emma

I’ve dreamt about you nearly every night this week

[angelblqde]

❝ ᥴrᥲᥕᥣιᥒg bᥲᥴk to ყoᥙ ❞

𝛴𝑀𝑀𝛥… july 10 . cancer . bisexual .THAT ITALIAN GIRL!!

✧ book lover . dancer . writer . music lover . always daydreaming . professional yapper . hunter . deancoded & dean’s girl ✧

reach me!!

⤷ @-angelblqde c.ai & wattpad

⤷ @-deanwinchesterwifee tik tok

i was once popular here

[canadarama]

Can we talk about the parallels between [Sam ignoring Kevin's phone calls for months because he believed that Kevin could handle himself] and [John ignoring the boys' phone calls because he believed the boys could handle themselves]

[writingdose]

© _ADWills

[shortnsweet69]

after seeing something ab being deans crazy ex the other day it’s all i can think about. like being so toxic but both of you being obsessed with it. ugh i need help

[jollyhunter]

The Furry Chastity Belt

Main Masterlist ❀ Dean Winchester Masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x fem!Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean, You, Miracle. One of the three was not invited to the horizontal tango tonight. And yet they try everything to jeapordize it.

WARNINGS / TAGS MDNI 18! Smut | Crackfic? Established relationship | Humour | Soft smut (with obstacles), oral (f/m receiving), p in v | Fluff | Miracle being an unpaid actor | Kinda crackish life of a dog owner but still so real lol | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 1,9k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES This is for all of you fellow dog mums and dads, you know what it's like!! And for everyone else; Yes, dogs do this. All of it. Not even exaggerating. I have my sources (my dog). 😂

"Ooh no, no, no – out!" Dean huffs and waves a pointed finger out the doorway.

It's reunion night in the bunker. After working a case for two weeks in and out of a brothel - only ever watching and never touching - it's way overdue; Privacy. That's all Dean wants for one goddamn night. Just you, and him. Vanilla scented candles. Soft tunes playing in the background. A sock on the door.

Miracle clearly didn't get that note.

The dog doesn't even look up, just pads past Dean, across the bedroom floor and right up to your bedside where he places his chin on the edge. Eyes just for you and your soft skin wrapped in crimson silk.

"Miracle,"- Dean turns, hands on his hips, warning -"I said out."

Even uses his authoritative voice that always dips into that deliciously gravelly timbre of his. It sure tingles your core. But all three of you know it will do little to get the canine out of the room. At least when you're around. Usually, Miracle's a surprisingly obedient dog for the little training he'd ever gotten from Dean – but whenever you're around? Well, you're the centre of his undivided attention. Much to his actual owner's chagrin.

"What happened to bros before hoes? Huh?" Dean pouts from across the room, arms now folded in front of his chest.

Miracle snorts. Dean's lips part in indignation.

You scratch the dog behind its floppy ear. Glance up at Dean with an arched brow. "Did you just call me a hoe?"

"Well. You're my hoe," Dean bobs his head. Grins boyishly when he sees your lips curve upwards.

You back up against the headrest, head tilted to the side. "I'll let it slide if you atone for your sins," you hum enticingly. Your knees tip outwards as you spread your legs, opening the doors to your altar.

"That my punishment, sweetheart?" Dean wiggles his eyebrows, sauntering over to you until his knees hit the bed and the mattress dips under his weight. "Y'know, I got a whole lotta more filthy nicknames than that."

You giggle, swat his side playfully with your foot. "Get to work, Winchester."

He licks his lips. Hungry. His warm palms trail up the inside of your thighs, opening the holy gates further. Your bare skin twitches when the tips of his fingers slowly hook under your lace underwear. Those for special occasions, the ones you know drive Dean crazy.

You shudder, then -

Whine.

Not yours, but Miracle's, who's been sidelined.

"Not now, Miracle," you say, eyes fluttering. Your hand blindly finds some furry part before nudging it away.

Dean, on the other hand, won't let himself be distracted. Not when he's got his nose pressed against your stomach, placing a kiss right above your bare heat. Your head drops back into the pillow. Dean travels further south.

...Yip.

"Oh for God's Sake-" Dean finally snaps and has Miracle's ears perk up. "It's grown-up time. Go... I don't know. Go do dog things."

He shoos the canine away and shoots him a quick frown that has him sigh and trot off. Where to, Dean couldn't care less. Not with the view in front of him. Sweet arousal luring him down toward your honeypot. It is about damn time he can enjoy his long-desired meal without any further disturbance.

