#to be clear i know this song is not just about dean and cas

[strawberrryangel]

angel with a shotgun. woah. just like in destiel.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  SUMMER’S STELLAR GAZE

SUMMARY : part III of gimme half. on a mini-roadtrip to the bunker for something dean left behind, she decides to test dean’s word and his promises.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit (18+), fluff, Dean isn’t allergic to cats in this universe bc wtf, blowjob, hair pulling, dirty talk, road head, risky business 

WORD COUNT : 2.2k

A/N : silverstein song title. so yeah, I love Dean forever and ever actually, just like I wrote in my diary when I was ten. Omniscient POV to reader’s POV like a good ol’ movie. Xxxxxx

Dean sort of wanted to impress her. 

She was a hunter, like him, after all. 

If he showed her the Bunker, he hoped she'd be impressed; by him, by it, he really hoped so. There was a lot about the Bunker that impressed him when he’d gotten there. The dungeon, the showers, the lore, the garage, the kitchen, everything. That was his first thought when Sam asked Dean for some boxes of the kitchen items he’d left behind since they couldn’t bring everything with them. Dean saw the opportunity to show off. 

The past two weeks went by quickly. They were together now. Shared a New Years kiss at the behest of Eileen, Jack, and even tiny, baby Dean. 

Sam and Eileen were like kids with Barbie and Ken dolls, thrilled to make their favourite couple kiss at last. Cas and Jack were stunned at the discovery that two of them hated each other at first, but they were happy to see that Dean was happy.

It all just came together, somehow, after falling apart so messily. Her and Dean. Their lives.

It was natural for her to be around all of them. Dean forgot that it was him she had a problem with at first. It made it easy for Dean and hard for him all at once. They knew her better than he did and she knew them well, too.

They began bonding over hunting stories when he told Sam, Eileen, Cas, and Jack that she was also a hunter; she'd ask Cas and Jack a dozen questions whenever she could after finding out they were angels—the other, a nephilim. Sometimes, he’d catch a glimpse at Cas’ phone notifications and see what she asks him with a smile on his face. 

They’ve all been hanging out because of the holidays. She stayed with him during the weekends because he asked her to. He met her family, it was terrifying since they just started… dating… but her family was funny and kind to him. It eased his nerves, but they told him they’d heard of him from other hunters. He knew he was safe, hunters mostly liked him and his brother… except for the parts where they were at fault for all the bad stuff. 

Miracle was happier than ever to have his friend back, her Cat, Bubbles. Dean had a feeling Sam and Jack would take Miracle over to her place or maybe Miracle and Bubbles truly still remembered each other. 

Things are better, hotter now that they are together, more than when they were enemies. Dean was just beyond happy that he had her, that they talked about it… sort of. 

“You listen to the same music as my big brother,” she chuckled from beside him, the box of cassette tapes resting on her lap as she riffled through them. Dean smiled, taking his eyes off the road to gaze at her momentarily. 

“Yeah?” He asked, turning back to the road as they drove into the long, wintry, still-green forest that would lead them to the Bunker. 

“Yeah, I grew up on all of this music. My dad even loves Led Zeppelin,” she told him distractedly, staring at the clear plastic box labelled as Led Zeppelin. She shrugged and inserted the cassette tape into the deck of the car, Bonzo’s Montreux playing softly. 

“You get more and more awesome the more I get to know you,” he told her, biting his lip when he looked over at her. She pursed her lips as she smiled, entertained by his flirty, deep voice and his suggestive wink. 

“Awesome?” She smirked, putting the box back into its place. He turned to look at her once more, but he couldn’t look away from the softness and mischief in her eyes the whole time. 

“Perfect?” He offered, glancing away from her, taking in the big green trees he’s already familiar with. “Kissable? Hotter?” He suggested, smiling coquettishly. “Mmm, extra fuckable?” She looked at him through her lashes, her cheeks pink, and her breath unstable. 

Dean shifted in his seat and sat up straight, looking away from her arousing fuck-me gaze with his fingers tightening around the black steering wheel of his heavy car. Heat flooded the area between her legs at his reaction. Her clit pulsed in pace with her heartbeat and she bit her lip. A million ideas streamed through her mind. A million ideas to relieve the need she had to be fucked by Dean once more. 

The tension in the car was nearly as thick as the first night they had sex, it made her breathless, her heart pounded heavily with lust in her chest, and her pussy squeezed around nothing, instantly remembering the sex they had in his garage before they left.

She placed her hand on his thigh and he inhaled sharply, quickly turning to look at her with a deep blush on his face. Dean relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, and held it with only one hand, to put one of his hands over hers. She bit her lip and watched the side of his gorgeous face as he guided her hand higher. 

She smiled brightly and lifted her hand beneath his to smack his hand away. He chuckled, taking a quick glance over at her playfulness. 

“You said you’d fuck me anywhere, at any time,” she leaned over slightly, placing her arms on top of the seat, and resting her chin on her crossed arms. He glanced at her, exhaling shakily as she held his gaze through her lashes. “You promised me a lot of things, actually,” she moved her hand away, tracing his jaw with her fingers. His eyes fluttered shut. “Dean…” she murmured, moving her fingers up to his lips, and he opened his eyes before he could swerve too far from the road. “I recall a few things you seemed to really like.” 

She leaned forward suddenly, licking his earlobe mischievously. Dean moaned softly, his eyelids heavy with lust, and his eyes clouded over with arousal. 

“Like making me choke on your cock,” she whispered into his ear, dragging her lips down his neck. He groaned softly and shuddered, squirming as he attempted to focus on driving. “I want you in my mouth, Dean,” she purred, sliding her hand down his chest and stomach slowly, “right here, right now.”

“Fuck,” Dean moaned, lifting his hips up into her hand when she cupped his cock over his jeans. She sucked gently at his pulse, making the faded mark on his neck return. “Yes,” he whispered, biting his lip hard. 

“I love when you get hard for me, baby,” she murmured, squeezing his cock. 

“I need you,” he rasped, “I want to see your pretty mouth wrapped around me.” She laughed softly, unbuckling herself from the seat and then him. He chewed on his lip and focusing on driving as he got closer to the Bunker while she unbuckled his belt. He lifted his hips after she unzipped his jeans, allowing her to lower them slightly until his cock was free. 

“You’re aware of how blessed you are, right?” She teased, biting her lip, sliding her fingers up his cock. Dean gasped and then he laughed breathlessly, his dick twitching at her delicate touch. 

“I’m aware of how much you like my dick?” He smiled down at her shyly. She licked her lips, and rolled her eyes at his modesty. She kissed the tip, then gently placed her hand around the base to kiss her way down.

“Have you heard the sounds I make when you fuck me?” She whispered against the velvety skin of his cock. He grunted softly when she flattened her tongue and licked her way back up. “I don’t make those often, by the way,” she said casually, swirling her tongue around the tip. 

“Here I thought you were a good girl,” he breathed out, lowering one hand into her hair, to try and push her down on his cock. She squeezed his cock, jerking her hand up and down quickly, then sucked on the tip hard, causing him to choke on a moan. She pulled away with a loud suckling sound that made him curse under his breath.

“I went over to your place without underwear, and then I asked you to talk dirty as I sucked your dick, and then I begged you to cum inside me. What part of all that made you think I was a good girl?” She lapped the precum that beaded from his tip, her mouth watering at the taste of him. 

“The morning after,” he answered softly, his emerald eyes flickering to hers. She stopped licking his cock momentarily to consider his words, the tenderness in his voice causing her stomach to flutter. It was things like this, his words, his actions… things like that about Dean that aroused her even more. 

She moaned appreciatively, lowering her mouth over his dick, then pulled up almost all the way off, repeating the motion, and then began sucking, and licking. He moaned her name softly, struggling to focus on driving such a heavy car, but she noticed the slower speed. 

She took him deeper into her mouth, gagging slightly when he touched the back of her throat. Dean moaned out a curse, tightening his grip on her hair, pushing her up and down his cock faster. She moaned softly around him, letting him guide her as she sucked her way up his cock, her tongue moving along the underside of his length. Occasionally, her throat constricted around his length as she swallowed. 

His hitched breath made her wetter, throaty groans, and desperate grunts made her clit pulse uncomfortably in her warm dress pants. She reached down to press her fingers against her clit and took him all the way down her throat. His hips bucked upwards and the leather around the wheel squeaked under his tight grip, but he never pulled too roughly on her hair. 

“Holy fuck,” Dean grunted as she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock when she got to the leaking tip and sucked the taste of his precum. Then, she began to twist her hand around him, following the path of her mouth up and down, until she heard rocks and dirt crunching beneath the wheels of the car, and the Impala coming to a complete stop. 

Dean relaxed completely as he set the car in park, leaning his head backwards. The sounds of his pleasure and the wet sound of her mouth and throat getting fucked competed for volume. Dean lifted his shirt and gazed down at her, thrusting his hips up faster into her mouth.

She blinked away tears to stare into his eyes, her cheeks and ears burning hot, her jaw and lips sore from taking him. She moaned softly again, letting him push his cock up into her throat, catching the blurred ecstasy on his face. His red lips trapped between white teeth, his freckled cheeks rosy, and his brows furrowed. 

“I’m gonna cum, baby,” he panted, lovingly moving her hair from her pink and wet face. She hummed around him in approval and closed her eyes, focusing on bringing him closer to his climax. Dean’s thrusts began to stutter and he started to get more vocal, arousing her further. “God, I love your mouth,” he whispered, thrusting upwards hard as he came in thick, hot spurts down her throat. “Fuck, yeah,” he moaned, shuddering at the feeling of her swallowing around him. 

Dean pulled her off him despite not finishing, his cum dripping down his cock despite her best efforts to collect everything. That seemed to be the purpose. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with his tongue poking between his teeth, looking both cute and sexy. 

“What?” She asked, and kept tugging at his cock as his cum dribbled down from the slit, and over her hand. She tightened her hold around the heat of him in her wet hand. She bit her wet, swollen lip, and sat up, slowly stopping the strokes of her hand to watch him. 

Dean leaned forward to kiss her all of the sudden, her heart lurching in her chest, the way it always did when he kissed her. He held her jaw, licking her spit and his cum from her lip. He moaned into her mouth, pulling her face closer, meeting her warm tongue with his. She let go of his dick, and smiled against his mouth, before pulling away.

Dean chased her lips, but she pushed his chest roughly so he stayed pressed against the seat, laughing quietly. He smiled leaning forward anyway, his nose brushing against hers, lips agonisingly remaining a few millimetres away from hers. 

“Can we have sex in your old bed?” She whispered, tugging gently at his jacket, her lips brushing against his. He panted against her mouth, whining softly in attempts to make her kiss him. 

“Yes, whatever you want,” he responded quietly. 

