summary : you and dean are just as grumpy when it comes to waking up early.
warnings : just a fluffy blurb!
wc : 480.
notes : guys i’m taking requests for dean too from now on btw!! if you have any ideas pls lmk, i really wanna write more abt him but i just feel like i don’t really have original ideas, so help a girl out!!!
You firmly believed that there wasn’t a more excruciating sound in this world than the buzz of an alarm clock during an idyllic morning — such as that one.
A ray of sunshine attacked your tired eyes as soon as they fluttered open at the irritating ring. You rebelled against the brightness immediately, burying your face back into Dean’s shoulder.
“Oh, Jesus Christ…” a low grunt vibrated in his chest underneath you.
The digits on the clock announced it was 7 a.m. Yesterday, you and Dean had promised Sam it would be the last time you two turned up late to an investigation. Poor guy had been up on his feet doing research practically since sunrise, letting you night owls get your beauty sleep. Nights were getting shorter, and mornings had been growing colder since winter came around, and you both couldn’t help but let yourselves turn a bit lazy.
“Dean. It’s seven,” you groaned, accompanying the alarm, yet still not moving a muscle. “We promised Sam–“
“Sweetheart, please just smash that piece of trash,” his whine rumbled over your head, fed up with the noise. You felt him affectionately squeeze the soft back of your thigh between the grumpy hums that slipped past his lips. Clingy as he always was during such an hour.
Too sleepy to question the order you actually approved of, you leaned over to the nightstand. Dean’s hand crept up your waist and clutched at the curve, keeping you from falling off the bed as you reached out your arm. The chilly air of the motel room grazed your skin in places where the covers slipped off as you finally hit the device, turning it off.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered in a hoarse tone followed by a pleased hum. “Now get back here.”
You felt Dean’s palm rubbing circles on your back, warming you up, making sure you’d crawl right back into his arms. With a deep sigh, you dropped back on the mattress.
You snuggled back into his hold. Your legs intertwined in a familiar way, his arms wrapped around your frame with a crushingly affectionate force. “‘S too damn cold...” you heard him mumble grumpily.
“Mhm. Let’s just…five more minutes,” you groaned and felt him tug you closer right away, burying his face in the softness of your hair.
“You read my mind baby.”
A nice shiver crossed your skin as his nose gently nudged the ticklish spot below your ear. He held onto you like he was afraid you would evaporate into thin air and deprive him of the softness of your body, the nice smell of your skin, the love of your touch.
Your eyelids fluttered shut immediately. How could they not when his body was like a damn heater? When his deep, steady breaths soothed your body and mind? There was no way in hell you’d deny yourself that.
headcannons ٠࣪⭑ non-explicit, Dean Winchester x reader (f), Dean in love, major fluff, Ig I’m just pumping out hcs today
٠࣪⭑ Dean would wash your hair while murmuring about all the unnecessary girly products you use, yet his heartbeat would stutter in his chest at the smell, because it reminds him of you, and he’d smile while watching you melt under his hands that are threaded in your hair.
٠࣪⭑ he would act all cocky, constantly cracking suggestive jokes and looks, until your soapy hands glide all over him, massaging the knots in his neck and getting all the dirt and grime from the hunt off his skin— yeah he’s a goner. The man melts like butter in a hot pan.
٠࣪⭑ dramatic soft shower kisses are mandatory, whether it’s you stealing a kiss from him while his eyes are closed or he pulls you in while “innocently” washing your body. Neither of you caring about the suds dripping into your eyes.
٠࣪⭑ a long domestic hug under the spray after you’re all clean, just his big arms wrapped around you, engulfed in the shower steam and weak water pressure, warm bare bodies pressed together just right that it feels like you’re one. He’d press an absentminded kiss to your wet hair and sigh as he let the post-hunt exhaustion comfortably fall over him.
٠࣪⭑ he’d get out and towel himself off first just so he can wrap you up in a fresh towel, with such concentration it’s almost comical, right when you get out so you’re not too cold.
٠࣪⭑ Dean would also totally help brush and blow dry your hair— and for my fellow curly girls, he’d put in all your products (he’s practically a pro after watching you do it so many times), running his hands through your hair so reverently, scrunching with his big hands, and he’d even diffuse it for you because he knows you can’t fall asleep with wet hair, and that you’re tired after the hunt (so is he but he doesn’t care)
⟡ tags/warnings: smut… and some fluff !! dean is pathetic (but what’s new..) touch-starved dean
⟡ an: this is the first smut that I’ve ever written, and I wrote this in a midnight haze a few months ago so please excuse any errors…
⟡ ⤷ Dean Winchester… who is the biggest boobs guy. During intimacy, the first piece of clothing that he’d remove would be your shirt. He’d try to pace himself, migrate his open-mouthed kisses to your jaw and neck, but he would soon end up back at your breasts. He’d kiss, and suck, and tease them until he was satisfied with the small marks that he’d left, and only then would he finally remove your bra. He would keep them in his hands the whole time, and then afterwards he would rest his head on your chest.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who adores seeing you in his clothes. When your hair is messy and you’ve got nothing on but a baggy band shirt of his, or when he buys you something and he sees you wearing it, he gets flustered and smiley.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who has a thing for performing ‘favours’ for each other in the impala.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who was so touch starved when you began dating him that it was bordering on pathetic. When you’d do so much as kiss him or brush your fingers through his hair, his brain would melt to mush and his jeans would grow uncomfortably snug.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who is SO loud during intimacy. He’s shameless about groaning, so much so that you’ve even considered him being proud of it; empowered by it. But when he whines, he gets sooo embarrassed. He tries to deepen his voice afterwards, and his checks get flushed. You ignore it once or twice but when it happens again you assure him that it’s okay, and even open the possibility that you like it. That sends him off the edge.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who is a certified munch!!! He’d wake you up with soft kisses along your neckline, trailing down the valley between your breasts, illuminated by the morning sun that soaked its way through your curtains. His faint stubble would tickle your sensitive skin, sure to wake you up. Once you were he would migrate his kisses to your stomach. He’d stall until you finally gave him the routine ‘okay’ by running your hands through his hair and urging him to remove whatever clothing survived the night. He’d start slowly; changing paces, tensing and flexing his tongue, moving down to lick a long strip and then going back up to suck and tease until you were silently begging. He’d drag your pleasure out for as long as he could, you’d tug on his hair as he worked you closer to the edge and he would groan into you, making you moan in return.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who loves being on top, but would melt if you took control.
⟡ Dean Winchester… who loves teasing you during intimacy. He’d make sarcastic remarks, not to make you feel bad, but to hear you groaning his name in the stern warning-like tone you always used. He’d do it to feel your own body betray itself as your pleasure slowly spread throughout your body.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ everyone expects dean winchester to be reckless in bed, but with you, he is almost unbearably tender, like loving you is the one thing he refuses to rush.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f ) ; established relationship
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1482 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff with implied smut
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sensual content, implied sex, praise, soft dean, emotional vulnerability, mild insecurity, fade-to-black
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ this one goes to everyone that complains that all sex we see from dean in spn is vanilla. ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
everyone thinks they know exactly what dean winchester is like in bed.
it’s the confidence, probably. the grin he wears when someone pretty looks his way in a bar, easy and crooked, as if flirting is something built into his nervous system. it’s the stories too, the phone numbers scribbled on napkins and the motel rooms he leaves way before breakfast, the way he leans back in diner booths while sam rolls his eyes and lets people believe whatever they want to believe about him.
dean never corrects them. why would he?
the reputation is useful. simple. uncomplicated. lets people look at him and decide they know the shape of him without getting close enough to notice the things he hides. nobody expects anything from the guy who can charm a bartender out of an extra slice of pie and be gone before she learns how he actually takes his coffee—which, side note, is not black.
nobody expects him to stay.
but then he gets you.
and god, isn’t that what he has always wanted, even if he would rather swallow broken glass than admit it out loud? someone who looks at him as if there’s still something worth choosing beneath all the damage. someone who laughs at his worst jokes and steals his shirts and reaches across the front seat of the impala to squeeze his hand when the road gets quiet in that particular way it does after a bad hunt.
someone who looks at him like he hung the fucking moon.
he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love at first.
sometimes, you catch him watching you from across the motel room with this strange, almost startled softness, as though he’s still waiting for the moment you realize you could do better. as though you might wake up and see the blood beneath his fingernails, the exhaustion in his bones, every ugly thing he carries around with him, and decide you made a mistake.
you never do.
tonight, the motel room is warm from the ancient heater rattling beneath the window. sam’s taken off to collect dinner and give the two of you a little privacy after the hunt, making a pointed remark about not coming back for at least an hour while dean tells him to shut up and you try not to laugh into your sleeve.
now, it’s quiet. dean stands near the foot of the bed, looking at you in the amber glow of the bedside lamp. there’s a faint bruise forming near his jaw and a shallow cut at the edge of his eyebrow, cleaned but not bandaged because he insists it makes him look rugged. his flannel is unbuttoned over a dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s something in the way his eyes move over you that makes warmth gather low in your stomach.
he looks at you as if he still can’t believe you’re real.
“what?” you ask, leaning back on your palms.
his mouth curves faintly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring.”
“can’t a guy appreciate his girlfriend?”
“you can,” you say. “but you have that face.”
his eyebrows lift. “what face?”
“the one where you look like you’re thinking too hard. which you know… rare, because you barely think at all.”
he huffs out a laugh and steps closer, settling between your knees. “cute.”
“you love me.”
the words come out teasing. casual. you say them often enough now that they shouldn’t feel like anything dangerous. yet, they still make his expression change.
his hand rises slowly, knuckles brushing along your cheek before his palm settles there, rough and warm. “yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “i really do.”
your breath catches, because dean’s never learned how to do anything halfway once he finally lets himself do it at all. his tenderness isn+t polished or poetic. it’s awkward in places. too honest. almost shy. he looks at you like he wants to memorize every little shift in your face before the world finds another way to take something good from him.
when he kisses you, it’s slow.
that’s the thing nobody would expect. dean doesn’t kiss you like he has somewhere else to be. there’s no performance in it, no smug little edge designed to prove anything. he cups your jaw carefully and tilts your face toward his, mouth warm and unhurried against yours, letting the kiss deepen only when you lean into him and fist one hand in the fabric of his shirt.
his other hand slides to your waist.
“you okay?” he asks against your mouth.
you smile, breathless already. “mmhm.”
“need an answer, sweetheart.”
“i’m okay.”
“yeah?”
“more than okay.”
something in his face loosens. he kisses you again, and it makes your chest ache in the best, worst way, because he touches you as if your comfort matters more than whatever he wants. every movement is patient. attentive. his thumb drifts along your side beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he pauses when your breathing changes, eyes flicking to yours immediately. watching. always watching.
you’ve heard people talk about men like dean before. confident men. experienced men. men with reputations. the assumption is that they come with something complicated to prove, that intimacy with them is supposed to be wild or rough or full of tricks designed to make you feel lucky to have their attention.
dean has none of that with you. with you, he’s almost painfully simple.
he wants to kiss you until you forget every ugly thing that happened on the hunt. he wants to feel your arms around his shoulders and hear the little breathless laugh you make when his stubble scratches your neck. he wants to pull back every few seconds just to look at you, eyes softened by something so open it nearly embarrasses him whenever you catch it.
he wants you comfortable.
he wants you warm.
he wants you looking at him like that.
