[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Materlist | Dean Winchester

I don't really have a schedule, just upload when inspiration strikes.

I have a few Sam concepts, but they’re more drabbles and blurbs than full Sam x Reader pieces.

✨Requests are open if you’d like to send anything! ✨

Mood boards | Blurbs

A slower life

One-shots

🔥 Smut ❤️ Romantic/established relantionship

Wishlist ❤️

For a minute❤️

For a(nother) minute❤️🔥

Just another cold night ❤️

Head over Tails ❤️ Show me how to live ❤️

Mini-series

Strike it lucky ❤️ - Third time lucky (Pt 2) ❤️

Coming Soon ✨

Mornings ❤️

Your turn ❤️

Home, home again ❤️

You want to do the thing? 🔥

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Author's note: I'm just trying to be more spontaneous with my writing, so bare with me. This is meant to be just a little blurb, it's not proofread and it might not make sense.

Warnings/tags: +18, no description of reader, established relationship, smut if you squint, panty kink.

You were bored of walking around the mall, the place was getting emptier by the minute, the crowds slowly drifting out of the building as the night approached.

You had been here for the last couple of hours, just killing time while Sam had to fix one last thing before you could drive away from this boring town.

It had been a long week. A boring case with endless hours of research and not one minute to be alone with Dean. You could see it too. The way he could focus less and less as the says went on and it felt like you were caged together but not allowed to do anything besides look at each other from across the room.

It also didn't help that the motel was shit. There was no laundromat in this awful town either, which sucked but gave you a reason to pull Dean aside for a couple of hours while you looked for things you needed. Like some clean underwear because you were wearing your last clean pair. You knew that Dean only agreed to it because you threatened to go commando and the idea of having to look at you in a denim skirt for the next 12 hours trying not to tent up like a teenager seemed like agony.

"Let's go in here"

You pulled his hand, ignoring his groan when he noticed where he was being led to. Victoria's Secret. Little groups of girls were still strolling around the store. One of the employees standing near the door offered her assistance, you just stated that you were looking around and beelined towards the lingerie section. You weren't really planning to get anything from here because you just needed regular underwear but boy was it fun to see each of Dean's reactions whenever you grabbed a set to examine, only to put it back on the rack. You feel him step closer, bending down slightly to speak in your ear.

"if I die from blue balls, I swear I'm haunting your ass, sweetheart"

You just chuckles and stepped away, giving him the sweetest smile, when you spotted just what you needed, a little pack of three plain cotton panties, and a better idea forming in your brain. You also grabbed a pajama set, so you could get into the fitting room without raising suspicion.

"C'mon, I need your opinion on this one"

You popped your head out of the pink curtains, finding Dean standing a few steps away, looking a little awkward. The pajama set is still hanging on the same place you put it on when you walked in.

"Need my help putting it on?"

Dean raised an eyebrow when he stepped inside the fitting room, noticing how your clothes looked exactly the same as when you walked in.

"Sort of. I do need your help with something"

You popped the clear bag of panties open, sliding the first pair out, just a plain white cotton pair. You could already feel it, that familiar thrill buzzing under your skin, of having Dean's attention entirely on you and being able to reach to prod and tease as much as you wanted until you could make him snap.

"Okay. Can I know what type of something we're talking about?"

He narrows he's eyes at you, crossing his arms over his chest, in a futile attempt to look tough and composed, because nothing good could be running in your head when your eyes are glinting like that. Because God know that you could get him to do anything you wanted, just a few kisses and the way you're able to bat your lashes at him and he's a goner.

"Well, I have good news and bad news. Which one do you want to hear first?"

You take a step forward, smiling innocently up at him.

"Bad first. Should I get worried?"

"I'll tell you the good ones first"

You contradict him keeping your eyes soft and sweet, and Dean can't help but snort one chuckle and shake his head before he sets his eyes on you again. You're toying with him and he can't even bother to pretend he would want to be anywhere else.

"Good news is I found what I needed, and I want to change into these"

You lift up one hand, the one holding the brand new panties. Dean's raises his eyebrows, not knowing what you're planning but knowing you enough to know you're up to something.

"Bad news is that I don't want to wear these anymore and have nowhere to put them"

You say it like it really is a problem, as if you're really trying to come up with a plan together and not like this is one shameless way to try test one of your new found little fantasies.

"I have pockets. Four of them at least"

You pretend to consider it, and shake your head with mock disappointment. Bringing your other hand out from behind your back, to reveal the pink lacey fabric resting on your palm.

"don't think so. You already have your wallet and keys. I was thinking about another way you could carry them with you"

Grabbing his hand, you press the pink fabric into his open palm. Dean doesn't look at you immediately, he looks to the sky and says something under his breath. His fingers close around the fabric before his eyes meet yours again. Hungry with a hint of darkness while he's thinking about everything he'd love to do if you two weren't in the middle of a store.

"you're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart"

He warns you as if you don't know exactly what button you've been pushing. As if the idea of making him break his composure didn't make heat pool low in your abdomen.

"I guess I could go commando. Is my skirt too short?"

You twirl in place, knowing that your skirt is definitely short, and when you reach for the little pack of panties, making sure to bend down, trying to suppress a smile when you hear Dean suck in a sharp breath.

"you're right. It's not like anyone's going to look at my skirt while we're at dinner anyways. I'm just going to put these back"

You really try not to chuckle when you turn around to see Dean pinching the bridge of his nose. You know exactly what's about to happen. Either way, you win.

"I'm this close to doing something that will get us kicked out of here. Or blowing it in my pants. So before I make a mess, why don't you tell me what you want me to do?"

Your smile turns soft and sugary, a contrast to how decisively your hands find their way to undo his belt buckle. He's wearing his Scooby -Doo boxers, and you love that he's such a big dork and you're the only one that gets to see it.

"if you really wanna help, you can lend me these..."

You slip your hand over his bulge before you slip two fingers under the elastic waist. While you never really planned to take it this far, you care less and less that you're in the middle of a busy store.

His jaw is pressed into a tight line, the muscle on his jaw working, his hands find your waist, and his eyes narrow watching your face, and for a second you think he's about to bend you over. He leans in to press one rushed and not too gentle kiss while he catches your wrist to finally pull your hand away.

"Fine. If that's what you want"

He makes a quick work out of pulling his pants off, along with his boxers, he offers them to you, like he really doesn't mind. He knows where this is going, and he's letting you get away with it. You can't peel your eyes away from him, pulling the pink lacey panties, your pink lacey panties. It's stupid how hot you find it how little he seems to care that he's just going along with your whim's, or that he's wearing the prettiest pair of panties you own. You barely move while he dressed himself with steady hands, pulling his jeans back on and buckling his belt.

"Don't think this little game is over, sweetheart. We're not finished. You'll see when we get home. Or in the restaurant's bathroom. Or when we stop at a gas station"

With one more peck to your lips, even if you got away with this little stunt, you still feel like you're the one left wanting more. He exits the dressing room a minute before you do, his hands still on his jeans pockets, trying to act casual while you pay for your stuff at checkout.

Maybe you'll try your luck today and convince him to go with you to the bathroom before you leave.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

It's alright I'm alright

Summary: Even after they leave the life, they still carry more than scars. A dinner and things changing wake old fears in Dean. Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, angst I guess? Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and anxiety. Notes: I can't stop listening to Geese so of course it leaked into my fic

Some mornings are harder for Dean. After a life that wasn't a walk in the park, it's hardly a surprise there are scars that ache on rainy days. While it happens less often now, because he sleeps in the same warm bed every night, and wakes up next to the person he wishes to see there every morning. He's well aware he's one lucky bastard. He'll wake up, a little more serious and silent than usual, he knows you're awake but he needs to carefully scan at every corner of the room, making sure there isn't a danger lurking in the shadows, waiting until he gets distracted.

