𖤓 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓,
a baby blue postcard tucked inside an old paperback, with sand caught between the pages and one corner softened from being held too many times 𖤓 @iamaslytherin0
lili,
i don’t know if this postcard was ever supposed to make it to you.
that sounds ridiculous, considering i bought it with you standing right beside me in that little shop near the pier, the one with wind chimes in the doorway and a shelf full of ceramic dolphins dean called emotionally unstable. you picked up a postcard first. baby blue, with the sea drawn calmer than it ever looked in real life, and you said: “i’d buy this and never send it.”
i remember that exactly. you were just holding it between two fingers, sunlight catching on that tiny bracelet at your wrist, something small and bright because of course even your quiet things had to sparkle a little. you said it casually, as if you weren’t accidentally telling me something about yourself. that you liked keeping pieces of things. that you didn’t always need to announce what mattered. that sometimes wanting was enough, even if it stayed folded up somewhere private.
i think i bought this one because of that.
or maybe because i already knew i’d need somewhere to put all the things i wasn’t saying.
you were patient that summer in a way that made me feel seen and, honestly... kind of terrified. patient like you noticed everything and waited for people to catch up. you noticed when dean was getting restless before he did. you noticed when i was overthinking myself into a corner. you noticed when the sun started burning the back of my neck and held out the sunscreen without making a big deal about it.
“you’re doing the thing,” you told me once, squeezing some into your palm.
“what thing?”
“pretending you don’t need help because you’re tall.”
i laughed, but i still bent down so you could get the spot between my shoulders i’d missed.
that was the problem with you. you made being cared for feel practical. normal. you didn’t rush at someone with affection and make them figure out what to do with it. you handed them water because somebody needed to be responsible. you packed snacks for the drive and acted like it was nothing when dean started calling you “the only reason this car hasn’t turned into a crime scene”. you read instructions aloud when the impala coughed smoke on the side of a road so empty even the birds sounded bored, and you didn’t snap when dean insisted he knew what he was doing.
he did not know what he was doing.
you searched the problem, squinted at your phone, and said, very calmly, “okay, so it says we should not keep driving.”
dean, covered in dust and pride, said, “the internet doesn’t know baby.”
and you said, “the internet knows smoke is bad, dean.”
i still think about that. you, leaning against the open passenger door in loose summer pants and a fitted top, hair touched by the wind, one foot drawn back from the gravel because you didn’t trust anything you couldn’t see clearly. that was true at the beach too. you loved the water, loved the sound of it, the smell of salt, the slow gold of sunset over it, but you didn’t go too deep. you told me you didn’t like not knowing what was under your feet.
i wanted to say i understood.
i wanted to say i spent most of my life feeling that way.
instead, i stood where the water came up to my ankles and pretended not to watch you from the corner of my eye while you tilted your face toward the sun, trying to get a little tan without admitting you were enjoying being still. there was something about you in that town that made the whole world slow down. sleepy streets, warm stone walls, beach towels drying over motel railings, the radio fading in and out when we drove with the windows down because you said you’d rather let fate decide the music.
fate had questionable taste, by the way.
but you smiled whenever some old song came through the static, and after a while, even dean stopped caring what played.
you baked once in the motel kitchenette, which barely deserved the name. the oven ran too hot, the counter was too small, and dean kept walking through to “supervise”, which meant stealing pieces before they were done. you told him if he burned his mouth, that was between him and god. he did burn his mouth. he blamed you. you looked so pleased with yourself that i had to look away for a second.
god, the sight of you...
you were just there, reading while things cooled, legs tucked under you on a chair, sunlight sliding over your shoulders, smelling faintly of sunscreen instead of perfume because of the wasps. you’d forgotten once, on the boardwalk, and spent the entire afternoon suspicious of every flying insect within ten feet.
“that one is looking at me,” you whispered.
i looked over. “lili, that’s a fly.”
“you don’t know his intentions.”
i’m smiling while writing this. that probably ruins the whole mysterious postcard thing, but i am. you were funny in a way that snuck up on people because you were so soft-spoken about it. kind, yes. patient, yes. but stubborn too. quietly. dangerously. you could dig your heels in with a sweet little expression that made arguing with you feel unfair.
i liked that more than i should’ve.
i liked a lot of things more than i should’ve.
the county fair was when i started realizing i wasn’t hiding it as well as i thought. dean definitely knew, because he kept giving me that look over the top of his lemonade, the one that said he was going to make my life impossible later. you were holding a paper tray of fries, and the sunset had turned everything warm, even the dust around our shoes. the lights on the rides blinked on one by one. baby blue turned into gold, then pink, then that deep summer purple that makes people tell the truth by accident.
you wanted silly games and snacks, so we did silly games and snacks. you beat me at ring toss, which dean claimed was because i was “too busy making heart eyes to aim”. i told him to shut up. you pretended not to hear, but your smile gave you away.
no game, you’d said about yourself once, laughing into your water bottle.
you were wrong.
you had no strategy. that’s different. you didn’t flirt like you were trying to win something. you looked at me too long and then looked away. you remembered small things. you stood close enough that my arm brushed yours and then acted surprised by it. you made me want to be braver and more careful at the same time, which was a very inconvenient combination.
later, after dean vanished to “give you nerds some air” and absolutely not because he’d been bribed with funnel cake, we ended up near the edge of the fairgrounds where the noise softened. you had powdered sugar on your thumb. i told you, and you looked down, embarrassed, and wiped the wrong spot.
“still there,” i said.
“well, don’t just watch me suffer.”
so i reached for your hand.
i think that was the first time neither of us pretended it was accidental.
your fingers were warm. sunscreen-smooth. a little sticky from fair food. you looked at our hands, then at me, and i could tell you were waiting for reassurance before you let yourself believe what was happening. so i said your name. just that.
“lili.” it came out softer than i meant it to.
you said, “sam,” in this tiny voice, almost annoyed, like i’d made things harder by being gentle.
i wanted to kiss you then. i’d wanted to before. on the beach, in the car, outside the motel room when you handed me a water bottle and told me i looked tired. but that night felt different. less like wanting and more like finally admitting i was already in it. already gone. already picturing summers after that one, which was reckless, but there it was.
i didn’t ask if i could kiss you. maybe i should have. i just moved slowly enough for you to stop me.
you didn’t.
you leaned in first, barely, stubborn even in that, and when i kissed you, you made this small surprised sound against my mouth that i have tried very hard not to think about too often. i’ve failed. for the record.
it was sweet, a little unsure, both of us smiling too much to get it right. then your hand curled into my shirt, and the whole thing changed. not less sweet. just warmer. closer. your back touched the wooden fence behind you, and i remember thinking, very clearly, that if dean came back right then, i was going to murder him.
you pulled away first, but not far.
“surprised?” i asked, because apparently i can be an idiot under pressure.
you looked at me, eyes bright with fair lights, and said, “a little.”
then you kissed me again.
that was the start, i think. not officially. we didn’t make some big announcement. there was no dramatic speech in the motel parking lot. just your shoulder against mine in the impala, your hand finding mine between snack bags, dean turning the radio up whenever the silence got too charged because he has the emotional sensitivity of a brick.
but you stayed.
that’s what i keep coming back to.
summer usually feels temporary. towns pass by. motel keys get returned. postcards never get sent. even good things can feel borrowed when your life is built on leaving. but you made it feel possible to keep something. to let the soft part be real without waiting for it to disappear.
and somehow, when the summer ended, it didn’t take you with it.
i still have the postcard. obviously. i still remember the sunscreen, the water bottles, the way you read instructions aloud as if the right words could save us from any disaster. i remember you standing at the edge of the sea, brave enough to love it, cautious enough to respect what you couldn’t see. i remember thinking that loving you might be a little like that.
beautiful. terrifying. worth stepping into anyway.
so here it is, lili. the postcard i may never send, except i guess i am sending it now, in the only way i know how.
love, actually, is all around 🤍 @iamaslytherin0 𝓍 dean winchester
𝑭𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑨𝑺𝒀 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 .ᐣ
your trope with dean is friends to lovers with immediate attraction and mutual pining that becomes increasingly ridiculous. your aquarius venus is drawn to his aquarius sun and mars: you like the way his mind works, the independence beneath his loyalty, and the fact that he never feels entirely predictable. meanwhile, your aries moon and mars fit naturally with his sagittarius moon and venus, creating quick humour, bold chemistry, and the sense that being together is more exciting than being apart.
dean notices the physical attraction first. his leo rising responds to people with presence, and your gemini rising makes you lively, expressive, and difficult to stop watching. your blonde hair catches his attention; your confidence keeps it. you reach “i want something to happen” first because your aries mars would rather test chemistry than spend six months wondering.
dean reaches “this person genuinely matters to me” first. your capricorn sun gives him steadiness, while your direct aries moon makes emotional life around you feel refreshingly honest. he becomes protective and useful, then insists he’s merely being a good friend. apparently, good friends always know where you are and whether you’ve eaten.
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 .ᐣ
you become flirtier, but never sugary. your gemini rising and sagittarius mercury turn attraction into quick banter, so you tease dean and say things just to watch his eyebrows lift. your giveaway’s physical proximity. you sit beside him when other seats are open, lean across him to reach something, and touch his arm when you laugh.
dean becomes more attentive than openly flirtatious. his capricorn mercury chooses words carefully, but his sagittarius moon keeps seeking your reaction. he saves you the passenger seat, brings you into conversations, and remembers remarks you made weeks earlier. his giveaway is the smile that appears before you’ve finished the joke.
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬
the first real romantic moment is a teasing confession that becomes sincere. your fire placements make endless hesitation unlikely, but your capricorn sun and dean’s capricorn mercury still need the moment to mean something. it happens after another evening of him finding unnecessary reasons to remain near you.
“you know,” you say, leaning against the impala, “most people just ask when they want company.”
dean looks offended. “i needed to check the tyres.”
“for forty minutes?”
“thorough job.”
you smile. “right. nothing to do with me.”
his expression changes. “you really want me to answer that?”
your pulse jumps, but you hold his gaze. “yeah.”
dean steps between your knees. “fine. i like having you around. more than i should.”
“sounds inconvenient.”
“you have no idea.”
“maybe you should do something about it.”
his hand settles against your jaw, giving you time to move. you don’t. the first kiss is warm and almost playful, until you catch his jacket and pull him closer. then dean kisses you as though honesty’s made restraint unnecessary.
𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑰𝑵 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫
you love through loyalty, attention, and making someone part of your plans. your aquarius venus needs friendship inside romance, so you send dean things that would amuse him, ask for his opinion, and choose him as the person you want beside you. your capricorn sun makes that affection dependable: you show up, remember promises, and take his problems seriously without treating him as helpless.
dean gives love through shared time and practical care. his sagittarius moon wants drives, diner stops, and stories only the two of you understand. his capricorn mercury handles whatever needs fixing: checking your weapon, filling the tank, bringing food when you forget to eat.
the misunderstanding comes because your aries moon needs directness, while dean hopes his actions explain everything. he may think driving through the night to reach you is a complete declaration. you appreciate it, but still want words occasionally. he needs to know your independence isn’t distance. you learn to say, “i want you here.” he learns not to make you extract every feeling with emotional pliers.
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬
dean’s primary pet name for you is “trouble.” it begins because your aries moon and mars make you bold enough to challenge him, while your gemini rising always looks slightly too pleased when you have an idea. teasing, it means you’re about to complicate his day. affectionate, it means you’re the complication he’d choose every time. frightened, it becomes quieter: “hey, trouble, look at me.”
“blondie” appears when he’s trying to annoy you, especially after catching you stealing his mirror. you call him “pretty boy” whenever his vanity becomes unbearable, but “dean” said softly makes him pay attention fastest.
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡
dean’s most common casual touch is catching your hand or wrist and tugging you closer. the fire and air between your charts make affection active; even casual contact carries momentum. he pulls you into the seat beside him, draws you back when you walk past, or hooks his fingers through yours without interrupting the conversation.
when protective, his palm flattens between your shoulder blades and keeps you moving with him. when he needs reassurance, he presses his knee against yours beneath a table or rests his forehead briefly against your temple.
the unexpectedly intimate gesture is playing with your hair. he winds a blonde strand around his finger while listening, smooths it away from your mouth before kissing you, and always looks faintly caught when you notice.
dean’s clingier, although you’re more likely to admit missing him. your aquarius venus needs room to remain yourself, and your aries moon becomes restless if closeness feels compulsory. dean values freedom too, but your sagittarius pluto reaches the emotional part of him that usually keeps affection uncomplicated. with you, attachment becomes much less casual.
he follows you from the library to the kitchen, stretches out wherever you work, and becomes offended when you leave bed too early. during separate hunts, he calls with questions that don’t require phone calls. after danger, he needs physical confirmation: your hand in his, your legs across his lap, your body close enough to feel you breathe. you want chosen attention. dean wants continued presence. that’s clinginess wearing a leather jacket.
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲
your jealousy is immediate but honest. aries moon and mars don’t enjoy uncertainty, while aquarius venus refuses to treat a partner as property. when someone shows interest in dean, you watch his response. if he makes his choice clear, you’re secure. if he encourages ambiguity, you ask directly what he’s doing.
when someone openly flirts with you, dean becomes charming, competitive, and noticeably more affectionate. he joins the conversation, rests a hand at your waist, and suddenly remembers several reasons you need to leave with him.
playful jealousy can become excellent tension later. deliberately provoking it would create a genuine wound. your cancer saturn hides a fear of not being emotionally protected, while dean needs loyalty that remains steady when he’s absent. you need clear answers instead of games. he needs to feel actively sought out, not selected by default.
𝑩𝑬𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑳 𝑫𝑶𝑶𝑹
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲
the sexual attraction is immediate and playful before it becomes intense. your aquarius venus is drawn to dean’s aquarius desire, so experimentation and mental chemistry matter as much as appearance. your aries moon and mars fit his sagittarius moon and venus beautifully: both of you enjoy boldness, laughter, and a partner who responds enthusiastically.
dean notices your legs, mouth, blonde hair, and the confident way you hold eye contact when you know he’s looking. you notice his hands, shoulders, voice, and the brief loss of control when you touch him first. the tension shows through challenges, close conversations, and kisses that keep becoming harder to stop.
dean creates the first sexual opportunity by pulling you onto his lap after a kiss. you give unmistakable permission by grinding against him and telling him what you want. control moves easily between you. he enjoys taking charge, but your aries mars refuses to remain passive; you redirect his hands, set the pace, and make him work for every sound.
dean’s hand slides beneath your skirt while you straddle him on the motel bed.
“still good?” he asks, mouth against your throat.
“better when you move.”
his laugh breaks into a groan when you roll your hips. he slips two fingers inside you, watching your face until impatience wins and you tug at his belt.
when he pushes into you, you both go still. his hand tightens around your waist. “tell me.”
“deeper.”
the next thrust pulls a sharp sound from you. dean kisses it from your mouth, pace building as you move together—playful words disappearing beneath rougher breaths, your nails at his shoulders, his forehead pressed to yours whenever the intensity becomes too honest.
afterward, dean brings water and a warm washcloth. you become quiet first, needing closeness more than conversation. he talks softly, checks that you’re comfortable, then grows absurdly affectionate. you fall asleep first. he keeps one hand at the back of your neck beneath your hair.
𝑰𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑪𝑨𝑺𝑼𝑨𝑳
۫ ꣑ৎ 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 .ᐣ
dean falls first, and dean falls harder.
your aquarius venus fits the independent part of him without demanding that he become smaller, while your capricorn sun gives the relationship a stability he rarely expects to keep. your sagittarius pluto reaches his emotional nature deeply: loving you doesn’t remain one pleasant part of his life. it rearranges what safety, freedom, and the future mean to him.
he realises it during a separate hunt. he stops for coffee and orders yours automatically, then stares at the second cup beside him. the passenger seat’s empty, but every decision he’s made that day assumes you’ll be there later.
once committed, dean becomes consistent without being chased. he explains where he’s going, checks decisions against the life you share, and protects the relationship rather than only protecting you. your absence would remove the person around whom his ordinary life has quietly organised itself.
compatibility reading ༯ how does it work .ᐣ ༯ get yours !
I adore this!! Love that my trope includes mutual pining and the nickname part is probably my favorite! But it is hard to choose. Thank you so so much Olivia <33
would you still love me if I was a worm? ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 506 words
existential crisis questions make the best topics.
pointy nose ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 408 words
you love sam's nose
happier ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 2.8k words
maybe you've picked the wrong brother. sam thinks so.
best friend's brother ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 4k words
sam's crushing hard on dean's best friend aka you
outta love ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1k words
sam's falling out of love
across the room ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 9.6k words
you've seen sam around. he's seen you too. all you're both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.
page turner ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 732 words
you know sam through dean, who's your best friend. and dean... well... he can be a little overprotective. so you're still to tell him about you and sam. you will, promise. in the meantime, you'll have some fun with his brother right in front of his eyes.
no incognito ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.6k words
sam left his laptop open. you didn't mean to pry. you promise you didn't. but the things you discover are life-changing. and ego boosting.
three beers and the truth ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 2.5k words
sam got wasted and confessed his feelings for you. the problem? he has no memory of it.
evolve ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 906 words
the only thing that didn’t change about sam when he lost his soul was his appetite for you.
close enough to the man they missed ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 782
sam lost his soul. and when he gets it back, he’s changed. he wants to stay changed. but the expectations are always too damn high when it comes to his humanity.
in chronological order, but not necessarily in favorite order. this will be closest thing we'll ever get to a masterlist of all my works.
i kinda feel like an orange ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 781 words
you feel like an orange and dean will do anything for you.
on his wrist ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 589 words
dean loves your simple, worn-out, black hair tie. it's awfully handy for your extracurricular activities.
cuddled confessions ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 407 words
dean doesn't cuddle. or so he says.
miniskirt ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 900
you're rocking a miniskirt and dean goes crazy! ⌗ teen!dean
voicemail ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.6k words
you and dean broke up, he tries to call you a couple of hours after.
two winchesters walk into a bar ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 5k words
making a quick stop at harvelle's has never been more fun
harder than heaven ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 630
you fell first. he fell harder.
handled with rage ˗ˏˋ ⚡︎ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 1.5 words
you and dean are fighting and you make the mistake of slamming the impala's door.
responsible guy ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 6k words
dean is a true gentleman. a young man raised right. and boy does that do things to you!
never getting laid ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 1.1k words
you really should've thought better before getting involved with a hunter. or dean really should've thought better before crossing you. now he's forever cursed.
speed dial to trouble ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 635 words
you drunk dial dean and he drops everything to get you
little star ˗ˏˋ 𑣲 ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 425 words
girl dad dean fluff where reader walks in to him singing to his daughter
santa’s little helper, dean’s big problem ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 410 words
you have to dress up for the case; dean wants to dress you down.
let me show you how ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ drabble ⌗ 992 words
when you confess you’ve never touched yourself before, dean doesn’t laugh—he leans back against the headboard and talks you through it.
the ring thing ˗ˏˋ x ˎˊ˗ multi-parts drabble ⌗ 3.2k word
dean runs into you at a park, sees the ring, the kid, the life—and tries very hard not to want something that was never his.
in chronological order, but not necessarily in favorite order. this will be closest thing we'll ever get to a masterlist of all my works.
a/n: i'm so sorry for the extra long wait with this one, but it is finally here and is hopefully worth the wait!! i am finally done moving for the next little bit so i will be trying to get the next chapters out faster but thank you guys so much for your patience and all your love for parts 1 and 2, i hope you enjoy this chapter just as much!!
p.s. i only proofread it once because i was so eager to post it for y'all so please excuse any mistakes :))
part I part II
word count: 6.6k
synopsis: logan gives you his jersey to wear to his game, but you can't decide whether wearing it means you're his or not
~~~
The bell over the door chimed, announcing the entry of a new customer. You looked up from the book you had open in front of you to find John standing there with something blue draped over his arm. A smile matching your own immediately spread across his face when he spotted you behind the front desk.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” you asked, bookmarking your page and closing the book.
“I came to see my favourite person,” John announced, catching you off guard. “Is Lucinda around?”
“Ah, you actually just missed her, she’s on her way to her grandkids’ concert. You can probably still catch her though,” you played along.
“Damn, I guess I’ll just have to give these to you instead,” John sighed, handing over the item he was carrying. You gave him a quizzical look as you unfolded it before your jaw partially dropped upon realizing what you were holding. The name Logan and the number 22 stared at you from the back of the jersey, while the Briar name and another large 22 were sewed onto the front. You gaped at the item as John then handed you something else that was much smaller. A ticket to the Hawks game the next day with a small sticky note that said in surprisingly legible handwriting: “For my lucky charm.”
“You know you’re really risking it by calling Lucinda your lucky charm before she’s even seen you play,” you remarked.