“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the corner of yours.
you laugh softly, a little self-conscious despite yourself. “you’re biased.”
“damn right i am.”
“that isn’t how compliments work.”
“works exactly how i want it to.”
he eases you back onto the mattress, following carefully, one forearm braced beside your head so he never puts too much weight on you. his hand slides along your waist, then higher, then down again, not rushed. never rushed. the sheets shift beneath you, motel fabric rough against your legs, while dean kisses along your jaw and murmurs things into your skin that make warmth spread through you in slow, dizzy waves. nothing clever. nothing filthy for the sake of being filthy. just your name. sweetheart. pretty girl. tell me if you need anything. you good? and then, softer, as if it slips out before he can stop it, “god, i love you.”
you tighten your arms around him. “i love you too.”
he goes still for half a second, forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. it isn’t the first time you said it. far from it. but dean receives every declaration like a man who grew up expecting love to come with an expiration date.
the rest unfolds slowly, with the lamp still glowing beside the bed and the sounds of passing cars drifting faintly through the motel window. dean kisses you until everything outside the room feels distant. the monsters. the blood. the impossible odds. all of it quiets beneath the warmth of him, beneath the steady drag of his hands and the way he keeps checking your face, making sure you’re with him every step of the way.
there’s nothing extravagant about it. nothing reckless. just dean holding you as if he’s been cold his entire life and finally found somewhere warm enough to rest.
afterward, he lies on his back beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other hand moving lazily along your skin. his breathing is still uneven, hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed. there’s something younger about him in moments like this. softer. almost peaceful.
you turn your head and catch him watching you again. “what?” you repeat the question.
he gives you a tired little smile, but his eyes stay serious. “nothing.”
you wait.
eventually, he looks toward the ceiling, jaw working as if the next words are harder than fighting a nest of vampires with one good knife and a bad plan.
“just don’t get tired of me, okay?” the question is so quiet you almost miss it. it hurts more than anything could.
you shift closer until your cheek rests against his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart. “not planning on it.”
dean exhales, long and slow, while he holds you with both arms like the world has spent his whole life taking things from him and he’s not quite ready to believe it’ll let him keep you.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary: While investigating a string of fairy tale-inspired attacks, you become the next victim of the curse. Dean refuses to accept there's nothing he can do about it.
Pairing: Dean x F.Reader (Hunter) / (Established relationship)
Warnings: Fairy tale stuff, magical sleep/unconsciousness, (really)soft Dean, hurt, comfort, light mention of Dean's deal, softness, too much softness, takes place during Season 3 Episode 5.
Notes: I am watching spn again, bedtime stories gave me this idea and why not do this with my favorite Disney princess?
Word count: 4.3k
“All right, maybe it is fairy tales,” Dean said, staring at the frog sitting in the grass. He still looked unconvinced. “Totally messed-up fairy tales,” he added, pointing at it with two fingers, “but I’ll tell you one thing. There’s no way I’m kissing a damn frog.” You couldn't help smiling.
“The stories follow a script, right?” you said, glancing toward Sam. “You probably don't have to kiss one unless something forces you to.”
“That’s usually how fairy tales work.” Sam nodded toward a house across the street. “Check that out.” He looked toward one of the houses across the street, a lone pumpkin sat on the front porch steps.
“Yeah, it's close to Halloween,” Dean said with a shrug, like that explained everything. Maybe, but still, it felt a little early.
“You remember Cinderella? The pumpkin that turns into a coach? The mice that become horses?” at this point, you were pretty sure he was talking mostly to you. Dean looked like he'd rather wrestle the frog than discuss fairy tales.
“Dude, could you be more gay?” Dean scoffed.
“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”
Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”
“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.
“Wow.”
“I'm just saying.”
“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.
Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.
You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.
The living room was empty.
Dining room too.
Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.
Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.
“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”
The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.
Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.
Definitely Cinderella.
While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.
A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.
“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.
When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.
Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.
“The kid left this.”
You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.
“So what? We look for a…”
“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.
“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.
“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.
You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.
Dean noticed immediately.
“You okay?”
You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.
“You should’ve said something.”
“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”
He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”
“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”
The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.
“Okay,” he finally said.
You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.
His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.
“…Call me if anything feels weird.”
Sam snorts from the door.
“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.
You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”
Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”
Then he and Sam were gone.
The motel felt strangely empty after that.
You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.
It didn't.
The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.
You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.
Your eyes snapped toward the door.
Nothing.
Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.
It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.
Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.
The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.
Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.
You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.
Instead, you kept walking.
The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.
Then you saw it.
A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.
Your stomach dropped.
Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.
“No...” you whispered.
The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.
That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.
The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.
Waiting for you.
Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.
Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.
A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.
The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.
None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.
“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.
Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.
“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.
The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.
But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.
“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.
Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.
Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.
Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.
The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.
The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.
“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.
They ran.
The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.
Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.
The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.
Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”
Nothing.
His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”
Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.
"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”
“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.
“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”
“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.
“A hundred years?”
“Dean, listen—”
“No.”
“Dean—”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”
“We don't even know if—”
“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.
"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.
Like letting go wasn't an option.
Hours had passed.
Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.
The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.
You hadn’t moved once.
And Dean hated it.
Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.
It never was.
The worst part was how normal you looked.
No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.
Just asleep.
Dean's fingers tightened around yours.
“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”
The joke landed exactly as well as expected.
Silence.
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”
Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.
Not magical. Just Dean.
When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.
Dean froze.
“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.
Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.
“...Dean?”
“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”
“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.
“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.
“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”
“I can see that.” He smiled.
You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.
“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”
You slowly remembered pieces of the case.
“The doctor?” Sam nodded.
“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”
“That's rough,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.
The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.
“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.
“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”
“The Disney version?” Dean asked.
“Way more romantic.” You explained.
“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”
“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.
“I did.”
“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.
“Nobody asked.”
“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.
“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”
“Dean—”
“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.
Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.
This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.
The next few days were... weird.
Not bad.
Just different.
Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.
At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.
"...Dean." He didn't even blink.
"What?"
"Why are you staring at me?"
"I'm not."
"You literally are." Dean shrugged.
"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.
From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.
"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.
"Shut up."
But it kept happening.
Dean hovering. Constantly.
A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.
A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.
The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.
It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.
Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.
"...What?"
Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.
"That's exactly how I’d say it."
From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."
Dean pointed at him.
"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.
"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.
"Do not call me that."
"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.
That tiny shift in his expression.
Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.
Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.
The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.
Then Dean spoke again.
"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.
You looked up.
Dean wasn't joking this time.
"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."
The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.
The fear.
The helplessness.
The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."
Something in your chest ached.
Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.
You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.
When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.
"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.
Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."
Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.
Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.
"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.
Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.
From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."
Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.
For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.
The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.
Still here.
And for now, that was enough.
Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.
Not that you minded.
At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.
His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.
You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.
"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.
"What what?"
"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.
"Weirdly? Rude."
You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."
Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.
"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."
Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."
You ignored him completely.
"You kind of are my Prince Charming."
"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."
You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.
"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."
Dean froze.
"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.
"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.
"Cartoon prince?"
"He had the sword, Dean."
"I have guns."
"That's true."
"And a car."
"Also true."
"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."
By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."
"Maybe?"
"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.
"Dean!"
"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.
When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.
Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.
"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.
"Liked what?"
"The Prince Charming thing."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.
Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."
That got his attention.
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.
"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.
"Yeah?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."
"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."
The honesty in his voice almost hurt.
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.
"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.
"You went somewhere."
You blinked. "Hm?"
Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.
"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.
"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.
Not the couch.
Not the teasing.
Not the kisses.
Him.
His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.
"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.
"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.
You didn't need to.
Dean's chest tightened painfully.
Less than a year.
He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.
His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.
Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.
"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.
"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.
So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.
You nodded. "I know."
But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.
So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.
You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.
Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.
He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.
When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.
"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.
You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.
"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.
"There she is." You shook your head.
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.
"...Yeah."
You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.
For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.
"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."
You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.
"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.
"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."
You groaned. "You ruined it."
Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.
"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."
thinking about... soft dom!young!dean talking you through it. (nsfw)
"that's it, pretty girl...feels good huh baby?.." his lips brush against the shell of your ear, soft pants sending shivers down your spine and into the coil tightening in your lower stomach, threatening to release at any moment. with each buck of your hips his thumb presses down on the bundle of nerves that aches for attention. you forgot how many times he's already made you come,you're too drunk off him to care anyway
"c'mon, sweetheart...one more f'me yeah?"
"y'sound like heaven.."
"let go, baby...you're right there.."
he catches your mouth in yet another steaming kiss that makes you grow hotter, more flushed. you feel the exact moment you fall apart—mouth agape, panting, back arched— it's a sight he would pay to see. the view he has of you is enough to get him off. you both ride out your high until you're oversensitive and shaking in his arms.
who me? oh I'm just thinking about dean winchester being touch starved . . .
💻 : touch starved! dean soft x reader
masterlist
touch starved! dean who always leaves his hand lingering on whatever object he hands just to feel your hand touch his for a little longer.
touch starved! dean is the kind of person that will stare at your hands until sam nudges him to focus on what someone is saying about a case.
touch starved! dean that loves it when you help him with his injuries just because he feels your warmth on his skin.
touch starved! dean that leans into you whenever you fix his hair or hug him after not seeing him for so long.
touch starved! dean who wants to rests his hand on your thigh so bad that he twitches while driving in the impala with sam in the back sleeping.
touch starved! dean who needs more than both your skin brushing against each other
touch starved! dean who poured everything into the kiss you shared with his hand on the back of your neck, one on your waist, his body against yours, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.
touch starved! dean who feels at peace every time you're sleeping next to him and your limbs being tangled together.
request. 18+ content ahead—minors do not interact. preferably watch in private, not public. you must be logged into x (twitter) to watch the videos below. ૮꒰ ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ ꒱ა
✘ doggy style with dean
✘ when ‘cuddling’ takes another turn
✘ what you send dean while he’s away on a hunt
✘ biiiiiig stretch
✘ blowjob in the impala
✘ eating you out sideways
✘ double penetration
✘ missed your pretty cunt
✘ bulge kink
✘ strawberry panties
✘ don’t let sammy hear
Summary: You and Dean are used to sharing a bed, and you finally get a room with three beds.
Pairing: Dean x reader
contains: Dean flirting slightly, kinda fluff maybe, bed sharing, best friends to lovers, protective Dean, reverse there is only one bed trope, pining
WC: 1950
a/n: Can I just tell you guys, how insanely grateful I am for you! This first part had the most insane reactions. I have been sharing my fics for a few months now, but I never expected that they would be so loved. So thank you so much, I was literally jumping with joy at every comment, like, and reshare! My boyfriend thought I was going crazy! So thank you!!!
Part 1
Your cheeks are still flushed from the comment Dean made. He didn’t think you minded sleeping in one bed together. Is that because he knows? Or was it the usual? Was it just because you guys slept in one bed all the time, so why all of a sudden, would you mind now? And it isn’t like you have to share a single bed, that happened most of the time, this time you had an actual queen bed. So if you really thought about it, it probably was just because you had more space.
Did Dean want more space?
You almost get lightheaded with the speed your head is spinning at, but Dean decided to break the thick silence.
“Do you really not mind? Or did you just say that to save me from Sam?” He asks, avoiding your eyes, as if he didn’t want to see your face when you potentially lied to spare him.