He knows that you're looking at him, and that he's acting like a paranoid fool again, but he can't shake this feeling out of his shoulders. There's no reason why his heart should be hammering against his ribs, and no point in freaking out about because he knows it'll pass. After five whole sweeps, he offers a stiff "Morning" instead of the usual sleepy grin and kiss wherever he can reach to you. The stiff shoulders with his back pressed against the headboard not fooling anyone about why he's being weird. Again. You feel the bed shift, and you're awake, it wasn't the best night of sleep, but you had worse. Dean had tossed and turned, murmuring senseless words that made your chest ache for him. You don't really say anything when you open your eyes and find him looking around the room with wide eyes, you only sweep the room once, and everything's the same way you left it last night. You smile at him because you know him enough to recognize that expression. You've learned over the years that getting jumpy and asking a million times if he's okay and what is he afraid is not really helpful. He'll shut down, get snappy, spend the entire day hiding in the garage and feel guilty after. You know that it would soothe you to reach out and hold him tightly, but he's not there yet. So you push the day forward, and get up to go start coffee and breakfast. He needs a breath of space. That's it. You know it's nothing to do with you, he's not good with words on a normal day, he has even less to offer today.

You don't really have plans today. You had a big get-together at Sam and Eileen's new house last night. The silky skirt and shimmery blouse are abandoned half hanging from the chair in the corner. Clearly scaring him doesn't help him, you think to yourself while you examine your reflection in the bathroom, your hair is flying in different directions after falling asleep with it loose. Yawning while grabbing some toast and cracking two eggs in a pan, you hear the footsteps coming from the hallway. He's wearing boots. One time you tried to crack a joke that he was sitting like a soldier, completely dress and with his hair combed five minutes after waking up, instead of staying in his hotdog pajamas, it's safe to say he didn't find it funny. After a couple of minutes he walks into the kitchen, not saying anything yet but his hand brushes over your lower back when he reaches into the cupboard to grab the plates. You hand him his cup of coffee and know that the 15 minutes alone weren't alone to break it off this time.

He'll set the table and sip his coffee, and you'll eat your breakfast. Almost like it's a normal morning. Pretending everything's okay, because technically nothing is wrong yet, but he sat down on the opposite side he usually does, because he wants to have the door in his line of view. Sammy said told him last night that giving into it makes it worse. Dean really hopes his text comes across as casual enough, lying about forgetting a jacket just so he can't make sure that they are okay too. But his instincts are screaming at him to brace for impact, and it's hard to relax when you're around and it's even harder when you're not. So he's silent. Taking sips at steady intervals while checking his phone. 7 minutes it's not a long time. Except that 7 minutes it's more than enough time to imagine the dozens of way the bill will come shaped like this time. His leg stops when the answer from Sam pings. He just sends a thumbs up, too relieved to tell him that the jacket on the photo is not his.

It's more silent than usual, you're too used to his ridiculous antics, how he turns music on as soon as he wakes up if he's in a good mood. You miss his stupid jokes. Calling himself meat man collecting his tax when he steals a piece of bacon from your plate or when he leans back after breakfast and tell you he's ready for his nap with that mischief on his eyes. Living is not free. Dying and living to tell it, it's a different kind of expensive. You need to keep the wheel rolling knowing that tomorrow's a different day. The sun gets a little higher up on the sky, and you keep the routine rolling, step after step, washing the dishes, putting them away, making a new pot of coffee. speaking a little softer, when you walk closer and tell him you're going to read for a little while.

He hums in agreement, checking person after person and waits until everyone replies to trail into the library to sit on the armchair across from you, he puts on his headphones but he's not really listening to anything. He can't bring himself to turn the music on and pause it every three seconds because he can swear he heard something. With his head leaned back, his eyes looked closed to anyone who won't look too close or know him well enough. He's watching you read, there's no tension in your shoulders, but there's a tiny frown forming in your face and he tries to look away because he is getting to your nerves, he would be sick of this shit too. "that doesn't make any sense. This book stupid" You complain, setting the book on the coffee table and stretching your arms over your head. He tries to chuckle but it doesn't come out right. You're still okay. You decide it's close enough to lunchtime and your tired of sitting down, you take a look at Dean, another smile and a raise of your eyebrows, just checking the mood. Sometimes you hate how relieved he looks that you're just existing and don't get upset about him needing a little bit of space, you wonder how many time are you going to pretend you're not seeing him look over his shoulder. Maybe you'll offer to take a ride after lunch, being inside of Baby sometimes helps him feel in his element. "how about chicken for lunch, hm?" You ask to let him know that everything's still fine between you.

He shrugs his shoulders and nods after. He wishes he could sleep, reset himself so he can't stop ruining the day. It's a perfectly normal day. He thinks for the millionth time. Again he forces his shoulders to relax. You told him something softly, which makes him appreciate it because he's not jumping like a frightened victorian woman, but also makes him feel like a ticking bomb. A dangerous dog who's going to attack if someone moves too fast. The door is locked, the table in the war room doesn't mark any threats, his phone is within reach and everyone's okay. He checked. He's running out of things to check. After decades of paying five times the bill for any ounce of happiness he's terrified of how much he's getting away with now. He runs a hand over his face, telling himself to get it together, what's next? check if the boogeyman is under the couch. A soft melodic sound coming from the kitchen, it's familiar enough to know what it is, he walks towards it. And there you are, humming while you're rifling through the fridge, your foot tapping the floor at the rhythm of that song you made him listen to a million times this week. And when you turn around, you don't get jolted up like seeing a ghost, it's like you were expecting him to show up and stand near the door. You're still wearing his t-shirt, holding a carrot like it's a microphone, singing the last line while pointing towards him. "You can change, baby, you can change and still choose me" And then you turn around and go back to what you were doing, picking out condiments out of the spice rack. "I can't get that song out of my head" You're making small talk like today's a normal day. And he decides that today you're right. You checked the room with him, you sat in silence waiting for the shoe to drop. And he trusts your senses more than his today. It's alright. "you're a terrible singer, sweetheart" He tries, a little gruffly, a hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth while he walks closer, and the thoughts that haunted him all night are not gone, but they dim enough he can see past them, into the daylight. His arms find your waist, and hides his face against your neck, breathing deep, the familiar scent. He's alright. He's still home. When he pulls away, breathing comes a little easier and the ache between his shoulder blades is gone. "Hi" He leans down, pressing one, two soft kisses to your lips. "Hi yourself" You murmur back, a smile spreading on your face. Then he cups your cheek and really kisses you this time. You can taste the coffee on his tongue. Still testing to see if you're mad this time. You never are, but he knows that, and you don't mind to have to remind the rest of the day. "Chicken still in the menu? You're not really trying to make me eat a salad, right, sweetheart?" Dean brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, and you'd be lying to say you don't relief flooding you to hear he's back. "Depends, are you going to help me or are you going to loaf all day" You tease back, trying to poke his ribs. "yeah, yeah. You're so bossy" He pretends to grumble. "I hope that was a 'yes, chef!' " Dean rolls his eyes, reaching for the cutting board. He bumps his shoulder into yours as he reaches for the salt, and it’s such a normal gesture it almost knocks the breath out of you.

He’s still a little tense. Still listening for things that aren’t there. But he’s here. He’s trying. It might always feel like the other shoe is about to drop, but now? this, making lunch in your kitchen, with a routine and mundane things awaiting for you everyday, if this means he gets to have you like this everyday, that's a fight worth having in his book.

"We're alright, De" You say softly before lean into your tip toes to press a kiss into his cheek. Funny how the end of the world had always seemed easier to survive than ordinary days like these.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Head over tails

Summary: Sleepless nights make for cranky mornings. What can they do to fix it? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, tooth-rotting fluff Warnings: non-canon softness and peace Word count: 1.8k

Read more here: Masterlist

Dean’s cranky the moment he wakes up, and she’s snippy before she even gets out of bed. One of those nights , the kind where the pregnancy makes it impossible for either of them to sleep.

