#they’re SUSPECTS Dean

[ghostcreaturetypething]

Oh my god Sam having to whack Dean’s hand away from the peanut brittle

[hintsofhoney]

Ladies With Experience

Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Dean makes an off-handed comment about "preferring ladies with experience", you try (and fail) to not let it get under your skin. You're a virgin, but you've done just about everything else, and when you talk to Dean about it, he offers to be your first. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him forever... who are you to deny him?

Tags: smut, first time, virgin!reader, dom/sub dynamics, dom!dean, p in v, oral (female receiving), spanking, fingering, not-so-innocent reader

Word Count: 5k

A/N: As always, thank you to my loves @wayward-dreamer and @makeadealwithdean for beta-ing. Would be nowhere without you two 🥰

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“Anyways, let’s say you’re right, fine. Who would want virgins?”

You know Sam didn’t mean it like that , and you felt stupid for letting it bother you. For letting this case bother you.

“You got me,” Dean replied with a shrug. “I prefer ladies with experience.” 

And there it was, like a punch straight to the gut. You hated that it hurt you as much as it did. So what, you’ve never had sex. But you’ve done almost everything else. You knew what you liked and what you didn't. You’ve been around the block a few times with the various sex toys in your nightstand drawer. It’s not like you weren’t experienced at all . But that didn’t make Dean’s words hurt any less. You swallowed down the burger and fries from lunch that were threatening to come up, before standing up from your seat at the small motel room table. 

The brothers looked at you, eyebrows raised.

“I — bathroom,” you managed, before quickly making your way there, slamming the door shut behind you. 

Staring at your reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror, you let the tears fall. Silently, you wiped them away as Dean’s words echoed in your head, and you hated that you loved him. Hated that you’d never be ballsy enough to admit it to him, especially now.

Something like five minutes passed and you knew you didn’t have long before one of the boys — likely Sam — would come knocking to check on you. You flushed the unused toilet so they wouldn’t suspect anything and turned on the faucet, splashing your tear-soaked face with cold water before using a hand towel to wipe it dry. When you emerged, the guys were packing up their duffels.

“Did you find them?” you asked, hopeful.

Dean checked his gun, before flipping the safety on and stuffing it in the back waistband of his jeans. 

“I sure as hell hope so, ‘cause if I’m about to crawl through the goddamn sewers for nothing —”

“They’re down there, Dean,” Sam replied, giving him a pointed look. He turned his attention to you, and if he had noticed anything off, he hadn’t let his face show it. “You coming?”

You grabbed your gun off the dresser and holstered it in reply.

Six hours later, the three of you were sweaty, panting, and splattered in blood after a close fight with dragons in the sewers. Thankfully, you hadn’t had to wade in any actual sewage. You hadn’t said a word to either brother since you had gone to the bathroom six hours ago, and to keep them from growing suspicious of your sudden silence, you opted to take a nap in the backseat of the Impala on the way back to the motel. 

You stirred awake as Dean pulled into the parking lot, barely conscious enough to catch the end of the brothers’ conversation.

“I’ll get her,” Dean said. 

Sam nodded and got out of the car, gently closing the passenger side door before heading inside. 

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep in them as Dean’s face came into focus. He was looking at you over his shoulder, one arm resting on the top of the front bench seat. 

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

It took a moment for the feeling you had been filled with prior to your nap to come back to you, his words from earlier echoing in your head. I prefer ladies with experience . You shot him a cold glare.

“Alright. What’d I do?” he asked, turning in his seat to better angle himself towards you. 

The question caught you off guard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t said a word since we left for that hunt, Y/N.”

“How do you know Sam didn’t do something?”

He replied with a knowing look.

You stared at your hands, clasped together in your lap, and muttered, “It’s nothing. Stupid.”

“C’mon, talk to me,” he urged.

You hated this. How easy he was to talk to. How you had always been able to tell him what was on your mind.

But not this . You couldn’t tell him this. 

You shook your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, shifting in his seat. He was fully turned around now, reaching out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at those green eyes. “Talk to me,” he repeated, no room for argument in his words.

“I can’t,” you whispered. You wanted to throw up. He was your best friend, and you were utterly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with him. He preferred girls with experience, and you had none. Not in the way that it mattered. And he had known that, thanks to a late-night stake-out game of Never Have I Ever . 

His jaw clenched. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

You briefly met his gaze. You couldn’t hold it for long. 

“Was it something I said?” he prodded. 

You stared at the buttons of his open flannel, your eyes quickly darting up to meet his in silent confirmation. 

He sighed, pulling his hand away from your face and folding his arms on top of the backseat, resting his chin on his forearm.

“Do I at least get a hint?”

“Dean, I —”

“C’mon, Y/N. You’ve never not told me anything.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Because I can’t stand not talking to you.”

Your heart leaped at that confession, however innocent it might have been. 

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Because I’m making you. You would have silent treatmented me into next week.”

You didn’t respond.

He sighed again, defeated. “Y/N, c’mon. Please? Whatever I said, I’m sorry. I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t mean that you ‘prefer girls with experience’?” you retorted quite sassily. The question tumbled out before you even had time to think of the implication that came with asking it. 

Dean opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish. 

“Thought so.” You began to move to make your way out of the car, when Dean reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay if you do. I told you, it was a dumb thing to be upset about.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t stop to think about how this case might have been affecting you. You know I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, right?” 

You swallowed, nodded. His hand felt like fire around your wrist.

“But for what it’s worth, I wasn’t serious. I don’t prefer anyone one way or the other. Sex is sex. If anyone’s willing to have it with me, I consider myself lucky.”

“Romantic,” you quipped.

A smile tugged at his lips. “I could show you, y’know.”

You almost threw up right there in the backseat. Your eyes grew wide.

“What?” you croaked.

“Well, if you’re worried about not having any experience… I just mean I’d be happy to, y’know. Show you the ropes.”

“… Of sex?” Really, you thought it was cute that he had this misconception of you. You knew about the ropes. You’d just never been tied up with them. 

“Of whatever you want.”

“You think I want to have sex with you?” It came out harsher than you meant it to, like part of you still thought you could hide the fact that you were in love with him. Like if you just joked it off it would go away, and you wouldn’t have to cross this line with him, even though you so badly wanted to. But you had to protect yourself, your heart. 

You didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“No, that’s not what I —”

You suddenly felt the need to clarify your question.

“No, I — I didn’t mean it like that either.”

Dean’s face morphed into one of confusion. “…So you do want to have sex with me?”

Your cheeks flushed red, and your throat bobbed. “Uh…”

“Forget it, stupid question, you don’t have to an—” 

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper. Fuck it. Who were you to hold yourself back from the one thing you’ve been wanting for years? You cleared your throat. “Yeah, I really, really do.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Oh, cut the shit, Dean. Like you’re surprised. Everyone wants to have sex with you.”

He scoffed. “ Everyone , Y/N, really?”

“There are literally smutty fanfictions written about you,” you replied, reaching into your back pocket for your phone, dead set on proving your point. 

“Gross. And Becky doesn’t count as everyone.”

“Actually, Becky only writes for Sam.”

You realized what you said at the same time he did, and he eyed you suspiciously.

“Why do you know that?”

God dammit. “I don’t. I mean — I — like, she obviously loves Sam. So, like, she wouldn’t write porn about you. Obviously.”

“Uh huh…” There was an uncomfortable silence for a beat or three. And then, “How much smut have you read about me?”

Your face felt like it had just been rinsed with fucking lava, and you knew it probably looked as red as it, too. 

“None!” you exclaimed, way too quickly. 

Dean smirked. “You do really wanna have sex with me,” he remarked, like he couldn’t believe it.

“Trust me, the urge is fading by the second.”

His grin disappeared almost instantly. “Would it help if I told you that I think about fucking you all the time, too?”

“Well, I don’t think about it all the —”

“Y/N.” He said your name like a warning, and the tone of his voice settled right in your core. 

“Yeah,” you squeaked. “Yeah, that helps.”

“Good,” he smirked, before grabbing his phone from beside him. 

“Uh… What are you doing?” You watched as he scrolled for a second, pressing a button before putting the phone to his ear.

“Telling Sammy to beat it.”

Your eyes grew wide. “What!?” you whisper-yelled. “No! Just — we can just do it back here!”

He gave you a pointed look. “I’m not taking your virginity in the backseat of my car, Y/N.”

“Why not!?”

“Because we’re not sixteen, for one. And for two… I wanna make it special.” He rushed the last bit out, like he was embarrassed to say it. And he should be. You cringed as you heard it. 

“Oh my God,” you began.

“Shut up.”

“You did not just say that.”

“Shut up. Sam, answer your phone, God dammit!”

“I have done, like, almost everything else, you know. In the backseats of many, many cars. You don’t need to make it special for me, Deano,” you teased. 

“For the last time, shut your mouth, or I’m gonna shut it for you,” he said, the look he gave letting you know he wasn’t in the mood to play. No, he wanted to fuck you. Beyond that, he wanted to dominate you. And you were more than happy to submit.

You might have been a virgin physically, but mentally? Mentally, you’d probably give Dean a run for his money. 

Sam didn’t answer. Naturally. He was probably in the shower, but you were kind of grateful because as much as you wanted Dean, you didn’t want to make Sam uncomfortable. Or worse, give him any reason to give you the talk . Because he totally would. After trying his brother two more times, Dean decided it would be better to just get a room of your own, and you were much happier with that decision. 

You watched as he unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside, gesturing for you to go ahead. 

“Ladies first.”

“You mean you’re not gonna carry me over the threshold?” you joked. “Thought you wanted to make this special .”

He gave you an unamused look, and you shot back a sarcastic closed-mouth smile before you were being swept off of your feet and over his shoulder faster than you could process.

“Dean!” you squealed, as he carried you through the doorway, kicking the door shut behind him before practically throwing you onto the bed.

He was hovering over you seconds later, his face a few inches from yours, and the mood shifted from playful to serious.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

You nodded, your fingers coming up to play with the collar of his flannel.

“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t make fun of me?” you questioned, your eyes glued to the plaid pattern on his shirt.

“Promise.”

“I was kinda… holding out for you.” You drew your eyes up to meet his.

“Seriously?” he asked, half laughing. You could tell it wasn’t because he thought it was funny. It was because he couldn’t believe it.

You swallowed nervously, nodding again as you stared into those green eyes, and you hoped that this meant as much to him as it did to you. Something told you it did.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know,” he said.

You tilted your head in question.

“About making it special for you. I know it’s like, the grossest thing I could have possibly said but, you deserve so much better than me, and so if —”

“There’s no one better for me, you idiot.” And you almost told him everything. That you’ve been in love with him ever since you met one summer at Bobby’s, back when you were just kids. That everything felt like it led up to this moment. That you wanted him to fuck you and make love to you all at once. That you didn’t want this to be the only time he did. But instead, you grabbed his face in your hands and pulled him towards you, your lips meeting in a kiss that felt like it could have powered an entire country’s electric grid. 

He deepened it, and the two of you were nothing but tongues and teeth and lips — it wasn’t sexy. It was hungry. Starved, more like. Like he had been thinking about kissing you just as long as you had been thinking about him. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips down towards your denim-covered core, down until you felt the hardness underneath his jeans pressed up against the spot where you needed him most, down until you couldn’t help but grind against it. He moaned as he kissed you, so you did it again. And again. And again. And —

“You need to stop that.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. You noticed that your arms were above your head, his hands pinning your wrists against the mattress. You don’t know when that happened, but you weren’t complaining. In fact, it spurred you on. 

You smiled mischievously and rutted against him once more. 

“What’re you gonna do about it, Winchester?”

He dropped his forehead to yours, steadying his breaths.

“I can fuck you like it’s your first time, or I can fuck you how I actually want to.”

“And how’s that?”

He took a shaky breath, like he was actually having a hard time controlling himself. You felt a sense of pride shoot through you at that.

“Like the fucking brat you are.”

You almost came from that alone. 

Wanna know some common misconceptions about virgins? That they don’t have kinks. That they don’t watch porn. That they don’t have a plethora of sex toys  in their nightstand. That they sit and crochet in their convent dorm room all day. Sure, you were years past the age when girls typically lose their virginity, but you were no saint. In fact, you enjoyed being quite the opposite. And you enjoyed being put in your place. 

“Do your worst.”

It was like something in him snapped. His eyes were lust-blown and hungry and you didn’t miss the way his jaw ticked, and then he was undressing you so fast that you could’ve been part of a quick change act. He muttered something about a light system as he took off your clothes, and you nodded in a way that let him know that you already knew how all of that worked. 

