what-an-idio-t

[what-an-idio-t]

Tainted — Chapter 2: Breathe Me In, Bleed Me Out

SUMMARY: The world caves in for Dean’s girlfriend when she gets a panicked call from Sam— Dean is gone. And she has to find him. Can she keep her promise?

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst, smuttish (nothing explicit, but definitely suggestive so MDNI) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Seasons 9-10 spoilers, established relationship, angst, little bit of a time jump from chapter 1, more time jumps within this chapter, temporary character death, grief, canon level violence, demon!dean being an asshole, suggestive making out (while consenual, definitely laden with guilt), implied cheating WORD COUNT: 5.2k A/N: This chapter was honestly difficult for me to write. My struggles with writing Y/N stories bite me in the butt again, lol. I never know whether Y/N is too flat to be interesting or too fleshed out to be relatable, it's a fine balance. Feel free to let me know your opinions. Fair warning: A good amount of this is basically the plot of the episodes 9x20 and 10x01. CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by myself ──〃★ divider edited by myself ──〃★ series masterlist

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“Slowly, Sam,” she spoke through the phone despite the tremble in her own voice.

She’s had this bad feeling in her guts, teetering on the edge of panic. It’s been like this the whole day. The second her phone had started vibrating, the moment she saw Sam’s name on the display, she knew it was bad news.

She couldn’t put her finger on as to why.

She just knew.

Maybe it was the timing; Sam rarely called her out of the blue. Not like this, anyway. Not under these circumstances. He never had a reason to, until now. He always promised to give her a call should he need her help and even then they usually would text each other instead.

Maybe it was the way Sam stumbled across his own words, barely able to choke out a single coherent sentence. She could probably count the amount of times he sounded this freaked-out on one hand. He went on and on, rambling about “Metatron” and “Crowley” and “a knife” and “blood, so much blood.”

What else could it have been then, if not bad news?

A dull ache throbbed in her head as much as it did in her chest. She took off just two days ago, since a friend asked her to help with a hunt.

She had been reluctant about leaving the Bunker — they had enough on their plate already: Searching for Metatron was annoying, and then there was Dean’s insistence on killing him with the First Blade. Sam had locked the weapon away ever since he noticed the effect it had on his brother.

That knife paired with the Mark of Cain was a recipe for disaster. Until they’d find a cure for the curse, it was best to keep it hidden from Dean.

“Deep breath,” she said — at this point she wasn’t sure if she was trying to calm down Sam or rather herself. Her own exhale was shaky. As were her clammy hands that had an iron grip on the phone. “What happened?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Every second of it filled her with an absolute sense of dread.

“Where is he?,” she asked then. Hopeful, worried, terrified. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam’s voice was barely audible on the other end, yet his words hit her with the force of a thousand screams: “I’m sorry.”

It was a weird feeling. She wanted to cry and scream, to deny and to bargain. But she remained absolutely stiff and silent. Numbness was taking over.

“Where is he?,” she repeated her question, voice barely above a breath.

“I put him on your bed.”

Their bed, the only place remotely close to a sanctuary after long days of hunting and having to face the ugly of the world. She didn’t even want to think of the implications of their situation now. That bed, once a warm haven, would forever feel cold now.

“Wait for me,” she muttered weakly. There it was, that long awaited lump in her throat. She tried to swallow it, along with the tears that threatened to dwell up and spill over. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

Without hesitation she checked out of the motel, ditched her current case, and drove back to the Bunker. While there was no point in fretting over it now, she did curse herself for giving in to Dean’s suggestion.

“It’s just a hundred-something miles, you should take the case,” his encouragement had been. He had practically been urging her to chase that ghost. How could she not have seen it? Why did she not question his adamancy?

“I guess it’s a simple salt and burn, shouldn’t take too long,” she had given in so easily. Why did she brush it off so quickly? Why did Dean have to push her away?

Why did she let him?

If she had to guess, she would’ve said she expected him to act differently.

Since that particularily restless night, she thought his calmer, more reserved mood was a good sign. Oh, how wrong she had been.

After weeks and months of battling with himself and the Mark of Cain plaguing him non-stop, she had grown accustomed to Dean’s shitty moods. She had braced herself for an explosion in case the curse would take over.

An outburst, she would’ve understood. He could’ve been rude to her, cold even, anything to try and make her hate him. All of that, she already mentally prepared for. But instead, he put distance between them so subtly and gently that she didn’t even recognize it for what it was:

A silent suicide mission.

This fucker knew trying to rile her up into driving her away would fail. He knew that if he wanted her out of the way of his plan, he’d have to resort to softer methods. To distracting her with a case, to plotting in secret.

Dean had been planning to use the First Blade against Metatron all this time. All by himself, despite the warning signs. He’s reduced himself to a weapon, again, even though they all tried to convince him that they were in this together.

Lebanon, Kansas was roughly two hours away. Thanks to violating multiple traffic laws, she arrived there in just under one and a half. It was honestly a miracle she made it there in one piece.

The first strange thing she noticed was Baby’s empty parking spot. The black Impala was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, she thought Sam might’ve drove off to do God knows what.

Immediately she rushed inside, downstairs and into the war room. An eerie silence occupied the space. Dominated it. A silence she didn’t want to get used to, but she could already feel it settle in as if the Bunker was its new home.

Sam was nowhere to be seen, presumably — hopefully — keeping watch in Dean’s and her room. Did she even want to see what would await her there? Was any of this even real? It felt like such a joke, a twisted prank of a cruel fate. A nightmare she just wanted to wake up from.

Her heavy feet carried her down the hallway, but her legs were dragging along the floor like she was walking through water. Cold, heavy water slowing her down.

The door was slightly ajar and for a second her body refused to move entirely. Pushing it open and stepping inside felt impossible. No amount of time could help her brace herself for seeing her boyfriend’s corpse anyway. Thus, with a heavy heart and bated breath, she slipped inside.

Sam’s tall figure stood at the end of the bed, his back facing her and blocking her view, effectively.

Except, as she dared to take a glimpse, her eyes fell on an empty bed. Rustled sheets, stained with some blood. But no body.

Her stomach churned, racing mind unable to make sense of any of this.

“What did you do?,” she rasped. Casting her eyes towards Sam, she caught a glimpse of a piece of paper in his hands. Snatching it from his hands swiftly, she read the note over and over again.

Let me go.

Undoubtedly Dean’s handwriting, sharp and confident brushstrokes of a ballpoint pen. Let me go? What was that even supposed to mean?

“Sam, what did you do?,” she repeated her question, more urgently this time.

The younger Winchester stood there all frozen and speechless.

It was so difficult to contain her pain and her anger. Didn’t she tell Sam to wait until she was there? Didn’t she tell him to keep an eye on Dean just before she left two days ago?

Oh, how badly she wanted to yell at him for this mess.

But wasn’t that too easy? Pointing the finger at someone else, when she failed Dean all the same.

Not only was there no point in blaming Sam, it also didn’t look like he knew what was going on either. He looked about as distraught as she felt. She had to actively grab his arms to gain his attention.

“What the hell happened? Where’s Dean?”

Sam shook his head and she could see the wheels turning behind those knitted brows.

“Crowley,” Sam stuttered out. “He… I called him and—”

Her eyes almost popped out of her head, she widened them so much. Another cycle of sold souls might just be her last straw. Why did these boys always have to sacrifice themselves for each other?

“You made a deal?,” she interrupted him, furious.

“No deal. I told him to make it right,” Sam mumbled, more to himself, continuously shaking his head in disbelief. “When I came to check, they were both gone.”

Baffled, she blinked at him, seeking the truth in his words until her expression softened. She had no idea why Crowley would take Dean’s body, or what that note meant. Whether it was a petty, sick joke by the King of Hell or if it meant Dean was still out there somewhere, they had to find him.

“We will make it right,” she muttered, loosening her grip on Sam’s elbows. “Like we always do. We’ll find him.”

Hunters go through the five stages of grief like it’s a regular routine. A ritual, if you will. This life came with so much loss and pain. You’d think at some point you’d get used to it. To death all around you, to preparing yet another hunter’s burial.

But the fact that Dean was gone hit her like a whiplash. She didn’t even get to process any of it, no closure, nothing to make her know for sure where he was, whether he was okay, if there was still a chance. If she was still allowed to hope.

It took them weeks. Several weeks of trial and error. Tracking down Crowley did nothing. They had zero clues. No matter how many demons they asked, nobody knew what happened to Dean Winchester. The angels were fighting their own battle. Fellow hunters hadn’t seen or heard from him either.

She felt like she was slowly going insane. Her mind was a liminal space — she got the sense that she was thrown into cold water without knowing how to properly swim. She managed to keep her head up somewhat, but for how much longer could she take all of this?

At this point Sam and her were grasping at straws. The bigger fish in that vast ocean of questions were no help, so they had to dive deeper. They couldn’t afford to leave a stone unturned.

And who knew that a seemingly random case would prove to be their number one lead so far?

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” the cashier sighed and awkwardly rubbed his neck. A young man, probably working a part-time job at this gas station. The poor bystanding citizen went over what he saw once more. “This guy was just browsing through zines, then this other guy charged at him and he— KAPOW! BAM! — He just stabbed him. Kinda badass, honestly.”

Maybe not so poor after all. The guy seemed ecstatic about his eventful day at a rather boring job.

Sam and her exchanged a glance, unsure of what to make of the worker’s thrilled testimony.

Pointing at the surveillance cameras in the corner, she asked: “Mind if we check the tapes?”

They were lead to the computers in the back and the gas station attendant opened the recordings for them. Sam put three of the videos side by side, two showing the interior of the store, one being an angle from outside.

As she saw the Impala roll in on one of the clips, her eyes widened. She physically leapt forward, pushing Sam aside and zooming in on the figure stepping out of the familiar vehicle.

Her heart began racing a thousand miles per hour as she recognized what was undoubtedly her boyfriend walking into the gas station.

Then, Dean was alive after all? But it made no sense. Why was he not calling her, how did he survive that fight against Metatron?

So many questions flooded her mind that she was barely paying attention to the footage of some man coming up to Dean, clearly going for a strike. Dean dodged the attack and sunk the First Blade into the stranger. After that, he just left, taking that magazine along and driving away.

She barely registered Sam’s arm reaching over her to pause the video. He rewound it and played it again in slow motion, frame by frame until his trained eye prompted him to hit pause again.

Dean’s eyes were entirely consumed by a pitch black darkness. Demonic, soulless pits of black.

Something deep within her core collapsed as she connected the dots. Ignoring Sam’s attempts of stopping her, she made a beeline towards the exit. Clumsy fingers fished for her phone and she hastily dialed Crowley’s number.

His thick accent and smug tone made her want to reach through the line and rip out his tongue. “Colour me surprised. What can I do for the Winchester’s dearest?”

She didn’t even bother with a proper hello, let alone with reacting to his teasing greeting.

“I swear whatever demon is using Dean’s body as a meatsuit, I’ll send both them and you straight into hellfire myself,” she snarled through gritted teeth, fueled by a rage she’s never experienced before. She could only imagine the anger the Mark of Cain always caused for Dean, but she assumed her own came pretty close to the same level just then and there.

It earned her little more than a bemused chuckle.

Oh, that bastard was done for on so many levels.

“Crowley, I swear to all that’s holy I will—”

“Charming,” he interrupted her cursing, “But it’s all him, love.”