They’re both annoyed for the same reason, neither of them is comfortable these days. She’s pregnant, which means her back aches and she overheats and she swears the baby is kicking her even when Dean’s hand isn’t on her bump. And Dean… He claims his back hurts if he sleeps on his other side, and even though the bunker is the safest place on earth, he still can’t sleep unless he’s closest to the door. Old habits. Old instincts. He needs to know they’re safe next to him.

He can’t remember who started it, but before they even sit down for breakfast he’s already muttering that no, he didn’t sleep well, actually she snored like a freight train all night. She gives him that stubborn, haughty look she gets when her ego takes a hit and she refuses to admit it. She shoots back that she doesn’t snore, thank you very much, and the one who couldn’t sleep was her because he was “sweating like a pig all over her.” Of course he scoffs and rolls his eyes instead of doing the smart thing and backing down. She pushes the scrambled eggs around her plate, lips pursed, and suggests maybe he should go sleep in the spare bedroom if it bothers him that much.

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

He loves that every night, without fail, she ends up right here in his arms.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Show me how to live

Summary: Dean wins a ticket to a concert while hustling on pool. Su Tags: Dean Winchester, pre-season 1, Angst, is cannon that he had long hair Warnings: Angst, mentions of John Winchester Notes: I was listening to Audioslave while writing this and it fit the vibe perfectly.

To read more | Masterlist

Nobody ever found out about it. At least no one human. Dean pretended to be a normal guy, he always did, but tonight he tried to convince himself too.

It was the first time he’d taken a night for himself since Sam left. John had loosened his grip on him in the way only John Winchester could: by disappearing on a hunt and leaving Dean with nothing but coordinates and silence for weeks on end. Maybe that was why Dean let himself do something stupid. Or maybe it was because it was his birthday, and no one alive remembered. Twenty-five. No cake and no calls. Just another town and another motel key and a list of coordinates. He picked a fake name at the door. Mike. Something close enough to feel natural, far enough to not be him. He bought himself a beer that was warm and way too expensive. The venue was big, slowly filling, the crowd buzzing with a kind of excitement he’d never felt before, not the adrenaline of a hunt, not the sharp edge of danger, but the anticipation that something good was about to happen. Something normal.

It was a band he actually liked. He had a couple of their shirts, faded ones he’d found in clearance bins and thrift stores. Tonight he was seeing them live. That alone felt unreal.

It rained a little. No one cared. People screamed the lyrics anyway. A girl next to him knew every single song, and he ended up sharing his beer with her. She was pretty. She kissed him, quick, messy, laughing into his mouth. He couldn’t hear her name over the noise. He could almost see himself asking her out if he could be Mike for a couple more days. But he lost sight of her in the crush of bodies spilling out after the show.

He walked out smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and spilled beer. One of the best nights he’d ever had. His legs ached from jumping, his cheeks were sore from smiling, and he’d spent his last few dollars on a tour shirt he didn’t need. He felt almost giddy. He pulled out his phone to call Sam.

Right, he didn’t have Sam’s number anymore. Sam didn’t want him to call. Sam didn’t look back.

The night deflated in his chest.

Dean straightened without thinking. Shoulders squared. Voice flat. The automatic “Yes, sir.” John didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t ask how he was. Just gave him a list of things to do. A hunt to prep. A motel to check. The snap felt like a physical blow, like the whole night had been an elastic band stretching further and further with every little thing Dean let himself enjoy. Things he didn’t get to do because there was always another monster out there, always another job, always another responsibility. And Sammy was off doing God knows what, and Dean was still here, answering the phone with a clipped “Dad” like a soldier reporting for duty. The rubber band snapped and hit him right in the chest, making it hard to breathe even after the call ended abruptly, like it always did. John’s final words “You have a job to do” carried that faint thread of disapproval Dean knew too well. A reminder that he didn’t have time to go to concerts with other kids. Because he wasn’t a kid. Never had been.

He looked around. They did look like kids to him now, still smiling, still buzzing with leftover dopamine, still free.

He needed to hurry. Make sure nothing had happened to Baby. After all, Dad had trusted her to him. And what was he doing?

Dean looked down at the tour shirt in his hand. The last piece of the night. The last piece of the version of himself he’d tried on for a few hours. It looked almost ridiculous now.

He didn’t throw it away. He’d probably have to sleep in the car tonight because he bought it. But he didn’t throw it away.

He folded it and put it in his duffel bag with the rest of his shirts. Got in the car. And drove for the rest of the night.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Show me how to live

Summary: Dean wins a ticket to a concert while hustling on pool. Su Tags: Dean Winchester, pre-season 1, Angst, is cannon that he had long hair Warnings: Angst, mentions of John Winchester Notes: I was listening to Audioslave while writing this and it fit the vibe perfectly.

To read more | Masterlist

Nobody ever found out about it. At least no one human. Dean pretended to be a normal guy, he always did, but tonight he tried to convince himself too.

It was the first time he’d taken a night for himself since Sam left. John had loosened his grip on him in the way only John Winchester could: by disappearing on a hunt and leaving Dean with nothing but coordinates and silence for weeks on end. Maybe that was why Dean let himself do something stupid. Or maybe it was because it was his birthday, and no one alive remembered. Twenty-five. No cake and no calls. Just another town and another motel key and a list of coordinates. He picked a fake name at the door. Mike. Something close enough to feel natural, far enough to not be him. He bought himself a beer that was warm and way too expensive. The venue was big, slowly filling, the crowd buzzing with a kind of excitement he’d never felt before, not the adrenaline of a hunt, not the sharp edge of danger, but the anticipation that something good was about to happen. Something normal.

It was a band he actually liked. He had a couple of their shirts, faded ones he’d found in clearance bins and thrift stores. Tonight he was seeing them live. That alone felt unreal.

It rained a little. No one cared. People screamed the lyrics anyway. A girl next to him knew every single song, and he ended up sharing his beer with her. She was pretty. She kissed him, quick, messy, laughing into his mouth. He couldn’t hear her name over the noise. He could almost see himself asking her out if he could be Mike for a couple more days. But he lost sight of her in the crush of bodies spilling out after the show.

He walked out smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and spilled beer. One of the best nights he’d ever had. His legs ached from jumping, his cheeks were sore from smiling, and he’d spent his last few dollars on a tour shirt he didn’t need. He felt almost giddy. He pulled out his phone to call Sam.

Right, he didn’t have Sam’s number anymore. Sam didn’t want him to call. Sam didn’t look back.

The night deflated in his chest.

Dean straightened without thinking. Shoulders squared. Voice flat. The automatic “Yes, sir.” John didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t ask how he was. Just gave him a list of things to do. A hunt to prep. A motel to check. The snap felt like a physical blow, like the whole night had been an elastic band stretching further and further with every little thing Dean let himself enjoy. Things he didn’t get to do because there was always another monster out there, always another job, always another responsibility. And Sammy was off doing God knows what, and Dean was still here, answering the phone with a clipped “Dad” like a soldier reporting for duty. The rubber band snapped and hit him right in the chest, making it hard to breathe even after the call ended abruptly, like it always did. John’s final words “You have a job to do” carried that faint thread of disapproval Dean knew too well. A reminder that he didn’t have time to go to concerts with other kids. Because he wasn’t a kid. Never had been.

He looked around. They did look like kids to him now, still smiling, still buzzing with leftover dopamine, still free.

He needed to hurry. Make sure nothing had happened to Baby. After all, Dad had trusted her to him. And what was he doing?

Dean looked down at the tour shirt in his hand. The last piece of the night. The last piece of the version of himself he’d tried on for a few hours. It looked almost ridiculous now.