When you were down to just a black lace bra and panties, he paused as his fingers hooked under your waistband. He stared at you, his expression serious, and you knew that he was going to give you one more warning. One more opportunity to say, “Actually, I’d like to have a totally normal, non-kinky, first time experience, please.” But that wasn’t what you wanted. 

“You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

You rolled your eyes. “I trust you. Put me in my goddamn place, Winchester. You’ve only been wanting to do it for the past two hours.”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting to do it for a lot longer than that, sweetheart.”

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, huffing a small laugh before pulling off your panties in one swift motion. His hands came to rest on your bare thighs as he locked his eyes with yours. “Any hard limits?”

You shook your head. “I trust you. I mean, like, don’t pee on me or —”

“Not gonna happen. But… most everything else?”

“Dean,” you began, looking at him pointedly, “I trust you. If it helps, I’ve used like, toys on myself before. And I don’t mean just a vibrator, I mean like… well, you get the gist.”

“So I don’t have to go easy on you, is what you’re saying?”

“Put me in my place,” you repeated.

“Alright,” he replied, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs as he roughly pushed them apart, “but just so we’re clear, that’s the last order you’ll be giving tonight.”

Your throat bobbed and you nodded. “Yes, Sir.” 

You meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. No, the title came out in a way that made his jaw clench and his eyes darken and it stoked the fire raging in your core. 

Dean didn’t waste any more time talking after that, his tongue moving through your folds seconds later, drawing gasps and soft moans from your lips. You arched into him, your hands in his hair, silently begging for more. It wasn’t the first time a man had gone down on you, but it was the first time it felt like this . 

He pinned your hips down to the bed with one hand splayed over your abdomen and then his tongue was inside you and “eating you out” didn’t come close to describing his ministrations. He was devouring you like his life depended on it, like the sounds you were making were a goddamn Zeppelin song that he wasn’t anywhere near done listening to. And then he added a finger, and then another, and it didn’t matter how many times you had imagined him doing this while you had your own fingers inside you — nothing would have prepared you for how good the real thing felt.

“Oh — fuck,” you gasped, and he chuckled into your sex and you had to actively think about not coming on his face and ending this whole experience early. 

“You’re close,” he observed, flicking his tongue over your clit as he continued to pump his fingers in and out, and it was so fucking hot how he just knew that. It was like he had been fucking you for years, the way he knew your body, your tells.

You nodded. “Mmhm,” you confirmed, unable to form words with the way the coil in your abdomen was tightening. 

“Hold it,” he ordered.

Your eyes shot open, because it wasn’t the command you were expecting, and you tried to lift your head to shoot him a cold glare but you couldn’t. And he just kept pumping, flicking, licking, chuckling — fucking asshole.

“Mm — fuck — please!” you cried out.

“When you come tonight, it’s gonna be on my cock. So hold it.”

You didn’t think you could. You had played this game with yourself and your vibrator and your self-control was majorly lacking and God his mouth and fingers felt so fucking good and you were there, the coil wound so goddamn tight, it would take nothing for you to let it snap, and then — 

He stopped.

He pulled his mouth away from your core, his fingers out of your pussy, and you were writhing underneath him, because you had been right there and you needed him to be touching you again right the fuck now.

You whined.

He spanked your pussy. Not hard or anything, just enough to see if it was okay with you, and fuck, was it. 

“Stop whining,” he demanded. He positioned himself so he was hovering over you again, his face inches away from yours as he stared into your eyes. “Or I’ll give you something to whine about.”

You were curious as to what that something would be, but sensed that right now wouldn’t be the best time for that question. You nodded instead.

“Good girl.” He smiled when he said it, like he knew exactly what those two words would do to you. 

You squirmed underneath him, it had been too long since he’d last touched you. Too long being thirty seconds at most, but still. It had felt like hours.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he began, dipping his head to place a soft kiss on your collarbone, “that you are very,” another kiss to the other side, “very,” one more to the middle of your chest, “impatient?” He slowly pulled down the left cup of your bra, your breast spilling out of it. “Makes me wanna take my time.” 

His eyes stayed glued to yours as his head moved down to your hardened nipple, taking it into his mouth at a goddamn snail’s pace. You arched your back, and he let you this time, chuckling at how easy it was to make your body react. His other hand slipped underneath you, unclasping your bra in a way that reminded you that he had a lot of experience doing so, and you refused to water the seed of jealousy that had sprouted from the thought. It didn’t matter that he had done this a million times. All that mattered was that he was doing it now, with you. 

He pulled your bra off and threw it haphazardly over his shoulder, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that you were completely naked, and he still had 87 fucking layers on, the outermost of which was still speckled with dragon blood, and it’s not that you were anywhere near clean, but you certainly didn’t want those clothes touching your bare skin.

“Dean?” you rasped, and he pulled away from your nipple to give you his full attention.

“You okay, sweetheart? Do you want to st—”

“No! God, no. It’s just —” you sighed, exasperated. This was dumb. You were going to stop him for this? Your eyes landed on a spot of blood on the shoulder of his flannel. Yes, yes you were, because that’s gross. “It’s just that your clothes are covered in monster blood and I’m like, totally naked, and I don’t want —”

He chuckled like you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. “I gotchya, baby.”

Baby. Baby ? You tried not to overthink the pet name as he climbed off the bed to take his clothes off, watching you the entire time. Sweetheart, you’d been called a million times. He called everyone sweetheart. But baby? Baby was his car, and no one else. Unless, that’s what you were to him now. His, and no one else’s. You filed the thought away under “Things to Think About After You Lost Your Virginity to Dean Winchester”.

He was in nothing but his boxers now, his cock already hard underneath them, and you bit your lip as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slid them off. And then, there he was, exactly like you’d imagined him but also better, because this was real and happening. You gaped at him, at his size. He wasn’t any bigger than the fake one you had in your nightstand, but that one was nine inches and you could never fit it all the way in. He was perfect. All of him. 

“You okay?” he asked again, crawling back onto the bed.

“Mhm,” you managed, gulping.

He was on top of you again, his forearm holding up his weight as his free hand came to grab your thigh, hooking it over his hip and leaning down to kiss you. You could feel him against your core, his cock moving between your folds as he moved his hips, teasing you with it. 

“Dean,” you breathed.

“Hm?”

“I want…” you couldn’t find it in yourself to finish your request.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered.

You decided you liked “baby” better. 

“Please.”

“I thought you wanted me to put you in your place?”

You shook your head. “N-next time. Just, please .”

His eyebrows shot up, and you realized what you had said. 

“Next time, huh?” he asked, with that shit-eating grin of his. 

You rolled your eyes. He stopped moving, the smile wiped off his lips as he gripped you underneath your chin, somewhere between rough and gentle, the look on his face telling you he wasn’t messing around. 

“Roll your eyes at me again, and next time I’ll really do my worst.”

You bit back a smile, and you just knew he was thinking, Brat. But you asked your question anyway.

“But not this time?” There was a devilish gleam in your eyes. You were tempting him, and he knew it.

“Do you ever get tired of being such a brat?” 

“Dunno,” you shrugged. “Do you ever get tired of it?” 

His jaw tensed, and he forced a sardonic, closed-lip smile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Hm. But not this time, right?”

“Y/N —” he warned.

“Afraid you’re gonna hurt me? Scare me? What’s really keeping you from putting me in my place… Sir?”

For the second time that night, something in him snapped. You yelped as he flipped you over and grabbed your hips, dragging them upwards so your ass was in the air and your chest was on the mattress. Four hits to your cheeks came down in quick succession, and when you reached your hand behind you to block them, it was quickly pinned to the small of your back. Three more hits followed, accompanied by a pathetic, “Ow!” from your lips.

“Color?” he questioned roughly.

“So fucking green,” you replied, dazed.

Seven more hits followed, each one harder than the last, and you didn’t think there was anything better than the sting you were feeling right now. There was nothing more you wanted than for him to mark you up like this.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he commented. Five more hits. 

“Oh, fuck!” you cried out at the last hit, one that felt like it reverberated through your entire body. One that definitely left a handprint behind. 

“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. He spanked you four more times. “You just wanted me to mark you up, is that it? Think of me every time you sit down for the next few days, hm?” Three more. 

“Mmph!” Your cries were muffled by the comforter. 

“Yeah, I can tell. Look at this fucking mess.” He dragged his fingers through your soaked folds. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath, and then he was flipping you back over. He nestled himself between your legs, his tip teasing your entrance. His expression softened as he stared into your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you replied breathily. 

He slid into you slow and easy, your mouth open in a silent moan as he bottomed out. 

“Good?” he asked.

“So fucking good.”

When he started to move, you thought you were going to die. In a good way. In a way that made you decide right there and then that when the time did come, this was how you wanted to go out. 

“Harder,” you encouraged, and he obliged. “Faster.”

He was properly fucking you now. Hard and fast and dirty. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, forcing him to go deeper. His head was buried in your neck, your nails were clawing up his back, and the room was filled with moans and pants and expletives that put a sailor’s mouth to shame. 

“Shit, baby,” he panted into your neck. “God damn, you feel good. So fucking tight.” He sped up his thrusts, and the bed was squeaking so much that you thought it was going to fall apart underneath you, but you were too far gone to care. He reached a hand down in between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, circling it expertly. You were on the precipice of your release in seconds. And then —

“Come. Soak that fucking cock, baby. Come for me.”

And you screamed loud enough to get both you and him kicked out of the motel if they cared enough as your orgasm ripped through you. He fucked you through it, his pace only faltering moments later, right before he pulled out and painted your stomach white. It looked like a Jackson Pollock on your abdomen. Kinda hot, actually. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, looking down at you as he finally caught his breath.

“More than,” you smiled.

He mirrored the look on your face before crawling off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He came back moments later with a damp washcloth, gently cleaning his masterpiece off of your skin. When he was done, he threw it across the room, aiming for the bathroom, and it landed on the tile in front of the toilet. He laid down next to you, pulling you into his chest as he pressed a soft kiss into your hair, and you wanted to ask so many questions, all at once. What were you two now? How long had he been wanting this? Would there be a next time? Instead, you opted for —

“You know in fanfictions, they write you as a submissive most of the time.”

He snorted. “They’re half right.”

“A switch?” you asked, surprised. “Lucky me.”

He chuckled softly. “Sorry about your ass.”

You shrugged. “I was asking for it.”

“Oh, you were definitely asking for it. Still, I… I dunno. It was your first time, I didn’t want to get too —”

“It was perfect, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, smiling, dozing off already. “Yeah.”

[artinventor]

So I was curious on what Cain knows of Dean’s relationship with Cas. Obviously he knows about a brother’s love so his relationship with Sam is obvious, and he met Dean while he was working with Crowley so he got a pretty good idea of what those two’s relationship was like, but he hadn’t even seen Dean and Cas together at the same time.

When Cain says that Dean is living his life in reverse and mentions Cas, he says: “and then you'd kill the angel, castiel. now, that one — that i suspect would hurt something awful.”

Now how does he know the extent of their relationship? I can only assume it’s because, since Cain himself is drawing parallels to his own life, he’s assigning roles as well. Sam as Abel, since he said that’s how his story began and Dean’s will end. Crowley as Abaddon, the demon he had a fling with, same with Demon Dean and Crowley. So that only means Cas is Colette. Just by brief interactions and context clues Cain knows that Cas is Dean’s Colette and that his death will hurt “something awful”.

What we see in the show of what Cain has witnessed is that Cas unsheathes his weapon as soon as Cain mentions killing Dean, and then he helps Dean trap Cain by briefly fighting him outside the barn. I also think that Cain is aware, much like most supernatural beings seem to know, that Cas fell from heaven for Dean. That’s not something you see often, and it’s something that they all roast Cas for, often with a romantic implication.

“the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you”

“he was your boyfriend first”

“It was all about saving one human, Dean Winchester”

Cain calls Cas, Dean’s “pet”, so I imagine he might have the same thought process as everyone else here. It’s just very interesting to me how the show has outside characters clock their relationship like this and now also make a parallel to a blatant romantic relationship then not do anything direct about it because they’re too afraid to.

[pagannatural]

2.11 Playthings 👭👬

-episode of my life. If you only ever watch one episode of supernatural let it be this one. Creepy dolls creepy dollhouse creepy little girls a lonely Connecticut inn a desperate drunken tousle between the incest brothers. It doesn’t get any better than this.

-Dean gives Sam a hard time about suggesting a case after they’ve been looking for Ava for a month. Dean doesn’t even know Ava, but he’s spent the last month looking for her because it was important to Sam. When Sam doesn’t respond to Dean’s teasing, he backs right off. Dean is controlling and possessive but he is also respectful and considerate because he thinks the world of Sam.

