#mentions of bobby singer

[imbadatwrighting]

I never knew a season of a tv show could be so “we’re not gay!” while actively being gay before I watched spn season five

[tiredandoptimistic]

Do the people of Supernatural tumblr know about the Bufus tarot card?

The real moral of Supernatural is that Bobby gets bitches bisexual style

[deanwinchesterscherrypie]

Inescapable

Kinktober Day 1: Dom/sub

Summary:

(Inspired by Dress by Taylor Swift) Dean, Cas, and Sam go on a small local ghost hunt while you stay at home. While you get the bunker prepared for them to come home, you can't stop thinking about your dom. Dean specifically ordered you to not be thinking of him while he's gone, but you can't help it. You miss him, and when he gets home, you think you'll show him just how much.

Words: 3,919

Kinks: Dom/sub, Rope play, light degradation, teasing, spanking, punishment

Relationship: Dom Dean/Sub Fem Reader

Content/Trigger Warnings: mentions of sexual assault (only in the first paragraph), mentions of a knife, smut, cunnilingus, p in v sex, fingering, dominant dean winchester

Notes: Read here on ao3! Full Kinktober Masterlist. I hope you enjoy :)

Dean. Cas, and Sam left Friday evening for a ghost hunt. Apparently, Old Man Milton only comes back once every 7 years on his daughter’s birthday to kill young men that sexually assault or harass young women. His daughter died by a violent sexual assault and was found in the basement of a fraternity house. He searched for the boy that did it to her, but the college covered it up. Now, he’s coming back for justice. You told Dean that they shouldn’t do anything. If it were your hunt, you would have left it alone. Those guys deserved to die, in your opinion. And maybe that makes you a bad person, but honestly, you’ve literally been to hell and back. You don’t really care if wishing a painful death on rapists is a bad thing. 

The only reason you didn’t attend this hunt with the boys is because the whole topic was just a little too triggering for you. Dean suggested you stay home, and Cas agreed that the emotional trauma it brought up wouldn’t be worth getting rid of the ghost. Sam offered to stay home with you, but Cas isn’t the best hunting partner when it comes to these small hunts. So, Dean asked if you’d be alright and insisted that Sam come with him. Cas is always one call away if you need anything, and you know that. 

On Sunday morning, you get ready to start your day with brushing your hair, doing your makeup, and picking out an outfit. You don’t have much to choose from, because it’s laundry day you’re washing all of the boys clothes along with yours. It’s kind of annoying that they expect you to do their laundry, and you pointed out once that you thought it was misogynistic to expect the only woman in the home to do laundry. But Dean came back with the argument that you were only doing laundry when they were out on a hunt without you. If they were the one staying home, they would do the laundry and you wouldn’t mind. Sam offered to do his own, but it didn’t actually bother you too much. You think that Dean’s just saying it to get you to do it, but you let them have it because he said it with a really cute face and puppy dog eyes. And they do so much for you that doing some laundry or cooking a meal isn’t going to kill you. You don’t exactly like falling into gender roles, but something about them being so appreciative every Sunday night when you make dinner and have them change into clean clothes is so sweet. 

So, you pick out your outfit: a pair of jeans and one of Dean’s flannels because it’s the only thing that smells like him, but doesn’t have blood on it. You take his load to the wash first, because you know when he gets home, you’ll make him change into clean clothes. You put on some music first. You listen to a lot of Led Zeppelin while he’s gone because it reminds you of him. Before he left, as always, he told you not to think of him too much. In a normal relationship, that would be sweet. A request. But in yours and Dean‘s relationship, it was a demand. Every hunt he went on scared you, every time he left the bunker, a chill ran down your spine. You wondered if you would ever see him again. You try not to think like that, and he demands you don’t think of him at all. You don’t listen. You never do. He knows this, and he’ll punish you when he gets home. That’s sometimes why you think of him. You enjoy the punishment. It’s nice when he takes control when he gets home. 

You finish putting his clothes in the laundry and go to the kitchen to prepare dinner for when they get home. It’s your week to prepare dinner on Sunday night. Every Sunday, you make everyone have a family meal at a table. Hunters don’t get to have a normal life, so this is as normal as it gets for you. You don’t have long before they get back, so you pull out all of the necessary ingredients and set them on the counter. Normally, you’d also be doing some research while they were gone. But this hunt specifically was one that lacked research and needed more gumption than Dean could ever gather. As you’re swaying to the music in the kitchen, the song “Dress” by Taylor Swift plays through your phone speaker. This song reminds you of Dean, but in a way that’s more playful than sexy. He likes Taylor Swift, your favorite artist, but he won’t admit it. Sometimes, you catch him listening to her in the shower, but he thinks you don’t know. Sometimes, you see him adding a song of hers to his playlist. As the lyrics ring through your head this time around, you can’t help but think about how teasing it would be for Dean to come home to tear your clothes off. He always requests that when he gets home, you are in bed with no clothes. You enjoy this usually, but tonight you’re feeling a little extra. 

You prepare the food, so all you have to do is cook them. You make homemade burger patties that need to chill, sourdough bread that needs to chill to make buns, and a pastry crust for the pie. You clean up and grab your keys. Before Bobby passed, he built up a car for you out of some old parts. It was a crap car, but it barely cost you. Bobby had a soft spot for you, so he would fix the car up for you anytime it broke down or something happened. Unfortunately, when he died, you had nobody to fix up your car. It was just your luck that you remembered meeting Dean Winchester, a friend of Bobby’s, a few years back. He and his brother were well known hunters, so you didn’t think he would have the time to help. But any shop would tell you that the car was more to fix than it was actually worth. They said it was unsafe and shouldn’t be driven. They didn’t have the memories you had with that car though. So you gave him a call, and you were lucky that he was in the next town over just finishing up a case. You two haven’t left each other alone since. 

You head toward a town close by to find exactly what you are looking for. You stop into a few stores before you find exactly what you wanted. A short, white sundress, complete with a cherry print scattered across the fabric. You check the price tag because unlike other hunters, you try to earn honest money when you can. You save as much as you can and invest some of it. The dress is on sale, which just lets you know it’s meant to be. 

You check out and head back to the bunker to get ready and prepare dinner. When you walk inside, you hear a ding on your phone. You pull it from your pocket to see a text from Dean. 

We’re on our way home, Sweetheart. About an hour out. Be ready. - DW

It’s funny that he signs his initials with every text, but it’s his thing. It’s how you know it’s really him. He told you to be ready, but you should really be the one telling him to be ready….

Yes, sir. 

You go to the kitchen and begin cooking the burgers. Cas doesn’t have an appetite, but he still sits at the table with us. He always compliments the food, even though he doesn’t actually eat it. His description of food is that it “all tastes like molecules” to him. But nevertheless, Sam and Dean still enjoy it when you cook. After the burgers are cooked, you put them on a pan to keep warm and take out the dough. You make some rolls and put them on a pan to bake. The pie will cook while you’re eating, so you go ahead and head toward your bedroom to change. 

You put on your new dress and put your hair up with some loose curls falling down. You touch up your makeup a little bit and add some red lipstick. It’s Dean’s favorite and it matches your dress perfectly. You spray on some Tom Ford’s “Lost Cherry” and make your way back to the kitchen. You check your watch and see that it will be about half an hour until they get home, which is perfect timing to go ahead and put in the rolls and start preparing the pie. 

Soon, the whole bunker smells like fresh bread and sweet, cherry pie. You put all of the clean laundry in the rooms. You set the table with a whiskey glass in front of both Dean and Sam’s seats and a courtesy glass of water in Castiel’s spot. You put a wine glass in front of your seat, and pull out the rolls to replace them with the cherry pie. You take out all the extra condiments for the burgers and put the sides on the table. The locks of the bunker do a familiar click, and you know it’s game on. You hear the low chatter of the boys discussing the familiar scent wafting from the kitchen. 

Sam walks in and sees the set table. He waves the other guys into the kitchen. 

“Is it Sunday already? Man, I’m hungry!” Sam goes to pull out a chair before your hand catches his. 

“You boys go wash up first. I don’t want blood and sulfur at my dinner table. Your clothes are in your rooms. Dinner in 5.” You smile and pat his hand. He laughs a little before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and squeezing a little bit. You smack his chest gently, and he laughs and saunters off to change. Dean’s heated gaze is focused on your legs, or more importantly, how much of them he can see. Your apron falls below your dress, and when you’re turned to the side, he can see that your dress barely covers your ass. He groans low to himself and raises his eyes to meet yours. Cas speaks up. 

“Thank you for putting together dinner. I appreciate it.” He smiles awkwardly before the dirt and blood disappears from his outfit. He hangs his overcoat on the rack in the corner and then settles into his spot. Dean’s gaze hasn’t left you, and you know exactly why. 

“All of this silence and patience, pining in anticipation.” 

“Something wrong, love?” You ask with your most precious voice. You know he won’t say anything in front of Cas. He treats him like a toddler, his child that he must watch over. It’s adorable, but at the same time, he watches himself around Cas. He doesn't want him repeating things. Dean doesn’t reply, but his face looks pained. You smile and wave him off to his room to get changed. He obliges, but you can see the tension in his back as he walks away. 

“Dean seems stressed. We got rid of the ghost. Why is he upset?” Cas asks you as you make Sam’s plate. 

“Because his wife is his wildest dream, and he’s mad he has to eat dinner first.” Sam laughs as he walks out in fresh clothes. He sits at the table and smiles up at you. “I mean seriously, come on, he came home to his wife dressed up with his favorite dinner made and pie in the oven.”

“But why would that stress him out? Shouldn’t he be happy that he has the terribly domestic life he wished for?” Cas asks as you plate the food in front of him. He won’t eat it, but he likes to have a plate to feel involved.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean walks to the table, “can you three stop talking about me like I ain’t here? I am not stressed. I am exhausted from a three day long hunt. Now, let’s eat. I’m starving.” Dean’s gaze shoots up at you as he sits down. You plate his food next, and then, your own. You sit down and everyone eats in silence. 

The conversation starts flowing once everyone starts getting full, and then, it’s time to take out the pie. You head over to the oven, which is right next to Dean’s seat, and bend down to get the pie out. Your dress rides up right next to him, so he can see your cunt soaking your white lace underwear. He groans and attempts to cover it up with a cough. You chuckle a little to yourself and set the pie down on the table. You take the boys plates and put them in the sink. 

“Sam, don’t forget. It’s your day to do dishes.” You nudge his shoulder. You set out more plates and serve up the cherry pie to Dean and onto your own plate. You are on one side of Dean, so you scoop up Sam’s piece and lean over Dean to place the pie on Sam’s plate. Sam shakes his head and chuckles to himself before digging in. Cas wanders off to the library. You sit back in your seat and take a bite of your pie. Some of the cherry juice drips off of your lip and onto your chest, where Dean’s gaze falls. You swipe your finger across the juice and stick it into your mouth. Your eyes close in ecstasy, and you make a small noise of happiness. Dean has yet another cough, and you open your eyes to watch him. He hasn’t even touched his pie.

“Dean, you haven’t touched your pie?” You ask him sweetly.

“Dude, it’s delicious. You picked the right woman.” Sam says as he goes back for seconds.

Dean nods his head and picks up his fork with shaking hands. 

“My hands are shaking from holding back from you.”

You all continue to eat before you both hand your plates to Sam to wash. You bid goodnight to Sam and Cas before heading to your room with Dean hot on your heels. You barely make it through the door before he catches your wrist in his hand and closes the door behind him with his foot.

“You disobeyed me.” He states. His eyes pierce yours with pure lust and determination.

“I made dinner.” You counter, reminding him that it was your week to make dinner.

“You know the rules, sweetheart. You know what happens when you break the rules.” A glint appears in his eyes, and suddenly, he begins walking toward you slowly. The backs of your knees hit the bed, and you fall backward onto the soft cushioning. “Tell me what happens when you break the rules, love.” His voice commands. 

“I get punished, sir.” You let out with a bit of excitement. 

“Oh, were you looking forward to this?” He chuckles deeply, “Of course you were. My pretty little slut loves it when I show her who she belongs to and where her place is.” 

“Yes, sir.” You nod your head and raise your hips toward him as he climbs in between your legs.

“Oh, do you want me to touch you?” 

“Please touch me.” You ask, waiting for his touch. 

He chuckles deeply again before pulling his knife from his pocket. You back up a little before his hand comes to the back of your neck to keep you in place. 

“Don’t run away from me, sweetheart. You just asked me to touch you.” His smirk says it all. “Do you remember your safeword?” He asks in your ear. 

“Yes. Cherries.” You giggle a little at the word and how significant it’s made itself today.

“That’s my good girl.” He says as he places the knife down on the nightstand next to your head. “Sit up.” 

You sit up quickly and wait for your next instruction. You don’t always have such an intense dynamic, but you both need intense when you’ve been apart for a while. 

“Over my knee.” You shiver at his words, but do as you are told. He lifts the skirt of your dress and rubs over the smooth skin of your ass. 

“How many do you think you deserve, darling?” He says to you as he runs his finger over the lacy fabric of your underwear. 

“I don’t know, sir.” You say to him while you try to grind your hips into his legs. He lays a smack on your ass, leaving a stinging feeling. 