He didn’t throw it away. He’d probably have to sleep in the car tonight because he bought it. But he didn’t throw it away.

He folded it and put it in his duffel bag with the rest of his shirts. Got in the car. And drove for the rest of the night.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Head over tails

Summary: Sleepless nights make for cranky mornings. What can they do to fix it? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, tooth-rotting fluff Warnings: non-canon softness and peace Word count: 1.8k

Read more here: Masterlist

Dean’s cranky the moment he wakes up, and she’s snippy before she even gets out of bed. One of those nights , the kind where the pregnancy makes it impossible for either of them to sleep.

They’re both annoyed for the same reason, neither of them is comfortable these days. She’s pregnant, which means her back aches and she overheats and she swears the baby is kicking her even when Dean’s hand isn’t on her bump. And Dean… He claims his back hurts if he sleeps on his other side, and even though the bunker is the safest place on earth, he still can’t sleep unless he’s closest to the door. Old habits. Old instincts. He needs to know they’re safe next to him.

He can’t remember who started it, but before they even sit down for breakfast he’s already muttering that no, he didn’t sleep well, actually she snored like a freight train all night. She gives him that stubborn, haughty look she gets when her ego takes a hit and she refuses to admit it. She shoots back that she doesn’t snore, thank you very much, and the one who couldn’t sleep was her because he was “sweating like a pig all over her.” Of course he scoffs and rolls his eyes instead of doing the smart thing and backing down. She pushes the scrambled eggs around her plate, lips pursed, and suggests maybe he should go sleep in the spare bedroom if it bothers him that much.

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

He loves that every night, without fail, she ends up right here in his arms.

[djo]

THE PITT 2.08: 2:00 P.M.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Show me how to live

Summary: Dean wins a ticket to a concert while hustling on pool. Su Tags: Dean Winchester, pre-season 1, Angst, is cannon that he had long hair Warnings: Angst, mentions of John Winchester Notes: I was listening to Audioslave while writing this and it fit the vibe perfectly.

To read more | Masterlist

Nobody ever found out about it. At least no one human. Dean pretended to be a normal guy, he always did, but tonight he tried to convince himself too.

It was the first time he’d taken a night for himself since Sam left. John had loosened his grip on him in the way only John Winchester could: by disappearing on a hunt and leaving Dean with nothing but coordinates and silence for weeks on end. Maybe that was why Dean let himself do something stupid. Or maybe it was because it was his birthday, and no one alive remembered. Twenty-five. No cake and no calls. Just another town and another motel key and a list of coordinates. He picked a fake name at the door. Mike. Something close enough to feel natural, far enough to not be him. He bought himself a beer that was warm and way too expensive. The venue was big, slowly filling, the crowd buzzing with a kind of excitement he’d never felt before, not the adrenaline of a hunt, not the sharp edge of danger, but the anticipation that something good was about to happen. Something normal.

It was a band he actually liked. He had a couple of their shirts, faded ones he’d found in clearance bins and thrift stores. Tonight he was seeing them live. That alone felt unreal.

It rained a little. No one cared. People screamed the lyrics anyway. A girl next to him knew every single song, and he ended up sharing his beer with her. She was pretty. She kissed him, quick, messy, laughing into his mouth. He couldn’t hear her name over the noise. He could almost see himself asking her out if he could be Mike for a couple more days. But he lost sight of her in the crush of bodies spilling out after the show.

He walked out smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and spilled beer. One of the best nights he’d ever had. His legs ached from jumping, his cheeks were sore from smiling, and he’d spent his last few dollars on a tour shirt he didn’t need. He felt almost giddy. He pulled out his phone to call Sam.

Right, he didn’t have Sam’s number anymore. Sam didn’t want him to call. Sam didn’t look back.

The night deflated in his chest.

Dean straightened without thinking. Shoulders squared. Voice flat. The automatic “Yes, sir.” John didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t ask how he was. Just gave him a list of things to do. A hunt to prep. A motel to check. The snap felt like a physical blow, like the whole night had been an elastic band stretching further and further with every little thing Dean let himself enjoy. Things he didn’t get to do because there was always another monster out there, always another job, always another responsibility. And Sammy was off doing God knows what, and Dean was still here, answering the phone with a clipped “Dad” like a soldier reporting for duty. The rubber band snapped and hit him right in the chest, making it hard to breathe even after the call ended abruptly, like it always did. John’s final words “You have a job to do” carried that faint thread of disapproval Dean knew too well. A reminder that he didn’t have time to go to concerts with other kids. Because he wasn’t a kid. Never had been.

He looked around. They did look like kids to him now, still smiling, still buzzing with leftover dopamine, still free.

He needed to hurry. Make sure nothing had happened to Baby. After all, Dad had trusted her to him. And what was he doing?

Dean looked down at the tour shirt in his hand. The last piece of the night. The last piece of the version of himself he’d tried on for a few hours. It looked almost ridiculous now.

He didn’t throw it away. He’d probably have to sleep in the car tonight because he bought it. But he didn’t throw it away.

He folded it and put it in his duffel bag with the rest of his shirts. Got in the car. And drove for the rest of the night.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

A slower life

More than a decade passed since he walked away. His life didn’t end. Time did what it does. Things just got quieter. Things settling down, they way they do when they're finally allowed.

Dean gets the newspaper every morning. Not because he cares to read it closely but because he can.

When staying still gets too loud, he drives. You in the passenger seat. Walking together. No destination. Just movement that doesn’t mean running.

Old hobbies mixed with new habits. Teaching the dog new tricks. Both of them learning something.

He’s always been a one-jacket man. This one’s frayed now. Dirty from work. Honest work. No blood stains in it.

Some nights his hands don’t know what to do with peace. Old instincts twitch. To prep and maintain things he doesn't reach for anymore. So he carves wood until they quiet down.

This is his life now. Not smaller. Just slower. Days that take their time. A life that doesn’t ask him to bleed for it.

Inspired by @stargazedwinchester moodboards

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

For a(nother) minute

Summary: You finish dessert before dinner. Dean doesn't seem to think that's a problem. Turns out, he might be right. Note: Took me longer than I expected, but I hope you'll enjoy. Based on my personal belief that Dean Winchester is an eater. You can't change my mind. Warnings: Minors DNI, +18, smut, Oral sex (fem receiving), established relationship, nsfw, explicit sexual content.

To read Part 1 | Masterlist

You walked into the kitchen. The chicken sat half eaten on the table, the candle still burning low. Nothing had been put away. The air between you felt looser now, warmer, languid.

You’d learned each other in so many ways, first as hunters, then friends, on hunts, in motel rooms, over years of shared breath and shared danger. And now, somehow, as something you once thought you weren’t allowed to dream of having.And this was no exception, felt like just another place, another arena where you fit without effort, where the pieces of you both clicked into place with familiar ease.

Half of your clothes are trailed over the floor all the way to your bedroom. Now you're wearing Dean's shirt. Just pulled over shoulders, unbuttoned.

He's leaning over the counter, pouring a glass of whiskey, but his eyes linger on you, running over your bare legs flushed cheeks, the state he left you in. And he's wearing that smug grin he only gets when he's very, very proud of himself.

“What?” you asked, raising your brows, catching him staring.

He shook his head and moved closer. “Nothing” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Your hair’s a mess” He said it like it was the best thing he’d seen all night.

"I wonder why" you mused "it looked perfectly fine while we were eating dinner"

“We didn’t eat dinner” he reminded you, trying, and failing, to smooth the mess he’d made with his hands.

"it's always straight to dessert with you, huh?" you tease, stealing his glass, sipping it, almost daring him to complain.

So it becomes this little dance, roaming eyes, flirty touches, trying to see who can push the other to break first.

