#that this was his life. dean was his life. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyryewhiskey · 1 day ago

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when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt.

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets.

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you��ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.”

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself.

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced.

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fluff

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deerlysacred · 3 days ago

Text

🍲 yellow fever & pinkie pie { dean winchester x witch fem!reader }

𐂂 𝄢 { you're taking care of dean, he's been scared of tiniest things because of a ghost sickness, while sam and bobby works to kill that ghost, they have to kill it as soon as possible since this sickness is known to lead to a heart attack that would kill dean.}

𖣂 𝄢 established relationship & fluff {s4 e6}

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own supernatural or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

You arrived back at the motel, leaving Sam and Bobby to deal with this ghost Luther problem, because let's face it, someone needed to babysit Dean before he jumped out of a window over a dust bunny because of this ghost sickness.

The second you stepped inside, you heard a high-pitched yelp and saw Dean standing on the bed, brandishing a motel lamp like it was excalibur. His wide, panic-stricken emerald eyes found you, and he exhaled like he just saw an angel descend from the heavens.

Not Castiel, though. Castiel makes him uncomfortable for… reasons.

"Y/N!" he sighed, dropping the lamp. "Thank God. You're back. I was just—uh—checking for… uh, ghosts and stuff…"

You glanced at the floor. A sock. He screamed at a sock.

In his defense, it was a very threatening sock. Looked like it hadn't been washed since '98. But still.

You raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go. "Okay, Dean. Sure." You walked past him towards the tiny motel kitchen to put the grocery bags on the counter.

You looked at Dean again, who was back to surfing through the channels. He was gripping the blankets up to his chest, eyes darting around like the walls were gonna close in on him.

Poor thing.

"You hanging in there?" you asked, soft but teasing.

Dean scoffed. "Oh yeah, just peachy, Y/N. Love having my whole nervous system on fire." He scratched his arm for the hundredth time. "You sure Sam and Bobby got this?"

"Positive." You placed a bag from the diner on the table. "Got you something, by the way."

Dean's head snapped to attention like a dog hearing the word 'treat'. "Is that—?"

"Pie."

His eyes misted over like he was a kid and you just told him he was finally getting a game console for Christmas.

"Not yet, though. You can eat it after you eat your soup. No sweets before feeding you properly. I thought soup would be the safest choice since Sam said the healthier you eat, the better in this process. Just bear with me until you get free from this sickness — even if it means eating veggies. Which— I know! is a torture for you."

You smiled to yourself when you heard him complain but still accept it, and turned back to focus on making the soup, fingers grazing the crinkling plastic before pulling out the ingredients one by one. A can of chicken broth, a bundle of fresh parsley, carrots, onion and garlic. You rolled up your sleeves, pushing your hair behind your ears as you reached for the knife.

The first cut into the onion sent an immediate sting through your eyes, the smell crisp and sharp. As you worked, slicing through the layers with careful precision, Dean groaned dramatically from the bed.

"You know," he said, voice hoarse from too much panicked yelling earlier, "this whole nurturing thing you do? It's unnatural."

You didn't look up, chopping the onion into uniform little squares. "Feeding my sick boyfriend is unnatural?"

The knife in your hand hesitated over the onion, its papery skin crackling under your grip. You weren't stalling —well, maybe a little— but something about cooking for Dean in this moment felt oddly… adult. Which was ridiculous, because you were an adult. Technically. Legally. And yet, standing here in this dingy motel kitchen, dicing vegetables like someone who had their life together, felt… weirdly comforting, yet different.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of you." His voice was muffled, probably because he had pulled the blanket halfway over his face in some half-hearted attempt to hide from reality, embarrassed. "Instead, I'm over here in full damsel mode, while you make me soup like a… like a wholesome 1950s housewife."

You scoffed, swiping the onions and garlic pieces into the pan, to the melted butter. "I'd be a pretty awful housewife. Witches don't exactly thrive in suburbia."

Dean grumbled something under his breath, then turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. A beat passed. Then—

"…So, you don't think you'd be good at it?"

"Good at what?" You tossed in the carrots, their color bright against the golden broth.

"You know. The whole—" He made a vague circling gesture. "Domestic thing. Housewife-y stuff."

Oh.

Your hands hesitated, fingers tightening around the wooden spoon. The question felt heavier than it should have, like an old doubt creeping back.

"I don't know… I don't think I could handle it."

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and suddenly, the air felt a little heavier. You focused on the simmering broth, stirring absently. Dean propped himself up on one elbow, giving you a skeptical look. "Why not?"

You hesitated. "Because… I don't know." You stirred the soup, watching the vegetables bob in the broth. "I love taking care of people. And I like doing this. But I dont think I'd be the perfect wife type. I'd get distracted with my own things and forget to clean. I'd forget which bills are due… Like… I don't even feel like an adult at most days. I just feel like an overgrown child in adult clothes, trying to mimic other people who seem to have it all together. I struggle with the easiest and most ridiculous things on a regular basis. I forget what day it is all the time. I still have to remind myself to drink water some days. I can't even commit to a consistent sleep schedule." You sighed, setting the knife down for a moment. "I can make soup, sure, but can I handle, like… taxes? Mortgage payments? Children? That's a whole other level of responsibility, and I still feel like I'm barely holding my own life together. The idea of people depending on me all the time kinda freaks me out."

Dean tilted his head. "I depend on you all the time."

You froze for half a second before keep stirring the soup, trying not to let that sink in too deep. You poured a splash of heavy cream into the pot, watching it swirl into the broth like a tiny storm. "Yeah, but that's different. That's us."

"Uh-huh." He shifted, wincing. "And what exactly do you think a housewife does?"

"Be perfect?" you guessed. "Know all the right things? Handle everything without panicking?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, so like Bobby."

"Shut up! You'll make me burn the soup. Just… don't distract me with these topics." You laughed, shaking your head as you decreased the heat. You reached for the celery, chopping it into small pieces before tossing it into the pot with a satisfying plop, finally with a flick of your wrist, you sprinkled in a generous pinch of salt and pepper, giving the pot a quick stir. Then you wiped your hands on a paper towel, surveying your handiwork. The soup was coming along, a slow-simmering concoction of broth, vegetables, and herbs. A warm, homey scent curled through the air. You put the pan lid on, accidentally dropping the lid on the pan loudly before you fixed it.

Dean flinched against the unexpected loud noise that was heard.

You turned to him. "Did you just—?"

"I didn't flinch." he said quickly, hugging the pillow.

You raised an eyebrow. "Dean, it's just a sound."

"Yeah, well, it was loud."

You hid your grin and started to tidy the dishes, letting him keep his dignity, or what was left of it at least. It was quiet for a moment, just the sound of bubbling broth and whatever dumb reality show Dean had landed on. You figured he'd be fine for at least thirty seconds.

And then—

"GAH!"

You whirled around to find Dean half-off the bed, eyes huge, you nearly dropped the spoon you were about to wash. "Dean?!"

"What? What is it?" you asked, heart pounding.

Dean lifted a shaking hand and pointed at the TV. "Oh my God. Y/N. That was—" He swallowed thickly, visibly trembling. "That was so messed up."

You squinted at the screen.

It was My Little Pony.

…You've gotta be kidding me.

"…Dean."

"They stared at me, Y/N," he whispered. "With those big, dead eyes."

You blinked. "The… ponies?"

"Yes, the ponies!" His voice was an octave higher than normal. "That pink one was too happy, like… Like, she seemed… nuts—happy. That was scary…"

You pressed your lips together, exhaling through your nose. "Dean. It's a children's cartoon."

"I don't care if it is a cartoon at the first glance, that is a psychological horror show!" He rubbed his arms like he was cold. "No way kids watch that and come out normal."

Ouch. Rude much? Patience, Y/N. Not a great time to argue about one of your favorite childhood cartoons.

You sighed and turned back to your tidying. "Just… pick something else."

A few moments of silence.

Then:

"OH, HELL NO!"

Your head snapped up just in time to see Dean fling the remote across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed with a thud on the carpet.

You gaped at him. "Dean! What now?"

He was breathing hard, practically pressed against the headboard. "A COMMERCIAL CAME ON."

You waited… He didn't elaborate?

"…A commercial for what, exactly?"

Dean shook his head, traumatized. "Headache pills.”

You stared. "You're scared of pills now?"

"They were listing side effects, Y/N." His voice was hushed like he was revealing a terrible secret. "Side effects."

You bit your bottom lip to not laugh and leaned against the counter. "Dean, side effects are on, like, every medication—"

"ONE OF THEM WAS DEATH, Y/N! AND I TOOK ONE EARLIER!"

You sighed, rubbing your temple. "Dean, I promise you are not going to die from headache pills."

"YOU CAN'T PROVE THAT."

And that was it. You couldn't hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the motel room like it had no business being that loud. Dean just stared at you, wide-eyed and offended.

"You think this is funny?" he hissed, like you just personally betrayed him. "This is life or death, Y/N!"

You snorted, trying to reign it in, but the sheer absurdity of the situation had a chokehold on you. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry,it's just… Dean, you're literally the guy who laughs in the face of actual death. Ghosts, demons, werewolves— you name it. But today, a sock, a cartoon pony, and a bottle of pills are your mortal enemies."

Dean glared, but it was hard to take seriously when his hair was sticking up like he just wrestled with the blanket and lost. "Hey, those ponies were unnatural. And don't even get me started on side effects. Internal bleeding, Y/N. Internal. Bleeding."

You chuckled, grabbing a bowl from the counter and ladling some of the soup into it. "Here. Eat this before you spiral into thinking the spoon's out to get you too."

He eyed the bowl like it might explode but took it anyway. You plopped down on the edge of the bed, watching him blow on the soup carefully.

"See? Not so bad, right?" you teased, nudging his leg with your foot.

Dean took a cautious sip, then sighed like you just handed him the elixir of life. "Okay, I'll admit… This is freakin' good." He shot you a sideways glance. "Suspiciously good. You sure you didn't put anything weird in it?"

You placed a hand over your heart and spoke with a fake offended voice. "Wow. Accusing your loving girlfriend of poisoning you. That's rich."

Dean pointed his spoon at you. "Hey, I've seen Hansel and Gretel, okay? Witches making suspiciously good food? Classic setup."

You rolled your eyes, scooting back against the headboard. "Right, because if I wanted to fatten you up and eat you, I totally would've waited two years into our relationship to do it."

Dean took another sip, visibly relaxing with every bite. "Could be a long con."

You smirked. "If I wanted to kill you, Dean, trust me, I wouldn't use soup."

Dean paused, spoon hovering in mid-air, before he slowly turned his head to squint at you. "…That was an unsettling thing to say."

You batted your eyelashes innocently. "Was it?"

Dean huffed, and scooped up another spoonful, chewing.

He talked after seemingly getting lost in thoughts for a while. "Y'know… If you really don't think you'd be good at the whole domestic thing, you should know— being perfect at it ain't the point."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone and topic. "What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged, keeping his eyes on the soup. "I mean, you don't have to be some apron-wearing, 'dinner's ready when you walk through the door, honey' type for that whole 'apple pie life' to work. You already take care of people, Y/N. Not just with food, but… with the way you are." He gestured vaguely, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You make things feel… safe."

