description box: rick knows it’s wrong, but he can’t keep his hands off you.
warnings: slight nsfw warning, mostly a drabble , prison!era
RICK THINKS IT’S SO CUTE actually, this little crush you have on him. it’s so obvious by the way you’re always looking for him when you enter a room, or the way you always giggle at his jokes—they’re rarely actually funny but you seem to think they are—and the way you always puff your chest a little when he’s there, as if you’re trying to get his attention.
and he lets you. lets you indulge your little fantasies. lets you follow him around. lets you cling to his arm.
he knows he probably should put an end to it—for god’s sake, you’re half his age! he could be your father! but you’re such a pretty, young thing; such an emotional and sensitive soul and so dependent on him, you’re as cute as a button and he just can’t bring himself to.
you’re a crybaby. so sweet. can’t get anything done without him, but rick secretly likes it, he likes the way you need him to do simple things for you like opening a bottle. he’ll flex his arms while he’s doing it and watch you almost drool over his arm muscles. it’s so adorable, really, he thinks.
or when you need help reaching something high in the shelf. he’ll grind up against you, hand on your waist, as he reaches up. he loves the way your breath hitches nervously and the way your frame almost disappears in comparison to his height.
sometimes you’ll even fake problems. you’re not even trying to open that box, you just straight up make your way to rick, demanding he opens this box for you. you think you’re so clever; that he doesn’t notice, but he does.
you make him feel like he’s young again. like he’s twenty years old and still desirable. rick knows you think otherwise, by god you’ve made that obvious. he could’ve taken you right there at the shelf and he knows you would’ve let him, would’ve let him do unspeakable things to your body, would’ve let him have you. but he didn’t. because he has a ring on his finger. because he has a son. because he has a daughter. and although he doesn’t have a wife anymore, he restricts himself from any kind of contact this way.
but right now, he somehow doesn’t seem to care, not when he has you like this—legs propped up over his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, tears and runny mascara on your cheeks and marks all over your neck and chest.
he loves it when you’re like this. so unravelled. so messy. so pretty.
and he can’t help himself—he just has to have you.
Summary: There had been a connection between you and Rick that seemed obvious to everyone. You notice he never lets himself act on it and start to wonder if it's the age gap that is keeping him from letting go with you. One night on a supply run that all changes.
There had been something going on between you and Rick for a while now. Touches to tender to be friendly. The tension behind the eye contact you two shared was something even the group couldn't miss. You had been told countless times that he was obsessed with you, yet you couldn't bring yourself to make the first move. You cared about Rick and that's only grown into something more real over the years.
He decided to take you on a run alone with him like he often had. You two had been on the road from Alexandria for hours now. You knew that if you were tired being a passenger he had to be exhausted being a driver.
“We should find somewhere to spend the night?”
He looked over briefly and contemplatively before turning his eyes back on the road and nodding hesitantly in agreement. “Yeah, we should…”. While you both scouted through the dusty car windows for an abode to spend the night your mind wandered. Maybe it was the age gap that kept Rick holding back with you. He was significantly older with you being only in your twenties. Was there a chance that he thought of you as too young or immature? The car slowing and pulling onto a gravel driveway towards a cute and slightly modern cabin lodged between the trees along the road broke you from your thoughts. The roof was dark and slanted in comparison to the horizontal warm wood logs along the walls of the cabin, there are large windows wrapping around the front partially hidden by the large posted wrap-around porch. Dust has collected on a lot of it but you can tell at one time this had to be a loved vacation home.
You both simultaneously push open the car doors and step out and take a second to look over the cabin and property. Rick rests his elbow on top of the car and looks over to you. The air and tension is thick. It always is between the two of you.
“Give me a second to secure it.” He says, eyes raking over your face and chest before refocusing on the structure before him. He draws his gun from the holster on his hip and proceeds to walk around the perimeter of the cabin looking in every available window. Then slowly and quietly makes his way onto the creaky front porch. He bangs on the door frame a few times and then after hearing nothing he cautiously enters the cabin. The thought of him, gun drawn, checking each room, arms taut and bulging. Face full of focus and determination was enough to make your thighs squeeze together as you waited by the car for him.
“It's clear” Rick shouts from the front porch, breaking you from your thoughts.
You start grabbing the gear from the trunk when you feel his presence behind you. You could always feel him before you see him. Right now it felt like his eyes were burning into your backside. You turn and lift everything out when he instinctively breaks from whatever trance he seemingly was in to grab the bags from your hands. His hands brush yours for a second and the eye contact doesn't break as the bags transfer from your hands to his. The tension is palpable as you both silently enter the cabin. You take it upon yourself to rifle through some drawers and end up finding some candles and start giving some light to the place as Rick thoroughly scavenges through everything. Besides the typical world ending clutter it was pretty clean and the candles were making it quite cozy.
You pass a shelf full of books and grab one and dramatically plop down onto the couch in the open concept living room letting out a heavy breath and look at Rick, who is already looking at you. A common occurrence that you've started to grow used to.
“I'll take the couch” You say, noting the obvious lack of a second bedroom.
