pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
sinopsis | you met dean winchester when jody mills took you under her wing at sixteen. back then, you were just a kid in his eyes — and by the time you turned eighteen, life had pulled you both in different directions. seven years later, at twenty-five, a chance reunion makes it clear: he doesn’t see that kid anymore.
what starts as a one-time hookup turns into a quiet arrangement — no hunts, no disguises, just agreed motel rooms and crossed lines. but cheeseburgers after work, teasing over music, and long conversations between kisses blur the rules you swore to keep.
now that the line between 'casual' and 'not so casual' is blurred, will you choose to stay or will you run away?
warnings | (18+) MDNI, MATURE SEXUAL CONTENT, age gap (dean's 36), regular supernatural violence, mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, domestic scenes, fluff, little bit of angst, sam being a good brother, claire being a good sister, happy ending (please tell me if i missed something)
a/n | this is a very self-indulgent fic that's been in my mind for a long long time and i hope you like it now that i've been able to put it into words
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
read also on ao3
CHAPTER 1 — first encounter
CHAPTER 2 — the pattern
CHAPTER 3 — a bucket of real life
CHAPTER 4 — let's keep pretending
CHAPTER 5 — pulling away
CHAPTER 6 — stop pretending
EPILOGUE — stay
a/n | (i'm about to start a new semester at uni so i really hope to be able to post on time, i'll try my best 🙏🏻)
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you and dean learn what staying really means. together.
chapter wc | 900
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), alcohol consumption, idiots in love, fluff, fluff, fluff and more fluff, happy ending
a/n | well, here's the epilogue. thanks to everyone who read this, who commented, who rebloged and who liked this series. i really appreciate it. see you on the next one <33
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
Eventually, Dean moves into your apartment. But it doesn’t happen all at once.
With him, nothing ever really does.
There’s no big conversation, no labeled boxes, no dramatic declaration.
It starts small.
After a rough hunt, he comes by for a few days—you let him rest, patch him up, let him pick the movie.
His duffel bag sits in the corner of your room longer than usual.
After the third day, you say, “You know, you can leave a couple things here.”
He grunts something noncommittal—but that night, he leaves his razor and toothbrush in your bathroom drawer. You find one of his favorite t-shirts mixed with your laundry and don’t say anything. You just fold it neatly and tuck it under your pillow.
At first, it’s just a couple of his things left behind after weekends together—a flannel draped over the back of your couch, sometimes his leather jacket on the coat rack by the door. You don’t even realize it’s happening until you notice you’ve started leaving a space for his boots by the door.
Weeks pass, and the “few things” grow. One Thursday night, he shows up with a duffel bag—not unusual—but when you unzip it, there’s more than just an overnight change of clothes. His favorite mug. A stack of shirts. His second-favorite leather jacket. He shrugs when you raise an eyebrow, mumbling something about, “Figured I might as well keep a few things here.”
A few weeks later, you’re reorganizing your dresser and clear out the bottom drawer without thinking.
He notices.
“Didn’t know you were giving out keys and closet space now,” he teases.
You smirk, toss him a hoodie from the laundry basket. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just got tired of tripping over your stuff.”
But the next time he comes over, he’s packed lighter. You peek in the drawer the next morning and find a few clean Henleys, a spare flannel, and—yeah—Baby’s keys.
He trusts you.
By the third week, his things have multiplied: a pair of well-worn boots by the door, a stash of pie in your fridge, a battered box of vinyl records by the TV stand. The pizza place by your apartment memorizes his order. He gives the mailman a nod. Your neighbors wave at him.
It’s not just his stuff—Dean himself folds into the rhythms of your space. He learns which mug is yours in the morning (the one you refuse to let anyone else touch). He starts brewing the coffee before you’re even out of bed—your brand, but with cinnamon, like he knows you secretly love it.
One Friday night, you cook dinner and he offers to do the dishes. You catch him humming Zeppelin under his breath while rinsing. You figure out how to move around each other in the kitchen without spilling or burning anything—an unspoken choreography of “you stir, I plate” and “I’ll grab the pepper, you stay by the stove.”
Some nights, you’re sprawled on the couch, legs tangled while arguing over what to watch.
Other nights, you’re in the bedroom, you reading while he tinkers with a weapon on a towel spread across the bed.
Of course, there’s an adjustment period. Dean has habits—like leaving tools on the counter or turning the TV up too loud—and you have yours. You bicker over whether the thermostat should be at “comfortable” or “arctic.” But it’s light, easy, softened by the fact that there’s always a kiss after.
Little by little, the lines blur. He stops asking if it’s okay to stay over—he just does. You stop thinking of it as “my apartment” and catch yourself calling it “home” when you talk to him.
He starts calling it home too.
“Think I left my boots at home—shit, I mean, here.”“Wanna swing by the bunker, then come back home tonight?”“Brought groceries. Figured I’d cook tonight.”
You don’t say anything, just walk past him, brush your fingers against his back, and smile at the thought of this being real.
The apartment key.
You never ask. You never bring it up.
But one night, after a late therapy session and a long day, you walk up to the apartment and hear music softly playing inside. You frown. Then you remember: he had errands. Said he might be back before you.
You try the door—and it opens.
Inside, Dean’s barefoot, shirt untucked, stirring pasta. A movie’s paused on the TV.
He doesn’t even look up when he says, “Hey, sweetheart.”
You blink. “How’d you get in?”
He holds up your spare key on his ring.
Your heart skips.
“You took the key,” you say softly.
He shrugs, something nervous in his eyes. “Was tired of waiting in the hallway.”
You walk up behind him, slide your arms around his waist. “Then don’t wait anymore.”
And one night, curled up in bed, your legs tangled under the sheets, he murmurs something into your shoulder.
You turn toward him, half-asleep. “What?”
Dean kisses your temple. “Never had anything like this before. Don’t wanna mess it up.”
You rest your hand over his chest, steady against his heartbeat. “Then don’t. Just… stay.”
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you and dean learn what staying really means. together.
chapter wc | 900
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), alcohol consumption, idiots in love, fluff, fluff, fluff and more fluff, happy ending
a/n | well, here's the epilogue. thanks to everyone who read this, who commented, who rebloged and who liked this series. i really appreciate it. see you on the next one <33
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
Eventually, Dean moves into your apartment. But it doesn’t happen all at once.
With him, nothing ever really does.
There’s no big conversation, no labeled boxes, no dramatic declaration.
It starts small.
After a rough hunt, he comes by for a few days—you let him rest, patch him up, let him pick the movie.
His duffel bag sits in the corner of your room longer than usual.
After the third day, you say, “You know, you can leave a couple things here.”
He grunts something noncommittal—but that night, he leaves his razor and toothbrush in your bathroom drawer. You find one of his favorite t-shirts mixed with your laundry and don’t say anything. You just fold it neatly and tuck it under your pillow.
At first, it’s just a couple of his things left behind after weekends together—a flannel draped over the back of your couch, sometimes his leather jacket on the coat rack by the door. You don’t even realize it’s happening until you notice you’ve started leaving a space for his boots by the door.
Weeks pass, and the “few things” grow. One Thursday night, he shows up with a duffel bag—not unusual—but when you unzip it, there’s more than just an overnight change of clothes. His favorite mug. A stack of shirts. His second-favorite leather jacket. He shrugs when you raise an eyebrow, mumbling something about, “Figured I might as well keep a few things here.”
A few weeks later, you’re reorganizing your dresser and clear out the bottom drawer without thinking.
He notices.
“Didn’t know you were giving out keys and closet space now,” he teases.
You smirk, toss him a hoodie from the laundry basket. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just got tired of tripping over your stuff.”
But the next time he comes over, he’s packed lighter. You peek in the drawer the next morning and find a few clean Henleys, a spare flannel, and—yeah—Baby’s keys.
He trusts you.
By the third week, his things have multiplied: a pair of well-worn boots by the door, a stash of pie in your fridge, a battered box of vinyl records by the TV stand. The pizza place by your apartment memorizes his order. He gives the mailman a nod. Your neighbors wave at him.
It’s not just his stuff—Dean himself folds into the rhythms of your space. He learns which mug is yours in the morning (the one you refuse to let anyone else touch). He starts brewing the coffee before you’re even out of bed—your brand, but with cinnamon, like he knows you secretly love it.
One Friday night, you cook dinner and he offers to do the dishes. You catch him humming Zeppelin under his breath while rinsing. You figure out how to move around each other in the kitchen without spilling or burning anything—an unspoken choreography of “you stir, I plate” and “I’ll grab the pepper, you stay by the stove.”
Some nights, you’re sprawled on the couch, legs tangled while arguing over what to watch.
Other nights, you’re in the bedroom, you reading while he tinkers with a weapon on a towel spread across the bed.
Of course, there’s an adjustment period. Dean has habits—like leaving tools on the counter or turning the TV up too loud—and you have yours. You bicker over whether the thermostat should be at “comfortable” or “arctic.” But it’s light, easy, softened by the fact that there’s always a kiss after.
Little by little, the lines blur. He stops asking if it’s okay to stay over—he just does. You stop thinking of it as “my apartment” and catch yourself calling it “home” when you talk to him.
He starts calling it home too.
“Think I left my boots at home—shit, I mean, here.”“Wanna swing by the bunker, then come back home tonight?”“Brought groceries. Figured I’d cook tonight.”
You don’t say anything, just walk past him, brush your fingers against his back, and smile at the thought of this being real.
The apartment key.
You never ask. You never bring it up.
But one night, after a late therapy session and a long day, you walk up to the apartment and hear music softly playing inside. You frown. Then you remember: he had errands. Said he might be back before you.
You try the door—and it opens.
Inside, Dean’s barefoot, shirt untucked, stirring pasta. A movie’s paused on the TV.
He doesn’t even look up when he says, “Hey, sweetheart.”
You blink. “How’d you get in?”
He holds up your spare key on his ring.
Your heart skips.
“You took the key,” you say softly.
He shrugs, something nervous in his eyes. “Was tired of waiting in the hallway.”
You walk up behind him, slide your arms around his waist. “Then don’t wait anymore.”
And one night, curled up in bed, your legs tangled under the sheets, he murmurs something into your shoulder.
You turn toward him, half-asleep. “What?”
Dean kisses your temple. “Never had anything like this before. Don’t wanna mess it up.”
You rest your hand over his chest, steady against his heartbeat. “Then don’t. Just… stay.”
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you and dean acknowledge your feelings and stop pretending once and for all
chapter wc | 1.7k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, MATURE SEXUAL CONTENT, age gap (dean's 36), alcohol consumption, idiots in love, fluff, fluff, fluff and more fluff, happy ending
a/n | i know i should've posted this yesterday but it was an unusually busy as hell day so, here i'm posting the last chapter of this series. i hope you like it and i see you tomorrow with the epilogue <33
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[YOUR APARTMENT – NIGHT]
The door clicks shut behind you, the sound quiet in the low hum of city night.
Dean doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there, looking around like it’s the first time he’s really seen this space. The couch with the worn blanket. The bookshelf with stacked psychology textbooks and a photo of you and Claire flipping off the camera. Your boots kicked under the coat rack. It’s you in every inch.
You stand by the kitchen counter, hands braced behind you, eyes on him.
Dean’s still. Nervous in a way he rarely shows.
“This feels different,” he finally says, voice low.
You nod. “Because it is.”
He walks toward you, slow, uncertain.
