Fallen Angels

P | 25 | They/Them | ENTJ | Supernatural/Cast A little something for everyone

[midnight-ashes-67]

Welcome to my blog ☆

You can call me Luna. I save fanfiction to my blog for me and others to enjoy. The great part is my blog is organized so you can find whatever you need with ease. I also have a little something for everyone. ;)

I save mostly Supernatural fanfiction but I also save fanfiction from the actors other shows/movies. Although right now it’s only Jensen Ackles because I haven’t really watch any of Jared Padalecki’s or Misha Collins projects yet.

I hope you all can use my blog as a source to find the fanfics you’re looking for. Thank you!!! ‹𝟥

[bellsiecakes]

soldier boy teaching you how to shoot his gun. ⌖𖦏

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ⠀.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⌖  ₊    minors do not interact, u will be blocked.

cw: gunz, sb teaching u and not keeping his hands off you, some explicit content. not proofread ahhh. wc: 2.4k~

— ᨳଓ⋆˚࿔.

he’d driven you out to a private forest clearing, with a lake nearby. a little spot he knew. the two of you sat with the roof of his vintage black classic down, the breeze brushing through the trees and against your hair.

beside you in the driver’s seat, ben licked the edge of a small, cherry-flavored rolling paper. he focused on securing the joint he was fashioning for the two of you. he was nearly finished, already packed the weed in snug. you couldn’t help but smirk at his posture: his back hunched over as he zeroed in on his task. his aviator sunglasses rested atop his head, pushing his hair back and out of the way, nearly a headband. the lenses reflected the sun. a meteor could strike and he wouldn’t notice until he was done.

feeling bored, you tapped your nails against the door armrest. you looked around at the trees. you sat up to see the lake in the near distance, the sun glistening off the ripples. you poked the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. you rummaged through his glove compartment…

… and your brows shot up upon seeing a black pistol buried under documents and condoms.

you glanced over to see if he’d caught you snooping. his brows were still furrowed as he rolled the joint over the steering wheel. utterly enraptured by his weed. you smirked, feeling suddenly mischievous. with great care, you gently retrieved the firearm.

“put it down.” his voice rang beside you.

you tensed, suddenly feeling like a scolded child, then smiled faintly. you didn’t put it down. you treated it delicately, of course, purposely avoiding the trigger as you examined it. the metal was cool and heavy in your hand. “why is it in here?”

“needs to be,” he said simply. then, he took the gun from you, grabbing it by the barrel. he set it muzzle down in the empty cup holder between you before focusing his attention back to the blunt.

you tilted your head, unsatisfied, and stated matter-of-factly, “you’re indestructible.”

“you’re not.”

you raised a brow again, intrigued. “so it’s for me.”

“for assholes.”

“my hero.”

ben looked over at you then, sizing you up, half impressed, half perpetually annoyed.

“have you ever even been this close to a roscoe?”

you looked through your lashes. “… once or twice.”

that got his attention. he lowered the unfinished joint in his lap, looking you over again, his keen green eyes following a steady path down your figure. ben paused for a long moment, as if he was assessing you.

“when?”

“fourth of july.”

“what’d you shoot?” he sounded nearly fascinated. never in a million years would ben have guessed you did something like that. you were always such a sissy.

“the ground,” you confessed timidly.

the sharp sound of his laughter broke the peacefulness of nature surrounding you. his shoulders bounced, he tipped his head back against the headrest, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. he licked his lips and muttered something like jesus christ as he settled down, shaking his head and bringing the joint back up to work on again.

“you’re a card.” he stated. he gave the joint a final lick, pressing the paper down flush with the pads of his thumbs. he inspected it carefully before tucking it in his shirt pocket. he pushed his aviators back down, wearing them properly, hiding his eyes. “get out.”

you blinked, watching him open his door, grab the pistol, and step out of the car all in one motion. after a moment of hesitation, you followed.

he beckoned you over with a finger, his gun in his back pocket. ben’s hand snaked around your waist when you were close enough and he leaned against the hood of his car. he thumbed your hip and raised his hand, moving it to follow the horizon.

your eyes followed. the lake’s shore lapped at the dirt a few respectable paces away, the water slightly murky. surrounding you, conifers and hardwood cast sparse shadows. their leaves occasionally swayed with the soft breeze, and the unmistakable smell of sap comforted you in a strange way.

his voice recaptured your attention. “pick a tree.”

you looked over at him, a surge of disbelief passing through you. he really trusted you enough to do this?

you shook your head. “i don’t wanna shoot a tree.”

ben rolled his eyes. “hippie,” he muttered, reaching into another pocket of his. he pulled out his cherry rolling papers and ripped two out- then crumpled them into little balls. you blinked in surprise at the sacrifice of two perfectly good rolling papers.