-Dean says Sam’s attitude “is just way too healthy for me, I’m officially uncomfortable now” which is funny because it’s not true that Sam’s attitude is healthy and he will get drunk and misbehave about it, but it checks out that Dean is uncomfortable with healthy dynamics.

-Sam smirks at Dean’s joke in this really cute way. It shows that he still looks up to Dean, even though he wouldn’t admit it.

-the innkeeper mistakes them for a gay couple and assumes they’ll want a king sized bed and Sam says “what? No—no two singles. We’re just brothers.”

Spot the difference between these two pictures

That mighty flustered, genuinely panicky “just brothers” sounds exactly like a “we’re just friends” moment between a will they/won’t they couple and it’s so weird that he says it that way. A normal answer would be “oh this is my brother” and then everybody moves on. But this is a tv show and there’s a reason for this scene to be included in this episode. It highlights that the nature of their relationship as brothers is more layered, and this messy denial tells the viewer that there is a romantic/sexual layer.

Back in Asylum in s1, Dean was mistaken for Sam’s boss specifically to make it clear to the viewer that Dean had more authority in their dynamic at the time, which played into Sam’s anger at Dean. This is a similar way for an outsider’s interpretation of the relationship to shed light on it. Their individual reactions to the assumption that they’re a romantic couple are meaningfully different—Sam is embarrassed and nervous like he’s been caught. Dean is feeling some kind of way.

He looks guilty, like he’s doing something wrong. He played along with people thinking he and Sam were a couple in Bugs and went as far as to slap Sam’s ass and call him honey. He seems pretty comfortable with his sexuality and with people being gay in general, like the joke he made about the only real thing about him being his boobs or the time he sarcastically told a scowling male store owner that his smile really lights up a room. He’s playful, he’s not weird about it (until season 8 but that’s another post). So something else is going on here.

His attitude toward this kind of mistake has changed since season 1. A lot has happened, but I think the point at which things shifted for Dean was that moment in Croatoan when he decided that he was going to stay with and protect Sam when they thought he was infected. The episode was a major turning point for Dean. That’s what pushed him to finally tell Sam what John said, and it was the first time Dean really thought Sam was going to die. It also paralleled the scene from Provenance in which Sam almost puts his feelings for Dean into words. Back then, Dean was able to take control of the situation to avoid Sam’s feelings and his own. In Croatoan, he’s the one forced to consider his feelings and why he would live and die and kill for Sam, and Sam alone. It’s no longer possible for him to ignore the feelings between them. He knows or suspects strongly that Sam has feelings for him, and now he can’t deny that he does too. It’s one of his major conflicts moving forward.

-Dean asks Sam why people always assume they’re gay, saying it’s a “troubling question,” and Sam says “you are kind of butch. They probably think you’re overcompensating” which Dean takes in as though it’s an equally troubling revelation. They look like a couple, and therefore they look queer, from the outside: Sam with his shy demeanor, soft voice, longish hair, deference to Dean in most situations (Dean goes to the front desk, Sam hangs back a little, his body mostly facing Dean), and just general feminine-coding throughout the show. Dean with his cropped hair, gravelly voice, overconfidence, and constant womanizing.

Queer people have this shared experience of never feeling like they’re doing masculinity or femininity correctly, and knowing or realizing that other people can tell they don’t fit in, but not really being able to name what they’re doing wrong. Sam is too feminine and Dean is too masculine and when they’re together they read as a gay couple.

Croatoan drew attention to this too, but again, it’s not really about coding them as lgbt, it’s about coding them as queer and incestuous in a gothic, monstrous way. They are Other and it’s in their blood just like the monsters they hunt.

-Dean has Sam pretend to love dolls, to further underscore his feminine role in their relationship for the viewer. It would be so cute if Sam really did love dolls as a kid.

-Dean tells Sam not to look at porn in their room, apropos of nothing.

-someone else dies. Shot of Sam, damsel, gazing out the window of his tower as the body is carried out and Dean talks to the innkeeper.

Dean goes into their room, where Sam is sitting facing away from the open door in a way that feels foreboding, like something is wrong. It’s similar to the shot of Rose a little later in the episode, with her in her chair facing away from the door.

Sam is drunk because he couldn’t save the guy who died, and “the more people I save the more I can change.” He’s afraid of becoming corrupted and at least some part of him believes that he will (that he already is) and needs to make up for it.

Sam says Dean has to watch out for him “and if I ever turn into something that I’m not you have to kill me.” He argues that John said Dean has to and Dean says “Yeah well dad’s an ass” which is a very bold thing for Dean to say about the dead father he once idolized. He obeyed John to keep Sam safe, and he’s finally letting himself be angry with John.

Sam says even now everyone around him dies. He says “please, Dean, you’re the only one who can do it. Promise.”

So Sam is drunk and in crisis over believing that he will become evil, in this episode that makes sure to emphasize the sexual undertones in his relationship with his brother, in an interaction that looks charged and erotic. He’s begging his brother to kill him rather than let him fall, holding onto Dean’s shirt and pulling him down toward him, his eyes locked on Dean’s.

Dean says “Don’t ask that of me” but Sam gives him the puppiest tear-filled eyes so Dean lies, he says “I promise.” At this point Sam is sitting on his bed and Dean is leaning over him, Sam grasping his shirt to keep him close and keep his attention.

Sam looks at Dean’s lips, says “thank you,” inhales, and grabs Dean’s face in both his hands, his thumb near the corner of Dean’s lip. It looks like he’s trying to kiss Dean. The fact that he inhaled rather than exhaled also just makes it feel more like a lead-up to something rather than a conclusion.

Dean pushes Sam away, closing his eyes as if conflicted, Sam still holding onto his face. It’s a little aggressive. Dean has to shove Sam off of him forcefully.

Dean pushes Sam onto his back on the bed, where he watches him turn to his stomach and nestle into the mattress, arching his lower back with his face in the pillow. Dean puts a hand over his mouth and traces his lips, his eyes dragging over Sam’s body.

Just describing the basic mechanics of this scene makes its eroticism clear. Dean touches his lips after Sam looks at them in a gesture loaded with restraint and tension. It’s another of those scenes that usually happen between romantic leads: the woman gets drunk and confesses something and/or needs to be taken care of and the man treats her respectfully but not so respectfully that he isn’t a little seduced. Dean could have let Sam kiss him (or do whatever he was going to do), but he has so many reasons not to: fear of hurting him, of Sam leaving him, of betraying his role as his savior and protector. Dean’s self worth comes from loving Sam, so if he loves Sam Wrong he feels worthless.

And that’s to say nothing of the fact that Sam is begging Dean to take ultimate control over his body by deciding whether he lives, and deciding whether he’s good or bad. His fears are soothed by the idea that whatever happens he can be Dean’s, he can belong to his brother. He’s okay with dying only if it’s by Dean’s hand. His whole life he’s felt something was wrong with him, so if it’s true and Dean confirms it, he is the only one who can kill it. The corruption in Sam (in both of them) has already been heavily linked to blood and their relationship and now Sam is verbalizing it—No! We’re just brothers. Why does everyone assume we’re gay? Sam holding Dean’s face, drunk, saying there is something wrong with me and it’s your responsibility. Please, you’re the only one who can do it.

-Sam is throwing up the next morning. Dean says something gross about a sandwich in an ashtray that makes Sam gag and say “I hate you” and Dean says “I know you do.” The way Dean says this sounds like he really thinks Sam hates him, which came up in Asylum as well. After last night, this has to have something to do with Sam’s feelings for him and the fact that Sam thinks Dean is the only one who should kill him. He thinks it’s tied to Sam hating him and his self-hatred for loving Sam wrong.

-Maggie tells Tyler “I can’t leave this haunted house and you can’t leave me.” Sam and Dean can’t leave the haunted house that is their life because they can’t leave each other.

-Maggie tells Rose “you’d do that for me?” which Sam has basically said to Dean, and “you kept me away for so long I thought you didn’t love me any more” which fits both of them at different times. Rose is the little sister choosing to die so that Maggie doesn’t have to spend eternity alone, and saving Tyler. It’s a creepy, haunting ending that parallels Sam and Dean. The sisters play together forever in a haunted house and the brothers drive off to hunt together out of the haunted houses and motels and backroads they were raised in.

[flowersintheimpala69]

Happy Wincest Wednesday! Question of the day: does Bobby know?

I know it’s Thursday now but emotionally it’s still wincest Wednesday for me 🙏 (sorry for the late response)

on one hand how couldn’t Bobby know?? Sam and Dean are like sons to him + he’s known them since they were kids, how could he miss something so big like them banging?

on the other hand Bobby has NO clue. He sees hints of it, sure, he’s not blind, but he just can’t think about them like that. it’s such an outrageous idea, he can never even suspect it.

When Sam & Dean were kids Bobby was a bit weirded out by their close behavior. Sometimes he’d catch himself thinking it’s weird how they still share a bed/bath/toothbrush, or how 6 y/o Sam cries whenever Dean leaves the room for too long. That’s not normal brother behavior, Bobby’s not stupid, he knows that. But at the same time he just can’t see what’s there cuz 1) he’s not looking for it and 2) he keeps making excuses or justifications for the weird behavior. Like yea they still takes baths together even tho deans a preteen but hey. They’ve had a rough go at things. Lord knows John isn’t raising them right. It’s not their fault they’re a bit.. codependent or weird. So Bobby just assumes they’ll grow out of it.

He assumes wrong. 16 y/o Sam and 20 y/o Dean come visit (aka dropped off by john so he can go chase a yellow eyes clue for fuck knows how long) and they’re still doing the weird intimate stuff. They share a bed, Dean washes Sam’s hair in the shower, Dean takes a piss while Sam brushes his teeth, they spend nearly all their time together.. and Bobby decides he’s gotta say smth, cuz sure Sam and dean are weirder than most kids their age (theyre hunters for fucks sake ofc they’re weird) but even this is Too Weird.

So Bobby takes Dean aside one night and is like. Heyyyy. Maybe you should stop cutting Sam’s toast crust off for him and cuddling with him and how about I buy u a toothbrush so yall don’t have to share one anymore. And maybe you could go into town and meet some kids your age. How about that.

After their ‘talk’ Bobby sees a visible change in Sam and Dean’s behavior. They don’t cuddle or sleep in the same bed. They use their own toothbrushes and stop sharing clothes. Dean stops motherhenning Sam, and Sam stop clinging to Dean like an imprinted duckling. And Bobby’s like wow I’m amazing at this parenting thing!! Yay!

(In reality Dean and Sam just start hiding it more. But Bobby dosent need to know that)

Sometimes Bobby still notices weirdish stuff about Sam and dean. Like the way Dean touches Sam’s lower back, or when they seemingly disappear for a few hours and when they turn up again Sam has bruises (??) peeking out from under his shirt collar, and deans face is flushed. But it’s so seldom that Bobby just dosent think abt it for too long. It’s whatever.

When Sam and Dean are adults they hide it almost perfectly. Sometimes bobby will find it odd how close they stand together, or how only one of the motel beds looks slept it, or how sometimes they’ll stumble out of the impala, all awkward smiles, Sam limping, and the car windows fogged up. but Bobby mostly assumes they’ve grown out of the weird codependency/intimacy thing.

Bobby does eventually find out in s7. As a ghost he’s tethered to the flask that’s in dean’s possession. Which is how he ends up having to watch Sam and dean have dirty disgusting immoral rough sex every night per their routine. At first he’s shocked, then he’s just REALLY uncomfortable, but he can’t escape it as long as his flask is with Dean.

And Dean carries that fucking flask everywhere. Bobby’s seen Dean blow his brother all across America. In diner bathrooms, once in an empty theater, alleyways, in motel rooms from Austin TX to Boston MA, in the impala. So many times in the impala. Bobby cringes thinking of all the time he’s sat in that car, unknowingly amongst Sam and deans sex germs.

Finally, Bobby is able to make contact with Sam and Dean. There’s this awkward moment of silence where Dean and Sam are realizing. oh. Bobby’s been here the whole time. oh. Bobby’s been here while we’ve banged. Oh. Bobby’s seen us have sex. And knows abt the incest thing. Shoot.

Bobby can see them giving eachother looks and debating whether they should bring it up, but Bobby changes the topic cuz tbh they got bigger problems (leviathan, dick roman) and he dosent wanna have the Incest Talk with his pseudo sons rn.

The next time Bobby sees one of them, it’s when Dean goes to heaven after dying in the finale. They have their talk, and ofc there’s the Large Incestous Elephant in the room so after a moment of silence Dean is like. Heyyyy. So. About me and Sam’s.. relationship..And Bobby interrupts him and is like the less I know the better, and that’s the closest they ever get to talking abt it.

