╰┈> summary: your obsessed with biting deans biceps.
dean had long since accepted that you were weird.
at first he’d catch you zoning out during research, your chin propped in your palm, eyes nowhere near the lore book in front of you- instead staring at his arms. specifically, whenever he rolled the sleeves of his flannel past his elbows.
dean leaned back in his chair trying—and failing—to hide the smug grin spreading across his face.
“sweetheart” he teased, “you got a thing for muscles?”
you buried your face in your hands with a groan. “…its embarrassing.”
“nah.” his grin widened. “kinda flattering.”
then it started as a joke the first time you grabbed his arm during a movie marathon, frowned thoughtfully before sinking your teeth into the solid curve of his bicep- the toned skin rough under your soft lips.
“ow- what the hell?” dean groaned looking at the noticeable marks of your teeth dug into his skin.
“you just look biteable!” you whined, nudging your cheek into his bicep.
“…seriously? no wonder the hounds love me..”
you nodded with complete sincerity before kissing the mark gently like you hadn’t just assaulted him…
…now it was just… a thing.
dean would be sprawled across the motel bed after a hunt, sleeves rolled up and exhausted. you’d wander over without a word, curl up against his side, wrap around his arm with both hands and bite. not hard enough to hurt—just enough to leave the faint crescent marks and kisses that disappeared by morning.
“there she goes.” dean would sigh dramatically. “my little vampire, always gotta have somethin in your mouth huh?”
you’d hum against his skin taking in his scent- taking in him and refusing to let go while he’d try to keep up the fake complaints.
“y’know normal girlfriends kiss their boyfriends…”
“i do kiss you!”
“you also gnaw on me.”
“it’s affectionate.” you sigh while dean rolls his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck.
“…yeah.” he’d mutter unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth- unable to hide how much he actually enjoys the feel of your lips all over him.
summary: on your way to sioux falls for a one person road trip, your car completely dies. fortunately, your dad knows a guy, at singer auto salvage, who can come tow you. that guy may or may not be dean winchester.
pairings : au older dbf/mechanic! dean x reader (f)
warnings: age gap 20s-40s, dean is a smoker , suggestive dialogue , reader is lowkey a bratty daddy’s girl. probably wrong car lingo. meet cute. no smut (yet). no use of y/n
word count: 4.8k (sorry ik its kinda long lol)
kay’s notes: this is my first time writing anything fanfic related so please keep that in mind. idk what i'm doing and don’t know shit about south dakota. also, this is very self indulgent for me cause i got towed by a friend of my dads a while ago and he said some shit that pissed me clean off but it inspired me to write this cause i love daydreaming about dean. if y’all like this, let me know cause i might continue the story and make it a mini series!
read on ao3
12:43 am
Glancing away from your dashboard and back on the road, you let out a long and drawn out sigh. You’ve been driving through the winding backroads and rolling mountains of South Dakota for nearly four hours now. Driving by yourself for this long is no easy or super entertaining feat in the dead of night like this. Thumbing through your old playlists and listening to podcasts was all you could do to entertain yourself for so long.
The sun had long been set. The headlights on your old beater of a car were trying their best but the soft yellow lights only allowed you so much vision of the dark road ahead.
After trying to entertain your thoughts for so long while staying focused enough for such a tedious drive, the exhaustion started to tug at your eyelids. You had reached the point of boredom where you caught yourself yawning once every few minutes. The steering wheel occasionally veering your car over the lines of the road.
Shaking your head, as if that will brush off your growing tiredness, you decide to call and check in with some of your friends to kill time. Also, because you really can't give in to the sleepiness when you only have like, what, forty five minutes left till you reach the hotel? Pshhh , that's nothing. You've made it this far. What's another few minutes?
You're in the middle of listening to your closest friend recounting an argument that she and her boyfriend had earlier that day when the accelerator of your car lurches forward just a touch. Frowning, you look down at your the dashboard to see if any warning lights are on (other than the check engine light that has mysteriously been on and off for months now). You slip out an "Uh huh" to let your friend know you're still listening to her rant.
She continues, "And then he had the nerve to tell me that I don't respect his relationship wi-"
Your foot continues to press the accelerator only to lurch forward again and then show resistance. And although you're trying to press the gas harder in hopes that it’ll pick back up in speed, the car only seems to slow down with each press of your foot. The harder you press, the car continues to lurch forward just to not go above 15 mph.
Two warning lights pop up around the speedometer and you see one of them is a flashing triangle with an exclamation mark.
“Oh, come the fuck on.” You huff, hitting the steering wheel with your palms, you pull off to the side and turn on your hazard lights.
Your friend, still on the phone, thinks you’re just agreeing with whatever she was ranting about. “I know right? He’s a class act-“ She goes to continue before you cut her off, mid sentence.
“Hey, I’m gonna have to call you back. My car just shit the bed and i’ve still got a ways to go before I can get to the hotel. I gotta call my dad or something.” You say, trying not to let your frustration seep into your tone.
You both say your goodbyes, her wishing you good luck with the car and hoping you get home safe. You hang up and rest your head against the steering wheel, once again huffing a long sigh. In hopes that she might have just needed a break: you try cutting the engine, giving it a few moments, and then restarting..... the warning and check engine lights are still staring back at you.
This is not the first or even second time your beater of a car has left you stranded. The last time you found yourself stuck with that hunk of junk on the side of the road was when you’d paid a weekend trip to the nearest body of water. You’d made it all the way there just for the starter to completely give up on you once you tried to leave. Your dad had to drive two and a half hours to the beach just to come fix it for you.
Thankfully, you knew that you could count on him in this moment to tell you what to do and who to call.
Your dad picks up your facetime call after the first ring. His glasses hanging on the tip of his nose and his smile lights up his entire face upon seeing you. The angle of his phone fully showing off his double chin. You can’t help but smile seeing his sweet face. "Hey, sweetie. The drive going okay? You can't be too far from the hotel by now."
“Well, I was about forty five minutes out from the hotel… but look at this shit.” You flip the camera to show him your lit up dashboard and pause for dramatic effect.
You see your dad squinting his eyes through your screen, adjusting his glasses on his nose to see better.
You continue, “It started doing that thing where it lurches when I press the gas, then just stopped going altogether. I can’t get my speed above 15 miles per hour and these two service lights popped up.”
He pauses, “Alright…… well, can you make it to the hotel?” As if getting to your destination with your car like that was still in the realm of possibility.
“Dad, what? I just told you, I can’t get any speed. The harder I pressed on the gas, the more it slowed down. I can’t get anywhere like this. ”
Another pause. “Did you try cuttin’ it off and back on?”
