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𓂃۶ৎ leilani, but you can call me lani. she/her. 23. african american. big apple born and raised. capricorn. hyperfixation girlie. 333. swiftie. belieber. carpenter. livie. dean winchester. sam winchester. bucky barnes. stefan salvatore. klaus mikaelson.
mi | midi. check individual posts for warnings .ᐟ
── .✦ plagiarism of any kind will not be tolerated so please don’t .ᐟ dividers by @cafekitsune <𝟑 .ᐟ
jensen ackles voice: every morning I wake up and clip my long luxurious eyelashes. and then i flex out the bowlegs and my buns...i have to do something about the buns every single day. i stare into the sun until i bleeding or peoplewill think that i am gay. and the eyelashes grow back by noon so i have to trim them again. And the frolicking lips like fruits.....you wouldn't undersand
summary.ᐟ reader has some wild stories to tell, but sam doesn’t mind. he loves your southern accent. lowkey inspired by this post from @stargazedwinchester
wc.ᐟ 1.2k
warnings.ᐟ none
dividers by @strangergraphics
the gas station coffee tasted like battery acid mixed with regret. dean swore by it, which was reason enough for sam to side-eye the entire concept.
outside the impala’s window, heat shimmered off the asphalt, turning the parking lot into a wobbly mirage. the car’s interior smelled like leather, gun oil, and the faintest trace of whatever cheap shampoo you’d borrowed from a motel three states back. you were mid-sentence, gesturing with a half-eaten bag of pretzels, your drawl stretching the word “probably” into three syllables.
“—so then mawmaw tells me, ‘baby, if you gon’ wrestle a gator, best bring two towels—one for the blood, one for the pride.’” you snorted, tossing a pretzel into your mouth. the crunch was obscenely loud in the quiet car. sam blinked, your words lodging somewhere between his ribs and his throat. the image of your grandmother, whoever she was, casually doling out swamp wisdom, hit him like a stray bullet.
dean would’ve rolled his eyes. dean wasn’t here.
“say that again,” sam said, too fast. his knee bounced once against the gearshift.
you paused mid-chew, eyebrows knitting together. "say what now?" the pretzel bag crinkled as you tilted your head, squinting at him like he'd just asked you to recite the alphabet backward. "the gator thing?"
sam's fingers twitched against the steering wheel. "yeah. the…" he cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of the way his own voice sounded too polished next to yours. "...the towel part."
you shrugged, rolling your eyes fondly. "lord, you boys ain't neva heard common sense before." but you humored him, drawling it out even slower this time, just to watch his stupidly intense focus sharpen. "'one for the blood, one for the pride.'" the words dripped off your tongue like molasses, rich and slow.
sam's grip on the side door went slack for half a second before he white-knuckled it again, staring straight ahead like the impala’s dashboard held the secrets of the universe. he could feel the heat crawling up his neck, pooling under his collar. the words bounced around his skull. blood and pride, blood and pride. he shouldn’t be turned on right now but how could he not be when each syllable thick as honey and twice as sweet?
you didn’t seem to notice, already launching into another story about your cousin ray-ray and his ill-fated attempt to train a raccoon to fetch beers. your voice curled around the vowels, lazy and warm, and sam swallowed hard, suddenly grateful dean was still inside the gas station. his brother would’ve clocked the way sam’s pulse jumped at the way you said “coonhound” like it had six extra letters in it.
“so ray-ray’s hollerin’ like a—” you stopped mid-sentence, squinting at him. “sam? you good?”
before he could attempt to string words together to answer, the impala’s door swung open with a metallic groan, and dean slid into the driver’s seat with a paper bag of snacks clutched in one hand and a fresh cup of coffee in the other. the sharp scent of salt and grease cut through the car’s usual musk as he tossed the bag into your lap. “alright, what’d i miss?” he asked, shoving the key into the ignition with a practiced flick of his wrist.
you grinned, tearing into the bag with a rustle. “just tellin’ sam about ray-ray and his beer-fetchin’ raccoon.” you shot sam a sidelong glance, but he was suddenly very interested in adjusting the rearview mirror, his jaw tight. “though i reckon he ain’t heard a word past ‘gator towels.’”