What?

“Call it the new and improved Dean,” Crowley hummed nonchalantly. “I did say the Mark of Cain would give him a nice and fancy upgrade, didn’t I?”

Surprisingly, a scavenger hunt to track down Crowley and/or Dean was even more frustrating than finding Metatron. Now, they all had good reason to getting ahold of that asshole, but Dean came first.

He always did. Plus, she didn’t make that promise for him just to fail him after.

Truth be told, she had no idea what she’d do once she would find him. Or rather, what was left of him. Judging by what Crowley said, the Mark of Cain had finally turned Dean into a monster.

For all they knew he was dangerous, yet she couldn’t care less.

It took her a while, but she managed to find a trail. Apparently the demonic version of the green-eyed hunter was a little more reckless when it came to covering up his traces.

Or maybe he didn’t particularly care about if or who might find him.

Either way, there weren’t many black ’67 Chevys cruising from motel to the next. If her hunch was correct, he was staying at one near her current location — lucky her, on one side. On the other hand, Sam was following a different lead one state over.

She couldn’t just let this chance slip, though. There was not enough time for backup. And, who knew, maybe it was a nothing burger anyway.

To be safe, she sent Sam a text that included the address, and purposefully ignored his reply about how she shouldn’t take risks by going alone.

She made her way to a motel that looked more run down than most of the ones even she was used to. It almost looked abandoned, definitely old, were it not for the bar on the other side of the street. That one was buzzing with light and music even from the buildings adjacent to it.

And wouldn’t you know it — Baby was parked right in front of said bar, empty.

This was her chance. She was ready to pick every lock of every room if it meant a chance at getting Dean back. The motel was definitely as hauntingly quiet and empty as your average ghost-filled mansion.

But it played into her hands. There wasn’t even any staff present.

Quickly, she snuck behind the reception’s desk and flipped through every document she could find. One name in particular struck her as odd — Joseph Perry. Unless the actual Joe, Aerosmith’s lead guitarist was renting a room in one of America’s most shabby motels, she hit the nail on the head.

One quick text message to Sam — ‘Found him. Room 205, he’s out. I’m going in.’ — and she tiptoed down the hallway. Picking the lock was almost too easy, because not even a minute later she found herself standing in the middle of a two-bedroom.

Instead of flickering on the lights, she resorted to using her phone’s flashlight. No need to draw any attention.

Eagerly, she rummaged through the room. The small closet space was filled with flannels and denim she recognized. Even their scent was familiar, though that brought back emotions she couldn’t focus on right now.

She didn’t even know what she was looking for exactly. Clues to what Dean’s been up to the whole time, where he’d go next. Heck, maybe even the First Blade, if only to take it away from him again.

The dresser between the two beds was next, the drawers of which were empty.

Her snooping and investigating was cut short by the light switch turning on.

Fuck.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she didn’t dare to move a muscle. She knew she’d be done for if he’d catch her trying anything funny.

A deep, gravelly yet smooth, and painfully familiar voice appeared behind her: “Didn’t I say to leave me be, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t possibly know the sting that petname caused. The hollow ache it stirred. How long has it been since she’d hear his voice at all, let alone have him call her that?

His presence alone was enough to make the ends of her hair stand up tall. She wished she could call it a bittersweet reunion, but with these circumstances, it was more of a fight-or-flight instinct than anything.

“You mean that lousy note?,” she choked out and she cursed herself for the way her voice quivered. Damn it, her heart was aching so badly. “You were never a poet, but I was hoping for a more heartfelt goodbye.”

With her back still facing him, her hand slowly slid into the inner pocket of her denim jacket. Her fingers were shaky and sweaty as she curled them around the handle of her angel blade.

His voice echoed in her memories; “When things go to shit, you have to stop it.”

The look of desperation in his green eyes.

The very same green eyes she was met with upon spinning around and raising her weapon. She felt as though she was the one being stabbed.

“Stop me.”

How could she possibly do it? How could she keep such a promise? How could he ask something like that of her?

Her movement faltered midway. Not that she stood much of a chance anyway. Within a flash of a second, her wrist was captured by Dean, her arm twisted forward and around until she dropped the blade.

The silver object clattered on the floor and along with it, her heart dropped too.

“I thought I recognized that car of yours outside,” Dean hummed thoughtfully, his intense gaze scanning her up and down. “You just couldn’t let me be, huh?”

The huntress yelped softly as he shoved her back against the dresser.

The wooden edge was digging right into her lower back, an uncomfortable bite against her spine as she found herself trapped between the furniture and the twisted version of the love of her life.

His body pinned hers into an immobile state. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear.

“So what’s the grande plan here?,” he grinned, lips brushing against the juncture of her jaw ever so slightly. “Your pretty face shows up, you bat those eyelashes and then what?”

She tensed up visibly, clenching her jaw. She didn’t have an answer. Maybe she should’ve thought this through, but then again, she didn’t think that she’d actually run into him.

Using her other hand, she tried reaching for her other pocket. However, before she even had the chance of pulling out the anti-demon handcuffs, Dean grabbed that hand too, encircling both of her wrists in one iron grasp.

The cuffs fell down right next to the angel blade and for good measure, Dean kicked both items haphazardly into a random direction, so long as it was out of reach for her.

“Don’t get sneaky on me now, doll,” he muttered and the dangerous, grumbling edge in his voice had her shudder. “I asked you a question.”

Her only chance of getting out of this was to buy more time.

“Can you run that by me again? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Whilst Dean’s lips twitched into a smirk, he didn’t appreciate her teasing attitude. His other hand darted up and found home around the delicate of her throat. A choked gasp errupted from her as she felt his fingers wrap snugly around her windpipes.

While it definitely hurt, it wasn’t enough to do any actual damage. He was applying just enough pressure to make her head all dizzy and her panic all spiked.

“Always a witty comment,” he tutted, clicking his tongue as he leaned closer. “Never knows when to shut that pretty mouth of hers, until it’s put to good use.”

She couldn’t suppress the heat rising to her cheeks if she tried. Not that she wasn’t used to him being assertive, but the intensity of this was downright dangerous.

“You clearly didn’t think this through, doll,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her lips. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

Black flashed across his eyes, dark and consuming.

It should’ve scared her, and it’s not like she wasn’t aware that he could so easily snuff out her life. He’d have to squeeze just a little harder. He’d just have to flick his wrist. But how could she focus on fear when every fiber of her being was consumed by guilt?

She swore she’d save him from this, and she failed so miserably.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong. Please.” His plea rang through her mind still, clear as a bell.

“I promise I’ll do everything I can,” she had nodded back then. “If we run out of options, I’ll do it.”

An ultimatium. The last resort. As long as there was so much as a slither of hope—

It was still Dean. Her Dean, demon or not. That thought was equally comforting and devastating. The lines were as blurry as the swirl of her emotions.

“You’re not my enemy, Dean,” she tried, her voice strained through the chokehold he still had on her. “It’s the Mark, you’re not yourself.”

Dean barked out a laugh and shook his head, his eyes emerald once more. “And that’s where you’re wrong, doll. I’ve never felt better.”

As if to demonstrate, his hands vanished from her wrists and throat, seizing her hips instead. He lifted her up with ease and shoved her on top of the dresser with such sudden force that her hands instinctively sought an anchor in his arms.

Arms she used to rely on — they’d lull her to sleep, they’d welcome her home, they’d provide her with warmth. Arms she had taken for granted. Arms she had missed feeling around her.

Large hands slipped under her jacket, greedily pawing at her waist and she stiffened at the sensation of his warm fingers slipping under her shirt. His touch still felt the same and she didn’t know which was worse: That it still had the same effect on her or that Dean knew.

“Dean,” she uttered, all breathless and not even coming close to making it sound like a protest.

“Isn’t this what you came here for?”

He didn’t even give her time to process his question, let alone come up with an answer. Rough hands pulled her impossibly closer until he stood between her thighs, towering over her like some unyielding wall.

“To see me,” he went on — and damn it if months of lonely, sleepless nights didn’t turn his voice into the most alluring siren’s song for her. He brought his forehead down to hers and all her eyes could focus on was the shape of his lips. “To feel me?”

Guilty as charged, evident by her giving in to the magnetic pull.

The question of who closed the gap between them was overshadowed by the fact that their mouths all but crashed together. A burning hunger took over, consuming and demanding, and leading to a devouring rather than just a kiss.

It wasn’t pretty by any means. Just a tangled mess of bumping noses and clashing teeth, of hands wandering and exploring and claiming.

A whimper of hers fueled Dean to shove her jacket off her shoulders, whereas pride filled her upon drawing a grunt from his lips with just a simple tug on his sandy hair.

The taste of him was as intoxicating as she remembered it to be, not least because of the whiskey sticking to his tongue.

Her body fell into old habits as if no time had passed. Her back arched instinctively and she completely melted into his embrace — those arms welcoming her home once more —, even as his warm lips worked a path down her jawline.

Clearly Dean still had her body perfectly memorized all the same, knowing exactly which buttons to push. Sharp teeth grazed across her pulse, before the swipe of a warm tongue soothed over the sting.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” Dean muttered, his words husky and muffled by her flushed skin as he nibbled down her collarbones. “I did miss this. Always so damn responsive.”

Her fingers combed through strands of hair that had grown longer since she last saw him.

So much time has passed. So much has happened since. But have things really changed?

“I missed you, too.”

She knew that was neither what he said nor what he meant, yet she couldn’t help but yearn. She couldn’t help but trust. It’s always been her greatest weakness. Dean always has been her greatest weakness.

His grip tightened on her curves until she was sure she’d be covered in finger-shaped marks.

Good. ‘Cause if he were to ever slip away from her again, she’d want all the traces of him she could keep, locked deep within her. Every single bruise. She’d want his bite to infect her from the inside.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent with the intent to catalogue it into the depth of her brain.

A soft click from the other end of the room made her heart flip.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispered.

They only had this one chance.

Her hands cupped his jawline, fingers caressing stubbled skin as if handling porcelain, and her lips found his in a softer kiss.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated gently, letting him taste and swallow the words.

Her apology confused him enough to distract him.

Sam took the opportunity, capturing Dean’s arms from behind and securing them behind his back. The handcuffs snapped into place around his wrists, the engraved pentagrams rendering the demon pretty much powerless.

Dean growled and writhed in protest to his brother yanking him away. He was like a caged animal, baring his teeth as well as his inky eyes. Kicking and screaming got him nowhere, though.

With combined strength, Sam and her managed to drag him back to the Impala, where they pushed him into the backseat.

Sam slammed the door shut, taking a deep breath. She half expected him to scold her for tackling this by herself. But his expression held nothing but concern as his eyes gave her a once-over.

“You okay?”

Was she? Honestly, she didn’t even know anymore.

From the corners of her eyes she glanced through the backseat window. Dean sat there fuming silently, his dark eyes screaming bloody murder as he glared at Sam and her.

“We basically just arrested a demonic Dean, I’ll take it as a win,” she shrugged, deflecting the question with weak humor.

Sam’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze. Undoubtedly, he was also glad that they managed to find and capture him. But the real challenge was still ahead of them.

“Did he hurt you?,” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said through a clenched jaw and shook her head. “Thanks for your help back there.”

With that, she slid into the passenger seat. That was as much conversation as she was comfortable with. She knew Sam had questions, but she didn’t have any answers. It was all a haze for her too.

