Heart wrenching angst this month with a couple of sweet bits of fluff to cleanse the palette.
Enjoy!
Many of these blogs and fics are NSFW-18+. Please honor any requests from a blog regarding no minors. I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume; heed the warnings for each fic.
~Empyrean~
Lessons in Survival Series ~ @princessmisery666
Distraction-Chapter 2 ~ Author’s Summary: Bodhi is a distraction. He knows because Tauri lets it slip, but messing with her is half the fun, and he realizes she doesn’t seem to mind.
Mildly Lethal Rumors-Chapter 3 ~ Author's Summary: An invitation could ruin it all. Secrets run freely like the river. Bodhi realizes he has more in common with Tauri than he first thought.
~Supernatural~
A Moment is All We Have ~ @justagirlinafandomworld. Author's Summary: Takes place during 12x22. Sometimes you don’t get to pick when you say I love you. Dean figures he’s waited long enough.
Better Than An Exorcism ~ @impala-dreamer. Author's Summary: None (Ficlet; Dean Winchester x Reader)
Cupids Curse ~ @atwistoffate. Author’s Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
Part 5 - New Beginnings
Part 6 - Fake Love
Drowning in Silence ~ @justagirlinafandomworld. Author's Summary: Silence feeds the insecurities deep within. You can either drown in it, or break it. (Dean Winchester x Gen!Reader)
Echo ~ @impala-dreamer. Author's Summary: Falling into himself again as Michael takes over his body, Dean is forced into darkness, alone but for the ghosts of her…
Something Like Her ~ @impala-dreamer. Author's Summary: None (Drabble; Dean Winchester x Reader)
The Wedding Date ~ @whatareyousearchingfordean. Author's Summary: When he finds out that his ex, Andrea, is bringing a date to their mutual friends wedding, Benny seeks out a woman to pretend to be his own girlfriend to save face. That’s when he lands on Y/n, his buddy, Dean’s, best friend. She is happy to oblige the charming southerner, but the night just may churn up some unexpected emotions between her and Dean.
~Patreon~
Rebekah Jordan (Impala-Dreamer)
Between The Magic & The Roses: Ella’s Awakening ~ A novella.
Too Sweet ~ Late nights on the road often end with Dean in a diner somewhere in the middle of nowhere. But tonight, he gets a treat with his meal.
Who Can Sleep Anymore? ~ Butcher finds you up late one night, haunted by the job and unable to settle down. He thinks he knows how to help, and boy does he.
These are all the Supernatural fics that I read in 2025 - though this may just be the Dean Winchester masterlist because that's all that I read from the fandom last year!
A special and warm thank you to each and every one of the writers on this list. You brought warmth, depth and fun to our Dean. Thank you for sharing your love for him on this hellsite.
Readers, please heed the warnings and respect the boundaries set by the writers. They are sharing this all for free. If you loved it, please comment and share!
Happy Reading!
A New Year by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: Dean’s girl knows him well. It only takes a few choice words to convince him to join her for a fancy New Year’s Eve celebration. However, neither needs to be seduced into admitting that the after-party is the best part.
Warnings/Info: Fluff; Teensy bit of angst if you blink; Sexy foreplay; Implied smut; Established relationship
Dean Drabble by @supernaturalfreewill
Dean Winchester x Reader
Prompt: "That is not an appropriate question to ask someone you just met."
How to: Dress for the Position You Want by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior
Dean Smith x Reader (You) (Use of Y/L/N - your last name)
Summary: Mr. Smith has some ideas about how to improve your position in the company.
Warnings: Smut. Pure Smut. Dom!Dean Smith. Sub!Reader. Oral Sex (M and F receiving). Spanking (w/Belt and briefly w/hand) Unprotected PinV sex. Edging. Aftercare.
You Calm the Storm by @smellingofpoetry
MOC!Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: "You calm the storm and give me rest."
Warnings: angst, a bit of fluff - maybe?!?
I've Got You by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: Dean won't let go.
Warnings: None, really. Some slightly disturbing imagery, angst if you squint.
Always, Probably by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: Dean gets some news that leaves him in shock.
Warnings: None. Angst. Fluff.
One Night, Again by @princessmisery666
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: It was a memorable one-night stand. A second chance encounter offers an opportunity for more.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, smut mentioned, implied smut, bittersweet ending.
His Kiss by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: A mis-held belief is denounced, giving way to something better.
Dream Dean Girl by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior
Dean Winchester x Carmen (except not)
Summary: Dean runs into a girl from his past a figment of his imagination.
Warnings: None.
Imagine: You ask Dean for the truth by @zepskies
Dean Winchester x Reader
Request: how Dean would react if you just blurted out, "Do you love me?" One day (after dating for a year or so)…
Tags/Warnings: Fluff. That is all.
Not Every Day by @talltalesandbedtimestories
Dean Winchester x Reader
Theme Big Things in Little Spaces
Rated Explicit
Sometimes by @princessmisery666
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: Sometimes you can convince yourself he’ll stay. Sometimes having him halfway is worse than not having him at all.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, smut, character death mentioned.
Not Without You by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Reader
There and Back by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Author’s Note: Part of the Never, My Love anthology.
Warnings: A bit of angst.
In the Beginning by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Author’s Note: Easing into the angst. Part one of the Never, My Love fic series.
Warnings: A smidge of cursing.
Amortentia by @hoboal87
Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: The Reader wants to fuck Dean.
Warnings: dub-con*, smut, crack, idiots to lovers, sex pollen, objectification of Dean Winchester, implied Bi-Dean, brothers being brothers, shameless Harry Potter references.
The Neighbor by @amanda-teaches
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: When you get called into work, your neighbor, Dean babysits your 4-year-old son. Together the 3 of you end up having a Halloween-filled day of fun.
Warnings: A little swearing, mostly fluff. Lots and lots of super cute fluff.
Thank You by @deanwinchesterswitch
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: A sweet bit of comfort for Dean.
The Space Between Us by @atwistoffate
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: You and Dean get hit with a curse, one that really hates distance. And it keeps tightening the longer it lasts. Seems like you’re stuck side-by-side now… good luck with that.
Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , Pt. 5 , Pt. 6 , Pt. 7
Blood Sport Pt. 1, Pt. 2 by @princessmisery666
Dean Winchester x Original Female Character
Summary - She had always liked the dawning of a new day. Everything seemed so fresh in the early morning, so full of possibility. But this morning, instead of the usual joy, she felt a sense of dread. When she stepped outside, she saw where it was coming from. Prompt from @daily-prompts - here
Warning/Genres/Troupes: angst, death, sibling death mentioned, grief,
Drunken Confessions by @atwistoffate
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: Dean’s got a plan: keep drinking until the feelings stop. It works, right up until you sit beside him and ask about love.
Meet Me by the Mistletoe by @atwistoffate
Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: Christmas is getting close, and with the thought of a certain someone in mind, you put up some mistletoe. Dean makes it his personal mission to have your plan succeed.
Imagine...Dean Catching You Checking Him Out by @luci-in-trenchcoats
Dean Winchester x Reader
This is gonna be really long but I would really love it if you wrote it. Let’s say that Dean and Sam get a call from fem reader, saying that she’s looking for John. The boys get there and notice that reader is just like John, same attitude, same hunting style and likes the same things John did. The boys are a bit scared that reader might be their sister, until they’re sweeping the house they find a toddler room and basically see a sign that says “Johnny”. It’s revealed that reader was looking for John to tell him that he has an another child. How would Dean and Sam react to finding out they have another brother and that reader is their age (John x reader age gap). If you’re not gonna write this let me know so I can ask someone else to!
Hello dear anon and thank you for your request ❤️
I only write Dean x Reader at the moment, so I won't be able to write this for you. But I'm sure other writers will be able to do your idea justice.
Summary: You escape the fall of your home under the protection of the one person you trust with your life, a knight sworn to take you to the man you are promised to. On the road to safety, unspoken feelings grow heavier with every mile, caught between duty and desire. It’s a journey of loyalty, quiet yearning, and a love that can never be spoken.
Word Count: 2.1K
Read the Prologue - Part 1 - Part 2
There’s a crumpled letter in your hand as you cross the great hall and take a seat beside your cousin, letting out a deep sigh of discontent as you do.
She’s eating grapes, pretending to read a book, though her eyes linger on everything but the page as she listens in on the ladies talking across the room. After your second weary sigh, she finally turns to you.
“What happened to you?” she asks, popping another grape into her mouth.
When she notices the letter clenched in your fingers, she rolls her eyes. “The prince again?”
You nod faintly, gaze fixed on the folded page.
She watches you for a moment, then softens a little. “What does he say this time?”
“Nothing,” you reply. “That’s the problem. He says the same thing every time. He hardly responds to what I write.”
“Then stop replying,” she says easily. “Enjoy your freedom while you still have it.”
You breathe out through your nose, considering it. Duty says you must answer—every letter, every time. But maybe, just maybe, this one got lost. Never reached you in time.
“You already have to spend the rest of your life with him,” she adds, nudging the plate of fruit toward you. “Skipping a letter or two won’t doom the realm. I would know.”
“You’re probably right,” you concede, folding the letter with deliberate care, as if that alone might lock it away from your thoughts.
It doesn’t work.
Barely a minute passes before you’re staring at it again, thumb tracing the crease absentmindedly, as the thought of marriage looms closer and closer. Six months is all you have left.
Your cousin closes her book and sets it aside with intent.
“You know what you need?” she says, eyebrows lifting, mischief lighting her eyes. “A really nice distraction.”
Before you can respond, she tilts her head toward the far side of the hall.
Your father is seated there. And beside him—Sir Dean.
You turn back to her, eyes wide at her implication.
“What?” she says, entirely unbothered. “He’s very handsome. And—” she leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “—I’ve caught him looking at you once or twice.”
Warmth creeps into your cheeks. “I’m sure you imagined it,” you say, though your gaze drifts back to him anyway, where he stands listening intently to whatever your father is saying.
“I have excellent vision,” she replies smugly. “And you stare quite a bit yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Luckily for you, not everyone is as observant as I am—or you’d already be in serious trouble.”
“I do not stare,” you whisper, unconvincingly.
She just smiles, clearly enjoying herself.
“There’s nothing wrong with liking someone,” she says. “Even if your duty lies elsewhere. A little harmless flirting never hurt anyone. Kissing would be even better.”
You kick her under the table. She laughs, utterly unrepentant.
“Trust me,” she continues, lowering her voice again. “When you’re married to a man you don’t love, you’ll regret not having something beautiful to remember.”
“I can’t do that,” you say quietly. “Not when I know that I have to leave so soon.”
She picks up her book again, opening it to a random page. “Things don’t have to last long to be meaningful,” she says lightly. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
When you look back toward Dean, his gaze is already on you as he follows your father out of the room.
When he catches your eyes, he bows his head in a respectful salute—then looks away.
You pointedly avoid your cousin's eyes, the smug I-told-you-so written in them as she pretends to read.
—
One step in front of the other, you circle the edge of the clearing, fingers curled tight around your father’s letter. Dean follows a few paces behind, leading the horse by the reins, deliberately giving you space; he’s close enough to protect you, far enough not to intrude.
The paper trembles slightly in your grasp.
…
My beloved daughter,
If you are reading this, then you are already far away from me.