“I don’t mind, De, we sleep together all the time…” You didn’t think your cheeks could turn redder than they were right then. But they could, and they did. You tried to scramble back, but Dean had already caught your inappropriate mishap.
He steps closer, so close you can feel his breath fanning your neck, warmth radiating from his skin as he whispers in your ear. “You want to sleep with me, sweetheart.” He purrs. A smirk plastered on his lips. You look up at him, eyes wide. And he is just looking at your lips with a look that made you almost think he wasn’t kidding. Until his eyes reached yours and he cracked a smile. You whacked him on his shoulder, giggling at his antics. “Fucking Winchester.”
“Yeah, that's what I mean.” He smiles at you while you chuck a pillow at him in protest. However, that seems to just spur him on. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and throws you on the bed. You let out a small yelp. And before you know it, Sam bursts out of the bathroom in his boxers with toothpaste around the corners of his mouth, gun at the ready, while his older doofus of a brother has you trapped underneath his body, making the scene look much more compromising than it actually was.
“What the hell, guys!” The taller Winchester yelled while he put his gun away. Dean jumps off you, startled by Sam barging in on what was clearly a very personal moment. Especially because Sam knows his brother is head over heels for their best friend.
“Could say the same thing to you, Sammy.” Dean mumbles, not really knowing what to do with his body now that the moment is over.
You try to hide your embarrassment as Sam explains that the only reason he came out here was that he heard yelling. Otherwise known as the startled sound you made as Dean pinned you to the mattress.
“And you were what?” Dean started. “Going to fight it in your boxers?”
Sam slumped. “Never mind.” He said as he went back into the bathroom.
You couldn’t help but let out a small giggle.
“Yeah, you think it’s funny?” Dean smiles at you. You look at him and hold your pointer finger and your thumb an inch apart. “Real cute.” Dean countered while Sam walked out of the bathroom. You stood up, grabbed your toiletries. “You love me,” you said, creating a pit in your stomach before locking the bathroom door behind you.
Sam laughed at your comment. “She doesn’t even know how right she is.”
“Oh shut up.” Dean spat.
—
She is already half asleep when I step out of the bathroom, hair spread out across the pillow like she owns the place.
She looks so damn comfortable, it makes me want to reach out to brush my thumb over her cheek.
Which is a terrible idea.
I carefully climb in with her, trying not to wake her fully. She shifts a bit before she mumbles my name.
“I’m here, sweetheart. Just try to sleep, yeah.” I whisper in her ear, her back facing me. I can feel the warmth of her body ghosting across my skin. And I can’t help but let my mind wander. Her soft skin beneath my fingers. What it would feel like to pull her closer. To let my hands linger on her skin just a second too long.
Would she lean into me?
She turns around the blanket, shifting, revealing an oversized t-shirt. She’s wearing my old Metallica shirt. The one I loaned her about a month ago and completely forgot about.
It hangs loose on her frame, slipping off one shoulder, and I have to drag my eyes away before I start thinking things I definitely shouldn’t.
—
A soft sound pulls Dean out of sleep. His hunter instincts kick in, reaching towards the gun underneath his pillow before he hears the sound again. Quiet, breathy. A soft whimper falls from your lips.
His name.
His eyes snap open, looking at you intently. You look disheveled. Brows furrowed, lips parted, breath uneven.
“Dean”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a punch in his chest, lighting his skin on fire.
You are still asleep, and the next time you say his name, it’s needy, heavy.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, dragging his hand over his face.
“Jesus…” He mutters under his breath, trying to restrain himself.
This is some wicked torture. He shouldn’t be listening to this, shouldn’t even be hearing this. But he is. And if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to stop.
He just wants to know what exactly you are dreaming about.
You turn, suddenly facing Dean, a wicked moan leaving your lips seemingly startles you awake. Your eyes flutter open. And you are face-to-face with a flustered Dean Winchester.
For a second, neither of you moves.
You are horrified. Your eyes widen when you remember the dream you just had, about him. The things he did to you, the sounds he teased from your lips, the way his hands felt on your skin. And you wish you could disappear.
“Oh my…” You start. Closing your eyes and covering your mouth with your hands.
When you begin to apologize, Dean gently stops you, his hands wrapping around yours. “Don’t,” he murmurs, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “I told you. You want to sleep with me.”
A soft laugh escapes you, the tension easing under his touch.
Dean's voice is low, quiet. “Look.” He starts hesitating a little. “I’m not good at this chick flick crap, so let’s not.” You look at him, confused. “I just want you to be honest with me, sweetheart. "Can you do that?” He asks, voice going straight to your core. His hand goes to hold your cheek, stroking your skin lightly. You just blink up at him, heart beating in your chest, voice lost somewhere deep inside, so you just nod. Dean smiles.
“What kind of dream did you have, baby?”
Your eyes dart towards his, unsure of how to proceed. You want to be honest with him, you do. But something in the way he is looking at you makes you lose all the wit you normally possess.
“I think you know Dean.” You say, trying to make him say it instead of spelling it out for him. But he isn’t having any of it. “I want you to tell me.” He says, pulling you closer slightly.
“You were touching me.” You mumble. trying to look away from Dean. But he slid his calloused fingers underneath your chin to force you to look him in his eyes. “Is that so?” He asks, a smirk plastered on his lips. Oh, how he is enjoying this, enjoying the blush on your cheeks, the effect he apparently has on you without doing anything.
It throws him off more than he would ever admit. Because if this really is how you have felt all this time, how the hell could he have missed it? How could he not notice the way you hold your breath when he touches you, or the way you look at his lips like you want him to devour you?
“You were very sure of yourself.” You giggle slightly as you avoid his eyes again. His eyes snake to your hair, playing with it. “Sounds about right.” He murmurs.
“You kept touching me like you had been waiting for it forever.”
That comment made something inside of him shift. You were right, and Dean Winchester wasn’t a patient man. He had been waiting long enough.
Dean's heart stuttered as his eyes roamed over your lips, and he pulled you even closer. Your body pressed to his, your hands trapped between you, breath caught somewhere in your chest. A quiet smile on your lips as your eyes darted between his.
He leans in.
Your whole body felt alight as his soft lips touched yours, engulfing you in a claiming kiss. Because he had waited forever, and he was done.
You melt against him, making a haze cloud your mind. curling your fingers in his shirt, keeping him close. Needing him close. All you could think about was Dean. One of his hands grabs your hair, stroking the back of your head. His other hand was tight across your back, not letting you leave anytime soon.
Not now.
Not if he had a say in it.
Dean's lips linger against yours before he pulls away hesitantly. Your foreheads pressed against one another. Each of you is catching your breath. You bit your lip to stifle the huge smile that was growing on your lips, and Dean's heart skipped a beat at the sight.
He let out a chuckle. He looked into your eyes. “Something like that?” You giggled again, and Dean swore he would never grow tired of that sound. “Yes, something like that.”
The kiss that follows is softer, you aren’t trying to prove anything this time. The slow kiss settles between you like this is something you have done millions of times. Dean's hand slides from your hair to your back, pinning you close like it’s instinct.
You shift against him, easily slipping out a hum in content. Your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat underneath your palm.
“Gotta say, sweetheart, that sound is a lot sweeter when I am the one making you do it.” He laughs. Your eyes widen, and you smack him across his chest lightly, which only makes him laugh louder. “Shut up, Winchester.” You bite out a big smile, pulling at your lips.
“Make me.” He says before you press your lips on his again.
—
You wake up with a warm content feeling in your chest. The sun is illuminating the motel room in a soft pink hue, and the beating of Dean’s heart in your ear makes you smile with the memory of last night.
Your limbs are completely entangled with one another, and you decide it is not time to wake up yet. Choosing to enjoy Dean’s warmth for another few minutes.
Dean shifts slightly, pressing a kiss on your forehead and stroking your hair out of your face. “Good morning, princes.” He mumbled, morning-voice low in your ear. The sounds ignite something deep inside you. You smile at him. “Morning.”
Everything is quiet and serene until you hear Sam’s voice coming from the kitchen.
“Wow.”
You feel Dean freeze underneath you. And you both turn to look at Sam. Who is standing near the kitchen, completely dressed, with coffee in his hand. Sam shakes his head lightly as he takes a sip.
“Finally.”
Again, I am so grateful for every single one of you! I am considering making a tag list. Is anyone interested in that?
Also, my requests are open, so if you have an idea you'd like me to write or just want to chat, hit me up!
--
I had to figure out how to tag people, so please tell me if I did it correctly...
Summary: You and Dean are used to sharing a bed, and you finally get a room with three beds.
Pairing: Dean x reader
contains: Dean flirting slightly, kinda fluff maybe, bed sharing, best friends to lovers, protective Dean, reverse there is only one bed trope, pining
WC: 654
The canvas of your duffle is scraping your shoulder painfully, slight red marks forming on your skin. The drive to John Creek was long. You had been cramped in Baby for seventeen hours, Dean too stubborn to let you drive for even fifteen minutes. He only let Sam drive when he told him that if he didn’t, Dean was going to crash his own car.
Sam goes to check in while you and Dean grab the bags out of the trunk. Dean takes over Sam’s bag as his eyes are stuck on the red mark on your shoulder. You just look at him with a crooked smile, shaking your head lightly.
The keys in Sam’s hand jingle as he signals to you that he secured you a room, and you notice he has a certain glint in his eyes, one that usually means trouble. “You’ll never believe what I just pulled off,” he beams as he opens the door to room 316.
The room had a deep red carpet, soft lighting and, one, two…
Three beds.
two singles and a queen.
Your shoulders slumped as you counted the beds. Usually, when you were on a hunt, you shared a bed with Dean, not in a sexual way, not at all. Although you wouldn’t mind that. You just had a huge crush on the guy, and you couldn’t help feeling safe with him near. It had gotten to the point where you slept better on a hunt than in your own room and your own comfortable mattress just because Dean wasn’t there. You just felt alone the whole night. And with Dean, you slept deeper, more soundly, and you even had fewer nightmares.
Dean had thrown his duffel on the queen-size bed as soon as he stepped inside the room, claiming it as his own without further conversation about the topic. What happened next, however, had you looking at him kind of confused, and when you looked around, you saw you weren’t the only one.
Dean tosses Sam's bag at one of the single bags before grabbing yours off of your shoulder and putting it next to his on the queens at the side furthest away from the door.
Sam has a stunned expression on his face, he does a double take before asking his brother the question you would like to know two. “What are you doing?”
Whereas Sam is asking the question in a very confused state, you can’t help but perk up a little.
Dean Winchester put your bag on his bed. And for once, it isn’t because you have to share, it is because he chose to.
Dean looks at his brother like he just asked the dumbest question he has ever heard in his life. “There is a monster out there who hunts for women with her exact description. I am not letting her out of my sight.” He says before he turns towards you apologetically. “Sorry, sweetheart, but this isn’t up for discussion.” And you can’t help but blush a little. Before you can answer, Sam seems to have decided it’s his job to defend your honor, something you don’t want or need him doing at all.
“What are you talking about? She’ll still be in the same room, and she can take care of herself.”
Dean turns towards his little brother, slightly annoyed now. “I said, no discussion.” Dean snars at Sam. Pointing at him like a mother who was completely done with the antics of her children.
