‼️Some of these works are 18+ or atleast suggestive! Be careful of what you read on the internet. However, I'm not your big sister I can't force you to do anything‼️
Request Rules Requests: Closed
About Duckie
@loverforthestars <-- reblog account
@lovin-at-the-mermaid-motel <-- selfship account
#tmi Duckie for nonsense posts
Letterboxd Taglist Form
Recent works:
Neptune Avenue [Soldier Boy]
Is Your Belief Rooted In Honesty? [Castiel Novak]
Just Another Relaxation Session 18+ [Malchemical]
American Horror Story Masterlist
[AHS Imagines Collection here]
Grand Theft Auto V Masterlist
Evan Peters Masterlist
Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist
Jeremy Allen White Masterlist
X-Men Masterlist
Supernatural Masterlist
Outer Banks Masterlist
Multi Character M.List
C.AI/Jan.ai Bots
Character Playlists
A/N: first time writing cas, apologies if this is OOC
exams will be the end of me I swear to god.
Thinking about how Cas would wrap his wings around reader whenever they're close to him—even though they wouldn't be able to feel or see them.
If they're walking beside him? He'd wrap his wings around them.
If they catch him off guard by randomly hugging him? He'd freeze for a second, but then he'd pull them closer and then he'd wrap his wings around them. He would definitely stay like that until reader decided to pull away, being too scared to move —even the tiniest bit—in case he somehow ruined the moment with his awkwardness when it comes to human behaviours.
If they're tucked against his side while watching a movie? He'd wrap an arm and wing around them without saying a word.
If they wake up from a bad dream? He'd pull them into his lap, kissing the top of their head, mumbling something along the lines of "it was only a dream, you're safe. I've got you. I've got you," until they fall asleep again. He would then wrap his wings around them for the rest of the night and make sure they slept well.
would u perhaps write solider boy making u pee on his cock?
yes ofc! / MDNI
ben's throbbing cock ruts deep in you, your cunt pulsates as he stretches it out deliciously. he made you drink a lot of water prior to this, a whole water bottle. now the pressure in your stomach was intensifying. you whimpered "daddy, please I need to pee. let me go to the bathroom."
your hips clenched down around his cock and he groaned in response. "awww can't hold it, doll? that's too damn bad" he teased accompanied with a slap to your ass. "c'mon piss on daddy's lap like the dumb mutt you are."
you shook your head no "no that's too nasty it would get everywhere" he slapped your face so hard that your ears began ringing "stop bitchin' and cryin before I give you something to cry about" you whimpered looking right up at him. his hand came down to press against your stomach and you could feel his cock bulging.
his hand pressing down on your bladder intensified the pressure till you eventually couldn't hold it anymore and you pissed all over his cock. tears filled your eyes at how humiliated you felt as droplets of piss soaked his cock and trickled down your thighs and ass.
ben pulled his cock out "fuck, look at you, so pathetic f' me. just made a mess everyone, gonna have to lap it up with that whore mouth of yours now."
You sat cross-legged on one of the library tables, a half-finished lore book open in front of you. Sam had disappeared hours ago, he said to take a drive and do a big snack run, Dean went with him, he said for “brother bonding time” but everyone knew it was because he didn't want to do any research. Which meant you were bored. Very bored. Then you let your head fall down due to exhaustion: Thunk. You then woke back up due to the thunk.. But that didn't last long another thunk
“Are you attempting to damage the table?”
You jumped. Castiel stood beside the table, somehow appearing without making a single sound.
“Cas!”
you yelped
“You can’t just do that.”
His head tilted.
“I arrived normally.”
“You literally teleported.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not normal.”
“It is for me.”
You narrowed your eyes. He blinked back. The staring contest lasted a solid ten seconds. Then Castiel quietly slid into the chair beside you.
“What are you doing?”
you asked.
“You appeared distressed.”
“I was sleepy.”
He nodded seriously.
“As I said. Distressed.”
A sleepy laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Castiel looked oddly pleased with himself (but also confused) The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.
Well.
Comfortable for you. Castiel seemed to be studying the room as if he’d never seen a library before. Eventually he spoke again.
“Dean informed me a while back that humans often alleviate boredom through some activities.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. You weren’t sure what you expected. An angel blade? A heavenly artifact? Instead he produced a small, crumpled piece of paper. You stared.
“What’s that?”
“I conducted research.”
The way he said it made you immediately suspicious. Castiel unfolded the paper. Written in uneven handwriting was a list.
Thing to do with significant other.
You covered your mouth.
“Oh my God.”
“I found the information on the internet.”
“Of course you did.”
Castiel pointed at the first item.
“Movie marathon.”
The second.
“cuddling.”
The third.
“making out.”-
You completely lost it.
You chuckled
“making out?! we are not doing that!”
“The website rated it highly.”
“Cas, what website?”
His eyes shifted away.
“That is not important.”
“It is extremely important. it may have been written by the thirteen year old who barely got into a relationship!"
That somehow made it even better. You laughed so hard your sides hurt. Castiel watched quietly. Not confused. Not annoyed. Just… watching. As if your laughter itself was something worth paying attention to.When you finally settled down, you wiped tears from your eyes.
“Okay cas, we can cuddle”
You smiled
Castiel blinked.
“You wish to participate in the activity?”
You snorted.
“Cas, you make it sound like we’re signing a contract.”
“I do not understand.”
“Yeah, I know.”
A small smile tugged at your lips as you slid off the table and grabbed one of the blankets from the closest in the motels room, these damn rooms were always cold. You tossed the blanket onto the bed and sat down.
“Well?”
Castiel looked at the couch. Then at you. Then back at the motel bed .For a moment he appeared to be calculating something extremely complicated. Finally, he sat down. A good three feet away. You stared.
“Cas.”
“Yes?”
“That is not cuddling.”
His brow furrowed.
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered this information carefully. Then he scooted approximately two inches closer. You laughed.
“That doesn’t count either.”
“How much closer is required?”
“You’re the one who did the research.”
He sighed
“But, when people cuddle, one would hold the other"
He then nodded and got extremely close to you..
“There.”
Castiel looked down at you as he wrapped his arms around you, one around your waist and the other stroking your hair. Then he nodded.
“I believe I understand.”
“Congratulations.”
You chuckled
“Thank you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It rarely was with Castiel. The angel simply sat beside you while you pulled the blanket over both of your laps. A few minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Eventually, you're not sure when, but you two were now laying down, your head on his chest. You were warm. The kind of warm that made your eyelids feel heavier than before. The angel immediately froze. He felt you get heavier and noticed you stopped making little movements to get comfortable. Castiel froze completely. Not the normal kind of stillness he did when he was observing something. This was different. This was the kind of stillness that suggested he was actively trying to decide whether he was allowed to move at all.
“You are… heavier than before,”
he said carefully. You let out a sleepy hum against his chest.
“Thanks. That’s usually how gravity works.”
“I am aware of gravity.”
“Sure you are.”
…
“Cas, you’re thinking too hard.”
“But I didn't say anything?"
“you didn’t have too, your body is tense”
“Uhm, yes, sorry”
You hummed after that. The room went quiet again, the motel’s air conditioner rattled in the corner, struggling like it had given up on life years ago. Somewhere outside, a car passed, headlights briefly sliding across the thin curtains.Castiel looked down at you. You could feel it more than see it.
“You have stopped moving,” he said.
“I’m comfortable.”
“That is… desirable?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“I believe I am also… comfortable.”
You cracked one eye open.
“Cas, you sound so awfully formal. Just relax.”
“I am trying to be accurate.”
“You can just say it feels nice.”
His brows knitted together slightly.
“It… feels nice.”
There was a beat of silence after that, like he was testing the sentence in his mouth. Then, softer:
“It is… unusual. But not unpleasant.”
You shifted slightly, curling closer into him without thinking. His arms tightened instinctively in response just a fraction, like a reflex he didn’t fully understand yet. He noticed immediately.
“You moved again.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“to get comfy.”
His hand moved again, this time slower, resting more securely against your back. He didn’t pull away. Progress.You let out a quiet breath.
“You know,”
you mumbled
“for someone who fell from heaven, you’re really bad at relaxing.”
“One; I did not fall from heaven, I simply followed rules that were given to me and I followed. two; I am not bad at relaxing.”
“You absolutely are.”
A pause. His arms got heavier on you and his body almost sank into the bed.
“am I improving?”
He said in an almost whisper tone of voice that made you smile into his shirt.
“Yeah I’d say you’re at like… level one.”
“What are the levels?”
“I don’t know. Sleeping without looking like you’re guarding the gates of hell.”
“I have led armies, not guard, there's a difference .”
“Same energy.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then, very seriously:
“But in your terminology, I am not guarding anything right now.”
“See? Don't you feel relaxed already?”
The silence that followed was softer this time. Less uncertain. More settled. Castiel’s fingers moved slowly across your back—not quite a pattern, not quite aimless either. Like he was learning texture through repetition. Learning you. Every so often, his hand would pause, like he was double-checking that this was still allowed. You didn’t move away. Eventually, his voice came again, lower than before.
“When Dean and Sam return, will this be… acceptable behavior?”
You snorted softly.
“They’re gonna make fun of you.”
“I do not understand, why do they make fun of me?”
“It’s just what they do.”
A pause.
“…Will you stop?”
You opened your eyes fully now, tilting your head just enough to look up at him.
“Stop what?”