Sam rounded the car and got behind the wheel. His nose scrunched up in disgust as he shoved empty beer cans off the dashboard.

“It’s just a car,” Dean scoffed from the back, rolling his eyes. Yeah, alright, the Mark of Cain had not just corrupted him, Dean was definitely beside himself. That might’ve just been the most concerning thing she’s ever heard him say.

Sam was still busy clearing trash out of his seat. A glance towards the woman next to him confirmed his suspicions that her side wasn’t any cleaner.

She picked up a black bra from the floor, along with a ripped condom wrapper. Lovely. Crumpling both the foil and the fabric in her fist, she sent the damned things flying out of the window.

“Good to know someone was having fun the past few months,” she grumbled, pain obviously lacing her tone.

Again, she had to remind herself that this wasn’t Dean. Not really. Or at least a Dean that wasn’t thinking straight. Still, the idea of him roaming the streets like the world was a banquet at his feet, while she was working day and night to save him, made her sick to her stomach.

Knowing she wouldn’t like Dean’s response anyway, she turned on the radio. She didn’t want an explanation, much less any smug mockery. All she wanted was to get back to the Bunker and put an end to this nightmare.

Just like she had promised.

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[what-an-idio-t]

Tainted — Chapter 1: Practice My Confession

SUMMARY: As his nightmares get worse, Dean realizes he’s turning into something he’s terrified of; he needs his girlfriend to promise him something.

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Seasons 9-10 spoilers, established relationship, angst, alcohol, violence & gore (a little grittier than canon level), mentions of torture WORD COUNT: 2.5k A/N: This is the first chapter of Tainted, and my second post for the @jacklesversebingo challenge! PROMPT: "I don't want to find out what I would do if I lost you." CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by myself ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist ──〃★ series masterlist

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The clock's digits stared back at him, mockingly so — 4:06 AM. Their glow matched the same crimson shade that had originally startled him awake.

He was still breathless, too, after jolting up into a rigid, wide-eyed state.

Every fiber of him felt as if it was made of stone. Lifeless, cold, paralyzed. Everything except his heart, anyway. That part of him defied his stillness, hammering relentlessly against his ribs and threatening to leap into his throat.

Squinting, he averted his gaze by lowering his head. Reluctantly he blinked down to his hands, which were trembling in his lap. Though his clammy palms felt sticky and cold, a pang of relief washed through him when he realized it was simply sweat that was sticking to his skin.

He had half expected to see the blood still.

Just a nightmare, then.

Those weren’t anything out of the ordinary for Dean Winchester. The man had spent more sleepless nights in his life than he’d ever had the luxury of a full night’s rest.

However, this one was different. It was raw. Violent.

Last time his tormented slumber left him this hollow and shaken was years ago — back when the memories of Hell were still fresh in his mind. Even to this day, seven years later, the times of fire burning flesh and endless torture sent shivers down his spine. But it’s been a while since his dreams were this vivid.

The soft rustling of bedsheets pulled him back to reality.

“Dean?” — Her voice was thick with sleep and laced with concern. Just mere moments ago she had been fast asleep. Peaceful and calm at his side, grounding him as always. Except he was still unable to shake it off.

This feeling, which was just as attached to him as the symbol embedded into his skin.

“Hey,” was the only lame reply he could muster. Even the movement of his mouth felt askew and wrong. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Instead of replying, she reached towards the nightstand, flicked on the lights and sat up. Dean remained perfectly still at her side, his eyes still glued to his trembling hands.

That was until her hand entered his field of vision. The second he understood her attempt of grabbing his hands, he pulled his away. His shoulders stiffened further as he cleared his throat.

“Just a nightmare, ‘m fine,” the hunter grumbled, more to himself than anything, whilst swiftly swinging his legs over the edge of his side of the bed. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs thrice, then ran his wiped hands through his messy hair only to realize his forehead was just as sticky with sweat.

Even with his back turned towards her, quite a literal manifestation of the impenetrable walls he liked to build around himself, she recognized the gravity of his ‘nightmare.’ His shoulders were slumped yet tense, and the way he avoided not only her gaze but also her touch caused her stomach to churn.

Right away she understood this was about more than just an unpleasant dream.

She watched in silence as he got up, barely making out the mumbled word “shower” as he slipped into the bathroom.

Part of her wanted to follow after him, just to make sure he was okay. As okay as he could be, anyway.

They’ve all noticed how on edge Dean was lately. Not that anyone blamed him for it, given the stressful nature of the past few weeks. Defeating Abaddon has taken a toll on Dean, more so than any of them wanted to admit.

They could’ve never killed a Knight of Hell without the Mark of Cain.

However, it became more and more obvious that the strings attached to this curse were heavier than originally anticipated. Desperate times had called for desperate measures. But seeing Dean slip away from sanity more and more made her question whether it was really worth it.

Ever since killing the demon, his temper became unpredictable.

Even his appetite had diminished as of late, shocking both Sam and her when he downright refused to order a cheeseburger at one of his favorite fast food spots. Furthermore, Dean’s patience ran thin lately, his recent behavior during cases increasingy reckless — if not downright suicidal. He’d charge into the enemies’ nest, guns blazing, just like that and without regard for any possible dangers.

Not to mention, the frequency of those nightmares have reached an all time high, a new record if you will. It wasn’t just the usual disruption of his four hours of shut-eye either; these were the kinds of nightmares that had him instinctively reach for the gun under his pillow, nightmares that left him giving up on going back to sleep at 4 AM.

She would’ve asked him to open up to her, but she knew that would be like talking to a brick wall. Whenever she’d test the waters, he’d dismiss her and avoid awkward conversations about his feelings.

Still, it was worth another try.

As she listened to the water running in the bathroom, she decided to slip out of bed as well, despite her own fatigue. Grabbing her fluffy robe and putting on her slippers, she used the small time window to head to the kitchen. Since it was the middle of the night, the bunker was eerily silent, every step of hers echoing off the bleak walls.

Once in the kitchen, she grabbed a kettle and two mugs, brewing up some tea. Something to warm and soothen those nerves of Dean’s. For good measure, she added more ingredients to both cups, then walked back to their shared room.

She kicked the door shut behind herself just in time for Dean to leave the bathroom.

Dean only stole a brief glance in her direction, before he sat down on the bed again, back leaning against the headboard. “You didn’t go back to sleep?”

“Figured a cup of tea would do us good,” she shrugged, crooked grin on her lips. She handed one of the cups to him and maneuvered herself to join his side. “Roiboos-Orange.”

Dean sniffed at the steaming liquid.

“Not to sound ungrateful, sweetheart,” he sighed, already moving to hand the cup back to her. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for a tea-party.”

“That’s a shame, ‘cause I even added the special secret ingredient,” she replied with a feigned pout and fished a small flask from the pocket of her robe, wiggling it in front of him. The quiet sloshing of rum inside indicated the bottle’s half-empty state.

Dean paused, then choked out a weak chuckle. Convinced, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Behind the sweet aroma, a spicy note lingered, which admittedly did fill him with some warmth, at least.

“Bribing me with drinks now, huh?”

“Only for the special occasions,” she mumbled and went for a sip of her own cup. Normally she didn’t like endorsing Dean’s drinking habits, but she could tell he needed something to steel himself. Deseperate times, and such.

“Special occasions,” Dean echoed. He sure didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” she sighed, her fingers closing around the warm ceramic as if she could brace herself for a heavy conversation that way. “Your nightmare, what was it about?”

Unsurprisingly, silence followed.

With great effort, Dean stared at the golden colored mixture in his hand. He focused on the swirls of steam emitting from it, along with its herbal scent. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. Then again, he knew better than anyone that he couldn’t bottle it all up forever.

Then, Dean took a big swig of the warm tea, deeming it to be his liquid courage.

“Abaddon,” he vaguely answered at last.

“Abaddon,” she echoed, skepticism obvious in her tone. “But… you killed her months ago, Dean. She’s no longer a threat, right?”

“Right,” Dean hummed and allowed his finger to circle the rim of his cup. “She isn’t.”

At that, her brows knitted together in confusion. Admittedly, she didn’t understand what Dean was hinting at. If he wasn’t anxious about Abaddon, what else made him so skittish?

“It’s the Mark,” he gruffed through a strained voice, and he definitely did feel his throat close up, no matter how often he’d try to swallow the lump inside. “It’s this burning sensation, I— it felt good, killing her, you know?”

She remained silent at his side, listening with increasing confusion and tension.

“Because we had to defeat her,” she nodded in agreement, but Dean shook his head and she saw him clutch the cup until his knuckles turned white around it.

Clearly, she didn’t get what he was saying. Not at all.

Dean paused for a moment, unsure how to put it into words. Killing Abaddon hadn’t been a task of necessity. It had been one of urgency, the personal kind. He needed to kill her, yes, because every fiber of him had demanded it.

Because he wanted to do it.

“Because it was satisfying,” he corrected her with just a mutter under his breath, barely audible, as if he was ashamed to admit it. “The First Blade sinking into her was just, well, powerful. It was like scratching an itch.”

He stared ahead, blankly. Even in the dim light of their bedroom she saw the green of his eyes being swallowed by something dark and cold.

“It keeps replaying in my dreams, me killing her,” Dean mumbled.

He remembered every detail of it, even though at the time it had felt like he had just blacked out. Impaling Abaddon smoothly, her pained scream melting into her last breath, him stabbing the lifeless body again. And again, for good measure.

And again, and again, and again.

Sam had struggled to make him snap out of it, to make him drop the First Blade.

The familiar voice of his girlfriend reeled him back from the flashbacks. “You did what you had to do,” she reassured him, but he knew that it wasn’t as easy.

“I kill other demons in my dreams, too,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Tonight, I dreamt one attacked you and I just… I snapped and I ripped him apart. I’m talking limb after damn limb, severing sinew and muscle and tearing flesh from every fucking bone, until there is nothing left but pulp.”

It was the way he said it that sent cold shivers down her spine.

It was not as romantic as it may initially sound, not when his hands were twitching, jaw clenched and eyes filled with a sinister bloodlust. That was what it was all about.

The Mark of Cain was singing a siren’s song, calling for violence. Demanding bloodshed.

She knew her boyfriend would do anything to protect her. He’d kill for her in a heartbeat, without regret, if it meant keeping her safe. After all, Dean Winchester was known to be ruthless when it was necessary.

But was it really about fighting for her, or was it about ripping the enemy to shreds?

Dean’s small ministration — him scratching mindlessly at his lower arm where the Mark was embedded, burnt into him like a scar — told her he was after the latter. After the thrill of gutting foes like animals and drawing enough blood to quench the curse’s thirst.

It was an unsettling thought, both for her and for Dean.

They had already seen the darkness that came with the Mark of Cain, but the real grasp it had on Dean suddenly seemed much more terrifying.

She, too, remembered seeing him practically slaughter Abaddon.

But she also remembered him taking back control, and she knew he still held the reigns.

What he needed most now was trust. And she did trust him, with her life, always. Mark or not. So she reached for his hand for the second time this night. This time, her fingers grasped his wrist successfully, gently but firmly, and she pulled it away from his arm so he’d stop scratching the Mark.

“It was just a dream, baby.” Despite her greatest effort, there was a slight tremble in her voice.

Her eyes searched his green ones and she saw the turmoil within. The look of exasperation.

He was so tired.

“You don’t get it,” he huffed, his voice breathless and broken. “I enjoyed it.”