"Now, about that punishment..." Dean growls, then dives right in. Your hands fly to his hair the same instant.

There's muffled, wet squelching, but you quickly dismiss it. It's not like that's an uncommon thing to hear when you've got the wet water-slide occupied between your thighs.

Neither is the shy smack smack smack. Since Dean's tongue is lapping long stripes up to the devil’s doorbell now. Exorcising wanton sounds from your body.

It's the 'heugh… heugh' that cuts through any aroused daze.

Your eyes snap open, head whips up so fast it pulls half of your torso along it when you spot the source of the sound.

Miracle. He's stood right next to the bed, head bowed, spine contracting, followed by retching. Your eyes widen.

"Snuffles – you feeling sick?" you ask the shaggy dog with slight panic, at which he frantically licks his lips, then produces another, more pointed heugh.

"Nah, s'fiiine," Dean groans, either from pleasure or annoyance, probably both. Voice muffled and sloppy from between your legs. For a moment, you completely forgot about him and his tongue doing an acrobat's job on your other lips.

You look back at Miracle, and now he seems to look miffed for some reason. He stopped heaving, but his head still hangs low, avoiding your gaze. Or maybe refusing to acknowledge the compromising position you're in.

You open your mouth but - "Jesus. He's okay," Dean cuts you off, sucks the protest right off both your lips.

The guttural moan he manages to wreck from your throat drowns out any sounds Miracle tries. Eventually, he pads off.

Or so it seems.

Your time spent on cloud nine is exactly twenty seconds.

Until something bitter curls up into your system and poisons your garden Eden.

This time Dean's first to react. He laps, sucks, groans. "Goddamn, babe, you taste so fuckin'-" he stops, sniffs you, pauses. "What the hell?" Then his neural system kicks in again - and his tongue gets stuck between his teeth.

"Oh c'mon, you kiddin' me," he grumbles, grimaces with a scrunched up nose.

Miracle looks back over his shoulders right on cue, butt turned towards Dean. He snorts, then circles the spot next to the wardrobe before thudding onto the floor when he flops down, then tucks his head behind the curtains - or, well, they would be curtains if this bedroom had windows. Instead, he has to make do with a stray duvet hanging from the drawer.

"Seriously, Miracle?" You press your lips to hold back the amusement of the image.

Miracle shifts in response. Lets out a grunt. Pushes the rest of his body forward until only his butt and the long strands of his tail peek out.

"You think he's hidin' from his own damn farts, or he just don't wanna witness me wreckin' you?" Dean chuckles. Bless him for trying so hard to keep you in the mood. Thumb moved to circle your clit while he leans in to recapture your attention with a hungry kiss.

Dean slides into you in one smooth thrust. Pulls all the way out, pushes right back in. Both of you moan from the way your heat moulds around his shaft. The delicious stretch. The way he hardens even more with every drag along your soft walls. Dean hooks your ankles over his shoulders, grips you under your thighs to angle your hips. Your hands go to his shoulders, grounding yourself for the deeper penetration.

He lines up once more, rolls his hips, –

but then his entire body jerks.

He slips off the water-slide. Downwards.

His slick head slams into your other door instead – you cry out and almost draw blood from his shoulders where your nails just engraved this moment for decades to come.

"Son of a – !!" Dean curses and pulls out again the same moment he skips aside like something wet has just touched his ass.

That, would've been Miracle's nose. Which is now twitching innocently while his ears flop to one side, head tilted in a curious 'whatcha doing?' kinda look.

"Okay, that's enough!" Dean barks and before the little bugger gets to duck away, he scoops the dog up, holds him out at arms length to avoid him touching his shock-softened dick. Then carries him outside where he drops him off in the hallway before he returns, kicking the door shut with his heel.

"Now, where were we…" Dean sounds exasperated but he tries his best to tune back into his sexy voice. It's enough to make you smirk, but when you glance down at him, you realize that his cock will need a little more convincing.

"Come on," you pat the spot in front of you, "Lemme get you both back in the mood."

Dean doesn't have to be told twice. His eager grin back in place. He crawls into bed and rolls over onto his back, his thighs bracketing your shoulders as you settle down between them.

For a solid five minutes, all goes well.

You even ignore the faint click then creeeak of a door, hoping it's just Sam's echoing up the hallways.