“This.”
His hand shifted slightly on your back, like he meant the whole situation and didn’t know how to name it properly.You shook your head.
“No.”
That answer seemed to land heavily in him. Not bad. Just… real. His grip tightened again, just a little.
“Good,” he said simply. A beat. Then, quieter:
“I would prefer this to continue.”
Your chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the blanket.
“Yeah?” you asked.
“Yes.”
He looked down at you again, and this time he didn’t look like he was studying you like a puzzle. More like he already had part of the answer and didn’t want to lose it.
…
An hour and a half later, you were fast asleep, the boys had come back and they walked into the motel room, Sam’s voice echoed faintly.
“Dean, I swear if you bought chips instead of food again—”
Dean yelled something back that didn’t sound like food at all. The normal chaos of the world trying to come back in. But Castiel didn’t move.
He adjusted slightly,carefully —deliberately and this time, when he held you closer, he didn’t let go after checking if it was allowed. His voice came once more, almost like a confession he didn’t fully understand.
“May you two quiet down?”
He asked quietly
“Oh yeah? And why's that angel?”
Dean asked, turning to look at him, and Dean's smirk fading away
“That- that's-..since when were you two a thing!?"
“For a while”
“And you didn't tell us!?”
“Actually dean, I knew, it was pretty obvious”
“No it wasn't!”
GENUINELY I'm SOOOOO tired, I wrote this yesterday but didn't feel like posting it, but here it is now.... anyways, watching a new show (the Pitt) and I'm rewatching supernatural,hope y'all enjoy
also I'm so sorry if there are any coloring mistakes with the dialogue :P
dean winchester being the type of man to push his thumbs into the dimples of your lower back to see u arch ur back for him and it makes ur knees go weak 😵💫
Mmmm yeah he is
He's fucking into you deep from behind, the pressure making your back start arching like a cat.
"C'mon, pretty. Jus' relax f'me," dean said, voice slurred with pleasure. His thumbs found the dimples of your back, gently pressing the buttons to guide you back to where he wants you. "There you go. Just gotta relax and take it."
The rough pads of his thumbs soothed at the indented skin, the friction feeling intimate enough to compete with the drag of his cock.
"Dean," you whimpered, the softness of it all making you melt into the mattress.
"I know, baby," he said, pausing his thought to place kisses all along your spine. "Just feel it."
Tears brimmed at your lids, not because of any pain or hurt but because of the tenderness. His, Dean's, huge, strong hands splayed out around your hips, the knuckle caught in the divot in a way that made chills skate all along your body.
"You're my perfect fuckin' girl, you know that? Every last dip and curve. And it's all fuckin' mine."
๋࣭⭑atlas : headcanons on how castiel would be with an autistic reader :]
๋࣭⭑binary stars : castiel x autistic!reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑classification : fluff
๋࣭⭑stellar density : 1.4k
๋࣭⭑omens : mentions of overwhelm/overstimulation, i think that's it ???
๋࣭⭑message in a bottle : requested !! i decided headcanon style was better for this bcs it was easier to get my thoughts out !! also, disclaimer; i know that every autistic person has their own unique experiences. this is not encompassing every part of being autistic because it's quite simply impossible for me to do that :]
๋࣭⭑taglist ༊彡 masterlist ༊彡 k's ama !
castiel would...
he has your safe foods in the bunker/motel room, and he knows where to get them if you run out. he remembers which diners have safe food and which ones have your 'safe food', but make it incorrectly. He definitely has a trench coat pocket dedicated to safe snacks for you in case the place you're eating at doesn't have anything for you, or if you've gone too long without eating something. He's very good at knowing when you're putting off nutrition or water, and he's very good at getting you to eat or drink something without making you feel cramped or pressured
he catalogues your texture issues and makes sure any clothes you buy or food you eat doesn't have offensive textures. Upon discovering his trench coat was comforting to you but that the texture made you want to cry, he went with you and bought a new one with a texture you approved of, wearing it everywhere so that it would have his warmth in the fabric for you when you need the comfort. He's very accomodating of any changes in your texture tolerances, and doesn't ever get mad at you for having those things change, even when it's a little inconvenient to him. He's patient with you because he loves you, not because he has to be patient
if you have issues with touch he is plenty content to just sit with you instead. Even though he sometimes wants that physical affection from you, he never puts your issues with it in second place. To him, that's the most important thing; that you're comfortable, safe, and that you feel okay enough to be around him, even when you can't handle him touching you. He always keeps it an option for you in case you change your mind, but he is perfectly happy to sit beside you and do his own thing while you do whatever it is that you're doing
if you're someone with hyperfixations/special interests he is more than happy to listen to you talk about them. If it's a book, he's finding any copies of it that he can for you so that you can have special versions of it. If it's a show or a movie, he'll watch it with you however many times you want, whenever you ask. If it's something you read in a book, or a topic you learned somewhere, he'll let you tell him everything about it, even if he already knows it. If it's a hobby, he'll buy you supplies for it or locate them from wherever he can find them for you. He never makes you feel bad for abandoning an interest either; moving on is a normal part of life, he affirms you. Never feel bad for that.
he never makes you feel small for being different. If other people aren't welcoming of you, he's a safe place you can retreat to when it's too much. He never makes you feel like you're less than him for having those differences, and he will do anything he can to accomodate you. Even if that means talking someone off and using a bit of his angel mojo to make sure they don't bother you, no matter how many times you've told him to stop doing that. He finds there's something special in you with the way that you are, something that sets you apart and makes you beyond valuable. He listens when you speak, treasures all your input, even if it ends up being wrong or not something they can use at that point
he becomes a safe place for you when you're feeling overwhelmed. One of the benefits of dating an angel is that he has a control over situations you don't have. If it's too loud or too bright somewhere, he can dim the lights or muffle the sound for you without having it affect anyone else in the space. He finds his eyes sensitive to the light, so the lamp is the only thing on in your bedroom when the overhead light is too bright and overstimulating. He'll walk with you if you need to get up and move, if you need to leave the room he's right behind you, and if you're getting to a point where you're worried you might snap, he's quick to diffuse the situation and make sure you have time to calm down in a safe place. Even if you're in the middle of nowhere, he learns to manipulate his presence into something safe for you, something you can lean on when you need it, and something you never have to feel guilty for needing
if eye contact is a struggle for you he never expects you to look at him. In fact, as an angel, he's much more comfortable with people looking away from him; even though he lives in a human vessel, he still has a continual fear that someone might see his true form by accident. He's more than happy if you look anywhere but at him, because it soothes your discomfort and his fear at the same time. He never expects eye contact from you, and any time you do look him in the eyes, he takes the moment to commit your eye colour to memory and tell you how beautiful they are. Where he'd normally comfort people by saying 'look at me', he comforts you by asking you to 'be here with me'
if you're overwhelmed to the point of panic he doesn't leave you alone. He doesn't leave you to flounder in those emotions by yourself. Instead, he offers you a hand to hold if you'd like, a quiet place to move to when you're ready, and all the time in the world to talk and be with him until you feel better. He takes your emotional regulation very seriously, and he never wants you to push your feelings down for something he likes. He understands you, and if there's something he misses, he wants to learn what it is so that he can help you better in the future. It matters to him that you feel safe enough with him to let yourself panic or get overwhelmed or cry about something, and if you don't feel like you can do that with him, he does everything he can to help you. You get the final say, always, but he needs you to know that he's always there for you
if you're a person who fidgets a lot he has something with him for you. Even if you have your own, he has extras in case you lose one or break one by accident. If you're stuck somewhere without a toy to fidget with or anything like that, he offers up the hem of his jacket, his fingers, the plush of his arm or his thigh. Even the laces on his shoes if you need a string to tie into knots. Because he's an angel, if you're someone who picks at your skin often, he is always there to heal it after; the beds of your nails, your chapped lips, the bumps on your skin that stubbornly never seem to leave. He's there to either be your fidget or help you heal after using your fidgets. Whatever works for you, he will accomodate
the only downside is that he, too, takes things very literally. Sometimes he can help you distinguish when someone means something literally or not, but sometimes he's just as lost as you are, and it's the blind leading the blind. There's a humour to that situation, but it does get frustrating. Cas has made sure Sam is willing to help in those situations, because he recognizes when the both of you need clarification. Just like Cas, Sam is patient with you and patient while explaining it, even if you don't understand why they don't mean what they said. He'll talk you through it and explain it as best he can, because he also wants you to feel comfortable. He helps because he cares, but he also helps because Cas asked him to, and nobody loves you more than Cas does
summary: sam's raised you from the moment you were born until adulthood. getting hurt on a hunt shows you that while you're not a child anymore, you'll always be sam's kid
pairing: sam x daughter!reader ft. dean | genre: angst w/ fluffy ending | word count: 7.1k
warnings: reader is sam and jess's daughter (no physical features described, although reader is written to be white), sam is trying his best to be a good dad, typical hunting injuries, scared sam, one use of the word 'fuck' (he's scared okay ? leave him alone </3), caring dad!sam and dean being a good uncle
notes: requested !! we trying something new and different this time !!!! t'was a fun experiment, i've considered writing dad!sam before but never with a reader as his kid, so this was kinda fun :] also i think i should mention; reader is written as an adult in this fic. italics represent the flashbacks, normal text is the present btw :]
taglist
It happens so fast.
