fanfic-idjit

Call me Charlotte | 2002 | Taurus | Obsessed with tall men with dusty blond hair

[fanfic-idjit]

Masterlist

These are my original works, from new to old. I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think <3

June Jukebox Master list - Reader insert - multiple fandoms - Dean Winchester - Sam Winchester - Steve Rogers

Dean winchester

All mine - June Jukebox - I'm gonna make her mine, all mine

Not Fair - June Jukebox - No, I can't promise I won't do that

No promises - June Jukebox - No, I can't promise I won't do that

To hell and back - request - Dean reunites with someone he met in hell, but you are supposed to be dead

Caught red-handed - Drunken confessions lead to more than you bargained for

Beds Galore - Reverse one bed trope - Deanxreader Part 1 - Part 2

Her words, not mine - Dean notices you haven't been yourself - Deanxreader

Blood is thicker - enemies to lovers - Dean x witch reader Part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - epilogue

"I can't lose you" - protective Dean angst - Deanxreader

Sam Winchester

The boy who hung the moon - friends to lovers, slow burn Part I: The things we don't say Part II: Waiting for permission

Combat boots and a sundress - june juke box

I dont think I cought your name - June Jukebox - Smut

Sickly Sweet - Sam takes care of you when you are sick Part1 - Part2

Sweet Dreams - Sam finds peace with you - Samxreader

coffee cake - based on: coffee cake by benson boone - Samxreader

Are you sure she is what is best for you? - Dean hates you - Samxreader

Steve Rogers

that guy | June Jukebox scribbles | Anybody could be that guy

At ease, soldier - You are kidnapped by Hydra to be executed at your father's charity gala

Still falling - You have a major crush on Steve

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 11: Good Direction

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Ten✦

✦summary: dean makes you do things✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦

✦author's note: i hope somewhere out there, a man is reading my fanfics to try and figure out how to be a good boyfriend.✦

The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s ten minute to get through the brush fields and small woods to anything else.

You’ve been hoping you wouldn’t have to leave the property. It was plenty big, with a poll that you could hide in the shallow end of, combating the heat. Really, you’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’ve gotten away with it all, just lounging around and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out of orbit.

“You good?” He asks every hour or so, even just poking his head into the room without grabbing anything else. 

“Mhm.” You mumble, tucked under the covers. 

He frowns. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“

“No, thank you.” You pull the blankets tighter, and he sighs. Stares at you for another moment. 

Then Sam calls his name, and he shuffles away. Neither of you have spoken about last night. You have no desire to. It’s a conversation that will only leading to shouting and strange looks and—worst of all—endings.

This isn’t supposed to be an ending. It’s supposed to be a needlessly complicated vacation. Dean promised you there would be nothing to do but lie about being his girlfriend, and eat good food.

He hadn’t mentioned cornering you in bed like a living wet dream, either.

If you bring up that lapse in proper discloser, though, it becomes that bigger conversation. The one you really don’t want to have.

And you’d think Dean didn’t even remember, if he wasn’t acting so weird. Whenever he sees you, his shoulders square and his ears turn oddly red. He drags you to lunch with Sam and Jess—just in the lobby, which is acceptable—and one of his uncles corners him about the shop.

“We’ve got a Thunderbird comin’ in.” Dean tells the older man, grinning proudly.

You love when he’s proud. He gets so stupidly adorable—puffing out his chest and swaggering around—and it makes you want to bite him or punch him, then wrap him up like a baby and kiss his dumb, pretty face.

“You workin’ on it yourself?” The uncle adjusts his baseball cap, and you glare at it.

There aren’t that many uncles. Most are on Mary’s side, and this man looks too… not crazy. Which leaves Dean’s favorite, according to your flashcards and quick lessons.

Dean’s favorite, who’s name you can’t remember. They’re still droning on about tires or whatever—Dean’s tried to explain cars to you many, many time, but you always stop paying attention because of how handsome he is, which is really his fault—and you’re glaring at the uncle, trying to place the name.

It’s something boring. Mike. John. Can’t be John. Frank. Gabe. Fred. Fabian. Fork. Fork isn’t a name. Fred. You already thought of Fred. Enrique. Dean. That’s Dean. Cal. Bonny.

“Bobby!”

You shout too loud, and they both fall silent, staring at you with curious expressions.

“You’re, um- You- Dean-“

He raises his brows, looking far too amused. You’re going to shove him off the balcony later.

“The- The flashcards-“

“Flashcards?” Bobby gives Dean an odd look, he shrugs, and you’re starting to babble.

“Dean, he- He made- Well, I made, but I made him help me, and he said it was stupid but I needed them, and-“ They’re both looking at you like you’re crazy. You’re not crazy. “I have to pee!”

You turn on your heels, and run. Behind you, Bobby chuckles and mutters something to Dean that you don’t want to hear.

If he wants to find you for the rest of the day, he better be ready to find you. You’d lock yourself in the room, but that’s too easy. He’ll suspect you.

You get changed, and slip down to the pool. He’s expecting you in the shallow end. You got to the deep end, cling to the wall, and submerge yourself almost entirely to wash the embarrassment away. It’s not quite as cleansing as you want. Mostly, everything just smells like chlorine.

For the rest of the afternoon, you repeat the cycle. Submerge, clean, hide against the wall and watch the birds and butterflies flit around the gardens. You see a few hummingbirds. It’s rather peaceful.

This hotel would fail a health and safety check, though. Not one lifeguard has appeared, and you’ve been here an hour. You could’ve drowned.

You shriek, when someone finally pokes your head. You recognize the laugh before you turn, and splash water up onto Dean’s legs.

The dick is wearing shorts. And sunglasses, and a tank top with a towel slung over his shoulder. You don’t appreciate being outsmarted, or how hot he looks. It makes your brain uselessly fuzzy.

“Dean, what the hell-“

“Sorry.” He’s still laughing. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “We gotta go, dinner is starting soon.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Do I have to?”

“Yeah. Part of the deal.”

He gives you a pointed look, and you sigh, sinking back into the water.

“Ah- Hold on-“

You made an undignified sound, as Dean reaches into the water, hook his hands under your arms, and pulls you right out. 

“Let you spend an extra twenty minutes.” He mutters, wrapping the towel tight around your body.

His jaw is rather clenched. When he brushes against your bare stomach, you watch his nostrils flare.

“Come on, little mermaid. Dinner time.”

Dean picks you up bridal style. For a second, you’re too dazed to remember that you’re supposed to be mad at him.

“You knew where I was?”

“Of course I knew. What-“ He frowns. “Were you trying to hide from me?”

You shake your head. It feels too nice to be carried by him. There’s that familiar heat pooling between your thighs, and it’s not really fair that Dean would do what he did last night, then not move his hand a few inches down and touch you.

Fake. It’s supposed to be fake. He’s not your actual boyfriend. He owes you nothing.

And you try to stick to that rule for the rest of the night. For your own, poor sake.

You both get dressed, and you don’t let yourself think about how good Dean looks in his button down. It’s all white, with his sleeves rolled up and a single button undone, giving you a peek of his chest, and-

No. You spray yourself mentally, like you’re a cat eating human food. Bad.

It’s tragic, though. Dean really looks like he’d taste so good.

“You look good.” He mumbles, offering you his arm.

You take it, and stare straight ahead.

“Thanks. You too.”

He grunts. Neither of you speak too much after that.

It’s not a small crowd. There are family and friends that demand Dean’s attention, and you just keep hanging off his arm. You’re a decoration right now. Someone he can’t point to, and say this is my girlfriend. His hand rests over where you’re holding him, and you try not to think about it.

“Where’d you catch her?” Some asshole with a smirk asks him.

Dean shrugs loosely, tugging you further into his side.

“You don’t catch women, Gordan.” He says, almost lazy and smug. “You lie down, and beg for her to pay attention. Then,” he winks at you. “You get lucky, and she does.”

You blink, your heart doing that annoying little fumble where it demands things. Where it wants you to sink your teeth into him, and never let up. It would like it a lot, if he’d stop talking to these people and just talk to you.

It’s loud. Everything is very warm, and Dean is both the most steady and unstable thing around.

Your nails must be digging into his arm, because he says your name softly, and you find a glass being pressed to your lips.

“Relax.” His voice is all deep, and his lips brush against your ear.

It’s not helping.

“I am relaxed-“

“You looked like you wanted to kill my cousin.”

You grunt. “That’s just my face.”

“No,” Dean snorts. “I know your face, sweetheart, but nice shot.”

“Well, I-“

“Drink.” He sighs, giving you those annoying, puppy eyes. “Please? I tried it, I think you’re gonna like it.”

You can’t say no to him. That’s how you got here in the first place. You take the drink with a sigh, and annoyingly, Dean’s right. You do like it.

It gets you through a lot more family members. You even build up the confidence to adjust Dean’s tie, while he’s talking to his grandparents.

“Aw.” His grandmother—Deanna, you’d been practicing after the Bobby incident—beams between you. “Look at you two. All young and in love. You know,” she leans forward, smirking. “Don’t tell Gramps, but I dream of a young love like that.”

Dean coughs, and you’d be mortified if he wasn’t so flustered.

“Thanks, grandma, that’s- Nice of you-“

“Not for you, boy.” Deanna scoffs. “For me.”

She laughs, Dean chuckles nervously, and his grandfather—Samuel—makes a face at you like he’s heard that joke a million times.

And Deanna might dream of young love for herself, but you want something like that. Something where they grumble and sigh and poke at each other, but both keep holding on. When Samuel mutters that his back hurts, Deanna drags him off to sit down, completely ignoring his protests that he’s fine.