Ignore the familiar sound of smacking lips drawing closer. Impending.

But wait – the occasional sniffling is new.

You attempt to look up, but Dean's fingers tangle in your hair. Tugs your attention down again – not forceful, but desperate. Spit is slicking your chin as you let him convince you.

Bad decision. Because the same moment;

Miracle sneezes. Not a small one either.

Like a full-on head-whipping-slobber-sneeze. Right next to Dean's head.

Miracle had managed to produce so much saliva by retching over and over, that it ended up in the dog's nose.

Dean's closed eyes scrunch up, although you can't tell whether it's due to the spray of dog saliva or the way you've been taking his cock into your hollowed cheeks right then.

Either way.

That's it.

The laughter that's been wringing your stomach finally bursts free. Lips still sealed around him – you snort. Shoulders shaking, saliva and snot – yours, not Miracles, since you at least shielded his best piece from the attack – dribble down his length as you fight for control.

Dean almost chokes on a curse word when your teeth scrape his sensitive spots, but even he can't help how his lips twitch at a crooked smile.

The mood has definitely been killed.

Dean is in the bathroom, washing his 'assaulted ass'. You can hear his moping over the TV that's now the only source of light. Lingerie back in the drawer, Pajama hugging your very much unsatisfied temple. But unlike Dean, you have already accepted your new position in bed.

Miracle rests at your feet. Kinda. More like draped across your legs like a chastity belt of shaggy fur. Dean comes stepping out of the bathroom, grey shirt, black boxers, wet hair sticking in all directions from the hand that's rifling through them. He saunters over to you, glowers down at the cockblocker.

"Move your fuzzy ass," he mutters as he slips into bed next to you. At least as far as the outstretched legs of the dog allow him. Miracle blinks his wide eyes up at him, the chestnut brown glazed over with the innocence of a puppy.

"Hell no, don't ya give me those eyes," he grumbles. Brows pinched together in an attempt to look firm. Miracle holds his gaze. Flicks the tip of his tongue over his nose once. A gesture of appeasement.

Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs in resignation. "Fine. You win." Miracle's tail thumps against your thigh. You giggle, nudge Dean with your shoulder when he scoots closer despite the claws digging into the side of his leg. He slings an arm around your waist, fingertips resting on your bare skin. "But the tits? Those are mine. Capiche?"

Miracle's tail thumps thumps thumps.

You snort a laugh. "He doesn't seem very impressed by your threats."

"Unbelievable." Dean pouts for the rest of the night, the hint of a smirk peeking through every now and then.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I just realised, today's my 1-year tumblr anniversary of when I wrote and posted my first fic ever!! <3 (it was smut, too, lol!)

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❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Let me know or you may add yourself to this form! 🧡

[wendichester]

I need a hurt/comfort whump with Dean in your writing style like yesterday

-📼

⋆˚꩜｡ blood under your fingernails,

summary. you patch dean up after he's severly hurt from a hunt.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 589 genre. angst / comfort

warnings. injury, blood loss, stitches, pain, mild angst, soft intimacy while patching wounds

The bunker is too quiet. That’s the first thing you notice when you slam the door behind you—no sarcastic greeting, no boots thudding against the floor, no Dean pretending he’s fine when he absolutely isn’t.

Your heart lurches.

You find him slumped at the war room table, jacket half-off, shirt torn open and soaked in red. And he’s pale—God, he’s so pale—bracing himself on his elbows like he’s holding on by fingernails.

“Dean.” His name leaves your throat in a whisper, and he gives you this weak, crooked smile that’s supposed to be reassuring but only makes your stomach drop.

“Hey,” he breathes out. “Didn’t wanna… freak you out.”

“You’re literally bleeding onto the furniture,” you snap, kneeling beside him and cupping his jaw. His skin burns under your palm. “Too late for that.”

“Guess I owe the table an apology.”

You glare—he absolutely deserves it—but your hands are already steadying him as he sways. He leans into you without protest, which is how you know he’s worse off than he’s letting on.

“Come on,” you murmur, guiding him toward the med room. “Sit before you pass out and take me with you.”

He chuckles, then winces sharply. “Okay, okay—easy. I’m good.”

“You’re not.” You help him onto the cot, your breath catching when you peel back the ruined fabric. His side is torn open in a long, angry gash, dried blood glued to his skin. “Damn it, Dean…”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

You clean the wound slowly, gently, even though every swipe makes him hiss through his teeth. His muscles jump when the alcohol hits, his hand gripping the edge of the cot so tight his knuckles blanch.