One second, you’re off to his right, gun held in front of you with the kind of military precision that comes from years of learning to keep yourself alive in the toughest battlefields. You’re scoping the room, checking all the shadows and the corners, just like Sam taught you. One foot in front of the other, steps quiet but sure, toes of your boots testing the ground under them with each movement, assuring the floor is sturdy enough for your weight. The safety clicks off, fingers readjusting their grip on the gun and wrapping tight around the handle, thumb sweeping along the barrel once. Something cracks and your head whips around, Sam wincing just slightly at the force of it, ears listening for words from you or Dean, eyes watching for the thing you’re hunting.
The next second, you’re falling, and you’re falling hard. Your body curls in on itself, thrown backward with a force Sam’s never quite seen before. Or maybe he has, but he’s never seen it directed at you. You land, body bending backward in a way that would be almost comical to Sam if it wasn’t happening to you before his very eyes. A trail of red immediately curls down your temple, trailing back into your hair and staining the strands some raspberry colour that would be pretty if it weren’t made of your blood. A dark patch of it blooms on the fabric of your shirt, soaking into the cotton and sticking the fibers to your skin. Your name gets caught in Sam’s throat before it makes it out of his mouth, the letters dying on his tongue the moment they appear.
You’re nestled in Sam’s arms, one arm under your shoulders and the other under your knees, head lolling against his chest as he cradles you close. He remembers doing this with you when you were just a little kid, running to him in your carefully tied shoes, asking for him to carry you. He’d scoop you up and hold you close, just like he is now. Except this time, it’s not to comfort you after a scraped knee, or to swing you through the air while you ask if this is how it feels to fly. This time, it’s to move you from the Impala to your bedroom, mind only half paying attention to the mud and droplets of your blood that Sam’s boots track through the bunker. Dean’s somewhere ahead of him, opening the door to your bedroom and disappearing immediately to find supplies; needle and thread, no doubt. Alcohol too, for the cleaning, and maybe a bit to take Sam’s mind off of the fact it’s his daughter’s body he’s putting back together.
Sam lays your body carefully on the bed, only partly paying attention to the blood that’s staining your bedsheets. He’ll change them later when he knows you’re not bleeding out in his arms. He arranges your limbs carefully, settling each one into a position that will be comfortable if you happen to wake up while he’s working, but also keeps the areas he needs accessible. Something about your lashes fluttering softly against your cheeks reminds him painfully of Jess; you’ve inherited the little things. That shine in your eyes when you learn something new that you’re particularly fond of. The little smile you give Sam when he brings you a book, or breakfast, or some random trinket he thought you might like. The rosiness to your cheeks when you’re out in the sun, and the way the sun glances off your hair like it belongs there, tangled in the wild strands.
He goes to stand, goes to meet Dean for the supplies, but something stops him. Your body looks so fragile lying there, hands curled lightly around the ghost of your gun that he’d taken off you in his haste, hair blown around you like the cracked halo of a fallen angel. The strands spread against the pillow, the same spider webbing as the cracks in the ceiling above you, and for a brief moment, Sam is too afraid to look up lest your body be trapped there like Jess’s was. He thanks whatever gods exist every day that you were in the other room when it happened. That you never saw your mother up there on the ceiling, burning. That he had the conscience to scoop up your little body and clutch you close to his chest while Dean guided him through the thick smoke of the fire.
One trembling hand brushes the blood-smeared hair back from your forehead, your skin looking so pale and ashen under the clinical bunker lighting. Sam yearns for the colour to come back to your cheeks just from his touch alone, but he knows it’s not going to happen, not unless he can fix you up like he promised to on the drive back home. His quivering cracked lips press a soft kiss to the skin of your forehead, a ghostly press of skin on skin that he hopes fruitlessly will wake you up like it woke up all those fairy tale princesses he used to tell you about. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it softly and moving only when Dean comes back with the materials, setting them on the table and resting a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I can do it, if you want,” Dean says, jutting his chin in your direction.
“No-. No. I have to,” Sam replies, shaky, clearing his throat. “I have to.”
“Sammy, y’don’t have to do anything.”
“Dean-.” He swallows hard. “I have to.”
Then, quieter.
“I promised her I would.”
Dean nods, eyes darting around the room. “You don’t have to do this to yourself.”
“I’m her father, Dean. I need to do this.”
“Sam.”
“If she wakes up, I need to be there. I promised her I wasn’t gonna leave her for anything, Dean. Not even this.”
Dean sighs. The heavy kind, that sits in his ribs and pushes its way out. He’s not mad; he’s far from mad. He’s just absorbing it all, taking everything in and sorting it out in that Dean Winchester way. He’s never seen his little brother this scared. Not when John died, not even when Sam himself died. Back then, he was brave, sacrificing himself in ways nobody should ever have to. Now, there’s an anxious tremor in Sam’s hands that will only stop when you’re stitched up and as comfortable as you can be.
“Alright. Alright, Sammy. You’ve got her.”
Sam nods. “I got her.”
When you hit the floor, Sam’s world goes dark. Everything stops existing. It’s just you, on your back, blood trailing down your skin and onto the cobbled tiles underneath you. Skin already losing colour, but your eyes stay open, terrified, watching. You try to speak, but nothing comes out other than a garbled sound of pain and fear that could be ‘Dad’ but could also be ‘help’, or ‘no’, or ‘please’. Sam’s never moved this fast before, because suddenly it’s his kid on the floor, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to you immediately. The monster makes a taunting sound that could be laughter, disappearing somewhere else, in search of a new target; Dean. Somehow, the fact Dean’s in danger doesn’t even cross Sam’s mind, not when you’re lying there just in his reach.
He clambers over to you, shoes catching in chips in the stones, slipping in the growing puddle of your blood at your side, voice already going rough from screaming your name. His hands hurriedly run up and down your sides, assessing the damage, pressing at your skin and fluttering away when you wince at his touch. His palms come away stained red, the colour draining from your face at the sight.
“’S that mine?” you ask weakly.
“No, sweetheart. Don’t think about it.”
“Dad-.”
He watches you with sad eyes, the kind that are scared and trying not to show it around you. The kind that’s hoping he’s sealed all the cracks in his heart well enough that he doesn’t start bleeding out with you on the floor. The kind of eyes that look at you and understand you need to know the truth about your situation.
“Did you hit something when you fell?”
You frown, already slipping into unconsciousness.
“Hey, hey. You gotta look at me,” Sam says, panicked.
“’M looking.”
“Did you hit anything?”
You slowly shake your head, groaning. “Nail.”
“Nail?”
You nod, swallowing. “Nail. Fingers. Fingernails.”
“They cut you?”
“Yeah.”
You blink, slow. “Dad?”
“Right here,” Sam says. “I’m right here.”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so small and quiet that it shatters Sam’s heart down the middle and breaks the halves into a thousand small pieces. They pierce his body, flooding his veins with hundreds of tiny knives, sticking into his skin like the spines on a burr. Poison in his body, blood running cold.
“It’s okay,” Sam promises. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” you reply.
“You will be. ‘M not gonna let anything happen to you.”
You smile, soft and slow, warm in the way that melts Sam’s heart. “I know.”
The blood is sticky in its half-dried state. Both Sam’s jacket and your shirt cling to your wound with the persistent attachment of a nightmare in waking hours. Sam feels bad for having to take your shirt off, pointedly looking away from your bare chest as he works at the wound on your side. A cursory examination of your back determines it’s nothing more than horrifically bruised, your skin already starting to turn a mottled blue and purple patchwork. Sam distantly remembers Jess bruising easily, and he’s forever glad you don’t seem to follow in her footsteps; but when you do bruise, you bruise nasty, the kind of bruise that sticks around for weeks longer than it needs to.
Dean took the liberty of threading the needle for Sam. A wise decision, given how bad his hands are trembling right now. He wouldn’t be able to hold the needle straight enough to thread it, let alone hold the thread steady to slide it into the eye. Instead, he reaches for a rag and soaks it in alcohol, whispering an apology to your unconscious form as he presses the rag to your wound. Your muscles flinch around his touches, a low whine that’s almost impossible to hear dragging itself from your chest with the energy of a man who’s been buried alive and risen from the grave. Sam wipes away at the edges of your wound with tenderness, the rag coming away pinker and pinker each time.
When he turns his attention to your main wound, he shrinks back on himself in pain. Not physical pain, because he’s not the one with a raw, angry wound in his side. Mental pain, the kind of pain that comes from believing you’ve failed the very thing you promised yourself to never fail. The kind of pain that comes from promising your dead girlfriend you’ll take care of your baby and protect her with your life and now seeing her lying there injured on the table before you. Sam swallows harsh, the sound catching in his throat and struggling to get down. Your fingers twitch against the sheets, a feeble attempt a reassurance. Sam’s lips quirk up of their volition, because a twitch means you’re alive, and in a bid to protect your privacy, he hasn’t been looking at the rise and fall of your chest so much as he’s been listening for the weak sound of your breaths.
The steady in and out of the needle through your skin makes Sam sigh heavy every time he thinks you’d be groaning in pain if you were awake. The mottled bruising on your skin is only getting darker the longer he works, and he’s afraid for you when you wake up and the feeling of it all hits you at once. He’ll have to make sure he brings you painkillers as soon as he’s done here, so that they can sit on the table and be ready for you when you decide to come back to his world. He works in silence, only pausing to wipe away blood or clear his throat before addressing Dean every time he pops in. Dean keeps his distance as promised, because he knows better than to distract Sam from this mission to keep you alive. But he talks, telling Sam anything and everything that comes to mind, in an attempt to keep his brother’s head on straight. Because when you wake up, and it is a when, not an if, Sam needs to be in his right mind to care for you. Because you’ll be asking for him if he’s not there, and as much as you love Dean as an uncle, nothing reassures you more than Sam’s steady presence, calm and right.