dean’s eyebrows shot up. he took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes darting between you and sam, who was now gripping the seatbelt like it owed him money. “uh-huh,” dean said, dragging the words out like he’d just solved a case. “that why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, sammy? gator towels gettin’ you all worked up?”
sam’s death glare could’ve peeled paint off the impala’s interior. dean, being dean, grinned around his coffee cup like he’d just won the lottery. “ohhh, i get it,” he drawled, stretching the vowels like taffy. he leaned over the gearshift toward you, lowering his voice like they were sharing state secrets. “see, sammy here’s got this thing—”
“dean,” sam warned, his voice tight enough to snap.
“—this predicament,” dean continued, undeterred, “where he just loves—”
sam lunged for the coffee cup. dean jerked it out of reach, sloshing hot liquid dangerously close to the upholstery. “careful, sasquatch! this is premium gas station swill.” he took a deliberate sip, smacking his lips. “now where was i? oh right. your accent.”
your brows shot up. “my what?”
sam’s ears burned crimson. “he’s full of shit,” he muttered, but his grip on the seatbelt had turned the fabric into a twisted wreck.
you blinked at sam, then at dean, then back at sam. and then you burst out laughing, loud and bright enough that it bounced off the impala’s ceiling. “oh my god,” you wheezed, clutching the snack bag to your chest like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “that’s why you hardly ever talk? you just…you just sit there lettin’ me yammer on ‘cause you—” another peal of laughter cut you off, and you wiped at your eyes. “sam winchester, you’re precious.”
sam’s grip on the seatbelt loosened, but his ears stayed pink. “i don’t—” he stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. dean’s grin was practically splitting his face in two. “it’s not like that.”
“uh-huh,” you drawled, leaning sideways to bump your shoulder against his arm. the contact was brief, warm. “sammy, i know i talk too much. hell, my third-grade teacher wrote ‘excessive verbal enthusiasm’ on my report card.” you popped a pretzel into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “but you…you…you’re out here playin’ puppet master with my jaw just ‘cause you like the way i say ‘coonhound.’” you shook your head, grinning. “ain’t no reason to be embarrassed ‘bout that.”
sam’s shoulders relaxed an inch. he risked a glance at you. your eyes crinkled at the corners, your smile easy and unguarded; and something tight in his chest unraveled. “it’s not just ‘coonhound,’” he muttered, half to himself.
dean nearly choked on his coffee. “oh, this is gold,” he crowed, thumping the steering wheel. “wait, wait. lemme guess,” he put on a truly abysmal southern accent, dragging the vowels out like taffy. “‘prob-lee.’ ‘crick’ instead of ‘creek.’ ‘y’all’ oh, sammy’s weak for ‘y’all.’”
sam’s elbow connected with dean’s ribs hard enough to make him wheeze. “shut up,” he hissed, but the damage was done. your eyes had gone wide, then soft, then dangerously bright with amusement.
“‘y’all,’ huh?” you repeated, slow and deliberate, stretching the word like taffy just to watch sam’s adam’s apple bob. the grin that spread across your face was downright predatory. “well, bless your heart, sam winchester.”
dean opened his mouth, probably to make it worse but, sam cut him off with a glare sharp enough to flay skin. “dean, i swear to god—”
you leaned across the gearshift before he could finish, pressing a quick, smacking kiss to sam’s cheek. the sound was absurdly loud in the sudden silence of the car. sam froze, his entire face flooding crimson, his fingers twitching against the wheel like he’d been tasered.
dean groaned, thumping his head back against the headrest. “jesus christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “i leave you two alone for five minutes”
summary.ᐟ reader has some wild stories to tell, but sam doesn’t mind. he loves your southern accent. lowkey inspired by this post from @stargazedwinchester
wc.ᐟ 1.2k
warnings.ᐟ none
dividers by @strangergraphics
the gas station coffee tasted like battery acid mixed with regret. dean swore by it, which was reason enough for sam to side-eye the entire concept.
outside the impala’s window, heat shimmered off the asphalt, turning the parking lot into a wobbly mirage. the car’s interior smelled like leather, gun oil, and the faintest trace of whatever cheap shampoo you’d borrowed from a motel three states back. you were mid-sentence, gesturing with a half-eaten bag of pretzels, your drawl stretching the word “probably” into three syllables.