“This is ridiculous.” He curses under his breath. You just smile at the younger Winchester, butterflies in your stomach. “It's okay, Sam, I don’t mind,” you say sweetly as you take a step closer to Dean who is looking you up and down. Sam lets out an annoyed breath as he turns around grabbing his toiletries out of his bag.
Dean looks at you. “Didn’t think you would.” He winks
I think this is so cute. I have an idea for a quick part 2 for this drabble. Anyone interested?
Update: you were interested! its insane!! Thank you so much!!!
Part 2
Stumbling into the motel room after the latest hunt, you felt like you'd gone swimming in a manhole. You wouldn't dare to think about the guts and whatever gross substances were slathered on your body. That would only lead to spiraling and lighting something on fire. Probably yourself.
"I need a bath." You'd announced, letting your bag clatter beside your bed. Well, it was the bed you were sharing with your boyfriend.
Without even needing to glance over your shoulder, and spot the smirk curving the side of Dean's mouth, you speak up once more. "Alone."
And that had been ten minutes ago. The water had been turned on and stopped. You were inside the bathroom, in the tub, relaxing. Just like you wanted to.
But Dean was bored. Unequivocally.
He tried looking for new hunts. Cleaning his guns. Even started pestering Sam by going up behind him and pretending to punch him, muttering "pow" each time he did it. But he was only able to do it twice before Sam waved him off. Staring at the wall was an option he easily decided to decline.
So here he was, opening the bathroom door with a sheepish grin. He opens the door a crack- just enough for his face to smush against the door.
"Hey, sweetheart." He says coyly, glancing at you in the tub. "I know you said you didn't want to be bothered but-"
"Dean, please." You sigh, looking over at him.
"I know. It'll just take a second." He pleads, flashing his famous five-watt grin.
A long-suffering sigh falls from your lips. "Alright. What's up?"
"I'm thinking burgers tonight. Or that Italian restaurant with the feta and spinach pizza you like. Which, really sweetheart, you gotta work on your pizza choices. S'a real bummer watching you-"
If you weren't trying to destress, he would have been endearing. It was sweet. The mighty Dean Winchester could barely spend fifteen minutes without his girlfriend. You take a breath and let the ghost of a smile twitch at your mouth.
"Honey. Burgers are fine." Your voice is calm, despite the frustration brewing in your abdomen. All you wanted was twenty minutes. And clean clothes.
Dean seems to get the hint. "Alright. I'll, uh, get out of your hair."
He closes the door with a soft click, leaving you to submerge yourself beneath the lavender scented bubbles.
That doesn't last long.
He's back at it again, apologizing and starting a whole new conversation. One that really could have waited ten minutes. Only this time, he comes into the bathroom.
The door shuts behind him. He walks over to sit on the edge of the toilet lid, glancing down at you. To be a flirt, or curb the rising agitation in your gaze, he winks at you.
"You know where my keys are, mama? Gonna head out and get food."
"In your jacket. Where I always leave them." You close your eyes, trying to pretend to have some solace.
"Wait, actually, I'll just wait. We can go together." The smile is evident in his words.
"Sounds good, honey." You murmur, knowing it was no use. A small smile captures your expression. "I'll be out soon."
"I'll just stay in here, then."
"Dean!"
He laughs, already getting up and walking towards the door. "Okay, okay, I'm leavin'! Gosh, woman."
The last thing you hear is the door shutting and a muffled 'I love you.'
You don't know how this happened. 12 hours ago you were driving down the highway, music blaring, Dean laughing behind the wheel.
Now you're in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table, being accused of god-knows-what. You're not even sure why you've been arrested- okay, skulking around an active crime scene with a loaded gun and a car full of weapons didn't help- but they still haven't told you exactly why they're holding you.
Dean's next to you, he looks like he's about to break out of his own cuffs by how irrate he's gotten-
"If you dare touch my wife again I'm going to fucking-"
If there's one thing about Dean, he knows a con. He knows faking a relationship will help you get out of this- though you're not sure why he went as far as wife. Maybe girlfriend is just too close to home, trying to label something you've never once thought about labelling. Wife is fake, wife is a charade. Girlfriend feels like defining the indefinable.
You and Dean aren't a thing. You're just not. Maybe Dean wants it- hell maybe you do too, but you two have never been about dealing with your problems, and you're not about to start.
"Sir, please- this isn't getting us anywhere." The cop sighs, her head in her hands.
Caught at the edge of the forest at 3am, the same place two bodies had just been found, Dean immediately fell into a We were just having sex! routine. A routine you've seen before- a routine you've gone along with before- but it's never had to last this long. He started to get angry the moment you were put in cuffs- the same time he started calling you his wife. The name twisted in your gut in a way you pretend not to notice.
Dean slumps back against the seat- a vain in his forehead ready to pop. You like watching Dean act- he's a funny sunuvabitch when he wants to be, and it always makes you laugh to see him putting on a character. You can almost see the twinkle in his eye, the secret him hidden behind the mask.
"I'm a tax paying citizen- you can't do this." He grumbles. Oh he's really in character.
"All we want to know is why you chose that particular spot to apparently have an intimate moment while still completely clothed and carrying loaded guns."
"I know my rights- I don't have to tell you shit!"
She sighs again, rolling her eyes, "Are you two even married?"
"Of course we- what the fuck?" Dean seems taken aback. He's not used to his hustles being so outright questioned.
"Your IDs are from different places- you haven't got the same last name-"
"She's a feminist-" Dean glances at you, "-wanted to keep her own."
"-you haven't got wedding rings- you're not acting like a couple."
You swallow hard, looking down at your cuffed wrists. That's mostly your fault, you don't know how to make it look like you're his wife. Not when it feels this real.
"When's her birthday?" The cop leans forward.
"I- shit- okay so that's just one detail about her I can't remember-" Dean looks at you, guilty. He told you there was no way he'd need to learn the date on your fake ID.
"Where was she born?"
"Look- I didn't have to memorize her ID to marry her-" He's not even able to keep up his fake angry act, clearly out of his depth.
"What do you- do?" She raises an eyebrow.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean mutters.
"What do you do? You and her? You're a couple- right? Been married a while? Tell me what it's like, when it's just you two?"
Fuck. You look a her hand. A ring. She's married. Of course she's married. This isn't about facts, this isn't about the IDs- this is about how you're meant to look. How it feels. Whether you can convince her you're actually in love.
"We-" Dean gawks, his mouth opening and closing like he's a fish taking in air- "We- I don't know we kiss? We hold hands?"
"That's it?" The cop raises her eyebrow.
"Jesus what do you want me to say? We fuck like rabbits! I bend her over and-"
"He holds my hair back." You cut in. They both turn to you. You've been silent since the moment you stepped into the room, under strict instructions from Dean to keep your mouth shut. You're no good at lying- you know that. So instead, you decide to tell the truth. "When I vomit- he holds my hair back. When I get sick, or too drunk- he sits there with me and rubs my back- tells me I'm not gonna die."
The cop gives you a small nod to continue.
You swallow, "He- uh- I get nightmares, sometimes- they're bad- real bad- and he'll always wake up with me- and he'll go through them and make sure I know they're not real- and then he won't sleep until he knows I'm asleep again."
You glance over at Dean, his face twisted in confusion. Clearly he doesn't understand why you're saying these things- these very real things that actually happen. No cons, no hustles- he doesn't understand what this is supposed to prove.
"He ran me a bath once- when I was uh- I had the flu-" You're bad at lying. Your face starts to heat, it wasn't the flu. It was a busted skull from a demon hunt gone wrong, the whole left side of your body purple with bruises, a cut on your thigh almost deep enough to see bone. You go back to the story, the real story, "-and he washed my hair for me because I could barely lift my arms. And he just hummed- the whole time- didn't say a word just- he wanted to distract me, from the pain- the flu pain- and so he just... Hummed."
You've almost lost the train of thought, now you just want to talk about Dean. Why you like him. Why he's so kind and sweet and why you should have never pretended to be in a relationship to begin with.
The cop nods slowly, thinking through your words. Then she looks at Dean, "And you? You got anything else to say?"
He seems baffled, forehead creased. He looks between you and the cop, still trying to figure out what's actually happening.
"Just-" you take a deep breath, reach your hand across to his. You wrap your fingers into his- it looks like something a couple would do. It feels like something a couple would do. It is something you and Dean have done before- laying together in a small motel bed, both of you just glad to be alive, exhausted from a hunt. And you reached over, tangling your fingers together, both of you sleeping with the comfort of the other. You give him a look, a tiny glare, willing him to understand what you need, "-just tell her. Yeah? Tell her the truth."
There's a long pause, then Dean starts to speak, "She wears my jacket. When she gets cold- because she always forgets to dress for the weather and it's goddamn annoying because I always tell her-"
Your heart sinks- clearly he doesn't understand what you're trying to do here. You look at your entwined hands- he gives yours a small squeeze, almost imperceptible, a silent I've got this.
"-the point is, she wears my jacket. And then when I put it back on it smells like her- and it feels nice. It's nice knowing she's there even when she's not there."
"Anything else?"
Dean lets out a small breath, "She tells me when I'm being mean- she'll look at me like I'm a dumbass and stop me from making an absolute idiot of myself." He squeezed your hand again, but then keeps the firm hold, fingers still locked, "And I make an idiot of myself a lot."
The cop nods, "Good answer."
He smiles, "And she listens to me- like she really listens to me. Puts down whatever she's doing to hear me complain about random bullshit-" he glances at you. Then away again, "-but she does this thing when she's focusing, where it's like she gets all lost in just looking at you- and jesus she doesn't even realize she's doing it but it's the most gorgeous sight you'll ever see."
You chew at the inside of your cheek, trying not to take his words to heart. He's good at hustling, you know that. Good at lying.
The cop looks back at you, "You love him?"
You give a small nod, "Yeah- yes. Course I do."
Then at Dean, "And you?"
"Yeah-" he glances at you, "-I love her."
She nods slowly, appreciating the responses. There's a long pause, she just stares at you, likes she's waiting for one of you to break. You keep hold of Dean's hand, feeling the way it relaxes against your own. Then she stands- "Wait here."- and leaves the room in one quick move.
You feel your heart pounding in your chest, eyes still facing forward, refusing to turn. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound, scared of the moment.
He finally lets out a slow sigh, a small laugh, "Good work sweetheart- you're getting better- hell even I almost believed you."
You swallow hard, unfurling your hand from his, then let out your own halfhearted laugh, "Thanks- learnt from the best."
He keeps his hand outstretched, like an invitation for you to come back. You tap your foot slightly, still not looking at him.
"You- uh- you heard me humming?" He murmurs, "Thought you were so out of it you'd forget."
"Yeah- yeah it was nice." You nod slowly. You look at his hand, still just waiting. "Do you actually like it when I wear your jacket?"
He looks at you, then away again, "Yeah- you suit it, I guess."
There's a beat. You hold your breath as you look at him, he turns his head at the same time, both of you watching each other carefully.
His jaw clenches quickly, a rapid blink, "Hey, sweetheart? Do you really-"
The door goes, you both turn to look as the cop steps back in. She stares at you both again, that small chance you'll break, then gives a short nod, "You're both free to go."
☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓
Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.