“You sure you want this?” he asks, eyes searching yours. “Not the fun, not the tension. Just... me. All the baggage, the bruises, the mess?”
You let out a soft laugh and step closer, resting your hand on his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur. “I’ve always wanted you. Even when I was too young to understand what that meant. And now? I want all of it. Even the mess.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for months. Then his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like you might disappear if he blinks.
“This time,” he says, his voice rough, “we’re not pretending.”
You lean into him. “Then show me.”
The world slows.
There’s no rush, no frantic undressing, no need to prove anything. This time is different.
He touches you like he’s memorizing, not claiming. You laugh softly when his fingers tangle awkwardly in your necklace, and he laughs too, forehead resting against yours, more tender than you’ve ever seen him.
There’s heat, yes—undeniably—but it’s threaded with something deeper. Every kiss lingers. Every touch is deliberate. He whispers your name like it’s sacred.
And when it’s over, when the storm settles and you’re both lying tangled in your sheets, skin warm, your head tucked beneath his chin—neither of you says a word.
You don’t have to.
His arm is around your waist. Your fingers trace the scar on his shoulder. The movie you never started flickers silently on the TV screen.
Dean shifts just enough to look at you.
“This… this scares the hell out of me,” he admits quietly.
You nod against his chest. “Me too.”
But neither of you moves.
Because fear or not—you’re finally here.
Together. Real. No more pretending.
It’s still early.
The light pouring through your window is soft and warm, touching everything with that amber hue that only exists for a few minutes each morning. You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in nothing but Dean’s flannel—sleeves rolled, hem brushing your upper thighs, the faint scent of him still clinging to the fabric.
Dean stands at the stove, spatula in one hand, two eggs sizzling in the pan. His hair’s a mess, sleep still in his eyes, but there’s something about seeing him like this—in your kitchen, in this quiet intimacy—that makes your heart ache in the best way.
“You’re getting too good at this,” you say with a grin, stepping closer.
He glances at you over his shoulder, that familiar sleepy smirk curling his lips. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep you spoiled.”
You laugh softly, watching the way his back flexes beneath the worn tee he pulled on. His boots sit by the door. His duffel’s still zipped. He didn’t run.
Not yet.
You sit at the small table, pulling your knees up, flannel slipping slightly off one shoulder. Dean notices, obviously, and his smirk falters into something more tender.
He plates the eggs and toasts, sets your mug beside the plate just how you like it. Then he sits across from you, silent for a second, like he’s not sure how to be this person—the one who wakes up and makes breakfast instead of excuses.
You speak first, softly. “Last night… I meant what I said.”
Dean looks up from his eggs. You reach across the table, your fingers curling around his.
“I’m not asking for forever,” you say. “I know we’ve both got scars. I know this life doesn’t come with guarantees. But I want to try. And we don’t have to rush it. Just…”
You squeeze his hand.
“Stay. Keep staying. Step by step.”
Dean swallows hard. That thing in his chest—so used to bracing for loss—loosens a little.
“You really want to do this the slow way?” he asks, thumb grazing your knuckles. “Because, not gonna lie, you in my shirt like that’s making me rethink the whole ‘taking things slow’ plan.”
You chuckle. “We can go slow and still have fun.”
Dean leans across the table, kissing your forehead gently, then rests his against yours.
“I’m in,” he whispers. “No more running.”
You close your eyes, letting that truth settle between you. The fear’s still there, yes—but so is something stronger.
Trust. Safety. Home.
And as Dean takes your empty plate and reaches for the coffee pot, he adds, almost shyly:
“So… what’s your stance on pancakes?”
You grin. “Firmly supportive. Especially if you’re the one flipping them.”
He laughs under his breath, shoulders relaxing more than you’ve ever seen.
For once, Dean Winchester isn’t running from something.
He’s staying for you.
[JODY MILLS’ HOUSE – DINING ROOM – EVENING]
It’s girls’ night—unapologetically so.
The table is full of comfort food. Lasagna, garlic bread, homemade brownies cooling on the counter. Donna’s laughing so hard at one of her own jokes she nearly chokes on her wine. Claire and Alex are arguing over music. Jody’s refilling glasses with practiced grace.
You’re seated between Donna and Alex, sipping your drink, letting the conversation swirl until the moment feels just right.
You clear your throat.
“Hey, uh… can I say something real quick?”
Four heads turn.
You suddenly feel all their eyes on you, but you take a breath and power through. “It’s nothing huge, just—figured it’s time I tell you guys something.”
Donna raises an eyebrow, already smiling. Claire’s chewing with narrowed eyes. Alex leans in like she knows gossip is coming. Jody, ever the mom, looks patiently expectant.
“I’m... seeing someone,” you say slowly.
Claire snorts. “Wow, that’s new,” she mutters under her breath.
You roll your eyes but smile. “It’s not that shocking.”
“Depends on who it is,” Donna says, practically vibrating.
You take another breath.
“It’s Dean.”
Silence.
For about two seconds.
Then—
“Knew it.” Claire grins around her fork, smug and fully unbothered.
Donna gasps like she just found out her favorite Hallmark couple got together. “Oh honey, finally!”
Jody, on the other hand, nearly drops the serving spoon. “Wait, what? Dean Winchester? As in my friend Dean?”
You nod, cautious. “Yeah. We’ve been… seeing each other for a while now. It started as something casual, but it’s not that anymore.”
Alex blinks. “Holy crap, I thought you guys were just doing the flirty bickering thing. Like siblings who hate each other but with tension.”
Claire laughs. “She had a crush on him since she was, like, sixteen.”
You shoot her a glare. “Thanks, Claire.”
Donna grins. “Girl, it’s Dean. I mean, who didn’t have a crush on him at some point?”
Jody sets the spoon down and looks at you with narrowed eyes. Not angry, just processing.
“You’re serious about this?” she asks softly.
You meet her gaze. “Yeah. I am. And we’re taking it slow. He didn’t even come tonight because we both thought it’d be… too much. Too soon.”
Jody leans back in her chair, arms crossed, but there’s a warmth in her eyes. “Well, damn. I always thought you two would drive each other crazy, not end up—whatever this is.”
Claire mumbles, “Slow burn,” like she’s narrating a TV show.
Donna raises her glass. “To the hot older man of your dreams finally becoming your emotionally repressed boyfriend!”
Everyone laughs—even Jody, eventually.
You relax. Because this? This is exactly how it should’ve gone. A little chaos, a little teasing… and a whole lot of love.
[BUNKER – KITCHEN]
Dean’s pouring himself a coffee when the phone rings. It's mid-afternoon, quiet, peaceful—until he checks the caller ID.
Jody Mills.
He frowns slightly. They hadn’t spoken since the last case in Minnesota. He answers casually, leaning against the counter.
“Hey, Jody.”
“Hey yourself,” she replies evenly. “Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
There’s a pause. Dean feels it. That tightness behind her voice that says this isn’t just a casual call. He shifts on his feet.
“I had dinner with the girls last night,” she says.
His grip on the mug falters. “…Yeah?”
“She told us.”
Dean exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. That.”
“Mmhmm.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then—
“Look, Dean,” she says, and now the warmth drains from her voice, replaced by the sheriff tone that’s left grown men shaking in their boots. “You and I, we’ve worked together a long time. I know you’re a good man. I know your baggage, too. And I’m not calling to judge that.”
“Okay…” Dean says slowly, carefully.
“But she’s family,” Jody cuts in firmly. “She’s my girl. I raised her the best I could, same as Claire and Alex. And she may be a badass hunter and a full-grown woman now, but if you ever—and I mean ever—hurt her? You’re not gonna have to worry about monsters coming after you.”
“Jody—”
“No, you listen to me, Winchester. If you break her heart, if you leave her hanging, if you start pulling any of that self-sabotaging crap you’re famous for… I will hunt your ass down. And I won’t come alone. Claire already said she’d bring the holy water and a bat.”
Dean lets out a slow breath and nods, even though she can’t see him. He swallows hard.
“I’m not gonna hurt her,” he says quietly. “I—” he stops, jaw working like he’s chewing over the right words. “She matters to me. More than I planned. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Jody is silent for a beat.
Then, softer this time:
“Good. Because she deserves someone who stays. And if that’s you, then I’m on your side.”
He smiles faintly, a weight lifting from his chest.
“Thanks, Jody.”
“Just don’t make me regret it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Alright. Now go give her a kiss or something. She says you’re a pain in the ass when you’re grumpy.”
Dean snorts. “She says that, huh?”
“Oh, constantly. Bye, Dean.”
Click.
Dean sets his phone down, still smirking, and shakes his head.
“Damn women in my life are all terrifying.”
But he grabs his keys and heads home early anyway.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you both should've known reality would come knocking sooner or later...
chapter wc | 1.9k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, flirting, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, sam being a good brother, claire being a good sister
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[BUNKER – WAR ROOM – EVENING]
Dean’s tossing a duffel bag on the table. Freshly showered, hair still damp, the scent of motel soap faint in the air. Sam’s already there—laptop open, notes scattered. He doesn’t even look up.
“So how was the ‘hunt’ in Iowa?”
Dean shrugs, starts unpacking his gear. “Handled. Couple of restless spirits tied to a Civil War memorial. Real low-key.”
Sam hums. “That the same kind of low-key as the one in Nebraska last week? Or the ‘salt-and-burn emergency’ in South Dakota the week before that?”
Dean pauses, only for a split second. “What’s your point?”
Sam finally looks up, arms crossed. “My point is you’ve been taking a lot of solo hunts lately. More than usual. And when you do take them, you barely leave a trail. You don’t answer texts. You vanish for 48 hours. You don’t even ask if I want in.”
Dean picks up his flask, swigs it, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not vanishing. I’m just keeping things clean and simple. Some jobs don’t need two of us.”
Sam raises a brow. “You mean some jobs don’t need me, or some jobs come with… company?”
Dean gives him a flat look. “You accusing me of something, Sammy?”
“I’m asking,” Sam replies calmly. “Are you seeing someone?”
Dean scoffs. “Jesus. No.”
Sam tilts his head. “Because if you were, you could just say it. I’m not gonna judge. I’d actually be glad you were letting someone in again.”
Dean stiffens. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
A beat.
“But…” Sam narrows his eyes slightly, reading Dean’s face like a book. “There is someone.”
Dean looks away. Just for a second.
Sam leans forward, voice lower. “Dean. C’mon.”
Dean finally sighs and slumps into the chair across from him. “It’s not like that. It’s… casual.”
Sam waits.
Dean keeps talking, like he has to convince himself now. “We hook up when we’re in the same place, blow off some steam. That’s it. No strings. No complicated crap.”
“You mean the same person, every time?”
Dean glares at the table. “…Yeah.”
“And how long’s this been going on?”
Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Few weeks.”
Sam’s quiet, watching his brother squirm.
“And you’re not seeing her, huh?” he asks, pointedly.
Dean looks up, eyes tired. “I can’t. She’s… not just anyone. It’s complicated.”
Sam softens. “Because of who she is… or because of how you feel?”
Dean hesitates. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not going anywhere. We agreed.”
Sam leans back, sighs. “Okay. I won’t push. But if it was going somewhere… would you want it to?”
Dean doesn’t answer.
And that silence says everything.
[JODY’S HOUSE – EVENING – SIOUX FALLS, SD]
Dean parks the Impala next to Sam’s rental and groans when he sees more cars in the driveway.