“—so then mawmaw tells me, ‘baby, if you gon’ wrestle a gator, best bring two towels—one for the blood, one for the pride.’” you snorted, tossing a pretzel into your mouth. the crunch was obscenely loud in the quiet car. sam blinked, your words lodging somewhere between his ribs and his throat. the image of your grandmother, whoever she was, casually doling out swamp wisdom, hit him like a stray bullet.
dean would’ve rolled his eyes. dean wasn’t here.
“say that again,” sam said, too fast. his knee bounced once against the gearshift.
you paused mid-chew, eyebrows knitting together. "say what now?" the pretzel bag crinkled as you tilted your head, squinting at him like he'd just asked you to recite the alphabet backward. "the gator thing?"
sam's fingers twitched against the steering wheel. "yeah. the…" he cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of the way his own voice sounded too polished next to yours. "...the towel part."
you shrugged, rolling your eyes fondly. "lord, you boys ain't neva heard common sense before." but you humored him, drawling it out even slower this time, just to watch his stupidly intense focus sharpen. "'one for the blood, one for the pride.'" the words dripped off your tongue like molasses, rich and slow.
sam's grip on the side door went slack for half a second before he white-knuckled it again, staring straight ahead like the impala’s dashboard held the secrets of the universe. he could feel the heat crawling up his neck, pooling under his collar. the words bounced around his skull. blood and pride, blood and pride. he shouldn’t be turned on right now but how could he not be when each syllable thick as honey and twice as sweet?
you didn’t seem to notice, already launching into another story about your cousin ray-ray and his ill-fated attempt to train a raccoon to fetch beers. your voice curled around the vowels, lazy and warm, and sam swallowed hard, suddenly grateful dean was still inside the gas station. his brother would’ve clocked the way sam’s pulse jumped at the way you said “coonhound” like it had six extra letters in it.
“so ray-ray’s hollerin’ like a—” you stopped mid-sentence, squinting at him. “sam? you good?”
before he could attempt to string words together to answer, the impala’s door swung open with a metallic groan, and dean slid into the driver’s seat with a paper bag of snacks clutched in one hand and a fresh cup of coffee in the other. the sharp scent of salt and grease cut through the car’s usual musk as he tossed the bag into your lap. “alright, what’d i miss?” he asked, shoving the key into the ignition with a practiced flick of his wrist.
you grinned, tearing into the bag with a rustle. “just tellin’ sam about ray-ray and his beer-fetchin’ raccoon.” you shot sam a sidelong glance, but he was suddenly very interested in adjusting the rearview mirror, his jaw tight. “though i reckon he ain’t heard a word past ‘gator towels.’”
dean’s eyebrows shot up. he took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes darting between you and sam, who was now gripping the seatbelt like it owed him money. “uh-huh,” dean said, dragging the words out like he’d just solved a case. “that why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, sammy? gator towels gettin’ you all worked up?”
sam’s death glare could’ve peeled paint off the impala’s interior. dean, being dean, grinned around his coffee cup like he’d just won the lottery. “ohhh, i get it,” he drawled, stretching the vowels like taffy. he leaned over the gearshift toward you, lowering his voice like they were sharing state secrets. “see, sammy here’s got this thing—”
“dean,” sam warned, his voice tight enough to snap.
“—this predicament,” dean continued, undeterred, “where he just loves—”
sam lunged for the coffee cup. dean jerked it out of reach, sloshing hot liquid dangerously close to the upholstery. “careful, sasquatch! this is premium gas station swill.” he took a deliberate sip, smacking his lips. “now where was i? oh right. your accent.”
your brows shot up. “my what?”
sam’s ears burned crimson. “he’s full of shit,” he muttered, but his grip on the seatbelt had turned the fabric into a twisted wreck.
you blinked at sam, then at dean, then back at sam. and then you burst out laughing, loud and bright enough that it bounced off the impala’s ceiling. “oh my god,” you wheezed, clutching the snack bag to your chest like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “that’s why you hardly ever talk? you just…you just sit there lettin’ me yammer on ‘cause you—” another peal of laughter cut you off, and you wiped at your eyes. “sam winchester, you’re precious.”
sam’s grip on the seatbelt loosened, but his ears stayed pink. “i don’t—” he stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. dean’s grin was practically splitting his face in two. “it’s not like that.”