Asked to tag: @pieolsen
☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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dean was an absolute god at sex. you knew that. everyone on the planet probably knew that.
every single girl that’s ever left his motel room that you’ve seen has had a smile on their face that could light up a small country—and obviously, that didn’t come from not doing a good job of dicking down a woman.
you should’ve known he’d be just as good at the aftercare, too. you really should've.
and sure, you wondered what it would be like, to be with him. of course you did. and you let yourself ponder and fantasize, but never acted on your urges. sure, you flirted back with dean when he flirted with you, because it was just make-believe. it was funny. it was a joke, and it was easy.
and it was a joke between you for a long time. yet somewhere along the way, that changed.
that’s how you got yourself to right now: laying in dean’s bed. on dean’s sheets.
in dean’s arms.
he’s never brought a girl back to the bunker—so that’s gotta count for something, you think as you lay in his bed. you’ve never seen a girl walking out of dean’s room in the bunker like you see when you stay at motels, so maybe you did matter more to him like he said you did. you let yourself believe it, even if it really wasn’t exactly true. let yourself believe that maybe this wouldn't end tonight, maybe you’d have something more with dean.
but you can’t really even think about that—or anything else, for that matter, because in your time together, dean made you come 4 times. you’d never been able to do that in one sitting—by yourself or otherwise, at least not without breaks in between—but dean was wringing you out for all you were.
and you gave it to him. willingly. truly.
you were barely making coherent noises by the end, on your last orgasm. and you were loud. and it sounded like you were in pain—thank god sam was gone, because you felt embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed to be making such noises. but dean quite literally fucked the self-consciousness right out of you. he pressed his nose to your cheek like the tip of his dick pressed deep inside you—and when you poorly stifiled a moan that was coming out of you, he just shook his head against yours and said to let him hear it.
dean told you that he could hear your thoughts from here. he told you to just enjoy it. told you that you could say stop if you felt too overwhelmed, and he would. he said most of that while he pounded into you, so it was hard to focus on his words.
but you still heard him.
yet you didn’t tell him to stop.
he also shushed you when you tried to apologize for essentially being a ragdoll instead of an engaging member of sex with him after the third time you came. he didn't mind, he said. said he got off on it, watching you come undone, over and over, getting drunk on him. and you should've expected this kind of reassurance from him, you really should've. he provides in every other possible way, in every sense—so how could sex be any different?
you’re close to dozing off now, though. you can distinctly feel dean’s body still on top of yours—he’d also gone full ragdoll after holding off his own orgasm for so long—but that’s about all you can feel, besides the throbbing from your lower region, which is still wrapped around dean.
you're wet in every sense—sweat, fluids, basically a puddle of yourself. you’re starting to feel sticky from yours and dean’s fluids mixed together as your senses come back, but you don’t move. you’re too tired. your eyes are just so heavy, so you just close them. allow the aftermath of the experience you just had to wash over you completely, leaving you all floaty-like and celestial. your hands are still resting on dean’s back, somewhere by his shoulder blades, no longer hanging on for dear life, now just holding him. you still don't move, save for breathing.
then, it could've been seconds, it could've been hours—but dean finally stirs enough to look up at you from where he lay on top of you, rests his chin on your chest right bewteen your boobs. the movement makes you look down at him, too—but don't get it twisted, you just open your eyes enough to look at dean. you’re still wiped.
and dean just looks at you, doesn't say anything right away. he blinks a few times, then reaches up to your face, brushes his fingers against your cheek. the corner of his mouth twitches up a little, and if you were the tinest bit more coherent, you’d probably feel embarrassed—but you aren’t coherent.
now, you're too tired to care if he thinks you’ve lost all your appeal, now that the sex is over. now that there’s nothing new to discover, now that he’s scratched the itch. too tired to care if he’s gonna kick you out back to your room, because now you’re all sweaty and gross and sticky, no longer a shining star, no longer something to be conquered.
but he doesn't do that.
instead, his fingers continue to gently caress the side of your face, over and over. like he was trying to memorize it. then he lifts his chin and places a kiss on your chest. then another kiss before he lifts himself up off and completely out of you with a small grunt—and for a split second you think he’s gonna leave you here, but then his face comes completely into view above you, his nose brushing yours again.
“y’got any idea how perfect y’are?”
the slurred words catch you off-guard—but that’s a severe understatement. you don't hear the word ‘perfect’ from dean often, and certainly not after he was just balls-deep inside of you, moaning your name over and over again. touching you. wanting you. needing you.
dean doesn’t let you answer his question, though. he just kisses the side of one of your cheeks, murmuring a ‘b’right back’ against your face, inking the reassurance in your skin before you can even attempt to say anything or reach for him. then he moves, and you hear a squeak of the sink in the corner of his room, hear his footsteps padding back over to you against the concrete a few beats later.
dean’s hand touches you first—sliding up your leg gently, and you’re certain he’s making sure he doesn’t scare you, since you’re laying there deader than a sack of potatoes. you hum when he does, moving a little—or at least trying to, but he shakes his head at you, his other hand pressing you down on his bed.
his bed.
jesus. his bed. the pillow smells like him, everything fucking smells like him. it’s invading every pore of your body. your heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing down when dean moves away from your face again. you feel warmth between your thighs, and look down, squinting in the dim light to see what dean was wiping you with.
it’s his shirt he was wearing, the one you yanked off of him earlier. he’d gotten it wet in his sink with warm water, and was currently wiping at the creases of your thighs, slick and sticky with dampess up with his shirt.
you don’t know why he was doing this. did he do this with everyone he hooked up with? you tried not to think about it, but now that the fog was finally starting to clear in your mind, it was hard not to. the gesture, the view of him in front of you on his bed? it puts a lump in your throat.
you’re in love with him.
you’ve been in love with him for a long time.
and you know he’s probably just as tired as you—he’d done pretty much all the work sex-wise, but you noticed and knew he liked it, being the giver. always giving, never asking for anything. taking care of you.
and you let him.
four times.
but you also noticed he was getting tired at the end. he almost tuckered out, tossed in the towel, and didn’t come at all. he was panting as hard as you were on the last round, and he was just as sweaty. held it off until it almost hurt, like he didn't want it to end. he was speaking all sorts of rambles too, his words stringing together.
you can still see, even in just the dim, barely-there golden light of his room that his face is red. not pink. not blushing. beet fucking red. you can see his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each breath, and you want to reach up to touch him. but you’re not sure about doing it, so you resort to blindly grabbing at him until your hand makes contact with him.
your hand ends up somewhere on his arm—and he looks at your hand on his skin, then looks up at you with those green eyes.
“come up here,” you murmur, tugging his arm—and he moves like there’s an anvil attached him that you pulled on, rising over you just enough to not squish you with his body weight.
your hand on dean’s arm finds purchase on his face as you rise and turn—and dean molds to you like a slab of clay, letting you do what you want. he lets himself lay down next to you instead of over you, like before. your body’s moving him mindlessly without barely touching him—and you just look at him when his head hits his pillow, both your chests rising and falling slower now.
you wish you could tell him he doesn’t have to take care of you. tell him that he’s allowed to rest here with you, allowed to not be… dean winchester. the sex god, the caretaker, always having to be on. you wish you could say that he’s allowed to just be dean instead. you don’t know how to tell him that.
but the thing is: dean already knows.
he knows that he’s allowed to shell out his own little part of you to hide out inside when things get too bad. he knows that you’ll always be there for him—for every nightmare, every apocalypse, every angel and demon that has a hitlist. he knows you’ll hug him without him having to ask, and even patch him up if you come across him drinking by himself in the bunker instead of getting the first aid kit. you’ll gently coax him awake when he falls asleep at the library’s table and quite literally drag him to his own bed, muttering about how this is why his back hurts all the time and other righteous, nice things—because you care about him.
and he cares about you.
he’s been a goner for you.
he’s in love with you, too.
that’s why he’ll take everything you have to offer him, over and over. he’ll let you hold him until the sun inevitably comes up again after a nightmare, let your hands touch him when he fall asleep with his laptop and a bunch of books open—and why he barely flinches when he hears your voice in his ears, waking him up, and he’ll let you tow him to his bedroom.
your hands move, reaching for something—dean looks up out of his thoughts to see what it is.
it’s his shirt.
you sit up more, hair sticking up, bunched and messy from dean’s hands running through it—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. anything more perfect. he’s distracted by your face, your body, so he doesn't really register what you’re doing until he feels his wet shirt on his skin. you’re wiping him off, like he did for you. that’s when it hits him.
you’re trying to take care of him, too.
he looks down at his shirt that’s wiping his own skin, wiping away his own fluids mixed with yours. he’s unable to move or look away from the sight. unable to breathe. in all his years, no one’s done this for him: taken the time to take care of him. to let him be the one taking a break.
your other hand’s gently brushing his skin at his hipbone, almost as softly as his shirt. he blinks, blearily. it’s hard to keep his eyes open, and he can feel his body slowly starting to succumb to sleep under your touch, your care, just laying here in the warmth of you laying by his side—albeit propped up next to him.
he wants to tell you that you don’t have to do this. that he’s perfectly okay with being the caretaker, the one who carries it all. he’s been cast aside like a used tissue after sex—and he’s done the same too, so really, he shouldn’t feel so empty about that when it happens to him, but he does. he’ll take it. take it and bury it deep instead of letting himself feel it. that’s all he knows, all he can do. because he can’t try to unpack everything, not now.
truly, he doesn’t mind if no one ever took care of him—because he’s not allowed to mind. he’s not allowed to feel any sort of way about taking care of others, he just has to do it. no questions, no talkback, no lip. because that’s his job. most of the time, he just ends up pushing people away. he’s not good at showing anything other than anger. but he has everyone taken care of, in the end. at least he has that.
dean doesn’t tell you to stop doesn’t tell you to get off him, or make a joke as you wipe at him. he doesn’t do anything, actually. not a damn thing. he’s not sure why, either. he’s pretty sure he blacked out, instead of being present in the moment. he’s been doing that a lot recently—not knowing what he’s doing, lost in his own thoughts, brain on autopilot. he almost walked into a sign in front of a restaurant in the middle of the sidewalk the other day. a goddamn sign. what the hell was wrong with him lately?
dean finally snaps back into the moment, slowly blinking his eyes at you like an owl. he swallows the words that never came, that never even formed into a thought as looks at you. you're still naked—and that is a sight dean could get used to, that’s for damn sure.
you turn and lean over the edge of his bed a little, and dean immediatley siezes up, a sinking, deveastating feeling weighing on his chest like a dumbell, because this is it. you’re leaving. you got what you wanted, just his body, just to get off, and now you’re leaving. he’s given you everything and more and you’re leaving, leaving him like a toy you don’t want to play with anymore, leaving him like everything and everyone in his life. you’ve already grown bored of him, and now this thing between you is over before it even began.
but then you turn back to face him, your entire expression soft.
you were just putting his shirt you were using on the floor.
oh.
dean tries to look like he didn’t just get scared, but he knows some part of you noticed. he’s vulnrable right now, a easy target. you could walk out his bedroom door right now and he’d probably just cry instead of going after you. he actually feels like he could cry on the spot right now. he hopes you won’t say anything. you usually don’t—just hold him, hug him, touch him without a word.
and oh, how dean loved to be touched by you.
he’d take 40 more years in hell if it meant your hand could brush his face one last time. he’d take an eternity of torture, or he himself doing the torturing in the pit for your arms around him again. he’d kill anyone, steal anything, do whatever it took if it meant being near you.