“Yep.” You’re starting to get frustrated with him. Just because you’re a young woman, doesn’t mean that you’re completely clueless. Even if you’re starting to feel that way. Being stranded in the dark, on the side of a back road, by yourself, and so far from home has the feeling of helplessness clawing its way up your throat.
“Where are you right now? Try seeing if that worked and if it’ll let you drive any further.” He asks, in hopes that the car will somehow, miraculously, fix itself.
Checking your review and side mirrors to make sure it’s clear, putting the car in drive. You try creeping the car forward, only for it to make a god awful crunching noise soon as you press the gas pedal.
Your dad grimaces at the noise and says, “Woah woah. Okay, kid. Just pull off to the side. Send me your location. I have a friend in Sioux Falls that might be able to tow you, god willin’. ”
You let out a sigh of relief, tilting your head back towards the ceiling. You could always count on him to help you out of tough situations like this one. And while you’re so far away from home, he still finds a way to look out for you, even if he can't physically be there. “Thank you.”
He nods his head. “Let me give him a call for you. Please, be careful and keep me updated when you're somewhere safe, hon.”
Dean was currently in the middle of kicking ass in a game of pool at a bar called 'Local Waterin Hole' when he got the call from Bobby. After a long day of working out in the heat of the summer, he had needed to let off some steam with a nice cold drink. Maybe he would even meet a pretty girl while he was there. He deserved it, after putting in so many hours at the shop this past week.
Pulling his phone out the back pocket of his jeans, he sees Bobby's name light up across the screen. Bobby doesn't call him this late on a Saturday night unless it's something important. With a frown, he answers. Short and sweet, straight to the point. "You good?"
He hears Bobby chuckle on the other end. "M' alright, son. I do need to ask a favor from you, though."
Dean turns away from the pool tables and starts to head towards the door, game already forgotten. He steps out into the warm night air and responds. "Depends on what that favor is."
It really doesn't depend , because he's already starting to cross the parking lot and headed towards his work truck. There's not many favors he wouldn't do for Bobby. The old man may be ornery, but he's done a lot for Dean. More than his real father ever did.
"You remember when we restored the Impala... we got the new wheels from a guy in Kansas? I believe you've met him a few times now. He and I go way back." He mentions your fathers name and Dean cracks a grin, nodding his head. He had indeed met your father a few times. Big car guy with a good sense of humor and kind eyes.
"What about him?" He urges Bobby to continue. Once he reaches the truck, he pulls out a cigarette and takes a long, drawn out puff, mentally preparing himself for whatever this favor might be.
"Well, he's got a car broke down about an hour out from town. Says he's got precious cargo and needs a tow.... said he'd pay more, if need be. I know it's late but I don't have any other drivers out right now. Figured you wouldn't mind making a little extra money."
Dean takes another drag, mulling it over. It's late and the last thing he wants to do after a long day of working is add on another one to two hours of work. But he knows he'll do it. Because it's the right thing to do and if he doesn't, who will? Bobby? Nah, he wouldn't make the old man do that, he cared about him too much. And Bobby did have a point: Dean does not at all mind having a little extra money in his pocket.
He drops the cigarette and puts it out with the heel of his boot. "Alright, send me the location and make of the car. Good thing I'm still in the work truck and not the Impala. I'll head that way now."
He can feel Bobby's appreciation through the phone. "I knew I could always count on you, boy."
"Yeah yeah, but don't expect me to come into work on time tomorrow. I'm still gonna need my eight hours of beauty sleep after bein’ out so late."
And with that, Dean climbs into the old pickup truck and peels out of the parking lot, back to work.
Dean drove for about an hour on the backroads just outside of Sioux Falls before he finally pulled up on the old Honda accord with its hazard lights on.
Pulling off the side of the road in front of the car, he puts the truck in park and goes to hop out. Taking a few steps towards the Honda, he sees through its windshield that while the car is still running, the driver is nowhere in sight.
He swivels his head around, looking for anyone. It’s hard for him to tell though, surrounded by a long dark road and forests. The headlights from his truck and the stranded car are the only thing helping him see.
“Hellooo, anybody here?” He says, rather loudly. Thinking that the man couldn’t have gotten far. The nearest store is at least a thirty minute walk and he can’t imagine anyone abandoning their car- while it’s still running, mind you- in the middle of the night.
So Dean stands there, hands on his hips, staring at the open road, then looking back toward the car. He won't say it out loud, but he kind of hates these late night tow's. Especially right now. He can't help but think back to his past- about what horrors could be lurking in the dark. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peers inside the window of the car and sees a big suitcase, several travel bags, and stuffed animals in the back seat. Is this the precious cargo he was told about? It just looks to him like a bunch of travel stuff. Who considers a bunch of clothes and stuffies 'precioius cargo'? He thought to himself.
Rustling sounds come from the tree line behind him, and quickly he spins around, worried that it might be some kind of animal- or worse. Now, he's really wishing his pistol wasn’t at least 10 feet away, locked up inside the glovebox of his work truck. His right hand is itching to hold some sort of self defense.
Suddenly, he sees a figure stumble out of the tree line, using what looks to be a cellphone flashlight. He instinctually takes a single step back towards the truck, inching closer to safety. "Uh... Hello?" He says, feeling uneasy.
The figure shines their phone light towards his face so he puts a hand up to block the light from nearly blind him. "Oh thank god, finally." You say, sighing in relief.
"Could you uh.... get the light out my face? Can’t see." He says, still holding his palm up awkwardly. His patience thinning by the second.
You quickly turn the light off and place the phone in your sweatshirt pocket. Giving him a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that. I've been stuck here a while and uh..... had to pee."
Now that the light wasn't there to make it so difficult to see, his eyes took a moment to adjust. He blinked up at the woman in front of him, feeling a tad bit confused. He was expecting to pick up a fifty to sixty something grown man- not the girl in front of him. You wore on a pair of black sleep shorts with pink hearts, very fuzzy pink slippers, and an oversized sweatshirt with your hair messily tucked into the collar. Cute.
She has to be, what, mid twenties? He can't help but wonder how a pretty young thing like you wound up so far from home, alone at that.
"S'no problem. Just caught me off guard. You uh... out here all by yourself? I thought I was gonna be picking up a friend of Bobby's." He mentions your dad's name.
"Yes, sir. It's just me. My dad called y'all for me since I'm not super familiar with the area. I was driving up to come spend some of the summer with my Aunt, she stays in Madison. The car kinda just..... stopped going out of nowhere."