She hummed when she kissed Dean once more; a passionate, long, and deep kiss with tongue and teeth that made her needier. She helped readjust him as they made out, a hot and breathy exchange before heading back on the road to the Bunker.

➥ closer than this

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[clairenatural]

hey sorry to ask you but what is the destiel lamppost thing? if u know what it is

Hi anon!!! I wasn't ignoring you I just wanted to be able to sit down and type out the lore.

So "why lamp"/the destiel lamp thing starts with 15x10, The Heroes' Journey, in which Dean and Sam are stripped of the luck/protections that being written as protagonists gives them by Chuck (very meta) and Dean ends up needing cavities filled.

Garth gives him laughing gas for the procedure, during which Dean has a dream of a black and white 50s style dance sequence. It takes place in the bunker and while initially it's Dean dancing with Garth, eventually Garth leaves and Dean runs over to pick up a lamp from the corner of the room to dance with. Here's the whole thing:

But once it's Dean and the lamp, the dance becomes markedly more romantic - he's dancing with the lamp as a partner, not like the tap dancing he and Garth do side-by-side.

Also important to note that they're dancing to "Let's Misbehave," which is about sex and also was written by Cole Porter, who was gay. This is a really good breakdown of the dance itself, the significance of the song and Cole Porter and its connections to old queer Hollywood.

At the end of the episode, Dean sees Bess and Garth dancing in their living room through the window and says "You know, I always thought I could be a good dancer if I wanted to be."

This is pretty clearly associating the dream sequence, and Dean dancing with a lamp, as about Dean longing for a partner and therefore the lamp as a stand-in for that partner.

NOW. Meta was written as soon as this episode aired with people linking the lamp to Cas, and there has continued to be much better meta than I can write here - this one is in-depth and connects it to themes across the seasons and Dean's years-long character arc. "Cas is Lamp" even has its own superwiki page.

But besides all the normal meta deancas reasons and the fact that this comes at a time when Dean's character arc had been building both to him wanting to settle down with someone AND that someone being Cas (this is the episode right after The Trap and Dean's "I should have stopped you/of course I forgive you" prayer), Cas (and angels broadly) is associated with light and lamps throughout the series, perhaps most iconically in 4x16.

So, after 15x18, "the lamp thing" was something frequently cited and that we held onto as another thing they'd dropped alluding to (nay, ensuring - because they'd surely somehow have to wrap up Dean's own arc of wanting a partner to settle down with) a happy deancas endgame where Cas is rescued and they live happily ever after.

And then. 15x20 happened. And "why lamp" took off as part of a long list of "if they were just never going to mention Cas again, let alone resolve the confession or this very key part of Dean's story arc of wanting to settle down, why did they include [long list of things that make no sense with the ending we got]." Why lamp has become shorthand for a long list of missing links and loose ends and things that just don't add up. If deancas wasn't going to be the happy endgame, then why lamp. Why did they drop so many clues and work up to a very clear resolution for Dean's character arc if they were just going to drop it. Why lamp. It's one of those things that will haunt us because we will never get an answer. Okay grandma, let's get you to bed. But why lamp.

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Vivace

Chapter Twenty Five

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Bobby, Tiny, Lee, Kevin, Annie, Pamela, Sam, faceless fans and support staff

Word Count: 2900

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, jealousy, grief, musical backstory and hope

A/N: The band played on.

Series Masterlist

You held your breath as Bobby gathered the band backstage. Two dozen roadies, stage crew, and security stilled as he looked past the boys and Pam to their support staff, only Charlie and her team were missing, already in place in the booth. You shivered and waited. Jody’s voice echoed behind the bend thanking the crowd and promising a great show from Phantom Traveler to come. Andy slinked around and continued to snap pictures, despite the glare it earned him anytime Bobby caught the lens pointed toward him. The ragtag group buzzed with excitement and you silently prayed that it would go off without a hitch. 

Finally, Bobby began to speak, “I know a lot of you are nervous about tonight, ‘bout this tour— hell about this band. But it means a lot that y’all signed on for another round of nonsense with these idjits. It means you believe in them, that you’ve got faith they can pull together and get it done. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s not a time to worry, because ain't no other band that can do what these guys do. It’s a time to celebrate. Let’s get out there and fuckin’ rock’n’roll.”

Lee hooted and people cheered, you couldn’t help but clap and shriek along. Then everyone crowded in for the circle of hands and chanted “Phaaaaaantom TRAV-ler!”

The band and crew maneuvered in the dark, letting the interim instrumentals keep the crowd distracted as they set up. You scurried back to where you had left Bela in the wings, under Tiny’s care.

“Everything alright?” Bela asked out of the side of her mouth, shifting in place as she tried to clock Dean amongst the many moving shapes.

“Aces,” you replied, bouncing on the balls of your feet as the crowd started to clap with an increasing beat.

You spotted Sam and Kevin’s silhouettes high five and then Lee strummed a teaser chord. Walkie talkies crackled around you as the all clear was called. You kept an earpiece in, but without much left for you to do, you turned it to the lowest setting besides mute. 

It was go time. 

“Bring ‘em up, Charlie,” Bobby prompted over the line and the Forum erupted. 

Lights and wavelengths of sound shot off in every direction and Phantom Traveler took off.

You wouldn’t have stopped yourself from screaming bloody murder even if you had remembered you were directly beside your very posh best friend and her security detail. 

It was happening. They made it back home.

“Good evening Inglewood!” Dean greeted, pointedly accurate. Plus you could tell he was grinning from where you stood, from just the sway of his head and a glimpse of his profile.

There was no other chit chat, no grand speech thanking them for coming out, it was just the band, the music, and the audience.

They started off with ‘Woman in White’, their first major single and something high energy enough to get people out of their seats. Then on to the B side of their first EP, which was a cult favorite called ‘Playthings’ that featured something affectionately referred to as ‘the beat off’ between Sam and Pam.

But at the time it was written, it was played by Sam and Cas.

Pam did it better.

It was like someone was racing up the stairs or against time itself as the two rhythm setting musicians fought for dominance. The crowd ate it up. And you could tell they both were already dripping sweat by the time the song ended and they tuned it back and finally jumped into their last fateful album.

‘Scarecrow’ was haunted and foreboding, reminiscent of early 90s metal that you knew Dean adored. It was also Cas’ favorite track off that entire album. And Kevin killed the bridge as the keyboard turned into an ancient organ chasing the crows away with the dawn. Charlie even added a cackling Vincent Price at the end that couldn’t be topped.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?!” Lee took the words out of Dean’s mouth, which earned him a kick in the ass. They were having a blast up there and it was infectious.

The crowd roared.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean bellowed. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to bring somebody out for this next number.”

Shrill ruckus pierced the air, they knew what was coming.

“She’s our very dear friend and we just so happened to convince her to tag along with us this tour. You know her, you love her, please— give a very warm welcome to the incomparable Ms. Annie Hawkins!”

Everyone screamed and stomped, watching as the spotlight followed Annie from the farside of the stage towards the standing mics centerstage.

“Oh, she looks amazing,” Bela spoke for the first time since you’d gotten back. And she wasn’t wrong.

“The girls probably had a blast with her in their dressing room,” you tacked on thoughtfully.

“Her top though,” Bela continued. “I want it.”

You chuckled at Bela’s priorities and quickly got sucked back into what was happening barely thirty feet away.

“You sure you’re ready over there?” Annie teased as Dean adjusted his mic after rushing to set down his guitar.

The crowd laughed in unison.

“I’m ready, do you think they’re ready?” Dean asked coyly, gesturing to the crowd.

All around you camera screens glowed and flashed burst through the darkened arena. Concert security lined the stage and guarded the partitioned areas for the crew and band to navigate the area. Until that moment you really hadn’t been able to pull any single response from the cacophony. You hadn’t been trying anyway. But when Annie goaded Dean a cluster of women in the pit got your attention.

“And here I thought you were out here warming them up for me?” Annie teased.

The crowd loved it, but one catty comment made it feel like you and Bela were right there up on stage with them. “Bela needs to get her man before that cougar gets too cozy up there.”

They eyed your little corner below the VIP suspiciously. You missed whatever Dean said in response, instead watching the women glare and Bela adamantly ignore them in equal measure.

But then the song began. A slow and slinking start reminiscent of Springsteen’s Fire. Which you clocked the first time you heard it, but that was just the intro. The lyrics started up as a quick conversation, a compromise even and then they were harmonizing into the chorus. 

The band hadn’t done many duets, even with such talented singers in their ranks. It wasn’t their style. But this song felt like it had always existed, it was timeless and familiar and really fucking catchy. Annie beamed at Dean when he slipped closer on stage and they belted out the final lines.

It made you feel like they were performing only for you, for their people. It was honest and intimate, but this wasn’t rehearsal or karaoke and the audience would not be forgotten.

Everyone cheered. Even the judgy bitches that kept watching Bela at your side.

Dean hugged Annie and made sure she got the reception she deserved, egging the crowd on and bowing in homage to her talent.

She rolled her eyes, did a snarky curtsy and waved her way back off stage.

“You guys seem to be digging that one. Maybe we could play some more new stuff for y’all tonight?” Lee asked. “I mean— the album isn’t out yet.”

Naturally, the crowd shouted and begged for more.

Bela turned to whisper to you. “They’re not gonna get in trouble for this are they?”

You shook your head. “They’ve got permission to do a few songs until the album is actually out and then they’ll change up the set list to cover more of the new stuff.”

“Got it.”

“Yeah, bootlegs always exist, but this way they’re building excitement but not giving away the farm.”

“Lee!” Dean admonished playfully. 

“What?!” Lee spat back, smirking.

“Sam— tell him.”

Sam shook his head, always stoic on stage.

Dean kept up the ruse. “I don’t know if we should. Pamela?”

Pamela thudded the bass drum and hit the crash. 

“Okay! Pammy’s in— Kevo?” Lee kept the momentum going.

And without any warning or time for Kevin to actually respond, they burst into the opening of 'Prophet and Loss'. 

“I would kill for a drink—- is there somebody we could send to concessions?” Bela asked midsong. And you looked around, wondering if any of the staff could actually leave their posts without getting in trouble. 

You suddenly felt like a bad host. “We’ll get you a box for Vegas. I know this isn’t as fun as it sounds standing for two hours straight.”

“Y/N, I’m fine. Promise.”

“Okay, well I’ll go after the next song. You want anything, Tiny?” you asked your silent companion.

“All good, boss.” He replied and straightened his stance, clasping his hands in front of him.

Kevin silenced the space with the burst of chords at the beginning of his solo, showcasing what Julliard training could do and how rock’n’roll could still be classy as hell. The key changed, turning the mood broken and lamenting as they stumbled into the bridge where Dean pelted out about losing Cas without so much detail.

 Dean let the note hang in the air. “'Prophet and Loss', everybody.”

Whistles filled the air, keeping the mood somber but with enough reception to know that small offering was gratefully accepted.

