Don't Fear the Reaper || Dean Winchester x reader || soulmate!au (Part 4)
Series Masterlist! Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Series Summary Here!
Word count: 7.2k (I blacked out)
Pt 4 Summary: Back on the road (and back at each other's throats), you four pick up a case that Bobby sends your way. Five ritualistic killings. Five couples. Five sets of soulmates found dead. All in one quiet, small town. And soon as things start looking simple, that arrogance comes to bite you in the ass...again.
Relationships: (slowburn) Dean Winchester x soulmate!reader, reader x sister!oc (no physical description of her tho), redacted pairing bc spoilers
Tags/Warnings: f!reader, Slowwwwburn, enemies to lovers!, Banter & Bickering (MY B&B YUMM), seasons 1-2 canon divergence, Supernatural typical gore/blood/violence, medical inaccuracies (i'm so sorry), graphic descriptions of murder/sacrifice, protective Dean (HEHEHE), slightly jealous Dean (maybeee), you don't give Dean a moment of peace (YAY), prob some typos tbh sorry y'all, suggestive content (smut in future parts), allusions to past abusive home life, no physical description of reader or her siblings/family, no use of y/n, ANGST!!! FLUFF!
Notes: I reference a lot of tarot symbols in this, and it's badly done for a good reason! But I can't say why yet cause spoilers...BUT I'm so glad to finally kick this one off. Part 4, 5, and a bit of 6 will all be about this case because it is insanely important going forward. We're ramping up the plot here, so I wanted to take my time and not rush it.
P.S. When I mention a Joni Mitchell song playing in this, I'm specifically thinking of "A Case of You" because that scene from Practical Magic lives in my head 24/7.
“Get your damn feet off my dash,” Dean barked, swatting at your jeans like you were a fly.
You rolled your eyes but complied anyways, huffing as you crossed your legs under your butt instead.
“The only reason you’re up here is to navigate while the sleeping giant takes a nap.” He gestured a thumb to the back seat bench where both Stacy and Sam were passed out. “So, behave.”
In the back row, Sam’s head was flopped awkwardly at an angle, slightly snoring, as Stacy rested her head in the crook of his neck. Obviously, they didn’t start out sitting that way, but neither you nor Dean wanted to wake them up. Both itching to see their spastic reactions once they eventually woke up.
You used the map to swat at Dean’s head in return. “Then you should be thanking me, dipshit.”
After Dean decided (or Sam coerced his brother) to let you guys tag along, you four had quickly jumped back on the road. It had been almost a week since Lana’s spirit had tried to choke you out, and to your surprise, Dean hadn’t mentioned a word of it. Not one joke about you being stupid or reckless or damn near getting yourself killed.
But it was probably because he was jabbing you for everything else.
Took too long at the rest stop? He’d have the engine revving while you had to sprint and catch the door handle to get in.
Complain about him whaling Black Sabbath at all hours? He’d tell you to “shut your cakehole” before tossing a greasy fry at your head.
During this past week, you both were learning to live amongst each other, deal with each other’s quirks and all.
And Dean hated every single one.
He hated that you chewed gum too loud (probably on purpose once you noticed it pissed him off). He hated when you treated his car like a personal playground, kicking dirty boots on the dash or all over Baby’s smooth leather. Or that you’d always sit right behind the driver’s seat so he couldn’t tell when you were about to ambush him with a smack upside the head.
The most surprising of your quirks, however, was your total unwillingness to take a damn break. For someone so wild and spitfirey, he expected you to dump all the research on your sister—who had an obvious knack for it—and snore the whole ride. Instead, he’d look back and see Stacy asleep, her head resting on your lap as she extended on the bench seat. In the dead of night, your face was illuminated by the moonlight, the only other light being the pocket flashlight you shown on your reading material. Sometimes it was a newspaper you picked up at a gas station. Sometimes your own notebook. But Dean swore he never saw you sleeping back there. No matter the time. You were always searching for another case or studying up on Bobby’s field guide.
Hours later, Stacy would groan awake and ask if you’d slept—and you’d lie with a smile.
It made Dean a little guilty anytime he swapped with Sam to get some shut eye. A sickly swirl in his stomach when he started dozing off and would glance back to see you in that exact same spot. Paper and red pen in hand.
Still, being Dean, he couldn’t help poking at you whenever he got the chance—and it wasn’t like it was unwarranted either.
When they stopped at a motel mid week, Dean opened his duffel after a shower to find a damn bull frog crouching on his boxers. You and Stacy giggled like kids at the sound of Dean’s shouts in the parking lot. Then you looked out your room’s window to see Dean, in his skivvies and barefoot, running out to chuck the animal into the grass. Sam had just barely convinced Dean not to retaliate in kind, fearing a full blown prank war rehashing.
So, Dean didn't feel one bit of hesitation mud slinging any chance he got.
Back on the road, you four were halfway across the country—to Georgia. Two days ago, Bobby had called you up and told you to pick up a national newspaper, saying something about a “nasty one brewing.”
Four ritualistic killings. Four couples. Four soulmate pairs. In one quiet, small town.
Now only a few hours out, Dean groaned, glancing back at those two impatiently. “I cannot drive in friggin’ silence for another second.” He tipped his chin towards his glove box. “Flip through a couple tapes for me.”
You lifted a brow.
“Please.”
You grinned mockingly, “What lovely manners,” then clicked open the glove box. Tapes clacked together against the rifling of your fingertips. “Dude, we cannot play any of these with them passed out back there. That’s low even for me.”
Dean pouted at the road ahead, mumbling under his breath, “Jus’ wanted some Zeppelin.”
You snickered a little and then shifted towards the back row, climbing up on your seat. Dean’s eyes widened as you now kneeled on the leather, ass squarely in his face as you struggled to rifle through Stacy’s book bag.
“Uh, the hell are you doing, Trouble?” Green eyes frantically flicking between the road and your jean clad ass.
Dean gulped when he spotted the messily embroidered “bite me” under one back pocket.
“Your stash is useless.” Then you heaved a makeup bag into your lap, full of your own tapes. “So you’re stuck with mine.”
He groaned. “If you play some damn Britney Spears.”
“Gonna ignore that thinly veiled misogyny for two shakes—Aha!” You snatched out a tape victoriously, stuffing the thing into the car radio before he could protest.
Softly, Joni Mitchell sang through the old, crackly speakers of the car.
Dean glanced at you, a tad surprised at the mellow tune.
“Oh come on, you can’t seriously have qualms with Joni.” Your furrowed stare almost blinding in the morning sun.
Dean coughed, awkwardly shaking his head as he kept looking between you and the road with an odd knit to his brows. “No, uh, it’s not bad.”
“It’s fantastic,” you corrected with a scolding finger at him.
He rolled his eyes, focusing completely at the road now with an almost imperceptible smirk.
Out of the corner of his vision, he could see you curl up against the passenger side door. Head rested on the window as you watched the world pass by. After a moment, you lazily hummed the lyrics, so quietly Dean thought you might be doing it unconsciously.
“Why do you have tapes anyways?” Dean wondered, catching your eye contact as you glanced over.
“Growing up, Spider’s truck was the same, only radio and tapes.” Then your nose scrunched and eyes squinted as the early morning light hit your face. “Probably a good thing, fucker can’t work a damn CD player, always jams the things in there—and still, every time, the guy’s angry when it breaks.” You kissed your teeth. “Rather impatient, if you can’t tell.”
“Oh I definitely remember that.”
“Seriously?” You slightly shifted to face him. “We were like seven—maybe eight.”
Dean barked a laugh. “Oh yeah, I remember. Your father almost tanned my hide when he thought I took the last slice of pizza. Beetl—your brother, covered for me though. Mad respect for the kid after that.”
Instinctively, you smile at the mere mention of your brother. Tone soft as you said, “Course he did.”
“I even remember meeting Stacy.” Dean glanced back at your snoring sister with a smirk. “Tend to remember when a toddler’s named Ladybug.”
That made you snort.
But his voice went far out for a second, like his consciousness was trying to catch something blowing away in the wind. “Don’t remember you though….”
When you looked at his side profile, your own mind went hazy for a brief moment. Like you were trying to parse through a fog. “Same here,” you murmured. The mist so thick around your mind that it felt as though it blurred your vision.
Then you blinked back into clarity. Shifting in place before you jabbed, “Remember your dad was a hard ass.”
He furrowed his brows at you. “Oh and your dad was a peach, huh?.”
You coughed a laugh, trying to pinch your lips together to hide the smirk.
It felt strange chatting with him like this. You and Dean, practically alone with the road stretching farther ahead. Maybe it was the early hours putting weight on your eyelids and loosening your tongue, but you didn’t feel that urge to hold back or be quiet around him. Or maybe you did, but it was like your mouth didn’t listen. He’d ask a question, and you answered. Could be snarky or just plain rude, but you’d answer. Almost like you actually wanted to tell him the truth—or at least, every body driven instinct wanted you to.
Dwelling on it more only brought on that foggy haze again, disorienting you for a moment.
Then Dean cleared his throat. “You guys really have been hitch hiking this whole time?”
You shrugged. “A little, had Christopher’s car for a good while though.”
“She break down? You could always bring it to Bobby, he and I can take a crack at it.”
Trying to dissipate that lingering fog, you rolled your eyes and shoved off his odd kindness. “Don’t need the charity, Dean. Besides, she’s still kicking, last I heard.”
Your mind was clear now, focused on one target in particular. Jaw grinding. “Spider’s got it, growing dust probably. Said I didn’t have any right taking Christopher’s things, and he obviously didn’t have a will so...that was it. End of story.”
Technically that was the truth, a partial truth, but a truth all the same. If you were gonna be real honest—which you obviously weren’t with Dean fucking Winchester—you would’ve told him about how Spider returned it to you on one of your first hunts back in the business, a couple months after leaving school. An olive branch, you’d thought. After so much loss, maybe he had finally changed.
Then you found that letter. Shoved under the back seat, in Christopher’s blocky handwriting, addressed to you. Hidden exactly where your father would never so much as glance at—but you would, anytime that car needed a good cleaning. And your brother knew to put it there. Almost like he knew he wouldn’t come back from that hunt, and he needed a failsafe no matter what.
Even in death he was protecting you two.
So you finally snuck away with your sister, took Christopher’s car, and bolted.
But a few weeks later, your EMF detector was going like crazy whenever you drove. Stacy, smart girl, had you park and she walked around the whole car, EMF detector in hand. The thing practically screamed when she shoved it under the bumper.
Tucked behind the metal was a tiny dot, black and blending in with the rest of the car’s under belly.
A tracker.
Your father had put a fucking tracker on the car and gave it to you under the guise of “doing what’s right, what Christopher would’ve wanted.”
As far as you were concerned, Spider was the reason Christopher was dead. So you didn’t give a rats ass what that man thought your brother wanted—and it certainly wasn’t this.
The morning after you came back to the motel, Stacy and you woke up to an empty parking spot. Thankfully, you never left anything in it, not even the glovebox. But when you asked the front desk, a greasy bald guy behind the counter told you some state troopers came in to impound the vehicle.
It had been declared stolen.
That put you on high alert. So not ten minutes later, you called up Bobby. Scrounged up enough cash to take a greyhound into South Dakota and, well…you may have made a few pit stops along the way.
You had to give it to the old man, he was quick on his feet. Immediately telling you to come for a visit so he could have you work on a case with a couple of hunters.
Two Brothers.
“Good men,” he said, “good enough that I trust you girls in their car—and that’s a high bar to clear, hon.”
Now you knew why he was so vague about them. Probably because he knew exactly what would happen: Two stubborn asses at each other’s throats as the two peacemakers settle the raging tides.
A perfectly balance.
Your phone began ringing, the tone muffled from being shoved in your pocket.
Speak of the devil.
You flipped it open with a grin. “Hey there, old man.”
Dean looked over, matching your grin like he could see Bobby through the phone.
“Watch it there, missy,” came out even scratchier through the receiver.
Then you clicked the thing to speaker phone, resting your arm on the back of the seat as you extended towards Dean.
“Hey-hey, Bobby!” Dean shouted before you shushed him with a glare.
“If it ain’t idjit number one.”
Dean smirked at the road ahead. “Wowwww—number one? Don’t I feel special.”
“Shut up,” Bobby grumbled. “Where’s the other numbskull?”
“Sam and Stacy are both asleep in the back.”
Through the receiver, Bobby hummed. “Hm, are they now....”
You snorted at his dad like gruffness before he continued.
“Got something to send your way, Trouble.”
You and Dean instantly locked eyes. “Another update on the case?”
“Yes, ma’am. Another couple found by the creek just this morning. Staged up against a tree. Holding hands. Both carved up with a final stab to the heart.”
You hummed, eyes going unfocused for a moment as you added another pin to your mental case board.
Dean cut in, “The police say if they had matching marks yet?”
“Not yet, but it’s sure coming.” Then Bobby hacked a laugh. “Local media’s calling this a serial killer already.”
“I mean, by technicality, yeah,” you added with a shrug. “Everything else they’re dead wrong.”
Beside you, Dean snickered. “What are those whack jobs online coining this guy?”
Bobby grumbled like saying it aloud personally offended him, “The Soulmate Slasher.”
Even you snickered. “Alright, thanks, Bobby.”
“Uh-huh—Be safe, don’t die.”
Dean chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
“And, Trouble?”
“Yup?”
He took a moment, letting you simmer in silence. “Don’t be stupid.”
You instantly glowered at Dean, who was now facing the steering wheel like his life depended on it.
“You snitch!”
Bobby barked a laugh. “Have a nice drive, kids.”
He hung up to the sound of you slapping that traitor with the map again. Dean sneered as he used one hand to swat at you in return, trying to the snatch the makeshift weapon out of your hands.
When he finally gripped the paper, he tossed it back on the bench before pointing a finger to your face. “Enough.”
You pouted, arms crossed and glaring. “You’re a bitch.”
Dean grumbled, “Seems we’ve got that in common, sweetheart.”
Mercifully, you settled into silence, drawn back into yourself as Bobby’s words sunk in. Your lips pursed, thinking over the case as it swirled in your mind.
“What are the odds a tiny town in butt-fuck Georgia has five separate soulmate pairings?” You wondered aloud, staring off at the dash. “I mean, other than that one elderly couple that came first, the rest are young. Oldest guy was thirty—and not one pair were both from the area.”
Dean hummed, kissing his teeth as he registered what you said. Left leg bouncing beside the steering wheel.
You flipped open your moleskin to read off the notes you’d taken down, messy scribbles all about the first four murders. “We’ve got an Ohio-Georgia pair, a Michigorgia pair—then we’re completely off the rails with a California-Texas and—Dean, are you even listening?”
He continued nervously tapping the steering wheel again. Lips pursed in frantic impatience. “I’ve really gotta piss.”
“Jesus Christ—take a leak in the words, for crying out loud.” You rolled your eyes as you unfolded the bent map again. “Rest stop at the next exit in two miles.”
“Oh thank God.” Then he put pedal to the metal.
As you expected, Sam and Stacy started groaning awake only twenty minutes out. Soon as they scrambled away from one another, you and Dean laughed like hyenas, taking all of five minutes to stop laughing as Sam grew beet red and Stacy stared wide-eyed at the floor. She’d even leaned forward and jabbed you in the side of the neck, but it only made your laughter grow to a squeal. When she tried kicking the front row instead, Dean shot her a look, silently saying “kick that leather again and you’re losing your foot.”
By the time Baby pulled into the motel, Stacy was beelining it out of the car. In record time, she came back from the front desk, dropped one key in Dean’s hand without so much as looking at him, and marched it to your shared room. When you tried turning the handle, however, and it ended up being locked.
You scoffed. Fist banging on the chipped red paint.
“Oh, quit being a baby!” You shouted. “I need to pee, you little brat!”