When Bobby occasionally visits Dean and Sam in heaven (in their heaven house or whatever) there’s a tacit rule that Dean and Sam act Normal around Bobby. They do a pretty good job, although sometimes Bobby will catch the tail end of a kiss when he walks back into a room.

I don’t think Bobby would hate them for it. He’s sorta disgusted and veryyyy weirded out abt it cuz. Incest. But also those are his boys. He couldn’t hate them even if he tried.

Thanks for the ask <3 happy belated wincest Wednesday !!

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Sick of Missing You

masterlist

summary: dean thought he had to let you go, but now he’s so sick of missing you

paring: dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 2.0k

warnings: language, (slightly) injured dean, cheating, i think that’s it?

gif source

“Dean?” you asked. “Is that you?” You turned on the living room light and, as you suspected, your boyfriend was sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room.

“Hey sweetheart,” he replied, his voice strained. “How was work?”

“Small talk, really?” you scoffed a little. “Dean, I can see your injuries from here, what happened to you?”

“Remember that job I told you about?” he laughed as he stood up, a pained wince leaving his lips. You hurried over to him, filled with worry.

“A ghost did this? How?” you asked. He had a deep cut on the side of his face, accompanied by an array of bruises. As he shrugged off his leather jacket, your eyes widened at the amount of blood seeping through the part of his shirt that covered his shoulder.

“A uh…A werewolf did this,” he said quietly. Somehow your eyes widened even more.

“Are you fucking with me Dean Winchester?”

He chuckled, “No, sweetheart, I’m not fucking with you. Werewolves are real, unfortunately.”

“I’m guessing they’re nothing like Jacob Black?” you muttered, eyes glued to his injuries.

“And Vampires aren’t like the Cullens, either.”

“Vampires!?” you practically shrieked. “You mean to tell me you’ve been fighting the fucking Salvatores this whole time and all you told me about was ghosts?”

“Salvatores?” He furrowed his brows.

“Vampire Diaries?” you replied, he nodded a little when he understood what you meant. “I guess that show wouldn’t be as fun to watch if you’d seen it firsthand.”

“Yeah, I’ve always been more into movies that don’t glamorize eating humans.” He smiled somewhat sarcastically. You rolled your eyes a little, before focusing back onto the blood he was sporting.

“So why the hell aren’t you at the hospital?” you asked him.

“Cause you were closer,” he replied, shrugging a little. He winced a little at the motion and your brows knitted with worry.

“Dean, I’m a veterinarian’s assistant, you shouldn’t have come to me for help?”

“Please?” he asked.

“Of course I’ll fucking help you!” you replied quickly. “Sit down at the kitchen table, I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

Keeping to your word, you stitched Dean up within the hour and let him shower as you found him some clean clothes to wear from all the times he’d stayed at your place.

“Thank you.” He smiled before he kissed you. “But, I can’t stay here tonight.”

“What?” you scoffed, smiling.

“I- I’m sorry but coming here tonight was a stupid mistake.”

“Dean, you’ve come here dozens of times this past year-and-a-half. What’re you talking about?”

“Look,” he sighed, “telling you about my job was a moment of stupid weakness, and if I stay with you now you have no idea the kind of danger you’ll be in.”

“So…?”

“So, this is goodbye.”

“What? No!” you exclaimed. You gripped his non-injured arm and forced him to look into your eyes. “This is not goodbye, Dean Winchester.”

“It has to be,” he whispered. Your eyes brimmed with tears as he stared down at you. “I’m sorry.” He started to walk to the door but you hurried and got between him and his destination.

“Dean Winchester I love you, please don’t go,” you exclaimed, tears running down your cheeks.

“I can’t let you get hurt because of me,” he whispered, eyes glued to the floor.

“What kind of fucking excuse is that!” you shouted. “Look at me you fucking coward!” He did as you asked, tears in his eyes now too. “If you walk out that door right now you will be hurting me so much more than anyone else ever could.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he pushed past you and left. Out the door, out of your life. You locked the door behind him before trudging over to the couch and letting yourself cry.

You didn’t hear him, but before he left, Dean stood outside your door and whispered, “I love you too, Y/n.”

**

He never called. If he had you would’ve fucking answered, but he never even bothered.

He kept an eye on you, in a slightly-creepy way. (If it had been anyone else, it would’ve been very creepy. But this was Dean Winchester and his intentions were nothing but good; he just wanted to keep you safe.) He’d drive past your house or park outside where you worked to be sure you were still okay. To be sure one of the many monsters he’d pissed off hadn’t found you and taken revenge.

Once he watched as you carried two full bags of groceries into your home, and when one of the paper bags broke it took everything in him not to run and help. He told himself it was for the best, that he was keeping you safe and that’s all that mattered.

He hated himself every day he didn’t call you. He felt like such an asshole. He knew you loved him, but he didn’t say it back.

**

“Alright, I gotta ask,” Sam said one day when Dean had been staring at his laptop with an unusual amount of concentration. They had already finished the case and it was time for Dean to either get wasted and sleep with someone, or just go to bed. “What the hell are you looking at so intensely over there?” he laughed as he walked over and took a look at the screen. “Who’s she?”

“Nobody,” Dean mumbled as he closed the laptop, annoyed.

“Oh my god,” Sam exclaimed. “That’s Y/n!”

“Who?” Dean replied.

“That girl from Chicago you used to run off and stay with after we finished a case within a hundred mile radius of her house?”

“How…”

“I have eyes and ears and a working brain, that’s how.” He shook his head as he sat back down. Sam noticed the hurt in Dean’s eyes and realized there was a huge chance this girl had died and that’s why Dean hadn’t seen her in almost six months. “She okay?”

“Yeah, she- she’s fine. I think she’s seeing someone but I can’t tell if it’s serious or not.” Dean shrugged.

“So…you’re stalking your ex?”

Dean didn’t feel ashamed for ‘stalking’ you, even after Sam put it like that.

“Guess so,” Dean mumbled.

“Well what’s the new guy look like?” Sam asked, trying to be supportive of his brother’s obsession. “You’re sure they’re dating? Not just…friends?” Sam suggested. Dean took a moment to find the picture he had seen earlier on your FaceBook. When he found the page, he turned the laptop around and showed Sam, who cringe-clenched his teeth with sympathy. “Yeah, they’re dating.” The picture was of you and your new boyfriend kissing and the caption was a heart emoji. Clearly, you had moved on quicker than Dean.

**

Dean continued to keep an eye on you, but at more of a distance.

Until one evening, when he saw you his heart somehow broke more. You were stepping out of your car, wearing a beautiful, sexy red dress; but you were in tears. Balling your fucking eyes out, to be indelicate.

Before he could think twice, he was out of the Impala and hurrying toward you.

“Y/n!” Dean called out when he was a few yards away.

“Holy fuck!” you exclaimed loudly. Dean was the last person you expected to see right now. “Dean! What the hell?” You wiped your tears, trying to somewhat compose yourself.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He stood next to you now, and as he reached out to touch your shoulder you pulled your arm back.

You scoffed. “I just have the absolute worst taste in men, that’s all!” You brushed past him and he followed you to your door.

“Sweetheart please tell me what’s wrong? Why’re you crying?”

“Dean, come on! Are you really asking me that right now? This is nothing compared to the fucking tsunami of tears you caused me!”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, you aren’t, because if you were you would’ve called. You would’ve come back to me and apologized for taking my fucking heart out!” You walked into your house and slammed the door behind you, locking it before Dean could enter.

“I wanted to, Y/n, believe me!” he exclaimed against the door. “I wanted to call you every fucking day this past year. I thought I was protecting you but I’m fucking sick of this! I’m sick of sitting up at night and wishing I was with you. I’m sick of missing you, Y/n.”

“Why’d you come talk to me this time?” you asked, not opening the door.

“What do you mean?”

You opened the door so you could look him in the eyes. “I’ve seen that gorgeous Impala of yours parked outside the animal hospital and my house, you know.”

“Oh…” he mumbled, suddenly feeling very awkward. “Sorry.”

“Every time I saw it- her, sorry,” you corrected yourself, remembering Baby had a name. You saw the way Dean smiled at your words. “Every time I wished you’d just come and talk to me. So why did you this time?”

“I- When I saw you were crying I thought you were hurt.” He watched as you opened the door enough so he could walk in.

“The guy I’ve been seeing for the past eight months just slept with my co-worker,” you told him as he walked in. “I just walked in on them.”

“Oh my god, Y/n I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t be,” you scoffed a little. “I didn’t love him.” You looked up into Dean’s bright green eyes as yours began to fill with tears again. “The man I really, truly, completely loved walked out on me after I told him.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Dean I want nothing more than to hug you and kiss you and let you tell me how much you care about me but I know it’s all a fucking lie. I know you’re just gonna walk out again,” you said. “If you need a place to stay tonight you can have the couch.” You walked toward the living room. “Fun fact, it’s the same couch I was glued to and crying on for about three days after you left. Got a pink slip at work and everything, so thanks for that,” you said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry!” Dean exclaimed, following you. “Please believe me; I was only trying to keep you safe! I didn’t want you to get hurt!”

“Hurt? Dean I told you that night you would be hurting me by leaving and you left anyway!” You turned back to face him, now both standing in the living room. There was a long pause as Dean thought of what he could possibly say to make you understand. To turn ‘man I loved’ into ‘man I love’. “So what’s different now? Why are you suddenly asking to be a part of my life again?”

“Because I’m so fucking sick of missing you. I’m so sick of this gut wrenching feeling I get every time I hear your name. I’m sick of not being able to call you when I want to hear your voice. I’m sick of missing you, Y/n. And I know it’s selfish as fuck to come back here, because I could very well be putting you in danger, but I’m just so sick of missing you.” Tears were streaming down Dean’s cheeks as he poured his heart out to you; hoping, praying you’d give him a second chance.

“Is that really the reason? The only reason you left was because you didn’t want a monster to follow you back here?” you asked, he nodded.

“Yes, yes Y/n, that’s the one and only reason.”

“Okay,” you whispered, his eyes widened. “Don’t look so suprised,” you let out a little laugh, “I still fucking love you, even though you may be an idiot.”

“You- You still love me?” he asked, you just smiled. “I love you, Y/n. I- I loved you back then but I- I just couldn’t say it.”

You reached your arms around his neck and quickly pulled him down into a deep kiss. He smiled against your mouth and you mirrored his expression.

“For the record,” you whispered when you pulled away. “I’m sick of missing you too.”

[lightdancingwords]

Second Chances - Part Eleven of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock. Word Count: 3,996 Tags/Warnings: murder, murder/death/kill, police work, lots and lots of angst A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I couldn't resist--I gotta have me some Beau while writing Dean! This is a brand new story of Beau and female reader! Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Eleven: Stress

It had been weeks since FBI Agent Rachel O’Hare arrived in Big Sky, and the body count had only grown. Each new murder added more weight to the already suffocating atmosphere of the town. Fear was palpable, spreading like wildfire as the community grappled with the reality of a killer living among them.

For Beau, the pressure was relentless. His days and nights blurred into one long stretch of work—crime scenes, interrogations, strategy meetings with Rachel and his team. He barely came home, and when he did, it was only to shower, change, and exchange a quick hello with Y/N and Eliza. He hated it. Every time he walked out the door, he felt like he was leaving pieces of himself behind.

Today, the stress was at a boiling point. The mayor had called a meeting with Beau earlier that morning, and it had been anything but pleasant.

“You need to reassure the public, Sheriff,” Mayor Tomlin had said, pacing the conference room with his hands clasped behind his back. “People are scared. They’re looking to you for answers.”

Beau stood with his arms crossed, his expression grim. “And what exactly do you want me to tell them? That we have no suspects? That we’re doing everything we can, but this guy’s still out there?”

“Yes,” the mayor snapped, spinning to face him. “Tell them exactly that. But tell them with confidence. Tell them you’re going to catch this killer, because if you don’t, this town is going to implode. Businesses are already losing customers, parents are pulling their kids out of school—hell, some families are talking about leaving altogether.”

Beau’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at Rachel, who sat silently at the table, her brown eyes steady. She gave him a slight nod, a wordless encouragement that did little to ease the frustration roiling in his chest.

“Fine,” Beau said curtly. “I’ll give your damn speech.”

Later that afternoon, Beau stood on the steps of the sheriff’s department, facing a crowd of reporters and residents. The air was tense, thick with the kind of unease that came from too many unanswered questions. Cameras flashed, microphones were pointed in his direction, and all eyes were on him.