Dean makes his way back over to his truck to quickly grab his bag of tools from the passenger floorboard. "Can you pop the hood f'me? I wanna see if it's something I can fix real quick or if I need to tow it to the shop."
You silently do as he says, sitting in the drivers seat of your car with the door open, waiting to be told what to do next.
Dean digs through his bag, then curses. He tilts his body so you can see his head from behind the car hood. "Do you mind comin' over here and bringing that light back out? Think I forgot mine at the shop."
You mumble out a 'yes sir', the politeness your parents raised you with always shining through. Closing the car door and moving to stand next to the open hood, you shine the phone light for him.
He looks down at the engine and then back up at you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You don't need to call me sir, by the way. Usually makes me feel old when people say that. My name's Dean."
You tell him your name with a small bashful smile again, "Sorry, force of habit."
He continues poking around in the engine, clearly knowing what to look for, then asks you what the car was doing. You recount everything that happened with the car, leading up to now.
Dean lets out a "hmmm" to himself, clearly focused on finding out the problem. You stared, admiring his side profile with only the dim phone light allowing you to see. He held his bottom lip between his teeth and his brows were scrunched together in concentration. Boy, was he a sight for sore eyes. Even in the dark of night, shadows covering half his face, you could see just how handsome he is.
He glances back up to you, green eyes catching your stare. The light you were holding wasn't even shining under the hood anymore, but towards the ground. You clear your throat, moving the light back to the car, feeling a tad flustered and very distracted.
When your dad said he had someone on the way to pick you up, you were under the impression that it would be his old friend, Bobby, whom you'd briefly met a time or two. Sometimes he and your father would attend car shows together. So needless to say that you were thoroughly (and somewhat pleasantly) surprised when a very handsome Dean Winchester came to save the day instead. Had you'd known a hunk like this would pull up, you probably would have worn something a bit more presentable. Hell, you would've at least brushed your hair or sprayed some perfume, or popped in a mint. Something, anything to not feel so out of your element right now.
Dean breaks the awkward silence first, "So I'm thinking, with what you described.... Its either a bad coil pack issue or a transmission issue." He pauses making a clicking noise with his tongue. "Which means, it'll either be a easy fix or you might need to consider a whole new transmission."
At that, your brows raise and you run your hand down the front of your face, letting out an exaggerated groan.
"This car is not worth buying a new transmission. I mean, look at it." You gesture towards the beater, lightly kicking the front tire.
He lets out a soft chuckle, "Yeah, I was gonna say it but didn't wanna come off rude. Either way, you're gonna need a tow so I can look it over at the shop. Grab the stuff you need, go ahead n' put it in the truck. I'll load your car up. There's a motel near the shop I can drop you off at."
He closes the hood of your car and watches as you grab all of your bags from the back seat, as well as a dinosaur shaped stuffed animal, which immediately falls to the ground as you adjust a tote on your shoulder. You have so much stuff that once the first thing falls, two other bags start to slide down your shoulder. You can't remember the last time you felt this flustered in front of a stranger.
Deans brows raise so high, he feels like they could be touching his hairline. "Jesus, sweetheart. Here, give me somethin' to carry."
He moves to grab your stuffy from the ground and relieving you of the bag falling from your shoulder. You feel a blush creep up your neck at the pet name.
You follow him to the passenger side of the truck, he opens the door for you.
"M'not sure if I have enough room for all these bags, hon. When I said 'stuff you need', I didn't think you'd bring everything but the kitchen sink." He smirks, looking you over as you start put all your stuff in the floorboard.
The Singer Auto Salvage work truck is clearly on the older side. You can tell by the bench seat and the worn down 8 ball gear shifter. The radio was also a clear giveaway, no bluetooth or CD player in sight, just tapes. The ceiling has some sort of.... drawing? It looks like some sort of symbol, but you can't really tell.
Pushing the thoughts of weird sigils aside, you get to work with the bags. You're practically playing a game of Tetris, trying to find a way to fit all your stuff in the small cab of the truck. You still respond to him cheerfully, "It's better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it! I like to be prepared."
Dean shakes his head once, still standing behind you, stupidly holding the stuffed dinosaur until you're ready to take it off his hands. He watches as you stand up on your tip toes to move the bags around. His head tilts and eyes catch the hem of your shorts lifting higher up your ass as you reach up. He can feel his mouth starting to water at the sight and really wishes it wasn't so dark outside so he could see you better.
He finds himself staring until you turn around to take the stuffy from his arms. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his mouth. He's biting his lip again.
Jesus, I need to calm down. He thinks to himself. She's way too young for you, dude.
Taking the ridiculously sized dinosaur stuffy from him, you give him a awkward toothless smile, and climb into the truck. Dean being the gentleman that he is, closes the door for you. He proceeds to take a few minutes loading your car up onto the truck before climbing in next to you. The entire passenger side floorboard has been stuffed full with your things, giving you no leg room, so you're forced to sit with your legs criss crossed. He can't help but find his eyes trailing over your smooth thighs, and it takes some serious effort to keep his eyes on the road.
The car ride is quiet for the first few minutes, apart from Metallica playing quietly on the radio, both of you not really knowing what to say. You fiddle with the dinosaur on your lap and stare out the window, even though it's too dark to really see the world beyond.
Dean is the one who breaks the silence first. One hand on the wheel, he spares a glance at you, that killer smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "So, daddy might have to buy you a new car now, huh?"
He doesn't know why he said it. He thought it might make you laugh. He just needed to say something, anything to break the awkward silence.
You immediately whip your head to look over to him with a grimace. "Absolutely not, I can pay for my own car. I don't need daddy or any man to pay for anything." Your sweet 'yes sir' tone has completely turned to ice after that comment.
But the sound of the word 'daddy' coming from your mouth sends a wave of heat over Dean's neck.
He tries to play off the fumble and gives you nonchalant shrug, "I dunno, I just figured your dad was a car guy. He called Bobby for you and said he had 'precious cargo'" Lifting his hand to make air quotes, "Which- I now know... was referring to you. I just figured you're probably a daddy's girl or somethin'."
You scrunch your nose up at the term. Modern day media has completely ruined it for you. You haven't called your dad that since you were, like, ten years old. And while he isn't wrong- you are a daddy's girl- something about being called that just rubs you the wrong way. Makes you feel like people think you're spoiled or dependent on your father for everything.
"Don't call me that." You say, crossing your arms over your chest.
Putting on his most charismatic smile, Dean says, "Easy there, darlin'. Didn't mean to offend. Was honestly just tryin' to make conversation..... we got at least another forty minutes before I can get you to a motel."