Your chest tightened at that.

Dean cleared his throat. "And, I mean, hell, if we're talking responsibilities? You think I keep track of bills? Babe, that's Sam. If it were up to me, we'd be in jail for tax fraud or something."

That earned a laugh from you. "Yeah, I believe that. And thanks for saying those, but still…"

"But nothing," he cut in. "You care, Y/N. You give a damn. And you fight for it. That's what matters. The rest? That's just details."

You gulped and looked at him as your heart did a ridiculous little flip. "You make it sound so simple."

Dean shrugged. "'Cause it is. You and me? We've handled worse than taxes."

You snorted, finally looking up at him. "That is… an accurate point."

"Damn right it is." His smirk softened, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip. "So stop freaking out. You're doin' just fine." He pulled you to his side and kissed your forehead. Your brain short-circuited for a second at the casual intimacy of it all. But as you stared at him—his usual confidence, the way he looked at you like he knew you better than you knew yourself— you felt some of the weight on your shoulders lift, you hummed and nodded. Wanting to believe him.

Dean finished the last of his soup with a satisfied hum, setting the empty bowl on the nightstand. He still looked like hell —fidgety, tired eyes darting toward every shadow like they held inevitable traps— but hey, at least he wasn't actively jumping stupid things. That was something.

You reached over and tugged the blankets up around him. "See? A full stomach makes everything better."

Dean exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah, well… I'm still dying, so."

You gave him a flat look. "You're not dying."

"You don't know that." he muttered, shifting under the covers, eyes flicking towards the TV away from you.

You sighed, setting the remote out of his reach. "Sam and Bobby are handling it. They're gonna find the ghost, and you'll be fine."

Dean didn’t respond right away. His fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket, his jaw tight. You knew this kind of quiet. It wasn't just the sickness messing with him— it was the vulnerability. The kind he hated. The kind that made him feel small. And maybe even the memories that haunted him from back in Hell. Yeah. Dean was stubborn, insisting that he doesn't remember anything from Hell but you had your doubts rightfully — because of the regular nightmares he woke up from in the middle of the night and the unexplainable, gloomy look of him in general. But you didn't push him to admit it, not yet. And you weren't going to do it now, absolutely. Not when he was a heart attack away from the tiniest death.

Without thinking much, you scooted closer, wrapping an arm around him. His body tensed for half a second before he melted against you, burying his face into your chest with a heavy sigh.

"Everything's gonna be okay…" you murmured, resting your chin on top of his head.

Dean huffed a quiet breath, his eyes slipping shut. "Hope so. Kinda tired of being a little bitch."

You smirked, curling into him. "Kinda? Babe, I love you, but today was tragic."

Dean let out a low groan, burying his face in your chest. "Ugh. Never living this down, am I?"

"Not a chance." You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Sam's gonna be the easy part. Beware of your girl. I'm never gonna let go of your Pinkie-Pie-Phobia."

Dean stiffened in your arms, pulling back just enough to squint at you. "The hell is a Pinkie Pie?"

You grinned. "The pink pony you were terrified of."

Dean blinked, then recoiled like you just slapped him with the word. "You're tellin' me that thing— that creepy, serial-killer-smiling thing— has a name?"

"Oh, they all have names."

"Jesus Christ." He rubbed a hand down his face, looking like he aged ten more years. "Of course, they do."

You bit back another laugh, deciding to push your luck. "Pinkie Pie's actually really sweet. She's good to her friends, throws a lot of parties—"

"I don't care! What if she's got hobbies? That doesn't make her less terrifying." he said, voice hoarse but full of indignation, "also that little demon horse does not deserve the 'Pie' title."

You blinked at him, then let out a wheezy laugh. "Wait— what?"

"You heard me! Pie is warm. Pie is good. That thing? That thing is a menace. She ain't worthy of the name."

You clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from wheezing. "Dean, oh my God."

"I’m serious, Y/N!" He huffed and clung to you tighter. "That thing looks like it was made in a lab specifically to drive people insane. Don't trust her. Nobody's that happy all the time without something sinister going on."

You were crying now. Actually crying. "Dean Winchester, you absolute menace. You're literally beefing with a cartoon pony."

Dean scoffed. "Damn right I am. And I'm winning."

Before you could inform him that no, he was absolutely not winning against a fictional pink horse, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You unlocked the screen and, and behold, Sam's name lit up in a new text.

Sammy : Ghost's toast. You're good, stop being a wuss now 👍🏻

Sammy : Bobby says you owe him beer

Sammy : Y/N, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid while readjusting to normal life

You smirked, nudging Dean. "You're free. No more ghost sickness. Your dignity, however, is long gone."

Dean perked up immediately. "Wait— seriously?!" He snatched the phone, scanning the message like he expected you to be lying. His whole body sagged in relief. "Oh, thank God."

"See? Told you everything would be okay." You leaned back against the pillows, stretching with a satisfied sigh.

Dean pushed himself up and —before you could react— hooked his arms under your legs and back, effortlessly scooping you up into his arms bridal style.

"DEAN!" you squeaked, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. "What are you—"

"Getting you off your feet," he said simply, carrying you towards the kitchen with steady strides. "You've been fussin' over me all day, and it's my turn to take care of you now."

You blinked up at him, momentarily surprised by the sheer effortlessness of it all. "But I—"

"Nope," he interrupted, giving you a playful squeeze. "You became the mother-hen enough. Now it's time to sit your pretty ass down and enjoy some pie."

Before you could argue, he set you down onto the kitchen counter gently, his hands lingering on your waist. His fingers drummed playfully against your sides. "There. Now, stay."

You squinted at him. "Did you just command me like a dog?"

"Yup." He turned toward the pie, grabbing two forks.

He handed you a fork and plucked a generous bite of pie for himself, moaning dramatically the second it hit his tongue.

"Oh, baby, that's the good stuff." he groaned, swaying slightly like he'd just been spiritually enlightened. "You're an angel, y'know that?"

…

Your fingers stilled on his arm.

"Did you just… Did you just call me an angel?"

Dean squinted. "Yeah? And?"

Your smirk grew. "You hate angels."

Dean groaned, throwing his head back. "Aw, c'mon, Y/N, don't start—"

"You literally go on rants about how much you can't stand them," you continued, grinning now. "You've called them dicks in trench coats, winged bastards, self-righteous flying monkeys— need I go on?"

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, his fingers dragging down to his jaw like he could physically pull the embarrassment off his skin. "Okay," he grumbled, "that was a figure of speech."

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand, all faux innocence. "So what you're saying is… I'm a figure of speech angel?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. "You know what, smartass?" He reached over to the nightstand and snatched the half-eaten slice of pie, wielding it like a weapon. "You're gonna eat this and shut it."

Your eyes widened. "Dean—"

But it was too late. He was already shoving a forkful of pie, and before you could dodge, it was in your mouth, sweet and warm and way too good to argue against.

You glared at him, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, and he laughed heartly.

"Mmph!" you tried to protest, but your mouth was too full of pie.

Dean grinned all dimples. "What's that, sweetheart? Can't hear you over the sound of deliciousness."

You chewed quickly, swallowing the absurdly large bite with a dramatic gulp. "You're the worst."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes gleamed mischievously, and before you could blink, he leaned in, lips crashing against yours in a very messy, very pie-flavored kiss. His lips were warm and soft, but the kiss was anything but gentle— sticky and sweet from the pie. You could taste the sugary filling on his tongue, the buttery crust lingering between you as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to slot his mouth perfectly against yours. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to breathe, not that you needed air when he was kissing you like that. You tangled your fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp enough to make him groan, the sound making your heart stutter. When he finally pulled back, both of you breathless and grinning like idiots, his thumb brushed a stray smear of saliva and filling from the corner of your mouth, and without breaking eye contact, he licked it off his thumb with a wink that made your knees weak.

Damn him.

#𐂂 𝄢 syl's fics #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural

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supernatural-ate-my-face · 3 days ago

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Dean's love for Castiel is literally something you can chart the growth of with data points. Just using Dean's reactions after each time Castiel dies.

Season 4: oh wow he died doing the hottest thing ever ('making it up as we go.') Nice.

Season 5: (no time to react before he's back) Are you literal god??

Season 7(first time) denial, then cursing cas out for his choices (ie, choosing crowley instead of dean... Big Feelings on display)

Season 7 (about 3 seconds after the first time in season 7): I'm going to be upset about this the rest of the year, have full on nightmare ptsd from it, and project it onto every relationship and interaction in my life from now on.

Season 8: I will be so traumatized by this that the memories won't even form properly and I won't even be able to SPEAK ABOUT IT AT ALL. Period.

Season 9: only about 6 seconds before he's back, but still a significant amount of wailing his name.

Season 12: depression, rage, eventual suicide

Season 15: Sobbing hysterically. Not even caring that Sam is calling because everyone is dead. Not giving a fuck about any other actual thing in the rest of the world no matter the stakes. Followed by:

'Castiel wants me to live, and I suppose I've internalized the message that I am not a terrible, unworthy person, so I will live and not kill myself so that his sacrifice means something. J/k thank god a fucking rebar. Don't call an ambulance. Don't bring me back. Please let me die.'

We need a chart. I need a chart.

#supernatural #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #spn #deancas #supernatural fandom #spn fandom #destiel data #the destiel sciences

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acexsmhking · 2 days ago

Note

hey back at it again with a "we listen and we don't judge"

Obsessive Toby x Fem!reader But like He was sent to kill someone at a university and decided to just blend in with the school BECAUSE AND ONLY BECAUSE one of the students caught his Eye

she takes him in, introduces him to her friends, bro because basically dependent and doting on her bc not many ppl will just look past his "Flaws"... Then finds out she has a boyfriend, but that just won't do foe Toby

SORRY IF IT'S ULTRA SPECIFIC AND YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND CHANGE WHATEVER YOU LIKE OFC!!!

𝐄𝐟𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

(𝗻.) 𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘆

: ̗̀➛ Toby x FEM!Reader

Summary: University life can be hard; stress, exams, homesickness. So of course, as a good person you didn’t hesitate to befriend a ‘shaken’ schoolmate after a traumatic murder happened. Who knew that your trusted companion was quite the gifted actor?

note: omg whoa! You had me actually biting my phone with this request. Istg I love this. Also sorry I went crazy on this. If you wanna skip the plot I put a halfway marker lol!

Warning(s): 18+ content, AFAB!Reader, p n v! Sex, slight coercion, oral sex (F & M receiving), cheating, long plot, affair plot, stalker behavior, descriptions of gore, descriptions of murder, mentions of blood, unhealthy co-dependency, slight emotional manipulation, lots of drool, biting, cum-play, breath-play.

The beginning of mid-term had started off.. rough. One of the students, Cole, had been murdered. To say it shook the school was an understatement. The scene had been fully public, with a huge fire burning the corpse and a large proportion of the surrounding area. Multiple other students had been injured, with an additional three losing their lives. The whole school was somber, close friends and even family of the victims seemed completely lifeless. Barely responding or talking to anybody but themselves and each other. Thankfully, the professors had been merciful with dealing out schoolwork. And the Dean had began some light construction around the school for added security and protection.