He adjusted his hat, his green eyes scanning the crowd. He spotted familiar faces—business owners, parents holding their children close, elderly neighbors who’d lived in Big Sky their entire lives. These were his people, his community. He’d never felt the weight of his role as sheriff more acutely than he did now.

Beau stepped up to the microphone, clearing his throat. His voice, when he spoke, was steady but tinged with weariness. “Good afternoon,” he began. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re angry. And you have every right ta be. No one should have to live in fear in their own home.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. The crowd was silent, their attention fixed on him.

“These murders have shaken all of us,” Beau continued. “And I want you to know that my team, along with the FBI, is working tirelessly to find the person responsible. We’re followin’ every lead, turnin’ over every stone. I promise you, we won’t stop until this killer is caught.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd—some voices of approval, others of skepticism. Beau clenched his jaw, his hand gripping the edges of the podium.

“I also want to ask for your help,” he said, his voice firm. “If you see somethin’, say somethin’. Even the smallest detail could make a difference. Be vigilant. Look out for each other. We’re a community, and together, we’re stronger than any fear this killer is trying to spread.”

Beau’s green eyes scanned the crowd again, his gaze softer now. “I know this is hard. But we will get through it. And when we do, it’ll be because we stood together.”

He stepped back from the microphone, the applause scattered but genuine. The crowd began to disperse, conversations bubbling up as people debated his words. Beau turned to head back inside, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the day.

Rachel was waiting just inside the door, her arms crossed and her expression thoughtful. “You did good, Sheriff,” she said quietly.

Beau gave her a curt nod, his jaw still tight. “Let’s hope it makes a difference.”

“It will,” Rachel said, her tone confident. “People just need to feel like they’re part of the solution. You gave them that.”

Beau didn’t reply, his mind already spinning with the dozens of tasks still ahead of him. But as he walked past her, her words lingered, and for the first time in days, he felt a small flicker of hope.

The days stretched into weeks, and the murders continued to haunt the town of Big Sky. Beau threw himself deeper into the investigation, hardly stopping to eat or sleep. His office had become a second home, his once-warm moments with Y/N and Eliza reduced to fleeting hellos and tired goodbyes. And then, there was Rachel.

She had a way of making herself indispensable. Her insights were sharp, her dedication tireless, and her presence steady. She worked long hours alongside Beau, poring over files, chasing leads, and mapping patterns that seemed to shift and twist like smoke. And somewhere along the way, the professional barrier between them began to blur.

It wasn’t anything overt—at least, not at first. There were the lingering moments when their hands brushed as they passed papers back and forth. The way Rachel would lean in close to point something out on the murder board, her shoulder brushing his arm. The way her brown eyes would meet his across the room during a tense meeting, her expression softening for just a second. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but noticeable to the sharp eyes of Deputy Jenny Hoyt.

Jenny stood in the break room, her arms crossed tightly as she stared through the window into the conference room. Beau and Rachel were seated close together, their heads bent over a map sprawled across the table. Rachel’s auburn hair glinted under the harsh overhead light as she leaned in to say something, her hand briefly brushing Beau’s arm. He didn’t pull away, his green eyes fixed on her with an intensity Jenny didn’t like.

“You’re gonna burn a hole through that window, Jenny,” came Doris’s voice as she stepped into the room, a cup of coffee in hand. She followed Jenny’s line of sight and raised an eyebrow. “Ah. The Sheriff and the FBI lady.”

Jenny didn’t take her eyes off them. “You see it too.”

Doris sipped her coffee, studying the pair through the glass. Rachel was gesturing toward a point on the map, her body angled toward Beau in a way that felt more intimate than professional. Beau nodded, his posture relaxed—too relaxed. Doris frowned.

“Yeah, I see it,” Doris said finally. “There’s something there.”

Jenny turned to her, her expression taut with frustration. “It’s inappropriate, Doris. He’s got Y/N at home, pregnant with his kid. He’s got Eliza. And he’s spending more time in there with Rachel than he does with them.”

Doris sighed, setting her coffee on the counter. “I’m not gonna argue with you. It’s not a good look. But what do you expect us to do about it?”

Jenny’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. “I don’t know. Maybe remind him who he is. Who he has waiting for him at home.”

“And how do you think that’ll go?” Doris asked, her tone practical but not unkind. “You walk in there, tell him he’s too close to Rachel, and what happens? He shuts down, tells you it’s none of your business, and now you’re on his bad side. Meanwhile, the case stays unsolved, and this whole town keeps falling apart.”

Jenny’s jaw tightened, and she looked back at the conference room. Rachel was laughing softly at something Beau had said, her hand resting on the edge of the table, close enough to his to suggest familiarity. It made Jenny’s stomach twist.

“It’s not just about the case,” Jenny muttered. “It’s about him. He’s not like this, Doris. Not usually.”

Doris nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Stress does strange things to people, Jenny. And this case? It’s eating him alive. Rachel’s here, working right beside him, helping him put the pieces together. It’s easy to see how he might start leaning on her.”

Jenny’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “But Y/N…”

Doris sighed again, her gaze softening. “I know. It’s not fair to her. She’s at home, holding it all together, waiting for him to come back. But, Jenny, it’s not our place to interfere. The best we can do is hope Beau remembers who he is—and what he’s got.”

Jenny swallowed hard, her throat tight. “And if he doesn’t?”

Doris picked up her coffee, her expression grim. “Then it’ll be his mistake to live with. And believe me, he will.”

The two women stood in silence for a moment, watching as Rachel leaned in closer to Beau, her voice low and steady as she pointed to another spot on the map. Beau nodded, his focus entirely on her. The scene felt too intimate, too familiar, and Jenny couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in her chest.

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t cross that line,” Doris said quietly, breaking the silence.

Jenny nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. Let’s hope.”

As the night wore on, Beau and Rachel remained in the conference room, their focus unwavering. Beau pointed to a section of the map pinned to the wall, his voice low. “This area—he’s stickin’ to it. But why? What’s keepin’ him here?”

Rachel stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his as she followed his gaze. “Could be familiarity. If he’s local, he knows these neighborhoods, knows how to blend in.”

“Or,” Beau said, his voice trailing off as his thoughts churned, “he’s targetin’ something specific we haven’t figured out yet.”

Rachel tilted her head, her auburn hair falling over one shoulder as she turned to him. “We’ll figure it out, Beau. You’re too good at this not to.”

There was something in the way she said his name—soft, almost intimate—that made Beau glance at her. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his green eyes meeting her warm brown ones. The air between them shifted, subtle but charged.

Rachel smiled faintly, stepping back. “I’ll grab the next batch of files,” she said, her tone lighter as she broke the moment.

“Yeah,” Beau said, clearing his throat. “Good idea.”

As Rachel left the room, Beau ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The exhaustion of the case weighed heavily on him, but it wasn’t the only thing pulling at him now. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Get it together, Arlen.”

The flashing red and blue lights painted the quiet suburban street in harsh, alternating hues. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood, and the low hum of murmured conversations from officers and forensic techs only added to the oppressive atmosphere. Beau stepped out of his truck, his face set in a grim mask as he surveyed the familiar, horrifying scene ahead of him.

Another murder. Another young woman. The same chilling pattern—killed in her home, no sign of a struggle, no forced entry. Beau didn’t need to step inside to know exactly what he’d find, but he forced himself to anyway. He had to. It was his job.

Jenny was already there, her expression tight as she stood near the doorway. “Victim’s name is Alyssa Baker. Twenty-seven. Neighbor called it in after noticing her door was slightly open. Found her in the living room. Same as the others.”

Beau nodded curtly, stepping past her into the house. The living room was pristine, eerily undisturbed, save for the lifeless body of Alyssa Baker lying on the floor. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful in death, as though she’d simply fallen asleep. But the bruising around her neck told a different story.

“Dammit,” Beau muttered under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides.

Rachel’s voice came from behind him. “It’s the same, Beau. Everything about it matches the others. He’s taunting us.”

Beau turned to her, his green eyes flashing with frustration. “I know that,” he snapped, harsher than he intended. “What I don’t know is why we’re still chasin’ shadows while this bastard keeps addin’ bodies to the count.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately, her calm demeanor only fueling his anger. “We’re doing everything we can—”

“Everythin’ we can?” Beau interrupted, his voice rising. “We’ve got fourteen—no, fifteen now—fifteen women dead, Rachel. Fifteen lives stolen. And you’re telling me we’re doing everythin’ we can? Then why the hell aren’t we closer to catchin’ him?”

The room went silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Officers and techs froze, their eyes flicking toward the sheriff, who rarely—if ever—lost his composure. Jenny stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. “Beau, take a breath.”

“I don’t need a damn breath, Jenny!” he shot back, his frustration boiling over. “I need answers! I need this son of a bitch off the streets before another woman ends up like her!”

He gestured toward Alyssa’s body, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his anger and guilt. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence deafening as everyone avoided meeting his gaze.

Rachel stepped closer, her voice low but steady. “Beau, I get it. Believe me, I do. But losing your head here isn’t going to help us find him. We need to stay focused.”

Beau turned to her, his jaw tight. “You don’t get it, Rachel. This isn’t just another case to me. These women—they’re my people. This is my town. I’m the one who has to look their families in the eye and tell them we don’t have answers.”

“I understand that,” Rachel said softly. “But we’re all on the same side here. Let me help you carry this, Beau.”

Her words hung in the air, but Beau didn’t respond. Instead, he turned away, running a hand over his face as he tried to rein in his spiraling emotions. He stared at the floor for a moment before exhaling sharply. “Get the scene processed,” he said gruffly. “Every inch of it.”

Jenny watched him closely, her concern etched into her features. “Beau…”

“I’ll be outside,” he muttered, brushing past her and stepping out into the cool night air.

The crime scene was buzzing with activity as officers and forensic techs worked methodically, the flashing lights of patrol cars illuminating the grim tableau. Beau had stepped outside, his chest tight, his hands clenched into fists as he leaned against the hood of his truck. The cool night air did little to ease the storm of emotions swirling inside him—anger, frustration, guilt, and the suffocating pressure of responsibility.

He stared out into the dark, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Another body, another family he’d have to face with no answers. The murderer was still out there, and with every second that passed, he felt the killer slipping further through his grasp.

“Beau,” Rachel’s voice cut through the quiet night, pulling him from his thoughts. She approached cautiously, her auburn hair catching the faint light from the streetlamp. Her tone was calm, steady, but there was a softness to it that made it feel personal. “You all right?”

“No, Rachel,” he muttered, not looking at her. “I’m not all right. There’s a killer out there, and we’re no closer to findin’ him than we were weeks ago. And now there’s another woman dead. Another family I have to face.”

She stopped a few feet away, her hands resting lightly on her hips. “I know this is eating at you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “And I get it. You care about this town, these people. That’s what makes you a good sheriff. But you can’t let this consume you.”

Beau scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t understand, Rachel. These people—they’re my responsibility. It’s my job to protect them, and I’m failing.”

“You’re not failing,” Rachel said, stepping closer. Her brown eyes were warm, her gaze unwavering. “You’re doing everything you can. More than most people would.”

He finally turned to look at her, his green eyes dark with frustration and something deeper—something he couldn’t quite name. “It’s not enough.”

Rachel held his gaze, her expression softening. “You’re not alone in this, Beau. You’ve got a team, people who want to help you. Let us carry some of this with you.”

For a moment, the tension between them hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, close enough to see the way her chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Her voice softened, her tone almost tender. “You’re not in this alone.”

Beau’s jaw tightened, his breath catching as her hand reached out to rest lightly on his arm. It wasn’t an overly intimate gesture, but it sent a jolt through him all the same. The world around them seemed to fade, the noise of the crime scene muffled as their eyes locked.

“Rachel…” he started, his voice low and strained, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t step back. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her eyes searching his face. The space between them felt charged, a pull that neither of them seemed able—or willing—to resist. For a fleeting moment, Beau felt himself leaning toward her, his resolve weakening under the weight of everything he was carrying.

But just as her breath brushed against his cheek, he froze, reality crashing back in. He straightened abruptly, pulling back and breaking the moment. His jaw set, his green eyes hardening as he took a step away.

“No,” he said firmly, his voice rough. “I can’t.”

Rachel blinked, her hand dropping back to her side as her expression shifted. There was no anger or offense in her gaze—just understanding. She nodded slowly, stepping back to give him space. “I get it,” she said softly.

Beau ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “I need to get back to work,” he said, his tone clipped as he turned toward the house.

“Beau,” Rachel called after him. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. Her expression was calm, but her voice carried a quiet sincerity. “Whatever you’re feeling—it’s okay. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

He didn’t respond, simply nodding once before heading back inside, his shoulders squared, his focus resolute. The moment lingered in his mind, a knot of tension that he couldn’t quite untangle. But he pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. There was no room for anything else—not now.