You roll your eyes, "You afraid of silence or something?"
He scoffs incredulously. "What? No." His brows scrunch together, surprised at your accusation. "Sweetheart, it's nearly 2am and I'm just tryin' to stay awake. I don't usually take calls this late."
You stay quiet, regretting catching an attitude with him over something so small. He lets the silence linger in the air before letting out an exaggerated yawn. He sits up higher and blinks a few times to try and push away the tiredness, tapping the steering wheel along to the music.
His yawn makes you yawn. It is pretty late. And who can blame him for wanting to strike up conversation? Not only to kill the awkward quiet, which actually does bother him, but keep his energy up.
You throw him a question just to appease him, "So.... how long have you been working for Bobby?"
"Boy, is that a loaded question." He mutters.
"I'm... sorry?" You're confused by his answer.
He seems to think very carefully about what he says next. "Well... we used to work together before he opened the company. He was....hunting buddies with my dad- which is how I know him. I started working at the auto salvage about 5 or 6 years ago, now?"
"What did you do before?" You ask. The way he answered the previous question has you more and more curious about him.
"Uhh, I was big into huntin'...for work. Family business." Now he won't look away from the road.
He's very clearly dancing around the topic, for whatever reason. You don't want to push so you just say, "Okay..."
"What about you? Are you visiting for work or pleasure?" He's trying to change the subject. You don't bring any attention to it.
"Both, I guess? I just needed to get away this summer and my aunt offered a free place to stay. I'm thinking about finding something part time though, for extra spending money." You continue to rub at the eyes of your stuffy, needing to do something with your hands.
Dean notices. "Do you really sleep with that thing or?"
"Who, him?" You ask, propping the dino upright on your lap. "Yeah, I like having something to hold onto when I sleep. He's cute, right?"
He looks back over to you and grimaces. The dinosaur stuffy is tired, to say the least. The fabric looks like it's faded in color, probably much brighter when it was still new. One of the plastic eyeballs is literally hanging on by a thread and there's multiple stitching spots that he can only assume came from wear and tear.
"Ehh I wouldn't go that far.... cute ain't the word I'd use. Your boyfriend doesn't get jealous of that thing?" He asks, really just trying to know more about you. He can't help himself.
"Actually, yeah..."
Dean feels disappointment and jealousy seep through him at the thought of you having a boyfriend. Why isn't the guy here on this trip with you then? He can't help but wonder what kind of loser lets his girl go on a trip so far, driving by herself, without a reliable means of transportation. He would never.
You continue. Laughing as you recall the memory, "My ex used to get weirdly jealous about it. One time, he tried to throw this cutie away and then acted like he didn't know what I was talking about when I found him in the trash. Can you believe that?"
He cracks the biggest grin yet, stealing another glace at you from the corner of his eye. "So... no boyfriend?"
You feel the redness creeping across your cheeks at that, suddenly feeling shy. "Nope."
Dean feels his heart sore with satisfaction at the thought of you being single. An idea pops into his head.
"Ya know.... there's a diner right across from the shop that might be hiring. We get lunch there jus' about every day..... I could always put in a good word for you. And if that doesn't work out, Bobby could always use some help with the book keeping." He shrugs, trying to play it cool. Nonchalant.
"Since you mentioned needin’ a job," He adds hastily.
The last thing he wants right now is to come off too eager or interested in helping a girl clearly too young for him. Bobby would give him hell for fooling around with his friends daughter. But he can't deny- especially with you in the passenger seat, wearing those tiny shorts- that the idea is mighty tempting.
You perk up in your seat, eyes filled with excitement. "Really? That would be great, actually. Thank you."
"Of course, ‘m happy to help. Might ask you to slide me a slice of pie or two..... ya know, for repayment." He says, mostly kidding.
"If you help me find a job this summer, I'll bring you all the pie you want. It'd take a big weight off my shoulders." You say, a grateful grin taking up your entire face.
Dean looks over to you again, your dazzling smile stealing his breath. It takes all his power to pull his eyes back to the road.
Boy, is he in for it now.
gonna start working on pt. 2 tonight. y’all, i wrote a lot of this while healing from a concussion so my apologies if there’s any typos. thank you for making it this far and lmk what you think <3
contents ٠࣪⭑ Sam Winchester x reader, established relationship, Sam’s in love, major fluff, 422 word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ here’s a little Sam drabble cuz I love him sm and have been dying to write for him, this was written in like 10 min after seeing Sam in a suit in s5 (rewatch) 🤭
“Stop messing with it” you chuckled under your breath, putting your quick makeup applying to an end, making your way over to your struggling boyfriend.
Sam grumbled something under his breath with a huff of slight frustration, his big hand fiddling with the tie around his neck, pulling at the collar in a feeble attempt to get more comfortable.
You called his name, like an owner does to get their puppy’s attention when it’s doing something it shouldn’t but still looks so cute. You wordlessly reached for his collar and flipped it up. Delicate hands undoing the tie completely before adjusting and tying it again, this time looser.
“You always do it too tight,” you murmured, flattening your hands over the tie going down his chest, and flipping the collar back down before doing some final adjustments.
He hasn’t looked away from you the entire time, a small fond smile on his lips and a lovesick look glazed over his eyes. His hand gently rested on your waist, his thumbs mindlessly caressing over your cheap dress-shirt.
“There— very handsome, agent” you smiled, tugging a little on said tie and lifting on your toes to bring him into a kiss.
He kissed you back, smiling into it just like you did— you always made him smile, more than he can remember anyone in his life being able to. His hands tightened just a little on your waist, pulling you closer ever so slightly, given your already close proximity.
Even though you were the one to initiate it, you melted into the kiss as you always did, a quiet contented sigh passing through your lips onto his. Like kissing him was some sort of medicine that you’ve been prescribed to take daily in order to survive.
The kiss didn’t deepen but the moment did, it was stretched out like molasses slowly pouring down into a thick puddle at your feet. You both pulled away just enough for your lips to separate, smile even wider than before. You stayed there just a little longer, foreheads touching, living in the puddle for a moment.
“We better get going” you whispered, pressing a sweet peck to his cheek and stepping back. Flattening his tie once more before throwing on your suit jacket.
“Let’s put those big, beautiful puppy dog eyes to use and milk some information out of people” You chimed, giving a quick playful tap on his behind as you passed, accompanied by a giggle.
Sam just smiled and shook his head, he’s so gone for you.