“put these in your ears,” he commanded. and so you did. the sounds of the lake’s waves, the chirping of the birds, the swish of tree branches brushing against each other muffled.

without warning, he grabbed your waist in both hands, and yanked you in front of him. with his chest flush against your back, he wrapped an arm around your middle and fished his pistol out of his pocket. he brought it out to show off.

you knew not to reach for it. he turned it in his hands. his chin brushing against the back of your head. “this bitch’s no joke, you hear me, doll?”

you nodded. he grunted in approval, then flipped the gun back, left side up. he flicked the safety off, keeping the nose pointed to the ground.

gently, ben’s hand smoothed across your stomach, to your hip, and up your side. he trailed his palm over your forearm and down to your hand. being this close to him, you could hear each little inhale and exhale of his. you could feel his breath brush against your ear. you fought the urge to shiver, especially when his hand found yours. he lifted it and guided it to hold the grip of the gun, adjusting your fingers to stay clear of the trigger.

his hand wrapped firmly around yours, keeping your fingers temporarily disabled, the gun still pointed to the dirt. he squeezed your hand, and you felt something click beneath your palm. your heart raced.

“that was the grip safety,” he said, his voice calm. you nodded once, relaxing.

his other hand gestured in front of you, to a dead tree stump about sixty feet away, maybe four feet tall. it sat unimposing at the opposite shore of the lake, gray and peeling bark, surrounded by its living kin.

“see that stump?”

you nodded.

“aim for that.”

“… okay.”

his grip around your hand on the gun remained. you felt the grainy surface of the grip on your skin. his other hand moved, guiding your left hand to the gun in the same fashion he did the other. ben hummed in approval as he fixed your hands over the grip.

wordlessly, he guided your arms up, the gun still snug inside your fingers. he straightened your arms outright, then maneuvered your right index finger to rest gently on the trigger guard.

“don’t move your finger yet,” he said, his voice in your ear. you swallowed.

his hands left yours, leaving the breeze to brush over them, the coldness emphasizing the loss. he ran his hands slowly up your wrists, to the sensitive skin of the inside of your elbows, and he stopped to hold your biceps. he kept his feet planted firmly outside yours, his broad chest flush against your back.

you pressed your thighs together, his touch molding, and you avoided exhaling too shakily. though, you were almost certain he could hear your pounding heart. just the thought of his awareness made your cheeks flush.

“now…” he let go of one of your arms, his chin by your ear. he gently tapped the small, triangular-shaped bump on top of the pistol once, the one closest to your eye; then the bump further away, on the very tip of the barrel.

“sights. front and rear. as you can see, front is a post, rear is a notch. you line ‘em up both horizontally and vertically, at the center of that stump… and you’ve got your aim.”

you squeezed one eye shut to line the sights up, doing your best to center them as he instructed on the awaiting stump. he shifted, leaning over to look at your face, assessing briefly. he smiled faintly.

“now, i know that might feel right, sweets, but it’s better to keep both those pretty eyes open.”

his voice was cogent. you quickly reopened your eye, exhaling. you could hear the faintest of chuckles leave him.

he licked his lips and slid his hands up back to yours on the gun. one held both of yours in place securely, and the other reached to grab his gun by the barrel, between the sights. he slid the slide back, exposing the metal barrel underneath, and it made a clicking noise that made your brows furrow. he let it go, covering the barrel once again.

“she’s cocked. don’t you move a muscle till i tell you to.”

he found his place behind you again, his chest against you. he squeezed your shoulders gently before he smoothed his rough hands down your upper back, over the ridge of your bra, down to the dip of your waist. you blinked slowly, your eyes darting momentarily to the ground, then back up. you knew you needed to focus, not let his carnal touch divert your attention.

he ran his thumbs back and forth over your waist. his hands were warm and unmoving, and you couldn’t help but notice he kept your ass pressed firm against his hips, the print of his dick faint but felt. it made your breath hitch, but you remained planted against him. and when you heard a rough, faint groan leave his lips right in your ear? you wanted to ditch this whole shooting lesson.

when he spoke again, his voice was considerably softened. but it still made your heart skip. it pulled you back into what this was supposed to be. “you can put your finger on the trigger now, but do not put pressure on it.”

you swallowed again, nodding, regrouping, and you moved your finger carefully off the guard and onto the cool trigger. it was a strange sense of power. one pull and a killing stone would come out at 800 feet per second.

“atta girl. don’t pull yet. take your time, give yourself at least half a minute to aim. then you fire.”

you held the gun pointed where you wanted, taking slow, shuddering breaths, heeding his words. he trusted your judgment, the good head on your shoulders. you’re not so reckless to fire when you’re not confident. and you’re listening so well to each of his instructions.

you lined up the sights, acquiring yourself a good shot, but damn if his closeness didn’t make you blush. as if sensing your temperament at the moment, ben nuzzled his half hard cock against your ass with a slow exhale, causing you to gasp faintly.

your chest sank, about to lower the gun. but he spoke again, this time whispering gravelly. “now… shoot when you want. it’s gonna recoil, and it’s gonna recoil pretty fuckin hard, so be prepared for that.”

he lowered his hands from your waist to grip your hips. the feeling made you breathe uneven, just one short breath that didn’t escape his notice. he smiled, but for once didn’t point it out. not now. he held you tight, not letting you move even an inch away. having your precious self this close was too good to not take advantage of. just feeling your body heat seep into his sent blood straight down. he breathed heavy through his nose, right in your ear, and he gave your hips a gentle squeeze.

you pulled, and a loud bang- one you didn’t anticipate to be so booming because of the rolling papers- rang out when you applied pressure to the trigger. and not even half a second later, the sound of the bullet hitting the stump met your ears. just as he said, the recoil shoved you back. right into him.

tree branches shook as birds fled from them, and you gasped loud. his arm came around you immediately, and ben snatched the gun from your hands harshly by the barrel, quickly flicking something on it down with a click. you heard his laughter in your ear, your heart pounding.