“I thought it was just dinner,” he mutters.
“Dinner at Jody’s,” Sam replies, slamming the car door. “You really thought she wouldn’t invite half the apocalypse-survivor girls she’s basically adopted?”
Dean grumbles something under his breath and straightens his jacket. His eyes flick to the porch light, the warm glow from the windows—and somewhere deep down, a flicker of dread sets in.
He’s not sure if it’s hope or fear that you might be inside.
Spoiler alert: it's both.
They climb the porch steps, and Jody greets them with her trademark warm hug and a “Get in here, boys!” The smell of roasted chicken and garlic bread spills from the kitchen.
Dean’s halfway through taking off his jacket when his eyes land on the dining table. Donna’s already there, laughing with Alex. Claire’s leaning back in her chair, scrolling her phone. And then—
You.
You’re standing by the kitchen doorway, hair loose, sleeves rolled to your elbows, holding a glass of wine like you belong here.
Dean’s throat goes dry. He swallows and forces his gaze past you to the roast on the counter.
Sam, oblivious, grins at you. “Hey! How’ve you been?.”
The table is crowded. Laughter, clinking glasses, the scent of roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes in the air. Donna’s telling a story about a cursed ice cream truck in Fargo. Claire rolls her eyes dramatically while stealing a biscuit from Alex’s plate. Jody beams at everyone like a proud mother hen.
Then there’s you—sitting across the table from Dean.
You’ve got that same smirk you wore the last time he saw you, only now you’re dressed in something casual and soft and dangerous. Not because of the neckline—though, hell—but because you look so damn comfortable here.
Dean? Not so much.
He barely speaks. Sips his beer. Answers when spoken to, throws a sarcastic quip now and then. But his eyes? They keep darting up—quick glances he thinks are subtle.
Only Claire catches them. She doesn’t say a word… yet.
And then it happens.
“So,” Jody says, pointing her fork toward you, “you remember that case in Six Falls, Dean? The one where I was gonna go help you out, but something came up?”
Dean freezes mid-chew. “Uh… yeah?”
“Well,” Jody continues, totally oblivious, “I sent her instead. Thought it’d be good for you two to team up.” She beams at you. “And from what I heard, you held your own.”
Sam’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes bounce from Jody, to you, to Dean—who suddenly looks very interested in his mashed potatoes.
“Huh,” Sam says slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That was a few months ago, right?”
“Yeah,” you say evenly, meeting Sam’s gaze. “Worked out fine.”
Dean keeps his eyes locked on his plate, jaw tight. “Yup. Fine.”
Claire leans toward you with a tiny grin. “So that’s why you wore eyeliner to exorcise a demon.”
You kick her under the table.
Jody smiles proudly. “She held her own. You two were gone for a while on that case, huh?”
Dean mutters, “Yeah. Took longer than we thought.”
Sam watches him. Doesn’t blink. “Huh.”
Donna, oblivious, raises her glass. “To old friends and new hunters!”
Everyone cheers. Dean downs his whiskey like it’s water.
And still—still—he doesn’t look at you.
He can’t.
Because if he does, everyone will see it. How his shoulders tense just hearing your laugh. How he grips his glass a little tighter when you run your fingers through your hair. How much he wants to look. How badly he remembers the way you looked the last time you were in a room alone together.
You? You don’t make it easier. You don’t act on it, but your eyes flick to him more than once. Catching his glance. Letting it linger. And every time, he looks away too fast.
Claire watches both of you like she’s front row at a soap opera.
The dinner’s winding down. Dishes are clinking in the kitchen, Donna’s laughing from the living room with Sam, and Jody’s making tea for anyone still awake. You slip away, trying to find your coat in the quiet of the hallway.
And that’s when you hear it—boots behind you.
You don’t even turn around before saying, “I swear to God, if you make a joke, I will hex your shampoo.”
Claire smirks as she leans against the doorframe. “You mean hex it again? Took me two weeks to fix the straw hair situation.”
You give her a sideways glance. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m already started,” she says, arms crossed. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
You roll your eyes. “He didn’t even look at me.”
“Exactly.” Claire’s eyebrows go up. “He tried so hard not to look at you, it was practically a red neon sign saying, ‘I’ve definitely seen her naked.’”
You sputter. “Claire—”
“Oh, please,” she says, stepping into your space with that smug older-sister energy. “You think I forgot how you mooned over him at seventeen? You were so obvious. Every time he walked into the room you sat up straighter, suddenly had something super important to read. Once, you literally dropped your spoon just so he'd hand it back.”
You groan, covering your face. “Why do you remember this stuff?”
“Because I was rooting for you,” she grins. “And now look at you—grown-up, badass, exorcising demons and… sneaking around motels with Captain Leather Jacket.”
“It’s not like that,” you mutter.
Claire just blinks at you. “Seriously?”
You sigh. “It’s… complicated.”
“Translation: You’re both in denial and probably already planning your next fake hunt just to share a bed again.”
You cross your arms. “We agreed it’s casual.”
Claire scoffs. “Yeah, and I agreed I was totally over Kaia. We all tell ourselves stupid things.”
You glance down the hallway, toward the noise and warmth of the kitchen.
Claire’s voice softens. “Look. I don’t care if you’re hooking up with a guy ten years older who wears flannel like it’s a religion. But Dean’s… not exactly easy to get close to. And you? You got under his skin.”
You meet her eyes. “He’d never admit it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
She starts walking off, but then pauses at the stairs, looking back over her shoulder.
“Oh—and hey?”
“Yeah?”
Claire smirks. “If you ever need a cover story for another motel night, let me know. I’m great at lying to Jody.”
And with that, she disappears down the steps.
Sam waits until they’re back on the road, the warm lights of Jody’s house long behind them. He’s in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching Dean with that quiet, calculating expression that always meant trouble.
Dean’s driving with his usual casual focus, eyes fixed ahead, music low. He thought—hoped—that the evening was over without incident. He doesn’t even glance at Sam, but the weight of his brother’s silence is heavy.
Finally, Sam breaks the silence.
“So… you gonna tell me, or am I supposed to guess?”
Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens. “Tell you what?” he asks, feigning ignorance, his voice just a shade too light.
Sam tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “About her.”
Dean doesn’t flinch, but he feels it. The hit landed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam gives a dry little laugh. “Come on, Dean. Jody says she sent you on a hunt together, months back. Since then, you’ve been taking more ‘solo hunts’ than you ever have in your life, and suddenly you have a ‘casual hook up’. Oh, and tonight? You couldn’t look at her without your ears turning red.”
Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re imagining things. We’ve just worked a couple of jobs together. End of story.”
“Right.” Sam’s voice is skeptical, slow. “And I’m guessing those jobs were in motels with one bed?”
Dean shoots him a look, finally breaking eye contact with the road for a second. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but… no. Two beds. Every time.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam leans back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But you’ve been seeing her outside hunts now, haven’t you?”
Dean’s jaw works as he stares ahead. “Sam. Drop it.”
Sam doesn’t. “So it’s casual, then? Just… hooking up?”
Dean stays quiet, but his silence is answer enough.
Sam sighs, turning his gaze to the window. “You’re an idiot if you think you can keep something like this casual.”
Dean’s knuckles whiten around the wheel. “I know what I’m doing.”
Sam looks back at him, voice calm but certain. “No, you don’t. Not with her.”
Dean doesn’t respond, just reaches over and cranks up the volume on the radio, trying to drown out his brother’s words… and the truth sitting in the pit of his stomach.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | a conversation with sam triggers a hard decision within dean. how long will his resolve last?
chapter wc | 1.3k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, slight angst, stubborn dean
a/n | we're getting closer and closer to the end of this series. i hope you like this one <3
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[BUNKER – KITCHEN – MONDAY MORNING]
Dean’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, leaning against the counter, scrolling something on his phone with the ghost of a smirk on his face. Hoodie rumpled. Fresh from a weekend that clearly didn’t involve any actual hunting.
Sam walks in, eyes sharp, holding a file in one hand and a "you can't keep dodging me" expression on his face.
Dean glances up. “Mornin’. You look like you slept with holy water in your coffee.”
Sam just drops the file on the table. “How long are we gonna pretend you're not in a relationship?”
Dean freezes, blinking once. “...What?”
“Don’t do that,” Sam says, calm but firm. “The look on your face just now? That was someone texting a girlfriend.”
Dean scoffs. “Okay, first of all, not a girlfriend. She’s just—she’s Jody’s kid. I mean—not kid-kid, she’s grown, obviously, but it’s just…”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Just what? Casual?”
Dean nods like a reflex. “Exactly.”
Sam folds his arms, jaw tightening. “So ‘casual’ means spending full weekends at her place now? Bringing her pie? Watching Netflix? I know you, Dean. You don’t do domestic unless it means something.”
Dean looks away, jaw tense. “It’s easy, alright? We blow off steam. That’s all.”
“Does she know that?” Sam asks quietly.
That stops Dean. His thumb slows over the rim of his coffee mug.
Sam softens, but his tone stays steady. “I’m not trying to give you crap, man. I’m trying to make sure you don’t screw this up—or get hurt again. I saw how long it took you to start trusting people after Lisa. After Cassie. Hell, even after Amara.”
Dean flinches. “This is different.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” Sam says. “Because I think you care about her. And you're pretending you don't.”
Dean is quiet for a moment. Then mutters, “She’s better off not knowing that.”
Sam shakes his head. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just waiting for you to admit what she already suspects. But this thing you're doing—pretending you're still the guy who can keep his heart locked up forever? That’s not you anymore, Dean. You let her in. Whether you like it or not.”
Dean doesn’t respond right away.
Instead, he exhales, shoulders heavy. “I don’t even know when it stopped being casual.”
Sam gives him a sad smile. “That’s the thing. It never was.”
[YOUR APARTMENT – THURSDAY NIGHT]
You’d sent the usual text earlier that week:
“If you’re passing through Sioux Falls, I’ve got cold beer and a couch with your name on it.”
But this time, Dean never replied.
No dumb joke. No emoji. No “be there in 3.”
And for the first time since this whole thing started, the silence stings.
[SOME MOTEL ROOM – SAME NIGHT]
It starts with your text.
Dean stares at it longer than he should’ve. Longer than is safe.
And that’s when he feels it—that familiar tightening in his chest, the one that used to mean he’d gotten in too deep with someone. Except this time it isn’t just attraction or habit. It’s something warmer. Something that scares the hell out of him.
Because the truth? You are not just another distraction between hunts. Somewhere along the line, you’d become the thing he looks forward to.
Which is exactly why he needs to stop.
He tosses his phone on the motel bed like it’s burned him, pacing the room.
“This isn’t smart,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s a hunter. She’s got her own life. And you—” he gestures vaguely at himself—“you don’t do relationships. Not the kind she deserves.”
Another buzz from the phone. He doesn’t look. Can’t.
Instead, he grabs his duffel, starts packing even though checkout’s not for hours. If he keeps moving, maybe it won’t hit him as hard. But the problem is, it already has.
That night, lying in some nameless motel bed miles away from you, Dean stares at the ceiling, fully clothed, your name still glowing at the top of his phone screen.
Unread messages.
He wants to go. God, does he want to go.
But Sam’s voice still echoes in his head. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t screw this up—or get hurt again.”