About two months after the incident, a new student had been introduced to your friend group. A mutual friend of a mutual was all you thought of him at first. But after chatting you and Toby quickly formed a connection, he was so much like you! Same hobbies, likes, dislikes. The bond was immediate and close, and soon enough you welcomed Toby into your closer, inner friend circle. You were accommodating and quick to meet Toby’s needs. Both emotionally and mentally. He had confided in you about a plethora of problems he had, along with how vulnerable he was to bullying.

You were, in your sweet nature, quick to sympathize with him. Offering a shoulder to lean on and a shield from the meaner kids. While bullying didn’t happen too often in university, mostly because of how it drained the souls from people. But you still stayed by Toby’s side. You were inseparable. Toby followed you everywhere. Classes, hang-outs, parties, and shopping. Toby had a small speculation where you lived, but he was unable to find out yet. After.. he had his fun earlier. He saw you in the crowd. You were.. beautiful.

He latched onto you quickly to say it mildly. How could he refute you! He didn’t even know he had an ideal type since he saw you, no no, you were his ideal type. You were his only type. His. Befriending you was simple, you were so sweet and pathetic. The cutest lamm he’d ever saw. And he’s met a lot of people.. well, killed a lot. He was beginning to like this university. Besides the downfall of socializing it had delicious food, and of course, you. You understood him, never even judged him when you told about his problems. The voices, the visions, his tourette’s, hell you didn’t even mind the drool escaping the gnarly hole on his face.

Okay, sure he knew no one bullied him anymore. But he was sure people had! So it was valid.

In the eyes of innocents, Toby was weak. A riddled dog. A sick man. But you reassured him, took care of him. He didn’t even realize how many things he didn’t like eating til you asked him. You’d bring him delicious foods for lunch, breakfast, hell even dinner. About five months had passed since the incident. You and Toby still as close as thieves. You hated to admit it. But Toby was.. cute. No, scratch that, Toby was downright sinful. You realized your tiny ‘passing’ crush on him was growing more and more. You felt awful. Awful how when you smiled it was mostly at him. Laughing was with him, eating, hanging out.

Toby immediately noticed you becoming distant. It felt awful. He tried to remember what Tim told him. ‘Sometimes people just need space for various reasons. Remember to be empathetic and open-minded.’ And he tried! Really tried. He just couldn’t handle it. How you started ignoring his message for longer, side-stepped him for others, or would just bolt the other direction if you saw him. His heart was twisting. He hated it. Hated this feeling. He needed you. You were the only one who understood him, who took care of him. He loved you! Couldn’t you see that? Why were you pushing him away. You both were perfect together.

It was cold today, however even Toby could feel it. Or maybe it was just how rejection felt as he watched you laughing at another friends joke. His eye twitched, knuckles cracking. He wanted to strangle them. No he had to, all of them. Then you’d remember him again, right? Yeah, you probably just felt bad for neglecting all of them. Sein süßes Lamm, such a giver. If they disappeared you’d only have him again. You’d pay attention to him again.

You shivered, it was ass freezing cold. You could feel the biting of winter through your pants. You glanced at Toby, looking him over. He was dressed fairly appropriate, you had managed to beat in a good habit of him dressing well for the weather even if he couldn’t feel it. But you worried. What if he forgot to heat his blanket up, his pajamas? No no, stop it. You can’t fret over him so much. You had to put distance. But it was hard looking at him. He was silent. Hadn’t even made a sound besides popping and cracks. You worried, he was never this verbally silent.

Your heart squeezed. He looked so.. sad, so incredibly depressed. You hadn’t even noticed that look in his eyes, not like you could see them very well. You weren’t standing even nearly as close to him like you would before. If others in the group noticed, they didn’t mention it. The only one you were positive that noticed anything was your best friend. They were your most trusted confidant and you had confided to them about everything. They glanced between you and Toby, offering you a sympathetic smile.

“You okay, Toby? You been oddly silent, hun.” They asked, Toby flinched at the nickname. It was grating. You should be checking on him. Not this idiot. You. He nodded, neck popping as he shuffled his feet. Calm down Toby, she’ll come back soon don’t be rash. He tried reasoning with himself. It was a very, very losing battle. He hadn’t even noticed someone else walking up behind you, not til their arms wrapped around your waist and twirled you around. Toby’s jaw clenched, he could nothing but ringing and grinding of his teeth as he watched.

Why the fuck were the others happy? Why weren’t you pushing them away? Who are they? Who, who, who. You had been completely jolted when Ethan had picked you up. You hadn’t seen him in months! “You miss me, baby?” He smiled, eyes flickering between you and your lips as he held you. You nodded, lip between your teeth as you forced a smile. Arms wrapped around his neck as you kissed him. Was it mean to admit you hadn’t? Not as much, you have Toby. Had.. god why was this hard. Why did you even like him? You had Ethan. Ethan. Not Toby.

Close friends hugged Ethan, saying their hi’s. New friends introducing themselves, everyone expect.. Toby. His fingers were locked, eyes glued to his feet. Your heart sank.. you hadn’t even told him. It’s okay, you tried to reassure. You didn’t tell many people, you liked keeping personal information to yourself and close ones. But Toby was close.. right? He felt like your twin.. that’s what you two always said. No.. you were wrong not to tell him.

“Who are you?” Ethan smiled, cocking his head at Toby. This time, Toby looked up. You shivered at that look in his eyes, they seemed so dead, hallow almost. More than usual. You quickly stepped towards Toby, arm around his side and smiled apologetically at Ethan. “This is Toby, my best friend.” Toby leaned further into you, appearing to shy away from Ethan. Ethan, who just arched a brow gaze flickering between you both. You patted Toby’s back, “He’s very shy, give him a while to warm up to you, babe.” You smiled, hand lingering on Toby just a bit as you peaked on him.

Toby was.. he was as thrilled as he could be. You were touching him!! Touching him after weeks at that, even defended him. That small feeling of victory was quickly squashed when you returned to his arms. Was this what the saying ‘blood boiling’ meant? Because he was feeling it. Probably the worst way possible. He hated how much everyone liked him, how much they teased you both as the afternoon went on. He hated how this nuisance kept trying to talk to him, ‘get to know’ him. All this pest needed to know was go wonder off and die.

‘He has to kill him.’ Toby nodded to himself, yeah if he does, you’ll come back to him. You’ll be back in his arms, laughing at his jokes. Ethan had offered everyone drinks at some bar. Toby shivered, but this was his chance. He couldn’t leave you alone with him. “Toby are you sure you want to come?” You chewed your lips, shifting on your feet. “I don’t want the smell bothering you.” A mumble was all it was. You knew now, most certainly, you had no right to fret over him. Toby just shrugged, pulling his jacket tighter around him as he held your hand.

His smile made your stomach warm, butterflies fluttering. Gods he was pretty. “I’ll be okay-y with you there.” His voice was gentle, thumb rubbing your knuckles. Why were you blushing, what was wrong with you. You nodded hastily almost stumbling away from him to return to the group. Composing yourself as Ethan wrapped his arms around you. Thankfully, the bar seemed to be in a slow night, or maybe just a slow hour, but either way you were grateful. You checked in on Toby every once in a while. A few others doing so as well.

“You’re doing really well, Toby!” Rebecca comforted, playfully punching his shoulder. Toby just smiled, seeming polite, Ethan turned towards him. “Don’t like crowded places?” He asked, a smirk on his lips. Toby shrugged, “Don’t-t like al-alcohol.” He mumbled, eyes meeting Ethan’s in a cold stare. Ethan just nodded, arm on your shoulder tightening. You felt.. stuffy. Usually Ethan’s arms made you feel safe.. so safe. But with Toby here.. you felt dirty. Or maybe cause Ethan was here? No, what did you need to feel guilty about. Your feelings were your own and you never acted on them!

You loved Ethan.

Yeah, you shook your head you loved Ethan. You tried leaning back into him further. But it still didn’t feel right. His scent was weird, it was strong, too strong. The waitress brought a third round of drinks, Toby just asked for more water. Wow, two cups of water. Tim would be proud. Liam, one of the guys, was telling a funny story when a crush interrupted him. Followed by Toby cursing. “Fuh-fuck sorry!” He mumbled, handing Hannah a napkin. He had been doing good almost all damn day about that. Hannah just smiled waving him off. “You’re good! Not your fault.” She said, patting herself down.

There was a nasty ball in your stomach as you watched. You hated how he touched her, fretted over her. Why were you like this? “The hell happened?” Ethan laughed, leaning over a bit. “Sor-rey, just..” Ethan interrupted him, mockingly. “You really are jittery. What some stutter freak?” Your mouth gaped, everyone’s did. You shoved Ethan away, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You pushed him again, out of the booth as you shoved your finger against his chest. “What gives you the right to say that?” You shrieked, brows furrowed and shoulders pinned.

Everyone stopped watching you two. Toby was bristling. He didn’t really care, sure he wasn’t actually gonna let that slide but, watching you defend him? His pants were a hell of a lot tighter. That’s right, Ethan had no place in your heart compared to him. “What it was just a joke! ‘M sure he’d gone through worst.” Ethan scoffed, arms crossing as he looked back at Toby. “Right? You don’t care, man.” Toby got out the booth, cold fingers wrapping around your shoulder gently. “It’s-It’s alright, ‘m just gonna head-d out okay?” He smiled, patting your shoulders as he moved past you both.

Your shoulders sank, you didn’t know what to do. Ethan had never said something like that before, not in front of you. How could you let Toby down like this? “Toby! Wait!” You called after him, pushing past Ethan who called after you. You caught with Toby down the street, hand wrapping around his arm. “I’m so sorry about that, I swear if I knew he was like that.. he.. I don’t even know.” You mumbled, hugging him as he faced you. Toby just laughed softly, arms wrapping around you as he patted your back.

Your face nuzzled into his chest, unwilling to admit to it as you took a breath of his scent in. Woody and spice. It didn’t have that artificial scent, it was like he really was rolling around in pinecones and wood earlier. “It’s ok-ay, pretty! Ain’t got-s to be so upset.” He teased, arms squeezing you. You huffed, linking your arms with him as you both continued down to the university. “I really am sorry. I don’t know what the fuck was wrong with him.” You grunted, your feathers were truly ruffled right now! Toby was so sweet, how could your loving Ethan be so cruel to him!

“W-wah-anna spend the night over with me?” He smiled at you sympathetically, sure it hadn’t been the first time since you and Toby had a sleep over. Typically watching nostalgic movies and geeking out. “Umm…” You glanced back, yeah you were mad at Ethan but.. should you really sleep over somewhere else? Oh but those damn puppy dog eyes! Toby’s eyes were just too cute..

Toby’s place was actually a very good distance away from the university. Tucked in between the dense forests surrounding the area. “Gosh, I still can’t believe you make that drive to university everyday.” You snorted, making sure to politely take your shoes off at the front door. “Seeing you-you makes it a little more worth it.” He boyishly grinned at you, flopping down on his old sofa. You flushed sitting down next to him. Feet tucked under you as you sighed. Toby tilted his head at you, you looked far too cute. Curled in so cutely, clothes hugging you just right.