“ha-ha! fuck, baby, you hear that? you hit that shit dead fuckin’ center. that’s my girl.”

he tucked the gun away, adjusting you forcefully to face him. his grin was unmoving, plastered on his face shamelessly. he gave you a shake as he laughed, and after getting your bearings, you finally sighed in relief. you smiled coyly, your hand bracing against his chest. and when you saw your stunned reflection in his sunglasses lenses, you finally laughed alongside him.

“i hit it?”

“did you hit it? yeah, you fuckin’ hit it,” he rubbed your arm, ruffling your clothes. he pointed to the stump. “see for yourself.”

you looked over, narrowing your eyes to see better. sure enough, near the center of the trunk, a hole from the bullet was marked. you picked the balled up rolling papers out of your ears. you let out a disbelieving laugh, grinning, feeling a twinge of pride for yourself. you just shot a gun and hit your target.

you were pulled out of your thoughts by a large hand smacking your ass, the slap causing you to freeze. his laugh deepened by your ear, his arm around you caging. he adjusted you in front of him, practically manhandling you, your hair catching in the wind.

your face fell at the proximity. your chest pressed flush against his made eye contact difficult. but ben hooked his finger under your chin, his other hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you even closer. that’s when you registered it. him, the hard bulge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your hip. your eyes widened.

“my little sharpshooter,” he said fondly. he leaned in to kiss you roughly, his teeth knocking against yours. it was as brief as it was aggressive, and it left you breathless and squirming.

he grinned, plucking the joint he rolled out of his shirt pocket, taking it between his lips. his other hand found your ass again, and with half lidded eyes, ben rutted his cock against you, just once. enough to make you gasp.

“now, why don’t you be a good girl and bend over this hood for me?”

a/n: can u tell i’ve missed the shooting range. if sb was my instructor id never miss a lesson. ugh this is soooooo dialogue heavy i don’t usually write like this i hope it lands well. as i said in a previous post, fighting through my feeling of un-motivation. this was fun to write tho. more content to come, ily guys~~~

[violained]

more than ever (still forever)

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

summary dean loves you too much, he starts to envision you!

content gn!reader, unestablished relationship, dean is yearning very very much and is super in love, brief mention of blood (cut from a razor), a dreamt-up kiss, use of sweetheart and pretty, not proofread

masterlist ♡

wc 430

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

It's difficult for Dean to do benign things without thinking of you. He shaves gritty stubble down into something smoother and sees your form in the mirror, sitting on the counter, can almost hear your voice talk and talk and talk.

About nothing. Or maybe everything. He doesn't need you to talk about anything at all, just wants you to talk to him. He likes when you read off from the books in your head. Likes when you tell him about your dreams. He can't tell you his.

The razor bites him cold on the jaw but he doesn't flinch. Watches as a crimson bead forms and works his throat. Conjured, envisioned version of you reaches for a square of tissue and dots it away.

He blinks into a touch that isn't there.

He would say thank you and tack on a pretty. Give you a kiss on the cheek and one on the lips, too, if you smiled soft and flowery and he couldn't resist wanting to keep it stuck there.

A very real knock on the half-open bathroom door brings him back, but you're there still. Standing beside the doorframe now and watching him a little mussed, having just woken from a nap on another knotted mattress. He wanted to lay beneath you. He's softer and warmer.

"Hi," you murmur. "You look different."

He holds up the razor in silent show and shrugs.

"You look out of it," he retorts, not unkindly. He sounds too gentle for his own ears. "Nap was good?"

"It was satisfactory," you say.

He smiles. Satisfactory. Flicks on the water and rinses the blade and feels lighter, better, less burdened now that you're here. He can look away without worrying that the image of you will fade. Can smell your subtle vanilla and rain.

"I was gonna head down to the diner in a few. Get a coke. Wanna come?" he asks.

You nod and shuffle closer, leaning against the counter. You're pretty even beneath garish, flickering light. Shirt slipping off a shoulder and beckoning him to kiss your exposed skin.

"Can we drive for a while after?"

Of course, absolutely, whatever you want, I'll run the gas out and push the car myself after, if you want to keep going.

"Yeah, sweetheart."

Deja vu, as you smile small and wipe a smear of shaving cream from above his lip. Your thumb is delicate. How could it send such a wave through him? It groans and crashes and laps at his ribs and heart and stomach.

He leans into touch that is here.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

writers block is hitting me in the back of the head over and over with a hammer

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ almost convincing

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.

