Haiii!! My name is JJ or just Jay. My favorite color is red, I'm 19 years old, I REALLY REALLY love apples, not even because I think they taste good, but because I think they are cute. I wanna make online friends so DM me!(Minors, please don't dm me)
Interests:
- Apples
- Supernatural
- Fall Out Boy
- It's always sunny in philadelphia
- Dungeons and Dragons
- Rocky Horror Picture Show
- Re-animator
- Stranger Things
- My Little Pony
- MCR
DNI: Rasicts, Homophobes, Transphobes, Bigots in general, Waycest shippers, Wincest shippers, and (controverially) The true crime community.
I love to draw and create art, send me requests!!!
Also, I would love to get into writing, and if I find a promt I really like, I might try to write for it. My asks are open for anything :3
Hot take: Dean and Benny were gayer than Cas and Dean
this scene where Dean cuts his neck open and Benny has to physically hold himself back from sucking his neck was extremely erotic and they shouldโve fucked nasty
I have a really bad habit of getting high and then getting sad about them๐๐like not only does Jessicaโs and Samโs characters individually make me sad but their relationship makes me so sad too like MY POOR BABIES
is this a bad time to mention myself and @bejeweledinterludes have had several conversations about how much we miss samjess ?? is this a bad time to mention you absolutely should not think about how sam probably kept a hair tie on his wrist for her when her's broke ? about how he probably learned to braid hair for her, even if she never wears her hair in a braid ? about how he probably memorized her coffee order and bought it for her whenever he got his own ? is this a bad time to mention that sam never got to tell jess about who he really was, and that it ended up being the thing that got her killed ?
summary: a rodeo on a saturday night is a great way to unwind after a case in texas. dean's just not expecting to start crushing on one cowboy in particular
pairing: dean x cowboy!reader (m) | genre: sweet n spicy | word count: 1.9k (oh its short oops)
warnings: calf roping/tie-down roping (no animals are harmed), dean's cowboy fantasy, strangers to ???, unrequited (for now), dean is head over heels and reader doesn't even know who he is, competence (reader wins) is hot (dean is hard), implied masturbation (god i hate writing that word so much LOL), dean has a lot of sexy thoughts and nowhere to put them, internalized homophobia if you squint
notes: requested !! you have found the secret to part of my joy; male reader fics. i love this request so much AUGH. alos mandatory disclaimer; reader does calf roping/tie-down roping in this fic, becaus this is the most common variant across rodeos in the united states. just be aware that there are some real life welfare concerns with this event, and although nothing bad happens in the fic, just know i'm not ignoring that for these purposes, okay ? okay :]
part 2 | taglist
Dust clings to the outsides of Deanโs leather boots as he trudges from the parking lot to the rodeo grounds. It clouds up from the gravel of the lot, smearing the dark leather in a gust of light grey. It puffs up from the sand on the pathway of the entrance, adding a pale tan layer to what is already a mess. A second tan layer slams into the outside of his right foot when a gust of wind kicks up a cloud, sending half of it onto his shoes and the other half into Samโs face. Normally, in response to Samโs sneezes caused by the dust, Dean wouldโve elbowed him in the side and earned himself a glare. Today, Dean is far too excited to bother Sam, even when their proximity to each other in line means Sam sneezes partly on the back of Deanโs neck. Today, the setting sun and the first glares of the bright white spotlights are beyond fascinating.
Deanโs barely listening to Samโs commentary about finding their seats as he weaves through the crowd in search of a drink. Any beer he gets here is going to end up a little too warm and much too expensive, but he canโt find it in himself to care about that. All heโs concerned about is getting some alcohol in his system and getting comfortable on the metal grandstands, brim of his ball cap pulled low over his head. Tongue poking out from between his lips, he pays for his and Samโs beers, handing one off to his brother as they march toward the stands, searching for somewhere they can sit that wonโt block the view of anyone else. They settle on something halfway up, where Samโs back is to a support pole and Dean can sit hunched over with his elbow on his knees, in the way he always does when heโs examining something worth remembering.
Dean sits through the pre-rodeo nonsense while Sam wanders off for the bathroom, eyes scanning the crowd and the edges of the ring, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He doesnโt find anything strange, as expected, and he actually has to snap himself out of the case mentality when he remembers heโs not even working right now. Thereโs no ghosts haunting the grounds, or shapeshifters among the people here. Itโs just the crowds of Texas clambering together under the summer night and the white spotlights, jostling each other and eagerly placing bets on the winners of each event.
Deanโs gaze drifts from the people down to the ring again, studying the faces lined up along the sides. Itโs mostly men down there, ranging from kids just barely out of high school to guys whoโve been doing this their entire adult lives. A couple of them are trying to wrangle a rope over the nose of some huge brown horse, who keeps jutting his head up in defiance every time they get close to it. Another man is twisting a ring around his finger; a wedding ring most likely, probably making some wordless promise to his family that heโll be safe tonight. Thereโs a group of women at one end whoโs expressions are fiercer than any of the men. Hair curled precisely, flannels buttoned up and jeans tucked nicely into boots, hats on their heads. One woman has her arm around the neck of her horse, and Dean finds himself enthralled by her.