Summary: After discovering things about the hunt that you and the Winchester brothers did, Sam was extremely exhausted and too hot to bother. But apparently, not exhausted when it comes to you.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI!, Smut with no plot, Pet names, cockwarming, riding, fingers, unprotected piv, grinding, whimpering, perverted thoughts, blowjob, face fucking, neck biting,, pussy play, afab!reader, no mentions of Yn, size difference, risky public sex, dirty talk, playful teasing, fluff. Your Sammy isn't a sweetie when it comes to bed, or should I say car?
Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader
Note: If anyone is wondering, my thumb healed😌✌️ —I'm sorry for late the post, my service is really bad in the meantime.
You both were sitting on your car, staring out the window. Sam had his head resting on his arm, glaring at the wheel half-heartedly. He was exhausted from too much huntings, and Dean would even want a rest, even for an hour or so. He's way past that— thinking that hunt will just subside his feelings about what he went through in hell.
And Sam is just there on the back of the car with the seat inclined so he was laying down, thinking about how much he wanted to claim you ever since the day you met. He's turning feral about the thought of you. The image of you cumming on his cock, moaning his name until your voice turns hoarse, or when you ride him with so much pleasure because he's filling you up too much.
He wanted you so bad, worshipping you more than how he believes in God. Sometimes he doubt it. The existence of the man from above. But fuck, he had seen everything that glimpse past his eyes. Demons, Monsters, Wendingos, everything.
He turned to look at you, swallowing a pit in his stomach that he can hardly contain. He cleared his throat, sitting up slightly and rests his body weight on his elbow. His hair looked fluffy, his face looks so adorable. But his thoughts differ.
"Hey." He was the first to break the silence, staring at you— no, staring down at your body. Straight to your breasts and down to your exposed legs. One could mistake him as a lusting Demon. Oh wait, he is one. Partially.
You looked at him, raising a single eyebrow that you could manage. "Yeah?" You replied shortly, staring back at his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I can't get you out of my damn head." He blurted out purposely, his face slightly scrunching at the thought of you, biting his lip awkwardly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Hey, Sammy?" You called.
He looked back at you. "Oh, yeah? Why?"
"Stop being a bitch and tell me what you want." You demanded lightly, sitting up and stared at him with sternness in your eyes.
"You."
You slipped from the driver's seat and into the backseat, gripping the back of his neck before kissing him roughly— with him kissing you back with the same force you offered at the first place. He grunted softly, pulling you on his lap with his hands on your ass. Sam looked up at you, pulling away to stare at your face before pressing his lips against yours once again.
Not missing a chance to bite your lip, he was already moving his way to your shorts. He chuckles, slipping a hand inside. "Tell me." He whispered to your ear, rubbing a gentle circle on your clit.
"Please, please, Sammy.."
He tilted his head to the side in mockery, slowing down his movements. "Uh-huh?"
"Fuck, Sammy. Please make me feel good.." You begged, staring down at him. You received a smirk from him, feeling his fingers dipping inside your entrance. You moaned, moving your hips against his hand that was fingering you open. And you felt another finger prod at your entrance, you clenched your eyes shut but you can hear him breath heavily.
He grunted quietly, pulling you towards him and kissed you while scissoring you open. His fingers curled inside you, finding the spot that is sensitive out of everything, like an Angel on a mission. And he succeeded without any struggle. You moaned against his lips, both hands gripping on his hair tightly, and he moaned at the slight burn of how you tug on his hair.
"Please, fuck—!" You cried out, feeling a third finger enter you. "No, no, Sammy! I can't take it anymore!" You moaned, burying your face on the crook of his neck and clenched your eyes shut.
"Of course you can, you know damn well that if you can't take my fingers, then you can't take my cock." He whispered on your ear hoarsely, biting the shell of your skin with a grin. He pulled his fingers out without letting you cum, which made you grunt in anger.
"Why would you do that?" You hissed, staring down at him with hunger in your eyes. He grinned, lifting you up and took off his jeans, along with his underwear.
"Because I need you to do something else for me." He said, voice hoarse and tight. "You choose, suck or fuck?"
You didn't dare to say another word, getting down between his legs and didn't even bother caring about how tight the backseat is. You looked up at him, offering him a not-so-innocent smile. He touched your cheeks gently before it slid on your head and he wrapped your hair around his hand tightly.
You parted your lips, spitting on his cock and he moaned softly. With your saliva smearing on his tip, you leaned down and took him in your mouth— every inch, and gagged around him. You didn't move, looking up at him which told him that you want him to take control. So he fucked your face.
He grunted and moaned, and whimpered. Everything. Fucking your mouth till the last bit, and he pulled you up with the mixture of saliva and cum on your mouth. He kissed you harshly, pulling you back on his lap to steady you and take his cock without another word.
He kissed your jaw, and bite your neck before sucking to make it more pleasurable. You sunk on his cock, moaning loudly and wrapped your arms around his neck. Your head threw back from the pleasure, grinding your hips against his lap. He moaned, clenching his eyes shut.
"Damn, baby.." He grunted, lifting his hips to meet your thrust. You were riding him and him fucking you at the same time. It was overwhelming. He pulled your shirt off, and without saying anything— he took your breast on his mouth, and kneeding the other while fucking you. You moved up and down his lap, looking down and felt his hand leave your breast and pull his face away. He looked down as you fuck yourself on his cock, his hand pressing on your lower abdomen that was sculpting the shape of his cock every thrust.
"M’that big, huh?" He chuckles, resting both of his hands on the either side of your waist and move you up and down his length. He was long.. and thick. He grunted, clenching his eyes shut and threw his head back. "Shit, yes, yes. Fuck, yes!"
He growled, gritting his teeth together. Your hips spasm on the way of cumming, moaning loudly. You were thankful the car was parked in the middle of nowhere and it's midnight. That sex was more exhausting that the restless hunt you did.
"Shit.." You breathed out heavily.
"Some other time?" He joked half-heartedly.
"Some other time." You agreed, still sitting on his lap with his cock inside you.
Summary: Dean was having nightmares again. Every time he closed his eyes, the horrors of his past were right there to tear him apart. Hell might claim his sleep, but your touch was enough to bring him back.
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings/Tags: Implied/mentioned Hell trauma, nightmare comfort, panic attacks, angst to comfort, emotional distress, PTSD, fluff, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no description of reader, no smut, no gender for reader mentioned
A/N: this had been hiding in my drafts for a while now... have fun reading !!
Dean had begun having nightmares again. His conscience was never clear—he knew that much—and every hunt only served as a fresh reminder.
