G'day! I'm Beth - mum of two, libra, cheeky, self-depreciating, sarcastic. I tend to overthink EVERYTHING way too much.
Five-year-old-me daydreamed crossovers between Disneyâs Robin Hood and the TMNTâwhat can I say? It worked. Now, I'm hyper-fixated on Supernatural, writing Dean x Reader fanfics while trying to keep my head above water and adult.
Masterlists ⤠mostly Dean x f!Reader
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And Though the Course May Change Sometimes, Rivers Always Reach the Sea ⤠Dean x Reader
The Placenta Effect ⤠5/5 chapters posted - Dean x Reader
Every little part of him is holding onto every little piece of her, and any other woman heâs been lucky enough to escape his life with. Even if itâs only for the night - or - Dean replaces intimacy with sex. MDNI 18+ only 1.2k words
Tags:: little bit of SMUT | casual sex | one night stands | Dean needs a hug | light angst | some pining
Summary inspired by the lyrics in âToughâ by Lewis Capaldi.
He loves the sex.Â
Needs it.Â
Craves it.Â
The closeness it gives him. The warmth of someone else surrounding his hardened body. Touching, feeling, writhing below or on top of him. He doesnât care.Â
Even with the scrapes and bruises he doesnât remember which ugly bastard he ganked giving them to him, heâs not ashamed. He just wants to fill up his heart with affection to get him through the next death he knows is inevitable, no matter how hard he tries.
Itâs something he canât escape, except maybe for the night. Tonight, if heâs lucky.
As she pours him another cup, and places the pie he ordered beside his now empty plate, he pretends not to notice. It doesnât mean heâs not watching. He just continues to hold the conversation with Sam while listening to her greet someone new.
Her voice carries like silk over the chatter of people and the ringing coming from the door. Her hands are clean, her skin soft and inviting as she pulls out her notepad and pen.Â
He flicks his head up to exchange a glance, and she actually winks at him. âCan I get you anything else?âÂ
âSammy?â He looks his brotherâs way, but brings his gaze back to her the second heâs answered.
âThanks,â he says and reads the badge pinned to her blouse aloud. âThatâs a pretty name.âÂ
The girls in these dives they eat at are always perfect in his eyes. Their lives are just so, even if they donât see it.Â
No scars, at least not from weapons. Pliable flesh he can sink his fingers into. Grab, smooth, lick, taste. Sweet perfume that would fill a home he knows has things littered with the apple pie life he once thought he wanted.Â
Heâll tell no one he still does.
Heâll also never tell Sam thatâs the real reason he doesnât bring them to the motel anymore if he can avoid it. Itâs easier to leave them when he wakes up and feels out of place.
She walks away, back to the counter whence she came with hips that sway in time to the tick of the dusty old clock on the wall. Past the other patrons and tables full of more coffee and mediocre food.Â
Chicken served in nugget form. Sandwiches lathered in sauce. It may be swill and smell closer to ass than edible, but if he plays his cards well, heâll be devouring something far better tonight.
âDonât wait up,â he says after downing the scalding liquid in one go. Heâs done with waiting. Just needed the last boost of confidence before he goes in for the kill.
He stands up and grabs his phone. Brushes down his jacket, checking thereâs nothing on it from the hunt, and looks up to the smile that caught his eye again.Â
Sheâs watching him.
âDonât do the hot coffee thing,â Sammy bitches, as he walks away.
But while Dean ignores him, a split second frown sours his face. He refuses to let his baby brother see the remark stings.Â
Itâs not about dipping his stick in the oil, but heâll let Sam believe it is. The facade is easier than admitting the truth.
He steps up to the counter, where sheâs taking some other chumps order, and raises the cup he never put down to gain her attention. There might be a suave grin thrown her way. Definitely a twinkle in his eye.
âCan I get another, sweetheart? Hot, andâŚjust like you?â Thereâs a wag of his brow now.
âSure thing, hun,â she says with a chuckle that makes her even more desirable. She doesnât know how beautiful she is.
He wants to taste. He wants to touch. He wants her arms wrapped around him while he holds her tight. So he takes the opportunity presented to him. A brush of his fingers on hers when she hands the smooth ceramic back to him. Lingering as he gauges for any reaction. Any hint that sheâs interested in being his comfort for the night.
âThanks,â he says through a grin of goof and charm, and she smiles. Doesnât even move her hand, and he knows heâs in with a chance.
âCan I get you anything elseâŚ?â she asks.
âDean.â He winks.
âDean,â she repeats, and he wants to hear it again. Underneath him. On top of him. Legs wrapped âround his waist as she chants it into his ear.Â
Heâd settle for it once if it was on her doorstep, following an âI had a good time last night,â and so heâs bolder. His choice of words, just as. âAny chance youâre getting off soon?â
And she chuckles, hearty and soft. Nods her head in consideration, tongue playing with her cheek as she looks him over nice and slow. âYou donât beat around the bush, huh, Dean?âÂ
âDepends on the carpets,â he says.Â
Itâs cheesy and cringe and doesnât even make much sense, but it works. Sheâs placing the pot of coffee down, leaning in closer to him, hovering over him a couple of hours later in a room thatâs both foreign in foundation and comfort.
Plush bedding thatâs clean. No smoke or dust or grime in sight.Â
A light that never flickers and appliances that donât buzz.
Thereâs a thigh on either side of him, bent at the knees just as he wanted. A sheen of sweat between. Her hands, warm and soft, creep over his skin, tracing patterns with tingles that curl his toes and tense the muscles in his shoulders and glutes.
His arms pull her down on him, pushing himself further into her. Giving her more of him, and she moans. He does, too. The squeeze of her walls on the covered tip of his dick is wonderful, but itâs the look in her eyes that does it for him.Â
Thereâs a connection, now, even if there might be none come morning. This lust that he can mistake for adoration is what he needs. What he craves.
Heâs wanted. She feels. Her body is alive, and she cries his name.Â
âYou like that, baby?â he asks with a snap of his hips, savouring the next sound she makes. If they go another round, heâll do it again. When heâs alone with just his hand, heâll chase it with the memory of her trembling lips, thighs and chest.
Heâs pulling her tit into his mouth. Wide to capture as much of her smooth skin as he can. Heâll remember the saltiness, too. The way her nipple pebbles as his tongue swipes over and around it. The way her pelvis rocks.
Sheâs grinding down on him. Her fingers are tugging into his hair, and as her nails scrape down to the nape of his neck, heâs pulling her stomach to his.Â
Heâs grabbing her ass and raising it up. Heâs chasing both their highs.
And when it hits, and he feels his balls tighten, and her around him, squeezing him for all heâs worth, heâs burying his nose into the junction between her hairline and ear. Inhaling the soap and shampoo. Her perfume. The sweat on her skin. Heâs taking it all in and holding her tight.
In this moment, sheâs his.Â
The closeness she gives him. The warmth of her surrounding his hardened body. Touching, feeling, writhing on top of him.
He craves her.
He needs her.
And heâll continue to, because itâs not just about sex. He loves the intimacy.
@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa
If youâd like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if youâd like to be removed, please let me know âşď¸
I know this is supposed to be Dean thirst, but Iâm sorry. Dean who? Cain supremacy persists even in the remix.
Seriously, though. Dean really is working so hard for Cainâs approval and Crowleyâs over there in the cuck chair trying not to show how much heâs into the whole thing.
The murderdaddy agenda is strong in this one đđââď¸
In Deanâs defence, heâs dancing too hard to get a good look at that pretty face đ sooooâŚgoddammitâCain supremacy indeed! Just casually goes and gets a beer @aniresrene we need more of these!
Iâve watched this like four times since waking up
đś ⨠when you get this, list 5 songs you like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool) đś â¨
@kyescoolio @88starmi @mrmayoattorney @lukaka-arte @bunnybunnybunnaxy @cocoabonbon @addictbwn @cyybercyko no pressure to join!! also open tags because i just know i missed someone
Songs I'm currently listening too often and ear worm from them. And ya'll may or not share yours.
1.Zero Two??? Battle - Kirby Air Riders
2. Mechanized Memories - Armored Core
"WAKE UP! Like the sleepless horse, crack the codes your mind bent around here
3. Michael Jackson - Smooth Criminal x Sonic 2 - Boss theme, Remix
"So Annie are u okay, Annie are u ok, r u o k o k!"
4. K'NAAN - Wavin' Flag
"When and if I get older, I will be stronger, they'll call me freedom just the wavin flag, that waves and goes back, that waves and goes, so wave your, so wave your flag, WOOAH"
5."Half Brother" - Theme of Boba Fett and the Clones, Mashup
Unfortunately I barely have any active followers đ so Iâll have to do 7. Even though youâre all my only followers, youâre still my favourites :)
Awww thanks @myceliumsunshine how dare I be second on yours đ also jokes - am I the only one who tries to get the tags to sit all nice and even so that the paragraph is visually centred (and gets annoyed if I canât⌠đ )
Iâll give you the few that Iâve been listening to on repeat for hours on end I guess
Dance With Me - Tones And I
Elevator - Pussycat Dolls
Green Light - Lorde
Vem Dancar Kuduro - Lucenzo
Go - The Chemical Brothers
tagging some lovelies who havenât been yet - @aniresrene @kblognar @aseafullofstars @reginaphalangelobster @mortluvr (exhibit A that I needed to even this paragraph out)
I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS
CHAPTER 1: Between retirement and a hard place
CWs Post series. Canon-typical violence. Grumpy Dean.
6.6k words
AN I wanna give a big thank you to @kblognar who basically deserves co-writer credit for how much advice and help they gave on this. Thank you for being amazing, friend. â¤ď¸
Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Next chapter
Youâre halfway dead when Dean gets to you.
No, he needs to back up. Or this story doesnât make sense. Back way, way up.
Of course, heâs not thinking that way when he gets to you. When he kneels, picks you up. Your blood immediately staining the canvas of his jacket. Dark green becoming even darker. Not when your head lolls back.
He carries you over to the Impala, manages to lay you in the back. Slashes all over your body - your arm, your jaw, your thighs, your stomach, and thatâs the one that worries him most, cause your shirt is all red and wet around it.Â
Stupid kid, he thinks as he walks around the back of the car, gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, rushes back. Stupid, fucking kid. Getting yourself killed, and then getting yourself killed in his damn car. Heâs done this job for long enough. He doesnât need to see another dead young woman, feel the blood flow ebb, feel the breathing slow. Heâs had enough of that.Â
Funny. One might think heâs gotten soft.
Donât die, he thinks, as he rolls up your shirt, does his best to stop the bleeding there. Donât die in my car. Iâm retired.
You donât die. And Dean?Â
Well. Maybe he has gone soft.
Sam sits him down in the bunker library, all big frowns and pinched lips. Dean leans back, takes a deep breath.
âI think itâs time,â Sam says. âI think⌠I think Iâm done.â
Dean always knew this day was coming. From the day Sam told him he would go back to Stanford once they found their father, he knew, in a way, he couldnât run from this. Heâs vacillated between trying to push his little brother out of the life and guilt tripping him into staying in it. But this was always going to happen.Â
He nods through it. Utters understanding words even though it feels like someone is sawing off his head. Heâs not sure heâs totally convincing. Heâs never been good at keeping his disappointment and anger in, and Sam can read him like an open book, is so sensitive to it that it makes Dean feel disgusted with him sometimes. Guilty too, but then when doesnât he feel that.
If Sam notices the involuntary reproach in Deanâs demeanor and words, heâs deciding to ignore it. Heâs still endlessly apologetic, but he holds strong on changing his mind. Dean canât help but respect that a little. Must be Eileenâs good influence. Now that oneâs got a mind of her own. He likes that about her. Despite the fact that he hates anyone else having a say, he likes it.