Was it about vengance? Maybe.

But even more so it was about the sheer simplicity of it. The twisted needs falling into place so perfectly whenever, dream or not, he’d sink a knife into flesh, crack bones and drain as much blood as possible, until it was hot and sticky on his hands.

The Mark craved it, corrupting him slowly but surely into madness. It was constanty calling for him to do unspeakable things, even now.

It demanded him to kill.

“I’m scared of what I’m capable of,” he whispered through a strained voice and squeezed her hand, clinging to her like his life depended on it. “In that nightmare, you were just gone and I… I couldn’t control it. I just saw red and it felt so fucking real.”

Without hesitation, she reached over him, placing her cup of tea on the nightstand on his side and adding his right with it. With both of her and both of his hands free now, she interlocked their fingers together.

“It wasn’t real,” she reassured him. “You can control it, you always did.”

Dean took a shaky breath and scoffed. So far, yes, she was right. But what if one day he’d fail and lose his composure? He felt like he was hanging on by a thread. And he was way too weak to hold on for much longer.

He was slipping. He knew he was. It was only a matter of time.

His voice was so defeated, weeks of exhaustion weighing down heavily on him: “I don’t want to find out what I would do if I lost you.”

Those words were a stab to her chest. She didn’t even know what to reply with. No words could console him, she felt just as helpless.

“We’ll find a way to get rid of it,” she whispered, but they both knew she couldn’t promise something like that.

They could try, and they have looked into just about everything. But it was a losing battle, honestly. There wasn’t much lore on Cain, much less on the curse and how to remove it.

“No,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “No, ‘cause if not, then— I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Dean—”

“You have to stop it,” he interrupted her. “If things go to shit— when they go to shit, you have to stop it. Stop me.”

The invisible stab-wound in her chest froze to solid ice. He was talking as if he had already given up on a cure. Was it so wrong to still have faith?

“Nothing will go to shit,” she insisted, letting go of his hands only to cup his face instead. “Look at me. We won’t let you down like that, you know that, right?”

He regarded her words for a moment, but the silence between them was heavy and the despair palpable.

“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong,” he spoke, begged. “Please.”

NEXT CHAPTER ➡️

Dean Winchester Taglist: @ladysparkles78 @deaniemyboo @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126

@zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46

@midnight--raine @emmy21842

Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist. Let me know, if you want to be tagged for this Series specifically. (Please note: Ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts!)

[what-an-idio-t]

header by myself & dividers by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST ✮⋆˙

the masterlist is still a wip, please excuse the mess - some links lead nowhere, because there aren't any posts for some characters yet. stay tuned for more.

comment the respective emoji of a character to be included to their x reader taglist. ageless blogs / minors will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts.

SUPERNATURAL ✮⋆˙

genre ; angst ── fluff ── smut type ; one-shots ── headcanons

all supernatural x reader content can be found here (comment a star emoji ⭐ to be added to the supernatural x reader taglist)

dean ✮⋆˙ 💚 all ; fluff ; angst ; smut sam ✮⋆˙ 📚 all ; fluff ; angst ; smut castiel ✮⋆˙ 💙 all ; fluff ; angst ; smut rowena ✮⋆˙ 🔮 all ; fluff ; angst ; smut charlie ✮⋆˙ 🗡️ all ; fluff ; angst ; smut

wearing dean's leather jacket (fluff)

accidentally giving dean the wrong phone-number (fluff)

dean's lips are distracting during research (requested, fluff)

"all i want for christmas is you." (platonic winchester brothers fluff)

doing a salt and burn with dean during the first snow (fluff)

sam's winter tale (nutcracker!au, fluff)

dean meets his ex at a bar (fluff, angst)

feather-light kisses (dean x fem!reader, fluff)

slowly kissing down the body (dean x fem!reader, smut)

nsft alphabet (dean winchester version, smut)

nsft alphabet (sam winchester version, smut)

clumsy sister!reader (requested, fluff)

sister!reader dealing with demon!dean (requested, angst)

kinktober 2024:

masturbation (dean x afab!reader, 1.1k words)

lingerie (rowena x afab!reader, 1.9k words)

biting/marking (sam x afab!reader, 1.3k words)

mirror sex (dean x afab!reader, 3.6k words)

spanking (sam x afab!reader, 2.4k words)

jacklesversebingo 24:

"I don't want to find out what I would do if I lost you." (moc!dean x fem!reader, 2.5k words)

Forgotten Birthday (alec mcdowell x gn!reader, 3.2k words)

"Of course, you're good enough, you idiot."

Work Adversaries (dean x ofc, 10.5k words)

Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station

Sensory Deprivation

The Blade of a Knife Glinting in the Moonlight (demon!dean x fem!reader, 4,8k words)

Biting

"If you want something, then ask for it."

Tainted (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader)

Ambitious (Dean x OFC)

[what-an-idio-t]

Tennessee Whiskey & Strawberry Wine

PAIRING: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader GENRE: Angst & Fluff TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, swearing, Dean is really pathetic in this one, past established relationship, mentions of arguments/breakups, (mutual) pining, suggestive innuendos but nothing explicit, second chances? WORD COUNT: 3.1k SUMMARY: It's been months since you broke up with Dean and he's never been able to fully move on. It's when you run into him again that you realize... maybe, just maybe, neither have you. A/N: This is for @rubyvhs' 500 celebration! I got the song 'Tennessee Whiskey' by Austin Giorgio and if that song doesn't scream Dean Winchester, then I don't know. It was a no-brainer to me. Congratulations again, Laila, on 500 well deserved followers!! CREDIT/LINKS: Lace divider, reblog divider, header images edited by me, Dean gif

“I know I ordered a strong whiskey, but I didn’t expect you to make me this weak.”

He remembers you giggling at that cheesy line, the sound still clear as a bell and as angelic as one too. Even today, months after watching you walk away, he can picture the way you rolled your eyes and smiled at him. Bright and joyful.

A stark contrast to the otherwise dull and cruel reality bestowed upon you and him.

Not that you never got along. Quite the opposite, actually.

You and Dean had clicked immediately after meeting for the first time, especially after learning how much you had in common. Then, after working on several cases together, one thing lead to another and at some point you two had become inseparable.

The infamous duo. The ‘it couple’ among hunters. With just as much of a tragic ending as any actual celebrity’s scandalous love story too, sadly.

For your similarities were two sides of the same coin — a common ground for the two of you to understand and to relate to each other, yes. But also a bottomless pit of stubbornness and reason for anger.

So much anger. Endless arguing, with neither of you letting up and both of you doubling down.

Dean always loved your temper, your passion — he still does. But when two hotheads collide, an explosion is bound to happen. You were doomed from the start.

As capable as both of you were when it came to hunting, fighting the ugly monsters between yourselves was a losing battle.

You guys only knew how to exorcise the demons outside your relationship. The two of you could lift any curse except your constant fighting. And now, Dean is left chasing those memories of you like he would a ghost. Not to put it to rest, but to let it haunt his broken heart.

Despite Dean’s apprehension, Sam has insisted on taking a case in Nashville. Everything here reminds Dean of you, not least the very same bar where he first met you.

Love at first sight is something so cliché and Dean Winchester doesn’t do romance. Or rather, he didn’t. Not before getting to know you. In many ways, that fateful evening had changed his life. Had changed him.

Part of him wonders if it’s ever possible again, preferably with you. But he knows such thinking is wishful. Or maybe anxiety inducing. Probably a little bit of both.

Although he’s well aware that (a) the chances of actually running into you here are pretty low, and (b) he doesn’t even know if he could actually take seeing you again, Dean finds himself at the bar’s counter, where he orders an overpriced shot of Tennessee Whiskey and listens to the bartender’s overenthusiastic lecture of said local specialty.

She’s a pretty girl, working her charms on any potentially generous patron. Without a doubt she’s able to sweet-talk multiple customers into a huge tip. And fuck it, even Dean indulges and orders a second shot, followed by a third.

Though he swears, sip by sip, the whiskey began to taste like you.

His time here turns into a vicious cycle of nostalgia, wanting to forget, and being forced to remember all over again.

The liquid burns in his throat and it blurs his vision. For a second he thinks he could pretend the girl serving him his fourth drink was you. In his mind her hair changes its color to yours, but when he realizes he’s not able to get your voice right, he’s giving up.

What a horrible idea to come to this bar of all places to forget about you. What a laughable idea to hope he might see you again. Pathetic, even. Both of it. All of it. All of him.

No matter how cute — and under different circumstances, he might’ve hit on her in more serious fashion — she’s not you. She never could be, nobody can. And maybe she doesn’t have to be.

“You know, sweetheart,” he trails off, committed to erasing you from his memory tonight.

The woman giggles and it sounds so wrong in his ears. Her cheeks warm up but the pink shade doesn’t look right to him.

“I know I ordered a strong whiskey,” Dean grins, albeit the curl of his lips is lopsided and the words feel wrong in his mouth. “But I didn’t expect—”

It’s all too different from when he’d say these words to you. Not to mention how unfair it feels towards the girl, to you, even to himself to recycle that cheap tactic.

He doesn’t get to finish his act anyway. Not when the scent of sweet vanilla and strawberries wafts through the air and swallows his attention whole. He interrupts himself midsentence, heart threatening to leap into his throat and blocking any and every further word.

He’d recognize the perfume anywhere. Or the electricity that crackles dangerously within the small space between his arm and that of the new patron. His green eyes barely dare to glance to the source of the dizzying aura.

At last, they settle on the stool next to his. Where you’re making yourself comfortable, nonchalantly combing your fingers through your hair — it’s gotten longer since he’s last seen you — and smiling at the waitress.

“What he was trying to say,” you speak and your voice makes his heart burst on the spot, “is to add another one to his tab. Along with one glass of wine, please. Red.”

Dean must’ve been staring and gaping at you like an idiot, mouth still open in shock and eyes just as wide, because you give him a brief one-over and giggle softly. That godforsaken giggle that makes every fiber of him buzz with warmth.

“Hey, Dean,” you smile and even though it’s a little tense, awkward even, you pull it off with such ease. “I gotta say, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

How you can just start up a conversation with him baffles him. Then again, you always had the ability to make things seem so easy.

He’s still busy trying to process that you’re here, right next to him. Too busy to realize he’s looking like a complete idiot — already tipsy, caught red handed, and unable to come up with a proper response.

“What brings you to Nashville, Dean?”

Where he can’t get out a single word, you keep talking to him as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t walk out that door all those months ago. You avert your gaze from him and glance over to the waitress that’s tending to your order.

If he didn’t know it any better, he’d say there’s a spark of jealousy dimming the familiar spark in your eyes.

You lower your voice. Hell, you lean closer to him and your elbow touches his and since he can’t freeze anymore than already, he thinks he might turn into stone and marble instead. Your smirk is subtle but mischievious while you whisper to him: “Looking for love?”

Dean’s pretty sure that he’s already found it.

“Sammy and I are workin’ on a case nearby,” he finally manages to explain, after clearing his throat. He picks up his empty glass, deft fingers toying with its rim.

You purse your lips, then you press them together into a thin line, before releasing the plump of it with the faintest pop. You’re trying to kill him, you have to be.

“Didn’t know you were around here still,” he mumbles and prays you don’t notice the tremble in his voice — or, if you do, that you’ll attribute it to the abundance of whiskeys he’s had.