“Well, since it’s going to you instead, hopefully whatever jinx I could get doesn’t actually happen.”
“I’m sure Lucinda would’ve been very appreciative of this gift had she been here to accept it,” you said, folding the jersey back up. “I’ll take good care of them for her.” John let out a breathy laugh, watching as you carefully set the folded jersey beneath the counter.
“How’s your day been?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.
“Pretty slow,” you shrugged. “I’ve only been here for a couple hours, but not many people have come in.”
“Want me to buy something so you make a sale?” John asked, you assumed jokingly, though it was sometimes hard to tell with him.
“Well it wouldn’t hurt if you did,” you teased. You watched as he looked to his right and grabbed a book off the closest stack and placed it on the counter, sliding it towards you. “Oh my god, no, stop, I was joking,” you interrupted his actions, covering your hand with his, a spark felt between the two of you, and pushing it back towards him.
“What do you mean? I’ve really been wanting to check out,” he paused to read the title he’d picked up, “‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting.’” You nodded along, scrunching your face as if you believed him.
“Mhm, and you’re buying it for yourself?” you asked, deciding to play along with this new bit he’d started.
“Yeah, of course,” he scoffed.
“So you’re pregnant?”
“Not me, necessarily, but…yeah.”
“And does the other parent of the child you’re expecting know that you’ve been out here giving jerseys with your name and number on them to other women?” John’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, grasping for words.
“Way to ruin the fun, implying that I’m a cheater or something,” John quit causing you to laugh as you placed the book back where it had come from.
“Well, are you?” you asked earnestly, meeting his eyes again. You noted how he hesitated before answering, making your stomach churn.
“I’ve only ever done casual,” he finally replied. “I’ve never asked anyone to wear my jersey before, if that helps.” You nod along, understanding what he was implying. Only ever casual, nothing serious. You didn’t know whether you should be raising the red flags or not, considering you were apparently the first girl he’d ever asked to wear his jersey to one of his games. Which was a big deal, considering how superstitious hockey players could be.
“So, I’d be the first person to wear this, is what you’re saying?”
“Well it was my freshman year jersey, so maybe not the first person to wear it, but the first girl, yeah,” he explained, almost sheepishly. “And I washed it, multiple times, so it hopefully doesn’t smell like I used it all of freshman year.” You scrunched up your nose, causing him to laugh.
“I’m really the first girl you’ve asked to wear your jersey?”
“Yeah,” he fizzled out, as if he had more to say, but didn’t yet know how to phrase it. “But you don’t actually have to wear it if you don’t want to. I know it’s like, a big thing, to be wearing a guy’s name on your back, so if you’re not comfortable, you really don’t have to.” A wave of relief washed over you, choosing to believe what he told you. He had yet to give you a reason to believe he was lying, other than the fact that he was a male hockey player, and you felt as if you knew him well enough to know he was telling the truth. You just hoped this faith in him wouldn’t somehow backfire on you.
“I’ll definitely think about it,” you said with a smile.
“Of course,” he replied, a matching smile on his face. “I should actually probably get going, I have a car to work on at the garage, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Definitely.”
“‘Kay, see you later.” He waved bye before opening the door and stepping out into the autumn air.
“Bye, Johnny,” you replied, watching him leave with a small smile on your face. You looked down at the folded jersey, huffing out a sigh as you began to compare the pros and cons to wearing it for everyone and anyone to see.
“I say wear it,” your roommate, Mandy, said from your desk chair where she’d been keeping you company while you tried on different outfits for John’s game in a couple hours. “He gave it to you to wear, why not do it?”
“Because I’m not his girlfriend,” you said, flopping onto your back on your bed. “What if people say something?”
“Like what? That John Logan has a new hottie in his jersey? Oh no, one of Briar U’s best might be locked down!” You gave her a look which she replied to with a grin. “Is it that big a deal to wear it?”
“To me it is, yeah. It’s like he’s claiming me as his or something.”
“Are you not his?”
“I’m not his, or anybody’s, anything. We’ve only hung out once and yeah, we’ve been texting, but that’s just as friends from what I can tell.”
“Didn’t he tell you that he would’ve kissed you if Peyton and I hadn’t been watching from the window?”
“He could’ve been joking.”
“Oh my god, okay,” Mandy exclaimed, turning in her chair to fully face you. “I don’t know how you’re missing it, but he likes you! He gave you his jersey because he likes you enough to want to see you repping his name! Hockey players don’t just give their jerseys to anyone. He even told you that you’re the first girl he’s asked to wear his jersey.”
“What if he was lying?”
“So what if he was?”
“Then I’ll look fucking stupid!
“To who? If anything it’ll make him look like a jersey slut!”
“He’s a hockey player, of course he’s a slut!”
“But do you like him?” Mandy asked, causing you to pause. You did like John, a lot, but you felt like there was still so much to learn about him that half the people on campus already knew thanks to Jules’ social media. The fact that he was so popular around the school and the area in general made you wonder why he seemed to pay such special attention to you. In your mind there had to be some kind of ulterior motive. You almost felt like Laney Boggs from She’s All That or Andie Anderson from How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days or any other leading lady in a romcom who was only chosen by the male main character to win a deal of some sort. But maybe you were just projecting.
Yes, his Instagram followers and comments were filled with hundreds of blondes, but the only people he ever seemed to interact with on there were his teammates and Jules, as you had found during your initial online stalk after you had exchanged phone numbers.
John hadn’t given you any sort of reason to think this way other than the fact that he was popular, which he barely even seemed to notice. He worked a bunch of random side jobs on top of working at his family’s garage to help out and make some extra money. He didn’t let you pay a single cent or touch a door handle of any kind when he was around and he seemed genuinely interested whenever you told him anything about yourself. You’d told him stuff you’d only ever talked about with your closest friends. And he told you stuff he’d only ever talked about with Jules.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to just wear the jersey.
It was only a jersey right?
A couple hours later, you found yourself walking into the Briar University Arena with Garrett’s girlfriend, Hannah, and her best friend, Allie. Both of your roommates, Mandy and Peyton, had already had plans for the night when John had invited them along with you, so when you told him that it would just be you at the game he asked Garrett if Hannah would want to go with you. Being the sweetheart that you had heard of her being from John, your friends, and others in passing, Hannah agreed and the two of you had followed each other on Instagram and started talking about whatever was happening between you and John all in the same night. At some point she had asked if her friend, Allie, could come along and already knowing her from some introductory classes you had taken together, you happily agreed, believing that the more emotional support the better. The three of you had made a group chat and coordinated plans for the game, with you offering to pick the girls up from their dorm before heading to the arena.
When you had left the house the jersey had been folded and tucked in your arms, still unsure about whether to wear it or not. You had placed it in the backseat of your car, figuring that you would ask Hannah and Allie for their opinions when they got in the car. When you presented your dilemma to them, Hannah told you to hang on a second before leaving the car and hurrying back into the dorms. Three minutes later she emerged, holding something in her arms.
“I will wear Garrett’s jersey, if you wear Logan’s jersey,” she declared, holding the jersey in her arms up for you to see the name and number on the back. You sighed, taking in both hers and Allie’s encouraging smiles, before agreeing that you would put it on when you got to the rink. The other two cheered, causing you to laugh as you started your car, the engine purring like brand new.
You slipped the jersey over the blue sweater you had chosen to wear to still be repping Briar’s colours had you not decided to wear the jersey. You tugged your hair out from under the collar, allowing it to fall down your back. When Allie saw this she came up to you and swooped your hair to lay in front of your shoulders, allowing the name and number on your back to be completely visible. She nudged you playfully before linking arms with you, Hannah taking your other arm, and the three of you walked into the arena arm in arm.
Once your tickets were scanned you set out to find your seats, following the signs at each section’s entrance. You found your section not too long after, and followed Hannah through and down the rows to your seats.
“Damn, Logan chose good seats,” Allie remarked, as you sat down. She was right. You were a section over from center ice on the home team’s starting side and a few rows above where the benches were. You had a perfect view of the entire ice, not having to lean over Hannah or Allie to see what was happening behind either net. Hannah also pointed out that if Logan did something special for you, you wouldn’t be too far away to see it, which caused your cheeks to flush.
In the tunnel leading out onto the ice the guys were all vibrating with excited energy, fully amped up to play their game. John was especially antsy to get out there, eager to find you in the crowd and hopefully wearing his jersey.
“You good, Logi?” Tucker asked, slapping Logan on the back, bringing the guy out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, just hyped up, man.”
“Is your girl here, Logan?” Dean asked in a teasing tone.
“I’m hoping so,” was John’s reply, a grin breaking over his face.
“Let’s go!” Garrett called out from the back of the line, the rest of the guys crying out and beginning to move down the tunnel. Logan huffed out a breath and flipped the cage of his helmet down over his face, following the guys in front of him out. As soon as his skates hit the ice he felt at home, easily pushing and gliding his way down the ice towards the home side. His eyes scanned the crowd, automatically looking for the section he’d selected the tickets for. It wasn’t long before his eyes fell on you in his jersey. His breath caught in his throat at how good you looked with his number on your front and on your sleeves. He had to remind himself to watch where he was going, tearing his eyes away from you so as to not crash into the boards or any of the other guys.
“He definitely saw you,” Hannah remarked, the blush in your cheeks growing even stronger as your smile grew even bigger.
“Is she wearing your jersey, Lo?” Dean asked, skating up to John who was waiting for his turn to practice shooting. John looked back up at you, a smile instantly on his face as he saw you talking and laughing with Hannah and Allie. He was really happy that they’d been willing to come out to the game with you. While he was sure that you would’ve been fine coming on your own, he was glad that you were getting to know the girls and that they were getting to know you, hopefully thinking that you were as great as he thought. Based on the amount of times he’d looked over and seen you all smiling and laughing he didn’t think he had anything to worry about.
“Yeah, I gave it to her yesterday,” John replied, Dean taking note of how his eyes kept swerving back to you.
“John Logan giving a girl his jersey. Has Hell frozen over?”
“Shut up.”
“Nah, man, in a good way. When was the last time you liked a girl as much as you seem to like this one?” The question caught John off guard, genuinely having to think about the last time, if there had even been one, where he’d liked being around and talking to a girl as much as he liked being around you. He wracked his brain, a small montage of faces playing in his thoughts, but he couldn’t name one who he had liked in the same way he liked you.