All you can think of is when Dean twisted his ankle, falling off a chair in the garage. You’d put him on non-negotiable best rest for a week, and he’d pouted about it, but within a day he was pretending he was too weak to lift the spoon without your help. You’d rolled your eyes, but helped all the same.

And when you close your eyes and picture that old, certain kind of love, you only see Dean staring back at you. With soft, worn and sturdy affection in his eyes.

God.

This weekend is going to suck.

You’re grateful when you have to sit for the toasts. No one expects anything from you, and you get to watch Dean ramble through the toast he’d been rehearsing through the whole trip. In the car, sitting in the terminal, crouching on the floor waiting for a rental car.

“Sammy.” He starts with a grin, wiping his hands on his pants.

For someone so confident, he hates public speaking. Prepared public speaking. Where he’s supposed to say all the right, emotional things and has to write it ahead of time. You’d suggested he just go off the cuff—he’s far better at that—but he’d refused.

Now, he’s grinning around the room and letting the Sammy hang in the air.

His face is neutral, but his hands. They’re fisting and unfisting and wiping and wringing and-

You catch one. Dean glances at you, and you smile. Squeeze his hand once, and give him an encouraging nod.

Wing it. You mouth, and his shoulders slowly relax.

He turns back to the crowd, lets out a slow, controlled breath, and launches into a story about Sam’s first crush being a girl on the playground who pulled on his hair and called him floppy. How devoted he’d been to getting her to like him. How if he could do that for a chick who wouldn’t share her Scooby snacks, he was going to worship the ground Jess walked on for the rest of their life.

You watch him work the crowd like a show with a soft smile. You know it’s too much. That it’s clear, how much you adore him.

But it’s still part of the fake show, so you allow it. You do adore Dean. He’s perfect.

And you feel something prickle on the back of your neck.

You turn slowly, and it’s John. Staring at you with narrowed eyes, his posture stuff.

Dean must have talked to him. And whatever he said, two things are clear.

John doesn’t love it, and you’re likely to blame.

You look back to your plate and bite your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just appear as an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.

“To Sam and Jess.” He finishes, and you don’t need to look up. You know.

Dean’s looking at you.

You give him a small smile, raising your glass with the rest of the tent. Something flashes in his eyes. His jaw twitches.

His hand moves. Slow and graceful. You’re not sure he knows he’s doing it.

He grabs your chin, just like in bed. It’s the lightest touch in the world, but it feels like a nuke is being set off in your gut.

You grab his wrist, and a few awwwws echo through the crowd. They read it as romantic. Hadn’t seen it as the silent, panicked plea it was. For Dean not to play with you like this.

But you don’t know how he reads it. Dean just blinks, pulls back, and sits. His arm wraps slowly around your chair.

He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel the aftershocks, shaking in your knees.

It’s the first hole, punched in the dam. 

In the morning, you’ll still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. Tonight you wipe some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then suck it clean. He keeps his arm you. You both drink, relaxing slowly. A few people come up to you. Speak mostly to Dean, no matter how he tries to include you in the conversation. He starts to get tense about halfway through the night. 

You take a risk. Place your hand, right on his thigh, and rub gently. 

Dean jerks, and you start to move away.

He stops you. You look at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he offers you the first real smile of the night.

You smile back. That’s real, too

Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster. 

You wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. 

It smells like him.  You shove it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.

✦Chapter Twelve✦

✦End note: people gonna be asking "when are you kids getting married" all weekend✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

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[cowboylike-dean]

dean winchester one shot

💢 jealousy looks good on you

summary: a quick stop at the roadhouse for a case brings out some jealousy on you, and dean secretly loves it

─────────｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡────────

The Impala rumbled softly as Dean parked outside the familiar building of the Harvell Roadhouse. The second the engine shut off, you groaned quietly in your seat.

Dean immediately smirked.

Oh, he knew that sound.

He knew exactly why you were making it, too.

Jo had a very obvious crush on him, and subtlety wasn’t in her vocabulary. Even after Dean had made it clear that he was with you, she still tended to hover around him whenever you stopped by the Roadhouse.

Dean doesn't encourage it or reciprocate it in the slightest, but the girl's lingering stares and overly friendly attitude are enough to test your patience.

Unfortunately, Ellen had information you needed for the case, so stopping here before getting back on the road had been necessary.

Beside you, Dean leaned back against the seat, clearly fighting a grin.

Truthfully? He found your jealousy ridiculously hot.

Not because he liked other women flirting with him, he genuinely doesn't care for it since you two got together. It’s the fact that seeing you get possessive and jealous turns him on like nothing else. He can practically feel his blood rushing down his pants just watching you scowl.

Still, he wisely hid most of his smirk. He’s fully aware he might get an elbow to the ribs if he mocked you.

So instead he tilted his head innocently and asked “What? You suddenly don’t like the beer here or something?”

You shot him a glare “It’s not funny”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

You crossed your arms “If she tries to make another move, I’m gonna—” You pause, letting out a deep breath “…ignore it. Because I’m mature”

Dean’s smirk widens "That's my girl" He chuckles.

A second later, the two of you climbed out of Baby. Dean reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers together before leading you inside.

The Roadhouse looked exactly the same as always, smelling of beer and food, with a couple of hunters scattered at the tables.

Ellen stood behind the counter cleaning a glass when she saw you both "Well, look what the cat dragged in” She offered a smile.

You greet her back, walking up to her to get straight to the point. You wanted the lead Ellen promised on the creature you’ve been tracking, and you want to get it before—

“Dean!”

Jo walked in, carrying a couple small boxes in her arms, but the second she noticed Dean, her entire face lit up.

Way too enthusiastically, in your opinion.

She immediately set the boxes down and walked over "Hey! I didn't know you were coming by”

Her eyes landed on you for a fraction of a second before locking back on Dean.

Dean gave an awkward little smile “Hey, Jo”

You keep your mouth shut, maintaining your composure, though your jaw tightens.

Dean and you turn your attention back to Ellen. You try your absolute best to focus on the coordinates she’s giving you, but your eyes keep drifting.

Jo has planted herself right next to Dean, leaning heavily against the bar counter. She’s tilting her head, smiling with her eyes locked on him as he speaks to Ellen.

Dean noticed. He wasn’t looking at Jo, but he can practically feel the irritation radiating off you.

Without interrupting Ellen, his hand casually slid to your thigh under the counter, thumb stroking slowly there.

The silent reassurance helps, but you’re still wanting to get out of there sooner rather than later.

Thankfully, the conversation didn’t last much longer.

"Alright, that gives us a head start" Dean says, nodding at Ellen.

The second business was handled, Jo lightly grabbed Dean’s arm.

“So…” She said with a smile “You wanna stay for a drink before you head out?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. He smoothly pulls his arm back, sliding it around your waist instead, pulling you closer against his side.

“Thanks, Jo. But duty calls” He says “My girl and I have a son of a bitch to catch"

Jo’s enthusiastic smile tightens, faltering at the emphasis on your title. She clears her throat, straightening up reluctantly "Right. Yeah, of course"

Dean thanked Ellen, then he guided you gently towards the exit.

Dean barely made it three steps outside before turning to you with the biggest smug grin on his face.

“Oh, don’t start” You warned immediately.

But he was already laughing softly.

Then he pulled you closer by the waist and kissed your forehead.

"I didn't say anything" He mumbles against your skin "But for the record? You're incredibly hot when you're jealous"

absolutely no hate towards jo!! i really like her character, this is purely for the fic’s purpose haha

dean masterlist

thanks for reading <3

[fanfic-idjit]

He is so proud of the fact reader is jelous🤣

[fanfic-idjit]

Me: Ugh, my knee itches.

Friend: Better you knee than your cunt.

Me: Depends on who is scratching.

[fanfic-idjit]

The boy who hung the moon

Part I: Things we don't say

Summary: You've spent years convincing yourself there was nothing between you and Sam Winchester. Your boyfriend isn't nearly as convinced.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader

Contains: mutual pining, oblivious reader, jealous boyfriend (who honestly deserves better), Sam Winchester being emotionally constipated™, Dean Winchester seeing everything, hurt/no comfort (yet), slow burn, angst, breakups, canon-typical violence, one very painful goodbye kiss (I cried, but it was shark week so cut me a break).

WC: 2322

a/n: This originally was longer, but I think it hits harder as a two-parter, so you guys will have to wait a little while for part 2. Sorry - not sorry

Part II is already in progress ;)

The bar smelled like beer and sweat. The music is loud enough to hear, but not too loud that you can’t hear anything else. You are sitting at a small booth, Dean leaning back across from you, while Sam is sitting beside you, arm resting on the bench behind you. You were celebrating a job well done when the pack of nasty skinwalkers was done terrorizing this town.

Your phone rings. Your boyfriend's name flashes across the tiny screen. Shawn sounds out of breath. He is whispering into the phone. Alarm bells go off in your head.

“I need to go.” You say as you stand up from the booth you were sitting at. Sam and Dean look at each other expectantly. “What is going on?” Sam asks when he stands up, grabbing your arms and ducking down slightly to meet your eyes. He sees the panic hidden in there. “Shawn is in trouble.”

The drive there is quiet. Dean and the Impala are driving before you. Sam is in your passenger seat. Talking to Shawn about the case. The lone wolf case he was on turned out to be a pack. He didn’t think it was smart to go in alone. Sam huffs as he hangs up the phone. “So it isn’t smart to go in alone, but he is willing to drag you into a pack standoff? This guy is ridiculous.” You roll your eyes at the big baby next to you. “Well, he’s dragging you in it too.” You counter. Sam turned quiet. The air in the car shifts uncomfortably. “He sounded surprised when I called him. Did you tell him you were with us?” He asks, and your cheeks heat up from embarrassment. “No.” You mumble, looking guilty as ever.