“uh-huh,” you drawled, leaning sideways to bump your shoulder against his arm. the contact was brief, warm. “sammy, i know i talk too much. hell, my third-grade teacher wrote ‘excessive verbal enthusiasm’ on my report card.” you popped a pretzel into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “but you…you…you’re out here playin’ puppet master with my jaw just ‘cause you like the way i say ‘coonhound.’” you shook your head, grinning. “ain’t no reason to be embarrassed ‘bout that.”
sam’s shoulders relaxed an inch. he risked a glance at you. your eyes crinkled at the corners, your smile easy and unguarded; and something tight in his chest unraveled. “it’s not just ‘coonhound,’” he muttered, half to himself.
dean nearly choked on his coffee. “oh, this is gold,” he crowed, thumping the steering wheel. “wait, wait. lemme guess,” he put on a truly abysmal southern accent, dragging the vowels out like taffy. “‘prob-lee.’ ‘crick’ instead of ‘creek.’ ‘y’all’ oh, sammy’s weak for ‘y’all.’”
sam’s elbow connected with dean’s ribs hard enough to make him wheeze. “shut up,” he hissed, but the damage was done. your eyes had gone wide, then soft, then dangerously bright with amusement.
“‘y’all,’ huh?” you repeated, slow and deliberate, stretching the word like taffy just to watch sam’s adam’s apple bob. the grin that spread across your face was downright predatory. “well, bless your heart, sam winchester.”
dean opened his mouth, probably to make it worse but, sam cut him off with a glare sharp enough to flay skin. “dean, i swear to god—”
you leaned across the gearshift before he could finish, pressing a quick, smacking kiss to sam’s cheek. the sound was absurdly loud in the sudden silence of the car. sam froze, his entire face flooding crimson, his fingers twitching against the wheel like he’d been tasered.
dean groaned, thumping his head back against the headrest. “jesus christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “i leave you two alone for five minutes”
why r u writing teen fics as a 23 year old? never heard of aging down characters thats kinda creepy
hi anon <𝟑 .ᐟ
teen!dean is something i’ve seen done several times before. i just wanted to take a shot at it myself since i think it’s a fun concept to play around with. you should check out the tags below for more examples
summary.ᐟ teen!dean x reader. inspired by “drop dead” by olivia rodrigo because it’s my most played song rn and for some reason i only thought of dean when i heard it the first time
wc.ᐟ 2.9k
warnings.ᐟ kinda angsty bc you have a major crush and don't know how to act around dean but nothing major, party setting, brief illusions to alcohol, kissing/making out
"you're late," taylor said, pressing a sweating red cup into my hand the second you stepped through the screen door. the backyard was packed with bodies, the air thick with laughter and the sharp tang of bug spray. "he's been asking about you."
i nearly choked on my first sip of whatever neon concoction was in the cup. "who?"
taylor rolled her eyes so hard you’d honestly worried they'd get stuck. "oh, please. like you don't know." she jerked her chin toward the makeshift stage, a plywood square balanced on milk crates, strung with christmas lights that flickered like they were one strong breeze from giving up.
and there he was. dean winchester, one boot propped on the edge of the stage, microphone tilted toward his mouth like he was sharing a secret with it. his voice wasn't just good. it was the kind of good that made you forget the words to songs you'd known your whole life. right now, he was halfway through some country ballad, all slow drawl and aching notes, and the crowd was eating it up.
the song was one of those old ones. the kind that made your chest ache even if you'd never had your heart broken. dean's voice curled around the lyrics like smoke, lazy and sweet, and suddenly you got it. you understood why some sad-eyed songwriter had poured their soul into these words decades ago. because when dean sang "i'd walk through fire just to hear you say my name," his fingers tapping the mic like a nervous habit, you believed him. not in the way you believed algebra formulas or your mom saying curfew was flexible. this was the kind of belief that settled in your ribs and made your pulse stutter.