He tossed and turned, tangled in the stiff sheets of another cheap motel bed. The blanket was bunched up at his feet, useless against the chill, but Dean couldn't find the energy to fix it.
Another night, another bar, another cheap hangover meant to drown out the noise in his head. None of it ever worked for long.
A few feet away, Sam was fast asleep, breathing evenly. Dean used to make jokes about Sam's old visions, but lately, the thought of prophetic dreams didn't even bother him. At least those were useful. Dean's dreams were just blood, fire, and memories he couldn't scrub out of his skin.
Castiel was off handling heavenly business somewhere, which left dean alone with his own head. Who would care about him anyway?
"I do," a quiet voice murmured.
Dean jolted, his eyes snapping open as he scrambled back against the thin headboard. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
You were already sitting on the edge of his bed. You stared down at him with that usual quiet, unreadable gaze—deep and entirely unfazed by his sudden panic.
You was an angel, much like Cas, but younger by angelic standards. Still learning how humans worked, still trying to make sense of emotional baggage. But you had taken to the Winchesters quickly. Or, more accurately, you had taken to Dean.
After months of dealing with Cas's complete lack of human awareness, teaching you basic social etiquette felt like second nature to him—even if you still didn't quite get the concept of boundaries.
"Jesus—" Dean rasped out, his voice rough from sleep and cheap whiskey. He dragged a palm down his face, taking a slow, shaky breath in a desperate attempt to steady himself.
"How many times have I told you about personal space? Scared the hell outta me."
"You were dreaming," You said softly, non-plussed by his exasperation. You didn't move away. If anything, you tilted your head slightly, studying the tense line of his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes.
"You were screaming in your head."
Dean swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. He hated how easily you could see right through him, but at the same time... he couldn't bring himself to tell you to leave.
"I was fine," he muttered, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
"You weren't," you replied softly. You didn't say it to argue or mock him, it was simply just a matter-of-fact observation.
You moved just a fraction closer, careful not to startle him again, but close enough that he could feel the faint, soothing aura that always seemed to follow you.
"It's just the usual stuff," Dean grunted, looking away toward the grimy window of the motel room. "Occupational hazard."
"Hell isn't just an occupational hazard, Dean."
The word hung in the quiet room, heavy and dark. Dean flinched slightly, his jaw tightening.
He opened his mouth to spit out another defensive deflect, but the look in your eyes stopped him cold. There was no pity there, just a deep, unwavering understanding that made his chest ache.
Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out.
Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.
Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out. Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.
At first, Dean went entirely still. Every instinct trained him to flinch away from vulnerability, to put up walls and pretend he was fine. But as your thumb lightly rubbed over his knuckles, a familiar, grounding warmth washed over him.
It wasn't the fiery grace of an attack or the overwhelming power of older angels; it was soft, steady, and entirely safe. Unfamiliar to him.
The phantom heat of Hell’s fires slowly began to recede, replaced by the cool, real air of the motel room and the gentle pressure of your hand.
A quiet gasp escaped Dean's lips as his shoulders finally dropped, weeks of tension melting away in an instant. He didn't let go of your hand. In fact, his fingers tightened around yours, holding on like a lifeline.
"Stay," Dean rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, so low he was sure Sam wouldn't hear even if he woke up. "Just… for a bit."
You offered him a faint, reassuring nod, shifting up to sit beside him against the headboard, keeping your hand wrapped snugly in his.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."
The motel room settled back into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The only sound was the rhythmic hum of the ancient mini-fridge in the corner and Sam’s steady breathing from the far bed.
Outside, a light rain began to tap softly against the glass. It masked the dark, terrifying memories still trying to claw their way back into Dean’s head.
Dean didn't move an inch.
He sat frozen, his back pressed flat against the flimsy headboard. His hand was still anchored tightly around yours.
For a man who spent every waking hour pretending he was made of iron, holding onto you felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.
You didn't press him to speak.
Instead, you shifted slightly on the edge of the mattress, pulling your feet up to sit cross-legged beside him.
Your grace—soft, calm, and steady—hummed gently beneath your skin. It radiated a subtle warmth that slowly seeped into his frozen hands.
"You're shaking, Dean," you murmured. Your voice was soft, completely devoid of judgment.
Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight.
He looked down at your joined hands. His knuckles were raw and bruised from the day's hunt, contrasting sharply against your calm, steady touch.
"Just cold," he lied automatically. The defensive reflex was as natural to him as breathing.
"You aren't cold," you replied simply.
You brushed your free hand over his forearm, resting it gently against the crook of his elbow.
"You're afraid."
A sharp, defensive huff left Dean's lips, but the fight had completely drained out of him. He couldn't even muster up a glare.
"Yeah, well... you spend forty years in the pit, see how easy it is to sleep through the night."
"I know," you said quietly. "I know it doesn't just leave you. But you're not there anymore."
You leaned in slightly. "Look at me, Dean."
It took him a long moment to respond. His jaw clenched and unclenched before he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours.
The green of his eyes was glassy, brimmed with unshed tears he was fighting desperately to hold back.
"You are in a motel in Ohio," you told him softly.
"Sam is right over there. The air is cool. The rain is falling."
You held his gaze. "The fire is gone." Slowly, you reached up with your free hand.
You hesitated for a split second before brushing your thumb softly over his cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.
That single touch seemed to shatter whatever last thread of composure Dean was holding onto.
A shuddering breath hitched in his chest. Before he could stop himself, his head sagged forward until his forehead rested heavily against your shoulder.
He didn't cry out—Dean never allowed himself to break like that.
Instead, his breath came in short, ragged gasps against the fabric of your shirt. His grip on your hand tightened until it was almost painful, but you didn't pull away.
You wrapped your arm around his broad shoulders, pulling him in close until he was completely enveloped by your grace.
"I can still smell it," Dean rasped out. His voice was muffled against your shoulder, entirely stripped of his usual bravado.
"Every time I close my eyes... the ash, the sulfur. It's like I never left."
"I know," you whispered, resting your chin lightly against the top of his head. You began tracing slow, soothing circles into the tight muscle between his shoulder blades.
"Memory is a heavy burden for a human mind. But it is just a ghost, Dean. It cannot burn you here."
"Feels real enough," he grumbled. Yet, the tremor in his shoulders was finally beginning to slow down.
"I am real, too," you reminded him softly. "Focus on my voice."
Angels were, by nature, celestial beings—sharp, terrifying, and unyielding.
But sitting on that sagging motel mattress, you smoothed away every sharp edge of your being. You let your grace settle into a slow, gentle pulse that mirrored a calm heartbeat.