And then Dean is faced with staying in the bunker by himself, or finding something else. He thinks about hanging it up too. Thinks about the women he could crawl back to. Lisa doesnât remember him, Cassie was too long ago. Amara, well, gone, just like so many of them.Â
Heâs driving, on a case he takes on on his own, when he sees the cabin. Kind of rustic, kind of fucked up. Big For Sale sign out front. A project, he thinks. Thatâs what he needs. He scoffs at himself the next second. He sounds old. Pushes the thought away. Goes to kill something.
But the thought of the cabin doesnât leave him. He drives back. Breaks in, takes the place in. Wall of phones, fridge with beer, couch, TV. A bed upstairs. He scratches at his jaw. Place needs some TLC, but heâs always loved tinkering.
He talks to Sam about it over dinner when he and Eileen invite him over. Dean sips his beer.
âArenât you gonna lose your mind, all alone out there?â Sam asks, scoffing. Dean purses his lips, mulls the thought over. Heâs got his car. Thereâs a small town nearby, but actually living there sounds much less attractive. He thinks of himself, sitting on that porch, nothing but the view, a cold one and absolute quiet. He likes it. He wants to like it.
He drops two big duffels on the dusty floor a month later. Looks around, nodding. He can always sell the place again, maybe even make some money out of it if he does some home improvement on it first.
Itâs quiet. So quiet. Heâs completely alone. He swallows, waits for the panic to hit, the fear, the terror.Â
It doesnât. So he gets to work.
Itâs nearly ten years later that heâs standing in the small kitche, pouring himself a fifth - sixth? He tends to lose count - cup of coffee, when one of his phones rings.Â
He turns as he takes a sip, then walks over. The age of phones hanging off the wall is over, but he has a station with a bunch of older cell phones attached to their charging cables. The one that rings is one off the far right. He picks it up, looks at the letters written on the tape on the back. Merle. He puts the cup down, answers.
âHowâs that wildcat looking?â he jokes, and Merle returns a three-pack-a-day chuckle.
âI swear,â he says, and Dean can hear voices in the background, low music. Maybe the sounds of a bar. âThis case is getting more and more queer by the second.â Dean sits down, the groan with which he does it something that suddenly showed up a few years ago.
âI donât think youâre supposed to say that anymore,â he answers, and Merle scoffs.Â
âIâm thinkinâ werewolf-leopard-hybrid,â he says. Dean leans forward, thumb running along the rim of his cup.
âMerle,â he says, âyou been drinkinâ again, brother?â
âWhatever,â Merle says, and Dean can basically see him wave him off. Heâs got a good fifteen years on Dean, but the theories he comes up with are those of a little kid. Ghost of a Indian chief that merged with the spirit of a general of the British Army. Elvis, but the one the aliens cloned. Werewolf-leopard-hybrid. Deanâs yet to see any of them proven right.
âNeed me to send anyone your way?â he asks, turning in the chair to look at the paper map heâs got pinned up on the wall, different colored tacks showing monster sightings, hunters and solved jobs. âI got Rhonda and Ronny down in Spearfish, but you know how long they take when theyâre fighting, might fare better with your werewolf-hybrid, butââ
âAh, youâre good, kid,â Merle answers. âConnected with this greenhorn been hanging around these parts. Sweet young thing.â Dean quiets, gaze dropping.Â
Thereâs two reasons for his reaction: the first is that heâs trying to figure out who the hell Merle is talking about. He knows every hunter in this state and most surrounding ones. Ainât no one qualifies as a sweet or young, though some of them he could see earning the nickname of thing. Maybe Merle is being sarcastic. Maybe heâs talking about a ugly old thing.
The second reason is that despite living a near monk-like existence for the past years, Dean Winchesterâs ears are always gonna twitch at the mention of a sweet young thing. He used to be much worse when he was younger. The only action heâs gotten in recent memory is that one hunter he helped out a while ago, the one who rode him in the back of his car, the one he heard had died a few months later, chomped on by a rugaru. Ate her own gun, and Dean felt a deep, sad ache at that. Thereâs Lola who tends bar in the dive down in the town, and on the rare occassions he wants company and drives down there, sheâs sometimes blown him or let him fuck her in the backroom. Sheâs a bit older than Dean, something maternal about her. He doesnât want to think about why that does it for him.
But no sweet young thing. Dean clears his throat, realizing heâs been quiet. He sniffs.
âYou got a name?â he asks. Just being precautious. Just doing his job.
Merle says your name, and Dean locks it away. Heâll ask around.
âAlright,â he says, âwell, let me know how it goes. And call me if you need anything, alright?âÂ
âWill do,â Merle says. âTake care. And Winchester?â
âMmh?â Dean says, taking another sip from his coffee.
âIf it is a werewolf-leopard,â Merle says, glee in his voice, âyou owe me a beer.â
Later that night, Deanâs on the couch, catching his four hours, when heâs woken by a phone ringing.Â
He sits up, swings his legs over the side. Groans at all the parts of him that hurt, kneads at his neck. Trods over to the table.
The small lamp he always leaves on gives the big room the downstairs consists of an eerie glow. He sees the phone thatâs lighting up. Second one from the right.Â
He grabs it, raises it to his ear. About to give whoever is on the other end a piece of his mind.
âDean!â he is immediately interrupted. âJesus fucking Christ, kid, you there?â
Itâs like someone snapping their finger and bringing Dean out of his trance. Heâs wide awake immediately.Â
âMerle,â he says, âtalk to me.âÂ
The old man sounds out of breath. Panting, actually, panicked, and Deanâs never, ever heard him like this.
âIt got the girl,â Merle says, and Dean narrows his eyes. âIt got her, I just fucking barely made it out. Weâre at the Denver steel mill, itâs fuckinâ--fuck, that thing is fast, fuckinâ-â
âMerle,â Dean interrupts him. âConcentrate. What is it?â
âI donât fuckinâ know,â Merle replies, half shout, half whine. âI donât know, Iâve never seen, Iâve never seenââ
Thatâs the last thing Dean hears, apart from a sudden screech that is so loud he needs to hold the phone away from his ear. Clattering, a scream. And then silence.
He sleeps in his jeans, so he doesnât need to waste time putting them on, throws on his jacket, grabs the emergency pack of weapons and first aid material he keeps near the front door, and then heâs in the car.
He knows the steel mill. Itâs an hour away, so if whatever got Merle is the kind that kills immediately, heâs a goner. However, thereâs enough freaks that like keeping their prey alive. Like playing with it, marinating in it. Taking small bites and nibbles.
The lights of the Impala illuminate the road ahead. Dean chews on his tongue, laser-focused.Â
He makes it to the steel mill just as dawn breaks. The world slowly waking. He parks, arms himself to the teeth - silver bullets and knives, in case Merle is at least half right. A machete. A few other things, carefully selected to cover a wide array of possibilities.Â
The air is cold and burns his nostrils. He sneaks around the outside, listens, watches. No signs of anything, so he enters the main building, half collapsed.
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldnât quite stink this bad yet. Needs to crane his neck to look up, taking a step back so none of the blood dripping from the old hunterâs torn out guts drops on him.
âGoddamn it, Merle,â he mutters. Merle doesnât reply. His eyes remain ripped open. He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
Deanâs gonna have to come back, figure out how the fuck to get him down from there, and give him a hunterâs funeral. But right now, there is a monster to find. Another body to locate.
He walks outside again after searching the part of the mill thatâs still accessible. He really hopes whatever this thing is that it didnât drag you to some deep, hidden part of it. Worse chances of getting a good angle, or the element of surprise. Harder to drag a body out of there.
Heâs rounding a small outbuilding when he sees something in the grass. Draws his gun. He undoes the safety. Ready to put one right between the thingâs eyes.
He sees your shoes first, and lowers the gun, just a little. Sighs. Good that youâre out here, where he can get to you. Maybe he can build the pyre right there, drop Merle on it too once heâs killed the thing that killed you two. Plus who knows what information he can glean from the wounds on you, the way you died.Â
He also remembers the young part. Fuck. Another one gone.
He walks closer, gun still in his hand, mind still sharp to his surroundings. No birds singing, he notices, despite the early morning. Whatever is roaming this place must be bad.Â
He kneels down next to you, surveys your body. Youâre young alright, and Dean understands where Merle got the sweet part from too. Pretty, even. Slashed all over, and chest not moving, Dean notices, when his eyes rest there. Shouldnât think that way about dead bodies, but he considers it paying respect to you. If he died, again, he would want someone to think he was hot, too.
The sudden breath you take has even a seasoned hunter like Dean flinch, grab his gun a little tighter. Death rattle, maybe, except itâs way too much for that, thereâs movement behind your eyelids, and a twitch in your right hand.
Youâre alive. Barely.
Split-second decision. The monster can wait. If thereâs a chance you can make it out of this, he needs to take it, despite how low he actually thinks that chance is, what with all those big gashes over you, the amount of blood coming out of you. He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans, gets his arms under your knees and shoulders. Lifts you, one boot on the ground, then the other. Carries you towards the car.Â
Donât die, he thinks, as he drives the Impala back onto the road, the wound on your stomach haphazardly bandaged, trying to avoid the potholes so your innards donât get jangled around too much.
Donât die.
He carries you upstairs to the bedroom. He doesnât use it, and heâd rather have you bleeding out there on the bed than on the couch downstairs.Â
The first thing he does is press one of the silver knives to your palm. No sizzling, no screaming. He lays it on the bedside table, surveys you. Itâd be damn helpful if he knew to trust Merleâs assessment of whatever the two of you were hunting out there. He sighs, then gets the silver cuffs. One around your wrist, one around the bedframe. Just in case. Then he starts patching you up.
He cleans the wounds, assesses the damage. The one on your jaw is gonna leave a scar, despite how careful he is with it, and he hopes youâre not vain. He needs to cut open your jeans where theyâre tight over your legs to get at another one. Exhales through his nose as he does.Â
The one on your stomach is mean. Could really use some angel mojo, but all the angels he knows are dead. Maybe stitches. He sighs again, stands to wash his hands in the bathroom opposite the bedroom. Heâs had one knee on the bed, and the frame creaks under him.
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. Heâs not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe heâs wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he canât explain it any other way.Â
You shoot up, and immediately slash at him. Dean has no choice but to throw himself backwards. His hip meets the dresser, the mirror standing on top of it rattling in its frame, and he cusses at the pain. He blinks once, and then youâre on your knees, unable to get off the bed with your wrist still in the cuffs. Youâre holding the knife out towards him, teeth bared.
âWho the fuck are you?â you nearly scream. âWhat the fuck are you doing to me!?â He sees you tug your wrist inward, but the metal holds. He raises his hands, showing heâs unarmed, although his gun is nearby and youâre basically dead on your feet. Not like itâd be much of a fight.Â
âWoah, calm down,â he says. Your hand with the knife is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or pain, Deanâs not sure. âIâm trying to stitch you up, okay?â
You keep staring at him, eyes wide. Thereâs sweat on your face, in your hair, on your chest, and you tug at the cuffs again. Dean indicates in that direction without lowering his hands.
âSomething got you, okay?â he explains, voice low and clear. âJust a safety precaution while I figure out what it is and take care of your wounds.â And let you bleed all over my goddamn bedsheets, he thinks, but doesnât say.
You sway, and Dean wonders for a moment if youâll pass out. Lids going low, but you shake your head, bring yourself back. Tough, heâs got to give you that.Â
âWhatââ you say, your voice sounding weaker. Your hand with the knife in it briefly drops, before you raise it again. Dean sees you wince.