Dean popped out of the doorway of their neighboring room with a shit-eating grin. Eyebrows lifted. “Locked out?”
The second you hoisted your bag up like a weapon, he yanked himself back inside.
Once Stacy finally unlocked the door with a haughty pout, you pushed past her, haphazardly dropping your duffel near the window, and racing to the bathroom.
You were still getting into a new change of clothes when a knock came from the bathroom door.
“Dean says hurry up, we've gotta get to the police station in five.”
“Well tell Dean he can shove it.”
You froze at the next voice.
“Well Dean says he’ll leave your ass, how ‘bout that, sweetheart?”
Quickly yanking on your shirt, you ripped the bathroom door open.
Casually leaning on the frame was that dipshit. Smug grin plastered on his features, as always. “She has risen.”
“Eat me, Winchester.” Your shoulder shoved him on the way past, rolling your eyes as the little giggle he let out.
“So,” Sam sighed, beyond tired of your feud, “what’s the plan?”
Dean clapped once like a coach before a game. “Sammy and I are FBI, you two are reporters.”
You crossed your arms, one brow lifted and hip popped. “And why exactly?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I ain’t sexist, sweetheart. Just that little miss sunshine here looks like she’s barely out of pigtails.”
“Hey!” Stacy whined.
You matched his stare. “And Sam looks real mature with his bowl cut.”
“What the hell?!” Sam arms flew out, mouth agape from the stray he’d taken.
Then you huffed, “Whatever, cops are easy, anyways.”
Dean scoffed. “You gonna flirt your way into an investigation?”
“What was it Bobby said, back at the house?” You grinned. “Sometimes a gal can open up a few stubborn doors. ”
Dean grinned mockingly. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“Wanna bet?”
As expected, you were in there like swimwear. The rookies working the caution tape and keeping media back all but tripped over themselves to let you and Stacy past. Putting on your best candy-sweet smile, and asking them oh so nicely if they’d be able to help you girls out. You were interns at the gazette and your boss would ring your neck if you didn’t get something from this.
Meanwhile, the Winchesters were in a far different spot. Sometimes, a badge truly meant shit. After another cop insisted FBI hadn’t been called in, and they’d need to check with the lead homicide detective before handing over case details, the boys retreated a few paces back. As they’d been told, that detective was in a pit with the growing notoriety of the murders, so the earliest they’d get in touch would be that night. “But don’t hold your breath,” the cop said.
The brothers stared wide-eyed when you both all but waltzed up to the lead detective. Your giggle floating over to them all the way behind the caution tape. Dean’s eyes narrowed when he saw you run a finger over some deputy’s shiny badge pinned to his chest, your doe eyes flicking up to the man’s face with an innocent grin.
“Jesus,” Dean cursed, still gawking. “Did I look like as dumb as that poor bastard?”
Sam snorted. “Worse.” Then a thwack landed upside his head.
With a pout, Dean and Sam hiked it back to the car parked a little ways past the crime scene, tucked around a bend so you wouldn’t be seen together. Huffing in silence as they waited for you two.
When you girls finally appeared around the corner, Dean waited for you to slide into the back row before speaking up. Jaw grinding as he glanced over his shoulder at you.
“Done making friends?”
You cackled, leaning forward to rest your chin on the back of his seat. “Oh don’t be a sore loser, Dean. Pouting makes you less pretty.” Your breathy giggle so close it raised the hairs on his neck.
Then you flicked his ear and flopped back. “Don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I’m starving, We’ll talk shop over dinner.”
Borderline inhaling a cheeseburger, Dean mumbled through a mouthful, “So they all had those weird symbols carved in them?”
“Apparently,” Stacy answered, popping another fry into her mouth.
You still grimaced across the table at Dean as he took another massive bite, chewing with his mouth wide open.
“Can you not?”
He paused, matched your glare, and grinned with his stuffed cheeks.
You rolled your eyes and kicked him under the table as you went to take another chug of coke.
“Were they all different symbols?” Sam piped up.
“I think.” You racked your brain, trying to remember back to the photos you’d taken of the crime scene files. “We’ll definitely have to check back at the motel, but the one thing I definitely remember is that they all had the exact same carving right over the heart, basically encircling the stab wound.”
Stacy squeaked as she slightly choked on a sip of coke, frantically rifling through her bag for a pen. When she had it in hand, she snatched a napkin out from under your arm and began drawing.
“It was insanely intricate,” she said absentmindedly, still sketching. Then she swiveled the napkin around to show the boys. Tapping the drawing as she said, “this—almost like two swords on each side of wound.”
“And the knife was in the middle?” Sam asked, still studying the sketch.
“Dead center.”
Dean hummed through another bite, eyes narrowing on the image. “Where the hell have I seen that before?” He mumbled before dismissing the thought. Then he swallowed and grinned at your sister. “Nice sketch, ladybug. Pretty impressive for a diner napkin.”
You watched as she did that lopsided smile, ducking her head bashfully. “Thanks, Dean.”
“No way,” Sam breathed, now locked in on research at the motel. Laptop glow illuminating his features as he sat back on his bed.
Stacy lounged on her stomach across the end of the queen, the printed pictures sprawled across the sheets.
“What?” She popped her head up.
Sam grinned over the laptop at her. “So get this—you know that symbol? The one they all had over the heart?” He continued when she nodded and sat up straighter. “Guess where else I found it.”
He swiveled the laptop around, beckoning you and Dean to lean closer from your spots on the floor.
Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at the screen. “That’s it! I saw that sign when we were driving through town!”
The website showed a Facebook post with an image of a local shop’s street sign, obviously shoddily taken on someone’s phone.
“One of the victims in the second couple posted this,” Sam supplied, scrolling so you could see the caption.
“Everyone needs to know about Madame Maysilee’s,” you started reading, “she is literal magic and the only way I would’ve found my forever.” You paused, glancing up at Sam behind the computer. “Who the hell is Madame Maysilee?”
“It’s apparently a magic shop.”
Both you and Dean snorted.
“But,” Sam added, taking back the laptop to flip to another site. “Not just any magic. She swears that she can name and find your soulmate just by reading your palms.”
“Oh Jesus,” you groaned, flopping back against the edge of Dean’s bed.
“And that symbol?” Dean pressed. “Why’s it on her shop?”
“Oh!” Stacy jumped up, running over to her bag. “It’s tarot!” She squealed, digging through the duffel till she pulled out something that looked like a stack of cards.
“Those the ones Dolly gave you?”
“Who?” Dean asked.
You simply waved him off, not even giving him a glance.
“Yup,” Stacy answered, snatching out the correct card from the stack.
Then she held it up, the gold leaf glinting off the text.
“Three of swords,” Sam read slowly.
Dean still sat there, deeply confused. “And that means...?”
You rolled your eyes before Stacy answered. “Depends on the reading or the person doing it, but in this case I'm guessing it means heartbreak.”
Dean snorted. “Little on the nose.”
“Wait,” you pipped in, looking up at your sister as she hovered above you near the edge of the bed. “What about that symbol carved on their backs? It was like a circle or something, with straight lines going into it, like—”
“Like spokes,” she finished your sentence in an airy breath. Eyes bugging out as she raced back to the deck. “Wheel of fortune,” she said, swiping up the card, the gold letters shining again.
A triumphant grin lifted her cheeks. “If upright, it’s often considered to mean inevitable fate.”
“Like soulmates,” you supplied, grin matching her own.
Still leaning against his headboard, Sam chuckled as he looked over at his brother on the other bed. “Come on, that was a little impressive, you’ve gotta admit.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Welp, we’ll hit up Madame Maysa-whatevers in the morning—But now.” He clapped, pointing deliberately to the door. “Now I'm getting some shut eye. You two. Out.”
Because you drew the short straw, you and Dean ended up having to walk into the store. A tiny, musty shop littered about with crystals and pendants—and basically hot boxed with incense. And because Dean was an absolute child, you two had played rock, paper, scissors for whoever had to get their palm read by the creepy old lady behind the red curtain (who definitely was not wearing a turban for religious reasons). When he spotted her, Dean almost made a Harry Potter joke about it, but coughed it down when you gave him a glare.
“So, my dear,” Madame Maysillee sang as you settled into her private reading room.
The walls were adorned with crushed red velvet. Before you was a table, faintly lit with some stubby candles that were a bit too haphazardly placed for your liking.
An absolute gimmick of a shop, that’s for sure. Like she was in a very politically incorrect version of a fortune teller in some old Hollywood movie.
“What brings you in today?” She probed, eyes scanning over your form as you sat down carefully in the high back chair.
“Uh,” you coughed, awkwardly fiddling with your hands. “I’ve heard you can find people’s soulmates for them.”
Her eyes glinted, whether from the candle light or something else, you couldn't tell. “Oh, I see.”
For the sake of the case, you tried keeping up the whole anxious and desperately lonely thing. Worrying over your lips and bugging out your eyes as you said, “I just...I just don’t think I'll ever find him.”
“Oh, my dear,” she cooed, “Never say never.”
Her clunky jewelry jingled as she outstretched her hand, expectantly waiting for your own.
You hesitatingly reached forward, placing one palm in her wrinkled hands.
“Hm,” she sighed, eyes closing as her fingers traced over your palm. Then her eyes shot open. The dark center almost swallowing the iris. “Are you sure?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you sure you have not found him—or her. It is always best to keep an open mind to fate, my dear.”
God this was gonna be a fucking riot.
“I’m sure,” you insisted, biting down a smirk.
“Well,” her voice faded off as she watched the lines of your palm, “he is certainly close.”
All of a sudden, she gripped your palm tightly in both hands.
You lost your breath at the sudden motion, instincts screaming to pull your wrist away, but then your head seemed to spin. For a long moment, you blinked slightly slower to try and focus on her, your neck suddenly feeling weak. Eyelids heavy.
Then that fog returned, that same one from earlier that loosened your tongue to embarrassing degree. There was so much of it you almost felt blinded, swimming in a smoke-like fog.
Her grip was shaking, jewelry jingling as she gripped your hand. “You are blocking me, darling, I cannot see much.”
“I-I’m sorry,” your words sounded slurred to your own ears.
“What I can see, however,” she hummed, “Is he’s strong. Mentally, physically. I seem him following you, always, like a shadow. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw.” Then her eyes squeezed tighter, like she was fighting through something. “Green eyes.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
“I normally can see more, but all I can see are his eyes,” she added, head ducking dramatically for the show it. “Big, green eyes. Like a beacon for you. Follow that beacon, my dear. He is not far away, maybe you have even come in contact with him, but you need to be open to it being him.”
Her eyes opened, gaze watching you carefully as her grip on you slightly relented. “Come back when you are open to more, then I can find his name.”
You balked. “You can see his name?”
“Normally, yes. Normally I can see everything about him.” Then her eyes narrowed again, like cataloguing something across your features. “Not with you.”
You chuckled awkwardly. “Heh—sorry.”
“Fix it, and I’ll find more.”
Before you had a chance to pull your hand away, she started drawing a spiral in your palm.
“You said you were visiting, yes?”
A shiver ran up your arms from the contact, goosebumps rising. “Uh—yep. Here with a couple friends on a graduation roadtrip.”
She hummed, still drawing that spiral in your palm. “Hm, and how long will you be staying?”
“Oh, I’m,” you laughed awkwardly, the goosebumps bubbling across your skin. “Maybe three days? We like to keep moving pretty quick, especially before the Summer heat runs out.”
“Oh my dear,” she whispered, leaning over the table. “That heat never dies in Georgia.”
You giggled awkwardly, the chill locking your spine. “Heh. So, I’ve heard.”
“Why don’t you stay longer?” She murmured, spiral still circling inyour palm.
The fog spun across your vision again, making you blink. Mouth dry. “Uh, yeah? Maybe. We’ll see.”
Then she looked back up at you, finger landing in the middle of your palm like the dead center of that spiral. “Yes. We’ll certainly see.”
Soon as that lady let you out of her grasp, you all but raced out of the shop, struggling to find your bearings as you threw yourself into the passenger seat.
“Whoah there,” Dean chuckled at your speed. “Easy on the door, sweetheart. No slamming my Baby.”
You gulped, still staring ahead. “I’m never letting you convince me to do that again.”
He snorted. “Didn’t convince you, you just got rotten luck at schoolyard games.”
You still swallowed rapidly, trying to moisten your throat even in the Georgia humidity.
“Lookin’ a little green there, Trouble,” he chuckled, still sitting by the curb.
“Dean. Drive.”
That shiver didn’t dissipate until you were far down the street, still looking over your shoulder at the shop fading in the distance. Near the end of the road, you looked up at the rearview mirror and could’ve sworn you saw a group of men standing out on the edge of the curb, just watching.
Then you looked back and they were gone.
Dean’s voice was softer now as he drove. “The hell happened to get you so spooked?”
“Dealt with my fair share of witches, but that felt….” You reflexively shivered. “I feel like she’s still watching me—which she was absolutely watching you, by the way.”
“What?!” Now it was his turn to shit his pants. Eyes widening to saucers.
You nodded. “She’s definitely got security cameras or something, cause she started describing you to a T. Kept asking if I thought I’ve met him, how long I’m staying, if i wanna stay longer—“
“Wait—hold on.” He paused you with a hand up. “Described me? Why the hell was she describing me?”
You glared at him incredulously. “I went in for a soulmate reading, Dean. What do you think?”
Dean gulped. “So—“
“No, you idiot!” You rolled your eyes. “She started out the whole thing saying I was blocking her, that she couldn’t see anything clearly till I accepted something—or some dumb shit like that. Only then did she start describing you. She’s probably got an earpiece in or someone whispering to her about anyone they might’ve walked in with. Bet with the growing popularity of the place online that there’s a bunch of people going to test her who’ve already found their match.”
At least that’s what you thought happened, because the reverse order would mean something far different. Far more impossible and downright stupid.
Dean glanced over, hands flexing awkwardly on the wheel. “You haven’t?”
“No, Dean. I have not.” Voice flat and not open to discussion.
You almost lept out of your skin at the sound of the phone ringing.
“Jesus, you’re still jumpy?”
“Thank you, captain obvious. I…” You voice faded as you saw the name illuminated on the screen.
Spider (work phone)
Unbeknownst to you, Dean had glanced over your shoulder to see the name. His gaze traveling up to your face. Mouth parted. Eyes wide and undeniably terrified.
Then your lips curled as you harshly sent the call to voicemail.
Dean cleared his throat and turned back to the wheel before you could spot him. “You wanna stop for lunch or something?”
Your glare flicked over to him.
“Oh come on.” He rolled his eyes. “Sam and Stacy are still rifling through those online records, they’re gonna be in that dork den for at least another hour—besides, it’s the least you owe me.”
“ ‘scuse me?”
He smirked, “Well you fucked me over first, should’ve at least bought a girl dinner after.”
“It’s lunch, Dean.”
“Ain’t change the sentiment, sweetheart.”
One again, you rolled your eyes with a huff. “Fine. Whatever.”
Still digging into his cherry pie and slurping down coffee, Dean asked, “How’s the head?”
You almost chipped a tooth on your fork.
“Excuse me?” Mouth agape and mere seconds from stabbing him in the hand.
Dean’s eyes widened after he realized how that sounded. “No! No—jesus, no. That’s not what—fuckin’ hell.” He ran a rough hand down his face, wanting the earth to swallow him whole. “I meant the cut, the nasty one you got on your forehead last week.”
“Oh.” You swallowed down the anger, it settling in your stomach with an oddly warm pressure. “Fine, had worse.”
He smirked. “I bet.”
Then his eyes trailed over you, starting from your head. Gaze subtly cataloging the fading scab near your hairline, then slowly tracing across your features. It was almost like you could feel the sensation of it, his eyes on your skin. Those big, green head lights of his lighting you up like a spotlight, almost shivering from the careful attention.
You had to snap out of it.
Dean cleared his throat when his eyes finally locked back onto yours. “Gotta say, you don’t have many scars for a hunter.”