“Thanks— uh, I, we really appreciate being here tonight and being able to share some of the new album with everybody. But we know you wanna hear the stuff you know, too. So we’re gonna hop back to it and have a kick ass night. How’s that sound?” Dean checked in.

The crowd cheered.

“Did you hear something?” Dean asked Lee jokingly.

The crowd got louder.

“I don’t know if they’re up for much more,” Lee taunted back.

You rolled your eyes and turned to Bela. “Okay, I’ll be back, text me if you think of anything besides drinks.”

The crowd continued to take the bait, howling behind you as you made your way out of the off limit areas and up a side stairway towards the general admission cavern-like hallway. For the first time it felt like all day, you exhaled. Your pass flapped against your chest as you strutted quickly towards the concession area, bypassing the VIP lounge because you didn’t want to get distracted by Madison or any of the mid-level suits that might be milling around.

You could have stolen something from the dressing room, but that wouldn’t have taken nearly as long and you needed some time off of Bela duty tonight. Which made you feel guilty as hell. She was your best friend! She didn’t do anything wrong. And yet you were incredibly frustrated with even the thought of her.

So you waited in line, ordered two extremely overpriced and depressingly weak cocktails, and put them on your expense card. 

The thing about regret is that it isn’t a one time experience. There might have been a moment in the process of you contriving this scenario for Dean’s redemption where you second or third guessed yourself. But the biting sting of seeing him play happy with Bela online and even in person had come at you in waves.

Regret was bearable if it meant it worked, if Dean could have some peace.

But this wasn’t just regret, it was petulance and jealousy and injustice.

Because Bobby had asked all the way back in the beginning, why couldn’t it have been you playing arm candy? And the fact that people could see what you had tried so hard to bury and ignore plain as day, well, it made you feel incredibly small and even more pathetic.

There was no reason for you to be the one at Dean’s side. But damn did you want to be.

And somehow you had managed to keep that from one of the most important people in your life. So it wasn’t just that Bela was getting a part of Dean that you’d never have. Or parts. You shuttered at the thought of where his mouth had been. It was that your best friend hadn’t even clocked the elephant in the room.

Like she didn’t even know you at all.

Or maybe that was on you too. Maybe you hadn’t been honest with yourself until it was too late. How could you put that blame on her too?

You slammed your drink and got back in line for a replacement, not wanting to return with only Bela’s cup like some kind of maid. You could hear the crowd singing along with Lee on ‘A Reaper’s Offering’, a bluesy cut from their second studio album. 

You probably had another two songs before you’d miss anything else new. But you also knew Bela was waiting and the longer the show went on, the more drunk and ballsy random fans could get. You couldn’t leave her with the forever nonplussed Tiny for backup. You smiled at the woman working the bar cart apologetically and ordered another husk of a cocktail.

After another stream of applause, the opening bars of ‘Abandon All Hope’ started and you knew you had to book it. This was Jo’s song, you couldn’t miss it. You never left Dean to get through this one alone. Huffing down the service steps with two drinks in hand in heels was something that you managed only from practice, but you made it in time for the first chorus.

“Oh aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bela murmured to her drink before sipping it and wincing. “It’ll do. Took you long enough,” she teased and winked, hip checking you as you struggled to get your breathing under control as you mouthed along with Dean’s words.

“Trapped by your side with no exit, we had to let you go—”

Bela quickly picked up on your shift in mood and reeled in the playfulness, for which you gave her a grateful glance before turning back to try and lock eyes with Dean on stage.

“Defending that night while trying to give comfort, we should have known—”

“To abandon all hope,” you sang out, the last lyric rising up to hover in the air. 

Dean turned and glanced in your direction and then looked again once he finally saw you. He nodded and tapped his heart and you returned the gesture, you both kept her safe as you could now. He blew a kiss to the ceiling and bowed.

The crowd continued to echo around you, suffocating yet as distant as thunder. 

“Alrighty, folks, we’re gonna take a short break for Sammy to find another shirt and we’ll get you one last sneak peak,” Dean explained. “Kevin? Think you and Pam can keep ‘em busy for me?”

“Aye-aye,” Kevin said and saluted, out of range of his mic stand.

Pam started in with the count and Kevin peeled in down from the upper registers, like he was sliding in from Heaven and crashing a party. The instrumental interlude was a mesmerizing feat of jumping genres and killing time while showcasing just what all each of them could do. But you weren’t even paying attention. Dean made a beeline for the back of the stage and he wound around security until he could find you. 

He gripped the ball of your shoulder and leaned in. “I didn’t see you until the end— had me worried, Trouble!”

He had to talk over the crowd, his back firmly towards the nearest wedge of fans.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!”

He stared at you, sweaty and down to a single layer, earpiece still in his left ear. 

“You’re killing it up there,” Bela said, making you both stop and blink. Dean grinned and pulled her into a hug, a boyfriend hug, arms tight around her waist so her arms can loop around his neck. She even kicked a leg back for balance. 

God was she good.

“You keep an eye on her, okay? She’s gonna need tissues for the next one,” Dean warned playfully down his nose at Bela about you.

She rolled her eyes. “You are a menace on the emotional, aren’t you?”

“All in a day’s work,” Dean shrugged and set her back on her own two feet.

The crackle of a nearby walkie made Dean look around for whoever was sent to find him. “Sam’s looking for you,” an unimpressed lackey of Benny’s pointed out from ten feet away.

“Yeah, I bet he is. Alright, well, see you ladies later— Tiny,” Dean stepped back nodding. He soon disappeared only to hop up on the wing of the stage, grabbing an acoustic and sliding it on.

After the chaos of the crowd dissipated from Pamela’s and Kevin’s antics, Dean and Sam walked on stage and sat down on a pair of stools that had been left out for them. They didn’t look at each other or even the crowd and you knew in that moment that Dean hadn’t been lying. You weren’t gonna survive the next song live with a dry eye.

‘Brothers Keeper’ nearly took down the entire venue. 

Cell phones and lighters blazed in the dark, enraptured space as Dean and Sam sang about each other, about family, and about forgiveness.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

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Chapter 27: Polyphony

[stanfordsweater]

what are your favorite wincest episodes

hehehe

in chronological order rather than in order of preference:

dead in the water -- i really latched on to this one as a kid and so it still holds a big piece of my heart. i love the slow aching reveal of how traumatized dean is, all with sam right there watching. i will always be preoccupied with the times where dean get peeled back and exposed all vulnerable

what is and what should never be -- another great vulnerable dean episode, i loved the insight we get into his thoughts on sam, more specifically how clear it is that his self-hatred clouds his understanding of sam's motivations and why he sticks around with dean beyond "the job." it helps that sam looks so unbearably sexy in dean's perfect world created from his most desperate desires and deepest insecurities. i want to connect this one with DSOTM, but that ep didn't make the list because season five is PAINFUL and i hate watching it 😭

metamorphosis -- kind of out of left field, but this episode is a great example of how their relationship is breaking down in season four. dean punching sam and sam just taking it and keeping his chin up is such a gut-punch + sam's reaction to the reveal that they angels are watching out for him, for all the worst reasons, while dean is getting closer to them himself... you also get sam's desperation to save dean, to be something good, and his despair and teeth-grinding resolve to stop using into his powers... which only lasts so long. TENSION. delicious.

swan song -- AGONY.

i love so much about carver era, but to whittle it down:

there's a lot of aspects i love about season 8 spread across a number of episodes, like the way dean is just freaking out and trying to protect sam in the great escapist, the tension cas and more immediately benny brings to their relationship, the attempts to reconnect and the feeling that they might actually work through it this time, even with all the jealousy, but every time you think they're about to work it out something else gets worse-- it's really fun. i don't think any individual episode makes this list but they all get honourable mention.

i think i'm gonna like it here & road trip -- double feature because of the way dean's decision comes home to roost. dean's absolute despair in 9x01, it's SO wild and hurts my heart, the way you can understand exactly how they've ended up here, the betrayal, dean's guilt but the lack of apologies, sam's righteous anger and his deep-down buried soul-rending shame... i want to drink it all up with a straw, i'm obsessed. sam is in fine fucking form in road trip. he's NOT BUDGING and it's so good. also he looks fine as fuck and you know dean is burning inside. all of it leading directly to my favourite death scene in the entire show at the end of season nine. fabulous.

safe house -- this one is just a fun reprieve from all the angst of the seasons before, where sam and dean are working a case and making fun of each other and spending hours across from each other in a motel room at a table too small for them and not getting sick of each other. there's also the end scene where sam is so pleased that dean was haunted by visions of him dead <3 affirmations with the winchester brothers!

carry on -- i know many finale haters and i understand their points, but i was so shocked that the show remembered what it was about and delivered us that beautiful monologue and the forehead touch and the heaven reunion, all wrapped up in sam finally having the life he had wanted in a way he would hate. it's poetic and it finally resolves that last lingering question that allows him to actually enjoy heaven, and the final piece dean needs to not feel like a monster for "failing" to provide sam with the apple-pie life. jared has this interview from season eight where he says that sam carries that resentment over being dragged back into hunting with him, and while it's not rational-- ultimately he was not dragged, he made his choice in an impossible situation, manipulated by outside forces-- i really loved that the finale actually gave us (and dean) absolution for this last desire of sam's. i don't know.

[beautysurvives]

*not done with this, may or may not finish it, wanted to post anyway*

a little (nsfw) destiel fic set immediately after the events of 10x14 The Executioner’s Song

*************************************************

Cas doesn’t have to knock. He knows that.

Dean knows that too.

About two years ago, when they thought he was gonna move in, for a second, before Gadreel — before Dean — made that impossible, he’d allowed himself to fantasize about having a boyfriend who’s there when he comes home. Falls asleep in his bed in the middle of the day and stays there. Content to wait. Hold down the fort while he’s away.

For the first time, Cas actually wanted to stay. As a matter of fact, he had to. He was persona non grata among his family once again. All the hope of going back, being welcomed with open arms, slowly dying.

And, like all the other angels, his wings were gone. He couldn’t just fly away anymore.

But Dean liked to think it was more than that. More than just needing a place to stay. More than having nowhere else to go. More than losing his wings.

Cas had finally become human, and he wanted to stay.

He calls his name through the closed door — closed, not locked — and Dean says, “Yeah,” trying, the same way he did earlier in the kitchen with Sam, to conjure up some life.

But it comes out even more hopeless. Shaky, weak. His chances of fooling Cas are somehow even lower without Sam in the room.

With Sam, at least, it feels possible to pretend, despite how well he knows him — or thinks he knows him, sometimes. They at least have the courtesy to ignore each other’s falling apart until it becomes too much. Stay nestled in their usual roles for as long as they both can.

But Cas has his angel thing, his sixth sense that can see past any of Dean’s bullshit. See into his soul. Plunge through his skin — right through his skull — with just his eyes.

