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I've finally made a side blog for all the fics I loved/love so I can reblog them and give justice to the writers that share their wonderful fics! ... but let's be real, I'm also gonna fangirl about stuff •Laura• 26 yo • She/Her • Anti Hate Blog, safe place for everyone except for stupid people

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 13: Anticipation

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Twelve✦

✦summary: dean doesn't follow the rules✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦

✦author's note: dean winchester if u were real....✦

Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding. 

“Bad luck.” He tells you, leaning in the doorway with a smirk. “If I don’t keep him on the high and tight, he’s gonna sneak out and get cursed.”

“Cursed?” Your lips twitch. He shrugs.

“Yep. That’s what all the super stick toes say.”

“Super stick-“ You cut yourself off, giving him a flat look. “Superstitions?”

“Sure.”

“Dean, you know what a superstition is-“

“Do I?”

“Yes. You do.”

He raises his brows, and you know he’s baiting you. Trying to rile you up.

You don’t even bother to ignore him.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Winchester.”

“I’m not playing dumb-“

“You are, and it’s not going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?”

You glare at him. He just smiles wider.

“You got so much faith in me, sweetheart-“

“It’s not faith.” You snap. “It’s misplaced affection.”

“Aww.” He takes a tiny step forward.

Everything is narrowing down. This doorway might be the only place in the universe.

“You got affection for me.”

“Misplaced affection.” You mutter. It’s not at firm as you need it to be.

“Still. I’ll take it.”

He’s so close. You can count every freckle on his face, map every line of his face.

“Is it workin’ now?” He asks, and you swallow.

His voice got deeper. You track his eyes, as they dart down to your mouth. His tongue flicks out over his chapped  lips.

“What?” You breathe, and he hums.

Your eyes are locked together. There’s a hum like a drink, thrumming through your veins. You’d fall over if his hand wasn’t on your hip.

When did his hand get on your hip?

You can’t bring yourself to care at all.

Dean opens his mouth. You lean forwards, hoping to catch his words and keep them in a jar like fireflies. Light on a dark night.  

All that comes out of Dean’s throat is a gruff grunt, as Sam grabs him by the scruff of his neck and yanks him into the hall.

“You get him back in the morning!” He calls as he drags Dean away.

You sway on your feet, paralyzed by the lingering feel of Dean in the air.

The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, until your head feels like it’s back on your shoulders.

Then, you start to turn Sam’s words from café over. Dissecting them. Picking them apart until you could possibly understand.

Ask Dean.

You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. That had been the only time you were alone, and you’d spent all of it doing… Whatever that was.

There had also been the moment before he and Sam went out for bachelor drinks. But it had been three seconds in the lobby, before he’d gone with Sam.

Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. 

And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends mingling around. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline. 

But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. 

He talks about you. 

Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything. 

None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man. 

A life like this week. 

But it’s not real. 

It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused. 

You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.

Almost.

Because one thing is burning through the rest. 

The heat.

Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot. 

Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips. 

“De- Dean…”

The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine. 

“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“

You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close- 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths. 

“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets. 

Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous. 

It clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay. 

You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer. 

“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“

“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes. 

Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast. 

You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”

He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.

“If you- You’re busy-“

“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”

It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it. 

He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried. 

You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. 

He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes. 

“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods. 

He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.

“Okay.”

You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.

Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh. 

When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.

“You ever dream?”

You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“

“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”

“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”

“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down. 

He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression. 

“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”

“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”

“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”

You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.

“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“

“You work hard-“

“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.

“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do.”

“Dean-“

“But if you like it,” he muses. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”

You blink. “I- I guess-“

“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”

“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach. 

“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”

Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“

“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you. 

But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it. 

And that expression- 

It’s almost reverent.

“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.

“We don’t own a house, De.”

“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

“Work on… A house?”

“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”

“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.

“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”

“I- don’t. Ever.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.

“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”

He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”

“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.

“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”

He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”

“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”

Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper. 

“Dean-“

“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”

“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”

“‘Cause.”

“Cause why-“

“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”

“I know, but-“

“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe. 

In love. 

Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.

In love. 

The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. 

In love. 

✦Chapter Fourteen✦

✦End note: the smut... i can taste it coming (no pun intended)✦

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[zepskies]

Return to Me || Part 4

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Welcome back to the ranch, friends! Ready for more of the angsty love triangle? 😅💞

Tags & Warnings: Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers (eventually), angst, jealousy, John W. x OC, implied smut | TW: hint of domestic violence

ᝰ.Word Count: 5.5k || Posted on Patreon: August 7, 2026

♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

🌹Now Playing: “Without Your Love” by Chris Stapleton (Chapter title from the song of the same name, by Ryan Bingham)

℧ Series Masterlist

Part 4: My Diamond is Too Rough

Last Time…

You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey, by now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again. 

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

Three weeks later, Brady encounters the mettle of Sam Winchester in the courtroom of Judge Deveraux. 

“It’s the Prior Appropriation law, Your Honor, part of the Colorado Constitution. ‘First-in-time, first-in-right,’” Sam argues. “They don’t have a right to dam the river. Not only because it crosses straight into the Winchester Ranch, but because the ranch was founded in 1890. They just purchased the Campbell farm six months ago.”

For his part, Brady thinks this is a load of bullshit. He didn’t even know there was such a thing as Water Court. Still, he did his own research after he (on behalf of Roman & Weiss) was served with a lawsuit three weeks ago: the day after he filed for a permit to build a dam. 

“The Campbell farm was founded in 1883, Your Honor,” Brady argues.

“But Roman & Weiss didn’t own it then,” Sam rebuts. “When a neighboring property is sold, the water rights don’t automatically transfer with the land, unless it says so in the deed. In this case, my grandfather, Samuel Campbell, is the seller. He can sell the land but keep the water rights, or sell it to someone else entirely. Judge, please see this contract from Mr. Campbell selling his water rights to my father, John Winchester, six months ago.”

“Bring it over,” Judge Deveraux says. 

Brady’s eyes narrow as he watches the exchange. The judge reads over the document and nods. 

“Well, Mr. Weiss, it looks like Mr. Winchester is correct. Your company doesn’t have the right or permit to dam the river or alter it in any way, least of all in a manner that would impact the Winchester Ranch. I will uphold the cease-and-desist order,” he says, and brings his gavel down to punctuate his point. “We’re adjourned.”

Sam smiles triumphantly. He picks up his binders and briefcase while Brady reluctantly does the same. The two filter out of the courtroom together, eyeing one another like two tigers forced into the same enclosure. Once they get into the hallway, they still remain in step with one another on the way to the elevators.

“Well played,” Brady allows. When that contract came out in discovery, he knew what this would end up being. But it gives him a chance to get to know his opposition.

Sam inclines his head. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Harvard.”

“Stanford.”

“Interesting,” Brady nods. “Enjoy your first and last victory, Stanford. You had home court advantage on this one, but I’ll warn you, my company’s here to build an empire, no matter what your dad decides about our offer. Fuck with that, and I will nail your ass to the wall.”

He steps into the elevator after it opens up.

Sam offers a reserved smile. “We’ll see.”

He remains standing where he is as the elevator doors close. Sam opts for the stairs.

“Come in.”

The voice is rich like brown sugar, concealing unyielding steel.

John Winchester takes off his Stetson as the receptionist opens the office door for him. He gives her a polite thank you before he steps inside. The gold plaque on the mahogany door says TARA SALAZAR | AGRICULTURAL COMMISSIONER. The office is spacious, letting in natural light from a large window to the far left, a desk at the center, tall bookshelves behind, and a leather couch to the right.

The woman herself sits at her desk with calm confidence in a blue pantsuit and crème blouse underneath the blazer. Her skin is deeply tan, and her darker hair is pulled back into a tight, professional bun. She smiles when he walks in, albeit with a wry gleam in her eye.

“John,” she greets.

“Tara. It’s good to see you,” he says.

She stands from her desk and allows him a kiss on the cheek. It lingers. She smells like Ralph Lauren perfume, with a hint of Johnnie Walker. She always wears the same perfume because she claims it’s the only brand that covers up the residue of all the old white men she’s forced to shake hands with on a daily basis. The bourbon is for herself, afterward.

She gestures at the guest chair across from her desk. He obliges.

“If you rode in all the way to Broomfield instead of calling first, then you’ve got a serious favor to ask,” she says.

He concedes to that with a nod. “It’s three hours well spent, believe you, me. How are you, Tara?”

Her smile turns a shade more genuine.

“Exhausted,” she says. “Meat and produce packers and distributors keep cutting corners to make quota, to keep fuel costs down, to keep all costs down, but I’m the problem because I keep passing regulations to try and make food production safer, so we don’t keep getting kids poisoned from botulism and fucking E. coli at Chipotle. But other than that, I’m just peachy.”

John chuckles. “On that, I don’t envy you one bit. I don’t mean to add to your plate.”

“Oh, you never do, John Winchester.”

“I’ve got a problem with a land developer.”

“You mean Roman & Weiss has a problem with you,” she says perceptively.

He isn’t surprised she already knows his business, but he still raises an amused brow.

“Checking up on me?” he asks.

“Only when it threatens to upset the delicate balance of my day,” Tara says, tapping long nails on her desk. “It feels like you only come to see me when you want something.”

“And here I thought we were old friends.”

She snorts and leans back in her chair, staring at him in wonder.

“You know how fucking hard it is to be your friend?” she quips. “Your favors don’t come cheap or small.”

John laughs, a true laugh, and it takes him by surprise. He doesn’t remember the last time that happened. But the thought sobers him when he thinks of the days when his smiles came easy for the woman who could bring them out of him, like a potter sifting her hands through willing soil.

“I tend to have that way about me, don’t I?” he says. Stubborn as a bull in rut, as Mary used to say. “But you’re right. I do need your help. This company already tried to cut off our water supply. They don’t just want a piece of my land. They want the whole damn valley. Hell, they’ll start cutting into the national forest if you let them.”

“If I let them? What do you want me to do?” Tara asks.

“You’re an intelligent woman, Tara. I’d like to believe I’m a halfway intelligent man, which is how I know you’ve got more friends than I do nowadays,” he says. A smile curves his lips. “So, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

Sam lets himself into the house later than usual. His actual day job at a firm in town, when he isn’t being the family lawyer, had run long. He told Jess to eat without him, so she should already be relaxing upstairs. He intends to make himself a sandwich and join her.

He finds a rare sight in Dean, who sets up a place for his own double-stacked ham and turkey sandwich with what smells like applewood bacon. It’s accompanied by an entire family-size bag of crinkle-cut Lays and a beer.

“Wow, there you are,” Sam remarks. “Feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks. Why are you still staying in the Foreman’s cabin?”

Dean shoots him a wry look. “I’m 32 years old, Sammy. Can you blame me if I don’t want to live with Dad my whole life?”

Sam concedes to that with a huff, focusing on making his sandwich. He thinks it’s more than that though, as he eyes his brother.

“Plus, I’ve been sorting through the rest of Bobby’s things,” Dean adds. “The guy had a lot of books. Oh, and a whole collection of 90210 DVDs, by the way. Big fan of Tori Spelling.” 

Sam raises a brow at that, but he thinks Dean is taking his time sorting through the stuff you didn’t seem to want to take with you when you left. He doesn’t confirm it one way or the other when Sam asks about that, but he knows.

And it looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. Worse, because his brother got a taste of what it was to have you back. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap was gnarly, but almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out, but that’s tourists for you.

In answer to question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. 

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean with his plate. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s…complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the unnecessary play-by-play?”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to…what, just tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He sighs through his nose, and his gaze falls as his forearms rest heavily on the table.  

“She doesn’t love him, Sam,” he says. A quiet conviction. 

“Do you still love her? Or do you just regret how things ended in the past?” Sam asks. 

Dean falls silent. He doesn’t give an answer in words, but Sam doesn’t need them to understand his brother, at least in part.

“What about you and Jess, huh? You’ve been taking your sweet time to put a ring on it,” Dean says. “What are you waiting for, hitting puberty?”

Sam rolls his eyes, equal parts amused and exasperated at his brother’s knack for deflecting, then burying the shit he doesn’t want to deal with.

“I’ve been busy trying to figure out a way to keep the ranch from capsizing,” Sam replies, more seriously. “If we don’t make enough profit in the fall, we really do need to convince Dad to sell off a part of the ranch to Roman & Weiss. It’ll be a better compromise than to keep antagonizing them.”

Dean snorts. “You know you’ll never fucking convince him to do that.”

“Then how about you help me?” Sam says, his voice becoming edged with frustration. 

Dean’s face tightens again, into a frown.

Sam levels a vilified finger at him.

“See, even now you don’t have the stones to go toe-to-toe with him like I have to,” he says, getting up from the table. “He’s tried to manipulate us our whole lives, but the difference is, I actually try to fight it. For some reason, you just don’t have it in you. Even when it might’ve made a difference in what happened with her—the first time, and the last.”

Dean glares at him fully, but Sam leaves, not wanting to watch Dean struggle to prove him wrong.

There’s a reason why Tara has an old throw blanket draped across the back of the couch in her office. It’s to stop her thighs from sticking to the leather whenever John Winchester comes to visit.

They recover together in panting breaths as they lay tangled in a corner, with her hair hanging loose over his arm that’s wrapped around her waist. Her blazer and pants are piled on the ground, co-mingling with his jacket and long-sleeved shirt.

“Is that your idea of brainstorming?” she asks.

He chuckles, swiping a frizzy strand of hair from her forehead.

“Nah, darlin’. That’s just saying hello,” he says.

She breathes a laugh. “Charming.”

John tilts his head in a half-shrug, but he admits, “I’m getting too old to be fucking on the couch.”

Tara snorts and rests her head against his shoulder, but her amusement fades. She notices that he wears his wedding ring, even now. She doubts he ever takes it off.

“Does this ever feel wrong?” she asks, perhaps with a newfound sliver of vulnerability.

Mary was like a sister to her once. They were best friends since kindergarten. Tara remembers when she first noticed John in middle school. She remembers when his eyes caught on Mary Campbell, and never let go.

John’s satisfied smile fades as well. He heaves a complicated breath.

“Every day without her feels wrong,” he says, and he proceeds to utter a few more rare truths. “Every night, I kill that bastard again in my dreams. I see it all in vivid color. And every day, I live in shades of gray, while she’s buried in the ground where my parents and great-grandparents lie. My sons were robbed of their mother, left with me of all people.” 

Tara lays a hand on his thigh. Here in the security of this room, he doesn’t resist the guilty desire to cover her hand with his own.

She knows his heartache, but has a different kind of her own. Her husband ran out on her and her son when he was five years old. When one of these whiskey bottles was once sloshing near empty, she admitted to John that every so often, she looks at Matteo, now grown at 27, and she sees shades of his father every time he guilts her into funding another one of his failed business ideas. Deep down, it sickens her a little bit. 

Whereas John’s joy, and grief, is never more profound than when he spots signs of Mary in Sam’s perceptive eye for detail, or in Dean’s intuitiveness, and his care for the people he calls family.

“There are echoes of her in that house, everywhere. Sometimes it’s just too fucking much. Sometimes I think about burning it all to the ground,” John confesses, in a voice raked by regret.

“Why don’t you?” Tara asks. “You have 100,000 acres to build another family home.” 

John shakes his head. “My family bled and died on that land where the house was built. That’s why I can’t let these greedy bastards have any piece of it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all hallowed ground.”

Tara nods slowly. “Okay. I do actually have an idea.”

John smiles slightly. 

“I knew you would, sweetheart.”

You feel like you’re steadily losing your mind in this hotel room. Over the past few weeks, you’ve memorized how many times the ceiling fan clicks in a minute, the patter of the leaky faucet that echoes in the bathroom, and drone of vacuuming through these thin walls, sounding off in the floors above and below your floor when the hotel staff come around.

Brady has leased an office space while the Campbell farmhouse is being rebuilt into a community leasing center, but you can’t work in peace while he’s making calls all day, using the loud corporate voice he emulates from his father.

You’ve also been trying to let your foot heal up from getting caught in a literal bear trap. You’re down to just one crutch now, but you need it to help lean a good deal of weight on your left side when you finally decide to take a break from research and drafting reports on the farmland for the build, as well as preparing a list of contractors for Brady to hire.

That includes a zoning permit for the future Japanese-Latin fusion restaurant. Brady told you that Dick wants it built along with a luxury hotel to entice tourists, as well as provide a unique selling point to potential home buyers. And the fusion element is trendy with the 20-35 demographic. 

The thought reminds you that you’re starving, having run on coffee and free mints for most of the day. One of your favorite restaurants in town was permanently closed to make way for a kava bar, so you settle for a sports bar and grill. 

You eat there alone, because Brady’s cell phone line was busy when you called. You shoot him a text to let him know where he can meet you if he wants to join, but eating a Southwest chicken salad and a beer by yourself is lonelier than you’d like to admit.

On the drive back, you can’t bring yourself to pull into the hotel parking lot just to find the same four beige walls closing in on you. It would also be a unique form of temptation—the one you’ve been fighting all month to call Dean.

You almost texted him a few times, but you resisted, knowing that was a slippery slope. If you spoke to him, you knew you’d want to see him. Then you’d fall into bad habits…and prior bad acts.

Fuck. You’d really like to hate it here (and him). But there’s what would make your life easier, and then there’s the thing you’d rather not have to look at, hiding underneath the wishful thinking.

You keep driving, just taking in the familiar sights of town, and the unfamiliar ones that have crept in. You’ve never heard of a microbrew café in your life, and you’ve been living in L.A. for the past six years.

But when upbeat music reaches you through the car door windows, you look over and spot the only real good bar in Salida, the Blue Sky Room. If you remember right, it boasts the dustiest of cowboys and townies alike. 

And as it turns out, you remember exactly right. 

After you park the rental car and head inside on your solitary crutch, the Blue Sky Room smells like cigarette ash, tequila, and ill-advised decisions. The peanut shells spread across the floor are part of its charm, along with the dim lighting and the young woman on stage with her guitar, crooning out a rendition of Lainey Wilson’s “Workin’ Overtime.”

You catch up with your high school chemistry teacher (who’s halfway deep into a pitcher of pale ale), as well as the doctor who patched you up last month. He’s getting his third shot of Angel’s Envy on, between dancing with his wife. She wears a breezy sundress and cowboy boots, and while he knocks back that shot, she laughingly takes the hat right off his head before it tips back onto the floor.

They’re cute, you think, a little jealously as you sit at the bar. You turn to finally order a drink, but who should slide in right next to you with a beer? 

Dean fucking Winchester.

As always, he looks the part of a rugged cowboy in a green flannel and a pair of dark blue jeans over his boots. He hasn’t shaved in a while, but you can smell his cologne over the faint lingering imprint of horse and earth. Your face warms against your will. Your stomach flops and flutters, no matter how much you resist it.

“Hey,” he says, offering you a nod along with the glass of local brew on tap. 

“What’s this?” you ask, raising a brow. 

“Peace offering,” he replies, and gestures at the hard, plastic crutch that’s leaning against your chair. “How’s the foot?”

“Getting there,” you reply, tentatively accepting the beer. You point over at the doctor swinging his wife under his arm on the makeshift dance floor by the stage. “He took a look yesterday, told me I’ll should be able to walk normally in a week or so.”

Dean nods at that. “That’s good. Though I guess you’ve made a longer stay of Salida than you were probably hoping for.”

“Yeah, well, that’s thanks to Sam and his meddling,” you mutter. You haven’t heard the end of that episode with the dam and fucking Water Court, but you’re trying to help Brady with a solution to the power issue regardless.

Dean snorts. “From what I hear, you enabled it.”

You give him a sharper look, leaning toward him as you lower your voice.

“You didn’t hear that, Dean. I could lose my job.”

“And why do you want a job like that, huh? Can you honestly say you feel good about what you’re doing?”

So much for peace offering, you think, as your annoyance sparks. 

“We’re going to build hundreds of affordable homes so people can breathe a little more around here. Give this dusty town some infrastructure, maybe even some new places to eat and shop. What’s so wrong with that?” you counter.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief, tinged with disappointment. You feel judged by that look alone, and it grates on you worse than anything. 

“The fact that you don’t get what’s wrong. That’s what kills me,” he says. “That’s what tells me how much you’ve forgotten about what it takes to survive out here, when if it weren’t for ranches like ours, nobody here would eat. The fucking meat rack at the grocery store would be empty, you understand? Except for all the imported shit, chock full of preservatives. Nice and zesty.”

That’s a bit of an overstatement, you think, but you know what that’ll get you if you say it. A fucking headache.

“I understand, Dean.”

“With your head, maybe. Not with your heart.”

You hesitate, seizing him up with a shake of your head before you consider the full glass of beer in your hand. You haven’t even taken a sip; you know it won’t quell the storm that churns inside you.

“My heart’s never gotten me anywhere,” you eventually say.

Dean sighs hard through his nose, running his fingers roughly through his hair.  

“Twelve years, and you’re still keeping me on the hook,” he says. “You were leaving, and I kissed a girl. I apologized, and you left anyway. You went off and lived your life. What more can I do about that?”

Your hand tightens around the cool glass, now slick with condensation.

“It was more than just a kiss. Half your clothes were on the floor,” you argue. 

“I was drunk, and that girl was handsy,” Dean says in defense. 

“Not that drunk!” you retort.

And yes, you realize this makes you a hypocrite, but you two aren’t talking about the more recent past. 

“It’s not that simple, and you know that,” you remind him. “You were my best friend, since I was seven years old. You were my first kiss. My first love. I gave you everything, and you threw it away so fucking quickly. I never understood it, even after…”

You shake your head, and you heave a tired sigh. Because you are tired—of this pushing and pulling, and of him trying to drag your heart around like some shitty Tom Petty song. 

“But you’re right. That’s ancient history. Just like us,” you say, beginning to slide off from your seat at the bar. 

Dean watches you gather your purse and your crutch, as his frustration mounts. It hides the way his chest cracks from old wounds and fresh regrets.

“It wasn’t ancient history last month,” he says, leaning in closer as he lowers his voice. “You tell your fiancé yet? Or do you keep seeing my face when you’re in bed with him.”

Your mouth drops open in shock, but then, your brows knit together in anger. You grab the glass he offered and slide it hard in his direction, sloshing beer over his hand, and through his worn flannel. 

“Fuck you, Dean,” you snap. “Just leave me the hell alone.”

He watches you hobble out of the bar on your crutch. He wants to help you to your car, but he also knows what that attempt would get him now. Probably a swing of that hard plastic upside the head, or maybe even the edge of your ankle boot. You’re still bendy when you want to be.

Cas comes over from the end of the bar, where he’s been drinking with the other ranch hands. He gives Dean a nod of commiseration, while Dean himself takes a long swig of the beer you left behind.

“If you’re trying to win her back, I’d say you’re doing a bang-up job,” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t acknowledge that. He just broods. His frustration boils over from a bad mood to worse, even when Carmen, a waitress at the bar, touches his arm as she passes by.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, with a smile that’s extra white. She’s been hitting the teeth strips a little hard.

He barely offers her a nod, though he should probably give her his usual charm if he wants to get laid again in the near future. But like a dog that can’t eat, he doesn’t have the mind or the stomach for it tonight.

He does, however, have the stomach to drink. Just as he’s about to flag over the bartender, some broad asshole in a trucker hat steps into Dean’s line of vision as he sits sideways on the stool. The guy wants to talk to two young women who look about 20 years too young for him.