You leaned forward with your elbows on the sticky diner table, a slight smirk lifting your cheeks. “Most of them ain’t on my face, that’s why.”
The way his Adam’s apple bobbed, eyes quickly flicking down to your smirk, sent a wicked thrill up your spine.
“Still,” he pressed, trying to compose himself with a large chug of hot coffee. “Normally that would scar bad.” He lazily gestured to your forehead using his mug. “Thing’s almost gone now, barely even scabbed over.”
You couldn’t help the mischievous smile. “Guess you don’t have a witch in your back pocket, then.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Don’t be messing with that stuff, Trouble.” He leaned closer deliberately, mouth set firmly down as you chuckled at him. “I’m serious, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you worry about me, pretty boy. I can handle myself.” Then you sighed when his mood didn’t lift, frown only setting deeper. “Relax, it’s a healing balm I got from a witch—but not a channeler, okay? She doesn’t even mess with that demon bullshit, it’s all naturally derived.”
Dean took a bitter swig of his coffee. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Next time you get a shiner, I can show you just how well it works.” You tapped your chin like you were thinking on it. “Actually, why don’t I give you one right now?”
His mouth twitched in a barely there smirk. “Hilarious.”
You stabbed another bite of pie. “I know I am.”
After a few moments of blissful silence, the only sounds being the bustling diner and your forks scraping against porcelain, Dean cleared his throat.
“So what was that about, back in the car?” Dean pressed, watching you carefully as you tucked into the heaping slice of chocolate crème pie.
“What was what?” You mumbled through a mouthful.
“That phone call.”
You nearly choked on the dessert, slapping your chest and setting your fork down with a clatter. Taking a sip of water first, you hacked out, “What about it?” Throat still scratchy from going down the wrong pipe.
He lifted a brow, like saying: real smooth, sweetheart.
“You sent your father to voicemail.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’d kill for my dad to even answer a damn text, let alone give me a call.”
“Wow,” you mockingly hummed, “you should unpack that with a professional, Dean.”
“Quit the bitchin’.” His mouth was tight, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing.
You rolled your eyes. “Just not in the mood to be talkin’ to him right now. Okay?” You slammed your fork down, metal clanking against the cheap diner porcelain. “That a satisfying enough answer for you?”
He pinched his mouth. Fork stabbing another bite. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
God this was a terrible fucking idea. Teaming up with these two. Letting him push your buttons, picking up on every little deception of yours like you were badly losing a game of Bullshit.
That drive back was silent, ignoring him even when he asked if you wanted him to play Zeppelin or Metallica.
“Whatever,” you had answered, not even glancing his way.
With a huff, he had rolled his eyes, giving up on that flimsy olive branch before cranking the radio. Hopefully drowning out the suffocating silence.
Here on out, you just needed to stay far away from Dean Winchester, at least when you two were forced to be alone. That mind-melting fog that loosened your tongue would get you in serious trouble if Dean kept pressing about your father.
Even from this brief time of knowing him, you could already tell he had that annoying urge. To poke and prod, scratch a scab till he could see the whole wound beneath it. Especially if he thought your colossal baggage might put him and his little brother in danger, he’d keep picking.
But you wouldn't let it get that far. After all, that was the whole point of this plan, this deal. As long you four kept on driving, a moving target high tailing it across the country, your father would never be able to track you down. Then that year would be up. And you’d be a a blurry shape in Dean’s rearview mirror.
However, a bitter part of you hoped something might make that time run up quicker. Maybe knock over that hourglass and make the sand run out in seconds. That thought was even more of an incentive to steer clear of Dean Winchester, sticking his nose in places he shouldn’t. Sticking his neck out for you just from instinct when you didn't even want it—didn’t even deserve it. That was a lost cause, anyways. Just stalling the inevitable.
So you didn’t stop to get dinner with them that night, didn’t even ask for leftovers or takeout when Stacy insisted you needed to eat. Instead, you said your head was still feeling funny and you thought your period was coming soon, and as you expected, both boys instantly shut up like you’d mentioned the plague.
A little later, you got yourself ready for an early night in. Bones aching as you slid under the covers—and then stared at the spinning ceiling fan. For a straight hour. Something nagging in the back of your skull, not even quiet when you closed your eyes.
Till you finally relented.
You turned over, switching on the lamp and snatching your phone off the nightstand. Typing a messily worded message so she’d quickly get the gist.
Me: Hey. Sorry I've been dark for a little too long. Working a case in northern Georgia right now. Smelling some nasty spell work around it, might need your expertise.
Not a minute later, your phone buzzed.
Dolly: those soulmate sacrifices?
You sat up straight in bed, the sheets bunching at your waist.
Of course she’d know. That woman knew everything.
Me: you think they’re sacrifices? We hadn’t gotten that far yet with it, only found some weird tarot carvings on their bodies and this wacko fortune teller in town
Me: she gave me the creeps
Dolly: no doubt about it. I’d check those crime scene photos and see if they had any carvings over their soulmate marks too.
Dolly: were there wrists bound together with red string?
Me: yup
The amount of time it took her to message back made your stomach clench.
Dolly: Call me first thing tomorrow. I don’t want you girls getting too close to this if it’s what I think it is.
Me: well that’s not terrifying at all
Dolly: I’m serious, babe. This many sacrifices, this fast, that requires a whole lot of heavy lifting.
Me: like an entire coven?
Dolly: or just others willing to do your dirty work for a hefty price
You ran a hand down your face, groaning into the sheets.
God this fucking case was gonna be yet another headache, wasn’t it?
Me: love me some witchery. Real fun. You witches are an odd bunch.
Dolly: Don’t you ever lump me in with those demon worshipping hags
Me: thought hag was a slur?
Dolly: yeah, so I can use it. you can’t.
Dolly: now go to sleep.
Your eyes narrowed.
Me: how the hell you know I’m in bed? It’s only like 8 pm
Dolly: The fact that you still ask after all this time...
Me: yeah, and it’s still creepy as hell
Me: talk to you tomorrow. thanks a mill, dollface.
Dolly: anytime, babe.
Well, maybe you should’ve called Dolly a tad earlier. Say, maybe, before you went to the creepy old lady and let her dip her spindly fingers into your mind..
Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best plan of attack.
Notes: OH BOY I cannot wait for part 5!!! I'm breadcrumbing hints everywhere guys and I'm itching to see if y'all are picking them up :) Remember, I'm going on my brief hiatus till the end of August, so I won't be posting a full chapter update until August 31! If you want more info on why and whether I'll post sneak peeks and stuff, check out this full length info post, pls :p
Don't Fear the Reaper || Dean Winchester x reader || soulmate!au (Part 3)
Series Masterlist! Part 1 Part 2
Series Summary Here!
Word count: 6.5k (I have no fucking clue how that happened)
Pt 3 Summary: You four head out on your first hunt together, but not even a threat to your life can stop you from cracking jokes at Dean's expense.
Relationships: (slowburn) Dean Winchester x soulmate!reader, reader x sister!oc (no physical description of her tho), redacted pairing bc spoilers
Tags/Warnings: f!reader, Slowwwwburn, enemies to lovers!, Banter & Bickering (MY B&B YUMM), seasons 1-2 canon divergence, Supernatural typical gore/blood/violence, medical inaccuracies (i'm so sorry), graphic descriptions of murder/fake slewerslides, protective Dean (HEHEHE), prob some typos tbh sorry y'all, suggestive content (smut in future parts), allusions to past abusive home life, no physical description of reader or her siblings/family, no use of y/n, ANGST!!! FLUFF!
Notes: Writing this bitch was like pulling teeth, but I trudged through the writer block with an energy drink and a fat pool-side sandwich :)
*little reminders/FYI’: Bobby’s house is in South Dakota; a 7-2 offsuit is a hand in poker :)
After you’d all briefed the case that morning, you left the keys on Bobby’s kitchen table without a glance to Dean. He’d expected a bit more gloating and teasing, but you both sort of silently acknowledged each other in the exchange. Knowing that if either of you gave one another lip, Bobby would hand you your asses and make you hug it out.
Soon as he had those keys though, he’d snatched them up and ran out to Baby. Close to tears as he felt her smooth paint job against his palms.
“You miss me, Baby?” He sighed, eyes closing in absolute bliss.
“Jesus—get a room.”
Dean spun to see you standing on the front porch. A mocking grin lifting your cheeks.
“Shut up,” he scoffed. Earning him a crazed cackled as you walked back towards the house.
Once all the bags were packed—and Bobby waved you off with a brief ‘good luck, don’t die’—you four trudged it to the car.
The entire ride to North Dakota, Dean just about gagged as he watched his brother giggle like a fool. Of course you saw it too. Eyes rolling while Sam and Stacy kept glancing at each other through the rear view mirror.
But when a light blinked on his dash, Dean cursed. Apparently, you girls hadn’t stopped for gas on your little escapade.
“Shit. Sammy, where’s the nearest gas station?”
“Uh.” He unfolded the map on his lap. “Hah—not bad. Only five miles.”
Soon as you pulled in to that dingy spot, Stacy had hopped out.
“Bathroom!” She called over her shoulder, still scurrying away to the gas station.
You chuckled, following her strides much slower. “Jesus, dude. You’ve got the weakest bladder.”
Back at the pump, Sam laughed under his breath, still looking off to where you both had disappeared to.
“Soooo,” Dean drawled, popping open the gas tank cover. “How long should I be gone tonight?”
“Huh?”
Dean crudely flicked his brows a couple times, clicking the gas pump in with an unnecessary flourish.
“Oh come on, man!” His little brother pouted.
“You’re a growing boy, Sammy. It’s perfectly natural.”
“I’m four inches taller than you, jerk.”
“Not in the way it matters, bitch.”
With a scoff, Sam slapped his brother’s shoulder, taking the opportunity to tease him in kind. “You gonna stop glaring at her?”
“What? Stacy’s great.”
Sam’s brows lifted to his hairline. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
“Oh, you mean her demon spawn sister?”
“Yes, Dean. That one.”
He shrugged, slouching cooly again the gas pump. “I’m a big boy, Sammy. I can get through one hunt with Lilith herself.”
Speak of the devil, and she appears.
“Got you boys waters and a granola bar,” You called out, shoving the items in their hands when you strolled by.
While Sam nodded at you with a smile, Dean stumbled a little as he stared at the supplies. Eyes narrowing like they were suspect.
You scoffed. “I didn’t spike the waters, Dean.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Okay, I’m ready!” Stacy sang, flouncing her way towards the car with an easy smile.
While he clicked the nozzle back into the machine, Dean watched with a mocking grin of his own as Sam rushed towards the car, holding open the door to the back row for Stacy to slide in.
“Dork,” Dean snorted before Sam flipped him off.
One singular step away from the pump, Dean stopped in his tracks. Hands frantically patting down his coat pockets.
His brother turned back. “What?”
“Ehem.”
Next to baby, smirking wide—you jingled the keys. “Always watch the hands, pretty boy. Always the hands.”
Like a little brat, Sam cackled, squeezing his brother’s shoulder as he rounded the car.
Dean ground his molars. “Cheap trick.”
“Only ones I’ve got.” Then you dropped the keys into Dean’s awaiting palm with a smirk.
Nevermind. Dean might kill you before this hunt’s even up.
Soon as Baby was parked at the motel, you swiftly paired off to your respective rooms. While they quickly dropped off their bags, Dean literally relished in the reprieve. No snide comments. No sneaky tricks. Peace and fucking quiet.
All of ten minutes. Then you four were back on the road to visit the victim’s families.
“So get this,” Sam chimed in from the front, flipping open the local newspaper. “All four of those girls are from the same town.”
“I mean, it is a state school, Sammy,” Dean countered. “Pretty common.”
“Hm, I don’t know,” Stacy hummed as she located the town on her map. “Plakville’s the size of a grain of salt on here.”
“And their graduating class was less than a 100,” Sam added, glancing back at her with a smile.
“So, probably not a coincidence. Got it.”
Thirty minutes later, Dean clicked on his blinker, pulling into the driveway of the first family.
On your moleskin, you checked a box next the first name: Jordan Smith. Next up would be Kenzie Keets, then Mary Andrews, and finally Monica Simms. All a quick drive now that you’d reached Plakville.
The quicker the better with this hunt. Every moment was too long in one place.
You were so aware of it, time ticking by like a grandfather clock echoing in your mind. Each second, standing still for too long—that was a death wish. Basically begging for him to find you both. All that running for nothing.
So you’d stick to the plan. No detours. No frills. And be back on another case in no time.
Just incase the families visited campus and spotted a familiar looking freshman, you and Stacy had to stay back in the car while the boys interviewed the families. That left you and your sister in the back row, lounging on the bench seat as you went over the case together.
“Okay, don’t hate me,” you started, preparing for the pouting. “I don’t think you should go undercover with me.”
Instantly, her eyes flared. Slapping her notebook closed. “What?! But—”
“It’s not cause I'm babying you or anything, I swear. I honestly just think we need to minimize the risk of getting caught as much as possible—and I love you, bug, but you’re not fluent in sorority speak.”
She groaned, flopping back against the car door. “I hate that you’re right.”
“Always am.”
Her boot nudged your side, still pouting. “So what am i supposed to do?”
You grinned. “Oh no! You’re gonna have to spend allll day nerding out over the newspaper archives with your hot nerd boy. Poor you.”
She kicked you a little harder. “He’s not my nerd boy.”
“But you want him to be. Bad.”
You saw the way it flickered across her face. The muscles in her throat clenching. Fingers fiddling with bracelet around her wrist.
Unbeknownst to you, there was a slight burning sensation from the mark under there. Almost imperceptible that Stacy could still brush it off as merely feeling flushed. Of course, she’d have no way to know what it truly was. Not when you’ve only heard it described in fanciful poems and cryptic song lyrics. Never once experiencing it for herself.
“Stace?”
“Something feels different with him,” she murmured, still fidgeting with the bracelet.
“Yeah, cause he’s an Adonis compared to the boys you’ve gone out with.”
When she didn’t kick you in retaliation, your grin slightly dropped. “What do you mean different?”
“I don’t know,” She whined. “I just, I just feel…”
Everything, all the time, pulling me closer to him, knowing I’m safe with him, she thought.
But all she ended up with was, “…I think I really like him.”
You giggled, reaching forward to pinch her cheeks. “Awwwww!”
She slapped your hand away with another pout. “Hm, well I seem to remember you and Dean really hitting it off.”
“You mean when I was purposely fawning over the guy to swindle him out of house and home?”
She didn’t let up, crossing her arms like a brat. “I saw that look. You were taking a long second to decide whether he was a good mark or your lady of the night.”
Your eyes rolled. “Yeah, and then he opened his mouth. Really made the decision easy for me.”
“Oh come on, he’s not that bad. Little heavy handed on the flirting, but he’s not a creep—Bobby wouldn’t trust him if he was a creep.”
“Bobby would’ve killed him if he was a creep,” you corrected.
“But he trusts them, Cricket. That’s the point.”
“Yeah, yeah, Whatever.” Back slouching against your own window. “And that’s how you know I'm serious about this, I’m trusting you in the hands of those idiots.” Gesturing a thumb towards the house.
“Hey.” She nudged you with her foot again. “Be nice.”
“I am!”
“You absolutely are not.”
“Fine.” You huffed. “I’ll be cool with Sam, he’s sweet enough, anyways. But I'm drawing the line with pretty boy.”
“He has a name, y’know.”
“Yeah—bimbo.”
She giggled, scrunching her nose at you. “Aren’t bimbos women?”
You shrugged. “I’m reclaiming the word.”
Stacy snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m a doll.”
Suddenly, a bang bang came from your window, making you jolt away from the door.
Peering through the car window, with a shit eating grin, was Dean. Giggling to himself as he clicked open the driver side door and slid in.