“Hey,” you whisper, grabbing his free hand with your clean one. “Squeeze me instead.”

He hesitates—but only for a second. Then his fingers slip between yours, rough and warm. The moment he grounds himself in your touch, some of the tension bleeds out of him.

“You’re really good at this,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft.

“That’s because you give me way too much practice.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“More like Dean hazard.”

He huffs a laugh, breath shuddering when you start stitching. He tries to keep his eyes on your face instead of the needle, jaw clenched, brows tight. You hate seeing him like this—hurting and pretending he isn’t.

“Almost done,” you say, thumb stroking the back of his hand before you can stop yourself. “You’re doing great.”

His voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You’re the one doing all the work.”

You tie off the last stitch, smoothing your fingers over the cleaned skin. “There. You’re patched up. Again.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—green eyes soft, raw, full of something you’re not sure he has words for.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For… this. For being here.”

You sit beside him, brushing a bit of blood from your own wrist. “Always. You don’t have to say it.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

He shifts, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. The move is small, tender, vulnerable in a way Dean rarely allows himself to be. Your hand moves into his hair almost instinctively, holding him close.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then, faintly, with a hint of a smile:

“Next time,” he mutters, “I’ll try not to ruin my shirt.”

You stroke his cheek, letting your forehead rest against his. “Next time, try not to ruin yourself.”

He laughs—soft, breathy—and closes his eyes, finally letting himself rest in the safety of your hands.

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[mahawavy]

[grimoirei]

DEAN WINCHESTER GETTING HIS ASS BEAT YES GAWWWWD

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ monsters and lullabies,

summary. you and dean are stuck on monster babysitting dutty!

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 831 genre. soft fluff

warnings. baby chaos, mentions of pee, dean being dean (read: hot disaster with daddy potential), domestic softness, light language

It starts, like most Winchester problems, with a hunt that goes sideways.

You and Dean are supposed to take out a shapeshifter. Easy in, easy out. But instead of a silver bullet, you’re left with a crying baby and a trail of goo.

Dean stares down at the squirming bundle, then at you, then back at it. “That’s not—please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“It’s a baby, Dean,” you deadpan, adjusting your grip as the little creature wails louder. “A literal infant. And if you shoot it, I swear to God—”

“I wasn’t gonna shoot it,” he protests, holding up his hands. “Just... y’know, maybe check for fangs.”

You give him the look. He mutters, “Right. No fangs. Great. So, uh… what now, Mama Bear?”

And that’s how you end up back at the motel, babysitting a baby shapeshifter with Dean Winchester—who, as it turns out, is both completely incompetent and weirdly charming at it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean grumbles as he awkwardly rocks the baby, cradling him like he’s made of glass. “I’ve handled bombs gentler than this.”

The baby gurgles and kicks. You’re on the bed, flipping through lore books for something—anything—on raising a baby monster. “You’re supposed to support his head,” you murmur absently.

“I am supporting his head.”

“You’re holding him like you’re checking for hidden weapons.”

He shoots you a glare. “Old habits die hard.”

You grin, leaning back on your elbows. “You look good with him, though.”

That earns you a small, bashful smile. Then Dean ruins it by sniffing and making a face. “Okay, wait. What the—? Oh, come on!”

“Diaper situation?” you ask, laughing as he holds the baby out at arm’s length like it’s radioactive.

“Diaper explosion is more like it.”

“Good thing you volunteered.”

“I didn’t volunteer, I lost a coin toss!”

“You flipped it yourself.”

He glares. You just shrug. “And lost.”

Dean mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “unbelievable” as he heads for the bathroom.

Five minutes later, the sound of running water is followed by Dean’s frustrated voice: “How do babies aim like that?!”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe when he storms out, shirt spotted, face full of disbelief. “He peed on me! He’s like a tiny sniper!”

“Welcome to parenthood.”

“Parenthood sucks.”

But then the baby giggles—a bubbly, innocent sound—and Dean freezes. His shoulders drop. Slowly, a grin tugs at his lips.

“Okay, maybe it doesn’t totally suck.”

You watch him—this man who’s fought monsters and gods and still looks absolutely undone by a drooling infant. There’s something warm in your chest that you pretend not to feel.

Later that night, after the chaos of bottles and cries and Dean’s failed attempt to feed the kid whiskey (“Just a drop, sweetheart, builds character—hey, don’t look at me like that!”), the room finally quiets down.