âMy name is Dean Winchester,â he says, looking intently at you. Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dudeâs bed, covered in blood, in a place youâve never been. He works his jaw. Maybe he could have done better there. âIâm a friend of Merleâs, maybe he mentioned me. Iâm trying to help you, okay?â
He sees you swallow, the blood there that made your skin look wet and violent only a while ago now dried and flaking. He should have washed it off you, but it just wasnât his top priority.Â
âMerle,â you say, slurring a little, âwhere is he?â
Dean makes a split-second decision. What will make you feel more safe? Knowing Merle got ganked, or⌠See, he knows heâs safe to be around, but you donât. He raises his chin.
âHeâs out there hunting that thing down,â he says, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face. âHeâll be back soon. But someone needed to take care of your wounds.â
You keep looking at him. Your eyes look wild and fierce in contrast with the blood. Youâre still shaking, but it seems more controlled now.Â
âHe says he wants that leopard-werewolf-hybridâs head as a trophy,â Dean continues, now giving a one-sided grin. âI guess you know him well enough to understand why I didnât try to stop him.âÂ
And that seems to do the trick. You unclench your jaw, slacken your hold on the knife, but donât drop it. Blink a few times. Dean indicates for you to stay calm with his hands, then reaches one towards the bedside table. You tense, but when you see heâs going for a small key, you calm down again. He takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it out for you to see, then tosses it your way. It lands on the bedding, somewhere close to your knee.Â
You keep the knife trained on him a second longer, then drop it, reach for the key, quickly, uncoordinated. Dean exhales slowly, lowers his hands, has half a mind to disarm you anyway, just for the sheer fucking annoyance and stress. But he doesnât. Your fingers fumble with the key and the cuffs, and you drop it once before managing to open them. You pick the knife up again immediately, but donât threaten him again. Instead, you crawl back on the bed, off the other side.
You straighten, and then immediately fold in half.
The way you cry out rattles Dean, the suddenness and pure fucking pain of it, and then heâs rushing around the bed. Heâs not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife youâre still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Your eyes are squeezed shut and youâre breathing hard. He sees the way youâre holding your arm over the big gash on your stomach, not actually touching it, and thatâs probably a good thing. You take two sharp breaths through your nose before you force your eyes open.
You turn your head and look up at him. Dean looks into your eyes, then gives a small nod. You nod back, so he brings his arm around your back and helps you turn around.
You sink down on the bed slowly, still sucking in air. Your ass meets the mattress and Dean keeps his hands up in case you topple before finally taking a step back. Youâre grasping the edge of the mattress, skin taut over knuckles, knife still clasped. Dean drops his hand, fingertips brushing against something wet on his jeans. He looks down. Great, you bled on him some more. He sighs. Looks at you again, the way youâre staring down at the floor, still trying to control the pain.
âListen,â he says after a second, and squats down so he can catch your gaze. You look at him, briefly, then look away again. âI know this is fucked. But I really am trying to help you.â He sees your jaw move.
âIâm fine,â you say, and Dean sighs again.
âYou look like you did a stage show with the worst magician in the world,â he replies. When you look up and frown at him, he raises his eyebrows. âWhen they saw their assistant in half? Anywayââ He changes how he squats, taking some weight off his bad knee.Â
âYou can keep the knife,â he says, and you turn your head, look at where youâre still holding it. âBut I gotta patch up that wound on your stomachââÂ
âWhenâs Merle getting back?â you interrupt him. Dean swallows. Fuck, he thought he had more time to leave the lie. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. If you freak out now and run, your chances arenât looking so great. If he can get the wound cleaned and stitched and then you run off, that might make the difference between life and death.
âIâm sure heâll be a while,â he says, âstill havenât figured out what that thing is. You can call him once Iâve patched you up.â Your hands tense again, but you nod slowly.
âOkay,â you say, voice quiet. Both of you donât speak for a moment. Your lids are low. Not a great sign.
âAlright,â he says, then nods at the bed. âLemme see to that wound now.â
Heâs sure you wonât let him, but then you move. Lean back, raise your legs, but drop them again with a whimper. Dean stands, takes a step closer, and you give him a defiant stare. He tilts his head to the side. Come on, he means for it to say. Stop with the tough guy act.Â
You groan, which could be a reply to the pain or to him, but allow Dean to help you lift your legs back onto the bed. Your boots are heavy, stained, and heâs gonna have to change the bedding at some point if you stick around.
Stick around. He doesnât know where he got that from.
You lie back, head meeting the pillow, let out a breath when you can finally relax your muscles. Dean straightens, walks around the bed. Grabs the supplies he has, lays them on the bedside table on the other side. He looks down at you, hands on his hips.
âIâm gonna go wash my hands,â he says, eyebrows high, eyes narrowed. âDonât fucking run, okay?â You look up at him, and rather than nod, you just look away. Dean sighs again. Itâll have to do.
He rolls up his sleeves as he walks towards the door. Leaves it open, crosses the tiny landing into the bathroom with the tub with the curtain in front of it that has seen better days. He pumps his hands full of soap, washes them, up to the wrists. The water is loud and sputters, but he keeps his ears open. Wonders if heâll hear you clomping down the stairs, all to get away from him. But he doesnât. Maybe youâre sneaking instead.
But no, youâre still there when he comes back. Heâs almost surprised, but he doesnât let that show. He sits down next to you on the bed, doesnât miss how you try to scoot further away from him, but only flinch at the movement. Seems youâre finally understanding that youâre out of commission.
âLift your shirt,â he says while he busies himself with threading the needle. When he looks at your face again, youâre looking at him like heâs insane. Dean rolls his eyes. âDonât flatter yourself.âÂ
You pinch your lips together, and Dean wonders if youâve actually managed to be offended at him asking you to lift your shirt and at the same time insulted at him not wanting to grope you, but then your hands go there, lift. Fingers brush over the shitty bandage he applied there earlier, when you were out, and he doesnât miss your blinking, the way you swallow. More dried blood flaking off your neck. He really should get you something you can wash yourself with.
âThis is gonna suck,â he says, reaching for the saline. Used to be heâd do this with whiskey, he and Sam holed up in some shitty motel room, but heâs well equipped here. Has to be. If the service goes out and he falls on his head, he canât afford mistakes. Sammyâs not here to scoop him up and pour liquor down his throat. Still, he feels almost nostalgic for the sting of it. The new pain that lays over the initial one like a scratchy blanket.
ââS fine,â you mutter, and your gaze moves to the ceiling, focused on it. Dean sees you ball your hands into fists. Maybe not your first rodeo.
He tries to be careful, but cleaning an open wound is not an enjoyable experience, and he has no illusions about making it one.
You manage to stay quiet for the most part, although he sees the way your eyelids flutter, blinking away tears. The tension in your body, the way you stop yourself from trying to get away from the pain. The chopped breathing. He would be cussing and cursing, but you seem intent on not even letting that effect show on you.
When heâs done with the cleaning, he picks up the needle. He finds he feels bad about the pain heâs about to inflict. He clears his throat, looks down at his hands. Then he raises them, the side of his palm skating the skin of your stomach.
âYou been hunting for long?â he says, pierces your skin on long. You suck in a hard breath, and your eyes go glassy. Dean clenches his jaw. He knows heâs doing this to help you, but in a case like this the brain canât differentiate between fixing and inflicting. And boy, does he know something about inflicting. Fuck, he used to be better at this. He really has gotten soft.
You donât answer, so Dean pierces skin again. A soft whimper comes from you, and a tear runs out of your eye, down the side of your face. Dean notices his chest feeling tight.Â
âDonât think Iâve heard your name around, andââ
âDude,â you interrupt him, voice chopped but loud. âI donât wanna talk right now, okay?âÂ
Deanâs hands still as he looks at your face again. Kinda bitchy for someone whose guts heâs basically just been in. He smacks his lips, looks at the wound again, narrows his eyes to focus.
âSuit yourself,â he says, pierces skin once more. You tense again. He keeps going.
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time heâs finished, but then thatâs what winter feels like out here. He sighs, drops his hands. The stitches arenât pretty, but then this line of work isnât exactly a beauty contest. Thatâs what the bandages that go over it are for.
âIâll get you something to clean up,â he says as he stands, looks at your face for the first time in a while. You seem far away, lips slightly parted, but you blink when he addresses you, dislodging another tear. You sniff, raise your arm, unclenching your fist for the first time to wipe at it.
âYeah, thanks,â you say, voice cracking. Dean walks into the bathroom, washes his hands, happy to be out of that vulnerable moment. Give you a moment to collect yourself. He grabs some smaller towels, then puts a bigger one out in case you want to shower, even though he knows you probably wonât be in any condition to do that by yourself, and thatâs a future problem he really doesnât want to think about right now.
He walks downstairs, gets a bowl, fills it with warm water. Grabs a bottle of whiskey for good measure, then walks back upstairs, towels under his arm. He walks in, then remembers he maybe should have knocked, but itâs too late for that now.
Youâve managed to scoot up the bed, head resting a little higher, and thereâs a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort of it. You could have waited for him, have him help you, but Deanâs starting to realize thatâs not your style. He puts the stuff on the bedside table, then goes to the dresser.
âYou got your stuff anywhere?â he asks, back to you. âMotel, orâŚâ
âSundown Motel, yeah,â you say, voice sounding clearer. Dean nods, drags out a shirt of his. Youâll be drowning in his clothes, but your things are ruined, ripped and bloodied, so itâs not like thereâs another option.
âI can get them tomorrow,â he says, laying the shirt on top of the dresser. He turns, walks around the bed again. He wants to sit, but sitting on the bed feels like intruding on your space, so when he grabs the whiskey bottle and opens it, he does it standing.
âIs that to clean the wound?â you ask, nodding at the bottle. Dean chuckles, the sound surprising him, then shakes his head.
âNo,â he says, âfor internal application.â He takes a long swig, the burn feeling like it chases something from his brain. Then he holds the bottle out to you. You raise your eyebrows.
âAlcoholâs a blood thinner, you know?â you ask, and Dean has to work hard not to roll his eyes. He sways the bottle back and forth.
âYou donât want it?â he asks. You look at the bottle, then reach your arm out - carefully, so Dean leans forward, hands it to you. You raise it, take a swig too, making only a bit of a grimace when the liquor hits your tongue. You hold the bottle out to Dean again, and he takes it.
âSo,â he says. âWhat was that thing you were hunting?â
Your face is still tensed from the drink, but it slackens at the question. If Dean didnât know better, heâd think you look afraid.
âIâm not sure,â you say, shifting a little. âIt was⌠fast. I know that. Didnât get a good look, even while it was slicing me up.â Dean frowns, steps from one foot to the other. As if youâre reading his mind, you nod at the foot of the bed. He nods back, then sits, as far away from you as he can before handing the bottle back to you.
âSilver didnât work?â he asks. You scoff, shake your head.
âDidnât get a chance to try,â you say. Dean nods, watches as you drink again.
âDid it try to bite you?â he asks. What he means is: did it bite you? He didnât see any toothmarks, but then with how much blood there was on you, those are easy to miss. You shake your head, hand the bottle back to him.
âNo,â you answer. âI donât think it was out to feed. I think it was just trying to get rid of us. I think itâŚâ You stop, look down at your bloodied jeans. Dean tilts his head to the side.
âIt what?â he asks. He sees you chew at your lip, gaze pinned, like youâre replaying something in your head.
âIt⌠played with us, I think,â you say.Â
Dean feels that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The one thatâs been put there by a lifetime of hunting the things that go bump in the night, and doesnât seem to want to go anywhere even though heâs not out in the field anymore.