“Hey, ladies. What’re y’all drinking. Can I top you off? Or maybe you wanna top me off,” he says, dropping his voice at the end there. The girls laugh nervously.

“Um, we’re good,” one of them says.

“I’m sure you are.”

Cas shakes his head. Dean rolls his eyes and taps hard at the guy’s shoulder.

“Hey, asshole. How about you go find someone who actually wants to fucking talk to you, like that old biker chick over there. Bet she’d treat you real nice with those gums.”

Dean’s acidic drawl turns the trucker around, incredulous and fucking pissed. He’s wearing a Dorito-stained Pink Floyd shirt under his jacket.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“I think you heard me, Chuckles. Now mind getting the fuck out my face, so I can destroy my liver in peace?” Dean says, looking past the guy so he can raise two beckoning fingers at the bartender.

But Dean feels it in his bones, knowing Floyd is about to try him. Dean waits until that meaty hand closes down on his arm. He grabs the back of Floyd’s neck and slams his face down on the bar counter. Once. Twice. Broken nose. 

Dean stalks away. He’ll just have to drink alone at home.

He just doesn’t expect Floyd to have a death wish.

“Dean!” Cas warns.

Dean takes the punch solidly across his mouth. He tastes the tang of blood, but he smirks. If this guy won’t let him drink or let him leave, then Floyd’s about to find out what waking up on this crusty floor feels like.

You return “home” to the hotel suite, only to find Brady agitated and pacing while on a call. He’s wearing the same slacks and dress shirt he’s worn since yesterday, but the buttons are half undone, the sleeves a bit wrinkled as his shoes burn their tread across the navy carpet. 

“No…no! That doesn’t make any fucking sense. I’m going to appeal, and your office is going to look fucking stupid for preventing hundreds of new jobs over this,” he says tersely. 

He ends the call on a deep, furious breath. You watch him warily as you drop your purse on to the bed. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Where have you been?” Brady barks.

You blink at him, pausing where you stand. “What? I just went out for something to eat. I called you, texted you. You never answered. What was that call about?”

“Our zoning permit for the restaurant just got denied. They’re saying it’ll be too close to the national park,” he informs you, continuing to unbutton the rest of his shirt in frustration.

You sigh, rubbing the aching spot above your brow.

“Jesus. I warned you about that, Brady.”

He fumes. “The builder told me we had enough distance from the park’s boundary line. No, it looks like John Winchester has friends fucking everywhere in this state.” 

You frown. “Why do you think it was his doing?”

Brady chuckles humorlessly. “Intuition, babe. You do this long enough, you get a sense for who’s gonna be a wild thorn in your side.”

He draws closer to you in confusion, catching a whiff of something.

“You smell like cigarettes and cheap beer,” he says. 

“Yeah, that’s how it smells in most places around here,” you say defensively. 

He eyes you perceptively. “No, you went to a bar, didn’t you? You went to a bar by yourself, having a good old fucking time, while I’m busting my ass trying to make these timeshares happen.”

You’re ready to argue about the missed phone calls again, but your head tilts in confusion.

“Timeshares?” you say. “What are you talking about? This is supposed to be a community of family homes and condos. And yes, a hotel and restaurant for the tourists, but the main plan I proposed was affordable housing.”

“See, that was a good proposal you had,” Brady nods, “but after your little mishap with the utilities, we pivoted to my idea, something that’s actually going to make money.”

You begin to frown angrily. “Which is what?”

You look over at the messenger bag and various documents he brought over from his office; they’re all spread out across the small desk against the wall.

You grab a few of the papers and scan them quickly. They’re blueprints for luxury bungalows and villas—rentals for $6,000 a month and up.   

Your jaw clenches in anger. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How could you lie to me about this? We’re supposed to be a team! That’s the whole reason we’re here.”

Again, hypocrite. But your point stands.

“All right. What about you, huh? You didn’t run it by me when you gave Sam Winchester a heads up about the dam,” Brady accuses.

When you tense up, your eyes widening, he’s satisfied by your reaction.

“Yeah, you really think I couldn’t piece that one together?” he says.

“Trying to cut them off from the river was wrong, Brady,” you say, with a shake of your head in disgust. You try to create some distance by heading toward the bathroom to take a shower, but he follows you. 

“You shouldn’t have gone behind my back!” he says, raising his voice.

He itches to grab your arm to stop you from walking away from him, but you’re already turning around on your crutch, riled up enough to match his volume. 

“Fine, I shouldn’t have! But you shouldn’t have tried it in the first place. You don’t own the river!”

Brady bangs his hand against the wall above your head. 

“Whose side are you on?!” 

You flinch back, a small gasp escaping you.

You feel the tug of something sharp in your gut. It’s confusion, but it’s also fear. You’re too shocked to register it entirely, but you glare at him, holding your ground.

“You need to get the hell out of my face,” you say quietly, with a slight tremble. 

Finally realizing what he’s done, Brady softens. His arm falls back to his side slowly. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

He rubs a hand across his tired face, then steps away from you to venture toward the desk he’s commandeered. There he pours himself a glass from a large bottle of whiskey he brought from…somewhere. You weren’t with him when he bought it. He must’ve been storing it at his office in town.

After a moment to think in the thickest silence you’ve ever withstood, you find your suitcase in the closet and start emptying your side of the dresser to repack your clothes.

“Where are you going?” Brady asks, confused and guilty, but still angry. 

“I’m booking another room for tonight,” you say. “I’m not sleeping next to you.”

And all the men in your life can kiss your ass.

AN: 😬 Okay, for all of you who said you hated Brady already, now you've got real ammo, huh? Poor reader caught in the middle of these two ❤️‍🩹 but what did you think about John's side quest? And how do you think tensions will either escalate — or unravel — from here?

⟢ Plus, stay tuned for more fun flashbacks as we take a look at what happened in her and Dean's past...

Next Time:

The problem with living in a small town is there’s no goddamn privacy. There’s one Walmart, a handful of working stoplights, and a population of less than 500 people who know the make and model of the Winchesters’ 1967 Chevy Impala by the dirty sound of its motor alone.

But you and Dean have gotten creative, finding a place to park under the shady oaks of forest trees about a half mile from the Foreman’s cabin.

The backseat leather creaks under Dean’s weight. A lust-filled groan catches deep in his throat as your lips dance with his. His hands flex on your hips, then head steadily down to your ass. They squeeze through your jeans.

It isn’t the first time your wandering hands have threatened his self-control. He’s gotten warnings from Bobby, your mom, and even from John. Your mom worries about your heart. Bobby worries about your virtue. John just doesn’t want a teenage pregnancy on his hands.

But Dean’s 19 going on 20. You just turned 18, and you have more than a mind of your own about what you want, especially as your hand disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.

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[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

"And all the men in your life can kiss your ass."

Absolutely fair.

[vincentsambershades]

Better life

Author's note: I was watching ten inch hero the other day and they butchered my boy Priestly BIG TIME. So i tried to find fics and there's not much and then i was a little irritated and i just wanted to offer him a better ending. i haven't written and posted anything in a long time and this has only been proof read once because I've been writing it for a few days and have already gotten a little sick of it, so i thought id just post it and hope for the best so don't judge me too harshly.

Summary: she's a pretty lady searching for a job and she's definitely not looking to fuck someone who looks like he's a comic book character

Warnings: she's a bit of a superficial bitch for like the first part, she gets better, smut, piv, unprotected sex (dont do that be safe), oral (m and f receiving), pet names like sweets and baby, wet dreams and fantasies, swearing, no use of y/n, i describe the reader as having long wavy hair at some point but it doesn't last long, i think that's all correct me if im wrong

Word count: 10.4k be warned I've never written something so extensive

•

The surfboard was the first thing she noticed. Shiny and blue, propped up on the wall. And even though she had walked past at least five tall stereotypical surfers on her way there, three of them even had wavy and sunlight acquired blondish locks, Beach City Grill still seemed out of place to her. She didn't know if it even was the surf board, or the navy blue tiles or even the ridiculous parrot shaped cardboard but, shit, Beach City Grill seemed to need all the help it could get.

Locals thought it was timeless, she thought it was too hippie to be worth anything these days. Having to hang out in a place like this would have given her an aneurism a couple of months ago. She liked clubbing, drinking, smoking, real cigarettes for that matter, not the loosely hand rolled ones her friends would pass around. Those always gave her a terrible headache the day after, most of the time they were combined with gin of course, so that was probably the true cause of the headache. She hated gin as well, it tasted like pine needles but took the edge off as soon as she downed that third shot. She liked tequila, just not neat, she liked it with lemonade, never sparkling, sparkling drinks made her feel like her tongue was getting pierced in a lot of different places at the same damn time. She hated to admit it but cigarettes felt like that too, maybe even worse but they were stress relieving and she was always stressed. Most boys didn't like her tasting like cigarette smoke, so she'd learned to keep that for after the sex. Oh, and sex...she loved sex. She liked to bat her lashes, pout her lips and get it any way she wanted. She didn't have a type as long as they were relatively pretty. She disliked polo shirts, didn't hate them, but she liked guys with button downs or the plain old T-shirt. T-shirt guys who wanted to feel like button down guys wore polo shirts and she liked her boys honest.

Come to think of it, she hadn't had sex in a while. The last time she had, it was with a button down guy. He was sun kissed and chocolatey, his hair fell right above his brows, his locks were tight coils of black and perfect to run your fingers through. He kissed softly and liked leaving bruises and shining his pearly white teeth as he playfully bit the supple flesh of her thighs. He was a decent lay. Not enough to keep her from leaving his bed as soon as the sun rose. Not enough to call again. Not enough.

All that was before dropping out of college. Before getting kicked out. Before moving here.

Her brows were scrunched in thought as she examined the HELP WANTED sign. Beach City Grill wasn't the first weird diner she'd encountered. To be frank, it looked fine compared to all the other restaurants and bars she had worked for. It didn't look like the place old men hit on you and teenage boys tried to get a glimpse of your panties.

She was trying to not draw any unwanted attention from the waitresses as she examined them. Two of them were blonde, one of them was serving an old couple and the other was quiet, hiding behind the counter and staring at a computer behind her unevenly cut fringe. She typing away every now and then, maybe chatting with someone. Fring girl blushed at some point and a soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She looked like a cute girl, soft around the edges, much like the other blonde girl who was now shoving a generous amount of dollar bills in the tip jar. Tip-jar girl gave fringe girl a friendly shove on the shoulder, they giggled at each other. Fringe girl blushed even harder and-

"Do you need help lady?" she visibly flinched, eyes all wide staring at the man in front of her. He was a little wrinkled, probably her father's age.

"I-uhhh, " he offered her a smile she could only describe as kind, and nodded, egging her to continue. She was fisting her jacket as she eyed him nervously. She hadn't felt like that in years, like being caught doing something naughty as a kid and receiving stern looks and harsh words in return.

"Do you need a drink of water, angel?" he wasn't angry or creeped out, thank god for that because she was sure she looked like a creep staring at his waitresses like that.

She chewed on her cheek and that stung a little, just enough for her to regain composure.

"I, thank you, but I-" she cleared her throat and he waited patiently, "I was looking at the help wanted sign and was wandering if I could apply for the job." she released the grip she had on her jacket and tried to keep eye contact but got distracted from the little braid the man had hanging on the side of his neck. He caught her looking and cleared his throat drawing her attention back to his face.

He was intrigued and she wasn't shaken by that. People often seemed intrigued by her. She raised her brows challenging him to speak.

"Why don't you come in and take a look around? See if this is your kind of gig and then we can talk about your application." he suggested and she saw reason in that. He stood aside keeping the door open for her and waiting for her to step inside before closing the door behind them. He offered her his name, Trucker, while taking a seat on a stool, and she replied with hers.

She examined the place and judged it looked like the set of a poorly written surfer TV show. A red haired supermodel walked by her, completely ignoring her standing awkwardly. Red haired chick was wearing an apron but sported a mini skirt with thigh high boots. She was serving food to a polo shirt guy, yuck, and she bend really low offering him a view better than that burger she was placing on his table. Polo shirt was pretty much salivating at the image in front of him.

"Take a picture it will last longer!" a manly voice followed the ringing of the bell placed above the door and a roll of the eyes was all red haired chick had to offer back at it.

In another life she would have loved to hang out with red haired chick, show her something more than diners and polo shirts, have her drink shit that was more expensive than beer and have her fuck guys with more edge than that. She looked like she’d want that.

And well he was definitely a sight. She was used to all kinds of weird but never like this. Never so...punk. He was wearing a shirt that read tip me or die, was obnoxiously loud and had more artificial holes on his head than all her friends' ears combined. His hair was really spiky and his sideburns were downright offensive. Surprisingly she didn't mind that hair color much but that had probably something to do with her dying her hair dark purple every now and then. On her it was chic, of course, it didn't look this messy or neon. His eyes were normal at least, he only had a few smudges of eyeliner around them. And he was toned in all the right places, that much she could give him.

"Let him be Priestly..." muttered Trucker and shook Her out of her daze. She had been staring. She did that a lot lately. Spikey-hair, whose name was Priestly apparently, dumped his bag on the counter and barely managed to not get hit in the face by a bunched up apron as red haired chick angrily threw it at him.

"Why thank you sweetheart." his tone was mocking and he parroted her walk as he tied the apron and got close to the grill. Fringe girl was smirking and Tip-Jar girl was biting her lower lip in order not to laugh. They were giving red hair chick enough time to stop her fuming.

Trucker was smiling and She took a seat on the stool next to him.

"This place could use some music, it's too quiet." She commented and Trucker's attention was once again on Her.

"Do you play?" he asked. She expected him to demand suggestions and there wasn't much she could offer, except for Manu Chao maybe, She kind of liked him. She liked the classics, Her parents had a taste for them but She wouldn't be caught dead suggesting Billy Squier and Blue Oyster Cult, She had an image to uphold. She was a party girl. Her liver could definitely vouch for that.

"No." She swore She saw a flash of disappointment and if he did feel disappointed he didn't say it, merely nodded and waited for a more elaborate answer. She didn't like those either, he didn't need to know her parents had made her take piano lessons and he didn't need to know She had hated every second of it. Her teacher was too strict and the piano was too boring and She liked louder instruments but enjoyed easy melodical tunes.

"Gen here," he pointed at fringe girl and she turned at the sound of her name. "plays the guitar and I have been begging her to take care of the music situation in here, she's got a great ear." Gen smiled mirroring Trucker.

"And I've been telling Trucker that the music in here should be decided on after a democratic procedure, like everything else." Gen retorted with a giggle.

"Screw the music, where did you get these jeans girl? They look crazy expensive!" Red hair chick had suddenly appeared on Her side, reaching to feel the fabric of Her jeans and startling her.

"Don't be rude, Tish." scolded Trucker and Tish couldn't give a fuck, she rolled her eyes dismissively and averted her gaze from him. Tish was looking with curious eyes at Her, examining Her from top to bottom. She was impressed and as hard as she tried to hide it, Tish felt like the clothes this girl wore were right out of her favorite magazine, expensive shit like that didn't just walk into Beach City Grill.

"They were a gift, from an old boyfriend." She had Tish at that, the words gift and boyfriend had a sneaky smile being carved on her lips as she looked at the sitting lady. That look on Tish' face was all She needed, to know that Tish could make a tasteful friend in this life.

That was when Priestly really took a look at the stranger. He had seen her earlier staring at him but he was used to the rude stares, didn't give them much thought. He didn't need to spit back something rude. Most people didn't even mean to stare, their gaze just naturally gravitated towards his odd looks. Hers had probably done the same.

She was pretty to look at, hot even. He couldn't tell is she was soft or spoiled. Probably a mix of both. Her hair was definitely soft, she had faded highlights, they were probably purple once and despite how uptight she generally seemed, her bold choice of color didn’t surprise him much. And Tish was right, she looked rich, rich like she didn’t belong here, making small talk with them and smiling sweetly at his colleagues. Her lips were full and glossed and almost sugary. He bet they tasted nice. He bet all of her tasted nice and if he got a little closer he bet she would smell great too. Except he wouldn't get that close or else she'd look at him like he was a perv. And he wasn't a perv. He was a bit of a freak, sure, he'd come to terms with that, but he wasn't a perv. He was a little sexually frustrated, as well, so his thoughts trailed to things they shouldn't when he saw pretty ladies at work, like how they smelled and how they tasted, but he wasn't a pervert.

Tip-Jar girl nudged his shoulder shaking him out of his trance. He had been looking at the pretty lady for too long and he was glad someone but Her had noticed and silently warned him. Pretty ladies weren't supposed to catch him looking, unless of course they had been looking at him first. And she hadn't. And even if she had he wasn't sure she would have looked at him the right way, the way ladies look at him when he has a weird effect on them, when they get turned on and shy away.

That hadn't happened in a while...

Trucker called her by her name and it didn't suit her. If Priestly focused real hard he could've come up with better names, like sugar and sweets and all things saccharine.

"Do you still want the job?" why would she want the job? She was carrying a Calvin Klein purse for fuck's sake and everyone's eyes drifted to it as she settled it in front of her. Even Gen, who couldn’t care less about looks and money and whatever everyone else cared about, took a long hard look at the pretty lady and shot Tip-Jar girl a look of surprise at Trucker's question.

"I do, actually." cute and feminine was all Priestly could think of, at the sound of her voice. He was a feminist of course, a real progressive man, he shouldn't be using words like feminine or masculine, people were whatever they wanted to be, no judgment to that. But there was nothing else coming to mind when she spoke. Cute and the way a pretty lady is supposed to sound. So feminine it was.

After deciding upon feminine, bubblegum flashed in his mind. Her voice sounded like sugary sweetness and drippy syrup. She smells like bubblegum and candy, a whole ass candy store, he concluded.

"When can I start?" Trucker grinned at her eagerness.

She started that same day and fell into a perfect routine in no time. Her colleagues were likeable, not just tolerable like other people she had worked with, but likeable. She was soon informed that Tip-Jar girl's name was Piper. She looked like a Piper.-

Piper was an artist, a real one for that matter and was working on her next big project. The empty wall of the grill. Piper wasn't a pretentious douchebag of an artist, she didn't paint things to make her look unconventional, like presidents and popes being pissed on by the public, which was really not that original of an idea. Piper painted all things pretty, like the kid she was babysitting, who seemed to be Piper's long lost daughter, or the beach, which She had grown quite fond of, despite the humidity and how it messed up Her hair and made it frizzy.

Priestly thought her hair was great even on her bad days.

Apparently, Gen had an online friend and judging by how insistent Gen seemed to handle the computer and how shy and blushy she would get as she typed away, She decided She could have guessed that was the case. What She wouldn't, in a million years, have guessed was that the stranger's chatroom name, was something containing Fuzzy. It sounded a little pervy to her, suspicious even and She shared Tish' thoughts on how Gen should be careful with whomever was behind the other side of the chat. Her worries though would be partly forgotten whenever Priestly's teasing of Gen started. He had caught a few glimpses of their chat and enjoyed making playful comments on them.

Tish was pretty much all She could have hoped for, for when She needed to have fun. Tish was all seductive smiles and tops that were too booby and skirts that were too short. She couldn't stop thinking of how much fun Tish would have if She had been a part of her life before the dropping out of college part. Tish would only go for button downs and she would definitely love weird too fruity cocktails. Tish enjoyed window shopping as much as the average gal and She had come to appreciate that. In a perfect world where everyone was rich and didn't end up becoming a college dropout, she and Tish would go clubbing every other night and sleep with as many corny guys as they wanted, attend frat parties and maybe smoke some pot every now and then.

She had grown to like this job. It was easy and paid well. It paid for a nice little flat that was all hers. It was her home, no strings attached, no nosy parents taking up her personal space every two weekends, depriving her of any sense of privacy. No flat mate who would, not as sneakily as they  thought, steal her jewelry, use her perfumes and waste her body lotions. No homework sheets, no math, no physics, no great prospect of her becoming an engineer and joining the family business.

In this life she liked spending time with her friends.

She liked having beers at the beach with the girls, talking through the night about anything and everything. From her leaving behind her parents and their white picket fence dreams of her, to Gen's prudish parents and how the poor girl was denying herself of simple pleasures. She liked to hear Piper talk about her daughter and comfort her whenever Piper would bury her face in her hands and shed tears of regret for the mess she had created. She liked hearing Tish complain about her fuckbuddies and whenever Tish would allow, which was not very often, they would talk about how Tish wants to settle for someone one day and have a family.

There was a constant in her messy life and she had embraced it. She had embraced Trucker's smiles and him calling her an angel.

She had even cut down smoking, she was calmer now, didn't need the tranquilizer.

What she liked most of all, but would never admit, was Priestly. She liked how he had started calling her sweets and how his lips would twitch into something close to a smile every time he said that. She still didn't like how spikey his hair was and couldn't help but try to estimate how many bottles of hair spray and gel he went through every week. She still liked the color of it though, whether it was red or blue or green and no matter how neon and reflective it looked some days, she found the color of his hair interesting. His tattoos.. she didn't like much. She had a tattoo of her own but it was neat, not random and jagged and some place everyone could see. His piercings were okay as long as he didn't get more done. Or...he could just get one more on his brow and that was where she drew the line. She liked to look at all those things individually and have all those bitchy opinions on them or else she'd get carried away and look at his eyes for too long and think of things she shouldn't.

His eyes were bright and green and probably the only physical trait that was completely untouched and natural on him. They had an playful look to them. They would light up whenever someone good looking walked in the grill and a knot would form in her stomach at the wolfish grin he'd give them before preparing their order.

She wanted to punch his pretty face whenever he did that and she had to hold herself from doing so. She had to remind herself that Priestly was not the guy for her and he had every right to flirt and check other girls out because he was not hers.

Oh, and he needed to get laid immediately. She could practically smell the sexual frustration that radiated off of him and it did her no good having to think of how desperate he'd look if she ever tried to make a move on him. He'd probably drool at just the insinuation of it.

Priestly was good at hiding how flustered she could get him. It was ridiculous of him! All she had to do was smile and get a little too close and he'd get a semi.

When they took the evening shifts together and had to close the grill by themselves, he always offered her a lift home and he had to bite his tongue and grip the steering wheel real tight so as to not touch her thigh.

As soon as the heat became unbearable and she started wearing those really short skirts all the hot girls wore, he was a goner. She looked perfect with that all that skin showing right on the leather seats of his car and she was dreamy when she talked about her day and held herself from yawning.  

Once she had accidentally brushed her hand on his leg as she stretched and it'd felt like she'd killed him. The images that crossed his mind that night were all about her resting her hand on his thigh and moving upwards, slowly, cupping his crotch and giving him a gentle squeeze before unbuckling his belt, pulling him out and wrapping her glossed lips around him right as he was driving. He'd pull over and move her to the backseat, get on top of her and fuck her into oblivion. She'd writhe and moan beneath him and he'd call her things like sugar and sweets and she'd look at him like he was her god. She'd drip her honey and he'd lick her clean and have her scream his name so that everyone knew Priestly was the one making a pretty thing like her feel this good.

He'd had wet dreams about her and tugged his cock to them more times than he wanted to admit. He always felt so guilty after.

Today is another day like that. Priestly woke up hard and almost cumming in his boxers after having a very vivid dream of her touching herself and begging him to make her finish. All he could think of is how he has to look her in the eye after.

So when he walks in at work and mutters a good morning that sounds almost like a humming noise, unlike his usual grand entrances, he expects to receive concerned looks in return. But he doesn’t.

That's weird and he decides to double check the area as he ties his apron. All the girls are gathered around Gen like flies, beaming at her and Trucker's giving away change to some poor guy who had most likely waited too long to get his order.