And then he’s also got that thing about his personality that won’t let him leave well enough alone. That’s how he knew about the mark in the first place. Dean had tried his best to avoid it, but all he’d really done was delay the inevitable. All he had to do was get one good look, and he was bound to, sooner or later.

Dean watches him walk in — see, Cas didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t have to, and he knew it. The knock was just a pretense, acknowledging the existence of boundaries, because he understands now that human beings have those.

But opening the door, walking in, it says what Cas always says. Su casa, mi casa.

Your body, my body.

That’s just how Heaven is. How Heaven raised him. He can’t be blamed.

There used to be a time when Dean was grateful for the familiarity.

Cas clears his throat awkwardly. A habit Dean thinks he picked up, maybe, from his recent time spent as a man, experiencing phlegm. No grace in him to burn it away. All those muscles he’d barely ever used. Barely knew were there. Suddenly activating.

“I can heal your injuries, if you want.”

Dean laughs before nodding. “Yeah, okay.” It’s still effortless, to laugh at Cas’s squint and head tilt combo, the way, for all his divine insight, he remains so befuddled — so easily distracted — by social interactions. Dean doesn’t have to try hard to deceive him as long as he can confuse him.

But right now, Cas seems completely focused on his task, advancing on the gash near Dean’s eyebrow with determination. He brushes a finger over it, and Dean feels his grace rushing in — but only so far. Only this one spot.

He intends to take his time. Split Dean into sections. Do him one by one.

When Dean opens his eyes, he sees a second of uncertainty. Not knowing where to go next. What part of Dean to touch.

What does it mean that he chose me over Crowley?

Dean had always intended to kiss him; he was simply biding his time. Now just makes sense, because Cas is between his legs, just barely pressing him back into the edge of the desk, one hand resting on his hip, the other hovering near his bruised jaw.

Dean kisses him, and Cas closes his eyes, seeming just as sure about this as he is (of course, Dean can never really tell, with Cas). Fingers ghosting along his jaw. Letting Dean lick his way into his mouth, push away his trenchcoat to run his hands along his sides. He can hear the soft ringing of Cas’s grace before he feels its warmth in his bones, filling the side of his face with light.

Dean pulls him close, and the mark wants him to tear his clothes off, throw him against the wall, bite his neck so hard—

“Sorry.” He pulls back, only as much as the desk and the wall and Cas’s hands allow.

Cas quickly looks away. Back to healing, like nothing ever happened. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He moves on to Dean’s screaming, nearly dislocated shoulder, hand hovering dangerously close to the imprint of his palm — now just a constellation of faded, moon shaped scars that most of Dean’s hookups ignore.

“I know that the mark can make you do things you don’t necessarily want to do.”

Like what? Running off with Crowley?

Making the first move, instead of waiting for you to do something like I always do?

“But you’re doing a great job at fighting it. I admire you, Dean.” He says it the way he once said, I don’t envy your position.

The mark wants Dean to kill him.

But maybe, for tonight, it’ll settle for fucking him senseless.

Cas closes his eyes, displeasure written on his face. Like there’s something not quite right about the injury, something that can better be addressed by sliding Dean’s flannel further down, slipping his hand under his t-shirt, taking Dean’s whole shoulder and gripping tight before he turns the light on again. Dean bites back a gasp, wanting nothing more than to give in entirely, open the floodgates of his soul and feel Castiel’s restored grace running through his whole body.

Getting fucked senseless might be just as good.

He buries his face in Cas’s chest and lets out a small back of the throat whine. Presses his lips into the linen that always smells like the last time Jimmy Novak was in it. Detergent and sweat and fear and blood. He takes the breast pocket between his teeth as Cas squeezes tighter, and the grace feels almost uncomfortably hot, and then perfectly cool. Feels like if being set on fire was a good thing.

Feels like a part of him returning — like his body slowly reaching dynamic equilibrium, things falling into place with ease.

Like coming home.

He must seem like a wild animal to him. A panting, salivating, hot mess. Bleeding knuckles and broken fingers. Something less evolved.

All the times they fucked or messed around, it was never like this. Dean liked — likes to be clean, and he liked to treat Cas — all powerful angel Cas, who made Crowley his bitch and turned himself into God — gently. Easily broken Cas. Angel statuette, Cas.

Dean liked uncreating him, watching him regress from something made of marble to soft wet clay. From heaven’s soldier to something like a man. He liked to think they’d have time to work their way up to the kind of wild, ruthless sex he’d had with Emma’s mom, when he was trying to move on. Or with Crowley.

“Sorry,” Dean says again, just as the light leaves Cas’s hand. He pulls away, and Dean finds his shoulder is moveable again, even better than before.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes, cringing. But he has to say it anyway, no matter how pathetic. “Just — uh. I’m sure you don’t wanna have to touch me… like this.”

He opens his eyes to check — and Good, he thinks. It hurt the way it was designed to.

“Dean-” He sighs, looking down. Neither of them willing to face the thing head on.

But Cas surprises him, taking him by the arm. The mark sings under his palm, burning with a different kind of pain than the rest of his yet-to-be-healed body. An unbearable kind of pain. It never stops. It begs to be able to stop.

He doesn’t have to say it. If I could heal this with my grace, I would.

Dean says, “I know, Cas. I know.”

Cas lifts his chin and kisses him again in a way that quickly becomes voracious. It’s possible he thinks this is the only way Dean wants to be kissed now. The only reason Dean would want to be kissed by him.

Dean can taste the wrath of Heaven on his tongue. Then he can taste the grace. Like everything with Cas, it’s familiar. Although, technically, even this belongs to someone else. And now Dean’s soul is marred by someone else’s touch, his latest resurrection owed to a different force. Both of them a mutating patchwork of borrowed things. Less and less like who they were when they first met.

Still, this reminds Dean of being reborn.

It pains him to ask, between kissing and healing, “You don’t have anywhere to be tonight do you?” He knows the answer is no — Cas isn’t interested in anything anymore besides getting rid of the mark — but he’s remembering the last time he had him alone in this room. What he means is, There’s no one waiting for you, right?

No “females” outside, riding shotgun in Cas’s crappy pimp mobile.

He feels a flare of jealousy — an inferno really — at the memory of Hannah and the way she looked at him. His whole cult of angelic Cas-worshippers, at his beck and call, before his loyalty to Dean frightened them away.

Metatron’s rotating cast of suicide bombers, including Tessa — the first monster that Dean almost gave his life to, years before he knew what it was to have someone to live for — before someone like Cas appeared, who’d decided that his survival wasn’t contingent on Dean’s death. Who would’ve died before letting anything touch him. Who would put him first — before Sam. Before the world. Even before Heaven.

The whole cult episode reminded him just how common it was to kneel and pray to Castiel. How common he was — they all were. Weak to his persuasion. Not just humans. Not just demons. Other angels — even reapers. Sheep, to him. God’s Chosen.

At the time, when the mark was still fresh and its effects still unexpected, the moment brought back every ugly thing that had passed between them. Everything Dean had already forgiven. All of the worst things about loving Cas.

“No,” the angel says calmly. “The only place I need to be is here… As long as this is where you want me.”

Hope in his eyes. It would be so easy to snuff it out.

If what Cain said is true, there will come a day when Dean won’t hesitate.

“You already know I want you here.”

He proves it. Cas lets him for a moment, then he pulls away.

“You’re still hurt.”

“So you’re saying you don’t-”

“I’m saying, let me finish what I’m doing. Then you can �� ravish me to your heart’s desire.”

Dean laughs. “Fine.”

While Cas works on his knee, Dean looks at his own half-bare arms, flannel bunching at his elbows where Cas pushed it down. He clears his throat loudly. “Do you need me to take off my clothes?”

He adds a “Doctor?” for good measure, purring the word in Cas’s ear.

At first he smiles, and then there’s a brief flash of pain — thinking, again, about what he can’t heal. But the look becomes determination.

“Yes, that would be helpful. Thank you.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Dean says as he lets it fall. Cas’s eyes rake over him — lingering for maybe a second on the mark, but then the rest of him too. His skin, speckled with little bruises. Cuts and abrasions. The tightness of his t-shirt, which hides even more than it reveals.

“Well… this is just a routine checkup, so there’s really no need.”

Dean sighs so quiet that Cas doesn’t catch it. You’re supposed to be, like, saving my life or something, he moans internally. But he decides to just roll with the weak improvisation, at the same time that Cas says, “You can keep this on for now,” taking his time to look up from Dean’s chest, just enough to meet his eyes.

It still gives him goosebumps, being checked out like that.

Big difference between him and Crowley — Crowley made Dean feel wanted, yeah. Sexy even. But Cas makes him feel beautiful.

This time when Cas kisses him, it’s better. Soft, not full of fire. But like a first kiss between strangers who are only just discovering how much they like each other.

Dean answers with his eyes closed, half out of character. “Well you’re not supposed to do that.”

“I apologize,” he says, becoming shy. “I don’t know what came over me… I suppose I uh, I find it difficult to focus on doing my job properly in the presence of someone I find so… alluring.” His eyes flutter open just as Cas leans back. “But you’re right. That was completely unprofessional, and it won’t happen again. You’re owed the same high level of care as all my other patients… Of course I understand if you’d prefer to be seen by someone else.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, straightening his back and gripping the desk with one hand, running the other through his hair. Here’s a chance to add some texture to the story. “Uuhm, well, honestly, Doctor — even though I can and probably should report this behavior to your bosses, I think I’m willing to look past this little slip, because…” He bites his lip while he thinks of something workable and not too cliche, leaning into the nervous patient thing, maybe in over his head but still determined to get what he came for. “Well, even though this is just a routine check up, I’ve heard about… how good you are at taking care of people. I guess I wanted at least one chance to see for myself how you’d, uh, handle a case like me.”

Cas blinks. “A case like you…? From what I saw on your chart, you don’t have any pre-existing conditions — is there something bothering you, mis-”

“Maybe you can figure out what it is.”

Cas nods. “Maybe we should continue the examination.”

“Uh-huh. You said keep on the shirt, right? So pants and shoes.” Cas steps back to let him swing his leg up onto the desk, watches him lift the leg of his jeans and unlace his leather boots.

He kicks that one off and does the other, and when he’s done Cas says, “Very good. While you were removing your shoes, I noticed that you had some difficulty bending your limbs.” He takes his spot again, between Dean legs, laying a hand on each thigh. “Are you experiencing any pain — or swelling? Are your pants unusually tight?”

“…Yeah actually. Can you-”

Cas looks him in the eye as he undoes his belt, takes it by the silver buckle and pulls it free, lays it aside and within reach. He tugs the button roughly before he unfastens it, but unzipping the fly is so gentle, quick and precise Dean’s not even sure when it’s done. “Lift your butt off the table so I can pull down your pants.” Dean is quick to obey, watching as Cas kneels down, bringing them to Dean’s ankles, then taking his feet and guiding them out one at a time.