How long had it been since you’ve been here? Far too long, he missed you. Missed watching you, being able to feel you. Really feel you, as you slept. He hadn’t been able to cum properly the past couple weeks. He needed your skin, your smell. You spoiled him far too much. You two just stared at the other for a while. Basking in the silence as you both admired the other. “I missed you..” He mumbled, an arm reaching out for you, he didn’t immediately pull you in. But you hesitated, shifting in your seat.

“Toby we shouldn’t..” You tried reasoning, convincing. Who? You don’t know. Him? Yourself? Sure, Ethan had been a major jerk but you shouldn’t.. indulge Toby like that, not anymore. Toby’s jaw clenched, he grabbed you faster than you could process. He pinned you to the couch, some his drool leaking onto the spot near your head. Some on your face. You gasped, wiggling a bit under him to release your legs. Caught between the crossfire. “Toby!” You yelped, struggling against him as he pinned your wrists. “Wh-hy do you insist on acting-acting like he matters.” His voice was a rumble, grip bruising as you whimpered.

“Toby! Hurts..” You whimpered, he seemed guilty but didn’t let up on you. “You know-w you should be-should be with me, Lamm.” He intertwined your fingers, leaning close to you. “You said-aid we were perfect!” He growled, you shook your head, squeezing your legs together. You were so desperate to deny him. Anything to cling onto your morals and rules, you had to resist him. “Du süßer Idi-iot. Mach dir keine Sor-gen, ich werde mich um ihn kümmern, Lamm.” He mumbled, releasing you and pushing off.

You held a hand over your heart watching him. He looked.. predatory as he relaxed back onto the couch. After a few seconds he patted his lap, a sweet smile reappearing on his lips. “Come here.” He asked, you hesitatanly obeyed, straddling his waist. His hands rubbed your hips, that sweet smile turning into something sinister. “See? Is it so har-r-d to just be good for me.” He hummed, fingers teasing the hem of your pants, toying with the buttons and zipper. You shifted, the air felt heavy and oppressing. You hated how much his words affected you, how you liked this side of him.

Your fingers tighten their grip on his shirt, hands pressing down on his chest as he undid your pants. He sucked on a breath as his fingers trailed up your side, you were so soft. Your meat.. skin.. flesh.. gods whatever. It made his mouth water. He’d take care of that little Ethan, silent and properly. Quick and clean. You’d never worry about that scum again, you’d be more willing to crawl into his arms.

You felt light-headed as Toby’s hands roamed your skin. His nails racking along your back in a playful gesture, a zap shooting down your spine. Toby leaned up, quickly catching your lips. Thankfully, this time you didn’t try fighting him off. No, in fact you leaned against him, arms wrapping around his neck as you laid your weight on him. Your core was aching, heart fluttering. His lips felt better than you imagined. Shivering as his cold hands ran up and down your back, one hand resting firmly against your nape.

You had not a single thought on you as things grew more headed. All warnings you flung out the window as he undressed you both, you didn’t even care. Didn’t know why you should. This felt right, felt perfect. He was perfect. Perfect as he marked your neck. Perfect as he kissed down your chest, and perfect when the only thing remaining was both your underwear. Feeling the hard press of his cock against your navel.

“Willing to-do something for me, precious?” He teased, his nose rubbing against yours. You nodded, smiling up at him. He gave you one more peak before kneeling down, his fingers hooked on your panties. Slowly he slid them down, smirking at the tiny wet mark on them. Fuck, you smelt heavenly. She smelt heavenly. Like she was calling to him, beckoning him. You giggled as Toby pressed a few, fluttery kisses to your abdomen, just below your belly button. Your fingers playing with unruly curls of his hair.

Toby pressed a big, wet kiss to the front of your cunt. Slowly trailing them across and on your hips before focusing back on her. Your scent was making him dizzy, he could feel himself throbbing. Gently, he pressed his tongue against you, digging the tip just a bit past your lips. You bite your lip at the sound of the moan he released, watching his eyes roll back. “Fuck..” He mumbled, both his thumbs spreading your lips just so slightly. A cute view of your clit making him smile as he looked up at you. Another long, soft drag of his tongue this time making you jolt.

He let out a breathy chuckle before standing back up, pulling you along with him on the coach. “Wanna try some-thing with you-u.” He smirked, quickly taking his boxers off before he helped you onto him. “Umm.. Toby are you sure about this?” You shifted, hands on his thighs and eyes glued to his cock. It was.. massive. Huge. No, almighty. How do you even describe this. It was not unreasonable by any means, nor look grotesque. But it was certainly the largest you’ve ever taken, not to mention the thickest.

Toby had a wolfish grin as the glanced past your ass at you, adjusting his hips a bit more. See, you were laying on Toby, ass in his face. Definitely the most interesting sixty-nine you’ve ever been in. You pulled up a bit more, one hand gripping his length. “Oh, I’m-m definitely sure, Liebe.” He cackled, you had no time for a bratty retort before you felt his tongue. Your head sagged, your hips pushing against him. You tried to focus on his cock, giving him slow and long stripes up to his tip.

Fuck, but he felt so good. Toby ate you out like a feast, nose buried in you as his lips suckled on you. His arms were wrapped tight around your hips, keeping you pressed firmly against him. His lips parted from your briefly as looked towards you, jolting his hips at you. “Beeil dich, La-mm. Sonst hö-r-re ich auf.” He seethed, eyes narrowing at the back of your head. You didn’t need to understand him to understand his tone.

Toby was merciless on you. You both had to of spend an hour like that, he was completely enveloped by you. He loved every little sound you made, feeling the vibration of your moans against his cock. Toby’s cum painted your face as you lazily pumped his cock. “Toby! Please, no more, Love.” You shook your head, pleading with him. Trying to pull away. Toby didn’t fight you this time, letting you crawl off him. He licked his lips, eyes glued to your lower half.

You were a temptress he was sure of it. Your thighs were shaking, eyes teary as you looked at him. Toby walked to the edge of your side the couch, hand shooting down to grab a handful of your hair pulling your face to him. “Little more, Lamm? You skim-mh-ped out on me.” He wheezed, voice raspy as he shoved your face closer. You whined, face still covered in his two previous loads as you took his tip in. Suckling on it as you learned he liked. He sighed, rolling his head back, eyes rolling back.

Your thighs clenched around his arm as his free hand moved to your dripping cunt. Fingers gently just rubbing her and playing with the sticky remnants of your own cum. Your arm wrapped around his hips as the other pumped his cock. You bent down, taking a ball into your mouth. You suckled firmly but not too hard. Toby was losing it, you looked so fucking precious sucking him off. Eyes lidded, face covered in him as you licked and toyed with his balls. “Ju-ust like that, baby.” He sighed, gathering more of your hair out of your face.

You both paused momentarily as a certain ringtone’s muffled tone sang in the room. Your mouth leaving Toby with a pop as you looked to your purse, that you had haphazardly thrown by couch side.

“Toby! Move!” You gasped, pressing against his chest. That look in his eyes.. your cunt fluttered. Thankfully, he let you go, relaxing in your earlier spot as he watched you. You nervously answered the phone, moving further away from Toby. “Where the hell did you go?” Ethan seethed, suddenly the remind of you and Toby’s spends littering your body made you freeze up. “I just.. went to another friend’s place. I’m sorry I swore I thought I turned my location on..” You mumbled, trying your best to sound tired. Had you always been this much of a liar?

Ethan gave you a few more huffs before finally letting you go. Making you promise to get home safely since you refused to let him pick you up. You had quickly washed in Toby’s shower, that he so graciously let you use. He was sitting on the bed when you came out, pair of boxers on. You swallowed, rubbing your thighs together briefly as you hurriedly walked out. Toby stopped you at the door, hesitantly pulling you towards him. And stupidly, you let him. Let him rest his forehead against yours, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Lemme drop y-you off, Sweetie.” He purred, that mischievous glint in his eyes that you knew far too well. You scoffed, laughing as your hands pressed against his chest. Leaning your weight into him, god why was he so… inviting. “Absolutely not, he’d freak if he saw you.” You giggled, you should feel guilty. Horrible. But you just.. couldn’t. “He won’t. Plus, too-too late for an uber. What if something ha-happens?” He chuckled, pressing another kiss against your forehead. You stupidly agreed, thankfully Toby was well-behaved on the drive. Just resting a hand on your thigh as he drove you to your crappy apartment near campus.

Toby pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before you got out. Watching you walk all the way into the building. Only leaving when he lost sight of you. Walking in you glanced at Ethan, who was slouching against the couch. You took off your shoes before moving to the bedroom. “Don’t tell me you’re seriously mad at me.” He sighed, leaning against the doorframe. You scoffed at him, no you weren’t mad. Not anymore. “I want to sleep, Ethan.”

The next couple weeks were.. tense. Despite Ethan apologizing to Toby, sleeping next to you. You felt this weird.. detachment. You were sure if you just powered through it that everything would be okay, things would go back to normal. The guilt you felt was.. eating you alive to put it lightly. And Toby’s smug little smirks whenever he saw you weren’t helping.

The fact that whenever Ethan pleasured you, all you could think about was Toby. How his cock weighed on your tongue, the taste of his cum. You fantasize how his cock would’ve felt. You hadn’t even dared confide in your bestie about this, you couldn’t tell anyone. You sighed, glancing at your bedroom door. Ethan had been watching TV in the living room, allowing you to watch your own things. A group notification distracted you, drawing your thoughts away as you opened it. Ethan had texted in the group chat.. saying.. he was leaving? Your brows furrowed, leaving? Did he find out?

Your heart nearly dropped out your ass as you stumbled out the room. “Ethan?” You called, turning the corner to look at the couch. He wasn’t there, but the TV was still on? You turned to the kitchen, however something stopped your steps. Slowly you crept to further, hand moving to your mouth as you looked at the horrifying sight. Your back making contact with the corner of the dining table. You shuddered as the figure looming over Ethan slowly stood up.

They crept towards you slowly, hands raised in a seemingly mocking form of surrender. You need to move, run, scream. Anything but you couldn’t. Not as your eyes made contact with Ethan’s dead eyes, blood leaking from his neck. It was so.. dark. So much. Your eyes flickered to the individual, tears brimming as you saw the blood staining their hands. Your breath quickened, the murderer slowly inching more and more. Just as you were about to bolt, they caged you against the table. A startled bark escaping your lips as you raised your arms. Trying to shield yourself from them. But they didn’t hurt you, just loomed over you, fingers digging into the table.

You peaked at them from your hands. They just looked at you, drool leaking from the bars of what you could only call a muzzle. Their neck popped to the side as they leaned in, pressing you further into the table. You heard a rumble in their throat before they grabbed your wrist. You cringed at the feeling of Ethan’s blood on your skin. They dragged you to the bedroom, shoving you towards the bed. You huffed as you fell on the floor, holding on the edge of it.