“I never left,” you reply swiftly.

He can’t help but cringe. Because you have. You have left it all behind.

The bartender returns with another shot of whiskey and a glass of wine. She blinks between you and Dean for a second, before reluctantly turning her back on you two. Dean knows his chances with her are blown, but that’s not what he’s bitter about.

He’s bitter about you. About you waltzing in and stomping on his ripped out heart.

“Sorry,” you sigh with a pout, “I ruined your game.”

Without a word, Dean sets his empty glass down onto the counter.

“It’s just… well, I saw you sitting here and thought I should say hi,” you continue.

He picks up the new glass, still not responding.

“It’s been a while, I thought we could catch up and—”

Dean finally looks up, straight towards you with an expression that’s difficult to read, but apparently enough to shut you up. Apparently he’s not happy seeing you. Or maybe he is, he honestly doesn’t know himself.

“What kind of reunion were you hoping for, sugar?”

Your eyes widen at his question, even more so at the use of that petname. An endearment you haven’t heard him say to you in so long. It used to be such a casualty, something you’ve always taken for granted, that you’re shocked you forgot its effect.

“I don’t know,” you admit meekly. “I honestly didn’t think we’d ever get one, you know?”

Dean thinks over your answer for a moment. Realistically speaking, he didn’t think so either. However, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t played out the possibility in his mind more times than he can count.

All that preparation for such an unlikely scenario got him nowhere in the end. He always thought he’d know exactly what to tell you when he’d see you again. But all those speeches and words feel useless now.

He raises his glass in your direction.

“Here’s to surprises, then,” Dean shrugs, the upwards twitch in the corner of his mouth belied by the strain of his jaw.

If you notice his tension, you do not comment on it. Instead, you reciprocate his gesture, your glass clinking gently against his.

Of course you notice. Of course he knows you do.

Just like he knows how aware you are of his eyes mimicking your wine.

The sweet liquid sticks to your lips just like his gaze does. As he watches the red stain your skin and tongue, he wishes he could do the same — leave traces of himself on you so he'll be with you forever, feel the warmth and the plush of you against him one more time.

What Dean doesn’t know is why you have to torture him like this.

It’s no longer his place to desire any of this, any of you. But how can he not crave your sweet taste?

Yet he’s forced to settle for the smooth burn of his drink, which might be honey in color, but can’t compare to the sweetness of your essence.

Fucking hell, he needs to snap out of it.

“You really tried using that line on her, huh?” Your voice is barely audible, but with the world zeroed in on just you two, he cannot possibly miss your quiet utterance.

For a moment he thinks the alcohol is getting to him at last, dulling his senses once and for all — because there’s no way you’re actually bothered by this, is there? Yet you sit there, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes cast down as you stare into the crimson in front of you.

“What?”

You blink up at him, then at your glass again. “The whole strong whiskey thing. You know— nevermind, it’s whatever. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

While Dean’s definitely tipsy enough for the world around him to move a beat slower than usual, he picks up on your intention to leave faster than you can turn around. You hop off your chair and mumble a half-assed “Good night, Dean” and the déjà-vu hits him like a truck.

Another unsatisfying farewell.

Another missed chance.

He can’t bear to watch you leave again.

Instinctively, Dean’s hand reaches for yours. His last self-restraint stops him from grabbing you roughly. Instead, his fingers are ghosting around your wrist, not even touching, just lingering.

“Hold up,” he mutters lamely, to at least say something. Anything. “At least finish your wine, hm? You put it on my tab, after all.”

You do not hide the surprise in your eyes, clearly shocked that he’d want your company after everything you’ve made him go through. You look at him as though you’re asking if he’s sure about this.

“Dean, I—”

“Please.”

You bite your lower lip and reluctantly slip back into your original position. You hold onto the stem of your glass again, though you do not take a sip. It’s almost as if you’re afraid this will all end too soon, if you finish your drink.

“Guess it was sorta like a spell,” Dean hums.

His demeanor is more relaxed right away. The second he’s sure you’ll stay for a bit longer, the crease between his brows disappears and his voice is more steady. As steady as it can be with the liquor adding a natural rasp to his throat.

“A spell?” You echo, wide doe eyes looking at him with wonder.

“Technically, I never said it without you around,” he quips, “If I knew that’s how to summon you, I would’ve tried it much sooner.”

You pause, then you snort. He’s unbelievable, always turning his words into a playful flirtation, always trying to smooth-talk you into a giggle. Successfully so.

Dean drinks in the sound and sight of your joy, comitting it to his memory. Just in case he won’t get the luxury of repeating it.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you chuckle.

“Maybe not,” he smiles weakly.

Definitely not.

In fact, he’s so caught up in your guys’ past that you could probably ridicule him for it. It’s pathetic, honestly, how he hasn’t been able to move on. Searching for a glimpse of what used to be in the bottom of a bottle, in same old places such as this one, only to distract himself and pretend anything can come close.

Dean’s quick to order another round of drinks for both of you.

Not long after, another round follows.

The drinks keep flowing. As does the conversation, surprisingly. It’s comforting, being able to talk to you after all this time. You don’t reminisce old days, you treat him like he’s not a wreck.

The alcohol loosens your tongues, though he’s ahead of you by far.

In the end, you shake your head towards the bartender and mumble something about how Dean’s had enough. His brows furrow together in protest, but he can’t bring himself to complain. Not when your hands, delicate against his shoulder, urge him to stand up.

Dean only staggers slightly and fishes for his wallet, before he pays for the drinks, but he does subconsciously lean against your supporting touch. The leather of his jacket crinkles under your fingertips as you struggle to hold him upright.

“Alright, cowboy,” you sigh and loop your arm around his back instead. His ends up around your shoulder and he can’t help but notice how natural the proximity feels. Like your bodies were molded for each other.

“I can walk b’myself, sweetheart,” he huffs, drawing another of those addictive chuckles from you.

“You’re gonna tell me you’ll drive like this, too?” Your voice isn’t condescending, but he doesn’t miss the half-scolding, half-teasing edge within. “Where’re Sam and you staying at?”

His eyes narrow and you can see the wheels turning behind his glassy eyes.

He doesn’t remember the name of the motel, does he?

You contemplate on whether or not you should call his brother, but something’s telling you Dean won’t be able to stay awake until Sam’s able to pick him up. He’s already babbling unintelligble nonsense, his weight heavier and heavier on you as his form slumps.

“Okay, big boy, let’s just find you a place to crash,” you suggest, but Dean’s only response is a hum that you can neither identify as approving nor protesting.

You gently pat his back and attempt to nudge him into a more upwards stance. He remains clinging to you like velcro, but removes some of that crushing weight from your shoulder.

“Y’know,” he slurs, “I was hopin’ t’see y’again, but I was also so fuckin’ scared.”

Your cheeks warm at his drunk confession, but you don’t interrupt him. His steps are uncoordinated, but with your guidance, the two of you arrive at your place.

“Been missin’ you,” he mumbles and sighs, “’nd you’re still the only one makin’ me weak.”

“Pretty sure it’s actually the strong whiskey this time,” you laugh in response.

You lead him inside your apartment, where he immediately falls onto the couch. You would’ve offered him the guest room, but Dean’s already sinking into the cushions, eyes closed.

“Honey, nothin’, not even Tennessee Whiskey, can give me whiplash like you can,” Dean insists drowsily.

Words he’ll without a doubt regret, if he can remember them tomorrow.

Your heart flips thanks to his words, but you can’t help feeling like you don’t deserve them. Not after you’ve broken up with him in such cruel fashion, your last heated argument having caused you to walk away back then.

A decision you’ll always regret, one you can never forget — no matter the amount of whiskey or strawberry wine.

With a small sigh, you prepare a glass of water for him in the kitchen.

By the time you’re placing it, along with some painkillers, on the coffee table, Dean’s already fast asleep. At least that’s what the soft, but deep exhales, which border on snoring, make you believe. However, your assumption is proven wrong when you drape a blanket over him, only to find yourself pulled down by strong arms.

Dean’s hands glue themselves to the small of your back, holding you tightly against him.

In his half-asleep state, he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of you — sweeter than Strawberry Wine. His lips brush against your collarbone, tracing the warmth of your skin — smoother than Tennessee Whiskey.

Dean Winchester Taglist:

@ladysparkles78 @ariasong11 @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126

@zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46

@midnight--raine @emmy21842 @whichwitchwanda @foxyjwls007 @emma1998sblog

@lyarr24 @charliesangel67 @spn-reader @whump-loverz @cassieriddle713

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @mccartneyqp

Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist. Please note: Ageless blogs/minors will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts!

[what-an-idio-t]

Hello, Sailor. - Masterlist

Pairing: Sailor!Dean Winchester x Reader

Universe: AU

Summary: Y/N was never a big fan of sailors, so when a ship full of them dock at the harbor in her town, she’s anything but happy. However, there is one in particular that is determined to prove to her that not all men of the sea are the same, and dedicates each day of his shore leave to the task of changing her mind. Will the green eyed sailor prove his point, or hers?

Rating: 15+

Warnings: Fluff, smidge of angst if you squint, swearing, more fluff, some sexy times, sailor dean times, etc.

This series is now complete!

Total word count: 69,594

~ Get ahead with Patreon ~  —————————————————– Main Masterlist —————————————————–

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

Chapter Six 

Chapter Seven 

Chapter Eight 

Chapter Nine 

Chapter Ten 

Epilogue

[what-an-idio-t]

When You Know - Masterlist

Pairing: Daddy!Mechanic!Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Universe: AU

Summary: Dean Winchester is a family man. He is happily married, living with his wife and their only daughter; Adeline. They are his entire world. So when his little girl comes bursting through the door unhappy, and convinced she will never find love again, his reassurance inadvertently takes them both on a trip down his memory lane. All in a bid to convince her that when it’s real, you’ll know.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, angst, more fluff, implied smut - each chapter will be tagged accordingly!  

This series is now complete!

Total Word Count: 59684

~ Get ahead with Patreon ~

—————————————————– Main Masterlist —————————————————–

Preview

Chapter One 

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three

Chapter Four  

Chapter Five      

Chapter Six 

Chapter Seven 

Chapter Eight 

Chapter Nine 

Chapter Ten 

Chapter Eleven 

Chapter Twelve

[what-an-idio-t]

Outlander || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: So this is a sequel story directly following The Honorable Choice, where Dean not only saves the member of a Native American tribe, but falls in love with her. (She saves him a lot in return.) Now, he’ll have to learn how to live in her world if he wants to stay with her.

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a lot of research for this whole series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only for smut, Protective Dean, (and rogue/cowboy Dean), survival situations, hunting (in the more traditional sense), suggestiveness/implied smut and spice throughout, angst, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff. (Plus other chapter-specific tags.)

Chapters:

Part 1 - Two Worlds

Part 2 - What is Home

Part 3 - A Warrior's Death

Part 4 - One People - Read now on Patreon

New chapters on Fridays!

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Comment below if you'd like to be tagged in this series! 💜

Or follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter.

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms

@foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @thebiggerbear @roseblue373 @this-is-me19

@emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28

@adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka

@chevroletdean @agalliasi @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @kayleighwinchester

@ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley

@sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @mimaria420

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse

[what-an-idio-t]

"I am a prisoner of my past, roaming the halls of my present like a ghost ,while getting lost in the beauty of the distant moon . "

[what-an-idio-t]

↳ holiday GIFt requests ✧ garth + hugs 🎁 (for @subtextnatural) Dean: Still a hugger, huh?