“I think ten is fair. Two for thinking of me while I was gone, four for wearing this slutty little dress, two for teasing me at dinner, and two for grinding yourself against my leg.” You shiver again and nod your head in response. He lifts your chin and gets down in front of your face. 

“Words.” He whispers and bites your lip. 

“Yes, sir.” You bow your head as he lets go. His fingers travel downward until he reaches the soaking spot in the center of your underwear and presses in. 

“Oh, your pretty hole is so wet for me. I can’t wait to use you.” You whine as he retracts his hand. 

“Don’t make a sound or I start over. Got it?” He grabs a fistful of your hair as he speaks to you. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He lays the first smack and your body jumps in response. You feel your hole squeeze the nothingness. You know you’re in for it, and you just hope that he’ll have mercy on you and touch you soon. 

“Nine more.” You breathe in slowly, preparing yourself for nine more. 

Smack. You just want him to touch you. 

Smack. You’re getting desperate. 

Smack. Soon, you’re going to start begging. 

Smack. You don’t know if you can handle more.

Smack. It feels so good, but it hurts. 

Smack. Almost there. 

Smack. You’re going to come. 

“I know I don’t feel you grinding on my leg, do I sweetheart?” He chuckles before laying two smacks back to back. You let out a sound that is a cross between a moan and a cry. 

“Tsk tsk, what did I tell you about making sounds?” He asks you gently. 

“We- would have to start over.” You whine. “Please Dean, don’t make me.” You beg. 

“What did you just call me?” His hand wraps itself around the back of your neck and pulls you toward him.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You look up at him with pleading eyes. He looks back at you with pure satisfaction. You can feel his cock that's been growing beneath you this whole time twitch at the sight of you. 

“Two more.” He says, and he means it. You groan lightly, and you hear his light laugh at you. 

One. It stings, but he was more gentle than before. 

Two. That one is going to leave a mark. 

“Made your mark on me, a golden tattoo.” 

“Good girl. Sit up.” He helps you forward and reaches beneath the bed. He grabs two pieces of rope that you don’t remember putting there. He smiles mischievously when he sees your confusion and scoots you up the bed. “Arms.” 

You put your arms up and he ties each arm to the holes in the headboard. That is not what you were expecting, but you aren’t complaining. That is, until he rips your dress off of your body straight down the middle. 

“I only bought this dress so you could take it off.” 

“Dean! That dress was new.” You look at him with shock. 

“Well, I hope it wasn’t expensive.” He smirks a bit before dragging your underwear down your legs. 

“Please.” You push your hips up to him. 

“Please what?” He asks, his breath grazing over your slick cunt. 

“Please touch me.” You ask. 

“My pathetic little slut wants me to touch her pretty cunt? You want me to lick your pretty clit?” He spreads you apart until you’re completely exposed to him and glistening in the dim bunker light. 

“Yes, sir.” 

And that’s when he takes his change to shove his tongue deep inside your hole. He fucks you with his tongue, occasionally slipping his tongue out of your hole and circling around your clit. You can feel yourself squeezing around his tongue. His scruff scratches the inside of your thighs, and you just want to tangle your fingers in his hair. He flicks your clit quickly and shoves a finger inside of you. 

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” He asks as he continues to hit that sweet spot inside of you. His tongue feels so good as he continues his gentle assault on your clit. He moves in quick circles. Every now and then, he sucks your clit into his mouth. He slows his fingers and fucks you slow and hard. You like it like this, feeling every bit of him. His fingers curl up inside you to rub on that spot. 

“Fuck.” You can’t help the sounds that come from your chest. 

“You’re so fucking sexy, baby. See, this is what good girls get when they behave.” He taunts you, moving his thumb to your clit and his mouth to your sensitive nipples. 

You start riding his fingers harder, chasing the orgasm that his fingers are promising you. You close your eyes in pleasure. 

“Look at me, sweetheart. I want you to see me when you come.” He says, watching your every emotion. He switches out his fingers for his thick cock. He rubs the tip against your sensitive clit and has you whining for it. He pushes into you slowly, but that’s the only time he’s slow about it. He rams into you and fucks you hard. He is relentless and merciless. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, only I can make you make those sounds.” He whispers in your ear. Your arms pull against the ropes, but you’re unsuccessful at breaking them. You buck your hips toward him as you chase your orgasm. He starts rubbing your clit, and you feel it coming on. 

“Come for me.” He whispers in your ear as you let loose the orgasm that's been building inside of you. Your legs shake a bit and your back arches off of the bed. 

“Good girl.” He says as he slips his cock out and pumps it a few more times before rolling his head back and letting out a groan as he comes on your stomach. You love watching him come at the sight of you. 

He reaches forward to the nightstand next to you and grabs the knife. You look at him with confusion until he leans forward to your wrist. You realize he’s going to cut you out of the rope. You hear a scratching noise and attempt to look above you, but you can’t see. Suddenly, he cuts both of the ropes and lets your arms free. You rub your wrists and turn to see what he was doing. On your headboard, there is freshly engraved statement: 

Property of D.W. 

“Carve your name into my bedpost.”  

You put on a shirt of his and snuggle into your bed with him. He cuts the lights out, and as you’re drifting off to sleep, you swear you hear him singing Dress by Taylor Swift. 

[the--last-great-american-dynasty]

my god do i love you bobby singer

[seanwinchester]

god can you imagine if we did get missouri as a recurring character instead of bobby but still got her in a dynamic duo with rufus. you would hear the sarcasm from two states over. hell let's go wild. a fem version of rufus. a couple of cranky old lesbians

[treacherousrift]

It’s so interesting to me how Bobby parents the boys even at their big ages. And how intertwined supernatural things are in the relationship with Bobby and the boys. Like remember Bobby locking Sam in his basement after Sam tried to kill him and then he just went “don’t worry son it’ll be great, I know you’re scared about your soul being shoved into your body” like he was encouraging him to do his best at a soccer tournament or something. Except it’s sam, and his ‘issue of the year’. And then he immediately forgave sam after he got his soul back. Like Bobby was so great so great. And this is so sad

[filthyjanuary]

found out one of erik menendez's fav shows is cw supernatural and i'm trying to mentally square that and im gonna be honest it's a struggle to process

[jackalhadrurusluvr]

soooooooo uhhhh. sorry for really disappearing the first week of a new hyperfix i am completely In There. soooo. supernatural picmix gifs ive made

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Whiskey on the Tongue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: You are the forbidden fruit Dean had always wanted to taste, and when you steal his whiskey the way you do, he is powerless to resist.

Words: 2.2k

A/N: This is my first ever Supernatural fic after having started watching the show just before Christmas. I know I'm late to the game but is it ever really too late to start loving a fandom? I've tried to make the reader generic in every way other than being cis-female, and Dean finding her hot.

It's been an absolute age since I wrote anything and probably longer since I posted anything here on Tumblr but I'm getting back into it now. Hopefully this finds its way to people in the Supernatural fandom who love a bit of Dean smut.

I hope you enjoy and, as always, I value your comments and feedback.

Warnings: Smut, explicit smut, alcohol consumption, mentions of people who have passed away, profanity as standard with pretty much everything I write.

*** Minors do not read or interact - 18+ content ***

Dean let his head fall back against the headboard, clenching his fists to try to distract himself from the deep ache in his left leg.  It had been falling asleep for well over an hour now, but he didn’t want to move and disturb you.

The door to his room in the bunker was closed.  Locked, in fact, though he did not remember doing it.  You didn’t comment or so much as move when Sam brayed on the door and tried the handle, calling out for Dean to return his book.  The very book that was in your hands right now.

“I need that book back, Dean.”  Sam grumbled.

“Not now, Sammy!”  Dean called back, hoping his little brother would just go away.

“I’m researching Nephilim to help Cas with the Kelly situation, Dean.  It’s important.”  Sam became more insistent.

“I said NOT NOW, SAM!”  Dean hollered with a kind of finality that even Sam wouldn’t argue with.

Outside the door, Sam huffed and stalked away.  Dean looked down to see you looking up at him from your position, lay on his bed.  Your head was resting on his left calf, his leg bent with his foot tucked under his right knee.  You had your knees up with your foot tapping along to his banging playlist, your jeans tight around your thighs and with your head tilted back he could see all the way down the deep V of your t-shirt.

He was going to hell.  Straight there.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.  And he probably deserved it.

He snapped his eyes up towards the ceiling but it was too late, he could feel himself stirring uncomfortably in his jeans.  If Bobby was alive he would have skinned him raw just for having you in his room.  Bobby was always protective of you, his niece.  You were only a couple of years younger than Sam but Bobby had made himself very clear that you were off limits.

“If you touch one single hair on her body, I’ll make you regret the day your balls dropped.  Do you hear me, boy?”

Bobby Singer.  That man did not mince his words.  And to this day, Dean had taken that threat as gospel.  Even now that Bobby was up there with the Angels, that son of a bitch would find a way to keep his word.

You shifted, causing a painful twang to shoot up his leg.  The reflexive grunt he failed to stifle made you look back up at him, giving him that glorious view again.

Dean decided he could die like this.  If having a dead leg was a legitimate threat to his life, he would go out happy with the view of your rack in that lacy black bra he could see within the V-shaped window of that too-tight t-shirt.

He raised his eyes, once again to heaven, asking Bobby to forgive him or give him strength or something because – god help him – he wanted to take you right then and there.

It wasn’t unusual for you to seek him out after a case when you didn’t want to be alone, but you didn’t want to talk.  You would just sit while he drank, reading or working on spells.  You said he quieted the noise in your head.  Hell, he wasn’t going to argue, you were a sight for sore eyes every time he came home.  You were wicked hot and sexy in a non-slutty way.  Not that slutty was bad.  Dean liked slutty.  But that wasn’t you, you were different.

A drink.  That’s what was missing.  Dean needed a damn drink, especially if you were going to torture him by laying on him all evening.

He reached over to his bedside unit, for the bottle he kept in there for special occasions.  A bottle of twenty-five-year-old Speyside single malt that he liberated from the British Men of Letters on his last interaction with Ketch.

The pour made you stir again but it wasn’t until he raised the cut crystal tumbler to his lips did you move.  Your hand came up and claimed the glass from underneath, twisting it as you sat up so as not to spill any.

“Where’s yours?”

The cheeky glint in your eye had him pursing his lips in mild annoyance.

“Don’t pout.”  You lifted the glass, turning it until the mark left by his lips touched yours and you sipped, looking him straight in the eye.

Dean’s jaw went slack.  The glisten of the whiskey on your lips and the satisfied hum you made when you swallowed – he swallowed unconsciously when you did – made his mouth go dry.  He had never seen you like this.

You moved to kneel on the bed and walked your way slowly closer, giving his leg a tap; an instruction to move it aside.  He did, causing pins and needles to infest his nerves like ants swarming on a log to escape a flood.

Knelt between his spread legs, you brought the glass to your lips again, sipping at the amber liquid.  You leaned in.

Dean watched you, breathing shallow, attention rapt.  You hadn’t so much as touched him, yet every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way.  The closer you got the shallower he breathed until he was almost holding his breath, looking down his nose at how close your lips were.  His eyelashes looked to flutter against his cheeks just as yours did when you brushed your whiskey dappled lips against his.

He refused to lick where you had been.  He couldn’t.  As soon as he tasted, he would pounce, and…

“Don’t.”  He croaked out when you moved to lay your lips on him once more.

You looked confused but at least you didn’t look hurt.  He couldn’t bear it if you looked hurt because of him.

“Bobby…”  Was all he could say through his constricting throat.

You smiled then, full of amusement, lips brushing against his, you whispered “he’ll understand.”

Dean tried not to respond to you but you coaxed his lips apart and teased your tongue to meet his, short circuiting his brain.  The taste of the scotch and the sweetness of your mouth made him groan.  He had fantasised about having you for years, but never did he think it would be you seducing him.

His hands on your hips guided you roughly to straddle him, the bulge in his jeans pushing up against you as you settled.  He took the glass from your hands and downed the contents, his eyes on yours as he dropped the glass carelessly on the bedside unit.

Your lips met his again but this time you devoured each other, tongues stroking together, moans stifled by each other’s mouths.  He trailed his hands up your body, dragging your t-shirt along with them.  Finally, he could see what he had been having glimpses of this whole evening.  Plush breasts cupped in scant lace that was completely impractical for a hunt, Dean realised, like you had meant to come here like this.  You had intended this from the beginning.

He tore at the lace, dragging it under your breasts to free them, shoulder straps slipped down.  Pawing at them like he had never touched a tittie before, all he wanted to do was suck and nip and nibble.

Your breathy sigh was divine, and the moan that followed was filthy.  You cupped the back of his head as he took your nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, pressing him further, asking for more.

While he worked on your breasts you undid his belt and fly, reaching into the front of his shorts to release him from the awkward angle at which he was trapped.  You stroked him, firm but slow, feeling him for the first time.  You had always wondered what he had going on down there that every woman he had ever been with would come back for more at the drop of a hat.  You weren’t disappointed.

Dean lifted his hips, you thought to allow you to push his jeans down but instead he flipped you, making you squeal.  Once under him, he ravished your breasts anew, pinching one nipple hard while licking and sucking the other.  Soon you were a mewling mess, hips writhing, begging for something he hadn’t given you yet.  Excited that he had taken control away from you, you watched him sit up and yank your jeans down, lifting your legs until they were bare.  Your knickers followed and he spread your legs without preamble, lowering himself between your thighs until his hair and eyes were all you could see above your mound.