Watching the masked man carefully as he walked around, you could practically hear your heart pounding in your chest. Watching as he tugged his mask off, pulling the goggles off. “Toby?” You whispered, brows furrowing as you looked at him. Your mind was racing as you watched him stalk towards you before kneeling infront of you. His hand reached out, brushing against your cheek. “What’s wrong, pre-tty? Scared?” You flinched from his hand, tears falling as the weight of everything crashed on you.

“Why.. why would you.” You trailed off, trying to shift further away from him. “I had to, Lamm. He was keep-eping you from me.” He sighed, shaking his head before smiling at you. “It’s alright tho-ho-ugh now, wir können zusammen sein, Liebling.” His hand gripped your throat as he pulled you back up. His lips meeting yours as he brought you to sit on the bed. You couldn’t move, your brain was completely fried. Shock. Fear. How was he expecting you to just accept all this, and yet. You yielded. You let him as he undressed you again, lips trailing down your abdomen.

“I-I don’t think..” You pushed yourself up, Toby settled between your legs as he held your leg. “Hush, Liebe, las-s es einfach sein.” He murmured, helping you wiggle off your shorts, thumb rubbing up and down your slit. “Kein Höschen? Hure.” He gave your cunt a kiss before standing back up, unbuckling his belt. You rubbed your legs together watching him, biting your lip your eyes trailed. He was so.. enticing. No, tempting. You didn’t refuse him as he caged you under him, pressing against him as he brought you into a kiss.

It was claiming, Toby wasn’t gentle as he kissed you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. You gave into him completely, as your legs hooked around his hips. Everything between the two of you was sloppy, the kiss, his cock rubbing against your folds. He clouded you, clouded your mind as two of his fingers rolled and pinched your nipples. A small yelp from you, Toby just laughed at your reaction. Bending down to take one in his mouth, the slow rolling of his hips becoming just a bit faster.

Mesmerized as you watched him, fingers threading through curls. Your cheeks flushed, whining at him, your hips moved in sync with his. Your heart fluttered watching that hazy look in his eyes as he suckled on your breast, able to see his cock grounding into you. Your heel dug deeper into his back, hips jolting. “Frech, Lamm. Want me, baby?” His mouth left your tit with a pop. You nodded furiously, pleading with him to give you what you want. No, need. You needed him. Your moans were deep as he pushed into you, he was so thick. He moved one of your legs to his shoulder, hand moving down to rub your stomach before his thumb rubbed lazy circles on your clit.

You cared for nothing, not when hearing the text notifications, not the ringtones, not even the blood staining your body. No, all you could focus on was Toby’s cock, his fluttery kisses as he pushed into you. Completely transfixed on him. Bottoming out in you, Toby didn’t give you a moment of rest. His pace was desperate, deep guttural moan leaving his lips as he leaned down into you. Your toes curled and your nails dug into his biceps as he fucked into you. Completely taking your breath away, he felt better than you imagined. Everything felt so, so good.

The kisses between the two of you were sloppy, slobber everywhere from Toby. But you didn’t mind, you loved it. You love him, especially as he hit that one spot inside you. Your eyes rolled back, head dangling as your nails held him tighter. “Fuh-ck! Please right there!” You sobbed, eyes brimming again but this time in pleasure. Toby swore under his breath as he held you firmer, keeping himself right in that spot for you. “Du wurdest für mich geschaffen, sie wurde für mich geschaffen.” He swore, looking down at the slick mess you both made, a white ring forming on the base of his cock.

“Du gehörst mir. Nicht diese verdammten Schädlinge.” Your lip quivered, you were so close and that stupid accent of his was driving you up a wall. You tried pulling yourself up to him, or maybe you were pulling him down. You didn’t know, didn’t care, you needed him to kiss you. Toby just cooed at you, how pathetic you looked, perfect little brain dead whore.

You gaped at Toby when he moved out of you, tears rolling down your cheek. The feeling of him burned into your cunt, making your stomach twist in yearning. “Tobs! Gimme, gi-gimme back!” You pleaded, coming out more so as sobs. Toby just hushed you, cock rubbing against you again. “Hush, baby. I’ll giv-v-e it back to you, just wait.” He chuckled, laughing how your eyes were glued to his cock. He wanted you obsessed. Your nails leaving angry red marks all over him as you followed him, your legs straddling his waist as he laid down.

You held onto his shoulders, lips swollen from his kisses and nibbling. Toby thought you looked gorgeous, desperate as you aligned his cock back to your hole. Not even caring about the shake in your thighs as you bounced on him. Blabbering words of praise and want. Toby just watched you, absolutely heart struck feeling you squeeze and take him in. One hand held your back, the other propping him up. The sight of the mirror behind you catching his eye. Fuck. Did you know your ass looked this good? He spread his own legs, hypnotized at the strings of lewd mess connecting you together everytime you moved up.

Seeing it glisten in the light, some of it turning more cream color as you constantly mixed it. His lips moved to your chest giving you sweet kisses, harsh bites. Your hips were beginning to falter, and your thighs ached but you were so desperate for him. “Aww, mein süß-ßes Mädchen. Mach dir keine Sorgen-en, ich werde auf dich aufpassen.” He snickered, tone mocking as he laid back. He pushed you both up further to the bed, feet planted as he held your hips. You slouched against him as he began fucking up into you.

“Yes, yes!” Was all you could babble, drool escaping the corner of your lips and down his shoulder. Toby’s pace was far more brutal than before, his nails for sure leaving marks in your hips. You could feel that familiar coil quickly building itself up. You pushed up on Toby, coming face to face with him. Was it okay to say he looked divine? That look in his eyes was softer, gentler. It made your heart flutter, that look of love. You kissed him softly, savoring the taste of him. Your hands cradling his face as best they could, though really it was the tips of your fingers.

“Love you, s-sweet girl.” He mumbled, your kisses slowly becoming more frenzied as you both got closer and closer. “L-luh-ove you too, loves you so much!” You cried, nails digging back into his shoulders as you felt your orgasm wash over you. Toby held on a bit longer than you, reveling in how you looked. “Look so pret-ty when you cum.” He cooed, kissing the tip of your nose before rolling you both over. Hips hammering into you before stilling as his own orgasm took over. One his hands squeezing your tit, mostly to ground him but also for the feeling.

Toby rolled his hips a bit more, helping you both ride out your highs. The sound he made pulling out of you causing you to hide your face with a groan. Toby just hummed, watching his cum leak out of you with satisfaction. “Don’t think-think there’s a single person that’s cum on a murder-er’s dick so hard.” He wheezed, fingers tightly grabbing your jaw. You shuddered, right… Ethan. You tried closing your legs but they were swore and Toby was far stronger than you as he held them open. “There’s that look, remembering someone?” Your heart skipped a beat, lip wobbling.

“S’okay, love. I’ll make sure you fucking forget about him-m.”

: ̗̀➛ Guys i fucking swear I didn’t even realize how long this was til like.. halfway through I was just writing. But I am happy with the psychological value of it! I hope you guys are too. I was just really getting into the idea. I love stalker!toby so much, he is bae. Honestly, I did name the ex after my own. Felt therapeutic 🙂‍↕️ Thank you so much for the request Whoa! You have a lovely mind — Ace

#creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta x reader #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta ticci toby #ticci toby #ticci toby x you #ticci toby headcanons #toby rogers

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zepskies · 2 days ago

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@lamentationsofalonelypotato

I'm so excited for you, my friend!! Thank you for diving in. 🥰

I like this line, because it's what made Dean stop. In my head I feel like this version of Dean has pushed away so many people and the reader is the first person in a long time to genuinely say that she was "worried" about him, and it strikes something in his chest because he couldn't remember the last time it happened. That's the headcanon in my head anyway lol.

Oh yeah, that's a totally accurate observation, poor Dean. 🥲 He hasn't allowed himself to be "worried about" in a long time, since he and Sam started up their own lives.

Also the spice was.... 😱🌶️🔥. I literally cannot write smut to save my life, but you always write it so well! I also liked that you didn't do it as intense as omegaverse usually is, because we both know how it can be 👀

ahaha thank youuu 😘 It's really not easy for me, but I write it when I feel the story warrants it. And totally, the more subtle approach was what I was going for loll! I don't think I could write the aggressive smut that omegaverse fics tend to be. 🤪

OH MY WORD DEAN SHUT UP! I promise it's okay! She loves you and she can see that you're not a bad person because you literally have been nursing her back to health with her broken ankle 😭 Not to mention you guys are fated! She's not going to let you go no matter what you do.

Lol RIGHT?! How many times do we have to go over this, Dean???? 😭

But again... on brand for Dean to hate himself and to think he's not good enough -sigh- just means that you get to spend more time wrapped up with him trying to convince him 😊😉. I also believe that Dean loves intimac, that he does crave that connection with someone, not to mention I still love what you do in your Midnight Espresso series with Dean being a little touch starved for non-sexual touch. I feel like you've also implied this here and it is marvelous!

This is where I have to beat down the "not worthy" aspect of Dean's personality when it comes to love and intimacy. 😭 But I SO agree with you -- he craves it, even though he doesn't feel like he deserves it half the time. That's a big theme in Midnight Espresso, so I love you so much for enjoying that aspect in that series and in this one. 🥹💓💓

I'm literally cackling. I can hear Dean saying this to his significant other. Meeting Baby for the first time holds the same place in his heart as meeting Sam for the first time 🤣 ALSO, I wasn't ready for the palm kiss. Palm kisses and forehead kisses DESTROY me.

LOL this part of the scene was so vivid in my mind -- I have no doubt he'd be just like this when his girl meets his Baby. 🤣🤣 Oh same. I LOVE hand kisses and forehead kisses. They're so wholesome. 🥹

I like that this was an alternate ending to the dumpster fire that was the end of Supernatural. That it's Dean and his girl out on the open road listening to a Led Zeppelin song holding hands in the front seat of Baby was just beautiful in the best way and a perfect ending to this mini-series my wonderful friend!! I am going to miss this couple so much, but it really was a fitting end for them 🥰

Honestly that's the biggest compliment I could get on this story! 💕💕 It's the two of them riding into the subset to some Zep tunes, on their way to see Sam and his new little family. I might come back to write their little reunion, but until then, I'm so glad you've enjoyed this snowy, angsty ride. 😘❄️💜💜

Against the Wind - Part 4

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: The grand finale...

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, knotting, claiming, fluff and feels.

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 4: Running to Live

His cold hands are warming on your skin as he slides them underneath your sweater. They move smoothly up your back, bunching up the material. You break from his kiss only to help him get the sweater off you, followed closely by his pants.

Your sweatpants slide down your legs with just a sharp tug, baring most of your body to his gaze. His eyes drag over your exposed neck and shoulders, your breasts cupped in your bra, down to your panties and bare thighs.

A shiver runs through you, both from his heated gaze, and from being exposed to the cooler air. Even with the fire going and the heater running in the cabin, the frigid air outside is unforgiving.

You have no problem with the way Dean guides you down from the chaise to take advantage of your nest on the floor, right in front of the fire. He draws you into a sensuous kiss, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and grazing with teeth.

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return. You reach up to caress his cheek, feeling the prickling of his stubble. Your fingers thread into his hair, and you pull him back down for a devouring kiss.