She's wearing a dress today. It's lilac and it clings to her skin. It reaches mid thigh and is paired with sandals. Her legs are smooth and lotioned and she's leaning on Gen's chair, staring at the screen of the computer. She's giving him a perfect view of her ass. And if he is subtle enough he could probably reach and-no, no, no...she wouldn't want him to touch, especially like this. He tried to avert his gaze, move it from her ass to the screen, see what all the fuss was about.

"What's going on?" His voice breaks the silence and they all turn to look at him. Gen is blushing again and he slyly smirks at her, he isn’t stupid, he can tell this whole ordeal has something to do with Fuzzy.

At Gen's shyness and refusal to speak she speaks up.

"Fuzzy, here, wants to meet Genny." She rubs Gen's shoulders affectionately before hugging her.

Priestly had quickly realized that she was kinder than she let on.

He can see how kind she is right this moment, with how she wraps her arms around her friend and how the corners of her lips lift up impossibly high, making her cheeks look all round and swollen.

"He's from LA and we've agreed to meet halfway." Gen can't hide her excitement.

"And we're going with!" Tish adds and that grabs his attention. "To make sure she's safe, you know."

An order gets emailed and Priestly starts busying himself with turning up the stove and heating up the precooked chicken. That gives him something else to concentrate on other than how nice her tits look in that low cut dress.

He has to get a grip or else he won't get through the day without having to sneak off to the restroom at least once. She's refilling some containers and thankfully there's nothing seductive about that so he can finally catch a break and gather his thoughts.

Gen is going to meet Fuzzy and the girls are going with. From what he's eavesdropped they will be taking the Cosmobile and camp out so they will be gone for the whole weekend.

And they haven't invited him yet! He hasn't been on a road trip in forever and well he shouldn't have to be stuck here while they go off chasing online boyfriends!

"I want to come with!" he exclaims before he gets to think much of it and a series of no's is all he gets as an answer. "Oh, come onnn... I'll drive" he suggests and receives the same answer, dismissive looks and eye rolls. She's biting her lip to keep from giggling and as the weight of their answer settles, he can't help but think of how he’s going to miss a perfectly good chance of sleeping next to her and making a move. If he’s not chicken…

"I'll get the beers!" his efforts are fruitless. Piper offers a stern no and he mutters something about never being able to go on road trips and having to work the diner all by himself, with just Trucker if he’s lucky.

"I guess you are stuck with me, big guy." she pats his shoulder and heads to the back and Priestly needs to get a grip because he doesn’t even bother to question why she’s not tugging along with the others. His hand stops abruptly and he's afraid the fucking vegetables he is searing will burn but he can't move and she'll be with him all weekend and Trucker always takes his weekends off to surf and it will probably be slow like it usually is and he'll have to talk to her, make real conversation not just small talk and pet names and if he does get a boner from how she tucks her tongue between her teeth when she smiles he won't be able to excuse himself and run off to the restroom without looking weird and-

"Fucking shit!" she suddenly appears to aid him and she shouldn't have to swear, it sounds wrong. She grabs the pan by the handle and tosses it in the sink intruding his space with wide eyes and questioning a look.

"What is going on, Priestly? Can't bear the thought of spending a weekend with me you had to burn the vegetable?" he doesn't realize it at first but she's teasing and thank god he catches onto it soon enough as to not apologize. He doesn't like the idea of her doubting him wanting to spend time with her.

She's smiling at him insistently, waiting for an answer. Truth is she knows how much he must want to travel with the rest. A weekend off sounds like heaven right now. But she had joked about how he is going to be stuck with her for the weekend and he had stilled and burnt what he was cooking and now she's worried. She's worried she's not what he wants as she waits for him to reply and despite how playful she seems, she can't help but wish he'll be a gentleman and say the right thing. That he doesn't mind taking over with her for two days. She doesn't need him to tease her back right now and reply with something snarky like you're hardly tolerable right now, sweets, imagine a whooole weekend. She needs him to be nice, even lie if he must.

He smiles confidently, he's mastered that by now, and the words that come out of his mouth make her toes curl.

"I'll even take you out Sunday, sweets, if it makes you feel any better." he doesn't disappoint, ever. She knows that and yet her heart can't help but throb at his words. "Of course we wouldn't have to do all that, if some people actually took us with them to meet Mr. Fuzzy!" the volume of his voice rises for the rest of the girls to hear and she's glad he adds that part with his puppy eyes full of complain.

That's how they manage not to cross any lines. One of them teases, the other teases back and they always complete the exchange with a friendly comment, something to avert their focus from each other and have it land on someone else. It helps appease the want.

If it's not appeased, he'll grip his spatula real tight and cook his food with unnecessary force and she'll bite the inside of her cheek until she draws blood.

Tish cocks a brow at Priestly's comment but decides to ignore it. Truth is as soon as she had heard about Gen meeting Fuzzy an idea had started taking form. She'd convince Piper to follow, to keep their friend safe of course, and they'd leave Her with Priestly to run the grill. And if everyone got lucky, Gen would lose her virginity to a stranger that was not a loser, Priestly would finally get his cock wet and stop excusing himself every two hours and She'd probably get freaky sex that Tish could swear She would love and the sexual tension that hang around the grill would finally fucking vanish and not torment everyone.

She hadn't shared of her secret crush on Priestly with anyone, not even Tish. Even when they had both agreed on how Priestly, despite him not getting laid, would probably be great at sex, and even when She'd drunkenly admitted on a girl's night, that she'd love to have a go with him, probably sit on his pretty face to shut him up, Tish wasn't sure She was even aware of her crush on Priestly. They were going to make her aware.

The rest of the day is slow, nothing interesting taking place, until Zo shows up bearing gifts. She offers the girls a travelling gift, something they can use for good luck, a variety of dried flower petals, She thinks, that they have to throw into the ocean. She is not a big fan of spiritual things, five months She would have told you they were shit and superstitious, but there's something about Zo that has convinced Her otherwise. Zo has an otherworldly sort of beauty to her, which explains why Trucker is madly in love with the woman, she's ethereal, from the way she carries herself to the way she speaks. A true hippie, there's nothing performative about her.

"How are you darling?" Zo turns to Her, soft lips turned upwards. "I hear you will be staying." She nods back to Zo affirmatively. Zo reaches in her bag looking for something. From the amount of time it takes her, She can tell it's something small that's been lost in the assortment of things Zo insists on carrying around.

An easy sound of excitement escapes Zo's lips as she finally locates her missing item. It's a vial, with dried petals inside. It's small, can fit in the palm of her hand easily and is attached to a chain.

"It's hibiscus, it smells lovely and attracts passion. It's my gift to you." She pinches the chain and lifts it to her eye level. Upon examining it She swears She's received similar gifts from Her friends when they were teenagers. Something about this one feels more real.

"I don't think you need it, but it will help you gather courage." those last few words are whispered and Zo takes the vial back from Her curious hands. Zo unclasps the chain and She takes it as a sign to bend and let Zo put it on Her neck. It sits perfectly there somehow completing the outfit she had chosen for the day.

"Have a nice rest of the day." with that Zo takes her leave and Trucker can't help but smile at himself as She examines the necklace.

The waiting is the worst part. Having to work your way through the week, knowing you'll be spending the weekend with your wettest dream and there not being a damn thing you can do about it will surely kill him. Having to sleep and dream of how perfect she'd look on his bed, moaning his name, while having his cock buried in her, cumming around him again and again and again, then having to see her at work, where she looks like an angel, serving food and drinks and making polite conversation with all the customers but not in a flirty way, like Tish, just kind and soft and not at all spoiled like he'd thought she'd be, is going to be a problem.

Little does he know after the day Gen made her big announcement, and She found out they'd be working by themselves for the whole weekend, she couldn't keep her mind off him either. She constantly catches herself staring at his arms and back and he is very toned for someone who cooks for a living. On one occasion his shirt rides up high when he is reaching for a pan and she's caught a glimpse of his underwear and it becomes all she can think of for the rest of the day. She's wrapping sandwiches and putting them away in paper bags while thinking of how she'd like to run her fingers over his waistband, pull on it a little have it slap against his skin.

And he'd look at her hungry, waiting for more. She'd try to take her time but wouldn't be able to. She'd give up and take him to the back and press him against the wall, she'd shove her hand down his boxers and wrap her fingers around him. He'd be big, she was sure of that. She'd give him a few tugs to make sure he was hard and then she'd get on her knees and free him from his underwear and take as much of him as she could in her mouth. She'd suck on him like her life depended on it and he'd try to keep himself from shoving his hips further in because of how good she'd make him feel. He would hold onto her hair and massage her head. And when he was close, she'd make sure to tell him he could cum wherever he wanted and she wishes he'd cum in her hand and on her lips so she can lick them clean before standing up to claim his mouth.

That has her pressing her thighs and failing to relieve an ache that only he can make better.

No matter how hard she tries she can’t stop. Dirty thoughts are all that’s coming to her, all of them containing Priestly and whatever he is keeping under those pants.

One of those days she realized she liked Priestly. Really liked him. Not just I haven't had sex in five months, please fuck my brains out liked, but she genuinely liked him. He was always joyful and had opinions on pretty much everything. One night she had let it slip that she had dropped out of engineering school, that she was going to major in civil engineering, as much she hated it, just so she could take up her father's business one day. She had also let slip that she could paint and that she was actually a little decent at it and she'd shown him some of her drawings. She showed him a teddy bear she'd roughly sketched and filled in with all sorts of mismatched colors.

He didn't judge her for dropping out off an amazing school and he didn't judge her for being a half decent artist. He didn't judge her for having her parents kick her out and he gave her a lot of compliments on her art. He said it reminded him of her and asked if he could take something with. Said it matched his style and he liked having pieces of his friends hanging around in his house. He'd lied of course, not about his trinket collection, just about the reason he had requested to take something home. He wanted something that looked like her, and with her faded purple highlights and her candy scent, she reminded him an awful lot of a quirky teddy. The look of pure adoration she'd given him was etched in his brain and every time his heart would swell and he'd feel devastated, her eyes would flash in his mind and he'd look at the bear and the world would go quiet.

Naturally, after all that, she liked him. It wasn't just the odd effect of feeling like she had to jump his bones every time she saw him doing...well anything at this point. She liked him for him. He was gentle and caring and everything she could have hoped for. And she wanted him to hold her an rub her back and play with her hair. She wanted him to kiss her on the lips and on her cheeks and forehead. And after that she'd fall asleep on his chest, he'd tell her he adored her and she'd pout and feel all emotional because no one had ever told her they adored her. And as she fell asleep he'd hold her tighter and whisper sweet things in her ear, like how much he enjoyed watching her paint and getting her hands all messy with her acrylic and water colors. And he'd call her honey and baby and she'd finally be happy. He'd promise he'd help her wash her paint brushes in the morning and she'd lazily agree but know that he'd curse at himself as he did it. Because the paint would get solid during the night and he wanted to help but didn't have the patience for all that. But he'd do it for her.

And she'd do anything he wanted. Anything. She'd help him do his hair and get stupid hair gel all over her in the process. And she'd listen to his music, no matter how loud or punk or frustrating she found it. She'd watch horror movies if he wanted to and would try really hard to actually follow with the plot of Friday the 13th because he'd mentioned a few times it was his favorite. And if he tried to cover her eyes she'd actually brush his hands off and place them somewhere else, because she was old now and she should be able to handle movies like that. How were they supposed to actually watch any TV if she couldn't stand them? Priestly thought they were works of art and so she'd try.

Saturday rolling around doesn't feel as awkward as he'd thought it'd feel. She gets there first and tidies up the space. He remembers he had left an unwashed pan on the stove the day before and when he goes to clean it up it's not there. Well, it is, but washed and hanging next to all the others. There's rustling from the back and he guesses she's in there.

 She's wearing a dress again and it's turquoise this time, it reaches just below her knees and has some lacy details. It's low cut and looks scandalous and any other day he would have already felt the crotch of his pants tighten but today he doesn't pay much mind to her cleavage. He takes a long hard look at her hair, it's down loose, unlike the other days and is falling in soft waves, she's braided the front parts and has even put on pretty earrings. She's truly beautiful.

He clears his throat and startles her. He mutters an apology and a good morning and she returns it. Her eyes light up as soon as they fall on him and his heart skips a beat at that.

It is early so the smell of cooked meat and vegetables hasn't covered up the smell of her perfume. She smells like cotton candy and he swears her hair looks like sugary strands.

"I figured I could cut up some peppers and mushrooms since I got here early, make your job a little easier." And oh god, he wants to sigh in delight at that. She'd thought of preparing his ingredients for him and gotten through the part he absolutely hates.

"Thank you, sweets." is all he can master as he settles his bag on the hanger.

"You're not wearing eyeliner, today." she comments and it sounds too random of an observation right now, too uninteresting. He'd gone to sleep a little late the previous night, had a few too many beers so when he woke up today his eyes were all swollen and runny and no matter how hard he tried the eyeliner wouldn't stick.  

"I like it like that, it usually hides away your eyes and they're nice, you should let them be." She compliments his eyes and all he can of is how much of a pussy he's going to be if he goes back to wearing eyeliner after that. "Not to try and interfere, sorry that was stupid I shouldn't be commenti-"

"You don’t have to apologize." he cuts her off and he thinks she's trying to make herself look smaller but he won’t let her. He doesn't try to put on his usual mask and pretend she doesn't affect him. He doesn't want her to feel bad, she shouldn't, she gave him a compliment and she doesn't have to apologize for it. "You're not interfering, at all, I like you making suggestions." He offers and she's quick to take it all in. "Okay?"

"Okay." she smiles and bites the inside of her cheek, he's noted she does that a lot.

She walks outside to take over her own station of work. She opens the computer, notes down all the orders that had been emailed and hands them to him to prepare. He's quick and doesn't complain today.

She puts on music and it's actually good. She doesn't turn the volume up much because their elderly customers will probably complain but she sings along when she thinks he can't hear her and whenever the grill is empty he gets close, invades her personal and plays air guitar. He's quirky and odd and she can't help but stare. And when he sings loudly with a voice that's too raspy even for rock music she wishes she could just kiss him to shut him up.

The grill is slow today, slower than other Saturdays, and it's around eight when they decide they've had enough. They call Trucker and he gives them the okay to close up. He's putting away pans and utensils, wiping the grill clean as she's going through the tables, putting ketchup mustard salt and pepper in the correct order and scrubbing off any persistent stains.

As soon as she's done, she takes a seat at one of the booths and waits for him to finish with his chores. She's looking through a magazine she'd pulled out of her purse and actually looks pleased as she does it.

"Do you want to hang out after?" He doesn't know what possesses him to ask but he does and she actually looks satisfied with him.

"I do, do you want to come over at my place?" he’s trying not to freak out for her sake.

"Yeah, maybe grab something to drink on our way?" he suggests and she fails to hide a smirk.

"We don't have to, I have a bottle of tequila, we can do shots or drinks."

"Sure, I can do tequila." and by that he means he'll probably end up absolutely shit faced. And it doesn't even sound like that bad of an idea. If he's drunk enough, he might actually make a move on her. Worst case scenario: she kicks him out.

He goes through the rest of the cleaning hurriedly. On any other day it would have taken him too long and he would have half-assed it because it's the part of work he despises but something about getting drunk in her flat feels like a reward he has to work hard to get. So he does just that and when he finally gets her in the car and he drives down a road he's come to know like the back of his hand, he tries to be brave.

When they get there she climbs up the stairs smoothly and he follows her like it's second nature. And when he gets inside her apartment he realizes, as he’s suspected, that it smells like her.

Posters of her favorite artists decorate the beige walls of the living room, alongside some of what he guesses are her own designs. She's got a record player and all sorts of vinyl’s and even some CDs and they're from various bands, some of which he's not familiar with. From what he can gather, she likes wooden furniture and has two bookcases that are full of either hard cover books on engineering, some of them about interior design and then there's an endless list of literature. She even has magazines gathered in a small case that sits beneath the TV.

It's all so neat and sophisticated and the worst part is he can't get her scent to stop invading his senses. It's everywhere and it's strong and so her he can't help but feel like he's a foreigner. He feels like he doesn't belong in her candy smelling, art displaying little world. But before those thoughts go over his head, she emerges back in the sitting area and she's carrying that bottle of tequila, a lemonade and two glasses.

"You can take a seat." he does just that and she sets the glasses on the coffee table. "How about a shot and then we can have a drink?"

"You know me sweets, can't say no to that."

"I do and if we're anything alike, I know you won't deny excessive amounts of alcohol." she pours some tequila in the glass and hands it to him. His nails are painted and it's the first time she notices that. They're black and blue and honestly? Right now, they look kinda hot.

"It's not that excessive. Maybe you're just used to small amounts. How much do you need to get tipsy?" she snorts "I bet not much." now that feels like a challenge. She takes a seat next to him and they're close so that if she actually gets a little brave, she can easily find herself pressed up against him.

"You're underestimating me, Priestly, I used to be a real party girl before I got here." she bites her lower lip and he knows he'll sink his teeth into it if he gets the chance.

"I don't believe you, you're always so serious, you were probably studying all day and night before your rebellion."

"I wasn't!" he had sounded accusatory and she rushes to correct him. "I was out clubbing all the time! I have had more fun than you can fathom!" he laughs and avoids asking what kind of fun she's had. He doesn't need to know, especially if it involves preppy guys getting a taste of what he wants.

"Clubbing is only fun when you've done some pre-drinking? Where you even pre-drinking?"

"Of course, I was! And to be honest a lot of times I didn't even make it to the club. My friends really liked drinking games that I was really bad at and I'd end up throwing up before we got the chance to walk out the door." he nods along and they're downing their first shot as she finishes talking.

Before she gets to pour them actual drinks, he stops her. There's an idea forming in his head, he's not sure it's good, it probably most definitely is not even going to work, unless of course she's as struck with him as he is with her, which seems unlikely, but then again... He's in her house and she's changed into more comfortable clothes, cotton shorts that are a little too revealing and a spaghetti strap top that he's noticed she's wearing without a bra, so he has to try hard not to look at her chest. But she's pretty-scratch that-she's absolutely delicious and he'll probably curse at himself if he does not even attempt to get in her pants tonight.

"How about we play truth or dare? Whoever doesn't feel like doing either has to have a shot." he can't tell if she likes the idea. It's a little stupid now that he comes to think of it. She'd just told him she hated drinking games because she ended up vomiting and he'd-

"Sure." she stops his train of thought and he can't tell what that glimmer in her eyes means when she pours them both shots. "I go first. Truth or dare?"

He goes for truth and the game starts easy, neither of them downs a shot for at least four rounds and by the time the fifth rolls around they both agree on drinking what was in their hands, have a little bit to get warmed up. Priestly thinks they should have another before continuing and he's making the most of this liquid courage. She stops him after that and asks him to pick again. He goes for a dare this time and he has to call Tish and tell her that one of her playthings stopped at the grill today and left a pair of forgotten panties. She doesn't pick up and he's eternally glad he's saved of the awkwardness.

He concludes she likes picking truths and it makes him a little hard for him to dare her to do anything suggestive. So next time she picks a truth he decides to skip the color, first pet and most embarrassing moment questions and goes for something more private.

"What was your first time like?" he can tell he hasn't caused her discomfort and so he doesn't back down, doesn't offer her an out. She has to answer the question or have a shot.

"I was seventeen, it was with a guy I would hang out at the time. We'd gotten drunk at a house party and my parents were gone for the weekend so I took him home. It was a little awkward and I didn't cum but it was okay." her voice is laced with subtle frustration at that last part and he can vividly imagine her in a bed with a guy who's probably too clumsy to make her feel anything. He can imagine how her face would look scrunched in destain and how she would whine in disappointment at not getting an orgasm.

"How about we just start drinking? You're answering all my questions, it's already 12 and we're not drunk yet." he suggests in an attempt to get that image out of his mind. She doesn't answer him, just grabs the bottle and takes a swing, wipes the little drops that had escaped her lips and hands the tequila to him.

The bottle is going back and forth, and she's asking him about his first time. The conversation is intimate just not directly sexual. She starts to slur her words in no time and his lower lip is a little numb from the alcohol.

Next round he picks a truth and the words that exit her mouth almost make him cum on the spot.

"Are you hard?" redness is dusting her cheeks and he can tell she's embarrassed to have asked him that, so he nods in return and he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole when her eyes fall on him adjusting himself. His jeans feel incredibly tight and he's quick to ask her truth or dare just so he doesn't feel the weight of her gaze. "Truth."

"Are you turned on by that?" he asks in return and he thinks she'll slice her lower lip open from how hard she's biting into it. She presses her thighs together and she can only nod and whine in response.

"Priestly..." his name comes out in something that resembles a moan. "Dare me to do something about it...please..." he's quick to take her out of her misery and she's on him in seconds.

Her lips meet his in a kiss that feels unreal. His lips are soft and she tastes like boiled sweet on his tongue. She's sucking on his lower lip like she'll stop breathing if she doesn't and he swipes his tongue over her mouth asking for permission. She pulls away and he groans in protest. She can hardly breath and her chest is heaving.

"You're so hot Priestly, you have no idea." she mutters and his hips are bucking. She seals his mouth with her own and presses her hips down. Her shorts are moving around and she reaches a hand to push them to the side. Her pussy covered only by her flimsy panties is rubbing against his clothed dick and there’s a delicious sort of pleasure in her core. She's still aching though, she needs more than that.

Priestly is losing his mind. He has to grab her by the hips and make her slow down so that he doesn't shoot his load in his boxers like a virgin teenager. And she's making it incredibly hard, she's moving erratically and kisses him like she wants to eat him alive.

"Slow down baby, come on." he pleads and tugs at her hips more forcefully.

"I need you, Priestly, please..." this is a dream, it has to be. She needs him, she needs him, she needs him and she has no idea he needs her as much, if not more. He'll tell if she lets him, which she's not, right now, because she's behaving like she's in heat and he has to keep his want on a leash to not just rip her clothes off and shove her on his dick.

He pulls away from her lips and uses one arm to hold her still with newfound strength and with his other hand he grips her face and makes her look at him. Her lips are all red and swollen, full of their combined spit and she's looking at him with hunger that's far from innocent. Her hair is dishelved from him running his fingers through it and if he weren't senseful he'd probably make her suck him off with how she's looking at him. She's probably want to anyway.

But he isn't going to do that. He is a gentleman, and he is giving, and he hasn't had sex in almost eight months, and so he has to get a taste of her pussy and then fuck her till she is creaming on him. But he has to do that on a bed and so he finds himself asking for directions to her bedroom and carrying her there. He places her on the bed and before he can get on top of her, she pulls her shirt over her head and discards of it. He's met with her bare tits and is almost salivating.

He takes his own shirt of mirroring her and unbuttons his jeans but doesn't pull them off. She's examining his chest that's littered with tattoos and he thinks he sees her opening her thighs further. He attacks her lips and licks into her mouth possessively.

He's taking her shorts off and immediately touches her over her panties. She's impossibly wet and there's a dark spot right in the center of her underwear. He groans at the feeling and presses the heel of his palm on her pussy. She's moaning in delight and moving her hips against him, trying to find as much friction as she can. She can tell he wants to take it slow but she can't have that.

"M'want you to fuck me, now please." she mutters and he wants to protest but with how she feels, even through the barrier of her panties, he doesn't think he can. To hell with taking his time, he can lick her after. Right now he's almost tripping over his own legs trying to take his pants and boxers off and he can't help but feel relieved when he's finally freed himself.