[dreamersentity]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 with sam winchester. mdni 18+

⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . ⁀➴ ꒰ sam winchester x afab!reader ꒱ . . . soft smut, sexual explicit content, established relationship, a bit of sub!sam, mutual masturbation, mentions of nicknames such as baby, sweetheart, good boy. 1.7k words.

you didn´t mean to get so drunk, head pounding loud with the regret of following dean´s encouragements at the bar earlier, your body finding pleasure in every drink you chased without thinking. sam had stayed behind this time, the toll of earlier’s hunt finally settling heavy on his body. he’d only agreed to let you go after hours of convincing him that you’d be fine, that he could head back without a worry. of course you had lied.

now you were back at the bunker, moving slowly through the quiet halls with your heels dangling from one hand, doing your best not to trip over your own tired steps. the floor was cool beneath your feet and the halls were dim, lit only by the small lamp sam always left on so you could find your way back to him, back home.

sam doesn´t wake when you slip into the room—careful, silent, trying not to wake him with each step you take. your weight dips at the edge of the bed as you grow closer to him, and you can´t help but admire his sleeping figure.

he looked so peaceful like this—that usual furrow of his brow was gone, replaced by something soft, a warm comfort that was only reserved for late nights. your hand unconsciously brushes through his hair, tucking a small strand behind his ear. sam stirs in his sleep, eyelids fluttering at the simple action, though he never fully wakes.

so you start placing small kisses on the side of his face: feather-like, drowned in warmth and love only you could give him. you start with his temple, drifting along his cheekbone before landing on his nose, giggling when it slowly crinkled under your touch. there´s no rush in the way you do this, lips tracing his soft features like gentle touch traces skin.

he eventually wakes up, slow eyes blinking up at you. he doesn´t startle—instead, he melts, the tension in his shoulders smoothly vanishing without much thought. he smiles, a lopsided, sleepy grin as he leans in, placing a small kiss to your cheek, “hi sweetheart, when did you get back?”

oh god. that silent look of his, that shy smile—it gave you enough reason to crawl onto his lap, legs caging his thighs as you straddled him. “not too long ago.” you hummed, smile so innocent it made you look like a saint, though your actions manifested otherwise.

his eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t complain. his hands move to your hips, circling your sides with a low hum. you both don’t speak for a while, and you don’t feel the need to—your unspoken words were enough for him to pick up easily. nevertheless, he´d already caught on to your intentions, which made him shake his head with a small chuckle “you´re drunk baby.”

you frown, not very happy with his response. when your hips roll over his crotch slightly, he´s quick to catch you, hands grounding you in place. “sweetheart—” his tone is gentle as he continues, however he stops the moment he sees you pout. his mouth parts like he´s about to say something, yet no words come—just a quiet smile as he lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as if he could smooth your pout away.

“—i just—don´t want to make it seem like i´m taking advantage of you. y´know, specially when you´re like this.” your frown deepens while you shake your head, “m´not that drunk.”

he sighs, finding it so hard to say no to you, especially when alcohol blurred the line between want and need. the sleepy haze in his eyes soften with something deeper at the sight of your drunk state—affection, restraint, heavy with a quiet struggle of wanting you equally the same but refusing to cross the line, cause he´s a gentleman like that.

you, on the other hand, have no intention of backing down, hips lifting up once more in a second attempt before pressing down on his thigh, drawing slow, deliberate circles. his breath hitches as his hands move to try to stop you, though he can´t seem to bring himself when his boxers grow tighter underneath you.

your name falls from his lips on a shaky breath, shaped more like a plea than a warning. then, without giving you much time to react, sam rolls you over in one smooth motion, trapping you beneath him.

his breathing is still shaky as he swallows, “you´re making this harder than it has to be, y´know that right?”

sam hovered over you now, one arm braced beside your head while the other one pressed gently against your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. the weight of him on top of you wasn’t crushing—just there, warm and solid like an anchor.

his hips dip slightly into yours without meaning to—a reflexive grind—and both of you moan at the contact. a strangled noise escapes him, and for a second, he panics: his body goes still, jaw tightening as if punishing himself for losing control, even it were for a moment. in his mind this was wrong, so undoubtedly wrong, and retreating seemed like a better option than pushing this further.

but you were having none of it; you reach out for him before he had a chance of pulling away, guiding his face towards yours and capturing his lips in a kiss. it´s sweet, gentle, a quiet way to remind him that it was okay, to reassure him that he was safe with you and that you trust him completely.

he melts into your touch like putty in your hands, body finally giving in without any kind of restraint. from this point forward, things start getting heated—the kiss becomes more passionate, tongue inviting itself in his mouth, searching for control. your hand slowly slips down to his boxers, palming his erection through the soft fabric as you make sure to swallow every little sound he makes.

a strand of your dress falls from your shoulder, and sam’s quick to pull it off you—gently of course, steady hands removing it from you as your breast slips out. he doesn’t hesitate in handling you carefully, hand on your lower back as he repositions your body to be closer to his while taking your sensitive bud in his mouth—landing soft, achingly slow swirls of his tongue around it, sucking softly when you whine out his name.

your movements grow sloppier, finally pulling down his boxers swiftly—he´s undeniably thick, flushed at the tip while precum drips down his shaft. you start at the head, dragging his slick all the way down to the base as lube, giving him slow, wet massages that make him moan against your breast, every sound reverberating against your body.

you don´t stop there, you continue stroking him, and when you needed more lube to work with? you´d just bring your hand up to his mouth, and sam wouldn´t even think twice before spitting onto it. you’d smile, call him a “good boy” and seal his lips into another messy kiss before he could even manage to whimper, licking off the excess saliva that coated his bottom lip in the process.