but he has to act like he wouldn’t do that for you. he’d burn down anything for you to even look in his direction, for your touch on his flannel-clad shoulder, for your kiss on his cheek, an embrace from your arms. yet he had to act normal about it. but you were the only one who knew how to hug him correctly. sam, knew too, by default. but that was different—that’s his brother. his blood.
but you touched him like you’d spent your whole life learning to.
and you even hugged him like second nature, but still molded to the moment, still exactly what he needed. because you always knew where to squeeze, where to rest your head on him, no matter the situation. no matter if you won a hunt, a fight, an apocolaypse, or if you lost, you fit his body like a puzzle piece. like a lock and key. he’d known that—but it was carved into him forever after tonight, and he’d never forget.
because earlier, when he first slid inside you, it’s like the whole world had been off-kilter until he found his way inside you, the way he’s wanted to be inside you for so long. once he’d bottomed out, it’s like the world was right, for once in his life. like everything made sense after so long of it being chaos.
dean knows it’s ridiculous to feel such a thing, especially during sex, but in that moment, he did. he fit so snug, so perfect inside you that it felt like he’d gotten chucked into one of his dreams again, where he was watching you below him, you touching him the way he’s wanted you to touch him for so long. moaning his name, bringing him closer to you with your hands. just for the sake of being close, touching.
he’s been waiting for it. since forever, it feels like. since the moment he laid eyes on you. since the moment he had even an idea of what love was.
he must’ve been staring pretty hard, because one of your hands had made its way up to the side of his face, your eyes searching his expression. you’re looking to see what he’s thinking about. dean hopes it’s not written all over his face, but you seem to know what he’s thinking regardless if his expression shows it or not.
your thumbs brush his cheeks once, twice—still searching. still wanting him. he honestly still can't believe it. he’s not sure he ever will. you being here with him, he’s sure to wake up from this dream at any moment.
but he doesn't. you’re still in front of him. touching him.
and you want him there.
that’s why he lays down and rests his head on your chest with no complaints, no pushback when you tug him towards you after you lay down yourself. he doesn't protest partly because he actually really was fucking tired, but mostly because eventually, you’ll leave him—and dean will have nothing but the memoty of you, of your touch. maybe that’ll be changed, now that you’ve crossed the line he’s wanted to cross for so long now.
your hand finds his way into his hair, gently running your fingers through it and tugging dean out of his thoughts—and he has to bite back a noise from how good it feels. he sighs softly instead, relaxing more on top of you. he wonders if he’s making it hard for you to breathe. it’s happened before.
but you don’t move.
and now he can die happy.
dean would die for anything. it was damn near inevitable in this line of work—and shit, it already happened. he’d die for you, for his brother, his father, or some random person he doesn’t even know. he’ll lay it all down, if it meant saving the world, or even just saving one life. he’d do it. he has done it, over and over.
but you don’t say anything. you just hold him. dean can feel your heartbeat, feel your chest rising and falling. and in that piece of sunlight and everything warm and good, dean knows. he’s always known the terrifying truth about you.
Can you please write a Dean Winchester x reader in which reader hunts with them and whenever Sam and Dean argue or disagree she takes Dean side till one time Sam gets fed up and yells at her that she does it because she’s in love with Dean. Reader storms out of the motel room and maybe gets abducted by some creature they’re hunting, Dean blames Sam and later when they rescue her he admits the feelings are mutual
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Pairings; Dean Winchester x reader
Genre/warnings; angst, hurt/comfort, slow-burn romance, fluff, supernatural casefic, arguing, yelling, kidnapping/abduction by monster, Dean blaming Sam, emotional tension
Summary: When Sam calls you out for always taking Dean’s side during their arguments, you storm out—only to be snatched by the creature you’re hunting, forcing Dean to admit his feelings for you when he nearly loses you.
2490 words
The air in the motel room was thick with tension, the kind that only ever came when the Winchesters started snapping at each other.
Sam was hunched over his laptop, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through pages of lore. “I’m telling you, it’s not a revenant. The MO fits closer to a ghoul.”
Dean, leaning against the dresser with a beer in hand, scoffed. “A ghoul? Come on, Sammy, we’ve seen enough revenants to know what we’re dealing with. They’ve got the stink all over ‘em.”
Your eyes darted between them, the familiar rhythm of their arguments echoing like background noise. But when Dean’s voice got that sharp edge to it—the one that said he wasn’t backing down—you felt your stomach twist.
“I’m with Dean,” you said finally, pushing your chair back with a scrape. “Everything about this feels like a revenant case. The feeding pattern, the graveyard sightings—it lines up.”
Sam’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in his hazel eyes. “Of course you do.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
Sam shut his laptop harder than necessary. “You always side with him. No matter what. Doesn’t matter if I’ve got evidence right in front of me, doesn’t matter if I’m making sense—you pick Dean. Every damn time.”
Dean straightened. “Hey, don’t start taking this out on her—”
But Sam wasn’t finished. His voice rose, sharp with frustration. “You do it because you’re in love with him!”
The words hit the air like a gunshot. Silence dropped, heavy and suffocating.
Your heart stuttered, heat rising up your neck. Dean’s mouth fell open, stunned, but you didn’t stick around to see his reaction.
“Go to hell, Sam,” you spat, shoving your jacket off the chair. You stormed out before the tears could burn their way out of your eyes.
The slam of the motel door echoed behind you.
The night air was cooler than you expected, sharp against your skin. You walked fast, arms wrapped around yourself, fury and embarrassment twisting in your gut.
Love Dean?
Okay, maybe your pulse did skip when he smiled at you, maybe your chest tightened when his hand brushed yours on hunts, maybe you’d catch yourself watching him when you should’ve been cleaning your gun. But Sam had no right—no right—to throw it in your face like that.
You’d barely made it a few blocks when the sound of footsteps behind you pricked your instincts. You turned, hand reaching for the blade tucked in your jacket.
Too late.
Something slammed into you from the shadows, cold and rough, yanking you off your feet. A hand clamped over your mouth as you tried to scream. You kicked, thrashed, but the thing was strong—inhumanly strong.
The last thing you saw was the flash of its teeth before the darkness swallowed you.
Back at the motel, the silence stretched until Dean finally snapped.
“You’re a real piece of work, Sam.” His voice was low, lethal.
Sam dragged a hand down his face, regret already weighing heavy. “Dean, I didn’t mean for it to—”
“You don’t get to say that,” Dean bit out, slamming his beer bottle onto the table so hard it cracked. “You don’t get to humiliate her, rip her open like that, and then say you didn’t mean it.”
Sam flinched but didn’t argue. He knew he’d gone too far.
Dean shoved past him toward the door. “I’m gonna find her. And if anything happens—anything—I swear to God, it’s on you.”
The door slammed, leaving Sam in the echo of his own words.
You woke to the smell of damp stone and decay. Your wrists ached, bound tight behind your back, your head throbbing from where you’d been knocked out.
Blinking into the dim light, you realized you were in some kind of crypt. Stone walls, bones scattered in the corners, and standing in front of you—the thing that had dragged you off the street. Its gray, decaying skin stretched over its skull, milky eyes unblinking.
A revenant.
Sam had been wrong.
Terror clawed up your throat as it crouched low, studying you with grotesque curiosity. Your chest heaved. You tried to stay calm, tried to focus, but all you could think was:
Dean. Please find me.
Dean’s boots pounded the pavement, every muscle tight with rage and fear. He didn’t need Sam’s laptop or lore right now—he needed you. The thought of you out there, alone and possibly hurt, twisted his stomach in ways he couldn’t control.
He yanked his phone from his pocket, dialing your number again. Straight to voicemail. “Come on, sweetheart, pick up. Just—just let me hear your voice.” He swallowed hard and shoved the phone back, scanning the empty street.
Sam caught up a few minutes later, breathing heavy. “Dean—”
“Save it.” Dean didn’t look at him. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. “We’re finding her. Now.”
Sam knew better than to argue. He fell into step, both of them scouring the area, EMF meters and flashlights cutting through the night.
They followed the trail—scuff marks in the dirt, a broken streetlight, the faint smear of blood on the pavement that made Dean’s chest seize. He crouched, brushing his fingers over it, then stood like a man possessed.
“Revenant,” he muttered.
Sam stiffened. “So you were right.”
Dean turned on him, eyes blazing. “You think I give a damn about that right now?”
Sam held his hands up, guilt all over his face. “No. I just mean—we know what we’re dealing with.”
Dean didn’t respond. He was already moving, faster now, the anger in his veins fueling him like fire.
You struggled against the ropes until your wrists were raw. The revenant circled you slowly, its head cocked at an unnatural angle.
“What the hell do you want?” you snapped, though your voice trembled.
It hissed, lips peeling back from broken teeth. The stench made your stomach churn. You kicked at it when it got too close, heart hammering. Hold it together. Dean will come.
At the thought of him, a lump rose in your throat. Sam’s cruel words replayed in your head—because you’re in love with him—and for a terrifying moment, you wished you’d just admitted it. Wished Dean knew, even if you weren’t sure he felt the same.
The revenant leaned in again, claws reaching. You squeezed your eyes shut.
Then the sound of a shotgun shattered the crypt.
The creature screeched, stumbling back as rock salt tore into its decaying flesh. Your eyes flew open to see Dean charging in like a storm, jaw set, eyes burning.
“Get the hell away from her!” he roared.
Sam was right behind him, iron blade ready.
The revenant lunged, faster than it looked, but Dean was faster. He fired again, driving it back, then pulled his machete free. Every swing was precise, brutal, fueled by something deeper than the hunt—fueled by fear, by fury, by the thought of losing you.
Sam darted in from the other side, landing a heavy strike. The creature shrieked, staggering between them.
“Dean!” you yelled, panic cutting through your voice.
“I got you, sweetheart,” he barked, never looking away from the monster.
One last swing, and the revenant’s head hit the floor with a sickening thud. Its body collapsed, twitching once before lying still.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Dean dropped the machete, breathing hard, chest heaving. Then his eyes were on you.
“Y/N…”
He crossed the crypt in three strides, falling to his knees in front of you. His hands trembled as they worked at the ropes, his jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack.
When the bindings gave, you collapsed forward into his chest. He caught you instantly, holding you like he’d never let go again.
“Jesus Christ, I thought—” His voice broke. He buried his face in your hair, arms locked tight around you. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t you ever walk out like that.”
You clung to him, tears slipping free. “Dean, I—”
Sam cleared his throat softly, hanging back. He looked guilty, ashamed, but didn’t move closer. For once, he knew this wasn’t his moment.
Dean’s hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you close. His voice was ragged, raw. “I can’t lose you. Not you.”
And in that moment, with his heart hammering against yours, you knew Sam had been right. You were in love with Dean. But more than that—you weren’t the only one.
The drive back to the motel was suffocating. Dean’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes locked straight ahead. Sam sat in the passenger seat, silent for once. You curled against the backseat window, exhaustion pulling at your bones, but your mind was too loud to rest.
When the Impala finally rolled to a stop outside the flickering neon sign of the motel, Dean was out of the car first. He opened your door before you could move, his hand hovering like he was afraid you might shatter if he touched you too rough.
“Come on, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, but tight with strain.