He's big, very thick and he looks like he'll fill her up great. Next time she'll take him in her mouth and she's sure he'll taste great. Right now, she's only concerned with getting him inside of her.

He catches up to her staring at his dick and she lets out a soft sigh when he uses his head to nudge her clit. He smears his precum on there and slides closer to her entrance. She's practically dripping. Her wetness is making her inner thighs glisten and she's already so warm. She moves a bit, tries to drive his head in a bit. He lets her and watches how she's so eager to suck him in.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea." he's watching her taking him as he starts to push in. "Every time you wear those skirts I think about bending you over and-fuck!" she's warmer than he'd thought, wetter than he'd thought. She's tight and is gripping him like a vice and when he goes to pull out and push back in, he draws out a moan from her that sounds like an angel's calling. He spits right on her center, not because he needs to, she's so wet he can almost feel himself drowning, but because he wants to watch it drip all the way down her slit and land where they were meeting.

"I've wanted it to." her voice is coming out in pants and she finds it hard to focus on anything other than the stretch and how he's reaching places she's forgotten exist. "Wanted to suck your pretty cock, would do it right now if you wanted me to."

"You can't say things like that, sweets, or else I'll cum in seconds..." he's picking up a pace and his grip on her hips feels bruising. She's addicting, the feel of her, her voice, the smell of sex and perfume that's hanging in the air. He's not sure he'll be able to go back to not fucking her after tonight. He'll need her every night.

He shifts and finds the spot. He can tell he did because she releases a high pitched moan and tightens around him. So he stays like that and makes sure to hit it again and again with the same fervor.

"Shit, shit, shit..."

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she can only nod and whine in return and in the future he'll make her answer with words and beg to cum but right now he's not sane and sober enough to do that. He just wants to get her there before cumming and he's getting close. He pistons his hips harder and she's responding how he hoped. A knot is forming in her stomach and she swears it's the first time she's felt the pressure building up so tight in there.

"Are you going to cum?" she's not offering him an answer, she's only pouting. "Answer me, baby, please...I need to know..."

"Yes, yes, yes, yes..."

"Cum for me, sweet girl, want to watch you cum on me..." she doesn't need to be told twice and from the way her hips are bucking irregularly and the way her eyes are rolling back he can feel the squeeze of her walls around him before it happens. She's calling his name in quiet pleas and he doesn't know what to do with that other than feel his heart swell with pride.

"I'm close, where do you want it?" her eyes light up at that and she's spasming on his cock.

"Inside, please, I'm on the pill." there's nothing that could have prepared him for that and without even registering it, he obeys. He's cumming in hot spurts and painting her walls and he's making her feel all warm and chewy on the inside with how full she is.

He softens and pulls out and she's already missing him but he's not going anywhere. He'd dipping between her legs and bringing her center to his face. His tongue feels like heaven and she's never had anyone lick her after fucking her and dripping out of her. But he's not shy with it. He's enjoying it. She's sensitive, he can tell. He licks along her slit and rests his mouth on her clit. She only needs five licks right now to get close to cumming and when that happens, her hole visibly gaping at the feeling, he's sucking on her clit, once, twice and she's pressing herself against his face and he's licking her clean.

Priestly rises and his chest is shiny with sweat and she’s even more dishelved than when he had been kissing her. He kisses her and she hums into his mouth and it vibrates in his chest making him feel all kinds of warm.

"I really like you." he admits and she grins. "I want to take you out tomorrow...on a date." she can't help but smile at that.

"I'd love that, Priestly, I like you too." she pauses and looks at him as he settles next to her. He pulls her against his chest and she's wrapping herself around him like she's wanted to do for the last month or so.

Sleep comes easy that night, he's rubbing circles on her back and kisses her brow before resting his head on her pillow.

And she can't help but think of how their friends are never going to believe what has happened.

Little does she know they have even placed bets on who would make the first move...

[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

Pt2? 👀❤️

[very-merry-birthday]

Okay so fic idea...as a Lexapro girlie for life I sometimes struggle to orgasm and even though I love when reader cums a million times with dean, what if, just once, someone wrote a fic where reader is really embarrassed and self conscious that it's hard for her to cum and assumes dean has more fun with girls who are orgasm factories. But dean is really sweet and talks her through it and eventually makes her cum and it's beautiful #thiswillhealme #thelongerdeanisbetweenmylegsthebetter

oh buddy.... I.... Yeah this one hit a little too close for me... #cantcumduringsexgirlsunite #imseriousiloveyouforthismessage #thisisaboutme

Did something a tiny bit different with this one I hope it's still alright... I think I'm gonna post a second part to this next week...

He's trying. Oh bless him he's trying.

He's been buried between your legs for the last forty-five minutes- desperately going at you. You can see the top of his forehead over your body, the way his eyes are creased shut, the sweat starting to slick back his hair.

You're trying. You shift again, lifting your hips slightly. You're hoping that at some point you'll find the angle that sends those fireworks shooting through you- that if you just focus hard enough maybe lightning will strike.

With anyone else you'd have faked it half an hour ago- an excellent performance of moans and gasps. You're starting to consider it with Dean- though you know he might actually kill something if he finds out it's not real.

You let out a slow breath, looking back up at the ceiling. It's never gonna hit with all these thoughts rushing through your head, and the longer it takes, the more the thoughts keep piling on. It's like some awful ouroboros of orgasms.

You may as well give up. Hell- just because you're a little bit broken doesn't mean he needs to suffer.

You reach down to his sweat soaked mop of hair, tugging him away from you, "Stop- Dean- this- this isn't working."

He looks up at you from between your thighs, chin glistening, a dopey, dazed look spread across his face, "What's not- you're not enjoying it?"

"I'm enjoying it plenty it's just- y'know- it's not... building..."

He props himself up, "Sweetheart, stop speaking in code."

"I'm not gonna cum."

"Oh- right- I can stop- if you don't want it."

"I want it- I- fuck this is hard to explain." You sigh, jaw tensing. This whole communication thing is difficult.

He leans forward, kissing the bottom of your stomach, "Try."

"I'm enjoying it- I am- I just don't want this to be a chore for you because- well it's not exactly got an end-"

His eyes light up slightly, "You mean- I can keep doing this- like all night- and there's nothing to stop me?"

"Look- I know you've got this whole record of pleasing girls and giving them multiple orgasms and I just- I don't want to ruin that for you-"

"Sweetheart- I don't think you're listening- you're telling me you'll let me stay down here for as long as it takes-"

You chew your lip awkwardly, "It may take a while."

He grins up at you, "Is that a promise?"

"It may never happen-"

He nods like it's a declaration, "Then I'm never leaving."

You swallow hard, "I'm serious, Dean- I- I don't want you to get annoyed if it doesn't... work-"

He rests his cheek on your thigh, blinking up at you, a small smile playing across his face, "I'm sorry honey, but the ship has kinda sailed on this being about you- I've almost cum like four times down here. I'm having the time of my life-"

You blink at him, "Are you kidding?"

He shrugs, nonchalant, "I'm pretty sure this is the most turned on I've ever been."

"Right- uh- well- carry on then-" you laugh, laying back against the mattress.

He kisses your thigh, "As long as you're enjoying yourself, I'm gonna do this forever-"

[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

🥲❤️

[very-merry-birthday]

Strawberry Pie

Try all the flavors: Blueberry • Pecan • Cherry • Pumpkin • Rhubarb • Salted Maple • Strawberry • Lemon Meringue • Peach • Cranberry • Apple

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

Summary: You both have a peaceful day- but this is all starting to feel too nice for Dean.

Warning: smut, unprotected sex

A/N: I've been lying this whole time I love him I love him I love him I don't want him to hurt anymore

For The Filling: 2 pounds strawberries, hulled ⅓ cup granulated sugar 3 tablespoons strawberry preserves ¼ cup cornstarch Pinch of kosher salt 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

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Dean's fingers creep along the mattress as he wakes, feeling the space next to him left by your absence. Your side of the bed is cold, the light filtering in through the blinds tells him it's almost midday. He's slept in, missing his opportunity to make you breakfast.

You probably left hours ago, slipping out without waking him, the usual routine when he's too exhausted to stir. He thinks of last night, of the words tumbling out like vomit. Maybe you were too tired to remember- he's not sure whether he wants you to or not.

He's still naked, body tacky with dried sweat. He should probably shower, but the idea of even getting out of bed seems too much right now.

Instead he lets himself have a few moments of peace, still stretched out across the mattress, his body heavy and his mind heavier. He thinks of you, the smell of your shampoo still on the pillow, his hand running down his body, half dazed, until he finds is already semi-hard cock. He strokes it lazily as he pictures your lips, your body, your laugh.

He's not sure he's ever thought of someone's laugh while jacking off before- it feels natural with you, just another part that he's addicted to. His mind starts to swell with everything else, all those other ideas he flooded out yesterday, the house, the lazy mornings, the yard with the buttercups. It's all too much, those images he knows he'll never get to see. He opens his eyes, his moment's over, hand moving away again as he finally swings his legs round to stand up.

He makes his way to his duffle, unceremoniously dumped at the edge of the room, rifling his way through it until he finds a clean pair of boxers and his phone. He pulls on his boxers with a stumble as he makes his way through your apartment, seeking out your kitchen.

There's a note on the table, he smiles as he reads it, 'Pie in the fridge, I'm just downstairs, don't die.'

He opens the fridge- you're true to your word, a leftover slice sits on a small plate, just tempting him to forget all about his phonecall. He doesn't, though, checking for any missed messages before he dials his brothers number. He keeps the fridge door open, letting the cool air hit his legs, stifling whatever sense of a hard-on he still has left.

The line clicks, Sam on the other end, "You good?"

"Yeah- everything go okay?"

"All fine, he's not gonna talk to anyone and she still doesn't believe it's real."

Dean nods to himself, glancing down at the pie still sat on the shelf, "Look I've got a lead on something suspicious down here- I'll be a couple more days-"

"You need some help?"

"No!-" he jumps in too quick, "No- I- it's fine, it's probably nothing, but I figure I should check it out."

He doesn't know why he's lying. Maybe because saying 'You know that girl I came down here to fuck? I've somehow fallen in love and can't imagine ever leaving' seems a little too much.

"Well, if you need a hand just call."

"Yeah- yep- will do-" Dean hangs up before he can tumble over his own lie.

He looks back in the fridge, the pie sat on the plate. He wonders if it was there last night, some serendipitous object that just knew he was going to turn up, or whether you nipped back up with it this morning, serving it to him fresh.

Both ideas make his stomach twist. He doesn't want the universe to know more than him, and he certainly doesn't want you going out of your way to treat him special.

He retreats back to the bedroom, finds last night's clothes scattered across the floor, pulls them back on without thinking. They're the best he's got- a little stale, small stains of oil and his own blood, but it's better than the alternatives he has buried in his duffel, coated in graveyard soil and spectre goo.

He thinks of what you said last night- that he needs to stop. You're right- you're always right- what kind of grown man doesn't own one decent shirt- hell what kind of grown man has his clothes soiled by ghost ectoplasm. It's scooby-doo shit, not the kind of thing that exists in the real world.

But he can't stop. That's never been on the table. As much as he wishes he could, as much as he wants to call Sam back right now and tell him he's done, that's not going to happen. He knows what his life is, and unfortunately you're the extraneous part of this whole situation.

By the time he makes it downstairs he feels more awake- more awake than he's felt in weeks if he's honest with himself. Maybe just being in your bed is better than any alcohol or sleeping pill inducing night he's been chasing. He realizes this is the first morning all month he hasn't woken up with a nightmare playing behind his eyelids.

You're stood behind the counter when he gets to the bakery front door, chatting away to an older woman with a pie box in her hands. Dean watches you for a moment, usually this is where he'd leave you, watching through the window before he drives on to the next hunt. Part of him likes looking at you like this, it shows him everything he gets from you is genuine- those sparkling eyes which crease up when you laugh, those smiles, those eyerolls he pictures whenever he makes a no-good joke.

This time he's not backing away though, instead he pushes on the door, the bell signaling his arrival.

Your eyes light up when you see him, breaking away from your conversation for a moment to look at him, unable to hide the surprise on your face at his entrance. The woman turns to look too, reminding you you're not alone.

You smile at him, lifting an eyebrow as you speak, sweet, "This is Susan- she's trying to set me up with her son-"

"Is she now?" Dean nods, hiding his own smile.

She looks back at you, a knowing look, "I didn't realize you had- company."

You smile wider, "Oh Dean's not company, he's just a friend-"

She glances back at Dean, who shoots her a charming smile only he could get away with, "It's a good thing too, Susan, or I wouldn't be allowed to talk to you-"

She knows he's playing but she smiles at him anyway, "Bless you, you almost make me feel young again-" then turns to you, "-I should be going, thank you for the banana cream."

You smile at her as she leaves, then keep on smiling as Dean walks over, "You heading off?"

He takes a deep breath, the words feel more important than they should, a departure from the expectation you both laid out since the beginning, "No I uh- I was actually coming to ask if I could stay- just for a couple days- Sammy's sorted everything and we haven't got any new leads yet so- I'm officially off duty."

You beam, "Of course you can- jesus, Dean, you don't even have to ask!" You gesture to the stool by the counter, "Sit, sit- did you try the slice in the fridge?"

He feels a little guilty that he didn't, "No- sorry- I-"

"Good." You grin, turning back to the oven as you move to pull a steaming pie out, "I want you to try this one instead."

He watches you carefully as you cut it, the insides spilling out as you lift a slice onto a plate. You add a fork before walking it back over, placing it in front of him.

The pie winks at him from the plate, the sweet sticky smell immediately sticking to his nostrils, his mouth watering.

"You're trying to fatten me up-" he laughs.

You shrug, leaning forward on the counter, "What if I am?"

"Oh, honey, you don't wanna see that-"

You smile at him, genuine, "You don't know that- I think a bit of tummy would suit you."

He looks down at himself, almost like he's been shot- the idea that you could want him even if his body changes feels like a bullet for a moment. He swallows it down, looks back towards the pie- at least that's something he can make sense of.

You watch him as he takes his bite, his face morphing into a smile, nodding along like you're playing his favorite song, "Fuck, sweetheart- that's good."

You grin, "Yeah?"

"Yeah- jesus yeah- this is your best yet-"

You go giddy at the praise, no one makes you feel as good as Dean when he's giving you a compliment.

You turn, you know if you look at him for much longer you'll stumble out some mistaken response. You don't know what to make of Dean's comments last night- he was exhausted, hurt, probably drunk. He doesn't say things like that- he just doesn't, never has. Maybe you pushed it too far, you're not sure, he certainly doesn't seem to be showing any signs he remembers it, let alone regrets it. You picture his words for a moment, let yourself sit in the yard with the buttercups and kids, and then forget it, looking back down at your slice-less pie.

You can't let it get to you. You push the thoughts away, Dean will never quit his life, you need to stop chasing any idea he will. You just need to enjoy the time you have with him- hell, you know him, he could get a phonecall any second and be out of here within the minute.

But he stays. He stays at the counter all day with his puppy-dog eyes and goofy smile. He talks to you- he doesn't stop talking to you. He tells you about Sam, about the most recent hunt- the one that didn't almost kill him. He tells you about the nightmares, tries to keep a joke in his voice when he mentions they've been getting worse, more visceral, more violent.

Whenever someone walks in he dips his head slightly, an instinct he doesn't know he's picked up. It almost feels scandalous being with you around so many other people, it makes his cheeks hot and heart beat harder. He smiles as he watches you bake, whenever he gets you alone you show him how to roll out the crust- he doesn't listen, just hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags you into kisses.

The day passes quickly, quick enough that Dean's shocked when you flip the sign around on the door. He tilts his head to you when you turn back around, indicating for you to come over.

"That was fun-" he laughs, sliding one hand around your waist, pulling you closer.

"Same again tomorrow?" You grin at him.

He leans down slowly, let's your eyes flutter shut before he presses his lips to yours. You can feel him smiling against you, his free hand moving up to cup your cheek, keeping you close.

He breaks away slightly, his lips still hesitating against yours, "You're so gorgeous-"

He glances over to the kitchen, his eyes scanning the flat surfaces as he considers something. You know exactly what he's thinking, "We're not fucking in here-"

He looks back at you, a cheeky smile, "We could fuck in here-"

"There's such a thing as a health code!" You laugh, shaking your head, "Plus you smell like hunter." 

He looks down at himself, then back up, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you need a shower- go on, I'll meet you up there-"

He doesn't protest, he knows you're right. There's a tinge that follows you when you're a hunter- sweat and smoke and blood. He knows his clothes reek of it, they always do no matter how many times he washes them. It's a copper smell, like an old penny- an old penny that's just been done killing a guy.

He makes his way back up to your apartment, thinking of you just below. Fuck he wants to stay. He feels it in his chest, pounding at him- he wants to live every day like this- he doesn't want to go back to exorcisms and decapitations.

That's why he shouldn't have stuck around today. The more time he spends with you the harder it is to let you go. He's spent every day without you thinking of excuses to come back. It's making him stupid, soft in a way he doesn't like. He needs to pull himself out of this, needs to think of this how it's supposed to be- easy, causal, no strings attached.

He strips down, pulling off his clothes and kicking them into a pile on the floor of the bathroom. His hand wanders down to the gauze on his abdomen, ripping it off with a twinge of pain. The cut looks good, starting to heal nicely, better than some of the more persistent injuries he's faced. He follows through with the gauze on his leg- it's the same, though the cut goes deeper, he knows it'll leave a scar.

He steps into your shower with his muscles creaking, trying not to let his gaze fall too heavily on the wounds covering his body. The water starts up hot- jesus why does everything in your life have to be so perfect- he's used to motel showers that barely trickle- even the bunker takes a while to get water warm- but this feels like a godsend.

He lets the water wash over him, scrubbing away the sweat still stuck to his skin. Maybe he'll leave in the morning, spend one more night with you and then go back to Sammy, find himself a case that'll redden his knuckles and ruin his appetite. It feels like hell just thinking about it- good.

The bathroom door pushes open lightly, you slide in without a word. Dean thinks of speaking, of telling you he'll be out in a minute, but you seem to have other ideas as he watches you pull your top off over your head and shimmy out of your pants. He swallows hard when you reach for your underwear, trying to blink away the hard-on that's already forming- jesus he looks desperate.

Freed from your clothes, you step into the shower, your eyes immediately glossing over his body before you look back up at him. You offer him a small smile as you press your palm to the cut on his abdomen. It sends a sparkle down his spine, a soft touch that he isn't used to.

The water sheers down on you both, droplets glistening on your body. Dean reaches out, let's his knuckles run across your cheekbone, rubbing a blush of beads off of your skin. He leans forward slowly, pressing his lips against your forehead- you keep your hand on his body, your fingertips only gently brushing over the bruising still etched against the cut.

He pulls back again, biting down on his bottom lip as he considers his next move. You don't give him a chance, sinking down to your knees before he can stop you. He doesn't want to stop you- not this time- he needs anything you'll give him tonight.

Your gaze moves towards the cut on his thigh, just for a second, gauging how bad it is, then you glance back up, batting your eyelashes at him. His body is blocking the brunt of the water, it's just the spray falling off his head, dancing down lightly onto you. Despite his endeavor not to look desperate, he's already rock hard, and staring down at your pretty face below him isn't helping. He tangles his fingers into your hair, tilting your head back slightly, trying to act like he's got any control in this situation.

You just smile at him, your hand coming up to wrap around his shaft. He hisses at the contact, breath pushed out from between his teeth. You move carefully, lips parting as you wrap them around the head- his whole body tightens, needier than he wants to be.

He tugs your face forward, pushing his cock into your mouth, nudging at the back of your throat, rough. You look up at him, it almost looks like shock, but Dean can tell by the way your cheeks round that you're enjoying it. You always fucking enjoy it- any way he treats you, you enjoy it. Goddamn he doesn't deserve you.

He holds you there for a second, you take the opportunity to run your tongue along the length. He grunts- loud, unrestrained- his fingers tightening in your hair. He moves you carefully, his hips thrusting into your mouth- like he's doing this to you- not the other way around.

But he knows that's not true- he's unravelling under your touch. You start to move your hand, stroking the base of his cock, bobbing your head in time with his movements. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to cool himself off, focusing on the water beating down on his back. It doesn't help- his gaze falls straight back on you in an instant, staring down at your bright eyes.

You take him deeper, letting him fill your mouth, taking control of the pace as you slide your palm over him. He relinquishes control, his fingers untangling from your hair- just holding the back of your head steady as you move.

You pull back- only slightly, letting your tongue dance over the tip, precum leaking into your mouth. He grunts, trying to hold back on any other sounds as you move carefully. You keep your movement light, lapping at him, his cock only just pushed between your lips as you swallow his taste.

"Oh fuck-" he whines, his voice breathy, "-jesus fuck-" his body stutters, he pulls you back slightly, trying to hold off the inevitable, "-you gotta- fuck- you gotta stop-"

You look up at him, blinking slow, trying to hide your smile, "Baby-"

"Don't baby me- you know exactly what you're doing-" he swallows hard, "-jesus I need to fuck you."

He doesn't give you time to reply, tugging at you until you move to stand. You give him another smirk- one that makes his chest tighten and cheeks go flush. You're perfect, you're so perfect, why do you have to be so perfect?

He turns you around, pushes you against the tile wall, harder than he means to. You don't care, reaching back for his body behind you, pulling him into you. He buries his face into your neck, kissing your skin, his hands moving down to part your legs, pushing one up against the wall.

The tip of his cock rests at your entrance, nudging at you. You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, leaning your forehead against the cool tiles, the water pouring down on your both. His hips hitch, pushing into you fast- he's rewarded with a loud moan, your whole body rocking in time with him.

He fucks into you hard, pushing you against the wall. Your pussy's wrapped around him, tight, it's enough to make his mind swim. He's already so close- he knows it's not just the blow job- it's everything. It's you, and it's this apartment, and it's everything he said last night about his hopes and desires. It's the whole idea he could drop everything for you, that he could spend the rest of his life like this.

He needs to imagine it isn't anything serious. He needs to force himself to forget everything he said. He pictures tits- porn, one night stands, he doesn't care where he's getting them from, he just needs to picture someone else.

He tries to think of that girl last year in the motel out in some backwards dump he can barely even remember- not the place, not her name, not her face. You need to be her- someone he can forget about just as easily. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, let's blood spill into his mouth. You don't have to mean anything, you don't have to be someone serious. He can't let you.

Your hand moves up behind your head, reaching up to grab at his hair, tugging him into the crook of your neck. It's not fucking working- he can only think of you, he can only ever think of you- even when he was fucking her he was thinking of you. Your body, your face- fuck between the soap and the shampoo he's shrouded in you, you, you.

He slams in harder, he wants to hold off this guttural feeling that's tugging right at him, welling up in his throat and eyes. He fucks into you relentlessly- maybe if he's messy enough you'll kick him to the curb yourself.

Dean's not a lucky man, and you'd never let him go.

Instead you laugh, twisting your head round with a subtle smile, "Dean- honey- slow down-"

He does. He follows your words like a command, hips moving carefully, his hand tugging at your waist. His breath stutters, his head swimming with thoughts.

You push him back lightly, careful he doesn't stumble as you guide him away from you, until he's pulling his cock out with a desperate groan.

You turn your body round til you're facing him, looking up at him with bright eyes, "If y'not careful you'll blow your load before we even run out of hot water-"

You smile in a way that makes his stomach twist with guilt- how could he ever try to think of someone else when he has you.