“Never too late for a first,” John replied before it was his turn to shoot. He easily took the puck off of Tucker’s pass, dribbling it towards the net, the goalie ready to intercept whatever shot he took. John kept the puck close, his hands moving fast before he wound up, faked going for a slap shot, then easily shot it into the small space between the top right corner of the net and the goalie’s shoulder. He looked to you in the crowd, checking to see if you had seen what he had just done and found you clapping and cheering along with Hannah and Allie. John was sure his cheeks would fall off if he smiled any bigger.
“Show off,” Dean commented with a smirk as he skated up to John a few moments later after his own practice shot.
“Me? Never,” John deadpanned. The two guys shared a laugh before the buzzer sounded, announcing the end of warm-up and that the game was about to begin. The Hawks got to where they needed to be, John finding his spot on the ice along with Garrett, Tucker, Dean, and Birdie, placing his helmet on the ice in front of him. Your heart fluttered when he stood back up, his hair flipping back. As the anthem started playing, John looked back to the stands to catch a glimpse of you. You were standing, facing towards the anthem singer, your hands politely clasped in front of you. Any nerves he had instantly washed away, the sight of you instantly settling him into a ready and relaxed state. He was still looking at you when your head turned his way, your eyes meeting across the rows of other spectators between you two. Matching smiles grew across both of your faces. As the anthem came to a close John gave you a wink, causing you to giggle, before the singer finished and the audience erupted into cheers and applause.
John picked his helmet back up and slipped it on, finding his starting spot on the ice. The other starting players found their positions, the exciting energy building as the ref told everyone to have a good game before dropping the puck.
The game was fast paced from the very start, the Hawks instantly taking possession of the puck, getting it over to the opposing team’s end. The three forwards passed it between themselves, Garrett finding an angle and going for the shot, but it was taken down by one of the other team’s defencemen. The Hawks chased after them, Dean and Birdie right on their tail. Dean was able to knock it off the other defenceman’s stick and passed it over to Tucker, who turned fast and sped towards the opposite net. He passed it back to Garrett who set up for the shot again and managed to get it past the goalie, the Hawks getting the first goal of the game.
You, Allie, and Hannah all jumped to your feet cheering, Hannah cheering louder than the rest of the crowd. You watched as Garrett waved and smiled at Hannah after high five-ing the guys on the bench, giggling at how Hannah’s smile had grown at her boyfriend’s acknowledgement. As the first period continued, the Hawks were aggressive and all over the other team, keeping close on their tails and never letting it stay in their zone for too long. John especially was all over the ice during his shifts, making his presence well known. Watching him you couldn’t understand why he was yet to be drafted. Even if you were biased, it would be impossible to deny his talent.
When the first period ended the Hawks were up 2-0, Garrett and Tucker having scored, with John having gotten an assist on Tucker’s goal. During intermission, you, Allie, and Hannah decided to take a walk around, getting popcorn and sodas from the concession stand. Soon after you got back to your seats the guys re-emerged from the tunnel, lapping around the other side of the rink this time. Six minutes into the second period, John swiped the puck out of the other team’s powerplay set up, skating as fast as he could to the opposite team’s net, two of the other team’s players on his tail. He found a slot, set up his shot and whipped it into the net through the goalie’s legs.
You yelled in shock, instantly jumping up, popcorn flying from the container in your lap, cheering and clapping along with the rest of the crowd. John celebrated, going for the archer celebration, before the rest of the guys on his line crowded him in a hug. He had a huge smile on his face as he looked up and met your eyes, a matching smile on your face. Once he finished high five-ing the rest of the team, he looked up again, pointing directly at you with a huge grin. You waved back sheepishly before sitting back down, Allie and Hannah playfully nudging your shoulders as your hands covered your face to hide the blush you were sure was climbing up your neck all the way to your cheeks and the tips of your ears.
“I bet your girl liked that, Lo,” Tucker exclaimed once the line had returned to the bench, nudging his friend’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe she got you out of your slump,” Dean remarked, shaking his hair out. John punched him in the arm, but couldn’t help the smile growing on his face. It was true. He hadn’t scored a goal in eleven games before this, and now that you came to a game he finally did? Call it a coincidence or a hoax, but he was going to start calling you his lucky charm.
The rest of the game was just as entertaining. The Hawks scored two more goals, while the opposing team managed to slip one past the Hawks goalie late in the third, bringing the final score to 5-1 for the Hawks. The most entertaining part of the game though came right after the other team’s goal, when Dean must have said something as he skated past one of the opposing players who then crosschecked him in the back. The rest of both lines instantly went into action, getting all up in each other’s faces and shoving each other around.
“They should all just kiss and move on,” you remarked, gaining laughs from Hannah and Allie. You noticed how John especially seemed to be causing some trouble on the ice, the smirk on his face visible from your seat as he went back and forth with one of the opposing players. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it extremely attractive.
Eventually, the refs managed to break up the interaction, the Hawks getting a powerplay for the last minute and twenty-two seconds of the game. The guys all seemed to cheer extra loud when the buzzer sounded, essentially cheering their opponents off the ice. You and the other girls stood, clapping as the Hawks thanked their goalie and slapped each other on the ass before heading back down the tunnel to shower and change. Before leaving the ice, John made sure to catch your eye with a huge smile.
“How long do they normally take?” you asked once you, Hannah, and Allie had found an empty table in the lobby to wait at.
“Oh, they take their sweet time,” Allie said with a smile. “Maybe they’ll hurry today though, since you’re here.” You waved her off, playfully rolling your eyes.
“They can take all the time they need if it means they won’t smell like they just played a sixty minute game.” You all laughed, the conversation flowing into being about the game, the boys, and their weird hockey superstitions and habits. Eventually, the team started trickling out one by one, with John, Tucker, Garrett, and Dean all emerging at the same time. For reasons unknown to the guys, this made the three of you burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Garrett asked, coming up beside Hannah’s chair.
“We were just wondering if the four of you were going to come out skipping and holding hands,” Allie explained, the three of you cracking up again.
“They were pretty damn close to it,” you remarked, smiling as John came to stand beside your chair. You greeted him with a smile which he returned full force.
“She hasn’t even formally met us yet and she’s already laughing at us, Lo,” Tucker exclaimed, his beaming expression undercutting any offense he actually felt.
“Then she’s already fitting in,” John answered. He then introduced you to the guys, who all thanked you for bringing John out of his slump.
“Eleven games, Logi. Eleven,” Dean emphasized, John shaking his head as he was reminded of how long his scoring slump had lasted. “You gotta come to each game now, no excuses,” he pointed to you. “We need our boy playing like this every game.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m leaving as soon as you guys start playing like shit.”
“Us? Never,” Dean feigned shock, a hand to his chest.
“I’ve seen your stats Di Laurentis, I wouldn’t act like a martyr.” The rest of the group laughed, including Dean.
You all sat around talking for a few more minutes before they invited you out to go to Malone’s with them for dinner and drinks. You happily agreed, Allie and Hannah saying they’d drive over with you. Once at the restaurant, John and Dean pulled into a spot that was one over from where you had parked, and Garrett and Tucker pulled into the spot across from them. The group easily found a booth to fit all of you, John gesturing for you to slide in first after he’d asked if you were okay sitting next to the window, with him taking the seat beside you and Hannah taking the one across from you. Once you guys all got your orders in, the guys all tried to subtly interrogate you about yourself and John, except they were horrible at the subtle part.
“So, you’re an Oilers fan?”
“From an Oilers family.”
“You’re from Edmonton then?”
“Born and raised.”
“Why’d you pick Briar?”
“The offered full-ride scholarship for the most part. But also to see some place outside of Edmonton.”
“Did you ever play hockey?”
“Until I was fourteen.”
“What position?”
“Defence,” the guys all ooh’d at this fact and seemed to get even more enthralled with the conversation.
“Could you give Dean-O a run for his money?”
“It’s been a while since I played, but I could probably put up a fight.”
“I’ll see you on the ice then, kid.”
“Eat your heart out, Di Laurentis.” The rest of the group all laughed at your jabs at Dean, who took them all in stride.
“You found a feisty one, Logan,” the blond remarked, lifting his drink in your direction.
“Go to the bathroom before your tears start falling, Dean.” You smirked at John’s comeback in your honour. Dean pretended to wipe tears from his face before challenging Tucker to a game of pool. The two guys went off, with Garrett following after Tucker claimed they needed someone to make sure that Dean didn’t cheat. You mentally noted the new room on John’s side of the bench and how he didn’t move away from you despite it. Hannah and Allie also seemed to notice this when you met their smirking faces.
“Hannah, come with me to the bathroom?” Allie asked, looking pointedly at you. Hannah looked at you too with a smile, nodding her head.
“Of course, we’ll be right back.” The two girls exited the booth, leaving you and John alone, sitting side by side. You laughed almost nervously, turning your body to face the guy who did the same.
“Are you doing okay?” John asked.
“Yeah, yeah your friends are all great.”
“I’m sorry if they’re being too much. That’s just how they are honestly.”
“Hey, they’re hockey guys, I can’t say I’m surprised.” You both laughed. “Also, do they only ever call you by your last name?” John looked away sheepishly, scratching his neck.
“Uh, yeah. It’s a hockey thing, y’know?”
“Do you want me to start calling you Logan then?” John shook his head, looking at you earnestly.
“No. I like that you call me something that no one else does.” Your heart warmed, yours and John’s smiles growing. Right on time, the food was then all delivered to the table and the rest of the group reappeared. John’s side was pressed back into yours as you both made room for the others.
“Are you comfortable?” John asked you, noticing how close you were to each other.
“Yeah, are you?” John shrugged before moving his arm that was pressed against yours to lay across your shoulders. Your breath caught slightly in your throat at the even closer proximity, but leaned into his arm.
“Is this okay?”
“So long as you can eat with one hand,” you joked.
“Easy.” Your group all ate their meals while swapping stories about the game tonight, the guys focusing specifically on things that John had done.
“What did you say to the guy at the end? The one who was all up in your face?” Garrett asked, causing John to smirk at the memory.
“Something about how if his shot was as strong as his words maybe he would’ve scored a few more.” The guys all erupted in laughter, Allie and Hannah rolling their eyes, being used to their post-game behaviour, but you loved it. It reminded you of being back home and watching Oilers games with your dad, him always commenting on the fights and the words the players must be exchanging. It was one of your favourite things growing up and you and your dad had sort of kept up the routine by discussing the Oilers and other NHL news through text and call. It wasn’t the same, but it was the best you could do while being away at school.
“You went with the archer again, Lo. Seems like that’s becoming your signature celly.”
“It’s always the first one that comes to mind.”