The house felt too quiet, even with Eliza’s occasional giggles as she played with her toys on the living room rug. Y/N sat on the couch, one hand resting on the gentle curve of her six-month pregnant belly, her thoughts heavy. It had been weeks since Beau had spent more than a few fleeting moments at home. She understood the demands of his job, especially now, but the loneliness was becoming harder to ignore.

She glanced over at Eliza, who was stacking her blocks with careful concentration. The toddler’s curls framed her face, and her small hands moved with determination as she carefully balanced one block on top of another. Y/N smiled faintly, but the ache in her chest didn’t lessen.

Finally, she stood, smoothing her hands over her belly as she made a decision. She wasn’t going to sit here and wait for him to come home—not tonight. If he couldn’t come to them, then she and Eliza would go to him.

“Eliza,” Y/N said gently, crouching down to her daughter’s level. “How about we go see Bo-Bo?”

Eliza’s face lit up, her wide eyes sparkling. “Bo-Bo!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Y/N smiled, brushing a curl away from her daughter’s face. “That’s right, sweetheart. Let’s get our coats.”

A short while later, Y/N parked the car outside the sheriff’s department. The building was dimly lit, the occasional shadow moving past the windows as deputies went about their work. She hesitated for a moment, her hand lingering on the steering wheel. Beau hadn’t been home much, and she knew he was under enormous pressure. Was this the right thing to do?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Eliza’s excited voice from the back seat. “Bo-Bo?”

Y/N turned to see her daughter craning her neck to look at the building, her little face pressed against the car window. Y/N smiled, her decision made. “Let’s go see him,” she said softly, unbuckling Eliza from her car seat.

With Eliza on her hip, Y/N walked into the station, the weight of the past weeks easing slightly as the warmth of the building surrounded them. Several deputies glanced up from their desks, their expressions softening as they recognized her.

“Y/N,” Jenny said, standing from her desk. Her gaze flicked to Eliza, who was already waving enthusiastically. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d surprise Beau,” Y/N said, shifting Eliza slightly. “He’s been… busy.”

Jenny’s smile was faint but genuine. “That’s one way to put it. He’s in his office.”

“Thanks,” Y/N replied, heading toward the familiar door.

Beau was seated at his desk, a stack of files spread out before him, his shoulders tense as he flipped through pages of crime scene photos and reports. His hat sat on the corner of the desk, forgotten, and the faint lines on his forehead betrayed his exhaustion.

“Knock, knock,” Y/N said softly, stepping into the office.

Beau’s head snapped up, his green eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of her standing there, Eliza perched on her hip. For a moment, he simply stared, as though trying to make sure they were real.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with emotion as he stood. “What are you doin’ here?”

Eliza squealed in delight, holding out her arms. “Bo-Bo!”

Beau crossed the room in a few long strides, scooping Eliza from Y/N’s arms with a soft chuckle. “Hey there, wolf-child,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You miss me?”

Eliza nodded emphatically, her little hands patting his face. “Miss Bo-Bo.”

Beau’s chest tightened, and he looked up at Y/N, his green eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and guilt. “I’m sorry, darlin’,” he said quietly. “I’ve been…”

“Busy,” Y/N finished gently, stepping closer. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her eyes soft. “I know, Beau. But we miss you. And I thought maybe you could use a break.”

He sighed, his free hand running through his hair as he shifted Eliza on his hip. “You don’t know how much I needed this,” he admitted, his voice low. “How much I needed to see you.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her hand sliding down to lace with his. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. You’ve got us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I’m sorry for bein’ so distant. I just—this case, it’s…”

“I know,” Y/N said again, her voice gentle. “But don’t forget who’s waiting for you when it’s over.”

Beau looked down at Eliza, who was now playing with his badge, her little fingers tracing the edges. He smiled, leaning down to kiss Y/N softly. “I won’t,” he promised. “I swear, I won’t.”

For a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter, the warmth of his family grounding him in a way nothing else could. And as he held Eliza close and pressed another kiss to Y/N’s temple, he allowed himself a small sliver of peace in the chaos.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

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[scoobydoodean]

So Garth suspects that Bobby’s flask is haunted and his EMF meter isn’t just messed up, right? And he floats that possibility to Dean, and Dean shuts the conversation down. Yet we know Dean has already suspected the flask of being haunted (7.13) and was yelled at by Sam for bringing it up. Then Sam turned around and acted on the belief that Bobby was indeed haunting them through the flask. Dean also acted on the belief that Bobby was haunting them in 7.17 when Bobby made a certain business card fall to the ground. He called the number and found out about Emanuel. And I just think it’s SO interesting that both Dean AND Sam know the flask is haunted but they’re not “supposed” to say that out loud, because saying it makes it real, and then they’d have to deal with it (by burning the flask) instead of existing in the comfort of Bobby watching over them.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Imagine...Going Against Dean’s Orders

Pairing: Detective!Dean x Detective!reader

______

“Just what exactly was that?” asked Dean as he stood up. 

“Me stopping the guy about to shoot you? You’re welcome by the way,” you said. Dean scoffed and shook his head. 

“I told you to cover the back. You were out of line.”

“I saw him-”

“You let the main suspect get away. This guy is a nobody. We could have had our guy and been done with it but you wanted to play hero,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Freaking junior detectives. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I have an obligation-”

“To uphold the law, Detective Y/L/N. You failed in doing that tonight,” he said.

“Fuck you, Winchester,” you said. You headed outside, kicking the car tire, Dean exiting with your other suspect a minute later. He paused as he walked before approaching the car and sitting the man in the backseat. Dean sighed as he shut the door, looking over the roof of the car at you.

“You didn’t mention that you got the other suspect.”

“You were too busy yelling at me,” you said, turning your back towards him. “I’m an idiot rookie that doesn’t know what they’re doing apparently.”

“Well I’m an idiot senior detective that didn’t want his girlfriend to get hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I thought you were too concerned for me and didn’t do the job.”

“I’ll do the job, Dean. But I’ll also save your ass if I have to. Honestly, I don’t know which one of those is going to be the priority all the time,” you said. There were a few footsteps and you turned away, Dean leaning back against the car. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine. Don’t yell at me for stuff like that again though,” you said. “You want to insult my cooking, that’s fine but don’t tell me I’m bad at this.”

“Okay,” he said. He rested his chin on your shoulder and gave you a hug from behind. “Want to go book these guys and then head home?”

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here, Dean.”

_________

[bangs-coffee-fandoms-unite]

Do you ever imagine that all your favorite characters, who have absolutely no connection to each other, just chill in your head when you’re not actively thinking about them?

For me, it’s like: Leonardo from the 2003 iteration of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Sam Winchester from Supernatural, and Obi-Wan Kenobi from the Star Wars prequels all sitting at a table sipping tea. And yes, they’re totally aware they’re in my head:

Leonardo: [staring at the mug in front of him] Is it just me, or does everything feel... jittery today?

Sam: [rubbing his temples] Oh, it’s not just you. I think she’s had, like, three cups of coffee already this morning.

Obi-Wan: [raising an eyebrow] Three cups? Amateur. During the Clone Wars, I once drank six cups in one briefing just to stay awake while Anakin explained his ‘perfect’ plan to flank a droid battalion. It wasn’t perfect. I ended up digging us out of a crater for three hours.

Leonardo: [sighing] No wonder I’ve been feeling like I should be training non-stop. The energy in here is buzzing.

Sam: [grinning slightly] Hey, at least she’s somewhat productive when caffeinated. Sometimes it’s just doomscrolling and procrastination.

Obi-Wan: [calmly setting his cup down] Perhaps we should find a way to encourage her to hydrate. Tea, perhaps?

Sam: [shrugging] We can try, but she won’t listen to me about drinking water. Dean’s been yelling at her from somewhere in the subconscious for years.

Leonardo: Maybe if we say it’ll help her focus on writing, she’ll actually consider it.

Obi-Wan: [thoughtfully] A clever suggestion. But I suspect we may be at the mercy of her next coffee run regardless.

[kokabeeeel]

he hates not knowing who he is; hates feeling trapped in a meat suit that is his, deep down he knows its his, but it isn’t his.

watching his brother, sam knows dean is saying something — his lips are moving, they’re forming words and syllables — but he can’t hear a single thing.

static: the way its been since the cage.

he feels pathetic, its been months and he should be over it by now, but theres the shadow at the corner of his eye — he also swears he saw claw marks on his back in the mirror the other day, but he was too nervous to ask dean if they were actually there.

if he thinks hard enough, if he cycles through his memory box, he can imitate the person he was; act in a way that is suspected of him.

sometimes he forgets.

‘wanna watch star wars with me, sammy? could make some popcorn- makeout a little when leia rescues han solo’ ‘why would i want to watch that? you know i don’t like it, dean.’

its star treck he doesn’t like.

sometimes he just forgets.

[immodestly-marina]

I'm spreading some random SPN asks to lovely moots, so here goes: if you could put Sam (season of your choice) into any outfit for the boys to go undercover, what would it be (and can you describe it to us in excruciating detail)?

Also I need to know if JarPad was as tall as a normal human sitting down, because that is what I believe to be the truth in my heart of hearts! <3

i acc love this question so much, maid dress. (half kidding)

but in all seriousness, a boy scout outfit, here me out here tho stay w me!!!

short ass shorts (tight enough you can read the date on a dime) with a stupid belt (yknow the ones with the plane like clip? w the button?), a scarf with leaves and acorns printed on it and tied under the collar of his brown button up thats tucked in his shorts, his hair is held back with a bandana (and i would love it to be s1, s2, or s3 Sam, but tbh big buff princess haired s8 Sam would also be so funny). Tons of fake award patches from fake achievements that are ironed onto a long sash from his shoulder to his hip, all ironed on by Dean🤷‍♀️

Dean knows how much Sam will hate the idea, but canonically he always gets him to agree to stupid shit like that.

Anyway, the situation is he has to go up to their suspects house bc they know something is buried/hidden in their backyard. They answer the door to see Sam with a scowl on his face and a little red wagon filled with nutterbutters from the store, and a cheap plastic rake. The homeowner scoffs in disbelief when he says “Shlonger’s boyscouts, I’m here to offer you some delicious cookies and the helping hand of a friend to rake your yard?”

They let him in the back and he starts raking, muttering curse words under his breath. He waits until they’re not looking through the window to start digging for the object they’re looking for.

Obviously he leaves with reddened knees covered in dirt and dead grass, then rips the sash and bandana off while getting into the car. He chucks them at Dean like a brat, again, muttering a “stupid” and what sounds like a “humiliating” while he fastens his seatbelt.

However, honourable honourable mentions would be an elf at a mall, festival, or Santa’s workshop. Or, a maid dress. It had to be said <33

And yes he is still so huge sitting down!!! I wish they let me film bc it was such a good interaction, he was so sweet and understanding and just had the kindest demeanour. It’s also true that his eye contact is insanely intense, during my photo op it felt like he held it with me for minutes ffs. I’d mentioned how I struggle w anxiety and depression (he corrected me and told me how I deal with anxiety and depression) so during our photo op, I always tell the person I’m meeting to pick the pose, and holy fuck he was so gentle and wholesome for it, I’m working on a purely satirical fanfic abt the experience bc why not

[jenanigans1207]

“What about angels?” Dean turns his gaze to Cas over the rim of his beer bottle.

“What about them?” Cas answers, his gaze unwavering as ever as it meets Dean’s steadily from his spot in the chair next to Dean.

“Do they have any, y’know?” Dean gestures vaguely in the air with the hand that isn’t holding his beer.

Cas sighs. “No, Dean, I don’t know.”

Dean suspects that isn’t actually true. Cas has been good at reading Dean like an open book and to filth equally and simultaneously practically since the moment they met and he has never had any qualms about stating Dean’s unspoken truths if he felt it was necessary, no matter how Dean felt about it. So he certainly would be able to follow the thought process Dean had followed to jump from their previous topic to this one. But sometimes Cas just liked to fuck with Dean, and other times he liked to force Dean to communicate clearly, despite them both being on the same page and knowing it.

“Mating rituals.” Dean supplies because it becomes clear that whether Cas knew what he meant or not, he wasn’t going to offer anything further to this conversation unless Dean started it.

“You’re asking about angel mating rituals?” Cas asks with enough surprise that Dean briefly thinks that maybe he really didn’t know.

“Well,” Dean shrugs and takes a long draw of his beer. “Yeah.”