One of your hands moves up to his cheek, pulling him into a kiss, the other to his waist, repositioning him in front of you. Your back presses against the tiles again as he pushes his cock back at your folds. It's slower this time, the way he presses into you, inch by girthy inch, it's makes your body melt into him, forehead leaning against his shoulder for support.

He grinds against you carefully, filling you on every slow thrust. Your hands smooth down his body- one moves to his nape, your thumb brushing against where his hair grows shorter, the other wraps around to his back, feeling his muscles shift under your touch. He's stretching you out, your whole body so full.

He's closer than he can admit, so close- his desperation to give you everything only just outweighing his own needs. He moves carefully, steady thrusts to build up a rhythm he knows you'll enjoy. You're gasping into him, every moan pushing him closer to the edge.

His head hangs low, it makes the water pour between your bodies, beating down on you. He lifts his head back up, your face wet, water clinging to your eyelashes. He goes to apologize but you just laugh, a proper laugh, full.

He stares at you for a moment. The sound makes his heart beat faster. You're so beautiful like this. So gorgeous and funny and perfect. You're everything.

He can't help it, spilling from his lips before he can stop himself, "I lo-"

You cut him off with a kiss. Even you seem to understand the weight of those words can't be contended with tonight. Your lips stay against his, he's scared if you break away the words will fall out, so he keeps you close, his hand moving up to hold your jaw, keeping you still as his tongue pushes into your mouth.

You're close- he can feel it- the way you clench around him. He staves off for just a moment, pushing into you harder, his teeth clashing against yours, holding onto your jaw tight. You moan into his mouth, nails raked down his back, hot and needy and desperate.

You break, your body shaking as your orgasm crashes through you. Dean follows immediately, spilling into you deep, his lips breaking from yours so he can let out a loud groan, your foreheads pressed together. His hips keep shifting, unconsciously rocking into you, his lips trailing to the top of your cheek, scattering kisses across your skin.

He pulls out slow, his face creasing up as he stops himself from letting out another whine. Your hands move over him carefully, keeping yourself upright, your legs still feel weak, your heart still pounding.

You look up at him, pressing your lips against his. You hesitate there for a moment, then pull back, speaking against him, "You scrub up good, pretty boy."

He laughs against you, opening his eyes up to look at you properly. You smile at him, running your hand down his chest until you reach the cut again. Your fingertips trace it for a moment, then fall away, letting it be.

He grabs the soap, lathers it on his hands for a second before he runs them over you. It's a soft touch, unpresumptuous, just following the curves of your body, the foam covering your skin. He crouches, moving his hands over your legs, looking up at you as the water crashes down on his head. It's cooler now, clearly he's out stayed his welcome, using up all the hot water.

He moves back to standing, getting another look at you. He lets his fingertips brush against your cheek, planting another soft kiss against you lips. It feels gentle, the kind of gentle he doesn't deserve.

Then you pull back, grinning up at him, "Right- get out-"

He laughs, cocking an eyebrow, "Did I disappoint you, sweetheart?"

You kiss him, quick, "You never disappoint me- just need to clean myself up, and I can't do that when you're hogging the water-"

He lets his eyes wash over you one last time then steps out, wrapping your towel around his waist. You start humming to yourself, the sound of the shower splashing over you as you scrub your skin.

He doesn't know how he got someone like you, what acts of virtue he performed in a past life that allowed him this. If he was a theist he'd be thanking someone for it, but as it goes he only needs to thank you.

He can't keep doing this, he's distinctly aware of that. He's told you hundreds of times, he can't leave his life, he can't just quit. But one more night won't hurt.

"I'll be in the bedroom-" he laughs.

You hum in agreement, quiet.

He'll go in the morning. He'll allow himself this.

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

They are going to break my heart, aren't they?

[wendichester]

𝒞　˳　mystery machine feelings ⏖

summary ⌗ a drive-in showing of scooby-doo turns into one quiet night in the impala where pretending not to be in love gets harder than usual. pairing ⌗ dean winchester x best-friend!reader ( gn ) wordcount ⌗ 960 genre ⌗ fluffy freakin' fluff!! warnings ⌗ best friends to lovers, soft kissing, sleepy reader, dean being dorky

notes ⌗ easily one of my favorite things written in a really long time!! ⠀︶⠀⠀support me on ko-fi⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂　

the poster is taped crookedly beside the motel ice machine.

you almost walk past it. dean actually does, already halfway toward the room with the keys spinning around one finger and a paper bag of gas station snacks tucked against his side, when the familiar blue-and-green van printed across cheap yellow paper catches your eye.

“dean—”

he keeps walking. “whatever it is, no.”

“they’re showing scooby-doo.”

he stops. completely. you smile before he even turns around.

the drive-in is twenty minutes outside town, set up in an empty field where somebody’s hammered wooden signs into the dirt and strung little bulbs around a concession stand. by the time you get there, the sky’s gone properly dark and dean’s somehow transformed your casual suggestion into an event. popcorn. candy. two sodas. a running complaint about how the mystery machine deserves “way more respect as a vehicle.”

“you know it’s a cartoon, right?”

dean looks personally offended. “watch your mouth.”

you laugh and climb back into the impala. the screen flickers to life beyond the windshield, washing the inside of baby in soft blue light.

dean settles low behind the wheel, boots stretched out, one arm slung across the back of the bench seat. comfortable. familiar. the exact same dean you’ve spent years sitting beside in diners, motels, graveyards, and endless stretches of highway.

except tonight there’s no case waiting afterward. nothing bleeding. nothing hunting you. just scooby-doo running from something in a hallway while dean mutters “rookie mistake” under his breath.

you last maybe half an hour on your side of the seat.

the night gets colder, and the space between you starts feeling unnecessary anyway, so you shift closer. not enough to make it a thing. just enough that your thigh brushes his when you move, enough that dean glances sideways at you and then back toward the screen without saying anything.

another ten minutes passes before you give up completely and let your head fall against his shoulder.

dean goes very still. there’s a tiny pause in his breathing, and for one horrible second you consider moving away.

maybe you pushed it. maybe the closeness you’ve been pretending is harmless for years finally wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

then his arm slips down from the seat. his hand settles around your upper arm. you exhale.

he doesn’t pull you closer exactly. dean would probably argue that point under oath. he just lets his palm drift slowly along your arm, up toward your shoulder and back down again, fingers warm through your sleeve. absent at first. then not so absent. a quiet little repetition that makes it difficult to pay attention to anything happening on-screen.

you don’t mention it. neither does he.

that’s sort of the problem with the two of you. years of this. leaning too close over research. falling asleep against each other after hunts. dean touching the small of your back when you walk through crowded places. you fixing his collar before an fbi interview and both of you pretending his eyes aren’t on your mouth.

best friends. obviously. completely normal best-friend behavior.

by the time the credits start rolling, your eyes are heavy and your cheek’s gone warm against dean’s shoulder. you’re comfortable enough that moving feels offensive, but dean shifts slightly beneath you and looks down.

“well, damn.”

you blink up at him. “what?”

“you made it through a whole movie.”

you frown sleepily. “i always make it through movies.”

“sweetheart, you fell asleep during jaws.”

“we’d seen it before.”

“you fell asleep during terminator.”

“i was tired.”

“raiders?”

“too comfortable.”

“die hard?”

you pause. dean’s eyebrows lift.

“okay, that one was unfortunate.”

“unfortunate?” he laughs. “you drooled on me!”

“that has never been proven.”

“there was evidence.”

you sit up enough to glare at him, but you’re still tucked into his side and his hand hasn’t left your arm. “well, i didn’t fell asleep this time. guess there’s always a first for everything.”

dean’s smile fades just slightly. “yeah?”

you don’t know why the question makes your stomach dip. “yeah.”

he hums. actually considers it. his gaze moves from your eyes to your mouth, and suddenly you’re extremely awake.

“dean—”

he leans in and kisses you. just once. a small, quick press of his mouth against yours that’s over before your brain catches up enough to participate.

dean pulls back barely a few inches, his expression suddenly stripped of every bit of confidence he had thirty seconds ago.

he watches you. you stare at him. his hand is still around your arm.

“oh,” you say.

brilliant.

dean swallows. “yeah.”

you should probably say something meaningful. clarify years of tension. discuss what this means. behave like adults who regularly hunt things that crawl out of graves and should therefore possess basic communication skills. instead, you smile. you can’t help it.

dean’s eyes soften immediately. then he kisses you again.

this one isn’t stolen. his hand slides from your arm to your cheek, thumb warm near your ear, and you turn into him properly, catching the front of his jacket in your fist as his mouth moves against yours. slow. soft at first, then deeper when you lean closer and he realizes you’re not going anywhere.

years of almost, condensed into one warm front seat.

when you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing differently.

dean looks at you for a second, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes bright in the light from the credits. then his whole face breaks into the stupidest grin. “scooby-dooby-dooo!”

you stare at him. he looks delighted with himself. and then you laugh so hard you have to bury your face against his shoulder, while dean wraps both arms around you and laughs too.

your first kiss with dean winchester. and scooby-doo gets partial credit.

@iamaslytherin0 requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂　 Okay so since it's summer, this just popped in my head, what about a drive in movie. (Wish they did those here) Either reader suprises Dean with a screening of his favorite movie or scooby doo or.. like a scary movie and then you can snuggle in Dean's arms as you pretend to be scared. (Whatever you like best or strikes your creativity flow)

.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works

[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

He's a dork

I love him

[surrendertodreams]

Thinking of You (27/27)

Also on AO3 | Navigation and Masterlists

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader Summary: You've always loved Dean, but Sam might need you more. Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Content: no Y/N, alternating POVs, childhood friends to lovers, you three enjoy a moment of peace, 582/26183 words

Fic Masterlist | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Chapter 27 - Happier Futures - Sam

SOMEDAY

“Goddamn, that’s a big hole.”

Sam scoffs a laugh at Dean’s reaction. “You’re looking at one of the world’s greatest natural wonders, and that’s your takeaway? Big hole?”

The three of you are overlooking the Grand Canyon, something Sam’s never gotten the chance to see even with all the cross-country traveling he’s had to do in his life. Probably never would have either if it weren’t for Dean being so weak to your requests. 

You’re sitting on a knee-high rock wall that serves as a barrier for the lookout’s edge. Your eyes stare out at the vast expanse of the canyon with a soft awe painted on your features. Dean’s arms are strung casually around your shoulders, too nervous to have you so close to the edge unsecured but also too macho to admit it out loud. Your hands hang on his wrists, tethering the two of you together. Sam sits to your right, one leg on either side of the wall so he can both look and watch.

“Tell me that isn’t the biggest hole you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Can you boys stop talking about holes? I’m trying to bask in the view.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, ducking his face into your hair to press an apologetic kiss there.

Sam snickers at Dean’s ready submission and doesn’t even try to hide his amusement when Dean shoots him a glare.

The shift in his brother’s demeanor is almost surreal. You’ve drawn out that soft side of him that he always kept hidden. Sam guesses its the aura of safety that you radiate that’s finally given Dean the security to be more human than steel.

“This is perfect, isn’t it?” you murmur, leaning your head into one of Dean’s arms. “I could stay here forever.”

Dean smiles fondly, though you can’t see the tender look in his eyes the way Sam can. His brother’s arms wrap tighter around your shoulders to pull you closer. Your eyes drift closed in pure content.

Sam thinks of Jess without meaning to and wonders how she would’ve reacted to seeing this view, what she would’ve said. The ache of missing her that’s become as familiar as his own name comes to the surface, but it’s not so incapacitating as it had been before. Now, it’s gentle enough that he can feel the fondness and the love just as well as the grief. He finds himself smiling.

“Me, too,” Sam says just before the moment has drifted so long as to be forgotten.

“It really is a nice hole,” Dean adds. You fall into laughter, and Dean grins at succeeding in amusing you. The two of you rock together, ebb and flow, until the chuckles dry up.

“You are absolutely ridiculous,” you scold with humor baked into your tone, which spurs a bout of playful bickering.

Sam’s glad that the two of you have each other, properly now. For so long, he’s worried about what path Dean seemed to be spiralling down, but with you it looks like Dean finally has a future worth dreaming about. One that doesn’t end in liver failure or a hunt gone wrong. There might actually be an end to all of this, a normal life for the three of you.

Even if it’s not the future Sam expected when he ran away from this life four years ago, that promise of something better for the most important people in his life is all he could ever ask for.

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[zepskies]

Return to Me || Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Ready for the messy love triangle era? 😜

Tags & Warnings: Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers (eventually), angst, jealousy, the aftermath, John Winchester (yes, he’s a warning), friction

ᝰ.Word Count: 7.5k || Posted on Patreon: July 31, 2026

♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

🌹Now Playing: “Cry No More” ⟢ Vaults (Chapter title from "The Humbling River" by Puscifer)

℧ Series Masterlist

Part 3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home

Oh, my God…

The thought has you gasping softly, your heart dropping into your stomach after you wake.

After your eyes open, and you realize.

The soft glow of dawn hits the side of his face like a dream. It casts little pricks of sunlight between his eyelashes and through his hair. Your gaze travels down the perfect bow of his lips, to the slow rise and fall of his upper body as he hugs his pillow. The toned muscles in his arm shift as he curls it a little tighter underneath.

He’s still wearing his black undershirt and boxers from the night before. You’re wearing nothing at all under the sheets and an old quilt. Your engagement ring pressed several indents into your cheek while you were sleeping. You rub the sting out of your skin, but it ultimately just draws your gaze to that ring, and your mind back to Brady.

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You think you remember someone calling him Benny.

You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on the crunch of grass and dusty earth, all the way back up to the house. 

You have your phone in your other hand, but you realize that your purse, and therefore your keys, are inside the house. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You remember about the spare key; to your relief, it still lies under one of Mary’s old flowerpots by one of the back doors. You enter the house and tiptoe your way to the dining room, where you think you left your purse. Your memory once again proves correct, but what you don’t expect to find is John Winchester eating breakfast.

You freeze there at the end of the table. He sits where he always does—at the head, overlooking a large window where the vast plains of the ranch lay in view of the mountains.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” John remarks, taking another bite of a buttered biscuit. He forks some more scrambled eggs in his mouth as well and gestures at the empty seats at the table. “Want some breakfast?”

An embarrassed flush already heats your face and neck. 

“No, thank you,” you say.

He shrugs. “It’s just as well, considering you failed to mention that you work for the company that wants to take my home and livelihood, and the legacy I want to pass on to my sons.” 

A sigh escapes you. Sam finally told him. 

You glance down at your phone when it buzzes with yet another text. There are 15 other messages from Brady, along with a few missed calls. Shit. 

“I thought you and I had an understanding, before you left,” John says, reclaiming your attention, as well as your ire. No one knew how to get under your skin better than Winchesters.

“I was barely eighteen, and my life was falling apart. You had no right to demand anything from me, no matter how much you want to control Sam and Dean. Especially Dean,” you remind him. “And that’s besides the fact that I’m not doing anything to you. Yes, I work for Roman & Weiss. Yes, they bought out your father-in-law’s farmland. And yes, they just gave you an offer on a piece of your ranch for twice it’s worth right now. It’s more profit than you’ve probably seen in, what, about five years? Yeah. We did the research and the math.”

John wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, with the surety of a man in his own home, and stubbornness of an oak tree that won’t be moved.

“I’m the one who saved your life,” John says.

You forgot the way he did that, effectively ignoring almost everything someone’s said before. You saw him do it to Dean more than once.

Your brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father,” he says. 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Somehow, Dean hadn’t expected to wake up alone in bed. Disappointment sinks into his bones as he lays there stunned. He rewinds the night like the dream that was, but should’ve never been.

He’s had that dream a few times over the past 12 years, but he never actually thought it would come to life—your voice, your body, your touch, and the way you responded so well to his. But in those dreams, you never left him in the end. He should’ve known better though. You always do.

He overslept by a couple of hours. Usually he’s up at 5:30 every morning, but it’s close to seven when he literally stumbles out of bed and throws the rest of his clothes back on, muttering a curse under his breath as he goes.

He jogs up to the main house when he sees that your car is still in the driveway. It stupidly gives him a small hope that you haven’t left because you’re hesitating. Maybe he’s got one more chance to say something that won’t just spin your head around. Maybe he’ll say something that makes you stay.

He gets into the house through the back door that was weirdly left unlocked. He hears your voice as well as his dad’s in the dining room, but Dean frowns as he begins to piece the conversation together.

“…Who do you think gave your mother the money for you to go to college? Because it certainly wasn’t your father.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

Dean pauses in the doorway, frowning as he takes in the tension in the room.

What the fuck kind of têt-á-têt is this?

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too,” John says, sitting back in his seat as he gestures toward your hand. “Though it seems you don’t care too much about him, considering you’re right back where you started: in my son’s bed.”

You seethe where you stand, but Dean’s voice stops you from another hot retort.

“What the hell is going on in here?” he says tersely. 

His eyes travel over you, taking in the disheveled state of you and your grass-stained feet, the pair of heels hanging from your fingers, your wild, admittedly sexy bedhead, and that furious look on your face that suggest you want to throw those shiny stilettos at his dad’s head. Or maybe that butter knife on the table.

You huff in exasperation and storm out of the dining room. 

Dean glares at his father, but he quickly follows you, stopping the front door with his shoulder when you try to slam it shut. He calls your name, more than once. You just keep beelining for your car.

Dean feels compelled to grab for your hand, to get you to turn around and implore you to listen, but you slip out of his grip and nearly stumble against your car. He more cautiously helps to steady you, grasping your arms. Once again, you push his hands away.

“Stop, Dean. Just let me go,” you say, almost on the verge of frustrated tears as you shake your head. “You were right. We’re better off just walking away from all this. From each other. We have different lives now.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “So last night—” 

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” you say, even though you struggle with it. “I don’t know if I know you anymore, but that man is exactly the same.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

But you never answer him. You ignore him calling your name.

Dean is at a loss as he watches you get into your car and leave him standing there, like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know exactly what just happened, how it could all go to shit so fast. This has to be a new record for him. 

And in that moment, his heart earns another splintering crack, like the dry earth beneath his feet.

You crank up the AC and lower the car windows so you don’t suffocate. The blasting hot air begins to dry the tears from your eyes, but you can’t help but glance out the rearview mirror on your left, watching Dean stand there in the driveway. His figure gets smaller as the distance grows, but so too does the ranch house, and the pain it represents.

You wrestle not only with what you’ve done, but what John said to you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you stand in my house and tell me how to run my fucking ranch, remember that I’m the reason you have a college degree, and probably that fiancé too.”

It boils your blood just thinking about it. You furiously wipe at your cheeks.

You can’t believe your mom accepted that kind of money from John fucking Winchester, of all people, but you also don’t think for one moment that he did that for you, as if it was some kind of Good Samaritan gesture. It was control. It was a way to make sure you left Salida…and to make sure Dean stayed to become what John wanted him to be.

“You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. It settles in your chest like a brand. You feel sick to your stomach, but there’s no cure.

So, you decide that he was right after all. There’s no point in rehashing the past anymore. There’s only the life you have now, and the future you intend to build.

Cue the Kansas violins. Dust in the fucking wind.

It takes half the drive back into town, but once you have yourself under control, you roll up the windows and finally call Brady. You spend the first five minutes apologizing, calming his frustration and worries.

“I’m so sorry. The day just…got away from me,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “There was a good bit of drinking with the eating, and of course, once a cowboy breaks out a guitar, there goes the night,” you say with an attempt at levity. “But um…the stories about my dad. That all just hit me harder than I expected. It got late, and they offered for me to stay the night. The Winchesters were like family to me once.”

“…Okay, I get that. But I was really worried. You couldn’t just call me back, or answer any of my texts?” Brady asks. 

You want to say that you did answer his texts all through the dinner time, except for that last one.

Hey, babe. When are you getting back? It’s getting late. I don’t think you should drive in the dark out there.

And two minutes later…

Would you mind picking up some food on your way back to the hotel? I’ve had no time to eat. Been meeting with contractors all day. Anything remotely decent around here? That diner last night was ass.

You’d stopped responding after that. You were busy contemplating how you’d just watched your father’s ashes dissolve into the river.

“I know, I should’ve given you the heads up that I was staying, but, um…my phone died,” you say. The lie feels acidic on your tongue, along with all the other half-truths.

“All right, well, I’m glad you got the closure you needed,” he says. “After you get cleaned up, can you meet me at the property? There’s an environmental question that you should speak into before we, uh, raise any alarms.”

You do need to shower and change, and get some food in you first, but you frown.

“What’s the issue?” you ask.

“The river,” Brady says.

Summer || 20 years ago

You’re 10 years old, watching Dean in his swim trunks as he jumps from the rickety pier his grandfather built. He lands in the water and splashes you on entry, making you laugh. 

Sam jumps next. He’s only eight, but he wants to prove he can do everything his older brother does.

The sweltering summer is perfect for this. Even though you’re out of school on vacation, Mr. Winchester is already making Dean help with the horses and the cattle. Sammy’s too young, but next year he’ll start too. He’s the only one of you who’s already started on his summer reading.

“Come on, jump!” Sam calls to you.

You linger on the edge of the narrow pier because the water looks murky and gross. But when Dean calls your name, his wide smile gives you courage. 

You jump in, and the boys cheer. 

“Watch out!” Dean grabs your foot playfully, pretending it’s a fish. You scream and splash him. 

He laughs, and that becomes the new game, until you all create a new one. 

Dean ends up being the mule, pulling Sam around on his back. After a few minutes, he good-naturedly gives you a turn too. You just get annoyed when he picks you up and drops you in the deeper water.  

You tackle him and push his head down below the surface, just for a second or two. 

“Hey!” he says, shaking out his wet hair. You giggle and dunk him again. 

But he stays down in the water, even when you take your hands off his shoulders. You and Sam share a hesitant look, wondering if Dean’s just holding his breath on purpose. You can barely see him though, and you start to get worried. 

“Dean?”

After a few long moments that tick by, all you see are bubbles on the water.

“Dean!” you shout, reaching into the water to grab for him. 

That’s when he bobs to the surface and spits water in your face. 

You splutter in shock. He cackles. 

You shove his shoulder. “That’s not funny!”

After wiping excess water droplets off your face, you swim away from him and Sam and climb up to the shore.

“Aw, come on. You don’t have to be such a girl!” Dean calls after you.

You stick out your tongue at him and keep walking away, barefoot on the gravel and dirt. You blink the river out of your eyes and peel off a reed from your swimsuit. Taller grass lines the dirt trail on both sides. You almost cut through it to get back to your family’s cabin, but you gasp as you notice something dusty and scaley in the path.

The large snake coils and makes its warning known with an ominous rattle. You scream, but mostly because Dean grabs your waist from behind to pull you back.

“Careful!” he says. “Get behind me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you also pull him back by his arm, not letting him get closer to the snake. Its body is light brown with darker brown splotches lined down its spine. The head is oblong and flat with a point to its nose, but it flicks a black, forked tongue as its tail continues to rattle.

Dean glances at you over his shoulder.

“Let go so I can deal with it,” he says. “Looks like a prairie.”

Your dad told you that there are three main kinds of rattlesnakes in Colorado, but prairies have the worst bite.

“Just ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away,” you argue.

“Kill it, Dean!” Sam says. He came out of the water too. He stays closer to the pier but wants to watch what happens. Living in rural Colorado, all three of you have seen your fair share of snakes. One tried to get into Sam’s crib once when he was a baby. That was the first snake Dean ever saw his dad kill.