“No.” He says flatly, eyes scanning over your frame as he broods on over to stand at the foot of the couch where you had swung your feet up to rest. You're shocked at his tone but mostly over him treating you like you were a child. You lift your upper body to look at him and start to say
“I said I’ll-”
“And I said no…” He interjects and continues “You're not sleeping on a different level, alone” He looks at you flatly, giving you his best “Im serious” look. You narrow your eyes in response, and lay back down and roll over to sleep in defiance. You know it's childish but it's apparent that's what he thinks of you anyway so you don't care at this point.
You nestle in and close your eyes waiting to hear his footsteps go up the stairs to the loft bedroom, but instead they sound like he's rounding the couch until he's standing directly above you. That's when you feel him lean down and plant his hands on either side of you. You keep your eyes closed as he leans in even further until his lips hover at your ear. You can feel his breath fanning over the side of your face when he says.
“I said you’re not sleeping alone down here, and i fucking meant it.”
And with that he moves one arm to cradle your legs and the other your torso and he lifts you up effortlessly and starts walking you princess style up the stairs to the bedroom. Your eyes are now very much open and as wide as saucers as you stare at the side of his face with that determined look plastered all over it, and if you didn't know better a bit of smugness. Heat instantly pools in your stomach as you reach the top of the stairs.
He lays you on the bed and reluctantly lets go to return to standing upright. He looks absolutely lost in you and you’re loving every second. You can't help but notice that the only thing to be heard is you both practically panting. He shifts on his feet and you relish in being able to make “the Rick Grimes” a tad uncomfortable. He looks absolutely soft and slightly forlorn right now you can see the mental battle he's having with himself right now. You decide to test the waters
“Are you sleeping in the bed too?” Unable to take your eyes off his and seemingly him not being able to do the same he hesitates looking for the right answer in your eyes when suddenly he finds it.
He speechlessly nods his head, slowly but surely, “yes”.
You shyly smile and softly pat the space beside you on the king sized bed, only breaking his gaze for a moment.
His eyes quickly rake up and down your body and he softly smirks, and starts undoing his holster and belt now seemingly unable to look you in the eyes. However you are unable to look away, from the way his hands expertly undo his belt and his forearms flex while doing so is enough for you to push your thighs together. You watch him walk around to the empty side of the bed and hesitantly prop himself on the bed. With a deep sigh he tips his head back against the headboard and looks up at the ceiling.
The room feels like the air is being sucked out of it. Rick keeps his head tipped back and eyes fixated on the ceiling. He's breathing deeply and you cannot bring yourself to look away. The candlelight flickers across his sharp features making him look even more rugged and untouchable than usual. Yet here he is, sitting mere inches away from you in the same bed.
This is torture.
Laying with the man you want, but can’t have.
“Can you tell me what it is?” you say barely above a whisper. Risking every brick of friendship you've built over the years. Not being able to take the longing and feeling utterly desperate.
His eyes flutter closed and he takes a deep breath.
“What?” he replies gravelly and softly, eyes still closed and face towards the ceiling. He rubs a hand over his mouth and stubble almost like he’s holding the words in his mouth.
“You know… what it is about me that isn't …appealing…it's probably not appealing to anyone else either and I'm tired of being alone. i don't want other guys to-”
His hand rips away from his mouth like a bandage. His head and attention snap over to you and is now laser focused. He reaches his hands over and rips you from your side of the bed bringing you to him. You're face to face now and you can feel your breaths mixing with each exhale. Your body is on fire as his hands rest on the curve of your hips. He's looking at you so hard you're worried he might see right through you. His blue eyes are pleading the question before his lips can ask
“What other guys?”
You're too stunned to speak.
“You don't need other guys…” he continues, tone low, gruff, and twangy as lips ghost just under your ear and he gives what feels like a promise. His hands travel slowly over your clothed sides and lower back.
In all the time you’ve known Rick the two of you had never been this close. It was intoxicating.
You’re both staring deeply in eachothers eyes. Not sure of where to take this next, or how deep this should go. You decide to ask what’s nagging at you,
“What does that mean?…” his hand grips tighter on your lower back and you can feel his chest deeply rising and falling against yours. You continue still in shock of the moment and the feeling of him “What does this mean?”
“it means…” he starts, you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “that i can’t stay away from you any longer and i don’t want to anymore…”
Your heart is racing and a part of you wonders if he can feel it.
“I was worried you were to young… that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me anyway, or that i'd be taking something away from you by being with you but…selfishly, I don't care anymore...i want whatever you are willing to give me. i want you.”
You stare at him eyes wide in disbelief. You can think of only one thing. What you’ve dreamt of doing for years.
You tip your chin up and slowly bring your lips into his. Giving him every chance to back out.
But he doesn’t.
He cradles the back of your head and furiously seals the gap between you.
It's passionate and it's like you need each other to breathe. Words that have never been able to come out flow beautifully from his lips to yours.
Your hands are fisting his shirt while his fingers thread through your hair. Your legs are now intertwined with his and this is the first time anything has felt right in years. It’s overwhelmingly perfect.
And when you pull away from his lips for some desperately needed air, the look in his blue eyes, and the way his lips curl into soft smile gives you the impression that he is in fact thinking the same thing.