So Dean tells himself this is him being smart. Responsible. It’s not about him—it’s about protecting you. Jody’s kid. The woman who deserves more than whatever twisted half-formed mess he can offer.
So when your next text comes in—“You ghosting me now?”—he types out half a reply before deleting it.
And that’s when the silence starts.
Not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. But because he knows the second he hears your voice, all that resolve is going straight to hell.
And Dean Winchester’s never been good at turning back once he’s already halfway gone.
He doesn’t sleep much that night.
[ABANDONED MOTEL – A FEW WEEKS LATER]
The next hunt drags him into the middle of a vampire nest outside of Fargo. And surprise—Jody’s already on it.
Which means you are too.
You’re standing outside a gas station when the Impala pulls up. Leather jacket, dark jeans, coffee in hand. You lift your eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Didn’t know you were coming.”
Dean slides out of the driver’s seat. His smile is small. Careful. “Last minute call. Sam had other stuff.”
You nod, letting the weight of his absence settle between you. You’re trying to play it cool, but something inside cracks just a little at the sight of him. At the way he’s already looking away.
“Figured you were ghosting me,” you say lightly, forcing a smile.
Dean doesn’t answer right away. He just takes a sip of his coffee and says, “Thought some space was a good idea.”
You freeze—just a second.
Then? You nod. “Cool. Totally. Casual, right?”
He flinches, just barely.
You both pretend that didn’t happen.
Hunt’s done. Blood on boots. Knives cleaned. The team splits up—Jody and Donna heading out early, Claire offering you a ride back that you decline with a tight smile. You need a minute.
Dean’s leaning on the Impala. Waiting.
You almost walk past him. Almost.
But then—
“Hey.”
You turn.
He’s looking at you with that look. The one he gives people he’s about to walk away from. Or say goodbye to. Or hurt.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says.
You cross your arms. “Yeah. I got that.”
Dean looks around, anywhere to avoid your eyes. “Figured it was better to… take a little space. Y’know. Keep things simple.”
You blink. “Simple.”
“Yeah,” he says, but it comes out thin. “We agreed this wasn’t serious, right?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you laugh, short and humorless. “Right. Totally not serious. Which is why you’ve been avoiding me like I’ve got the plague.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “I just… didn’t want either of us to get in too deep.”
Something twists in your chest. “Newsflash, Winchester—distance doesn’t stop that. It just makes it hurt more.”
He finally looks at you then, and the guarded expression cracks. Just a little. Enough for you to see the tired, conflicted man underneath.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “I thought if I pulled back… maybe it’d get easier.”
You scoff. “Did it?”
“Nope.”
Silence.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t do this. I don’t get attached. And when I do—it goes to hell.”
You step closer. “I’m not asking you to get attached, Dean. I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yeah, well…” He meets your eyes. “You already have me. That’s the damn problem.”
And just like that, all the pretending breaks.
You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like you’re done being careful.
And he kisses you back like he never stopped missing you.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | a conversation with sam triggers a hard decision within dean. how long will his resolve last?
chapter wc | 1.3k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, slight angst, stubborn dean
a/n | we're getting closer and closer to the end of this series. i hope you like this one <3
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[BUNKER – KITCHEN – MONDAY MORNING]
Dean’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, leaning against the counter, scrolling something on his phone with the ghost of a smirk on his face. Hoodie rumpled. Fresh from a weekend that clearly didn’t involve any actual hunting.
Sam walks in, eyes sharp, holding a file in one hand and a "you can't keep dodging me" expression on his face.
Dean glances up. “Mornin’. You look like you slept with holy water in your coffee.”
Sam just drops the file on the table. “How long are we gonna pretend you're not in a relationship?”
Dean freezes, blinking once. “...What?”
“Don’t do that,” Sam says, calm but firm. “The look on your face just now? That was someone texting a girlfriend.”
Dean scoffs. “Okay, first of all, not a girlfriend. She’s just—she’s Jody’s kid. I mean—not kid-kid, she’s grown, obviously, but it’s just…”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Just what? Casual?”
Dean nods like a reflex. “Exactly.”
Sam folds his arms, jaw tightening. “So ‘casual’ means spending full weekends at her place now? Bringing her pie? Watching Netflix? I know you, Dean. You don’t do domestic unless it means something.”
Dean looks away, jaw tense. “It’s easy, alright? We blow off steam. That’s all.”
“Does she know that?” Sam asks quietly.
That stops Dean. His thumb slows over the rim of his coffee mug.
Sam softens, but his tone stays steady. “I’m not trying to give you crap, man. I’m trying to make sure you don’t screw this up—or get hurt again. I saw how long it took you to start trusting people after Lisa. After Cassie. Hell, even after Amara.”
Dean flinches. “This is different.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” Sam says. “Because I think you care about her. And you're pretending you don't.”
Dean is quiet for a moment. Then mutters, “She’s better off not knowing that.”
Sam shakes his head. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just waiting for you to admit what she already suspects. But this thing you're doing—pretending you're still the guy who can keep his heart locked up forever? That’s not you anymore, Dean. You let her in. Whether you like it or not.”
Dean doesn’t respond right away.
Instead, he exhales, shoulders heavy. “I don’t even know when it stopped being casual.”
Sam gives him a sad smile. “That’s the thing. It never was.”
[YOUR APARTMENT – THURSDAY NIGHT]
You’d sent the usual text earlier that week:
“If you’re passing through Sioux Falls, I’ve got cold beer and a couch with your name on it.”
But this time, Dean never replied.
No dumb joke. No emoji. No “be there in 3.”
And for the first time since this whole thing started, the silence stings.
[SOME MOTEL ROOM – SAME NIGHT]
It starts with your text.
Dean stares at it longer than he should’ve. Longer than is safe.
And that’s when he feels it—that familiar tightening in his chest, the one that used to mean he’d gotten in too deep with someone. Except this time it isn’t just attraction or habit. It’s something warmer. Something that scares the hell out of him.
Because the truth? You are not just another distraction between hunts. Somewhere along the line, you’d become the thing he looks forward to.
Which is exactly why he needs to stop.
He tosses his phone on the motel bed like it’s burned him, pacing the room.
“This isn’t smart,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s a hunter. She’s got her own life. And you—” he gestures vaguely at himself—“you don’t do relationships. Not the kind she deserves.”
Another buzz from the phone. He doesn’t look. Can’t.
Instead, he grabs his duffel, starts packing even though checkout’s not for hours. If he keeps moving, maybe it won’t hit him as hard. But the problem is, it already has.
That night, lying in some nameless motel bed miles away from you, Dean stares at the ceiling, fully clothed, your name still glowing at the top of his phone screen.
Unread messages.
He wants to go. God, does he want to go.
But Sam’s voice still echoes in his head. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t screw this up—or get hurt again.”
So Dean tells himself this is him being smart. Responsible. It’s not about him—it’s about protecting you. Jody’s kid. The woman who deserves more than whatever twisted half-formed mess he can offer.
So when your next text comes in—“You ghosting me now?”—he types out half a reply before deleting it.
And that’s when the silence starts.
Not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. But because he knows the second he hears your voice, all that resolve is going straight to hell.
And Dean Winchester’s never been good at turning back once he’s already halfway gone.
He doesn’t sleep much that night.
[ABANDONED MOTEL – A FEW WEEKS LATER]
The next hunt drags him into the middle of a vampire nest outside of Fargo. And surprise—Jody’s already on it.
Which means you are too.
You’re standing outside a gas station when the Impala pulls up. Leather jacket, dark jeans, coffee in hand. You lift your eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Didn’t know you were coming.”
Dean slides out of the driver’s seat. His smile is small. Careful. “Last minute call. Sam had other stuff.”
You nod, letting the weight of his absence settle between you. You’re trying to play it cool, but something inside cracks just a little at the sight of him. At the way he’s already looking away.
“Figured you were ghosting me,” you say lightly, forcing a smile.
Dean doesn’t answer right away. He just takes a sip of his coffee and says, “Thought some space was a good idea.”
You freeze—just a second.
Then? You nod. “Cool. Totally. Casual, right?”
He flinches, just barely.
You both pretend that didn’t happen.
Hunt’s done. Blood on boots. Knives cleaned. The team splits up—Jody and Donna heading out early, Claire offering you a ride back that you decline with a tight smile. You need a minute.
Dean’s leaning on the Impala. Waiting.
You almost walk past him. Almost.
But then—
“Hey.”
You turn.
He’s looking at you with that look. The one he gives people he’s about to walk away from. Or say goodbye to. Or hurt.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says.
You cross your arms. “Yeah. I got that.”
Dean looks around, anywhere to avoid your eyes. “Figured it was better to… take a little space. Y’know. Keep things simple.”
You blink. “Simple.”
“Yeah,” he says, but it comes out thin. “We agreed this wasn’t serious, right?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then you laugh, short and humorless. “Right. Totally not serious. Which is why you’ve been avoiding me like I’ve got the plague.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “I just… didn’t want either of us to get in too deep.”
Something twists in your chest. “Newsflash, Winchester—distance doesn’t stop that. It just makes it hurt more.”
He finally looks at you then, and the guarded expression cracks. Just a little. Enough for you to see the tired, conflicted man underneath.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “I thought if I pulled back… maybe it’d get easier.”
You scoff. “Did it?”
“Nope.”
Silence.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t do this. I don’t get attached. And when I do—it goes to hell.”
You step closer. “I’m not asking you to get attached, Dean. I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yeah, well…” He meets your eyes. “You already have me. That’s the damn problem.”
And just like that, all the pretending breaks.
You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like you’re done being careful.
And he kisses you back like he never stopped missing you.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you and dean keep pretending your arrangement is still casual, without noticing (or not acknowledging) that the lines are starting to blur a little too much…
chapter wc | 1k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, flirting, alcohol consumption, idiots in love
a/n | short chapter but very important to the plotline imo. hope you like it <3
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[YOUR APARTMENT – FRIDAY NIGHT]
The knock on the door comes just after nine. You wipe your hands on a towel, still wearing the hoodie and leggings you changed into after your last session. No makeup. Hair loose. Tired but buzzing. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him until that text earlier today.
Dean: Still up for that raincheck? Got a couple cheeseburgers and zero impulse control.
You open the door—and there he is.
Leather jacket, smug grin, brown paper bag in hand. He raises it like a peace offering.
“Brought some happiness. Medium-rare, extra pickles.”
You smile—because of course he remembered.
“You’re lucky I just finished work.”
“I’m lucky,” he says, stepping inside and glancing around your apartment, “you didn’t come to your senses and ghost me.”
You roll your eyes as you lock the door. “Not my style.”
He holds up two beers. “And these aren’t therapy-approved, but I figured it’s unethical to refuse comfort food after a long day.”
You flop onto the couch and throw your head back. “God, I love unethical comfort food.”
Burgers half-eaten, wrappers crumpled on the coffee table. A vintage horror movie plays softly on the TV—one of those late '70s ones with bad effects and too much fog.
You’re both stretched out on the couch, side by side. Not touching… yet.
Dean glances over at you. “So… real talk. You listen to people all day. Doesn’t that ever mess with your head?”
You shrug. “Sometimes. Depends on the person. Depends on the day. But helping someone untangle their own mind? There’s something powerful about that. It’s messy but… honest.”
Dean nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
You smirk. “Didn’t know you were the open-minded about mental health type.”
He snorts. “I’m not. I just think it’s badass. You do what I can’t.”