“feels good baby?” he´d nod feverishly, his brain too fogged up to care. you bite down on his lip softly, eliciting a moan from him, “use your big boy words sammy”

“fuck—a-ah, so good baby, k-keep going—” he groans, though it comes out as a muffled sound, “don´t stop—please”

that was enough for you to stroke him faster, his small moans and whimpers acting as encouragement. meanwhile, your thighs cage his left leg, hips gliding up and down in desperate drags, searching for some kind of release. sam takes notice of this, and in what feels like less than a second, his hand disappears down your dress.

he curses under his breath when his fingers meet your exposed pussy instead of your usual panties, and he chuckles against your mouth, though it eventually turns into a moan, “planned this all along, huh? you´re slick a-ah, i´ll give you that.”

before you could even reply with some smartass comment, your words die on your tongue as soon as he slides a finger in between your folds, your clit sucking him up easily. you bite down a moan, and sam presses his forehead against yours to prevent you from throwing your head back, “gotta take care of my drunk girl too.”

his finger curls upwards inside you when your eyes shut down, pressing a kiss to the side of your lips. “don´t act shy now baby.” he hisses at how your walls clench around his finger, and he knows that´s just a sign for him to add another one, “i want you to watch.”

your mind goes blank for a second before your eyes open. a moan bubbles from your throat at the sight—sam´s half-lidded eyes are fixed on you, hair sticking to his forehead while his gaze flickers between your pussy and the way your hands made haste on his dick, the mix of his precum and saliva dripping from your fingers down to your knuckles. he thrusts his fingers in and out of you with practiced ease, and you swear you see stars when he hits that spongy spot inside you.

in between messy strokes of your hands on his cock, and deep thrusts of his fingers against your cunt, you both reach your orgasm, washing over you like a tidal wave. sam´s breath steadies as his mouth still remains on your jaw, landing small, subtle pecks on your side.

his fingers ease up inside you, and releases them out slowly, lapping up your juices without ever losing eye contact. he waits for you to catch your breath before scooping you up in his arms, laying you on his chest with a lazy arm draped over your waist.

he wipes his hand on his shirt, gently lifting your body so he could it take off, toned body exposed to the cool night air. you lay beside him, still breathless as you come down from your high. he shifts towards you, and gives you one long, lingering kiss to your temple. he smiles, his hand never leaving your hip, “want me to run you a bath?”

your head twists to get a better look at him, and the glimmer in your expression gives it all: doe-eyed with flushed cheeks, giving him a small nod, “only if you join me.”

sam laughs, genuinely laughs, low and warm, and offers you a soft, tender smile—only reserved for you, “deal.”

cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ aaa here it iss!!! sorry tumblr wasn’t letting me post it yesterday idk why!! i REALLY like this one omg... also title inspired by fiona apple??? wrote this fic with this song ON REPEAT.

⤷ looking for more ? here’s my masterlist !

[violained]

domestic headcanons with dean <3

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.

"baby. eat this for me, please?"

"drink the water, c'mon."

・・・・・

masterlist ♡

[violained]

domestic headcanons with sam <3

cw gentle kisses, use of honey, baby, and angel !

⊹ sam likes brushing his teeth beside you in the early morning, a benign task that makes him feel normal and warm. he admires your sleepy face in the mirror reflection, the muss of your lashes and the subtle puff beneath your eyes. everything is quiet save for bristles on teeth. it gives him time to think of all he loves about you.

he likes to kiss small specks of remaining foam from the corners of your mouth, after.

⊹ sam loves reading to you. absolutely adores it when you clamber into bed once the lights are dim and the day has ebbed slow, throwing your legs over his lap and sighing dreamy into your pillow. he smiles. wants badly to tell you how lovely you are, and so he does.

"you're lovely, honey," he murmurs. "want me to pick up on the last chapter?"

the pages are already splayed open in his hand. the other settles someplace on your thigh, and sweeps up and down, up and down, over and over until sleep tugs you both under.

⊹ his wired earbuds are old and knotted and discolored in weathered blots. but you let him share them with you, because he always offers and plays your most favorite songs. he tips his cheek onto your head and breathes calm, fingers twined with yours. if you fall asleep on his shoulder, he's keeping you very safe and secure, tucked to his side.

⊹ sam sketches you. quick, simple drawings with a dull pencil, whenever he gets the chance. your profile, your eyes or smile. a full portrait, only slightly smudged across the paper. sometimes, he'll have you pose for him.

"turn just a little- yeah, baby. perfect."

"so pretty, angel. your nose is really beautiful."

・・・・・

masterlist ♡ requested

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ the space sam left behind

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after sam leaves for stanford, dean shuts down so hard it feels like you lost him too—and one bad joke in the impala finally makes you snap. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 842 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ heavy angst, abandonment feelings, grief over changing dynamics, emotional shutdown, argument, no clean resolution

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

the impala is too quiet without sam.

that’s the worst part, maybe. not the empty motel beds or the way dean stops ordering extra fries out of habit, or how every hunt feels a little more hollow now that there isn’t a second voice correcting research from the other side of a diner booth.

it’s the car. it’s the miles of road stretching ahead while dean drives with both hands on the wheel and says almost nothing, jaw set hard, music turned loud enough to pretend silence isn’t sitting between you with its knees drawn up.

before, it used to be you, dean, and sammy.

sam with his too-long legs shoved in the front seat, complaining about dean’s music, stealing your snacks when he thought you weren’t looking. dean calling him princess. you laughing until sam threatened to switch cars at the next gas station. stupid things. little things. the kind of things you don’t know are holding your life together until one person leaves and the other one starts acting as if anything soft has become a liability.

dean doesn’t joke with you anymore. not really. not the way he used to, with his mouth crooked and his eyes bright and all that ridiculous flirting tossed at you just to make you roll your eyes. he barely looks at you unless it’s about the case. location. weapons. salt. iron. exit points.

you miss sam so much it makes you angry, but missing dean when he’s right beside you feels worse.

so, yeah—by the time you pull up outside the old farmhouse, your face is probably doing something awful. dean notices. yet, he picks the worst possible thing to do with it.