Until he moves his head and a man comes into view, standing at the edge of the pen near the gate and trying very hard not to stare up into the stands. Heโs got a hand over his eyes, likely to block the glare from the artificial suns around the ring, the other hand resting on his hip, thumb tucked into a belt loop. The hat on his head gets wordlessly readjusted, tilted back just enough that Dean can get a glimpse of his face; sharp eyes, shadowed stubble across his jaw, hair curling stubbornly near one ear in the shape of a sideburn that never got trimmed correctly. Whoever this guy is, heโs not anything special. And somehow, Dean completely misses Sam nudging him when he comes back, because heโs focused on watching this cowboy. For a brief moment, the cowboyโs eyes sweep over the stands, stuttering on the general section Dean is sitting in. For a brief moment, Dean is convinced their eyes meet.
Dean looks away first.
He misses the grin on your face, hand reaching up to scratch the hinge of your jaw. He misses the fact that you, in fact, did see him. Tipping the hat back was a ploy to see if it was you he really was watching. Despite the distance, it was pretty hard to miss the blush that spread across Deanโs face. Youโre called back to your gate with some new material on your mind, a little something to get you through the night. You donโt know his name, you donโt even know if heโs from around here, but something deep in your stomach tells you it wonโt be the last time that you see him.
Back in the stands, Deanโs sipping on his beer, resting it on the ground between his feet when heโs not drinking it. Sam finished his during the last event, watching the women on their horses go round the barrels with the kind of speed Deanโs not even sure heโs seen in the movies, let alone in real life. Deanโs fascinated by the men on the bucking horses, and even though they all fall off quick, heโs still amazed by how long they do hold on. For a brief moment, under the heat of the lights, a thought flashes across his mind. Something dirty, something he absolutely shouldnโt be thinking in a public place. His mind wanders to the cowboy he saw earlier; you. He wonders if maybe youโve done this event before, even if you arenโt competing it now. He wonders if you still remember any of it. He wonders, just for a second, if they call it โcowgirlโ for a good reason. Heโd let you ride him like that if you asked.
Heโs snapped out of his thoughts by the announcerโs voice for the next event, the loud, booming drawl of someone who was clearly born for this kind of job. The scoresheet gets thrown up on the board, the names of all the riders splashed across the screens in achingly bright LED letters. Thereโs no pictures beside the names, and he has no way of recognizing whoโs who, but he finds himself leaning closer as the event begins. The riders cycle through with impressive speed, agile even on a horse that feels like it was never meant to be tamed and ridden. The calves are cute, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam a little enamoured by them, making soft sounds whenever he feels that one got thrown to the ground too harshly.
The announcer calls your name, and as soon as your picture shows up on the screen, Dean leans in almost imperceptibly closer. Finally, heโs got a name to the guy whoโs been invading his thoughts for the last hour or so. He has a name to put to the face of the guy whoโs made him frustratingly hard in the middle of a public place. Part of him wants you to lose, because he wouldnโt feel so bad for falling for you. The other part of him thinks thereโd be nothing hotter than you winning. The camera zooms in on you, and you tip your hat with a grin, smile lines creasing your cheeks under the stubble Deanโs been thinking about. How would it feel on the insides of his thighs?
The clock starts and youโre out of the gate in prefect time. Dean doesnโt know the first thing about horses, but he does know that your horse looks like it was made for this. Even you, hunched proud in concentration over the neck of your horse looks like thereโs nowhere else in the world you could possible be besides right here, right now. Rope in hand, youโre throwing it around the calf in record time, you use just the right amount of force to stop the calf in its tracks without injuring it. The legs of your jeans get caked in dirt as you hop to the ground, tying up the calf effortlessly and putting your hands up in the air. Dean thinks you look a little like youโre resisting arrest, but he canโt deny the way his face heats up at the flash of skin of your stomach when raising your arms makes your shirt ride up.
They call time after the required six seconds pass, and you allow yourself the smallest grin of celebration as your time flashes up on the board. Fastest of the session so far, and pretty close to your personal best. Dean doesnโt know the second part, but heโs grinning like he does, face hurting from the expression. Even though itโs not your job, you drop to your knees in the arena and carefully start working on untying the calf. Dean thinks itโll run away from you, because what animal wouldnโt run away from the person who just tied it up in rope? Instead, the minute itโs freed and standing back on all four legs, the calf nudges your hand with its head, to which you scratch the ears in reply.
โI like him,โ Dean murmurs to Sam.