I know how frightened you must be. I know you will want answers I cannot give you, and comfort I cannot offer in person. Forgive me for that. Forgive me for choosing duty when all I want is to hold you and tell you everything will be all right.
Wherever you are, remember this: you are loved beyond measure, and nothing that happens here will ever change that.
Trust Sir Dean. I place my life, and yours, in his hands without hesitation.
If fate is kind, we will meet again.
Your father.
—
I could not finish this letter without telling you that I am wearing the blue ribbon you gave me for luck at the tournament. It felt right to keep something of you close tonight. I hope it works again, as it did then.
….
You stop.
Your fingers tighten until the paper creases beneath them, and you draw in a slow, careful breath, trying not to break, trying not to unravel under the weight of everything that has happened since last night.
Your thoughts stray despite your efforts. To your family, to every voice and laugh that once filled the safety of the castle. You wonder if Marie and her husband escaped in time. If your cousin and her baby are hidden somewhere warm and alive. You wonder how many goodbyes you didn’t know you were making at the excruciatingly boring dinner held just two days ago.
You wonder if fate will allow you to see any of them again.
When you glance back, Dean is still there, walking in silence. His armor is darkened with blood—some of it his, most of it not. His gaze lifts the moment he feels you slow, attention sharpening instantly, as if he’s been tuned to your movements the entire time.
You can’t bear the thought of making this harder for him than it already is.
You’re both running, but only one of you is expected to be unbreakable. Only one of you is sworn to think three steps ahead, to put his body between you and whatever comes next, to die if that’s what it takes.
So you push back the tears burning behind your eyes. You force your hands steady and fold the letter with deliberate care as he draws closer.
“Are you all right?” he asks quietly, his gaze dipping briefly to the letter, then back to your face, searching.
You don’t answer. There’s no word that could possibly help either of you.
Instead, you tuck the letter into the horse’s satchel, then turn your attention to him. Your fingertips brush his armor where the cloth is wrapped beneath it. The fabric is stiff with dried blood. Relief flickers when you realize it’s no longer bleeding.
He stills completely while you touch him.
He doesn’t step back, doesn’t lean in. He simply holds himself there, breathing shallowly, as if helpless under your touch.
When you finally pull your hand away, his breath leaves him in a quiet exhale.
“Shall we go?” you ask.
He nods.
Without another word, you mount the horse.
One of his hands hovers near you, ready to steady you if you falter, though it never quite makes contact. Then he swings up behind you.
In the quiet of the forest, in the stillness left in the wake of violence, your heart gives a small, traitorous leap when his arms come forward to take the reins. Your posture stiffens automatically. His legs bracket yours, solid and unmoving. He’s everywhere around you without touching you at all.
“You can lean back,” he says carefully. “It’s a long road ahead.”
“What about your injury?” you ask, keeping your gaze forward.
“You won’t hurt me, my lady.”
There’s something in the way he says it, almost gentle, that loosens something in your chest. Slowly, you allow yourself to rest back against him.
He’s warm and steady behind you.
The relief that follows is immediate and almost painful in its intensity. He feels like the only safe thing left in the world, and selfishly, you cling to that sensation, because it may be the last comfort you’re allowed.
There were supposed to be two months still ahead of you. Two months inside your home, surrounded by people who loved you. That privilege has been torn away in a single night.
You hope, naively, that it’s the only thing you’ll lose in this world.
Reason tells you otherwise.
The horse steps forward, easing into a careful gallop, leaving the clearing behind. The first drops of rain strike your skin. Then another. And another.
You reach back to pull up the hood of your cloak, and his fingers meet yours at the same instant, both of you reaching with the same thought. The contact is brief but unmistakable, warm skin against warm skin. Neither of you moves for the span of a breath.
Then he withdraws first.
“This is good,” he murmurs behind you, withdrawing his hand to secure his own hood while the other remains steady on the reins. “The rain should cover our tracks for a while.”
His arms remain close after, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel them all the same.
—
The rain comes down without mercy, soaking everything it touches; your hair is plastered to your face, your skin chilled beneath heavy fabric.
The sun has already dipped low, the light thinning mile by mile. Soon, there will be nothing but shadow and sound.
Still, you keep going.
When Dean finally eases the reins, the horse slows, and you catch sight of a small house ahead. Grey stone walls darkened by rain. Smoke is rising steadily from the chimney. A single window lit from within, the glow faint but steady.
Dean brings the horse to a stop beside the house and dismounts, movements efficient despite the hours behind you. He ties the reins quickly, fingers stiff with cold, then turns just as you struggle to shift your soaked dress.
Before you can manage it, his hands are already at your waist.
“Careful,” he murmurs as he lifts you down.
You reach for his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his cloak, and land directly in front of him. For a brief, unguarded second, neither of you moves.
You’re close enough to see rain caught in his lashes, melting slowly down his cheek. Close enough to feel the heat of him through soaked layers, solid and steady in a world that has come apart.
“This way,” he says quietly.
His hand settles on your shoulder and guides you toward the door. Every step is heavy; your dress and cloak drag at you, waterlogged and cold, turning the short distance into a trial of effort.
Dean knocks twice.
Then, after a pause, twice again.
Footsteps approach from within. The door opens to reveal an older man holding a candle, squinting into the rain-dark night.
“Dean?” he asks, disbelief on his face.
Dean inclines his head. “Uncle Bobby. I apologize for the hour.”
The man’s gaze shifts to you, sharp and assessing, and he does a clear double-take. He steps aside after a heartbeat, letting you both inside, eyes lingering as the door closes behind you.
You feel the weight of that look, the unspoken questions. A knight arriving soaked through with a woman in tow, well past sunset. The kind of thing people talk about.
The door shuts, cutting off the rain, just as a woman appears at the top of the stairs in her night clothes, candle raised.
“Dean?”
“Aunt,” he says. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“What happened?” she asks, already stepping closer. “Are you all right?”
Though her concern is directed at him, you can feel both their eyes drift back to you, taking in your state, your silence, the way you stay close to him without quite touching.
“Are you two in some kind of trouble?”
“We could use your hospitality for the night,” Dean replies evenly. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. But—” he turns slightly toward you, “—Aunt, could you help her? We’ve been in the rain for hours. I wouldn’t want her to fall ill.”
“Of course,” the woman says at once, her tone gentler as she addresses you. “Come with me. Let me get you something dry.”
Dean looks at you then, like he’s checking you one last time before letting you go.
“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “I’ll be right here.”
You nod, and follow her toward the stairs. The warmth of the house presses in around you, unfamiliar and strangely overwhelming. At the turn of the staircase, you glance back.
Dean is already moving with his uncle toward another room. Just before he disappears through the doorway, he looks up.
The smile he gives you is brief and restrained, nothing improper, nothing anyone else would notice. Something just for you.
Then he’s gone.
There’s no certainty in your world anymore, not since this day started. Everything keeps changing, everything is being taken from you.
But you know he will be right there when you return.
Summary: You escape the fall of your home under the protection of the one person you trust with your life, a knight sworn to take you to the man you are promised to. On the road to safety, unspoken feelings grow heavier with every mile, caught between duty and desire. It’s a journey of loyalty, quiet yearning, and a love that can never be spoken.
Dean x Reader
Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading this series, for all the likes, the reblogs, the comments, and the awesome fanart @rzdmnz ♡♡♡
Word Count: 2.7K
Read the Prologue - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8
---
It was nighttime, and you sat cross-legged on one of the motel beds, fingers twisting together in your lap while your thoughts drifted miles away.
Everything the shapeshifter had said looped endlessly in your head. You couldn’t stop wondering how much of it had been a cruel fabrication meant to get under your skin and how much of it had been pulled straight from Dean’s mind.
Words of longing.
Words of heartbreak.
Words of love.
Could you really be that lucky? Could you really hope for something like that?
“How’re you feeling?” Dean asked, flicking off the bathroom light from the doorway as he stepped back into the room.
You looked up at him, at the clean black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. “Uh, just… You know. Good, I guess.”
He crossed the room without once looking away from you. “You sure?”
You sighed softly and dropped your gaze back to your hands, wishing you could find the courage to say what was sitting heavy in your chest.
The room was dim and quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint creaking of the floorboards as Dean moved.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, shoulders tense. When you glanced up, he looked just as lost in thought.
“Dean?”
He hummed. Didn’t look at you right away.
“Can I ask you something?”
He hesitated. “Can I—uh… say something first? Real quick.”
You nodded.
He cleared his throat, eyes dropping down. “What the shifter said earlier… I’m sorry.”
You blinked at him, not sure what to make of his words. “Why are you apologizing?”
He shrugged, small and uncomfortable. “Because it shouldn’t’ve happened like that.”
“…Was any of it real?”
Dean finally looked at you. Then, just as quickly looked away, jaw tightening. “…I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time. It sounded like an admission.
“Why do you keep apologizing?” You asked gently. “Did you do something wrong?”
“…I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Maybe I did.”
You tried to soften the moment. “Honestly, my ears were ringing so bad after that hit to my head, I didn’t hear half of what it said.”
A low, sad chuckle slipped from him. “...You don’t gotta do that. You don’t gotta protect me.” He swallowed. “You can say no. You can tell me to forget it. I can—” He paused, forcing the words out. “I can take it.”
Something in your chest cracked at the thought of him believing that.
“Why would I ever do that?” you asked quietly. “I just… if any of it was real, I don’t want to hear it from the monster of the week trying to hurt us. I’d rather hear it from you.”
He looked at you, stunned.
“I promise,” you added, with a small smile, “my ears won’t ring when you do.”
“…What?” His voice came out barely above a breath.
“Are your ears ringing too? Want me to say it again?”
He shook his head slightly, still trying to catch up. “Are you— I mean… really?”
“Really," you said softly.
Dean stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him. “Sam kept tellin’ me to talk to you,” he admitted. “I just—couldn’t. Didn’t wanna screw things up. Or make it weird. Or…” He shrugged helplessly. “You’re… you’re kind of incredible. And I’m—well. Me.”
Your chest ached. “Dean.”
“I mean it,” he rushed. “You deserve someone who’s—better at this. Someone who doesn’t—” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Come with this much baggage.”
You leaned in before he could add anything else and kissed him.
It was meant to be brief.
But after a heartbeat of surprise, Dean kissed you back, arms sliding around you and pulling you close. You cupped his face, kissing him like nothing else in the world existed, because, in that moment, nothing else did.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours, one hand cupping your cheek with reverent care. His thumb brushed your skin, slow and disbelieving.
“…Can’t believe this,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
You smiled and kissed him again, lingering this time, just to prove to him, and to yourself, how real it all was.
Outside the motel room, Carl smiled, his arrows still untouched at his feet. Your names flickered furiously on the glowing list before vanishing entirely.
“Well, look at that,” he murmured fondly. “Good job, besties.”
And then he was gone.
—-
“Mornin’,” Dean said when you opened your eyes. He was already turned toward you, blinking against the early morning light, one of your hands twined loosely with his.
He was smiling.
Which, honestly, was surprising all on its own.
Ever since the day you’d met him, Dean had been a notoriously grumpy riser. But now… now he looked genuinely happy. Unguarded. And so warm.
“Morning,” you echoed, smiling back just as easily.
And you stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, no rush, no words pressing to be said. Because now you could do that. You could stare openly, you could lie beside him without distance or doubt. You could kiss him if you wanted to, just because he was there.