Now in the passenger seat, Sam sighed. “Was that really necessary?”
“No, it’s okay, Sam,” you chimed in, glaring at Dean through the rearview mirror. “He needs to test boundaries, helps with psychological development in children.”
Dean chuckled dryly, matching your glare as he revved up the engine. “Hah—hilarious, sweetheart.”
Now back at the boys’ motel room, Sam and Stacy were peacefully researching side by side.
While you and Dean tried not to strangle one another before the day was up.
Holding up the printed out application, your eyes narrowed as you read off the scribbles. “My favorite color is pink and I like long walks on the beach—Dean, this is a sorority, not speed dating!”
He shrugged, lounging back on his bed, jeans and all. “Well, depending on how you swing, it could be both.”
“Well, I’m gonna swing on you—”
“This is amazing!” Stacy yelped, eyes so big that Sam giggled at her. “I cannot believe Bobby’s been keeping this up for so long.” Actively flipping through the pages of Bobby’s field guide.
Along the edges, potential sources were all bookmarked with post-it notes by the old man like his favorite scenes in a novel. Stacy was in nerd heaven, in awe of the in-depth detail he’d kept on each supernatural entity.
“Okay, I think this was the one about human sacrifice.” Then she squinted as the scrap of parchment. “Cricket, what’s this say?”
You leaned over the back of her chair, peering at the bled ink. “Something ‘bout sucking the soul of an innocent. Not confident about that for sure though.”
Both brother’s paused, with Sam piping up first. “You know Latin?”
“Yep.” Quite evidently trying to brush it off with a grunt.
Please don’t make this a thing.
But of course, Stacy had to smile and nod so sweetly. “She took Latin in college, helped with pre-med.”
Oh, for christ’s sake—
“You went to college?”
That time you whipped up to glare at Dean. “Don’t sound so surprised, dickhead.”
Now upright on the bed, he pouted in thought. “I’m not, just...pre-med?”
Stacy couldn’t stop talking, that’s for sure. “Well, she went to med school too.”
“Stace.” Scolding, older sister hiss in full force. “This close to putting duck tape over your mouth.”
“Med school?!” Both Winchesters shouted.
“Jesus, will you relax! Did half a semester and dropped out. Big whoop.” Trying to focus your attention on fixing the recruitment application.
By your side, Stacy hummed. “Still think you would’ve made a great doctor.”
You peered over at her, so earnestly kind and open that it practically glowed from her skin. Time’s like this were when you felt sea sick with nostalgia. Only seeing that giggling six year old whose front teeth you helped pull or whose scraped knees you cleaned and bandaged. A baby sister, like you once were.
You coughed, nudging her knee under the table. “Thanks, bug.”
After a solid moment, you thought you had escaped the embarrassment. Maybe everyone was too focused on filing through the case details or reading Bobby’s book. But of course, Dean always had a one track mind.
“We could always find some time to play doctor later. I’ll be a good patient—scouts honor.”
Before you’d even begun glaring at him, a notebook thwacked the back of Dean’s head.
“Hey!” He barked, stupidly clutching the back of his head like a punished toddler.
“Try not being gross for like two seconds,” Sam sassed, waltzing by his brother on the way to his duffle bag.
As Stacy giggle at their antics, you stacked up the application papers.
“Okay, time to turn these suckers in.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but we need a formal application submitted at least a month before recruitment.” Justine—apparently the Panhellenic recruitment chair—apologized. Her too bright smile glinting as the sunlight beat down on the campus quad.
Since Sam and Stacy were apparently real busy with those archives, you were stuck with Dean as your sole company. One you’d gotten all gussied up, he’d driven all the way in mere silence. Giving only a glare anytime you went to adjust the volume. So when you’d absolutely caught him eyeing your bare legs in that frilly little dress, you’d gotten your lick back with a kick to his ribs.
As soon as the car pulled into the campus parking lot, you turned to him, purse wielded like a weapon. “If you leave me behind for some college ass, I’m gonna slash your tires.” And jumped out the car, door slamming on the way out.
Because he had a death wish, Dean yelled out the window towards the bustling campus, “Your ass looked better in the green one!” Grinning impishly when you turned back with a sneer—which looked more like a haughty pout in your sorority girl get-up.
Now, plan gone side ways with one little misstep, you stumbled. Gears turning. “But I did submit it. Licked the stamp myself.” Adding a cheeky little giggle at the end.
The girl barely budged, still smiling mechanically. “Again, I'm so sorry. Maybe next year!”
Fuck—think!
You swallowed, then near mirrored her grin. “Oh, it’s no worries! My momma says this happens all the time at nationals.”
Just as you expected, her eyes grew to saucers.
“Nationals?”
You nodded with a sickly sweet smile. “Yep, she's been on the Grand Council for five years now. Don’t worry, she says these things get lost in the mail all the time. I’ll just give her a ring.”
“No!” Justine interrupted, flustered beyond belief and painfully trying to hide it behind a smile. “Um, actually it’s no worries at all. I’ll take this one from you and then we’ll just, uh—no need to bug your momma. I bet she’s real busy.”
“Are you sure? That’s awfully sweet of you.” Then you leaned forward conspiratorially. “She is looking for an intern next spring....”
She gaped. “Really?”
“I’ll have to tell her about the nicest girl who helped me at registration.” Giving her a wink.
“You’re too sweet!” She waved you off, eyes just slightly narrowed as she appraised you—probably filing it away for the dirty rush list. “What was your name again?”
Barely batting an eye, you sang, “Mary Katherine Clearwater.”
“Well, Mary Katherine, that’s my number right there.” She scribbled on a napkin with a wink. “I hope you’ve got some white and gold in your wardrobe.”
You grinned, fiddling with the press on nails you’d slapped on in Dean’s car. “And a golden crested peony?”
From the way her grin ticked higher, you knew you had her hook, line, sinker. That damn gold flower you knew was part of some secret initiation ritual. Basically trade secrets—unless you were a legacy. Thankfully for you though, your college roommate was loose lipped when wine drunk and loved to complain about her sisters.
Now that you were in, you had to test the waters.
“I’m sorry to ask this, I bet you’re getting hounded with questions, but my mama’s a tad worried about the—um.” You glanced around, voice dropping to whisper like you were nervous. “Those deaths. So sudden, so sad.”
Unlike the gossip monger you were expecting, a chink appeared in the girl’s armor. Face drooping and sheer terror widening her eyes. Only fleeting though, before she affixed a perfectly curated smile.
“Oh, I'm not one to chit-chat about those things. I barely knew those girls.” You could’ve sworn her eye twitched.
Huh. That was pretty fucking weird.
But you brushed it off with a relaxed smile. “Oh yes, of course! Sorry to even mention it. You have a lovely day!”
Soon as you hopped into Dean’s car, however, you were like a dog with a bone.
“Something’s fishy with that recruitment girl,” you glanced down at the napkin. “Justine Michaels. She almost shit her pants when I mentioned those girls—and it definitely wasn’t a concern about keeping new member numbers up. She specifically said ‘I barely knew those girls.’”
Dean snorted. “Which translates to ‘I know something and I'm begging you not to dig.’”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” he flipped the phone open, dialing up Sam. “Grab your shovel, sweetheart.”
“Hah—Get this,” Sam chuckled in disbelief, scrolling through the student database. “Justine Michaels. Senior, marketing major—and hometown Plakvile, North Dakota.”
“Nice digging, Sammy!” Dean ruffled the mop of hair on his little brother’s head.
Once seat over, a squeak came from your sister.
“Stacy?”
Her eyes widened, smile giddy. “I just hit the jackpot.”
“Let’s see, ladybug,” Dean sighed, plopping down in the seat next to her.
She swiveled the laptop to face you three, reading the newspaper title from memory. “Lana Freeman, 18, Fatally Struck by Incoming Train. Currently a Suspected Suicide.”
“Um, okay,” you sighed. “Time stamp says it happened three years ago, Stace.”
“Just wait.”
When she scrolled further down your jaw dropped. “Are those—?”
“The four victims,” She answered, glancing down at the group photo plastered on the front page. “Yep. Sure is. The article says they were best friends with Lana all throughout high school. Apparently, when she didn’t get a bid to any sorority, they said she took suicide bidding a little too literally.”
Dean choked on his soda. “She killed herself over a sorority bid?”
“Yup.”
Sam balked. “Suicide bidding?”
With a far too casual shrug, you clarified, “It’s a bit of taboo term in recruitment, means you only marked down one sorority at the end. So it’s totally possibly you can just not get a bid even after going through the whole thing. And if you don’t get a bid, well...yeah. Basically pulling the trigger yourself.”
Sam gulped. “Jesus—that’s dark.”
“That’s greek life for you, bud.” Your eyes caught something on the picture. “Stace can you blow that up a little more. Top right. The tiny one with glasses.” Instantly, your breath caught. “That’s Justine Michaels.”
Dean leaned in towards the laptop, his shoulder brushing you own. “The recruitment chick you talked to this morning?”
“Hundred percent. Obviously she doesn't have glasses anymore and her hair’s a little different—but that’s definitely her.”
Stacy swiveled the laptop back around to read the rest. “Says here that Justine was Lana’s neighbor and best friend since they were four. Apparently they were all supposed to hang out at Justine’s dorm the night after they all got their bids, but Lana never showed and apparently ignored their calls. Then she was found on the train tracks the next morning. Still traces of alcohol in her system, so the cops just thought she got too drunk and made a rash decision.”
You chewed on your lip, thinking back to the interaction from earlier. “Something’s not adding up. I mean, Justine look terrified when I even mentioned those girls.”
Dean slapped the table in finality. “Welp, sorry, sweet cheeks. Case closed. All we gotta do is burn Lana’s bones and we’re outta here.”
Now that you had to wait till nightfall to sneak into the Plakville cemetery, Dean was taking a cat nap, absolutely snoring up a storm. So much so that you almost chucked your wallet at him.
If you weren't so hung up on the case, maybe you would have. But something wasn’t adding up and you could barely sit still. Fingers drumming on the motel armchair. Staring up at the popcorn ceiling.
Till you finally snapped.
“Guys, I'm gonna walk to the corner store and get drinks. Want anything?” Already clutching on to your purse. Pocket knife slipped into the waist of your jeans and Christopher’s old Colt amongst the junk of the purse.
“I’m alright,” Sam said, glancing over at you from the tiny motel table. “Thanks, though.”
“Same here,” Stacy added with a sheepish smile, gaze flicking back to the boy across the table.
Of course, Dean was still snoring on the bed, oblivious to your exit. Selfishly, you knew Sam and Stacy would be too engrossed in drooling over one another to notice how long you’d be gone. So you did something incredibly stupid.
Stupid even for you.
On the way out, you snatched out the napkin from your purse, and as soon as you stepped outside, you dialed up Justine.
If you were gonna close this case, you needed to know the full picture. It felt like going in blind to the bone burning. Even if Dean was fine with washing his hands of it all, you weren’t. You couldn't—not with that gnawing feeling in your gut.
Well, if curiosity killed the cat, so be it.
“Hey!” Voice chipper as you slid into the diner booth. “Thank you so much for meeting me. Just had a couple of question before recruitment starts tomorrow, and thought you were the best person to ask.”
“Of course!” She beamed. “Anything for a future sister.”
You chuckled awkwardly, pulling out the printed newspaper clipping from your purse. “Um, so—I lied. About that. I’m not...I’m not a freshman. I don't even go to school here.”
She stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“I’m with the FBI, here investigating those four deaths. All from Plakville...like you, right?”
She paled. “The police said they were suicides.”
You exhaled, voice dropping to a murmur. “I think you and me both know that’s not true.”
Justine scoffed, tears brimming as she snatched up her purse. “You’re fucking psycho.” Then she raced out the door.
You followed after her, trotting to keep up pace as she high tailed it from the diner parking lot and down the wooded trail back to campus.
“Justine, wait!”
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to follow her farther into the wilderness, sun setting quicker by the second, but it was the only way to find out the truth.
Her footsteps only sped up on the wooded path. Crunching dead leaves and kicking rocks her wake. All around, the trees seemed to close in on you as you descended farther down the trail. Woody brush denser by the second.
“Justine, I know about Lana!”
That made her steps only falter for a moment, briefly glancing over her shoulder as she walked deeper into the woods. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about!”
“Your friends, those four girls, they didn’t kill themselves. Just like Lana didn’t jump in front of that train!”
She froze, foot wobbling over a pebble as she turned back to you. Tears already pooling in her eyes.
“I didn’t—I.” Justine choked on a sob. “I didn’t think she’d actually do it...I-I thought she jumped off the tracks in time.”
You felt it, right as the forest dipped into complete darkness. A sudden, harsh drop in temperature. The wind around you picking up.
Then all hell broke loose.
Five minutes later, you were fumbling for your phone. Frantically dialing up the first number—weren't many to shuffle through, anyways.
As soon as the receiver clicked, you were greeted by a voice that was definitely not Stacy’s.
“Where the hell are you, Trouble?”
You panted, out of breath from beelining between trees. “Oh—uh, hey, Dean.”
“Cute—where the hell are you?”
You cursed again as another rock throttled itself at you from behind the tree. “Heh—funny story. I’m, um, I’m actually in the woods. Behind the diner...with Justine.”
“...What?” You already heard the jingling of keys, no doubt snatching them off the table with a fury.
“And well—fuck!” Another rock successfully pelted against your temple when you peeked around the tree.
“Hey! Trouble, what the fuck’s going on?!” Voice growing more gruff and frantic.
Your vision swam, still protectively crouching over Justine’s cowering form. “I’m fine, just—Jesus, Lana’s got good aim.”
“The virgin suicides chick?”
“Yeah, well, not actually a suicide.” Taking a second to breath through the vertigo. “Those girls got drunk in the woods and dared her to play chicken.”
“And they all fucking left her?”
“Yep,” you heaved, leaning further into the tree as the wind picked up again. Justine still helplessly sobbing below you. “Guess she’s trying to even the score now.”
Dean huffed, the sound of his engine roaring through the receiver. “Be there in two—and do not do anything stupid before then!”
You chuckled, blinking wildly as the dizziness still lingered. “No promises.”
Every few seconds you tried beelining to another tree farther up the path, practically dragging Justine as dead weight while she sobbed.
But just as you went to rush another tree, a sharp pain shot up your spine, causing you to fall forward on your knees. Rubble now digging into your skin.
“Fuck,” you hissed as you tried clutching your bruised back.
Soon as you reach behind, an unrelenting grip took hold of your wrist, throttling you back down the trail. Even as your shoulder throbbed from the force, you rolled back around. Staring up wide eyed as Lana’s mangled, ghostly form loomed over you with a sneer.
“Hey, slimer!”
Then a shot rang out. Rock salt pellets shooting straight into her chest, making her form fizzle out.
Before you even had time to breathe, Dean had hoisted you up by the collar and planted you on steady feet.
Still panting, you pointed towards Justine cowering over against a tree. “You need to bring her back to the diner.”
His green eyes narrowed at you, on high alert as he swiveled his gaze across the path. “No friggin’ way.”
“Dean, come on!” Wind still whipping aggressively against your skin. “I’ll stall her until Sam and Stacy can burn the bones.”
His mouth pinched, eyes darting back over at Justine with a painful grimace.
“Dean—”
“Alright!” He barked, then shoved the shotgun barrel in your hands. “Take the damn gun at least.” Before he rushed towards Justine, he turned back to you and almost laughed manically. “You really took that nickname as a challenge, huh?”
Cocking the shot gun. “Yep.”
Now alone in the wooded darkness, you looked mad out of your mind trying to fend off Lana. Head on a swivel. Eyes wide and frantically watching for any sudden movement or shadow of her apparition.
When a leaf crunched, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
“It’s me!” Dean shouted, hands up in surrender with the shot gun barrel pointed squarely at his chest.
For only a moment, you breathed in relief—then a phantom hand snatched at your legs.