"what am i supposed to do, if there's no you?" dean winchester x wife!reader
content: canon typical violence, depictions of blood, death, depictions of grief, angry grief, pre-death grief, angst, denial, mentions of cancer (and treatments), non-descriptive mentions of throwing up, death, dean shows emotions, fluff
word count: 5.5k
note: this one gets pretty heavy, but ultimately there is a happy ending. be careful with yourself if any of the content listed above is harmful to you. also, there is some mary winchester erasure because i didn't feel like writing her (sorry girl). and, jack has been given some special secret powers in order to fit this plot.
m.list
You hadn’t known there was so much blood in the human body.
All of it seemed to be laid out on the ground around you, puddling up in the creases of your elbows.
You had to be dead. There was no way your heart could still beat when you were drowning in a sea of red.
You could remember the pain of the initial slash, claws digging into your side as you ran from the attacker.
But now?
Now you were numb.
The only sensation you had was cold. You shivered in the warm night air, staring up at the tree branches looming over you. You wished you could see the sky, just glimpse the stars one last time.
“Shit,” you heard breathed out from the side of you.
Dean.
Your Dean.
His hands grazed over your wound, making you flinch away out of instinct.
“Honey, please,” Dean begged, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. You didn’t know exactly what he was asking for.
You to not be hurt? You to not die?
It wasn’t as if it was up to you.
Dean, you tried to say, but his name caught in your throat. You couldn’t talk, you could barely move.
“Shh, shh,” he tried to soothe, but you could hear the tremble in his voice. You could always hear the tremble when he was scared. “Don’t move.”
Dean glanced around wildly, his eyes falling on dead leaves and broken branches.
“Sammy!” He yelled, tears streaking through the dirt coating his face.
This was all his fault.
It was supposed to be an easy hunt.
One werewolf ripping hearts from the chests of anyone who stood in its way. Dean was gonna kill the poor bastard and get back in time for dinner.
That was the plan, until you begged to come along with him. He’d been hurt on the last hunt, an injury that left him in your care for weeks afterwards. You were nervous about him getting back out there. You didn’t want it to be the last time you’d see him.
He’d agreed on your tagging along under the condition that you stay locked in the car, safe with a sweater wrapped around you.
The same sweater that was tattered beyond belief.
Blood, your blood, trickled over your ring, turning the diamond a splotchy red.
“No, no, no,” Dean mumbled, brushing his hand over your cheek to get your attention. Your eyes fluttered back open.
“You gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please--,” he choked on a cry that almost escaped, “please just… stay awake.”
Your breath was shallow. Not good. Black dots spotted your vision. Not good. Dean looked scared. Not good.
Footsteps ran up, nearly tripping on the soft grass when their owner saw the scene in front of him. Sam stared down at you, Dean crouched over you.
“Sam, get over here, now.” Dean demanded, heaving out breaths.
“Dean--,” Sam started, but his brother cut him off.
“Get the hell over here!” Dean yelled, chin trembling.
Sam stumbled over, helping Dean hoist you up.
Suddenly, you could feel the pain.
You cried out, head lolling back into Dean’s chest.
“I know, honey, I know,” Dean choked, trying not to utterly lose it while you were in this condition. He’d seen people, good people, die from wounds less intense than this.
Stop.
He couldn’t think about that right now.
You were going to live. There wasn’t any way he could live without you.
“Sammy, faster!” Dean had urged from the backseat, where he cradled your head in his lap.
They needed a hospital now. He would figure out a lie to tell the doctors later, something that would explain how you had gotten so hurt. He couldn’t think right now, not with the blood still flowing out.
“Dean,” you crackled out, your hand falling onto where his help pressure on the injury. His eyes snapped to your face, searching wildly for a clue of what you were gonna say.
“I,” you took in a breath, wincing when the inflation of your lungs pushed more pain through you, “I love you.” You were whispering as loudly as you could muster up.
Dean shook his head, brushing your hair from your forehead.
“You’re fine.” He promised you, but his voice wavered. You weren’t fine. You were dying.
“I love you so much.” You felt tears stream from your eyes. You didn’t know if it was from the thrumming pain or the fact that you were scared to die. Maybe a mix of both.
“You--,” Dean started to say, but the screech of Baby’s tires skidding to a stop in front of the emergency room doors cut him off.
Sam helped pull you from the car, placing you in Dean’s arms to be rushed into the hospital.
That had been almost seven months ago.
You had almost died. Almost.
And so had Dean, not from any monster or slice in his skin. He almost lost you. You, his only reason to live, his lifeline, his everything. In his eyes, the sun rose and set with you.
Now, he sat by your side on the light blue couch you had picked out from a second-hand store. The quilt you had spent weeks sewing together lay over your legs.
“We should get this.” You pointed a finger at the laptop screen in front of you, a book pulled up just under your fingertip. On the cover was a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at you.
“Babies can’t read, honey.” He reminded you, eliciting an eye roll from you.
“We read to the baby, Winchester.” You added it to your cart regardless. A pop-up message informing you there would be a wait on the item showed, but you figured it would show up in a timely manner.
“You read to the baby, Winchester.” Dean added that last part with a grab of your hand, your wedding band cold against his skin. You furrowed your brows. “I teach it what real music is.”
