**REQUESTS OPEN** Bitter 24/7 because I am currently not betrothed to Dean Winchester. 7/10 posts are nonsensical. Mobile Master List / Request Guidelines
You looked over at Dean and mentally compared your meal to his: a turkey, tomato, and lettuce wrap with pesto, vs. a bacon cheeseburger that was literally dripping with oil. Now, you weren’t usually prissy about food; you’d eat what was given to you, but seeing how the bunker offered endless possibilities for meals (despite the kitchenware being a tad outdated), you weren’t going to have a greasy burger for every single meal.
And, regardless of where you were, Dean had never shared the same mindset as you.
He noticed you staring. “What?” he questioned through a mouth full of food.
“You’re going to die of cardiac arrest before, like, a vampire gets you.”
He swallowed after a roll of his eyes. “Not you too.”
“I mean it! Look, I love a good burger every now and then, too, and you make a mean one, but this can’t be healthy!”
“What are you talking about? It’s the meal of champions!”
You gave him a hard look. “Dean, all you put into yourself are burgers, beer, and coffee. I honestly don’t know where it goes.”
“It goes into fighin’ and savin’ your ass,” he answered, standing up with his now empty plate and walking back to the kitchen.
“I’m making dinner tonight!” you called as he departed. Without receiving a response, you sighed and took another bite out of your wrap.
You rolled your eyes. “Or, maybe, I actually need him back because Sam and I need him as more than just our plaything. Where is he?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Crowley, cut the shit. We both know you’re just as done with him as we are, so why don’t you just give him back, okay? We can help each other out.”
Sam drove beside you as you spoke, glancing between you and the road every now and then. You had been chasing Dean’s tail for weeks, now, and you were finally closing in. If Crowley could just give you the last piece of information—the last puzzle piece—then you’d be set.
But when did Crowley ever just give you what you wanted?
“I remember quite a few times we could’ve helped each other in the past, darling, and all of those times I’ve been shot down. But since I’m so gracious, I might be willing to tip you off…” His voice trailed off, and you exhaled a quick sigh.
“What do you want?”
“I want to be there when you change him back. The bastard has been a pain in the arse lately.”
Happy 39th birthday to Gerard Way. After making it this long past seventh grade and still listening to MCR and now GWATH, I’m starting to think that it’s no longer a phase... (But, of course, that’s also what I said in seventh grade)
You had one specific mug out of which you liked to drink coffee every morning.
It was one mug—one thing that you got to keep consistent in a life that never stood still. You kept it on the fourth shelf, right where you could reach it, washed it after using it, and always put it back in the same place.
You liked that routine, so when Sam found out about your little quirk, he wasted no time in teasing you about it.
You walked over to the mobile shelving unit, just next to the door, with your hand already outstretched to where it should have been. When you realized that while the shelf was filled with other cups, bowls, and plates, your mug was no were to be found. Your head went back a bit in surprised as you scanned the rest of the shelves, and you found yourself staring at the top where, lo and behold, sat your mug.
It wouldn’t necessarily be difficult to get down, but it would require you to drag a chair over to climb on. You wouldn’t be surprised if this was Dean’s doing, but something about how personal the “prank” was led you to believe that a certain long-haired, excessively tall Winchester was behind this.
It was too early, though, and Sam was still out doing his morning run. You weren’t in the mood for a confrontation, so you pulled a chair over from the table, head back in resignation as you did, and clambered on top so that you could reach the top shelf.
As you grabbed the mug, you heard the bunker door creak open, signifying that Sam had returned, so you waited. He would inevitably finish by grabbing a cup of coffee from the fresh pot that you usually made, and when he walked over the threshold and into the kitchen, you mustered the best glare that you could at seven in the morning. Admittedly, with you standing on a chair in your pajamas, it couldn’t have been too intimidating, and it was no surprise when Sam chuckled.
“You think this is funny?”