âTell me,â he says. You look at him, and thereâs fear on your face. It makes you look younger, or maybe just as young as you actually are, less bluster. You raise your shoulders, steel yourself.
âWhen we got to the steel mill,â you start, âthere was this⌠stench. I mean, unlike anything Iâve ever smelled. Rot and decay. Something⌠dead, but like, times a million. And itâŚâ
You swallow, so Dean hands the bottle back to you. You hold it by the neck, but donât drink. Rest it on your leg.
âThe stench would go away, and then come back, go away again,â you say. You press your lips together, then focus on Dean. âLike it was circling us. Toying with us.â Dean raises his chin, looks at the wall over your head. While you drink again, he thinks about what the hell this thing could be.Â
âNo birds,â he mutters. Whatever was roaming that place was bad.Â
He expects you to ask him to elaborate, and when you donât, he lowers his gaze again, looks at you. You look less terrified, more sad. He shifts, which seems to break you out of it. You blink, then put the bottle on the bedside table, but donât look at him.
âMerleâs not coming back, is he?â you ask, voice low.
Deanâs entire body tenses. Itâs the feeling of being caught in a lie, the embarrassment of it. The anger at himself. He doesnât know enough about your and Merleâs relationship to know if there is something there that tipped you off, or if it was his lie. He needs to swallow before he can speak.
âNo, heâs not,â he says. You nod slowly.
âIs he dead?â you ask. Dean grinds his teeth. Goddamn it.
âHe is,â he answers. âAt the mill. That thing got him.â Strung him up like a Christmas ornament, he wants to add, because part of him is looking for comfort in sharing the horror he witnessed. But he knows you donât need that information.
He sees your face crumple, scrunch up, maybe to force back tears. You turn to the side, hands shaking in grief, or pain, at the movement, heâs not sure. All he knows is that youâre moving away from him, hiding your face against the pillow. Fuck. He messed this up royally.
For a few moments, heâs unsure about what to do. Should he comfort you? What the fuck is he gonna say? If you and Merle were close, which he didnât assume, cause Merle made it sound like he just met you, but if you were, this was the worst possible way for you to get the news. He raises his hand, runs it over the lower part of his face. Looks around. Your shoulders arenât shaking, but youâre not turning back to him. So he slowly stands.
âYou should get some rest,â he says, trying to stop his voice from dropping into fake joviality to make up for the tension heâs feeling. He nods at the bedside table even though you canât see it. âGet yourself cleaned up, and⌠and get some sleep.â He takes a step backwards, towards the door. Feels like he canât leave it at that, pity or shame or a weird cocktail of the two warring in him.
âIâm gonna leave the knife,â he says. âAnd Iâm⌠Iâm gonna put my car keys on the small table near the front door. Theyâre for the blue truck, not the Chevy. If you want to leave.â He clenches his jaw again. Youâd have to sneak past him on the couch downstairs, maybe terrified heâd wake and stop you.Â
âJust,â he says when he reaches the door, âjust leave my car somewhere I can find it, okay? And donât scratch it. I really mean it. Don't scratch it.â
You still donât react. Dean lets his head drop forward, shakes it. Then he walks out.
He sighs as he walks down the stairs, needing to duck his head at the bottom so he doesnât smash it against the part where the ceiling is too low - something that happened to him a lot when he first moved in all these years ago. When he reaches the bottom, he cusses under his breath. He left the whiskey upstairs.
He opens a second bottle - no skin off his back. Pours it into a glass, cause he thinks the line between drinking from the bottle and not drinking from the bottle, extenuating circumstances like he just had upstairs notwithstanding, is the line that lets him keep his sanity in this life. He wonders if youâre able to go to sleep, what with the trauma just inflicted on you and the wound. Should he have helped you wash? Get changed? Probably, but also, would that have freaked you out worse?
He realizes heâs standing in the middle of the room, rolling the glass in his hand. He sniffs, shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking. He downs the glass, then fills it again. Takes the truck keys from where they are on the table.
Dumb idea to offer the truck to you, though better than offering Baby. Maybe he should have offered to sleep in the car, so you could have the cabin to yourself? But thereâs no way for you to get away from this place. He imagines it, you in your ripped clothes, bloodied, panting, running, or limping, more likely, out into the dark, away from him, right into the arms of God knows who.Â
He sniffs again, walks to the table next to the door and puts the keys down. No, it was the right thing to do. If you do come downstairs, heâll wake from it anyway - small chance heâll catch any sleep. He can offer to drive you somewhere.
Dean plops down on the couch, rolls his shoulders. Thereâs some of your blood on his clothes, and he should probably change, but all his clothes are upstairs in the dresser, and heâs not about to walk in there again. Fuck it. Heâs slept in worse.Â
He drains the glass again, puts it on the floor before stretching out on the couch. Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows canât be good for his back, but at the same time, it feels like he fits somewhere. More nostalgic than he likes to be, but it is what it is.Â
He closes his eyes. If youâre still there in the morning, heâll drive you to your motel. You can make your way from there, if youâre up for it, and then he can go back to burn poor old Merle, and then life can go back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for him.
Sleep comes quickly, and that, in itself, is surprising.
Thank you for reading! âĄ
Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth.
âSupport me by buying me a coffee!
Iâm sorry itâs taken me forever, but can I just say up front that I love the premise youâve given him here. Not only THE LIFE HE FUCKING DESERVES, but ten years on from the episode that shall-not-be-named and clearly never happened. If he didnât own a bar THIS would be him, enjoying the tranquility of a cabin in the woods somewhere (minus the phones maybeâsomething something technologyâthatâre bound to get annoying some days). Still with his toes in the family business. Still sane because heâs being social in his own way, and can help other hunters in need if necessary. Itâs just so so good for him (Iâm sorry again, Sorry, Iâm rambling)
Letâs see if I can remember why I highlighted these bits to quote back to youuuu đ
Later that night, Deanâs on the couch, catching his four hours, when heâs woken by a phone ringing.Â
This is what Iâm talking about lol. And the poor guy. He doesnât have to save the world anymore and heâs still only getting his four hours? Might have something to do with sleeping on that couch with the *checks notes* - ahhhh yesâ
Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows canât be good for his back
You have a bed old man! What happened to your memory foam dreams? You couldâve brought that with you or god forbid bought a new one. You have a truck to transport these things now (love that heâs also concerned with the truck, but not as much as Baby). Seriously though, it makes sense if heâs by the phones. The man likes to suffer - possibly so he can whine about it lol
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldnât quite stink this bad yet.
Oh dear. This line hit me deep in the gut. I donât want to imagine what it smelt like. And to try and save her from the image of it later on. Pure Dean. The worlds most humble, self-sacrificing and self-deprecating man right there
He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
RIP Merle
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. Heâs not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe heâs wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he canât explain it any other way.Â
I LOVE how feisty this reader is! No wonder heâs going to fall for her (aside from the fact he was intrigued by Merle calling her a young thing). But she can clearly hold her own, even when sheâs bleeding and all scratched up. Hold those tears. Refusing his help even to sit up.
Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dudeâs bed
Iâm glad he realises how creepy this is. Thinking back to that season 13 episode with Kaia (not that i remember it all that well), but the amount of times heâs done some dodgy shit for the sake of what he sees is justified. I could see him potentially holding someone against their will because he wants to save them. Good boy for giving her the option with those keys and leaving her be
Heâs not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife youâre still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Soft parts! Iâm shoving this in my brain to use it. Why the hell have I never thought of or can recall seeing this before! Fucking genius if you ask me. Be wary of your soft parts sir!
When they saw their assistant in half?
You know me. I just love the references he comes up with, whether from pop culture or general life, but this is also genius, my love. Comparing her wounds to a failed magicians trick⌠SoâŚsheâs stuck there for a while youâre saying? How terrible to be stuck with Dean đ
Stick around. He doesnât know where he got that from.
âDonât flatter yourself.âÂ
Dude you just had the little thought that she might stick around lol
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time heâs finished, but then thatâs what winter feels like out here.
Bea-you-tiful line đ
What he means is: did it bite you?
Smart Man. They canât throw him out just yet. Unrelated butâ
Heâs just so clever đ
Ahhhhhh. What a brilliant start. This is going to be fun to see how this plays out. Will she try and leave when heâs not sleeping (love that he did fall asleep at the end there). Hereâs hoping she stays with him and heâs not so alone in his tranquility once they get to know each other. But I guess, even a bit of fun for him (and her) temporarily will be good for him â¤ď¸
every time i comment on an ao3 fic i'm pretty sure it's incomprehensible gibberish. but if i can bring joy to one (1) author's day or make even just one author feel inspired, i am happy.
bringing Dean out of a storm after a hunt goes wrong
content: gn!reader. established relationship. vulnerable Dean. hurt/comfort. resolution in the rain. mentions of injuries and blood. two kisses.
.đĽ Ý Ë
Sometimes, despite all the planning a person does to prepare for a situation, the script shifts awry, stringing you from your shoulders for an improv you didn't sign up for, making you react to an unforeseen action, just like how there were way more vamps in the nest that you have been staking out.
And the performance of an improv might not always translate how you expect it to be when all you can see is the different ways you might end up dying today, and maybe that acceptance was already there, just not for yourself. Not for the ones you love and care about.
Dean managed to behead the vamp that tried to jump you from behind in the last second, making you face yet another one that came at you from the front, who managed to slice your arm through your shoulder, but only for Dean to end up with a more severe gash on his forearm before taking it down.
Between the stubborn "Dean, hold still!" and the "I'm fine, sweetheart!" at the motel you were calling home for the night, Rain arrived in town with her carry-on bag, telling everyone she was here to stay the weekend. Dean found himself withdrawing a bit more than usual while nursing your wound after you demanded to patch him up first. You knew that silence, all too well.
"Hey," you called out gently, "You still with me?" The question somehow ends up stepping on a minefield instead of defusing a bomb because all you got was a "Right there with you, sweetheart," with a strained smirk, before he told you he was going out to clear his head.
Groaning at the fact of not having an umbrella, you quickly put on your still bloody jacket and follow after him. Knowing the rain would be the least of his concerns with how much louder the demons in his head were already talking.
The rain slipped through the tear in your jacket and into your freshly bandaged wound, sending a wince through your nerves. "Dean!" You reach out your hand onto his shoulder, feeling him shudder back into his senses before he turns his head to the side, not being able to face you, "Go back inside, baby," he pleaded, and you could hear the defeat in his voice, putting your well being over his yet again.
The rain anchored your weight to the ground, as if telling the two of you that you're not leaving until you make up. Not knowing where the rain stopped and his tears began. And despite not uttering a word, you can see how the pain has its shackles around his throat.
"I'm not leaving, Dean." You assure him as you step into his vicinity; the trembling in his bones is evident in how white his knuckles were, the cold emphasising it clearly, hoping he could hear the conviction above the pain you two were in, "Not now, not when it's easier to gun it so I could stay alive, or when you close everyone out, not ever."
Lightning flickered through the sky, illuminating your paled cheeks from the cold. His gaze falls to the ground, another wave of guilt consuming him for letting you stay in the rain enough that you're shivering. His own injuries be damned.
"I.. should've seen it coming." He starts, running a hand over his mouth, trying to get his bearings, but you knew the spiral staircase he was about to climb down to, and you didn't let him step on it. "No, De..", you reach for his hand, his bandage already soaking and the blood seeping, "You couldn't have seen it, we were ambushed." Your gaze searches his; he is so far away, and all you wanted was to find him and bring him back to you.