You had so hoped this wouldn’t be an issue. Shawn got weird whenever you were on a case with Sam and Dean. Calling you more than usual, texting you every two hours. And he always joined you if you could. Got extremely touchy as if he wanted to make sure the boys knew you weren't for grabs. 

Sam looks at you in surprise. He was under the impression that you and Shawn told each other everything, the way it was supposed to be in new relationships. All rose coloured glasses and honeymoon phases. Turns out he was wrong. “Why not?” He asks you, brows furrowed.”

“I don’t know Sam…” You pause, trying to decide if you want your best friend to have information that could put your new partner in a bad light. “He just gets weird whenever I’m on a case with you two. Like, he doesn’t trust me whenever I’m around you two.” You say. Leaving out a little information. “Well, to be fair,” Sam starts. “There are a lot of guys who won’t let their girl alone with Dean for a second.”

If only that were the reason, but you knew this wasn’t about Dean. Shawn knew Dean was all bark and no bite when you were the topic. This was about Sam. But you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Dean isn’t into me.”

“Yeah, I know that, you know that, Shawn doesn’t.”

Shawn definitely does. 

—

Two hours later, you parked your car at the small motel. The air was cold, and the neon motel sign flickered slightly. Sam grabbed your bag out of your car when the door of a motel room opened. Shawn came walking down towards your cars. Dean was rummaging inside Baby when he noticed your hunter boyfriend. 

Taking Dean in that weird hug guys always do, to make it look manly. You rolled your eyes. sitting down at the hood of your car, Sam leaning next to you casually. “I heard that beauty from miles away,” Shawn exclaimed. “How have you been, man?” Dean laughed at Shawn's antics. “You know how it is, hunting monsters, and fornacting with women. This is the life, man.” Shawn slaps Dean on the shoulder and laughs. 

You turn to Sam. “Is this really how guys talk?” You ask. Your face shows exactly what you think of this situation. Sam looks at you, his frame close to you, and he just shrugs and smiles sheepishly. He doesn't get the chance to say anything. It is like Shawn's Sam radar went off. With long strides, Shawn is at your side. He lifts you, as he hugs you and twists you away from Sam. It’s supposed to look romantic, but you both know he had an ulterior motive. He gives you a quick pack and thanks you for coming so quickly. “And for bringing back-up.” He says as he reaches up to pat Sam on the back. Taking your bag from him and wrapping an arm across your shoulder. He walks you towards your motel room, and you shoot Sam an apologetic glance. 

When you disappear into your motel room, Sam is still watching the door like he is trying to light it on fire with his mind. Dean walks towards him and smirks. “You need to watch out, Sammy.” Sam puches of your car, hands in his pockets, head down. “What do you mean?”

Dean let’s out a loud laugh. “You really think he doesn’t see the way you look at her?”

Sam straightens his back. And he pauses a beat. Eyes wide until he regains his composure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shrugs as Dean passes him his duffel. “Sure you don’t, buddy.”

—

The forest is quiet. The only sounds in the forest are the footsteps of you and your hunting partners. Leather boots crunching the browning leaves against the ground. Up ahead is a small lake with a boathouse. There is a faint light coming off of it. Voices booming. 

Dean nudges you. Signs that he and Shawn go left, you and Sam go in on the right side. 

Sam is walking next to you, crouching down slightly. You notice he is checking you in the corner of his eye now and again. As if trying to make sure you didn’t disappear. His fingers wrap around his gun. Arm muscles flexed ever so slightly. His flannel is rolled up his arms, and you notice the veins poking underneath it.

You are nearing the pier, and abandoned boats lie around the boathouse like scraps. Small voices are rumbling from inside, too soft to hear exactly what they are saying. You step onto the pier before Sam does, and the wood gives a loud shriek. Sam’s warm hand grabs hold of yours, and you look up at him apologetically. His eyes land on yours, and for a second, you two are frozen solid. Sam’s hand is still in yours, squeezing reassuringly. Maybe more for his own peace of mind than for yours. He takes the next step as soon as he deems it safe to walk again. You follow his lead.

A loud gunshot is heard from the other side of the boathouse, followed by Heavy footsteps and a lot of screaming. Some of the footsteps are bouldering towards you and Sam. You raise your gun, take the safety off of it with a metallic click. Three seconds later, one of your bullets pierced a werewolf through the neck. Its casing clatters against the wood and falls in the water. Your ears are still ringing when Sam dropped another one. 

You and Sam were back-to-back against the pier. When more and more wolves showed up. “What is this? The weekly werewolf town meeting.” You sassed at Sam while he shot a woman through her chest. “I thought Shawn said there were six monsters!” Sam shot. “He was wrong,” you said as another bullet pierced the flesh of the monster across from you. 

Your eyes turned towards Shawn and Dean, checking if they were still doing okay. When your eyes met your boyfriends he reached his hand out towards you, calling your name. Another wolf lunged toward you from the side, claws glinting beneath the moonlight. And before you could react, Sam was at your side. His arm wrapped hard around your waist, yanking you backward against his chest just as the wolf swiped where your head had been seconds earlier. “Easy, sweetheart,” Sam breathed instinctively, one hand firm against your back while the other raised his gun.

You didn’t even have time to react before you heard the crack that made the world silent.

For a second, neither of you moved. All you could do was look up at him, heart beating straight out of your cheecks and you hoped the darkness hid the pink shade you were sure your cheeks had.

Your back was still pressed against Sam’s chest. His breathing uneven against your shoulder. Fingers still gripping you like he forgot to let go. 

You pushed yourself away from him, guilt rising like bile in your throat. And something inside of you immediately missed the warmth of his body, you tried to push away the feeling.

“You okay?” he asked, and it took you a second to answer, distracted by the ringing in your ear. But all you could do was nod.

And when you turned slightly, Shawn was staring.

Not angry.

Just watching the two of you with a look that made your stomach sink.

Dean emerged from the side of the boathouse first, wiping blood from beneath his nose. “Everybody alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Shawn muttered.

You let out a relieved breath, lowering your gun. Sam’s hand landed briefly against your lower back, grounding, checking, reassuring. It was quick. Automatic.

But Shawn saw it.

You knew he did by the way his jaw tightened, and the walk back to the motel was painfully quiet.

—

The second the motel room door shut behind you, Shawn started pacing. And although you suspected what was coming next, the way he sat down with his hands in his hair only to stand up again made you uneasy. You didn’t dare say anything, but boy, did you need a drink.

“You know what?” he snapped suddenly. “I’m tired of looking like an idiot.”

You blinked at him, not being able to pretend you didn’t know what was going on because you’ve had this talk at least 2 times already. All you could do was reassure him, tell him that you chose him, that you are with him, but he wasn’t having any of it

“So tell me I’m crazy.” He pointed toward the door. “Tell me nothing is going on between you and Sam.”

“There isn’t.”

And the awful part was that you weren’t lying. There was nothing between you and Sam except for the longing you had spent years trying to bury. 

Shawn stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head. And the laugh that came was almost cruel. “I actually think you believe that!”

The certainty in his voice made something inside you crack.  You couldn’t even talk. All you could do was look at him like your reality was breaking.

Shawn looked tired. Not physically, just... tired. Like he'd spent months fighting for something that had quietly slipped through his fingers.  “You can’t tell me you don’t notice it,” he started, “You look at him like he hung the moon.”

He was ranting now, without a care in the world, and it was then and there that it dawned on you that this was it. Shawn was done, but he wasn’t done talking, not yet.

“You drop everything for him. You hide things from me because of him. And he—” Shawn let out another humorless laugh. “Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he’s waiting for permission.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You wanna know the worst part?” Shawn continued. “I don’t even think Sam’s the asshole here.”

And something inside of you broke at his comment. He blamed himself for his own heartache.

Shawn laughed softly, but there was no humor in it anymore. Just exhaustion. “I think you’ve been trying to convince yourself for months that you don’t love him.”

The silence that followed felt unbearable, and all you could do was stare at your feet. An action that was an answer to his question in and of itself.

Shawn closed his eyes briefly, nodding to himself like something had finally clicked into place.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. The words cracked on the way out. Part of you still wanted to defend yourself, but deep down, you knew he was right. So instead, you said something that came a little too close to the truth: “You deserve better than this.”

Shawn looked at you then. Really looked at you. Not angry. Not even bitter anymore.

Just hurt.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I do.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” He swallowed thickly. “That’s what makes this suck.”

For a second, neither of you moved. You just felt his eyes burn you. Then he stepped closer, his warm hand caressing your cheek, forcing you to look up. And when you did, you saw the hurt in his eyes, the redness. And he brushed away a small tear forming in your eyes before closing the distance in a kiss that wasn’t passionate or desperate. 

It was goodbye.

Then Shawn grabbed his jacket from the chair near the door. He closed the door behind him, leaving you to wallow in self-pity and loss of a thing that was never meant to be.

When Shawn closed the door, he was met with Sam standing a few feet away in the motel walkway, clearly frozen halfway through knocking. And he had probably heard it all.

The two men stared at each other.

Sam’s face shifted immediately when he noticed Shawn’s expression. Guilt flooded every inch of him, even though he hadn’t technically done anything wrong.

Shawn just shook his head once.

Not angry.

Just defeated.

Then he walked past him without saying a word.

masterlist

Hi! It's been a while...

First of all, thank you so much for sticking around. <3

Life has been a little chaotic these past few months. My job has been incredibly unstable (don't worry, I'm not in the US, so it's not quite as dramatic as it sounds). The company I work for has been going back and forth on whether they're shutting down the webshop I work for, then deciding not to, then maybe doing it after all... so it's been months of uncertainty.

I've been applying for other jobs in the meantime, but the job market is wildly competitive right now, and if I'm honest, the stress has really caught up with me. I've recently started talking to someone to help me manage it all, though I've only had one appointment before she went on holiday. Typical timing lol.