Dean blinked slowly, like he was still deciding whether this was real. He didn’t move. Didn’t look like he had any intention of moving ever again.
Everything felt perfect. The temperature. The light spilling in through the thin motel curtains. The steady warmth of his body next to yours. It was like the world had narrowed down into a small, quiet bubble where everything was exactly right, and you were right in the center of it.
“C’mere,” he murmured eventually, even though you were already close.
You scooted in anyway, because you’d do that a hundred times if he asked. You tucked yourself against him, and he let out a soft, content breath, arms tightening around you as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Let’s not go anywhere,” he said quietly. “Let’s just… stay right here.”
You hummed, cheek tucked against him, listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”
You drifted back to sleep like that, wrapped in his arms. Dean didn’t let go. He held you close, breathing you in, soaking up the quiet, the peace, the love that finally felt close enough to touch.
—
It was a cold, quiet morning, the kind of cold that made the metal benches in the park feel like ice against bare hands. Carl settled onto one, leaning back with his arms crossed, letting the chill bite through his jacket.
Bernard sat next to him, absorbed in his list, eyes scanning names. The quiet hum of the city did little to disturb them. Carl had set his list aside, letting it rest beside him. He closed his eyes against the pale winter sun, not even bothering to check the names.
“Heard you finally got them together,” Bernard said eventually, folding his list with careful fingers and turning to count his arrows again.
“Eh,” Carl said, voice even, almost dismissive, though his lips curved faintly in a ghost of a smile. “Barely had to lift a finger.” He opened his eyes, letting the sunlight touch them for a moment before closing them again. “Never seen anything like it, to tell you the truth.”
Bernard hummed, calm as ever, and Carl turned slightly to look at him. “I wonder what’s the deal with them, anyway. Why are they such a big deal upstairs?”
Bernard glanced down at his list again before answering. “I did look a little into it. Something about their future child being… important.”
“Their child?” Carl asked, sitting up straight. "Important for what?”
“I’m not really sure,” Bernard said, tone steady. “Heaven must have some plan in motion.”
Carl’s jaw tightened. “But—will the kid be okay? Heaven doesn’t exactly have a great track record with children meant to be born.”
Bernard shrugged, calm as ever. “Heaven does what Heaven does, Carl.”
There was a moment of silence, a moment in which Carl frowned at his colleague, almost not knowing where to begin.
“You can't really be okay with that,” he said eventually. “A kid doesn’t deserve to be born under some doomed destiny. Children deserve the freedom to make their own choices. To live. They’re not puppets, and neither are we.”
“It’s not our place to judge,” Bernard said, voice calm and steady. “Some things are bigger than us. We just play our part. That’s why we have rules to follow.”
“Right,” Carl replied, staring off into the distance. "The rules…"
If there was one thing he knew for certain was that he hated the rules. And he wasn't going to start following them now either. He picked up the list, folded it cleanly without checking the names, and slipped it into his coat.
Then he stood.
“Carl,” Bernard said quietly, concern threading his voice. “You should spend more time in Heaven. I’m worried you’re going to lose yourself.”
Carl smiled faintly, almost sadly. “I'm already lost, my friend.” Then, he grabbed his bow and arrows and vanished into thin air.
—
No one in Heaven came to know about Carl’s newest secret; the quiet, ongoing disobedience against every rule he’d ever been taught to follow.
On every shift, he became exemplary, a perfect Cupid. Efficient, obedient, never straying from his assigned role, never bending any rules.
But after every shift, he returned to the archives.
Angels moved by protocols, by rules, by paperwork. Nothing ever happened without it being written down somewhere first. That was the one truth Carl trusted.
So he searched.
He looked for any plan, any mention of a possible future child, any thread Heaven might pull when the time came. It took months to find every shred of evidence buried among the scrolls, but he never faltered.
He was motivated by something unfamiliar, something he hadn’t felt in centuries of assignments and endless lists of names.
Purpose.
The scrolls and books began to disappear slowly, one by one. Carl would read them, commit every word to memory, and then destroy them. Leaving nothing behind.
When he was finished, he checked again. And again, months later. Just to be sure.
Eventually, he believed the job was done.
That didn't turn out to be exactly right.
He realized years later, when he came by for a quick visit, just to see how his most complicated assignment was doing. He lingered outside the bunker for a while, invisible to the world, when the heavy metal door opened.
You stepped outside first, and then Dean followed.
What surprised Carl, however, was the small bundle in Dean's arm, the tiny hand curled securely around his finger.
The child.
The baby Heaven had written about. The baby meant to be born.
Carl felt something sting his eyes, tears pooling behind his lashes, compassion for such pure innocence, fear for the plans he prayed would never come true. And an instinctive, overwhelming need to protect.
He wondered if he had missed something, if somehow Heaven had made sure it would happen, made sure he would be born.
Still, he lifted a hand and waved, even though the child couldn’t see him, as a new plan began to form in his mind.
When Carl returned to the archives that day, he did so with renewed focus. This time, he reached for a manual he had passed countless times before, one even thicker than his own as a Cupid. Still, he studied it meticulously. Every page, every clause, every word.
Because this wouldn’t be a mindless task dictated by Heaven. Because this mattered immensely.
When he had memorized it all, he knocked on the doors of the official labor department and requested a reassignment.
Much to his own surprise, after an official examination, this time the answer was yes.
The bow and arrows were returned, the title of Cupid left behind. And Carl became something else entirely.
A Guardian Angel.
One who would walk beside that child through scraped knees and nightmares, through doubt and defiance, through adolescence and into adulthood. One who would lay down his life without hesitation, without regret, if it meant keeping that small hand safe.
And for the first time in his long, complicated existence, Carl knew without a doubt that it was the most perfect job he could ever have.
—
“Dude, again with this story?”
Carl looked up as Dean emerged from the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp. “What’s wrong with it? He loves fairy tales,” he said, nodding toward the two-year-old in his high chair. “Besides, it’s a nice story about true love. With all his favorite people. Better than any fairy tale I know.”
“You only think that because you’re in it,” Dean said, weaving through the toys on the floor to press a quick kiss to the top of his son’s head before scooping him up. “C’mon, my little man,” he said in that soft voice he only reserved for the kid. “Was Carl boring you again with his stories? I know he was.”
“He loved it. Like every other time.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah? Even the part where his mom almost—” He paused, glancing down at the kid. “—you know, D-I-E-D because of you?”
Carl waved a dismissive hand. “There is absolutely no reason to traumatize him with that part yet.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean replied, heading toward the kitchen. “Wait until he can speak in full sentences—see how he likes your story then.”
“So jealous, ’cause your stories suck,” Carl muttered under his breath. “Can’t tell a nice story to save your life.”
Dean stopped mid-step and poked his head back around the corner. “Excuse me, were you talking to us?”
Carl widened his eyes innocently and shrugged.
“Yeah. That's what I thought,” Dean said, but the kid’s bright grin cracked him anyway. His own smile slipped out before he could stop it.
He adjusted his grip and added, “Where’s Sammy, anyway? He bail already?”
“Oh, yeah,” Carl replied, leaning forward with sudden interest. “Honestly, the fit wasn’t fitting, if you know what I mean. I didn’t say anything about the man bun ‘cause I didn’t want to crush his self-esteem.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said knowingly. “I took care of that.”
“Clearly not well enough if he still kept it,” Carl said sarcastically, then, after thinking about it for a second, he shrugged. “He’ll probably be fine anyway. That woman's too in love with him to be rational.”
“Yeah, that's true,” Dean said absently, rocking the kid. Eventually, the words sank in, and he looked back at Carl. “Wait, is that what you think about us, too? That we're too in love to be rational?”
“Nope,” Carl said. “She’s very rational, and she loves you anyway. That’s the key difference.”
Dean’s lips curved in a soft hum of satisfaction. Then, “What about me?”
“Bestie, I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this, but you’re a lost cause when it comes to her,” Carl replied matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows that.”
Dean took the words in, thought about it for a few seconds, and then shrugged, not too bothered about it. “Eh,” he said, turning back towards the kitchen. "There are worse things to be than in love.”
Even though Carl hadn’t been a Cupid in a year, and hadn’t always been a great one at that, he had to agree.
Left alone in the living room, his eyes drifted across the space: the scattered baby toys, the family pictures on the wall, the one of him and the baby from his second birthday, all bright eyes and big smiles.
Sure, everything had started with a voluntary mistake—a misplaced arrow, a small act of chaos—but somehow it had led to all of this, to him finding his place in the world, to family, to laughter, to belonging.
Some part of him liked to think it had been meant to be.
And in that quiet, sunlit room, he smiled, knowing that some stories, even one with such a messy, imperfect beginning, could eventually earn a real happy ending.
Outside the motel room, Carl smiled, his arrows still untouched at his feet. Your names flickered furiously on the glowing list before vanishing entirely.
You’re damn lucky, Carl, that everything worked out.
You drifted back to sleep like that, wrapped in his arms. Dean didn’t let go. He held you close, breathing you in, soaking up the quiet, the peace, the love that finally felt close enough to touch.
This is the dream 🥰
“I did look a little into it. Something about their future child being… important.”
“You can't really be okay with that,” he said eventually. “A kid doesn’t deserve to be born under some doomed destiny. Children deserve the freedom to make their own choices. To live. They’re not puppets, and neither are we.”
I love this redemption arc. Carl is gonna protect that child with his life!
He was motivated by something unfamiliar, something he hadn’t felt in centuries of assignments and endless lists of names.
Purpose.
A Guardian Angel.
One who would walk beside that child through scraped knees and nightmares, through doubt and defiance, through adolescence and into adulthood. One who would lay down his life without hesitation, without regret, if it meant keeping that small hand safe.
IM SO PROUD OF HIM!!!🥹
“Nope,” Carl said. “She’s very rational, and she loves you anyway. That’s the key difference.” …
“Bestie, I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this, but you’re a lost cause when it comes to her,” Carl replied matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows that.”
Carl is telling it like it is lmao😂
Sure, everything had started with a voluntary mistake—a misplaced arrow, a small act of chaos—but somehow it had led to all of this, to him finding his place in the world, to family, to laughter, to belonging.
Some part of him liked to think it had been meant to be.
And in that quiet, sunlit room, he smiled, knowing that some stories, even one with such a messy, imperfect beginning, could eventually earn a real happy ending.
WE LOVE THIS FOR YOU, CARL! 🥹
Oh my gosh this story had its grip on me from the beginning and I don’t think it’s gonna let go anytime soon! Thank you for sharing this and for tolerating my yelling at Carl lol! This was a wonderful ending 💜
I've told you before and I'll say again how funny your gifs are haha whenever I see a notification from you, I smile before even clicking on it. So thank you for being so lovely and for taking the time to do this every time.
Dean x Reader
Summary: A lifelong almost-love. Two friends tangled in jealousy, longing, and every wrong assumption that kept them apart. When fate brings them back together, they have one chance to rewrite the story that was always meant to be theirs.
Genre & Tropes: friends to lovers, yearning, jealousy, miscommunication. More jealousy. More pining. More than a sprinkle of angst.
Word Count: 2.9K
Read Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
---
Dean is eighteen, but only for a few more minutes.