“It? You can’t call our baby it.” You laughed, a sound that Dean let sink into his being. He loved your laugh.
“What else do I say?”
“Umm…,” you hummed as you thought, searching around for a name to put to the nonexistent person.
You weren’t pregnant, not yet, at least. You and Dean had begun to care less about using condoms, opting to let fate decide whether or not you two would be parents. It wasn’t until two days ago when you had woken up from a dream in the middle of the night, nudging Dean awake with a I want a baby that you two had really started trying.
He wasn’t complaining.
He hadn’t let himself imagine much of a future before you, but with you as his? He could see it all: white-picket fence, you waking up with him every morning, little feet tittering across floorboards. Now he had it.
Well, the fence was a red color, and there were many times he’d woken up to the smell of bacon, you having gotten up before him. No matter, it was still perfect. You were perfect.
He was ready to have perfect children with you.
“Baby Bear.” You decided, eyes falling back to the book. Dean snorted a laugh.
“I am not saying Baby Bear,” he argued, not catching onto the fact that he just did.
“Why not?” You frowned, memorizing every line of the artwork on the front of your new favorite book.
“It’s girly. I’m a man.”
“Dean, you were wearing my fluffy pink bathrobe yesterday.” You reminded him. If he was going to claim to be a man, whatever his definition of it was, you weren’t going to let him make exceptions.
“It’s warm!” He defended, a smile crossing his face. You two had fought over who would wear the robe all morning, up until the point you had pulled it off of him before pushing him back into bed, continuing on your mission of making a baby.
“Baby Bear.” You said with finality, letting him know you weren’t letting this go.
“Baby Bear.” Dean begrudgingly let out, giving you a soft kiss.
You pushed the laptop to the coffee table in front of you two, letting him guide you onto your back as he deepened the kiss, his hand snaking up your shirt.
That must have been the time it stuck. Or maybe it was from the next day, or that night after.
Either way, you were one-hundred-percent, without a doubt, sure that you were pregnant.
You’d been more tired than usual, getting some morning sickness, and your breasts were sore.
It had to be pregnancy, right?
“Why can’t I go get you one of those sticks to pee on?” Dean asked, watching you flutter around the bedroom in preparation for your doctor’s appointment.
“Those things are wrong all the time, I wanna know for sure.” You muttered, brushing through your hair.
“You really think Baby Bear is makin’ an appearance?” Dean looked to your middle. You weren’t showing, obviously, but he could imagine a little baby taking form in there. You stopped in front of him, giving him a kiss on the nose.
“I know it.” You assured him.
The trip to the doctor’s office was filled with your plans for the nursery, what dress you would wear for the baby shower, what Baby Bear’s first birthday party would look like.
You couldn’t stop chattering on to everyone you interacted with: Dean, the nurses, the older woman waiting next to you in the waiting room.
You talked and talked, a bright smile on your face. You had just moved onto what brand stroller you wanted when the doctor entered the room again, a clipboard in hand.
You looked at him expectantly, but confusion sparked at the second physician that entered. She was about your height, with light purple scrubs. An enamel pin of a pink ribbon was fastened to the pocket on her chest.
Your face dropped as the doctor, the one who was supposed to tell you those words you had waited to hear all your life, explained the test results.
His words blurred in your mind, like you had dunked your head under water. Dean’s grip on your hand tightened.
There was something growing in you, but it wasn’t Baby Bear.
Metastatic stage IV breast cancer.
I don’t know how they didn’t catch it before, the doctor had told you. Apparently, this foreign thing had been growing in you since before your werewolf attack. Maybe it was the reason why the scratch hadn’t turned you, why you hadn’t been given lupine abilities.
You would have preferred that to this.
Chemo, radiation, pills upon pills.
Those were your options.
No surgery could get all of the cancer.
Nothing could. You weren’t going to get better, you would just slow down the dying. You knew it, the doctors knew it, your friends and family knew it. The only one who didn’t seem to get the memo was Dean.
He carted you around to every appointment. He made notes in that illegible scrawl of his. He set alarms for every round of pills you had to take, waking you up and making you swallow each and every one. He held your thinning hair back when you got sick after the chemo, sitting on the bathroom floor with you.
He had work, yes, his mechanic job he had picked up after quitting hunting. His boss, thankfully, was kind. He let Dean miss work, even offering to have his wife bring you to appointments. Dean always declined. He could take care of his girl.
You were sitting on the couch in the same spots you had just a few months ago, only this time you were watching Dean scroll through articles on cancer treatments instead of ones about different baby cries.
You wore the hat that Jody and the girls had gifted you when you had to shave your hair, their initials stitched into the side by Donna. It was your favorite. It reminded you of all the love that was around you, even if the hat only existed because of the poison coursing through your veins.
“Look at this one,” Dean pointed, much like you had to the baby book, the same one that still hadn’t arrived. Not that it mattered now.
“It’s in Toronto.” You told him after reading the first few lines. You and Dean lived in South Dakota, only an hour or so from Sioux Falls.
“We can move.” He said as he scrolled through the different tabs of the article.
“I don’t want to.” You argued, exhaustion lacing your voice. You were always tired lately.