“And was the point to the stands afterwards also the first thing to come to mind?” Dean asked, looking between you and John. You looked pointedly at John too, a teasing smile on your face. He looked down at you, his arm still comfortably around your shoulders, seeming to consider his answer.
“Yeah, something up there just kept catching my eye.”
“I bet it was the giant number twenty-two on someone’s back,” Hannah added.
“Possibly.” You smiled sheepishly, turning your focus to the food on your plate as the rest of the group noted John’s jersey that you had on. You didn’t notice how John continued to look at you, a relaxed smile on his face, while neither of you noticed how Allie snuck a picture of the two of you in this pose.
Once you had all finished eating and had just been sitting and chatting for a while, Hannah announced that she should probably head back to the dorms seeing as she had an early morning. Allie joined in, saying that she would go back with her.
“Did you guys want a ride back since I picked you up?” you asked. Both girls shot you a puzzled look which they quickly masked with smiles.
“I can drive them,” Garrett announced before either of them could make up an excuse for you to stay.
“I’ll come along too,” Dean added, quickly downing his beer before hopping out of the booth.
“Uh, yeah, I guess I will too,” Tucker agreed.
“Logi, you have your truck, right?” John nodded, giving his friends a knowing look at what they were doing, similar to the one you were giving Hannah and Allie.
“Well, it was great getting to meet you guys,” you said earnestly, hoping it didn’t sound like you were trying to push them out the door. “I hope we can all hang out like this again soon.” The guys and girls all agreed, saying how nice it was to meet you and stating that you needed to be at as many games as possible from now on. Dean refused to leave until you agreed to be at the next game, which you did hesitantly. You and John both seemed to be waiting for them all to file out the door before saying anything else.
“So.”
“So?”
“Did they scare you off?”
“Are you kidding? If anything I’m scared in,” you smirked, remembering a similar conversation that had occurred between the two of you weeks ago when you had first found out that John was a hockey player.
“Good. ‘Cause I think I’ll somehow be at fault in their eyes if you stopped coming around.”
“So far, I have zero reasons to not want to be around you, Johnny.”
“Well isn’t that what every guy wants to hear?” You laughed in response, John noticing how the corners of your eyes crinkled when you laughed or smiled widely. “I like how easily you get along with the guys. I think watching you go back and forth with Dean made everyone’s night.”
“His reputation makes it way too easy to tease him,” you replied. “But, I really liked getting to know them and getting to see you in your usual scene. And it was really nice of the girls to come to the game with me.”
“According to Allie, they were a lot more excited to hang out with you than to actually watch the game.”
“Oh, well the sentiment goes both ways.”
You stayed in the booth, continuing to talk about whatever came to mind. Like most, if not all, of your previous conversations it was filled with laughing and smiles that made your faces hurt. At some point, John’s hand had come to rest on your knee, sending sparks up your spine, but you didn’t push him away. If anything you wanted him closer.
The time flew by and before you knew it the other customers were packing up and heading out the door as the staff began to clear away tables and wipe down the bar.
“Looks like we should get going,” John noted, glancing around the rest of the restaurant that had seemed to disappear while the two of you had been talking. You nodded, allowing him to slide out of the booth before you. You happily took the hand that he offered to help you up, sparks once again flying between the two of you. He thanked the staff members that you passed as he led you out the door, your hands still intertwined. The cool air was refreshing as you hadn’t realized just how stuffy the bar had been. Something must’ve been distracting you.
“You’ll be okay getting home by yourself?” John asked as he came to a stop beside your car.
“Oh yeah. I’ve actually done it successfully a few times before so I should be good,” you joked, gaining a smirk from John.
“Can you text me when you get home, please?” Your heart warmed at him wanting to make sure you got home safe.
“Of course.” A moment passed between the two of you where it seemed as if you got lost in each other’s eyes and the rest of the world seemed to freeze. The air around you two even seemed to move slower. John’s hand came up as if in slow motion and gently pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers leaving a tingling trail behind as they grazed your cheek. Your breath caught in your throat as you inhaled, almost shocked as he did such. His hand never left your body though as his fingers traced down your jawline, his index finger and thumb gently holding your chin and tipping it upwards to his. Your heart felt as if it might fly out of your chest with how fast and wild it was beating, hoping that he couldn’t hear it with how close he was to you.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice as gentle as his hand.
“It’d be even better if you kissed me.”
He smirked and in the next moment his lips were on yours. His were surprisingly soft as they were at first just pressed to yours, but then slowly began to move. The kiss was gentle yet passionate, your lips seeming to fit together just like puzzle pieces as you became completely consumed by the other. His cologne flooded your senses as your eyes were squeezed tight. Your hands found the back of his neck, your fingers weaving into his hair at the nape of his neck. His hand had slid from holding your chin to now cupping your jaw, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth across your cheek, while the other was on your waist, pulling you close. Your whole body felt as if it were made of flames, fireworks seeming to explode between the two of you as you connected.
You didn’t know how much time had passed by the time you pulled away from each other, both of your chests heaving and both of your smiles as bright as the moon overhead. Your shining eyes met as you laughed breathily, John’s forehead pressed against yours.
“Better now?” John asked, his voice almost shocking you as the rest of the world came back into existence around you. You nodded, a huge grin still on your face as you processed what had just happened.
John Logan had kissed you.
He sighed as his hand that been cupping your face slid to meet his other hand at your waist, pulling you closer so that your bodies were flush together.
“I’ve been waiting weeks to do that,” he uttered, his breath brushing against your cheek.
“What took you so long?” you asked cheekily.
“I wanted to make sure you felt the same way. Didn’t want to rush anything.”
“You’re sweet.” This time you reached up on your toes to press a kiss to his lips. You began to pull away, but unable to get enough of you he chased after you, pressing another and another and another to your lips before standing upright. Your matching grins lit up the space between the two of you as you laughed, not wanting the moment to end. “I should probably get home,” you whispered despite wanting to live in the moment forever. John groaned at the thought of having to pull away from you, but nodded in agreement. His hands slid from your waist and up your sides - gaining a laugh from you at the tickling sensation - up your arms and to your hands that were still fiddling with the hair at the base of his neck. He gently pulled them away, taking your hands in his and pressing your knuckles to his lips.
“You sure you’ll be okay getting home by yourself?” he asked again, your hands still in his. You nodded.
“And I’ll call you when I get there,” you reassured him.
“Thank you,” he said. Another moment passed of the two of you just staring into each other’s eyes, taking in what had happened in the past ten minutes. John then sighed again before swooping down and planting a kiss on your cheek, causing you to laugh. You squeezed his hands before forcing yourself to let go of one to retrieve your keys from your bag. As soon as the car was unlocked, John opened the door for you and gestured for you to climb in. Once your seatbelt was buckled, John then leaned in one more time to kiss you.
“Goodnight, beautiful.”
“Goodnight, Johnny.” He closed your door for you and waved before rounding the back of your car and climbing into his truck two parking spots away. You waved at him one more time before backing out of your spot and heading for the exit to the lot. Your music kicked as you pulled up to the stop sign, ‘Locked Out of Heaven’ by Bruno Mars flowing through the speakers.
Your grin never left your face the entire drive home.
thinking about dean winchester teaching you to play pool….
you’ve stopped in some run down highway diner with peeling paint, stained tables and eye-rolling waitresses, and sam begins to explain the current case. he starts, “so get this…” but dean’s eyes have suddenly caught a different focus.
the green of the pool table is worn, more like a grey, the cues are few, and the holder has no chalk left, but dean’s already looking at it like it’s god’s gift to earth.
without another second wasted, his hand wraps around yours, and he’s headfirst towards the pool table like his life’s true mission.
he’s grabbed two cues already before you can finally mention that you don’t know how to play, and before you muster a protest, he’s guiding your hips to the table, placing the cue in your hands and leaning your body forward.
you can feel every inch of his body pressed against yours as he gently manoeuvres your arms into the correct position, the hard planes of his chest pressed directly against the curve of your back. losing the bravado, he murmurs quiet instructions into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin and making goosebumps rise across your body.
his hands wrap around yours as he shows you the proper positioning, fingers practically intertwined with your own. he guides your hand to hit the balls, and murmurs encouraging praises after every shot.
hi sweets ♡ my supernatural fic commissions are officially open through ko-fi!
this listing is for a custom 2k–3k word supernatural fic written in my usual style, based on your chosen character(s), trope, genre, dynamic, and prompt. you can request one character x reader, or up to two characters x reader.
my writing is usually for sam and dean, but i can write for other supernatural characters too. currently, nsfw/smut commissions are only available for sam and dean and you must be over 18 to request these types of fics.
✩彡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝:
— custom 2k–3k word supernatural fic
— reader-insert format, unless requested otherwise
— title
— one-line summary
— warnings/content notes
— your chosen character(s), trope, genre, and dynamic
— turnaround time: 7–10 days
✩彡 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬:
after ordering through ko-fi, you’ll receive a link to a google form where you’ll be able to fill out all the details for your request. please fill it out as carefully as possible so i have everything i need before writing.
please read my guidelines before ordering.
✩彡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬?
and for anyone wondering: the drabbles are not going away! right now, they’re still closed while i work through my current queue, but they will reopen eventually.
the main difference is length and detail.
— drabbles are free, shorter, and usually written as smaller drabbles—up to 1k words, though most of them may be less depending on the idea.
— commissions are for bigger, more detailed requests: 2k–3k words, with more room for plot, pacing, character dynamics, emotional build-up, and specific details.
so, if you have a smaller idea or you’re happy to wait for requests to reopen, drabble requests will still be here. if you want something longer and more personalized, commissions are the better option ♡
✩彡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞:
there’s a discount code that you can use for your request if it’s done in may. apply the code WENDI for 15% off!!
thank you so much for supporting my writing and trusting me with your ideas ♡
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ with two deans in front of you, the only thing left to trust is the part of him no monster can steal cleanly
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 807 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ emotional distress, weapon mention, blood/injury mention
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the worst part is that they both look tired.
not evil. not wrong. not even slightly off in the easy, merciful way you need one of them to be.
they both stand under the flickering motel sign with dean’s face, dean’s blood on their knuckles, dean’s green eyes fixed on you like you are the only solid thing left in the whole ruined parking lot. rain dots the windshield of the impala behind them. somewhere far off, a dog won’t stop barking.
your gun shakes in your hands.