“gee,” he says, glancing over as he parks. “poor ghost that has to face you tonight. we might not even need the salt rounds. your face’ll do all the work.”

it’s meant to be nothing. a jab. a little scrap of the old dean, thrown badly into the air between you. but it lands wrong.

you turn your head slowly. “are you kidding me?”

his eyebrows lift, already defensive. “what?”

“don’t what me.”

“it was a joke.”

“no, dean, it was you remembering how to speak to me for three seconds and choosing to be an asshole.”

that wipes the almost-smirk off his face. good.

you hate that it feels good.

he looks out through the windshield at the farmhouse, all black windows and peeling paint, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “we have a job.”

“we always have a job.” your voice comes out sharper than you expect, but you’re already opened up now, you’re already bleeding in the passenger seat, and there is no neat way to stop it. “that’s the problem, right? there’s always some house, some ghost, some excuse not to talk about the fact that sam left and you decided i had to lose both of you.”

his face changes. just a fraction. but you see it.

“you didn’t lose me,” he says, too fast.

you laugh once, ugly and hurt. “didn’t i?”

“i’m sitting right here!”

“no, you’re driving the car.” your throat tightens, and you hate that part. hate the wobble. hate how young you sound. “you’re loading guns and reading police reports and telling me to duck. you’re not here. you haven’t been here since he left!”

dean turns toward you then, anger rising because anger is easier—it’s always easier for him. “what do you want me to say?”

“anything,” you snap. “literally anything real.”

“real?” he repeats, voice low. “you want real?”

“yeah, i do.”

“sam walked out.”

“sam went to school.”

“he left!” dean bites out, and there it is, mean and raw and still not the whole truth. “he left, and dad’s pissed, and everything’s screwed, and i don’t have time to sit around holding hands and talking about feelings because people are dying.”

you stare at him, chest heaving.

outside, the farmhouse waits. the job waits. everything always waits just long enough to take something else from you.

“i wasn’t asking you to hold my hand,” you say quietly. too honest. too tired. “i was asking you not to disappear while sitting next to me.”

dean flinches. then he looks away, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on the house as if the ghost inside is easier to face than you. maybe it is.

you sit there for a few seconds, the engine ticking softly, the cassette still playing low under the silence. neither of you moves for the weapons bag. neither of you apologizes.

finally, dean reaches for the keys and shuts the car off. “let’s go,” he says, voice rough, smaller than before.

you nod, even though nothing is fixed, even though the empty seat still feels louder than both of you, even though you know this conversation is going to crawl into the space between your ribs and stay there.

you open your door before he can look at you again. and when you step out into the cold, you don’t wait for him to follow.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[cherrieimpala]

PAIRING: dean x gf! reader

SUMMARY : fluffy headcanons about dean and his girlfriend!

WARNINGS: none :D

A/N: lowercase intended.

bf!dean who wouldn't really know how to express his love through words—besides saying "I love you" and calling you pet names—but would definitely be show how much he loves you through his actions.

bf!dean who would love PDA, just because it would tell everyone that you're his.

bf!dean who would guide you by gently pressing his hand on your lower back.

bf!dean who would always walk on the outside of the path you you could walk in the inside.

bf!dean who would get really jealous if you were talking to another dude at a bar (even if you were just gathering info for a case you're working on) and would pull you back towards him by your belt loops.

bf!dean who would love seeing you get jealous if another started flirting with him. he would immediately tell the girl that he already has a girlfriend and kiss you.

bf!dean who would make you watch horror movies just so you'd curl up beside him and turn your face into his chest when you get scared.

bf!dean who would love running his thumb over your knuckles when holding your hand.

bf!dean who would shamelessly flirt with you just so you'd get flustered.

bf!dean who would be really clingy in the mornings and would mumble something about wanting "five more minutes" at least 20 times.

bf!dean who would look at you sleeping peacefully if he ever woke up before you.

bf!dean who loves playing with your hair and would start grinning when you glare at him and playfully slap his hand away, scolding him about messing you hair up.

bf!dean who loves giving you forehead kisses.

bf!dean who would want to murder anyone who even glanced at you wrong.

bf! dean who would worry about you every second that you're not at his side.

bf!dean who would take note of what you order so he would never mess up when ordering stuff for you.

bf!dean who would buy you anything you showed slight interest in.

bf!dean who wouldn't let you out of his sight during hunts.

bf!dean who would patch you up as gently as he could if you got hurt during a hunt.

bf!dean who could listen to you talk about random things that you're passionate about for days and never get bored.

bf!dean who loves holding you in his arms, especially at night.

bf!dean who wonders how he deserves such a sweet girl like you after everything he's been through.

bf!dean who would take you for late night drives if neither of you could sleep.

bf!dean who would always make time for you, no matter how busy he might be. nothing is as important to him as you are.

bf!dean who would buy your favourite flowers at least once a month.

bf!dean who loves your cooking. your cooking is the most delicious in his eyes and nothing will ever change that.