“You mean talk about feelings?”
“I mean talk about feelings without throwing whiskey at them first.”
You both laugh—and that sound? That easy, shared joy? It lingers.
You nudge him with your knee. “Alright, Winchester. My turn. What’s your worst band crush?”
He squints. “Define ‘worst’.”
“As in: you’d absolutely be embarrassed if I caught you listening to it.”
Dean considers this… and then mutters, “Kelly Clarkson.”
You choke on your beer. “Seriously?!”
“She’s got range!”
“You mocked my James Blunt phase and you listen to Since U Been Gone in the Impala?”
He grins. “That song slaps and you know it.”
You’re both laughing, half-curled toward each other now—and that’s when the mood shifts. Quietly, naturally. Like gravity finally pulls you in.
The laughter fades. The air thickens.
Dean glances down at your mouth—just once—and it’s over.
It’s not rushed this time. There’s a kind of reverence in it now. Hands that linger, eyes that don’t shy away. You both still pretend it’s just physical, but your fingertips trace his jaw like you’re memorizing something you don’t want to forget.
Dean kisses your shoulder after, quieter than usual.
You lie there, legs tangled under the sheets, the movie still murmuring from the living room. You could talk. You could say something like “stay” or “this feels different”—but neither of you do.
Instead, he says, “Next time, I’m bringing pie.”
You smile into his skin. “Only if it’s cherry.”
“Deal.”
[FRIDAY NIGHT – YOUR APARTMENT]
It starts like it always does: a knock at the door.
You open it and Dean’s already smirking. A duffel slung over his shoulder.
“I brought clothes this time,” he says, stepping inside. “Figured I might crash after. No sense in driving back late.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Right. Just a practical decision.”
Dean tosses the bag by the couch, ignoring the obvious, then waves the takeout bag. “Also brought Thai. You said something about being sick of pizza.”
“Are you… listening to me now?” you tease.
He shrugs, smug. “Don’t get used to it.”
The day starts late. Neither of you really slept in (you technically did other things in the early hours), but you laze around anyway. Dean's standing in your kitchen in nothing but sweatpants and a black tee, flipping pancakes like he’s done it here a hundred times.
You sip coffee on the counter, grinning. “I didn’t even know you made pancakes.”
Dean glances over his shoulder. “I’m a man of hidden talents.”
“I’ve seen some of those”
He smirks. “Bet you have.”
“Careful,” you murmur into your cup. “You keep this up, I might start expecting breakfast every time.”
He smirked back. “Who says this is for you? I’m hungry.”
You rolled your eyes but sat down anyway, pretending not to notice he’d made your coffee exactly the way you like it.
By Saturday afternoon it rains. Of course it does. So you both agree—without really agreeing—to stay in.
Dean helps you fold laundry like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He groans over how small your socks are. You laugh at the way he folds his shirts military-style even here.
You end up on the couch under a blanket, sharing a bowl of popcorn while binge-watching some ridiculous true crime docuseries neither of you take seriously. But somehow, halfway through episode four, you realize your legs are on his lap and he’s tracing lazy circles on your knee like it’s normal.
Like you’re not both pretending this isn’t real.
By the time the sun starts to set on Sunday, Dean’s still here.
You’ve both cooked once, ordered twice, made out everywhere from the hallway to the kitchen, and argued over whether Led Zeppelin could beat Fleetwood Mac in a musical cage match. (He says yes. You say Stevie Nicks would win just by vibe alone.)
He’s sitting on your bed, tying his boots now.
Neither of you says what you’re thinking: I don’t want you to leave.
Instead, he says, “Same time next week?”
You nod, leaning on the doorframe, trying not to look too soft. “Yeah. Sure. If we’re both free.”
He smirks. “We always are.”
You walk him to the door, and just before he leaves, he hesitates. For a second. Like he’s about to say something different.
But then he just kisses your cheek—too gently for casual—and walks out.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | you both should've known reality would come knocking sooner or later...
chapter wc | 1.9k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, age gap (dean's 36), mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, flirting, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, sam being a good brother, claire being a good sister
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
send me an ask or leave a comment in case you wanna be tagged on the following parts
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[BUNKER – WAR ROOM – EVENING]
Dean’s tossing a duffel bag on the table. Freshly showered, hair still damp, the scent of motel soap faint in the air. Sam’s already there—laptop open, notes scattered. He doesn’t even look up.
“So how was the ‘hunt’ in Iowa?”
Dean shrugs, starts unpacking his gear. “Handled. Couple of restless spirits tied to a Civil War memorial. Real low-key.”
Sam hums. “That the same kind of low-key as the one in Nebraska last week? Or the ‘salt-and-burn emergency’ in South Dakota the week before that?”
Dean pauses, only for a split second. “What’s your point?”
Sam finally looks up, arms crossed. “My point is you’ve been taking a lot of solo hunts lately. More than usual. And when you do take them, you barely leave a trail. You don’t answer texts. You vanish for 48 hours. You don’t even ask if I want in.”
Dean picks up his flask, swigs it, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not vanishing. I’m just keeping things clean and simple. Some jobs don’t need two of us.”
Sam raises a brow. “You mean some jobs don’t need me, or some jobs come with… company?”
Dean gives him a flat look. “You accusing me of something, Sammy?”
“I’m asking,” Sam replies calmly. “Are you seeing someone?”
Dean scoffs. “Jesus. No.”
Sam tilts his head. “Because if you were, you could just say it. I’m not gonna judge. I’d actually be glad you were letting someone in again.”
Dean stiffens. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
A beat.
“But…” Sam narrows his eyes slightly, reading Dean’s face like a book. “There is someone.”
Dean looks away. Just for a second.
Sam leans forward, voice lower. “Dean. C’mon.”
Dean finally sighs and slumps into the chair across from him. “It’s not like that. It’s… casual.”
Sam waits.
Dean keeps talking, like he has to convince himself now. “We hook up when we’re in the same place, blow off some steam. That’s it. No strings. No complicated crap.”
“You mean the same person, every time?”
Dean glares at the table. “…Yeah.”
“And how long’s this been going on?”
Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Few weeks.”
Sam’s quiet, watching his brother squirm.
“And you’re not seeing her, huh?” he asks, pointedly.
Dean looks up, eyes tired. “I can’t. She’s… not just anyone. It’s complicated.”
Sam softens. “Because of who she is… or because of how you feel?”
Dean hesitates. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not going anywhere. We agreed.”
Sam leans back, sighs. “Okay. I won’t push. But if it was going somewhere… would you want it to?”
Dean doesn’t answer.
And that silence says everything.
[JODY’S HOUSE – EVENING – SIOUX FALLS, SD]
Dean parks the Impala next to Sam’s rental and groans when he sees more cars in the driveway.
“I thought it was just dinner,” he mutters.
“Dinner at Jody’s,” Sam replies, slamming the car door. “You really thought she wouldn’t invite half the apocalypse-survivor girls she’s basically adopted?”
Dean grumbles something under his breath and straightens his jacket. His eyes flick to the porch light, the warm glow from the windows—and somewhere deep down, a flicker of dread sets in.
He’s not sure if it’s hope or fear that you might be inside.
Spoiler alert: it's both.
They climb the porch steps, and Jody greets them with her trademark warm hug and a “Get in here, boys!” The smell of roasted chicken and garlic bread spills from the kitchen.
Dean’s halfway through taking off his jacket when his eyes land on the dining table. Donna’s already there, laughing with Alex. Claire’s leaning back in her chair, scrolling her phone. And then—
You.
You’re standing by the kitchen doorway, hair loose, sleeves rolled to your elbows, holding a glass of wine like you belong here.
Dean’s throat goes dry. He swallows and forces his gaze past you to the roast on the counter.
Sam, oblivious, grins at you. “Hey! How’ve you been?.”
The table is crowded. Laughter, clinking glasses, the scent of roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes in the air. Donna’s telling a story about a cursed ice cream truck in Fargo. Claire rolls her eyes dramatically while stealing a biscuit from Alex’s plate. Jody beams at everyone like a proud mother hen.
Then there’s you—sitting across the table from Dean.
You’ve got that same smirk you wore the last time he saw you, only now you’re dressed in something casual and soft and dangerous. Not because of the neckline—though, hell—but because you look so damn comfortable here.
Dean? Not so much.
He barely speaks. Sips his beer. Answers when spoken to, throws a sarcastic quip now and then. But his eyes? They keep darting up—quick glances he thinks are subtle.
Only Claire catches them. She doesn’t say a word… yet.
And then it happens.
“So,” Jody says, pointing her fork toward you, “you remember that case in Six Falls, Dean? The one where I was gonna go help you out, but something came up?”
Dean freezes mid-chew. “Uh… yeah?”
“Well,” Jody continues, totally oblivious, “I sent her instead. Thought it’d be good for you two to team up.” She beams at you. “And from what I heard, you held your own.”
Sam’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes bounce from Jody, to you, to Dean—who suddenly looks very interested in his mashed potatoes.
“Huh,” Sam says slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That was a few months ago, right?”
“Yeah,” you say evenly, meeting Sam’s gaze. “Worked out fine.”
Dean keeps his eyes locked on his plate, jaw tight. “Yup. Fine.”
Claire leans toward you with a tiny grin. “So that’s why you wore eyeliner to exorcise a demon.”
You kick her under the table.
Jody smiles proudly. “She held her own. You two were gone for a while on that case, huh?”
Dean mutters, “Yeah. Took longer than we thought.”
Sam watches him. Doesn’t blink. “Huh.”
Donna, oblivious, raises her glass. “To old friends and new hunters!”
Everyone cheers. Dean downs his whiskey like it’s water.
And still—still—he doesn’t look at you.
He can’t.
Because if he does, everyone will see it. How his shoulders tense just hearing your laugh. How he grips his glass a little tighter when you run your fingers through your hair. How much he wants to look. How badly he remembers the way you looked the last time you were in a room alone together.
You? You don’t make it easier. You don’t act on it, but your eyes flick to him more than once. Catching his glance. Letting it linger. And every time, he looks away too fast.
Claire watches both of you like she’s front row at a soap opera.
The dinner’s winding down. Dishes are clinking in the kitchen, Donna’s laughing from the living room with Sam, and Jody’s making tea for anyone still awake. You slip away, trying to find your coat in the quiet of the hallway.
And that’s when you hear it—boots behind you.
You don’t even turn around before saying, “I swear to God, if you make a joke, I will hex your shampoo.”
Claire smirks as she leans against the doorframe. “You mean hex it again? Took me two weeks to fix the straw hair situation.”
You give her a sideways glance. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m already started,” she says, arms crossed. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
You roll your eyes. “He didn’t even look at me.”
“Exactly.” Claire’s eyebrows go up. “He tried so hard not to look at you, it was practically a red neon sign saying, ‘I’ve definitely seen her naked.’”
You sputter. “Claire—”
“Oh, please,” she says, stepping into your space with that smug older-sister energy. “You think I forgot how you mooned over him at seventeen? You were so obvious. Every time he walked into the room you sat up straighter, suddenly had something super important to read. Once, you literally dropped your spoon just so he'd hand it back.”
You groan, covering your face. “Why do you remember this stuff?”
“Because I was rooting for you,” she grins. “And now look at you—grown-up, badass, exorcising demons and… sneaking around motels with Captain Leather Jacket.”
“It’s not like that,” you mutter.