“Both of you, stay back!” Dean says sharply. He guides you a couple more feet behind him and reaches for a stick on the ground. He doesn’t have a weapon, so he tries to guide the snake into the tall grass.

The animal gets agitated at his poking, coils tighter and tighter as it rears back to strike—

Until a boot crunches its head, and a knife separates the body from it.

You’re relieved to see your dad. Bobby adjusts his hat and gives you all a firm look.

“You all know better than to mess with a rattler,” he says gruffly. “Any of y’all get bit?”

“No, sir,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, his shoulders loosening as he gives you and Dean a quick look over to make sure. He pats Dean on the shoulder afterward.

“Okay, good,” Bobby says, though he aims a shrewd look at the boys. “Does your dad know you’re out here instead of workin’ on your chores?”

Sam and Dean don’t have a good answer for him as they avoid his gaze. Even you feel guilty by association.

Bobby smirks a little. “All right. Go on and swim for a little while longer. It’s hot as hell out here.” 

The boys perk up, share a glance, then they head back for the river before Bobby changes his mind. You hug him, even though you’re all wet. 

“Thanks, Daddy!” you chirp. 

He soothes a hand over your frizzing hair. You look up, resting your chin on his chest. He looks down at you with a smaller, more genuine smile.

“Be careful with those boys,” he says.

You agree with a nod before you follow your friends in running off the pier.

Now…

Your fingers toy with the silver rose inside its oval-shaped pendant, which now has a place laying against your chest on a thin chain. It’s delicate, beautiful. You wonder if your dad bought it, or if it was his mother’s, or his grandmother’s. Either way, it means something to you now. It holds the weight of regret—over a decade’s worth. 

“Hey, you with me?” Brady asks. 

He somewhat earns your attention. “Hmm?”

“Who gave you that necklace?” he says, glancing down at your chest. “It doesn’t really match your ring.” 

“My dad left it for me,” you reply.

“Ah. That’s nice,” Brady says. But soon, he frowns, brushing wild strands of your hair out of your eyes. He fingers the wrinkles in the collar of your blouse as well. “You look tired, babe…and still a bit disheveled. We’re meeting with some important people soon, the architect and one of the board members. Are you up for this?”

No, if you’re honest. But he didn’t exactly give you a choice on coming out here, just a few miles down the road of Winchester Ranch.

“Sorry my dad’s death is so inconvenient for you,” you snipe. “A couple days ago, I seem to remember you saying the timing was perfect.”

“That’s not what I said,” Brady says, his brows knitting together. He relents, cupping the back of your neck and stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All right, I’m sorry. I know I’m pushing, but you know this is a big project for me—for us. Dick and my father are trusting us to make sure this goes smoothly. If we do well, we could get the high-rise project in Las Vegas.”

The idea doesn’t excite you as much as it should. You’re having a hard time having any kind of coherent thought right now, especially here. 

You two are standing in the bare bones of what used to be the Campbell home. It’s about to be converted into the front-facing offices of a new community of houses. The barns and chicken coops on the former farm have already been demolished and levelled. 

You remember the Campbells, Sam and Dean’s grandparents. Samuel and Deanna were good people. When you were young, sometimes you’d help them feed the animals on weekends. Deanna used to bake cookies on Saturday mornings, and she’d have a plate ready for you and her grandkids. You hope they’re happy in North Carolina.

But thinking about them only brings your mind back to last night, and the lie you can’t bring yourself to unravel as Brady shows you the map of the land. He explains the latest problem. 

“Right now, the land isn’t built to support the amount of electricity we’ll need to create an entire community. Looks like you missed that when you were scoping out the property,” Brady says, giving you a pointed look.

You frown. You take out an iPad from your purse and dig through your files.

“Shouldn’t the appraiser have caught that?”

“You’re the one who handles the environmental concerns,” Brady says. “If the appraiser didn’t catch it, you should’ve.”

This is the hard part of workplace relationships. Brady was the one who trained you, and even though he’s no longer your direct overseer, he has the seniority and the responsibility as a team lead.

“I’m sorry,” you say contritely. “I was looking at what the city needs as far as infrastructure. I guess I just assumed the land would have power.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Brady replies dryly. “They make an ass out of you and me.”

You frown at him, with a narrow look. Now you’re getting pissed. 

“You don’t need any help making an ass of yourself lately,” you say.   

Brady eyes you, but chooses to let that go for the moment. 

“It’s a problem because it could take millions of dollars to bring that much power out here. The builder told me that if we utilize the river as an additional power source, it could work, but we’ll need all of it.” 

You grow concerned. Shit. That’s a lot of money.

But that last part sends up a red flag in your mind.

“What do you mean, all of it?” you ask.

“I mean, we’ll need to build a dam,” Brady says.  

You stare back at him incredulously as you realize what he actually means. A dam would divert the flow of the river from the rest of the land—mainly from the Winchester Ranch. 

“You can’t cut the Winchesters off from their main water supply, Brady. That affects the soil and their ability to grow hay for the cattle and horses to graze. It’s already been a brutal summer. That could finish them.”

“The river flows from our land, and we can do what we have to in order to make this multimillion-dollar investment work,” he says. “Look at it this way. By the time they know what hit them, it’ll probably be too late for them to recoup their losses. It’ll push John to agree to our offer. We’ll acquire the property, keep building out the rest of this valley, and he’ll have more than enough money to retire.” 

“He doesn’t want to retire,” you point out. “He wants to pass on the ranch to his sons.”

Brady just shakes his head and focuses on the plans laid out on his own iPad. 

“He can’t compete with reality forever, honey. Farming and ranching don’t make money anymore. Not in this country. About 22% of beef is imported, and that’s only going to increase. 80% of our seafood already comes from Canada, China, and Southeast Asia.”

He may be right, but you really don’t feel good about this.

After meeting with the architect, the board member, and even Edgar, one of Dick’s stooges, Brady suggests going out to lunch. You had a late breakfast, so you tell him to go on ahead. You plan to start drafting the paperwork needed for some other elements of the build, as well as the issue of the electricity. 

Brady gives you a look—one that tells you that he really thinks you should come to lunch. You know he wants to present a united front, but the truth is, you’re in no mood to schmooze and drink and listen to him criticize the food and the atmosphere wherever you two go. You know you had the same gripes and judgments when you first arrived back in Salida, but this is the town you grew up in. Parts of it still live in your heart, you’ve discovered.

Brady isn’t happy about your refusal to join them for lunch, but he drives them off in his Lexus, which he had Edgar deliver to him from California.

You decide to take a walk down to the river to see it for yourself. You don’t remember how it looks on this side of the fence that borders the ranch. It takes you a good 20 minutes to walk down the line of the fence, all the way to the river. As you walk through the taller grass, already you can see how the sun shines on the water just the same over here.

You take another step, but you immediately know it’s wrong.

Searing pain runs up your ankle, and it buckles you as a scream tears from your throat. You fall to the ground, spitting out long blades of grass, and for a precious moment you lay there stunned, just to realize that you’re in far more trouble than you could imagine.

You’re out here alone.

Jack Kline is fucking terrible on a horse, but at least he didn’t lie about it. 

Dean shakes his head, seated on his own mount as he watches Jack utter a stream of nervous, whoas, and slow down, horse, and somebody, help!

Benny rides up beside Dean, while Cas tries to go over and help before Jack falls out of his saddle again. 

“Where the fuck did you find this kid, Dean?” Benny asks.

“Look, I know, but it’s hard to find people willing to work a ranch these days,” Dean says. He rubs a hand over his face. 

The horse bucks Jack off again. Cas dismounts from his own and helps the kid up; he’s holding his shoulder with a pained hiss. 

“You squeezed too hard in the worst places and didn’t squeeze hard enough where it mattered,” Cas says. 

Walt snorts from the sidelines. 

“That’s what she said,” he jokes. No one laughs. They’re too tired and fed up with this dead weight while trying to move over two hundred cows from one pasture to another for grazing. 

“At this rate, we won’t get back to the bunkhouse until midnight if we have to keep peeling this dumb fuck from the dirt,” Walt remarks. “We should just leave him here until he can man up and figure it out.”

“Knock it off,” Dean barks, making sure his voice is heard by all the men. “No one goes back to eat and sleep until the work is done. If that means we work all night, then we fucking work all night.” 

He gets off his horse and yanks Jack up from the ground by his belt. 

“Come on,” he says, in a frustrated whisper. “I’m not watching you eat dust ‘til dawn. Listen. Cas is right, you need to relax a bit. Don’t squeeze his flank so tight. The horse can sense if you don’t trust him, so why the hell should he trust you to lead him?”

Jack takes that in with a nod of understanding. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Right,” Dean nods, patting him on the back. “Now get back up and try again. Slow. Easy.”

He’ll tie the kid’s hands to the saddle if he needs to.

But luckily, Jack takes Dean’s advice to heart. Cas comes in closer to give him more pointers as they all finally push the herd over into Pasture 5, which borders what used to be the Campbell farm.

“All right, Jack. Remember to look out for newborn calves, so we can tag them and get them vaccinated later,” Dean calls out. 

“Sure, but uh…what about, you know, other animals? Like bears?” Jack says. He eyes the trees of the nearby national forest warily.  

“Definitely watch out for wildlife,” Dean says. “Bears and mountain lions you can shoot if they’re trying to kill our cattle, or you. But never kill a fucking wolf, especially the ones with tracking collars on them. Those guys are monitored and protected by the CPW.”

“What’s the CPW?” Jack predictably asks.

“Colorado Parks and Wildlife,” Cas supplies.

Jack nods. “Oh…what happens if you kill a wolf that’s protected?”

“That’s a $100,000 fine, probably even jail time,” Dean says. “You will be responsible for that fine, or your bail. Not the ranch.”

Jack considers that, and the forest, with an uneasy frown. 

“I thought you said you take care of your own,” he says. 

“Not for a $100,000, Jack. We don’t have that kind of money lying around, so you’ll be paying that off for a small eternity,” Dean says. 

A ragged scream interrupts their conversation and cuts through the low mooing of cattle. Dean straightens at attention. His gaze searches the plain, but Cas points out a woman along the river—on the other side of the fence. 

“Help!”

Dean’s eyes widen. He recognizes your voice. 

He spurs his horse into a gallop, almost on a reflex. He stops at the fence, dismounts from his horse, and vaults himself over the barbed wire. He then springs over to you, quickly taking in how you’re sprawled out in the grass. He worries you’ve stepped in a hole and broken something, or worse, been bit by a snake. 

But he realizes that your foot is caught in a bear trap. 

“What the fuck?” Dean utters. “These things are illegal!”

You’re tearful and in pain, but you heave a shaky sigh and shake your head. 

“Jesus Christ. Of course it’s you.”

His brows raise high in disbelief, and he glares at you. “You know what, you’re fucking lucky it’s me.”

Cas and Benny come over quickly to help him. Jack stays behind to hold the horses’ reins.

“Ma’am,” Cas greets you with a nod, and Benny with a tip of his hat. You met them just yesterday.

“Hey, guys,” you say, though your voice is unsteady. Benny braces you while Cas joins Dean in securing your bleeding foot.

“Okay, just relax,” Dean tells you, more soothingly as he feels you trembling. He lays a hand on your calf, meeting your eyes. Biting your lip, you give a jerky nod as you hold onto Benny’s arm.

“Grab that spring. We gotta push down at the same time,” Dean says to Cas, who nods.

The moment they grasp the metal springs on either side of the mechanism, you tense up at the pain, whimpering though you try not to flinch.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s gonna be over in a second,” Dean says. He meets Cas’s eyes and counts off. “1—2—and 3.”

Together they push down on the springs and slowly ease your foot out of the trap. You’re wearing flat dress shoes this time, at least, but it would’ve been smarter to wear boots out here.

You’re bleeding from the puncture wounds, so Dean slips his arms around your back and under your knees so he can pick you up and take you back to his horse. Your eyes meet his in an unspoken tension, but ultimately, you’re resigned to accepting his help for the rest of this too. 

He passes you along to Benny over the fence, until Dean can hop back over it. The men work together to help you onto Dean’s horse, sitting side-saddle in front of him. 

He takes the reins, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shoots you a sly smirk.

“Hold on tight,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but you’re forced to grab onto him when he spurs the horse into a trot, back toward civilization.

The car ride to the hospital is filled with a particular kind of tension. The familiar rumble of the Impala and its worn leather interior make it hard to focus on the road ahead, when you keep getting dragged into sepia-toned memories within your mind.

Survivor’s “Oceans” plays on an old cassette of Dean’s that used to be his father’s, just like this car. You remember when John started to let him drive it when he turned 17. You were 15, and already starting to look at your best friend differently, even before he kissed you for the first time.

“Oceans between us,” Jim Peterik belts through the speakers. “Strangers upon the shore. Like islands we stand alone, oceans between us now…”

You sigh and grab your phone from your pocket to text Brady. He already knows why you’re headed to the hospital, and that a “family friend” is taking you there.

On my way. Meet you there in 10. You sure you’re OK?

You text him back:

Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be fine. Will probably need stitches though. See? You should’ve just come to lunch with us.

Your lips press together in annoyance.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean remarks.

You send him a tired look. “Brady’s meeting us at the hospital. Don’t…say anything crazy to him, okay? I told him you’re a family friend.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Dean,” you warn.

“I don’t have three fucking rounds of steamy hot sex with any of my friends, but I guess things really are different in L.A.,” he says.

“All right, give it a rest,” you say, rubbing your blushing cheek in irritation. “You don’t make anything easy on me, do you?”

“Oh, yeah? Why should I?” Dean gripes.

“Because I’m the one with the busted foot, you ass!”

“Well, who’s fault is that? Oh, right, the asshole who left you out there alone to begin with.”

A growl of frustration leaves your lips as you cover your face, rather than stare at the obnoxious cut of Dean’s jawline.

“It was my choice to go out there alone. My own fault that I stepped in a goddamn trap. My fault for what happened last night, okay?” you snap. “So let’s just drop it and move on.”

Dean eyes you in annoyance. You don’t get to take the blame for what happened last night, because it’s mostly on him, he thinks.

The problem is, he’s not sorry. And though he refuses to admit it, even to himself (or to Sam’s judgy ass), the last thing he wants is to pretend it never happened.

Dean helps you from the car into the Emergency Department, where you’re forced to wait for a room. Brady arrives as you’re filling out the paperwork and insurance information. He’s come from the business lunch, wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks, along with a matching black Rolex.

“Hey, baby,” he greets, giving you a brief kiss.

You can’t help but glance at Dean from the corner of your eye; he wears a stoic expression, even when Brady briefly seizes him up, then holds out a hand to him.

“Hi, I’m Brady. Thanks for giving her a ride,” he says.

Dean forces himself to shake the other man’s hand, but doesn’t try all that hard to be pleasant.

“Just so you know, bear traps are fucking illegal in this state,” he says. “And more often than not, people get stupid and forget they’re there.”

Brady’s politeness fades. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. He’s being rude as hell, but he is right, Brady. You could’ve at least told me,” you interject, although you give Dean a warning look.

In this narrow instance, however, you have to agree with him when you look at your foot. It’s heavily wrapped with Dean’s gray flannel, half of it stained crimson with your blood.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Brady says, squeezing your shoulder, but he stares back up at Dean with new tension in his frame. “We’ll look into the legalities of the traps, but I just take issue with some wise-ass trying to tell me how to run my property.”

Dean has to chuckle at the irony. He rubs a hand over his chin as he considered this guy, your fiancé. He’s everything Dean’s father hates about corporate investors, bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Dean understands why.

“But it’s not your property, now is it?” he says. “The guys tugging the other end of your leash are the ones actually calling the shots, and they just want to take and remake everything until it all looks the same. But you’re not satisfied with my grandfather’s land. No, now you’re trying to take my family’s land.”

“Dean,” you say quietly. 

He pauses, glancing at you. He finds your tired, imploring gaze. However reluctantly, he relents.

Brady takes notice, and his angry frown firms into a colder wall.

“I appreciate what you did for her today, but I think it’s time for you to leave,” he says.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He offers you a nod, and you return it, watching him hesitate the slightest bit before he leaves the Emergency Room. Brady watches him go too, if with a more critical eye. He sits beside you.

“So that’s Dean Winchester. He’s the older one doing John’s grunt work?” he muses.

“He manages the ranch. It’s not an easy job,” you correct.

He eyes you shrewdly. “And what’s your history with him? You said the Winchesters are just family friends.”

“We grew up together, Sam, Dean, and me. But yeah, later on, Dean and I dated in high school,” you admit. “We broke up before I left for college, moved to Cali. My parents got divorced a little before then, so it was, um…more or less a clean break.”

A hefty pinprick of guilt stabs you in that sore place behind the ribs, while Brady processes it all with a nod and a thoughtful hum. You see him running calculations behind his eyes, storing the information as he stares ahead, rather than at you.

“Surprising then that Sam Winchester is their lawyer,” Brady remarks, somewhat amused at the idea. “I know these hicks like to keep it all in the family, but come on. The guy can’t be more than twenty-five…”

“Twenty-eight,” you supply. “Don’t underestimate Sam. He’s smart. Got a perfect score on his LSAT.”

Brady raises his brows. “Well, taking the test isn’t the same as the real deal, making negotiations, reading the opposition, and fighting in the courtroom.” 

You hesitate. “True.”

Brady has a few more years of fighting under his belt at 36.

The door beside the reception desk opens, and a nurse finally calls you in to be seen by the doctor.

You undergo a brief procedure to clean and suture the puncture wounds. No bones were broken, but you’re going to be on crutches for a few weeks until your foot heals. 

On the way back to the hotel, you notice Brady texting while he drives.

“Babe,” you say, slipping your hand over his wrist to earn his attention. He puts the phone down and holds your hand, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. You smile, but it soon fades. 

“I want to talk…about the river,” you say with a sigh.

The affection in Brady’s eyes dims. “What’s there to talk about? The plan is already underway. I made a few calls while you were in there with the doctor.”

You frown, slipping your hand out of his. “That was fast. So that’s why you didn’t stay with me while I was literally getting poked and prodded.”

He sighs and refocuses on the road, ignoring his own guilt. The fact that he doesn’t have a defense, or doesn’t bother to offer one, makes your heart sink into sadness. 

“You know, I’m not sure if I know who you are out here,” you say. 

This is exactly how you felt the day that he told you he wasn’t going with you to your father’s funeral. That has to be why you allowed yourself to find comfort in Dean.

Perhaps he had a point when he scoffed at whirlwind romances. It definitely feels like the rosy phase of champagne and wooing is over, and you’re starting to see where you really rank on Brady’s list of priorities.

But he did promise you the world when he proposed. He promised to take care of you, to love you, to make sure you were never alone again. After losing your mom, that was all you wanted.

There had been dinners, gifts, weekends at resorts in Venice Beach, parties in Beverly Hills, getaways to Napa Valley wine country…

You suppose you do fit the cliché of the country girl who gets shown the high life, but you’re starting to reconsider exactly what it will mean to become part of his world.

Was Sam right? Was Dean? 

Have you really changed that much?

“Look, you don’t get it, okay?” Brady says, bringing you back down to this earth, and this reality. “My dad is putting a shit-ton of pressure on me.”

“I know that—”

“If I don’t prove I can handle this build, this company, without his help, it could be the difference between me or my junkie sister getting control of our trust. That’s upwards of $5 billion. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand how much money that is. I’ve already signed the prenup, remember?” you say, a bit testily. 

What you don’t understand is his snideness toward his sister. She’s been addicted to Adderall and cocaine, that’s true, but she’s in recovery, actually making good strides in her sobriety last time you talked to her.

The conversation dies there though. An uncomfortable tension lasts until he pulls into the hotel parking lot. To his credit, he gets out of the car and goes to you as you open the passenger side door. He wraps his arms around your waist and helps you stand. You find balance on his shoulders on reflex.

“I don’t like this,” he says, with a measured frown.

Your eyes begin to sting, but you breathe through it. “Me either.”

He leans in slower than usual to kiss you. You allow it, closing your eyes, even though you feel cold inside. 

A reedy vine crawls up into your throat when you think of Dean’s heated breaths mingling with yours, his hands on your body, relearning you, reminding you that he had carved a place so deep inside, you didn’t know how to let it go.

I have to, is your firmer thought, after Brady begins to guide you on your crutches toward the hotel lobby. No relationship is perfect, and this man does love you. You’ll have to find a way to tell him the truth about what you did, and hope he can forgive you.

The thought follows you as you hobble back to the room. The effort takes up what energy you have left, but you know you need a shower. Brady helps you gather what you need, until you eventually find some solitude in the bathroom. You stare at your own disheveled reflection as the questions rolling just under your skin threaten to overwhelm you.

You take in a deeper breath to steady yourself, and your fingers close over your silver pendant. There’s one other thing you know you have to do.

After setting your crutches aside, you lean on the bathroom counter and reach for your phone to text Sam.

Hey. By now you’ve probably heard about me and—

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head as you erase the message. Pause. Start again.  

Hey, there’s something you need to know…  They’re going to build a dam on the river.

AN: rubs hands Okay, you got some cowboy action, some jealousy, some John Winchester being an awesome parent, as usual (🙄), and a looot of paving over the truth (for now). What do you think about the messy love triange reader's found herself in? How long do you think she can play both sides? 😬

Next Time:

It looks like, yet again, the way you left made its mark on Dean. Sam wonders if it’s worse this time. 

“Do you know how she’s doing? You know, healing up?” Sam asks. Getting caught in a bear trap is gnarly, but it was almost strange to hear. Most people who live here have better sense than to put those out. That’s tourists for you.

In answer to the question, Dean just shrugs and takes an even larger bite of his sandwich. Half a pickle falls out of the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Sam says. He tries again, taking the corner seat beside Dean. “How are you handling all this? Her being back, you know. I mean, the engagement was a bit of a shock, and the, uh, working for the company that wants our ranch. That’s complicated. But considering you two slept together last month—”

Finally, Dean snaps and drops his food on the plate. He glares at Sam.

“All right, you got a point, or you just giving me the unnecessary play-by-play?”

“She’s getting married, Dean. What did you think was going to happen?” Sam says, a bit gentler. “Did you think she was going to just…what, tear it all up? The whole life she’s built for herself?”

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[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

*buckles in*

It's going to be a wild ride, I know it

Thank you for sharing!

Looking forward to what's next!

[surrendertodreams]

Thinking of You (26/27)

Also on AO3 | Navigation and Masterlists

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader Summary: You've always loved Dean, but Sam might need you more. Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Content: no Y/N, alternating POVs, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, you and Dean talk, finally, 1383/25943 words

Fic Masterlist | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Chapter 26 - Hopeful Tomorrows - You

The sun is sinking below the horizon by the time Dean pulls back into the motel parking lot. You stand from the motel stairs, pulling his jacket tighter around you. His face is shaded, but you can sense the moment his eyes land on you with the power of a hundred suns. It’s as warm as midday even as the world fades to night.

There is no rush as he edges out of the Impala. He stands with the door as a shield, one arm set along the window and his eyes steady on you. You meet him halfway, neither of you speaking until you settle onto the hood.

“You scared me,” you say, eyes forward instead of on him. The door shuts, and his footsteps come around the Impala until you can finally see him in your peripheral. The car dips as he settles in beside you.

“I’m pretty good at that, aren’t I?”

“I’ll say.”

You fall back into silence. The moment is so safe in its familiarity that you don’t want to disturb it by popping the delicate bubble holding things together. For a moment, you just allow yourself to be together with him, as you always have been. Frankly, you don’t know how to broach the subject that lingers between you. You’ve been stationary with him for so long, you’ve forgotten what it means to move forward.