The good news is that I have a job interview tomorrow! Fingers crossed it goes well. If not, I may have to start looking outside the field I'd really like to work in. But hey, that would probably mean better pay and fewer hours, so maybe every downside really does have an upside.

I guess I just wanted to explain why I've been a little absent. Writing has always been something I genuinely enjoy, and I missed sharing stories with you all.

Also, if any of you have good stress-management tips, I'm all ears! I'd love to hear what's helped you.

Thank you so much for reading, for your patience, and for being here. It genuinely means a lot. <3

Fanfic-idjit tag list: @castielscaplan  supernatural tag list: @cremebruleequeen 

[fanfic-idjit]

I just wanna be on the couch with my head dangling upside down, my feet in the air, and my fingers twisting a phone cord, telling someone how much I love them

[beafond]

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝓢leepy pronebone with 𝓢am 𝓦inchester

The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.

A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.

His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.

“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.

His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.

His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.

And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.

And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”

His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”

© 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[fanfic-idjit]

This was such a deep warm fic. I don't know how else to describe it! It was red, it was some kind of hot alcohol drink. It was amazing

[fanfic-idjit]

Seeing Stars

June 23rd - I Believe In A Thing Called Love - The Darkness / “We'll be rocking till the sun goes down”

pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Contains: Smut (I mean, duh, have you read the prompt?) MDNI, P in V, Unprotected sex, Oral F receiving, Romance clishes

WC: 298

A/n: I know a few days ago I said I didn't like writing smut. I changed my mind

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

You read a lot.

You read a lot about women screaming their partner's name and forgetting their own. About certain areas, clenching around somebody, and seeing stars.

You always thought that was bull. You thought that was something people wrote because it sounded pretty, just like those eyes darkening and men growling.

You couldn’t imagine feeling so good, you started screaming someones name without it being on purpose.

That was until you met Dean Winchester.

Who looked at you like a wild animal as you finished a case, who looked at you like he wasn’t quite finished yet.

Who made your heart skip a beat and made butterflies pound between your legs.

Dean, who went feral as he saw those skimpy cotton panties with the pink bow.

Dean, who ripped those exact panties off you to replace them with his tongue, flattening it against your clit, smirking up at you when he noticed how wet you already were for him.

“We’ll be rocking till the sun goes down,” He said as he pulled your legs around his shoulders, teasing his fat member against your entrance before pushing in without any restraint. You let out a gasp that slowly morphed into a moan. 

And it wasn’t long before he was pounding into you. Using you like his own little plaything. “You feel so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me.” He said as his fingers traveled towards your clit.

And it wasn’t long before you lost all control in your body, screaming like a virgin who had never felt so much pleasure in her entire life.

You knew you were ruined the moment your vision exploded into stars.

Maybe those books hadn't been lying after all.

"Mine," he murmured against your ear.

You'd never heard a truer word.

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

This is the first smut I ever wrote that I didn't feel awkward or weird about. Maybe it is because it is less about what actually happens and more about the feeling.

I would love to know what your thoughts are!

[jobean12-blog]

And who wouldn’t want to be his🫠

[fanfic-idjit]

Stupid people probably😉

[hopelessbrain]

Okay okay so hear me out. Do you know the song “Skinny Little Missy” by Nickelback?

How about essentially the premise of that song (you gotta pay attention to the lyrics) but as reader? Because I don’t know about you, but I NEED a reader who just doesn’t swoon over men, and overall finds them disgusting. Like a guy is hitting on them in a bar and she’s just NOT having it. But Sam and Dean just don’t count for that, because, well yeah.

You could make this platonic or romantic with one of them. Or ignore it if you don’t wanna write for it 😙✌️

omg hi, it took me a while but here it is !!! hope it's to ur liking though maybe it's a bit rushed..........

THE ONLY EXCEPTION

wordcount: 1656 summary: You’ve got a habit of looking at men like they're something to scrape off your boots– the Winchesters on the other hand… warnings: fluff, fem!reader, established relationship (dean x reader), dean loves his girl, men being annoying sleazes, sam being an amused third party, brief moments of open vulnerability, dean’s a protector at heart n he just wants to love n be loved– think that’s all for now !!!

Y’all had wrapped up the case hours ago. The ghost was gone, bones were burned, the town was safe– which meant Dean had declared y’all were celebrating with greasy burgers and cheap beer at the nearest dive bar. Sam should've known better than to leave you alone in a place like this– not because you couldn’t handle yourself, God knew you could… But because you could handle yourself far too well for men’s fragile egos. He'd barely walked over to the bathroom, hoping to talk to Dean before he ordered too many beers for y’all to handle when:

"Mind if I sit?"

You didn't even bother looking up from your phone, this man’s voice wasn’t either Winchester’s therefore you couldn’t care less. "I’d mind it very much"

The chair scraped against the sticky floors anyway, the man dropping down onto it unceremoniously. "So that's a yes, huh?"

"No" You corrected flatly. "That was a complete sentence that said literally the opposite"

Across the room, your boyfriend glanced over his shoulder while waiting at the bar. "...Someone's bothering her" He muttered, his asshole-spidey-sense tingling. The bartender slid three beers across the counter towards him but Dean didn't move. Not yet. Because he knew you, if you wanted help, you'd ask. Besides, he’d seen this exact same scene play out countless times before– his girl could hold her ground just fine without him playing knight in shining (flannel) armor.

"You don't smile much, do you?" The stranger continued.

"Must be that" You hum dismissively, eyes still locked down on your phone. 

"Bet I could change that, huh dollface?"

You visibly cringed at that, a disgusted sneer pulling at your lips while automatically clapping back with a: "Bet you couldn't even change a tire" You’d learnt that attacking their fragile masculinities usually was enough to get them to back off.

The guy laughed, that dismissive chuckle men always used to act nonchalant and unaffected despite being desperate tryhards. Dean snorted into his beer, enjoying the show of you shutting this random dude (that clearly wasn’t getting a not-so-subtle hint) down. "Come on, princess" He doubles down, leaning close enough for you to smell the reek of his sweat.

You finally looked him dead in the eyes. "I need you to understand something" His grin widened, hoping to get something out of you other than an eyeroll. "I have absolutely no interest in talking to you"

The man scoffs, still leaning far too close for your liking. “Playing hard to get is really not your look" He pauses, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "You got a boyfriend?" Ah yes, the ‘you’re not fawning over me therefore you must be taken’ routine, how original. Truly, bravo random guy, bravo. Instead of wasting your time trying to educate him, you simply pointed toward the bar where Dean was sipping his beer. The hunter raised an eyebrow, smirking over the rim of his glass in silent acknowledgement. "The guy in the busted up leather jacket?"

"Mhm" You nod dismissively. 

"What he doesn't know won’t hurt him, huh?" The balls on this man, Jesus fucking Christ.

Dean was already walking over. Not fast or angry like other men might’ve been when someone tries to blatantly seduce their girlfriend, nah. He was just confident, calm. You noticed him from the corner of your eye but didn't greet him, didn't really need to yet. "Everything alright?" He asked casually, setting a fresh beer in front of you.

The guy looked between the two of y’all, barely glancing at the blonde, instead fully focused on your deeply unimpressed side profile. "We're just talking"

"We're not" You corrected with a sharp scoff, taking a sip of your newly acquired beer.

Your boyfriend hummed, pointing at you as you spoke. "See, now that's usually a clue that she doesn’t want you buddy"

The guy scoffed, side eyeing him. "Wasn't talking to you, tough guy"

Dean smiled, that easy, boyish grin of his. "I know" Silence. "But…" He continued pleasantly. "My girl's said no about four different ways now–" The smile never left his face. " –so m’starting to think you're having trouble understanding English" Something about Dean's tone made the man rethink every decision he'd made that evening, he mumbled something under his breath before disappearing toward the pool tables. What was it about these types of guys that made them only listen to men instead of the women actively telling them to fuck off? Anyways, he was gone and that was enough.

The hunter watched him leave, an amused huff escaping his lips before turning his attention back over towards you. "You good, sweetheart?"

You nodded once, pocketing your phone now that you had actual company. "M’fine" He searched your face for a second, looking for any sign that might indicate the contrary. Once satisfied, he slid your beer closer and settled beside you like nothing had happened.

Sam came back from the bathroom just in time to catch the stranger shooting your table one last dirty look. "What'd I miss?" He asks, confusedly glancing between y’all and the sulking man.

Dean shrugged. "Romeo got lost" While you replied a simple: "Told him I'd rather lick the bathroom floor than talk to him" The younger Winchester just blinked before nodding, for some reason accepting that as a logical response.

An hour later, another hunter wandered over– apparently one of the guys’ hunting buddies from a while back, Max something was it? You don’t know, don’t really care– he’s nice enough to tolerate and the brothers like him so that’s that. "So..." He starts speaking, looking at you but nodding towards Dean. "Thought you didn't like men"

Dean looked up from his pie at the mention of him, cherry filling still smothered around his lips from his overly-ambitious bites. Meanwhile, you looked genuinely confused by the question. "I don't…?"

The hunter gestured openly at the blonde sitting across from them. "Then how come there’s him?"

You frowned, the answer being strikingly obvious to you. "Well that's Dean"

"Yeah" There’s a pause until the hunter realizes you were gonna leave your explanation like that, instead he prompts you by repeating his previous question: "So how come there’s him?" You just look at him, simple and confused. "I just– I mean" He laughed awkwardly. "He's a man too"

You stared at him for a long second before shrugging. "I know"

"Then what's the difference?"