Dean’s brows furrow as he holds you to him, wanting to feel every part of your skin against his. His calloused fingers map their way down your side, and across your back to unhook your bra. His lips veer away from yours to burn a wet, heated trail along your neck. His teeth come out to graze your skin, down your throat, down the lovely valley between your breasts.

“Dean,” you gasp, encouraging him when his hand cups one of your breasts. He explores the other with his mouth, teasing a pebbled nipple with his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs rubbing together between the cage of his knees in the mess of blankets. Already you feel slick forming at the apex of your thighs and slipping down in between.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Fucking beautiful, you know that?”

You can’t help but smile. Your face warms either from the fire dancing shadows across your bodies, or from him, his attention, his warmth, and the heat in his eyes when they meet your again. His hand slides down your body, over your hip and squeezing your thigh as he opens you up further for him.

“Tell me what you want, Omega.” While I still have control, his tone implies. His voice is gravel and sin while his hand moves swiftly and smoothly up the inside of your thigh.

“Touch me,” you breathe.

Nodding, he hooks his fingers around the hem of your panties and slides them down. You help him kick them off. Afterward, his thumb brushes over your mound, making you sharply inhale and squeeze his shoulders encouragingly. His fingers dip inside your wet heat, his brows raising with a smirk, as he feels the sheer amount of your slick already coating his digits.

“Fuck. This all for me, baby?” he remarks.

You hold onto the back of his neck with both hands as you nod, biting your lip. Your hips begin to cant against his hand on reflex, urging him to touch you.

“Alpha, please…” you implore, in a ragged whisper. He swallows your plea with a ravaging kiss, but he still gives you what you want. His thumb circles your clit, earning a moan from you into his mouth.

Soon, two of his fingers plunge slowly inside you, working you open, drawing more gasps and shudders of pleasure from your body. His length continues to strain hard against your thigh, but for him, it’s worth it to draw every sound, every time your body writhes and arches against him, craving release.

With a few more purposeful strokes, your inner walls clamp tight on his hand, and a flood of slick coats his knuckles even more. You gasp his name, your hands squeezing his arms just as tight as your pussy around his fingers.

Your skin is beginning to get dewy with sweat, and he kisses some of it off you when he trails down your chest. You stroke down his arms, down his back, whatever you can reach as you catch your breath. But then, his name falls from your lips with a firmer tone.

Dean raises his head, and you gently push at his chest. His brows furrow in confusion, only for it to be replaced with a smile of surprise when you curl a thigh over his hip and guide him onto his back. His head just manages to fall on one of your pillows, but he still utters a small grunt. You giggle down at him, bowing to meet him for a kiss.

He smirks and holds onto your hips, playfully squeezing your ass. “My wily omega.”

“Thought I was your cheeky omega,” you tease.

He snorts. “That too.”

You giggle some more as you treat him to the same path of open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Except this time, you hook a hand behind his neck, and you trail your tongue around his mating gland. You feel his jolt of surprise, as well as his instinctive growl of pleasure in response to his mate. Or at least, not yet…

His heart pounds in his chest.

“Omega,” he says, a warning not to tease as his grip tightens on your hips.

The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you smile and nuzzle his cheek in affection. You kiss your way down his body, playing special attention to his nipples, his stomach, the soft V and the happy trail of light brown fuzz leading you down between his hips.

Your fingers slide down his hardened desire through his underwear, earning a grunt from him, along with a shifting of his body against the blankets. Your lips curve as you nuzzle him there as well, letting your lips drag across his impressive length.

His fingers tangle in your hair when you hook your nails around the waistband and free his cock from its confines. His boxers join the rest of your clothes somewhere, and finally you get to see all of him, as much as he takes in all of you. Your hand wraps around his girth, your thumb circling around the sensitive, weeping head of it. Dean groans, a sound from deep in his chest.

You don’t know this, but it’s been a while since anyone but his own hand has touched him. That’s not the only reason his body has been calling to yours, but it plays a part in how fucking good it feels, and how much more he wants you.

He feels your intentions when your hand moves down his shaft in a teasing caress, your fingers tracing around his knot. A shudder rattles down his spine, makes his desire burn hotter in the pit of his stomach.

He can’t fucking take it anymore. He needs you, needs to be inside you. Needs to take you the way his instincts demand.

He grasps your shoulder before you put your mouth on him. You blink up at him, with a question forming on your lips, but he hefts you up onto his chest by your arms. He cages you there with a kiss filled with abject need.

“I can’t. Can’t wait anymore,” he says. He drags his fingers through your folds and earns another moan from your when he finds your clit. “You ready for me, Omega? Need my knot?”

“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing against his lips. “Need you, Alpha—”

No sooner had the words escaped your lips, when Dean rolls you back underneath him. But this time, he guides you onto your stomach, then raises up your hips, until you’re on your hands and knees. You catch your breath as you regain your bearings, shooting an incredulous smile over your shoulder at Dean. He smirks back at you, but his gaze is intense, his pupils darkened with the alpha inside him.

Still, he soothes a hand down your back and steadies you with a hold on your hip. You feel him slot himself behind you, guiding his cock at your entrance. His chest presses hotly against your back.

“Last chance, Omega,” he says, his voice tight with restraint.

You look back at him again over your shoulder, your mouth threatening to frown. You reach back and sink your fingers into his hair with a sharp tug. “Do it.”

He sinks into you with one smooth plunge. It’s a relief for both of you, your mingled moans echoing in the near silence. All that’s left is the sound of your quickening breaths, of skin against sweat-slick skin as you move together.

Dean brushes your hair away from your neck. He kisses and licks his way along your bare shoulder, and finally the back of your neck. You’re trembling by the time his lips find the sensitive flesh of your mating gland. It echoes with the pulsing from your core as he continues to drive into you.

“Alpha,” you gasp on reflex. You squeeze his arm; he has it wrapped tight around your middle. Your pleasure builds ever closer to that crescendo, especially as his thrusts become ragged, at an angle that zips delicious tingles through your core. “Close…just…I need…”

Dean isn’t so far gone. He hears you, and helps you, reaching his hand around to strum his fingers insistently on your clit, along with his final thrusts.

Finally, it tumbles you over. Your inner walls become impossibly tight around him as he draws out your second release—one that triggers his own. Dean groans into your ear; his knot swells and locks into place, and he spends himself deep inside you. He pants hot against your neck, but even though he fastens his lips there, he hesitates, once again making you shudder.

“Do it,” you repeat, in a coarse whisper. You’re close to tears. “Please. Want you, Alpha. Need you…”

Once again, he hears you.

His teeth sink into the back of your neck, making you cry out. But your pain is quickly overshadowed by a deepest pleasure, thrumming along with his.

Afterward, Dean holds you in his arms. The warm glow of the fire paints your skin in its light, despite the utter darkness in the rest of the house.

While you both wait for his knot to subside, you revel in the fact that you know he’s content. You can feel it through the newly formed bond. He traces random shapes in your skin, which still glistens with a fine sheen of sweat. The fire he stoked doesn’t help to cool you down, but you don’t care.

Nothing else matters but this. You turn your head toward him over your shoulder. He meets you there with a gentle kiss, much more gentle than any other you’ve shared before. It feels right.

When he parts from you, he presses another kiss to your forehead. Then he leans back a little and sighs. You feel his thumb trace the raw flesh around the claiming mark on your neck. A small shiver runs through your body. Maybe on another day, you’ll mark him in return.

“It’s too damn late,” he says, breaking the silence. “You realize that right?”

You shoot him a frown. “Too late for what?”

“For me to let you go,” he says.

His words both warm you and make you sad. Just how little does he think of himself?

“Dean,” you say, endeavoring to be patient. “You’re my true mate. Do you know how rare it is that we’ve actually found each other?”

Dean remains quiet.

“And after everything you’ve done for me,” you add, “how can I not think you’re a good man? How can I not think this is right?”

He seems to consider your question. His gaze briefly falls, then meets your eyes again.

“You don’t know me that well,” is his answer, with a wry turn of his lips.

You reach back to caress his cheek. “Then tell me. Tell me about, um…tell me about how you became a hunter. From your dad’s journal, I got the sense that it’s a family thing.”

A vendetta, you wanted to say, but you keep that thought inside.

Dean chuckles, dropping another kiss onto your shoulder. You feel the pleasurable rasp of his stubble.

“Yeah, more like a family business,” he says.

He tells you why John Winchester started writing in that journal in the first place. Dean explains it in his own words, of what his family was before and after a demon broke into his brother’s nursery. Your heart continues to break for him, over and over, the more story he tells. Your shock can only reach new heights when he tells you about angels and demons and everything in between.

There are moments where he pauses, needing the time to find his words. He’s talked for so long that his knot finally softens, allowing you to withdraw from him, just to turn in his arms and be able to see his face. He bundles you in the blankets to keep you warm, but he also keeps you close, with a loose arm around your waist as he continues.

You sense that he’s not telling you everything. How could he? A lifetime of blood and wins and incredible losses; family gained, and family lost, endless saves, and so many near misses. You listen with rapt attention (and a lot of shock) to everything he can share, but your heart twinges when you see how he struggles to talk about his mother’s most recent death. Then his best friend Cas.

You realize that this man, for all his self-deprecation, is a hero. More so than you already knew.

“After the whole Chuck thing was done, I thought we’d just…go back to status quo. Me and Sam against the world, you know?” Dean says. He gives a rueful smile. “Then Sammy tells me he knocked up his mate.”

You smile. “You’re happy for him though.”

“Course I am,” Dean nods. “He never thought he’d get to have all that. A badass chick who can keep him on his toes, a house, the kid, the whole damn thing. He’s downright respectable again.”

His brotherly pride and his humor are tinged with something else though. You think you begin to understand. His losses have weighed him down, leaving him aimless and living in that in between, not unlike the ghosts he used to hunt. You know the feeling.

You thread your fingers with his, earning his attention.

“You can have that too, you know,” you say. “I mean, I don’t want to skip ahead, but I feel like things are going well here, despite the whole busted ankle thing.”

Dean slowly smiles, shaking his head. He brings your hand up to his lips.

“Okay, enough about my Hallmark movie life. What about you?” he asks.

So you tell him.

You two continue to share and explore, both in words and with your bodies, until morning comes.

It’s another week in the cabin before Dean insists on helping you down the mountain. Your ankle has gotten a little better, but at this point, you need to see a doctor. It takes a couple of days, going as slow as you need to. He ends up carrying you for most of the way anyway. You tell him over and over that he doesn’t have to, but your alpha is stubborn.

Once he gets you back to the city, you two take a shuttle to the nearest hospital. X-rays are taken, and you get a new cast for your officially fractured ankle. At the very least, you don’t need surgery. You’re able to call your mom from there and let her know where you’ve been, that you’re all right, and best of all…that you’ve found your mate.

You cry along with her on the phone, this time for a good reason. The best reason.

When you’re eventually released from the hospital, Dean picks you up in a sleek, black Chevy that has your eyes wide.

He grins at the look on your face. “Hey, sweetheart. Come meet my Baby.”

He parks the car and keeps the heater running while he comes around to you in swift strides. He takes your crutches and slides them into the backseat, then helps you into the passenger seat.