“sweetheart,” the one on the left says, breathless. “look at me.”
the one on the right flinches. “don’t call her that,” he snaps.
same voice. same rough edge. same wounded anger tucked under the words. your stomach turns. “stop,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you want. “both of you. stop talking.”
they do and it almost makes it worse.
the shapeshifter has dean’s memories. sam warned you, voice tight over the phone while you were still running through wet alleyways and trying not to throw up. it can know things. private things. motel rooms and bad jokes and the way dean hums under his breath when he thinks you’re asleep. the first time he kissed you. the first time he said i love you and then immediately panicked and pretended to check the car’s oil. all of it. stolen.
“ask me something,” left-dean says, stepping half an inch forward.
you lift the gun higher. “don’t.”
he stops.
right-dean’s jaw tightens. “ask me.”
your eyes burn. “you both know.”
“not everything,” right-dean says.
left-dean scoffs, and god, it sounds so much like him you feel sick. “that’s what i’d say too.”
your finger rests near the trigger. not on it. near.
you think of dean’s hands on your hips in the bunker kitchen, warm and grease-stained from fixing something that didn’t need fixing. you think of him stealing your fries, then pretending he didn’t. you think of the night he crawled into bed beside you without a word after a hunt went bad, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, silent until he finally whispered “don’t make me talk yet”.
you know him. you do. so why can’t you breathe? “what did you tell me,” you start, voice cracking despite the effort, “after jolene’s case? when i wanted to quit?”
both of them go still. left-dean answers first. “i told you that you could. that i’d drive you anywhere you wanted. no guilt trip.”
your chest caves a little. right answer. perfect answer.
right-dean swallows hard. “and then i said i was selfish.”
left-dean turns sharply. you freeze.
right-dean looks at you. “i said i was selfish because i wanted you to stay,” he says. “and then i got scared you’d hear that as pressure, so i made a joke about your terrible motel coffee and you threw a pillow at my head.”
no. it doesn’t. that’s the awful thing. it still doesn’t.
then left-dean softens his face, careful and familiar, and takes one slow step toward you. “baby, come on. you know me.”
baby. too easy. too clean. your dean almost never uses that when he’s scared. he gets rougher. quieter. meaner to himself.
right-dean’s eyes flick to your gun. then to you. “shoot me,” he says.
your heart drops. left-dean goes silent.
“what?”
right-dean’s voice is hoarse. “if you can’t tell, shoot me. leg, shoulder, whatever. silver’ll show you. don’t let him near you.”
“dean—”
“don’t argue with me.” his face breaks, just for a second. “please.”
there. not in the memory. not in the words. in the way he makes himself the sacrifice before he lets you become one.
your hand steadies.
left-dean sees the shift before you move. his expression hardens, dean’s face turning strange with something that is not dean at all. “you sure about that?” he says.
you aim at him. “yeah,” you whisper. “i am.”
the shot splits the rain. silver hits shoulder, not heart, because even now—stupid, stupid—you can’t shoot dean’s face without mercy. the thing screams with his mouth, skin rippling wrong under the streetlight, and then sam is there from nowhere, finishing it before your knees can give out.
after, dean catches you before you fall. the real dean. solid. shaking. warm. you grab his jacket with both fists and shove your face into his chest, furious at him, furious at yourself, furious that you ever had to learn him this way.
“you told me to shoot you,” you choke.
his arms tighten around you. “yeah,” he says, voice breaking at the edges. “i know.”
“i hate you.”
“yeah,” he whispers into your hair. “i know that too.”
you hold him harder anyway, because his heartbeat is under your ear and it is his. it is his. it is his.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after being dragged out of a wendigo’s grip, you try to say thank you, although dean makes it impossible to keep things serious
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) ft. sammy
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 709 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ post-hunt adrenaline, mild injuries, flirting, dean being dean
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
everything still feels a little unreal.
the flashing lights, the low murmur of paramedics moving around you, your brothers sitting a few feet away wrapped in those awful silver blankets, pale but alive—alive—and you’re stuck somewhere in between shaky and wired, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.
you keep replaying it.
the dark. the smell. the sound it made.
you swallow hard, pushing it down, grounding yourself in what’s in front of you instead.
which is—“so,” dean says, leaning casually against the side of the ambulance like he didn’t just drag you out of a literal nightmare, like his knuckles aren’t still scraped raw. “you always get into trouble like that, or was today special?”
you blink at him. of all the ways this could be going, this is not the one you expected. “i—” you let out a small, breathy laugh, half disbelief, half leftover adrenaline. “are you serious right now?”
he shrugs, mouth tilting into something dangerously close to a grin. “what? just making conversation.”
“you just killed a—” you cut yourself off, glancing toward your brothers, lowering your voice. “a thing.”
“and you survived it,” he shoots back easily. “seems worth talking about.”
god. he’s unbelievable. and it’s stupid—but the tension in your chest loosens just a little, the sharp edge of everything dulling under the sheer absurdity of him. you shake your head, a soft huff escaping you. “you’re insane.”
“i’ve been called worse,” he says, not missing a beat.
you look at him properly then—at the faint exhaustion sitting under his eyes, the way he’s standing just a little too straight, like if he relaxes everything might hit him all at once.
he saved you.
that lands heavier now. your throat tightens slightly, something more serious creeping in despite the chaos of everything else.
“hey,” you say, quieter.
he stills just a fraction.
“i don’t know how to thank you.”
and there it is. real. a little unsteady, but honest.
for a second—just a second—something shifts in his expression. softer. almost careful.
then it’s gone.
replaced with that familiar smirk, sharp and cocky and just a little bit infuriating. “well,” he starts, pushing off the ambulance, stepping a little closer, “i can think of a few ways—”
you groan immediately, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. “must you cheapen the moment?” you cut in, exasperated, but there’s no real bite to it.
he grins wider, completely unashamed. “i’m just saying—”
you don’t let him finish.
you step forward and kiss him.
quick. impulsive. probably a terrible idea.
but it happens anyway.
his surprise is immediate—you feel it in the way he stills, just for a second, before instinct kicks in and he leans into it slightly, like he can’t help it. then you pull back just as fast, breath catching, reality snapping back into place all at once.
“…that was your thank you,” you say, a little breathless, a little too honest.
he stares at you. actually stares at you. for once, dean winchester looks a little thrown. “huh,” he manages after a second.
you huff out a laugh, shaking your head, stepping back before you can overthink it. and that’s when—“dean.” oh no.
you both turn.
sam is standing there, arms crossed, expression somewhere between tired, unimpressed, and deeply embarrassed on his brother’s behalf.
“seriously?” he says.
dean opens his mouth.
“don’t,” sam cuts him off immediately, already grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “we just saved them from a wendigo, and you’re flirting?”
“i can multitask,” dean protests, digging his heels in just enough to be annoying about it.
“no,” sam says flatly, tugging him harder toward the impala. “you cannot.”
you can’t help it—you laugh. really laugh this time, the sound bubbling up out of you, light and a little shaky and so, so relieved.
dean glances back at you over his shoulder, still being dragged away, something bright and a little wild in his expression. “hey!” he calls. “you’re welcome, by the way!”
you shake your head, smiling despite everything. “drive safe,” you call back.
he grins. and even as sam keeps pulling him away, muttering something under his breath, dean doesn’t look away from you. not until the distance makes him.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Adore this, no suprise there!! Also no suprise that this is one of my favorite Dean moments, fell in love like a giddy little school crush and it never passed..
summary dean makes you a mixtape because he's got a big crush!
content gn!reader, friends with mutual crushes, dean is so very in love, a kiss on the cheek, use of sweet thing and sweetheart, just gentleness and dean being all nervous to give you a mixtape!
requested ♡
wc 828
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean's hands are clammier than they've maybe ever been. He feels silly and stupid and like a teenage boy discovering the welling wonder of love for the very first time. It's so cheesy, what he's made and spent an inhuman amount of time curating.
Seven songs, for seven years of knowing you. One year of denial and six of being exhaustedly head over heels. He assumes many more will come and has very begrudgingly accepted that he is entirely a chicken.
And you're an angel. So completely good, it's bizarre.
He can do his very best to make you happy without being yours.
A big surge of something loving and needy and sticky as warmed syrup pulls through him when you step out of your motel room and onto the small balcony, down rickety stairs as you adjust your jacket. Still sleep mussed and lovely as ever.
"S'too early," you lament, though the sun is a high golden yolk in the sky already. He thinks you haven't been sleeping well, wants to share a room next time and look after you.
He pushes off where he'd been leaning against Baby without really meaning to and feels a nestle of light in his chest. You're too pretty under the early spring sun, it kisses your nose and sets little gleaming stars in your eyes.
"The day's nearly over, sweet thing," he teases mild. "How'd you sleep?"
You blink at him, lashes pulling apart slow. "Like a baby."
This could mean either awful or wonderfully. But there isn't any time to prod before he remembers what he's holding behind the leather of his jacket. How he may look conspicuous, how you can most definitely tell he's fidgety with his arms half hidden.
"Did something bite your hands off?"
"What? No," he huffs a nervous laugh. "My hands are fine. Perfect, actually."
You hum and cross your arms, one boot kicking out and tapping against smooth asphalt.
"Have you got something?"
He does, but you're rushing him. Better now than never, he supposes, if he were to wait any longer he might talk himself out of giving it to you. Or his flustering nerves would gnaw him away into a stub.
"Just... don't be weird," he sighs, hands shifting behind his back.
"Being weird is fun," you reply, smile sleepy and scrunching your nose in a way that nearly throws him into a whole tizzy. "Why shouldn't I be weird?"
His cheeks ache with a too-fond grin and his fingers squeeze at the concealed cassette, acting as a heavy weight. It may as well be his heart on a platter.
"You can be as weird as you wanna be," he says. "Just cool it for now."
"Okay." You point, gaze attempting to stretch and curl around his side to see. "Show me what you've got."
With a big, internal, here goes nothing, he pulls the tape out and holds it between two fingers for you to take. Your name on the white note cover, written in his best handwriting, and it's entirely simple. So sickeningly saccharine underneath.
His jaw works with a swallow as you stare at the thing, your expression open, eyes a little wide. He can't read it.
"Take it," he says, insecurity a festering root in his head. "Unless you-"
You grab it from him quick and hold it with such careful palms, fingers a delicate press against the plastic shell.
"There's no unless," you breathe, he registers the airy delight in your tone and feels tons of bricks fall from his shoulders. "You made this for me?"
He shrugs. "Yeah. That's your name on it, right?"
"Right," you whisper, and look up at him, and he's six feet under.