He hasn’t really thought about it. Birthdays aren’t a thing in his life. They’re barely a flicker on the calendar. Most years, the day comes and goes without so much as a “hey, kid,” and he’s learned not to expect anything from it. That’s safer.
There’s a soft knock on the door he shares with Sam.
He opens it to find her standing there, finger pressed to her lips.
“Come on,” she whispers.
He follows her down the wooden stairs, each step creaking in the sleepy quiet of Bobby’s house. She leads him into the kitchen, then steps aside.
There’s a cake on the table.
Homemade, a little crooked. Slightly burnt on one side.
One single candle stands in the middle of it.
She lights it, the flame flickering warm across her face, and says, “Happy birthday,” with a smile big enough to knock the air out of him.
Dean stares at the cake. Stares like he’s never seen anything like it.
His throat tightens, too tight to swallow.
“Come on,” she nudges gently, “make a wish.”
But he doesn’t. He steps forward and pulls her into a hug so tight she lets out a surprised breath against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “Thank you.”
No one has ever baked him a cake.
No one has ever stayed up just for him, much less woken him before midnight to make sure they didn’t miss it.
The kindness hits him all at once, overwhelming him to the point of stinging behind his eyes.
“Dean,” she says into the fabric of his shirt, “your wish.”
He shakes his head against her hair.
“I got everything I need,” he murmurs. “Don’t need nothing else.”
And he means it.
They sit at the kitchen table, sharing uneven slices of cake with mismatched forks.
The texture is a little dense, and the burnt part tastes like smoke.
But Dean knows nothing else in his life will ever taste this good.
Nothing.
Ever.
—
Dean is twenty, lying on his back under a busted car in Bobby’s yard.
She’s leaning against the fender above him, swinging her foot, handing him tools when he asks for them, and talking.
About everything that happened while he was gone. About school, about Bobby, about some stray cat that keeps wandering onto the porch. He listens the whole time, throwing in a comment here and there, letting her fill the air with her voice.
Until she mentions Robby.
He freezes, wrench half-raised. Then he slides out from under the car, squinting up at her through the sunlight.
“Was he here?”
“Yeah,” she says lightly. “Came by last week.”
“You talked to him?”
The question is sharp, cutting through the warm afternoon. He throws his wrench into the box harder than he means to and starts rummaging for something else. His jaw ticks.
Because he knows Robby.
Hunter. Older than both of them. Always staring at her way too long, with a look that makes his skin crawl.
He’s seen that kind of look before: in bars, in motels, in men who think the world owes them something young and sweet.
She shakes her head. “No, I was leaving when he got here.”
“Good,” he breathes out, relieved. “Guy’s a creep.”
The tension in his shoulders eases enough for him to grab the tool he actually needed and slide back under the car.
A beat of silence follows before she speaks again.
“You know,” she says, “Cindy asked me about you.”
He adjusts a valve, slides out. “Cindy?”
“The girl from the movie theatre. Blonde? Long hair?”
“Oh.” He wipes his hands on his jeans, eyes scanning for his rag that's… gone. “And?”
“She’s seen you around town. Thought maybe you’d…” She trails off, shrugging. “I dunno. Be interested.”
“Nah.” He waves it off, still looking. “Hey, have you seen my rag?”
“I don’t know,” she says, but the smirk tugging at her mouth gives her away. “Have I?”
He stares at her. “Okay. Hand it over.”
She takes one slow step back. “Or what?”
“Oh, you’re real brave today,” he says, voice dropping into a mock warning as he stands. “All right.”
He moves toward her. She moves back, laughing.
He lets her get a head start, lets her think she’s fast enough to beat him, lets the sunlight catch in her hair as she dodges between old cars.
Then he runs.
She shrieks and tries to escape, but he catches her easily, arms around her waist as he lifts her off the ground. She kicks and laughs, breathless and bright, her laughter echoing across the yard.
When he sets her down, they collapse together in the dirt, shoulders bumping, lungs burning.
Her shirt ends up smeared with grease. She doesn’t care; she just looks at him and smiles.
Something in that smile is different, though.
Dean doesn’t know what it is, not exactly, but his heart slams against his ribs so hard he can feel it in his throat.
For a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but the two of them, sitting close on the warm dirt of the junkyard, covered in grease and sunlight.
And Dean doesn’t know it yet, not fully, not in words he can say, but this is the moment something shifts. The moment something new begins.
—-
Dean is thirty-seven, and he’s halfway to the garage, coffee mug in his hand, when Sam crosses the hallway.
Fresh from a run, hair damp, breath still a little too steady for someone who just logged five miles.
“Hey, man,” Sam says, already angling toward the bathroom.
Dean hums in response, keeps walking.
Then his brother stops.
“Dean.” He turns around. Hesitates. “I think we should talk.”
“We can talk later,” Dean says automatically. And he means it. He wants to talk. Maybe it would help, maybe it would untangle the knot that’s been sitting in his chest ever since she showed up.
But Sam doesn’t let it go.
He reaches out, grabs Dean’s arm, glancing down the hallway before ushering him into his room.
“Kinda busy right now, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but he follows anyway.
The door clicks shut behind them. Sam drags a hand through his damp hair, pacing once before stopping.
“Listen,” he says, tone careful but firm. “Whatever happened between you two—you need to fix it.”
Dean stiffens.
“She’s been off ever since she got here,” Sam continues. “And she doesn’t want to talk about it, which—fine. That’s her call. But I know something happened. And judging by how weird you both get around each other…” He trails off, then looks Dean straight in the eye. “That something is you.”
His brother exhales slowly, staring at the floor. “It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”
Sam watches him for a beat. “Okay,” he says carefully. “But can you fix it?”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “I don’t know,” he admits. The words taste bitter. “But I want to. I’m trying.”
That seems to be enough for now. Sam nods, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Good. That’s good.”
Dean nods back and reaches for the door.
His hand pauses on the handle.
“You never told me you kept in touch with her,” he says, turning back.
Sam frowns, genuinely confused. “We’re friends, Dean,” he says simply. “That’s what friends do.”
Dean’s face must give him away, because Sam squints at him, studying him more closely.
“What—” Sam pauses. “You don’t?”
Dean shifts his weight. “It’s just—forget it.”
“Wait. Not even a text on her birthday? Christmas?”
The words land harder than Dean expects.
Because suddenly, painfully, he sees it from the outside.
How long it’s been. How quiet he’s let it become.
He’d told himself it was easier this way, safer. That she’d never see him as anything more than Sam’s brother, or worse, a substitute. And he couldn’t survive being that.
So he stayed away, clung to old memories while the present rotted.
She was right. They hadn’t been friends in a long time.
“I’ll fix it,” Dean says quietly. Then, firmer: “I will.”
Sam watches him for a long moment, searching his face. Then he nods.
Dean turns and leaves the room.
The coffee in his mug has gone cold.
—-
A month before
Dean is thirty-seven, and he doesn’t know what’s worse.
The fact that she and Sam have been joined at the hip for the entire duration of the case, or the fact that his brother invited her to spend the holidays in the bunker, without so much as a nod to his opinion. Like his thoughts, his feelings, hell, even his space in his own damn house, don’t count.
“Whatever your problem is,” Sam finally says, zipping his duffel bag with a snap that echoes too loudly in the empty motel room, “fix it before she gets there. Don’t be a jerk to her. She doesn’t deserve it.”
Then, without adding another word, he heads outside, leaving him there to stare at an empty room.
Dean brings the last things into his duffel and zips it closed. He takes one step, and another, and another, and the door is right there in front of him. But his eyes fall on the trash bin. He lets the duffel meet the floor, and he strides towards the bin to pick up the crumpled slip of paper.
He opens it up carefully, as it's already washed out and ripped on the side.
He shouldn't have hope, he really shouldn't. But it did come true, didn't it?
And he can't just let it go. So he brings it to the nightstand, grabs the pen sitting there next to the phone, and he scribbles something at the end. Something hopeful, something complete.
Then he carefully folds it again and slips it back into his wallet, to the place where it belongs.
Then deep breath in and out, and he grabs the duffel bag to head outside. To try again. To hope.
Dean is thirty-seven, and the small slip of paper resting against the edge of his wallet is everything he has.
He has it memorized, the words burned into his mind and heart from longing and repetition.
Someone who once held your heart may cross your path once more.
And then, added at the end, in his handwriting:
This time he'll get to keep her.
—
Now
Dean is thirty-seven, and he's waiting for her in the garage.
He thinks she’ll come.
He hopes she will.
But certainty has been in short supply lately.
He just knows he has to do better, be better, and deserve a second chance or risk losing her for good. And he can't really afford that.
The door creaks open a few minutes later.
She steps inside, glances around at the rows of cars, and then her eyes land on him.
There’s a metal stool leaning against the wall. She grabs it, drags it across the concrete, and sets it beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lowers herself onto it and settles in.
Just like old times.
Dean blinks at her for a second, like he’s not entirely sure she’s real. He clears his throat and flips open the hood of his car, grateful for something to do with his hands.
At first, they work in silence.
He asks for a wrench, and she hands it to him. He doesn’t look at her when he takes it, but he smiles anyway.
After a while, he says, casual as he can manage, “So… where you livin’ these days?”
She tells him.
He asks if she still burns her cakes halfway through baking.
She smiles, and something in his chest loosens.
And then somehow, quietly, effortlessly, they slip back into conversation.
Something easy, familiar. Something like friendship.
They spend the entire day in the garage, breaking only for lunch. Then they do it again the next day. And the one after that.
The Impala doesn’t need much work, so they move on to another car. Then another. He asks for tools. She hands them over. They talk about everything and nothing.
Until one afternoon, she hands him a socket without him asking.
They both freeze.
Dean looks at the tool, then at her. “How’d you know I needed that?”
She smiles, soft and a little sad. “Muscle memory, I guess.”
He smiles back, and for a moment, the past and present fold into each other so cleanly it makes his chest ache.
Another day passes.
Dean shuts the hood of a car and doesn’t move away. He stares at the metal like it’s got answers. “Back then. The guy you liked. Was it Sam?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Dean swallows. His hands curl around the edge of the hood. “…Was it me?”
She nods, just once. “It was.”
Dean exhales hard, hands gripping the hood like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You should kick my ass. Seriously. I’d deserve it.”
She closes the toolbox with a soft click. “It’s fine,” she says gently. “We were kids. We did the best we could.”
Another day goes by, and then another, and Sam smiles to himself as he watches them head back to the garage, laughing about something he doesn't know about. He feels like a kid again, back at Bobby’s, back when they were family.
Later, Dean’s under the hood of a car when he stops. He doesn't know if he should say it, he doesn't know if he should wait longer, but he doesn't want to repeat the same mistakes all over again.
“Hey,” he says, not looking at her. “Can I ask your advice on something?”
“Sure,” she replies from her seat. “What’s up?”
He straightens and leans against the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “There’s this friend of mine,” he starts. “And he’s been in love with someone for a real long time, you know? Problem is, he was an idiot. A real championship-level dumbass. Never told her. Not once. And then he lost her.”
She watches him like she already knows where this is going.
“And now,” he continues, voice rough, “she’s back. And he wants to be honest. But he’s scared it’s too late.” He swallows. “You think that’s something she’d wanna hear? Or would that just screw things up worse?”
A pretty smile stretches her lips. “I think,” she says softly, “he might still be in time. And yeah—I think she’d really want to hear it.”