"Look at me... please," you whisper, the rain almost covering it up if it weren't for how close you were, his breathing coming in broken and shallow when he let himself look at you, your cold hand feeling like a warm ember as it cups his cheek, sending a trail of goosebumps all over his nervous system. "You kept me safe. Kept us safe."
His lips part, deflection already ready to spill before you brace your lips against his to keep it from falling. The last pillar in him crumbles as he kisses you back, letting you step down from being on your tiptoes. You could feel how warm his body was despite the pouring rain, telling you how much more it was on overdrive. Both physically and mentally.
"Can I look after you?" you breathed as you both rested your heads against each other, your hand still on his cheek while the other sheilded his aching heart, "Will you please let me?" The question hung quietly between the two of you, his hand still wrapped around your back and shoulder, and you felt him. Nodding. quietly resting his chin on your shoulder, almost hiding in the crook of your neck. And that was a louder declaration than any yes could, and, so, you did.
After taking turns in the shower, you sat him down on the bed, the med kit splayed once more as you made sure that his wounds were properly dry before wrapping them up in new bandages after he did yours, your thumb caressing his skin when you'd grab something from the box, placing gauzy kisses on top of them.
His gaze never leaves your face, his free hand attached to your hip, rubbing delicately back and forth while you work your healing hands. Wishing he could strip your pain away the way angels do. Smiling softly back at you whenever you'd look up at him.
"You're really pretty.." he whispers, halting your movements for a second as your heart beats extra hard. His hand comes up to caress your cheek and you lean into it, your own coming up to hold his wrist.
"I know." You jab lightly, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as he chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'm sor-", he tries but you cut him short with a kiss, letting it soothe the aches clinging to the two of you, sweet, gentle and reverent in all the right ways. "Don't be.."
The rain continued her dance outside, cocooning the both of you inside the way she had planned all along, knowing the pain won't rake it's soaking fingers along your scabs anymore.
.đĽ Ý Ë
hope I did your vision justice, lovely Katie. I loved the idea so much. Had so much fun writing it despite how much my heart ached.
So sweet and tender - love some Dean hurt/comfort, and what a beautiful image of him fighting his demons in the rain, and the reader helping him (and themselves) through itâ¤ď¸
# my favourite part about this post # is that nowhere does it say to reblog this # but weâre all reblogging it # because if we have to suffer # so do other writers
*banners etc made by me in canva | above image links x x
Ch 5: Non-inert Treatments
Read on AO3 || Series Masterlist
Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!Reader
the placenta effect (pla-cen-ta ef-fect), n, a phenomenon in which the mental health of non-committed partners decreases due to inept compliance with at-home pregnancy tests; this can lead to additional delayed or secondary results that negatively affect their physical health, emotional wellbeing, other relationships, employment and personal growth; individuals partaking in the family business should proceed with caution
Tags/Warnings: explicit | smut, angst, fluff & hurt/comfort | friends with benefits to lovers | idiots in love | pining | miscommunication | unplanned pregnancy | kidnapping | rescue | monster of the week | vampires | case fic | happy ending | non-linear narrative | POV Dean Winchester, incl. Dean being an insecure dumbass | 18+only MDNI
chapter word count: 9287
A/N: Chapter five of my @storytellers-contest âs The Jensen Ackles Chronicles. competition entry. Beta'd by @kblognar
ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE
non-inert treatments: non-inert treatments are another confounding factor to the placebo effect; while they could be considered a treatment for the placenta effect also (see abortion and birth), it is more often considered the point in which the non-committed couple reaches a crossroads, either furthering their relationship and becoming fully committed to each other, or going their separate ways as far as their individual relationship goes; any resulting child carried to full-term is not included as part of the couples relationship, except when broadened into a family group - a separate issue outside of the placenta effect study
Dean never intended for you to sleep in his bed that morning. By the time he woke up, it was well into the day. Was hard to tell when he couldnât see his clock over your shoulder, but could see the lights from the hallway filtering in under the door and through the grill.
Mustâve been the way his roomâs setup was different to yours. The end of his bed opposite the doorway meant the light shone into his eyes if he looked at it the right way, like he did then. If heâd had a hangover, heâd have been screwed, technically he had, depending on how you looked at it. Some might say he was.Â
His arm was around your waist, and while it wasnât awkward per se, it was surprising. As rare as him still being in his bed so late in the day.Â
You always slinked off after sex. Each round with him, a literal wham-bam-thank-you maâam kind of situation neither of you mentionedâever. Until you wound up together in the sheets or out of them the next time, and even then, aside from the usual bedroom talk, there wasnât much talking going on. His, âyeah, babyâsâ and bringing up how well you were taking him. How wet you were or when he was about to shoot his load.Â
After the kitchen and the subsequent move to his bed, the last he remembered was him shooting into you and filling you up. His fingers, still pressed into you. Their tips brushed over himself as he continued to draw the sensations out of your body. Heâd all but stilled, aside from his chest heaving against your back, soon finding a sliver of post nut clarity that allowed him to collapse with you still in his arms.Â
Now, he was sticky. The good kind. A sheen of you and him covered his junk like a layer of sweat, having not bothered to clean either of you up. It was something you insisted on doing yourself. Except this time.
He leaned back and glanced down between you. It was gonna be another Memphis situation if you didnât move soon. Even at the thought of it, his dick twitched at the prospect. Even his own frown towards it did little.Â
You shifted, though. Hips angled more so the one under his forearm moved closer to the mattress. Legs stretched, receding beside him. Knees rubbed together. He had to shuffle back himself to avoid your ankle to his shin, which then had him stilling because you sighed in your sleep, and it wasâŚsweet. Nice? Different?Â
Definitely different.Â
Reminded him of his days with Lisa and Ben. The relaxed mornings on the ones he didnât have to run off to work for and be at the site by eight. Hell, even those workdays were easy when he considered everything hunting entailed.Â
Itâd been a while since he could just be. To lay there in his bedâany bed for that matter, and not have a care in the world.
Not rushed. He had no desire to get up. Nor was he hellbent on getting somewhere to even get his coffee. There was no bitter smell that morning thatâd woken him as it was, and even his bladder seemed to give him a break. He had to wonder if it was just in cahoots with his sack. His body parts stuck together and all that, but, hey? What was a world without friends?
You were his friend. Family. That wouldnât change, and as you came to, he held you firmer. Waiting for the moment youâd recognise where you were, most likely flip out on him, though he was hoping for the opposite. That the peace would last a little longer so he could pretend he had a slice of normal. Remember what heâd seen the night before in your eyes.Â
He still didnât know what that was. Just knew how it made him feel. How heâd wanted to cradle you close, much in the way he was doing now. How he wanted to do it again.
As his thumb ran over your skin, your stomach muscles below his other fingers tightened. Your breath, quiet, as opposed to the softer ones youâd released as youâd slept.Â
He could feel you tensing beneath his touch, still he dared dropping his head between your shoulder blades. His hand, still on you, still holding you, but loosening the longer you did nothing more than breathe.
âMorning,â he rumbled. His voice hoarse from the scotch thatâs remnants still clung to the back of his throat.Â
âHey.â You cleared your own before shifting again, body flipping to your back. It left enough distance between you he felt the draft from the outside hall in the gap below the sheet that covered you both.
Someone had pulled it over you. More than likely him, though he couldnât recall. His mind, still focussed on the sex and your words in the kitchen.Â
Youâd told him you werenât fine. âIâm not,â youâd said in particular to him telling you he was. But youâd brought up his getting injured, too. Rowenaâs henchman. And though heâd favoured you with his shoulderâas heâd kissed you, heâd felt a need within himself to ask if you were okay. Even during the moment with his dick ploughing into you, he felt the need to ask again. Yet both times youâd insisted you were good.
Looking at your face now had him wondering, though. If he asked again, would you say the same thing?Â
He wasnât sure itâd get him anywhere when youâd already pulled away with just his forehead to your spine. Granted, you were still waking up, and okay, his arm was also on your stomach. You mightâve felt the stirrings of his morning wood.Â
The whole setup was unusual. He couldnât deny it. But sittingâlying there in silence wasnât the way to go about things. He had to say something before you retreated.
So he changed his trajectory. Pulled his arm away from the pillow you were using. Pulled it back to him and drew the sheet higher over his waist. He put his other hand behind his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. How he treated all the women before you that werenât Lisa or Cassie; they were the only ones he was comfortable lying with like this.Â
And you?Â
He was getting way too sappy for so early in the day, even if it was late for him. You stared at the ceiling, too. Head rolled back a little so your chin was higher than your nose.Â
âThis isânew,â he said. Heâd almost gone with nice. Still thought it was, but he wasnât about to tell you that. âDidnât think Iâdââ
âIâm pregnant.âÂ
What?
There was a full minute of him trying to swallow your words and wallow in them before he did something. At least, thatâs what it felt like. He had to taste them on his tongue first. Let them sink into his head while he tried to control his reaction before he sat straight up. One knee bent, the other shoved towards your waistâwhich he had to adjust. Get the offending limb well away from your womb and theâ
âGesundheit.â His brow raised and the crowns of his cheeks raised higher. A smile, not joyful, but fucking confused, plastered on his face because you had just had sex. Hours ago, sure, but how could youâŚ?Â
His lashes fluttered again. To be that fly on the wall that could get the fuck out of dodge.
Had he heard that right?
He stared at you. While you hadnât run off or cowered under the sheet like he mightâve expectedâprior experience judged uponâyou had an odd streak to your lips. âI mean, Iâm late,â you huffed. âI, ah, Iâd been practicing how I was gonna tell you, but my headâI dunno.â You shook said head, the same lips trembling. âI was struggling how to tell you, but itâs been almost two weeks now and Iââ
âWell, two weeks ainât the same as right now,â he chuckled. The one that was ever boyish as he came down from the initial heart attack youâd tried to give him. Though how and why that seemed to make him feel better was beyond him. ââCause I just came in ya a few hours ago, and thatâwell, Iâm not a doctor, but you donât know that soon.âÂ
He stared at you for a second longer. Looked over your face and the mouth thatâs shape told him you were serious. He ran a hand over his own. Ever aware, you watched him even though you attempted to make it look like you werenât.Â
He lowered himself back onto the mattress. Heâd have sighed as his back hit the memory foam, but he held it in, knowing every action was being scrutinised. His arm, furthest from you, still up in the air, T-Rex style all over again.Â
There were a lot of similarities to Memphis.
Even though heâd just released you for your own comfort, he was sliding his hand back under you and pulling you closer to him. When that didnât push you away, he risked his thumb stroking your skin again. âYou, ah, youâre sure youâre late? I mean itââ
âIâve been waiting for it,â you said. He heard your breaths in between. âYâknow, cramps orâsomething, but the last time I had my period was after that case in Tulsa, andââ
âOkay,â he said. Defeated, maybe? There wasnât much he could do at that moment, buck naked and still perplexed. Wasnât like he didnât know how it could happen. Not like heâd suited up.
âOkay?â You sat up that time. His hand had to drop to the mattress to accommodate you. âWhat do youââ
âI mean, okay.â He stressed his voice enough that youâd drop the question. There were already enough false âIâm fineâsâ going around; you didnât need another one to contend with on top of them.Â
He meant this one. Sort ofâfreaking the fuck out. There wasnât a lot you could do at that moment, either. Not like you had one of those tests from the drugstore on hand you could pee on, though heâd have to go and get you one to be sure.Â
It was you, though. Not some Amazon. Not Lisa, who heâd noped out of. It was you. Someone he could deal with. Wasnât like youâd taken a test and the positive was glaring back at himâyet.