Tying off the last stitch, Sam dresses your wounds with careful precision, treating you as if you were awake and there to tell if something pinches or sits wrong, or too tight. He doesn’t dare try and put a shirt back on you, instead settling for spreading a clean sheet over your body and tucking it under your chin like he did when you were small. Something in him cracks at the bottom sheet being a little bloody, but he promises himself that’ll be the first thing he does tomorrow morning. Dean will help lift you while he changes the sheets, and Sam will settle you in the way you like. A clean cloth is run over your forehead by Sam’s hand, much steadier now that you’re breathing normally again and the lines on your face have devolved into something like casual acceptance of the pain. He’ll help you shower later, when you can sit up for long enough to sit in the bath.
In and out. In and out. It’s all he can think of while he kneels beside your body on the floor. In and out. One, two, three. In and out. In and-. Out. Quicker and quicker he breathes, each lung full of air compressing his chest from the inside out, determined to find a way out of his body that isn’t through his mouth or his nose. It shoves itself against his rib cage, rattling his heart and squeezing it until it’s too big for his skin and too small for his body to hold on to. It falls to the floor under his knees, spilling out onto the ground in the kind of way that can never really be recovered. Hands shaking, he reaches for your shoulders, tapping them, shaking them, determined to keep you awake and moving if it’s the last thing he does. The spirit isn’t even on his mind anymore, because there’s something more important to worry about; you.
Sam can hear Dean yelling something in the distance, something heavy and harsh and laden with curses. The kind he normally wouldn’t say around you even though you’re an adult. The kind that says he’s just as scared for you as Sam is, because something bad is happening to someone he loves, and he couldn’t prevent it. Sam knows there’s a harsh kind of vengeance in Dean’s blood right now, hand no doubt gripped tight around the lighter and another around his rock-salt gun as he digs up the bones. There’s a flicker of light when Dean drops the lighter into the ground, the pale colour of the flames only making your corpse seem more ashen-faced and cold, lips turning blue against the night air. You’re still breathing, and Sam counts each breath reverently, hands fluttering over you because he needs to keep them busy. He moves from your face down your body, checking and re-checking the state of your injuries, cataloguing them with the kind of careful precision that burns him from the inside out if he does it wrong or misses a spot. If he misjudges the condition you’re in, he’ll never forgive himself for it; he already won’t forgive himself for letting you get hurt like this.
The voices yelling in his head are loud. They scream your name, and Sam’s pretty sure half of them scream your name through his throat, the sounds raw and ragged and accompanied by rough pleas for your safety and promises you’ll be okay. His chest hurts, eyes burning with unshed tears, because he can’t let you see him cry. Not now, not when you need him to be strong enough for the both of you. He’ll cry later when you’re awake, and he’ll shamelessly let his tears track down his cheeks and drip into your hair. Now, he has to be strong, he has to be brave, he has to be what Jess made him promise to be for you. He has to be your saviour and your guardian angel, and he has to be the one bright light in the darkness of your life.
A scream rings out, one that sounds unearthly and harsh. It tears through the air like it’s ripping it apart at the seams, collapsing in on itself and echoing outward in the kind of death shriek of a dying spirit. Dean’s voice shouts something in triumph, boots scuffing on dirt as he kicks a bit over the dying embers. He keeps talking for Sam’s sake, voice getting louder and clearer as he enters the room you’re both in. Dean’s face goes pale at the sight of you on the floor, and even paler still at the sheer panic written across Sam’s features. It takes a lot to phase Sam, especially now given all that he’s been through. And this rocks him to his very core.
Sam’s arms are warm where he scoops you up, cradling you against his chest with your head over his heart. He runs, as fast as he dares to run without jostling you too much. You’re not awake anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel any pain, and that doesn’t mean Sam won’t stop acting like you are. He talks to you as he runs, murmuring softly to you the same way he did when you were small and woke him up when you had bad dreams. He’d cradle you then too, running a hand through your hair and talking to you for hours until you fell back asleep against his chest with a tiny hand clenched into the fabric of his shirt. Now, your hands rest uselessly over your stomach, bouncing when Sam takes a longer stride and hits the ground harder. He rests a hand over your head when he bundles you into the back seat of the Impala, stripping off his jacket and pressing it against your wound. He slides in beside you, your head on his lap and his hand in your hair, keeping pressure on the jacket over your wound while Dean drives as fast as the car will let him go.
Your bedroom in the bunker is quiet, the only sounds coming from your and Sam’s breathing, and the persistent hum of the ancient heater. The pipes in the walls spring to life briefly when Dean showers, the click of water starting to rush through the metal making Sam jump in his seat at the side of your bed. He’s taken a chair hostage from the kitchen, pulling it through the halls and setting it beside your bed, angled so that he can see the doorway and keep an eye over your sleeping form. You’re sleeping for real, he knows. Not the unconsciousness from earlier; this is true sleep, and he knows by the way your breaths have stayed steady but slowly become full. No more stutter on the inhale, no more fluttering air on the exhale. A proper breath, full in its entirety, passing lightly through your nose with a hint of a sound. A light, breathy sound, one that’s not properly snoring but isn’t nothing. The same kind of sound Jess made in her sleep when Sam had her tucked against his chest after night spent studying.
Immediately after settling you in under the blankets, Sam went on a mission. First, a thicker blanket, because your room has a habit of being colder than the rest of the bunker for reasons he hasn’t quite figured out yet. Second, a glass of water and painkillers, which he sets carefully on the table beside you. They taste awful and Sam knows it, but he also know given the extent of your bruising, they’ll probably be the first thing you ask for once you can formulate proper questions. Third, at Dean’s insistence he takes the quickest shower known to mankind and gives himself the grace of putting on clothes that aren’t stained with dirt and blood. Washing the pink down the drain feels like he’s getting stabbed all over again, but the moment it’s gone brings him the kind of relief he never thought he’d feel again.
Now, he sits vigil at your bedside. Not even a book in hand, because reading means taking his eyes off you, and taking his eyes off you means he could miss the moment you wake up. He doesn’t consider the alternative, because he has to believe that you’ll wake up. You always do, he reasons with himself. You’re a Winchester. Winchesters don’t get the blessing of death so young. Each rise and fall of your now covered chest is tracked by his eyes, Sam’s hand occasionally drifting toward your wrist and taking your pulse. Counting the numbers steady in his head, an eye on his watch to count a whole minute. It spikes once, somewhere around five in the morning, and Sam murmurs to you under his breath like he did when you were young until the furrow in your brow disappears and whatever dream plagued you has passed.
With nothing else to do but watch you sleep, Sam talks. He doesn’t dare fall asleep; not tonight. Not when you’re vulnerable to your injury, and not when he’s vulnerable to his emotions. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried, his mind running a hundred miles an hour and throwing the worst at him from every angle. So, he talks. He tells you things he knows he’s told you before, and he tells you things he’s kept secret and will keep secret until the day he dies. He tells you things that would make you cry if you were awake, and he tells you the little things from when you were young that would make your face flush red in embarrassment. He tells them because he has to. He needs the silence in the room to understand how important you are to him. He needs the bunker to understand it has to wake you up at some point and bring you back to him. Sam needs his daughter, because without you, he’s not much of anything.
He tells you first about when Jess told him she was pregnant. A mistake, he knows for a fact. They were in college for heaven’s sake, neither of them had the time for a baby. But that wasn’t going to stop him from loving both his girls with everything he has, because Sam is nothing if not a lover. He tells you about how he cared for Jess, making sure he attended lectures in her absence and brought her review packets and textbook work and set up exams so that she could take them without having to go very far. He tells you about how he sat beside her just like this in the hospital, watching the both of you sleep after you were born. He tells you about bringing you back to the apartment, and how much it meant that his college friends were there for him and Jess; helping out when there was homework and studying to do, keeping you entertained while they wrote exams, bringing you little gifts when they saw you.
Sam doesn’t tell you about the fire, because he can’t bring himself to talk about it right now. The fire that killed his lover has no place in the room today, not when you’re lying there just as immobile as she was on the ceiling. Instead, he tells you about the first night he took you on the road with Dean, the night after the fire. Where he sat with you in his lap the entire drive, and worried incessantly about how he was going to explain a nearly seven-month-old baby to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to care very much beyond a bit of casual teasing.
Then, he worried about how he was supposed to tell his dad about you. John, the man Sam swore he’d never become. The man who responded to everything with anger, the one who never explained why he was angry, the one who let everyone flounder in the confusion of being in trouble and never knowing why. Everything Sam hates about himself, he hates because they’re the parts that are most like John. Everything Sam tolerates about himself, and everything he loves about you, he loves because they’re nothing like his father. They’re every bit like Jess, or maybe him, or even a little bit of Dean. The parts that reminds him that he’s more than his father’s failures.