Dean focused on it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the comforting scent that surrounded you—like ozone after a storm, clean wood, and crisp night air.
Slowly, the lingering stench of blood and sulfur in his throat faded away. Minutes bled into one another in the dark.
Neither of you spoke as the quiet rhythm of breathing replaced the heavy panic in the room.
Dean’s rigid posture slowly melted. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder as the sheer weight of a sleepless week caught up to him.
"You're terrible at personal space," Dean muttered after a long while. There was no real bite to the words, his voice thick with sleep.
"You asked me to stay," you pointed out gently, a tiny smile touching your lips.
"Yeah... well. Don't go making a habit out of it."
"I will stay as long as you need me to."
Dean didn't answer that.
He just leaned into your side a little more, his hand finally relaxing its tight grip on yours, though his fingers remained loosely intertwined.
The suffocating knot in his chest had finally unravelled, replaced by a deep, heavy calm.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your position so he could lean back comfortably without pulling away.
With one hand resting over his and the other continuing slow, comforting strokes along his back, you watched as his breathing evened out.
For the first time in weeks, Dean Winchester slept in peace.
Summary: Dean comes back to the motel hurt. You take care of him, because Lord knows he won't take care of himself.
Word Count: 1.1K <3
Tags: Gender neutral reader, fluff, first kiss
Warnings: Minor wound care and mentions of blood
Note: Hi! This is my first Supernatural fic :) I'm a little bit new to Tumblr formatting (and currently figuring out how I want my future fics to look) but I'm excited to be posting! Enjoy <3
Dean nearly crashes in through the door of the motel room. He has a slight limp and uses one hand to feel against the wall of the dark room. Blood is seeping through his black shirt, which glints in the moonlight, and sweat stings against the scratches on his face. None of the wounds bother him as much as the pounding in his head.
You’re asleep under the covers when Dean goes into the bathroom, turning the sink on and hurriedly running through the first-aid bag Sam had prepared months ago. There’s basic bandages, cleaning pads, and neosporin. No medicine.
Dean curses.
“Dean?” You say, half-asleep and bleary.
“—fuck, where’s the fucking—“
You rustle in the covers and swing your legs out. There’s a clock on the bedside table, blinking 3AM in red digits. The crack of light from the bathroom door gently illuminates the small bedroom area.
You walk slowly and raise your hand to knock gently. You can already see him. He’s seated on the edge of the bathtub, rinsing his hands under the faucet. It goes down the drain in shades of brown and red.
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice is gruff. “Go back to bed.”
Your brows furrow. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve got it,” Dean tells you, but winces as he moves.
“Let me in,” you say. “Please.”
You push the door open all the way, and your eyes go to his clothing. His bruises and scratches. Your lips press in a thin line.
“Where’s Sam?”
“He’s handling it,” Dean answers.
“Can I take a look?”
He says nothing but moves his legs aside to make room. You crouch in front of him, your head nearly touching his knees. The first aid kit is in his hands, which you start to sort through.
“Here, hold these,” you say. You hand Dean the largest bandages and the neosporin, but take the cleaning pads away from him. “Those are going to hurt if I use them. I’m going to lift your shirt up, okay?”
Dean nods.
Your fingers reach out to the hem of his shirt, and you can already feel the heat of his skin underneath. You take in a breath as you take the black material and begin to lift. His torso is smooth, tan, and muscular. Your eyes hardly know where to go, flicking from his grim face to his exposed skin.
As more of the wound is revealed, you see that it’s a bad scrape, mingled with dirt, sweat, and torn bits of his now ruined shirt. Dean grips the edge of the tub.
There’s a small cup on the countertop, which you take and start to fill with clean water from the faucet.
“How?”
“Security found us in the graveyard. Told Sammy to finish burning the bones while I dealt with it.”
Classic salt-and-burn, which is why they didn’t take you along. The morning before, you had been out in town, trying to investigate if any of the ghost sightings were connected. No luck, but Sam seemed set on it.
“And the Impala?”
“Still with him. I walked here.”
“God, Dean,” you sigh.
Each gentle pour of water runs down his side and into the drain. Some of it gets on the waistband of his pants. Neither of you say anything about it, but your face is flushed. You want to blame the body heat permeating in the small space, or how Dean’s eyes never seem to leave your concentrated face.
“I’ve been dragged to hell once or twice,” he says simply. “No need to fuss over a scrape.”
“That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.”
Fresh blood wells as the wound becomes more visible underneath.
Dean is quiet for a second. “Did I wake you?”
You smile softly with closed lips. “What do you think?”
“My head is fucking killing me. I wasn’t thinking about it.”
“I have medicine in my bag. I have to clean this first, though.”
The water is lukewarm, and you use the simple bar of soap on the sink to start cleaning around the edges. It’s not the best, but you know that it’s better than nothing.
Knowing Dean, he’d have likely rubbed away at his scrape with the alcohol pad and called it a day if you hadn’t come in.
Your first touches with the soap make him flinch.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “I need you to relax.”
“I know.” Dean’s voice is soft. He lets his shoulders fall a fraction. His eyes close for a moment and he breathes.
“The neosporin will hurt a little more.”
When you gently place the ointment onto the scrape, you let Dean hold onto your shoulder. His thumb moves up and down the length of your collarbone.
You can hardly focus. He squeezes your skin gently when it hurts, and you nearly gasp at the contact of his palm to your bare shoulder.
You start to place a large bandage on each area. His hand stays.
“Dean,” you warn.
“It’s for balance,” he explains.
The cuts on his face are much easier to clean. They have already stopped bleeding, which lets you get rid of the sweat and grime around them. Dean’s hand is sending warm waves down your back, and his eyes flit across your skin. You avoid his gaze intently and top the cuts with ointment.
None of his cuts need a band-aid, but you stand up and take Dean’s chin in your hand to apply them despite. After the first is on, you stoop below to kiss his cheek. So gentle, only a whisper of your lips, on top of the fabric.
Dean takes in a breath.
And then to his nose.
The hand that was once on your shoulder goes down to your waist.
His other cheek.
His forehead.
His eyes are fluttering, and a shiver goes down his spine. “Feels better,” he says in a whisper.
You lift his chin upward and capture his lips with your own. He’s warm, soft, and gentle. Your other hand goes to the back of his neck and upward into the soft tufts of his hair.
When you pull away, Dean tries to follow, wanting to be close to you.
“I don’t like to see you like this,” you say.
“I could use another.” His green eyes glance at your lips.
“Talk to me in the morning, yeah?”
“Yeah, okay.” His eyes brighten. “And if I’m hurting then?”