His hand reached for your bare thigh, now exposed. His eyes, tracing the movements his thumb resumed for fear of looking at your rack that was also out on display for him. âAll we know is youâre late. Canât do much about it now.â
âButââ
âIâll go get you a test myself.â Right after he had his coffee. Chuck knew he deserved it. His self control was reason alone.
Dean pulls a pack of peas out of Jodyâs fridge and slaps it on his shoulder. No towel, no paper, just straight over the former gunshot wound Tiny had a hand in making worse.Â
He winces. Stares at the inside of the freezer a little longer, allowing the cold air to cool his face down, even with the threat his low brow might stay that way.Â
He knows thereâs worry etched into the grooves around his eyes and nose. He knows the second he turns around and faces Jody and Sam, theyâll have questions for him. Samâs been holding them since the motel in Grafton. Since Dean frantically searched through your things for answers. Even before.
What was he supposed to say to them? What did he say to you when he didnât know how to form the words he wanted to tell himself?
Things were okay? Because they werenât. Not really. You were okay. The baby was okay. All six millimetres of it. But Dean didnât even know how big that was until he googled it. His kid was smaller than his smallest fingernail. What kind of father was he?
The kind that let their mom get taken by a nest of vamps, thatâs who. Dean could say as much as he wanted that it wasnât his fault, but he pushed you away. Fought against you. Heâd made your life hell enough that youâd left the motel on your own to get a second test. So what kind of father was he?Â
Not the kind to be around. Thatâs for sure.
Water running out of the tap spills into a container behind him. He didnât even hear either of them move. He shuts the door and spins around to see Jody filling up the coffeemaker. Sammyâs staring at him from across the room, leaning on a piece of bench, arms folded, but neither says a word, and Dean straightens himself up, having not realised he was slouching.Â
All his muscles scream at him as he slinks past them both to the dining table. He pulls up a chair, the one facing the window and away from them, and slinks into it. Those same muscles protest under the onslaught of bunching up under his own weight.
Legs stretching below donât help. Only make it harder. His bad arm, draping on his thigh, he loses his head and stares at the wood grain, waiting for someone to speak or for his thoughts to turn happier.
He should be, right? Happy that is. Youâre not talking to him âcause youâre resting in Claireâs room. Thatâs better than not talking and ignoring him.
Youâve hardly said a word since the hospital. He made you see someone in Grand Forks because it was safer than Grafton after the case. Just made him more aware of the kind of life youâd be bringing your kid into.
His kid.Â
His jaw grinds from side to side. Tongue scrapes the back of his teeth and lips. Jodyâs the first to join him, which is surprising. She places a hand on his good shoulder as she moves to the chair to his right and diagonal.
He doesnât look, though. His lips twitch into a shallow smile that only just clips the edges. Enough for her to see he appreciates the sentiment.Â
But she says nothing. Heâs okay with the silence. Until Samâs boots shuffle over the floor, and he can only guess whatâs coming.Â
He doesnât sit next to him like he often does when theyâre here, though, but across from him where he can stare at him some more.
Clearing his throat, Dean still doesnât move his face from the grains on the table before him. He shuffles his ass, though. Presses the pack of peas firmer against the ache. They should be on his heart or stomach, but he doesnât have enough hands and Jody doesnât have enough peas.Â
âDean?â she tries, in that mom voice of hers. Sânot helping. Even when she leans forward to catch his eye, he refuses to budge.
âSheâs okay, right? The doctor said theyâre both fine?â But even Jody, assuming his own rhetoric with the way her tone turned it into a question, not a statement, doesnât help Dean fix his resolve.
âItâs not the point.â He readjusts his grip. His hand attached to the bullet wound curls his fingers into a half fist.
âIt is the point, Dean,â Sam says with the same know-it-all tone he used yesterday. âDoctor let her go. She didnât lose much blood.â
âBut she did lose blood.â Dean raises his voice. Itâs just not enough to make a scratch on the air. âSheâs got a big chunk taken out of her neck.â
âThatâs no different from any other time.â Sam folds his arms and leans onto the table, trying to get closer to him. âShe had worse in Tulsa.â
And that made it better?Â
âNo one roofied her in Tulsa.â
What if theyâd turned you? What if theyâd decided you were worthless like Humphries? They dumped him for not having enough of the HCG crap in his veins.Â
And you? Well, turns out you had a lot of it. Growing stronger every minute, according to the good doc in Grand Forks. Turns out Deanâd fucked up again by insisting you drink that water bottle before you took the test. Fucked up by not going out and getting it for you sooner.Â
Who needed sleep? Not him. In fact, if he hadnât been such a horny son of a bitch, you mightâve told him sooner than after youâd woken up.
Dean shakes his head. His tongue swipes the dry patches on his lips and darts back inside. Thatâs all either of them is getting from him now. Even with Samâs persistence.Â
âIâm just saying sheâs strong.â Sam shrugs. His head drops, too. âIf your kids like youâŚthen theyâre strong, too.âÂ
âTheyâll be lucky to have you both,â Jody adds. Doing the mom bit again.Â
Sheâs good at it. Raising Alex and Claire canât have been easy. Dean remembers her bitching about them not being hers.Â
Said she had no history, but then she added Patience to the group. Made it three after losing her husband and her own kid.Â
Sheâs cut out for this stuff. Deanâs not. He gave up on Ben and Lisa when it got too hard. Can say all he likes he came back to hunting because Sammy came back topside.
He did come back for that, but he told no one, not even Ben, that the line about not being able to sit at Lisaâs dinner table wasnât because of his job and being respectable. No, they didnât deserve him there because he didnât want to be there anymore.Â
Emma didnât deserve him, either. Even if she was a monster, he still wonders if what she was saying had any truth behind it, because people can change. Nature can change.Â
Youâre down the hall. You and the baby he thought of as a fleeting want until it was taken away from him twice.Â
He meant what he said to you in the warehouse, and now that heâs seen them with his own eyes when you were coherent enough for the doctors to do the ultrasound, heâs sure he wants to be there with you even though he doesn't deserve it.Â
Doesnât stop him wanting you. Â
Decided that the second he saw you in that chair that he did. Knew he couldnât let anything like that happen to you ever again. No hunts. No cases. Heâd keep you in the bunker if he had to. Heâd get out if it meant he can keep them, too.Â
But just looking âround Jodyâs dining room is an ode to the apple pie life he canât give you.Â
It takes him down a notch. Makes him realise heâd let you both go if you wanted to get away from him. Make a safe life for yourself, âcause while he has a roof over his head, he doesnât have the necessities like Jody does. She also has the things that make a house a home. Like Lisaâs. Like the Humphries and the Walshâs thereâs love and life in this room alone.
Itâs not Bobbyâs, and it never will be, but the charm is in the warmth. Sheâs got colour and fabrics; not giant doilies, but a couch thatâs comfortable. One that sinks in just enough. Dean has the Dean cave with glass still on the floor from the smashed TV. While his armchairs are comfy, theyâre just surrounded by concrete and bleak.
The bunker ainât a place for a kid. Ignore the fact about a home, and itâs not his place to be around a kid, even his own. No matter what anyone says, he let you get taken. Even if he didnât do or planned on doing it, his actions led you there.
âTheyâre lucky to have her.â His jaw ticks. âSheâs the strong one.â You sat in that chair, knowing what you knew. Sitting next to the others. Dean still refuses to liken them to you.
When he heard you say his name, Deanâs heart only raced more. Sharp, like âthe quickening he felt in his balls when he came, the palpitations flooded his body. That adrenaline, already in his system, still set his every nerve on fire.Â
If only the heat could set the small room alight, not to burn, just to see, âcause the smellâŚthe smell wasnât pleasant. And Dean recognised the must for what it was.Â
Pungent, like a urinal was. Like the wet patches he found on the ground outside bars and under causeways from drunks. Those whoâd tried but failed to piss the excess booze away. Those who didnât realise they were doing it until the warm streams met their inner legs.
The stench singed the hairs in his nose, but it was worse than that. Concentrated, mixed with blood and excrement too, from whomever hadnât held it. But how could you blame them? Finding out vamps existed was the cliche for shitting oneâs pants as it was. Yeah, it didnât scream sanitary.
Of course it wouldnât. Even with the refrigeration unit not fired up and under cooler temperatures. The walk-in cooler was the perfect example of a living petri dish, and he wouldâve expected no less from any civilian. Five people in a room, six if you included when Humphries was there, things were bound to build. All of you left in a giant closet. Some, more than a week.Â
If Ronald had died in here, it wouldâve been worse for the other three that were still there, not knowing if they were next. Not knowing why theyâd been targeted. Dean wondered if you knew now, having been on the case with him and Sam.Â
Wasnât something he was about to bring up here and now, though.
Youâd think those flames coursing through him wouldâve spared him from the ice, but no. His skin, his hands, his cheeksâthe parts exposed, felt the air seep down into his bones as he strode across to you.Â
If you were okay, then why werenât you giving him some smartass rendition of him being too late, not struggling to say his name? You were supposed to say something witty. Supposed to by rounding up the others and keeping their morale high, but you werenât.Â
Your shoulders curled over. Your head dropped even though youâd seen him.Â
Was he too slowâtoo late? Thoughts of babies and human chorionicâwhateverâbe damned. Were you okay?
He said your name as he dropped to his knees on the mat below him. The moisture trapped in the bases of the anti-slip holes soaked into the fabric of his pant legs. He ignored that, too. Even as the rubber edges dug into his skin like icicles in the snow. Â
âHey.â His palm came to your thigh, squeezing just enough for you to feel him through your jeans as he looked up into the umbra of your face. âYou alright?â He forced a smile, though all youâd see were his teeth, uneven from the force of it. His brows folded at the cold that covered your own legs and the dark patch on your neck, catching what little light had filtered in from the hall.
âTold âemâcome.â Your voice, though hoarse and rambled, huffed in amusement. âCavalry.â Your half thoughts sounded more like youâd just woken up rather than being excited he was here to rescue you. Whether you were was neither here nor there to him. Not when you were within his armâs reach.Â
âThink you became the bait,â he muttered, trying his best to be lighthearted. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. âHow manyâd you count?â He focused on the specifics, hoping youâd understand without further explanation. The last thing he wanted was to spook the crowd any further, but with his fingers distracted, his gaze only flicked to them.Â
âUm,â you muttered, âfiveâthink. Howââ
âFive,? he said, unlocking the screen and holding it up to his ear once heâd dialed Sam. âPattinsonâs girlfriend was the last,â he chuckled. He just didnât expect you to question him on his knowledge of teenage vampires when you were struggling to speak. Â
Before you could get any further than the âhow,â he was squeezing your leg again as he waited for the dial tone to do its thing. At least your gears were doing theirs. âTake it easy, yeah. Mâhere now. Gonna get you out of here.âÂ
The light from his device, even against his cheek, had lit up your face enough for him to really see you: alert, somewhat, exhausted maybe. The bite on your neck, the same as any other heâd seen on you and others before, though it hit differently.
âHey,â he said again when Sam answered, not giving his brother time to say more than a greeting back before he cut him off. âFound her. Get the car and bring it to the front.â He hung up just the same, keeping the screen lit up to see you all better.Â
âNow the real cavalryâs here.â He winked at you, eyes soon tracing the bite on your neck once more.Â
Blood still oozed out of your wound. Not flowing enough, youâd bleed out, but enough for Dean to know theyâd bitten more than once in the few hours theyâd taken you. Most likely now, before heâd arrived thanks to Bella. The back of your hand had a catheter as Mr. Humphries had done. Tubing attached to it, wound round the back of your chair to one of five drips.
His remarks about Ronald would ring true in some ways; if the cancer patient had been the one to put the catheters in everyone. Someone had some kind of medical training, not that Dean did himself. He was just repeating what the coroner had mentioned. And Dean?