cassie elbowed me so hard my drink sloshed over my wrist. "he's staring at you during the chorus. like, staring staring."
the thing about dean winchester was that he shouldn't have been your type at all. growing up, he'd been the kid who chewed gum during church services and got suspended for turning the school sprinklers on during pep rallies. you were the one with color-coded notebooks who cried when you got a b+. your paths crossed exactly never—until mrs. hudson's disastrous home ec project paired you together sophomore year with a carton of eggs and zero instructions.
that stupid egg. you'd named it benedict. dean carried it around in the front pocket of his hoodie like some bizarre marsupial, patting it absentmindedly during class like it might hatch into a philosophy major if he nurtured it right. he'd shown up at your house at 2 am on day three because he'd heard a rumor eggs could die from loneliness, and he'd panicked when benedict's stupid styrofoam cradle tipped over in his locker. you’d spent the whole night taking shifts watching it like it was the fucking hope diamond, dean making increasingly unhinged egg puns until you laughed so hard milk came out your nose.
and then, nothing. the project ended. you’d both got an A. dean went back to his world of baseball games and garage band rehearsals; you went back to yours of AP classes and pretending you didn't have his number saved under egg emergency contact in your phone.
which is how you found yourself at 3 am two months later, scrolling through his myspace like some kind of deranged detective. his top friends were all guys from the baseball team. his profile song was sweet child o' mine. there were exactly three photos—one blurry shot of his hand giving the camera the finger, one of his baby brother holding a giant lollipop, and one of his dad's car that he'd captioned “she's perfect” with a heart made out of the angle symbol and the number three. i'd memorized every pixel.
the second dean hit the last note, his voice dipping low on some heartbreaking "goodbye" that shouldn't have sounded that pretty, you shoved your drink back at cassie. "bathroom," you muttered, already weaving through the crowd before she could say something embarrassing about your flushed cheeks.
the house was packed, bodies spilling out of every doorway. some 90s indie pop-rock ensemble had picked up after dean had finished filling the house with a sea of baggy denim and spaghetti straps, a density so thick you couldn't see the floor—just a shifting carpet of scuffed filas and spilled punch. someone had taped a handwritten "bathroom line starts here" sign to the wall with about seven people already queued up. i slumped against the floral wallpaper, picking at a loose thread on my . the bathroom door swung open, releasing a cloud of strawberry-scented body spray and two giggling girls clinging to each other like they'd just survived a warzone.
"nice dodge back there"
the voice came from directly behind you—close enough that you caught the warm hint of his breath against your ear, the faint leather-and-rain scent of his jacket. your spine went rigid.
you didn't turn around. couldn't. your fingers froze around the loose thread you’d been picking at, the bathroom line suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. "wasn't dodging," you lied, voice cracking like you’d swallowed a handful of pop rocks. "just. you know. bladder emergency."
dean chuckled, low and warm, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the AC blasting through the hallway. "uh-huh." he shifted, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned against the wall beside you. up close, you could see the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. his cheeks were still flushed from performing—pink as the neon "exit" sign above the back door—and it made him look unfairly inhuman. like some fallen angel who'd traded his halo for a battered leather jacket and a voice that could make sinners repent.
"you sounded good," you blurted, then immediately wanted to kick yourself. of course he sounded good. dean always sounded good. whether he was belting karaoke or reading the fucking weather report. not that he ever did that… but you guess he would.
he bumped his knee against yours, a quick, playful nudge. "yeah?"
"yeah," you echoed, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strangled. the bathroom line shuffled forward a step. dean didn't.
his fingers drummed an absent rhythm against his thigh—the same restless tap-tap-tap he'd done against the mic stand. the silence between you stretched thin as the hallway wallpaper, fraying at the edges where your shoulders almost touched.