“It’s a little funny.”
“This is childish.”
He walked over to you, sweat dampening his grey t-shirt, and put his hands on your hips. From where you stood, you were just an inch or two taller.
You tried your best to keep your unamused resolve, but when he stood up on his toes just the slightest bit to give you a kiss on the cheek, you couldn’t help but smile. Using his shoulders to hop down, with his hands still on your hips, you shook your head and asked, “Coffee?”
“Can u do an imagine/ one shot whichever where Dean and the reader get in a fight and Dean goes to a bar where the tender talks sense into him and he goes back to the reader where they make up”
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: After a particularly nasty argument, Dean seeks solace at the bar in town. It takes an ever-wise bartender for him to realize that his feelings for you are greater than the dispute, and you’re in no rush to gloss over your relationship with him, either.
“What’s got you down?”
Dean looked up from his glass of whiskey, brows furrowed as he stared up at the bartender. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play that. I’ve seen enough guys comin’ in here to avoid whatever’s grabbin’ at ‘em to know the look, and they’ve all ordered one drink that somehow lasts ‘em an hour. What is it? Finances? Family? Missus at home?”
On any other day, Dean would have told the bartender to buzz off and mind his own business. It wasn’t his concern why Dean wanted to get a drink near midnight, nor was it why he was there, nor why he had been staring at a nearly empty glass of whiskey for over half an hour, but the thought of confiding in someone he wasn’t necessarily close with, someone who couldn’t judge him for his decisions, was oddly appealing.
So Dean scoffed, “I pissed off the only woman that stuck around long enough to piss off.”
He’ll admit that leaving to go drink rather than resolve the argument with you wasn’t his best move, and that when he returned to the bunker, the two of you would just pick back up where he left (knowing his temper, at least), but he had to leave. The idea of fighting with you terrified him, and while it certainly wasn’t the first dispute you had gotten into with him, it was definitely the worst one yet.
“But in my defense, she said some things that she knew she shouldn’t have stuck her nose into.”
The bartender nodded in understanding, and flipped the rag he was using to wipe down the bar over his shoulder. “Yeah, I know that one. Been married for twenty-three years and been arguing for twenty-five. This girl—you love her?”
“Can u do an imagine/ one shot whichever where Dean and the reader get in a fight and Dean goes to a bar where the tender talks sense into him and he goes back to the reader where they make up”
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: After a particularly nasty argument, Dean seeks solace at the bar in town. It takes an ever-wise bartender for him to realize that his feelings for you are greater than the dispute, and you’re in no rush to gloss over your relationship with him, either.
“What’s got you down?”
Dean looked up from his glass of whiskey, brows furrowed as he stared up at the bartender. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play that. I’ve seen enough guys comin’ in here to avoid whatever’s grabbin’ at ‘em to know the look, and they’ve all ordered one drink that somehow lasts ‘em an hour. What is it? Finances? Family? Missus at home?”
On any other day, Dean would have told the bartender to buzz off and mind his own business. It wasn’t his concern why Dean wanted to get a drink near midnight, nor was it why he was there, nor why he had been staring at a nearly empty glass of whiskey for over half an hour, but the thought of confiding in someone he wasn’t necessarily close with, someone who couldn’t judge him for his decisions, was oddly appealing.
So Dean scoffed, “I pissed off the only woman that stuck around long enough to piss off.”
He’ll admit that leaving to go drink rather than resolve the argument with you wasn’t his best move, and that when he returned to the bunker, the two of you would just pick back up where he left (knowing his temper, at least), but he had to leave. The idea of fighting with you terrified him, and while it certainly wasn’t the first dispute you had gotten into with him, it was definitely the worst one yet.
“But in my defense, she said some things that she knew she shouldn’t have stuck her nose into.”
The bartender nodded in understanding, and flipped the rag he was using to wipe down the bar over his shoulder. “Yeah, I know that one. Been married for twenty-three years and been arguing for twenty-five. This girl—you love her?”