Your boyfriend stayed very quiet– he never answered questions like that for you. If someone asked why you tolerated his presence, he didn’t need to prove a point, he’d just let you reply yourself. You’re a big girl, you could handle it just fine. "The difference–" You said simply. " –is that Dean has never made me regret trusting him"

After that, silence settled over the table– not necessarily uncomfortable, but different now that’d you just calmly set out your reasoning like that. It didn’t take long for the hunter to leave after that, something about his twin sister being outside. Not that you’d been paying much attention, you were too busy eating the fries off Sammy’s plate, didn't think much of it. Dean was definitely thinking about it though– his usual grin was gone. Not out of embarrassment or anything like that, it had melted away into something softer. Because no one had ever put it into words like that, definitely not him with his gruff words and no chich-flick moments mentality. You noticed him staring. "What?"

"...Nothin' " He huffs, defensive and fond all at once.

"You've got the weird face"

"Gee thanks, sweetheart"

You roll your eyes at his deflection, a reluctant hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. "Y’know what I meant– You have a feelings face"

Sam choked on his drink, clearly enjoying seeing his brother be the one being teased for once. Dean shot him an unamused look. "Eat your damn fries"

Later, the three of you stepped out into the cool night air. Sam offered to drive ‘his’ (he’d hijacked it two towns back) car back to the motel, wanting to stop by the sheriff's station one last time. The eldest Winchester unlocked Baby, while you climbed into the passenger seat automatically, claiming your usual spot. A few minutes into the car ride, your hand wandered across the bench, instinctively reaching out for him. Dean automatically intertwined your fingers with his without even having to take his eyes off the road, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. "Y’know" He said quietly.

"Hm?"

"...Thanks"

You frowned, looking over at him, streetlights catching his unfairly pretty profile. "For what?"

He shrugged, trying to brush it off despite how much it’d clearly mattered to him. "What you said back there"

"Oh" You looked out the window once more, a fond smile tugging at your lips. Despite all the disgusting men out there, constantly trying their luck with you– there would always be a Dean here next to you. With his stupid swagger, dumb jokes and his ridiculously big heart. "Was just answering his question"

"Yeah" He replies, a soft breath escaping him as he glances over at you with a warm smile before looking back at the road ahead.

Another silence, then: "M’proud of that"

Dean glanced over. "Hm?"

"Trusting you" You said it so matter-of-factly that it made his chest swell with pride and love all at once, his jaw worked for a second before ducking his head with a quiet huff. It wasn’t some grand over the top declaration or dramatic confession, just a fact. "I don't hand that out easily, y’know" You chuckle softly, still holding onto his hand.

Dean knew. God, he knew. He’d seen how hard it was for you to trust people (especially men) let alone love– he’d worked so hard to deserve it, step by step. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he deserved it yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and reverent as he leans over to kiss your temple. Murmuring against your hair: "I'll keep earning it"

[godmadeaterribleerror]

delicate

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 8.6k✦

✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦

“Have sex with me.”

Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.

“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.

Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“What?”

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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[aseafullofstars]

๋࣭⭑ don't touch ☆ sam winchester

๋࣭⭑atlas : there's some creepy men feeling you up across the bar. so what if sam's a bit jealous ??

๋࣭⭑binary stars : sam x reader (gn) ๋࣭⭑classification : possessive fluff bordering on spicy tension ๋࣭⭑stellar density : 2.6k

๋࣭⭑omens : established relationship, jealous sam, strange men in bars being absolute assholes, sam is 6'4 and he KNOWS it, implied smut at the end + sam's hard and mad about it ('lets go back to the motel to go to bed' uh huh yeah sure that's exactly what'll happen. samuel. 🤨), reader is an absolute badass at pool

๋࣭⭑message in a bottle : requested !! so i get a sneaking suspicion this was supposed to be softer sweeter jealousy but uh...i did not do that. there's no smut or anything in this part but it is definitely bordering on a lotta tension oops. is this my cue to write a part two ??

๋࣭⭑taglist ༊彡 masterlist

There’s two parts to the bar, and Sam can very distinctly tell where the line is drawn between them. One side, the good side that he’s on, is cleaner, brighter, the tables wiped down at regular intervals by a man with one half of his head shaved and a piercing on his brow. Each time he comes by to hand Sam another drink, they share the kind of nod that says ‘why are you in a place like this?’. Sam’s got a newspaper spread open across the tabletop, blue pen in hand and he twirls it to a rhythm he can’t figure out but knows isn’t coming from the speakers on the walls. About twenty minutes ago, he’d switched from a beer to something stronger, and now he sits at the table with his legs stretched and his arms crossed over his chest, one hand holding the pen and the other swirling an amber glass of whiskey.

It’s not like him to drink when he’s working, but it’s not really his fault. Not when you’re over on the other side of the bar with a pool cue in your hands, playing it up for a group of greasy looking guys with too much money to spend and overbearing confidence. He can already tell you’re working them for all the money they’ll give you, playing the innocent kid card; with that brightness on your cheeks and the pretty look in your eyes, Sam already knows you’ll fool them quickly. They think you’ve never played before, fairly confident that your first win was beginner’s luck. Sam fell for that one years ago when you hustled him out of fifty bucks and a kiss. He knows how you play. By the time the men over there realize they’re being hustled, it’ll be too late, and you’ll saunter back over to him with a wad of cash in your hands and kiss his cheek so sweetly.

It’s not really your fault either, Sam reasons with himself. It’s the fault of the guys who decided you’d be an easy target, who keep egging you further and further on, who keep eyeing you up and down with their gazes lingering on your ass. You’re not even wearing anything revealing, just one of his flannels over a t-shirt and jeans that fit you well. Not hugging to your shape, because it would be impossible to hunt the way you do with those, but something that hides what you don’t want visible and shows off what you can handle the world seeing. The jeans are nice on you, and if Sam’s being honest, they’re probably his favourite pair of yours. He looks away quick before he distracts himself any further with pictures of you in his mind that have no business looking the way they do.

The sip of whiskey goes down sharp, catching on the sore parts of his throat with teeth that bite into his skin and rub it raw. The second sip is easier, a warm feeling flooding all through his veins and making him shiver slightly as he warms up. Shaking his head back and forth, hair flopping like the ears of a rather large dog, he catches you sending a quick glance in his direction, bright smile shining just for him for all of two seconds before your attention is pulled back to the game by the men who’ve placed their bets in cash on the edge of the table. Someone’s wallet clip is around the bills, folding them into a mass of green that Sam’s eyes blend with the bar lights until they’re some strange lump the same colour as the table. A wave of raucous laughter crawls up his spine from the table, and Sam forces himself to look away lest his heart become overrun with jealousy.

One of the men calls out that they’re playing solids, after what Sam can infer is the thud of a ball into the top right cup. He would guess that it was the purple 4 ball, because that’s what he likes to go for if he can, but he’s also smart enough to know not to bet on which ball gets sunk first. His eyes are back trained on the newspaper again, but his ears are perked and listening for the sounds of you moving and talking; a quick innocent question to one of the men, the sound of your thighs brushing together as you walk to your new spot, the soft tap of your cue against the top of your hand as you line up your shot. You miss the first one intentionally, but the men at the table don’t know that. A chorus of slurred reassurances crop up, and he knows you’re putting on your best disappointed face right now, egging them on and drawing them in so you can spit them out.

The pattern continues for a few minutes, one of the men even offering to team up with you. Your pretty voice carries across the room, politely declining as you murmur something about losing fair and square. What you mean to say, Sam can tell by the tone of your voice, is to stop asking stupid questions because it’s not a good look. At some point when he’d guess about half of the solid balls have been sunken and maybe a few strays of yours, you clear your throat and rub the sandy blue chalk over the end of your cue. Sam allows himself a tiny grin, because he knows the guys standing around the table with hands in their pockets and smug grins on their faces have no idea what’s coming for them. Your quiet voice nudges one of the men over, and as he politely sidesteps, you line up your shot and sink two stripes in the same hit.

Sam whistles low under his breath, because he’s never even seen you pull that before in a game. He’s maybe seen it once or twice by accident when you grab a cue and mess around at the tables with Dean for an hour or so to destress from a hunt, but he’s never seen you do it in a real game with real cash on the line. You squeal something fake and joyful, the man to your left looking thoroughly impressed at your ‘beginners’ luck’. A second shot follows with another ball sunk, and you purposely miss the third so as not to draw suspicion. Sam knows how you play from here on out, and every move he plays for you in his head, you enact on the table before his very eyes, which have now spent so little time staring at the newspaper he might as well just fold it up and forget about it. He tucks it into his messenger bag, the pen going in with it, fingers fidgeting on the edge of his glass as he watches you play.

“Pretty good,” the man with the eyebrow piercing says, coming over to Sam once more.

Sam nods in agreement, waving him off when he offers to refill Sam’s glass.

“You know ‘em?” the man asks.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “Yeah, sort of.”

“The guys, or-.”

“Not the guys.”

The man looks between you and Sam, back and forth until he nods, clearly satisfied.

“Hope those guys get their asses kicked. They’ve been buggin’ me all damn night for crap I can’t give ‘em.”

Sam takes another sip of whiskey, making a sympathetic hum. “Oh, the guys’ll lose. Don’t worry.”

The man walks back to the bar, retying the strings on his apron as he goes. Sam’s eyes return to you, fixating on your figure as you walk along the edge of the table, already mentally calculating your next moves. You let the game wind down to one solid left besides the eight-ball, and Sam can see the moment you go on the offence when you exhale a sharp breath and lean down to line up a shot. Over and over, you sink striped balls, and with each one, Sam’s heart kicks up a notch when he sees the pride on your face beside the crestfallen looks on the men’s. When you sink the eight-ball, you earn yourself a quiet handover of the cash and grumbled congratulations while you put your cue away and fish out the balls from the top corners.