“It won’t be forever, just until you’re better.”
“I’m not going to get better.”
That made Dean pause to look at you. His grief from your words, words he knew were true, was masked by disappointment and irritation. He hated when you talked like this.
“Yes, you are.” He gritted out, determination in his eyes.
“No, Dean, I’m not. I’m dying.” You looked away at the mention of the “D” word. You weren’t supposed say it, no one was supposed to say it. Dean had forbidden it.
“No. Don’t say that. You’re not--,” he cut himself off, unable to say the word himself. He felt the emotion choking at him, a metaphorical hand around his throat restricting air flow.
“Yes, I am.” The constant denial of what was really happening was weighing on you. You didn't want to pretend like everything was okay, that this was just a flu you needed to get over.
“I need you to understand, Dean.” You took in a shaky breath. “I need you to tell me that you know I'm dying.”
“I'm not sayin’ it because it's not happenin’.” Dean stood up, laptop resting on the couch cushion next to you. “You're not dying.” His voice shook on the last word.
You pulled your cardigan tighter around you, goosebumps chilling on your arms. As you lost weight from your treatments, you got colder.
“Dean--,” you began, but he already knew you were going to say a bunch of the same stuff. He shook his head, running a hand down his face.
“No. I'm not gonna listen to you talk like you're already dead. We can fix this. I can fix this.” Dean watched your face contort to anger, but he spoke before you could. “Cas can--,”
“Cas said he can't. You were there.” You cut him off, fumbling with the loose thread on your quilt.
The angel had been Dean's first call when the diagnosis came. It’d taken Castiel less than five seconds of his hand on your shoulder to know he couldn’t do anything. The masses had weaved themselves so deep into your body that even divine intervention couldn’t save it. Couldn’t save you.
“He can try again.” Dean almost growled, pacing in front of you. He was on the verge of a breakdown.
He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t done much of anything other than refuse to accept the situation.
He was teetering on a very thin tightrope that was about to snap from the weight of everything.
“No.”
Dean stumbled to a halt. He turned his head to you, a wild look in his eyes. You matched him, narrowing yours to him.
“I don’t want him to.”
It wasn’t that you wanted to die. You had just become less scared of it, more okay with the idea of a semi-peaceful death.
“You don’t want him to?” Dean seethed. You scoffed and looked away.
You hadn’t fought much before this whole thing, maybe a spat here and there, but never anything that hurt.
This? This was a war, one that had been brewing since the word cancer left the doctor’s mouth.
You’d seen something switch in Dean. He’d gone from that borderline-suicidal man you had met almost ten years ago to… whatever the hell he was now. Uncharacteristically optimistic, you had decided to name it.
But Dean Winchester could only look on the bright side for so long before he reverted back to that disbelief in anything good.
“What do you mean you don’t want him to?” Dean repeated your words again. He was looking at you like you had said something offensive, which, to be fair, it was offensive to him.
“I’m tired, Dean. Exhausted. Nothing is going to make this better. I just want to live the rest of my life peacefully, with love.” You argued back, fists clenching in anger. You were getting a migraine again, the same one that seemed to never go away, only crashing and retreating like the ocean.
Dean opened his mouth to talk, but squeezed his eyes shut and took in a breath instead.
“I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but as he spoke, the anger rushed in, taking hold and raising the volume of his words.
“I know you love me. And I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.” You rose to your feet, legs feeling slightly weak. You hadn’t eaten much that day, nausea crawling it’s way up your throat everytime you looked at the kitchen.
“And what is it that you think you’re doing?” Dean asked, jutting his head out in question, gesturing to you. “Do you think this is good, that this is healthy? Do you think it’s healthy to talk like you already have a death announcement posted?”
“Yes, Dean, I do. I really, truly do.” You spat at him, nodding your head. “You need to accept it. I’m dying,” Dean flinched at that goddamn “D” word, “and you need to understand that. I can’t be here to coddle you when it happens.”
“Shut up.” Dean was growling now, fire flaring in his green eyes. You winced, looking at him like he was batshit insane. He had never told you to shut up. He’d shushed you a few times, maybe asked you to be quiet, but never to shut up.
It slammed through the last of your strength to hold back. Your frustration, all of the fucking pain of the last few months, hell, even your grief for everything you would be missing out on unleashed into a monster you would be forced to regret later.
“No, Dean, you shut up!” You yelled, pointing a finger at him. “I have to listen to you talk like I have a future every fucking day, like you’re gonna magically fix everything and I’ll grow old and we’ll have a family. You talk like Baby Bear,” you hadn’t said that name since the day of your appointment, “is gonna be real. Well, newsflash: you can’t fix this. A goddamn angel of the Lord can’t heal me. What makes you think you, a human man, can do anything to stop this?” You had swayed a bit on your feet, the intense situation making you even more light headed than usual. You wanted to throw up, you needed to throw up, but instead you stood staring at Dean.
His eye twitched and you saw it, just for a split second, but it was still there. He wanted to fight back, he wanted to scream and yell and insult you. You watched a wall build back up. It was flimsy and you could have easily broken it back down, but he turned away before you could decide if you wanted to.