"I think we'll have to do some snacks instead" I say looking at the empty brownie tray. You reach to the cabinets, trying to get a bowl out.

"let me help you with that" Dean murmured.

You were about to tell him you could reach just fine when you felt his hand settle on your lower back, his chest radiating heat as he stepped in close beside you. He didn’t move away immediately. His hand slid from your lower back to your hip, fingers curling there, steady and sure.

“Found it” he murmured, low and warm, his breath brushing your ear.

You slipped out of his hold and crossed to the pantry, pretending you his touch didn't set your skin on fire.

He watches you bend to grab a bag of chips, his shirt slipping just enough to remind him of everything you’re not wearing underneath it. You glance over your shoulder, pretending to be absorbed in snack choices.

“What do you want to eat?” you ask, casual, knowing exactly what you’re doing.His eyes drag up from the hem of the shirt to your face.

“Anything” he says, voice low. “Whatever you want… or just bend over again. I’m still deciding”

You grab the first bag you see, then reach for the upper shelf, stretching deliberately. “Can’t choose” you murmur “I think I’m in the mood for something else”

He knows. Of course he knows. And Dean being Dean, he steps right into it “Let me help you, then”

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the warm skin just above the waistband. His breath grazes your neck, lips brushing the spot where your pulse jumps.

A shiver runs through you, and then he’s gone, already across the pantry, pretending to inspect the chocolate bars like he didn’t just set your nerves on fire.

You hop onto the counter, matching his game, pretending his broad shoulders and the freckles scattered across them don’t affect you at all.

His eyes betray him when he turns around, following the line of your legs, dangling over the edge. Slowly, deliberately, he breaks off a piece of chocolate and pops it into his mouth.

"I want a taste" you say.

He tears off another piece of chocolate, holding it out to you. When you reach for it, he pulls back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips "Open your mouth"

As he towers over you, holding his gaze, you open your mouth, pink tongue darting out. The sinful image mirroring a perverted version of receiving the communion.

His knuckles brush over your bottom lip as he places the chocolate on your tongue. His finger linger on your jaw "taste it"

You let it melt, humming softly. His eyes darken. “Good?” he asks, voice roughened.

“Really good” Your gaze flicks to his mouth, then back up. “But I want more”

He huffs a quiet laugh "Always asking for more, sweetheart"

Dean leans in slightly, breath ghosting over your lips as he waits for you to answer. When you don’t, he presses a soft kiss to your mouth, teasing, barely there. You tilt your chin up instinctively, asking for more and he gives you what you’re asking for. He presses his lips against yours firmly, as his tongue pushing inside, tasting of chocolate and him.

When he pulls back, he’s wearing that proud, infuriating grin where he knows he has you right where he wants you "what? you're not even going to let me eat, sweetheart?" Said like I'm interrupting you in the middle of his midnight snack.

You reached to the side to grab the whipped cream, forgotten there after dinner, spraying a line of cool cream, starting in between your breasts, down your navel, stopping right above your belly button.

"then eat"

A hungry, almost animalistic look darkened his eyes as he watches the white cream land on soft skin, and taking the can from your hands, his warm tongue sweeping the sweet foam from your skin.

Without hesitation he drops to his knees before you, his hands pushing your knees with his hands to open your legs wider. His eyes locked to your as he leans in, lapping up the sweet treat from your inner thighs.

"Is this what you wanted?" Dean murmurs between licks "make a mess out of you?" voice rough with need. He hooks your legs over his shoulders. His hands grip your hips tighter.

A whimper emerges from your parted lips from the anticipation. Finally you feel his tongue making its way through your folds finding the most sensitive place on his way up, making your hips buck.

He smirks against you, his tongue flattening against your clit, moving slow and hard. His grip on your hips tighten pulling you even closer and keeping you there.

You can't take your eyes off him. The way his shoulders flex and roll with every movement, the muscles shifting beneath his skin like they’re working just for you. The veins along his forearms stand out. And then there are his lashes, softening a face that's eating you out like a starving man. The most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Taking your breath away and wrecking you at the same time.

Then you see it, his hand that left your hip, now fisted around his cock, matching the rhythm of his tongue. When your had tightens it's grip on his hair he groans, the sound reverberating against your core. Doubling his efforts.

You try to bite down your lip, muffle the wild sounds coming from you, but you can't even manage, panting and moaning. Every nerve on your body feels like it's being tightening and going limp at the same time.

Your thighs shake over his shoulders, clamping around his head as the tight coil in my center snaps, firing every cell in my body alight.

His own body shuddering as he comes undone at the sight and sound of you coming apart in his mouth.

He pulls back, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth. His eyes taking in your state, eyes half lidded, cheeks flushed, a sticky mess all over you. A satisfied smirk play on his lips as he leans to kiss you deeply. Letting you taste yourself on him.

"I already told you, go sit at the table" Dean slides you off the counter, steadying you with warm hands. that familiar glint in his eyes, promise that the night isn't over. “We have a table now, sweetheart. We’re using it.”

You’re starting to think date nights in might be your new favorite thing.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Head over tails

Summary: Sleepless nights make for cranky mornings. What can they do to fix it? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, tooth-rotting fluff Warnings: non-canon softness and peace Word count: 1.8k

Read more here: Masterlist

Dean’s cranky the moment he wakes up, and she’s snippy before she even gets out of bed. One of those nights , the kind where the pregnancy makes it impossible for either of them to sleep.

They’re both annoyed for the same reason, neither of them is comfortable these days. She’s pregnant, which means her back aches and she overheats and she swears the baby is kicking her even when Dean’s hand isn’t on her bump. And Dean… He claims his back hurts if he sleeps on his other side, and even though the bunker is the safest place on earth, he still can’t sleep unless he’s closest to the door. Old habits. Old instincts. He needs to know they’re safe next to him.

He can’t remember who started it, but before they even sit down for breakfast he’s already muttering that no, he didn’t sleep well, actually she snored like a freight train all night. She gives him that stubborn, haughty look she gets when her ego takes a hit and she refuses to admit it. She shoots back that she doesn’t snore, thank you very much, and the one who couldn’t sleep was her because he was “sweating like a pig all over her.” Of course he scoffs and rolls his eyes instead of doing the smart thing and backing down. She pushes the scrambled eggs around her plate, lips pursed, and suggests maybe he should go sleep in the spare bedroom if it bothers him that much.

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

He loves that every night, without fail, she ends up right here in his arms.

[vanillarot]

THE PITT 2.07 "1 P.M."

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

Head over tails

Summary: Sleepless nights make for cranky mornings. What can they do to fix it? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, tooth-rotting fluff Warnings: non-canon softness and peace Word count: 1.8k

Read more here: Masterlist

Dean’s cranky the moment he wakes up, and she’s snippy before she even gets out of bed. One of those nights , the kind where the pregnancy makes it impossible for either of them to sleep.

They’re both annoyed for the same reason, neither of them is comfortable these days. She’s pregnant, which means her back aches and she overheats and she swears the baby is kicking her even when Dean’s hand isn’t on her bump. And Dean… He claims his back hurts if he sleeps on his other side, and even though the bunker is the safest place on earth, he still can’t sleep unless he’s closest to the door. Old habits. Old instincts. He needs to know they’re safe next to him.

He can’t remember who started it, but before they even sit down for breakfast he’s already muttering that no, he didn’t sleep well, actually she snored like a freight train all night. She gives him that stubborn, haughty look she gets when her ego takes a hit and she refuses to admit it. She shoots back that she doesn’t snore, thank you very much, and the one who couldn’t sleep was her because he was “sweating like a pig all over her.” Of course he scoffs and rolls his eyes instead of doing the smart thing and backing down. She pushes the scrambled eggs around her plate, lips pursed, and suggests maybe he should go sleep in the spare bedroom if it bothers him that much.