Dean forgets how to breathe. “You mean that?”
She nods.
He clears his throat, tries to gather some courage. "Then, I think he has something to show her," he says.
He digs into his pocket, fingers trembling, and pulls out his wallet. From inside, he slides out a folded slip of paper and hands it to her.
“I found that in a fortune cookie about a year ago,” he says, embarrassed and earnest all at once. “Kept it ‘cause I hoped it’d come true. When it did, and things went sideways, I tossed it. But… I couldn’t leave it there. Guess I got attached to the hope.” He exhales. “So I added somethin’ to it, something that was missing, and I’ve been carryin' it ever since. I’m still… I’m still hopin' it comes true.”
She opens it and reads it.
Her breath catches.
In the next heartbeat, she’s on her feet, arms around his neck, hugging him like she used to when he came home to visit.
Dean closes his eyes and hugs her tight, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her head.
“I missed you,” he murmurs into her hair. “So damn much. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”
She pulls back just enough to look at him, smiling through tears, and kisses him slow and sure, stealing his breath. Dean smiles into it, eyes burning.
And then she leans back again.
“Dean," she says, completely serious, like an old memory he never forgot. “I think we should make out."
"I don't know,” he says, just as serious. “Did you bring the skirt?"
She smacks his chest but still laughs, and the sound lights up his chest. "Shut up.”
He notices her shirt is stained with grease from his hands, and she follows his eyes down until she sees it too. Then, without a care in the world, she just smiles and kisses him again.
They don’t go back inside for hours.
Because some memories deserve to be rewritten.
And the backseat of the Impala has been waiting a long time for this one. For a memory that won't be tainted by anything but an old love that never stopped existing.
—
Epilogue
Dean is thirty-seven, but only for a few more minutes.
He’s lying in bed with her, limbs tangled together, sleep hovering just within reach. Her fingers trace slow, absent-minded paths through his hair, grounding him, steadying him.
For the first time in a long while, his body knows how to rest.
He feels safe.
He feels at home.
When the clock ticks past midnight, she whispers his name. “Dean... Happy birthday, baby.”
He hums in response, half-asleep, tugging her closer until her warmth surrounds him completely. She leans in and kisses him softly.
“Time to make a wish,” she says quietly.
Dean smiles against her. “I’ve got everything I need,” he murmurs. “Don’t need nothin’ else.”
And it’s true.
Mostly.
Still, in the quiet of the room, with her heartbeat close to his, he allows himself one small, private wish.
To keep this.
To keep her.
To go to bed next to her like this again and again, years from now, birthdays blurring together, time stretching forward instead of slipping through his fingers.
WOW I AM SO DELAYED ON REBLOGGING THIS I AM SO SORRY
BUT I think I’m finally emotionally stable enough to talk about this series.
So this was the most incredible angsty and fluffy (with a hint of smut) adventure I have EVER EVER had the absolute pleasure of reading.
There are few series that I would wake up and literally first thing i’d do is run to tumblr because I was begging the next chapter to be posted and it would feel like CHRISTMAS when I saw it was!!!
The angst almost K I L L E D me so many times. I genuinely felt my heart cracking and the tears welling because poor Dean and his bad luck (and self-loathing), man.
But it was so damn good. I just couldn’t stop (re)reading.
SO LET’S GET INTO THE NITTY GRITTY OF THE FINAL CHAPTER because IT WAS FREAKING INCREDIBLE:
No one has ever baked him a cake.
No one has ever stayed up just for him, much less woken him before midnight to make sure they didn’t miss it.
The kindness hits him all at once, overwhelming him to the point of stinging behind his eyes.
“Dean,” she says into the fabric of his shirt, “your wish.”
He shakes his head against her hair.
“I got everything I need,” he murmurs. “Don’t need nothing else.”
And he means it.
My sweet little pookies - oh my god. This bit really got to me because why has Dean never had someone bake him a cake or care for him in this way with so much love?? He needs to be wrapped in a blanket and kissed silly.
“You talked to him?”
The question is sharp, cutting through the warm afternoon. He throws his wrench into the box harder than he means to and starts rummaging for something else. His jaw ticks.
Because he knows Robby.
Hunter. Older than both of them. Always staring at her way too long, with a look that makes his skin crawl.
AHHHH DEAN!!!! He so maaaaaaaddddddd and jeaaaaallllloooussss even if he won’t say it. Honestly love reading scenes like this because i get so giddy and I cannot explain why.
He stares at her. “Okay. Hand it over.”
She takes one slow step back. “Or what?”
“Oh, you’re real brave today,” he says, voice dropping into a mock warning as he stands. “All right.”
He moves toward her. She moves back, laughing.
He lets her get a head start, lets her think she’s fast enough to beat him, lets the sunlight catch in her hair as she dodges between old cars.
Then he runs.
She shrieks and tries to escape, but he catches her easily, arms around her waist as he lifts her off the ground. She kicks and laughs, breathless and bright, her laughter echoing across the yard.
When he sets her down, they collapse together in the dirt, shoulders bumping, lungs burning.
This is SO DAMN CUTE!!! SWEETHEARTS IN LOVE that didn’t know how much time they were gonna spend apart AHHHH SOMEBODY SEDATE ME.
"Listen,” he says, tone careful but firm. “Whatever happened between you two—you need to fix it.”
Dean stiffens.
“She’s been off ever since she got here,” Sam continues. “And she doesn’t want to talk about it, which—fine. That’s her call. But I know something happened. And judging by how weird you both get around each other…” He trails off, then looks Dean straight in the eye. “That something is you.”
Sam absolutely clocking Dean’s dramas (that he unfortunately sometimes makes worse) and i FUCKING LOVE IT HAAAAAAAAAA but also babes, time and place, Dean’s got places to be, people to kiss!!!!
“You never told me you kept in touch with her,” he says, turning back.
Sam frowns, genuinely confused. “We’re friends, Dean,” he says simply.
“That’s what friends do.”
Dean’s face must give him away, because Sam squints at him, studying him more closely.
“What—” Sam pauses. “You don’t?”
Dean shifts his weight. “It’s just—forget it.”
“Wait. Not even a text on her birthday? Christmas?”
The words land harder than Dean expects.
Because suddenly, painfully, he sees it from the outside.
How long it’s been. How quiet he’s let it become.
He’d told himself it was easier this way, safer. That she’d never see him as anything more than Sam’s brother, or worse, a substitute. And he couldn’t survive being that.
So he stayed away, clung to old memories while the present rotted.
She was right. They hadn’t been friends in a long time.”
GOD MY HEART AND HEAD AND CHEST HUUUURRRRTTTTTTT HERE.
But his eyes fall on the trash bin. He lets the duffel meet the floor, and he strides towards the bin to pick up the crumpled slip of paper.
He opens it up carefully, as it's already washed out and ripped on the side.
He shouldn't have hope, he really shouldn't. But it did come true, didn't it?
And he can't just let it go. So he brings it to the nightstand, grabs the pen sitting there next to the phone, and he scribbles something at the end.
Something hopeful, something complete.
Then he carefully folds it again and slips it back into his wallet, to the place where it belongs.
Then deep breath in and out, and he grabs the duffel bag to head outside. To try again. To hope.
Dean is thirty-seven, and the small slip of paper resting against the edge of his wallet is everything he has.
He has it memorized, the words burned into his mind and heart from longing and repetition.
Someone who once held your heart may cross your path once more.
And then, added at the end, in his handwriting:
This time he'll get to keep her.
No words. No freaking words. Because WHAT THE HELL. When I tell you I screamed into my pillow I WAS SO HJAGSDSUYGDQDBDNKKD. I simply COULD NOT and STILL CANNOT.
Dean shuts the hood of a car and doesn’t move away. He stares at the metal like it’s got answers. “Back then. The guy you liked. Was it Sam?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Dean swallows. His hands curl around the edge of the hood. “…Was it me?”
She nods, just once. “It was.”
Dean exhales hard, hands gripping the hood like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You should kick my ass. Seriously. I’d deserve it.”
YES DEAN, YES YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED, YOU SILLY BOY SO IN LOVE!!!!!! My chest literally pulled every time the reader spoke here and Dean was just realising shit left right and centre. SO GOOD!!!!
He straightens and leans against the car, wiping his hands on a rag.
“There’s this friend of mine,” he starts. “And he’s been in love with someone for a real long time, you know? Problem is, he was an idiot. A real championship-level dumbass. Never told her. Not once. And then he lost her.”
She watches him like she already knows where this is going.
“And now,” he continues, voice rough, “she’s back. And he wants to be honest.
But he’s scared it’s too late.” He swallows. “You think that’s something she’d wanna hear? Or would that just screw things up worse?”
A pretty smile stretches her lips. “I think,” she says softly, “he might still be in time. And yeah—I think she’d really want to hear it.”
I WAS SCREAMINGGGGGGGGGGG.
They don’t go back inside for hours.
Because some memories deserve to be rewritten.
And the backseat of the Impala has been waiting a long time for this one. For a memory that won't be tainted by anything but an old love that never stopped existing.
And this???? This right here??? Absolutely beautiful. Stunning. Art. Literally re-reading it right now just made my face hurt and heart ache. I am in love. Ascending to heaven.
Thank you SO MUCH for this series, and I can't wait to read more <3333333333333
Dean x Reader
Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading this series, for all the likes, the reblogs, the comments, and the awesome fanart @rzdmnz ♡♡♡
Word Count: 2.7K
Read the Prologue - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8
---
It was nighttime, and you sat cross-legged on one of the motel beds, fingers twisting together in your lap while your thoughts drifted miles away.
Everything the shapeshifter had said looped endlessly in your head. You couldn’t stop wondering how much of it had been a cruel fabrication meant to get under your skin and how much of it had been pulled straight from Dean’s mind.
Words of longing.
Words of heartbreak.
Words of love.
Could you really be that lucky? Could you really hope for something like that?
“How’re you feeling?” Dean asked, flicking off the bathroom light from the doorway as he stepped back into the room.
You looked up at him, at the clean black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. “Uh, just… You know. Good, I guess.”
He crossed the room without once looking away from you. “You sure?”
You sighed softly and dropped your gaze back to your hands, wishing you could find the courage to say what was sitting heavy in your chest.
The room was dim and quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint creaking of the floorboards as Dean moved.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, shoulders tense. When you glanced up, he looked just as lost in thought.
“Dean?”
He hummed. Didn’t look at you right away.
“Can I ask you something?”
He hesitated. “Can I—uh… say something first? Real quick.”
You nodded.
He cleared his throat, eyes dropping down. “What the shifter said earlier… I’m sorry.”
You blinked at him, not sure what to make of his words. “Why are you apologizing?”
He shrugged, small and uncomfortable. “Because it shouldn’t’ve happened like that.”
“…Was any of it real?”
Dean finally looked at you. Then, just as quickly looked away, jaw tightening. “…I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time. It sounded like an admission.
“Why do you keep apologizing?” You asked gently. “Did you do something wrong?”
“…I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Maybe I did.”
You tried to soften the moment. “Honestly, my ears were ringing so bad after that hit to my head, I didn’t hear half of what it said.”
A low, sad chuckle slipped from him. “...You don’t gotta do that. You don’t gotta protect me.” He swallowed. “You can say no. You can tell me to forget it. I can—” He paused, forcing the words out. “I can take it.”