Dean lunged for you as your body slammed face first into dirty path. Your hand still desperately clinging onto the shot gun as the world went dizzy.
But her hand was no longer on your leg.
As you looked up from the ground, you saw as Lana ambushed Dean, pinning him against a tree by his neck.
Frantically, you stumbled up without your bearings. Grasping the shotgun and hopefully aiming it at the spirit and not Dean.
When you pulled the trigger, the shotgun pathetically clicked.
Fuck—you were out of rock salt.
Well, hopefully Sam and Stacy were burning those bones right about now.
“Hey, Lana!” You shouted, weakly chucking a rock at her apparition to just tick her off.
Unfortunately, you were successful with that.
She turned back to your with a sneer. Hand dropping from Dean’s neck before he landed back down with a thud.
Then, that exact rock you threw rocketed itself towards you. The rough edges absolutely nailed you in the head, sending you down on your hands and knees with a pained gasp. Within moments, Lana’s form was hunched over you, her hand wrapping around your throat and slamming you onto your back.
As you gasped and choked, Dean was only just now realizing how fucked you were as the shotgun rapidly clicked without rock salt pellets.
All of a sudden, the wind stopped.
Rocks—that only moments earlier tried braining you—slammed back down to the ground. The weight lifted off your throat. Only the settling dirt still fogging the air left as a reminder.
Well, guess Sam and Stacy finished the burning.
After a solid second, you crawled back up to stand, hacking on dust clogging your lungs. Still blinking like crazy, you felt a hand settle under your chin.
With another blink, your eyes finally focused, seeing Dean’s gruff pout as he inspected you. Calloused hand rotating your head around to carefully analyze the blood dribbling down your forehead.
“You good? Anything else bleeding?” He gritted out, eyes flicking down to your torso and dirty jeans.
“Nope, uh. Think I'm peachy—’cept for a damn headache,” you laughed through a hacking cough.
Dean’s jaw ticked, watching you carefully. “Good.” Then he harshly flicked your forehead back—right over the cut.
“Ow—what the fuck, Dean?!”
“The hell was that?!” He grumbled. Fists digging into the waist of his leather jacket. “You friggin’ leave the motel—on foot. Don’t tell no one where your ass is going, and then follow a girl into the damn woods?!” Face growing hot and red as he snarled at you. “You stupid or something?”
Against your better judgement, you merely cringed. “Is that rhetorical?”
Dean took a step back, pacing as he ran a dirty hand over his mouth like he was mere seconds away from snatching you up by the hair.
“What exactly was your plan, huh?” Green eyes wide and the whites glinting under the moonlight. “What the hell were you gonna do if I didn’t pick up that damn phone? If I was even five seconds too late?”
You bit your cheek hard. “I had it under control.”
“Yeah?” He barked a laugh. “With no rock salt and having to cover some sobbing chick the whole time, leaving your ass exposed?”
Your mouth puckered with an awkward chuckle. “Lotta talk about my ass—”
His mouth twitched with barely restrained anger.
“That was stupid.” Shoving a finger in your face, his own a mere breath away. “Stupid and reckless—and you’ve got mesaying that, which is a pretty fucking low bar.” He threw his hands up. “You got a death wish or something?!
It was meant to be rhetorical and a petty joke to poke at your pride. Instead, Dean saw your eyes flash for a brief moment. Mouth pinching tight as you reflexively looked away from his piercing eyes.
That made Dean falter. Hands flopping back down to his sides. Lips parting and eyes narrowing as he scanned you over.
Then you coughed, tightly wrapping your arms around your chest. But still avoiding his gaze like it might kill you on sight.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Voice more wobbly than he’d ever heart from that smart mouth. “I get it. I’m stupid and I fucked everything up—believe me, I get it.”
When you went to march back towards the car, you stumbled over a pebble, vision warping from the dizziness.
Dean instinctively reached out an arm to steady you, but you swatted it away.
“I’m fine,” you hissed.
Then trudged back up the trail towards the parking lot. Leaving Dean to watch your retreating form.
The entire car ride back was silent. Just you staring straight ahead from the front seat, feeling Dean’s eyes flick over to you every once in a while. To his credit, he didn't say shit, not even to mock you. Just clenched and unclenched his fists around the steering wheel. All the way back to the motel.
Once he parked, Dean planned on insisting you let him clean up that nasty gash on your forehead. But by the time he slipped out of the car, you had already slammed your motel room door shut. The sound echoing in the dead night air.
Soon as Stacy stepped back into the room that night, she chewed you out real good. Honestly, you knew you deserved it. Just scrubbing yourself silently in the shower as she paced across the bathroom tile, only coming up for short breaths before going on another tirade about you being ‘one self-sacrificing asshole that takes being a stupid bitch to a whole nother level.’
Now—squished together in the king sized bed you got to save a little cash—you couldn’t ignore her all night.
Five minutes after shutting off the lights, drenched in awkward silence, you sighed.
“Stace—”
“Don’t ever do that again,” she hissed, completely turning around.
Now that she was facing you, the tiny tears practically glowed in her eyes.
“I won’t,” you whispered.
“Ever.” Sniffling again. “Or I swear I’ll break into hell and kill you myself.”
You tried a grin. “Hell? Got no faith in me whatsoever, bug?”
She still pouted with a glare. “Not in the mood for your stupid jokes right now.”
You waited a few seconds. “How about tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
By the morning, the iciness had slightly melted between you two. Silently tossing each other the strewn about clothes to stuff back into your duffles. But once your bags were back, she’d thawed enough to give you a smile—right as she shoved you out the motel room door.
The ride to the diner and the subsequent breakfast was another story. Each sibling pair snagged a side of the booth, so, of course, you were stuck across from Dean. Awkwardly dodging his eye contact and mumbling a quick ‘sorry’ ever now and then when you accidentally nudged his foot under the table. On the other side, when they weren't giving each other googly eyes, Sam and Stacy were glancing over at you both. Silently watching you and Dean’s awkward little exchanges with barely contained snickers.
“So,” Stacy beamed, swiping the crumbs off her hands. “Where we heading to next?”
Beside her, you stilled. Spine rocketing up straight. “Stace, we don’t wanna—”
“Why not?” She interrupted you, eyes flaring in silent communication.
“I think it’s a great idea!” Sam echoed with a boyish smile.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Course you do.”
“I’m serious! Look how fast we wrapped up this case. Two. Frickin’. Days. We’ve never done that alone, man.”
His brother still grumbled through mouthful of pancakes, but Sam kept going.
“And we would’ve never been able to get that info from Justine. Lana would’ve taken her out just like the rest of them, and we would’ve burned her bones for nothing—hell, I don’t think I could’ve gone through all those newspapers alone. Probably would’ve taken me a good three days to even find that article about Lana’s death.” Then he sheepishly glanced across at Stacy. “Bobby was right, we work pretty well together.”
Soon as Dean scoffed, your vision swam red. “We don’t need their help, Sammy.”
Only five minutes prior and you would’ve said the same damn thing. But now that that smug fuck said it first—you took that as a personal challenge.
“Really?” Voice tight and clipped. “So you could’ve done all that, put together that little puzzle, all by your lonesome?” Eyes narrowing. “Didn’t need us one bit?”
Dean harshly swallowed his coffee. “Absolutely.”
Oh that smug fucking—
“Great.” Chipper and hissing now. “Then we don’t need your help getting back to Bobby’s.”
Stacy whipped her head to you. “What?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Course we’ll drive you back—”
“No, no.” Holding up a finger to silence him. “We can manage that—alone. Just like you. Right, Dean?”
Dean ground his molars, matching your stare in a challenge. “Right.”
“Dude!” Sam balked. “We cannot just leave them here.”
“Thank you for the concern, Sam.” Smile deceptively warm. “But we’ll be fine. Both got a lotta experience hitch hiking.”
Even Dean paled, coughing on a sip of coffee. “No way you’re hitch hiking.”
“Well, Dean, we’re not a team, so it’s not exactly your call.”
The whole way out of the diner, Stacy poked at your side to get your attention. Both of you walking two paces behind the boys.
She hissed your name, snatching your wrist with wide eyes. “There is no way we’re hitch hiking.”
Dropping your voice down to a whisper, you swatted off her hand. “Course we’re not hitch hiking, Stace.”
“But you said—”
You shushed her. “Just follow my lead and that boy’s gonna fold like a 7-2 offsuit.”
Soon as they approached the car, you gestured for Dean to pop the trunk. With Sam still glaring daggers at him, he followed your cue, watching you carefully at you hoisted up both duffles.
“Well, we’ll see you boys. Don’t die—or do. Up to you.” Then you spun on the ball of your heels and started walking towards the interstate.
Beside you, Stacy was rigid. Eyes practically bugging out as she resisted taking a look back.
“How about now?” She whispered out of the side of her mouth.
“Keep walking, Stace,” you sighed. “Always keep walking.”
Now across the parking lot, you could still hear the hushed chatter of the brothers no doubt fighting like cats with each other. And then, right on cue.
“Alright fine!” Dean barked.
You paused, glancing at your sister with a smirk, and then looked over your shoulder. “Pardon?”
Dean mumbled something under his breath before Sam poked him in the ribs. “Jesus—you two can just, I don’t know....” He ground his teeth like he had to physically force his body to say the words. “You can stay.”
Stacy spun fully around, grinning wide at them both.
“But no one touches my damn keys, you hear?” Dean pointed a finger between you two. “I swear to god—one wrong move and I'm dropping your asses on the curb.”
Sam swatted Dean’s shoulder. “He’s kidding.”
You snorted, “No he isn’t.”
Slowly, you started strolling back towards the boys. Steadily holding Dean’s eye contact like it was a challenge, right up until you were an arm’s length from him.
He pinched his lips thin. Eyes narrowing as he scrutinized your approach. Slightly fearful, slightly curious—like always, with you.
Then, to his horror, you smirked.
“I accept your most gracious invitiation,” you sassed, already walking past him towards Baby’s trunk.
But when you were still a reach away, you patted him on the shoulder. “Just don’t get too attached, pretty boy.”
Notes: Can y'all tell I was on cabinet in my sorority for two damn years?? Yeah. I've been through war. (next part might be my favorite one so far, we really start to ramp up the storyline there YUSSS)
✄ Summary: You’re Dean's best-friend/hunting partner. When Meg exposes that you're a virgin and has plans to harvest your blood, he takes matters into his own hands.
✄ Warnings/Tags: Dean Winchester x F!Reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader or reader’s body, smut with a little plot, CNC, light angst, some dirty talk, pnv sex, breeding kink if you squint
✄ Word Count: ≈3000
✄ Author’s Note: Yoo! I’ve been MIA for a bit, nursing school is whooping my ass, but here we go! A new fic within a week! Enjoy and let me know what you think! Requests are open. Ta ta, love you lots like polka dots!
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"What did you just say?" Dean seethed.
You'd froze where you stood. Your blood ran ice cold as the shock-worthy truth spilled from Meg's lips. Helplessly stunned and left to watch as she taunted Dean from the chair she was bound to. Subdued under the Devil's Trap. She laughed, but the sound was cold and humorless.
"That's right, Dean," she drawled with a twisted smirk, "your precious little partner is a virgin. Innocent and intact—where it matters."
You could've crawled out of your skin. Combusted into pink mist just from the humiliation. Dean looked to you for...Hell he didn't know either. Confirmation? Denial? Either way, he didn't get it, because you couldn't meet your eyes. Not while she continued to expose every soft part of your underbelly.
"Not only is she a virgin, she's practically the virgin. So pure I wouldn't have to drain batches of girls who only go as far as third base," Meg snickered cynically, "you wouldn't believe how much it counts. A single pint from your partner is the equivalent to three of those girls."
"Oh, keep dreamin' bitch," Dean practically growled as he raised the colt, "you ain't gettin' a damn drop out of her! Or anybody else."
"Ah ah—not so fast," Meg smirked, "you still need me to tell you where sweet Sammy is. Can't exactly do that if I'm shot in the head, can I?"
Everything felt like it was spinning. One minute you and Dean were five-steps ahead, a minute later, you'd been tossed at least a mile backwards. This was supposed to be their way to find Sam. Instead, it turned into a scheme reveal neither of them were prepared for.
Before you could respond or even react, Dean already had your wrist in his hand. He drug you outside of the barn and into the cold night air. The wooden doors slammed shut behind him before he whirled back to face you.
"You're a fucking virgin? Seriously?! This isn't the damn forties!" He seethed quietly, gesturing to you wildly while he whisper-yelled, "the whole time—this whole damn time—our blind spot has been you! No wonder demons keep popping up around us like roaches, your blood's what they're after!"
"I'm sorry, okay?!" You groaned in embarrassed self-defense as you ran a hand through your hair, "but you can't actually be blaming me for this! How was I supposed to know I'd end up a damn personal-blood-bank just cause I hadn't gotten around to swiping my v-card?!" You whisper-yelled right back at him.
"Hadn't gotten around—Jesus Christ—are you serious? This ain't a damn joke! We ain’t at a slumber-party sugar." He actually yelled before closing the distance between the two of you.
In three short strides, he fisted the back of your shirt and pushed you toward the Impala. Your brows furrowed as you tried to dig your heels in the dirt.
"Dean—Dean what are you doing?" You stammered as he unlocked the car, then shoved you in the backseat. He quickly clambered in behind you.
"I think it's obvious sweetheart. We have two problems. One of them I can solve, right now." He grit as he unbuckled his belt. His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the protruding hinge of bone.
You flushed in embarrassment. Frozen again as your mouth opened and closed. The first response was to protest, curse his name, or insult him for everything he was worth. Shout that no way in Hell were you losing your virginity to Dean just because a demon said so. Much less like this.
"What's the hold-up?" He asked when you didn't move, "I'm serious. Take your damn pants off."
Before you could though, his jeans were undone and his hands yanked at the button on yours. You tried to thrash your legs to stop him, but he was stronger. He grabbed your bare thighs and pinned them to the leather seat.
"You're seriously fighting me on this? You wanna be her living blood bag?" He growled, fingertips digging into the soft meat of your inner thighs.
"...N-no," you managed to huff.
"Then I'm fucking you. Problem solved."
Without waiting for anymore permission, he pulled out his cock and pumped it. Pushing your panties to the side as he slid the length of it through your semi-wet folds.
"Shit…you ain't as against it as you think, sweetheart," Dean chuckled lowly when he felt the slick of your cunt gradually increase, "yeah, that's it—get nice an' wet for me—c'mon, we ain't got all night."
"Dean, I don't—"
"Tough luck, buttercup," he cut off your protest with a glide over your clit, "I don't care."
You huffed despite the way your hips canted to grind against him. Cheeks and neck flushed a visible pink even in the dark backseat of the Impala. Your hands grasped at his forearms; whether to push him away or pull him closer, neither of you were sure at this point.
"Nuh uh," Dean grunted as he grabbed your wrists. His large hand wrapped around both of them and pinned them to your stomach, "I ain't gone' hurt you, but you're losing that virginity sweetheart."
Without another word, he slowly pushed inside of you. He at least had the decency to be gentle and give you a moment to adjust.
"Gotta move, sugar. Quicker it's over, quicker you're safe," he tried to reassure, his plush lips grazed your jaw where he leaned over you.
A muffled whimper escaped you and melted into one of his kisses. Your pussy pulsed around him from the intrusion. Painful because of his size, the girth of him, but not as bad as you feared. He released your wrists and guided your arms to wrap around his neck. His own slid under your back and lifted your ass to adjust the angle of his thrusts.
A moan punched out of your lungs when he hit somewhere deep inside you. The velvety tip of his dick kissing that spongy-spot like a cheat code. It left you feeling split open in a way you didn't know was possible. Each thrust sent a wave of sparked pleasure through your body. Your thighs twitched where they were pinned beneath his hips.