โYeah?โ
Dean gives a half-hearted nod in reply. โYeah. Heโs good.โ
โI like him too-.โ He pauses, studying Deanโs red face and the way his legs are crossed for the first time in probably his entire life. โOh, you like him, like him.โ
โShut up,โ Dean mumbles.
โDean, he doesnโt even know who you are.โ
He shrugs. โโS okay. Not like we stay long enough anyway.โ
โWe could.โ
Deanโs head turns so fast it cracks something in his spine. โDo not.โ
Samโs hands raise in surrender, barely concealing a laugh. โEasy there, cowboy. Just a comment.โ
By the end of the night, youโve won your event, Deanโs looking for the first girl he can screw at the bar, and Sam is scheming ways to stay, just so Dean can see you again. Heโs in the motel with his laptop open, searching for any case he can come up with. Heโll make a fictitious one if he has to. By the time midnight rolls around, heโs sobered up from his one drink and has decided waiting for Dean to come back is pointless. Heโs out cold by the time Dean, whoโs been burying his feelings in cheap whiskey and pretty women, comes back and locks himself in the bathroom. Your face wonโt leave Deanโs mind, every sinful thought heโs ever had swirling around in his brain until heโs convinced heโll be shot for thinking them. Upon exiting the bathroom, he sees Samโs laptop shining bright in the dark, the webpage announcing a possible case in town standing proud on the screen. And just like that, Deanโs hard all over again, because it means he can look for you. And maybe interrogate you, just a little bit.
Iโm so serious when I say that I need Sam and Dean to drag cas to a Texan mega church at least once like I need that angel to witness that. And then dirty soda in Utah and then medieval times with Charlie :)
๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐๐ซ๐ฒ: after his possession, sam feels like a monster. you help ease his guilt.
๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐๐ง๐ญ: gn!reader. hurt/comfort - light angst - comforting ending. established relationship. use of pet names (honey). mentions of blood. guilty, self-loathing sam. sam crying. mentions of dean and bobby.
masterlist. requested. <3
When Sam looks down at his hands, he sees palms smeared with red. The substance is darker where it pools in the creases and lines and cakes around his nailbeds- none of it his.
He's not sure if it's even there, anymore. It shouldn't be. You'd coaxed him into a hot shower after he'd rested, soft skin brushing over his as you washed away the dirt and grime and blood from his body, attentive to his nails and knuckles.
He doesn't feel much cleaner at all.
Just more human, in the throes of emotion again after spending so much time without feeling a thing at all. Now, he feels everything.
And everything is guilt. It's all-consuming and dark and sends a throbbing ache pulsing in his chest, up his throat. But when he blinks, his hands are physically clean, and you're standing before him where he sits on the edge of your bed. In your room.
Safe. It smells like you, subtly fragrant and warm and good.
He must be staining it, he thinks. The good. It would be better of him to leave. But your hand takes one of his before he can stand, and his fingers curl around yours without him telling them to. His grip is strong first, and then gentle.
He'll always remember how to be gentle for you. He doesn't need to try.
"Sammy," your voice is soft. He feels like a wounded animal rather than an aggressive mutt at the sound. "come back to me."
Another blink of his dry eyes, a bob of his throat. His head tilts up to meet your gaze and his brows pinch with silent desperation. You're still here, despite it all. He'd really like to hold you close. He would if he trusted himself to touch you further.
The thought of Meg lingers deep within his mind. Tangled and festering and not quite him. His jaw works and in an attempt to drop your hand, you secure it's grip and crouch, chin on his knee.
His head tilts.
"I don't want to hurt you," he breathes, voice hoarse. "Please. Can't hurt you."
Your assurance is instant. "You won't."
"What if she's still in me?"
"Meg is gone," you insist, finger sweeping a gentle line over his knuckles. "she's gone. You can't hurt me, honey."
You reach up with your free hand to cup his cheek, and he leans into it eagerly. Unhesitant and needing and sick. His eyelids flutter shut and a long, tired sigh bleeds from him.
"I did all of it," he whispers. "and it- it was horrible. I was here, watching, but I couldn't stop-"
"It wasn't you." Your head shakes, watching as his eyes open. "You didn't do a damn thing, Sam. Okay? You didn't."
It wasn't you, Sam.
"I don't blame you for any of it. Neither does Dean, or Bobby. It's okay."
Don't blame you. It's okay.
His eyes aren't dry anymore, suddenly. And he doesn't realize it until you're a bleary mess of color and he feels something small and wet run down the curve of his cheek.
He still feels dark, but there's a smooth edge of relief that settles the uproar inside of him now. He's calmed even more so when you stand and gather him close, and he buries his face into the softness of your stomach.
It's easy to let himself believe you as you hold him and murmur all that he needs to hear; everything sweet and sure. You remind him who he is.
Sammy, not Meg. Not pain nor destruction. Gentle and kind and too full of care for it to be comfortable, you're sure. Loved, instead of just loving. By you and others and forever. He just needs to believe you again.
And everything might just be okay, in the end, once he does.