Inside, Dean steered you to the bed and crouched down in front of you, eyes raking over every bruise, every scrape. His hands ghosted over your arms like he wanted to check for damage but couldn’t trust himself not to hurt you.
“I’m fine,” you whispered, though your throat was raw.
His head snapped up. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re not fine—you were tied up, bleeding, scared out of your mind. And if we’d been five minutes later—” His voice cracked. He shoved a hand through his hair and stood, pacing like a caged animal. “God, I almost lost you.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably by the door. “Dean—”
“Not now, Sam.” Dean’s tone was sharp, final.
Sam closed his mouth, guilt flickering across his face.
You stared at Dean, heart pounding. His words, the way he’d stormed into that crypt like nothing else in the world mattered—it was everything Sam had accused you of.
You swallowed hard. “Dean…”
He stopped pacing, turned to you. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. For once, the walls were gone—no smirk, no sarcasm, no armor. Just raw, aching truth.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said hoarsely. “And when I saw you in there, tied up like that… I realized something. Something I should’ve admitted a long time ago.”
He crossed the room in three strides, sinking to his knees in front of you again. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your damp cheeks.
“I’m in love with you.” The words were rough, pulled straight from his chest. “I’ve been trying to bury it, ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there—but it is. And I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not in the field, not because you’re mad at me, not ever.”
Tears blurred your vision. For a moment, the room was silent except for the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.
Then you whispered, trembling, “Sam was right.”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Forget what Sam said. This isn’t about him. This is me telling you I love you. You don’t have to say it back. Hell, you can tell me I’m an idiot. But you’re not walking out of here thinking you’re just some hunting partner to me.”
The dam inside you broke. You surged forward, crashing your lips against his. His hands tangled in your hair instantly, pulling you close, like he’d been waiting years for this. The kiss was desperate, messy, but it was everything—relief, fear, love, all pouring out at once.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you pressed your forehead to his. “I love you too, Dean. I always have.”
Behind you, Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh… so, I guess I was right about that part, huh?”
Dean shot him a glare over your shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re my brother, Sam. Otherwise, I’d kick your ass for almost getting her killed.”
Sam held up his hands. “Noted. Shutting up now.”
Dean turned back to you, softer now, one hand still cradling your cheek. “We’ll figure the rest out later. But right now? I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
And for the first time in a long while, you believed him.
The motel room was quiet, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner sputtering against the window. Dean hadn’t moved from your side since you kissed him—like if he looked away, you might vanish. His hand rested gently over yours on the blanket, thumb brushing small circles against your skin.
Sam, for once, was the one who couldn’t handle the silence. He shifted by the tiny table, trying to look anywhere but at the two of you. Finally, he muttered, “So… guess I owe you both an apology.”
Dean raised a brow. “Damn straight you do.”
Sam shot him a look. “I was frustrated, okay? You two never see eye to eye with me, and I just blurted it out. I didn’t mean for her to storm out like that.” His gaze flicked to you, sincere. “I’m sorry. Really.”
You sighed, the sting of earlier still fresh, but you managed a small smile. “It’s okay, Sam. You weren’t wrong. Just… maybe next time don’t yell it in my face?”
Sam had the decency to look sheepish.
Dean snorted. “Yeah, or at least pick a better time. You nearly got her killed, man.”
Sam muttered something under his breath about pot, meet kettle and reached for his laptop, clearly done with heartfelt moments.
Dean leaned closer, his voice dropping low so only you could hear. “Don’t listen to him. You always got my back, and that means more to me than I can say.”
You gave him a pointed look. “Pretty sure you just said it.”
His lips quirked into that crooked half-smile, the one that always melted you. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to me being sappy. That was a one-time special.”
You arched a brow. “Mm-hm. Sure.”
Before he could retort, Sam groaned loudly. “God, you two are disgusting already.”
You and Dean both turned your heads in unison to shoot him identical glares. The synchronized move made Sam mutter, “Unbelievable,” and bury himself deeper into his laptop.
The moment the distraction passed, Dean tugged you gently until you were curled against his side. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, protective and warm, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm.
“You scared me today,” he admitted quietly, voice thick with honesty he rarely let anyone hear.
“I scared myself,” you whispered back. “But… I kept thinking you’d come.”
Dean pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Always will, sweetheart.”
For the first time in days, your chest loosened. The case wasn’t done, there were still monsters to hunt, arguments to have—but for tonight, you had Dean’s arms, his words, and the promise that you didn’t have to take sides anymore.
Because you were finally, undeniably, on the same one.
just imagine dean winchester with a girlfriend who can fall asleep anywhere. and i mean anywhere.
it’s kind of ironic, but of course dean, a man who can’t remember the last time he had a full night sleep and is perpetually running off coffee and adrenaline, getting with a girl who can (and will) attempt to sleep where and whenever she can. doesn’t matter the circumstances. on the way to question a witness twenty minutes away? she’s out in the backseat of the impala, curled up against the window. stuck waiting in the hospital or police station? you can bet your ass you’ll find her with her eyes shut, body relaxed with her legs crossed.
most people find it weird. including people who know she’s a hunter. dean did at first, sending weird looks to her sleeping figure. but then he learned to admire the skill. originally he thought that it would make you a liability, but then he learned that you can sleep but your mind is active and ready to awake any minute, well other times you let your body fully pass out. that was mostly because in motel teams with dean by your side or in the impala travelling to another case. the vibration of the car on the road lulls you to sleep. you’ll scramble whatever extra clothes you can to create a pillow and lean or against the window, putting your head on it as you spread your legs.
there’s a funny picture of castiel in the car with you, frozen as your legs sit on his lap (you’d moved in your sleep). dean and sam thought it was hilarious, taking a photo and saying they’d never seen cas ‘that scared and annoyed at the same time’ before. cas has now become accustomed to those thing happening, especially because you both are stuck in the back together. dean has tried to kick his brother in the back when it’s the three of you, but you feel bad because sam is huge and wouldn’t be comfortable in the back (anyone smaller than sam would be fine, and that’s everyone).
when you find the bunker and claim rooms, dean finally understands why you sleep so much (and easy, though he’d never admit that). it doesn’t matter about how comfortable the bed is or its it dark out, what matters is the person beside you at night, skin pressed against skin so close you are practically on top of each other. it’s about you can feel safe even when you aren’t.
🗒️ 𓈒 . “stop it,” you mumble, shoving munch! dean’s face away from your thighs. recently, you could never get any research done — at least not with dean around.
sitting comfortably on his bed in the bunker, you had hoped to get a little information about a case, but that soon failed the second dean walked in. he was on the bed, tucked between your thighs as he often liked to lay there, but this time? his fingers teased at your clothed pussy under your t shirt. just light little touches at first, tracing the outline of your puffy folds, rubbing tiny circles on your clit. but then he moved his mouth to your thighs, sucking loudly on the skin and inching closer to your core. it was obviously distracting.
“sweetheart,” he groans. “just let me. wanna taste you.” he pleads, already in the process of stretching your panties to the side. “d-dean, i’m trying to do research.” you complain, hoping he wouldn’t make a remark on how wet you were just from a few touches. but of course he notices.
“right, n’ that’s why this pretty pussy’s all soaked for me.” a nasty smirk curls onto his lips, using his other hand to spread your pussy lips wide to look at you. “fuck..” he grunts under his breath, watching the way your cunt tightened around nothing.
another complaint died on your tongue the second his licks a long, flat stripe up your center, drawing a pretty moan from you. “taste so sweet, baby.” his lips suction around your clit, tongue swirling with skill around the pulsating bud. “ohmygod—” the pen slips from your hand, newspaper following as he pushes your thighs further apart and devours you. he always does, moaning into it like he needs it more than you.
he leaves sloppy kisses to your pussy before dipping down and plunging his warm tongue inside your hole. his hot breath fans over the expanse of you, making you twitch. “h-haah.. dean..” you fingers curl into his hair, keeping him there. he laughs lapping up your arousal messily. “keep researchin’, darlin’. thought you had stuff to do?” he grins, not wasting any more time before spitting a glob of saliva onto your clit before watching it drip down to your hole. “god, i love this pretty ass cunt.” he praises, sucking juices out of your tight, fluttering hole.
Summerary: Dean notices something is going on with you. He acts emidiately. Wich leeds to confetions he doesn't believe and feelings he doesn't trust.
Contains: classic Dean angst, possesion, kind of violance, alcohol use, angst, denial, confetions
Pairing: Dean Winchester x possesed? Reader
Wc: 3K
~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~
Dean watched you from afar. His eyes locked on you while you were digging through your bag for God knows what. You caught him. Normally, you would quip a quick remark about how he should make a picture, or ask if he likes what he sees. Now you just smiled, it was one he had never seen before. You didn’t smile, you smirked, you laughed, and wheezed. You didn’t smile that sickly sweet smile you had plastered on your face right now. Especially not at him.
“Have you seen my hairbrush?” Your voice was light and airy, a twinkling in your eyes that wasn’t there yesterday.
“It’s in the bathroom,” Dean said, eyes still on you.
“Oh, I’ll wait till Sammy is done then.”
You never called Sam Sammy. Doesn’t matter how long you have been traveling with them. The only person allowed to use that nickname is Dean. And even then, Sam hates it. You know that. You respect that.
“You all right there, sweetheart?”
You look up at him, cheeks red, eyes suddenly filled with dramatic sorrow. You walk towards him, a sway in your hips. Dean furrowed his brows. What was going on here? You propped your leg up on the bed, your knee touching him, and you sat down, facing Dean. Your fingers brushed over his, and Dean's heart picked up, not getting the memo that his brain was sending out. Because when his heart went pitter-patter, all he could think was danger with a capital D.
“Dean, I don’t think I can take it in anymore.” You breathed, as if it pained you to say it.
That was when he knew. Whoever was sitting in front of him. It wasn’t you.
That was when the bathroom door opened, and Sam stepped out. You sprang up quickly, like you were caught. Sam gave you a questionable look before he spoke. “Your turn.”
The moment you closed the bathroom door behind you, Dean grabbed a marker.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, oblivious to what had transpired before he walked in.
“Our girl is possessed.”
This got Sam's attention. He didn’t question his brother. He just went and grabbed the salt. Sealing all the exits.
Steam curled under the bathroom door.
Water running.
Time ticking.
Dean finished the Devil’s trap just as they heard the water turn off.
Quickly, Sam and Dean went their separate ways. Weapons tucked away to stay inconspicuous.
The door opened, you stepped out. Your pyjama set flowing loosely around your figure. Dean swallowed.
You froze. Looking down at the devil's trap you stood in the middle of. “What is this?” You asked, confusion mixing with annoyance.
“You are not as subtle as you think you are.” Dean's voice was low. Dangerous. A bite in it that he never used with you. But this wasn’t you. He was sure of it.
“Dean, what are you talking about?” You looked at Sam. As if he was going to help you. But his features remained stoic, ever the loyal brother.
“Is this because of earlier?”
Dean stayed quiet. Now standing before you, his eyes are determined.
“Dean I…” You started. Looking at Sam, hesitation laced in your eyes. “I was just trying to tell you how I feel. How I have felt in a long time.”
Dean stepped into the circle, slammed your body against the bathroom door, trapping you between it and him. “Dean?!” Sam sprang up from his chair, startled by the actions of his brother.