After that, he hops around a bit. He doesn’t follow a timeline anymore, because everything he tells you doesn’t need a date and time to mean something. Sam talks about all the late-night conversations he had with Dean about you. About whether it was better to leave you with Bobby, even though it tore him up inside to let you out of his sight. You, the last living proof of Jess. The part of his life he treasured the most. He talks about all the times he made Dean promise that no matter what, you come first. All the times he sat Dean down and said that if the both of you are in danger, Dean has to promise to get you safe before he even thinks about coming back for Sam. No heroics to try and save the both of you at once; just a solid promise that you come first, always. He tells you about bringing you to school and the joy he got from meeting your friends, and then he tells you about how much it hurt him to have to take you away from those friends. He talks about all the memories of your childhood with the people who meant the most; Bobby, the roadhouse gang to an extent, the tiniest bit of joy John got from learning he was a grandfather. A poor excuse for one, but still one, nonetheless.
He talks the entire night, hoping that his words are enough to keep away the shadowed parts of the room that threaten to engulf your figure and never let it go again. He sits with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced together and he sits until his back starts getting sore. And then he ignores it and sits longer, because you still haven’t woken up yet, and he needs to be beside you when you do. He gets up once to refill his own glass of water, and he’s only gone for as short as he possibly can be. He watches your body for any signs of waking. Every twitch of your hand, every shift of your leg against the bedsheets, every sigh from your mouth when you settle that gets closer and closer to the kind of sigh that wakes you up every morning.
At some point, he grows restless, shifting in his chair with the kind of nervous energy that comes from a man who’s been counting the hours you sleep and is getting worried you’re not waking up fast enough. He knows its morning because Dean shows up with a paper plate and some half-burnt toast, nudging it in Sam’s direction with the authority of someone who won’t leave the room until the toast is gone. Dean hovers in the corner as Sam eats, prompting him with small talk that Sam barely bothers entertaining. He gives just enough of an answer that Dean won’t press, but keep it vague, because even now he doesn’t need his brother to know everything going on inside his head.
“Should get outta that chair, Sammy,” Dean comments.
“Not until-.”
“Not until she wakes up, you said that.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
Dean shrugs, serious. “I know you weren’t. You’re still gonna wear a hole in the floor if y’keep bouncin’ your leg like that.”
Sam’s leg stills, the energy dispelling into his hands that start twisting nervously in his lap. Dean sighs, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and dragging him upright.
“C’mon, just...just stand up for a few minutes,” Dean says, quiet. “You’ve been sittin’ there all night.”
Slow, Sam stretches his aching limbs, stiff at the joints from hours of sitting cramped in the chair that’s too small for him. A yawn escapes him when he puts his arms over his head and stretches out his back, Dean’s expression turning sympathetic in response.
“Did y’sleep at all?” Dean asks, hand on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s look tells him everything he needs to hear. He’s expecting Dean to force him into the chair or maybe drag him to his own room and push him into the bed. He’s expecting a lecture about sleep deprivation being no use to you if Sam drops from exhaustion before you even wake up. He’s expecting something, anything. A shout, a curse, even a slap across the face.
Instead, Dean murmurs his name and tugs him in by the shoulders, big hands wrapping around his back. Dean doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t rub circles or trace patterns or even pat his back when a tear escapes his eye. He just stands, lightly rocking them side to side, holding Sam tight to his chest in the quiet of the room. Slowly, Sam exhales a shuddering breath into the room, giving the air something to sing about. A breath of exhaustion, of sorrow, tinged at the edges with guilt. And Dean sees right through him.
“Don’t start thinkin’ about it, Sammy,” he warns.
“’M not thinking anything.”
“You are, I can hear it in that giant head of yours.”
Sam gives him the tiniest hint of a smile. “Should’ve been faster.”
Dean’s expression crumples. “Sammy, don’t.”
“I should’ve.”
“It wouldn’t’ve mattered. Bastard was invisible the whole time, you couldn’t’ve shot it.”
“I could’ve tried.”
“You gotta stop dragging yourself for things like that, man,” Dean pleads. “It happened. It’s over. She’ll wake up and it’ll be like nothing changed.”
“Everything changed, Dean. I broke a promise.”
Dean frowns, pulling away and holding Sam at arm’s length. “Promise? What promise?”
Sam swallows, thick. “I promised Jess I’d keep her safe.”
“You did.”
Sam’s head shakes violently. “No, Dean. I didn’t. She’s lying there because I messed up. She’s lying there because I couldn’t do what I promised her I’d do.”
The end of his sentence rises, voice getting louder in his frustration. Dean shushes him with a murmur and a gesture of his hand, jutting his head in your direction.
“Okay, Sammy. Okay. I get it. But she’s alive because of you. Don’t forget that.”
Dean gives him one last hug, then leaves the room. Sam stays frozen in place, eyes watching the drag path Dean tracked to the door, the handle rattling lightly as it closes behind him. Slowly, his feet wander back to the chair at the bedside, big hands smoothing down the blankets around you shoulders and grabbing tight to your smaller one.
“Hey sweetheart. I’m sorry about all this. I don’t know if you can hear me, but-.” He pauses, sharp. “I’m sorry. I promised to protect you, and- and now you’re hurt ‘cause I didn’t do that. You gotta wake up for me, okay? I need-. I-. You gotta wake up. Please.”
Squeezing your hand once again, he lets it drop to the mattress, fingers still lingering on your skin. Your fingers twitch in reply, giving him hope that you’re approaching consciousness, but you still don’t open your eyes. He takes your pulse again, watches your chest rise and fall, analysing you. He can tell you’re slowly drifting awake; it’s just a matter of how much time he has until your eyes finally flutter open. One quick decision and he’s on his feet, walking as fast as he can to pick up some clothes for you to wear if you’re cold. A Stanford hoodie that used to be his and then got stolen by Jess before you claimed it. Sweatpants that Sam bought you years ago that never managed to fit you right yet somehow ended up being the comfiest pair you own. When you wake up, you’ll judge if you’re well enough to handle getting into other clothes.
When your eyes finally creak open, it’s midafternoon. The door to your room is slightly ajar, light from the hallway spilling in through the gap. It trails across the floor in thin stripes of warmth, yellow and gold and some dark kind of orange; the bunker lighting, you recognize. You’re home. You’re under a blanket that’s a little thin for your liking, and you can feel what seems to be a thicker one bundled up at your feet. Perhaps waiting for permission from your body to cover you or waiting for hands other than yours to move it on your behalf. Upon careful inspection, you realize you can move all your limbs, although moving anything comes with a sharp sting of pain up your side, the crinkling of bandages alerting you to the notion that you should stay as still as you possibly can.
Turning your head is slow. There’s a crick in your neck that’s getting harsher by the minute, eating up your spinal cord and tearing into the muscles of your back. Clearly, you’ve been still for way too long, confined to your back with barely any room to move from it. Finally, your eyes land on a familiar shape hunched in a chair. Long legs stretched out across the floor, socked feet with one toe sticking out through a hole in the right sock. Rough jeans, tattered and worn with a crudely made patch over one knee. Dark shirt and light flannel covering a broad chest with arms crossed in front of it, head tipped down and chin rising and falling with the motions. Dark hair and scruffy stubble covering the barely sleeping face that only belongs to one man you know.
Clearing your throat and wincing at the harsh ache in it, you tip your chin up toward him.
“Dad?”
Your voice is so quiet you’re not sure how he heard you, but he’s been tuned to you since the day you were born. Sam’s head shoots upright, hands scrambling to hold on to yours as his eyes find yours fully open and staring at him.
“Hi,” he murmurs, hands squeezing yours. “How’re you feeling?”
“Hurts,” you whisper.
He gives you a sad smile. “I bet.”
Nudging painkillers and water toward you, he leans forward so that his knees are resting on your mattress. His hand falls to the top of your head, stroking your hair as you take the medication, cradling it as you fall back onto the pillows, drained.
“Dad, what-.”
“Shh. It’s okay, kiddo.”
“I know it’s okay. I wanna know what happened.”
“You sure? I don’t wanna scare you.”
You give a soft grin. “You won’t scare me. I’m alive, see? It’s fine.”
“I- I know that. I just-.”
Your eyes meet his, and you can see the residual traces of fear locked in them. “Did I scare you?”
Sam frowns. “What?”
“When I went down. Did I scare you?”
Sam’s hand tightens on yours, then relaxes, like he’s reminding himself whatever is playing in his head isn’t real.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did. You scared me so fucking much.”
You look up at him with those eyes; the ones that have all of Jess’s beauty and all of Sam’s persuasion.
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs, the sound broken. “Oh, god, don’t apologize for that.”
“I’m…sorry…?” you say, realizing halfway through that you’re still apologizing.
For the first time all day, Sam gets a real smile across his face, dimple finally greeting you underneath the scruff on his jaw. You laugh a little too, stopping immediately when your spine starts to ache all the way across the muscles.
“Careful,” Sam warns, steadying you.
“Did I break my ribs?” you ask, groaning in frustration.
“Not this time. Your spine might be black and blue for a month though.”
“What else?” you mumble bitterly.
Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I had to stitch up your side, but…does anything else hurt?”
You pause, assessing. “My head, I think. I remember hitting it.”
Sam nods. “You did.”
You’re quiet for a moment, letting Sam rock slightly in his chair. Tipping it back on the back legs, letting it fall forward and catching it before it can thud on the ground.
“You hungry?” Sam asks, quiet. “I can make you something.”
You shrug as best you can. “I dunno. Can you-.” You gesture to the blanket. “Can you put that on, please?”
