#spns

[agirlwithdemonblood]

Just Because

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Summary: You spoil Dean with a simple gesture, and it means more than he can say.

Check out my Masterlist here!

The bunker was quiet when you got home, a striking difference from the chaos of the mall you had just battled through.

Between the crowds, the pushy salespeople, and that one cashier who acted like scanning your items was super inconvenient, you were exhausted.

All you wanted now was a long hot shower and to curl up in bed with your boyfriend when he got back.

You set the shopping bags on the bed before heading to the bathroom, sighing in relief as the warm water washed away the tension of the day.

You were halfway through your shower when the sound of heavy boots echoed off the tile, followed by a soft knock. A second later, the curtain pulled back just enough for Dean’s smirking face to peek through.

“Mmm, hey, sweetheart.” He grinned, his eyes shamelessly roaming your body.

You rolled your eyes, fighting the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Hey, baby. How was the hunt?”

He sat on the edge of the tub, running a hand through his hair. “Longer than expected but we got the job done. What about you? How was your day, did you go out?”

You hummed, rinsing the shampoo from your hair. “Mmhmm. I did a little shopping. Got you something—it’s in the bag on the bed.”

His eyebrows lifted in interest and surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Go check it out while I finish up.”

After finishing up, you pulled on your robe and made your way to the bedroom, expecting to find Dean grinning like a kid on Christmas.

Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, staring at the plaid shirts laid out in front of him. The whiskey bottle sat unopened beside them. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Your smile faded. He didn’t look happy—he looked stunned. Maybe even… sad?

You frowned, quickly making your way to him and sitting beside him. Your hand covered his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”

He nodded quickly, but his voice wavered. “Y-Yeah. I just…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “This is for me?”

You narrowed your eyes, watching as his forced grin slowly faded. “Dean, what’s wrong? You don’t like them? That’s totally fine, I can return them—”

“What? No!” His head snapped up, eyes wide. “I love them. It’s not that.”

You tilted your head. “Then what is it? Because you look like someone just kicked your puppy.”

Dean sighed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling like he was carrying a weight he didn’t know how to put down. He turned to face you, his hands hesitantly reaching for yours, but his head stayed low, like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

"I just... why did you buy me all this?" His voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges, as he gestured toward the plaid and whiskey behind him.

You blinked, glancing at the items before looking back at him. "Well, your plaid got ruined, and I figured you could use some more… And I noticed you were running low on whiskey, so I thought a new bottle might be nice."

He let out a slow, shaky breath, his head dropping even lower. "No, I mean... why would you do this for me?"

Your heart clenched at the way he said it—so soft, so unsure, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend the answer.

You reached out, fingertips brushing under his chin, gently tilting his face up to yours. "Because I love you."

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his green eyes searching yours like he was looking for some kind of explanation, something that made sense in his world. "But… I don’t get it. It’s not my birthday. It’s not our anniversary. You didn’t owe me this."

“Dean,” you said gently, lifting his chin so he had to look at you. “You don’t have to earn love. You don’t have to wait for a reason. I did this because I love you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tensing, eyes fixed on the flannels like they were something rare and fragile.

"Dean," you murmured, squeezing his hands. "Talk to me. What’s going on?"

"I…" He swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. "No one’s ever done this for me. Not unless it was for a reason, or because I asked. No one’s ever just… wanted to."

Your heart clenched. There it was—the reason he was struggling, the reason he looked so lost. Dean Winchester, who gave and gave until there was nothing left of him, had never had someone do the same without expecting something in return. And now that someone had, he didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t think he deserved it.

"But I do. I wanted to."

He smiles a little sadly, still processing the information.

“You take care of me, right?” you continued. “You buy me coffee, make sure I eat, kill the spiders I pretend I don’t see.” That got a small huff of laughter from him. “So let me take care of you too. No reason needed.”

His breath hitched slightly, and for a second, he just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize your face. Then, without a word, he pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

"This means more to me than I can ever explain, Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

You hugged him just as tight, running your hand up and down his back. “Of course, babe. You deserve it.”

After a few moments, you pulled back with a playful smile and grabbed one of the shirts. “So, do you like them?”

His smile widened as he took them from your hands. "Are you kidding? I love them. Especially this black and white one—that looks badass."

"Then c’mon, fashion show time!"

Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was no hesitation as he shrugged off his jacket and pulled on the new plaid. When he turned back to you, leaning against the dresser, you couldn't help but stare.