“I’m goin’ out.” Dean muttered tersely as he stomped to the garage, swiping up his keys from the little bowl you made him keep them in. The keychain you had bought for him after your fifth date swung down, the little rubber duck looking back at you with the same malice you had spotted on Dean’s face.
The door slammed at the same time you made a run for the bathroom, a mix of emotions flying out with the minimal contents of your stomach. You heaved over the porcelain of the toilet, an image you knew too well after so many trips to it.
You slumped against the wall as the water swirled down, carrying away any agitation you had felt.
You just wanted your husband, your Dean, here. He would help you get through your bouts of nausea, then tuck you into your favorite fuzzy throw blanket. He’d even begun to brush your teeth for you, moving the bristles about your mouth to wash away any sour taste while you fluttered your eyes shut.
You were still thinking about his gentle care when he came back home, boots slipping off before tip-toeing to the bedroom. You had to be asleep, he figured. It was late, maybe too late, but that would be a problem for morning-Dean.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw the bed empty, sinking when he heard the retching in the room over.
He rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the light to show you, bent over. Tears streamed down your face, giving your pretty eyes a tinge of red that Dean noticed when you looked up at him.
He sank to his knees, pulling you into his arms once your body relaxed. You were wearing the same clothes from earlier, meaning you hadn’t even tried to go to bed. Had you been here the whole time, through all the hours he had spent crashing through the nearby woods like the monsters he used to hunt?
“I’m sorry.” He whispered into your hair, rocking you. You curled into him, body shaking with soft cries.
You cried for the way your body rejected everything. You cried for the words he had said. You cried for the words you had said. You cried for the future you would never have.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I love you.”
Those had also been the last words he’d said to you as you drifted off into a sleep you would never wake from. You were in a hospital bed stationed in your home, surrounded by your favorite flowers.
Dean had walked out of the room after your final breath, placing a shaky kiss on your forehead. His tears had fallen to your face and he brushed those away like he used to brush your hair away.
Everyone was there. Your family and his own, makeshift version of a family. He had swallowed down a sob, not wanting to break in front of a crowd. That resolve had crumbled when Jody had wrapped her arms around him.
He’d soaked her shirt, knees nearly buckling underneath him as he tried to think of what life would be like without you. He couldn’t even imagine it.
There was no life without you.
The next few weeks he hadn’t remembered. He didn’t dare to go back to the house. He stayed with Jody, taking up residence in her last remaining guest room after your funeral. He only left the room to go to the bar, only left the bar to cry in the Impala.
It was torture.
Everything was.
It wasn’t until he had decided enough was enough, he would go back home, that he moved onto the next stage of grief: anger.
He thought he had been familiar with the emotion, but whatever he had felt before was nothing compared to what surged through him when he saw that book.
There had been a package on the front steps, raindrops sliding down the plastic of the envelope. He’d picked it up with curiosity. He didn’t remember ordering anything.
He ripped through the covering to reveal a trio of bears, two big, one little. Baby Bear’s Family stood out in thick letters.
His blood ran cold.
Dean must have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was the ringing of his phone. All around him was a mess; table flipped over, dishes shattered, splintered wood on the hinges of what was once a cupboard door.
In the middle of it all was him, panting and crying, and the book, untouched by his destruction.
Dean scrambled to the phone, hoping, despite knowing better, that it would be you.
Sammy
The caller ID broke his heart further, but he answered. He couldn’t ignore his little brother forever.
“Dean,” Sam breathed out, like he had been in a fight just moments prior, “we need you.”
If he’d known what exactly they needed help with, he would have hung up and rotted away in a pile of your clothing.
Instead, he now found himself sitting in the bunker, a place you had found homey but in a dungeon kind of way, across from this newborn twenty-something kid that wouldn’t shut the hell up. He found a fascination in everything, from the salt shakers to the water that flowed from the sink.
You would have loved Jack.
The thought made Dean shoot up and stomp to his room, cutting off Jack’s ramble about what kind of lightbulbs he preferred.
The boy frowned, looking down at the glass of whiskey Dean had left behind.
“I don’t know why he hates me.” Jack breathed out, heart aching. He didn’t like this emotion. He just wanted Dean to love him as the others did.
“He doesn’t hate you, he hates himself.” Sam sighed, tapping a finger against the glass of his own glass.
“Sam--,” Castiel started, but Sam shook his head, cutting the angel off.
“He needs to know, Cas. I can’t keep ignoring her.” Sam argued back, but his voice softened. “She was my family, too.”
So, Sam told Jack all about you. He left nothing out. The flour-kisses you had given to Dean during your baking phase. The way you always made sure to adjust Castiel’s tie if it was even slightly off-center. The piles of books you would bring to Sam whenever he would visit you and Dean.
He told Jack about Baby Bear and the way you had tried to get Sam to download dating apps during your frequent phone calls. Your love for flowers and the color blue and the ugly fish everyone always made fun of.
Jack couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had decided to do it, but an idea had popped into his head during Sam’s sad laughter.
He found himself standing in a white hallway, identical doors lining the walls. On a plaque read your first name followed by Winchester. He was sure this was yours.
Pushing it open, he instantly felt warm.