Sam nods, taking the edge of the blanket in his hands and draping it over your body. You sigh when the warmth stays trapped against your skin, settling deeper into your pillow. You remember those same hands smoothing blankets over you when you got sick as a kid, tucking pillows under your head and taking your temperature with the back of a hand pressed to your skin. You remember those hands picking you up and carrying you around, and when you got too big to be carried on the regular, those hands would rest on your shoulders and keep you from running off on him. Clasped around your hand at the park, walking with you to motel check-out desks and placing bandages over scraped knees in parking lots.
“Better?” Sam asks when you’re settled.
“Mhm. Better.”
“Good.”
Sam’s hands fiddle nervously in his lap, clearly debating what to say next. He takes a deep breath, one that makes his lungs feel like rubber balloons, and exhales slow and heavy, the kind that says he has words to say but doesn’t know how to string them together.
“I, uh,” he starts, eloquently. “I wanted to apologize.”
You freeze.
“Why?” you ask, wary.
“Because I broke our promise. I broke your mother’s promise.”
Your brows scrunch together, genuine confusion painted on your features.
“What promise?”
“I promised you both that I’d keep you safe.”
You nod. “I know.”
“And I didn’t do that. And I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”
“Dad-.”
“When you went down, all I could think about was what was gonna happen to you. And I froze. For a minute, I just froze. And I let you get hurt. And I’m sorry that I let you down like that.”
“It’s not your fault, you know that, right?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m supposed to look out for you. Protect you. Keep you safe. ‘Nd I didn’t and now look where we are.”
“We’re home.”
“We’re- what?”
“You said look where we are. We’re home. We’re safe. I’m okay.”
“But I promised…” he says, trailing off quietly.
“I know what you promised. You didn’t break it, trust me. If you did, I wouldn’t be lying here feeling like I got ran over by a truck. If you didn’t protect me, I’d be dead, Dad.”
“I-.”
You shift, letting him see you properly.
“When I was lying there and you told me I was going to be okay, I believed you. I always do. Because I know if you’re there, it’ll always be okay. That means more to me than this one thing does.”
Sam nods, eyes looking a little teary.
“I just worry because-.” He swallows thick around the emotion. “Because I couldn’t save Jess. And I feel awful for it because she was supposed to be there for all of it.”
“What happened to Mom isn’t your fault either.”
“I never said it was my fault. I just said I couldn’t save her. I feel like- like if I can keep you from ever getting hurt, I’ll…I don’t know. Avenge myself or something. Make up for it.”
Your features soften, heart melting a bit at the admission. Sam’s an emotional guy, and he’s never tried to hide any of that from you. But something about this raw honesty hits you hard in the chest, punching the air out of your lungs. Neither of you speak for a while. Sam just sits beside you, scrubbing a heavy hand down his face and keeping close. Keeping you steady, because putting on a calm front for you is his way of keeping himself under control. He doesn’t let more than a few tears fall, but it’s cathartic anyway.
“Hey, dad?” you say, breaking the silence.
“Hm? What’s wrong?”
You smile. “Nothing’s wrong. ‘M just hungry, that’s all.”
Sam’s eyes light up. “That’s a good sign. What do you want?”
“Dunno,” you muse. “Soup’s good.”
“I’ll bring you soup. Want anything else?”
You shake your head.
“I’ll just tell Dean you’re awake,” Sam says.
“Okay,” you whisper, settling into bed.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Sam says. “I love you so much, sweetheart.”
“Love you,” you murmur.
Sam bends quick to press a soft kiss to your hair, thumb brushing soft against your shoulder.
“I’ll help you get a sweater on after, okay?” he asks.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re just a child. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“I’m a whole adult,” you whine.
Sam grins. “You’re still my kid. Sit still while I get your soup, okay?”
“Okay.”
Warm soup, warm blankets, Sam’s warm hands helping you slip the warm hoodie over your shoulder. Dean’s cheery voice checking in on you when he gets in the room, poking fun at Sam for being so worried. His eyes hold the same concern as his brother though, because you really did scare the both of them. Sam’s warm arms hugging you close when he helps you settle in for bed, squeezing you as tight as he dares with one hand cradling your head like he did when you were a little girl scared of storms. To him, you really are still just his kid. And he’ll love you like it for the rest of time.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a too-friendly little town keeps stranding couples for sacrifice, so dean decides the obvious solution is pretending you’re together—which would be easier if it didn’t feel so natural.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1310 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical case danger, fake dating, scarecrow monster, mild violence, flirting, banter, almost-feelings
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the town is too cute, which almost makes everything worse. white fences, flower boxes, a tiny main street with a diner that sells pie by the slice and a mechanic who smiles too hard when dean pulls the impala into the shop.
there are pumpkins stacked outside the grocery store even though halloween passed two weeks ago, and everyone waves at you with this shiny, neighborly cheer that makes your skin itch.
it’s the kind of place where people say things like we take care of our own and somehow make it sound less like a promise and more like a threat.
dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.
“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”
you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”
“yep.”
“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”
“probably.”
“great. very rural.”
dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”
you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.
“no,” you say.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face is handsome and innocent.”
“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”
he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”
you stare at him.
he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”
“i’m not calling you honey.”
“baby?”
“absolutely not.”
“snookums?”
you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”
“hot. committed to the role already.”
the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”
dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.
“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”
you blink. anniversary.
right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.
“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”
dean’s eyes flick down to yours.
the mechanic clears his throat.
you win.
by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.
his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.
“you’re quiet,” you comment.
he hums, “thinking.”
“dangerous.”
“about us.”
your heart trips.
then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”
you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet, you married me.”
“fake married.”
“vows are vows.”
the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.
his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”
he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.
“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”
he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.
the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.
dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.
“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”
you elbow him. “dean.”
“what? communication is important.”
then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.
“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.
“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.
“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”
the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.
you burn the scarecrow together.
flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.
the town is quiet now.
you look down at your joined hands. so does he.
“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.
dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”
you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.
you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
As others have pointed out before, if you visited a web page 20 years ago and it acted like that, you would rightly assume your computer had gotten a virus.
ꨄ︎ not your imagination / dean winchester ˎˊ˗ part 1
⋰˚☆ teen!dean x teen!reader | fluff | 1.7k
⋰˚☆ where you’d heard about monsters in stories, never believing they were real. until, you were running for your life to get away from one. luckily, an expert was around to help you.
⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, reader scared, brief werewolf chase, blood mentioned
the thrill of it all mlist 𖦹 one 𖦹 next… coming soon
running faster than you ever thought you were able to wasn’t your idea of fun after a busy day at school.
there you were, running in the direction of your home while loud footsteps and growls came from behind you. you were sure whatever it was had started gaining on you, trying to make your feet carry you faster.
monsters were in movies, tv shows, books you read. they weren’t real, they didn’t hide under your bed or in a closet. they weren’t real.
which is what you’d thought for most of your life. until right this second. you had no idea what was chasing you, why it was chasing you.
trying not to stumble over your own feet, you kept running, taking bigger steps, trying to move faster. you never had been much of a runner, but right now you’d probably win fastest in your entire school.
bag clutched in your palm, you turned down a corner, away from the streets. perhaps not the smartest idea, more places to hide though, were the thoughts going through your mind.
a large dumpster beside an apartment building, somewhere you could stay quiet, at least try to catch your breath if this thing didn’t tear you apart first.
you reached the dumpster before the monster could turn the same corner. sitting down, back against the hard wall, knees pulled to your chest as you took many deep breaths, trying to slow your racing heart and panting lungs.
there were still footsteps, slower as it tried to track you. heavy breathing, quieter growling like a wolf stalking its prey. its shadow rearing its head as the nearby lamp post shone above you.
never did you think this would be the way you’d go out. the way your life would end. from some creature, monster that shouldn’t exist. sure that you were stuck in some terrible nightmare. at least, you wished that was the case.
it got closer, to the point you could see its feet, then its face. almost human like. eyes an orangey yellow colour, teeth sharper than a persons, claws so sharp it would definitely cause damage.
nothing to defend yourself with, you reached into your bag for the closest thing you had to a weapon.
pepper spray.
you carried it around at all times in case you needed it. especially walking alone at night, going home from school with no one to accompany you.
although, you were sure it wouldn’t do much to protect you from whatever this monster was.
you took a sharp breath, holding out the spray just as it looked at you, growling louder, as though it was ready to pounce. and then…
someone shouting. getting the creatures attention. it turned away from you, moving out of your sight line. leaving you to yourself for now.
there were a few sounds of struggle, the sound of whatever it was getting thrown to the floor, then more growling, turning into dog like whimpers. finally ending in a brief stabbing sound, followed by a loud thud.
pepper spray firm in your hand as you started to hear footsteps again. was it the monster? or whatever just killed it? what if they hurt you too?
first, you saw boots, eyes following up jean covered legs to a brown flannel. then him. brown floppy hair, worried green eyes. but, he was still just a strange guy that had appeared.
he saw your pepper spray, “i’m not gonna hurt you, promise,” he raised his hands. “was just following the werewolf, had no idea you were here.”
“werewolf…” you mumbled, trailing off, hand finally lowering the spray.
“c’mon,” he reached out his hand, taking a step closer.
not the reaction he expected, it resulted in you raising your pepper spray again. he backed up immediately, hands still visible, no weapons, just a worried expression as he glanced back to where the werewolf lay.