Cas’s gaze turns curious as it pierces into Dean, and he looks like he would love to probe around in Dean’s head for some sort of explanation. “Angels don’t—“

“Wait!” Dean cuts him off before he gets a chance to answer. “I want to guess.” He swirls the remaining half of the beer around in his bottle while he thinks before snapping a finger and pointing it at Cas. “I bet you’re like peacocks! You fluff your feathers up all big and do some dorky dance.”

The look on Cas’s face is priceless— somewhere between shocked and incredulous and Dean wants to commit it to memory forever. “No, Dean.”

“Damn.” Dean mumbles, reclining in his seat. “What about a nest? Do you build nests for your mates? Not with like twigs and shit, obviously, but— I dunno, pillows or blankets or something?”

“I believe that’s called a pillow fort.” Cas supplies dryly.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Dean taps a finger along the edge of his beer bottle, the condensation cool against his fingertip. “Find a shiny rock and gift that to them? Or like, a pretty piece of glass or something?”

Cas’s expression has turned long-suffering. “Are you going to compare me to every feathered creature you know?”

“Yeah,” Dean doesn’t even try to hide his own self-satisfied amusement. “If you give me long enough.”

Dean tries to think of anything that he can actually picture Cas doing. Because yeah, Cas likes shiny rocks and pretty glass as much as anybody does just because they’re nice to look at, but he doesn’t seem overly affected by them. And yeah, when he naps, he’s been known to find the softest and coziest blanket to curl up with, but that’s just smart. Dean has never seen Cas’s wings, so that’s a fifty-fifty shot, he supposes, but he’s also never seen Cas dance and can’t even picture it in his head.

“Well, allow me to spare us a long— though very enlightening, I’m sure— conversation.” Cas’s glare is unimpressed but it slides right off Dean while barely even drawing his attention. “Angels don’t have mating rituals because angels don’t mate.”

That stops all of Dean’s thoughts short. He turns his gaze back to Cas, surprised to find that Cas has turned to stare absently at one of the bookshelves in the room.

“They don’t?” Dean asks after the silence stretches thin between them.

“No.” Cas answers. And though his response is firm, it’s not mean or cold. “Angels don’t know love, Dean. At least, not romantic love. The only sort of love an angel is meant to feel is the sort of holy love for our father and his creations. The idea of romance doesn’t exist in heaven or to angels at all. There’s no need for mating rituals when mating isn’t something that would ever occur to or appeal to an angel.”

Dean thinks about this for a long time, the rim of his beer bottle pressed against his lower lip but he doesn’t take a sip.

In general, Dean has no problem believing that angels don’t love. In general, angels are selfish dicks and he can’t imagine any of them caring about anything other than themselves. In general, angels would never put someone before themselves in a way that’s required for both platonic and romantic love. But in more specific terms—

Well there is one angel who wears a trench coat and a tie that matches his eyes. There’s an angel who fell from heaven for the love of humanity. There’s an angel who has bled for love, died for love, given up everything that love is supposed to mean to an angel and completely rewritten the definition. There is an angel that has spent the better part of a decade looking at Dean in a way that he doesn’t look at anyone else, making Dean’s toes curl in his boots with the intensity of it.

“But…” the gears are turning as Dean tries to refocus his gaze on Cas. Cas isn’t looking directly at him, but Dean knows that Cas is watching him in his periphery, gauging Dean’s reaction without looking like he’s putting a significant amount of weight into it. “That’s not true.”

“Dean, I am quite certain that I know more about angels than you do.” Cas remarks.

Dean doesn’t rise to the bite of the comment. “But you love.” He says instead.

“Of course, I love humanity and the Earth very much.” Cas answers reasonably.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know.” And then, “but I mean romantically.”

“Dean—“

“Don’t you?” Dean challenges.

Cas doesn’t answer the question directly. “I am not a very good angel.”

“You’re the only good one.” Dean replies quickly and easily, with every ounce of sincerity he has.

Because Cas is the only good Angel. Cas is the only one who gets it, who cares, who actually wants what’s best for the world.

Cas is also the only one who can make Dean’s stomach squirm the way it does whenever he’s at Dean’s side. He’s the only one who makes Dean feel safe, the only one Dean trusts. He’s the only one Dean would ever trust or picture a future with. He’s the only one who makes Dean’s fingertips tremble, his heart stumble, his throat dry.

Granted, he’s the only person who does any of that for Dean, Angel or not.

“You think too highly of me.” Cas says before sipping his own beer that he had been nursing for the majority of the conversation.

“You’re avoiding the question.” Dean hedges.

Because— yeah, okay, Dean isn’t stupid. He sees his own feelings reflected in Cas’s eyes when Cas looks at him. He understands what it means when Cas steps closer to him, or gives up an entire goddamn army for him. Dean can be slow on the uptake with emotional shit, but he’s not that slow. And it probably helps that he sees it so clearly because he feels it so clearly in his own heart.

He knows the yearning, the longing, the desire. He knows all the fantasies of the happy-ever-after, all the filthier fantasies that fill up the days in between. He knows what it’s like to want to cling to Cas, to desperately plead with him to never leave Dean’s side. He knows the agony of their separation as acutely as possible. He gets it.

And he also knows why this has never happened, why neither of them have ever crossed that line, even though they’ve never even dared to hint at its existence before. Because he knows that what they would have— that would be forever. It would be ruinous in the most beautiful way, burning down everything around them and blazing a path to eternity. And for so many goddamn years, forever and eternity were in danger. For so many years, a future of any goddamn length was in danger.

What would be the point of starting something meant to last forever when forever didn’t exist? It hurt like enough of a bitch every time Dean lost Cas and he didn’t know if that was the last time he’d ever see him. If he’d lost his forever then, too, instead of just his best friend— well, what the hell reason would he have had to keep fighting? It was self preservation in its barest form, the knowledge that they could only keep going if they kept apart. Because that would keep them fighting, keep them determined to reach the day where forever was finally secured and they could fall into each other without reservations.

And, well, Dean hadn’t killed Chuck, but he had taken the bastard off the board so forever was well and truly theirs if they wanted it.

And Dean wanted it.

He wanted it so bad he almost didn’t know how to have it.

Cas is staring back at Dean now, seeming to go through the same mental calculations that Dean is going through. Dean just hopes that Cas has any idea how to reach out and grab the one thing they both want.

Cas takes a breath, sets his beer down.

“Yes.” He answers simply. “I do.”

Dean swallows against a dry throat. “So?” He prompts. “What’s your big game plan? You get to make up any mating ritual you want.”

“You know,” Cas says offhandedly. “If I tell you my big ‘game plan’, as you call it, you will have to give me feedback on it. How else am I meant to know if it would work?”

Dean licks his bottom lip. “I’m being trusted to approve the first ever angel mating ritual?” He aims for lighthearted, even though he can feel his pulse in his fingertips. “Lay it on me.”

“Well,” Cas doesn’t sound as nervous as Dean feels, even though he knows that he doesn’t really have any reason to feel that way. “I was thinking that I would start with the classic spark— maybe have multiple, raining down.”

Dean chokes on half of a disbelieving laugh.

“Then I would spend about, oh, over a decade at his side, always coming when he called and leaving when he got sick of me. I would try very, very hard to navigate his boundaries and I would be unsuccessful.” Cas’s smile is wry. “I would betray him a time or two.”

“Keep him guessing.” Dean says, the smile clear in his voice.

“Exactly.” Cas is smiling more genuinely now. “I would probably die for him a few times, too. Maybe even accidentally start a family with him.”

Dean has set his own beer down now. “You gotta add in some, like, intense eye contact, or something.”

“And no personal space.” Cas agrees with a nod.

Dean laughs outright now, the nerves draining completely from his body. He had no idea the conversation would steer this way when he had asked what he assumed was an innocent enough question, but he’s glad that it did. Because if he’d had time to prepare for this conversation, time to anticipate it, he knows that he would’ve chickened out. Just like he has so many times in the past.

When his laughter dies down, Cas says “well?”

“What can I say, man?” Dean leans onto the armrest of his chair, putting himself closer to Cas. “It would work on me.”

“Oh, would it?” Cas asks as he, too, leans into the barely there space that’s separating them.

“Hell yeah.” Dean murmurs, reaching across to wrap a hand around Cas’s tie. “Would have me all weak-kneed and giggling.”

Cas starts to say something back but Dean honestly doesn’t give a shit what, so he tugs on the tie and draws Cas to him, pressing a far overdue kiss to his lips. Cas, as always, meets him in the middle, a hand gently encircling Dean’s wrist as he kisses him back with ten years of pent of adoration.

One kiss turns into two, turns into seven before they finally settle back into their respective seats.

“First angel mating ritual in history,” Dean says around a satisfied smile. “And you were successful.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to tell the other angels in case any of them have a free decade to spend seducing one of the most frustratingly stubborn men on earth.” Cas replies in a way that is full of endearment instead of the frustration he mentioned.

Dean just laughs and kisses him again.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 888

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter

Warnings: A/B/O, non/con elements , dub/con elements, enslavement, pandemic, non/con drug use, collaring/leashing, forced mating, forced breeding, BDSM elements, show-level violence

*Additional warnings to be added

*Square filled: @spnabobingo - Alpha Challenging Alpha

A/N: * UPDATED 3/24

A/N II: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

GIF by antiquerss

Part II

“Dean's preference of type doesn’t matter, but I want one under eighteen.” 

Sam’s head snapped up in shock. That wasn’t the plan; John was specific that O should be older than Dean and preowned, making them cheaper to repurchase. “Dad, why are you wanting…?” John cut him off with a low growl, provoking Sam’s inner wolf to reciprocate, neither noticing Helms studying their interaction with interest.

Alpha Winchester can’t wholly control this beauty like the other one. The boss will be pleased to learn about these developments. 

“A House O would normally do on paper,” Helms interrupts, “But I know this judge, they will not be satisfied with that alone.”  Both Winchesters have matching, confused expressions, and he continues before John can ask what that means.

 “The judge will require that I follow the statutes in Hibbins and your pack's unusual dynamics: three virile, unmated Alphas with no permanent abode, residing whatever. House O’s have a breed down to need stability, so a Pack Omega would be ideal even if they're as scarce as Phoenix and need the right connections, but there's your social standing.” That remark made Sam snort. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned their social standing, not so slyly code for a dirt-poor pack. 

“I have a few in the preferred age range we could negotiate over, but I suspect you won’t allow your Subordinate to breed them. The judge probably will consider that a deal breaker. The best option is an altered pre-owned Feral. And fortunate for you, I’ve recently acquired a selection from a fire sale. This way, gentlemen.” 

Dean's wolf whines, watching his pack move farther into the building. At the same time, he can only stand there, as ordered, and observe these unfortunate creatures bartered over as the livestock society considers them. His Alpha knew it would eat at his ingrained, perpetual guilt and is part of the repentance he has to endure because, once vexed, John Winchester never forgave or forgot.

Sam's inner wolf was getting more unquiet the longer they were in this den of iniquity. He knew the only reason John wanted him near was an additional jab at Dean to emphasize his failures. Fuck, he hated their Alpha using Dean's guilt against himself whenever displeased. Sam couldn’t see Dean from where they were, getting pissed that John was now only focusing on a couple of O’s that’d caught his interest.

Sam instinctually knew she was all wrong and, without realizing it, started vocalizing his displeasure. “What’s your problem now?” John barked at him. “They’re undoubtedly your type, sir,” Sam replied with his usual bluntness that made John's jaw clench, grudgingly reflecting on his youngest observation.

As the Dominant Alpha of his pack, John ultimately decided how they functioned, including mating. He cringed internally, remembering the drinking confession inadvertently made to Sam shortly after he presented.

It was a typical night when John was around.

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table finishing up some calculus homework. At the same time, John, sprawled on a couch, hovering between drunk and passed-out drunk, started talking about his mother.

Mary used to say three-year-old Dean was a handful, and now about to whelp again; it was too much for an Alpha herself to handle not having the instincts. She insisted John procure a House O to wet nurse the new pup because after extending the nursing of Dean, she wasn’t willing to do that again. John told her they couldn’t afford one, and Mary retorted if they had one, they could hatefuck their anger out on the O instead of John leaving. 

Sams revolted learning that the mother he never knew, one his brother practically worshiped, had wanted to purchase a House O to raise her litter and use them as a fuckslave to keep her mate happy and at home. When John started drunkenly lauding the pleasurable attributes of an Omegas natural slick pussy versus female Alphas, Sam grabbed Dean's CD player, pumped up the volume, and pretended to be working until John eventually passed out.

Shoving the books into his backpack, Sam retreated to their shared bedroom and retrieved the cobbled-together black-market laptop Dean secretly got him. Firing it up, he began researching the history of Omegas, the Hibbins Procurement Act, eventually going down the rabbit hole, finding blogs about how the effort to repopulate Omegas became perverted over the decades and obscure provisions secretly added during extension reviews that the government schools omitted felt his meager dinner about to reappear and bolted for the toilet.