“It’s beautiful, but my God, how old is this thing?”

“She. She’s a she.”

“Oh, pardon me,” you say in amusement. “Do I have some competition here?”

Dean gives you a teasing smirk. “Well, technically, she’s been with me a lot longer than you.”

You scoff incredulously. He laughs and takes your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm. You discreetly study him and marvel at how much lighter he seems. You don’t know how much is because of this, what your hand in his symbolizes, and how much is because he’s reunited with something important to him.

“It’s okay, Omega mine,” he says, with a measure of desire in his eyes. “From now on, you’re my priority.”

Your spine prickles with the same arousal you can feel from him through the bond. You lean across the way and share a thorough kiss.

Until a horn honks loudly from behind. You both jolt, but Dean’s face falls into annoyance. He shoots up a choice finger at the car behind him in the rearview mirror. You laugh as he begins to peel out of the curved pick-up and drop-off zone in front of the hospital.

“Where are we going, Dean?” you ask, still smiling in amusement.

“Wherever we damn well please.” He turns to you with a hint of a smile reforming on his lips. “Want me to take you back home? We can sort out the logistics on, uh…well, this.”

You think about it. He poses a good idea, but at the same time, you’re not quite ready for this part of the adventure to end.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Sam?” you ask.

Dean blinks at your question. He whistles lowly. “About a year. Jesus, since my nephew was born.”

You smile and reach over, resting your hand on his thigh.

“Let’s go see him, then,” you say. “I want to meet your family. Then you can meet mine.”

After that, you two can figure out the rest, like where to live, and how you’ll live.

Dean raises a brow. “Really? That’s like, a thirteen-hour drive.”

You shrug. “I’ve always wanted to go on a real road trip. Can we get some food first though? I’m starving.”

He laughs and nods as he stops the car at a red light.

“What do you know? A woman after my own heart,” he says. His amusement eases into a gentler smile the longer he stares at you. You smile back, and you give into the urge to lean in again, meeting your lips with his. He brushes your cheek tenderly with his thumb.

“I know what this needs,” he says lowly. Your brows draw together in a silent question.

He pulls away to reach into the side compartment along the driver door. He fishes out a cassette tape labelled Zeppelin IV. You bite your lip and try not to say anything smartassed.

Damn, this man is old school.

He skips ahead until he finds Track 7, just as the light turns green. A melodious guitar riff fills the car as he turns onto the main road with your hand wrapped in his.

Made up my mind to make a new start.

Going to California with an aching in my heart…

AN: And that's all, folks! 🥹 I truly hope you enjoyed Against the Wind!

Like I said in a recent update, I have more stories in store for you guys. January 3 will be Part 1 of Outlander -- sequel to The Honorable Choice -- a Western AU with Dean as our resident cowboy! I'll post a sneak peek on that one soon.~

But in the meantime, I hope you'll let me know what you thought of ATW! 💜💜

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wendichester · 2 days ago

Note

HIII HOW R UUU???? plz can I request Sam x reader who’s got a lot of energy, like a little crazy in a good way bc I feel like Sam would be tired from a hunt or smth and reader would be dancing to music, Sam would pretend to be grumpy but he really finds it cute

(bonus points if reader calls him Sammy a lot🤭)

𖦹๋࣭⭑ time of my life,

summary. you're a little ball of energy and sam finds you adorable!

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 438

notes. HIYA! thank you so much for requesting, buns! hope you like it 🩷

The moment Sam steps into the bunker, all he wants to do is collapse into bed. The hunt was exhausting—long hours, barely any sleep, a gnarly scratch on his shoulder that he’ll have to disinfect later. His entire body aches.

But the second he hears your voice—loud, off-key, and enthusiastic—he knows rest is going to have to wait.

“I’VE HAD THE TIME OF MY LIIIIIFE—”

Sam stops in the doorway to the library, rubbing a hand over his face as he takes in the absolute chaos before him.

You’re in the middle of the room, dancing like you’re at a concert, barefoot and wearing one of his hoodies—his favorite one, at that. The sleeves are way too long on you, covering your hands as you throw your arms in the air. Your phone sits on the table, blasting (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life at full volume.

Sam sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “Really?”

You spin around at the sound of his voice, your eyes lighting up the second you see him. “Sammy!”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real annoyance there. “You’re gonna wake up the whole damn bunker.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, skipping over to him. “Dean could sleep through a zombie attack.”

Sam smirks but doesn’t argue. Instead, he watches as you bounce on the balls of your feet, energy radiating off you in waves. He knows you can’t help it—you’re just like this, always buzzing with life, and honestly, it’s one of his favorite things about you.

You grab his hand, tugging at him. “Dance with me.”

He snorts. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Sammyyyyy,” you whine, dragging out his name in the way you know makes him weak.

“I’m tired,” he protests, but you don’t let go of his hand.

“You can be tired and have fun,” you say, tugging him further into the room. “Come on. Just one dance.”

Sam groans, but the way you’re grinning at him—so full of joy and mischief—has his resolve crumbling. He lets you pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sway dramatically to the music.

“There you go,” you tease, voice warm. “Was that so hard?”

Sam shakes his head, sighing heavily, but there’s a fond smile tugging at his lips. His hands settle on your waist, holding you close. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you hum, resting your head against his chest, “you love me anyway.”

Sam chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

The song changes to something softer, and he sways with you for a little while longer, exhaustion forgotten—at least for now.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @mrs-pondwater19

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #supernatural #.docx #.req

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honeyryewhiskey · 2 days ago

Text

mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks.

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real.

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you.

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts.

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this.

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing.

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement.

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester angst

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cupcakewithsunglasses · 1 hour ago

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Sammy took his first steps yesterday. He walked toward dean then fell flat on his face and started crying. Life is tough, kid.

So.... I'm pretty sure baby Han Yoohyun's first word was hyung

#scir #han yoojin #han yoohyun #s classes that i raised #han yujin #dean winchester #sam winchester #brothers #whatever you call this genre of brothers

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dulcescorderitas · 3 days ago

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LARPing wasn’t exactly high on dean’s bucket list. sure, he’d been dragged into some weird shit before, but running around in a tunic while pretending to be a medieval knight? not exactly his scene. that was more of a ‘charlie thing.’ hell, it was more of a ‘sam thing’ too—his nerdy little brother was eating this up, already suited up in chainmail and chatting with some guy about proper swordplay techniques.

but you? you looked happy, and that was enough to make him shut up and go along with it.

charlie had roped you all into this after a hunt—something about a group of larpers dealing with an actual cursed relic. she had handled the nerd diplomacy, while the three of you handled the supernatural mess. and now, as a ‘thank you,’ she’d pulled some strings to get you all in on this grand, ridiculous game. dean had scoffed at first, but deep down? he was having more fun than he wanted to admit.

“come on, dean. it’s not that bad,” you teased, adjusting the belt around his waist where a plastic sword hung. “you look kinda hot like this.”

he snorted. “i look ridiculous.”

charlie appeared out of nowhere, grinning ear to ear in her elven rogue attire. “you look perfect! now, all you gotta do is commit. embrace the role.”

“yeah? and what’s my role, exactly?”

“you,” she said, pointing dramatically at him, “are a noble warrior, sworn to protect the queen.”

dean turned to you, eyebrows raised. “queen, huh?”

“that’s me.” you lifted the hem of your elaborate gown in a mock-curtsy. “so, sir winchester, you better do your duty.”

sam, already adjusted to the whole thing, smirked at dean. “oh, he will. he loves this. he just won’t admit it.”

“shut up, sam,” dean grumbled, but the little twitch of his lips betrayed him.

the day passed in a blur of staged battles, quests for ‘enchanted relics,’ and a suspiciously competitive archery contest that sam took way too seriously. dean found himself getting lost in it—the rush of a fake battle, the way his sword clashed against another, the way you laughed and played along like you were truly royalty. he couldn’t deny it. it was fun.

he got caught up in the way you looked at him when he took a ‘wound’ protecting you, how your lips parted in feigned distress as you rushed to his side. his heart kicked up a notch at the way your fingers traced over the faux gash on his tunic, the warmth of your touch setting fire to his skin even through the fabric.

as the campfires were lit and the remaining larpers gathered to revel in their ‘medieval feast,’ you tugged him away from the noise, leading him toward a more secluded part of the woods where an empty tent had been set up for you. it was part of the game, after all—the queen and her loyal kingsguard retreating after a long day.

“you played your part well today,” you murmured, running your fingers over the fabric of his tunic.

his eyes flickered to your touch, then back to your face, dark with something unspoken. “yeah, well,” he huffed, rolling his shoulders. “turns out playing the grumpy bodyguard ain’t too far off from real life.”

“and now?” you tilted your head, eyes glinting with mischief. “will you still protect me?”

dean’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening just slightly. he stepped in closer, voice dropping low. “with my life, your grace.”

you bit your lip, barely suppressing the shiver that ran down your spine at the way he said it. slow. deliberate.

“prove it.”

his breath hitched, but he didn’t hesitate. his hands found your waist, steady but firm, pulling you flush against him. the roleplay didn’t feel like a game anymore. it felt real. heavy with something unspoken, something that had been simmering between you two long before today.

the way he looked at you then—eyes smoldering, possessive—made your knees weak. he moved with careful intent, tilting his head as he studied you like prey he had finally cornered. your breath came in soft, shaky gasps, his presence alone making your pulse race.

his fingers ghosted over your arms, barely there, sending chills across your skin. “your grace,” he murmured, hands tracing slow, teasing patterns down your sides. “let me serve you.”

“dean…”

you barely had time to think before his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. he kissed you like he wanted to own every gasp, every moan, every little sound you made. his hands roamed, fingers slipping beneath the heavy skirts of your gown, finding bare skin, making you tremble beneath him.

dean groaned as his fingers explored, teasing, dipping lower, brushing over the heat between your thighs. “fuck,” he whispered against your lips, his breath uneven. “so warm… so wet for me.”

you arched into his touch, gasping when he slid a finger inside you, slow but firm, testing, teasing. he swallowed your moans with another searing kiss, curling his finger just right, making your hips jerk.

his gaze locked onto yours, eyes burning with need as he watched your reactions, drinking in every shiver, every whimper. “stay quiet, your grace,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement and lust. “we wouldn’t want your subjects overhearing, would we?”

dean’s thumb found your clit, circling with slow precision, his smirk deepening at the way you writhed beneath him.

“dean, please,” you whined, fingers clutching at his tunic, tugging it open, needing more of him.

his smirk faltered as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him with deliberate slowness, making him hiss through his teeth. “fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, thrusting into your grip, his fingers faltering inside you. “you keep that up, this’ll be over too fast.”

“then take me,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist, guiding him closer. “protect me, serve me, claim me.”

dean’s eyes darkened further, something dangerous flickering there before he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. “your grace, i do as you command.”

his lips found your neck as he pushed inside you, filling you completely. he moved with controlled, deliberate thrusts, watching your face with every stroke, drinking in the way your mouth parted, the way your eyes fluttered shut in bliss.

his grip on your wrists tightened as he drove into you, rolling his hips, dragging pleasure from you with every deep thrust. “mine,” he growled against your throat, sucking a bruise into your skin. “all mine.”

you shattered beneath him, pleasure washing over you in waves, dragging him down with you as he groaned, spilling inside you, holding you so close it felt like he’d never let go.

for a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, tangled together in the dim glow of lantern light.

finally, dean let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “well, if this is LARPing, i think i could get used to it.”