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

He loves that every night, without fail, she ends up right here in his arms.

[stargazedwinchester]

꩜༄.° @aconfusedhumanbeing-blog's 𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖇𝖔𝖆𝖗𝖉,,

colour: dark blue season: autumn chosen word: stubborn/tenacious

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is a well-worn hunting knife with a lapis-inlaid handle. it’s not the biggest blade in the room, but it holds its edge. like you, it doesn’t quit once it’s decided on something. it fits in your palm like it was always meant to be there. dean notices you never throw it. you keep it close. personal.

ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ dean sees your tenacity first. the way you don’t back down from a lead just because it’s thin. the way you sit on the impala’s hood under a washed-out autumn sky, quoting poetry like it belongs in the same world as salt rounds and motel coffee. he pretends not to get it. the line about the world offering itself to your imagination. but later he’s the one replaying it in his head.

The sky is soft blue and fading fast when Acquiesce crackles through the Impala’s speakers. Dean reaches in and turns it up. “Oh, hell yeah. I like this one.” You’re perched on the hood, autumn wind tugging at your jacket, knife spinning lazily between your fingers. “Didn’t peg you for an Oasis guy.” He scoffs. “Good driving song. Honest.” A beat. “Doesn’t pretend you can do everything alone.” You glance at him, but he’s looking at the horizon, jaw set like he didn’t just say something dangerously close to vulnerable. Leaves skitter across the pavement. The chorus swells. You’ve always been the one who sticks—through dead ends, through long nights, through him. Stubborn. Tenacious. Blue and steady as dusk. “You don’t quit,” Dean says quietly. “Neither do you.” He nudges your boot. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta stick around.” The song carries on. Neither of you admit what you’re really agreeing to.

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

- Third time lucky - (strike it lucky series)

Summary: A cursed object. A dingy motel. Mysterious deaths. St Patrick's day and cheap beer. What could go wrong? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, Warnings: Dean Winchester being Dean Winchester, Sam sort of thirdwheeling, canon mentions of violence, Post series ending and nobody died. Words: 2.8k Note: Second chapter of Strike it lucky. Hope you'll like it!

To read Part1 | Masterlist

The corridors started getting more crowded, dozens of drunk teenagers bleeding from the dwindling celebration now that the beer had run out. Some stumbled into rooms in little clusters, others were half‑passed‑out in corners, and the bolder ones were using the hallways like they were private bedrooms, not caring who saw them.

You didn’t have high hopes of finding the scurrying suspect still wandering around, but you had to try. Not an easy task with Dean knocking into people and getting green drinks sloshed down his jacket every few steps.

You kept glancing at him, worried. Between his mood getting shorter by the minute and the crowds pressing in, you were half‑convinced he’d end up shooting himself in the foot, literally. But you couldn’t exactly pull the gun out of his waistband without causing a scene. And suggesting you go get Sam and maybe bench Dean until you knew what curse you were dealing with? Yeah. That would go over great.

By the time you reached the reception desk, your hope had thinned into nothing. All you had was a photo and a first name: Tom. The little office behind the desk was dark, door closed, lights off.

You nudged Dean into position. He made a show of leaning against the counter, pretending to scroll through his phone while you worked the lock behind his back.

It was going fine, until Dean’s phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a crack that made you both flinch. The screen spider‑webbed instantly.

Dean stared at it with a scowl. “Son of a- I just got this one”

You hissed “Dean!”

“What? I’m being quiet” He bent to pick it up, nearly elbowing you in the face in the process.

“Can you not move and stop twitching like a malfunctioning Roomba for two seconds?”

He shot you a look, but there was a flicker of a smile under it. “Hey, I’m cursed, sweetheart. You gotta lower your expectations”

“You’re cursed, not concussed”

“Feels like both”

You paused your lock‑picking long enough to glance at him. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, but his eyes softened when he caught you looking.

“You okay?” you murmured.

Dean huffed. “Yeah. Just… hate this” “The crowds?” “The… everything” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You and Sam, you’re adapting. Eating green stuff. Stretching. Doing… adult things” “Dean...” “I’m trying” he said quietly “Just feels like the universe is laughing at me tonight”

Your chest tightened. You nudged his arm with your elbow. “Hey. I’m not laughing”

He looked at you then, really looked, and some of the tension eased out of his shoulders.

“Yeah” he said softly “I know”

The lock clicked open. You straightened, pushing the door with your fingertips. “C’mon. Let’s see if Tom left us anything useful”

He held the door for you, hand brushing your back, a small, familiar touch, grounding despite the chaos.

The moment you stepped inside the tiny office, you cursed under your breath. Dean reached out to hit the computer’s power button, and somehow managed to kill the entire lobby instead. The lights snapped off with a pop, plunging everything into darkness. “Dean” you hissed, a sharp whisper “Do. Not. Move.” “I barely touched it” he whispered back, offended and whisper, loud enough to barely count as a whisper. You flicked on your phone’s flashlight, the beam slicing through the dark. The office was cramped, dusty, and full of things you could trip over, which meant Dean was absolutely going to trip over them if you didn’t move fast. You rifled through drawers, trying not to elbow him in the ribs. Papers, receipts, a stapler older than both of you, a stack of mismatched keys, and then, finally, a small spiral notebook shoved in the back. Handwritten entries. Every guest. Every room.

“Bingo” you breathed, flipping through pages. “We have ourselves a… senior discount candidate in our hands” Dean scoffed softly behind you "That's mean, sweetheart, even for you”

You snorted in disbelief. “You called a twenty five year old bartender ‘kid’ yesterday” “That’s different” he muttered. “He looked twelve” You ignored him, scanning the list until you found it. “Tom. Room 115. Checked in a day ago” Dean leaned over your shoulder, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “See? Old‑school stuff works, sweetheart” There was a tiny edge of defensiveness in his voice, the kind that said he was trying to make a joke but also needed the win. You nudged him lightly with your elbow “Yeah. When it’s not short‑circuiting the entire building” "Hey, I didn't mean me, you little..." The lights flickered back on for half a second, then died again. You raised an eyebrow at him. Dean sighed “Okay. That might have been me" You went to room 115. No luggage. No personal items. The bed was neatly made, like no one had ever slept in it at all. Even the trash can was spotless, liner untouched.

But whatever Tom had brought with him, or whatever he was trying to get, there was no trace here.

By the time you reached the third floor, you were out of breath. The power was out across the entire motel, which meant the elevators were dead and you’d had to sprint up the stairs in the dark. The drunken noise hadn’t quieted with the outage — if anything, it had gotten louder, rowdier, like the blackout was just another excuse to keep going.

Sam was pacing the room when you pushed the door open, phone in hand, jaw tight. You walked in; Dean sort of stumbled in behind you.

“Dude, I’ve been calling you for an hour” Sam snapped, relief and irritation tangled together.

Dean grimaced as he dropped onto the couch, rubbing his shoulder like it still hurt “My phone’s broken. Long story. Nothing major”

“He touched a cursed object” you cut in, pulling the coin from your pocket, still wrapped in tissues.

Sam’s eyes widened “Dean”

Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his face “Oh, come on. You narc on me already?”

You raised an eyebrow “Narc?”

“Yeah” Dean muttered, gesturing vaguely at Sam. “See that? That’s the look. The disappointed librarian thing”

Sam crossed his arms. “I don’t have a look”

“You absolutely have a look” Dean shot back, imitating Sam's posture “You’re doing it right now”

Sam exhaled through his nose, which honestly proved Dean’s point.

You stepped between them before the bickering could spiral. “Okay. Children. Focus. The coin is real, the curse is real, and Dean’s luck is tanking fast”

Dean scoffed “My luck is fine”

As if on cue, the lamp beside the couch flickered, sparked, and died with a sad little pop.