“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!”

You groaned as he suckled against your sensitive spot.  Fuck, he was good with his tongue.  Everything about him was good except his image.  Bad boy Dean Winchester.  He was every woman’s wet dream.  He had been your wet dream since you were seventeen.  But now you were plenty old enough and finally getting what you wanted.

Bobby had told you to stay away from him when you were a kid.  Dean had a reputation as a ladies man even then, but he respected your uncle Bobby enough to keep his distance… until now.

Dean dipped two fingers inside, creating pressure in exactly the right spot.  You gasped and gripped his hair as your pleasure began to crest, tugging on it for dear life.  He looked up at you then, to see your eyes closed against the intensity of it, neck and face flushed red with your oncoming orgasm.  When it came, the pulsing of your core was his sign to slow down.  He left off his suckling and stroked you through the pleasure, watching you all the while.  You were a beautiful mess.

“That’s my girl.”  He praised you in that deep rough tone you adored, helping prolong your climax until you took his hand away yourself.  “Are you ready for me?”

You nodded, allowing him to lift your knees up and stroke the weeping tip of his cock over your swollen clit.

From the front pocket of the jeans he still wore, he pulled a foil packet with Trojan embossed on it.  He was swift with its application, aiming his tip just so.

When he slid home, your eyes rolled back and you reached to grip his forearms.  It was something Dean would never get tired of seeing but it felt that much different with you.  You were the forbidden thing he had always wanted but could never have.  Even now he didn’t know whether he would come to regret this.  God, he hoped not.

Balls deep in you, he leaned forward to kiss you, wrapping your legs around his hips.  His instinct was to fold you in half and pound the living shit out of you, but you were already overwhelmed and he wanted to make this soft for you.

“Tell me what you need.”  He spoke softly as he nuzzled your neck.

“Just you, like this.”  You sighed.  Who knew Dean Winchester was a considerate lover.

His slow, measured thrusts brought you closer to the edge, your core fluttering each time, he could feel it.  It surprised him how quickly is climax built at this pace, but the added connection you both shared seemed to turn him on.  He would never give up Busty Asian Babe porn but he could get used to this with you.

You didn’t close your eyes against the pleasure this time, you watched him come undone above you, gasping as his orgasm made his legs and arms shake, muscles clenched tight to keep his weight from collapsing on you.  When he swelled you dug your fingers into his hips to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when he spilled you also came, eyes fluttering shut finally.

Dean knelt up, slipping the rubber off as soon as he was clear of you and, tying a knot in the end, tossed it in the direction of the trash can.

“Shot.”  You said with a smile as the sticky bundle went straight in the can.

He quirked and eyebrow and give you a slightly smug lopsided smirk that said:  What can I say?  I don’t miss.

When you moved to sit, he stopped you.

“Here, lemme get that.”

“Thanks.”

He stripped his t-shirt off and used it to clean up the wetness between your legs.  Though none of it was his, it would still dribble when you moved.  Afterwards he tucked it under your ass and flopped down on the bed at your side, moving his arm behind your head so you could rest it on his chest.  You were both content.  Both had goofy grins on your faces.  Both disbelieving that you had finally gotten what you wanted.

A loud knock at the door started you.

“Are you done?”  Sam said.  “I need that book.”

“NO!”  You and Dean shouted back in unison, laughing afterwards.

“Bobby’s gonna kill you.”  Sam called back through the door.

“I KNOW!”  Dean yelled gruffly, pulling you closer.

There might be a time in the future where the ghost of Bobby Singer came to make him regret the day his balls dropped and, if it happened, Dean would be happy to see him again.  In the meantime, you and he could work on a whole bunch of reasons to make the cranky old bastard come down from up high for a visit.

Dean pulled the sheets over both of your heads, nibbling at your neck until you moaned his name.  Aside from the roar of Baby’s engine, he had found his new favourite sound.

[honeyryewhiskey]

ᝰ MARLBORO MAN | MECHANIC!DEAN

❝ dirty ❞

⊹₊ ⋆ he looks like he works with his hands

and smells like marlboro reds ⊹₊ ⋆

the story — you’re back in sleepy sioux falls for a slow, sticky summer—just graduated, crashing with uncle bobby, and working at his auto shop while you figure out your future. but your quiet plans derail in the shape of your childhood crush, dean winchester.

ᝰ

... dirty hands, sundresses + temptations ... mutual pining don't get caught! bit of backstory flirting / teasing 18+ smut / face riding 3.6k words

Dean didn’t so much as blink when Bobby mentioned his niece would be spending the summer in Sioux Falls. If anything, he was relieved. The old house had been feeling too damn quiet since Sam took off for the East Coast—something about a law school internship and building connections. Dean stopped listening after that. He just knew the place needed another body in it.

He didn’t remember much about you.

Back when you first met him, you were just a kid. Braces and sneakers, tagging behind your mom the summer she showed up on Bobby’s porch, looking for a soft place to land. Dean had barely looked up from under the hood that year—too busy burying himself in grease and carburetors, trying to tune out the mess of a life he’d been handed.

It was Sam who finally made him snap out of it.

Dean could handle John’s anger. His silence. His barking orders and long disappearances. But when that shit started trickling down to Sam, that was the line. Dean scraped together a couple weeks’ worth of pool hall cash, bought two bus tickets, and got his little brother the hell out of there.

They showed up at Bobby’s place late one night, just two kids with duffel bags and bruises they didn’t talk about. Bobby opened the door without asking questions. Took them in like it was nothing.

Your mom was already there, already softening the place up. She made breakfast every morning, scolded Dean when he cussed too close to the stove, taught Sam how to write scholarship essays like she knew he was meant for more.

John didn’t come back.

But one morning, Dean woke to the sound of you shouting from the front yard—your voice high and incredulous, calling out about some old Chevy parked crooked in the gravel.

It was John’s car. Now Dean’s. The engine was still warm. No note. No goodbye. Just a stack of paperwork on the passenger seat and enough signatures to get them enrolled in school by fall.

You, your mom, and all that feminine sweetness were gone by the time the leaves changed. Just a blip, really—but enough to soften the hard edges of that summer. Enough to make this place feel like more than a pit stop. Like maybe sticking around wasn’t such a bad idea.

That was years ago. Since then, Dean’s let go of some of the weight he used to carry around like armor. The bitterness, the aimlessness. He traded it in for steady work, cold beer on the porch, and the kind of peace that sneaks up on you when you stop looking for it.

He’s changed.

And good god, so have you.

You’re twenty-two now. All sun-kissed and sure-footed, sweet like your mama—but there’s fire in your blood, too. That Singer stubbornness, sharp and unmistakable. You’ve got a business degree fresh off the presses and a knack for poking at the chaos of Bobby’s bookkeeping like you were born to set it straight.

Dean’s spent the last few weeks watching you sweep into the shop with your pretty smile and your sharp tongue, bossing around two grizzled mechanics like you’ve been doing it your whole life. And somehow, he doesn’t mind it. Not one damn bit.

It’s the way you carry yourself—like you know exactly who you are now. Like you know he’s looking, and maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind.

And that has been messing with Dean’s head more than he cares to admit.

It starts small. Innocent, even. Dean starts coming in through the front of the shop more—where the office is, where you are.

He claims he’s just grabbing a water, looking for Bobby, checking the mail. You don’t call him on it, even when it’s the third time in an hour and the cooler’s still full in the garage.

You tease him when he leans over your desk, crowding your space just to squint at the books you’re trying to balance. He smells like motor oil and sun-warmed cotton, and it makes your heart do a little skip you pretend not to notice.

“You’re missin’ a decimal,” he says once, grinning when you swat his hand away.

“You’re missing boundaries,” you shoot back.

But he doesn’t move.

He starts bringing you snacks from the gas station like it’s nothing. Drops them on your desk without a word—just a bag of sour gummies or a cold soda, sometimes your favorite jerky.

“Didn’t ask for this,” you tell him.

“Didn’t say you had to,” he says back with a shrug, already walking away.

One afternoon, you’re on your tiptoes reaching for a box on the top shelf, and Dean’s suddenly behind you—one hand braced above your head, the other plucking the box down like it’s nothing.

You’re not even sure if you thanked him or just blacked out a little.

He doesn’t move right away, though. Just stays there a beat too long, close enough that your back brushes his chest when you step down.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and smug, “just ask for help, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you don’t push him away.

It’s stupid things.

Like him accidentally knocking over your pencil cup just so he can squat down next to your desk and hand everything back to you slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Like him always needing you to “come take a look at this real quick” in the garage—even when you don’t know jack about what you’re looking at.

Like the way he seems to be in your doorway whenever you sigh too loud.

You give it right back—poking at his ego, calling him old, cracking jokes about his taste in music. He calls you a brat, threatens to toss you in the shop sink the next time you sass him.

But there’s a softness under it. A sweetness.

And when the shop’s quiet and the sun’s sliding golden through the windows, it starts to feel a little like a game. Like the start of something. Something neither of you are willing to name just yet.

ᝰ

The screen door slams behind you, and you wince—loud enough to make Bobby yell if he were home. But it’s just you and Dean.

And the heat.

The kind that clings to your skin, makes everything feel slow and sticky. The kind that turns a simple short sundress into a damn weapon.

You head toward the garage, trying not to trip over one of Dean’s many pairs of oversized work boots—kicked off somewhere on the gravel after a long day of work. You toe one lightly into the grass as you pass, smirking.

The garage doors are open on either side, letting sunlight spill across the concrete and beckoning any bit of relieving breeze that might sweep in. There’s an old rock station playing low on the radio, and over it, you hear Dean.

Muttering. Cussing. Grunting.

You peek in to see him flat on his back under the frame of a ‘71 Chevelle, shirt riding up just enough to show a bit of his toned stomach, a smear of grease high on one hip. The kind of detail that really should not matter, but your brain short-circuits all the same.

You lean a hip against the end of the car. “You always talk to her like that?”

A clang. A thud. A muffled curse.

Dean slides out on the dolly, grease-smudged and flushed, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead. “Jesus,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

You smile—sweet, innocent, deadly. “Just checking in.”

Dean squints up at you, and that smug little line of amusement on your face falters when you catch the full weight of his gaze. It drags down your body like a hand. Over your slightly exposed chest, the way the hemline of your dress flirts with the tops of your thighs. The movement is like a laser, and Dean’s the poor house cat too stupid to avert his gaze. 

“You know Bobby’d have my head if he saw you prancin’ around in that in the shop.”

You glance down, then shrug. “Guess it’s a good thing he’s at the junkyard.”

Dean stands, stretching. You catch the way his shirt lifts again, the flex in his arms as he runs a hand through his hair. He picks up a wrench—needlessly—and spins it lazily in his fingers.

“You always make that much noise when you’re pretending to work?”

That gets you a slow grin. He steps forward, peering down at you from his taller frame, cat-like grin turning into a flirty smirk.

“Nah,” he shrugs, voice low and a little too warm. “That’s just for you.”

Your heart thuds under the weight of all of his attention, but you play it cool. “Lucky me.”

He’s close now. Just close enough. Not touching—but you feel it. Like the air changes when he’s in your orbit. Charged.

Then, like he can’t help himself, Dean reaches out and tugs gently on the hem of your dress.

“You just wearing this to stir up trouble, or is it my lucky day?”

You slap his hand away, but you’re grinning.

“It’s a good dress for a day like today,” you fire back, easy and sweet.

Dean leans against the car beside you, arms crossed, the smirk tugging at his mouth betraying how much he likes the game. “You mean hot and sweaty?”

His gaze drops—slow, deliberate. Tracing the path from your bare shoulders down to the outline of that sundress clinging to your hips, breeze catching just enough to drive him insane.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the fumes. Maybe it’s just been too damn long since someone looked at him the way you do. Whatever it is, Dean’s restraint is hanging by a thread.

Bobby’s the only thing keeping him in check—and with the old man miles away, that thread is starting to fray.

He wonders, shamefully hopeful, if you wore the dress for him. If you knew he’d be down here, sweating through his shirt, half-wild from the sun and whatever tension’s been building between you since summer started.

Then you clear your throat—sharper than it needs to be. It slices through the moment like cold water poured down his spine. Dean’s eyes drop fast, like he’s been caught red-handed, and before he can think better of it, he’s rolling himself back under the car.

“I should finish this before the old man gets back,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He fits his wrench into place, starts working blindly—but the only body on his mind now is yours.

He’s barely settled when he catches movement—a shift, subtle at first, just a flicker in his peripheral.

Then your boots land. One, then the other. Planted firm on either side of him���close, far too close. One taps, slow and measured, the sound echoing off the concrete and thrumming straight up his spine like a live wire.

Dean mutters a curse under his breath. Wrench clutched in one hand, the other flexing tight at his side. It’s the heat, maybe. Or the attitude in your step. Or the scent of your skin drifting down to him—warm, clean, faintly sweet. Whatever it is, his jeans feel too tight against his cock and he’s running through the car’s framework to think of everything cold, dirty, metal. Not soft, plush, warm skin he wouldn’t mind exploring with his lips alone. 