He stays there, observing his legs with furrowed brows. “Well, the source of the swelling is… very apparent, but you’ve got a lot of scrapes and bruises on your legs. You must be very clumsy.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean agrees. “The clumsiest.”

“That’s unfortunate. You don’t deserve to get hurt so often. What do you do for work?”

He cycles through a handful of easy responses. Cocktail waitress, stripper, prostitute. Construction worker, lion tamer, stuntman. “Uh… I’m a body double. Like in movies. One of those guys who gets set on fire or falls off a motorcycle or, uh, shows his ass when the actor doesn’t want to. Last movie I did — bondage stuff.”

“I see. Well, if you’re interested, I can give you something now to address these scars. It’s an experimental method of treatment. And I promise it has nothing to do with… what happened earlier, or my personal feelings. But it does require me to use my mouth.”

Dean’s eyebrows fly so high they might as well grow wings of their own. He coughs to cover up choking. “Okay… I trust you. Do…” Deep breath. “Whatever you think is best.”

Cas says nothing, barely nods, shifting so that he’s on his knees. Dean stiffens reflexively as he leans close, warming his thigh with his even, barely-there breaths.

Dean gasps as the breath travels down to his shin. Cas lowers his sock, and Dean watches his mouth glow from within.

He just barely presses these soft bright lips to Dean’s tender skin, healing the sprain underneath. And then slowly trailing his healing kisses up. Excruciatingly slow.

Torn calf muscle, scraped knee. He puts a hand around the back of it to steady himself, and Dean wraps his other leg around him on instinct. “Fuck — sorry,” he says, but Cas is too busy to give him a response. Too focused on doing his job. By the time he reaches the inner thigh, Dean is trembling, hissing, “Cascascas — stop.” He waves a hand in his face to get his attention, then lets it fall limply onto the desk.

“You gotta slow down. You’re kinda driving me nuts.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” And his prideful little smirk isn’t helping, especially not while he’s wearing Dean’s leg like a sash. “I thought this was an efficient way to achieve our shared goals.”

“Yeah. Maybe a little too efficient.”

“You mean you want this to take long?” Dean nods — duh. “That’s good. So do I.”

Goddammit…

“Okay… then you better get the Hell up… and maybe don’t talk as much.”

“I thought you wanted me to be more communicative.”

He rolls his eyes openly. Cas really isn’t making this any easier.

“That was last time.” Cas was human then — Dean thought he should probably be trained — and they were in the backseat of Baby, a few blocks away from the Gas n Sip.

He tries not to think about it.

He has to look away as Cas slowly rises to his feet, and he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as the hand around his leg tightens, and the other grabs his thigh to hoist Cas’s body up the rest of the way.

Oh my God, Dean mouths. It’s been too long, and he wants Cas too much. Even the mark can’t erase that constant longing. The mark just makes it hurt.

Cas heals his other leg without telling him. This one is almost like a slap in the face. The kind that wakes you up. Sends a jolt through his whole body.

“If your problem right now, Dean, is that you’re too attracted to me, I’m really not sure how we can fix it. Should we tone it down with the doctor stuff? Or… maybe you should just not look at me? I don’t know.”

“Didn’t I say don’t talk?” he nearly begs.

Cas goes quiet, looking down at Dean’s burden, straining to be freed. “You know,” he says, taking pleasure in his own disobedience, meeting Dean’s eyes with an intense gaze, something teasing underneath, “we could just bring you to orgasm now. I’m sure I could help you become erect again relatively quickly.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to be quiet — a pause that only lasts about half as long as Cas’s before he says, “Yeah okay.”

He’s about 75% sure that Cas has worked some magic to make the minutes feel like hours — if they were minutes at all. All he knows is that time doesn’t exist. All there is is Cas’s middle finger still inside him. Still with its rhythmic pulse. The thumb of his other hand gently coaxing out the last of a never-ending orgasm, so intense there’s an element of pain that reminds Dean of being shocked. Muscles tensing. Holding his breath.

His command, when he decides that it’s over — when he knows that Dean is too calm, too soft and content to do much, other than what he’s told — other than whatever will make Cas happy — when he’s certain that the mark hasn’t taken that from him yet — “Why don’t you remove your shirt and wait for me on the bed.”

He lets him go, weak and tingling. Wobbly deer legs take him just far enough to safely collapse.

For a while Cas comes in and out of view — Dean assumes he’s cleaning up their mess, and maybe fixing the laptop that they knocked to the floor — but he leans down to tug on Dean’s shirt.

“Dean. I asked you to take this off.”

“Shit, sorry, my bad,” he says as he pulls it up over his head and tosses it away. He lays down on his belly and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep here, like this, knowing that Cas is close and busy.

The mark wants Dean to kill him, but he can hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears. Church bells.

“Are you healing me again?”

Cas gives an affirmative grunt, and Dean starts rolling his eyes, but it feels too nice, and Cas predicts the thing that makes it even better, swinging a leg over to trap Dean under him.

His fingers trace down his back, following the arrow of his spine.

“When I first met you, you had so many scars here,” he says unexpectedly.

Dean frowns — when they first met, he was as unblemished as a newborn. Then he realizes that Cas is talking about Hell, or his grave. Dean’s corpse, or whatever he was before Cas saved him. Something out of The Walking Dead. “I’d never seen a human being who had suffered so many assaults.”

Dean’s not sure why he laughs. “Bullshit.”

“Well I mean… up close. I'd spent a lot of time — watching humanity. But…” It’s no longer about healing; he’s rubbing up and down his back absentmindedly, coveting the pleasing sound Dean makes when he finds his way to the back of his head, takes a fistful of hair and gives it a gentle tug. Ruffles his hair and smooths it down, and in the process pushing the side of his face down into the bed, softly kneading the aching muscles at the base of his skull.

“My first vessel… she’d never gotten hurt before, physically. Not even so much as a broken arm.

“She was her father’s prized possession. But when the family fell on hard times, he was willing to sell her into a marriage with a man who he called his friend. So she turned to God for help.

“And when He didn’t answer, she considered joining a convent. She was about to, before I…”

“Got her killed?”

“No, I… After our final mission together, I reported back to Anna, alone. I said that I had been ambushed and lost my vessel in the process…”

“… You told her to run, didn’t you?”

He chuckles quietly. “For years, I was convinced that Anna knew. Just… waiting for the punishment I was certain I had earned. But it never came…” Cas shrugs.

“Or maybe it did. I mean, for all I know, they reprogrammed me right after, and allowed me to believe I was… improving on my own.”

Improving on my own.

Dean remembers the Castiel that raised him from perdition. Tried to talk to him twice — but for some reason, Dean wasn’t one of those special people who could hear what he had to say.

They all — Dean, Sam, Bobby, Pamela — forced Cas to appear, and burned Pamela’s eyes out in the process. Of course, Dean is more to blame for that than anyone.

He wonders now, not for the first time, if Cas could’ve left Jimmy and his family out of it — if only Dean hadn’t been so desperate to see him. To know who and what he was and why he wanted Dean bad enough to defy nature. To prove it to himself.

If Dean had just left well enough alone — if he wasn’t always so fucking needy — would Cas have ever knocked on the Novaks’ door? Would he have chosen some other vessel — some other family from a list of alternates? Would he have returned to the battlefield at all?

“Are you falling asleep?” Cas asks him.

“Well no need to sound so hopeful.”

“No — it’s not — I just mean… It’s a good sign, for you to be feeling tired. It means you’re still functioning normally.”

“Yeah,” he answers shakily. “It is good, isn’t it?”

“But,” Dean adds a moment later, “I don’t wanna be one of those guys who only cares about himself.”

“You could never be.”

He turns onto his back, laughing and groaning at the same time. “I mean, what about you, Cas?”

He waggles his brows suggestively, and Cas laughs and hides his face. It’s the most human he’s ever looked.

When he meets his gaze his eyes are heavy with lust, the humor slowly fading. “I understand what you’re saying… But your condition-”

“I wanna feel normal as long as I can, Cas.” God. It makes him sound terminal.

In a way, he is.

“And if normal looks like getting dicked down by an angel who kinda sucks at roleplay, I think I can live with that.”

“… I don’t suck.”

“Yeah you do. Little bit. Come on, admit it.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I will not.”

[megjameswrites]

Decorated my house for Yule today, so have a Christmas Supernatural drabble!

Christmas Sucks Ass

Dean Winchester/reader; Dean Winchester/ original character

Christmas has always sucked for Dean, but this one is a little bit different.

Dean stared at me, eyes hard. “What the fuck is that?”

I blinked. “What- it’s… a Christmas tree?”

“What is it doing here?”

I glanced around the hotel room, where I’d placed the very small and very cheap dollar store tabletop tree on the desk. “It’s… decorating the place?”

Everything I said was coming out as a question, and I hated it. It was the way he was staring at me, like he thought I’d suddenly been possessed by a demon and he had to kill me or something.

One time. It was one time, damn it.

Dean kept staring, clearly waiting for more information. I stared back, waiting for the same.

“Christmas is bullshit,” he finally snapped. “Me and Sammy, we didn’t get happy family holidays.”

“What, and you think I did?” I fired back with a sneer. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a damn tree. Lighten up.”

“Lighten up? Are you-“

I tossed my hands up and interrupted him before he could really get going. “Damn it, Dean! I try to do something nice for you and you have to make it a thing! I had a surprise planned out! With Sam!”

He froze, clearly taken aback. “What?”

I crossed my arms, just as pissed now as he had been when he walked in. “Sam and I. Planned. A surprise for you. Cas helped. But you had to go and pitch a bitch fit, and now we might as well not bother.”

“I found- hello, Dean.”

I sighed as Castiel immediately hid what was in his hands. “Don’t bother. He ruined it. Where’s Sam?”

As if summoned by the power of prayer, Sam flung the door open and kicked it shut, hands full of wrapping paper and tape. “Hey, I got- shit. Dean. Hi.”

Dean glared equally at all three of us. “What are you doing? What did you do?”

Sam looked guilty for some reason, and Cas just seemed confused. I sighed, loudly.

“You always say you hate Christmas-“

“Because it sucks ass.”

“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes at him and he scowled harder. His face would get stuck that way if he wasn’t careful. “You say that, but you’ve been humming Christmas songs since before Thanksgiving. We made a damn surprise. Also, every Christmas did not suck ass. Don’t blame us for you throwing away the one Christmas present you ever cared about.”

Dean flinched, and Sam looked sad. The absence of the amulet around his neck still hurt, and I’d made my point. Now I gestured to Cass, and he handed me what I’d hoped like hell he’d be able to find.

“It isn’t the same one,” I said quietly. I held out the amulet, similar but in silver instead of gold. “But we found this. Look at the back.”