All three of you stared at it.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to figure out what this thing is before it gets worse”

Then Sam looked down at the coin in your hands.

“I can’t pull anything useful without signal” he said after a beat. “No Wi-Fi, no databases, no lore scans. If this is a standard cursed object, distance might weaken it”

Dean waved a hand “Great. Road trip. Go be productive"

Sam hesitated. Just a second too long. “I don’t like leaving you with it”

“I’ll survive one night without you” Dean said lightly. “I always do"

You didn’t miss the way the coin felt heavier in your palm. Colder.

“I’ll take it” Sam said, already reaching for his jacket “If moving it helps, even a little-”

“—then go” Dean cut in. Too quick. Too sharp. “Seriously. I’m fine”

You met Sam’s eyes over the coin. Neither of you believed that. Sam took it anyway. Of course he knew you would refuse to move from Dean's side.

As the door shut behind him, the room felt… smaller.

Dean leaned his head back against the couch, staring at the dark ceiling “See?” he muttered “Problem solved”

The lights didn’t flicker back on.Dean didn’t wait for discussion. “I’ll take Sam’s bed” he said, already dropping onto it with a grunt, like the decision had been made hours ago and you were just now being informed.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

That was the tell.

You opened your mouth to argue, to say you’re not radioactive, Dean, or I’m not made of glass, or the truth, which was I don’t want you over there, but he’d already kicked off his boots and lay back like the matter was settled.

“Just in case” he added in a lighter tone. Too lightly. The tone he used when he was trying to make something sound like a joke. The tone that meant he’d already decided he was the problem.

Your stomach tightened.

You knew what this was. What it always was. Him putting himself between you and danger, even when the danger was him. Especially then.

He finally glanced over, and there was something small and apologetic in his eyes “Better if I’m… y’know. Over here”

Like luck was contagious. Like he could spare you by keeping you at arm’s length.

You looked down “Yeah. Sure”

It came out softer than you meant it to. Uneasy. Defeated.

Dean nodded once, like he’d been bracing for a fight and didn’t know what to do with the absence of one. He shifted on the mattress, then went still, like he was afraid movement alone might jinx the stillness too.

You lingered a second too long, watching him in the dim light. He noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t call you on it. He just offered a tighter version of your favorite crooked half-smile, that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Night, sweetheart”

You forced one back “Goodnight”

Then you slipped into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you, not because you needed the space, but because you hated this little gap that seemed to growing right under your nose.

And that made the distance between the two single beds sting even more.

Waking up was strange. You sat up too fast, heart jumping, instinctively reaching for the familiar warmth of Dean beside you. Instead, you found him already awake, lying stiffly on his back with one arm slinged over his eyes.

He looked a little better. Less pale. Less rattled.

That somehow made the knot in your stomach worse.

“Morning” you murmured.

“Yeah” he said, like the word was a shrug.

After only a handful of minor incidents, Dean tripping over absolutely nothing twice, the vending machine eating his dollar, and the towel rack tearing clean out of the wall when he brushed past it, you made your way to the office to find the owner.

Dean hadn’t joked about any of it.

The man behind the desk was exactly what you expected: early sixties, permanent irritation etched into his face like life had been one long inconvenience. He barely glanced up when you entered, muttering under his breath as he rummaged through a drawer.

Your cover as curious guests was flimsy at best, and his one-word answers weren’t helping. You tried to put on a friendly smile.

The man didn’t even blink in your direction.

Finally, the owner sighed, loudly and exasperated, and cut you off mid-question.

“Listen” he said, still digging through the drawer “I don’t care what kind of kooky journalists you think you are, or how many of you get it into your heads that this place is some kind of attraction. I like things done proper. Paper. Pen. None of that computer nonsense.”

He turned around then, peering at you over his half-moon glasses like a principal about to assign detention.

“I’ll tell you what I told the others. No, you can’t see the room. It’s storage. It’s sealed to the public. Nothing happened there. Nothing to see” His mouth twisted. “And I don’t believe in that crap. You’d be smarter if you didn’t either”

Dean opened his mouth, but the man rolled right over him.

“St. Patrick’s Day and cheap beer? That’s practical. That juju stuff?” He waved a dismissive hand “People see what they wanna see”

You and Dean exchanged a look, the kind that said we absolutely need to see that room.

The owner went back to rummaging, muttering about “kids these days” and “damn bloggers”

You forced a disappointed sigh, thanked him for his time, and walked out with Dean close at your side.

The moment the door shut behind you, Dean leaned in and murmured “Storage room sealed to the public?”

You nodded, pulse ticking up.

“Bingo” he said, a glimpse of his usual smile in his eyes.

You tried to keep your pace steady as you headed down the hall, but your instincts were screaming. You’d just hit the jackpot. You'll find an altar. Whatever was the cause of this curse and you'll get your Dean back.

With a little digging from Sam on the other end of the phone, you’d managed to pull up the motel’s floor plan. The three of you sat around the small table, papers spread out, trying to decide which rooms to check first.

Dean's mood had dampened slowly, like a gloomy shadow had opaqued his usually unserious demeanor. Not the kind of quiet that came with tiredness, but the kind that settled in when someone had already given up.

Every small bad-luck incident chipped at him: the towel rack, the vending machine, the lamp, the phone. He wasn’t snapping, not exactly, but every answer came a little shorter, a little flatter. When you insisted to plan it out first, maybe he could stay back, his answer was even shorter, a little snap. You tried not to take it personally.

When you suggested sticking together, Dean didn’t look up from the floor plan. He pressed a thumb hard into the paper, leaving a faint crease.

“We should split up” he muttered.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he added, barely audible “I’m getting tired of being babysat”

The words landed like a stone in your stomach. You pretended you hadn’t heard them, focusing instead on the map, on the lines and numbers that didn’t quite add up.

Silence stretched. Fifteen minutes of it. You’d stopped listing options out loud (attic, basement, the two storage rooms next to the little kitchen) after Dean leaned back, arms crossed, and let out a frustrated huff that shut the room down.

Sam finally broke the tension.

“So, get this” he said, tapping the page. “There are fewer entries for the second floor. Eight entries a week for the first and third, seven for the second floor. Periodically, it’s missing one room compared to the other two.”

Dean straightened slightly “Missing how?”

Sam exhaled “As in… it doesn't exist on paper. But the building’s footprint says it should”

You leaned over the map “Seven rooms. Same number every time?”

“Yep” Sam said, more sounds of paper rustling. “And I think I know where it went”

Dean frowned. “Where?”

You leaned forward, brows pinched together in concentration, and the very same thing that had been bugging you since you first saw it, now made sense.

“Behind the ice machine” You stated The ice machine loomed in the dim hallway like it had been waiting for you. The blackout hadn’t helped, the emergency lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow, shadows stretching long and thin.

Sam found the seam first, running his fingers along the wall until he hit a narrow outline. A door. Hidden behind the machine.

Dean stepped forward, jaw tight “Let’s get this over with"

You exchanged a look with Sam, not fear, exactly, but the uneasy sense that whatever was behind that door wasn’t going to give you answers you liked.

Sam wedged his shoulder against the machine, and with a grunt, the three of you managed to shove it just far enough to reveal the door. Old wood. Rusted hinges. No lock.

Dean reached for the handle.

“Careful” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. He just pushed.

The door creaked open.

And… nothing.

Just an empty room.

Dust thick enough to choke on. Broken furniture piled in a corner. A humid, stale smell that clung to your clothes. No markings. No symbols. No residue. No altars. No EMF spike. Nothing.

Sam swept the reader again “It’s dead. Completely”

You stepped inside, heart sinking. “This doesn’t make sense. Something happened here. It has to”

Dean stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the room like he expected something to jump out. But nothing did.

He didn’t look relieved. If anything, he looked worse. Like the emptiness confirmed something he’d been afraid to say out loud.