It surprises you when Dean speaks first.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just next time, maybe answer your phone—”

“Not that. I mean—Well, I’m sorry about that, too, I guess.” He sighs. His shoulders brace, and his fingers scratch at his neck. His nails dig in so deep that clawing would be a better word.

You reach to relieve the assault on his skin, drawing his hand down. When you move to pull yours back into your lap, his fingers latch around yours. Your breathing stutters. Dean doesn’t look at you as he speaks. His eyes are steady on your hand in his.

“I’ve been a real asshole. I hurt you. I’ve been hurting you for a long time. But I thought it was worth it—Well, not worth it. I thought I was doing you a favor. A little hurt to keep you from the real thing.”

“What exactly did you think you were keeping me from?”

He grins sheepishly. Pain, embarrassment, and regret swirl together in his eyes.

“I’m not the kind of man you want to settle down with—”

“You are,” you interrupt. Your voice is sharp, resolute. The finality of your tone halts Dean in his tracks. His eyes finally jerk to meet your gaze, eyelids widening around his green irises. His lips part in shock.

“Dean, I know exactly what kind of man you are.” You chance a caress of your hand against his face. He leans into your touch, and your heart soars at finally being able to reach out and be received.

“You’re all I want, Dean. All I’ll ever want.”

“Even though I’m no good for you?”

“You are good for me.”

Dean opens his mouth like he means to deny you before his lips pinch shut. “Yeah, we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.”

“I can live with that.”

“Promise?” he says with a goofy grin, although there’s a certain softness in his tone that hints at a hidden depth to the question that you’re unable to decipher.

“I could manage anything as long as it means I get to have you.”

“Okay,” he says, finally giving in after all these years. As if realizing it himself, he laughs. His forehead dips to rest on your shoulder, hiding his smiling face from you as he repeats, “Okay.”

He keeps laughing intermittently into your shoulder, and you almost think he’s lost it.

“Dean?” 

“Come here,” he says. His free hand grips your waist, pulling impatiently and giving you little choice other than to allow him to guide your body in front of him, not that you’d fight him anyway. You slip between his knees, which he spreads to make room for you. Your own collide with the Impala’s grill, making you lose your balance until you catch yourself on his chest.

When he has you where he wants you, pressed close together and with his hands on your hips, you expect him to make the move. He only stares up at you with fond eyes and a smile that tries to act modest.

“You really want this?” he asks, subdued smile breaking into a full on grin, cocky with certainty of the answer.

You laugh, sliding your hands up his chest to cup his neck. You take the final leap from the precipice, diving headfirst into him. He’s still smiling when his lips meet yours.

The scattered pieces of your life at last come together into one beautiful puzzle. All the wrongness of the world slips away. For so long you have been balancing on the trapeze, but the freefall is so much sweeter than you imagined with Dean here to catch you.

You drink in his touch, his fingers slipping under the hem of his own jacket on you to get a taste of your skin, his lips gliding along yours. Your fingers thread through the coveted hair at the nape of his neck. It’s an oasis in the desert. You’ll never be able to get enough. Even as your lungs burn for a full breath, you know you’d lap up his affections forever until the water ran dry.

It has to be him who pulls away. Otherwise, it would never end. He spares you a breathless death to trail his lips along your jaw and neck, exploring all the places he’s never had the chance to before. His soft caresses on your sensitive skin don’t help your panting or the hazy sensation in your brain. You pull him closer, press yourself closer, and it still will never be close enough.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises beneath your ear, “Never leave you wanting again. I’ll make myself good enough to deserve this.”

You can only hum, letting your eyes flutter closed so you can focus on the feel of him. He keeps speaking, but you can hardly pay attention to his words with his lips trailing along your collar. You get the sense he’s asking you a question, but the fog in your head is too thick for him to break through.

“Dean. Dean, baby—”

“Baby,” he repeats with a smile in his voice.

“—I can’t think.” Your hands find his shoulders, pushing weakly. It doesn’t work.

“That’s alright. Thinking’s overrated. Whole lotta good it’s ever done me so far,” he says, finding his way back to your lips. 

You sigh into his mouth, melting into his arms again. Time escapes in your second kiss. When your eyes finally drift open, his features are coated in moonlight. You breathe into each other, foreheads drifting together like magnets. Your fingertips run eagerly along his arms to map him out. He’s cool to the touch where his bare skin is exposed to the night. You’d forgotten completely that he’d been working on the car before he left. All his usual layers got in the way when doing tune-ups. You should’ve realized sooner considering that’s the only reason you were able to steal the opportunity to claim his jacket for your own.

“Let’s head inside. You must be cold.”

“Can we stay out here for a bit?”

“As long as you want.” Giving in to him isn’t so scary anymore.

He grins wide and wicked, streetlights and starlight glittering off his eyes. He leans his head back to get a good look at you as his arms slip fully beneath the stolen jacket to wrap around your body. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You laugh wholeheartedly, tipping your head back. It’s not even that funny, but you’ve never felt so light, so free. He could say anything, and you’d flare up with joy.

“I never want you to stop smiling like that.”

“Don’t give me a reason to.”

Dean grabs your chin, tilting your head so he can rest his eyes on yours.

“I can’t promise you I won’t, but I promise I’ll try.”

“I can live with that.”

Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s, @alwaysreenie Supernatural Taglist: @mrrayjay, @timebomb1101, @saaucie, @swightops, @luckygem606grass, @ameliaaa0809, @whatstruthgottodowithit, @directioner792, @magic-sprinkled-daydreams Dean Winchester Taglist: @itzpixiebabe, @whyyouegg, @megthedreamer21, @nesma200, @g-a-l-a-x-y-child Fic Taglist: @chxrrybomb22, @momoloverr

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[haydensweetangel]

── . ✦ dean winchester with a crush | headcanons !

⟡ dean winchester x fem!reader ! ⟡ a/n — love me some dean headcanons 🫣🫣 i swear i cannot for the life of me write short headcanons </3 really gotta work on that ugh

✦ dean winchester, who’d definitely act all nervous and awkward around you once he realised he had a crush. it takes him some time to finally acknowledge and accept his feelings for you. he tries really hard to pretend those don’t exist. because- feelings? pfft. dean winchester doesn’t catch feelings, right? especially not for a fellow hunter, who happens to be his best friend. he hides it well for a while… until he gets to a breaking point where he can’t keep lying to himself, and he hates himself for it, by the way. he feels like a dumb teenager all over again, with a stupid crush. one look from you and he’s already melting on the inside.

✦ at first, he’s subtle about it. or at least tries to, and fails most of the time… but, either way, he tries to act all normal and casual, like your presence doesn’t affect him at all. when in reality? his heart beats loud and nonstop against his chest whenever you’re around.

✦ to his own surprise, he doesn’t actively try to impress you. no, you’re not some girl he met in a bar and wants to get laid. you’re… well, you. so he doesn’t want to screw it up, in any way. at least that’s what he keeps telling himself, mostly for reassurance. he’s not all confident and cocky either. he can be rather shy around you sometimes, unsure of what to do or what to say.

✦ he gets slightly more protective of you (not that he already wasn’t, this is just a little different) especially during hunts. always stepping up in front of you, shielding you from whatever danger might come your way. “you okay?” he asks every now and then, in a more gentle tone than his usual rough one, which surprises sam every time. he didn’t know his brother could talk so gently.

✦ then he starts doing the little things. such as memorising your favourite order whenever you go to diners mid hunts, memorising how you like your coffee, checking up on you more often, or simply letting you pick which cassette to put on during drives, which even catches him off guard. driver picks the music, always. that’s non-negotiable… unless it’s you, apparently. again, sam is shocked, dean never lets anyone pick the music. that’s his rule.

✦ speaking of sam, he was the first to figure out dean’s little crush on you. of course he was. and it didn’t take him long. he’s quite observant and he knows his brother well… plus, it’s not like dean is doing a great job at hiding it anymore. he just keeps denying it.

✦ despite everything, dean does have his own fears and doubts. he doesn’t believe someone like him is deserving of love, settling down, being truly happy… the whole dance. especially not with someone like you. he often catches himself wondering if he’s enough, if he deserves you or if it’s just his imagination. why would you want to be with someone like him, of all people? should he back off before he fucks things up? because, eventually? he knows he will, somehow. those are the thoughts that keep him awake at night. more often than he likes to admit, even to himself.

✦ he’d probably take forever to actually make a move, constantly convincing himself that there’s no point in risking what you already have. because he appreciates your friendship a lot, truly. even if he won’t say it often. he can kill a monster without blinking, but apparently telling you he likes you is where he draws the line.

[surrendertodreams]

Thinking of You (25/27)

Also on AO3 | Navigation and Masterlists

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader Summary: You've always loved Dean, but Sam might need you more. Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Content: no Y/N, alternating POVs, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, Sam confronts Dean, and gives him a rude(ish) awakening, 1075/25943 words A/N: I thought I'd be done with my next fic by now on account of how many chapters there were for this one. Convinced myself I'd made a nice little cushion and here we are in the last week of uploads and I have yet to write the last chapter for Teach Me Love. Ain't it just the way.

Fic Masterlist | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Chapter 25 - Hard Truths - Dean

“See, it usually doesn’t surprise me when you act like an idiot, but you’re on a whole new level of stupid.”

Dean slides himself out from under the Impala to get a good look at his brother. The morning sky is blindingly bright around Sam’s silhouette. “What the fuck, man. Who pissed in your cereal?”

Sam shakes his head, turning his face to the side like he’s speaking to the world instead of Dean. “What kind of guy sets his brother up with the girl he loves? How does that make any sense to you?”

Dean’s blood goes cold. Clearly he was wrong to assume he’d gotten off scot-free. 

Feeling vulnerable on the ground, he stands, pressing his back against the Impala and crossing his arms over his chest. He does nothing but stare for a moment, at Sam’s disappointed look, at his own dirty hands, at the asphalt under his feet. His eyes can’t seem to stay in one place. Finally, he shrugs. “You guys are good for each other.”

“As friends!” Sam says, louder than he was expecting. Dean holds back a flinch. “We’re good as friends.”

“You love her.”

Sam laughs, rolling his eyes. “No. No, I really don’t. Not like that. Not like you love her.”

Sam’s denial sticks like gum to the walls of Dean’s skull, but he tries to shake away the confusion it stirs in his mind.

“Whether or not I love her doesn’t matter, man.”

“Oh, don’t try that. It’s not a matter of whether or not. You do love her, Dean. And she loves you.”

It’s strange to hear it spoken aloud. Even coming from Sam’s lips instead of yours, the knowledge that his assumptions about your feelings were right sends a wave of relief through his body. He hadn’t just been making it all up.

“I . . . I know that, but she doesn’t—She may think she wants me, but that doesn’t mean she deserves a screw-up like me. She’ll realize that one day, and she’ll look for someone better. Doesn’t have to be you.”

“Dude, she’s known you for over a decade. This isn’t just some crush for her to get over. She loves you, and that doesn’t just go away with time. I’m still—” Sam’s voice catches. “I still love Jess. I’ll never stop missing her. Thinking about her.” His eyes shine with tears.

“Sam, I’m sorry about Jess, but this isn’t the same.”

Sam holds out his hand, palm out in a “stop” gesture. Dean shuts his mouth. 

“This stupid martyr act is only making yourself miserable, and it’s not just you, man. You’re hurting her, too. So, how about instead of wallowing about not being good enough, you suck it up and start trying to make yourself good enough?”

“It’s not that simple.” Dean couldn’t change the way he was. The anger, the fear, the hate, they were buried deep within him, too far down to claw out. He couldn’t drag you into that. If he shared that side of him, he’d scare you away for good, like he scared everyone away eventually.

Sam takes a step closer, and Dean straightens his posture.

“It is that simple. But, you’d rather punish yourself than accept that you deserve something good, too.”

Sam starts to walk away, and Dean’s dejection shifts to anger.

“You don’t know shit.”

Sam spins around, sharp as a dagger. The veins in his throat pop to the forefront as he speaks. “I had something good, Dean, and I lost it. One day it might be her who pulls the short straw, and you’ll be the one left with what-ifs. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

Dean bites his lip, letting Sam storm off as each close call of yours resurfaces in his memory. The still-fresh image of you limp in your binds to that damn apple tree is like acid. His fists clench, and panic soars in his chest. When his lungs can’t seem to get enough air, he shifts his attention to finishing up the Impala’s oil change. His movements are harsher and more rushed than they need to be, and when he’s done he practically tosses his gear into the trunk before he’s burning rubber onto the nearest highway.

He doesn’t want to think. He wants to lose himself in the feel of the car as it glides along the road. Still, the images of you near death keep bubbling up, too many for his liking. Blood. Bruises. Most of them his fault. His foot pushes harder on the gas pedal, like he could race the memories and leave them in the dust.

He’s only ever almost lost you, and it destroyed him every time. You always pulled through, and the relief would seal over the cracks that had formed. But Sam might be right. One day, your luck might run out, and how was Dean supposed to cope with that?

Letting himself love you wouldn’t change that, though, so it was a stupid argument on Sam’s part anyway. All it did was stir up a fear that was always going to be there. You’d still be in the life, and it was a dangerous gig.

His only hope was if you fell for some civilian down the line, so he had to stay away. No matter what Sam thought he was getting at. You’d retire from hunting, then, wouldn’t you? You’d have to.

Unless, it was Dean that was keeping you in place, drawing you into more and more danger like the black hole that he was. Would you stick around as long as he did? Fight by his side until it gets you killed? If you loved him as much as Sam said, maybe you’d keep hunting as long as Dean did, and would he ever stop?

He would, he decides. If it was for you, he’d give it all up. He was tired of this life anyway, the way it took and took but never gave back, no matter how much of himself he put into it. He was more shell than man, an automaton running on fumes. Once they found his dad, he could turn in his weapons and settle down somewhere if it meant he could have you, safe and with him. If that’s what you wanted.

It was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

You wanted him. 

All of him. 

All of the scars. All of the sharp edges.

Didn’t you?

Next Chapter

Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s, @alwaysreenie Supernatural Taglist: @mrrayjay, @timebomb1101, @saaucie, @swightops, @luckygem606grass, @ameliaaa0809, @whatstruthgottodowithit, @directioner792, @magic-sprinkled-daydreams Dean Winchester Taglist: @itzpixiebabe, @whyyouegg, @megthedreamer21, @nesma200, @g-a-l-a-x-y-child Fic Taglist: @chxrrybomb22, @momoloverr

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[very-merry-birthday]

Salted Maple Pie

Try all the flavors: Blueberry • Pecan • Cherry • Pumpkin • Rhubarb • Salted Maple • Strawberry • Lemon Meringue • Peach • Cranberry • Apple

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

Summary: Exhausted and broken, Dean's not doing great- the perfect time to get him to spill his secrets.

Warning: smut, unprotected sex

A/N: he's been happy for too damn long (one chapter)

For The Filling 1 stick unsalted butter 1 cup dark robust maple syrup ¾ cup packed light brown sugar ½ teaspoon kosher salt 4 large eggs, at room temperature ¾ cup heavy cream 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

You wish you could dream of Dean. You never do. Some part of your brain won't let you- it's only ever fragments when you're waking, that liminal space that lets him envelop your mind, just for a moment.

You picture his hands, this time, fingers wrapped around something metal. They're covered in scars, rough callouses, oil stains under his nails. His fingerprints are worn down- you think about that often, how much he must use them for his whole identity to almost be scrubbed. Your mind fixates on the image for as long as you'll let it, before it starts to become clearer, sharpening as you focus. It takes you a second to really see it, to hold onto the idea long enough to make sense of what you're picturing. You realize he's holding a gun.

You wake with a jolt, your phone ringing on your bedside table. You wipe your hand over your face, pulling yourself into sitting. You can't have been asleep long, it's still nighttime, the room almost pitch black.

You reach for your phone, only hazily reading his name before you pick up, "Dean?" You croak out, your voice still catching up to your body.

"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.

"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"

He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"

You state the obvious, "You're already driving."

So does he, "I'm already driving."

"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"

"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."

You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"

"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.

Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.

You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.

The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.

You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.

You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.

Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"

He laughs, "Downstairs"

"I'll buzz you up."

You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.

You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"

He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.

After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.

You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.

"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.

He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."

You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.

Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.

You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"

He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."

Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.

He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.

He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.

Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.

Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"

He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."

These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.

You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."

"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"

You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.

It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?

Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.

You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.

You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."

He swallows hard, "I know."

"You need to stop."

"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.

"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.

He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."

"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.

"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."

You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"

"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."

"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."

He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."

You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"

"She's not that old-"

"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.

He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"

You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"

"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"

"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.

He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."

You laugh back, "That sounds good-"

He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"

You smile, "Who said you've got me?"

He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"

You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."

He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.

He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.

He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.

You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.

He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.

He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.

He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.

He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.

Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.

You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.

"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.

You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"

You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"

He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.

"Come fuck me-"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.

He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.

It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.

But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.

"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"

You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.

He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.

You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.

Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"

He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"

You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-" 

He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.

But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"

You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.

He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"

He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"

He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.

"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.

"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.

"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.

You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."

"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.

You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.

"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.

He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.

He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.

"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.

"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"

He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.

He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"

Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.

He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.

You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.

He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.

You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.

"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"

He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.

You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.

You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.

He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.

You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.

"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

PLEASE GIVE THEM AN HAPPY ENDING 😭❤️❤️❤️

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 12: fool's gold

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Eleven✦

✦summary: you and dean have a day out✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦

✦author's note: sam and jess about to get to the bottom of this shit✦

The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up. 

He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.

“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“

“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”

“I want to stay in bed-“

“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”

You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”

Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you. 

But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.

You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.

“I wanna drive.”

His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-

Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.

You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well.

Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go.

You like Jess a lot. She’s sweet, and seems to have Sam wrapped around her finger. It’s adorable, watching him look at her like a puppy dog.

It would be nice, for Dean to look at you like that.

What would be really nice would be your brain shutting up for five fucking seconds.

Jess insists on showing you her favorite shops in the area—apparently she and Sam come up here a lot—and you find yourself giggling like a schoolgirl and kicking your feet as the two of you comb through a boutique that you’d never even look at yourself.

“Jesus fucking- Is this made of gold-“

“Yeah.” Jess holds up the skirt. “It’s lined into the lace.”

You gape. She turns a little pink.

“Sam makes a lot of money.”

“I assumed.” You put the dress carefully back on the rack. Fun to play dollhouse and money, but you wouldn’t be able to eat for three months.

“Oh, just try it on.” Jess pulls it back off, shoving it into your hands. “You can do that part for free.”

“But- It’s so expensive-“

Jess places a gentle hand on your arm, and you cut yourself off.

“Try it on.” She says, and you find yourself nodding.

You can try it on.

And it feels foreign on your skin, but not in a way that hurts. Foreign like seeing a real beach, when you’ve been trapped in a bleak city. Sparkling water and warm sand when you’re used to gray. You like the way it looks, the way it feels. It flows off your body like a wave. Your features look better, like the wealth is being lent through your whole body.

Jess smiles at you, when you walk out of the dressing room. 

“Do you have something to wear for the wedding?”

“Yeah, I brought a dress from home-“

“Do you like it?”

“Um-“ You glance at yourself in the mirror. You look like a fairy. “It’s fine.”

Jess hums, moving to her feet with a strange gleam in her eyes. “Okay. Wear this instead.”

“I- What?” You stumble back. Your arms unhelpfully decide to wrap around you.

The fabric is smooth and airy. It feels so nice, but-

“Jess, I can’t afford it-“

“I can.” She shrugs, but you shake your head.

“No, you’re already letting me- Invade your whole weekend-“

“You’re not invading.” She waves you off. “Dean would be miserable without you here.”

You scoff, but a tiny, bright little part of your heart can’t help but pulse.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Christmas last year? I almost punched him.”

You frown, ready to ask what that mean, but it’s too late. Jess moves on. You buy the dress, and when you and Jess come back out, she shoves the bag into Dean’s hands.

“Carry.” She orders. “Don’t look.”

Dean glances at the bag, then you. “Don’t- Uh-“

“Don’t look.”

“Why-“

“Girl reasons.”

“Girl- Sammy, you wanna help me out-“

“No.” Sam shuffles behind Jess, and Dean sighs. He gives you a hopeful, pleading expression.

It’s adorable. You almost cave.

“Traitor.” Dean hisses in your ear.

You giggle, and his shoulder sag.

“Can I see it eventually?”

“Yeah. Eventually.”

He perks up. You try—and fail—not to think about how at one word, he easily let it go.

“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks later, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.

You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”

“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you?”

Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots. 

“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”

He looks to Dean for confirmation.

Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder. 

“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”

“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.” 

Jess frowns. “That much.”

“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“

“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.

“Okay. I like those.”

His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch. 

Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”

“Like, three months?”

“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”

You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers. 

It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.

You could just lie. 

The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie. 

He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter- 

Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.

“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”

Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.

“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“

“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender. 

“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“

“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.

“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”

Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.

“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”

Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head. 

“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”

You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”

“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”

Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away. 

You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears. 

The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-

“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”

The lump grows. “Oh.” 

Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head,an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-

“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”

“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“

“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“

“You never told me it was a secret.”

“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“

“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say. 

Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors. 

Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”

“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?”

He raises his brows. You try to make your voice more firm. 

“Yes. I do.” 

“Hm.”

You frown. “Hm?”

Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”

“You- You don’t-“

“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open. 

“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“

“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”

You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.

“Good girl.” 

The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate. 

But you’re sure that it was real. 

And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here. 

Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane. 

You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it. 

She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week. 

But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him. 

He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. 

He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening. 

“He talks about you.”

You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”

“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”

“We… Live together.”

“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”

You frown. “That’s the same thing-“

“No. Not for Dean.”

“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“

“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”

“Sam-“

“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something.” Sam sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “I didn’t even know they were dating until he tried to bring her for Easter, and well- Mom never liked her all that much. But Dean never bothered to sell her, either. Just shrugged and fucked off, when Mom said no.” There’s that strange look again. “He’s sold you to Mom.”

You scoff, but it comes out more like a whimper. “That’s- Maybe he’s just a private person-“

Sam snorts, and you shut your mouth. He’s not. The first week you lived together, he told you about the time he ate shit at the zoo. It had been a story about how he tripped because a peacock startled him. He’d spent twenty minutes laughing because you thought he meant literal shit. Once he’d been able to talk, he’d immediately told you about how he actually did eat bird shit on a camping trip once.

The man doesn’t know embarrassment. Except about his time in the marine. And his family. And his nightmares, and fear of plane, and-

And things he cares about.

But you’re not high enough on the list. You don’t get past the bouncer, you’re waiting in line at a club you know you’re never going to get into. Dean talks about you, that’s nothing.

He talked you up to Mary.

You stare at the ice in your drink, unable to speak. Sam clears his throat, voice like he’s coddling a child.

“Benny called me, when he visited last month. Told me Dean-“ Sam cuts himself off with a frustrated groan. “I- I can’t tell you.”

“Sam-“

“No, that’s- I’m not meddling. Jess told me I’m not allowed.”

You frown at him, and he sighs heavily.

“How about this. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”

You nod weakly, and Sam smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.

“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”

“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”

Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.

“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”

✦Chapter Thirteen✦

✦End note: she's stronger than me i'd fold so fast✦

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[doomedbylore]

May be a hot take but the innocent, overly couqette, large age gap, quiet reader is getting too repetitive. Give me grown woman, experienced, talks back, confident, pays her bills reader!