He doesn’t even needs his hands, no, his mouth will do just—

His jaw clenches. His knuckles go white around the wrench.

“Dean,” you sing-song, dragging out his name in that syrupy tone that’s been unraveling him, thread by damn thread, since the moment you walked back into his life.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.

Stares at the undercarriage like it might save him from himself.

“Yeah?” His voice comes out rough. Graveled. A little too dry. He quietly wonders where all his bravado went, his go-to charm for girls who get him hot and bothered. But somehow, for some reason, with your legs on either side of his hips he can’t do a damn thing but sweat like some teen talking to a pretty girl for the first time. 

“You hiding from me now?”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“C’mon,” you coax, nudging his side gently with the toe of your boot. “You afraid of getting a little grease on me?”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, low in his throat. There is absolutely nothing funny about how you make him feel, but the heat’s making him lose his goddamn mind. “Grease ain’t the problem, sweetheart.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to bite into. Heavy. Crackling with something unspoken.

Then your voice cuts through it—quieter now, but edged with bold curiosity.

“What is?”

Dean closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the dolly with a quiet thunk. You. Of course it’s you. All legs and temptation and that voice—that damn voice—the one that curls around his thoughts at night when the house is too still, too quiet, too full of you. And all he has are those thoughts and his hand around his cock. 

“Tryin’ to focus here, sweetheart,” he grits, dragging a palm down his thigh—wiping sweat or control, he can’t tell. And he sure as hell doesn’t let himself imagine those fingers gripping your hips, smearing grease across soft skin.

“Didn’t realize I was a distraction,” you murmur.

Dean laughs—if it can be called that. It’s more exhaling than sound. More tension than ease. “Yeah, well. You are.”

Another tap of your boot. Another slow, smug tilt of your head—he can’t see it, but he hears it in your little responding laugh. That teasing confidence you’ve grown into like a blade in velvet.

A moment passes. Then another.

And finally, Dean rolls out from under the car, the wrench clattering faintly to the floor.

His eyes drag up until they find yours—locked, daring—and for a second, just one, he forgets every reason he’s been keeping his distance.

“You keep standin’ over me like that,” he rasps, “and I’m not gonna finish a damn thing today.”

You smile.

Sweet. Wicked. Like you’ve already won. It draws him up, like he’s a ship in the night following the light that is your pretty little smile. He sits with his eyes level to your core, but keeps his gaze on yours. 

“That’s kinda the point.”

Dean opens his mouth, maybe to warn you, maybe to beg, but before he can speak, a gust of wind slips through the open garage doors. He feels time slow down as the hem of your sundress flutters—light as breath, playful as sin—and it lifts just enough to show him what isn’t underneath.

His lungs forget how to work. His grip tightens on nothing but the sweat and oil in his palms.

You’d considered wearing panties today. You really had. But it’s hot, and humid, and truthfully... it was more fun this way.

Dean's voice comes slower now, rougher. He’s given up controlling his eyes, letting them lock onto the dizzying pattern of little white flowers, a pattern so sweet and innocent it’s almost comical. “You and I both know... if we do this... it’s my head starin’ down the barrel of Bobby’s shotgun.”

You giggle—that sound, all honey and hellfire—makes his hands twitch, desperate to reach out and pull you onto his lap. “What?” you start with a tease in your tone, “You scared, Winchester? Didn’t figure you for such a good boy. Keepin’ your hands where they’re s’posed to be.”

His smirk twists, eyes flicking up to yours, burning with a desire he’s ready to let loose. Follow that sin down the rabbit hole and deal with the consequences later, after he gets what he wants, after he has a taste of you. 

Maybe once he has you shaking and whimpering, you’ll learn not to toy with a man like him.

“I can manage just fine without my hands, sweetheart.”

You lean in—breath close, words closer.

“Prove it.”

It’s all he needs to hear for the pesky little mental restraints to break. His palms wrap around your calves, marking you with his dirty hands and holding you in place as his lips trail kisses up your inner thighs. He smirks when he feels your muscles tighten under his lips, his teeth dig into flesh, a sigh leaves your lips. 

“Don’t tease me, Dean.” you say, breathless, your small hands steadying yourself at his shoulders. 

His hands slide up your legs, pulling at the space behind your knees and you follow him down. He lies back onto the dolly, and it’s like slow motion, how you fall to your knees over him. Hovering like you’re suddenly unsure of your next move—just like he thought, all confident backtalk. 

“You’ve got two options, sweetheart,” he mumbles between kisses on your thighs, “either walk out of this garage and we never mention this again.” he’s half paying attention to what he’s saying, too busy soaking up the scent of your sweat and perfume engulfing his senses. It’s like a fucking dream compared to the metallic blend he’s used to. 

“Or you sit that pretty pussy on my face and let me prove to you I don’t need my hands for a damn thing.” 

He holds back a laugh when you gasp like you’ve never been told exactly what a man wants you to do for him. And fuck, he’s getting off on just the thought of making you feel more than anyone else ever has. 

A claim as damning as the greasy hand prints he presses into your thighs. 

You shuffle forward, lining your core up with his face, and it’s the best damn day he’s ever had in this stuffy old garage as you lower yourself onto his mouth. 

His tongue sweeps through your fold like a man starved—greedily, he pulls your clit between his soft lips. The jolt it sends through your body only makes his mouth work faster, devouring every bit of sweetness he severely lacks in all his time spent between metal and concrete. His palms grip firmly on either thigh, holding you in place and locking all his senses in you. 

He teases your clit with small licks, making the stubble on his chin graze your sensitive folds, the overstimulation making your cheeks turn pink and vision blur. 

“Dean,” you sigh—whimper, head falling back as your hips rock into his mouth. He moans in response, the sound vibrating through your core and making you clench around nothing. Aching for more, for all of it, for him and his dirty mouth and dirty hands. 

He works you with his mouth like he was born for it, tongue swirling and lips nipping at a dizzying pace. His brazen, hungry motions build a tension deep in your core. You lose control of yourself, helplessly humping his mouth and whimpering. He delves into his greed, devouring all the pretty little parts of you he’s spent the past few weeks only imagining the taste of. 

He’s not even sure how he hasn’t done this sooner, how he’s going to finish you and be able to stay away if that’s what you ask for. His thoughts only make him work faster, merciless, consuming you while he can. 

The eager sputtering of your hips, nearly suffocating him in your wetness is enough to make him cum right there in his jeans. But he’s nothing, if not a man out to prove something—so he focuses on your needy little movements, that desperation for him and slows his motions. He keeps the pressure harsh against your clit as his tongue moves almost lazily now. 

“Please, Dean, don’t stop—” you whimper again, hips twitching, searching for more as all your senses tingle in the overwhelming heat from him, the sun, everything. 

He lets out a cruel chuckle, his hands sliding up under your dress until they dig into your hips and hold you still. His tongue flicks down, breaking into your aching entrance with force as his nose strikes your clit. You let out a yelp, needing to move your hips but it’s impossible to move in his strong grasp. He’s in full control, despite being buried under floral cotton and your dripping core. 

His lips find your clit again, mercilessly working it between the magic of his mouth until you’re edging on the brink of coming undone. 

“Don’t stop, fuck, I’m g’nna cum, Dean,” you manage to breath out, surrendering to his hold as he wastes no more time, your thighs tighten, digging into the sides of the dolly as your slick shamelessly coats his lips. And he hums, hums almost drunkenly like he’s never tasted anything quite like you before. 

He greedily laps up the mess he’s made of you, peppering kisses to your swollen core before helping you sit up onto shaking knees and crawl down to his lap. 

He sits up slowly, eyes glazed with lust as he pulls you into his chest. You melt into him, breathless, nestled in the steady thrum of his heartbeat like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The radio hums with a slow-burning 80s ballad, all synth and longing. You try to focus on it—something outside your racing pulse, something that isn’t the heat still curling low in your belly.

Dean presses soft kisses along your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it. You're a beautiful mess—his handprints smudged down your thighs—and he drinks in the sight like he’s starving all over again. He’d lie on this flat old dolly all afternoon if it meant making you squirm and whimper for him again.

But there’s something hollow within, a quiet ache settling behind his ribs.

Because this feels like the finish line. All those coy games are coming to an end.

He doesn’t get to keep girls like you—smart, radiant, untouchable in all the ways that count. He’s rough, reckless, a guy you reach for in moments of weakness, not someone you build a future with.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice hushed as he kisses your temple. The shift in him is jarring—gentle, reverent—nothing like the way he touched you minutes ago.

You glance up at him through your lashes, heart stuttering at the way his eyes trace your face like he’s searching for something—maybe hope, maybe regret.

But you’re not that shy little girl anymore. You’re grown. Strong. You know what you want—and you’re done pretending it’s not him.

“I’m more than alright, Dean,” you reply, voice steady.

Then, without flinching, you lean in and kiss him—slow, soft, and deliberate. A promise. A whole new challenge.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, eyes sparkling.

“Now I’m just curious what else you can do with your hands.”

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me, writing nasty dirty face riding smut on a lovely thursday afternoon hehheee it feels so good to be back y’all

[sacr1ficialang3l]

His window’s already passed, so he’s shooting at the glass.⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: teenage angst. mentions of underage smoking. possible misrepresentation of the midwest. time jumps. 4.4k

Sioux Falls is a quiet town, mostly. 

Especially if you live on the outskirts. A few cars drive by, the laughter of children playing on the street reaches you sometimes, and occasionally, the salvage yard next to your house interrupts the silence—but never long enough for it to matter.

That’s why, when a loud gunshot suddenly rumbles through the air, you almost jump out of your skin.

You have a habit of climbing through your bedroom window and sitting on the tilted roof, enjoying the feeling of sun-warmed clay tiles under your bare thighs and the cool breeze that comes at this height, so much better than the humid, suffocating air closer to the ground.

You catch your paperback before it plunges into the front yard and quickly sweep your eyes around, trying to figure out if you should run and hide before a stray bullet finds you. From here, you have a pretty good view of your surroundings. You can make out the edge of town in the distance, and you have a perfect view of the nearby houses. Including the salvage yard.

In the middle of it, looking tiny between all the broken car parts and old machines, is a boy. He looks a little older than you—around twelve. He’s pouting, at least from what you can make out, arms crossed like he’s about to stomp his feet on the ground. There’s also a fresh wound on his cheekbone, still bloody and raw.

Next to him stands Bobby Singer, the owner of the salvage yard. He’s the one with the gun in hand, seemingly explaining how to aim.

You frown, squinting to get a clearer view. Who teaches a barely teenage boy how to shoot? But you’d learned how to walk around your house without making the floor creak, and how to scrub vomit out of the carpet by the time you were seven—so maybe it isn’t your place to judge.

You watch curiously as Bobby hands the boy the gun, pointing toward a line of cans on top of a rotting car. The boy huffs but takes it. He aims, his pout vanishing, replaced by pure concentration.

You consider hiding, just in case, but the cans are lined up to your left, not toward your house, and you doubt a bullet would ricochet that far. So you keep watching, quiet and careful—like a ghost.

The boy aims, and there’s a moment of silence. Then, a loud bang makes you flinch, even though you were expecting it. It’s followed by another, then another, and one more. Once it stops, all the cans are on the ground, and the boy wears a proud little grin on his face.

That’s not the last time you see him.

Every day, you walk home from whatever you did that day—going to church, picking something up for dinner at the corner store because your mother was passed out and forgot to cook, a trip to the local library—and climb onto your roof, your worn-out copy of Flowers in the Attic in hand, even though you know you’ll probably end up not reading.

Because just a few minutes in, he would emerge from the salvage yard. Ripped jeans, an old t-shirt, always frowning. Sometimes, he’d practice shooting again. Other times, he’d just walk around, kicking at old metal junk and complaining about something, startling you with the loud clatter.

Sometimes, behind him, there would be another boy. Younger, maybe a year or two younger than you. The tiny boy would follow the older one around like a lost puppy, rambling about something, or sometimes even reading a book himself. His younger brother, you assume. Maybe a cousin.

Those are your favorite afternoons. Because the older boy stops frowning, his steps become more secure and less angry, his movements gentler, and the way words leave his mouth softer. He stops kicking around trash, stops the resounding bangs disturbing the peace, stops fighting. Instead, you're left to listen to the soft whispering of the breeze whooshing through the trees as you watch carefully, as the two boys play around.

They throw their heads back in laughter, only a phantom of it reaching your ears. The little one tries to jump the older one, and they start to play-fight on the dirt. Then they lay down on the ground, soaking up the sunlight that softly kisses their faces.

They look peaceful. The older boy looks like a kid again, the grin he wore from handling the gun replaced with something softer, sweeter, warmer.

The sight fills you with something thick and poisonous. It washes down your throat, wrapping around your insides. It festers, rotting you from the inside out. But you keep watching.

It isn’t until a few years later that you begin to recognize it as yearning.

Three years have gone by, and you're just as alone and ghostly as you were back then.

After another long day at school—of not talking to anyone, hiding in the shadows, silently observing your peers act like animals just let out of their cages—you crawl back onto the roof outside your bedroom.

You try to suppress the flickering hope igniting in your chest, keeping your eyes glued to The Secret History in your hands instead of letting them wander to the empty salvage yard.