Dean shrugged.
“Well, that’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You don’t know if you do or don’t. How long you’ve been together?”
Dean didn’t know why he felt comfortable sharing all of this; he never was one to discuss his feelings or troubles, but there was something about this tapster, face open with that infinite bartender wisdom, that made everything easier to say. “I’ve known her for probably the upper half of my life. Dated her for maybe three.”
The bartender scoffed, shaking his head with a slight smile on his face as he spread his hands out across the bar to lean on. “If you’re still together for that long, I’d say that’s long enough to figure out how you feel about her.”
“People I care about tend to end up much worse off than they did in the start.”
“So you’re scared.”
“I’m not—“
“Look, I know that fear, okay? Felt it once myself before my Sarah and I finally settled. You don’t want them to get hurt—to let them down—because once you see that heartbroken look on their face—that disappointment—your world crashes. But that’s just what it is, son. You gotta hurt before you can love, you know? If your relationship is perfect then, pfft, you can forget about it in the long-run.”
The conversation went quiet as Dean sat and thought upon that. The bartender clearly didn’t know what Dean meant by “worse off”; he meant dead, or possessed, but the innocence in the bartender’s advice made Dean feel lighter than he did when he left the bunker. It gave him the sense of normalcy he only felt when he brushed his teeth, or sat at a diner and talked either to you or Sam about anything other than hunting.
“So what do you expect me to do, huh?” Dean asked. “Hey, now, look, I get that these things are usually my fault, but this time, I know it ain’t.”
The bartender sighed, “That’s love, boy. She’s gonna rip your heart out and stomp on it, make you feel things that no one should, but at the end of the day?” He pointed at Dean. “That’s your girl, so even if that means sayin’ ‘sorry,’ when she ‘ought to be, then you say it a thousand times over. Women are fickle, but you gotta hold on. Somethin’ tells me that she’s too special to let go of.”
Dean sat for a few passing moments, pondering his next move before he downed the rest of his whiskey. The bartender grinned. “Atta-boy. Now, go get your girl, and tell her you love ‘er.”
“Will do. Thanks,” Dean replied, slapping a twenty dollar bill onto the bar before jogging out to the impala. In all honesty, he still didn’t really know what he wanted to say to you. He didn’t feel like he needed to apologize for anything; he didn’t do anything wrong, after all, but it was a place to start—to mend.
The argument flashed in his head:
You and Dean stormed into the bunker library while Sam had retreated into the kitchen. He didn’t want to get involved with the shit-show that was about to play out.
“Jesus Christ! Y/N, you can’t be serious. What are you, psycho?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at this, but it was dry—humorless. “Okay, I’m the psycho? Look around, Dean! See anyone dead? See our faces plastered all over national television for every cop in the country to find us? No, you don’t, so before you go running around, using childish name calling as your only defense, you should check the facts.”
“It doesn’t matter if we’re okay right now, got it? It matters that you were throwing yourself into open fire, Y/N! You—“
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you! Look at me,” you mocked, “I’m big, bad, Dean Winchester—the martyr to end all martyrs! I’ll die thirty times over and still yell at everyone for getting the job done right!”
“At least I’ve been able to pull my ass out of hot-water without help. If it weren’t for me, you and countless of others would be dead before you could even cross the threshold.”
You snorted, “Oh, please. You’re full of self-righteousness that you’d be at a crossroads before I, or Sam, could say, ‘Maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to come back.’ And you know why that is?” You stalked towards him, standing toe to toe while you stared up at him as fiercely as you could. He, in turn, definitely didn’t back down from your glare. “Because you’re a coward, Dean Winchester. Because you can’t bear the thought of being by yourself, because Daddy left you alone for too long with too much of his influence, and you can’t imagine a life where you aren’t sporting control over someone! You’re just like him!”