Sam drains the rest of his drink, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt until they uncover half his forearms. There’s a thin scar roping across one of them, dipping toward his wrist and curling up toward his shoulder on the other side, like a ribbon from an unwrapped present on his skin. He traces it absentmindedly, standing from his seat and slinging his bag over his shoulder, tightening the strap until he knows it won’t go anywhere. Your jacket winds up draped over the bag itself, trapped between the material and his hip, and thoroughly secured. He’s glad the bar is loud enough to hide the soft whine he makes when he reaches his arms up and stretches out his back, and he can feel your eyes staring him down when his shirt rides up over the hem of his jeans.

He’s quite content to sit back at the table and wait patiently for you to join him and head back. Dean’s out god knows where, in a sketchy dive across the town because he’d insisted it had better chicks. Not that Sam cares, because there’s nobody else he’s looking at besides you, especially when he knows he can have you whenever he wants. He’s almost back in his chair when he hears one of the men, in a voice much too loud, make an off-handed comment about your ass in those jeans. It’s an innocent sounding comment, something about how the jeans make you look good, but something vile and twisted fills Sam’s core, spreading outward in ugly tendrils that burn harsher than the whiskey did. You’re not for them to look at, not for them to make comments on, much less about your ass in his favourite jeans. He’s about to let it go because he knows you have it handled when one of the men reaches out a hand and cups your ass with it.

Sam’s on his feet before your hand can smack backward and take the offending touch away. He watches warily for a moment as the man makes another attempt, this one a little less subtle; sliding over toward you and reaching for your back pocket like it’s his right to place his hand there. That pocket is for nobody but Sam. His hand is the only one that belongs there, because nobody touches you like that except for him. You spit out a curse that gets laughter in reply and a stinging comment about how you’ve got some sass to you. And even though Sam knows you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself with creepy men in bars, he’s still compelled to take long strides across the floor, boots thudding on the wood and kicking up dust in their wake.

Whatever sparked inside him was nasty and vile in its origin, a green, ugly mess that Sam labels immediately as jealousy. He knows it well, because he sported its colour for months before he finally made his move on you. He’s become more of a stranger to the feeling now that you’re together, but on nights like tonight when he’s had just enough to drink to loosen up and you’re looking this beautiful, he’s no stranger to letting the feeling welcome him back with open arms when you’re flirted with by creeps. Each step closer to you quells the jealousy bit by bit as he draws himself to his full height, but ignites something hotter, deeper, something more consuming and possessive that lights up his nerve endings and makes him hyper aware of every part of him. Like, for example, the way he’s glad the bar lights are low that nobody but you will notice the way his jeans have tightened on his hips.

“Ready to go?” he murmurs low when he reaches you.

“Mhm,” you reply, lazy.

Sam’s hand flutters possessively to the small of your back, the other man’s hand having left as soon as Sam took two steps in your direction. The group backs slow, making a horrible mess of being casual about being caught chasing after someone who’s taken. You lean into him, easing yourself across the broad expanses of his chest as his hand dips into the pocket of your jeans, squeezing you in the way that the other man never should’ve.

“You okay?” he whispers into the skin of your neck, leaving a hot kiss in his wake.

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

You sling your arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, tasting the whiskey on his tongue as he slips it past your lips.

“Promise.”

You take your jacket from his bag, and he helps you slide the material over your arms, ensuring it doesn’t get caught on the sleeves of the flannel. Green, like the edges of Sam’s eyes, a flannel you’d stolen from his closet a few weeks back and never worn until right now. It still smells like him, but your soap is starting to infiltrate the threads, and the thought of that alone forces Sam to restrain the low growl that’s brewing in his throat.

He turns, leading you to the door. He lets you get a few paces ahead, turning back to the crowd of men still standing awkwardly around the table.

“Don’t touch.”

His voice is flat, eyes sharp with the jealousy in his bones and simmering with something protective that threatens to boil over. The short man who’s hand had been in your pocket flushes deep red all the way to the tips of his ears, stumbling over himself as he backs away nodding, stammering an apology Sam doesn’t bother sticking around to hear. He just follows you out the door into the cool night air, keeping a hand on your back somewhere, needing the warmth to prove to himself that you didn’t ditch him for a random man in a bar in the middle of nowhere.

“That was hot,” you state when you stop at the Impala.

“That- what?”

You shrug, gesturing at Sam, then back at the bar.

“That whole thing.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Don’t.”

You giggle, kissing his stubbled cheek. “Oh, I already will. You were jealous.”

He sighs, running his free hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah. I was. So what?”

“Ooh, defensive. I like it.”

Sam gently smacks your shoulder when you laugh something clear and real.

“We’re going to the motel, and we’re going to bed, okay? For sleep. Nothing else.”

You grin devilishly, opening the door and sliding yourself in. Sam waits for you to get situated before moving to close it. Your hand stops him, and he crouches down to see you properly inside the car.

“We’ll see about that,” you remark, gesturing in the general direction of Sam’s hips.

“Oh, will we now?”

"C'mon Sammy, I know you," you say with a lighthearted sigh. “You’re going to make sure of it.”

Sam closes your door harsher than usual, taking a minute at the back of the car to settle himself down. If he wasn’t hard before, he sure is now. And he hates it. God damn you and your stupid jeans and the stupid men at the stupid bar. What kind of man is he, getting turned on like this over jealousy, of all things? It frustrates him to no end that he’s in this current predicament, because really, he should have more control over himself. He’s an adult, not some horny teenager with attachment issues and a carnal need to prove himself as desirable.

He’s in for a late night. And he’s never been more ready for it.

tags : @sayras-blogg, @dramaticanderson, @random-chaos-and-also-star-wars , @localpanicattack, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @violained, @vfwwm, @cloudsincalifornia, @bejeweledinterludes, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @deersammys, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theedaythatnevercomes, @rafs127, @fox-saturn, @s0ullesslullab1es, @fishfishcaterpillar, @xiyonesse, @lovergirlfinalboss

[comfortwriting]

rare and precious - sam winchester x fem!librarian!reader

masterlist, navigation, request rules

summary: when Sam stumbles into a library to research the local history of the wendigo, he meets his match; a librarian.

warnings: reader wears glasses (not a warning but I know some readers don’t like specific descriptions of clothing etc), didn't proofread, can’t think of anything else?

word count: 1.2k

Sam loved the library, he could spend centuries in there surrounded by the hundreds of books in the building, some collecting dust and never seeing the light of day. Even when stressed, he found it calming, peaceful even if his brother would always lean back in the wooden chairs with his legs propped up on the table doing anything but help his baby brother with his research.

You loved the library too, you found it peaceful and calming even when the building was full of excitable toddlers and young children eagerly awaiting storytime with wide grins and sparkly eyes. The library was your safe place that you sometimes spent a little too much time hiding in.

You were tucked away behind a corner desk with your glasses sliding down your nose when you noticed a tall gentleman slowly approaching you, his movements a little clumsy like a baby deer.

She’s beautiful and those glasses.. 

“What can I help you with?” you smiled up at him, pushing your glasses back up to the bridge of your nose.

Sam smiled back at you, flashing his white teeth at you, “Uh,” he swallowed hard, “I’m looking for any local information on this.” 

Sam pushed a piece of paper across your desk, you looked down at a collection of sporadic notes scribbled across in frantic handwriting, mentioning creatures you’d only heard about in online conspiracy theory forums or folklore books until you focused on it.

Wendigo.

You raised an eyebrow, “a wendigo?” 

Sam's cheeks flushed a little, “Yeah, just wanted to know what your local legend was all about..”

The Wendigo was no legend. You had a close call with one in the woods when you were a child on a camping trip with the girls guides, and although luckily none of you were hurt, you know what you saw and no amount of gaslighting from your camp leaders would ever make you doubt what you witnessed that night. 

“Well,” you sighed, pushing the paper back to him, “I can promise you…?”

“Sam.”

Sam. A cute name for a cute guy.

“Well I can promise you, Sam, that the Wendigo is no local legend.”

Leaving your desk you escorted Sam towards the other end of the library, he followed closely behind, trying to keep up with you and the new spring in your step. 

“Why do you say that?” Sam asked.

“When I saw a little girl,” You reached up on your tiptoes for the large leather bound book, the sight of you doing so made Sam smile and he cheekily caught a glimpse of your behind, “I went camping and saw it, for years they kept telling me I was lying but…”

You turned around, catching Sam quickly forcing himself to look up at the high ceiling of the library. “I know what I saw.” Your cheeks went hot and prickly, but you didn’t mention anything and instead took the compliment in silence, you opened the book without checking the page numbers and handed it to him.

Sam stared at the pages, his cheeks also feeling hot and prickly. 

Something about Sam drew you in and all you wanted was to know more about him, even if it became more physical than verbal, and something about you made Sam feel protective over you, as if you were a rare and precious, enchanting artefact. 

“You’re hunting this thing, aren’t you?” 

You weren’t stupid, you’d heard the whispers of hunters and their impressive list of personal kills and read their frightening stories in an underground paper about their encounters with vampires, demons, and other beings you couldn’t quite believe existed. 

Sam stared at you for a moment, stuttering, caught completely off guard. 

“I uh, how’d you, that’s not…”

The corners of your lips curled upwards, “You are! I knew it.” You tried your best to keep your voice down. 

“I’m really not, this researching it’s just a hobby.” Sam’s eyes fell to your lips, he couldn’t look away.

“That’s bullcrap and you know it!” You wouldn’t let him have it, “I want in. You’re one of these hunters and I’ve been left in the dark about this thing for almost twenty years. I’m coming with you!” 

Dean got nowhere trying to squeeze the cellphone number out of the barista and eventually threw the towel in, sipping on his overpriced black coffee and gripping onto Sam’s when he entered the library. 