"Whoa," you breathed, eyes trailing over him. “I knew it would look good, but that’s just unfair.”

Dean smirked, waggling his brows. “Oh, I know.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, now how about we get drunk and watch a movie?”

Dean pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Sounds perfect. But first—" He grabbed the other shirts and smirked. "I gotta show Sammy these. He’s gonna be so jealous."

Before you could say a word, he was already heading down the hall.

"Sammy!" he called, his voice echoing through the bunker. "Where are you? I gotta show you why you need to get a girlfriend!"

Laughter bubbled up in your chest as you flopped back onto the bed, shaking your head. That man.

Dean Winchester deserved love—the kind that didn't have to be earned, the kind that just was. And you were going to keep proving it to him, every single day.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

[the-gray-ghosty]

Dean won't admit when he's feeling sad or depressed, he'll just sit in sam's lap like a cat and try to make himself as physically close to sam as possible

[pansexual-lilychen]

[rabid-transcendentalist]

[strawlessandbraless]

What an unsurprising & completely expected turn of events that literally everyone saw coming 😮

Source 🔗

Free 🔗

[lady-raziel]

I just wanna know if love wins before America loses

[jackalspine]

@schnuffel-danny hehehe

regarding this post: from schnuffle

[lolstargirl]

[destiel-news-channel]

[Image ID: The Destiel confession meme edited so that Dean answers 'There's a petition to ban conversion therapy in the EU' to Cas' 'I love you'. /End ID]

If you are a citizen in the EU please sign this petition:

[deansbisexualflannel]

[agirlwithdemonblood]

The Language of Us

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Summary: Your love language is touch, but past heartbreaks made you afraid of being too much. Dean Winchester proves you never have to hold back—because while you crave touch, he craves you.

Check out my Masterlist here!

It had only been a week, and already, it was complicated.

One week of dating Dean Winchester, and you were losing your mind-not because the relationship was bad, but because it was too perfect.

From the moment you met, you fell hard. He told you he had too. And when you finally confessed your feelings, it had been effortless, like the universe had been waiting for it to happen.

But love, even when perfect, can be complicated.

Because your love language was touch.

Some people gave gifts, some used words, and others showed love through acts of service. But you? You needed the physical connection-the warmth of a hand on yours, a casual touch on the arm, a touch just to feel close.

And as sweet as that might sound, not everyone saw it that way.

Your past relationships had made that painfully clear.

They thought it was too much. Too needy. Too clingy.

They didn’t like that you always wanted to hold their hand on walks. That you wanted to cuddle even in the middle of a summer heatwave. That your fingers would drift to their arm at dinner. That, even in sleep, your hand always found them—like your heart wouldn’t settle until it knew they were still there.

So you learned to hold back. To resist the urge. To keep your hands to yourself unless touch was initiated.

But with Dean, it was different.

Because you had never loved anyone like you loved him. And you weren’t about to ruin it by being too much.

Still, resisting the urge was torture.

Every time he made you laugh, you wanted to rest your hand on his chest. Every time he came home from a hunt, you wanted to throw yourself into his arms, burying kisses into his skin. Every time he drove, you ached to reach for his hand.

But you didn’t.

And tonight, in the Deancave, as the two of you finally got some much-needed alone time, it was even worse.

Dean had set everything up—movies, snacks, cold beers. He was fully relaxed, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. You, on the other hand, were perched on the opposite end, your legs across his lap but your hands gripping your beer bottle like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because if you let go, you knew what would happen.

Maybe you’d reach up and run your fingers through his hair. Maybe you’d start absentmindedly tracing his knuckles, spinning the ring on his finger while the movie played. Maybe you’d do all the things you craved to do but couldn’t.

And Dean noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

His hand moved to your knee, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin. It was an innocent enough gesture—casual, absentminded. But to you, it was everything.

You stiffened, forcing yourself not to react, but it was useless. The warmth of his touch spread through you like wildfire, making your grip on the beer bottle tighten.

Dean’s gaze flicked to you, brow furrowing. “Sweetheart? Everything okay?”

You plastered on a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Fine.”

But Dean Winchester wasn’t stupid.

He smirked, pausing the movie and turning toward you. “Okay, now I know something’s up.” He stretched an arm along the back of the couch, shifting slightly closer. “I’ve been waiting for you to spill, but you haven’t. So, tell me—what’s going on?”

You sighed, setting your beer aside and tucking your hands beneath your thighs like a child hiding something behind their back. “Do you know what love languages are?”