Dean—you learned the boy's name just a few days after he disappeared for the first time, when you accidentally roamed around Bobby Singer’s house and overheard him talking to someone on the phone about “Sam and Dean deserve better, John”—has the tendency to materialize when you least expect it.

You know the older boy is Dean because, on one chilly autumn when you were eleven—when it was way too cold to be outside, but the brothers had come back after being gone for months, so you sat on the roof, slowly freezing to death—you had been listening to music on your walkman, one headphone pulled away from your ear to catch any stray whisper of laughter or joyful screaming.

Your eyes were focused on the sketchbook in your hands when a screech, piercing through the air and reaching you like thunder, made you drop your pencil into the hydrangea bushes below and look up so abruptly that your neck cracked.

“Sammy!”

Your eyes quickly found the younger boy, who looked like he'd just fallen off one of the car piles, lying on the ground, holding his wrist and sobbing. The older boy ran to him, looking at the bridge of tears, but at the sight of his brother’s distress, he changed. His shoulders squared, his face neutralized, and he seemed to stand taller. A leather mask slipped over his youthful face and transformed him into someone older. It felt unnatural. The look in his eyes made you feel both protected and warm, but a crushing sadness flooded your chest at the same time.

Now, at thirteen, you’ve learned not to wait for Dean.

He and his brother come and go all the time, sometimes visiting Bobby for a day, sometimes staying for weeks. There’s no pattern to follow, no warning signs. It could be early in the day, in the dead of night. Around Christmas or when the flowers are blooming—or once, right in the middle of Halloween.

Every time, you sit on the safety of your roof and watch. You see a black, classic car drop them off. Sometimes the man walks in with the boys, sometimes he barely waits for them to climb out of the car before speeding away.

Every time, Dean looks angry.

Is it creepy to be so aware of the brothers? Maybe, yeah.

But to be fair, you used to sit in this exact spot long before the boy with the gun ever showed up.

All you know is that the sight of Dean makes the loneliness in your heart feel both lighter and more suffocating at the same time. It makes your heart flutter, but your stomach drop. He’s like sweet, thick honey washing down your throat, luscious and sickening.

You try not to perk up when you hear tires scratching against the asphalt of Bobby’s driveway.

Still, you peek over the edge of your novel, gnawing at your lower lip—already bleeding from earlier in the day.

The car stops. The boys slide out. The car leaves. 

A quick drop-off, then.

Your eyes find Dean immediately, and something inside your chest snarls like a starving animal.

His face has matured quickly, chubby cheeks replaced by sharp cheekbones by the age of fifteen. He’s taller, his back broader, and he has a few new visible scars. His old shirts have been traded for a worn-out camo jacket, and his holed-up sneakers became combat boots. His hair has grown a little longer, not as blond as it used to be but still a honey color. His grasp on the gun now in his pocket is more comfortable, his movements more aggressive but less impulsive. Confident, smug, precise.

Sam looks about the same as he did that first day, just a bit taller.

As always, both of them walk into the house without sparing you a glance. You’re pretty sure neither of the brothers has noticed your stalker tendencies yet.

Good. Because the only thing worse than Dean not knowing who you are… is him being aware of your existence.

You read until it gets too dark, then crawl back inside your bedroom. No sign of the brothers that day—or the next.

But on Thursday, they’re already in the salvage yard by the time you sit on the roof. Dean seems to be teaching Sam… bow-hunting? Who even bow-hunts anymore?

Either way, they’re arguing. Sam keeps pointing at a half-deflated soccer ball while Dean tries to get him to grab the bow. It looks handmade, the wood clumsily carved and the string a little too loose—at least from what you’ve read bows are supposed to look like. 

That’s when you accidentally kick one of the clay tiles loose. It clatters to the ground and shatters loud enough for Dean to whip around. You freeze. The only sounds reaching your ears being the rustling wind against your white dress and the pounding of your heart.

Dean turns like a predator, like he’s ready to annihilate whatever’s in his way. Like a hunter.

You feel the weight of his green eyes even from a distance, pinning you in place and stealing the air from your lungs. His expression is unreadable, alert. His grip on the bow tightens slightly. He studies you for a moment, then decides you’re not a threat.

Still, his gaze lingers—not soft, not warm, not gentle. Not the way he looks at Sam or even Bobby sometimes when they’re talking over car parts. No. This look is analytical. Detached. Almost bored.

You stare back, wild hair dancing in the breeze and wide eyes, like a trembling doe staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Next to Dean, Sam moves. He turns his head, searching for what his brother is looking at, finding you on the roof of the house next door. He feels safer, so your eyes dart to him. Still scared, still caught. 

But Sam just gives you a bright smile, raising his hand and waving. It’s so unexpected that you need a few seconds to react. You shakily wave back, managing your best smile.

Sam deems it good enough. He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to realize his voice won’t reach you. He looks around, trying to figure out a way to communicate, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

Oh, he wants to talk to you. You’re not used to that.

But that’s when Dean finally peels his eyes off you. He turns to his brother, a small smile appearing on his face at Sam’s actions. It makes your breath catch. He smacks Sam’s shoulder lightly, then tries to hand him the bow again.

This time, Sam grabs it.

They turn around and start practicing, and you're so shaken by the encounter that you slide back into your room and, for the first time in years, close the curtains.

The rest of the evening is spent with you staring at the ceiling, playing your favorite mixtape on your Walkman, and letting your mind wander. You dream of green eyes and skilled hands. Of camo jackets and pocket pistols. Of soft smiles and hard stares. You dream of Dean, wondering if he’s thinking of you, too.

You assume he wasn’t, because for the next few days, Dean doesn’t glance your way again. Every time he steps into the salvage yard, it’s as if that afternoon never happened. He helps Bobby fix a car or fiddles with one of his own. He practices shooting, bow-hunting, or even knife throwing—seriously, what kind of kids are these?—but he never looks at you.

Sam, though, does. The first thing he does when stepping out of the house is look toward yours. When he sees you there, book or sketchbook in hand, he raises his arm as high as he can and waves. You always wave back, less nervously each day.

He does it on Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday. Then, the next week, he doesn’t come out of the house.

Screams echo from Bobby’s house. They don’t sound like young voices—probably Bobby arguing with some other adult. Maybe the man who drops off the boys, or that pesky neighbor who lets his pet rabbit eat everyone’s gardens and poop all over their front porches.

But after that, you don’t see the boys again.

You force any disappointment out of your chest. It’s okay. It’s not like you’d ever actually talk to them. Dean is clearly too old for you, too cool, too… not weird.

It’s okay. It would only become another item on the long list of things you couldn’t have.

Three years go by. You grow up, and so does your body. You read more fucked-up books, listen to even more fucked-up music. Your style shifts from church-girl to church-girl-who-listens-to-Nine-Inch-Nails. You keep your flowy white dresses but add leather bracelets and combat boots. You learn how to handle a butterfly knife, become something of a cinephile, and—maybe most importantly—get prettier.

You learn how to handle yourself. You’re still quiet and eerie, but you’re not trembling anymore. You still have no friends, still hate everyone from your school, still spend far too much time on the roof. But now, you know how to do your makeup, and how to find and collect bones from decaying animals, and how to survive off of mac n cheese and cigarettes.

It’s another torturous day of high school. Junior year, and your classmates still act like kindergarteners. Finally, it’s your last period. Philosophy—a class that gives the stuck-up douchebags a chance to talk out of their asses with pretentious words they don’t even understand, and the football douchebags a chance to make low-hanging jokes and moan noises. Both types will find any excuse to slip in a misogynistic comment, so you just zone out and try to survive.

You sit at the back of the classroom, staring out the window, waiting for the hellish torture to begin.

“Good day, class,” the teacher—some old white lady who loves to turn every discussion into something about God—announces from the front of the room. “Please, everyone welcome our new transfer student, Dean Winchester.”

The name makes you whip around like an owl, heart nearly pounding out of your chest. And there he is, in all his glory. Dean.

He looks like he’s spent the last three years on the West Coast, his hair returned to that sandy blond shade he had as a kid, sun-bleached and wind-tousled. His skin is golden, tanned, sun-kissed—making the scar on his right cheekbone stand out even more. His eyes are just as green, his posture just as relaxed, and his grin just a touch meaner. He looks mostly the same, just taller and, for lack of a better word, hotter.

The girls in the back start to whisper. The stuck-up guys judge his worn-out jacket and peeling combat boots. One of the meatheads in the front row even fist-bumps him. Dean stays nonchalant, just like he was that day he stared up at you.

He looks around the room with confidence, and then his eyes meet yours.

You immediately snap your gaze back to the window, your heart ready to jump out of your throat and straight to the floor.

Dean Winchester, the boy with the gun, is back. And this time, he’s in your school, which suggests something more long-term. You try to stomp out the sparks of hope already flaring in your chest, smothering them before they catch.

Even if he’s staying, he’ll never want to talk to you.

A chair screeches against the floor beside you, making you jump. From the corner of your eye, you catch Dean settling into the empty seat next to yours. There are two open spots at the front, but he chooses this one.

He probably just prefers sitting in the back, you tell yourself.

You keep your eyes glued to the board for the entire period. You don’t waver, don’t even think about turning his way. Your shoulders stay tense, your hands tremble, your mouth is dry.

The second the bell rings, you bolt.

That day, you don’t crawl out of your window. Because Dean Winchester is back—the boy who has shamefully plagued your daydreams and nightmares for the past few years. The boy who made the beast in your chest growl and lay down, tummy up. The boy who inspired the first page of your sad-girl poetry journal. The one who made you feel weird and dewy for the very first time. He’s back.

For the next whole week, you continue to evade Dean. You watch him from your locker as he chats up a cheerleader—then quickly walk away. You see him greet Sam in the hallway before slipping into the bathroom to avoid them both. You walk home glancing over your shoulder, making sure he isn’t behind you. In class, you ignore his casual glances like your life depends on it.

Maybe he remembers you. You can't be sure, but just in case, you keep your face hidden behind your hair or your book. That silly childhood crush and the thick smoke of old yearning in your lungs mix with new sensations. The shiver that runs up your spine at the sound of his voice. The tingle in your thighs when you catch sight of his hands fidgeting with a pencil—silver ring on his middle finger. The way your legs clench and something low in your core heats up when you watch him shoot, now from inside the window.

It’s a week later when, as you make your way down the front stairs of the school, a figure appears in your periphery.

You turn your head, startled, still all doe eyes and bitten-raw lips.

There, standing beside you, is Dean. He’s wearing the same camo jacket he did back then, but the necklace is new. Or maybe you just never caught sight of it from a distance. He also smells good, like cigarettes and something a little bitter. Like gunpowder. Like death. 

You stare at him with a blank expression, freaking out on the inside. He chuckles, clearly amused by your empty look and tense posture.

“You live in the house across from Bobby’s, right?”

There’s an easy smile on his face, and the fact that it’s directed at you has the rabid animal in your chest salivating. You nod before you even fully register the question.

“Cool, so we’re heading the same way.”

You want to say something—anything—but instead, you just nod again, turn around, and start walking.

You hear quick steps behind you, then Dean catches up, hands in his pockets and a lazy strut that contrasts with your tight, calculated pace and clenched jaw.

You grab your Walkman, slipping on your headphones before you even think about how rude that might seem. Awkwardly, you tug back the ear cup on the side facing Dean, hoping it’s enough of a sign that you’re not trying to push him away.

If he notices your nervous fumbling, he doesn’t show it.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he says, like you don’t already know. “We’ve got last period together, I think. What’s your name?”

You mutter it, too quiet the first time, and have to repeat yourself. God, you hate people who are good at small talk—or any kind of talk, really.

You walk the next two blocks in silence before Dean speaks again.

“What are you reading?” He points at the book tightly clutched in your hand.

That’s a safe topic, so you finally turn to face him and stutter your way through a short, hesitant summary of The Virgin Suicides. From there, the conversation doesn’t exactly take off—but it doesn’t die either.

Mostly, Dean talks. He admits that he doesn’t do much reading but loves watching movies, and how he’s been kind of into horror lately. Your heart jumps out of your chest, and you mutter back about how you love horror anything. 

You want to ask him what his favorite movie is, but something wraps around your throat—cutting and painful, like barbed wire—and it stops you from saying anything. He isn’t deterred by the lack of response.

He keeps poking fun at movie stereotypes, then shifts to your classmates. All you can do is giggle and nod. Because you agree. Because when he calls the pretentious asshole from philosophy Richie Rich and mocks his obnoxious use of the phrase “let me play devil’s advocate for a second,” you want nothing more than to join in.

Instead, you open your mouth, close it again, then open it once more, and by then it’s too late. So you just chuckle, nod, and look away. The laughs seem to be good enough, though, because Dean keeps talking all the way until you reach the path that splits the salvage yard from the rest of the neighborhood.

“Uhm—my house is that way.” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, almost lost in the distant sound of a waterfall crashing against rocks. You point to your right, down the smaller path you’re standing at—the opposite direction of Bobby’s.

“Let’s go, then.” Dean shrugs and starts to walk past you.

“You—” you pause, clear your throat, fingers fumbling with the edge of your skirt. “You don’t have to walk me all the way. You’ll just have to walk back and…” Your voice dies in the back of your throat, not very sure of how to finish that sentence. 