↓ tag list (ask to be added/removed!)

@passengerseatcas @waldrea @canadiandutchiefangirl @whensomethingsbrokenitsalliknow @raytoroinmybackpack @saintedcastiel @holydeans @magdaclaire @my-people-skills-are-rusty @here-for-thee-gay-shit @wartyfrogfish @carveredlund @johnwatersbongwater @merrydeanwinchester @deanabean @free-birdies @petrichoravellichor @amaranthhiding

[what-an-idio-t]

lips

parings: dean winchester x reader

synopsis: dean loves kissing. that's it.

warnings: none other than kissing.

dean’s lips crashed into yours like they had a mission—hungry, insistent, and leaving no room for anything but him. his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like it was second nature, while his mouth moved over yours with practiced ease. the kiss wasn’t gentle; it was all fire and teeth, like he wanted to make sure you’d still feel it hours later.

then he did it—caught your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, just enough to make your breath hitch. he smirked against your mouth, that cocky-ass grin you’d seen a million times but somehow felt brand new this close. his tongue flicked out, soothing the sting, and before you could even think about catching your breath, he sucked on your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you with just this one touch.

when he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, lips still ghosting over yours. a thin string of spit connected you, gleaming in the dim light, and his eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to say something. “you see that?” he murmured, voice low, rough like gravel. his thumb dragged over the corner of your mouth, smearing the shine. “that’s all you, sweetheart. i’m just lucky enough to taste it.”

he leaned back in, catching the spit string on his tongue before his lips pressed to yours again, hot and messy, stealing every thought in your head and leaving only him.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis

[what-an-idio-t]

the language of love isn't dead — dean winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, frenemies to lovers, petty arguments, ft. sam!, dean is annoying obviously <3, reader speaks latin (i used google translate and it is probably very wrong lol), kissing, one mention of a sexual innuendo, a few joking death threats, non-serious mentions of choking, poorly edited, 2.4K words. requested !

summary : you tend to compliment dean in the dead language of latin after fights so that he doesn't know what you really think about him.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

“you’re being ridiculous,” you frown at dean, arms crossed against your chest as you stare him down in tonight’s motel room.

“ridiculous?” he parrots, indignant. “this is baby we’re talking about. my car. you know, the ‘67 black chevy impala i would kill a man over?”

“yeah, i know her,” you reply, sarcastic in tone. “and your homicidal tendencies when it comes to her. i’m very familiar, dean.” you roll your eyes at him because you just can’t help it. dean makes it very easy to get annoyed at, for a multitude of reasons.

reason number one, he’s annoying. reason number two, he’s very hot when he’s angry. reason number three, he’s very hot pretty much all the time. it does not help that sam got first dibs on the shower, so he’s still covered in a bit of grime and blood from the hunt you just walked away from. it’s his best look, aside from any time that he smiles.

“well, then you should know that getting her perfectly tended to and polished leather seats dirty with wendy’s barbecue sauce is like a goddamn felony and i should sentence you to life of never even stepping foot near my car again,” he fires back, and if you didn’t know him well, which you do, you’d venture to guess that he’s joking. he’s not.

you groan in frustration. “for the last time, i did not get barbecue sauce on your car seats,” you insist.

“i saw you sneaking fries before we got to the room,” he counters, narrowing his eyes at you. “you could have gotten grease on the leather too.”

“i ate two fries dean, and i was careful. i used a napkin and i did not open my barbecue sauce!” you spit back at him. you can’t believe you’re arguing about this right now. except that it is so believable and so like you and him. it’s not like either one of you is going to back down, certainly not about something so petty and meaningless.

“then how come i found some in the back seat?” he says for what feels like the millionth time.

you throw your hands up in the air. “i don’t know! i don’t even use my barbecue sauce for my fries. there’s no reason for me to have opened it!” you argue, huffing out a frustrated sigh. “and how do you even know it was barbecue sauce?”

“it looked like barbecue sauce, it wasn’t there yesterday, you’re the only one who orders it and the only one who’s sat in the back since then. therefore, barbecue sauce,” he admonishes, crossing his arms over his chest to punctuate his point. you can’t help but laugh at him a little bit. he just sounds so ridiculous.

“well then, let’s say it was barbecue sauce—which it wasn’t. did the leather get damaged?” you ask pointedly.

“that doesn’t matter!” he practically rages, taking a step towards you. god, he’s beautiful and you hate him for it (you really, really love him for it). “what matters is that you got it dirty!”

“jesus, dean! just drop it, your car is fine!” you chastise, your voice raising a little in volume as you take another step towards him. you can see his light freckles better now. they’re so goddamn pretty it makes you want to choke him.

“just drop it?” he repeats, fuming. “i will not ‘just drop it.’ this is about baby. i can’t ‘just drop’ something about baby! how can i even trust you enough to let you in my car again, huh?” this is the point where he’s serious, but not that serious. there’s clear frustration and anger in his voice, but he’s stuck with you and he knows it. and when he asks that final question, his volume lessens and he shrugs. he’s looking for you to grovel or offer something to appease him. the question is whether or not to give him that. your instinct is, of course, to not. you let out a huff of breath.

“well, maybe because i’m excellent company in the car,” you suggest, a gloating tone making its way into your voice. “and i like your music better than sam does. which means we always outnumber him. that’s very important.”

he’s unimpressed, clearly. “you gotta come up with something better than that, sweetheart,” he goads.

you curl your lip at him and roll your eyes. “you absolutely suck, dean,” you state. he raises his eyebrows and you groan and roll your eyes yet again. that’s not the word to use around him unless you want a sexual innuendo thrown in your face. “you are absolutely horrible, dean,” you amend.

he laughs at you and his annoyance mostly subsides. “which means i have no problem getting back at you tenfold for getting goddamn barbecue sauce on my car seat.”

“te respicere bonum cum iratus es, ita dampnas,” you grumble, shaking your head and glaring at him. like tradition, you end the argument with a certain latin phrase full of choice words. 

now dean, sweet, lovely, silly, gorgeous dean, has no idea what you’re saying. he doesn’t care to learn enough latin for that. he doesn’t need to know, he thinks. your tone of voice says it all. he thinks those choice words are the type that one fills an insult with. today you tell him, “you look so damn good when you’re angry.” which, funnily enough, is not an insult.

it’s the perfect way of looking him in the eye and just spitting it out. you get to say without consequence what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, what you want to tell him so badly. it’s not the same as him knowing, but it helps. it eases your tension until the next time, it softens the blow a little.

sam fails to hold in his laugh behind you. you whirl around and glare at him, freshly dressed and out of the shower. you hadn’t even heard him leave the bathroom. narrowing your eyes at him, you tell your long time best friend, say something and you die. he puts his hands up in surrender, still laughing at you a little.

“shut up,” you grumble, then turn back to dean with a scowl.

“what was that little nerd exchange?” dean teases, realizing sam understood what you said.

“nothing,” you glower. “i’m showering now!” 

dean throws his hands up in protest. “you’re making me shower last after getting barbecue sauce on my car?”

“dean, i swear to the lord in heaven, if you–”

“fine, fine!” he relents, the sarcasm and teasing still clearly present in his voice. “you’re right, you should shower first, you probably have barbecue sauce all over ya.” you raise your fist in a threat and it’s dean’s turn to put his hands up in surrender. “i’m just saying!”

“stop saying!” you groan. “just– stop talking, i’m gonna lose my mind.” if i have to stare at your gorgeous face and listen to your gorgeous voice for another second i will go crazy. you sigh heavily. god, you wonder if you could survive not kissing him. monsters and demons and all the strange shit in the world… that’s fine. it sucks but, jesus, at least you know how to deal with them.

but doing it all with dean? you have no idea how to deal with that. so far, it’s by arguing with him, complimenting him in a dead language, and keeping him at an arm’s length. and so far, it’s not working out too well, because you still want him. you still want him to want you back. you still wish and wish and wish that the language of love isn’t dead, not for you and him, not yet, at least.

maybe the shower will help. this motel doesn’t have the worst showers; the water pressure is decent and the water stays hot for a while longer than some others.

you’re not annoyed when you finish, at least, not about his stupid accusations of you getting condiments on his car seats. unfortunately, you are still annoyed about how attracted you are to him. even more unfortunate, you suppose, is that you’re attracted to him, period.

you sigh because you can’t bring yourself to actually try not to be. not that anyone can reverse feelings, but you let your feelings run rampant, more than you should sometimes. you let him eat away at your heart like a goddman movie zombie that’s too stupid to remember it eats brains. then, you figure that the thought of him eats away at your brain too, because he messes with your rationality sometimes.

his eyes are on you as you leave the bathroom and you wonder if sam’s tattled on you. when you shoot him a look he shrugs and shakes his head. you’re not convinced, but you let it slide. you plop down on the pullout couch bed and pack your old clothes away, ignoring dean’s heavy gaze. only when the door to the bathroom opens and closes do you flop against the bed with a heaving sigh.

“i hate your brother,” you grumble, barely loud enough for sam to hear as the muffled sounds of the shower turning on hits your ears. you turn to your side and curl up, not even bothering to pull the sheet over yourself.

you can’t see sam, but you hear him scoff from his spot on his own bed. “sure you do,” he quips, completely sarcastic.

“no, i really, really do,” you insist, not meaning a word of it.

“well, he hates you too, then,” he answers, voice heavy with implication. you know what he means because he knows what you mean. hate, of course, is love.

“no, he doesn’t,” you counter, sad about it. you bet that no one’s ever sounded so disappointed that someone doesn’t ‘hate’ them.

“you’re hopeless.” sam’s probably shaking his head at you as he reads the words on the book in his lap.

“i’m hopeless,” you sigh.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s not until a few days later that dean confronts you about your little latin digs at him. sam did tattle, only because he’s tired of your pining, but dean won’t tell you that. he’s smart enough to know you’ll end up with your hands around sam’s neck if you end up finding out, and he’s not trying to have his… person strangle his little brother.

“hey, idiot,” he starts, the word layered with affection. “why do you always insult me in latin? sorta feels like you lose the point of insulting someone to their face like that.” 

he’s leaning against the hood of his car, beer in hand like always. it’s oddly uncommon to find yourself like this; outside, alone with him. the motel’s not busy and there are barely any other cars in the parking lot, and even less people. it’s just you and him as far as you can see. the night air is mild, cicadas singing as summer begins to slip away.

“well… maybe the point is that you know i’m saying something about you, but you don’t know what,” you shrug, sort of proud of the smooth answer. you’re not even lying. inside, you’re panicking a bit. this is dangerous territory.

“the stuff you’re saying is that horrible, huh?” his tone suggests a joke. his eyes suggest otherwise. it makes you pause. 

how unfair is it, to the both of you, to lie? to even joke that you’d say such mean things about him? about dean winchester, whom you know sort of hates himself. who has just two people by his side, you and sam.

and you, who only argues with him because it’s easier than being nice. you, who deserves what you want but won’t let yourself even try to have it.

“no,” you sigh out. “i’m not saying horrible stuff about you.” you don’t look at him, you don’t mess around. you take the joking in his voice and strip it away. you take the look in his eyes and put it in yours. it makes him look at you, for once. it’s easy to imagine his eyebrows raising, his lips caught somewhere between his signature smirk and a curious frown. “not in latin, anyways,” you add, letting a huff of laughter leak into your bitter voice.

dean keeps looking at you. you know you’re supposed to explain after saying something like that, but you’d much rather not.