The smell of cookies, ones he could tell would be the best he’d ever have without even tasting them, filled the air.
A pretty woman stood by a counter, cradling her swollen stomach and humming. Pictures of her and Dean lined the walls of the house your heaven was in.
He knew it without seeing a picture: this woman was you.
Jack called your name, startling you. You scanned his face, a frown on your face. He wasn’t a threat, but you hadn’t been expecting visitors.
“Who are you?” You asked, a hand shielding your stomach as best as possible.
“You’re her. You’re Dean’s honey.” Jack nodded his head while he spoke, making sure to use the pet name Sam had told him Dean would call you. “And that’s Baby Bear.” He pointed to your stomach.
You felt a rush of warmth at your baby’s name. You hadn’t picked a real one yet, but you had time. You had nothing but time.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m Jack.” He waved, giving you that gap-toothed smile everyone but Dean found adorable. You smiled warmly at him, confusion still lacing your expression.
“Do you want a cookie?” You offered, gesturing to the worn table, the same table Dean had destroyed.
Jack filled you in on everything, a flash of painful memories hitting you with every word about your death. He explained that you were in Heaven and that he was here to bring you back.
You had ached to see Dean again. You tried to think back on whether or not he had been here, in your heaven, but something was blocking you from it. It didn’t make sense: if this was Heaven, why weren’t you completely happy?
You weren’t in pain, you didn’t feel sadness, or anger, or anything. You only felt content.
It was Dean.
He wasn’t here. He was your heaven as much as you were his.
You agreed to go back to earth, ignoring the fact that it would mean Baby Bear would be gone, that this perfect life would go away. Scratch that, it wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be, not without Dean.
You saw a flash of white and suddenly you were standing in a grassy outlook of a town. Not any town. Lebanon, Kansas.
You frowned and turned to Jack, but the nephilim only beamed at you.
Behind you, the Impala -- Dean’s Impala -- was parked. You caught a glimpse of dirty blond hair over the top of the car.
“Dean.” You whispered, not wanting to spook him.
Dean heard it. He always heard every noise you made, even if he was across the house.
He shrugged it off, taking a swig from his flask and letting the whiskey burn away the heartache.
“Dean.” You said again, a little louder.
He couldn’t shrug this off. That was definitely your voice.
Dean’s hunting instincts, the ones that had been engraved into him since he was a kid, forced him to his feet, hand flying to the knife on his side. He spun around, searching for you, or whatever thing was pretending to be you.
He choked on a breath when his eyes landed on you. You looked heavenly. You didn’t look how you had on your deathbed. In fact, you looked even younger than you had at the appointment where the doctor gave you your diagnosis.
It was as if your aura, the one Dean could never see but knew was warm and lovely, was glowing around you, cascading down the dress you wore. That dress. It was the same one you’d worn when he’d asked you to marry him.
He remembered that day, getting down on one knee in the middle of the garden you loved so much. It had been sunny, as it was now, and Dean swore the sun shone around your head like a halo. He’d suspected it before, but he knew it at that moment: you were his guardian angel.
You were the only thing that could save him.
There you were, standing a few feet from him, here to save him.
Save him from the grief. From the anger. From himself.
His hands flew open, the knife and flask clattering to the ground. He didn’t care that his whiskey, the good whiskey that he’d spent far too much money on, was flowing into the grass. The only thing that mattered was you.
Dean stumbled to you, but you met him halfway, crashing into him. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair. You smelled the same. His favorite scent, the one he would never forget.
A little piece of him was screaming that this wasn’t real, you were a shapeshifter or a revenant or a demon or a million other things.
The part of him that had beaten down his happiness every day fought back. If he was killed by holding you one last time, that was okay with him. Life wasn’t much without you anyway.
Your bodies shook out sobs in sync. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been dead for, the days shifting into one perfect event of cookie baking.
But Dean?
Dean had it down to the minute. One year, three days, and twenty-two minutes -- twenty-three now. Each second had been worse than the last, leading up to this moment.
He didn’t let you go.
He was afraid if he even loosened his grip, you would dissipate into a mist, leaving him with nothing all over again.
“I missed you.” You shook out, brushing your thumb over the nape of his neck just like you had done every night before falling asleep. Dean heaved out a sound, like he couldn’t even speak.
He focused on you to calm him down.
Your hair, your skin, your warmth. It grounded him, and he twisted his fingers into the fabric of your dress.
“How?” He asked, a simple breath of air forming into one word. You knew what he meant. It reminded you of the fact that Jack was still standing behind you.
“Jack.” You mumbled, pulling your Dean in closer.
Dean’s eyes shot open and, through wet eyelashes, he saw the same boy he had resented for so long. Jack smiled at him, that innocent, little kid kind that told Dean all he needed to know.
Jack had done this for him.
He’d somehow found a way to harness all of his power to bring you back, just to make Dean happy.
Just to make him like him.
Dean would talk to him later. He would find the words to explain his gratitude, explain what this was.
Now, he let his ears catch on your heartbeat, focusing on the steady thumping reminding him that you were alive.
warnings smut | p in v | brat!sub!reader | dom!dean
MASTERLIST
"Why you gotta be so damn mean, huh?" Dean grunted, one hand on the headboard to steady himself, the other tangled in your hair, yanking until your scalp screamed.