[sweetestsundaykisses]

they always go for the taken ones !

pairing : pre-series! dean x fem!reader

tags : fluff, mentions of alcohol, drunk dean, non-descriptive reader, uses of she/her & girlfriend, light angst, not proofread, miscommunication? (let me know if i missed anything)

wordcount : 1.4k+

summary : deans too drunk to recognize you!

maybe it's a sign.

it's nearing 3:00 am in the morning, and you still haven't had a lick of sleep. suddenly everything was too loud, being only able to focus on anything else but actually closing your eyes. there's the occasional sounds of cars driving by, the ticking of your clock--and the bzz of your phone.

you should probably check it, but you know who's calling. you know why you've been hearing it four times in a row. he's just drunk, you tell yourself. but maybe it's a sign, the universe's sign you should pick it up.

but you love him, too much actually. it takes you a minute to turn over and pick up the phone, and another 30 seconds to hesitate pressing the button to answer.

"dean?"

he knows he's been an asshole to you, lashing out and starting arguments with you wasn't something he was planning on doing at all this week. but his dad's off on another hunt, sam ran off to college, and he screwed up a solo hunt just earlier this week because he was distracted. distracted by the thought of you.

you're irritating. you make his heart beat fast, his palms sweaty and worry him whenever you're out of reach. like he's been shot by cupid over and over when he's near you, and even when you're not there. like a sap. you make him feel better just by being there, he hates you. and he hates how that isn't true. he loves you. but that's sammy's thing.

he's not cut out for this, he's an awful guy--always away on hunts, getting drunk and having one night stands are his thing. he knows it, he's owned up to it. falling in love with you? not his thing! he's never been the type for relationships, and he wasn't going to change that for you- is what he told you a few days ago. and since then, you've stopped talking to him. which is okay. he needed to go out and get drunk again anyway.

he's dean winchester, he'd rather jump into a busy street than admit that he's sorry. sorry and in love with you. it's why he's here at a bar, the taste of overpriced drinks in the air and the sound of relaxed lounge music in the background suddenly everywhere around him. he's drunk, he knows--he knows he might forget this in the morning, he knows you probably won't pick up your phone, and you probably won't understand his texts. he knows a lot of things. and one thing is for sure; he's desperate to talk to you. with the help of a drink or two (or ten), he pulls his phone out. his thumb pressed over your contact.

strictly no chick flick moments.. but it won't count if he's drunk, right?

itd me babym.. d. i screewed up imsorry 2:30 am

he orders another drink, downs it in one go. he has the bartender looking at him weird. like he's some helpless, pathetic drunk who recently got into an argument with his girlfriend. it takes him a while to press the right emoji, wanting the one that might get him some more pity points.

im ddo sorry ☹️ 2:37 am

1 missed call and another drink later, another text. now the bartender is refusing to give him a drink, but you're still not picking up. but he's not giving up.

ilove younbabybpick hp pls 2:40 am

"sweetheart.. are you there?" you almost roll your eyes and end the call right then and there. highlight almost, you care too much. you can tell he's drunk based on the way he slurs his words, the long pauses between his words and.. his texts. "yes, dean i'm here. are you only calling me because you're drunk?" "mhm.. obviously.. i jus' wanted to say that 'm sorry sweetheart. i know 'm an asshole.. shouldn't have-have told you that, baby." his words tug at your heartstrings, but you're trying to think with your head, not your heart. you know that better than anyone else. "dean, are you alone?" "all the time." "fuck- dean, where are you right now?" "downtown at that bar we first met.. don't come though, sweetheart. i'll be fine, jus' wanted to tell you 'm sorry." " we can talk about it in the morning." "i'm.. fine."

you hang up before you hear anything else, dragging yourself out of bed and shrugging your jacket on. you look like you just rolled out of bed, and you did, but it's three in the morning and you couldn't give a shit if anyone saw--if anyone was awake at all. atleast, not anybody you know (with the sole exception of dean.)

downtown isn't far from your place, it's a good walking distance actually. so it's not a surprise when you get there fast, stepping inside to a bar with a no smoking sign--it's just there for a guide, the place reeks. you spot him immediately, just from the back of his head--where he's frustrated about the bartender worrying about him. " 's none of your business, holmes." rolling your eyes, you lightly tap him on the shoulder.

"dean let's go back to my place, i can take care of you there better."

"don't fuckin' touch me.." you flinch at his harsh tone, you knew he told you not to come--but he didn't have to be rude about it. you two were of opposite worlds, and this moment only reminds you of that. you know it in the way you're only dressed in your pajamas, you've only just rolled out of your bed--he's been awake, dressed up and having already downed around 13 drinks.

"dean let's just.. go home. i know you didn't want me to come, but please don't start a scene. it's 3 in the morning." you try again, pulling at his shoulder gently. you're trying your best not to attract any attention, the bartender had already been staring at you two with an understanding look. he's seen this play out thousands of times with different people over and over.