“no?” he asks finally. now you have to say something more.

“no,” you confirm, still staring at the trees across the street instead of him. the street lights are orange in color, and it feels either cruel or hopeful that it’s such a beautiful night. “i… say it in latin because it’s something nice. and you can… ignore this, if you want. i say it in latin because i like you a lot, dean. y’know, more than a stupid, fucking friend.” you roll your eyes a bit, like you’re upset with yourself. then you swallow thickly and ignore the fact that you can see him in your peripheral vision. he doesn’t look like he normally does. he doesn’t look angry.

dean is torn between teasing you and kissing you. you sound mad about the fact that you have feelings for him, like you wish you didn’t. ‘more than a stupid, fucking friend’ is a real funny way to phrase things, if he’s honest with himself. the question is, does he say that to you, or does he look for something better to say? he’s not good with ‘better things to say,’ whatever that might be.

“a little aggressive for a love confession, no?” his voice isn’t even that teasing. it’s sort of gentle. he wants to slap his hand over his mouth for saying that godforsaken four letter word. you had said ‘like.’ it’s freudian slip, he supposes, since he loves you.

“this isn’t funny, dean,” you murmur, voice sort of defeated. and yet, you hear it. it’s not funny to him either. he wasn’t trying to be funny, he was trying not to feel. he was trying to say at least something, because he was having trouble coming up with anything else.

“i know,” he relents. he draws in a deep breath. “will you look at me?” your lips part, then close. you blink a few times. you turn your head and look at him. god, he loves you back. he’s got to, or there’s no other way to explain how he looks at you.

and there’s definitely no other way to explain him kissing you. he looks you right in the eyes and he leans in until his lips are touching yours. 

his eyes flutter closed, yours follow. you kiss him back, he kisses harder. the language of love isn’t dead. all you had to do was say something.

[what-an-idio-t]

juno

parings: dean winchester x reader

synopsis: one of you is cute, but two tho ;)

warnings: no smut

dean leaned back against the edge of the bed, his legs spread, the faint scent of leather and whiskey clinging to him. his green eyes were sharp, piercing, but there was a softness in them as he watched you pace in front of him, nerves radiating off you.

“you’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet, sweetheart,” he drawled, his lips curling into that cocky, familiar smirk.

you stopped, turning to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. “i’ve been thinking about something,” you said, your voice hesitant but laced with determination.

dean arched a brow, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “yeah? what’s on that pretty little mind of yours?”

you took a deep breath, your cheeks heating as you stepped closer, close enough to see the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips before locking on your gaze. “i want you to get me pregnant.”

his smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “jesus,” he muttered, his voice low, almost reverent. then his eyes raked down your body, slow and deliberate, taking in every curve, every inch of you. “baby, i would love to—” his voice dipped, rough and full of heat “—fuck, i’d like to. i mean, look at you.” his gaze lingered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

you stepped closer, your hand brushing against his shoulder, the tension between you thick enough to suffocate. “then why not?” you asked, your voice trembling but unyielding.

dean let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “because, sweetheart, i’ve got monsters to kill, deals to dodge, and a goddamn apocalypse to outrun. and you—” he reached out, pulling you into his lap, his hands gripping your hips tightly as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper “—you deserve more than some broken, cursed bastard like me giving you a kid.”

you cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “i don’t care about the monsters or the curses or whatever the hell else you think is in the way. i want you, dean. all of you.”

his resolve wavered, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs brushing over your ribs. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours. “but goddamn if i don’t want to give it to you anyway.”

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis

[what-an-idio-t]

Jensen Ackles | SPN S7 Gag Reel

[what-an-idio-t]

Willing to Break Mini-Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, mental health issues, and sexual content.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, best friends to lovers, canon divergence, pining, fluff, angst, smut

Mini-Series Summary

With the Mark of Cain getting out of hand, you and Sam convince Dean to try something different. A spell that won't fix the Mark, but will change it. Make Dean crave good things, things he likes, instead of death and blood.

It doesn't exactly go according to plan.

Author's Note

This is meant to a true, genuine, average length mini-series, so it won't be as long and detailed as my other works, but that's by design. It's a personal challenge, and also just something nice and fun. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter List Chapter 1 - I Saw You In The Water Chapter 2 - Sick and Full of Pride Chapter 3 - The Same Way I Think Of You Chapter 4 - Hands Drawn Out Chapter 5 - It's Not Enough Chapter 6 - Everything I Do

[what-an-idio-t]

Still You Want Me

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, a little angst if you squint, pre-established relationship.

Summary/Warnings: Dean's fought the worst evil in the world, but only one thing has really managed to scare him. His pregnant wife.

Author's Note: Request from an anon!! I got emotional with it, and I'm very sorry about that but I couldn't help myself. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.9k

“We got three hours left.” Dean returned to the parked Impala, sorting through the bags in his hands. “But we can make it back in two if I-“

Sam shook his head, taking his bag of bird feed—trail mix, but the pointless kind without any M&Ms—from Dean with a frown. “Two’s a bit stretch, don’t you think? I mean even for you, Dean, and it’s not like we’re in a rush-“

“You’re not in a rush, Sammy.” Dean muttered, dumping the rest of the snacks in the backseat. “I got a pregnant wife who’s left me three voicemails about how she’s either gonna castrate me or give me head, and-“

“Gross, dude.” Sam walked around the car, making a scrunched bitch-face of disgusting. “All you needed to say was that’s she’s got mood swings-“

“Don’t call them mood swings.” Dean dropped behind Baby’s wheel, saying Her name with a sigh. “She hates that. And you can’t charm your way out of like I can.”

“I think I could.” Sam shrugged. “She likes me more.”

“She’s my freakin’ wife-“

“She loves you.” Sam grabbed his phone as they pulled out of the lot. “She likes me. I’ve never been threatened with castration-“

“Yet.” Dean muttered. “Cas thought he was safe until he got a shade of yellow that was too red for the nursery. I mean, yellow is yellow, Sammy, but she threatened to cut off his wings-“

Sam frowned. “I don’t think she could do that-“

“Trust me, man.” Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’d find a way.”

Sam just nodded, because they both knew Dean was right. He was pretty goddamn sure that, if She wanted—or if Dean pissed Her off enough—She’d figure out how to send him somewhere worse than the Empty, bring him back, then start sobbing and apologizing on Her knees all within a ten-minute span. Then She’d probably give him a blowjob, he’d saying the exact wrong dirty talk, and she’d bite off Little Dean. Shit, he’d only been gone four days for the hunt, but half that time had been spent on the phone, reassuring Her he was being safe, the hunt wasn’t a part of any world-ending scheme from a new big bad, and he’d be home soon. The time that Dean wasn’t on the phone, Sam was, promising he wouldn’t let anything happen, that Dean was sleeping well and looking at the baby names list She’d sent, and that he’d called Eileen so she wouldn’t worry either.

Annoyingly, Sam had been keeping his promises to Her. Dean read the baby names list because Sam wouldn’t let him leave the table until he did, Eileen had gotten two calls, and Dean was being safer than he’d ever been in his freaking life. At this point, he was pretty sure the pregnancy was just one long scam to make him take care of himself. He was drinking and hunting less after Her breakdown that she’d lose him, driving a little slower—just a little, he wasn’t a blind old lady—after the ice incident got him the silent treatment for three days, and he’d even tried some of Sam’s rabbit food. He’d spat it out, but he’d tried it. For Her, for the baby, and because he was terrified for his life.

Dean loved Her more than every pie in the freaking universe, but She was freaking terrifying right now. She might be the only thing he’d ever really been afraid of. Planes he could avoid. Ghosts and monster he could kill. Hell, even Lucifer had been better. At least the son of a bitch hadn’t begged to give Dean a hand job, then started sobbing because Dean tried to move it to sex and they didn’t feel pretty enough for sex. And if Lucifer had done that, Dean wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t give a shit about Lucifer. 

But he gave a shit about Her. Every time She cried it felt like someone was stabbing him, but he had less and less of a damn clue for how to help her the more pregnant She got. She’d said she felt ugly, he’d told Her she was beautiful, and that her tits looked better than ever, and She’d started accusing him of not loving her tits before. He’d missed one phone call and She’d sent Cas to teleport him home. He’d gotten the wrong candy bar and She’d had a breakdown about him not loving her enough to get the right one.

That last one was why the gas station had taken so long. Dean had triple checked every single snack he’d bought, and added a few extras just in case she changed Her mind. He’d even had Cas text him a second list after She’d told him all her requests over the phone, out of fear that he’d missed even a single one. Even now, on the road, he was running through everything one last time, because he’d gotten five different Gatorade colors, but maybe She’d want a sixth, or two of the same color, or only one color and he’d get yelled at because She didn’t even like orange-

“Hey!” Sam pulled Dean out of his thoughts with a shout. “Phone!”

“Wha-“

Sam said Her name, holding Dean’s phone in front of his face. “She’s calling you-“

“I got that.” Dean snatched the phone, shooting Sam a glare. “And that’s not safe, Sammy. Gonna get us fuckin’ killed-“

“Yeah, sure, Dean.” Sam just shrugged—even though Dean was right, that was dangerous—and nodded to the phone. “I’d pick up if I were you-“

“Shut up.” Dean muttered, ignoring Sam’s laugh as he answered the call. “Hey, baby, we’re-“

“Dean!” Her voice was a half-shriek through the phone, and Dean winced. “Holy shit, you’re alive, that’s good-“

“Course I’m alive, I promised I would be-“

“But it’s not up to you!” She was pacing. Her voice had grown frantic and high, so She was pacing. “Monsters don’t ask before they kill you, and they’d defiantly want to kill you, and Sam told me he’d take that bullet but I don’t want him to die either, and you’re both amazing hunters but if you die now, you can’t come back, and I’d miss you, I miss you now, why aren’t you home, you dick, I fucking hate you-“

Dean swallowed, saying Her name slowly as Sam snickered at his side. Asshole. “Take a breath-“

“Don’t tell me how to breathe, Winchester, I’ve been breathing my whole fucking life-“

“I know, sweetheart, I have too-“

“You’ve never had to breathe while pregnant-“

“And I’m not planning to, ever, but- just listen-“

“We should get you pregnant, it’s only fair-“

Sam started to cackle, Her voice loud enough he could obviously hear every word. It wasn’t really helpful. 

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean muttered, giving Sam a death glare that just made him laugh more. “Sweetheart, we’ll be there soon. I promise.“

“Okay, but don’t go too fast, if you’re far, because you promised me you’d drive carefully, and you need to be safer. I don’t want to lose you.” She started to sniffle. Shit. “I can’t lose you, De, I need you, the baby needs you, and Sam and Cas are cool but they’re not you and I want you and the baby wants you. It wants you more, it hates when your gone, it just keeps kicking me and if you die I’ll be a terrible mother with a baby who hates me-“

Dean snapped Her name, pressing the Impala’s pedal to the floor. He needed to be home soon. “Listen to me. I’m not gonna do anything stupid like die, and you’re never gonna lose me. Plus, our baby won’t hate you. It’s half me. It can’t.”

There was a slightly static hum from the other side, and Dean sighed.