"There you go," he praised with a grunt while his hips rolled into yours, "more you let go, better it feels sweetheart."
Damn him, he was right. You let yourself drift further into the pleasure. You whined shamelessly. You grasped at his back as you arched into him. The sensation of his dick as it slid out and back in was indescribable. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of it. A shiver went down your spine each time he stretched you. The obscene squelch from your pussy as he drove into you filled the inside of the car.
"C'mon sugar—fuck—gotta speed this up," Dean grunted. He gripped your thighs and wrapped them around his waist. His thrusts became desperate, his hands gripped your hips like you'd float away if he didn't.
One of his hands slipped down to rest over your mound. Dean's thumb snuck lower and circled your clit. Your poor swollen and neglected bundle of nerves practically vibrated under his touch. Your hips stuttered against his while broken moans left your lips. Your toes curled behind his back while your heels dug into his ass.
Dean nearly moaned when he felt your pussy flutter around him. The universal sign a woman was close. He fucked you harder, rubbed your clit faster, nipped and sucked on your neck. He groaned and cursed and praised you against your skin. You felt the twitch of his dick inside you. He was close too.
"You're close, sweetheart. So fucking close—you can do it," he panted hoarsely, "cum for me so she can't have you. Cum all over my dick sweetheart, save yourself." He taunted, voice low and dangerous, but God did it send a thrill up your spine.
You whined in response. Your hips jerked and rolled in tune with his thrusts, up against his thumb on your clit.
"...c-close," you stuttered, a desperate grip on his back or nails digging into his shoulders.
Dean shuddered.
"Then fucking cum, baby," he barked.
You didn't need anything else. With that rough command, you came all over his cock and leather seats. You cried out a broken moan that made him groan against your neck. Slender hands squeezing him like you'd melt into a puddle of nothing if you didn't hold on. A creamy white ring formed around the base of his dick as he chased his own release.
"Good girl," Dean crooned hoarsely as he continued to fuck you, "So fuckin' messy, sweetheart," he grunted.
After one last harsh thrust, he came deep inside you. His dick throbbed as his cum painted your insides. Hot, thick, and so much that it dribbled onto the seat beneath you.
He pulled out entirely. So slowly you thought he had to of been teasing. Then he rubbed the tip of his length around your entrance. Dean gathered the cum that leaked out of you and fucked it back into you. All you could do was mewl where he had you pinned. Breathy, overstimulated whines tumbled from your lips.
"Take it," he panted lowly, his voice strained from exertion, "every last drop, sugar."
It could've been minutes or hours later by the time he pulled his jeans back up. He tucked his dick back in his pants with the lack of grace only he could have. Despite the ravenous and desperate way he'd just fucked you, he did care. Of course he did.
"Lemme' help," he gruffed quietly, gently swatting your hands out of the way to grab your jeans and panties himself.
Before he helped them back on, he grabbed some napkins from up front. Dean wiped you, and the seat, clean the best he could.
"Sorry you gotta put these back on," he chuckled sheepishly as he slipped your slightly soiled panties back up your legs. The crotch still damp from when he'd tossed you in the back seat.
"…'S okay," you murmured lazily, "more at the motel," you drawled with a fucked-out sigh.
Dean smirked in self-satisfaction as he carefully guided your jeans back up your legs. Clearly proud of himself for giving you pleasure despite the circumstances. He placed two soft kisses on each thigh before he fastened them at your hips.
"C'mon, let's go find out where she's got Sammy," he grunted as he exited the backseat, holding the door open with an outstretched hand for you.
You took it with a small blush. That precious little reaction earned you a pinch to the ass before he grabbed your hand again. He kissed the back of it once before he hauled you back to the barn. Chaste, but soft and apologetic enough.
Dean slung the large wooden doors open and clapped his hands together victoriously, "alright bitch! You’ve lost your leverage, where's my brother?" Dean yelled, eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed Meg.
She was exactly where you'd left her. Bound to a chair in the middle of the barn. Nearly paralyzed and powerless inside the Devil's Trap. She wasn't looking at him though. Meg was looking at you. The purpling love-bites scattered across your neck, rumpled clothes, your mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She practically roared before turning her eyes to Dean.
"What have you done?!" She growled, but she had to of already known the answer. Her eyes raked over his own rumpled clothes, his porcupine hair from your fingers, the utterly smug smirk on his face.
"I fucked her. Made sure to fill her up too. So her blood’s useless," Dean smiled as he leaned down in front of her, "now where's my brother?"
✄
The car-ride back to the motel was painfully awkward. Sammy was located, Meg was dead, and the tension that still remained was suffocating.
"So what—" Sam started.
"Nothing," you and Dean interjected at the same time.
He looked between the two of you from the passenger seat. An eyebrow arched and his trademark 'I'm not stupid' expression all over his face. You purposely avoided his eyes so you didn't have to acknowledge how obvious it was that you'd been fucked mere hours ago.
Much less by his brother.
"Right...," he drawled, then turned back forward, "nothing. Totally."
╰┈> 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.
Pairing: dad!Dean Winchester x mom!reader (childhood friends-to-lovers)
Summary: you and Dean are broken up but still bound by your three kids, the holidays, and the feelings you can’t quite bury.
Warnings: 18+, co-parenting struggles, angst, hurt/comfort, allusions to infidelity/cheating while on a break, mild language, explicit sexual scenes mdni (each part will have their own warnings depending on its content)
A/n: hiiii! Me again with another Dean Winchester series lol this time, this is from an actual fanfic I have on wattpad, but I only chose the breakup part since it’s like one of my favorites parts lol and come on, who doesn’t like this kind of drama?
I don’t mind spam likes! If you find this series whenever you find it and decide to read all the parts that are published, I don’t mind spam likes <3
*This series is an AU where the Winchesters are not hunters*
moodboards:
» 1.0 - 2.0
chapters:
» synopsis / prologue
» part one
» part two
» part three
» part four
» part five
» part six
» part seven
» part eight
» part nine
» epilogue
early relationship fics/drabbles (young!Dean)
» Hope you dream of me
» I really like you. Like, a lot
» Girlfriend
» A match made in heaven
» Kiss me sober
» I want you forever even when we’re not together
extras:
nothing yet!
I accept requests for this series!
Taglist is open! Leave a comment if you wanna be part of it
a/n: I don’t have a schedule to publish each part and also, I already have everything, BUT it’s in spanish so I need to translate it to post it here (and also change the pov cuz on wattpad is Dean x fem!oc).. so just bare with me lmao (I think I’ll probably post the synopsis tomorrow tho 👀)
tw- undertones about trinity’s csa but no in detail stuff more just boundaries and that stuff but it’s fluff😣
word count- .4k
~trinity who immediately fell hard for you when she saw you at the nurses station on her first day
~trinity who stumbles over her own words for the first month she knew you
~trinity who loves the way you’re eyes go big and you smile widely when she makes one of her dumb cringy jokes
~trinity who invites you on “dates” that she insists are platonic but everyone knows she is lying through her teeth
~trinity who freezes the first time you guys had a movie night and you fell asleep on her shoulder and she forgot how to breathe not wanting to wake you
~trinity that whispers empty threats as whitaker is laughing at her as he takes a picture and she called him chuckleberry for a week
~trinity who insists on you being in every case she can justify you being on
~trinity who realizes she’s falling for you when she is watching you joke with victoria and it felt like she couldn’t breathe
~trinity who panics and distances herself from you for two weeks before she gets scolded by almost everyone for ignoring you
~trinity who brings you a cupcake and your favorite drink the next day and pretends like nothing happened
~trinity who secretly cried after work when you forgave her
~trinity who invites you to go to the club with her and when a girl comes up to you and asks for your number she realizes she can’t keep her feelings inside anymore
~trinity who asks to leave claiming she just wanted to get some cheap vodka from the corner store and when you get a block away from the bar she starts rambling about how she is so glad to have met you
~trinity who is shocked when you grab her face and asked her to shut up and just kiss you
~trinity who after kissing you says her cringy one liner “please pinch me so i know im not dreaming”
~trinity who is bad at keeping secrets and by the end of your next shift everyone knows you two are together
~trinity who still shys away from soft domestic affection because she believes she doesn’t deserve attention if it’s not sexual
~trinity who hesitated the first couple months of your relationship to kiss you without asking for explicit consent
~trinity who looks at you with shock when you’re on your first date and you don’t expect sex from her
~trinity who for once in her life felt seen as she realizes she has a person that will always look for her in a crowded room
~trinity who celebrates christmas for the first time since she was 18 before she moved out of her family’s house
~trinity who holds your hand as you walk into work everyday without fail
Summary: Dean and Castiel watch the sunset from the bay window of their holiday home.
Warnings: none
Word count: 559
a/n: i know you arent supposed to mix prompts so a separate ficlet for #30 is in the works <3
___________________
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 SPN summer, prompt #11 & #30
___________________
The sun glinted, casting shadows through the gap in the curtains. They hadn’t been opened fully as the two men huddled in the alcove and watched the light dip below the horizon. Sam was somewhere in the shack, probably cooling off with a smoothie and a book to hand.
Castiel’s vessel meant that he was cold regardless, unaffected by the higher UV levels but affected by the endless complaints. Dean hadn’t stopped, holding cold beers to his forehead, putting damp hand towels in the freezer and stripping down to near nothingness.
"I swear I’ve gotten worse with age, no clue how I wore all the flannel during this time of year." Dean huffed, one of the frozen cloths sat around his neck.
"You got used to it." Cas answered, giving Dean the other hand fan there was discarded by the cushions.
"Yeah, well, guess I’m getting unused to it."
"You’ll cool down, Dean."
"No, it’s the end of the world as we know it." He dramatised, regretting the expression when it made him think back to the actual apocalypse. "Okay, poor choice of words but you get my point."
Castiel nodded, scooting towards Dean to try and emit some of his coolness. "My inhabitants of a vessel means that I’m cold all the time. This may help." He flattened his palm in between Dean’s shoulder blades to emphasise this.
"Seriously though, how is Sam not melting?"
"He has a cold beverage which is lowering his core temperature. And I don’t think the heat bothers him as much anyway."
Dean grumbled in response, crossing his arms over his chest and resting on Cas. The angel’s hand had since left his back, wrapped around Dean in a side hug.
"Speaking of cold drinks, I’m gonna get more beer." He cleared his throat, both shying away and leaning towards Castiel’s touch, unsure of what exactly to do with himself.
Once Dean returned with drinks and passed one to Castiel while putting his to his forehead and then popping it open, the two men sat in a comfortable yet buzzed silence. They eventually adjusted positions in the bay window, laid on each other with the few pillows abandoned on the hardwood floor.
"Tell me if you’re still too warm, Dean. There should be another towel or two left in the freezer."
"Mhm, I’m okay for now. Your skin is really cold." He had his ear on Cas’ chest, taking note of how slow the angel’s heartbeat was.
"I don’t require a heartbeat, Dean. The rhythm is simply to maintain some normality so as to not unsettle you."
"Didn’t say you could read my mind, angel. But thanks, I guess."
"My bad, it is simply because I am focused on you so my telepathy takes effect unintentionally."
"Alright, man. Whatever you say." Dean snorted softly into Castiel’s sternum. "Might wanna speed it up though."
"Alright." Cas agreed, leaving to retrieve the frozen towels and sliding underneath the man again afterwards.
Flies circulated the house, bumping into the windows and buzzing around the curtains; Sam’s humming from afar matching the sound. Castiel shooed them away whenever they got in front of the view where the sun had already lowered the majority of the way. They weren’t disturbed and Dean’s complaints had died down into the rare murmur. The sky was perfect, as was their situation.
Sam found the first note tucked inside a book on demonic omens.
It was not where a note belonged.
The book itself was ancient, leather-bound, and smelled like dust, smoke, and something faintly metallic. It had been sitting in the bunker library for two days while the three of you searched for anything that might explain the string of weird deaths in Nebraska.
Dean had given up after twenty minutes and declared the case “a Google problem.” You had lasted two hours. Sam, naturally, had lasted until sunrise.
That was when he opened the chapter on blood eclipses and found a folded piece of paper shaped, very badly, like a heart.
You were asleep at the table, cheek pressed against your forearm, a pen still loosely held in your fingers. Dean had vanished sometime after midnight. The bunker was quiet except for the hum of old lights and the soft turning of pages.
Sam unfolded the paper.
Inside, in your handwriting, it said:
You are allowed to take breaks, Winchester. This book smells evil. Go drink water.
Sam stared at it for longer than necessary. Then he smiled.
He didn’t take a break immediately, because he was Sam, and apparently stubbornness was part of his bone structure. But he did get up five minutes later, fill a glass with water, and drink the whole thing while standing at the kitchen sink.
When he came back, he carefully tucked the note into his laptop case.
The second note appeared in his jacket pocket three days later.
The case in Nebraska turned out not to be demonic. It was a cursed locket, because apparently jewelry was never just jewelry. By the time you got back to the bunker, everyone smelled like grave dirt and cheap diner coffee.
Sam didn’t find the note until he reached into his pocket for his phone.
This one was not shaped like a heart. It was shaped like a lopsided star.
Good job not getting strangled by cursed necklace lady. Proud of you.
He read it in the hallway outside his room. His face did something complicated.
You were coming out of the kitchen when you saw him standing there, note in hand.
You stopped. He looked up.
For one second, neither of you said anything.
Then you pointed at the paper. “That was supposed to be more star-like.”
“It has personality.”
“It has corners. That’s close enough.”
Sam looked down at the note again. “You’re proud of me?”
You suddenly became very interested in the floor. “It was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Mostly.”
Sam’s voice softened. “Thanks.”
You shrugged, but your ears felt warm. “You looked like you needed to hear it.”
He folded the note carefully. Not crumpled. Not tossed aside. Folded. Like it mattered to him. That was the thing about Sam. He made small kindnesses feel enormous just by receiving them gently.
After that, the notes became a habit.
You didn’t plan it that way. At least, that was what you told yourself.
But Sam was easy to worry about. Too easy. He carried exhaustion like a second jacket, always present, always worn close. He pushed through pain, hunger, fear, grief, and every awful thing the world threw at him with a quiet determination that made you want to shake him and hug him in equal measure.
So you left notes.
In books.
In his duffel.
Under his coffee mug.
Once, inside the box of cereal Dean kept threatening to finish.
That one said:
Eat something with nutrients today. Coffee is not a vegetable.
Sam had found it at breakfast and laughed so suddenly that Dean nearly dropped his spoon.
“What?” Dean asked.
“Nothing.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “That was not a nothing laugh. That was a secret laugh.”
“There are no secret laughs.”
“There are absolutely secret laughs.”
You sat across from them, silently eating toast and refusing to look suspicious.
Dean’s gaze flicked to you, then to Sam, then back to you.
“Oh,” he said.
You pointed your toast at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling.
The notes kept going.
Some were jokes. Some were reminders. Some were things you couldn’t say out loud because the bunker made emotions echo weirdly, and because Sam always looked too surprised by tenderness.
You did enough today.
Sleep before you start reading Latin sideways.
Your hair is doing the dramatic thing again. Very hunter chic.
You are not responsible for every bad thing that happens.
You thought maybe you had gone too far.
Sam didn’t mention it like he did others. He moved through the bunker quieter than usual, answering questions with half-smiles, spending more time in the library than his room. You tried not to hover. Hovering made him retreat, you had learned.
Then one night, long after Dean went to bed, you found Sam in the kitchen.
He was standing by the counter with a mug of tea between his hands. The room was dim, lit only by the stove light. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.
Your note was on the counter beside him.
“You found that one,” you said softly.
Sam nodded.
You stepped inside but stayed near the doorway. “Too much?”
“No.” His thumb brushed the edge of the paper. “Just… accurate.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s allowed, you know,” you said.
He looked at you.
“Needing to be reminded.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he said, “I don’t think I know how to believe it.”