Your eyes stay fixed on the yellow grass beneath your feet until Dean takes a step forward, making you look up at him. God, his hair looks lighter, and his eyes are more olive under the sun. You feel that same heat travel down your insides and concentrate lower. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you home.” He nods toward the dirt path, and this time, you don’t argue. You simply walk past him, waiting for him to catch up before continuing toward your house.

The walk is silent, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it was at the start. The quiet feels peaceful, relaxing, natural. You spot a few squirrels darting through the grass, a patch of flowers in the distance sweetens the air, and Dean’s big frame next to you somehow makes you feel protected.

Once you're standing in front of your driveway, you turn to Dean. The sun is hitting his face just right, accentuating his sharp features. He looks down at you, tilting his head slightly as if he's taking you in for the first time, his hand absentmindedly fiddling with something in his pocket.

“T-thank you,” you mumble, before quickly turning around and rushing into your house, not daring to look back.

God, he must think you're so weird right now.

Inside your house, your mother is passed out drunk on the couch. You almost wish Dean had asked you to do something else. That he would’ve taken you out of this place, maybe to Bobby’s house, or to hang out by the waterfall. Maybe he could’ve taken you to the woods and used his pistol on you. He could’ve made you run, chasing you down through the trees before shooting you with the precision he shoots those cans.

The stench of rotting food and stale vodka fills the air, so you quickly retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you. You spend the next few hours with your journal, letting all those swallowed down words spill out.

The next morning, Dean is waiting for you at the path division, empty backpack slung over his shoulder and that same relaxed smile on his face. That same afternoon, he's waiting for you outside of school. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Dean and you don’t hang out outside of your daily walks to and from school, but it’s enough.

You learn more about him in your short shared time. His music taste—Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and “anything classic rock, because everything else is too lame.” His obsession with old western movies—because he saw some old black cowboy boots your mother used to wear when she actually left the house and almost lost his mind over how “fucking cool they are!” And his interest in mechanics—since one time, you mention in a whisper that the character in your book has a classic Cadillac, and he goes on a full rant about how “Cadillacs don’t got a thing on Chevys—which is short for Chevrolet,” he had to explain to you. “Their engines are so much better, and the muffler…”

He kind of lost you on that one. Not only because you understood only about ten percent of what he was saying, but also because your mind kept drifting to images of Dean, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, in a thin shirt and smudged with motor oil.

Dean looks like he was made to work with his hands. The rugged look fits him, all rough edges and hard surfaces.

You want him to take you in his hands and disassemble you like one of his rifles, strip you down into pieces and suck the rot from your bones, then put you back together however he wants. However he needs.

A few weeks go by, and just like that, a little tradition begins—and the beast in your chest only gets hungrier.

INTRO | NEXT PART

NOTES: part one is out!!! I actually love writing this series. writing teenage angst is a little cringe but also so much fun. I have never been to the Midwest nor Sioux falls, so the descriptions may not be accurate, I'm sorry. anyway, I am having a blast with this one. please let me know what you think, it makes my sick brain go all fuzzy. I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[midnightdahlias]

Lone Wolf

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summery - Bobby calls you when two hunters seem to need a rescue word count - 2.8k cws - gn!reader, kinda fluff (ig), typical supernatural hunt violence, mentions of weapons, mild language, mentions of injury, lmk if i missed anything a/n - the amount of times i've rewritten this fic-, i do hope you like it though, and as always rebloggs and comments are appreciated. happy reading !

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Driving was the calm between the chaos.

For hunters like you, it was the only time life didn’t feel like one giant nightmare. No claws, no teeth, no windows to get thrown through. Just the hum of the engine, the occasional song on the radio, and miles of open road.

Being a solo hunter? Even better. No one to babysit, no one to lose. It was just you and your thoughts. Peaceful.

...Well. Mostly.

Because, let’s face it, solitude had its downsides. You weren’t a robot. Sometimes, you wanted someone to talk to who wasn’t a bartender or Bobby Singer on the other end of the line. But people were a luxury you couldn’t afford—not when you knew what this life would do to them. You’d already learned that lesson the hard way, thank you very much.

But somedays you’d find yourself working with others, and today was one of those days.

“Hey, Bobby, got a case for me?” you asked, cradling the phone against your shoulder while you tightened the strap on your duffel bag.

“Not a case so much as a rescue mission,” Bobby said, and you could practically hear the grimace in his voice.

“Rescue?”

“Couple of knuckleheads went dark in Chicago. I sent ’em a case, and now I can’t get ahold of ’em. Might be nothin’, but…”

“Better safe than sorry,” you finished for him.

“Exactly.” He sighed, and you could hear the faint clink of a whiskey glass on his end.

“Why me? Don’t tell me I’m your only option.”

“You’re the best shot I’ve got, and you know it,” Bobby said gruffly. “Now, are you gonna help or stand there flappin’ your gums?”

You chuckled. “Yeah, I’m on it. Send me the details.”

The drive to Chicago was quiet, a welcome break from the chaos that usually followed you around. It gave you time to think: about Bobby’s call, about the hunters who’d gone dark, and about how you were the one he trusted to find them. You didn’t mind the weight of that responsibility. If they were still alive, you’d get them out. If not… you’d make sure the job was done. Either way, it was your mess to clean up.

Your first stop was the police station, where the missing hunters were last seen.

Flashing your fake FBI badge, you approached the front desk. “Couple of angets were here investigating some strange deaths. I’m their superior. Mind telling me what they found?”

The officer barely looked up. “You’ll want Detective Hayes. Down the hall.”

Hayes didn’t waste time. “They were looking into some deaths. Real messy ones. Claw marks, missing hearts, looks like a wild animal got to them. Weirdest damn thing.”

Missing hearts. Yep. Definitely your kinda thing.

He handed you the case file. You didn’t miss the way he watched you, like he was waiting for you to explain it all away. Instead, you nodded, thanked him, and left. The morgue confirmed what you already knew—this wasn’t some rogue animal. This was werewolves.

The victims were last seen at a seedy little bar on the edge of town. Sounded like your next stop.

The bar smelled like beer and poor life choices. You grabbed a seat at the far end, where you could see the whole room without sticking out too much. Years of hunting had taught you to trust your instincts, and right now, they were screaming something’s off.

Hours passed without incident. You were just about to call it a night when a hooded figure walked in, immediately drawing your attention. He moved with purpose, scanning the crowd before slipping a small envelope to a woman sitting alone, and walked out without a word.

Because that’s definitely not suspicious at all.

The woman opened the envelope, scanned its contents, then locked eyes with you.

You froze and your pulse quickening. Was it obvious you were watching her? Maybe. Did she seem like the type to care? Also maybe.

Just when you thought she might try and approach you or something, she stood and left without a word.

Again definitely not suspicious…

You waited a beat, and against every bit of common sense you had, you followed her out into the night.

You knew fully well that this could be a trap, but you also knew that this might be the only chance you’d get. You tailed her car at a cautious distance until she turned into an alleyway. Parking just past it, you got out and crept closer on foot.

The alley was dark and silent, save for the faint hum of a streetlamp. You kept your distance as she climbed out of her car, a sleek white sedan.

That’s when you saw it. A black ‘67 Chevrolet Impala parked behind her car.

Your heart stopped. No. Fucking. Way.

Everyone in the hunting community knew that car. It belonged to the Winchester brothers and if it was here, so were they.

Heart pounding, you crept closer to what looked to be an old theater near the alley. The door was left slightly ajar. Definitely a trap, but again what choices did you have other than to follow.

Knife in hand, you slipped inside.

The old theater was in disrepair. Dust covered the seats, and the air smelled of mildew. Yet the stage area seemed oddly intact, as though it were still in use. Before you could explore further, a low growl stopped you in your tracks.

Out of the shadows stepped a werewolf, its eyes glowing an unnatural yellow. You barely had time to react as it lunged at you.

“Of course,” you muttered, diving to the side. Your silver knife caught its flank, but the thing was fast. Claws swiped, catching your arm, but you kept moving, twisting the blade into its chest until it dropped.

Before you could catch your breath, a second growl echoed through the room.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned.

The woman from the bar stepped into the dim light, her face twisted, fangs bared.

“I knew you’d be trouble. You just had to poke your nose where it didn’t belong” she snarled, lunging at you.

You fought with everything you had. Her speed and strength outmatched the first werewolf by a mile. Claw marks tore through your jacket, and pain flared in your ribs, but you pressed on, besides you’d been through worse. Finally, a lucky strike drove your blade into her heart with every ounce of frustration you’d built up in the last 24 hours.. She crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Panting, you staggered to your feet, surveying the room as you did so and spotted a faint light coming from backstage. You followed it and found the Winchesters tied up and unconscious but thankfully alive. Working quickly, you untied Sam, and began your attempts at waking the younger of the two brothers up.

“Come on Sam, wake up!” you whispered-yelled, shaking him furiously. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked at you in confusion.

“Who—”

“Hunter. Bobby sent me. We can swap stories later.”

Before you could untie Dean, another werewolf burst through the door.

“Son of a—” you curesed under your breath, turning back to Sam “You handle your brother. I’ll handle him.”

The fight was grueling. This werewolf was stronger and faster than the others. It pressed you relentlessly, forcing you to dodge and counter with every ounce of skill you had. At one point, it pinned you, its jaws snapping inches from your face. Desperately, you reached for your knife, plunging it into its side. The creature howled in pain but didn’t relent.

You tried to reach for your blade again, but the creature had beat you to it and thrown it far out of your reach.

Just when you thought you were screwed, a gunshot rang out. The werewolf collapsed right on top of you.

‘’Ugh, seriously’’ you muttered, annoyed, even though someone had just saved your life.

You pushed away the werewolf, revealing Dean Winchester, awake and armed, smirking like he’d just saved the day.

“I had him,” you panted, brushing dust from your jacket.

Dean grinned, holstering his gun. “I think you mean, thank you.”

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I didn’t need saving, but appreciate it anyway.”

You sat up, your body aching more now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Your hands were shaking, but you steadied them, trying not to show how badly you hurt.

You glanced over at Sam, who had just come into the room, taking in the full scene in front of him, his gaze flicking from you to the wolves you had ganked before even getting to the boys. "Did you—?"

You nodded, your muscles protesting as you stood. The reality of your injuries hit you all at once—scrapes, bruises, and a deep ache in your ribs. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, but the exhaustion was creeping in. You’d deal with it later, when you had the space to breathe.

"Yeah, well, Bobby sent me to save your asses," you joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Would’ve been pretty embarrassing if I’d gotten myself ganked in the process.”

Sam didn’t laugh. His gaze was fixed on you, scanning your face, the bloodied scratches on your arm. He was looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

"You’re hurt," Sam murmured, his voice softer than you expected.

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, brushing him off with a wave. “Just a few scratches. Nothing I can’t handle.”

But Sam didn’t look convinced. His jaw clenched, and he took a step toward you. “You sure about that?”

You laughed, a little too sharply. "Mhm. Besides, you should be worried about yourself. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

You were used to being the tough one, the one who didn’t show weakness. But there was something about the way Sam was looking at you, his eyes filled with concern, that made it harder to pretend you were unaffected. It was sweet, but you weren't ready to let him in on just how much it affected you.

He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Your heart fluttered, but you shook it off. “Seriously. I’m fine,” you said gently. “We should get out of here. Let Bobby know you two are alright.”

He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Your heart fluttered, but you shook it off. “Seriously. I’m fine,” you said gently. “We should get out of here. Let Bobby know you two are alright.”

“Wait! I didn’t get your name,” he called out.

You smirked, turning to face him. “That’s because I didn’t give it.”

Sam frowned, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to track you down next time.”

“Good luck with that,” you teased, climbing into your car.

As you drove away, the open road stretched ahead of you, peaceful as ever. But this time, you couldn’t shake the thought of a certain tall, hazel-eyed hunter. Maybe working alone wasn’t as perfect as you’d always believed. And as much as you hated to admit it, the idea of a little chaos... didn’t seem so bad.

The hum of the engine mixed with the music on the radio filled the car as you drove into the night, your mind still running a few steps behind, tangled in thoughts of Sam, of Dean, and what came next.

You couldn't help but wonder—was this the last time you'd cross paths with the Winchesters? Somehow, you doubted it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

masterlist

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

I chose an alternate prompt for Day Nine of Bucktommy Fluffebruary: Drunken Love Confessions. Tommy's is really the prompt filling one, but everyone feels the love in this Chili's tonight. I realized I completely forgot this entire time that Melton is a Captain, so I've been writing him as just one of the other firefighters and made up some guy named Bryant that I mention in at least one other prompt fill. Melton bb I'm so sorry. You'll get that promotion soon. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary.

A joint bachelor party had been Tommy’s idea, because they’d fought over who got who as a guest for about five minutes before Tommy realized they had almost all the same friends. So why bother splitting the party up?

Maddie, Eddie, and Sal organize it as Evan’s co-Best Man and Woman and Tommy’s Best Man, and it turns into a bar crawl with a couple stops at places to get real food with a karaoke spot as their final destination. That had been Howie’s touch, because he felt guilty for missing the last karaoke bachelor party even though it was through no fault of his own. Plus, who doesn’t like karaoke?