The baby’s asleep.

Dean’s slumped in a chair, watching you. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, gently rocking the tiny shapeshifter in your arms, humming a lullaby so soft he almost misses it.

The motel lamp casts golden light over your face, and for the first time in a long time, Dean feels something deep and startling—like peace. Like maybe this life doesn’t have to be all blood and loss and running.

He swallows hard, watching your hands, the way you smile when the baby sighs against your shoulder.

And something hits him square in the chest.

Damn, he thinks, I could do this. With her.

The thought comes out of nowhere, but it sticks. It’s terrifying and real and impossibly tempting. You and him, a home that’s not the Impala, mornings that smell like coffee instead of gun oil. Maybe even a real kid someday—one that doesn’t shapeshift or drool on his favorite shirt.

You glance up and catch him staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just—you’re good at that.”

“At what? Getting peed on?”

He chuckles. “At, uh… all of it. The baby thing.”

You grin. “Maybe you’re just jealous I did it better.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky.”

You look down at the baby again, voice quiet. “He’s not so bad, huh?”

Dean hums. “Nah. Kinda grows on you.” He pauses, smirking. “Though if he shifts into me, I’m taking off.”

You laugh softly, setting the baby down in his makeshift crib—a duffel bag lined with towels. Dean’s still watching you, still wearing that look you don’t quite know how to read.

“What?” you ask again.

He shakes his head, smiling to himself. “Nothing. Just… didn’t think ‘babysitting a baby monster’ would be the highlight of my week.”

You nudge his arm as you pass by. “Admit it, you liked it.”

“Maybe a little.”

You grin. “You’re such a softie.”

He snorts. “Don’t tell Sam.”

You smirk, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Your secret’s safe with me, Daddy Winchester.”

The blush that hits him is absolutely worth it.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[briiverse]

daydreaming about my drs-aholic

[wendichester]

⋆.𐙚 ̊ too brave,

summary. you're a new hunter. you smell blood and you dive right in. hungry. brave. reckless. dean would definitely say reckless.

pairing. dean winchester x hunter!reader ( gn )

wordcount. 576 genre. bantery fluff

warnings. canon-typical hunting danger, protective!dean

Dean Winchester has been glaring at you all night. Not in that “you screwed up the salt line” kind of way, or even the “you owe me gas money” kind of way. No, this is the narrowed-eyes, jaw-tight, lip-pressed glare that says he’s two seconds away from tying you to a chair to keep you out of harm’s way.

You catch him staring for the fifth time while you’re loading a clip, and finally snap, “What? You got a problem with how I’m putting bullets in a gun now?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Problem’s not the gun. Problem’s the person holding it.”

Sam, who’s half-buried in research at the rickety motel table, sighs audibly. “Here we go…”

You slam the clip home a little harder than necessary and turn toward Dean. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Dean drawls, arms folding across his chest as he leans against the doorframe, “you’ve got zero patience, a bad habit of running headfirst into danger, and you think a shiny new knife makes you invincible. Spoiler alert—it doesn’t.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” you shoot back, chin tilted up.

“For now,” Dean mutters.

Sam glances between you two like a referee stuck in overtime. “Maybe we could focus on the case—”

“No, no, let him talk,” you cut in, planting your hands on your hips. “Clearly Dean’s been dying to give me the new-hunter lecture.”

Dean pushes off the frame and takes a step closer, eyes sharp but his voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “You think this is a joke? You don’t get how fast things go sideways. One wrong turn and you’re done. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. “Just… I don’t like watching people throw themselves into the fire like they’re bulletproof.”

Your chest tightens, but you cover it with a scoff. “So what, you’re my babysitter now?”

“Damn right I am.” Dean’s tone is gruff, but his eyes betray him—worried, softer than he wants them to be. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t end up in a body bag before you even hit twenty-five.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache. “Dean…”

But you’re grinning now, despite the irritation prickling at your ribs. “Aw, so you do care.”

Dean’s ears go red instantly. “Don’t twist my words.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m keeping you alive.”

“Hovering,” you repeat, delighting in the way it makes him bristle.

Dean glares, but there’s no real bite in it anymore. “You’re lucky Sam likes you.”

“You like me too,” you tease, holstering your gun and brushing past him toward the door. “You’re just too grumpy to admit it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting back a smile. “Yeah, well, don’t push your luck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you toss over your shoulder, smirking.