"Just gotta run that mouth, huh? That's all you do? Just run that fuckin’ mouth?” A particularly hard thrust annunciated his irritation, leaving you gasping, a gut punch of a feeling to your cervix that had you breathless.
He was being mean, so mean, you'd made a point to tell him that too. You supposed you deserved it, for how mean you'd been earlier.
"What? You got nothin' to say now? No rude comments? C'mon, baby, let me hear you. You were so loud and obnoxious earlier." Dean sneered, pulling back on your hair so you whined, pulling you into his chest. His hips didn't stop, hands moving to hold you lightly by your neck, just enough pressure to have you clenching and whimpering.
"You gonna say you're sorry to me?" Dean rasped, nose pressed to your temple, hands snaking up your throat to grab your jaw, pull your face towards his. "Say you're sorry."
“I’m n- not sorry." You whined, legs wobbling when his hips snapped into you, sending you reeling all over again. "You were the one ignoring me-oh!"
“I was working, you little brat." Dean sneered, fingers curling and pressing into your jaw. "How about I come to your fuckin' job and start actin' all horny and desperate? See how you like it, huh?"
You pouted, satisfied that you'd gotten him so flustered and furious. "You'd like that though. I know you would. You'd like it if I came in and-and distracted you like this? Desperate." Dean growled.
"N-No, 'm not." You whined, your voice lilting and nasally, that pitch that had his abs clenching, waves of pleasure shooting through his own body.
"You are." Dean huffed, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, the ghosting of a whine trailing. "Say you are."
"No." You whimpered, hips grinding down to meet his thrusts, desperate for friction. You were already so close.
"Say it, or you don't get to cum." Dean commanded, yanking your jaw towards him so you faced him, noses brushing. "Say you were actin' desperate or I stop. I'll cum either way, but you... fuck, you won't get to cum."
You knew he was being serious. He'd jack himself in front of you, probably tie you up and make you watch while he told you what a bad girl you were. You huffed, bratty and petulant, making Dean suck his teeth.
"I-I was..." You leaned against his chest, head lolling back in pleasure when his free hand rolled your nipples. "I was desperate." You muttered, eyes closed, refusing to look at him when you grumbled the phrase.
"Look at me." Dean growled. "You know better, look at me."
You blinked, looking at him through hazy, blurred vision, lust drunk and so close to your own orgasm that it was painful. "I-I was desperate, Dean, please." You whined, lip jutting out in the perfect pout.
His eyes flickered down to your lip, teeth baring and resisting the urge to bite your lip. Roll it between his teeth, pull it so he could hear you whine and cry. His cock twitched at the thought, hammering into you.
"Say you were a bad girl." Dean commanded, his free hand gliding down to your mound, fingers ghosting over your puffy lips, purposely avoiding your clit when he knew you were so desperate for him to touch you there- knew it would send you over the edge. "Say it."
"I-I was...a bad girl.” You sobbed, his pointer finger pressing on your clit, rubbing just enough to have you bucking in his arms, legs shaking and flooding his cock, overtook by your own orgasm.
Dean held you while you shook, slow rocks of his hips until your eyes were glassy, body still shuddering with aftershocks. "There she is. There's my bad fuckin' girl." Dean grinned, lying you against the pillows, sprawled out and whimpering.
His hips ground slow against you, feeling your spasming clenches, hearing the wet squelch that filled the room. "Can you be good for me?” Dean tilted his head to the side, tapping your cheek lightly to look at him, hovered above you with piercing eyes and flushed cheeks.
You nodded like you were high on drugs, muttering some sort of agreed nonsense. Dean snorted lightly. "My sweet girl…” He mumbled softly, looking down at you with loving eyes as all of his frustration cleared away.
just finished the Chestnut Springs/Wishing Well Ranch series & i am obsessed. i’m so depressed it’s over): ahshhdhsuwu this is me fangirling over all my fictional cowboy book boyfriends 😔🙈 ELSIE I LOVE YOU FOR BLESSING US WITH THEM
Friends to lovers is a hard trope to get right. But when it hits? It definitely hits different.
And let me tell you: Powerless hits.
Though Powerless is the third book in Elsie Silver’s Chestnut Springs series, it can 100% be read as a standalone. And though this has the Eaton ranch and the cowboys, it follows Jasper Gervais – the boy the Eatons basically adopted, who grew up to be a pro hockey player – and Sloane Winthrop, the Eaton cousin with a wealthy father, bright ballet career, and, oh, a cheating bastard of a fiancé. When she decides to become a runaway bride, the person she turns to is Jasper: her childhood crush who has turned into a loyal friend.
From there, we get a snowy, tension-filled road trip as Sloane ignores her father’s calls and a hot-but-also-funny pool table situation and an entire hotel shower and bed situation, and, y’all, once the beat drops with these two, this book is scaldingly hot. (There may or may not be a crawl-to-me moment turned up to 11.)
But there’s also a ton of emotional depth here and great character work, and a happy ending that involves what might be one of my favorite gfy moments of all time.
It’ll have you laughing and crying and smiling and gasping and cheering. It’s *so* great.