Dean took it, looking like someone had hit him right between the eyes with a baseball bat, and flipped it over. On the back were our initials- mine, Sam’s, Cass’, Bobby’s, Ellen’s, Jo’s. John and Mary’s.

“We couldn’t fit names, but we got the initials in. You’ll know what it means, and we’ll all be close to your heart.” I finished speaking without looking at him, my cheeks burning.

“No chick flick moments,” Dean muttered.

“Sure,” I agreed more casually than I meant. “Whatever you say, Winchester.”

The colored lights caught on the pendant as he lifted it to put around his neck. “Christmas still sucks ass,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “You guys don’t, though.”

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Satanic panic: 8 Oct. Suptober

"Okay. Okay, here's the thing," Sam said, clearly struggling to keep his volume low and still be heard over the milling police, sounds of a crowd cheering on the other side of the venue's stage, and the weeping wailings of several nearby… 

Castiel wasn't sure what they were. Leather-bound, pentagram-tattooed lizard people? The rest of the band, he was given to understand.

Sam continued, "Satanic panic, 1980s style? Fake news. Never proven. All the pearl clutching and accusations about ritualistic satanic sacrifices and abuses, totally unsubstantiated. At best, you could say, yes, people did panic, but wholly without cause."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Now, this so-called death metal – Satan metal – band is on its fifth lead singer in five years."

"Right."

"Except they've all been the same guy."

"I thought the first one was different," Castiel interjected.

Both brothers shook their heads. "Same guy," Dean said. "Different, y'know, whatta you call 'em." He snapped his fingers a couple of times. "Vestments." 

"Vestments, names, personas, et cetera," Sam huffed. "Different positions in the larger cult."

"Only it's not really a cult?" Castiel was having a hard time keeping up.

"Right, it's all phony." Dean rolled his eyes; he'd been loudly vocal, earlier, about his distaste for this particular band.

Castiel asked, "Is it important that all of the lead singers were only one man?" 

Sam gave a grin like a grimace emoji. (Castiel liked sending texts with that one.) "It's relevant, possibly, because part of the lore – the storyline – of the band was that every lead singer was 'replaced'." He made finger quotes. "Which is to say, 'murdered'." 

"But it was just the one man changing costumes," Castiel deduced. "That's somewhat clever."

"Some people think so." Dean looked askance at Sam.

"Several of their songs are great, pointedly political commentaries about the corruption of modern life and the downfall of empires," Sam said, in a tone that indicated the debate with Dean was ongoing.

"It's a shame then," Castiel said, squatting to pull the bloody sheet down from the face of the corpse sprawled halfway out of the dressing room doorway, "that the lead singer seems to be literally dead this time."

He didn't have to ask why this case warranted the Winchester's skillset. The singer's eyes were burned clear out of his head.

He looked up at Dean and Dean nodded, grimly.

-

"What are you reading?" Dean manhandled Cas enough to be able to crawl into bed behind him, his thighs bracketing Cas's hips. As it was one of Dean's usual nighttime routines, Cas allowed the interruption without complaint.

"In this story, apparently we're investigating the killing of a famous singer who leads a made-up satanic cult." Cas showed him the screen of the old tablet Sam had given him. 

"Pretty sure most satanic cults are made up," Dean said, hooking his chin over Cas's shoulder. "And I'm sayin' that even though I've met actual Satan."

"Throughout the ages there've been more than a few cults dedicated to Lucifer," Cas admitted. "But most of them didn't really know who they were worshiping, and certainly not in any way that would've been useful to Lucifer."

"I guess that's comforting to hear," Dean muttered. He coughed into Cas's shoulder. "Hey. We get up to anything sexy in that story?"

"Hmm." Cas scrolled back up to the top of the first chapter. "It's rated General Audiences."

"Ah," Dean said, his fingers tickling up Cas's ribs while Cas turned in his arms. "Guess we'll have to write our own fic."

[spnregular]

directors commentary on "i wear my red lipstick, got my coat and gun" pwease?

this fic i wrote while stranded in the seattle airport and as you know already, is heavily inspired by your series the pain in the end is alll in your memory. trans woman dean!!! this is one of my darker fics so if anyone else chooses to read it pls heed the tags and warnings! it's a miserable time by design :)

So right off the rip, this fic is named for a lyric in an unreleased lana del rey song bc lana is all glamor and bad boys. If dean had a transition goals pinterest there would be hundreds of photos of lana wrapped in the arms of her older greasy boyfriends.

Case closed, boogeyman dead, and now the two of them were in the backseat of the Impala, all the right parts lined up where they needed to be. Dean has a hand, cupped around her tit and another fumbling at the zipper of her jeans. Her hands gripped at his waist under her shirt, her long nails digging into his ribs. Dean ground down into her hips, her legs wrapped around him the way they were supposed to be. 

The good guy saves the day and gets the girl. The way it went down in all the best pictures. 

Dean likes it when things are they way theyre “supposed” to be, tv taught her how to feel so on and so forth. She sleeps with women because all her male heroes do and she’s gotta be like them, she’s gotta keep the tape rolling!!! Everything she does is because it’s been decided for her. A woman so cruelly divorced from her own feelings and desires, she legit believes she doesnt have them

Whole car smelled like whiskey, smoke, and pussy— the Dean Winchester, post-hunt celebratory special. Didn’t even know this one’s name. 

Dean misogyny win

Dean had two fingers pumping in and out of her pussy, his eyes closed to focus on her wet heat. She kissed his face, over and over and over, lingering with her lips on his. Dean pulled his face away to flick his tongue over her nipple, his head still swimming as she hissed in satisfaction. In his mind, he was driving 100 in a 65, all fresh road and clear skies overhead, Baby’s engine purring and someone’s deep laughter echoing beside him. 

There’s nothing dean finds more erotic than her car so dissociating by imagining driving is like thee perfect way for her to enjoy actually being with another woman. I mean, baby’s the most beautiful woman she knows and she wants to fuck her, right? Step one apply the same logic to human women. Step two ??? step three profit. also, crucially, she is imagining a man having fun next to her. is that man cas? yes

Dean was soft in his jeans and his legs felt unsteady. She was waiting, writhing, expecting something good. She thought he looked good, he thought she looked good too. She looked like something out of a skin mag right now, the way her legs and pussy were spread, clinging to his hand, just begging to get fucked. He wanted to give it to her, he wanted a good ending. He leaned in to kiss her, hard, and palmed himself through his jeans. Nothin’.

Whiskey dick <3 but also when dean is having sex, her pleasure is the farthest thing from her mind. I mean, guys dont actually like sleeping with women right? It’s kind of a chore but you look rlly cool after. So it’s all about her, she should get to enjoy this ridiculous thing dean’s gotta endure.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waved her off and smiled. He held an arm out as far as he could and brought one finger to his nose. Done this trick a million times. “See? I’m all good.”

Drunk driving dean rights <3

Dean wiped at the lipstick until most of it came off, leaving what looked like a few hickeys. A little lipstick on his collar looked good, looked like he scored. Looking over his face more intently, he noticed how much of it she had gotten on his lips. He lifted a hand to wipe it off and stopped, just grazing his fingers lighting over the edges where it bled onto his stubbled chin. 

Absolutely no point in sleeping with women unless everyone knows. Gratuitously borrowed from beat sheet of course.

In the dim light, a pair of green eyes with long lashes stared from the rearview mirror, right back at Dean. Big eyes, nestled against delicate cheekbones, perhaps a bit too much blush on them, and an upturned nose. Underneath it all sat full lips, shiny, red stained, and kiss swollen. The lipstick highlighted the curve of those lips, the pleasant swell of the bottom lip and the striking Cupid’s Bow of the top.  Dean licked his lips and watched the pretty face in the mirror lick her—

Dean does NOT like thinking about her “delicate features” but she loves them. She loves her lashes, her luscious lips, her fine cheekbones and nose. She’s like really pretty!!! But we can only talk about this when drunk!! And even then!!!!!!!! Not really. Having her softer features highlighted like this, out of the blue, she’s GOT to admire them. As a man, she kinda hates it but knows chicks dig a pretty guy. as a woman? she knows her face card is never declined,,

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows as he took a sip of his own drink, “Nothing to do with the way her lips paint your face with her drugstore lipstick?”

The first time this happened, crowley already knew what was going on. He thinks it’s funny/cute. a lil pathetic too, but who cares, dean is his lil girl.

“Something to match your summer color— you’ve really acquired a Jersey Shore complexion in the last few months,” Crowley continued, ignoring Dean, “Or perhaps… something to match the other gifts I bought you. A deep red?”

Red is a classic color but also i genuinely think red suits dean very well.

Dean shifted in his seat and closed his legs, the lace under his jeans riding high in the cleft of his ass. The look of satisfaction on Crowley’s face just screamed cat and canary.

dean has so much lingerie at this point and i didnt mention it but she fucks women with it on. Only way she can really keep it up atp. also crowley takes immense pride in being her sugar daddy.

“Yes,” Crowley said as he placed his glass on a side table, turning to face Dean. He leaned in, his eyes darting quickly over Dean’s face, weighing and measuring, “Something classic. I’m sure I could still find an original Guerlain.”

I went with guerlain because it’s a hollywood classic favored by marilyn monroe one of the OG class acts. and it would be expensive/hard to find so crowley would love it

“It wasn’t your color,” Crowley said, licking his own lips, “But I didn’t say it wasn’t fetching, in a sort of cheap, two-bit whore sort of way.”

Crowley thinks dean is so hot, he’s just a raging bitch. Also he’s actually very supportive of dean’s transition, more than happy to buy her whatever she needs. he is just incapable of saying anything nice to anyone.

“But you’d look better in my colors, poppet,” Crowley purred.

crowley wants to own dean so bad.... also it took me like 20 minutes to think of the word poppet, i had to ask my gf for help

Dean looked into the fire and imagined how it would feel on his new skin, clean and condemning. “Fuck off, man,” Dean said, but he didn’t move.

“Say it like you mean it,” Crowley said, his breath rushing along Dean’s neck, “Then I’ll believe you.”

“I— I don’t—“ Dean couldn’t say anything more after Crowley’s hand gripped the side of his waist.

Just two cnc queens chillin together.

“You stink of musk,” Crowley said, “Naughty girl.”

Dean shoved Crowley back to pin him with both hands against the back of the couch, blood rushing through his head. Crowley chuckled and looked up at Dean through his eyelashes. 

��Sorry,” Crowley was clearly not sorry, “Forgot I’m only allowed to use the ‘g’-word under special circumtances.”

Dean pretends that it’s a force fem situation, that crowley is shaming her into this role of “bitch” but crowley knows it’s real, that she wont let herself have this.

The demon skank pressed her lips onto Dean’s, hands roaming where they shouldn’t. Dean clenched his jaw and held his breath until it was over. 