You're happy, and it suits you. More than anything else. He'd like to make this last forever, the small creases at the corners of your mouth as you laugh all soft, the rise of your eyebrows. You stretch a hand out to settle on his bicep.
It's very, extremely difficult to stay standing.
"I've never gotten anything like this before," you admit, a bashfulness about you now that makes his heart squeeze and swell along with your words. "Thank you, De. This is, um. Really neat."
Really neat. He aches and decides to make you thousands more.
But he's turned into complete static when you take a tentative step closer, chest nearly brushing his, and lean up to give a chaste, petal-soft kiss to his cheek. His knees are more jelly than bone.
He hopes to high heaven that he's not at all red.
"What's on it?" you ask.
It's whiplash inducing, the way you act like you haven't just set him and his insides atwirl. But he'll take whatever you give, and push all his nonsensical feelings way, way down, and be grateful for just this.
He gestures to the Impala.
"How about you put it in and see, sweetheart?"
Anything with you is all he wants.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂
haven't written fanfic in two weeks i think so please forgive any rustiness!!
pairing ! bf!sam winchester x chronically ill!reader
summary ! on one of your bad days, sam comforts you.
warnings ! mentions of chronic illness, major fluff, reader has self-esteem issues regarding chronic illness.
wc ! 0.6k (it's a short one sorry)
author's note ! this was lowkey self-indulgent but i love u sam winchester
to be added to my taglist.
The day had been rough. Your body was fighting against you more than usual, and you'd spent most of it feeling useless as you slept off and on. Sam and Dean had left you to your own devices for the most part, caught up in research and scoping out cases. They also knew you preferred to be alone during times like this. You hated when they saw you this weak.
It was past dinner now, and you hadn't really eaten all day due to lack of energy. Your shared room with Sam was lit only by a small lamp in the corner, and you were fast asleep once again in bed. The door opened without your knowledge, and then someone was rubbing your arm.
"Baby," Sam said softly, his hand coming up to brush some hair off your face.
You groaned softly, eyes blinking open to look at him tiredly. They were rimmed red from crying earlier due to the pain, but there was a small smile on your face. "Hi, Sammy," you whispered.
He smiled softly, holding out a package of crackers. "You need to eat something, sweetheart."
You sighed, licking your lips. "I'm nauseous."
You were always nauseous, but sometimes it was worse, like today. Sometimes it felt impossible to eat. Sam, who had learned pretty much everything about you, just nodded, putting the crackers down on the bedside table for later.
He crawled into bed beside you silently, spooning you from behind and wrapping you in his arms. He kissed your head, breathing in your scent. You melted into his embrace. "Missed you today," he murmured into your hair.
"I know. I'm sorry," you whispered back, voice full of guilt. You hated the days you couldn't do anything. With a life like yours, it felt especially hard.
Sam held you tighter. "Don't be." One of his hands slid down, massaging your hip gently. His large fingers dug into your skin perfectly where he knew you hurt extra, and you winced slightly, a soft sigh of satisfaction leaving your lips.
He kissed your hair. "Just relax, sweetheart. I've got you." You let him massage your sore spots, the discomfort from him doing so far outweighed by the temporary relief afterward. "Love you so much," he murmured, kissing your shoulder.
His hand came up, massaging your neck and shoulders next, the pads of his thumbs rubbing hard circles over the areas. You groaned out softly. "I know. I've got you," he whispered.
Once it was over, your body felt a little better and a lot lighter. He wrapped his arms back around you, nuzzling into your neck and holding you close. You sighed softly, eyes closing again. You felt so tired and you hated it.
Hated how useless you were to them. "I'm sorry I'm no help," you mumbled.
Sam shook his head. "Stop," he whispered, rubbing circles over your belly with his thumb. "You are more than enough, exactly like this."
You swallowed, slowly turning around to look at him. "You can't mean that. Half the time I can't even get out of bed for half the day."
He looked at you softly, bringing a hand up to caress your cheek. "Baby, I love you. You get that, right? I love you on your good days and your bad days and every day in between. You're worth more than what your body allows."
You searched his eyes, tears starting to form in yours. He pressed his forehead to yours, holding you close. "Don't cry," he whispered, thumb brushing over your cheek.
You sniffled, giggling softly. "Can't help it. I love you."
He grinned, a light in his eyes as he leaned in and kissed you gently. "I love you so much more."
Tagged by lovely @wendichester <3 and @stargazedwinchester
๋࣭ ˖ now reading ˖
I'm currently reading The Life Impossible by Matt Haig! It's a book I got for my birthday once and finally got the chance to read it :)
๋˖ last series watched ˖
The last series I watched was the new season of Bridgerton. I'm planning on watching Smallville and finish supernatural some time soon though.
๋˖ last movie ˖
At first I though EPIC: Elvis, but that's a lie. I watched the Scream 7 movie this week! Loved the nostalgia bits in the movie.
๋˖ last song ˖
It's been a bit since I listened to music but it was probably Carla's Song from Harry Styles' new album.
๋˖ sweet or salty ˖
Honestly it's just depends on my mood! I'm not much of a candy person, but I do like cakes or cookies for some sweetness, or fruits. And chips always satisfy a quick salty craving :)
๋˖ coffee or tea ˖
Uh neither.... I'm more of a hot cocoa kind of person. I wished I liked tea sometimes though. Maybe I just haven't found the right flavor yet.
๋˖ currently working on ˖
I'm working on my health at the moment, very important! As far as creative things go, I guess I could say my concert scrapbook :)
This was fun, thank you Olivia! And Chloe! For possible tags, anyone could try!
summary: getting older is something dean never thought he'd get to do. he loves every part about it; minus the aches and pains from hunts. that's why he's glad you're here to help him
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: fluffy fluff | word count: 2.9k
warnings: massage/non-sexual semi-nudity (shirtless dean yessir), sleepy dean, dean aging gracefully (and i ramble about it for far too long), a very appropriate amount of soft touches and kisses
notes: happy 200k words posted to me !! :] the word doc is getting huge lmao. also, in perfect timing, happy jensen day !!
sam's version | taglist
The bed creaks under Dean’s weight as he flops down onto the mattress, a raspy groan escaping him when he lands. His head doesn’t even hit a pillow, but he doesn’t care enough to move, can’t bring himself to shift just two inches further up the mattress to be more comfortable. He’s already stiff and sore as it is, and he’s fairly certain moving will just make it worse. Taking a deep breath in that exhales into a cough as it irritates his lungs still rough from the smoke earlier, Dean closes his eyes, burying his face deeper into the mattress. It’s only then that he realizes there’s no sheets on the bed, and he has a flash of pure confusion that maybe he’s in the wrong place until he hears the faint thudding of the dryer running from down the hall.
Rolling slightly to the side, he picks his head up and investigates the room, trying to figure out where you might be. He hasn’t run into a single soul since he got back to the bunker; not Sam, not you, not even Cas, who pops in and out at will. Just a wall of silence, like the space was welcoming him back and letting him breathe before shoving another loud part of his life in his face. Finally, after a few minutes of listening intently, he can make out your faint humming mixing with the sound of your footsteps as you walk toward the room. The door’s cracked open just wide enough he figures you could probably see him from outside. Satisfied, he returns to the mattress, bringing an arm up to rest his head on and closing his eyes again.
His quiet doesn’t last long. It’s broken slowly, warmly, by a voice that sounds like sweetness and summertime and the slightly bittersweet taste of the nectar from lilacs. It sounds like summer nights on the hoods of cars and hot coffee on cold days and coming home, returning to his rightful place.
“Dean?” you say quietly, shaking his shoulder with one warm hand. “Are you alright?”
“Hm?” Dean grumbles, rolling half-heartedly onto his back and blinking up at you.
You’re strangely pretty from his angle, he thinks. Backlit by the overhead light that fans out over your shoulders and around your body, you’re glowing. Dean’s convinced that if he reached out to touch you, you’d feel like sunshine and light and everything he’d expect love to feel like. You’re looking at him with those eyes that make him feel human again, that make him realize it’s okay for him to slow down and let himself feel something other than promises upheld to some past version of himself.
You’re smiling something precious, and Dean realizes he’s missed what you were telling him. The lines around your face pop when you smile at him, and he’s run his fingers over them many times in quiet moments. His eyes flutter shut when you reach down to brush the hair back from his forehead, your touch gentle and nurturing like something he didn’t realize he was missing until it happened.
“Rough hunt?” you say, your hand keeping up its touch.
Dean nods slightly, then shakes his head, because really it wasn’t all that rough. He’s just exhausted, drained, joints aching in new ways and eyes getting heavier by the second. What it really is was that he missed you, missed your touch and your scent and the way you care for him. Now that he’s got that back, whatever happened on the salt and burn doesn’t matter anymore. Your fingers brush over the beginnings of a bruise on his temple and he flinches slightly. You murmur something soothing, dipping down to kiss it, and Dean goes limp on the bed as all the tension bleeds from his muscles.
“You should take a shower,” you say.
“In a minute,” Dean grumbles.
You huff a light laugh that makes Dean’s heart do all sorts of funny things. “Dean, baby, I gotta put the sheets on the bed.”
That pulls his eyes open. It’s only then that it clicks for a second time that he’s lying on a bare mattress, and while it’s comfortable, he’s probably getting dirt all over it from his shirt and jeans, boots still on his feet.
You help slowly pull him to his feet, keeping him steady as he wavers slightly. Something in his right hip isn’t quite right, a spark of pain shooting through it when it moves, like it needs to be cracked but won’t. Dean stretches his arms over his head so hard it makes him a little dizzy, but he needs it; the stiffness in his back from the drive was getting too much. You toss a towel in his direction that he catches easily, and when he passes by you to head to the bathroom, you stop him by looping your arms around his neck and kissing him so deep he can taste the laundry detergent that clings to your skin.
You drift back to the laundry room with a hand that trails down Dean’s chest and taps his ass as you leave, which makes him blink, utterly disoriented. He’ll think about it in the shower, he decides. All he needs right now is to peel his mud-covered jeans off, clean up the cut on his forearm that’s starting to sting, and hope the water’s hot enough to melt the stress off his skin.
Stepping into the shower, Dean can already feel some of his pains washing away. Sore muscles in the small of his back relax under the heat, the skin turning a little pink with how warm he’s put the water on, but he doesn’t mind. Pain from the water of a hot shower is infinitely better than pain from a ghost or a demon. Control, that’s all it really is. The knowledge that it’s his own doing, that he can turn it off whenever it gets too much.