It was a low-blow, but the rage that fueled you onwards blinded any courtesy that you might have felt for him. As someone who’d known John Winchester in the past, you knew that Dean was a much better man than his father was, and that despite praising him time and time again, deep down, his worst fear was to end up like him.
Dean didn’t know what to say to that; he never thought you’d go that far, so he put his hands on your shoulders and shoved you away from him. You didn’t fall, but it was enough to make you stumble back into the bookshelf. You were going to take a swing at him, thinking that if he was allowed to put his hands on you, then you could kick him right back, but he strode away in the direction of the garage. You followed.
“Where the hell are you going?”
He stopped, five feet ahead of you and hand on the doorknob of the garage. “I’m going out, because I'm not going to listen to you rattle on about things you don't understand.” His voice was deceptively calm with an anger just about to boil over, and he really didn't want that pot to explode in front of you.
“Dean, don't you dare leave in the middle of this.”
He paused in the doorway again, this time, with one foot across the threshold. “And, for the record, if you did die, you wouldn't be worth bringing back.”
Well, that last comment definitely required an apology, but other than that, you were the one who needed to apologize the most. Dean knew you were stubborn, though, and though he was just as bull-headed, if not, more, he realized, after being educated by a wise, old bartender, that you meant more to him than he had thought. He spent the entire car ride thinking of what to say.
You were sitting in the library, draining your third (or, was it fourth?) bottle of beer. Dean had left an hour and a half--maybe two hours--ago, or at least you thought. When you’re wallowing in regret and self-pity, time becomes somewhat of a blur. The added alcohol didn’t help.
Sam had found you sitting outside the garage door with your chin on your knees. You didn’t want to cry, because you didn’t think any guy was worth your tears what with all you’ve seen, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said that tears didn’t well up, and if a few didn’t spill.
After explaining the situation, Sam just shook his head. “Both of you are idiots,” he had said, pulling you to your feet and dragging you to the library. He’d drunk half a bottle before you told him to leave, that you wanted to speak with Dean when he came back--if he even came back that night.
You heard the garage door open, and rather than perk up, you slumped farther down into your seat. You’d been running what to say through your head: apologize profusely, ask for him to understand your choices, or, if all else failed, you could just start sobbing.
You hoped that it wouldn’t come to that last, mildly degrading option.
You could hear hushed voices from down the corridor. Voices traveled in the bunker, and while you couldn’t make out what anyone said, you knew that Dean was probably asking Sam about your whereabouts.
It didn’t take him long to find you and to plop down in the seat next to you. Slowly, he leans over and pulls the bottle from where you were rolling it around on the table, putting it next to the empty discarded ones. You didn’t say anything, let alone look at him. The moment he sat down, your mouth went dry, and what you had been preparing to say left your mind.
But you didn’t have to worry about that because Dean was ready to talk.
“Y’know, my dad had a bad temper--kind of runs in the family--and he used to disappear for a while, even before he got all wrapped up in hunting. One time, it got so bad that he left for a few days, and the fighting didn’t end there. They kinda kept at it over the phone; it’s actually one of the few things I do remember about Mom.” Dean shook his head, a distant look glazing over his eyes as he spoke. He didn’t look at you, but rather down at the table, occasionally glancing up. You kept your gaze down at your lap as you listened.
“And, of course, he came back, and they started to fight again, but they always made up. Mom was pregnant with Sammy, or I’d be in the room over, and they’d realize that they had more important things than their differences.
“You always think that your parents’ relationship is perfect, but, God, if relationships could kill…” Dean trailed off and looked to you. You couldn’t help but breathe a laugh and shake your head. He took it as his cue to continue, internally sighing of relief that he’d gotten a reaction from you.