âLetâs get you out of this, honey,â he said.Â
Much like the handle of the machete in his hand the night before, the plastic in Deanâs hand sweats against his skin.Â
Of course, itâs the crinkle of it that grabs yours and Alexâs attention. Of course, you both turn away from what youâre doing and look up at him, taking any choice of knocking away from him. All thatâs left is to plaster his face with an over-confident grin. He licks his lower lip through it when he sees the state of your undress and what heâs actually walked in on.Â
On the inside, heâs still wondering what the hell heâs going to say to you. Thereâs a lot you need to talk about, but heâs gotta push all the self doubt and loathing to the side, because at the end of the day? Youâre whatâs important to him.Â
He flicks his gaze to your face. âHowâs the patient?â is what he goes with. Simple, though heâs feeling like an idiot. Doesnât even know why heâs thinking so damn hard about this when itâs just you. Itâs just Alex. Sheâs seen it all. Heâs just sure as hell wishing she was seeing it from a different room.Â
Itâs bad enough heâs been failing when it comes to you, and now he has an audience with her. Even with the boyfriend turned vampire, he doubts sheâs seen everything. She hasnât seen him handle relationship stuff. At least Sam left him to his own devices for most of the case, which is why heâs in this mess.
As much as heâs grateful Alex is checking your wound, he was gone for over an hour. She shouldâve been and gone when he was gone plenty enough for her to be done with this. Out buying you the stuff the doctors at the hospital said you needed, that they needed. And like the weight of the test in the pharmacy bag pulled tight against his fingers in the bunker that night he brought it home, the one from Jodyâs local market weighs on him.Â
Heâs got vitamins. Heâs got the candy you like. Ice cream and the cereal you always stock, already in Jodyâs kitchen, even though heâs planning on heading home with you and Sam tomorrow. But you might want it. He canât believe heâs gonna say it, but this is his kid; they might want it, too. Heâd get you a cheeseburger to wash it all down with just for them.Â
âJust redressing her wound,â Alex says with the faintest sliver of a smirk gracing her lips. Her teeth on show like sheâs trying to impersonate Elvis or her former found family, but in actuality, sheâs just concentrating as she places the last of the bandages. Â
Okay, yeah, the question was obvious, but she didnât need to be like that. Itâs the first time heâs come to see you since the kitchen, after listening to Jody and Sam waffle on about how lucky you both were. Heâs brought up the courage to talk to you now, because the last time you really talked you were sitting out the front of the Walshâs house and that didnât go so well.
Which is why he still doesnât see it. The part about him being lucky. The part where he should just talk to you. Like he hasnât tried that already.
You hid this from him for days. You hid being late for two weeks, but he could forgive you for that. He can forgive you for the not telling yesterday, too.Â
Just has to keep his cool and not fuck up like last time. Part of the reason heâs been letting you rest since he got you to Jodyâs place was so he could mull over everything. Avoid saying something else, heâs gonna regret.Â
And heâs regretting everything. From the moment you told him you were late in his bed, he can see how heâs been a dick. Asking you out like that. Walking out on you like that. The list can go on; heâs just aware thereâs two sets of eyes still staring at him until Alex focuses on helping you slip his flannel back over your shoulder. The one he gave you this morning at the hospital. The one youâve worn since.
He thumps his free fist against the doorâtwice, like heâd planned with the knocking. âI can help her with that. Think Jody said she needed you in the kitchen.â He doesnât care that itâs obviously a lie. Just relieved Alex stops mid button.Â
She seeks your confirmation. A single glance, before youâre nodding that itâs okay. Which, great? Perfect, though Deanâs wondering if some silent communication is also going on with the amount of times your eye twitches.Â
âThanks, Alex,â you say as she stands up and collects the supplies she brought in with her up in her arms.Â
Dean mutters his own. The hand behind his back rearranges his fingers around the bouquet and the bag heâs holding, but he has to drop them to his side when you work at the next button yourself.Â
He pretends neither of you is staring at the bright pink wrap and the softer tones of the peonies the lady at the store helped pick out for him as he strides over to you. The thing is offensive to his eyes, too. Canât remember a time when heâs even given someone flowers, unless he counts his own mom.
Even then, it was the djinn in Joliet and Mary herself that reminded him of it. The weeds he pulled from the Lawrence houseâs front lawn reminded four-year-old Dean of his yellow Tonka truck. His momâd said heâd been proud of them.Â
He wasnât so proud when Sam gave him shit for it, however. Even though it was the actions of a kid and not of a grown man, like Alexâs continuous smirk, it was damn hilarious, to everyone but him.
Dean places the flowers and the rest of his haul on the bed next to you, only to find Alex still staring at him. Her lips, now flattening, but somehow pushing her cheeks higher up her face to the baseline of her lashes.Â
Short of asking if he can help her, âWeâll call you if we need you,â he says. His tone, more preteen than adult-Dean. He might not know her as well as he knows Claire, but it only makes it easier to be dickish, even if itâs not called for.Â
âMight need me sooner than you think.â She snickers, as if she knows Deanâs got no idea, which is telling. There must be some silent communication going on between the two of you. More so when Alex pulls her cheeks higher with her brow and the way her eyes flicker to the flowers.Â
He still doesnât see whatâs so funny, though. Sure, heâs got them and he asked you out the way he had, but the gesture is all there. Itâs all about the action, not the words.
âWould you justââ He cocks his head to the door and lowers himself down to take over the button youâre still struggling with. Seems neither of you can take a hint, much like the women in the store who chattered at his sheer presence in the florist.Â
If heâs honest, cocky even, heâll admit itâs not the first time heâs received looks like the ones they were giving him. Sideways glances and whispers thatâd make most guys feel three feet tall. Technically, he did at that moment, already feeling so out of place in a tiny little shop front full of flowers grazing each limb as he tried to avoid others. Â
As it is now, your fingers pull his jean leg, and his name on your lips pulls him back.
Once Dean had removed the catheter from your hand, he wrapped his tie around your wrist and pulled you to your feet, hoisting you up, bridal style, against his chest. His fingers, digging into your flesh beneath your clothes, held you tight as he carried you out of the refrigeration unit.Â
He didnât look back.
There was no way he was hanging âround. You needed a hospital. To be checked over, and heâŚhe needed to know for sure.Â
His heart worked faster. Throbs passed by his ears and tremors tingled in his legs as he moved. He stepped over Robertâs girlfriend, kicking her one extra time before he continued back down the path towards Tiny, the others, and the entry where he hoped to God Sam had brought the Impala to.
They could call the feds once he had you in Baby. Even better once you were on your way out of Grafton if he could get away with it. He needed to get you to a doctor. Needed to get you checked out. âIâll get you to a hospital, yeah?â he muttered as his boots tread over the squares of moonlight that still kissed the concrete. âGet you checked out, make sureââ
He stopped himself. Couldnât bring himself to say it over the lump in his throat.
Dean wasnât even sure youâd figured it out yetâwhy theyâd taken you. Why theyâd gone after the others.Â
You hadnât been there for that conversation, having been locked in the bathroom, yet again. But the IV heâd taken out of your arm? The case. Sam, discovering all the others had HCG in their blood. Unless heâd missed something all the times youâd slept together, there was only one conclusion he could draw from everything.
And he was going to make sure you both were okay.
Dean shuts the door as you asked. His grip, gentle on the handle. The tips of his fingers, hanging off the brass. As the worn latch clicks into place, the soft thud of wood against wood sets deep in his gut.
Itâs the first solid chance heâs had of getting you alone since he carried you out of that warehouse and into the safety of Baby. Before then, it was the moment he left you at the motel to go with Sam and interview the punk-ass kid with the craters on his face.Â
A fleeting thought goes to Edith and the others he left behind when he got you out of there, but he couldnât do much more for them than what he and Sam have already done. There were two of them, and no way he was letting you walk out of there, even if youâd been coherent or insistent. The fact that you werenât, screamed at him to focus on you. Teenage moms be damned.Â
Thereâs enough guilt racing around his heart as it is without adding more to it. The sound of the plastic âround the peonies crinkling under your touch has his attention for now. Hand still on the door, his spine straightens, and he turns. The kind of spin heâs seen in the movies when the guy walks away from the love interest, only for them to call out to him and turn back around.Â
Youâre not calling out to him though. The tone youâd used with him when you told him to close the door was short, but the bouquet is louder still. Heâd say deafening, only that spots going to his heart, thatâs racing again, even though itâs heavy and he isnât. Heâd rather take running through a warehouse with your body cradled close to him or his boots thundering through an empty lot over what he has to face now.
So he does turn âround. His feet, slow and unpredictable, shuffle his body to face you. If his legs were any longer, heâd be toppling over because both heels seem to catch on nothing but the carpet beneath his feet and the hem of his jeans. Both frayed and shaggier than Jodyâs floor, and in need of replacing before he can even think of doing anything about his life and this kid youâre potentially going to be bringing into the world.Â
He still doesnât even know if you want to keep the baby. Not much was said at the hospital aside from getting you there. Even if he wanted to, you couldnât. You werenât coherent enough.Â
But the lump thatâs been continually in his throat and the nerves that even now urge him to draw you back into him like heâd done at the warehouse. Like every hour thatâs passed since he carried you through the warehouse. Since he bundled you into Babyâs back seat and held you closer. Since he carried you into the ER, all he could think was how much he wanted you to, too.
A moth drawn to a flame, his eyes catch on your body as they did the moment he stepped back from you after placing you on the hospital bed. You, now further away than you were then, like you were in Grafton compared to Omaha. Like you were in Majorieâs living room.
The tears well behind his eyes like theyâd done back in Grand Forks. When he wished heâd taken you to the hospital in Grafton over driving those extra forty-five minutes because of his damn job. His worthless life couldnât afford the risk of being found out, even at the risk of you.Â
Of them.Â
He scans the length of you, head to toe. He was certain he was the one burning. His whole body on fire from adrenaline alone, but the evening glow spilling through the curtains behind you lights up your silhouette like youâre his holy grail. Halo and all, crowning your hair like the glow he saw way back in the bunker when you first took that test in the bathroom.Â
He supposes its part true. You are his holy grail. Missouriâs words, a prophecy, inscribed in his head like the sigils he bears in his ribcage. Like the vision of you before him now. His flannel over your shoulders and hisâŚhis kid, all six millimetres of them, hidden behind the layers of your still flattened stomach. Protected from him and his life, for now.Â
Heâd continue staring at you. At the way your fingers curl around the bouquet and you focus on the delicate petals with your fingertips, but âThe white ones are fâapologies,â he mutters, digging deep into both his pockets. With how tightly his own stomach muscles are working, the waist slides easily down his hips unlike his words.
âThe, ah, the yellowâs for good luck,â he takes a tentative step, catching the way your eyes flicker over the flowers as you consider what heâs said. His catch on your form and latch onto it for fear of him blinking and you no longer being there.Â
He sees your lips move and the whisper you produce is so quiet, heâs lip-reading your question on them âbout the pink ones. Â
âLady at the store says theyâre for romance.â He leaves the part out about them being used in bridal bouquets and swipes his hand through the air, holding it up before you can say anything untoward him dating you again. âNot that Iâm expecting anything. I just, ah, wanted you to have something nice. Thatâs all.â He nods his head as if that sets everything in stone.
On that note, he strides forward, dropping to his knees in front of you as heâd done in the warehouse. As heâs done many times before.Â
Only heâs reaching for the bag youâve ignored until now. Ignoring you instead of looking at you up close now that heâs shrinking before you. Heâd compare himself to yet another animal as he takes out the remaining things. The beaten and bloodied dead bird is all thatâs missing to show off to you, but youâve got his face to contend with there. Cuts and bruises from the fight, his gut sure flips as if thereâs more than that plastered on it, along with everything else running through his head.