“hey, listen, uh,” he tried to figure a way to gain your trust and fast. “i’m dean, i just wanna help you get home, alright?”
you stayed silent, but lowered the spray, pulling your knees closer to your chest as you struggled to look dean in the eye.
“what’s your name?” he asked gently, now crouching to your level.
still, you didn’t talk, didn’t make eye contact, pretended you didn’t see the blood stains on his jeans from killing that werewolf.
right. werewolf.
“i get it,” he kept his eyes on you. “i’m a stranger, and you were…”
“going home,” a mumble, but it was progress.
he nodded, “and all i wanna do is get you back there safely,” he offered a small smile once you finally looked up. “i know the werewolf was scary, but i took care of it, you’re not gonna get hurt.”
you took a deep breath, hoping he was genuine. that he wouldn’t turn on you, hurt you on your way back. so, with a quiet voice you introduced yourself. told him your name to which he seemed appreciative.
“how far away is your house?” dean asked next, trying more to gain your trust, keeping his voice low and soft.
another hesitation, but you moved slightly, not so tight against the wall. deciding whether or not you can trust dean for now. it would only be tonight, not like you’d ever see him again.
“two blocks over.”
dean nodded, slowly standing at the right angle to block you from seeing the werewolf laying on the ground.
he reached his hand out again, offering to help you up off of the floor. to which, you ever so slowly accepted. placing your palm in his, feeling the roughness of his skin, most likely from battling it out with the monster.
tugging you up gently, you tried to peep around dean, only for him to move to your eye line. he cleared his throat, glancing back towards it.
“you don’t need to see that,” he gave a half smile. “the less you see the better.”
unsure on if he was protecting you, or just wanted to clear you away as soon as possible, you gave a faint nod as you let go of his hand.
he placed his hand between your shoulder blades, softly pushing you in the opposite direction to get you back home, those two blocks over just as you’d said.
it was quiet at first. silence as you walked side by side, a slight gap between you so you weren’t too close to this guy you’d never met before. that ultimately came out of nowhere.
the alleyway was forgotten, for now. the only thing on your mind was the concept of monsters. what others were out there, the fact that they exist when you thought it was all books and movies, fairytales that weren’t meant to be real.
in the lit up streets, you were back in the safety of cars on the road, people passing you on the street. closer to where you could see your familiar neighbourhood and the surrounding houses.
it was strange to you, that people had carried on like normal all while you were fighting for your life to stop from getting attacked by a creature that shouldn’t exist.
that’s when you finally spoke again, “monsters are real?” there’s disbelief in your voice. “i wish it was my imagination.”
dean glanced to you, thought before answering, “it’s not your imagination,” he shoved his hands in his pockets. “that werewolf was very real, we’ve been tracking it for a couple weeks.”
“we?” you asked simply.
“me and my dad,” he explained. “we’re hunters. stop the monsters before they can hurt too many people.”
just like before, you didn’t look at him. something else for you to take in. monsters. hunters. he seemed so young to be dealing with all of this. you’re busy in school, and out in the world are creatures trying to kill people.
“there’s others?” you turned to him. “monsters, i mean.”
he was hesitant to tell you. wanted to keep you as unafraid as he could while you didn’t know much. it wasn’t often he explained his line of work in detail to innocent people.
“there is,” he settled on. “but you don’t gotta worry about any of it, okay? just tonight. that’s it. you’ll be home and safe.”
a deep breath as you looked away, hoping he was right. that you’d never see any monsters again. that you’d never see him again. because if you did… you were sure it’d mean trouble.
finally, your house came into view. the lights on downstairs, porch light glowing. your parents probably wondering why you’d taken so long to get home from school.
you stopped in your tracks, dean doing the same. he stood in front of you, glancing around as if to make sure nothing had followed you. he’d sorted out the werewolf either way. knew it couldn’t get to you.
“might wanna stay over here,” you fiddled with your hands as you found his eyes. “don’t think my parents would like a boy bringing me home.”
dean chuckled, “not just any boy,” he raised his eyebrows. “the one that saved your life.”
you had to laugh quietly at that. he wasn’t wrong. he saved you back there. stopped the monster from getting to you. got you back here safe and sound.
“thank you for getting there in time,” you finally smiled at him. genuinely.
“no need to thank me, sweetheart,” he smiled back, nodded towards your house. “i’d say i hope this isn’t the last time i see you, but i’ll probably only be around if there’s more monsters.”
you agreed, “hopefully i won’t see you anytime soon, dean,” the both of you laughed quietly. “get back to… wherever you’re going safe.”
“always do.”
you gave one last thankful smile, crossing the quiet street to get over to your house. dean watched from where you’d left him, saw your mum open the door, pulling you in for a hug now you were finally home. she looked worried, glad you were back safe.
then the door closed, usually the moment for dean to leave. but, his feet stayed still on the pavement. he saw the light switch on upstairs, you appearing at the window before pulling across your curtains.
he wanted this to be the only time he saw you. didn’t want you to be in any danger again. but there was something in your quietness, the way you’d been with him tonight, that made him think that maybe monsters wouldn’t be the only reason he’d come back to you.
taglist: @filthgf @icpsammy @milkyhrtss @imjusthere1161 @reginaphalangelobster @lollyybunny @biancalinkas @moosewithabackstory @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @rott3ndesire @star-yawnznn @thewinchesterwench @alasdecas @spectralgalaxygauntlet @ashlizabeth @cloudsincalifornia @babygirlbandit @spaghettiwoes @ralilda @midnightdancergirl @cherbicdollie @trashmonstersara @iloveneilperry @andrianasinger @sweet-tooth47 | if you would like to join my dean winchester taglist, please comment here or see this post
summary: a rodeo on a saturday night is a great way to unwind after a case in texas. dean's just not expecting to start crushing on one cowboy in particular
pairing: dean x cowboy!reader (m) | genre: sweet n spicy | word count: 1.9k (oh its short oops)
warnings: calf roping/tie-down roping (no animals are harmed), dean's cowboy fantasy, strangers to ???, unrequited (for now), dean is head over heels and reader doesn't even know who he is, competence (reader wins) is hot (dean is hard), implied masturbation (god i hate writing that word so much LOL), dean has a lot of sexy thoughts and nowhere to put them, internalized homophobia if you squint
notes: requested !! you have found the secret to part of my joy; male reader fics. i love this request so much AUGH. alos mandatory disclaimer; reader does calf roping/tie-down roping in this fic, becaus this is the most common variant across rodeos in the united states. just be aware that there are some real life welfare concerns with this event, and although nothing bad happens in the fic, just know i'm not ignoring that for these purposes, okay ? okay :]
part 2 | taglist
Dust clings to the outsides of Dean’s leather boots as he trudges from the parking lot to the rodeo grounds. It clouds up from the gravel of the lot, smearing the dark leather in a gust of light grey. It puffs up from the sand on the pathway of the entrance, adding a pale tan layer to what is already a mess. A second tan layer slams into the outside of his right foot when a gust of wind kicks up a cloud, sending half of it onto his shoes and the other half into Sam’s face. Normally, in response to Sam’s sneezes caused by the dust, Dean would’ve elbowed him in the side and earned himself a glare. Today, Dean is far too excited to bother Sam, even when their proximity to each other in line means Sam sneezes partly on the back of Dean’s neck. Today, the setting sun and the first glares of the bright white spotlights are beyond fascinating.
Dean’s barely listening to Sam’s commentary about finding their seats as he weaves through the crowd in search of a drink. Any beer he gets here is going to end up a little too warm and much too expensive, but he can’t find it in himself to care about that. All he’s concerned about is getting some alcohol in his system and getting comfortable on the metal grandstands, brim of his ball cap pulled low over his head. Tongue poking out from between his lips, he pays for his and Sam’s beers, handing one off to his brother as they march toward the stands, searching for somewhere they can sit that won’t block the view of anyone else. They settle on something halfway up, where Sam’s back is to a support pole and Dean can sit hunched over with his elbow on his knees, in the way he always does when he’s examining something worth remembering.
Dean sits through the pre-rodeo nonsense while Sam wanders off for the bathroom, eyes scanning the crowd and the edges of the ring, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He doesn’t find anything strange, as expected, and he actually has to snap himself out of the case mentality when he remembers he’s not even working right now. There’s no ghosts haunting the grounds, or shapeshifters among the people here. It’s just the crowds of Texas clambering together under the summer night and the white spotlights, jostling each other and eagerly placing bets on the winners of each event.
Dean’s gaze drifts from the people down to the ring again, studying the faces lined up along the sides. It’s mostly men down there, ranging from kids just barely out of high school to guys who’ve been doing this their entire adult lives. A couple of them are trying to wrangle a rope over the nose of some huge brown horse, who keeps jutting his head up in defiance every time they get close to it. Another man is twisting a ring around his finger; a wedding ring most likely, probably making some wordless promise to his family that he’ll be safe tonight. There’s a group of women at one end who’s expressions are fiercer than any of the men. Hair curled precisely, flannels buttoned up and jeans tucked nicely into boots, hats on their heads. One woman has her arm around the neck of her horse, and Dean finds himself enthralled by her.