Something in your chest cracked at the thought of him believing that.
“Why would I ever do that?” you asked quietly. “I just… if any of it was real, I don’t want to hear it from the monster of the week trying to hurt us. I’d rather hear it from you.”
He looked at you, stunned.
“I promise,” you added, with a small smile, “my ears won’t ring when you do.”
“…What?” His voice came out barely above a breath.
“Are your ears ringing too? Want me to say it again?”
He shook his head slightly, still trying to catch up. “Are you— I mean… really?”
“Really," you said softly.
Dean stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him. “Sam kept tellin’ me to talk to you,” he admitted. “I just—couldn’t. Didn’t wanna screw things up. Or make it weird. Or…” He shrugged helplessly. “You’re… you’re kind of incredible. And I’m—well. Me.”
Your chest ached. “Dean.”
“I mean it,” he rushed. “You deserve someone who’s—better at this. Someone who doesn’t—” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Come with this much baggage.”
You leaned in before he could add anything else and kissed him.
It was meant to be brief.
But after a heartbeat of surprise, Dean kissed you back, arms sliding around you and pulling you close. You cupped his face, kissing him like nothing else in the world existed, because, in that moment, nothing else did.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours, one hand cupping your cheek with reverent care. His thumb brushed your skin, slow and disbelieving.
“…Can’t believe this,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
You smiled and kissed him again, lingering this time, just to prove to him, and to yourself, how real it all was.
Outside the motel room, Carl smiled, his arrows still untouched at his feet. Your names flickered furiously on the glowing list before vanishing entirely.
“Well, look at that,” he murmured fondly. “Good job, besties.”
And then he was gone.
—-
“Mornin’,” Dean said when you opened your eyes. He was already turned toward you, blinking against the early morning light, one of your hands twined loosely with his.
He was smiling.
Which, honestly, was surprising all on its own.
Ever since the day you’d met him, Dean had been a notoriously grumpy riser. But now… now he looked genuinely happy. Unguarded. And so warm.
“Morning,” you echoed, smiling back just as easily.
And you stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, no rush, no words pressing to be said. Because now you could do that. You could stare openly, you could lie beside him without distance or doubt. You could kiss him if you wanted to, just because he was there.
Dean blinked slowly, like he was still deciding whether this was real. He didn’t move. Didn’t look like he had any intention of moving ever again.
Everything felt perfect. The temperature. The light spilling in through the thin motel curtains. The steady warmth of his body next to yours. It was like the world had narrowed down into a small, quiet bubble where everything was exactly right, and you were right in the center of it.
“C’mere,” he murmured eventually, even though you were already close.
You scooted in anyway, because you’d do that a hundred times if he asked. You tucked yourself against him, and he let out a soft, content breath, arms tightening around you as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Let’s not go anywhere,” he said quietly. “Let’s just… stay right here.”
You hummed, cheek tucked against him, listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”
You drifted back to sleep like that, wrapped in his arms. Dean didn’t let go. He held you close, breathing you in, soaking up the quiet, the peace, the love that finally felt close enough to touch.
—
It was a cold, quiet morning, the kind of cold that made the metal benches in the park feel like ice against bare hands. Carl settled onto one, leaning back with his arms crossed, letting the chill bite through his jacket.
Bernard sat next to him, absorbed in his list, eyes scanning names. The quiet hum of the city did little to disturb them. Carl had set his list aside, letting it rest beside him. He closed his eyes against the pale winter sun, not even bothering to check the names.
“Heard you finally got them together,” Bernard said eventually, folding his list with careful fingers and turning to count his arrows again.
“Eh,” Carl said, voice even, almost dismissive, though his lips curved faintly in a ghost of a smile. “Barely had to lift a finger.” He opened his eyes, letting the sunlight touch them for a moment before closing them again. “Never seen anything like it, to tell you the truth.”
Bernard hummed, calm as ever, and Carl turned slightly to look at him. “I wonder what’s the deal with them, anyway. Why are they such a big deal upstairs?”
Bernard glanced down at his list again before answering. “I did look a little into it. Something about their future child being… important.”
“Their child?” Carl asked, sitting up straight. "Important for what?”
“I’m not really sure,” Bernard said, tone steady. “Heaven must have some plan in motion.”
Carl’s jaw tightened. “But—will the kid be okay? Heaven doesn’t exactly have a great track record with children meant to be born.”
Bernard shrugged, calm as ever. “Heaven does what Heaven does, Carl.”
There was a moment of silence, a moment in which Carl frowned at his colleague, almost not knowing where to begin.
“You can't really be okay with that,” he said eventually. “A kid doesn’t deserve to be born under some doomed destiny. Children deserve the freedom to make their own choices. To live. They’re not puppets, and neither are we.”
“It’s not our place to judge,” Bernard said, voice calm and steady. “Some things are bigger than us. We just play our part. That’s why we have rules to follow.”
“Right,” Carl replied, staring off into the distance. "The rules…"
If there was one thing he knew for certain was that he hated the rules. And he wasn't going to start following them now either. He picked up the list, folded it cleanly without checking the names, and slipped it into his coat.
Then he stood.
“Carl,” Bernard said quietly, concern threading his voice. “You should spend more time in Heaven. I’m worried you’re going to lose yourself.”
Carl smiled faintly, almost sadly. “I'm already lost, my friend.” Then, he grabbed his bow and arrows and vanished into thin air.
—
No one in Heaven came to know about Carl’s newest secret; the quiet, ongoing disobedience against every rule he’d ever been taught to follow.
On every shift, he became exemplary, a perfect Cupid. Efficient, obedient, never straying from his assigned role, never bending any rules.
But after every shift, he returned to the archives.
Angels moved by protocols, by rules, by paperwork. Nothing ever happened without it being written down somewhere first. That was the one truth Carl trusted.
So he searched.
He looked for any plan, any mention of a possible future child, any thread Heaven might pull when the time came. It took months to find every shred of evidence buried among the scrolls, but he never faltered.
He was motivated by something unfamiliar, something he hadn’t felt in centuries of assignments and endless lists of names.
Purpose.
The scrolls and books began to disappear slowly, one by one. Carl would read them, commit every word to memory, and then destroy them. Leaving nothing behind.
When he was finished, he checked again. And again, months later. Just to be sure.
Eventually, he believed the job was done.
That didn't turn out to be exactly right.
He realized years later, when he came by for a quick visit, just to see how his most complicated assignment was doing. He lingered outside the bunker for a while, invisible to the world, when the heavy metal door opened.
You stepped outside first, and then Dean followed.
What surprised Carl, however, was the small bundle in Dean's arm, the tiny hand curled securely around his finger.
The child.
The baby Heaven had written about. The baby meant to be born.
Carl felt something sting his eyes, tears pooling behind his lashes, compassion for such pure innocence, fear for the plans he prayed would never come true. And an instinctive, overwhelming need to protect.
He wondered if he had missed something, if somehow Heaven had made sure it would happen, made sure he would be born.
Still, he lifted a hand and waved, even though the child couldn’t see him, as a new plan began to form in his mind.
When Carl returned to the archives that day, he did so with renewed focus. This time, he reached for a manual he had passed countless times before, one even thicker than his own as a Cupid. Still, he studied it meticulously. Every page, every clause, every word.
Because this wouldn’t be a mindless task dictated by Heaven. Because this mattered immensely.
When he had memorized it all, he knocked on the doors of the official labor department and requested a reassignment.
Much to his own surprise, after an official examination, this time the answer was yes.
The bow and arrows were returned, the title of Cupid left behind. And Carl became something else entirely.
A Guardian Angel.
One who would walk beside that child through scraped knees and nightmares, through doubt and defiance, through adolescence and into adulthood. One who would lay down his life without hesitation, without regret, if it meant keeping that small hand safe.
And for the first time in his long, complicated existence, Carl knew without a doubt that it was the most perfect job he could ever have.
—
“Dude, again with this story?”
Carl looked up as Dean emerged from the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp. “What’s wrong with it? He loves fairy tales,” he said, nodding toward the two-year-old in his high chair. “Besides, it’s a nice story about true love. With all his favorite people. Better than any fairy tale I know.”
“You only think that because you’re in it,” Dean said, weaving through the toys on the floor to press a quick kiss to the top of his son’s head before scooping him up. “C’mon, my little man,” he said in that soft voice he only reserved for the kid. “Was Carl boring you again with his stories? I know he was.”
“He loved it. Like every other time.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah? Even the part where his mom almost—” He paused, glancing down at the kid. “—you know, D-I-E-D because of you?”
Carl waved a dismissive hand. “There is absolutely no reason to traumatize him with that part yet.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean replied, heading toward the kitchen. “Wait until he can speak in full sentences—see how he likes your story then.”
“So jealous, ’cause your stories suck,” Carl muttered under his breath. “Can’t tell a nice story to save your life.”
Dean stopped mid-step and poked his head back around the corner. “Excuse me, were you talking to us?”
Carl widened his eyes innocently and shrugged.
“Yeah. That's what I thought,” Dean said, but the kid’s bright grin cracked him anyway. His own smile slipped out before he could stop it.
He adjusted his grip and added, “Where’s Sammy, anyway? He bail already?”
“Oh, yeah,” Carl replied, leaning forward with sudden interest. “Honestly, the fit wasn’t fitting, if you know what I mean. I didn’t say anything about the man bun ‘cause I didn’t want to crush his self-esteem.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said knowingly. “I took care of that.”
“Clearly not well enough if he still kept it,” Carl said sarcastically, then, after thinking about it for a second, he shrugged. “He’ll probably be fine anyway. That woman's too in love with him to be rational.”
“Yeah, that's true,” Dean said absently, rocking the kid. Eventually, the words sank in, and he looked back at Carl. “Wait, is that what you think about us, too? That we're too in love to be rational?”
“Nope,” Carl said. “She’s very rational, and she loves you anyway. That’s the key difference.”
Dean’s lips curved in a soft hum of satisfaction. Then, “What about me?”
“Bestie, I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this, but you’re a lost cause when it comes to her,” Carl replied matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows that.”
Dean took the words in, thought about it for a few seconds, and then shrugged, not too bothered about it. “Eh,” he said, turning back towards the kitchen. "There are worse things to be than in love.”
Even though Carl hadn’t been a Cupid in a year, and hadn’t always been a great one at that, he had to agree.
Left alone in the living room, his eyes drifted across the space: the scattered baby toys, the family pictures on the wall, the one of him and the baby from his second birthday, all bright eyes and big smiles.
Sure, everything had started with a voluntary mistake—a misplaced arrow, a small act of chaos—but somehow it had led to all of this, to him finding his place in the world, to family, to laughter, to belonging.
Some part of him liked to think it had been meant to be.
And in that quiet, sunlit room, he smiled, knowing that some stories, even one with such a messy, imperfect beginning, could eventually earn a real happy ending.
Dean x Reader
Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading this series, for all the likes, the reblogs, the comments, and the awesome fanart @rzdmnz ♡♡♡
Word Count: 2.7K
Read the Prologue - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8
---
It was nighttime, and you sat cross-legged on one of the motel beds, fingers twisting together in your lap while your thoughts drifted miles away.
Everything the shapeshifter had said looped endlessly in your head. You couldn’t stop wondering how much of it had been a cruel fabrication meant to get under your skin and how much of it had been pulled straight from Dean’s mind.