“I know you miss me, baby, and we can get you whatever you’re craving, but-“

“I do miss you, De.” Her voice was soft and pleading through the phone. 

But it wasn’t Her crying voice. That was her-

“I miss your cock, too. I miss touching you, and why is your bed so stupid and big-“

Dean chuckled, shaking off the whiplash. “Because I’m stupid and big-“

He could hear Her pout through the phone. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid, and our baby’s gonna be a genius-“

“Because they’ll get their brains from you, pretty girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean leaned slightly forward, checking a highway sign. “Hour and a half, okay? Then I’ll be home.”

“Fine.” She mumbled. “I love you. Be careful.”

“I love you too, baby. And I’m always safe.” Dean waited for Her sigh, letting her hang up first. He’d learned to do that the hard way. “Not a word, Sammy, or I’ll shoot you.”

Sam raised his hands, palms up. “I didn’t even open my- got it.”

Dean turned his scowl back to the road, and he could be safe and get home in an hour. Both could be possible, and She’d never have to know that he’d been going 15 over the speed limit. And if She started to catch on, Dean could distract Her with his hands and dick and mouth, because—as hot as she was when she was pissed—Sam said stress wasn’t good for the baby.

They made it forty-five minutes of mostly safe driving—Dean’s hands gripping the wheel and listening to the music at a deafening volume, Sam texting Eileen and pretending he wasn’t bothered by the deafening music—before another incident.

Cas appeared in the back seat, said Her name instead of hello, Dean—already a bad sign—and looked almost genuinely scared. Dean had never seen his face do that before—red and sheepish like a child being scolded by a dinosaur—and it was a little off-putting.

He was used to Cas doing this enough to not swerve off the road, but he was still pissed. “Fucking hell, Cas, a warning would be nice-“

Cas frowned, then leaned forward, turning down the music. “Did you not hear what I said.”

“No, the music was on, I know you said-“

Cas said Her name again with Dean. “It was her message. I would, ah, prefer not to repeat it.”

Sam blinked, turning in his seat. “Why, is she-“

“She is well.” Cas’ eyes stayed on Dean in the rearview mirror. “She is feeling some very… confusing emotions. Towards Dean.”

Sam frowned. “Confusing? How-“

“She told me to relay to Dean that she hates him, and she hates hunting, and if he’s not home in forty-five minutes she’ll leave him, but she can’t leave him because she loves him more than life and she cannot live without him. Specifically his smile, voice, hands, stupid flirting that did this in the first place, and,” Cas swallowed, his voice dropping slightly as his face grew red. “Big cock.”

Dean smirked slightly—she was a menace, but damn it if he didn’t love his girl—as Sam paled next to him.

“By this,” Cas mumbled. “I assume she was referring to the baby. Which is in good health. I checked this morning.”

“Good. Thanks, Cas, but,” Dean sighed. “This could’ve been a phone call-“

“I was instructed to deliver it in person. To make sure you were safe, and driving carefully.” Cas leaned forward with a frown. “The speed limit on this highway is meant to be-“

“I know what the speed limit is.” Dean grumbled, refusing to ease his foot off the gas. “I’m tryin’ to get home, Cas.”

“I believe she would prefer you get home slower, rather than sacrificing your safety.” Cas let out a long sigh. “Although, I will admit I’d prefer you return quickly. I am not equipped to handle a pregnant woman alone, despite reading all of the books on the subject I could find. And, uh,” Cas said Her name with a red face. “Is frightening in this state.” 

Dean sighed. “Thirty minutes, dude, can you hold down the fort-“

“He could take you now?” Sam cut in with a small frown. “Cas could zap you back to the bunker, and I could drive Baby home.”

“Sammy-“

Cas nodded. “I agree with Sam’s plan. If you could pull over, Dean-“

“I’m not gonna pull over!” Dean snapped. “I can get back just fine myself!”

“But I could-“

“You won’t always be there, Cas.” Dean grunted through his teeth. “I gotta be able to take care of my family by myself. Shit, I’m doing all the safety bullcrap for it, and I’m hunting less.” He said Her name, his grip on the wheel painful. “She’s gotta know I can take care of her, and the baby. I said I’d drive home, so-“

Sam cut Dean off a sigh. “Dude, she’s gonna care way more that you’re home with her.”

“Sam is correct.” Cas said, and Dean could feel his gaze through the mirror. “I attempted to make her breakfast this morning, and she started crying. When asked, she told me that you make it better.” Cas frowned. “It was cereal.”

“C’mon, man. Let Cas take you home.”

Dean glanced over to find Sam giving him puppy eyes—the bitch—and groaned. “Fine. But if I see one scratch on Baby-“

“You’ll kill me, yeah, I know.” Sam unbuckled as Dean pulled over, not sounding nearly threatened enough. “Let’s move.”

It took a minute for Dean to get all the snacks, but the moment the last bag was in his arms Cas grabbed him by the shoulder, the world because a spinning rush, and he was home.”

“Dean!” 

He was barely on steady legs when She slammed into him, sending him stumbling slightly back as his arms wrapped around her, careful not to push too far into the baby bump.

“Hey, Sweetheart. I heard you missed me-“

“Of course I missed you, you asshole!” She pushed off of him, shoving his chest slightly. “Do you have any idea how many pies are just rotting in the fridge for you! You said the hunt would be fast, Dean, but I was stuck alone for four fucking days-“

Dean frowned. “Wasn’t Cas-“

“Cas doesn’t count!” She screamed, and over her shoulder, Cas didn’t look that offended. He’d probably gotten this outburst—and the following, tearful apology—at least twice already. “Cas isn’t you! He didn’t knock me up and then leave me-“

Dean thought about pointing out that he had not left Her, but thought better of it and let her keep shouting. She usually calmed herself down. 

Usually.

“And Cas is an angel, and he’s been okay, and I feel so bad because I was such a bitch to him, but he deserved it! He wasn’t you! And I missed you and I hate you, Dean, I fucking hate you, why weren’t you home-“

Dean caught Her hands in his, pressing a gentle kiss to Her knuckles. “I’m home now, baby-“

“I know.” She whispered, crumbling in half a second into Dean, clinging to him like a koala. “And I missed you so much, De. I can’t do the laundry with this stupid bump, I can’t do anything, I’m useless and I’m a bitch and I think made Cas cry-“

“I’d pay to see you make Cas cry,” Dean muttered Her name, running a slow hand through her hair. “And you’re not useless. You’re growing a person, that freaking awesome and insane-“

She tilted her head back, pretty eyes glossy and wide on Dean’s. “But what if I mess it up? What if I fuck the baby up and you leave me-“

“I’m never gonna leave you.”

“But I’ve been mean-“

“You’re always mean, baby.” Dean grinned at her, letting his affection show in his voice. “And it’s always pretty freakin’ hot. And you aren’t gonna fuck up the baby, and I’m not gonna leave you, but,” he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “If you wanna make Sammy cry a little more, I think he’ll deserve it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. “I’m not making Sam cry-“

“He said you had mood swings.”

She gasped, hitting Dean’s chest.  “You’re a snitch-“

“Gotta spread the love somehow.” Dean shrugged, squeezing his hands on Her as he dropped his voice down. “But I can think of a few other ways, just you and me, to spread some better love.”

She flushed—already putty in Dean’s arms—and almost dragged him back to their room. 

And this made it worth it. All the screaming and flying objects and threats, all the living in cautious fear in his own damn home, was more than worth it for this. Not just the awesome sex—sex was always awesome, sex with Her was better than almost anything, and sex with pregnant Her was what Dean imagined crack was like—but the way that, in the end, She smiled at him no matter what. She smiled and giggled and moaned, proving to Dean in a million ways both between the sheets and after that she didn’t really hate him, and he got to rest his head on her stomach and feel a small kick near his brow. Her fingers combed through his hair peacefully, all her noises made of content, and everything was more than worth it.

Worth pushing through the worst of the screaming and moods—just like She’d pushed through all of his world-saving bullshit—to see Her peaceful face as she slept by his side. Worth letting Sam drive the Impala just once, so Dean could get home faster.

Worth the family he was finally getting to have, and being here with them. 

End Note: Sam Winchester once again being a true trooper in my stories.

Title from Next to Me by Imagine Dragons

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[what-an-idio-t]

✧₊‧˚⁀➷ best friends,

summary. dean's tired of being your best friend.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 697.

The bar was dimly lit, a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. You and Dean had claimed a corner booth, the same way you always did after a hunt—him nursing a whiskey, you with your usual. It was supposed to be a casual, no-drama kind of night.

Supposed to be.

Instead, you were leaning just a little too close to some guy by the dartboard. Dean’s whiskey sat untouched as he watched you laugh at whatever dumb joke the guy had just told, your smile brighter than the neon beer sign over your head.

He tried to ignore the twist in his stomach, the heat that crept up the back of his neck. It wasn’t like this was new. You were gorgeous, funny, smart—people gravitated to you. And you weren’t his. Not really. Just his best friend.

But damn if it didn’t sting every time he saw someone else try to steal your attention.

Dean scowled into his drink, muttering under his breath. "What’s so funny, anyway?"

Sam, seated across the table, raised an eyebrow. "You could just go talk to her instead of staring daggers at the guy."

Dean shot his brother a look. "I’m not staring."

"You’ve been staring for ten minutes, man." Sam smirked knowingly. "Jealousy’s not a good look on you."

"I’m not jealous," Dean snapped, too quickly, too defensively.

Sam just hummed, leaning back in his seat, clearly unconvinced.

Dean gritted his teeth, his gaze flicking back to you. The guy leaned in closer, his hand brushing your arm, and Dean’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"That’s it," he muttered, pushing himself out of the booth.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his amusement. "Good luck."

Dean ignored him, his boots thudding against the sticky bar floor as he made his way over to you.

"Hey," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut.

You turned, your eyes lighting up when you saw him. "Dean! What’s up?"

He ignored the guy next to you, who was already shrinking back under Dean’s glare. "We’re leaving."

You blinked, surprised. "What? Why?"

"Because I said so," he bit out, his tone gruff.

Your brows furrowed, but you didn’t argue, sensing something in his demeanor that told you not to push. You said a quick goodbye to the guy, who looked relieved to escape, and followed Dean out of the bar.

The walk to the Impala was tense, the night air cool against your skin. Dean’s pace was brisk, and you had to jog to keep up.

"Okay, what’s your problem?" you demanded once you reached the car.

He spun around, his green eyes blazing. "My problem? Really? You’re in there, cozying up to some guy you don’t even know, and I’m the one with the problem?"

You gaped at him. "He was just being nice!"

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed. "He was hitting on you, and you were eating it up."

"So what if he was?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "It’s not like I’m dating anyone."

Dean froze, his anger momentarily replaced by something else—something raw and vulnerable.

"Maybe you should be," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. "Dean…"

He looked away, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. Let’s just go."

But you didn’t move, stepping closer instead. "No, I’m not forgetting it. What are you trying to say?"

He met your gaze then, his expression unguarded in a way that made your chest tighten. "I’m saying I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t kill me to see you with someone else. I’m saying I want it to be me."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing his.

"It’s always been you, jackass" you said softly.

The tension between you broke like a dam, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours—fierce, possessive, like he’d been holding back for far too long.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless.

"So," you said, a teasing smile creeping onto your lips, "still jealous?"

Dean chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. "Damn right I am."

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[what-an-idio-t]

BFFs reunion

+ bonus