“You think I am stupid?” Dean hissed, face close to yours. Anger in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was going to kill you.
“Dean, please. You are hurting me.” You said as tears welled up in your eyes.
Doubt flickered across Sam's features.
“You think I don’t know her?” He spat, voice rough. “I know every damn tell she’s got.”
He paused. The air in the room stilled. Sam is still looking between the two, his whole body on guard.
“She’d never look at me like that.”
Something in your eyes lit up. A dangerous glow that didn’t seem human. Your lips curved, forced. Wrong.
“Like what?” Your voice was different now, no longer holding up the pretence that you were hurt. The Demon knew it was caught. All it could do now was wreak more havoc. “Soft?” It offered. “Hopeful? In Love?”
Dean’s grip tightened.
“Shut up.”
“Oh, come on.” It leaned into Dean’s grip instead of away. Trying to tie the hunter around its finger. “I thought hunters were supposed to be observant. And you mean to tell me you haven’t seen the longing looks she gives you.” A wicked smile is plastered on its face as it continues. “I hear her screaming for you right now. She loves the feeling of your hands on her skin. I am guessing she likes it rough.” It winks.
“I said shut up!” Dean gritted through his teeth.
“Every time you hold her hand, every time you call her ‘sweetheart.’ Her whole body lights up.” It leaned into Dean, whispering in his ear. “Right now she is begging me not to hurt you, there is not a single thought about herself in here. Only you. She cares more about you than she does herself, isn’t that sweet?”
Dean’s jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, his mind racing. It is lying, trying to get inside his head, trying to get out of here. Dean was sure this was all a trick. He would never be that lucky.
“Have you never wondered why she is so protective of you? You must have noticed it’s different with you than it is with Sam. "Haven't you?”
Dean shook his head. “You are lying.”
“You sure about that?”
A wicked smile is stretched across your face. A cruelty that makes Dean do a double take. Nothing in there looks like you anymore.
“She thinks she is not enough for you, not a good enough hunter, too emotional, too weak. So she just shuts up, pretends it's nothing.”
Dean didn’t move, his eyes still locked on you, searching for a glimmer of truth but he didn’t find anything. He just felt Sam’s eyes burning at the back of his neck, begging to cut it out, to start the exorcism already, but Dean hesitated. He likes the pain the demon caused him. It was a reminder. The bittersweet words were stinging deliciously reminding him of something he wanted so desperately but could never have.
“Tell me? Is that what you think? Or do you love her too?”
For a second Dean faltered, shocked by the balls this demon possessed.
And it grinned, like it had won a battle Dean didn’t even know was happening.
“Thats what I thought.”
That was the last straw. Dean was done. A tired smirk grew on his lips. The dream was over.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, he just started the exorcism.
Your body started shaking violently. Your voice twisting into something inhuman as the demon screamed through you. Until it started laughing.
“I still won Winchester. I’m in your head now.”
Dean didn’t stop, didn’t falter. Not this time. Not until the last words were spoken. Not until silence crashed down together with your body. Caught in Dean's strong arms.
“I got you sweetheart, I got you.” The nickname burned something in his chest, but he chose to ignore it.
Your eyes fluttered open. And you tried to regain your footing, but failed miserably. And Dean's arms wrapped around you once more. “Dean?” You began, voice completely yours now, still shaking lightly. “What happened?” You asked.
Dean looked at you worry lacing with sorrow. But before he could say anything it was like memories came rushing back.
“I was possessed.” You said. Straightening your back as you pull up your sleeve, a gash through your anti-possession tattoo. “Are you allright?”
Dean laughed quietly.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”
—
Weeks went by after that. Weeks where your voice kept playing in Dean’s mind. Words that weren't yours. Feeling that wheren’t either.
But the Demon had been right either way. The feelings may not have been yours, but they were his.
You noticed he started drinking more, stayed up even later than usual, but he always came home. That was new.
He noticed things too. Noticed you looking at him. Stolen glances when he was driving. He caught you looking at him through the rear view mirror more times than he could count. Notice that you always checked if he was okay before you checked Sam.
He told himself it was the demon talking. That it didn’t mean anything.
It couldn’t mean anything.
He wasn’t that lucky.
You tried to be normal. But you weren't stupid. You remembered being possessed. Remembered hearing your voice without saying anything yourself. You remember feeling trapped and helpless. Remembered Dean’s words, his anger and his hesitation. Remembered the way he looked at you, the disbelief. The sliver of hope. The look in his eyes when your voice asked, if he loved you too.
Blue light flickered from underneath the door of the “Dean Cave”. Muffled sounds and suspenseful music coming from the western movie Dean was probably watching. You knocked.
Twice.
The third knock hanging in the air like you were scared of the scene that would follow.
His voice boomed from inside, inviting you in.
The movie was paused, Clint Eastwood stared at you like he knew what was going to happen, his brows knit together, a cigar in his mouth.
“What are you doing up.” He asked. Glass of cheap whiskey in his hand.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You said as you went to sit on the couch beside him.
A silence wrapped around the two of you. And you almost thought he would put the movie on play again.
“I remember you know.” You began. Doubt sounding in your voice. “What I said.. "What it said.”
Dean looked at you now, putting his whiskey away. “You don't have to explain.” He said quickly “It was just demon crap.” His words sounded almost rehearsed. Like he had been telling himself that for weeks. And something deep inside him broke. Because however many times he told himself, there was a part of him that didn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Because he still had hope. And if you were here to set the record straight. To tell him those exact words, that last sliver of hope would be gone.
You were quiet. Dean's words were like gasoline on a fire that had been slowly burning inside you since the moment you met him. “Is that what you want me to say?” You asked.
Dean looked at you confused. This was not what he was expecting to happen. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head a million times, and never had you said that.
“Is that what you have been telling yourself for the past few weeks?”
Dean shook his head. Trying to make sense of the words that were pouring out of your mouth.
“Because it isn’t what I feel, Dean.” Your voice was sharp, almost harsh. Your tone didn’t fit with the underlying message of your words. The way you said his name came out almost accusatory.
“Stop” He said low, warning you. His face showed warmth when he spoke, the complete opposite of what you had given him. “This is what they do sweetheart, they twist your memories, your feelings. This isn’t you.”
You grew quiet, baffled by the words coming out of his mouth. “I remember. I remember losing control, doing things that weren’t of my own design, but I could still feel everything.”
Dean shook his head. “That doesn’t mean…”
“Yes it does!” You cut in, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. You were standing now. Not able to contain your emotions anymore. “It didn’t make anything up, it just told you what was already there.”
There was something in Dean’s eyes that you couldn't place. Pity, hurt, maybe both. He leaned towards you. His fingers ghosting above yours, hoping you wouldn't catch that.
“Why would it do that?” He asked.
You looked down at him. “I don’t know, why do demons do anything?” You stumbled. “To get to you, to hurt you.”
Dean latched onto that immediately.
Of course he did.
“Exactly,” He said, almost relieved. He stood up. At your level now. Brushing your hair out of your face before he noticed doing it. “ That's what I have been saying. It wasn’t real. It was just trying to mess with your head. It was trying to hurt you.”
“It wasn’t trying to hurt me, Dean.” You said, he paused.
“Maybe at first, but after you captured it, I wasn’t its target anymore.” Your voice was soft. Steady.
“So I ask you, Winchester. Because you seem to have all the answers. Why would admitting my feelings hurt you?”
Dean stared at you, quiet, frozen.
His voice was lost somewhere in the abis.
Searching for an answer that would satisfy you. But he knew that the only thing you’d believe right now was the truth. And he wasn’t ready to give it.
“Because I think it is because you are terrified.”
Dean let out a breath, sharp, almost a laugh. But you didn’t think it was funny.
“Terrified?” He echoed, shaking his head. “Of what?”
“Of wanting something you don’t think you deserve.”
That sentence landed like a dart into a bullseye, right on the money.
“You don’t know what you are talking about.” he tried, but the fact that he looked away when he said it told you all you needed to know.
“I think I do.”
He scoffed, “You think you know me so well?”
“Oh please.” You scoffed. “I know you better than you know yourself.” There was that fire again. “You are scared Dean, scared of losing people. And that is fine. I am too. But if you keep pushing me away you are going to lose me either way.”
Dean's head snapped back at you. His eyes burning trough your skull. “I’m not pushing..”
"Yes, you are.” You said. “You are doing it right now.”
Dean grew quiet. Took a step back creating space, space you didn’t want but you knew he needed.
“You don’t get to decide how I feel.” Your voice is softer now.
He didn’t argue this time. He just looked at you. Jaw cleansing mind racing.
“And then?”
Your breath got stuck in your throat. You didn’t know what you expected. More arguing maybe? Yelling and screaming. You were hoping for some angry desperate kiss, but you know those just happened in your wildest dreams. Those were reserved for when you couldn't sleep and you were talking to Dean in your mind, making up stories to make you sleep better.
“What do you mean and then?”
“This whole conversation, say you are right, say you do care for me.”
“I do.”
"Yeah yeah.” He waved your comment away. “Say you are right, what happens then?”
You stilled for a moment. Not really getting what he was getting at.
“I’m not good at this.” He said pointing between the two of you. You looked at him with a small smile tugging at your lips, but you were careful to not let it show too much. “You think I am?” You began. “You think I know how to do this?”
You stepped towards the hunter, looking up at him. “I don’t expect this to be perfect. I just expect you to try.” Dean’s hand wrapped around your wrist, warm hands caressing your skin.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said, voice soft.
“You probably are.” You laughed. Dean’s brows knit together. “Way to reassure a guy.”
“You are going to hurt me, probably as much as I am going to hurt you. As long as we try to make up, I don't see what the problem is.”
“You really want to do this?
“I do.”
Dean stared at you. Really stared. Like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
As if he was trying to figure out if this was real.
His grip on you tightened slightly.
“You don’t make this easy, you know.” He muttered.
You huffed. “Wasn’t trying to.”
Silence returned. Sticky, heavy.
Dean's eyes searched for you, for a flicker of hesitation. For doubt. But he didn’t find any.
“I’m going to screw this up.” He said. You nodded. “Sounds like you.”
But something about the way you said it made him wonder. You said it like you didn’t care if he screwed this up. He could try all he wanted because you knew that whoever screwed up. You were going to fix this, together.
“Okay,” he breathed.
And that was it.
Dean stepped forward, slower this time, giving you the chance to change your mind, to stop him. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You had been dreaming about this moment for weeks, years even. So had he.
He cupped your face in his hand and brought your lips towards his. It was like fireworks exploded in your stomach. All the worry and anger you felt before melted off your body as all that consumed you was the feeling of him. His calloused fingers on your skin and his warm lips on yours.
The kiss was desperate and hurried and it completely stole your breath away. Stilling you completely. Dean consuming every fire of your being.
Your hands found his flannel, grounding you into something real.
Into him.
The kiss softened. Shifted into something that felt like it could last forever.
He was the first to move away, his forehead resting against yours slightly. His dumb gliding across your cheek lovingly. His eyes were warm and safe. You could drown in them.
“I love you too.” He said, before connecting with your lips again. And there was nothing desperate or uncertain about it.
♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~
I love me some Dean angst! And I love some passionate fighting!!
Btw... do you remember the story ideas I had that I posted 2 weeks ago? None of the stories I posted recently have been from that list... oops
The Family Business. @deanwxnchexter - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