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend

#lamy garden #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester drabble #jensen ackles #supernatural #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x you #spn #dean winchester x y/n #credits to @strangergraphics for divider

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angelsdean · 3 days ago

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found the post. anyways as I said here, jack and emma are so similar. both had to grow up fast. both had one human parent and one monster parent. the difference is jack was the son of lucifer, which one would expect would warrant more apprehension and caution, while emma's monster parent was less dangerous overall. yet emma is the one that gets killed, point blank, without a chance, while sam advocates for jack and insists he could be good (though a big motivator for this belief is that sam wants to train jack to use him to find mary).

as per my tags on this post, dean has a pretty consistent code when it comes to monster children and that's that they are innocent until they choose to prey on / kill innocent people. my tags on that post:

#he was sympathetic toward bobby-john the shapeshifter baby #he said it wasn't his fault he was born a shifter #and he spared amelia pond's son bc he hadn't done anything wrong #and when claire was a werewolf he told her it was okay that she could still have a life as a monster #bc the cure was not guaranteed and he would rather her be alive as a monster than dead #so i really do think dean would have been fine with his freak daughter (affectionate)

AND we even see him display this code of ethics toward jack. he says he'll kill him if jack goes bad. until then, they'll keep an eye on him, take him in. he's not immediately trying to kill jack. he's wary of him because of the aforementioned "being lucifer's kid" and because he still is sus about Cas suddenly doing a 180 on everything. But he still follows his code that until a monster proves to be a threat to others, he won't go after them.

so i think it would have been interesting to see the issue of emma be brought up again during this arc and see dean talk about her again (she's been on his mind, he was meant to tell mary about her in s12), and see some brother conflict over all of this. dean confronting sam abt his hypocrisy re: monsters when he's giving jack a chance but killed emma on instinct. dean's grief during early s13 being compounded as he also opens the wound of losing his child on top of losing cas, mary, and crowley. dean coming around to jack, as we see him do in canon, and it's not just because he starts seeing cas in jack but also because he starts seeing emma in him too.

kinda. kinda need s13 dean to confront sam abt emma when sam’s defending jack and insisting jack’s GOOD and not a monster or a freak just bc of who one of his parents is like. just need dean to ask, a little hollow a little broken, “then why was killing my daughter okay?”

#dean and emma #dean and jack #headcanons #vic.txt

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s0urw00lf · 1 day ago

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I gave a second chance to Cupid

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader

An: in honor of it being the month of love i wrote this inspired by the song cupid by FIFTY FIFTY. Because i think it fits Sam’s lover boy so much.

Supernatural master-list

Your love life was laughable. Being a hunter and finding a worthy guy was bad enough, and the ordinary guys you met were somehow worse. But it didn’t stop you for longing for love. The kind that made it into hallmark movies or those cute teenage love story books. Your heart clenched every tome you saw a couple out in public.

Any guy you dated in the past seemed to fuel your need for someone to love you the right way. Some nights you even cried in your motel rooms in hopes Cupid would send the right person your way.

You didn’t even know if it was in the books for you to experience love and that idea was what stung the most. But it didn’t stop you from hoping. You hoped to everything up above that you wouldn’t die without having experiencing what it felt like to be in love, and loved back and given the business you were in it could happen at any moment.

It seemed your hopes were answered when you met the Winchester brothers. More specifically the younger one, Sam. He was tall, and incredibly attractive, but not in a hot way like his brother more like in a cute way. Almost like a puppy, and his smile was enough to make you swoon like a high school girl who’d been asked to prom for the first time.

Your feelings for Sam were very obvious to him and even more so to dean who could also see the love Sam had for you. Dean loved seeing his little brother happily in love again after jess passed. Sam looked at you like you hung the stars, and he knew it. He couldn’t help falling in love with how happy you were all the time especially in your line of work, your bright eyes and adorable smile made everything better somehow.

When you and Sam finally got together you loved it. The feeling you had been longing for your whole life. Sam is a great lover, his little dates and notes he sat out for you when he went on runs. Coming home with food he knew you loved so he could surprise you with breakfast in bed.

“Here ya go honey” he placed your food on your lap. You let a giddy smile slip onto your face, “did you really drive forty-five minutes away to get me a chocolate and strawberry flavored pancake?” You asked tilting your head.

“Yep, it’s hard to find places that indulge in your weird food combos” he said. You rolled your eyes playfully “chocolate and strawberry are one of the most used food combos ever” you defended. He gave you a teasing smile “yeah, sure”.

You loved moments like this with Sam, he always knew how to make you feel loved and that was everything you could ask for and more.

#s0urw00lf #sam winchester x female reader #sam x reader #sam winchester headcanon #sam winchester spn #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester supernatural #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader fluff #sam winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader

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rainroses45 · 3 days ago

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Rocks Float

༄.°description: You loved the lake, Sam noticed you loved the lake - but he didn’t know why you spent so much time there (Sam Winchester x Sister Reader)

༄.°A/n: lately I haven’t been enjoying life and I remember my previous failed attempts so i was like eh let’s write that (Not edited)

༄.°song inspo: Sea Swallow Me

༄.°Warning: Suicide! Mentions of drowning, death

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Sam had always noticed the way you sat near the lake, knees tucked to your chest, eyes never quite focused on the horizon but instead fixated on the water. The air would be still except for the rippling circles that bloomed each time you tossed a rock into the depths. Bubbles would rise to the surface and soon fall with a final gasp, breaking the calm as though the lake itself was breathing beneath its dark skin. Drowning in its own skin, desperate for air yet not desperate enough to breath it.

He never said anything about it. You always came back to the motel eventually, slipping inside with damp shoes and that distant look in your eyes. Sam figured it was just your way of finding peace.

But today was different.

Sam had been watching from a distance, leaning against the Impala with Dean off somewhere arguing with their dad. Hours passed, and you never showed up at the lake. That empty patch of grass where you always sat was bare. No bug or bird ever approached it. The grass laid flat and did not dare to move. It almost seemed like if they invaded it or even changed a glimpse of this memory, you would no longer come back.

Frowning, he pushed off the car and made his way back to the rundown motel where the four of you were holed up. The thin walls and creaky floors reeked of stale smoke and disappointment, but it was home enough for hunters like them - yeah hunters like them.

Your room was empty when he opened the door. The sheets were rumpled, and your duffel bag sat untouched by the bed. Anxiety clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to breathe. You probably just needed space. You never really talked anymore. Sure there were a couple times you would smile at him but it never lasted long - you always went back to your cocoon before he could say another word. Maybe this was your time to blossom into the beautiful butterfly you are.

Still, something gnawed at the edges of his mind, a quiet unease that wouldn’t let go. He threw himself onto the bed, the old mattress creaking beneath his weight, and closed his eyes for just a moment. A tiny moment of rest. A tiny moment of peace. A tiny moment where the flooding of his thoughts stopped, and all he could smell is you.

The nap didn’t last long, unfortunately.

Dean’s rough hand shook Sam awake. “Hey, Sammy, c’mon. Dad picked up another murder on the radio.”

Sam blinked groggily, sitting up. “What? Now?”

“Yeah, Dad’s already in the car,” Dean said, already moving toward the door.

Sam frowned, rubbing his face. “Shouldn’t we wait for her?” he asked, glancing toward your stuff. “She might wanna come with us.”

Dean shrugged, brushing it off. “Let her have her own time, Sammy. It’s fine. She’ll meet us back here.”

Sam’s gut twisted, but he followed Dean out to the Impala, climbing into the back seat as John pulled onto the road. The engine rumbled beneath them, and Sam stared out the window, the trees blurring past. Each one turning into a green haze as his eyes lost focus on the site, and his fears began to control him like a pawn.

The unease gnawed at him, he felt lost, he felt confusion, he felt like you. Like a bomb, he pulled out his phone gently and hit your number. The line rang once, twice, and then went to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Call me back, okay?” Sam said, forcing calm into his voice.

Ten minutes passed. No call.

He dialed again. Voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, dialing once more.

John’s gruff voice cut through the tension. “Let her be, Sam. She’s probably just clearing her head.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “She always answers.”

“She’s a grown woman.” “She is sixteen,” Sam wanted to say, she wasn’t a collective trauma stamp for him to place wherever.

“She doesn’t need you checking up on her every second,” John said sharply, annoyed by the constant clicking of keypad. “We have lives at stake we don’t need to be worrying about something that doesn’t need worrying about.” He finished off his rant, leaving Sam with nothing.

Dean shot Sam a glance from the passenger seat, sensing his brother’s unease but saying nothing.

Sam stared at the phone in his hand, dread curling tighter in his chest with every unanswered call. Your voicemail repeating its self over and over in his mind like a broken record.

By the time they pulled up to the scene near the lake - the lake, your lake. Sam’s heart was racing. Police lights flashed red and blue against the trees, and the smell of damp earth and lake water hung thick in the air.

A cop stood near the shoreline, speaking quietly to a paramedic. Sam’s stomach knotted as they approached.

John flashed a fake badge. “What’ve we got?”

“Teen girl,” the cop said grimly. “Found floating face down. Must’ve been out there a while.”

Sam’s breath hitched. His legs felt like lead as he pushed past the officer, heart pounding in his chest.

“No,” he whispered, sprinting toward the tarp-covered body lying on the grass. “No, no, no—”

“Sam, wait!” Dean called after him, but Sam didn’t stop.

He dropped to his knees beside the tarp, his hands shaking as he pulled it back.

The world shattered around him.

It was you.

Your skin was pale, tinged with blue, your hair tangled and wet against your face. The scars on your arms, the faint freckle near your temple—every detail he knew by heart was there, lifeless and cold.

“No,” Sam choked, his voice breaking. “No, please, no.”

Dean was suddenly beside him, his face twisted with shock and grief. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered hoarsely.

Sam’s hands trembled as he touched your cold cheek, willing you to open your eyes, to breathe, to come back.

“You said to let her be,” Sam whispered, voice cracking as tears blurred his vision. “You said she was fine.” He looked up at John. The so called father, the protector of his family, destroying yet another piece of him within seconds.

John stood frozen, guilt etched deep into his features, but Sam couldn’t look at him anymore.

Dean’s voice was raw. “Sammy… I—”

But Sam shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I should’ve—” His breath hitched. “I should’ve waited. I should’ve gone after her.”

Dean gripped his shoulder, his own voice unsteady. “This ain’t on you, man.”

But Sam couldn’t hear him. All he could see was you—the sister who always sat by the lake, watching bubbles rise from the depths. And now you were gone, lost to the very place you always seemed to belong to.

#supernatural #spn #lina writes #sam winchester x sister reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #sam winchester deserves the world #sea swallow me #dean winchester x reader #major character death #winchester sister #john is an asshole #sad ending #i want to go home #im going to kms one day #don't mind me

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