Until he moves his head and a man comes into view, standing at the edge of the pen near the gate and trying very hard not to stare up into the stands. He’s got a hand over his eyes, likely to block the glare from the artificial suns around the ring, the other hand resting on his hip, thumb tucked into a belt loop. The hat on his head gets wordlessly readjusted, tilted back just enough that Dean can get a glimpse of his face; sharp eyes, shadowed stubble across his jaw, hair curling stubbornly near one ear in the shape of a sideburn that never got trimmed correctly. Whoever this guy is, he’s not anything special. And somehow, Dean completely misses Sam nudging him when he comes back, because he’s focused on watching this cowboy. For a brief moment, the cowboy’s eyes sweep over the stands, stuttering on the general section Dean is sitting in. For a brief moment, Dean is convinced their eyes meet.
Dean looks away first.
He misses the grin on your face, hand reaching up to scratch the hinge of your jaw. He misses the fact that you, in fact, did see him. Tipping the hat back was a ploy to see if it was you he really was watching. Despite the distance, it was pretty hard to miss the blush that spread across Dean’s face. You’re called back to your gate with some new material on your mind, a little something to get you through the night. You don’t know his name, you don’t even know if he’s from around here, but something deep in your stomach tells you it won’t be the last time that you see him.
Back in the stands, Dean’s sipping on his beer, resting it on the ground between his feet when he’s not drinking it. Sam finished his during the last event, watching the women on their horses go round the barrels with the kind of speed Dean’s not even sure he’s seen in the movies, let alone in real life. Dean’s fascinated by the men on the bucking horses, and even though they all fall off quick, he’s still amazed by how long they do hold on. For a brief moment, under the heat of the lights, a thought flashes across his mind. Something dirty, something he absolutely shouldn’t be thinking in a public place. His mind wanders to the cowboy he saw earlier; you. He wonders if maybe you’ve done this event before, even if you aren’t competing it now. He wonders if you still remember any of it. He wonders, just for a second, if they call it ‘cowgirl’ for a good reason. He’d let you ride him like that if you asked.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the announcer’s voice for the next event, the loud, booming drawl of someone who was clearly born for this kind of job. The scoresheet gets thrown up on the board, the names of all the riders splashed across the screens in achingly bright LED letters. There’s no pictures beside the names, and he has no way of recognizing who’s who, but he finds himself leaning closer as the event begins. The riders cycle through with impressive speed, agile even on a horse that feels like it was never meant to be tamed and ridden. The calves are cute, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam a little enamoured by them, making soft sounds whenever he feels that one got thrown to the ground too harshly.
The announcer calls your name, and as soon as your picture shows up on the screen, Dean leans in almost imperceptibly closer. Finally, he’s got a name to the guy who’s been invading his thoughts for the last hour or so. He has a name to put to the face of the guy who’s made him frustratingly hard in the middle of a public place. Part of him wants you to lose, because he wouldn’t feel so bad for falling for you. The other part of him thinks there’d be nothing hotter than you winning. The camera zooms in on you, and you tip your hat with a grin, smile lines creasing your cheeks under the stubble Dean’s been thinking about. How would it feel on the insides of his thighs?
The clock starts and you’re out of the gate in prefect time. Dean doesn’t know the first thing about horses, but he does know that your horse looks like it was made for this. Even you, hunched proud in concentration over the neck of your horse looks like there’s nowhere else in the world you could possible be besides right here, right now. Rope in hand, you’re throwing it around the calf in record time, you use just the right amount of force to stop the calf in its tracks without injuring it. The legs of your jeans get caked in dirt as you hop to the ground, tying up the calf effortlessly and putting your hands up in the air. Dean thinks you look a little like you’re resisting arrest, but he can’t deny the way his face heats up at the flash of skin of your stomach when raising your arms makes your shirt ride up.
They call time after the required six seconds pass, and you allow yourself the smallest grin of celebration as your time flashes up on the board. Fastest of the session so far, and pretty close to your personal best. Dean doesn’t know the second part, but he’s grinning like he does, face hurting from the expression. Even though it’s not your job, you drop to your knees in the arena and carefully start working on untying the calf. Dean thinks it’ll run away from you, because what animal wouldn’t run away from the person who just tied it up in rope? Instead, the minute it’s freed and standing back on all four legs, the calf nudges your hand with its head, to which you scratch the ears in reply.
“I like him,” Dean murmurs to Sam.
“Yeah?”
Dean gives a half-hearted nod in reply. “Yeah. He’s good.”
“I like him too-.” He pauses, studying Dean’s red face and the way his legs are crossed for the first time in probably his entire life. “Oh, you like him, like him.”
“Shut up,” Dean mumbles.
“Dean, he doesn’t even know who you are.”
He shrugs. “’S okay. Not like we stay long enough anyway.”
“We could.”
Dean’s head turns so fast it cracks something in his spine. “Do not.”
Sam’s hands raise in surrender, barely concealing a laugh. “Easy there, cowboy. Just a comment.”
By the end of the night, you’ve won your event, Dean’s looking for the first girl he can screw at the bar, and Sam is scheming ways to stay, just so Dean can see you again. He’s in the motel with his laptop open, searching for any case he can come up with. He’ll make a fictitious one if he has to. By the time midnight rolls around, he’s sobered up from his one drink and has decided waiting for Dean to come back is pointless. He’s out cold by the time Dean, who’s been burying his feelings in cheap whiskey and pretty women, comes back and locks himself in the bathroom. Your face won’t leave Dean’s mind, every sinful thought he’s ever had swirling around in his brain until he’s convinced he’ll be shot for thinking them. Upon exiting the bathroom, he sees Sam’s laptop shining bright in the dark, the webpage announcing a possible case in town standing proud on the screen. And just like that, Dean’s hard all over again, because it means he can look for you. And maybe interrogate you, just a little bit.
⌖ when you're quiet, boots shuffling against the tacky floor of another motel room, weary after a yawning hunt, he'll step close. watch you for a moment, bend down to see your eyes, not prodding. familiar silence. until his arms circle your waist to pull you against him and his chin wedges over your shoulder.
he breathes your soft scent and a tight knot falls undone where it had been straining in the pit of his chest. you stay like that for a while. he'll murmur, sway you gently on your feet, call you baby and pretty in a low, syrupy voice before helping you wash up and settle for the night.
⌖ in bed, when he's just begun to blink awake, and the first thing he makes out through the bleariness of his gaze is you. he thinks you're an angel for a second, remembers he's not dreaming anymore, and thinks you're an angel still.
he's already formed to your side, an arm slung warm along the softness of your stomach, but wants to be much closer. he would fit himself beneath your skin if you'd let him, keep you warm forever. his best substitute is to clamber over you as your eyelids flutter and press his cheek against the beat of your heart.
one hand splays on your hip and squeezes so gentle. his forearm slips under your back to keep you pressed up to him. your fingertips will reach to flit through the mussed, spiked tufts of his hair. his mind clutters with thoughts of loving you, before he drifts again.
⌖ under the moon, and its gleaming shafts of silver. your chiming laugh in his ears, as you stand next to him and contemplate the vending machine in front with furrowed brows. he's teasing, hands shoved deep into denim pockets. thinking you're pretty.
when you turn back towards the room, wrappers noisy in your grip, his hand shoots out for your sleeve. it's instinctual. he wants just a few more minutes with you, out here, amidst the cool air.
"c'mere, sweetheart."
you talk to him about the stars as he holds you, he listens and feels safe. doesn't need to be anything. his palm is a soothing pressure on your lower back, smoothing circles there. your voice is too good, too lovely, he'd like to remain here until moss grows up his legs.
⌖ at your door, when he's scared and alone with a terrible ache climbing his throat. breathing in clipped huffs because he doesn't want to do it anymore, can't be brave tonight, he only needs you.
he burrows into your chest while you stand on the porch step above, and sinks someplace safe and sweet. sweeps his shaking hands down your sides and isn't quite sure where to settle them, suddenly, but lets you guide him. follows at your heel with his fingers through a loop of your jeans and is taken inside.
he keeps close the whole night. until the sun blooms into a pale sky and kisses his skin through your bedroom window. he considers never leaving.
cw use of baby, pretty, sweetheart. kisses and cuddling !
⊹ dean lets you trim his hair. he sits on the closed toilet lid with warm hands holding your hips, looking up at you with shiny eyes, feeling much too fuzzy inside. he likes the feel of your fingers brushing over his scalp. you'll hook a couple beneath his chin to tilt his head this way and that, and he leans into the touch completely.
"you're good at this, baby."
he loves how close you are, how soft you feel under his palms. when you finish and set down the scissors, he draws it all out, not wanting to get up yet, and presses his face to your stomach. gives soft, chaste kisses to your navel.
"couple minutes," he mumbles. "wanna stay here, pretty."
⊹ dean likes washing dishes with you. bumps his shoulder to yours and loves the way your smile blooms all pretty, your quiet laugh. he listens to you talk about your day, so fond, it spreads fast through his chest. silence is good, too. it lasts until he flicks water onto your cheek with his fingers.
⊹ mornings are very slow with him. you often wake with his nose shoved against your neck, his body partially curled over yours, radiating amber heat. his lashes only flutter when your fingertips petal down the light freckles of his bicep.
"sweetheart," he breathes. "y'smell good."
he keeps you in bed for a long, long while.
⊹ taking care of you comes very naturally to him. whenever you fall sick, he makes sure you're resting properly and bestows very careful kisses to your dewy cheeks and forehead. he replaces tissue boxes once emptied and tucks close to your side when you pull him in. doesn't care if he catches the bug, just wants to make you feel better.