Sam mutters something about needing a vacation, but when you catch Dean’s eyes again, the weight in them isn’t annoyance—it’s fear dressed up as anger, worry disguised as snark. And maybe, just maybe, beneath all that gruffness, there’s a flicker of something gentler.

Dean huffs, following after you with his usual long stride. “Stay behind me tonight. I mean it.”

You grin, pulling the door open. “Sure thing, babysitter.”

The growl he lets out is pure Winchester, but when his hand hovers near your back as you step into the dark, it’s steady, protective, and—yeah—comforting in a way you’ll never admit out loud.

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[cassiiie222]

Let's normalise being y/n in our desired realities, please.

[angelblqde]

this.

[sammysodatimes]

oops, i dropped my links to all of the gag reels from the spn dvds!! all available to be viewed and/or downloaded on google drive!! oh no!!!!!

season 1

season 2

season 3

season 4

season 5

season 6

season 7

season 8

season 9

season 10

season 11

season 12

season 13

season 14

season 15

[wendichester]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ if you can hear me,

summary. you're in a coma and dean hasn't left your side for one second.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 606 genre. angsty

warnings. dean talking to you like you’re still there, mentions of hunting injury, crying dean, desperate pleas

The hospital room hums with the quiet buzz of machines, monitors beeping steadily, each one a reminder that you’re still here—but not really here.

Dean’s slouched in the chair at your bedside, hands braced between his knees, staring at the floor like it has the answers he’s too scared to ask. His leather jacket’s tossed over the back of the chair, plaid wrinkled from hours of not moving. He hasn’t shaved in days. He hasn’t slept properly either, if the dark circles under his eyes mean anything.

Finally, he exhales, voice breaking the silence.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, unsure, like maybe he’s afraid talking too loud will scare you away.

He leans back, drags a hand down his face, then lets it fall to your arm resting on the blanket. His fingers trace absent circles over your skin, grounding himself more than you.

“You know I’m crap at this, right?” He gives a humorless laugh. “Talking. Feelings. Whatever this… is. But you’re not givin’ me much choice here.”

The steady beep answers him.

Dean swallows hard. “You scared the hell outta me. One second we’re in the middle of that hunt, and the next—you’re on the ground, and I…” His voice catches. “I didn’t even think. Just grabbed you, held on. Tried to keep you here with me.”

His hand curls around yours, squeezing. “Guess I’m still trying.”

He sits in the silence again, jaw working, eyes glassy. “Sam keeps saying you’re strong. That you’ll pull through. And I wanna believe him, I do. But—” He shakes his head. “I can’t lose you. I can’t. You get that, right? You’re it for me.”

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, slower this time.

“You know, when you first came along, I didn’t think it’d last. I figured you’d wise up, realize what a mess I am, and bail.” His mouth twists, almost a smile. “But you didn’t. You stayed. You fought for me when I wouldn’t even fight for myself.”

Dean shifts in his chair, leaning closer to you, elbows on the bedrail. “So I’m asking—no, begging—you to fight now. Please. For me. For us. I need you to wake up, sweetheart. I need you to give me hell for hogging the covers, or stealing your fries, or leaving my boots in the middle of the floor.” His voice cracks. “I need you to look at me again.”

The words hang heavy in the room. Dean squeezes your hand again, tighter this time, like he’s anchoring you both.

“I don’t pray,” he admits, voice breaking into a whisper. “Haven’t in years. But I’ve been praying every damn night for you. Bargaining, begging, making deals with nobody listening. Because if anyone deserves to get another shot, it’s you.”

His forehead dips to rest against your arm, shoulders trembling. “I’d take your place if I could. In a heartbeat. You know that, don’t you? I’d do it without thinking.”

For a long time, the only sound is the monitor, steady and cruel. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his head. Just holds on like letting go would mean losing you completely.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to see your face again, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. His eyes are red, his voice hoarse.

“I love you,” he whispers, like it’s the only truth left in the world. “So you better wake up and hear me say it, because I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. Always.”

He leans forward, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead.

The machines keep beeping. The world keeps turning.