Sam lowered the EMF “Whatever this is… it’s not a normal curse”

Dean swallowed hard. “Great. So this is it?”

You turned toward him “Dean-”

He shook his head once, sharp “Let’s just go”

His voice was low, tired, frayed at the edges.

You followed him out, the empty room pressing on you like a reminder that whatever was happening to Dean wasn’t going to be as simple as you all thought.

[aconfusedhumanbeing-blog]

- Strike it lucky -

Summary: A cursed object. A dingy motel. Mysterious deaths. St Patrick's day and cheap beer. What could go wrong? Tags: estabished relationship, dean winchester x reader, Warnings: Dean Winchester being Dean Winchester, Sam sort of thirdwheeling, canon mentions of violence, Post series ending and nobody died. Words: 1.4k Note: this is my first mini-series. This is the first chapter. I'll try to post the next one this weekend. Hope you'll like it!

To read more: Masterlist The Strike It Lucky Motel had seen better decades. The neon sign outside flickered between STRI‑E IT L‑CKY and total surrender, the shamrock dangling from the “I” cracked clean down the middle like it had given up believing in luck sometime in the late seventies. Inside, the air smelled like old carpet, lemon cleaner, and a kind of damp that never really dries.

Dean said it was “fine” which was always his first lie of any case. He even tried to brag that the ice machine almost looked decent.

This wasn’t the kind of place hopeful people stumbled into. The guests drifting through the lobby wore tight smiles and checked their phones every few minutes, failed restaurant owners, men in cheap suits clinging to the last scraps of a business loan, couples whispering about foreclosure and one last shot. Nobody came here expecting miracles. They came bargaining with their last scraps.

And every once in a while, someone walked out with their life inexplicably intact. Their problems solved just enough to keep the rumor alive. The rest just… didn’t get so lucky.

Of course the lucky ones never stayed lucky for long. A sudden rise always corrects itself just as fast.

A man who won the lottery after nearly losing everything bought himself a mansion and died a year later, crushed under a falling piano. A woman who spent months hopping between exotic resorts was mauled on safari. One guy celebrated his turnaround with the world’s best caviar and went into anaphylactic shock after a lifetime of dollar‑store ramen.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, which explained why the place was full for once. Green plastic shamrocks hung crookedly along the hallway, and someone had taped a handwritten sign near the ice machine reminding guests, not in the friendliest way, to not to leave glass bottles behind. Luck was in the air. Or at least the excuse to believe in it was.

You’d been hoping for clean sheets and two rooms, tired and irritable after a long drive and one too many rounds of brotherly bickering. Obviously, luck wasn’t on your side. With only one room left, and Sam and Dean already halfway into an argument you’d inevitably be expected to referee, you excused yourself under the noble pretense of needing ice and slipped out before they could rope you in.

The corridor carpet smelled faintly of cheap beer. Music thumped somewhere in the distance. Most of the crowd, teenagers, really, had packed into what the motel optimistically called a “bar” a converted storage room offering cheap beer dyed green for a buck a glass.

The ice machine sat awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, wedged between two doors like it had been abandoned mid-relocation. Faded stickers clung to its sides. A handwritten sign read: NO TRASH BY ICE MACHINE. The thing was old, ugly, massive, and definitely not card‑friendly.

You dug through your pockets for a crumpled bill when you heard rustling on the other side of the machine, followed by a whispered, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” and then a dull thud. A kick.

A middle‑aged man, older than the rest of the guests by a good twenty years, stumbled out from behind it. He still wore a work badge clipped to his shirt. His eyes flicked up to yours, and instead of surprise, there was something like resignation. Embarrassment. Like he’d been caught doing something he already regretted.

He muttered a curse and nearly collided with you. You opened your mouth to ask if the machine was broken, but he didn’t stop, just hurried down the corridor with the defeated posture of someone who’d already made a bad decision and was bracing for the fallout.

A familiar gravelly voice made you jump.

“There you are” Dean appeared with a green plastic cup in hand "you missed the fun, sweetheart"

Dean accused you of killing his holiday spirit because you refused to get what Sam had accurately labeled “radioactive piss.” Truth was, none of your livers could keep up with that kind of drink anymore. Dean pretended his could, but you’d seen more than a few beers quietly poured down the drain lately.

“Good?” you asked, trying not to laugh as Dean took a sip and only pride kept him from spitting it out, with a not very convincing hum in reply.

“Want some?” He tipped the cup toward you. Something glittery floated in it. Or maybe it was sediment?. Either way, you recoiled and turned back to the machine.

“I’m good, actually”

“I thought you were into the rabbit‑food stuff now, sweetheart” His tone was teasing, but there was a faint edge to it, the same one he got whenever he felt you and Sam were adapting better than he was. He’d never admit it, but the years were catching up to him, and he hated being the last one to adjust.

“I think a salad and that thing are not the same, bud”

His jaw ticked. It always did when you called him bud or buddy or even joked that he was your best friend. You were more than that. You reminded him often, weren’t married people supposed to be like best friends?

Dean looked down, following your movements as you rifled through the little trashcan beside the machine. None of it made sense. This wasn’t the kind of junk a broke, drunk twenty‑year‑old would toss here.

A plane ticket. A scratched lottery ticket. A hospital bracelet. A key. A folded photo of a couple in front of some tourist attraction. A ring. A printed job‑acceptance email.

These didn’t look like trash. They looked like receipts.

Dean crouched beside you, balancing his cup on the edge of the ice machine while he peered into the trashcan. His shoulder pressed into yours in the limited space, solid, warm, casual, familiar. His knees cracked as he crouched, and he braced a hand on his thigh with a quiet wince he tried to hide.

“Are you into scrapbooking now?” he muttered.

You didn’t answer. You were still staring at the contents, your brain ticking through patterns that didn't make sense. A ticket from a year ago to Tokyo. A hospital band, cut clean instead of torn. A photo folded so many times the creases had gone soft. The type of things people didn’t throw away, instead keep in little treasure boxes or in between the pages of their favorite books.

And you recognized the guy in the picture. He was smiling, arm around a woman’s shoulder. And it was definitely him.

“De, look” You passed the photo along.

“Jackpot” he murmured.

Behind you, the ice machine shuddered and spat out a hollow clatter.

Dean straightened with a grunt and took another pull from his cup. “Well. Happy St. Paddy’s, right?” He tilted the plastic cup and dropped it into the trashcan, green liquid sloshing against the pile with a wet sound. “Offering to the gods of bad taste”

You turned at the sound, and froze.

Something metallic glinted at the bottom of the can, half-hidden beneath the soggy remains of Dean’s beer. It hadn’t been there a second ago. You were sure of it. Small. Circular. Dull gold and worned out, like it had been polished by time, rolled between countless fingers.

A little coin. Or maybe a charm.

It was stamped with a clover worn almost smooth. Innocent enough to pass for junk. Innocent enough to be dangerous. “Huh” He reached in without thinking.

“Dean, n-”

Too late.

His fingers closed around the coin, and the hallway lights flickered. Just once. Quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it.

Dean rolled the charm between his fingers, unimpressed. “Guess luck finally found me” he said, crooked grin already in place. “About time”

Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.

You had the sudden, awful certainty that something had just finished waiting.

Dean pocketed the charm and nodded toward the room. “We should go tell Sam”

You opened your mouth to agree- Dean took one step backward, caught his heel on absolutely nothing, and stumbled hard enough to smack his shoulder into the ice machine. The machine groaned like it was offended.

“Son of a-” Dean hissed, rubbing his arm. “I’m fine. Totally fine”

You raised an eyebrow.

He scowled. “Okay. Maybe we find the guy first.”

Another flicker of the lights. Longer.

Your stomach dropped.

Luck had found him, all right.

And it wasn’t wasting any time.