Dean came rolling later, finding the laptop open on the bed, and immediately started worrying. His brother never left it out when their dad was around, followed the scent of sickness to find Sam lying on the bath floor, looking like he’d picked up an illness. Dean cleans him up, then tucks Sam into bed, diligently watching over him the rest of the night.

Surveying the area for hidden trouble, Sam catches an irresistible scent. His inner wolf hurls itself frantically against its cage of skin and bone, growling home home home in his mind. Flicking an eye towards his Alpha, whom Helms had distracted by another O. Without a second thought, Sam follows the wolf’s instincts, slowly backs towards the door left ajar, and slips through unnoticed.

Part III

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24  @flamencodiva    @lassie-bird @nancymcl   @spnbaby-67   @leigh70

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm

[pagannatural]

2.07 The Usual Suspects

-Sam being interrogated about Dean is so so good because we get to see Sam being told that his brother is a scumbag criminal and the way he reacts by rolling his eyes like he’s heard this before. It’s almost like seeing a teenage version of Sam. The detective keeps telling him to throw Dean under the bus and the whole time he’s just giving attitude and plotting how to help Dean and work the case. He keeps looking out the window. Some of his reactions are raw and some are fake and some are both and his mind is running through his options assessing what to do and how to get out of this.

When confronted with the cliff notes on his and Dean’s life, Sam runs the gamut of emotion from sad and grief-stricken about Jessica to defending Dean and acting all scandalized to being a smartass, to whatever the hell this is when she says “it’s not your fault he’s your brother, we can’t pick our family”

The double meaning here. The not meeting her eyes, the tension on his face, the disdain. It’s giving Bitch don’t I fucking know it, yet I would choose him a thousand times and every time I would be a little bit miserable. “It’s not your fault he’s your brother, we can’t pick our [soul mates]” is probably what God tells him in his most comforting dreams.

-So the detective’s theory is what? That after a shared sordid serial killer childhood Sam escaped the life and then Dean murdered Sam’s girlfriend in a house fire to lure him back in and make him his crime wife?

Because I mean yeah I would read that AU. That fits their vibe pretty nicely.

-She says “Dean’s a bad guy….his life is over, yours doesn’t have to be” and Sam looks at her like that’s the dumbest thing he has ever heard.

She doesn’t know that they become sickly and depressed when they’re apart like a pair of bonded sewer kittens.

When she tells him he can get on with his life and Dean’s as good as gone you can almost see him tuning her out and calculating how to lie about this.

-Sam starts on his cover story, using his trademark Sweet-Innocent face. He relies on his charms and on appearing helpless to manipulate people into doing what he wants. He would’ve learned to do this when he was a child as a survival skill, and I can just imagine how well this complemented Dean’s tough but earnest seduction thing. Acting sweet and helpless when you’re actually savvy and resourceful is a trope commonly used in female characters. These traits (innocence, sweetness, feigned helplessness) are associated with women gaining/utilizing agency in the ways available to them.

Because narratively, Sam is the girl. It’s stuff like this, plus the way he’s depicted as Dean’s tempting damsel in distress in other episodes. It increases the sexual tension between Sam and Dean when they rely on these archetypes because we know what it means when two leads are masculine and feminine, when they need each other and the plot hinges on their conflict. It means they’re the love interests.

-Dean makes a joke about Sam being Scully, and Sam’s like I’m not Scully you’re Scully, and Dean says “No I’m Mulder. You’re a red headed woman.” Really spelling it out.

Dean is smirking and making prolonged eye contact and just— he’s flirting. There’s a Bruce Springsteen song titled “Red Headed Woman” about how “it takes a red headed woman to get a dirty job done.” I have no idea if this is what Dean’s referencing or if it’s just a Scully reference but it’s a very specific thing to say and Sam is brunette. The song is very suggestive.

-Dean HATES waiting around while Sam works. Within seconds he becomes insufferable and has to leave to go do something, flirting with Sam again on his way out.

-“Sam’s story matches Dean’s to the last detail” they didn’t even SEE each other before talking to police! They’re just so connected that they tell the same exact story. Then they both work on the case in their separate interrogation rooms using different methods and arrive at the same conclusion at the same time. They also make the same joke about their public defender.

-I keep seeing this post about who knew Dean better, Sam or Castiel, and I just want to point out that these two are so in sync they can essentially read each others minds.

-We have an outsider perspective on their lives and relationship a few times this episode, and the detectives comment more than once on how weirdly connected the brothers are. Like, Dean communicates to Sam via movie reference to escape and Sam is already all over that, he’s been assessing how to climb out the window since his first scene.

-Dean tells the detective to go to Sam so that Sam can save her life, giving her their info on “how we find each other when we’re separated.” That’s very practical. It’s also true that when they aren’t together they are obsessed with finding each other and making sure they know exactly where the other is at all times. They must have felt so untethered when Sam was at Stanford. I’m imagining Sam going on a little trip over spring break and feeling like he’s forgetting something really important and starting to panic only to realize it’s just that Dean won’t know where he is.

[swabsandcream]

No Ordinary Fan [Part 2]

Jeffrey Dean Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/N and Jeffrey become more involved with one another since their initial encounter.

Warnings: Sexual content (18+), minors dni

A/N: Jeffrey is portrayed as a single man in this fic.

It had been a week since Y/N met her favorite actor for the first time and somehow managed to catch his eye all in one day. It was impossible to describe the barrage of emotions she felt afterwards. She even found herself bursting into a fit of hysterics once she got home that night, jumping around and screaming as if she had won the lottery. It went on for quite some time, and like Jeffrey had promised, he gave her a call that same day. All the way up to this point, their conversations had consisted of them trying to get to know one another. They shared their interests like their taste in music, favorite foods, and even the tv shows they were currently watching. Jeffrey enjoyed talking to Y/N just as much as she liked talking to him, despite their age differences.

Both of them had agreed to keep their relations private, refusing to tell anyone that they’re talking to one another. Jeffrey wanted to keep anything from leaking to the press prematurely, and Y/N didn’t want to be bombarded by his other fans on social media. They were enjoying the talking stage so far, but since Jeffrey had finished up his meet and greets, he decided to take things a step further. After texting Y/N back and forth a couple of times since the day started, he eventually asked her if she would like to come over to his house for dinner that night. Turns out he lived in the country area located right outside of her city which was about an hour away. This would be considered as their first date, so Y/N was feeling indecisive about the matter. Jeffrey assured her that she could decline the offer if she didn’t feel comfortable with it, but after taking a moment to think and consider the possibilities, she decided to join him after all. 

Shortly after accepting the invitation to her dream man’s house, she found herself in front of the bathroom mirror once again for a quick pep-talk. “Ok. You got this. You’re gonna go over his house and treat him like you would treat any other guy. God, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. Just breathe, and please don’t be weird.” 

She only had a couple hours to get ready, so she used her time wisely. She showered and shaved in every single place she so much as suspected there might be hair. Then she went to assess her wardrobe, carefully selecting her outfit in accordance with what she feels could possibly happen that night. She wanted to look sexy, but not too provocative to where he may think that she only came over for one thing. She shuffled through her clothes and found a white, long-sleeved dress that draped down to her knees. She hadn’t worn the dress in a while, but it still fit perfectly, and went well with the light makeup she had put on before she headed out to reunite with Jeffrey.

Roughly an hour and thirty minutes later, Y/N arrived at Jeffrey’s multi-million dollar estate in the country. She felt like she was in a movie, having to stop in front of a huge gate and wait until she was granted entry, then pulling in front of the most beautiful mansion she had ever seen. In fact, it was the only mansion she had ever seen up close and in person, being from the city and a part of the working class. She was taking in the view as she got out of her car, and before she could even make it up the stairway, she was greeted by an ecstatic Jeffrey while he stood in the doorway to his home. 

“Welcome! I’m so glad you- oh my.” He paused, watching Y/N as she walked up the stairway and stood right in front of him. “God you’re beautiful.” He said with a soft smile. “I feel like I might be underdressed.”

His outfit was very homey, a plain white t-shirt with black jogging pants. He also had on what’s presumed to be his reading glasses. Y/N had only seen him wearing them occasionally on the internet but seeing him like this in person felt like a dream to her. 

“No, you look good to me.” Y/N’s comment only made Jeffrey’s smile grow wider, his dimples becoming more visible in the process. He then took Y/N by the hand and brought her inside of his expansive house.

As they walked through the foyer, Y/N was captivated by the interior design of his home. Jeffrey on the other hand couldn’t take his eyes off of her, finding amusement in her wide-eyed expression as she continued to look around. As they proceeded through the hallway, they were greeted by two barking dogs, each of them choosing one of the humans’ legs to paw at. 

“I’m so sorry, I completely forgot to tell you about my babies.” 

“Awe they’re so adorable! What are their names?” Y/N asked as she squatted down to pet the overly excited dog in front of her. 

“This is Bandit.” He lifted up and held the dog that stood at his feet. “And that’s Irwin you’ve got right there.” 

Y/N proceeded to introduce herself to his pet and allowed it to give her a couple of kisses before standing back up. Jeffrey took note of how well she handled being around his excitable pets and how much they enjoyed being around her as well. The two then continued down his lengthy hallway, the smell of food growing stronger as they made their way into the kitchen.

"God, that smells amazing! You didn't tell me you were actually going to cook. I thought you might've ordered takeout or something." Y/N went straight for the sink to thoroughly wash her hands, Jeffrey following behind her as he lowered his dog back onto the wooden floor.

"Suprise, suprise!" His voice was cheerful as he took his turn at the sink. "It's already done, I put it on the table and everything." He finished washing his hands and guided Y/N over to the dining room next to them. He had a long, rectangular dining room table made of marble. On it were two plates of a meal that the two of them mutually enjoyed, along with two stemmed glasses of white wine. The effort and the time he spent putting this together did not go unrecognized by Y/N, referring to him as a true gentleman that knows how to treat a lady.

The two sat across from each other and began to enjoy their delicious meal. They had a detailed conversation about his memories of playing Negan and the on set shenanigans, especially with his good friend Norman Reedus. Y/N didn’t have nearly as many interesting personal stories to share, but Jeffrey listened intently regardless. She particularly loved the way he looked at her whenever she was speaking, like she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Although they had finished having dinner, they continued to talk while sitting at the table.

“Perfect.” He muttered, keeping his gaze on her as she told a story about a funny moment she had at work. She cut her story short, not quite hearing what he had said.

“What did you say?” She asked. 

“I said you’re perfect. Everything about you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.” Jeffrey’s voice was deep and sultry, sending chills down Y/N’s spine as she finished her glass of wine.��She didn’t have time to respond before Jeffrey got up out of his chair and made his way over to her on the other side of the table. He stood behind her and gently placed his large hands onto her shoulders, leaning down to whisper into her ear. 

 “Come with me. I want to show you something.” His seductive tone combined with the grip he had on her shoulders was a lot for Y/N to bear at the moment. She could feel a buzz coming on from the wine she drank, along with the growing arousal in between her thighs. He took his hands off of her and allowed his lips to brush against her ear as he stood straight up, stepping back from his date’s chair. With no hesitation, she stood up and took his hand as they made their way out of the dining room and into the movie theater he had built inside his home.

She gasped at the sight of the massive screen surrounded by an extra-long sofa that extended from one side of the room to the other. After listening to how much she loves watching films and tv shows, he knew that this room would be her favorite room of them all. He brought her over to the sofa, and they sat down next to each other, leaving a small space in between them. Y/N started lightly bouncing on the sofa with the intent to further entice the man beside her.

"Hmm comfy. Good for...a lot of things." Y/N's flirtatious behavior was definitely working at this point as Jeffrey's lips slowly curled up into a sinful smile.

"A lot of things like what exactly? Could you be more specific?" He placed a hand on her thigh, being covered by her dress, slowly rubbing it with his thumb.

Without a second thought, Y/N grabbed his hand and slid it underneath her dress, allowing his fingers to travel up the bare skin of her thigh. He exhaled deeply, taking in the feeling of her warm and delicate skin all the way up to the dampened cloth covering her warmth. Jeffrey used his free hand to adjust the protruding bulge in his pants, leaning in so close to her face that their noses were touching. She didn't say a word, allowing her unstable breathing to speak for itself.

"Tell me you want this." He whispered.

"I want this." She cooed, granting him permission to press his lips onto hers. From there, the two lovers were entangled with one another on the massive sofa with nothing but the sounds of their acts of pleasure.