Claire just blinks at you. “Seriously?”
You sigh. “It’s… complicated.”
“Translation: You’re both in denial and probably already planning your next fake hunt just to share a bed again.”
You cross your arms. “We agreed it’s casual.”
Claire scoffs. “Yeah, and I agreed I was totally over Kaia. We all tell ourselves stupid things.”
You glance down the hallway, toward the noise and warmth of the kitchen.
Claire’s voice softens. “Look. I don’t care if you’re hooking up with a guy ten years older who wears flannel like it’s a religion. But Dean’s… not exactly easy to get close to. And you? You got under his skin.”
You meet her eyes. “He’d never admit it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
She starts walking off, but then pauses at the stairs, looking back over her shoulder.
“Oh—and hey?”
“Yeah?”
Claire smirks. “If you ever need a cover story for another motel night, let me know. I’m great at lying to Jody.”
And with that, she disappears down the steps.
Sam waits until they’re back on the road, the warm lights of Jody’s house long behind them. He’s in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching Dean with that quiet, calculating expression that always meant trouble.
Dean’s driving with his usual casual focus, eyes fixed ahead, music low. He thought—hoped—that the evening was over without incident. He doesn’t even glance at Sam, but the weight of his brother’s silence is heavy.
Finally, Sam breaks the silence.
“So… you gonna tell me, or am I supposed to guess?”
Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens. “Tell you what?” he asks, feigning ignorance, his voice just a shade too light.
Sam tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “About her.”
Dean doesn’t flinch, but he feels it. The hit landed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam gives a dry little laugh. “Come on, Dean. Jody says she sent you on a hunt together, months back. Since then, you’ve been taking more ‘solo hunts’ than you ever have in your life, and suddenly you have a ‘casual hook up’. Oh, and tonight? You couldn’t look at her without your ears turning red.”
Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re imagining things. We’ve just worked a couple of jobs together. End of story.”
“Right.” Sam’s voice is skeptical, slow. “And I’m guessing those jobs were in motels with one bed?”
Dean shoots him a look, finally breaking eye contact with the road for a second. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but… no. Two beds. Every time.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam leans back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But you’ve been seeing her outside hunts now, haven’t you?”
Dean’s jaw works as he stares ahead. “Sam. Drop it.”
Sam doesn’t. “So it’s casual, then? Just… hooking up?”
Dean stays quiet, but his silence is answer enough.
Sam sighs, turning his gaze to the window. “You’re an idiot if you think you can keep something like this casual.”
Dean’s knuckles whiten around the wheel. “I know what I’m doing.”
Sam looks back at him, voice calm but certain. “No, you don’t. Not with her.”
Dean doesn’t respond, just reaches over and cranks up the volume on the radio, trying to drown out his brother’s words… and the truth sitting in the pit of his stomach.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | after another chance encounter, what you and dean thought was a one time thing becomes more of a pattern: no hunts, no disguise, just agreed motel locations and denied feelings.
chapter wc | 1.8k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, MATURE SEXUAL CONTENT, age gap (dean's 36), regular supernatural violence, mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, flirting, alcohol consumption
a/n | here goes the second chapter, hope you like it <3
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
if you wanna be tagged on the following parts you can send me an ask or leave a comment
also on ao3 - series masterlist
[DINER PARKING LOT – LATE AFTERNOON – NEBRASKA]
You recognize the rumble of the Impala before you even look up from your map.
Dean steps out of the car like he’s walking out of a slow-motion movie. Same worn leather jacket, same cocky smirk—and yet, his eyes hesitate for half a second when they land on you.
“Didn’t think they’d send you again,” he says, approaching.
“Didn’t think you’d still be working cases that end in ritual decapitations,” you shoot back, lifting a brow.
He chuckles. “Old habits.”
You nod toward the abandoned church two blocks down. “Corpse count’s at three. Looks like a demonic possession tied to the land.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, but his eyes flick to you again—quick and unreadable. “You look good.”
“So do you,” you reply, far too easily.
Neither of you mentions the motel room in South Dakota. Or the whiskey. Or how his fingers had memorized the shape of your hips like he was meant to know you.
This is just work now.
Right?
The case was straightforward enough — demonic possession tied to the land, lashing out at anyone who trespassed. You worked side by side without missing a beat, the rhythm almost natural now: you handled the holy water, he worked the exorcism.
But the tension? That hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, the weeks apart had sharpened it. Every brush of his arm against yours, every glance held a fraction too long, only fed it.
Now the hunt’s done. You’re both sweaty, tired, a little bloodied, and somehow wired despite the exhaustion. You’re at the motel room patching a shallow graze on Dean’s arm when you realize how close you’re standing.
He looks at you.
You look at him.
Too long.
Too knowing.
And then, like a switch flips—
“I mean,” you murmur, voice low, “it’s not like this means anything.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “Right. Just stress relief.”
Your lips are on his a second later.
It’s rougher this time. More frantic. Not because you’re angry, but because you both know better—and do it anyway.
Clothes are half-off before you even hit the mattress. This isn’t slow or romantic; this is tension bursting at the seams. Fingernails digging into shoulders. Mouths tracing familiar paths. Gasps that sound like memories.
You’d swear he tries to go slow once—hands on your waist, lips brushing your throat like he’s holding back—but you don’t let him.
Because if he slows down, it might feel like more.
And neither of you are ready to admit it already is.
After, the silence hangs heavy. Not awkward. Just loaded.
Dean lights the lamp, stretches a bit, then nods toward the whiskey bottle on the nightstand.
“I’ll pour.”
You pull the sheet around you and lean against the headboard. “We should really stop doing this.”
He hands you a glass. “Yeah.”
You drink.
And stay the night anyway.
[THREE WEEKS LATER – EARLY EVENING – DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA]
The door swings open with a soft click. You’re already there—sitting on the bed, beer half-empty on the nightstand, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Dean steps in, closes the door behind him.
No hunt bags. No salt rounds. No dead bodies waiting to be burned.
Just him. And you.
He drops his jacket on the chair, kicks off his boots.
You both look at each other. There’s no need to ask why you’re here.
You’d agreed on the motel two days ago over text:
Dean:
Passing through Deadwood tomorrow. Cheap motel off 22. You in?
You:
Room 7. Already booked. Whiskey’s on the dresser.
No emojis. No coy banter. But the moment the messages were sent, you both felt it—the pull.
Dean walks over and grabs the bottle of whiskey. “You start without me?”
“Had to make sure it wasn’t poisoned.”
He snorts and takes a swig straight from the bottle before passing it to you. “Appreciate you looking out.”
You drink too, then set it down.
There’s no long pause this time. No awkward “how’ve you been?” or fake small talk.
You both know the dance now. It's not desperate, but it's definitely deliberate.
Dean steps closer, tugging at your belt loop until you're standing, facing him. His voice is low, rough. “You sure?”
“Always.”
You kiss him before he finishes exhaling.
It’s slower this time. Not tender—not yet—but less frantic. Like you’re both starting to savor it more than either of you want to admit. Like you know this isn’t the last time, and maybe… you don’t want it to be.
There’s laughter between kisses now. A shared joke about your aim on the last hunt. Dean whispering something about how you always hog the covers, even when you’re only under them for five minutes.
After, he lies beside you, one arm behind his head, the other grazing your bare back like it’s casual. You rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually, Dean says, almost like a reflex, “Still just blowin’ off steam, right?”
You grin—though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... convenience.”
He nods, not looking at you. “Right. No strings.”
You settle back against him, ignoring how steady his heartbeat is beneath your cheek.
But you both know it:
There are strings.
They’re just too tangled up in old fears and unspoken things to pull on yet.
[A WEEK LATER – EARLY EVENING – NEBRASKA]
You both arrive within minutes of each other.
This time, he picked the motel halfway between two ghost towns—quiet, empty stretch of road, the kind Dean usually preferred for laying low. The sign buzzes overhead, one of the letters half-burned out. The room’s no better. A floral bedspread that had seen better decades, and a tiny TV bolted to the wall playing some grainy action flick on mute.
Dean walks in holding two burgers and a bag of curly fries. No whiskey this time—just beer. Cold ones, at least.
“You looked like you needed to eat something that wasn’t cursed or fried in ghost oil,” he says, tossing the bag on the table.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, still in your jeans and tank top. “Look at you. Feeding me like I’m a stray cat you keep finding behind a diner.”
He gives you a grin. “You keep showing up, don’t you?”
You roll your eyes but crack a smile. “Can’t resist the food and mediocre company.”
He pops open a beer, takes a long drink, and passes the second one to you. You clink bottles, clumsy and without ceremony.
And then you eat. Quietly, comfortably. Too comfortably.
Dean kicks his boots off. You peel your socks halfway. Neither of you makes a move.
Until you both do.
The food is forgotten. Dean leans over, brushing a napkin from your knee, his hand lingering a beat too long. Your eyes meet his. There’s no witty line this time. Just the mutual, almost reluctant draw of two people too used to resisting things, and too damn tired to fight tonight.
“Still just stress relief?” you ask as he hovered close.
Dean gives a crooked, self-deprecating smile. “What else would it be?”
That’s enough.
The kiss starts unhurried, deep, like you both needed to map each other again before anything else. His mouth lingers on yours, then trails to your jaw, your neck, each press of lips a silent claim you’d never admit out loud.
Clothes don’t drop in a frenzy this time; they slip away piece by piece, in between kisses, in between the quiet hum of your breath and the way his eyes stay on you when his shirt hits the floor.
By the time you reach the bed, his palm is cradling the back of your neck, guiding you down as if you might vanish if he let go. Every movement is slow, intentional — not less intense, but richer, each touch saying I know you. I want you.
When it’s over, neither of you move right away. You’re still half on top of him, his hand splayed warm against your lower back. His breathing is steady, but he doesn’t let go until you shift to slide off him.
“Should really stop doing this,” he murmures, though it sounds almost like a question.
You close your eyes. “You first.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. Just lays there. Still. Too still.
[A WEEK LATER – EVENING – IOWA]
This time, it was your idea.
No hunt. No leads. You just texted:
Passing through Iowa. You in the area?
Dean:
I can be.
That was it.
The motel room is a little nicer—barely. Clean, at least. You’re already there, barefoot in one of his old flannels you'd swiped on impulse after that second night, the sleeves too long on you but comfortable as hell. You hadn’t returned it. He hadn’t asked.
When Dean walks in, he pauses in the doorway. Not in shock—just in that "This again?” way. His eyes trail down the shirt you were wearing, then flick to your bare legs.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You do that on purpose?”
You lean against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed. “What, wear your shirt or give you a reason to cancel your plans?”
Dean shuts the door behind him. “I didn’t have any plans.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
He walks toward you, slow. Measured. But his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“Figured this would be more fun than cleaning out the trunk and drinking alone.”
He stops inches away from you. Close enough that you can smell soap, leather, and the faintest trace of motor oil. You tilt your head, teasing:
“So I’m the fun now?”
Dean’s voice drops, rough with honesty: “You’ve always been the fun.”
That one hits somewhere deeper than either of you intended. You both freeze for half a second.
Then, like you’d silently agreed—no digging, no meaning—Dean kisses you again, slow, not hurried like it should be. His hands slide around your waist like they already know the path, and yours tangle in his shirt, pulling him in, wordless and warm.
You don’t rush.