âDeââ
âI, ah, I got you this,â he hands you the candy bar, âand, ahââ His fingers hover over the small bottle of prenatal vitamins the doctor recommended.Â
It didnât cross his mind at the store that you might not want âem. The thought has his lower lip running over the lump in his throat thatâs only spreading further since he crossed Claireâs room to you. Itâs doubled in size since last night, and only expanding.Â
Youâre pregnant now, right? It canât hurt to give âem to you. Can only help with your healing while you decide what youâre going to do, if youâre going to do anything at all.Â
His fist takes them firm. The plastic container, small enough to hide behind it with only the lid poking out when he raises it higher.
He could bite the thing like he could chew his knuckles. Could throw the lot out the window before you caught on, but he doesnât. Just channels his inner Sam with his next delivery. Man up, âcause deep down, he wants you to want them too. âI got you the pills the doc mentioned,â he says. âWasnât sure if youâd want âem, but I thought theyââÂ
He swallows the next words when your palm reaches his stubble. Follows the plaid pattern covering your arm, past the bandage, past the dried blood you havenât quite removed from your skin in the surrounding areas. Travels past all that to find your eyes, staring back at his. Narrowing, confused. âDeââ
âJust thought theyâd help with the recovery, yâknow?â His mouth twitches. The corner of his lip barely forms into a smile because he canât for the life of him read your expression. And even with your face dropping lower to his, heâs dropping his own to where you canât reach it.Â
He turns away from you again as he readies himself to say his next words, because he canât keep looking at you. Not when every time you open your mouth, it feels like heâs risking everything by not saying this stuff to you. No matter how many jokes heâll use to mask any future rejection or the one youâre about to throw at him for everything that heâs done and will no doubt continue to do.Â
âI know we havenât talked about that yet,â his tongue plays with his inner cheek, âbut I just wanna make sure youâre okay. Thatâs all I want.â His lips repeat the last sentence without a sound. Weak and pathetic, like the poor excuse of a human that he is.Â
When he lets you say his name in full, he doesnât deserve the kind tone youâre using. Doesnât deserve for you to even be speaking to him or to be in Jodyâs slice of apple pie when he should be in the river like Humphries, catheter and all.Â
When you ask him if heâs finished, heâs finished alright. Finished and ready to sit back and take all youâve got. Heâll sit there without another word from him or you if he has to. Just an awkward silence between you. Take years of silent treatment âcause Chuck knows he only has a few years left on his ticker now. Heâs two beats away from a heart attack and an ever soaring blood pressure.
Only youâre climbing down to him. Sinking down to his level. Your hand on his cheek, moving to his shoulder to steady yourself. Without thought, he brings his to your waist, like heâs clinging to you. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt beneath his fingers as your legs fold against his knees. He drops himself to his side, his own thighs stretching beneath him as if heâs fallen and is rearing to get up. But heâs not. He wonât.
He might cling to your waist still, but heâs clinging to every second youâre close to him. Can feel the warmth exuding off of you as if you were still in his arms and against his chest, like you were from the moment heâd picked you up in the warehouse until he was placing you on the hospital bed.Â
The clinical smell still clings to you as much as he does, and he hates it. The disinfectant, reminding him of mothballs and doilies and death. And thatâs not you. Youâre full of life. Youâre supposed to be carrying life. His thumb brushes close to your stomach, even though he knows he shouldnât. Canât help it. Not if it means he might not get to again.
âYouâve been talking since Grafton.â You lean forward, tilting your chin to see him better, like the cat thatâs definitely about to skitter. âItâs my turn, yeah?âÂ
âYou werenât exactly talking before it,â he mutters.
âAnd now you know why.â
If it weren't for you moving so close to him, he wouldnât have heard you that time. Hell, if Jodyâs house had a basement, heâd be collecting his stomach from down there because heâs lost it. His thumb stills on you. His whole body does. Freezes. Stiffens. âYou knew all that time.âÂ
âNo,â your head tremors, âno, I meanâyou saw the test in my bag.â Your hands move to your lap, pulling on your fingers again like you wanted to break them until Dean takes your wrists in his grip and pulls you towards him.
Before you can protest, heâs taking you up in his arms and adjusting his bow legs to accommodate you.Â
It looks more like heâs tackled you to the ground during a fight and faced the wrong end of the deal, but heâs just trying to prevent one. Stopping himself from backing away himself by anchoring you to him while he has the chance. If this is the last time he holds you, so be it. Heâll savour the moment for what it is. The last piece of apple pie heâs ever going to get, surrounded by you in Jodyâs home.Â
Heâs surrounded by you. Enveloped by your scent beneath the clinical one and the soap that Jody keeps in her bathroom. His flannel mixes with it. Babyâs in there somewhere, too. Clinging to the fabric, clinging to his skin.
Thereâs carpet under his ass and your ass is on him. Itâs not what he knows, but itâs comfort compared to polished concrete and fading tiles. You lean into his chest, and he just secures you tighter. A hand, unashamed and covering your stomach, now the one chance he has to hold them, he tells himself. Â
He doesnât care if you try to move; heâll let you, but heâll resist first. He listens as you tell him the words heâs been longing to hear. To just have you talk to him again, even if itâs telling him you wonât keep them. He wonât make you.Â
âMy period didnât come,â you whisper. âWas starting to think it was all in my head, and you werenât helping.â
âI know.â
âNo, you donât.â You twist to look at him. Your hand on his own stomach digs into the flesh, but heâs too busy watching every movement you make from your folded brow to the way your breath fans across your lips.
Theyâre pouting and thereâs a slight sheen to them like the one he saw in the bunker that night. He wants to do nothing more than capture them under his own, but he wonât. Heâs too busy. Still too scared to remove his gaze from you.
Even in his arms as he has you now, he canât risk closing his eyes to feel you better. Canât blink in fear of you taking off, âcause your chest is heaving now. You stare back at him, and itâs challenging and terrifying, like he can still lose you. Terrifying that for a few seconds he allows himself to pretend things might mend between you with a simple touch. With a simple hold.Â
âYou got butthurt because I rejected you, but I donât need you to do all this.â You nod at the bouquet. To the candy. To the vitamins. âPeople have kids on their own all the time. I donât need you to date me.â
And though Dean knows he shouldnât, he canât help himself. He ignores the rest, even the part about dating, and only grasps onto the phrase about people âhaving kidsâ and runs with it before the chance runs away from him again. âYou wanna keep it?â he rushes only to find your irises flicking back and forth in their sockets, reading his face much the same as heâs trying to read you since you sat on the floor next to him.
Your lips purse. The shine, more apparent. His twitch, but heâs not risking saying anything more now, though the pause is too much. The anticipation, too great. His heart, beating in his chest so fast, heâs feeling the palpitations in his arms and legs.Â
They flitter. Little thrums more like the sensation of his stomach protesting at the thought of another cheeseburger from Grannyâs. Like the little niggle he felt when Jake said Edith had taken a home pregnancy test like you had, and nothing can bring it down or take it away.Â
Not until you ask him, âIâI mean, is that okay?âÂ
It takes a while for the words to register in his brain, because youâre asking him? Here heâs been telling himself since that night that it was all up to you. That it was your choice in the end if you kept it because it was your body, this was all happening to you. But youâre giving him a choice?Â
He was against it before, but he allows himself to blink because he sees your worry. He sees the uncertainty, clearer now for what it is, and he revels in it. Licks his lips as he does.Â
And when his eyes stay open long enough to find yours, heâs bringing his mouth back to you. His saliva on your skin, his tongue tracing the edges. The spark heâd lost in the bunker returning, tenfold.
âIs that a yes?â you say as he presses yet another kiss over you.Â
âItâs a yes.â He breathes your name onto your skin, and nips at the very spot, feeling the warmth he left come back to him. âBut Iâm gonna need you to accept I didnât ask you âcause youâve got my kid in there.â He brushes his nose over yours as he changes sides. Enough to steal another glance and see you smile before heâs sampling you again.
More kisses, more pecks, more nibbling. âDid it âcause I wanted to,â he says between it all. âNeed to know if youâll have me.âÂ
He knocks his skull against yours and stares into the flash of colour that shines brighter âround the whites of your eyes. Hands on your neck now, holding you there in place as his true cocky grin comes out. âIs that a yes?â he says with a smirk.
âWhat?â
âWanna date me?â he chuckles, broadening his grin like his heart is as light as a hot-air balloon. His attached cheeks, now bright red, the canvas that carries it away. âCause thatâs an easyââ
You swat his chest. He only laughs harder. You narrow your eyes, but your teeth are showing like his are.Â
Your fingers grip his flannel and tug the collar down, prickling tiny hairs and the skin beneath them. âIâll date you Dean Winchester,â you say. The rise and fall in your tone, channelling one, Missouri Mosley, down to the way you draw him in like youâre reaching deep into his soul. âJust donât ask me to marry you.âÂ
And what can he say to that, aside from grinning at you further or reclaiming your mouth with his tongue?Â
He does both. His smile, doing the kissing now. More demanding, more forceful. More of himself, put into it because his heartâs elated just to be given the chance. His hands, wherever he can reach you, adjusting his position on the floor so he can reposition you in his lap. His lips, never far from yours.
They lavish your skin; your skin tingles his own. When he pulls you closer, your own hands cling to him like heâd been clinging to your waist and your every word.Â
There are things youâll still need to sort out. Thereâs still so many more things you need to say and do, like finding a decent doctor âround Lebanon or potentially leaving the bunker. One thing is for certain, though, Dean still has some loose ends to tie, but thereâs nothing wrong in saying he wonât ask you to marry him in the future. He just doesnât tell you that.
Like the journey from point A to point B took him from Dedeâs doorstep to here in Claireâs room, thereâs an excitement in the unknowing that slots somewhere in between becoming a father and making an honest woman out of you. Until then, he just has to keep working and practicing on those night moves of his, because now? He has a lot more to lose than he originally started with, and he ainât losing you again. No matter what.
A/N: And thatâs all folks. Thank you for reading all the way through to the end đ
As mentioned above, this story was written for a competition. If you liked this or want to check out the other entries, you can find them here. On top of official judging, there is also a Readerâs Choice Award where readerâs can vote for their favourites from the competition. Please consider checking it out, too. Voting closes 30th July.
I set this story in season 13 with the original intention that I could dive into the similarities between Dean's relationship with the reader and his relationship with Mary. In particular with him wanting to go to the otherworld to save Mary and Jack. This set-up had me wondering if he would still want to do that if the reader was pregnant (I had them fighting over this in an earlier draft). Part of me still wants to explore that - and maybe more smut!
Would love to know your thoughts, or if you'd like to see more of this pair in the future - â¤ď¸
to be clear, I believe younger artists and minors can write good fics (not to say âfanfic must always be goodâ either because it is a hobby and I still believe that as long as itâs done with love and the artistâs joy, it is good) and I believe itâs good when younger artists and minors start making art at young ages.
that said, a lot of fanfics out there that you read and love are done by adults with kids, jobs and responsibilities. adults who have years, decades of practice under their belts. adults who donât let life and responsibilities take away their joy in creating.
someoneâs love and passion donât suddenly go away the second they reach a certain age. so if anything, I feel sorry for people who say âadults shouldnât write fanfics or make fan artâ because what these people really say is that they expect themselves to stop having fun and finding comfort in things that bring them joy and comfort the second they reach a certain age. itâs sad that they put an expiration date on their own fun and source of comfort.