Sam scoffed, “It’s too dangerous and you have no experience out there!” he protested.

Dean followed his little brothers voice and quickly hid behind a large bookcase, lowering his head and listening in carefully. 

“But I know what you’re looking for, I know the area, I know what it looks like, I’ve seen it myself!” you were quick to argue and crossed your arms, staring through your glasses at Sam.

Your attempt to be stern didn’t work on Sam, and the enhanced size of your eyes through the lens of your glasses only made you more endearing to him. 

Sam shook his head, his mouth opened and slightly tilted, “And I don’t care, you’re not going out there.” He reached out and grabbed your arms, pushing himself closer to you, squeezing your arms but not enough to cause pain.

Dean’s eyebrows scrunched together and he squinted, focusing on the two of you.

The building tension finally snapped and Sam let out a frustrated huff and pressed his lips against yours, you rapidly uncrossed your arms and kissed him back, your soft lips attacking his as your hands frantically found themselves getting tangled in his hair. 

Sam deepened the fierce kiss when you allowed him, his tongue slipping into your mouth and brushing against yours .His hands gripped you tighter, and he pulled you into him as close as you could be, leaving you with goosebumps up your spine and down your arms. 

Your breathing became ragged and the quiet library became full of the sound of your clothes rustling against his, along with your uneven breathing and your soft moans. You didn’t want him to let go as your hands explored his hair and scalp further, the sensation of your soft fingertips against him made Sam groan against you, the vibration from his throat tickling your lips. 

Dean watched with wide eyes, downing more of his coffee, rather proud of his brother and entertained to see him in action. 

“Gotta give you credit, Sammy,” he muttered under his breath, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Sam finally pulled back, the two of you a gasping mess with each others mixed saliva coating your lips. Your chests were heaving and as you untangled your fingers from Sam’s hair, he reached out and gently straightened your glasses, taking his time, savouring the moment. 

“I can’t let you go out there,” Sam murmured sweetly with a twisted smile playing on his lips.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, “Fine, but do me a favour?” you asked, pulling out a pen and grabbing his large hand. 

Sam watched as you began to scribble numbers over the palm of his hand.

“Call me when you’re done with it, so I know you got out alive.” You finished, tucking the pen behind your ear.

Sam grinned, looking down at your number inked on his skin, “Yeah, I’ll call.”

[fanfic-idjit]

Home

June 24th - Groove Is In The Heart - Deee-Lite / “No, I couldn't ask for another”

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader

Contains: Fluff

WC: 203

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

The drive back home is quiet. The same old cassette plays while Dean taps lightly against the steering wheel. The rumbling from Baby’s engine and the slight shaking of the car on the old asphalt make it hard for you to keep your eyes open. 

Sam notices you drifting away in the corner of his eyes. 

He reaches over to drape his sweater around you and smiles lightly. 

His mind wanders toward you and the life you’ve built. The way you smile at him and pull him closer when he is stressed. The way you bite your lip when you are concentrating. The way you melt into him when he hugs you closer. 

 And all he can do is be grateful.

Dean turns his head towards his brother, noticing the content look on his face.

“What are you thinking about?”

The corners of Sam's lips tuck even higher, a slight glimmer in his eyes.

“Nothing just,” he sighs, “How I couldn’t ask for another.”

Dean looks between the two of them. He hasn’t seen Sam smile like that in years. And he couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

“Yeah.” He said while shaking his head, a smile on his lips. “Don’t screw it up.”

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

Side note, I was looking for a Sam picture inside the Impala, but does Sam smile after season 2?

[fanfic-idjit]

Seeing Stars

June 23rd - I Believe In A Thing Called Love - The Darkness / “We'll be rocking till the sun goes down”

pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Contains: Smut (I mean, duh, have you read the prompt?) MDNI, P in V, Unprotected sex, Oral F receiving, Romance clishes

WC: 298

A/n: I know a few days ago I said I didn't like writing smut. I changed my mind

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

You read a lot.

You read a lot about women screaming their partner's name and forgetting their own. About certain areas, clenching around somebody, and seeing stars.

You always thought that was bull. You thought that was something people wrote because it sounded pretty, just like those eyes darkening and men growling.

You couldn’t imagine feeling so good, you started screaming someones name without it being on purpose.

That was until you met Dean Winchester.

Who looked at you like a wild animal as you finished a case, who looked at you like he wasn’t quite finished yet.

Who made your heart skip a beat and made butterflies pound between your legs.

Dean, who went feral as he saw those skimpy cotton panties with the pink bow.

Dean, who ripped those exact panties off you to replace them with his tongue, flattening it against your clit, smirking up at you when he noticed how wet you already were for him.

“We’ll be rocking till the sun goes down,” He said as he pulled your legs around his shoulders, teasing his fat member against your entrance before pushing in without any restraint. You let out a gasp that slowly morphed into a moan. 

And it wasn’t long before he was pounding into you. Using you like his own little plaything. “You feel so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me.” He said as his fingers traveled towards your clit.

And it wasn’t long before you lost all control in your body, screaming like a virgin who had never felt so much pleasure in her entire life.

You knew you were ruined the moment your vision exploded into stars.

Maybe those books hadn't been lying after all.

"Mine," he murmured against your ear.

You'd never heard a truer word.

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

This is the first smut I ever wrote that I didn't feel awkward or weird about. Maybe it is because it is less about what actually happens and more about the feeling.

I would love to know what your thoughts are!

[fanfic-idjit]

Hope

June 22nd - Wonderwall - Oasis / “Because maybe”

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Contains: OOC Sharon Carter, this is the way I loved her in those 2016 fanfics on wattpad, she is feral and mean, and I LOVE IT WC: 334

a/n: I know it has been a few days, I was coming back from vacation and felt like a Winchester with the amount of time I spent in a car...

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

You had just dropped off the mission report at Steve’s office, bright pink blush on your cheeks. You glanced down shyly as you closed the door, biting your lip slightly. But Sharon Carter burst your bubble roughly with a sharp chuckle.

She called your name. Her voice dripped with contempt. “This is getting pathetic.”

You looked up at her, not trying to hide the confusion on your face. Sharon just scoffed as she rolled her eyes. And your mind went to the movies. To those mean girls who pretended to be better than everyone else. You always thought bullies would go over it differently, more, under the radar.

But here she was, Sharon Carter, one dramatic hair flip away from stealing your lunch money. 

“You think I don’t see the ridiculous stares, you think it’s cute? It’s just sad, sweety.”

Then it occurs to you what she is talking about, whose office you are standing in front of. Who makes your heart skip a beat even when he only crosses your mind.

Steve.

And before you could even object, she starts talking again.

“And I’m not the only one who sees it. I see Nat and Bucky both look at you when it happens. You have been caught.”

You stand there, jaw slack. 

Did she really not know?

The words caught in your throat as she stepped closer, forcing you to look up at her. 

“You don’t stand a chance, babe.” She says. Sugar had never tasted so bitter. "Why would he settle for you when he could have me?"  She smiles at you, and for a second, you think she’ll pat you on the head.

“So why are you still hoping?”

Suddenly, the door behind you burst open. Steve’s jaw ticks at the sight of the blond as he grabs your arm, turns you around, and kisses you almost feverishly. You can’t help the surprised moan that escapes your lips.

“Because maybe, she wasn’t the one hoping.” He answers her question for you.

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

AAAAHHH I am feral for him!!!

[samdeancass]

Leaving the Life

Requested by Anonymous

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader

Genre: Angst

Characters: Sam, Y/N, Emma Swan

Description: After ending her relationship with Sam Winchester and walking away from hunting, Y/N drives aimlessly until a mysterious fog leads you to the peaceful town of Storybrooke. There, for the first time in years, she begins to believe that a normal life might be possible.

A/N: Chapter One of the Home is a Person Crossover Series.

The motel room smells like gunpowder, stale coffee, and old carpet.

You're sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, staring at the peeling wallpaper across from you while rain taps softly against the window. Every muscle in your body aches. There's a bruise blooming purple along your ribs where the ghoul slammed you into a gravestone three nights ago. Your shoulder is stitched badly: Dean's handiwork. You haven't slept. Not really.

Neither has Sam. He's sitting at the little table by the window, long fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that's gone cold. His face is shadowed with exhaustion. There are cuts on his cheek and bruises on his jaw, but that's not what hurts to look at. It's the silence. Because you know what you're about to do. And somewhere deep down, he does too.

"I can't do this anymore."

The words slip out quietly. Sam looks up so fast it almost makes you take them back. "What?"

You swallow hard. Not because you're afraid. Because you're tired. So incredibly tired. "I can't keep living like this."

His brows knit together. "The hunt went bad. We've had worse."

"It's not the hunt." You finally look at him. God. You love him. You love his stupid puppy-dog eyes and the way he always checks your wounds before his own. You love the books piled beside his bed and the warmth of his hand finding yours under blankets in a hundred anonymous motels. And that's exactly why this hurts.

"I'm tired, Sam."

His expression softens. "Then we rest," he says immediately. "Take a week. A month. Hell, we'll go somewhere warm."

You shake your head. "It's not that." He stands. You stand too. The room suddenly feels too small.

"I wake up every day wondering if this is the hunt that kills us," you say. "I wonder if you'll come back. I wonder if I will."

"That's the job."

"Maybe it's who you are."

The words hang between you. Sam freezes. You feel your heart crack as you whisper, "I don't know if it's who I am anymore."