This time, it is even slower — almost torturous — as if both of you were testing how long you could draw it out before giving in completely. His mouth moves over your skin like he’s memorizing you, and your hands trace the line of his shoulders, down his spine, each pass lingering.
Every sigh, every shift, every way you fit together say things you’re still too stubborn to voice. And when it’s over, you stay tangled in the sheets far longer than either of you needed to.
It is still just sex.
That’s what you tell yourselves.
Even when it feels too close to something else.
As you lay in bed, Dean’s hand absently traces circles on your back. Neither of you mention it. You never do.
But as you doze off beside him, too tired to fake casual distance, you hear him murmur into the pillow:
“Hope you don’t get bored of this.”
You don’t answer.
You don’t want to lie.
series taglist: @spnaquakindgdom @suckitands33 @nchye @bad-wolf1991 @vsploganxx
You guys know how when you stay up all night reading fanfics and imagining having a soft romance while you fall asleep, pretending you're falling asleep with your favorite character and then the next morning you wake up and feel super lonely and empty.
pairing | dean winchester x hunter!therapist!reader
chapter summary | dean calls jody for back up on a hunt but she sends you instead. you haven't seen dean since you were eighteen and about to go to college. now that you're twenty-five and more grown up, the tension between you is undeniable, what makes you realize one thing: dean doesn't see you as a kid anymore.
chapter wc | 2k
chapter warnings | (18+) MDNI, MATURE SEXUAL CONTENT, age gap (dean's 36), regular supernatural violence, mutual pinning, casual hook-ups, unspoken feelings, flirting, alcohol consumption
a/n | well, here goes the first chapter. i hope you like it <3
likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated 🩷
if you wanna be tagged on the following parts send me an ask or just leave a comment
read on AO3 - series masterlist
[SIOUX FALLS MOTEL – SOUTH DAKOTA – EARLY EVENING]
Dean Winchester stands leaning against the hood of the Impala, arms crossed, scanning the street for any sign of Jody Mills. He’d called her for backup, but apparently she’s sending “someone else” — her words, not his. He isn’t exactly thrilled about mystery partners.
The rumble of an old pickup truck pulling into the parking lot catches his attention. The door creaks open and a figure steps out — tall boots, fitted jeans, leather jacket, and a confident stride. It takes him all of two seconds to realize you aren’t some random hunter.
Older now. Taller. Confident shoulders and sharper eyes. Still that same determined look from when you used to shadow Jody during local hunts, trailing just close enough to soak it all in but never speak unless spoken to. But now… this wasn’t the same kid.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up.
You slow your pace, eyebrow raised. “Expecting someone else?”
Dean blinks, and that cocky half-smile forms slowly. “Well, I thought Jody’d show up herself, or maybe send Donna. Didn’t think she’d send...”
His voice trails off as he takes you in fully. Not the teen he last saw covered in werewolf blood and trying to look brave under pressure—but the woman standing in front of him now. Confident. Capable. Calm.
He clears his throat, aiming for nonchalance. “Didn’t think she’d send you.”
You smirk. “Gee, thanks.”
“No—I mean,” he shifts, running a hand through his hair, “not like that. It’s just... damn, you grew up.”
You give him a flat look, amused. “Yeah. That happens. Seven years’ll do that.”
Dean chuckles, almost sheepish. “Guess I missed the memo. Last time I saw you, you were fighting with a machete half your size.”
“And you said, ‘Kid, next time stay in the truck.’”
“That sounds like me.”
He looks at you again—really looks this time. The way you hold yourself, the calm behind your eyes. Something shifts in his expression, something quick but unmistakable. “You, uh… been hunting long? On your own?”
You shrugged. “Not full time. I went to college, actually. Got my psych degree last year.”
Dean blinked again. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I juggle both. Therapy sessions during the week, salt and burns on the weekends. Helps keep me sane.”
He let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised in clear admiration. “Damn. Smart and deadly. Jody raised a badass.”
“Guess she did.” You smirked, a spark lighting in your eyes. “So,” you say, swinging the duffel off your shoulder. “Where’s the corpse?”
Dean opens the Impala’s trunk, still trying to find his balance. “Two bodies. Possible revenant. Weird EMF, no grave dirt. Figured you might want to check the crime scene before we torch anything.”
You take a salt-loaded shotgun from the trunk, like muscle memory. “I came to work, Dean. Not to impress you.”
He pauses, looking at you sideways. “Too late for that.”
You blink, caught just for a second—but you recover fast.
“Jody know you’re flirting with her kid?”
Dean steps back, mock-offended. “What? I’m not—flirting. I’m being polite.”
You shoulder the shotgun and walk past him, smirking over your shoulder. “Try harder. I’ve seen you polite.”
He watches you go, eyes narrowing, jaw ticking just slightly. Then:
“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, grabbing his own gear. “Jody’s gonna kill me.”
The farmhouse smells like mildew and regret. Peeling wallpaper, rotting floorboards, and a flickering flashlight in your hand paint a picture straight out of a hunter’s handbook.
Dean creeps beside you, EMF reader in hand. It clicks and whines softly.
“You take left. I’ll check upstairs,” he says in that low, commanding tone.
You stop and arch an eyebrow. “Why do you get the haunted attic?”
“Because I’m older, wiser, and better-looking.”
You smirk, cocking the shotgun. “Debatable on all three.”
Dean gives you a crooked grin despite himself. “You always this sassy on a case?”
“Only when I’m working with someone who still thinks I’m sixteen.”
He opens his mouth to respond but freezes when the EMF squeals. He lowers his voice, instantly alert. “Something’s here.”
You nod and move forward, steps slow, eyes scanning.
“Cold spot just hit me,” you whisper, breath fogging.
Dean angles toward the doorway, gun ready. “You see anything?”
You sweep your light across the hallway—then a blur flickers past, dragging cold air with it.
“Contact—second floor,” you hiss, spinning on your heel.
You both take the stairs fast and quiet, like you’ve done this a hundred times. You push open the door at the end of the hall, revealing a child’s bedroom, eerily preserved.
Dean glances around. “This kid died in 1983. You really think it’s a revenant?”
“I think it’s something wearing the memory of a kid,” you murmur, spotting a drawing on the wall: a stick figure holding hands with a dark, shadowy figure beside it.
Dean steps closer to inspect it. “Creepy art always means something. You see the basement on the way in?”
You nod. “Locked from the outside.”
He looks at you. “Which means someone wanted to keep something in.”
You both share a glance—then move together, smooth, practiced.
The moment the lock clicks and the heavy wooden door creaks open, a wave of energy hits you both. You instinctively raise your salt-loaded shotgun. Dean already has his pistol out.
A figure forms in the corner—a little boy’s shape, twitching, glitching like a broken tape.
You hold up a small locket you found upstairs. “Name’s Eli. Your mom left this behind.”
The ghost-child wails, face morphing into something ancient and rage-filled. Dean moves in front of you, reflexive. You nudge his arm aside.
“I’ve got this,” you say, stepping forward with calm confidence.
You kneel, place the locket down, and light a match. The ghost screams again as flames eat through the memory. It flickers violently—then vanishes with a flash of light and wind.
Silence falls.
You exhale. “Residual trauma manifesting as an echo. He was trapped here long before death.”
Dean stares at you like you just spoke Latin. “Okay, professor.”
You shoot him a look. “I went to psych school. I can talk like a normal person. I just choose not to around you.”
He laughs under his breath and claps a hand on your shoulder. “You were good back then. You’re scary good now.”
You allow a small smile. “Told you I didn’t come to impress you.”
He looks at you again—longer this time.
“Yeah, but you kinda did anyway.”
The case is wrapped. Salted and burned. Another soul at rest. But neither of you really wanted to go home right away.
Dean had tilted his head toward the motel and said, “Got a couple beers. Bottle of whiskey. You earned it.”
You’d raised an eyebrow. “You buying?”
He’d grinned. “Don’t push it.”
Now you're both here—lamplight low, a breeze filtering through the half-cracked window. The room is rustic in a way only small-town motels can be: wood panel walls, dated quilt, squeaky bedframe. Dean tosses you a beer from the mini fridge and opens the bottle of whiskey for himself.
You clink your bottle to his glass. “To the ghost kid.”
Dean smirks. “To not getting strangled in a basement tonight.”
You both drink.
There’s a moment of easy silence, the kind that only happens between two people who’ve bled beside each other. But it doesn’t stay easy for long.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed, and you take the armchair across from him. His eyes flicker over to you a few times—subtle, but not subtle enough.
“What?” you ask, catching him mid-glance.
He shakes his head, almost shy. “Just still kinda weird seeing you all grown up. In my head, you're still that kid with the messy braid and combat boots too big for her feet.”
You grin into your beer. “Yeah, well, I’m full-grown now. Braid’s tighter. Boots fit.”
His smile lingers, but there's something else there—hesitation.
You lean forward slightly, elbows on your knees. “You know,” you say casually, “back when I was sixteen? I had the biggest crush on you.”
Dean chokes slightly on his whiskey. “You—what?”
You laugh. “Yeah. Like major. Thought you were the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Total hero complex.”
He clears his throat, looking suddenly too big for his skin. “Jeez, I—I had no idea.”
“Of course not,” you tease. “You didn’t look at me twice.”
He rubs the back of his neck, trying to stay cool. “That’s 'cause you were a kid, and I’m not an idiot.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Still not an idiot?”
Dean exhales hard. “You should be looking at guys your own age. College boys or whatever. Not old guys like me who carry more baggage than bullets.”
You tilt your head, a sly smile forming. “Thing is... guys my age? They’re not that good in bed.”
Dean freezes.
You stand, slowly walking toward the mini fridge like it’s nothing. “No stamina. No rhythm. Always trying to prove something.”
Dean watches every step like you’re a lit fuse.
You grab the whiskey bottle, pour yourself a splash, then turn to him—eyes level, voice low.
“Older men?” You sip. “They know what they’re doing. Usually.”
His jaw ticks. “Usually, huh?”
You take another sip. “Depends on the man.”
Dean stands now too, slow and deliberate, whiskey still in hand. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. His voice drops.
“You trying to find out if I’m one of those?”
You meet his gaze. “Wouldn’t be the first time I learned something from you.”
The space between you crackles, drawn tight like a bowstring—past the teasing, past the age gap, past the respect-for-Jody walls Dean’s been hiding behind.
And then the tension breaks like a dam snapping.
Dean sets his drink down with finality. “Screw it.”
His hands are on your waist in a heartbeat, and you’re pulling him down by the collar of his flannel before the words even finish leaving his mouth.
The second your lips crash together, it’s like muscle memory—but not the kind either of you were expecting. It’s like you’ve done this before in some other lifetime, and now you’re just catching up.
Dean’s hands are warm, confident—resting on your waist for one split second before they slide around your back, pulling you flush against him. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He tastes like whiskey and salt and something heady you’ve craved longer than you want to admit.
When he pulls back, just barely, he’s breathless. His forehead leans against yours.
“You sure?” he rasps, voice wrecked already.
You nod, chest rising. “I’ve been sure since I was sixteen.”
That makes him groan, but not from guilt. From restraint. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Then his mouth is on yours again, deeper this time—like he’s claiming something, but not possessive. Like he’s finally letting himself want.
The rest of the night blurs in heat and laughter. He does know what he’s doing. Every kiss, every touch, every motion is measured—experienced—but not detached. He’s not just trying to impress you, he’s listening to you. Responding. Learning you in real time, like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s ever had in his hands.