“Only if Sam’s not here.”
“Damn him.”
“The medicine is in the right pocket of my duffel,” you tell him. “I’m going back to bed.”
Dean gently tugs on your hand as you’re walking out. He turns your hand over, pressing slow kisses across your knuckles before trailing them to your wrist.
“Thank you,” he says.
You let your hand cup his face. Dean leans into the touch and closes his eyes.
You stared at the greenish ring on the skin of your finger. The tarnished band rested in the palm of your right hand.
Something inside you felt like exploding.
Dean Winchester had never been rich. He knew how to live off snacks and adrenaline, he stole from people, he gambled... He'd hardly done an honest day's work in his life. But for an engagement ring, he didn't want that to be stolen. He managed to do some odd jobs for Bobby, he collected lost coins on the street, he even asked around for work a few times on his travels.
Because you deserved something real... Or, as real as he could give you.
Fifty dollars from a pawn shop. It wasn't a real diamond. It wasn't even real metal. The ring was costume jewelry. It left that dyed circle on your skin and was pratically rusting as the paint chipped away.
Buying that ring was perhaps the most genuine thing Dean Winchester had ever done in his life. He was terrified to propose. Even after dating for a while, he was sure you'd never want to commit the rest of your life to someone like him. He couldn't give you the apple-pie life. Hell, he wanted to. But that damn family business kept pulling him back in.
He fumbled through the proposal. His heart raced and his green eyes flickered in doubt, barely able to meet your eyes.
"You're the only thing I've ever been sure of," he admitted when he pulled the ring out. "I know it's not fancy... but will you... would you..."
When he started to almost retreat at your initial silence, he was shocked when your lips crashed into his. Relief, and a little bit of fear, swept over him. He didn't know why you'd ever love him, but he was glad when you beamed at him with a firm and unapologetic "Yes." It was pure bliss to just exist in peaceful happiness with him.
And now he was off on a hunt again. You'd stayed behind because you had a small cold. Dean, in his usual overdramatic fashion, had acted like you were on the brink of death and wanted you to stay home. Grudgingly, you agreed. As you got ready to shower, you shed your clothes and the rest of your jewelry, now staring at the ring. It really was nothing special. No big fancy diamond. No pure metals. No enormous price tag.
As you stared at it, tears welled in your eyes.
It was beautiful to you. And worth more than anything in the world. Because Dean had worked his ass off for it. He had taken time away from the supernatural, away from his insane life, away from the family business, to get this. This small, worn, cheap ring which symbolized his love. Dean Winchester was not a man who loved easily or sparingly. All the money in the world couldn't buy the sound of his laughter at your jokes. All the peace of a normal life could not offer that enamored look he would give when you smiled. It almost broke your heart a little to think that you had so much ground to make up for all that hurt you weren't there to protect him from.
The buzz of your phone pulled you out of your thoughts. Answering the call, you smiled. "Dean?"
"Hey, baby," his voice rang over the line. "I miss you."
You laughed. "Dean, you left an hour ago."
"Yeah, but I still missed you."
You rolled your eyes, looking at the green stain. The mark was not a sign of cheap jewelry, but of a fierce and eternal love. Your heart rose in your throat. "I miss you too, love."
a/n: hey, so i cried writing this. idk. instead of talking about my emotions i will continue to repress them. this was short, but hope yall enjoyed! im trying to write at least one thing a week cos im very busy. thinking about maybe a spn normal au a lot, perchance ill write something for that eventually.
SUMMARY: The simple act of buttons being sewn onto Dean's shirt makes him get all mushy.
PAIRING: dean x bobby's daughter!reader
CONTENT: fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, 549 words
NOTES: short drabble i wrote after work. i've been learning to sew, and this idea has been in the back of my mind for a few days. my first fic since i was in like middle school so be niceeee.
requests r open!!
Bobby’s house after a hunt was always chaotic. There was always laundry to be done, showers to be taken, and weapons to be cleaned. You walk sluggishly over to the dryer while Dean is in the shower, determined to get all your clothes clean by the end of the night.
As you pull out the last of Dean’s clothes to make room for your own, you notice something. A button was missing from one of his shirts. And another, and another. You put his clothes in a basket for him to deal with later, aside from the shirts with the missing buttons, which you bring with you to your bedroom.
While you're rummaging through your drawers for a needle, thread, and some buttons, Dean enters the room fresh out of the shower. His hair is spiked up like a hedgehog, and water droplets are still on his skin.
“Hey, sweetheart," he says as he takes a seat on the bed. "Whatcha up to, huh?"
You find what you need and sit next to him, threading your needle with practiced ease. “You had a bunch of missing buttons, so I’m fixing them.”
“You know,” he says while he ruffles your hair, “You don’t have to do that. They’re gonna come off again with how rough I am on these things.”
“I know that.” You struggle to find the buttonhole through the back of the fabric, but you manage to get the needle through eventually. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“Oh, shut up. I’ll poke you with this needle.”
He laughs and lies back with his hand behind his head. “Okay, okay. No more insulting the woman with the sharp object.”
He watches as you sew, noticing how it’s almost second nature to you.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“Um," you mutter as you finish one button and move on to the next, “I wanted to learn how to sew. Y’know, make my own clothes and everything. I found some old, dusty home economics textbook on one of my dad’s bookshelves. Must’ve been my mom’s or something. I learned most of the basic stuff that way. I’d practice on scraps, or mine or my dad’s shirts.”
He hummed in response and continued to watch in silence. The scene in front of him made his mind go to places he'd never thought it'd go. He thought about a normal life with you. One where quiet, domestic moments like these weren't so few and far between. He'd make you delicious, home-cooked meals to make up for all the greasy diner food you'd eaten all those years on the road. You'd live in a nice house in some boring suburb. Maybe you'd have a dog, or even a family one day. There'd be no vampires or demons to worry about taking down. Just pure, domestic bliss.
Before his thoughts could wander any further, you broke the silence, letting out a quiet "ow."
"Did you just poke yourself?"
"Shut up."
He laughed while wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close and planting a kiss on the top of your head. Maybe he couldn't have that "apple pie life" anytime soon, but what he had with you right now was more than good enough for him.
NOTES: omfgggg i feel like this is dumb. whatever hoped u liked it. i’ll take requests for more fics/headcanons :3
an edit I made ! I really love the episode where Dean overdoses it also reminds me of myself. One part that I feel is kinda overlooked is his alcoholism because I feel like if Castiel or other angels didn’t constantly healed him he would’ve died of liver failure from his alcoholism.
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