The thing is, the last bar had been a tiki place, and tiki drinks are strong, so they’re all messes by the time they reach the karaoke place. Tommy claims a corner of the couch and pulls Evan into his lap when his fiancé passes by.

“You’re so-o pretty,” Tommy says, because Evan is so pretty. No one prettier has ever existed, and it’s a thought he’s had while he was sober, so it’s true.

“You’re pretty,” Evan counters, cupping his chin and squeezing so Tommy’s lips pucker. When Evan kisses him, it’s sloppy and probably not appropriate for their friends and family, but it’s a bachelor party. It’s two bachelor parties, actually they’re supposed to have double the debauchery.

“Are you gonna give me a lapdance later?” Tommy asks, squeezing his hip.

“Maybe,” Evan says, licking his lips, and Tommy watches his tongue raptly. He wants to chase it with his own, wants to feel it trace along his—

“Oh, my god, I’m going to dump water on you two in a minute,” Karen says, plopping down next to them. “Which one of you is singing with me?”

“Me,” Tommy says, grinning at her. He loves singing with Karen. She’s one of the best singers he’s ever met in his life, so he likes being around her when she sings. He’s not very good, but she doesn’t judge him.

“My Sonny,” she coos, pinching his cheek.

“My Cher,” he sighs.

Sonny Bono was known for two things: being Italian and not being as good a singer as Cher. Well, he was known for other things, too, but that isn’t relevant to Tommy’s situation. He doesn't plan on becoming a Republican, the mayor of Palm Springs, or a U.S. Representative. He does, however, plan on doing his best to croon along with Karen to “I Got You Babe” or “All I Ever Need Is You,” because she gets to belt more lines in that one and he wants to show her off.

There’s a bit of hubbub near the door to their suite, and then Bobby and Athena appear with a cake between them to a lot of cheers. They hadn’t joined them on the bar crawl, because Athena had said it would feel too much like Mom and Dad crashing their kids’ party. Tommy’s delighted to see them, because he hadn’t been expecting them at all. He and Evan cheer, and Evan wobbles out of his lap to hug them as soon as the cake is set on the table. Tommy gets hauled up by Hen so he can do the same thing, because the couch is deep and he is tall and drunk.

“You good?” Hen asks, and Tommy squeezes the back of her neck with a laugh.

“I'm great,” he says, leaving a wet kiss on her cheek.

Hen laughs and holds his head in place so she can do the same, and they end up simultaneously wiping slobber off their cheeks and giggling together on their way over to Bobby and Athena.

He’s gotten really close with Bobby and Athena ever since he and Evan got back together, but he’s not really a hugger with them. He is, however, drunk enough that it seems like a great time to turn into one. As he’s enveloped in Bobby’s arms and then stoops to have Athena do the same, he thinks it’s a good thing to keep going.

“Don’t be too happy to see us yet,” Athena warns, nodding toward the cake. “Hen ordered it.”

“I'm always happy to see a cake,” Tommy says, grinning. When he finally gets a good look at it, though, he bursts out laughing.

It’s unbelievably stupid, and Tommy whips out his phone to take several photos from many different angles, including one of Evan crouched next to it with his tongue near the one that’s shaped—presumably—like Tommy’s ass. It's one of those molded sexy cakes, and it’s two shapely naked asses seen under the hem of non-regulation turnout jackets—they’d never sit that high—with each of their names “sewn” on the hem. Each of their surnames has been added to the other to make it look like it’s handwritten into the correct spot to make them say “Buckley-Kinard.”

He loves it.

He loves everyone in this room so much.

“We should've had this be the wedding cake,” Evan says as he slips his arm around Tommy's waist. They pose next to the cake for pictures.

“Looks like I get to eat your ass twice tonight,” Tommy murmurs through his teeth as Howie takes their picture.

Howie bursts out laughing and shows them the picture. Evan’s face is caught between a grin and surprise, so his eyebrows are up near his hairline and his face is bright red.

“The hell did you say to him, BK?” Lucy asks, elbowing him.

“Not telling,” Tommy says, hugging his fiancé like a teddy bear. “She started calling me that last week. Know why?”

“It's your new last name initials in a week?” Evan guesses, because he's smart. He's so smart and pretty, and Tommy is the luckiest guy in the world.

“Yeah,” he confirms with a happy sigh, getting caught in his fiancé’s eyes for a moment.

“Alright, now that everyone’s here,” Sal says on the microphone, even though they’re in a small room and everyone could hear him if he just raised his voice enough, “I’d like to say a couple words, because there’s some stuff I can’t say in my Best Man speech. Such as: is anyone else dreading having to knock real loud going into every room these two are in for the next few months?”

“We already do that!” Ravi calls, and Tommy buries his face in his hands to hide his flushed, embarrassed giggles. Evan tightens his arms around him and kisses under his ear with a breathless giggle of his own.

“Seriously, I’ve started bringing earplugs if I’m going to crash in their guest room,” Sal adds, grinning. “I haven’t seen two people so into each other since I met Gina and got charged with public indecency twice—”

“Should’ve been three times,” Athena adds.

He points to her and grins. “And I thank you for that, Sarge. But it’s bad enough that I’ve had to start putting fuckin’ blinders on whenever Tommy opens his phone around me—well done, Buckley, by the way, you got a real eye for photography—but they’re also so in love with each other that it makes the rest of us look bad. I can only hope that they chill out in the next fifty years, but we all know we’re still going to be loudly announcing ourselves before we turn a corner even when they’re retired.

“So congratulations, boys, on finding true love, holding onto it, and never letting go of it,” he continues, his grin widening. “And never letting go of other things, apparently. To Tommy and Buck!”

Everyone cheers and echoes his toast, and Tommy is never going to be able to look any of them in the eye again.

“We’re not that bad, are we?” he asks, and Evan laughs loudly in his ear.

“Baby, we’re worse.” He nuzzles his cheek and murmurs, “They don’t even know what we get up to in our own house.”

Tommy bites his lip and is about to respond when he hears Sal call, “See what I mean?”

“Shut up,” Tommy says, throwing a balled up napkin at him. “Maddie, would you like to make an inappropriate speech?”

“I’m alright,” she says, grinning. “I changed Buck’s diapers, so it would be a little weird. Also, I make a lot of noise when I’m in your house for a reason. I don’t need to see all that.”

“I told you!” Evan says to Tommy, who had believed that Maddie was just comfortable at their house.

“Eddie?” Sal offers, and Eddie comes up to the platform acting as the stage, looping an arm around Sal’s shoulders.

“This guy is right,” he says, nodding toward Sal. “But he doesn’t have to work with Buck. So let me tell you all about how I walked in on these two Facetiming while Buck was in the showers. Thankfully, Buck’s got waterproof earbuds. Unfortunately, I could still hear him speak.”

“Oh no,” Evan groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Eddie, you said you were going to be washing the engine.”

“Yeah, and then Joey from B-shift kindly offered to do it instead, so I wandered my happy ass into the showers and heard my best friend complain, ‘But it won’t fit,’” he says, his voice taking on a high, breathy quality. “And then: ‘You’re going to have to force it.’ So I, being a family man—shut up, Chimney—loudly announced myself to the room, because what if Cap walked in? What if Hen walked in? What if literally anyone walked in?”

“Should I be hearing this?” Maddie asks.

“And I hear Buck call, ‘Hey, Eddie, Tommy might need you to help him drop in this transmission after work if you’re free,’” Eddie says flatly, and the whole room erupts in laughter. “And, yes, I did help, because that Chevelle was beautiful. Do I believe that they were actually talking about a transmission? I do, because otherwise I’d need to pour bleach in my ears. Is it very telling that I genuinely thought they’d get up to that kind of thing at literally any time of day when one or both of them is working? Yeah, a little. You guys are unbelievable. I love you both, I can’t wait to be there for you guys when you get married. I thank you for including my son in your ceremony, because he loves both of you more than you’ll ever know, but keep it PG around the kid, okay?”

“We always do!” Evan protests.

“No, we do,” Tommy agrees quickly as Eddie comes to them for hugs. “I promise.”

“Oh, I know, or I’d be making you answer whatever questions he’d be asking,” Eddie says, patting his cheek.

“Let’s get a groom up here,” Sal says to a round of cheers.

“Alright,” Tommy says, kissing Evan before going to Sal and grabbing the mic. “Alright, I get it, we’ll—well, I’m sorry, I can’t make any promises other than ‘we’ll try.’ But—Sal, sit down, you mook—I swear we don’t mean to be that bad. Anyway, I am not standing here to defend our very healthy and normal attraction to each other—”

“Oh, my god,” Evan says, burying his face in his hands as Eddie cackles next to him.

“—I’m here to thank you all for putting up with us,” Tommy says, looking out at the grinning faces of everyone he loves, even though they’re all a little blurry. “And for being there for us through everything, good and bad, and being people we can go to when things are bad or I’m freaking out about proposing or whatever it is I’m freaking out about at the time. I love you guys so much. You’re all amazing and wonderful, and sometimes I have to remind myself this isn’t a dream, because you’re the family I always wanted but didn’t think I’d get. So, thank you. I love you, thank you for being here and for always being there for us. Someone please take this microphone from me.”

Howie rushes the platform to hug him around the middle, and then Maddie, Karen, Hen, Lucy, Ravi, Melton, Eddie, and Sal follow until Tommy is in the center of a group hug. He can see over almost everyone’s heads, and so he can see the way Evan’s beaming at him with tear-filled eyes and the way that Bobby and Athena go to either side of his fiancé to put an arm around him and smile at Tommy, too.

There’s a chorus of “We love you”s from everyone, and then Tommy wrestles his arm free so he can bring the mic to his lips.

“Alright, who’s first on the list?” he asks.

“Me!” Lucy calls, making grabby hands for the mic.

He hands it off and detangles himself from the group so he can go to the three people standing off to the side.

“Liquid courage?” Athena guesses, patting his cheek with a fond smile.

“Yeah, a little,” Tommy admits, grinning. “That obvious?”

She snorts and fixes him with a knowing look. “Only to anyone with eyes.”

He gets a tight hug from a damp-eyed Bobby, who gruffly tells him he's proud of him and that he loves him, too. Tommy kind of sags against him for a second before getting a full-bodied hug from Athena that shouldn’t make him feel so small, and then there’s Evan in front of him.

“I love you,” Tommy says, his insides gooey and molten like they always are when Evan’s smiling at him like that. “Most of all.”

Evan steps into his space and puts his arms around him, crossing his wrists behind Tommy’s neck. “I love you most of all, too. You’re so drunk, babe.”

“I am.” He hugs Evan around the middle and rubs his cheek on the soft sweater he’s wearing. It feels nice. “Do we really scar them that much?”

Evan’s body shakes against his with laughter. “Yeah, I think we do.”

“Should we stop?”

“Nah, we’ll enjoy it while it lasts. Kids’ll probably slow us down.”

Tommy melts against Evan, letting him take his entire weight. Kids. They’ll have kids one day, and maybe grandkids, and he’s going to be scared out of his mind that he’s going to fuck them up and he has an entire group of people to turn to when that happens. It takes a village, and he has one. He knows he’s crying, but they’re happy tears. His face is also hidden in Evan’s neck, so no one can see.

But he doesn’t really care if they do. They’re family. Family cries around each other and doesn’t judge. Real families, at least, like theirs.

He sways with Evan to the sound of Ravi and Lucy wailing “Don’t You Want Me” by Human League into their microphones, and he feels something deep inside his heart finally heal.

–

[seonghrtz]

HEAT OF THE MOMENT !

𝒮 YNOPS𝑖S,ㅤㅤin the heat of the moment, dean kisses you.

͏𝒘. ͏ ͏͏ dean winchester & f!reader ᡴꪫ ( 2.0k ) fluff + cw. canon violence vampires bloody kiss lovesick!dean (?)

Dean knew you were the person Sam had called for help. He knew it the moment Sam gave him a mischievous look and a sideways smile while he was on the phone.

It was not uncommon for the Winchester brothers to seek help with one of their supernatural cases. Normally, a simple call to Bobby Singer would be enough for them to move on with the case, but after the fateful day they met you, you had quickly gained the brothers' trust and become a valuable ally.

You first met in Colorado. The brothers were unravelling the mystery of the ghost bride when you suddenly arrived to save the day ⸻ or rather, the night.

It wasn't long before another supernatural case brought you into contact with both Winchesters ⸻ not to mention the fact that your friendship with Bobby had made it easier for you to bond. And from time to time, the Winchesters, especially the youngest, would call on you, either to solve a mystery together or to consult some lore.

You were undoubtedly one of the finest hunters the Winchesters have ever known. Not only was your knowledge of myth and legend vast, and your research skills incredible, but your fighting skills were enviable. And it wasn't news to Sam that his brother had a certain (romantic) interest in you. It was painfully obvious to him, but not at all obvious to Dean.

Dean always seemed to gravitate towards you when you went hunting together. There were a few little quirks that changed in him when you were around. He'd suddenly straighten up his posture, he'd sound more intelligent, even with the jokes, he'd become a little more protective, even when you didn't need it. And you certainly didn't need protecting, since you were usually the one who ended up saving Dean from trouble. But it was still like an instinct for Dean. He wanted to protect you.