[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

AMEN

[teamackles96]

Headcanon: Just Know I'm a Girl Dad

❧ Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

❧ Scenario: Requested from AO3: I if possible would like to request a chapter where we see how they would act as a girl dad please.

❧ Pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

You could remember Russell panicking when he found out you were having a girl.

A girl?! He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. But Russell had been taught from a very young age to adapt to whatever life threw at him.

So he adapted. He became a girl dad.

And somewhere along the way, his little girl became his entire world. He'd do anything to make her happy. Big or small.

You decided to spend the weekend camping, which meant a road trip in Russell's Malibu.

Your daughter sat happily in the back in her car seat, the warm sun shining down on her as she begged her dad to put the roof down.

She loved it. She loved the wind rushing through her hair, giggling as she watched the scenery fly past. That was...

Until her hair came loose.

A strand whipped across her face, then another, until half her hair was flying into her eyes and obscuring her view. Her giggles quickly turned into frustrated whines. Russell noticed her in the rear-view mirror before you did.

He glanced at you. You turned around to see your daughter looking thoroughly unimpressed with the situation.

You reached for your bag, "I've got a hair tie somewhere." Russell pulled the Malibu into a nearby lay-by. "I can't find one," you mumbled, rummaging through your bag.

"Glovebox."

You leaned forward and opened it. Inside were the usual things you'd expect from Russell's car—clothes, cables and wheel nuts.

Then you spotted two small pouches. One pink. One purple. You pulled both out, turning towards Russell with a confused expression. "What are these?" You opened the pink one. Inside were hair ties, lip balm, a little yellow bucket hat, wet wipes and several glittery hair clips. You stared at it.

Then slowly looked at Russell. "What's this?" You held up a hair tie.

"It's my emergency kit."

"Your what?"

"Everything she might need." Russell took the hair tie from you before turning around and leaning over his seat. "Come here, kiddo." Your daughter happily leaned forward as he carefully gathered her hair, tying it back into a little ponytail. He then grabbed the bucket hat and placed it on her head, adjusting it until it sat properly. He even fastened the little chin strap.

Your daughter beamed. "Thank you, Daddy."

"You're welcome, princess." Russell turned back around and settled into the driver's seat. You were still staring at him. He simply shrugged. "Gotta be prepared."

You looked back at the glovebox. "How?"

"Some guy online said you should always have hair ties." You couldn't help smiling. He nodded towards the purple pouch in your lap. "That's yours."

You opened it. Inside were snacks, tampons, a pair of sunglasses, a few painkillers and a small hand fan. You blinked. Then smiled. You'd forgotten your sunglasses. You pulled out the energy bar and sunglasses, shaking your head as you looked at him.

"You have emergency kits for both of us?"

He shrugged again. "You're always forgetting shit."

You laughed under your breath, putting the pouches back in the glovebox. You deliberately refused to look in his direction. You could already imagine the smug expression on his face. "Just drive, Shaw."

Dean Winchester

Dean was late.

Again.

You'd made him promise he'd be back in time for this. It was a big deal to your little you, and you'd promised her that Daddy would be there.

You sat in the third row of the auditorium, staring at the empty seat beside you. You could feel the other mother's eyes on you. You couldn't tell whether they were looking at you with pity or quietly mocking you. You kept your eyes on the stage.

A group of adorable five-year-olds were doing their best to remember the steps to their ballet routine. Every now and again, one of them would stop mid-dance and wave excitedly when they spotted their parents in the audience.

Your heart sank. You couldn't help imagining the look on your daughter's face when she looked into the crowd and saw you... But not Dean.

Her dance was next.

You reached for your phone again, checking the screen even though you already knew there wouldn't be anything new.

Then you heard footsteps. Quiet apologies. Someone squeezing past knees and whispering excuses.

You looked up just as Dean dropped into the empty seat beside you, breathing heavily. He made it.

"Cutting it close, Winchester," you whispered, keeping your eyes on the stage as the children shuffled off.

"I'm sorry." He caught his breath. "The job ran longer than expected." He chose his words carefully, ears everywhere. You glanced at him. "And I stopped to get her these." He lifted a small bouquet of red roses from his lap.

You stared at him. "You got those for her?"

Dean nodded. "It's her big day." His eyes softened as he looked towards the stage. "I'm proud of her."

Your heart melted. Of course it did. You'd fallen in love with Dean Winchester a long time ago. But watching him become a father had somehow made you fall all over again.

Dean carefully pulled one of the roses from the bouquet and held it out to you. "Forgive me, sweetheart?"

You accepted it, trying desperately not to smile. "You're lucky you're charming, Winchester."

Dean grinned. "I know."

He settled back into his seat, draping an arm along the back of your chair. Then the music started. Your daughter's class walked onto the stage. You immediately spotted her.

She stood nervously amongst the other little girls, looking out into the audience. Her eyes searched the rows. Then she found you. Her face lit up, growing when she spotted Dean right next to you.

"Go on, sweetheart!" He whispered, a huge grin spreading across his face as he waved at her. She waved back instantly before starting her dance.

Beau Arlen

You were excited to see Beau's Jeep in the driveway.

These days, it was rare for the two of you to have any real alone time. Between work, parenting and the endless exhaustion that came with having a young child, you were both too tired to talk, hang out or even have your regular movie nights.

But now, you little girl was finally at school. Maybe you could have a couple of hours with your husband.

The house was quiet when you walked inside. The kitchen was empty. The living room was empty. You poked your head into Beau's office. Empty.

"Goddammit!"

You frowned. The voice had come from down the hallway. Your daughter's playroom. Why the hell was he in there?

As you got closer, you could hear a constant stream of frustrated groans coming from inside.

You stopped in the doorway. Beau was sitting in one of your daughter's tiny chairs, which looked like it was struggling to support a man of his size. In front of him sat a styling head—the kind of doll's head designed for children to practise hairstyles and makeup on. Apparently, your husband had decided to spend his afternoon doing exactly that.

You cleared your throat. "Beau?"

At the sound of your voice, he dropped everything. He immediately tried to stand, only for the tiny chair to remain firmly attached to him. He stumbled forward, nearly taking out the nearest wall.

"Hey, darlin'," he said, trying, and failing, to act like nothing had happened. "Whatcha doing home early?"

You furrowed your brow. "It's three."

He glanced at his watch. "I've been here for three hours?"

"Apparently."

"Shit." He ran a hand through his hair, looking mildly horrified by the realisation.

You stepped further into the room, your eyes wandering over the table. The styling head was covered in evidence of his efforts. Several failed braids. A crooked ponytail. Something that might have been a bun?

You looked back at him. "Are you... learning how to do her hair?" A soft smile tugged at your lips.

Beau nodded, suddenly looking a little sheepish.

"Yeah. I watched some YouTube videos at work and thought I could give it a try." He sat back down, apparently accepting that the chair was his home now. "I never got to do it with Emily. Carla was always such a perfectionist about her hair." He glanced down at the styling head. "I wanted to try this time."

Your heart softened. You pulled out the little chair beside him and sat down, immediately discovering that it was just as uncomfortable as his. "Why didn't you ask me?"

"Because you already do so much."

"Beau..."

"You're always tired. I didn't wanna give you something else to worry about." He started rambling, his hands gesturing helplessly. "You've got work, the house, her school stuff and—"

"Beau!" He stopped. You laughed softly. "Let me teach you."

His entire posture changed. He sat up straighter, suddenly looking like you'd just give him an important mission.

"Okay."

You couldn't help but smile.

There was something incredibly sweet about watching this man—your husband, a sheriff, someone who had faced things far more intimidating than a child's hairstyle—sit in a tiny pink chair and take braiding lessons because he wanted to be able to do his daughter's hair.

Soldier Boy

Ben didn't want a girl.

He wanted a boy. A legacy. He mourned the son he thought he would never have.

Then he met her. She was perfect. A beautiful combination of the two of you. His eyes. Your nose. Your smile. He was a goner. She had him wrapped around her little finger before she could even say 'Dada.'

So it didn't surprise you when his reaction to his daughter coming home from school and announcing she was going on her first date was... less than enthusiastic.

You were thrilled for her. She was practically bouncing with excitement over the fact that the boy she'd liked had finally asked her out.

Ben, however, wasn't.

"Where are you going?"

Your daughter rolled her eyes. "Dinner."

"Where?"

"Olive Garden"

"With who?"

"Dad."

"What's his name?"

She sighed. "Ethan."

"Last Name?"

"Miller." Ben stared at her. She stared back. "Seriously?"

"You want me to trust this Ethan kid with my daughter? Soldier Boy's daughter? I need information."

You gave him a warning look. "Ben."

He shrugged. "What? He sounds like a fucking idiot."

"You don't even know him," your daughter pleaded.

"I know boys at that age. I know what they want."

"Oh my god! Dad! Ew!"

"See! Even you know."

Your daughter rolled her eyes, grabbing her purse. "I'm going!"

"Have fun sweetie." You called after her.

She barely made it to the door before Ben caught her arm. His expression softened as she turned back to him. "I just want my little girl to be safe, okay?"

"I'm not that little anymore, Dad."

"You are to me." He looked towards you, clearly hoping you'd back him up. You didn't. Ben sighed. "Okay, have fun." Your daughter smiled. "But if he does something you don't want to do, what do you do?"

"I'll call you."

"And....?"

She paused, looking at him with a completely straight face. "I break his thumbs and twist his dick off."

You stared at them both in shock. Ben, on the other hand, grinned. "That's my girl!" He pulled his daughter into a tight hug.

She laughed, kissing his cheek before waving goodbye to you and heading out the door.

You slowly turned towards Ben, placing your hands on your hips. "Twist his dick off?"

"What?" He glanced towards the door, his expression immediately turning suspicious. "I taught her some moves if she got in trouble." He continued staring at the door. "Do you fancy dinner at the Oliver Garden?"

"Ben."

"What?"

"You are not following them."

"I wasn't going to." He looked offended. "I just wanted to make sure they got there safely.”

You scoffed, walking away from him. Ben remained in the foyer, glaring at the front door. "...I'm gonna kill that kid."

Mark Meachum

At work, he was Detective Mark Meachum of the LAPD.

Calm. Respected. The kind of man people thought twice about crossing.

At home? He was dad. And apparently, dad had a tea party to attend.

You weren't surprised when you walked into the living room one afternoon to find a scene that could only be described as adorable.

Your little girl was dressed in her favourite Cinderella dress, fake pearl necklaces dangling over the top and plastic shoes three sizes too big for her little feet. She carefully adjusted the tiara sitting on her head before picking up the tiny teapot and pouring imaginary tea into each plastic mug.

Mark sat at the ridiculously low table, his legs splayed awkwardly on either side. A light pink, frilly apron barely fit around his neck, thrown over his navy T-shirt and grey sweats.

He felt completely ridiculous. And yet, he was taking the tea party very seriously. He stirred his imaginary tea with a plastic spoon, nodding along as his daughter chatted away.

"Sugar, Daddy?" she asked, holding a tiny plate covered in plastic cubes.

"Thanks, princess." He took a couple and dropped them into his mug.

"Room for one more?" You asked.

Your daughter immediately jumped to her feet, clapping excitedly. "Mommy!" She ran over, grabbed your hand and dragged you towards the table before you could even put your bag down. "Come sit!" She placed a pair of bunny ears and star-shaped sunglasses on your head before handing you a tiny cup. "Tea for you."

"Thank you, sweetie."

Meanwhile, Mark looked defeated. Not because you'd interrupted his tea party. Because you'd caught him being a softie.

You rested a hand on his knee, biting back a smile. "You look adorable."

"I don't feel adorable," he muttered.

"I think pink is your colour," you chuckled softly, glancing towards your daughter. She was too busy pouring more imaginary tea to notice. You sighed, rubbing your thumb against his knee. "I like that you do this with her."

His expression softened as he glanced at your daughter. "Yeah, well..." He stared down at the apron. "Anything to make her happy."

Your heart melted. "I think that's kind of hot."

His eyes flicked back to yours. A smirk slowly spread across his face. "Yeah?"

You nodded. He leaned towards you, meeting you halfway as your lips brushed together.

"Ew!" You immediately pulled apart. "No kissing!" Your daughter glared at the two of you with the exact same expression Mark used whenever someone annoyed him.

You couldn't help but laugh. "Sorry, sweetie."

Mark shook his head, trying to hide his amusement before turning back to his daughter. He took a thoughtful sip of his imaginary tea. "Do you have any biscuits?"

Her face lit up. She immediately ran towards the little plastic oven in the corner to retrieve them. Mark watched her go, then slowly turned back to you. "I'm so screwed."

You smiled, reaching over to straighten the dainty apron around his neck. "You were screwed the second you set eyes on her."

Boaz Priestly

You were in the kitchen making lunch while Priestly and your daughter sat in the living room.

Today's activity?

Spa day.

Priestly has his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, his hands resting loosely on his legs and his head tilted back against the sofa.

Your daughter had stolen one of your fluffy headbands and pushed Priestly's hair back with it. Not that he needed it. The mohawk was hardly getting in the way.

He relaxed against the sofa as he let his 'face mask' work it's magic.

Except it wasn't a face mask.

While you weren't looking, your daughter had stolen a jar of strawberry jam from the kitchen and spread it all over his face.

Priestly had absolutely no idea. He was far too relaxed.

Beside the sofa, your daughter sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully painting the last few nails on his right hand. His left was already done. So were his toes.

His fingers and toes were now an impressive assortment of colours, most of the polish make it onto the skin surrounding his nails rather than the nails themselves.

And Priestly couldn't have been happier.

You finished making lunch and walked into the living room carrying two plates of sandwiches.

You placed them on the coffee table before your eyes landed on Priestly's face.

You froze. Then you noticed the empty jar of strawberry jam sitting beside the plate. You bit the inside of your cheek, desperately trying not to laugh. Your eyes met your daughter's. She smiled innocently.

"Enjoying your face mask, babe?"

"Yeah." Priestly sighed contentedly. "Feels good."

You raised an eyebrow. "Does it taste nice?"

One of his eyes slowly opened. He looked at you, saw your expression. His eyes narrowed. Suspicious. He poked his tongue out, swiping it across the corner of his mouth. He froze. His brow furrowed as he tried to identify the taste. "... Is that strawberry jam?" You finally lost the battle, a laugh escaping. "Why do I have strawberry jam on my face?"

He looked towards his daughter. She was already rolling around on the floor, laughing. Priestly shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. "I let you do spa day and you put jam on my face?"

"No," she managed between giggles.

"No?"

He reached down, scooping her up by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She squealed as he started tickling her side. "No?" She dissolved into laughter. "Maybe you should have some." He gathered some of the jam from his cheek, smearing it onto her nose.

"No!" She tried desperately to wriggle out of his grip, but Priestly only wiped more jam onto her.

"Too late!" Soon, both of them were laughing so hard that neither could breathe properly.

A few minutes later, they calmed down. You sat beside them, looking over the colourful disaster that was Priestly's hands and feet. "I like your nails."

Priestly glanced down at them. The polish was uneven. Some of it had clearly missed the nail entirely. It was terrible, but she did it. He smiled anyway. "Yeah. Me too." He wiggled his fingers. "They look cool." He looked down at your daughter, who was still giggling against his chest. He kissed the top of her head. "Thanks, sweetheart."

She beamed. And you couldn't help but smile.

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[surrendertodreams]

Thinking of You (24/27)

Also on AO3 | Navigation and Masterlists

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader Summary: You've always loved Dean, but Sam might need you more. Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Content: no Y/N, alternating POVs, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, Sam breaks up with you, didn't see that coming, 920/25943 words A/N: Sam never got to have a mother....

Fic Masterlist | First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Chapter 24 - Greatest Hopes - You

“Hey, can we maybe not push our luck on the kidnapping thing? Come inside.”

You roll your eyes before turning to look at Dean over your shoulder. “Being kidnapped once doesn’t increase my chances of being kidnapped again.”

“Yeah, well, it would give me some peace of mind,” Dean says as he comes to stand beside you, leaning on the iron rail enclosing the motel’s second floor.

You sigh. Part of you wants to snap at him for his constant, overbearing protectiveness that only served to make you feel more incompetent than you already did. The other remembers how it had felt to almost lose him. You couldn’t stand to have your eyes off him for days, like you’d convinced yourself that one blink would steal the red flush of health from his face and revert him back to the shell of himself he’d been after his heart attack.

You want to give in, if only to smooth the furrow in his brow. You also dread the idea of going back inside, not because of Dean and his persistent attention. Dean, you could handle. It was Sam that you didn’t want to see.

Sam had been staring in his own way. There was no worry settled behind his eyes, no familiar softness from being beaten down over and over by the world. His steady gaze was resolute. You could see in it the promise of a talk you weren’t sure you wanted to be a part of.

Had he noticed how you held him at arms length? How you never gave affection, only accepted it? Was he on the brink of asking for what you couldn’t provide?

Things hadn’t progressed between the two of you the way they would have for a real couple, but maybe it was because Sam had been waiting for you. He was so sweet and considerate. Letting his partner take the lead was just the sort of thing he’d do in a relationship. But maybe you had worn away his patience. Maybe he’d gotten tired of waiting.

You couldn’t give him more. You weren’t ready to. You still couldn’t think of Sam in that way without thinking of Dean. Even something as simple as picturing yourself kissing Sam brought a bone-deep ache to your body until Dean would crawl his way in to replace Sam in the image. 

“Hey. Can I talk to you? Alone?”

You seize at Sam’s voice, body locking tight against itself. You wish you could phase out of existence.

“Yeah, I’ll just . . .” Dean falls away as Sam takes his place beside you. “Need to hit the sack anyway,” he mutters to himself before the motel door closes.

You hold your breath until Sam finally speaks.

“I’ve realized a couple of things recently . . .”

“Sam, I’m really sorry. I know I’ve been distant. I’m trying. I’m really trying to be a good—”

“I know you love Dean.”

His words stop you in your tracks. The tension in your muscles fades out of pure shock. Your eyelids draw wide. Your heart stops beating.

It’s so much worse than you thought.

Your lip trembles as you redirect your blustering words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sam. I can get there. I can love—”

“I don’t want you to!” he says, not shouting necessarily, but making himself loud enough to be heard over your frantic apologies. There’s a hint of an exasperated smile on his lips, like he was amused by your apologies.

You blink rapidly. “What?”

“I don’t love you,” he says, which only confuses you more. “I mean, I thought I did, but—Look, I don’t have a whole lot of women in my life. Jess was the only one, and I—I guess, I got my wires crossed. You’re like a sister to me, and don’t try to convince me that it’s not the same for you.”

“I . . .” You’re at a loss. Suddenly, all the weight on your shoulders falls away. Your body doesn’t know how to function without it. The seams that have been holding you together for months come undone.

Sam huffs, incredulous, and takes you into his arms. One hand runs up and down your back, soothing.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you murmur into his chest, letting him comfort you. The exchange of roles is foreign but not unwelcome.

“I know, and I want to thank you for being there for me after Jess, even if I don’t agree with your methods.” He laughs. “God, you and Dean really are perfect for each other. Always looking out for others instead of yourselves. Always giving too much.”

Sam lets you go. “He loves you, too, you know.”

You shake your head. “He doesn’t. I mean, he practically ordered me to date you.”

Sam sighs, rolling his eyes. He glances at the door. “God, he’s such an idiot.

“Dean doesn’t think he’s good enough for you, but he does love you. He just hates himself a little more.”

“You don’t—You don’t know that,” you deny, even though all you want is for it to be true. 

All these years . . . Could Dean really love you?

“I’m his brother. I know him better than anybody . . . Well, maybe, besides you.”

Sam pats your shoulder. “You should talk to him. You’re probably the only person that could talk some sense into him.”

“Yeah,” you agree without thinking. Your mind is elsewhere, lost in dreams of what this could all mean.

“Just let me talk to him first. I’ve got some words of my own for him.”

Next Chapter

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[zepskies]

Return to Me || Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.

AN: Welcome back! Reader and Dean have a long (drunken) heart-to-heart in this one…and maybe a lot more than that. (Whoops. 🫣)

Tags & Warnings: 18+ | Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers, angst, jealousy, cheating, smut (nipple play, f. receiving oral, doggy style) | Reader and Dean aren’t perfect.

ᝰ.Word Count: 5.6k || Posted on Patreon: July 24, 2026

♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

🌹Now Playing: “One Last Night” ⟢ Vaults (Chapter title from "Edge of the Earth" by The Beaches)

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Part 2: Too Close to the Heat

Even a funeral reception is a lively affair at the Winchester Ranch. Tonight, it’s held in a patch of mostly even land between the main house and the barn, facing Mt. Antero.

Aspens sway gently behind the picnic tables as laughter rings out into the night sky. You marvel at the clusters of stars dotted there like freckles, while you sip a cold beer down at the end of the table.

The ranch hands tell stories about Bobby that you’ve never heard, like the time he got tossed out of the corral by a two-year-old colt he was trying to break. Or the time he damn near burned off his thumb because the guys wanted to do some fireworks last year for the 4th of July. A sparkler almost hit the barn and his cabin.

For you, all this is more bitter than sweet. These men clearly knew your father better than you.

John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.

“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.

Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.

“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.

“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”

John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”

“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”

At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.

He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.

“Gonna get another beer,” he says.

But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.

The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.

You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.

“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”

He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.

You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.

“He remembers you.”

You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.

“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.

“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.

“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.

Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”

“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”

“You two work together?”

“Yeah, for his father’s company.”

“Doing what?”

You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.

“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.

Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”

His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.

“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.

At that, he actually nods more sincerely.

“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”

The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.

“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.

You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.

“About eight months,” you reply.

His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”

“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”

“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”

“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”

It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.

But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.

“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.

You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.

The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together. 

Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.

At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.

“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.

“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.

Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.

“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.

“Wow,” you say.

“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”

Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.

“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.

“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies. 

You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.

Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff. I can come help. No need. It’s not that much. …Dude. What’re you doing? What? We’re good. Just catching up. All of a sudden you two are civil? I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Ok. Just…be smart about this.

Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.

You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.

By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.

It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.

Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.

To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.

It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.

Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.

Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.

“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”

Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.

Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.

“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”

You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.

Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.

“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.” 

You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful. 

“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.” 

“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”

You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.

You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.

In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”

She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.

“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.

You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough. 

“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”

You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.

“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”

Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.

“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says. 

He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.

As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.

It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.  

“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”

Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.

What the hell is this?

You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.

He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.

“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.

“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.

You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.

But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”

It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.

But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”

Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.

“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”

You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”

“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”

You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…

Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.

“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”

The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.

But it’s true.

Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.

Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.

“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”

You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.

“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”

For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.

Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.

He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?

“Jesus Christ, Dean…”

You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.

“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.

“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”

“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.

“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”

Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.

He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.

He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.

You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.

Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.

You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.

He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.

You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.

You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.

He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.

One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.

You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.

“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.

Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.

He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.

“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.

Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.

You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.

He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.

It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.

Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.

After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room. 

You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.

“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”

Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.

“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?” 

“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”

He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.

Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.

He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.

After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.

“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.

You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.

He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.

Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.

“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”

Before I lose my nerve.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.

“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.

“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.

Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.

He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.

And that night, it is fucking perfect.

Almost.

Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.

Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.

In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.

He just ends up waking alone.

AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)

Next Time:

What have I done?

Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.

You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.

Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.

Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.

“Mornin’.”

Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile. 

“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.

You sigh. “I don’t.”

You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house. 

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@k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @midnightmadwoman @twinkleinadiamondsky @kmc1989

@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

[laurensfangirlingsideblog]

* suspicious stare * what happened to Dean's torso?

Love it!