For weeks, maybe months, the feeling has been building, an ache too deep to name. The night with the ghoul should have been just another job, just another scar. But waking up on the cold ground, tasting blood, you saw Sam's face twisted with a fear you had never seen before—fear not just for himself, but for you. The cuts on his cheek meant nothing compared to the way his hands shook as he pressed them to your wound, desperate and helpless. You keep replaying the way he called your name, his voice breaking in a way that made it clear how close you had come to becoming a memory. For a long moment, you saw the future: Sam alone in a motel like this, haunted not by monsters, but by the echo of your absence. In that instant, you realized you weren’t just afraid of dying—you were afraid of what losing each other would do to you both, of how the job was slowly erasing the people you used to be. Now, every little silence, every bruise, every goodbye feels heavier. You start to wonder if the life you built around fear and violence is the only thing holding you together, or the very thing pulling you apart.

For a second, you think he'll yell. You almost wish he would. Instead, he just stares at you. Like you've spoken a language he doesn't understand.

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"No." His voice breaks. "You love this."

You laugh softly. It's the saddest sound you've ever made. "I loved being with you." The silence after that is unbearable.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Take a break." You shake your head. "Please." You close your eyes. Because if you look at him too long, you'll stay. And if you stay, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering who you could have been. "I've already decided."

The hurt that flashes across his face nearly destroys you. He nods once. Just once. Like if he moves too much, he'll fall apart. "Okay."

You cry then. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet tears as he pulls you into his arms. And for the first time in years, holding him feels like saying goodbye.

Dean doesn't try to stop you. Maybe because he knows better. Maybe because he sees the exhaustion you've been hiding. The Impala is parked outside under a grey sky. Beside it sits an old sedan. Nothing fancy. But it's yours. Dean tosses you the keys. You catch them automatically.

"You deserve a shot at normal, sweetheart."

That nearly makes you cry harder than Sam did. Dean pulls you into a hug. A big brother hug. The kind that says he's proud of you and terrified for you all at once. "You call if you need anything." You nod against his shoulder. "I will."

You won't. You know you won't. Because if you hear their voices, you might turn around. Maybe you would have before. You remember other nights, other near-leavings, bags almost packed and goodbyes half-spoken. But you always stayed. And you can't, not this time.

***

The first day on the road feels wrong. The second day feels empty. By the third, you don't know where you're going anymore. You drive west. Then north. Then east. You stop in tiny towns and eat greasy diner food. You sleep in your car more than you sleep in motels. And every single day, you reach for your phone. To call Sam. To tell him about the weird roadside attraction you found. To ask if he remembered the diner in Nebraska with the pie he swore was cursed. Your thumb hovers over his number. Every time you put the phone back down. Because loving someone doesn't always mean staying.

Sometimes it means leaving before you hate the life you've built together. You remember the first time you realised things were changing, the night you patched Sam up in a gas station bathroom, your hands shaking as you lied and told him it would be okay, even though you both knew it wouldn't. Or the time you and Dean sat in silence for hours after that shapeshifter job, the weight between you growing heavier with every mile. Each small fracture was easy to ignore at first, but all those moments added up. Now, the memory of those turning points clings to you, making this decision feel both impossible and necessary.

That thought keeps you company. Even when it hurts.

***

The fog appears sometime after midnight. At first, you think it's normal. Just sea fog. Except, you're nowhere near the ocean. The highway stretches endlessly ahead. The fog rolls across the road in thick white waves. Your headlights barely cut through it.

You glance at your GPS. No signal. Of course. You mutter a curse. Your hunter instincts scream. Something about this isn't right. Your hand drifts to the knife in your boot. The fog thickens. You slow the car. The world disappears. Nothing but white. And then, suddenly, you're through. The fog vanishes. The road curves gently downhill. And below you, a town glows softly beneath the setting sun.

Your breath catches. It's beautiful. Little shops line quiet streets. Flowers bloom in window boxes. Fishing boats bob lazily in a harbour. Children riding bicycles. People laughing. You blink. It feels impossible. A sign stands beside the road. You pull over. Read it twice.

Welcome to Storybrooke

A town you have never heard of, with a name that feels like it belongs in a fairy tale. Something about it prickles at the edge of your memory, stirring a flicker of recognition you can't quite place. Not memory, not déjà vu, but as if this place is caught on the edges of a half-remembered dream—or as if, years ago, someone whispered about Storybrooke in a story you tried to forget. It feels like you've stumbled across a place that shouldn't exist, somewhere stories go to wait.

You stare. Then laugh softly to yourself. Because after years of ghosts, demons, vampires, gods, and things that crawl out of nightmares, a peaceful town somehow feels like the strangest thing you've ever seen.

***

The diner is called Granny's. You almost don't go in. Almost. But the smell of fresh coffee wins. A bell jingles overhead. Everyone looks up. And smiles. You stop dead. This is suspicious. No town is this friendly. You scan exits automatically. Three tables. Kitchen entrance. One shotgun behind the counter. Interesting.

An older woman with sharp eyes raises an eyebrow. "You planning to rob us, sweetheart?"

You blink. "What?"

"You've been casing the place for thirty seconds."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. "Old habit."

A few people laugh. You relax. Slightly. Coffee appears in front of you. It's good. Really good. You almost forget to be paranoid. Almost. "You're carrying." The voice beside you is amused. You turn. And find yourself staring at a blonde woman in a red leather jacket. Confident. Sharp-eyed. Badge clipped to her belt. Sheriff. Wonderful. Your hand instinctively moves toward your boot.

She smirks. "Knife."

You stop. "You noticed."

"You make it obvious."

You snort. "No one's ever said that before."

She shrugs. "I notice things."

You study her. She doesn't look scared. Or suspicious. Just curious. "You expecting trouble?" she asks.

You glance out the window. The kids are laughing on the sidewalk. A couple are holding hands. In a town so peaceful, it doesn't seem real. You smile faintly. "Old habit."

The sheriff grins. "Emma Swan."

You hesitate. It's been a while since introducing yourself didn't involve fake IDs. You tell her your name. Saying it now, out loud and honest, feels more significant than it should—like you're claiming something you lost after years of pretending to be someone else. Maybe it's because, for the first time in ages, you want to be known for who you really are. The name tastes strange and new, but also right. And for reasons you can't explain, it feels important.

"Well," Emma says, sipping her coffee, "welcome to Storybrooke."

***

That evening, you stand alone at the harbour. The sun melts into the ocean in streaks of gold and pink. The air smells like salt. The water laps gently against the docks. No sirens. No monsters. No ghosts. No hunt waiting tomorrow. Your phone is still in your pocket. You haven't called Sam. You miss him so much your chest aches. Maybe you always will. But for the first time since you left, the ache isn't the only thing you feel.

The town behind you glows warmly. Inviting. Safe. Impossible. You don't know why you came here. You don't know why this place feels familiar. There's a tingle at the back of your neck, something a little off beneath the perfect calm, as if the air itself is holding its breath. In the light, colours seem a shade too bright, and the shadows slip and shift at the edge of your vision. It feels like you’ve seen a photo of this town in a dream, like you’ve stepped straight into a story before the first strange thing happens, a place where something just beyond ordinary waits to break through.

Or why, standing beneath a sunset in a town that shouldn't exist, you suddenly believe everything might be okay. The feeling is fragile. Small enough to crush. But you hold onto it anyway. Because for the first time in years, for the first time since leaving Sam, you feel something you thought you'd lost forever. Hope. It feels fleeting, as delicate as glass and just as easy to break, and you are not sure how long it will last. Still, for now, you let yourself believe in it; one small, bright thing to carry into tomorrow. Tomorrow, maybe, you will walk the streets of Storybrooke, or follow the thread of curiosity that pulled you here in the first place. Maybe you will find work, or answers, or even a reason to stay. Whatever comes next, you know you are ready to meet it.

[fanfic-idjit]

You combined my favorite obsesions! I'm exited🎉

[tarithenurse]

Cherry

FANDOM: MCU.

PAIRING/STARRING: Steve Rogers x fem!reader.

WORD COUNT: 301.

SUMMARY: Cherry?

CONTENT: Innuendos, pining, implied smut.

A/N: For the 20th of Jukebox it’s time for a classic with All Shook Up – Elvis Presley / “Who do you thank when you have such luck?”. As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my taglist for the challenge and my general MASTERLIST for more.

Cherry

It starts innocently enough: a trip to the farmers’ market resulting in a bunch of fresh fruits. Including cherries. When Steve enters the kitchen, his face lights up in a huge smile and he pops one of the dark red, almost black, fruits in his mouth with a delighted hum.

No worries there, right? Wrong!

Steve’s jaw ticks as he works the cherry and the stem that’s poking out slightly between his lips. His brow furrowed until he hums again and pulls out the stem – now with a perfect knot on it.

That’s when you let out a defeated whimper, making him look at you.

“What?” he asks.

You try to compose yourself, gesturing to his hand. You’re trying very hard to banish the naughty images from your mind, the knowledge of Steve’s skills with his tongue that he’s just unwittingly revealed. Gods, if you could have the chance at directing that to something else...

“You okay, sweetheart?” he calls you back to the present again.

“Yeah!” It’s a squeak, much to loud to be honest.

Then it dawns on you: sweetheart. He’s never called you that before and while you won’t complain, it also seems very suspicious. Narrowing your eyes at him, you consider what to say.

But Steve doesn’t let you speak. He steps closer, pressing the bound stem into your hand and whispers into your year: “Consider it a promise.”

With that, he leaves the kitchen and it takes you far too long to hurry after him.

You catch him by his room, hand trying to close around his wrist to turn him and you’re met by a confident grin.

“Want another cherry?” you ask boldly, thighs clenching.

“I hoped you’d offer,” Steve purrs, pulling you inside the room.

Who do you thank when you have such luck?

[fanfic-idjit]

Loved this! I love Steve being a little naughty I don't think he is the goody too shoes everyone thinks he is!