You walked farther into the kitchen. “That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it all at once.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like something you’d write on a note.”
“I can make one right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He looked down into his mug, then back at you. “Why do you do it?”
You leaned against the counter, leaving a careful space between you. “The notes?”
“Yeah.”
There were easy answers.
Because you’re my friend.
Because you worry me.
Because someone should.
Because I don’t know what else to do with how much I care about you.
You chose something close to the truth.
“Because you notice everyone else,” you said. “And sometimes I think someone should notice you back.”
Sam’s eyes changed, his expression softening in a way that made your breath catch.
“You notice me?” he asked.
“Sam.”
His name came out almost too tender. You both heard it. The kitchen seemed to shrink around you.
Sam set his mug down slowly. “I notice you too.”
Your heart gave one hard, stupid thump.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “When you pretend you’re not limping after hunts. When you refill Dean’s coffee even if you’re mad at him. When you read the last page of a book first because you say surprises are overrated.”
“That is a valid reading strategy.”
“It’s chaos.”
“It’s preparation.”
“It’s cheating.”
“You fight monsters for a living and this is where you draw the moral line?”
He laughed, and the tension loosened just enough for you to breathe again. But then his smile faded into something quieter.
“I notice when you leave notes,” he said. “And I keep them.”
You blinked. “You keep them?”
Sam looked almost embarrassed. “Most of them.”
“Most?”
“One got coffee spilled on it,” He smiled faintly. “It was the one about coffee not being a vegetable.”
Of course it was. Something warm bloomed in your chest, bright and terrifying.
“You really kept them?”
Sam nodded. “They help.”
The words settled between you.
You reached for the notepad on the counter, the one Dean used for grocery lists that mostly said beer, burgers, and pie. You tore off a corner and picked up a pen.
Sam watched you write.
You folded the paper once, then slid it across the counter to him.
He opened it.
I notice you. I’m not going anywhere.
Sam read it. Then he read it again. And for good measure, once more. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and his smile was steady.
“Can I keep this one too?” he asked.
Your throat felt tight.
“Yeah,” you said. “Especially that one.”
Sam folded it carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his flannel, right over his heart. For a second, you thought he might say something else. Instead, he reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand. His fingers were warm. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him.
You squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back.
In the morning, Dean found a new note stuck to the coffee maker.
Don't Fear the Reaper || Dean Winchester x reader || soulmate!au (Part 2)
Series Masterlist! Part 1
Series Summary Here!
Word count: 3.9k ;p
Pt 2 Summary: Apparently, you've got a couple mutual friends—AKA Bobby Singer has the time of his life making fun of these boys
Relationships: (slowburn) Dean Winchester x soulmate!reader, reader x sister!oc (no physical description of her tho), redacted pairing bc spoilers
Tags/Warnings: f!reader, Slowwwwburn, enemies to lovers!, Banter & Bickering (MY B&B YUMM), seasons 1-2 canon divergence, Supernatural typical gore/blood/violence, medical inaccuracies (i'm so sorry), graphic descriptions of murder/fake slewerslides, poisoning/drink spiking (not fatal), mentions of puking, prob some typos tbh sorry y'all, suggestive content (smut in future parts), allusions to past abusive home life, no physical description of reader or her siblings/family, no use of y/n, ANGST!!! FLUFF!
Notes: So here's the deal lovelies, I've realized this fic is fs gonna be a full blown series, not a mini-series. Maybe I'm biting off more than I can chew, but I've got so many ideas for this series that I just simply don't want to cut short lol. ALSO, now bc of this I'm going to preface that this is gonna be A LOT of canon divergence. My whole deal with this is we're starting with early seasons Sam & Dean, with all the lore before the show starts (also Jess too) BUT I'm gonna pick and chose what I wanna make cannon in this series. Especially bc there's the element of soulmates and (redacted spoilers loll), I'm gonna have to change things to not have enormous plot holes. But one thing's for certain, John Winchester will always be a deadbeat and Bobby Singer basically raised these boys, y'all can count on that. Oh, and Dean's a big ole flirt, per usual.
“Well,” Bobby chuckled, “you idjits certainly found yourselves in a pickle.”
Both boys groaned.
Back at the kitchen table, Dean was slouched over himself while Sam laid flat, basically prone across the couch. It hadn’t taken Bobby terribly long, but the boys still had to hunch on the motel curb for an hour till he arrived. After a long morning of them puking into toilets, trash cans, and Bobby’s backyard (he made Dean hose it after) they seemed solidly in the clear. Whatever they’d been given had almost worn off, yet the pinching and contracting of their stomaches was endless.
“And you said they were two girls?” The old man laughed again, settling down a glass of water in front of Dean.
Both boys already chugged about half a gallon of milk to coat their stomaches from the poison. Now, Dean thought he might hurl if he so much as looked at a dairy based product again.
Dean nodded with his face still squished into the table. “Real pretty, real nice—y’know, until they frickin’ poisoned us.”
Sam hummed this time, perpetually staring off towards the ceiling. “It was so weird, I felt like I knew her.”
That made Bobby perk up in his chair. “Know her how?”
“I don’t know, I just...I felt like I knew her.”
It really was all he could say, and he wasn't far off. The feeling was like a pull, drawing him to her. His instincts murmuring that she was safe, she is home—
“Hey, Bobby!” A voice echoed down the hall, front door slamming open. “Gotta show you this sweet piece Stace and I picked up—well, I did the real work, to be clear.”
More sounds of shuffling shoes and clanking keys carried towards the kitchen, right before another voice piped up. “Oh quit gloating. You stole a car, thank you for your service—Bobby? You awake?”
The old man chuckled, turning towards the hallway. “Well if it isn’t trouble.”
“Oh come on,” the first voice sang, “you ever gonna stop calling me that?”
“You ever gonna stop being that?”
Dean managed to lift his neck off the table, right as she appeared around the corner—right as you appeared around the corner.
He shot straight up in his seat, a little too quick for his lingering vertigo, and tried leveling a glare on you. “You’re the bitch from the bar!”
Instead of looking ashamed, shocked, scared—or any reasonable reaction—you cackled. “Funny, that’s what I’ve been calling you.”
Now beside you at the threshold, Stacy’s eyes widened and then darted to Sam, who’d since sat up on the couch. At first, he wasn’t visible from where he was laying, but they both knew exactly where to look. All instinct. An internal thread tugging them together.
Beyond amused, Bobby chuckled, using his coffee mug to gesture towards you both, “Sam, Dean, this is—”
“I fucking told you!” Stacy yelped, fists squarely on her hips as she scowled at her big sister. “I told you it was a bad idea!”
You tilted your head with a snide smirk. “So you knew we’d accidentally poison and steal from the Winchesters? You some psychic now?”
Stacy narrowed her eyes with a pout. “You’re a bitch.”
“I second that,” Dean groaned again, glaring at you through hooded eyes. “Also, if I remember correctly, it wasn’t exactly accidental when you spiked my beer.”
“Oh no, that part was completely on purpose.”
For a solid ten seconds, Dean scowl deepened at your fox-like grin. Only hours ago, he’d been admiring that smile from dangerously close up, hoping and praying to get even closer.
Now? Dean wanted to kick those teeth in.
“What the hell, Bobby?!”
The old hunter coughed a laugh. “Well I did tell you boys I was having company.”
Sam practically jumped up from the couch, the ice pack on his forehead flopping down at his feet. “These are the hunters you wanted us to meet? For that case up north?”
“Yep.”
His older brother shook his head like a toddler mid tantrum. “Uh-uh. No chance.”
You scoffed. “Oh, get over yourself, princess. It was just a little poison.”
“I gotta say,” Bobby hummed through a sip of coffee, “seems you boys needed a little wake up call.”
Both brothers gaped. “The hell, Bobby?!”
“I mean, you let these girls take you back to an empty parking lot in the middle of damn nowhere.”
“Oh and this one was so darn pleased to be my savior,” you snickered at the eldest. “Giving us a ride, not even suspicious as to why two young girls would walk to a damn bar alone at night. Just saying, you would’ve been perfect bait for a woman in white.”
“Hey!” Dean pointed a finger at you. “You’re not allowed to have lip with me right now.”
“Oh, boo frickin’ hoo.”
By now, Bobby was a little tired of the theatrics. “Would you two quit it? God, you idjits haven’t changed one bit since y’all were kids. Damn near took a chunk out of each other then.”
All four of you swung to face him, but Bobby only guffawed at the collective confusion.
“You seriously don’t remember?” He scoffed into his mug. “Your daddies hunted that wraith a couple towns over from here. Sam and Stacy were just babies, so I watched them two that whole weekend. But the rest of yous was cooped up in that motel.”
A flame lit behind Dean’s eyes, snapping right before he swiveled his pointer between you two. “You’re those bug freaks!”
“Hey!” Your sister pouted, hands on her hips.
Bobby chuckled, “I mean, it is a little odd, Ladybug.”
With an eye roll, you clarified, “Our dad was a bit paranoid about keeping a low profile...and probably CPS too.
“Now I remember!” Dean was now smiling a little too wide, a crazed mix of the poison and sleep deprivation all piled in one. “Your dad made us call him Spider—creepy as hell, by the way.”
Even Stacy nodded. “Fair point.”
“There’s three of you, right?” Sam interjected, looking steadily at Stacy now. Eyes growing soft. “Ladybug, that Beetle kid, and—”
“And me,” You cut him off, obviously skirting around the real answer. Jaw ticking tight.
Apparently still holding a grudge, your little sister piped in teasingly, “Oh, come on, don’t be shy now, Cricket.”
Dean snickered, wild grin pointing up at you now, "Cricket?"
Your lips curled around your teeth. "Don't call me that."
Bobby held up a hand, silencing him. "Do as the lady says, Dean. Besides." Cheeks lifting in the faintest hint of a smile. "I find Trouble much more fitting."
You groaned, chucking your head back against the kitchen wall. “Oh my godddd—I was twelve and going through a big Runaways phase. Relax.”
“So you just had to cut up my good leather jacket?”
“Where’s Beetle?” Dean pipped in again, giddy with the chance to poke you further. “Or is there a fourth one I’m forgetting that’s called Roach or something stupid like that?”
However, the effect was far more sour than Dean intended. Instead, Stacy’s smile dropped, fingers reflexively tugging on the bracelet around her wrist. Even Dean, as clueless as he could be, felt the atmosphere drop to a chilling degree.
“He’s retired,” You gritted out, avoiding Dean’s eye contact as you trudged past him towards the hall. “Brought you groceries, Bobby. I’ll grab ‘em after.”
Then the bathroom door slammed.
After a second, Stacy coughed awkwardly, affixing a lopsided smile. “Um, I’m just gonna go grab my bags...yep, yeah, going now.”
Before she’d taken even one step towards the front door, Sam had stumbled over himself to follow.
“I’ll help!”
Yeah, things were pretty frickin’ awkward for the next few hours.
You had come out of the bathroom, barely giving Dean a glance as you trudged outside for your bags and the rest of the groceries. At first, he felt like he fucked up somehow and maybe he should try to be the bigger man, even offer to brings your bags in.
Then he swiftly remembered you poisoned him—and he felt much better about being a bitch right back.
Like always, Bobby said you and Stacy would take the spare room together. Meanwhile, the boys would have to hash it out for who gets the couch or the spare cot. However, Dean would’ve bet his poker money that Sam was gonna act all gallant and say he’ll take the couch, then glance over at your sister like he’d just solved world peace.
And by God—he should’ve made a bet.
Even Bobby rolled his eyes at Sam’s excuse at flirting. All three of them watching as Sam helped Stacy unload the groceries, chuckling and blushing boyishly anytime he ‘accidentally’ bumped into her side.
What a dork, Dean thought.
That night, Bobby being Bobby forced you all to sit down and “eat a damn decent meal for once in your life.”
So now, that’s what you’d agreed to. Twenty minutes of torture for the dinner Stacy and Bobby had cooked together.
It had always been their thing, cooking together—especially since your father barely let her come on hunts and would use that poor man like a free babysitter before it was somewhat reasonable for you to watch her alone.
Christopher always went on hunts though. Sometime Bobby was able to knock some sense into your father and keep your brother back, but most times he went. And you stayed here, sitting on the stoop as they pulled out of the driveway, sticking out your tongue when Christopher waved from the passenger seat.
But as soon as you were old enough, you watched your sister. That was your job—your one job. Watch Stacy. Keep Stacy safe. Keep Stacy alive.
There weren’t many things you were proud of, but keeping her kicking certainly was one of them. No matter what you’d done to ensure it.
“Ohmygod,” Dean groaned through a mouthful of wagon wheels, “this s’amazing.”
Beside you, Stacy giggled, face lighting up with that derpy little half smile she’d done since she was born. “It’s just buttered pasta, Dean.”
“It’s frickin’ gold, that’s what it is.” Going to stuff his mouth with another heaping spoonful.
Your nose scrunched in disgust. “Close your mouth, for christ’s sake.”
Dean swallowed quickly before sending full snark your way. “Oh I’m sorry, am I offending your delicate feminine sensitivities?”
“Just rather not get any diseases you’re carrying. You’re probably a Petri dish for that shit.”
“Hey.” Stacy then used her elbow to nudge your ribs, eyes flaring. “None of that talk at the table—and that’s a Chris rule, not mine, so it’s law.”
At that, Bobby coughed awkwardly, giving no time for Dean to punch back at you.
“I, uh, heard about your brother a while back.”
Both of you girls stilled, the beer bottle pausing at your lips. Life drained even from Stacy’s face for a second time that day.
Oh.
Slowly, Dean lowered his fork, gulping down the rest of his food with wide eyes.
Well, now he understood where he fucked up earlier. For once.
“Never got the chance to send my condolences to your dad, hard to with him ignoring my calls and all. But I—” The old man swallowed. “Times I met him, worked with him...he was a good kid—damn good hunter, but a great man.”
Stacy’s doe eyes stared at Bobby, glassy under the kitchen light. “Thank you, Bobby. That means a lot coming from you.”
However, you took your time chewing on an answer. Then you took a final gulp of beer, settling the bottle down carefully to a coaster. “Christopher really was the best of us.”
From a mere arms length away, Dean watched as you curled in on yourself.
It’d barely been a day, but you looked so different from the time he first spotted you at that bar. Of course he knew the whole bubbly thing was an act, but even from afar, he could see the lively spark lighting up your face. Dean had been the one to say you were trouble. Whether good or bad—he was right.
But now, your features were rigid, cold, and lifeless.
Dean’s eyes drifted down, watching as you kept your gaze focused on the bottle. Finger tracing through the condensation till your nails ripped through the label.
You stood up suddenly, squeezing Stacy’s shoulder briefly as you turned towards the sink, dishes in hand. “I’m heading to bed. Thanks for the drink, Bobby.”
Still in her chair, Stacy swiveled to watch you trudge down the hall, not even glancing back.
With a slight droop to her cheeks, your sister called out, “Um, I’ll be in soon—!”
But the bedroom door had already slammed shut.
Bobby sighed. “She always did love slamming those doors, see nothings changed there.”
With a giggle, Stacy turned back to the table. Still smiling like she was sharing a fun story. “When we had that place in California, Dad made her sleep outside in a tent. Said she should be grateful for having doors to slam.”
Even Dean’s eyes widened in horror.
Beside him, Bobby sipped on his beer deliberately. Teeth grinding like he was chewing on his next words. “Thought you lot were only in California for six months?”
“Uh, yeah?” Stacy tilted her head, picking through her memories. “Think I was maybe seven—eight, even.”
“So she was like eleven?” Sam probed, unable to control the way his jaw practically hit the table.
She nodded. Again, still smiling. “Sound’s about right.”
When the two brothers glanced over at each other, they both had the same thought: should they be more disturbed by the story, or the way Stacy had told it like it was a fun little fact?
In the end, Dean went with the safe option—not thinking about it at all (at least not willingly).