Dean’s brow quirked, but he nodded. “Yeah, Sam tried explaining ‘em once. Something about communication and blah, blah, blah.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well… mine is touch.”

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“That’s how I show love,” you explained, voice quieter now. “And it’s, uh… been a problem before.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “People get annoyed with me really fast because my hands are always on them. I don’t even think about it, I just… reach out. But it’s too much for some people, and I don’t—” You swallowed thickly. “I don’t want you to get sick of me and leave.””

Dean frowned, sitting up straighter. “Wait. People actually told you that?”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. And I just… I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to get sick of me, or feel like I’m too much.”

Dean blinked at you. Then, in a single fluid motion, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you—so tightly it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “I love you.”

You blinked. “What?”

Dean pulled back just enough to smirk at you. “Give me your hands.”

Hesitantly, you pulled them from under your thighs, and he took them in his own before lifting them to his face, pressing them against his cheeks.

And just like that, the dam broke.

A relieved, breathy sigh escaped you as your fingers instinctively curled against his skin. It was as if your body had been holding its breath, and now, finally, finally, it could breathe.

Dean grinned. “See? That right there? That’s adorable.”

Your cheeks burned. “Dean—”

“I love when you touch me,” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice steady. “I would never get annoyed with it. Those other people? Jerks. They should’ve been grateful to have someone love them that much.”

“But… it always starts fine, and then—”

“Not with me,” he interrupted gently. “I love when you sneak into the kitchen in the morning and wrap your arms around me. I love that you need a kiss or a hug before I leave. I love waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your hand still on me, like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

“Really?” you whispered, searching his face for any sign of hesitation.

Dean smirked, pulling you closer. “Hell yeah. It’s adorable. You let out this little sigh whenever you touch me—like it calms you. And you know what? It calms me too. Even when I’m pissed off, if I feel your hand on me, it just—” He exhaled. “It just makes everything better. So, please, for the love of God, never stop.”

Your heart flipped as you melted against him, finally letting yourself indulge in what you had been denying for days, letting your hands finally roam freely—over his shoulders, through his hair, down his arms. And he let you.

No—he leaned into it.

Your lips found his cheek in a feather-light kiss before capturing his lips in a slow, lingering one.

When you pulled away, he grinned. “See? Who the hell would complain about that?”

You giggled, resting your head against him. “But… what if you do?”

Dean hummed in thought. “Alright, let’s make a deal. If—and that’s a big if—I ever need space, I’ll just say so. But sweetheart, I swear, that’s never gonna happen.” He paused, smirking. “I mean, you could even touch me while I’m taking a leak if you wanted.”

You gasped, smacking his arm. “Dean!”

He laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “See? That’s the only time it might be a little weird.”

You giggled, curling back into him, your fingers drawing lazy patterns on his arm, threading through his hair, tracing the fabric of his shirt.

And not once did he flinch. Not once did he shift away.

Instead, he leaned in, sighing into your touch, letting you soothe him, ground him.

As the night stretched on, you stayed curled up against him, hands resting wherever they pleased—his arm, his chest, his fingers interlaced with yours. Dean made no move to pull away. If anything, he leaned further into your touch, letting out soft, contented sighs every time your fingers traced lazy circles on his skin.

At one point, he shifted, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before murmuring, “You know, I think I figured out my love language.”

You glanced up, smiling softly. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

Dean smirked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “You.”

Your heart swelled as he tilted your chin up, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

“My love language is the way you curl into me like you belong there,” he whispered. “The way your hands reach for me without thinking, like I’m the only thing that makes you feel safe. The way you touch me like you need to remind yourself I’m real.” He nudged his nose against yours. “My love language is knowing I get to be the one person in the world you trust enough to love like this.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but before you could say anything, Dean grinned.

“Oh, and kissing. Definitely kissing.”

You let out a watery laugh as he pulled you closer, sealing his words with another slow, sweet kiss.

Maybe touch was how you showed love. But for Dean, you—your laughter, your presence, your hands on him—were all the love he’d ever need.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

[angel-fruitcake]

@mishacollins

[demonicseries]

imagine it. The night is November 5th, 2024. The election results are in. Misha Collins post a video. The camera is facing him, as he says “I love you.” Then it pans to the other person in the room, Jensen Ackles. He responds with “Kamala Harris is the next present for the United States”

[gwen-daria]

it only just now dawned on me that I’ll very likely learn who won the election from those Supernatural homosexuals. this is how we live now.

[davidjenkins]