He doesn’t talk much, not with words. But the way he looks at you—like he can’t quite believe you’re real and here and his, at least for one night—says more than a whole damn speech.
And in between all the tension and teasing and barely-contained hunger, he surprises you.
He slows down sometimes. Holds your hand. Tucks your hair behind your ear. Presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s instinct.
Because sure, he’s good in bed. But he’s even better when he cares.
And tonight? He cares.
You wake tangled together, your head on his chest, his arm heavy around your waist. The whiskey bottle is still half-full on the nightstand. His flannel’s draped over your bare thigh.
Dean stirs, grumbles something sleepy, and pulls you closer.
“M’sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
“For what?” you whisper, not moving.
“For not kissing you sooner.”
Your heart skips.
You nuzzle into him, a grin tugging at your lips. “Told you older men were better.”
He chuckles—low, satisfied. “Told you I’m not that old.”
You rest there in silence, warm and safe. And just for a moment, the world outside can wait.
series taglist: @spnaquakindgdom @suckitands33 @nchye
Summary: you’ve gone through life living vicariously through the characters in the novels you so regularly read. But when a rambunctious curly-haired dungeon master decides to insert himself in your day, maybe you’re forced to tare your eyes from the page.
Category: Eddie Munson X Fem!reader
Warnings: very very mild sexual references. Swearing. Kinda angst but not really. Just intensely fluffy tbh. Minors dni.
You romanticised everything. Whether it was walking home with the rain pouring down and pretending you were in some crappy rom-com or listening to music while you sat in the library, everything had to be romanticised. Your theory as to why was quite simple, romance had never come easy to you. Nobody had ever asked you out, nobody had ever as much as flirted with you before. Your love life was, and had always been stagnant.
So, when a rambunctious metalhead was leaning against your locker, twiddling his hair between his long lean fingers like a schoolgirl in love, you stopped in your tracks. Maybe he was high and thought your locker was his? That made the most sense logically.
With hesitant steps, you simply walked to him, eyes already wide at this bizarre scenario. Slipping off your headphones and clearing your throat, the boy in question jumped in his spot before chocolate brown eyes were staring at you. He had those classic glowing doe eyes that could be mistaken for street lamps in certain lighting. Eddie Munson was just so pretty. Prettier than you had ever realised. The more you stared wordlessly the more you began to romanticise this meet-cute. That was until he finally spoke, and you were reminded that romance movies were not real life (and usually written by women).
"Can I help you?" His words were colder than you had expected. Could you help him? The nerve of this boy to question you when he was the one standing before your locker.
"Well, you're blocking my locker..." Unfortunately, the words didn't come out as strong as you had hoped, you should have limbered up your throat before speaking. Now you probably came across as some random scared girl who was afraid of the big bad freak at Hawkins High. In reality, you were scared of pretty much anybody.
The guy in question's eyes softened at your voice. He looked almost apologetic. Your heart fell into your throat at his next action. With a flourish of his arm, Eddie twirled nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, trying to make a big drama out of moving from your locker to the next. Instead of acknowledging this you simply put in the combo and grabbed what you needed, basically hiding your face in your locker out of embarrassment.
It's not that you were ashamed to be seen with Hawkins's resident king of freaks, you just didn't enjoy the attention he warranted. Since starting high school, you had done everything in your power to remain as forgettable as possible. You only had one real friend, Robin the band girl, who had the same strategy you did. Survive. Get in, get out with no trace. Then you could live your real life once running away from this shitty town.
"Ignoring me won't work..."
His voice was like a song, and you screwed your eyes shut once more. You were sort of using that child-like defence. If I can't see him he can't see me. Annoyingly he was right though, ignoring him was futile. You'd provoked him, proved that his company wasn't something you craved, and now he would do anything to hold your attention. Slamming your locker shut you turned to him, crossing your arms across you like a form of protection, a coat of arms if you will.
"What do you want Eddie?"
"Ah, nothing princess... just bored you see..."
That love-obsessed sado within sighed once again. Obviously, he didn't seek you out for any particular reason. This wasn't a romantic gesture or a sign of fondness, he was just bored. They were always just bored. You didn't stop to talk any longer, turning on your heel and walking as fast as possible down the hall. Your headphones went back on, and new order pumped around your body. Your steps grew faster with every fast beat, completely missing the body who was following behind you like it was their only mission.
Eddie had spotted you months ago, although you probably didn't remember your interaction. It was menial at best, you dropped your cassette, and he picked it up and passed it to you. That was all. Yet you didn't leave his mind. The scared animal look you had going on drew him in. Not because he thought it was entertaining but more intriguing. Why did you hide from everyone? Never present, just keeping your head low, letting the music be your distraction from everyone and everything.
For whatever reason, you hadn't left his mind over the past couple of weeks, and after many lunch times spent bumbling about you to the other hellfire members, Dustin snapped and ordered him to just go speak to you. Maybe he hadn't realised it yet, but it was pretty obvious to everybody else that he was harbouring a crush on you.
So, when the interaction started with you looking around shamefully, almost fearful of his presence in itself, his guard went up just like your own. Stupid was the only word he could think to describe himself right now. In a fit of desperation, Eddie reached for your shoulder, tapping it lightly which caused you to trip, landing on your knees.
His chocolate eyes widened and as you slipped off your headphones he could practically feel the humiliation. A few kids were laughing to themselves, pointing at the girl who had just stacked it. When you turned around your eyes were filled with fury, in all honesty, Eddie was frightened (and a tad turned on).
What annoyed Eddie even more, was that you didn't shout at him, call him out on his admittedly dumb behaviour, no, you simply walked the other way towards the school exit. The attention seeker couldn't take it.
This was exactly why you were the way you were. Those leaches that joined any bandwagon they could to make themselves feel better laughed at you. In theory, nobody would care in an hour, but you would. Your over-obsessive brain would replay the cringeworthy moment over and over until you wanted to puke. As you fell asleep that night you were betting on the fact that your heart would plummet and your toes would curl just at the memory of your embarrassing blunder.
What was worse was that damn pretty metalhead had been the cause of your humiliation. He had sauntered after you and caught you off guard, again. What pissed you off even more was you couldn't bring yourself to be mad at him. His wide terrified eyes told you all you needed to know about his intentions, and really that's all that mattered.
Coming to a stop in the middle of the woods behind campus, you stumbled across a bench that you could rest at. Screw the rest of the day, biology could miss you for just one period. Taking off your blaring headphones, you let your head rest in your palms for a moment, just taking in the sounds of the wind blowing the trees, the scurrying of squirrels and the approaching footsteps-
Wait, footsteps?
"I come in peace I promise..."
Eddie freaking Munson.
Raising your head to look up at the voice, you couldn't help but frown. Was he here to mock you? Were your presumptions wrong about his guilty expression?
"Can't you just leave me alone? Can't you bother someone else with your boredom?"
You rarely spat venom like that, but the built-up stress and anxiety spilt over. You regretted the minute he pulled his pink bottom lip between his teeth like a scolded schoolboy.
"I just wanted to apologise... I think we got off on the wrong foot..."
His eyes were dripping with longing. You almost felt guilty, even though you hadn't done anything wrong. And to be fair to the puppy dog-eyed dude before you, he hadn't done much wrong either, well not on purpose anyway.
"Fine... I accept your apology... can I just listen to this in peace please?" You gestured to your Walkman and instead of leaving Eddie took tempered steps even closer.
"Uh... what are you listening to?"
He looked cute when he was nervous. Did you make him nervous? I mean you were probably the most calm person from day to day, the fact that you made him nervous was quite perplexing. Finally thinking over his question you sighed and pulled out your mixtape, sliding it to him. All of the songs were listed on the side and as Eddie wrapped his long ringed fingers around it, you had to force yourself not the choke on the air. Get it together.
"Woah... some real obscure shit on here... impressive..."
He seemed genuinely happy with your selection and it made your heart grow hotter, well your entire body for that matter. It's not that you sought out his approval or anything, it's just the smile that had formed on his face was something you wanted to stare at over and over.
"Thanks... uh... I might head home now..."
Just like always, the minute something felt nice or out of the ordinary, you ran. With a brief wave, you left Eddie Munson staring at the place you had just been sat.
The following week nothing much changed for either of you. Eddie had made no effort to seek you out again which was relieving but also... disappointing?
That night when you went home your embarrassment had been fought by the aching in your chest. The kind of longing you'd feel diving into a shitty romance novel you'd gotten for a dollar at the thrift store. Shamefully the difference this time was the man in your head wasn't some six-foot-seven muscled Casanova but a lanky tatted dork.
His hand caressed her inner thigh as his large brown eyes met her own and-
NOPE. No no no. You wouldn't allow yourself to turn whatever the hell that arbitrary hour was into some sick romantic fantasy just because you were lonely. Though maybe you didn't have a choice? Since every time your eyes would read the page your brain would shift the words to fit the description of the dungeon master walking towards you.
Walking towards you?
Shit.
"Hi sorry... hi... uh are you busy?" His palm collided with his forehead like he had said something obscene "Sorry of course you are you're reading... I'll leave you to it..."
The fact that the boy, before you seemed so apologetic for merely speaking with you, put your heart in a vice shaped like his ring-clad hands. It was clear he was as used to being thrown aside like you. Always conditioned to believe he was an inconvenience, too much or not enough. No matter how terrified he made you, no way could you allow yourself to make him feel that way.
"Stop... no I'm not busy... the books shit anyway..."
Pivoting on the ball of his foot, Eddie was now face to face with you. Two pairs of eyes locked in the middle of the library.
"I just wanted to say hi again... and uh I was wondering if you were busy later? They're doing a reshowing of the breakfast club tonight at the movies and well... shit I don't know if you wanted to go... with me?"
If you were to compare yourself to any creature at any point in your life, a goldfish wouldn't have come to mind straight away. Your memory was pretty swell. However, the way your mouth opened and then closed... and then opened again contradicted the fact. You were a fucking goldfish.
"If not it's totally cool... you probably already have like plans or something so no worries-"
"I love the breakfast club..."
Finally, words formed. Dumb words. Very very stupidly obvious words. But words nonetheless.
"I know..."
He knows?
"You... know?"
The nerves on his countenance began to morph into a darling shyness. The big bad Wolf of Hawkins High was certainly more a red riding hood type, his cheeks matched her hood perfectly.
"Well, I heard... well asked Buckley what kinda movies you liked and uh... she said that... I coulda guessed honestly simple minds were on your mixtape... and uh you got the whole pre-makeover Alison look going for ya which is sick by the way..."
Maybe you were both red riding hood. Your face is set alight and it was only then did the romance novels and the unrealistic tropes fly from your mind. Not only had this delightfully odd creature before you ask you out, but he'd gone to the effort to ask about you. Not just ask about you, but know you. Know you enough to ask you out to your favourite fucking movie.
Clearing your throat, and finding the courage to rise from the safe zone of the library desk chair, you let yourself warm into a grateful smile.
"Im free tonight... and I'd be happy to watch the breakfast club for the eighth time with you..."
"Only the eighth time? Well sweetheart my chariot can pick you up at seven..."
The shyness melted into that same bravado you assumed he exuded during D&D campaigns.
"Well good sir I look forward to it"
Your dorkiness matched his. And in that moment Eddie Munson decided that his favourite princess was not Leia. But you.