He grunted through another sip of beer, “Welp. That explains a lot.”
Even if he’d been dead tired since ‘the poisoning that shall not be named,’ Dean really didn’t expect to sleep for so long.
Both him and Sam, out like the dead all night and far into the morning.
By the time they’d finally groaned awake, it was from the sun piercing through the blinds and hitting Dean square in the eye.
He groaned, running a rough hand down his face. Perfectly in tune with his brother, Sam slowly twitched awake. Long legs still awkwardly flopped over the ends of the couch.
“About time y’all were up.”
They both jumped, almost slamming into one another.
Bobby was just casually sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on a steaming cup of coffee as he read the paper.
“By god, Bobby,” Dean huffed, running a hand roughly through his spiky hair. “Scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Then rise a little earlier next time.”
Even Sam wheezed a laugh, groaning as he stretched his lanky limbs above his head. “What time is it, really?”
“About 8.”
“Whew,” Dean whistled. “That’s the longest I’ve slept in ages. Didn’t even hear your chainsaw snore, Sammy.”
His little brother squinted down at him, nose scrunching as he mocked him back. “Hah—Hilarious.”
“ ‘nough chit chat. Get cleaned up and then go get the girls.”
They both balked.
“You want us to wake them up?” Sam sounded breathlessly terrified, like dealing with a rabid animal.
The old hunter continued reading his paper. “Did I say to wake ‘em up?”
“Um…no?”
A long moment passed where the brothers just looked at each other like they might still be dreaming. But this was Bobby, so confusion and half answers was a given.
“Okayyy,” Dean chuckled, now walking towards the kitchen table. “So where are the girls?”
Once again, Bobby stayed reading his paper. “Probably down at the salvage yard.”
Now in the kitchen, Sam paused mid step. “Uh, why?”
“Can’t do all the thinking for ya idjits.”
“You sure you’re alright with us going with them?” You pressed, lounging back on the hood of a rusted old Camry. “Cause we can ditch ‘em. Right now. Doesn’t matter what Bobby says, if you wanna steer clear of them, then that’s what we’re doing.”
Beside you, Stacy giggled, ripping at the blade of dried grass in hand. “Nah, it’s fine. As long as we get separate rooms at the motel, then I'll be cool.”
“You sure you don’t want a room alone with the tall one?” You smirked at her, lifting your eyebrows suggestively.
“Ew—Cricket, come on!” She whined, chucking the bits of grass in your face.
“Girl, I saw the way you were looking at him, I ain’t crazy.”
She hopped off the hood, stomping around to the neighboring work bench. “We are so not having this conversation right now.”
You cackled, jumping off and scurrying right after her. “Oh Sam, you’re just so tall and soooo muscular!” Pitching your voice up mockingly.
“Hey!” She stomped in place. “That is so not what I sound like!”
You grinned, now leaning up against the car door. “Honestly that was some of my best work. Got the whole nasally-princess thing down pat.”
With a fiery glare, Stacy snatched a bat from Bobby’s workbench and marched towards you. Weapon lifted, she gritted out, “Move.”
Understanding that if you hadn’t done so, she still wouldn’t have stopped the swing—you kicked yourself off the car. Not a second later, the wooden bat smashed into the driver’s mirror.
“Whew!” You whistled. “Nice swing, bug!”
Still panting with adrenaline, bat in hand, she glanced over. A tiny smirk lifted her cheeks. “I’m still mad at you.”
“Long as you're hitting the car and not me—wait!” You reached around to the work bench, chucking the cheap plastic protective goggles over to her. “Always bring protection, bug—any protection.” Winking. “I’ll make sure to tell Sam that.”
Her mouth pinched thin. “One more, and I’m grabbing the Morningstar.”
“Oooh,” you teased, snatching up your own bat with a roguish grin. “Wonder if Sam’s into that like kind of thing?”
Another crash echoed out as she smashed the driver’s side window.
With a cackle, you twirled your bat and joined in, absolutely reaming the windshield.
For the next few minutes, the yard broke out into utter chaos. A frenzied symphony of glass breaking, metal clanking, girlish squealing, and the wailing punk rock tape you’d stolen from Christopher ages ago.
But when the tape paused mid track—you both froze, spinning towards the boombox.
Right where the Winchesters were standing, both wide eyed.
While Sam looked kinda tickled, mouth open in a boyish smile, his brother wasn’t as amused. Dean’s finger was still hovering over the pause button, already glaring at your grin.
You flipped the goggles to rest lopsided on your forehead, sweat pooling down from your brow. “Look who’s finally awake.”
Dean balked. “It’s eight in the morning!”
Chucking her own goggles off, Stacy giggled. “We've been up since five.”
“Why?”
“Early bird gets the worm, pretty boy,” you chimed in. “Besides, we needed a bit of a workout before heading back.”
Dean glanced suspiciously at the obliterated Camry. “A workout?”
You shrugged. “A little upper body, target practice—all the works.” Then you shoved the bat in Dean’s hands. “Gonna wash off, be ready in thirty.”
“Ready for what?” But his question fell on deaf ears as you waltzed back towards to main house.
Stacy stayed behind, loitering for a second with a sheepish smile. Dean didn’t notice though as he stared bewildered at the bat in his hands. Pouting like he was pissed at his own reflexes for catching the thing.
“I made breakfast by the way,” Stacy said, chipper as ever. “Think Bobby brewed a fresh pot like an hour ago too. Should be still on the counter.”
“Thank you...Stacy.” Sam smiled, a blush creeping up his cheeks.
Dean almost puked at the way they made googly eyes at each other. His little brother was obviously peacocking as he lifted his arms to scratch at the back of his neck, the Stanford sweatshirt lifting slightly at his waist. Meanwhile, Stacy was fiddling with the ends of her hair and nibbling on her lip.
Gross.
With a huff, Dean slapped the bat down on the work bench and charged forward, practically tugging on Sam’s ear to make him follow.
“Thanks for the breakfast, ladybug!” Dean called back, ignoring the way his behemoth of a little brother was practically dead weight while dragging his feet.
“Here’s the deal.”
Bobby slapped the stack of papers on the kitchen table so hard Dean had to stronghold his coffee mug.
“Two weeks ago, Sturnella State had to put their sorority rush on hold.”
“Well,” Sam laughed, “never thought I’d hears those words coming out your mouth Bobby.”
“Cut the lip, boy.” Sending a furrowed glare his way. “Like I said, the school had to pause rush because of a series of...sudden mishaps.”
“The girls croaked?” Dean asked through a sip of coffee.
“Four girls—yep. Each from the different sororities, each in rather odd ways.” Then he slid the newspaper clippings over to you to pass around. “First girl jumped off the roof of her sorority house, next one drove her car straight through a wall, another shot herself, and the last one drowned in the school’s pool—she was a life guard there and on the swim team.”
Stacy cringed. “So...probably not an accident.”
“This week, they’re ramping up recruitment like the thing never happened,” he huffed, adjusting the cap on his balding head.
“You think it has to do with rush?” You asked, glancing up from the paper.
“Damn gotta be. Only started on the day of their welcome meeting, and it stopped soon as the school made them pause.”
“So, uh.” Dean glanced around the table. “Why’d you want the four of us working this?”
Bobby laid back in his chair, arms crossed. “Believe it or not, Dean, being a gal sometimes opens up a few stubborn doors.”
“Very feminist of you, Bobby,” your sister giggled.
“Oh hush.”
However, Dean was still sitting there, pouting and still not sold by that answer. “So...Sam and I pose as agents, interview other girls, solve the case. Big whoop.”
You scoffed, “Dean, these are sorority girls. They practically sign a blood oath of secrecy once they’re initiated. Not even a murder is gonna made them squeal.”
“My thought’s exactly, Trouble,” Bobby chimed in.
Still skimming over the newspaper, Sam glanced over at you girls. “So you’re thinking they pose as members?”
“Neither of us are gonna be able to pose as a sister,” you remarked. “They take that shit seriously. Most have an alumnae card and everything.”
Dean choked on his coffee. “Like an ID? Jesus—sorority chicks are crazy.”
“Guessing one keyed your car?”
“Alright enough,” Bobby barked, rolling his eyes. “I thought of all of that.”
For a solid five seconds, you lot waited for him to keep going.
“And...?” Sam probed.
Bobby’s hat tipped towards you two as he nodded. “They can pass as freshman, easy peasy.”
“Why thank you, Bobby.”
Dean snorted. “Think you’re a little long in the tooth—ow!”
Under the table, you’d kicked him right in the shins, grinning wickedly at him as his ears turned an angry red.
Sam and Stacy giggled, eyes flicking up at each other shyly.
With an eye roll, the old man sighed. “So girls, what’s your verdict?”
Without even looking at your sister, you knew what she was silently screaming at you to say. The case didn’t sound awfully complicated, but those always ended up being the worst ones. Then there was the wild unknown of these two fuckers, messing with your flow, getting you guys in all sorts of trouble.
Unconsciously, your gaze lifted to meet Dean’s. Watching him watching you. A charged heat behind his glare that you no doubt mirrored.
Fuck it—you were probably gonna regret this.
“Well, ladies,” you huffed, “guess we’re heading north.”
Notes: okay please be honest about the nicknames guys, I thought they were cute but I wonder if they'll get confusing. I think next chapter will help clarify some things, especially why reader has two nicknames but seriously prefers one over the other (I smell a traumatic backstory hehehe)
18+ mdni thinking about jack abott and his sweet girl who gets distracted during sex n can have trouble finishing…
he can see when you’re into it— meeting his eye, smiling, responding to his words with sweet whimpers n hushed whispers as he fucks you… but then he can see when your head goes elsewhere. your eyes glaze over a bit and drift to the ceiling, you stop grinding down to meet his thrusts.
His hand comes up to cup your face in an attempt to draw you back, and you turn your face to kiss his palm, but he knows it’s just an absentminded reflex.
“Hey.” Jack urges, voice a low rasp. “Hey, doll. Look at me.” He smiles gently when you finally meet his eye with a small one of your own. “Where’d you go, pretty girl? Gotta stay with me.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, all breathy as Jack’s hips snap forward n his cock kisses your cervix. “Just thinking.”
Jack shakes his head, light and easy and hardly a reprimand. “You’ve got all the time in the world to think, sweetheart. I need you to focus right now, can you do that for me?”
You nod.
“Feel this?” He rolls his hips again, slow and deep. “Feel how full you are?”
You nod again, and this time your brows furrow n your face scrunches in pleasure as you fully find your way back to the present.
“Yeah. Attagirl. Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” You breathe out. You let your back arch, rutting down against Jack to chase that build-up you need. He nods encouragingly.
“There you go. You’re doing such a good job.” Jack’s hand moves low between your bodies. He finds your clit, rolls it between the pads of his index and middle fingers.
He smirks when you moan and tremble. He knows you’re getting there, but also knows that you could just as easily lose it again. So he keeps talking.
“Such a good girl for me. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then he connects his lips to yours and lets his tongue sweep inside, swallowing your next moan. He’s panting softly when he pulls away.
His fingers speed up just a bit when he can tell that you need more. He nods, urging you along when your hands come up to grip his shoulders and you look at him with desperate eyes. He keeps the encouragement flowing freely. “Good girl. Come on, you can do it. I feel you getting close, babydoll. You’re doing so well. I wanna feel you to cum on my cock.”
Your brows knit in concentration and you writhe on the bed, trying to move the right way and find the right angles to finally send yourself over the edge.
When it works you tighten up everywhere— your fingers dig into the freckled flesh of Jack’s shoulders, your body goes rigid, your mouth slackens in a long, airy moan. Jack groans lowly at the feeling of your walls clenching up around him, pulling his cock in deep.
“Goood girl.” Jack grits out. His hips stutter as he diligently fucks you through your orgasm. “You’re so good, honey. Fuck.” His forehead falls against yours, sweaty gray curls pressing against your hairline and lust-blown eyes mere inches from your own. “That never gets fucking old.”
summary: Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses?
warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, idiots in love, friends to lovers, lightly implied age gap, smut (unprotected p in v, creampie, mentions of fingering & oral - f receiving, dumbification, love confessions during the act lmao), a lot of fighting but they're soft for each other, cursing, um ig reader is a little bit of a crybaby and it's mentioned that dean takes care of her
word count: 8.7k words
a/n: if this is bad please don't tell me lol
You don’t have to fake your skittishness as you twirl restlessly on the stool, elbows sticking to the dirty bar counter. The bottle of beer in front of you looks grossly unappealing but you catch Dean’s gaze from across the bar and he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You bring the rim to your lips and try not to wince as the bitter, lukewarm liquid goes down.
You do your best to look out of place and uncomfortable, but something tells you that you don’t have to try too hard. The bar is dimly lit and grimy, with deer heads watching you sullenly from the wall. They’re not the only eyes on you. The bar is reasonably busy but there is only one other woman present, and she’s behind the bar. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut and you’re determined that you will never take over Sam’s gig again.
Dean saunters over, cool and cocky, the way you had seen a million times before - but this time he’s sauntering over to you like that. And it makes your stomach do strange, pathetic things.
“Hey baby, you here alone?” he asks, getting up in your space in a way that should be creepy but isn’t because it’s Dean.
“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness.
“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”
“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around.
“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.
“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.
“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.”
Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool.
“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”
Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.
“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”
He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.
“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”
His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”
“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”
He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”
“I bet,” you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”
He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”
You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.
“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”
You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.
“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”
You have to stop yourself from saying I know.
“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.
“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”
“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”
“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”
“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”
You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.
“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.
“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”
“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”
You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”
“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”
“I can ask!”
“Ask who?” Dean frowns.
“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”
“You exchanged numbers?”
“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”
“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”
“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”
Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.
“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”
You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.
He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”
You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.
You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.
It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true.
The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.
When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.
He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.
Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.
“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”
“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”
You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.
Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.
Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.
The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.
You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.
JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.
You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.
Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.
It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.
And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.
But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.
The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.
“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”
Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.
“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”
He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”
You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”
“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”
“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”
“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”
He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.
“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”
Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.
“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”
“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”
“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.
“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”
“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”
“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.
You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.
“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”
Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.
Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you.
Sitting in the booth.
With Jeremy.
It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.
“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”
Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”
Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.
“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.
“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.
“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”
You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”
“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”
You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”
“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”
“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”
Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”
He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter.
“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.
“Right, in and out,” you agree.
The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else.
You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.
“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.
“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take.
“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?”
He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’
But you’re not.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”
Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”
“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”
At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.
“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”
You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?
“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.
“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.
“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”
He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well.
But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.
Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”
“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.
“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.
It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”
You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again.
“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”
That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.
Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.
“You could have me.”
Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.
“I… What?”
“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”
Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.
“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”
“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”
He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.
You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.
“Why?” you land on eventually.
He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”
“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”
Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”
Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”
Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”
“No!”
He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.
“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”
Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.
But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.
Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.
You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.
You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.
Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.
“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air.
He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.
“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.
Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.
“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation.
“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip.
Your heart soars. First time.
“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”
Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”
His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.
You frown. “Are you sure?”
“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”
Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.
“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”
He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”
“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”
Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.
“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”
That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.
“But what about the girls?”
“What girls?”
You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”
His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”
“Dean.”
His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts.
“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”
You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.
“How- how long?”
“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”
He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”
He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not.
“You’ve loved me for years?”
“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”
He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.
“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”
He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.
“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”
You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.
“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”
He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.
“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”
God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.
“Dean, I- oh-”
His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter.
“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”
It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes.
It’s not fair.
Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.
“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”
You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.
The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.
“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”
Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.
“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.
“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”
Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.
There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.
You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.
But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.
Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.
“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.
You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together.
“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”
His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”
“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”
He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”
Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”
You smile. “Maybe later.”
a/n: first supernatural fic! i am genuinely terrified!
gamechangershow
amandla
titsay
jimmyeatworldofficial
yousharknotpass