And knowing Dean's obvious interest in you, Sam decided it would be a good idea to invite you on a vampire hunt in Pennsylvania.

Nothing more romantic than hunting vampires in a town that rhymes with Transylvania ⸻ or perhaps nothing more hilarious.

"She's coming." Sam said, putting his phone back in his pocket as he turned his attention to the laptop in front of him with the news on the case.

"We don't need any help, Sam." Dean said, looking up at the ceiling of the bed he was sitting on. Although he denied it, there was a certain feeling of happiness in his chest, knowing that he would see you after so long.

"We're up against a nest of vampires, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "any help is welcome.”

Night came with the sound of a motorbike that the Winchester brothers knew well, and it wasn't long before someone knocked on the door of the motel room where they were staying.

"Sammy," you smiled, hugging the younger brother who greeted you with the same enthusiasm.

"It's good to see you again." Sam smiled excitedly at your presence. It was a fact that you had become good friends over time.

"Dean," you greeted the man sitting on one of the beds.

Dean just nodded. But his mind wandered as he noticed how beautiful you were. He tried to understand how you had become more attractive than the last time he had seen you. And to make matters worse, your outfit didn't help Dean's thoughts much, especially those skinny leather pants that hugged your legs and every curve he was convinced was a work of God.

He always thought that his memory of you was somewhat distorted, and that perhaps you weren't as beautiful as his mind projected you to be, but every time he saw you again, he realised that you were surely the most beautiful person who had ever set foot in the world, and that it wasn't his mind playing a trick on him.

It was hard for Dean to concentrate on the conversation between you and his brother, but you were far more interesting to him than anything trivial.

Sometimes Dean thought you were a witch who had cast a spell on him, so perhaps it would be easier to explain the attraction he felt for you. The way his heart seemed to beat faster in your presence, or the way you made him feel like a silly high school boy seeing a pretty girl for the first time.

"Right, Dean?" Sam and you turned to him, waiting for confirmation.

"What?" He looked between you and his brother, his green eyes lingering longer on your form.

"Weren't you paying attention, dude?" Sam tried to hide the malicious smile growing on his lips. "Never mind, I was just saying that we'll attack as soon as the sun comes up, because vampires have an advantage at night."

"Okay..." Dean shrugged nonchalantly. Your presence certainly disturbed Dean in a surreal way.

"So I'm going to the room I rented," you got up from the chair you were sitting in, "it's two rooms away from yours. See you tomorrow, sweet dreams.”

Oh, Dean would certainly have the sweetest dreams...

As the first rays of the sun came up, Sam and Dean were already awake, getting ready to hunt down the vampire nest.

As the brothers left the room, they noticed you leaning against Baby's hood, holding two paper bags.

‘She's not making it easy for me...' Dean thought as he discreetly (but not as discreetly as he thought) looked up and down at you, trying to perpetuate the scene in his mind.

"Morning boys. I've bought breakfast," you smiled sideways as you got out of Dean's car and handed each of the bags to the respective brothers.

"Coffee and pie?" Dean looked at the contents of the bag and turned his eyes to you in surprise.

"Your favourite, isn't it?" You slung your bag over your shoulder as you looked at the older Winchester.

"Yeah... it is..." Dean smiled sideways, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. Could you get any more perfect?

The journey to the vampires' nest was uneventful. They were in a house a little further out of town.

Once Dean parked Baby in a strategic spot, it wasn't long before the trio got out of the car and went to the trunk to retrieve the weapons.

As soon as Dean opened the door, they entered the house and noticed some vampires lying in the living room, apparently asleep. According to Sam's previous research, the nest was made up of eight vampires, and if they were lucky, there would be an average of two to three vampires for every one of them ⸻ that is, if they were lucky.

"I'll take the top floor," you muttered as you made your way to the stairs, climbing quietly so as not to make any noise.

Dean couldn't help but follow you with his eyes, a little concerned. Deep down, the older Winchester knew that his concern was unnecessary as you were an experienced hunter and certainly one of the best in the world. But still, it was inevitable to feel a hint of worry tighten his chest. He just didn't want you to get hurt.

A sigh left Dean's lips, he'd better concentrate on the five problems in front of him and then check on you.

Adjusting his grip on the machete in his dominant hand, Dean approached one of the vampires lying on the sofa from behind. He watched as Sam did the same with another vampire who was also on the sofa. They both positioned the machete at the supernatural being's neck and in one precise motion the blades cut off the vampires' heads.

But the sound of the blades was enough to wake the other vampires, who were sleeping on mattresses on the living room floor.

And then the fight began.

Sure, it wasn't a fair fight, since vampires were faster, stronger and more resilient than humans. But on the other hand, it was no wonder that Dean Winchester held the title of best hunter. And his years as a hunter paid off in these moments.

It wasn't long before Dean and Sam decapitated the other vampires, ending the fight once and for all.

"I'm going to look for the hostages." Sam commented, getting up from the floor, a little out of breath as he moved the body of the vampire he had just killed. And Dean remembered that this vampire group had kidnapped young people to turn them into vampires and save them from the brink of extinction.

"I'll check upstairs." Dean turned quickly in the direction of the stairs and went up without the lull in his step.

Dean went through the doors in the corridor and entered the rooms to make sure that nobody was in them ⸻ or rather to make sure that you weren't in them. However, he was surprised when he passed the last room and saw you standing in the middle of the place, which was a mess (evidence of a fight) and three decapitated bodies and their heads on the floor.

The older Winchester watched your form, noticing the blood on your face. He held his breath. Was it strange to think that you looked even more attractive when you were covered in blood?

As your eyes met his, he felt a spark ignite and his whole body burn. How could you do this to him? To his poor condemned soul? With his poor, weak heart?

You stood there, just breathing and being the most beautiful person that ever walked the earth, and all Dean wanted to do was take you in his arms and kiss you until he ran out of breath, until he felt his lips go numb.

And apparently he did it ⸻ unconsciously.

Dean had barely noticed when his legs moved towards you without him noticing. He approached you with ferocity as if his life depended on it (and maybe his life really did depend on it), grabbing you around the waist before bringing your lips together, feeling a mixture of the metallicity of blood and the cherry flavor of your lip moisturiser.

He had only realised what was happening when he felt your hand run down his neck, over the back of his head and straight into his hair, and when your lips began to move against his, following his euphoric rhythm with mastery.

When you pulled away to catch your breath, Dean could only stare at your lips, wanting to kiss you again.

"I... I'm probably not the best person for this, but... I like you." Dean said, looking at your eyes, getting lost in their colour, noticing that maybe that was his favourite colour. But when he noticed your silence, he scratched his throat and moved a few centimetres away from you. "You don't have to like me back, you know? Just wanted to let you know how I felt, that's all."

"Well, too bad! Because these feelings are mutual, and now you can't get rid of me." A bright smile formed on your lips, causing Dean to feel a surge of relief in his chest. "Took you long enough, Winchester.

"Promise to make up for lost time," he smiled sideways, pulling you close and kissing you again.

"Um, guys," Sam's voice rang out, causing you to turn away from Dean and look at his brother who was standing in the doorway with a surprised expression on his face. “Never mind” Sam turned and left almost as quickly as he had arrived.

"I think we should go," you murmured, moving a little away from Dean and placing your hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your hand.

"Yeah, I think so..." Dean said, but he didn't move to leave. He just moved his face closer to yours, brushing his lips against yours before kissing you again.

Dean Winchester was certain that he would never be able to recover from the addiction of feeling your lips on his own.

© seonghrtz, 2025. all rights reserved, please do not copy / steal / translate / modify any of my works!

[seleneee12]

Beauty, attractiveness, and sex appeal in the natal chart. ♥️🥵💖

I am so excited for this post. If you follow my page you know that I love beauty astrology. I analyze so many charts to try and give examples and visual representation. So here are the most prominent aspects that I have seen on charts of many beautiful women. I will give examples of models, actresses and singers who are considered beautiful in pop culture.

Let’s start with Pluto.

Pluto ascendant aspect. Any of the aspects, harsh or harmonious, these aspects I’ve seen so prominent in the modeling world especially VS angels. Why? Pluto when aspecting the ascendant gives a very powerful beauty type. Long lean bodies and strong physiques. They have magnetism in their appearance. Pluto is a generational planet so these girlies appeal to a generation. They can command a room with their presence. Ex: any of the VS angels. Candice Swanepoel, Karlie Kloss, Naomi Campbell, Christy Turlington.

Now let’s talk about Venus.

Venus Conjunct ascendant. This aspect is considered beautiful in general. It’s Venus after all. It gives these women beauty and femininity. Ex: Bella Hadid, Angelina Jolie, Rihanna, Grace Kelly, Selena Gomez, Charlize Theron, Sandra bullock, Sabrina Carpenter.

Honorable mention, any Venus ascendant aspect harsh or harmonious. These women are just beautiful. Venus blesses them with feminine beauty. Ex: Barbara Palvin, Jennifer Lawrence, Sara Sampaio.

Now when you put Venus and Pluto together.

Pluto Conjunct Venus gives big beautiful facial features. Venus is beauty and Pluto is magnetism. These girls have almost doll like facial features. They look beautifully unique. Big eyes, big lips, Small noses. They are the Bratz dolls. Ex: Billie Eilish, Kendall Jenner, Pia Wurtsbach, Emily browning, Kristy Hume, Khloe Bridges, Lily Aldridge, Blanca Padilla.

Of course we can’t forget about Neptune.

Neptune aspecting ascendant. Any aspect. Ethereal Beauty, Soft Angelique features. Even if they’re freaky they still look innocent. They are conventionally beautiful. Ex: Sydney Sweeney, Ariana Grande, Adriana Lima, Paulina Poriskova, hunter Schafer, Drew Barrymore, Marylin Monroe.

Now let’s talk about Moon.

When moon aspects the ascendant, it gives feminine, round, and full features. Soft feminine bodies and wide hips, “Birthing hips”. These women posses a face that can express emotions. A gentleness to their presence, they’re emotionally mature, sensitive and really sweet. When they have children they may be considered milfs. Ex: Barbara Palvin, Emily Ratajikowski, Zendaya, Scarlett Johansson, Pamela Anderson, Shakira, Zoe Saldana, Kaia Garber. Barbara Bouchet

Ok now let’s talk about Sex appeal.

Mars aspecting the ascendant. Mars gives these women confidence, sex appeal and alluring bodies. This aspect gives big breast, athletic bodies, sexy aura. They are the Sex symbol. Ex: Megan Fox, Kim Kardashian, Kate Upton, Millie Bobby brown, Jessica Alba, Mikey Maddison, Gigi Hadid.

Now what do you get when you have mars and Venus? Intense Sex appeal.

Again, any aspect. This is another prominent aspect in the modeling industry. It’s crazy how many models have them. Body, Beauty, Confidence, period. They are intimidating because of how much sex appeal they carry. Ex: Naomi Campbell, Dautzen Kroes, Shalom Harlow, Kate Moss, Blanca Padilla, Kendall Jenner, Tyra banks, Jasmine Tookes, Lily Aldridge, Valentina Sampaio.

Let’s talk about Black moon Lilith.

Black moon Lilith aspecting Ascendant. All aspects. This aspect is so prominent in pop culture. Female beauty symbols and sexual empowerment. Models, actresses, pop stars they all posses a Lilith aspect. This is one that has always been portrayed on screen as a Femme Fatale, a witch, and a sex symbol. These women posses allure that can attract masses. Their mysterious aura leads people to adore them or sexualize them. They’re confident in their sexual empowerment. Ex: Lily Rose Depp, Christina Hendricks, Jessica Alba, Samantha Robinson, Meghan the stallion, Elizabeth Olsen, Alex Consani, Alessandra Ambrosio, Letitia Casta, Gisele Bundchen, Sabrina Claudio, Doja Cat, Dua Lipa, Claudia Schiffer, Natalie Portman, Olivia Rodrigo, Tate MCrae, Christina Aguilera, Emma Roberts, Ashwarya Rae, Anya Taylor Joy, and so many others I could write a whole page.

Aspects that I don’t see talked about enough are Harmonious Ascendant Aspects to Eros. Conjunction, Trine, and Sextile. These girls posses an erotic beauty. They are so sultry that you can feel it in their presence and bodies. They’re the ones that Men Fantasize about. Many Men Have probably C*m to them. They are erotic and sensual. They are real beauties. Ex: Monica Bellucci, Rose Mcgowans, Tate Mcrae, Catherine Zeta Jones, Miranda Kerr, Madelyn Clein, Candice Swanepoel, Sabrina Claudio. Cindy Kimberly, Angelina Jolie, Kate moss.

I think I will make this a Part 1. These are just aspects that I have analyzed and seen in the Charts of all the girlies that are mentioned. Almost every beauty in pop culture has one or more of these placements. There’s many other planets and Asteroids I haven’t had a chance to analyze. I love to give visual examples of the girls that carry these placements. So it takes a while to research and gather them. Maybe all do a part 2 analyzing Uranus, Sun, many beauty asteroids and planets aspecting the 1st and 8th house. Depending on how many likes this post gets. Let me know if you’d like a part 2, or if you want a breakdown of all these aspects. I’d love to know what aspects you have in your own chart. Anyways, hope you enjoy Babes😘💕