded with every step.

Fawn. Shit. Where the hell did you go?

There were signs—small ones.

Fresh hoofprints pressed into moss. A cluster of disturbed leaves. One pale tuft of fur caught on a bramble like it had been left for him.

He followed.

The trail twisted in ways that didn't make sense. Paths that should've turned left curled back right. Familiar trees repeated where they shouldn't. The forest bent inward. The hush grew heavy.

The shadows thickened, and still—he pressed forward. He wasn't hunting anymore. He was chasing. And the fear wasn't about what was ahead. It was about what he might lose if he didn't reach you in time.

You had run.

Not from fear, not exactly—but from something deeper. Older. Something that rose in your blood the way fog lifted off the water in the morning.

You didn't think. You just moved.

Your hooves hardly touched the earth. You leapt through shafts of light, brushed past trees that bent to let you through. The forest seemed to know you, even as something darker pressed at its edges.

You didn't understand the feeling, but it pulled at you like instinct.

And still—you ran.

You felt it in your ribs. In your lungs. In the way your heart pounded faster than it should have. In the way the wind changed around you, whispering in tongues you didn't know but recognised.

There were flashes behind your eyes you couldn't hold onto:

Blood, warm on your fur. Stones in a circle. A name screamed into the snow—yours, maybe. Or someone else's.

You didn't remember. But your bones did. And so—you ran.

He heard it before he saw you. A snap of hooves on stone. A break in breath. Then a flash of pale dappled fur through the trees, gone again in an instant.

"Fawn!" he called, his voice rasping in his throat. "Wait—!"

Branches scraped his arms. The gun thudded against his thigh. Sweat trickled into his collar. A low, pulsing sound began in the base of his skull—a hum, like pressure before a storm.

He broke into a clearing and stopped dead.

You stood in the centre of it. Still. Silent. Your flanks heaved with breath, sides trembling from exertion, from something else. Your ears twitched toward the trees, your gaze fixed on a space just beyond him.

Dean followed it.

The trees around the glade looked... burned. Only the bark—blackened, scorched in spirals reaching up toward the canopy. The smell was faint, not quite smoke, but memory of it.

And beneath your hooves, etched into the mossy floor, was a circle. Not recent. Not clean. But old. Overgrown. Still pulsing faintly, like veins under skin.

Dean took a cautious step forward.

You didn't move. You breathed, shallow and fast. Your form shimmered faintly in the light—like something beneath your skin was trying to surface. Your head turned slowly, and for one breathless second—your eyes weren't yours. They were ancient. Knowing. Distant.

Then you blinked, and the expression was gone.

You turned your head toward a stone half-submerged at the clearing's edge. Dean followed your gaze, saw the carvings etched into it—worn symbols, unreadable but humming with something that tasted like truth.

You stepped toward it.

Dean reached for you.

"Fawn," he said again, gentler this time. "Come back."

You didn't answer. You looked back at him—startled, almost—and then past him, eyes sharpening.

Dean turned, gun raised instinctively, but there was nothing there. No creature. No sound. Just trees. And wind. And a forest that no longer felt like the one he woke up in that morning.

a/n: ahh!!! Okay, little bit of smut. Not my usual filth. I'm trying to go for something more reverent here. I'm trying to evoke FEELINGS, besties. You know the filth is coming though. For I always bring the filth. I am a humble whore. I'm so in love with Dean and Fawn, it hurts. This story is becoming one of my favourites. I know it's not truly on brand for me, but it's something different and I kind of love it. Also... not Dean being an absolute munch and looking like he's in pain when she asks him if he wants to go down on her... of course he does, bestie, he's a fucking obsessed with it. Let him do his thing. Gentle, guiding Dean. OOOOF. All the love.

#love my moots <3

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