He grabs your shampoo from the shelf without even thinking, massaging it on his palms and letting the familiar scent of it wash over him. It makes him think of simpler times, when he was stealing your soap in motels because the ones they supplied made his skin itch. They might not have been easier, because nothing’s really easier than the way he lives now, but they were familiar, constant, not a continuously shifting set of days that made him worry for his life. He cares about that now.
It hits him then, as he’s putting your shampoo in his hair, how much he wants to live. Dean used to think that he was bound to die on a hunt, to succumb to some supernatural force that hated his guts and was just accurate enough with a shotgun to do some real damage. He used to think bleeding out on the floor of some warehouse was better than living, that if he let himself die away from prying eyes, nobody would ask questions. It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss him anyway, not back then.
Now, he wants nothing more than to stick around as long as you’ll have him, and then longer. Some days he almost finds himself wishing he becomes a ghost, just so he can stay in the bunker and see you every day of your life. Nothing matters more to Dean than growing old with you, to see the way you change and grow, and to be there every step of the way. He picks and chooses his hunts carefully now, because after almost dying in a barn a few months ago, he’s learned one thing that he’d never thought possible; you would miss him if he died. And he can’t have that.
When he switches to working the regular soap into his skin and washing away the dirt that clings to his body, he realizes something that yanks at him low in his heart. He’s aging. He’s actually, truly, properly, aging. He’s older than his mother ever was and has been for quite some time now. He’s older than dozens of his dad’s hunter friends, older than some of his own who’s deaths he can never forget. Eventually, he’ll be older than his dad was, older than Bobby was, and god, he hopes he never outlives Sam.
Stepping out of the shower, he can faintly hear you moving around in the bedroom, likely putting sheets back on. You’ve left him clean sweatpants by the bathroom door that he slides on when he’s dry. He’s about to turn and head back to where you’re waiting for him, when something in the mirror catches his eye.
His own reflection stares back. His own reflection, that Dean’s avoided for so many years for fear of what he might find, watches him with the same kind of wise eyes that Bobby carried as he got older. Hands on the sink, Dean’s eyes rake over himself, and he can’t stop the emotion that chokes up his throat at what he sees. He looks normal. He looks older. He looks alive.
There’s streaks of grey at Dean’s temples that fan out into the rest of his hair, silver moonlight mixing with the brown like a star fell into his hair. He’s got deeper crinkles around his eyes and mouth, the worry lines on his forehead etching harsher than they used to. Some of his oldest scars have almost entirely faded, the tattoo on his chest getting close to needing a touch-up from years of work in the sun. The man staring back at Dean is him, really, truly, him.
Returning back to the bedroom, hair still lightly dripping with water he didn’t quite dry out, he grins at the sight before him. New sheets on the bed; the soft ones that he secretly loves but never says outright. The overhead light turned off, and the bedside lamp turned on, a candle sitting unlit on the table. You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, novel in your lap, hair falling in your eyes as you skim the pages, wearing one of his old sweaters and your pyjama bottoms.
“You’re lookin’ cozy over there,” Dean says, low and warm.
You pick your head up, setting your book aside and opening your arms to him, scooting further up so your back is against the pillows propped up on the headboard.
“You wanna join?” you tease.
“You’re not gonna make me do some weird face-mask crap, are you?”
You giggle. “I could.”
“No.”
There’s no heat to what he’s saying, and he knows you know that, but you still pretend to pout anyway.
“I really wasn’t going to. But I am going to make you comfortable. Wanna treat you a little,” you say.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And how’re you gonna do that, sweetheart?”
“Dean!” you say, smacking his chest when he sits down beside you. “Just-. Lay down. No- no, on your stomach, silly. Not like that, you’re-. Ow, that’s my foot. There we go.”
It takes a bit of adjusting made harder by the simple fact that Dean doesn’t feel like moving too much, and his joints don’t really feel like cooperating, and the warmth of freshly-dried sheets is just too good on his skin. Finally, he gets situated on his stomach, head on a pillow, arms locked around it. He pretends it’s you he’s holding, even though you’re barely an arm’s length away, sitting back on your heels by his hips.
“Whatcha doin’?” Dean mumbles, words distorted by the pillow’s material.
“You looked like you could use a bit of TLC,” you reply.
“TL-. What? Why? I’m doin’ fine.”
You hum, rolling up your sleeves and reaching for the lighter and candle. The lavender one, Dean realizes when he cracks open his eyes to watch you. He doesn’t like the lavender one; it makes his nose all itchy and his head feel sore, and it smells like the couch of some old lady’s place that she died in and never left.
“Not that one,” he whines, arm smacking loosely at your hands.
“What?”
“Not that candle,” he says, pouting.
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Why not? It smells nice.”
“Smells like old lady house. Don’t want it.”
You snort a laugh, putting the candle down. “Okay, fine. What one do you want?”
Dean raises a brow. “Want mine.”
You bend to dig under the bed for Dean’s candle he’d bought and subsequently poorly hid from you for months until you caught him using it one night. Dean can’t help but trail his eyes over the curve of your ass when you bend down, noting the way his sweater rides up on your back, exposing the dimples. He loves nothing more than putting his fingers on those, feeling the way you arch under him.
“This one?” you ask, popping back up with a tan candle in its holder.
Dean nods, pout fading into a toothy smile. “Yeah, that one.”
You light it, holding it to your nose and taking a deep inhale. “Smells like you.”
He nods against the pillow. “I know. ‘S why I like it. Smells manly.”
That makes you laugh for real, and Dean chuckles low in his throat with you.
“Smells manly?” you parrot.
“Yeah.”
You shake your head, setting the candle and lighter down and returning to Dean’s side. He hisses when your cool hands meet his skin, still warm and lightly damp from the shower. Your fingertips trail over his back, connecting freckles and scars and bumps of unknown origins. All he knows is he’s carried them along his entire life, yet you still touch them with reverence like you’re just learning they exist.
He’s about to ask you to move faster when you nudge the waistband of his sweats down a touch, just enough on one side to expose his hip bone. The one that’s been stiff all day, that feels like it’s screaming complaints every time he tries to move it. Your hands run over it with a little pressure, and you frown when you come across a knot.
“You always this tight?” you ask.
“That’s what-,” Dean starts.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, pressing a finger to his lips.
He nips at it playfully, kissing it when you pull away. “Sorry, sorry. I dunno, guess it got all jacked up when I drove back.”
“You’re getting too old to drive that long in Baby,” you tease.
Dean pauses, the realization hitting him somewhere warm and uncertain. “Yeah…guess I am.”
Your fingers work out the knot, pressing in all the right places that make Dean sigh deeply. It feels like you’re pushing all the stress and years of pain out of his body just with your touch, massaging the worst of his nightmares from his skin and chasing them to somewhere far away. Dean doesn’t know how much time it’s been, but eventually you switch to working at the other hip, then on his lower back, rubbing the tension out.
“Doing alright?” you murmur.
Dean makes a noise in reply that’s half sleepy grunt and half acknowledgement, and it makes you smile. His eyes are closed, but he can feel the weight of your grin, the same way he can feel the heaviness of your anxiety or your joy.
“Relax, Dean, I can feel you’re all tense.”
“’M not tense.”
“Right, sure. So, you’re not sore at all, and I’m just doing this for kicks?”
Dean hesitates, breath catching. You’ve read him perfectly yet again, feeling like you know his body better than he does.
“That’s what I thought,” you say, hands resuming their work on his back, trailing ever slowly upward. “Close your eyes, Dean. Take a nap if you have to. This is for you.”
Your hands work higher, running soft circles with your thumbs over his ribs, the heels of your hands digging in to all the tight spots, soothing all the pinches and soreness from a lifetime of over-exertion without enough care. Dean can feel his eyes getting heavy by the time you’re halfway up his back, and when you hit the bottoms of his shoulder blades, his eyes are completely closed, surrendering himself entirely to your touch and trusting you not to hurt him.
When you reach the base of neck and start rubbing small circles there, fingers scratching up into his hair, he’s done for. He’s half-conscious, bubbled in love and warmth and safety, breathing slowly evening into something deep and regular. Dean’s vaguely aware of what he thinks are soft snores bubbling up from deep in his chest, but he’s too far gone to really care.
He’s only barely aware of your hands leaving him, replaced by your lips pressing a plethora of soft kisses to the back of his neck and the skin of his shoulders, all the spots touched by your hands earning a press of your lips too. He’s pretty sure he feels you adjust the pillow under his head and slide into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up over his bare back and tucking them around him. All he really knows is that his arm pulls you close to his chest, and he feels your palm land over his heart, no doubt feeling the beating of it and letting the rhythm drift you off like it has so many times before. Dean’s quick to fall properly asleep, letting your body heat and gentle breathing carry him away, surrounding him in the reminder that he’ll be loved even when he’s fully grey and old, that he’s got everything that matters right here in his arms.
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Epilogue
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colour: pastel blue
season: spring
chosen word: patience
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ your chosen weapon is a shotgun. reliable, steady, and powerful without being flashy. it suits someone who doesn’t rush into chaos but stands firm when it arrives. every move is measured, every decision intentional, guided by the quiet certainty that you’ll always show up when it matters.
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ dean notices your patience long before he realizes how rare it is. the way you wait without resentment, listen without interrupting, and keep learning simply because you’re curious about the world. he watches you bake in the bunker kitchen, flour on your hands, humming softly, and it hits him that you’re the kind of person who makes things better just by staying.
ʚଓ٠࣪⭑ to dean, you’re sugar. said with a grin when he’s teasing, softer when it’s just the two of you.
The smell hits Dean halfway down the hall.
He freezes. Sniffs once. Twice.
“Oh no,” he mutters, already changing direction.
The bunker kitchen is a crime scene of flour-dusted counters and cooling racks, and you’re standing in the middle of it all, focused, patient, blissfully unaware of the hunter approaching like a raccoon in human form.
Dean reaches for a cookie.
Your hand snaps out, catching his wrist mid-grab.
“Uh-uh.”
He looks offended. Deeply. “Sugar. C’mon. I’ve been very good today.”
“You shot a lamp,” you say flatly.
“It was possessed.”
“It was IKEA.”
He sighs dramatically, leaning against the counter. “Okay, but consider this: I am emotionally fragile and cookies help.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, then slide one toward him. “One.”
Dean lights up. “See? Patience. Love that about you.”
He takes a bite, groans loudly, and points at you. “Marry me.”
You shove his shoulder. “Eat your cookie, Winchester.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already reaching for another. “Best decision I ever made, Sugar.”