“Point is, it wasn’t perfect--far from it, but after she… y’know, my dad started acting like it was. He would always talk about how it was, and I didn’t know how wrong that was until I was older. It took her… dying for him to realize how much she meant to him, and he didn’t want Sammy and me to think anything less.” He paused and looked over to you. You’d switched your gaze from your lap to him, and when you locked eye contact, he closed his as he said, “And I don’t want that to be what it takes for me to finally figure out what a lucky son-of-a-bitch I am that you’ve stuck around for this long.”
“Dean--”
“I’m sorry for yelling at you, Y/N; I really am, but I won’t apologize for gettin’ pissed over what you did. Good intentions or not, you could’ve gotten hurt--badly, and then we’d all be screwed.”
You shook your head. “Dean, you really don’t need to apologize. I should be… I’m sorry for what I said, but like you, I’m not going to apologize for what I did, because if I didn’t do it, then you’d be dead.”
Dean chuckled and looked down in mock defeat. “Stubborn as always.”
“I could say the same to you. But nice speech, there.”
“Spent the whole car ride thinking about it.”
Your relationship with Dean was far from perfect. Hell, you’d say that it was far from any positive synonym: beautiful, envious, stable, but that’s what made it yours. You didn’t need any big gestures, or for each other to always agree with the other; you just needed Dean to be there for you at the end of the day, to have your back when no one else did, and he in turn required the same for you. And despite all of the fights you had gotten into, neither of you ever did sink lower than that bar.
You had to suffer through their arguments, worse than before now that they thought you couldn’t hear, and their conversations, most of the time revolving around you for weeks before you could connect with them again. It was the unofficial blame game; you could hear the heavy weight of guilt and accusation surrounding their tones with every word that fell out of their mouths.
If Sam had done this, if Dean had attacked that, then you wouldn’t be dead. But you felt that it was more than that. You felt that it had more to do with the fact that they viewed themselves responsible for your untimely demise, which wasn’t true in the slightest. You just wished you could tell them that—hell, even a sign would do.
The longer you sat in that back seat, song after song, fight after fight, town after town until the brothers could numb their emotional pain with physical, the closer you felt to insanity. Like an anchor tied to your pockets, the howling loneliness pulled at you until you were on the cusp of vengeful. You could jerk the steering wheel ever so slightly so that Dean was moderately derailed and mostly confused. You could push Sam’s head forward when he slept so that he would smack his head against the dashboard, and you wouldn’t feel bad about it. You just felt the overwhelming urge to do more, hurt more.
It wasn’t until months later when your name finally popped up again. They had avoided talking about you, and to your slipping mindset, you had taken it as their hurtful good riddance. Your favorite song began playing on a cassette tape, a song that you hadn’t heard since the night of your death, and both boys stopped their conversation to look at the radio. Their eyes seemed glossy, adams-apples bobbing as their minds took them back to a better time.
The lyrics pierced through the veil of fury, and you regained control over yourself. You felt broken like this, unable to help or leave; you were stuck in the backseat of a car, frequently listening to the two men you loved most bicker about the most trivial things.
They weren’t able to see you until after almost a year had passed. Leaving a local clinic, Sam spotted a head through the back windshield and motioned to Dean. They had thought you were a shifter at first, or some sick, cruel joke played by a demon, but when Dean made to grab you, his hand flew right through your form, and you disappeared for all but a second.
Then, they realized how wrong they were, and if you could have, you would have cried because you were finally able to talk with your boys again.
The anchor fell to the ocean floor, and you floated towards the surface again.
If Jensen Ackles hit me with a car I would apologize for being in his way and then walk into oncoming traffic because I just got hit by Jensen Ackles's car and I'm not worthy
Im not trying to tell you how to run your blog or anything.. But didnt you make a blog specifically for Daredevil posts?? It seems kind of pointless if youre not going to use it anyway.....just saying. Not everyone likes daredevil. We're here for spn
Man I ship Karedevil 100% but I also ship Kastle because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and also Elektra and Matt because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and also Matt and Claire because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and Foggy and Karen because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ andMarcie and Foggy because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