"you're not gonna, like, make a run for it again, are you?" dean asked suddenly, tilting his head toward the back door. the neon "exit" sign cast his profile in pink light, sharpening the curve of his jaw.
dean’s voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter, more careful. "you look like you’re about to bolt for the door like a spooked deer," he said, nudging your knee again, but gentler this time. "you okay?"
you swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how loud the party was. how house didn't just feel full; it felt like it was breathing. every time the bass dropped, the walls seemed to sweat, and the hallway was a humid blur of frosted tips and butterfly clips. your fingers tightened around the loose thread on your dress until the fabric puckered. "yeah," you lied. "just…crowded."
dean didn’t call me out. instead, he straightened off the wall, hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced toward the back door. "i was gonna dip anyway," he said casually, like he hadn’t just been the center of attention five minutes ago. "you want a ride?"
the word "yes" was out of your mouth before you could stop it, sharp and immediate as a popped balloon. dean blinked, surprised by my lack of hesitation. or maybe by how high-pitched you’d sounded. he recovered fast, grinning as he pushed off the wall and jerked his head toward the back door. "cool. let's bail before taylor tries to make us do tequila shots."
the night air hit us like a slap as we slipped outside, crisp compared to the sticky heat of the party. dean's boots crunched against the gravel driveway, his shadow stretching long and lean under the porch light. you matched his pace, hyperaware of the six inches of charged space between you, the way his knuckles occasionally brushed yours when he swung his arms.
"so," you said after three blocks of silence so thick you could taste it. your voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet suburban street. "you, uh. really nailed that song."
dean huffed a laugh, kicking a pebble into the gutter. "thanks. pretty sure i butchered the high notes, but hey." he shot me a sideways glance, moonlight catching the curve of his smirk. "you ever sing?"
"only in the shower," you admitted, "and my shampoo bottles have filed multiple noise complaints."
dean’s laugh burst out of him, loud and sudden, in the quiet street. the sound curled around you, warmer than the white mini sundress you’d stolen from taylor’s closet before the party. “damn,” he said, shaking his head. “and here i thought i was the only one with a captive audience.”
you turned the corner onto maple street, the glow of the party fading behind you. his car was parked under a streetlight two blocks down. that stupid cherry-red impala his dad had restored for his sixteenth birthday. the one he’d posted about on myspace with the heart. the sight of it made something flutter behind your ribs.
“you gonna make me walk the whole way in silence?” dean asked, bumping my shoulder with his. his voice was light, but there was an edge to it. something nervous lurking under the teasing. like he was actually worried you’d say no. like he cared.
you swallowed hard. “depends. you gonna subject me to your mixtape again?”
dean clutched his chest like i’d shot him. “excuse you, my mixtapes are art.” he dug his keys out of his pocket, jingling them between his fingers. the streetlight caught the silver, throwing fractured reflections across his cheekbone. “besides, last time you said you hated springsteen, and then i caught you humming ‘dancing in the dark’ in the cafeteria like some kinda traitor.”
dean’s car smelled like gasoline and spearmint gum. a weirdly comforting combination that hit you the second he swung the passenger door open with a dramatic creak. "your chariot awaits," he said, bowing with unnecessary flourish. the streetlight caught the stupid cowlick at the crown of his head, making it glow like a halo.
you slid into the cracked leather seat, my knees bumping the dashboard in a way that made dean wince. "sorry," he muttered, reaching over to adjust the seat with one hand while the other twisted the key in the ignition. the engine roared to life, rattling the loose change in the cupholder. "forgot you’re, like, freakishly tall."
"freakishly?" you kicked his shin lightly, your espadrilles squeaking against his boot. "says the guy who had to duck in home ec."
dean grinned, shifting into drive with one hand draped lazily over the wheel. "that was one time. and the ceiling fan was out to get me." he glanced at me sidelong, the dashboard lights painting his cheekbones in soft blue. "so. where to, egg thief?"
the impala's radio crackled to life halfway through some static-filled springsteen song. probably deliberate. dean's fingers tapped the steering wheel in time with the drums, his thumb brushing the edge every third beat like he was counting measures. "so," he said after a mile of comfortable silence. "you never told me why you disappeared after the song."
you traced a finger along the seam of the leather seat, the material warm from the summer night. "didn't disappear," you lied. "just…needed some air."