Words of longing.
Words of heartbreak.
Words of love.
Could you really be that lucky? Could you really hope for something like that?
“How’re you feeling?” Dean asked, flicking off the bathroom light from the doorway as he stepped back into the room.
You looked up at him, at the clean black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. “Uh, just… You know. Good, I guess.”
He crossed the room without once looking away from you. “You sure?”
You sighed softly and dropped your gaze back to your hands, wishing you could find the courage to say what was sitting heavy in your chest.
The room was dim and quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the faint creaking of the floorboards as Dean moved.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, shoulders tense. When you glanced up, he looked just as lost in thought.
“Dean?”
He hummed. Didn’t look at you right away.
“Can I ask you something?”
He hesitated. “Can I—uh… say something first? Real quick.”
You nodded.
He cleared his throat, eyes dropping down. “What the shifter said earlier… I’m sorry.”
You blinked at him, not sure what to make of his words. “Why are you apologizing?”
He shrugged, small and uncomfortable. “Because it shouldn’t’ve happened like that.”
“…Was any of it real?”
Dean finally looked at you. Then, just as quickly looked away, jaw tightening. “…I’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time. It sounded like an admission.
“Why do you keep apologizing?” You asked gently. “Did you do something wrong?”
“…I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Maybe I did.”
You tried to soften the moment. “Honestly, my ears were ringing so bad after that hit to my head, I didn’t hear half of what it said.”
A low, sad chuckle slipped from him. “...You don’t gotta do that. You don’t gotta protect me.” He swallowed. “You can say no. You can tell me to forget it. I can—” He paused, forcing the words out. “I can take it.”
Something in your chest cracked at the thought of him believing that.
“Why would I ever do that?” you asked quietly. “I just… if any of it was real, I don’t want to hear it from the monster of the week trying to hurt us. I’d rather hear it from you.”
He looked at you, stunned.
“I promise,” you added, with a small smile, “my ears won’t ring when you do.”
“…What?” His voice came out barely above a breath.
“Are your ears ringing too? Want me to say it again?”
He shook his head slightly, still trying to catch up. “Are you— I mean… really?”
“Really," you said softly.
Dean stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him. “Sam kept tellin’ me to talk to you,” he admitted. “I just—couldn’t. Didn’t wanna screw things up. Or make it weird. Or…” He shrugged helplessly. “You’re… you’re kind of incredible. And I’m—well. Me.”
Your chest ached. “Dean.”
“I mean it,” he rushed. “You deserve someone who’s—better at this. Someone who doesn’t—” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Come with this much baggage.”
You leaned in before he could add anything else and kissed him.
It was meant to be brief.
But after a heartbeat of surprise, Dean kissed you back, arms sliding around you and pulling you close. You cupped his face, kissing him like nothing else in the world existed, because, in that moment, nothing else did.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours, one hand cupping your cheek with reverent care. His thumb brushed your skin, slow and disbelieving.
“…Can’t believe this,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
You smiled and kissed him again, lingering this time, just to prove to him, and to yourself, how real it all was.
Outside the motel room, Carl smiled, his arrows still untouched at his feet. Your names flickered furiously on the glowing list before vanishing entirely.
“Well, look at that,” he murmured fondly. “Good job, besties.”
And then he was gone.
—-
“Mornin’,” Dean said when you opened your eyes. He was already turned toward you, blinking against the early morning light, one of your hands twined loosely with his.
He was smiling.
Which, honestly, was surprising all on its own.
Ever since the day you’d met him, Dean had been a notoriously grumpy riser. But now… now he looked genuinely happy. Unguarded. And so warm.
“Morning,” you echoed, smiling back just as easily.
And you stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, no rush, no words pressing to be said. Because now you could do that. You could stare openly, you could lie beside him without distance or doubt. You could kiss him if you wanted to, just because he was there.
Dean blinked slowly, like he was still deciding whether this was real. He didn’t move. Didn’t look like he had any intention of moving ever again.
Everything felt perfect. The temperature. The light spilling in through the thin motel curtains. The steady warmth of his body next to yours. It was like the world had narrowed down into a small, quiet bubble where everything was exactly right, and you were right in the center of it.
“C’mere,” he murmured eventually, even though you were already close.
You scooted in anyway, because you’d do that a hundred times if he asked. You tucked yourself against him, and he let out a soft, content breath, arms tightening around you as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Let’s not go anywhere,” he said quietly. “Let’s just… stay right here.”
You hummed, cheek tucked against him, listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”
You drifted back to sleep like that, wrapped in his arms. Dean didn’t let go. He held you close, breathing you in, soaking up the quiet, the peace, the love that finally felt close enough to touch.
—
It was a cold, quiet morning, the kind of cold that made the metal benches in the park feel like ice against bare hands. Carl settled onto one, leaning back with his arms crossed, letting the chill bite through his jacket.
Bernard sat next to him, absorbed in his list, eyes scanning names. The quiet hum of the city did little to disturb them. Carl had set his list aside, letting it rest beside him. He closed his eyes against the pale winter sun, not even bothering to check the names.
“Heard you finally got them together,” Bernard said eventually, folding his list with careful fingers and turning to count his arrows again.
“Eh,” Carl said, voice even, almost dismissive, though his lips curved faintly in a ghost of a smile. “Barely had to lift a finger.” He opened his eyes, letting the sunlight touch them for a moment before closing them again. “Never seen anything like it, to tell you the truth.”
Bernard hummed, calm as ever, and Carl turned slightly to look at him. “I wonder what’s the deal with them, anyway. Why are they such a big deal upstairs?”
Bernard glanced down at his list again before answering. “I did look a little into it. Something about their future child being… important.”
“Their child?” Carl asked, sitting up straight. "Important for what?”
“I’m not really sure,” Bernard said, tone steady. “Heaven must have some plan in motion.”
Carl’s jaw tightened. “But—will the kid be okay? Heaven doesn’t exactly have a great track record with children meant to be born.”
Bernard shrugged, calm as ever. “Heaven does what Heaven does, Carl.”
There was a moment of silence, a moment in which Carl frowned at his colleague, almost not knowing where to begin.
“You can't really be okay with that,” he said eventually. “A kid doesn’t deserve to be born under some doomed destiny. Children deserve the freedom to make their own choices. To live. They’re not puppets, and neither are we.”
“It’s not our place to judge,” Bernard said, voice calm and steady. “Some things are bigger than us. We just play our part. That’s why we have rules to follow.”
“Right,” Carl replied, staring off into the distance. "The rules…"
If there was one thing he knew for certain was that he hated the rules. And he wasn't going to start following them now either. He picked up the list, folded it cleanly without checking the names, and slipped it into his coat.
Then he stood.
“Carl,” Bernard said quietly, concern threading his voice. “You should spend more time in Heaven. I’m worried you’re going to lose yourself.”
Carl smiled faintly, almost sadly. “I'm already lost, my friend.” Then, he grabbed his bow and arrows and vanished into thin air.
—
No one in Heaven came to know about Carl’s newest secret; the quiet, ongoing disobedience against every rule he’d ever been taught to follow.
On every shift, he became exemplary, a perfect Cupid. Efficient, obedient, never straying from his assigned role, never bending any rules.
But after every shift, he returned to the archives.
Angels moved by protocols, by rules, by paperwork. Nothing ever happened without it being written down somewhere first. That was the one truth Carl trusted.
So he searched.
He looked for any plan, any mention of a possible future child, any thread Heaven might pull when the time came. It took months to find every shred of evidence buried among the scrolls, but he never faltered.
He was motivated by something unfamiliar, something he hadn’t felt in centuries of assignments and endless lists of names.
Purpose.
The scrolls and books began to disappear slowly, one by one. Carl would read them, commit every word to memory, and then destroy them. Leaving nothing behind.
When he was finished, he checked again. And again, months later. Just to be sure.
Eventually, he believed the job was done.
That didn't turn out to be exactly right.
He realized years later, when he came by for a quick visit, just to see how his most complicated assignment was doing. He lingered outside the bunker for a while, invisible to the world, when the heavy metal door opened.
You stepped outside first, and then Dean followed.
What surprised Carl, however, was the small bundle in Dean's arm, the tiny hand curled securely around his finger.
The child.
The baby Heaven had written about. The baby meant to be born.
Carl felt something sting his eyes, tears pooling behind his lashes, compassion for such pure innocence, fear for the plans he prayed would never come true. And an instinctive, overwhelming need to protect.
He wondered if he had missed something, if somehow Heaven had made sure it would happen, made sure he would be born.
Still, he lifted a hand and waved, even though the child couldn’t see him, as a new plan began to form in his mind.
When Carl returned to the archives that day, he did so with renewed focus. This time, he reached for a manual he had passed countless times before, one even thicker than his own as a Cupid. Still, he studied it meticulously. Every page, every clause, every word.
Because this wouldn’t be a mindless task dictated by Heaven. Because this mattered immensely.
When he had memorized it all, he knocked on the doors of the official labor department and requested a reassignment.
Much to his own surprise, after an official examination, this time the answer was yes.
The bow and arrows were returned, the title of Cupid left behind. And Carl became something else entirely.
A Guardian Angel.
One who would walk beside that child through scraped knees and nightmares, through doubt and defiance, through adolescence and into adulthood. One who would lay down his life without hesitation, without regret, if it meant keeping that small hand safe.
And for the first time in his long, complicated existence, Carl knew without a doubt that it was the most perfect job he could ever have.
—
“Dude, again with this story?”
Carl looked up as Dean emerged from the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp. “What’s wrong with it? He loves fairy tales,” he said, nodding toward the two-year-old in his high chair. “Besides, it’s a nice story about true love. With all his favorite people. Better than any fairy tale I know.”
“You only think that because you’re in it,” Dean said, weaving through the toys on the floor to press a quick kiss to the top of his son’s head before scooping him up. “C’mon, my little man,” he said in that soft voice he only reserved for the kid. “Was Carl boring you again with his stories? I know he was.”
“He loved it. Like every other time.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah? Even the part where his mom almost—” He paused, glancing down at the kid. “—you know, D-I-E-D because of you?”
Carl waved a dismissive hand. “There is absolutely no reason to traumatize him with that part yet.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean replied, heading toward the kitchen. “Wait until he can speak in full sentences—see how he likes your story then.”
“So jealous, ’cause your stories suck,” Carl muttered under his breath. “Can’t tell a nice story to save your life.”
Dean stopped mid-step and poked his head back around the corner. “Excuse me, were you talking to us?”
Carl widened his eyes innocently and shrugged.
“Yeah. That's what I thought,” Dean said, but the kid’s bright grin cracked him anyway. His own smile slipped out before he could stop it.
He adjusted his grip and added, “Where’s Sammy, anyway? He bail already?”
“Oh, yeah,” Carl replied, leaning forward with sudden interest. “Honestly, the fit wasn’t fitting, if you know what I mean. I didn’t say anything about the man bun ‘cause I didn’t want to crush his self-esteem.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean said knowingly. “I took care of that.”
“Clearly not well enough if he still kept it,” Carl said sarcastically, then, after thinking about it for a second, he shrugged. “He’ll probably be fine anyway. That woman's too in love with him to be rational.”
“Yeah, that's true,” Dean said absently, rocking the kid. Eventually, the words sank in, and he looked back at Carl. “Wait, is that what you think about us, too? That we're too in love to be rational?”