“Got a little skin from Dean Winchester,” she chuckled, “And I didn’t even have to sucker you into a shit deal to get it. I must be the luckiest girl in the world.”

I just think it’s so funny that you gotta get assaulted by a demon to get a shitty deal :)

“He doesn’t need to know if I have a little fun with his best girl,” she said, eyes turning black. She puckered her lips again for another kiss, holding Dean’s head in place as he tried to turn away. The shit on her lips was sticky and smelled like cotton candy. It didn’t pair well with the overbearing scent of sulfur eking out from her skin. When she pulled away her smiled deepened, all of her teeth showing, “Oh, don’t you look pretty as a picture. Red is definitely your color.”

Now that dean’s “misbehaving” everyone knows she’s a “bad girl”. Crowley ran his mouth.

“Kinky,” she said, “But I think I’d like to stay on top for this round.” Her hand trailed lower to his belt buckle, tugging hard. She worked his jeans open and leaned back to stare at him. “I just remembered,” she laughed, “You were Alistair’s girl for a bit, right? Hey, maybe when we’re done you can give me a few pointers on how I did?” 

Im always thinking about deanalistair btw. Alistair is sort of the reason dean’s egg cracked. A violent cracking but nonetheless. ive always thought that part of the reason dean didnt want to talk about hell is not just shame over enjoying torturing but she learned more about who she was than she ever wanted to know

“Dean,” Cas said, “Sam wants you back at the bunker. We can cure you.”

“You know that’s not what I’m lookin’ for,” Dean drawled, willing every muscle in his body to relax. Something about the way his skin sat over his body didn’t feel right, like he should peel it off and start fresh. 

Dean’s demon life is miserable but so was being a human lol. at least as a demon she can explore herself more thoroughly. everyone expects demons to be freaks. Here she’s barely able to reconcile the idea that she’s been sexually assaulted. In front of cas no less!!! Her little guy who she’s supposed to look cool in front of. but also, demons dont care about that kind of shit, right?? just another day in hell!

“You know the drill, Cas,” Dean said, tucking himself back into his jeans and patting his shirt down for dirt and dust, “I’m sure there’s another deadbeat demon for you to waste your time on. I know how you like doin’ that.”

Gotta make fun of cas’s demon fetish

Dean tilted his head to expose the long line of his neck, satisfied when he saw Cas’s eyes flicker over it. “You seen the pictures, you know the stories. The hero gets the girl when he saves the day,” Dean said, softening his voice as best he knew how, “I think you should get an ending like that.”

Again, dean’s gotta fall back on a movie,  fall back into the familiarity of what she knows. If something’s in a script that means she doesnt have to think about it. It’s rote!

“I wanna give you something, Cas,” Dean said, his eyes felt wet, “I gotta do something, let me give you a girl.”

I want to call to attention the detail that i dont use she/her pronouns for dean anywhere in this fic. This is because dean doesnt actually think it’s real lol. And she really only lets herself fall into it if there’s a man. There’s gotta be a guy for the girl and a girl for the guy. Only other girl around was that awful skank, so, well, dean’s gotta woman up. of course…

“No, I—“ Cas grazed Dean’s cheek with his fingertips. Dean gasped when they burned, a faint burning sensation setting his skin alight. It was good.

The idea that an angel touching a demon would burn is just a horny bit for me. But i think dean would like it as she likes to be punished.

“I could make this the best happy ending you ever had,” Dean said. He gripped Cas’s thighs and ran his hands up and down, “I promise you’ll love it. Just let me do it.”

Here, dean has some inkling of cas’s feelings for her. She doesnt know the extent but she knows that cas would go to great lengths for her. She’s using this nebulous idea to her advantage. it's not nice, it's not fair and deep down she knows that.

“I didn’t—“ Cas moaned again when Dean managed to get his full length down his throat, “I— ah— I thought it would be different.”

Cas’s only other sexual experience is assault and subterfuge! He’s got a complicated relationship to sex atp, knowing he’s got this yawning hunger inside but unsure of safe ways to sate it. He’s also not really cognisant of how dean was just assaulted in front of him. He’s imagined being with dean in a million different ways, but none by coercion, none that dont come with a happy ending. He wanted his first time with dean to be happy.

Dean felt his own eyes prick with tears. There was only one way this could go down with Dean and it was never gonna be good. 

Dean does not believe herself capable of making anyone happy, esp not anyone she has true feelings for. she's poison remember!!

Cas’s kept his face covered while he breathed slowly. Below, Dean felt his own dick twitch, half-hard, as though something that just transpired could have been good for him. He lifted himself up from the ground and patted Cas’s arm hard.

Cas feels shame that he enjoyed it, he defs dissociated a bit and Dean honestly could have gotten off on sucking cas if this wasnt actually about hurting herself.

Dean turned around to find his way out of the basement, not wanting to see the look on Cas’s face anymore.

dean, queen of avoiding the consequences of her own actions....

[autisticandroids]

15, 21, 23?

15. something you learned this year

i don't know if i can say i learned a new skill as such. but one thing is like... i really enjoyed making three card stud. and it really opened my eyes to like, how much of what i like about the practice of fanfiction is the meticulous remixing/reinterpretation of canon. there's a way in which the AMV is a more... analytical art form than the fanfic, because you are literally forced by the constraints of the medium to keep to the text. all you have are song lyrics and the kuleshov effect to convince your audience to take the new meaning you intend to convey from stuff already in the show. and i brought that ethos to three card stud even though i did add stuff. in a lot of ways three card stud was just me listing off things from canon i think a lot about and saying eh? eh? like. hoping the context would make it clear *why* this stuff makes me crazy. and i think that was a lot of the motivation behind the fic i'm currently working on, which is about dean and cas getting caught by the police. that fic at this point is mostly lists of things that have happened in spn episodes, placed in a new context by baffled feds and cops. which is the fun part. so like basically i learned that this is really fun, listing off canon facts in a new context

21. most memorable comment/review

so the most memorable traditional comment as such i got was probably this one, on i fold in half so easily (ifihse tends to generate the best comments because it's extremely dark without the ways in which it is dark being obviously flagged. so people are more shocked and more forced to think). "Cas: no officer i am very happy please dont tell dean im emotionally complex" is so funny and true that's literally what happens in that fic.

another top contender is this one, on getting serious, which generates good comments for the same reason ifihse does, though it's a lot less intense.

but in terms of my favorite *response to my work,* it was the breastfeeding anon saga (in chronological order here) which was a response to my fic smorgasbord.

and then i wrote a fic based on those anons, and then i got these very funny tags on my fic post:

23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t

when i tell you about the 120k deanvictor fic which is literally 90k of victor henriksen hunting down a serial killer dean winchester while becoming a little (sexually) obsessed with him and then 30k of victor knowing about the supernatural and moonlighting as a hunter while he and dean suck each others dicks so much.

and also it's about victor's relationship with his two ex wives and his former stepdaughter who he is still emotionally a parent to even though they have no legal relationship and the coworker he had an emotional affair with who he doesn't speak to anymore and how he feels trapped in his life and his job and dean represents this escape for him this total freedom. just living in his car on the road and not having to worry about what your boss thinks or needing to quit smoking. while for dean victor represents this stability and adulthood dean can never achieve. and dean leaves three spare pairs of underwear in victor's divorcé bachelor pad as a kind of little... fantasy. of what life could be like.

anyway the most compelling scene from that, IN MY MIND, is a scene where victor STILL thinks dean is a serial killer. and now he has him in custody. and against his will he's... charmed. by dean. because dean is charming and pathetic, shaking and sweating from mild alcohol withdrawal but still cracking jokes and being friendly and observant and extremely young-feeling, for 28. and earnest in a way he didn't expect. and they're forced to work together against a demon siege, a spin on jus in bello where victor still doesn't find out about the supernatural he's just protecting himself and a prisoner from a threat. and he has the uncomfortable realization that he's attracted to dean winchester (serial killer) (guy he is trying to take down) (has killed so so many people). and he's like well. we can table that for later. and then dean escapes.

so i've been trying to figure out a way to scoop out just that scene and turn it into its own fic because that's actually manageable for me.

the dean and cas pursued by the cops idea also comes a bit from frustration that i can't write this, though the feds in that one are ocs bc it's later.

from here

[winchester-reload]

I saw some asks talking about destiel songs and ... I THINK IT MIGHT BE BECAUSE I CAN RELATE ALMOST EVERYTHING TO DEAN AND CAS BUT, for me, Hozier - Francesca is such a destiel song ...

Oh, I know. One thing I really love about the ship is that you can see it in every song, art, poem, and dream.

But to be clear, I never asked for destiel song recs hahaha (however, excellent choice. Hozier's Francesca is delicious. I also have another person @carhengeapocalypse who suggested Orville Peck's Drive Me, Crazy, which is also an excellent song I've listened to many times. And to which I will suggest Let Me Drown, by Mr. Orville Peck. His live version is LIFE. (seriously, if you need me I'm probably listening to this live Nashville version of the song.)

Not to say any of the other suggestions in my inbox are bad ones, I just haven't listened to the songs. So thank you , fam for sharing your music love with me <3

[blacknidstang]

4 and 8 for the discourse asks ❤️

Hello my beloved 💕

4) meg!sam or lucifer!sam

HOW DO I ANSWER THIS EVEN HOW. I think Jared's acting with Meg was just... Phenomenal truly. Mindblowing performance from such amazing amazing episode. But i think personally i choose Luciter Sam. There's certain beauty, elegance and grace to his Lucifer that sometimes take my breath away. And we don't see a lot truly but sometimes, even a tiniest moment can leave a mark on you. Like this one short scene from Proverbs that had me screaming MY WIFE, MY BRIDE, MY BEAUTY, MY LOVE.. just... Just look at him i am i feel WEAK

8) How should the afterlife have been “resolved”? Did the fixing of Heaven work?

Bdjdudwij i cannot believe you're asking me this when you're fully aware i think Dean is just a prisoner in his isolated heaven and all of that is a illusion. :/ Obviously the writers were held at gun point to make it LOOK LIKE Dean is in heaven waiting for SAM instead of being happy with Cas but they dropped hints all along that this is just an unreal Chuck-made heaven. If you reverse the second Carry On song, invert the waves and subtract the frequency from the first version you will be able to find the morse code to the actual truth of the finale. Hope that clears thing up.

Ok petty jokes aside i actually just realized, it doesn't matter bc it is a win-win thing for us.