dean snorted, flicking the turn signal with more force than necessary. "right. and i joined the chess club last week." the streetlights strobed across his face as we passed under them, illuminating the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "come on. you ran like i was singing the national anthem naked."
your face burned. "i did not—"
"you totally did." he reached across the console to poke your shoulder, his fingers lingering just a second too long. "which, rude. i worked really hard on that performance."
a few moments of silence passed as the impala cruised through the suburban streets of lawrence, kansas. dean's fingers drummed against the steering wheel to the beat of the song, but his gaze slid sideways to me, a slow grin spreading. "remember when benedict hatched?"
you choked on air. "he never hatched. he was an unfertilized egg from the grocery store."
"details." dean waved a hand dismissively, the streetlights catching the silver of his ring. "but man, the way you jumped when i called and told you that he'd cracked. i thought you were gonna break the sound barrier running to my house."
your cheeks burned at the memory: by "hatched" you thought he'd meant cracked. you showing up at his doorstep at midnight in pajama shorts and mismatched socks, breathless from sprinting three blocks. dean had answered the door holding a perfectly intact benedict in one hand and a bag of doritos in the other, grinning like he'd won the lottery. "you're evil," you’d muttered, with a light smile.
dean's laugh was warm as the summer night air rushing through the half-open window. "nah, just persistent." he shifted gears with one hand, the other resting lazily on the wheel. "still got the picture, by the way. you holding him like he was your firstborn."
the impala rolled to a stop in front of your house, gravel crunching under the tires like popcorn. the lights were off, meaning your parents had already gone to bed. dean killed the engine, but the silence that followed was louder than any song. charged with something electric, something inevitable. the porch light was burned out, leaving the two of you in the dark except for the dashboard glow painting dean's hands still gripping the wheel like he was afraid to let go.
"you're staring," dean said, without turning his head. his voice was low, rough around the edges in a way that made my pulse stutter.
"am not," you lied, even as your traitorous eyes traced the curve of his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
dean turned then, slow, like he was giving you time to bolt. the seat creaked as he shifted toward me, one arm draping over the steering wheel, the other braced against the console. close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to. close enough that his breath ghosted warm against your lips when he whispered, "liar."
the word curled between you, thick as honey. your fingers twisted in the hem of your dress, fabric biting into your skin. dean's gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there long enough to turn your bones to liquid. the air between the two of you thinned, stretched taut as a guitar string about to snap.
the first kiss tasted like spearmint and the sharp, electric hum of bad decisions. dean’s lips were warm, softer than you’d imagined, pressing against mine with a quiet certainty that sent my pulse skittering like a dropped coin. his fingers brushed your jaw, calloused and gentle, tilting my face up just enough to make my breath hitch. for one dizzying second, you forgot how lungs worked, how anything worked, because dean winchester was kissing you in the front seat of his stupid car, and the world had narrowed to the heat of his palm against your cheek, the way his thumb traced your cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of you.
then reality crashed back in, hard and cold as a bucket of ice water. you wrenched away, your back hitting the passenger door with a thud that rattled the window. “kiss me like that again,” you gasped, voice ragged, “and i might actually drop dead.”
dean didn’t even blink. his smirk was slow, lazy, the kind that made my stomach flip like a pancake. “please don’t,” he murmured, and then he was leaning in again, one hand braced against the headrest behind me, the other tangling in the hem of my dress. this time, his kiss was deliberate; a question and an answer all at once, his lips moving against yours with a quiet confidence that left no room for doubt.
you should’ve stopped him. should’ve shoved him back and made a sarcastic quip about overconfidence being a toxic trait. instead, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, fabric twisting in my grip as you kissed him back with a desperation that scared me. dean made a noise low in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and suddenly his hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming down your ribs, settling at your waist like he’d mapped out the exact coordinates years ago and was just now checking his work.
the radio crackled with static, springsteen’s voice warping into something unrecognizable as dean’s teeth grazed your lower lip. his breath was uneven when he pulled back just far enough to murmur, “still breathing?” against the corner of your mouth.
man, did you have a story to tell taylor tomorrow.