And Dean keeps holding your hand, waiting for you to come back to him.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[nchye]

Sea of Love

pairing: dad!dean winchester ( x mom!fem!reader ) summary: Dean records a video for his son on a quiet summer beach. There’s too much sand in his beer, laughter in the wind, and a ring burning a hole in his pocket. He’s not sure he’ll get the words right when it counts. But maybe his son, one day, will tell him.

disclaimer: english is not my first language! warnings: dean is a sap in this, nothing much really, pure fluff, one suggestive line???? (maybe????), third person, no use of y/n, no explicit physical description. word count: 719

chye's corner: i love challenges and i love summer. this is my first snapshot for @ambiguous-avery's summer snapshot challenge and my very first entry for a spn challenge! i couldn’t sleep so that’s what y’all get. you know i had to make it dean, c'mon. i don't know what i'll do when summer ends (save me from my masters). pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:

chye's grimoire (masterlist) requests are open! [ divider by @uzmacchiato ]

Click.

The camera is slightly tilted, capturing more sky than Dean intends to. A soft blue canvas is bleeding into the horizon, where the sun is just starting its slow descent into the sea. Waves kiss the shore in lazy rhythm. Seagulls drift overhead. The light is gold, the kind of warm that makes everything look a little bit softer.

Dean leans into frame, squinting, tongue between his teeth as he finally adjusts the angle. “There we go,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Okay. This better work, Sammy!" He sits back, propped against a driftwood log with a beer in hand and the ocean behind him. His skin is sunkissed, freckled across his nose. There's sand stuck to his calves. He’s wearing a plain white tee and board shorts.

"Alright, Leo," he begins, his voice softened by the lull of the waves. "You should be eighteen, now. Taller. Hopefully with fewer boogers and better aim when you pee, but no promises." He winks.

Off-camera, there's a loud laugh, clear and bright, followed by a squeal of delight. Dean turns his head slightly, smiling at the sound. "If you wanna know what's happening, your mom's chasing you down the beach. She's wearing a damn sexy sundress, flies all over the place," he swiftly looks at the camera again. "Don't give me that look, son, we both know I've said and done worse things." He takes a swing of his beer. "Your mom... she laughs like she means it, didn't know people could do that, eh." He glances down at the beach. "You're the kind of kid that makes strangers smile. Even the cranky ones. Especially those."

Dean takes a long breath. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, the background hum of the waves grounding every word. "Anyway. I’m making this video because someday, you’re gonna have questions. Like, ‘Dad, how can I be as cool as you?’ or ‘Why does Uncle Sam meditate at 6 a.m. like a weirdo?’ Or the big ones. Like… how this all started.” He looks down, fingers tracing lazy circles into the sand beside him. “I spent most of my life thinking the world was full of monsters. Turns out, I just hadn’t met your mom yet.” He glances at the camera, deadpan. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Her laugh fills his world again.

“She wrecked me, you know. In a good way. Like… the kind of wreck where you’re drowning and suddenly realize you want to. That sound cheesy? I don’t care. I’m at the beach. Everything’s legally allowed to be cheesy at the beach.”

He shifts, hand sliding into his pocket, slow, almost casual. But the shape of the small black box is obvious even through the fabric. “I got this thing in my pocket,” he says, holding eye contact with the camera like he’s confessing to a crime. “Burning a hole. Been carrying it around for weeks. Waiting for the right moment. Or, hell, any moment where you're not throwing up, little man. We gotta figure this problem out."

Dean smirks. "I wanna ask her, Leo. The big question. The forever one. Which is insane, 'cause forever didn't exist before, you know," Dean looks out toward the waves, voice softening again. “Now it means morning pancakes with you smearing syrup in your hair. It means her sleepy voice saying my name before the sun’s even up. It means late-night cartoons and sand in the bed and her hand in mine, every damn time.” He leans back again, smiling toward the horizon as if he can already see what’s next. “I want her to say yes. I wanna wake up next to her every day and still get butterflies like a damn teenager. I wanna teach you how to grill burgers without turning them into hockey pucks. I wanna have years, Leo. All of them.”

In the background, she calls out, “Dean! He found a starfish!”

Dean laughs, turning to respond, “Don’t eat it this time!”

He looks back at the camera one last time. His eyes are glassy, but steady. Hopeful. “If you’re watching this one day… Just know I did it. I asked. Hopefully, she said yes. And if she didn’t…” He smirks, “Nah, I'm too pretty for her to say no.”

A pause. Then, a wink.

“Wish me luck, little man.”

Click.

[angelblqde]

i’m crying this was amazing

[angelblqde]

this.

[angelblqde]

i’m not crying i’m just imagining this is Dean Winchester with his little daughter

WE WERE ROBBED