IF it had not worked & Chuck has won then ya know, Sam & Dean share one heaven and as long as they are together, according to that certain post, THEY WON'T EVEN REALIZE CHUCK HAS WON. Like it's genuinely funny that the claim turned out to be even more of a samdean soulmatism proof

But if it has worked and heaven is fixed (which i genuinely think is the answer bc it matters so much to me that they fucked god over and raised new one just so they could be free and happy together) then the rest is history. So even if there's nothing i exactly can say for sure, i wholeheartedly think sam & dean are each others heaven and thats all that matters.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to particularly rant about that one thing <3

Spn discourse asks

[typicalopposite]

writing prompts? i gotchu

destiel but cas works in a reptile shop and they meet because his burmese python escaped and was sitting in the sun by the window

I am so sorry this took so long! I kept getting TOO into it and trying to make it a full length fic! (which may still happen one day! lol) but here you go :) hope you like it!

So there are three things everyone in town knows about Rainbow Reptiles: 1.) It is run by Castiel Novak (quiet guy, very awkward, but still friendly). 2.) On Wednesday’s the store closes for an hour so Castiel can clean Lilith’s enclosure . 3.) Lilith is Castiel’s Burmese Python. (She is jet black, 18 years old, and 18 feet long, and as big around as a basketball)

~~~

Castiel is in the backroom, earbuds in and blaring, humming along to the song that’s playing while he cleans out his bucket one last time. He’s nearing the end of his allotted hour—it easily takes the entire hour for him to get Lilith’s home completely clean. The massive enclosure sits in the middle of his store, and stretches from the floor to the skylight; it gives her plenty of natural light to keep her warm, and plenty of room to stretch out her entire 18 feet over the branches of her equally massive artificial tree. 

When he is finally done—cleaning supplies are put up and Lilith’s cage looks brand new—he goes to the 60 gallon storage bin he has to keep her in during the hour. “Oh— oh not again…” he groans, when he sees the lid sitting askew atop the bin. He pauses his music to get his head clear before he starts to panic search for her… and that’s when he hears the screaming. 

Very deep, guttural, screaming of pure panic. 

“Dean come on, it's not even moving,” an unfamiliar voice laughs. 

“Yet, Sam… It’s not moving yet! We need to get the hell out of here before it starts!”

Castiel steps out into his shop. Towering over the shelves is a man Castiel assumes must be Sam; on his back, with his limbs wrapped awkwardly around Sam’s body, is Dean. 

In the store's front window—which sits directly beside the front door—stretched out almost to her full 18 feet, sunbathing in the mid-summer heat without a care in the world of the complete panic going next to her, is Lilith. 

“Can I help you two?” Castiel asks, unsure if he is more annoyed they are in his closed store, or amused at what he is seeing. 

“Wh- what the hell man!” Dean yelps, when he notices Castiel. “You just let that— that— that… roam freely in here!?” 

“That is actually a she,” Castiel says. He crosses the store to Lilith and begins to lift her up. “And she is Burmese Python.” 

“Cool… so you just let your Burmese Python roam around your store?” Dean reiterates, sarcastically. 

“No,” Castiel deadpans, continuing to hoist Lilith up from the window sill. “I keep her in a bin while I clean her cage… but she has been known to get out, that’s why I close the store.” 

“If you’re closed, why was the door unlocked?” 

Castiel sighs; “The lock is broken. But there is a closed sign… did you not see it?” 

“Maybe if it was put where it was easier to see,” Dean snaps back.

“It’s on the front of the door.”

“Can you please get off of me…” Sam interrupts. Dean lingers a moment longer—until Castiel finally has Lilith around his shoulders—then he grunts as he drops to the floor and shakes out his own shoulders, straightening out his worn leather jacket in the process. Castiel blinks. Now that he is no longer contorted around Sam’s body, Castiel can finally get a good look at him. He’s— very handsome… for starters. Castiel feels heat rush to his cheeks. He is vaguely aware he’s staring… but he can’t seem to snap himself out of it. “Uh, anyway, sorry to bother you—I’m Sam… this is Dean. We just opened up next door.”

“Oh, the pawn shop,” Castiel replies; Sam nods, and holds out his hand to Castiel. “Castiel,” he says, shaking Sam’s hand, then turning to do the same with Dean.

“Y- You mind putting it— er, her—your anaconda up… first?” Dean asks, putting some more space between himself and Castiel (and Lilith). 

“Python,” Castiel corrects. “And my apologies for the scare,” he adds, walking Lilith into her cage. She slithers up onto a brand from Castiel’s shoulders and lowers her head to look out at Dean; he cringes and takes another step back. 

“Well, it was good to meet you Cas,” Dean says, finally willing to shake his hand. “Not so much you,” he says to Lilith who inches forward, causing him to give a small leap back. “You should really get that lock fixed, before she decides to break free and go paint the town… or eat the town.”

“The lock is broken, Dean. Not the handle… she can not open the door,” Castiel sighs. 

Dean laughs—not that Castiel was trying to be funny— and nudges Sam towards the door. “Right. Anyway, we’ll see you around?” 

“We are neighbors now, so yes,” Castiel smiles, and waves at them as they continue out the door. “I’ll see you around.” 

it feels like it ends a little weird but again I kept dragging it out into a longer fic and I wanted to get it done so I could post it for you! :)

[alphabetquest]

FAQs

Who is running this thing?

Hi, it’s me 👋🏻. @princessmisery666

What is the prompt schedule?

Sign-up opens on May 29, 2024, and will close on August 29, 2024

Prompts will be posted on the first of each month beginning September 1, 2024. 

Prompts can be filled and posted at any time. Submissions for a prompt can be made within a different month than the prompt was posted.

There is no deadline for submissions.

Cut-off to be included in the prize draw is May 31, 2025.  

Do I have to sign up for the challenge?

Yes, if you want your work reblogged to the @alphabetquest blog and my main blog. We all know Tumblr’s tags aren’t the best so something could be missed. I need to know which blogs to check.

Can I use a prompt from a different month?

Yes, once a prompt is posted, you can use it whenever inspiration strikes. However, please give credit and tag the blog. 

What characters can I write for? 

Here is the list of characters/fandoms that can be used for this challenge. If it’s not listed, just ASK. 

What other characters can I include?

Reader inserts, OCs, and crossovers are all welcome.

What kind of prompts will there be? 

Prompts are open to interpretation, but please feel free to ask if you are unsure of a prompt’s meaning or its spirit of intent.

Quotes and song lyrics quoted - should not be amended

Songs - use all or part (e.g., lyrics used as dialogue, soundtrack for fan video, or art based on the song’s vibe). Using the song title as the title of your piece is fine, but the content also needs to connect to the song in some way.

AUs, kinks, single-word prompts, etc. - use as you’d like based on the guidelines.

Can my creation include ships?

Yes. Except for m/m. Ships such as the following will not be accepted: 

Stucky (MCU) 

Bucky/Buck (Masters Of The Air) 

Hangman/Rooster, Hangman/Bob, Maverick/Rooster, Rooster/Bob, Hangman/Coyote, Maverick/Hangman (Top Gun Maverick)

Eddie/Buck (9-1-1)

Wincest, Dean/Cas, Sam/Cas, Sam/Lucifer, Dean/Benny. (Supernatural)

If you have a question about a ship’s eligibility, just ASK.

What types of prompts will be posted?

Tropes, songs, lyrics, dialogue, and random words. Each letter will have 9 prompts. For example, A will have 3 songs, 3 dialogue, and 3 tropes.

Does the relationship of the main character(s) have to be romantic?

No. Platonic, gender-neutral, sibling, and parental relationships are also acceptable.

Can I combine prompts?

Yes, but each one must be easily identifiable within the works. 

Can I combine a prompt with another bingo/challenge?

Yes, if the other bingo/challenge allows it too. Please make the prompt easy to find, such as by putting it in the Author's Notes. It needs to be clear, or it will not be accepted.

Are crossovers allowed?

Yes. But one of the listed fandoms/characters must be the main feature of the work.

Can I use the same prompt multiple times?

Yes, as long as the fic follows all the other rules and it's not a duplicate fic with the slight changes e.g. character changed.

Can I use the prompts in a chapter of an existing fic?

Yes, as long as the fic follows all the other rules.

How do I submit my work?

All creations must include @alphabetquest in the Author’s Notes. Use the hashtag #AlphabetQuestsSubmission in the first five tags. You can also submit the post’s link to the submission channel in Discord.

Where will my posts be reblogged?

Submissions will be reblogged to the @alphabetquest blog within a week. If you do not see your post reblogged within a week, don't hesitate to contact the @alphabetquest mod on the Discord server or ask in the @alphabetquest DMs. I will also reblog on my main blog (@princessmisery666), but I have a queue set up so it may be more than a week.

If you have any questions that haven’t been covered, please ASK. 

[cavebaby2]

Yall remember that episode (I don’t think I even have to state which one, but just to be sure, s5 ep13, “The Song Remains the Same”) where Dean and Sam go back in time to locate Mary and John ends up being there too?

Anywho, can I just blab about when the door opens and they see, not just Mary, but John too?

I’m gonna blab anyway.

Like Sam and Dean and the insane differences between their reactions is something I (way too often) think about. Like on one end there’s Sam, who like immediately loosens. If I remember correctly, that is, he literally kind of deflates. I mean yes, he’s seeing his mother who he doesn’t even have memories of because he was so young, albeit before she had him or Dean, and that probably has something to do with it. But that’s also the difference I’m talking about. He probably see’s both of his parents, happy and youthful and is seeing them before one was gone and one was lost, and is just taking it all in. He sees his dad in a way he hasn’t ever seen him, clear headed, smiling, without a bottle in hand or without a case to send Dean on or tow them around for. He just see’s that John, not John after he lost Mary. He sees a dad who hasn’t done any wrong yet, a dad who didn’t make him feel like he had to run off. He’s relaxed, he’s loose; he’s probably shocked and slightly excited. Maybe he has a lapse and gets a little upset, but it’s short lived. Plus, Sam hasn’t ever really seen John as his worst, truthfully. Dean probably took care of all of that hard stuff; pulling John into the couch after another bender, rolling him on his side just incase he decides to choke on his puke. Dean also, most likely at least imo, always took the brunt of his father’s anger or short temperament, just for the sake of Sam being allowed to have as much of a normal childhood as he could.

Then there’s Dean:

The moment that door opens and he see’s John, he straitens his back and puffs out his chest and ducks his chin, like a soldier is taught to do, and presents himself as strongly and as uniformly as he can. He doesn’t give himself time to say Hello to Mary, can’t do so without subconsciously seeking an appraising look or a nod, or a wave of a hand; he wants to be dismissed, wants to be acknowledged as he used to be, as a good soldier with a good masculine stance, to be cleared. It’s an immediate movement, a learned flip of a switch. Its muscle memory, to present as something solid. Perhaps to be saved from a harsh stare or an emasculating retort. He needs to be as John as conditioned him. Unlike Sam, Dean has seen Mary before. He’s gotten to know her more throughout the times some random angel or even Cas shot him back here, but it’s still his mother. The mother who he lost, the one who ruined his father, and he still doesn’t allow himself to greet her when in the presence of John.

… when I start doing this I know I’m relapsing on writing another unpublished fic.