“Nope,” Carl said. “She’s very rational, and she loves you anyway. That’s the key difference.”
Dean’s lips curved in a soft hum of satisfaction. Then, “What about me?”
“Bestie, I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this, but you’re a lost cause when it comes to her,” Carl replied matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows that.”
Dean took the words in, thought about it for a few seconds, and then shrugged, not too bothered about it. “Eh,” he said, turning back towards the kitchen. "There are worse things to be than in love.”
Even though Carl hadn’t been a Cupid in a year, and hadn’t always been a great one at that, he had to agree.
Left alone in the living room, his eyes drifted across the space: the scattered baby toys, the family pictures on the wall, the one of him and the baby from his second birthday, all bright eyes and big smiles.
Sure, everything had started with a voluntary mistake—a misplaced arrow, a small act of chaos—but somehow it had led to all of this, to him finding his place in the world, to family, to laughter, to belonging.
Some part of him liked to think it had been meant to be.
And in that quiet, sunlit room, he smiled, knowing that some stories, even one with such a messy, imperfect beginning, could eventually earn a real happy ending.
Dean x Reader
Summary: You and Dean can barely stand each other on a good day. Now you have to play the perfect newlyweds for a hunt, all while hiding from him the one secret you can never share. What could possibly go wrong?
Genre: Angst, enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, fake marriage
Theme Song: Wicked Game by Chris Isaak
When the living room clock struck noon, you took a cursory glance outside, sure he’d be there or reach you soon enough.
No one was in the yard, though - no one but Bobby, tinkering with something near the shed.
Eyeing the small silver suitcase sitting next to the door, you wondered if something had happened.
Sam was never late. Had something stalled him?
After a brief consideration, you pulled out your phone to call him. That’s when the familiar rumble of the Impala caught your attention.
Finally.
You slipped on the high heels waiting by the couch and stood, pacing a few steps to get used to them. It wasn’t your usual gear - no flannel, no boots, no backup knife tucked in your belt - but it looked right for the job.
For the next few days, you were going to be a brand-new wife on vacation with your fake husband, Sam.
Your destination? A cozy bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere.
Recently, it had gathered quite a bit of attention, promising and supposedly delivering to troubled couples the solution to all their problems.
At first, it hadn’t looked like much. It certainly didn’t look like a case. You’d figured the so-called “miracle” came from the ambience, the fireplace glow, maybe a bottle of wine, and a night without fighting.
But then the guests started dying.
And nothing about it looked natural anymore.
You straightened the skirt sitting high on your waist and crossed Bobby’s study to grab your jacket and purse. That’s when Sam walked inside.
“Hey, I’m ready,” you said with a glance. “Just a sec.”
Sam didn’t reply. He cleared his throat, a hesitant sound that made your stomach twist.
“Is something wrong?”
“No-no,” he said quickly. “Just... there’s a minor change of plans.”
You raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, waiting.
“I’m sorry, I can’t go with you,” he admitted. “I checked the place out yesterday and they, uh… caught me. I had to flash my FBI badge, so I can’t go back today.”
“Oh.” You nodded slowly, already calculating your next move. “Okay, so what now? I guess I can go by myself and-”
“Like hell you are,” Bobby cut in, stomping into the room with Dean right behind him.
“Bobby-”
“Don’t start,” he warned you, pointing a finger. It wasn’t unexpected, not from your father figure, but it still made you roll your eyes.
“Okay, then what?” you countered. “We can’t just sit on it while people keep dying, so what’s the plan?”
Sam cleared his throat again, looking even more uncomfortable. “Bobby’s too old to play your husband. But... maybe-”
“Garth!” you interrupted, grabbing your phone before Sam could finish, not even willing to consider the alternative, the one standing behind Bobby, rolling his green eyes. Always the dramatic.
“That’s not a good idea,” Sam said, already in full persuasion mode. “You and I both know, Dean’s a better hunter an-”
“I’m not going with your brother,” you cut him off. “That’s out of the question.”
“Look-”
“No, you look,” you shot back. “This isn’t a normal hunt, and he and I –" you waved a finger between you and Dean “-we can’t work together. Playing husband and wife is not a good idea. We wouldn’t be convincing.”
Dean scoffed, earning your glare. Then, predictably, he opened his mouth. “And with Garth, you would be convincing?”
You sighed long and loud. “I thought you’d agree with me for once, but that was really stupid of me to think. Never mind.”
“It’s not like I’m dying to play your husband, sweetheart,” Dean said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But this is the job, so you’ll suck it up and do it.”
“Okay, first of all, I told you to quit it with the pet names. Second, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“He doesn’t, but I do,” Bobby interrupted, crossing his arms. “You can work with Dean on this, or you can stay here.”
Oh, man. Why did he have to go there? Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. You hated the idea of heading out with Dean, being alone with him for days, pretending to be his wife on top of everything else. But as much as you tried to come up with another plan, your mind came up empty.
Ultimately, you sighed in resignation, eyes shut tight, knowing this choice would only bring regret. “All right. But he can forget about sleeping in the same bed. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Yeah? If you like the floor so much, knock yourself out,” Dean muttered like a petulant child. When Bobby’s glare landed on him, though, he swallowed hard and looked away. “I’ll shut up.”
“Please do,” you said. Then you grabbed your purse and gave Bobby a quick hug before heading outside. When you reached for the suitcase, though, Dean took it from your hands, eyes cast low. He just mumbled, “I’ll take care of it,” and walked out the door.
The drive dragged on long enough that even the silence started to sound good. Anything was better than his questions or his attempts to fix whatever was wrong between you.
Dean, on the other hand, didn’t seem to enjoy the quiet as much. He shifted often, restless in the seat beside you, glancing your way now and then.
“Need a stop? Food? Bathroom?”
You shook your head.
He nodded once, jaw tight.
“I know you don’t like this,” he said finally. “I get it. But can’t we just... be a team, just this once?”
“I’m trying,” you replied, sinking further into the seat. “Trust me.”
No other words followed. Dean turned up the radio loud enough to drown the silence and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
You spent the first half of the drive regretting your decision, not out of some childish impulse, but because fear had set in, fear at how dangerous this could be for you, for him. But there was no backing out now, so you were gonna suck it up and do it. You’d be careful and, above all, you’d keep him away. At all costs.
With that decision made, you let your shoulders sink into the leather seat and turned your gaze to the trees lining the road. They stood tall and silent, untouched by you, your thoughts, your fears.
It was a lonely world, the one inside you. No one knew. No one could. And maybe that was the worst part.
You told yourself it was safer this way, the small word on your wrist a constant reminder of what could never be, whether you liked it or not.
“We’re here,” Dean announced, pulling you out of your thoughts as the B&B came into view at the end of the narrow road. The sky was already yellowing as the sun dipped lower, making everything look softer, the scattered leaves glowing with color, the small lights flickering to life around the building’s windows.
He eased the car to a stop and leaned over you to rummage through the glove compartment. Instinctively, you pressed closer to the door, putting space between you. He glanced at you, but didn’t say a word.
He pulled out a small box, flipped it open, and revealed two simple rings. Without a word, he handed one to you and slipped the other onto his ring finger. You hesitated, fidgeting with yours, then finally slid it on. The weight of it ached. Overcome by a sudden sadness, you pushed open the door and stepped outside, not giving your hand another look.
Dean grabbed your suitcase and his duffel, waiting for you at the base of the stairs. You walked toward him slowly, trying to steady yourself. The B&B wasn’t imposing in any way; its modest front was almost comforting, yet it still sat like a rock on your chest, and you couldn’t say why.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked beside you. He followed your gaze to the building, scanning it out of reflex. Whatever he saw must have looked harmless, because his eyes came back to you. “You okay?”
You drew a slow breath in, then out, and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
With the luggage balanced in one hand, he offered the other to you. “Shall we?”
You took it and walked inside, pretending not to notice, even for a second, how good it felt in yours.
---
Dean held your hand through the check-in and up the stairs, so delicately that it felt like a contrast to the roughness of his hands, the fingers used for fixing, for hunting, as if he were trying to invade as little of your space as possible. When you reached the top of the stairs and no one else was around, you finally shook free of his hold, as if he had been burning you the entire time.
Dean didn’t comment, although you noticed him flexing his own hand. Perhaps he had been burned, too.
When you stepped into the room, the façade finally fell away, and you could breathe again. You stepped back from his side and moved to the other end of the room. You watched him set down the luggage and shrug off his jacket, and then you both got to work. Or at least, you tried.
At first, it didn’t register, not immediately, the strange, gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach. It grew, ebbing and flowing in waves, expanding out of your ribcage, glowing, searching. Searching for something. For someone. For him.
Something was wrong.
Raising your eyes to find him, you realized he was no better off, if his posture and the expression in his eyes were any indication.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, looking back at you, then swallowed, forcing himself steady. Then, mostly to himself, he muttered, “What the hell?” He scanned the room, and you mirrored him, trying to locate the source of this invisible weight.
By now, it was a race. Whatever this thing was, it wanted you near him. And judging by the intrusive thoughts clouding your mind, it didn’t just want you to hold his hand. No, it was something visceral, dark, demanding. It wanted you near, around, with him in every way possible. To consume him and be consumed.
“There’s something in the room. There has to be,” you said, forcing your gaze anywhere but his.
You watched him scan the room, around the door, his side of the bed, the pillows he’d tossed aside. He crouched to look under the bed, and you mirrored him on your side, checking the carpet, the armchair, the fireplace, racing against the invisible force that was growing, ever stronger.
“You find anything?” you called, but he didn’t answer. That’s when you saw him standing, head pressed against the wall, facing away from you, his hand clenched in a fist until his knuckles were white.
“You need to get out,” he groaned. “Now!”
“What?”
“Step out of the damn room!”
You didn’t want to leave. Well, the force didn’t want you to. It pulled you closer, urged you to close the space between you, to meet his lips with yours for the first time, to kiss him like the world would end if you didn’t, to hold him, to feel him respond in kind.
“Now!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the pull.
That snapped you back. You rushed to the door, yanking it open. The gnawing called you back, stronger than ever, but you forced yourself out and slammed the door behind you.
Then, collapsing to the floor, you finally breathed.
It took him about five minutes to open the door and let you back inside.
“Damn fucking witches,” he muttered as you stepped in.
“The hell was that?”
“Hex bag,” he said tiredly, ruffling his hair like he’d just wrestled with the devil himself. “Some kinda… sex-crazed spell. You good?”
You nodded, hesitating as you stepped fully back into the room.
“That’s one way to fix a broken couple, I’ll tell you,” he added. Then he glanced at you as you scanned the room. “Don’t worry. I checked every damn nook and cranny. I think we’re good.”
You still crossed to the farthest corner in the room and sank into the armchair, just to be sure. Luckily, the feeling didn’t return. He had probably turned the whole room upside down to make sure.
Pulling your legs close, you watched Dean move back the nightstand and its lamp and rearrange the pillows on the bed with a careful precision that somehow made your chest tighten. This case was going to be the end of you; you could already feel it. As if you didn’t have enough demons to fight on a regular basis. Coming here with him had been a terrible idea, and the case had barely even started. How were you supposed to survive this… with him?
You hugged your legs tighter and let out a slow breath.
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