"nah.. back off, angelina jolie.. i got a girl already." another woman? is he serious? "quit it, dean." you're trying not to raise your voice, maybe the reason he's been so distant is because you're the problem. he's in another relationship, you're a homewrecker and he's a cheater and- he mumbles your name, his thumb hovers over the call button on his phone again. "w-what?" you chuckle nervously, you're unsure of how to act--you don't know how to. but he's already yelling out your name--your heart almost skips a beat. he's yelling something a long the lines of; "damn it.. i already have my girl.. hic! pissed, can't be talking to some random chick."

is he seriously this drunk?

"your girlfriend's name is..?" you can't help the small smile on your face, the heavy feeling in your heart slowly lifting. going through three emotions in the span of 10 minutes wasn't that bad. he says your name confidently, a crooked grin creeping onto his face. "i told you, back off.. i don't need no side chick, she's.. she's my girl an' i don't need.. anybody else.." "dean-" "nd it doesn't.. hic! help that you sound like her.." "look at me, please." you smile, wiping off the tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks earlier.

"see! mmf, they always go for the taken ones!" stubborn even in an intoxicated state, he refuses to look at another woman because he has you. if only he would actually sneak a glance this time, because that other woman he's refusing to look at; is you right now. it makes you wonder just how many unsuccessful women have been coming up to him to flirt tonight. you can't help the giggle that escapes you, the giddiness you feel has you smiling like an idiot. you murmur your full name into his ear. "dean... i'll spell out my middle name for you if you need it."

"shapeshittteeerrr.." "dean-" "shifter." "call your real girlfriend then." he squints at you for a moment, grumbling as he finally presses the call button on your contact--your phone rings not long after, and you give him a deadpanned look before you pull your phone out for him to see. "hhg.. oops."

dragging a guy that's a little over 6'1 and 183 pounds back to your place is hell, especially because its 3:25 am and you're in no mood to put up with anyone else's bullshit. you let him crash at your couch, because you were not about to haul him upstairs just so he could sleep next to you. you smile at his form snuggled into your extra pillows, pulling your phone out to take a picture.

you drift off not long after, in the chair next to him and with a smile on your face. you can't wait to tease him about this tomorrow, and to seriously talk about your.. relationship now. communication is key after all.

author's note : sorry if dean might b a little ooc, hopefully u guys understood the ref i couldn't think of anything that dean woulf say LMFAO😳🙏 might make a part two, do u guys want that? #lmk👀👀👀👀👀👀

masterlist likes n reblogs r appreciated!!!

[wendichester]

Could you maybe write Castiel x reader but like the reader smells really good due to their lotion (no specific scent just a lotion that smells really good) and like cas is just constantly smelling them maybe pawsibly could just be fluff but maybe some smut PAWSIBLY.

⋆｡ ˚ close enough to notice

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel keeps finding excuses to stand near you, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s because of your lotion. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 546 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel being unintentionally intense, scent-related affection, mild teasing

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

the first time castiel does it, you think it’s an accident.

you’re in the bunker kitchen, half-asleep and waiting for your coffee to become strong enough to fix your mood, when he steps beside you and pauses. just like that. in that same typical castiel-weirdness of his.

you glance at him over your mug. “cas?”

his eyes flick to yours, very serious. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes.”

you wait for him to say something else. he says nothing else.

then he leans, just slightly, closer to your shoulder.

you blink. “are you smelling me?”

castiel straightens so fast it would be funny if his face weren’t completely sincere. “no.” a beat. “yes.”

you stare at him.

he looks back, unashamed and somehow a little embarrassed, which is a complicated thing to manage with one face. “you smell pleasant,” he explains.

your brain goes wonderfully blank. “oh.”

“not in an alarming way.”

“great,” you say, trying not to laugh. “love that clarification.”

after that, you start noticing it: he sits beside you during research even when there are six empty chairs. he appears in doorways when you pass, head tilting faintly as if he’s caught some invisible thread of you in the air. once, while you were reaching for a book on a high shelf, he stepped behind you to get it first, and when his sleeve brushed your arm, he went very still.

you turned slowly, then. “cas.”

“i was assisting.”

“you were inhaling.”

his mouth parts. closes. “both things can be true.”

that gets you. you laugh, soft and helpless, and his expression gentles in response, like the sound is something he wants to keep but doesn’t know where to put.

one night, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing lotion into your hands because the bunker air dries your skin out terribly. castiel stands near the doorway, watching with that quiet intensity that used to unsettle you before you learned it usually just means he’s curious. or worried. or both.

“it’s this, isn’t it?” you ask, holding up the bottle.

he steps closer. “yes.”

“you could’ve just said you liked it.”

“i did.”

“you said i smelled pleasant and not alarming.”

“that was accurate.”

you bite your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.

he notices. of course he does. and his gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, softer now. “may i?”

your chest gives a tiny, traitorous flip. “smell my hands?”

“yes.”

you should tease him. really, you should. instead, you offer him one.

castiel takes it carefully, his fingers cool at first, then warmer where they settle around yours. he bends over your hand, not kissing it—-just close enough that his breath brushes your knuckles, slow and reverent in a way that makes your stomach twist.

oh. that’s unfair. “cas,” you say, quieter.

he lifts his eyes. “is this uncomfortable?”

you swallow. “no,” you admit. too honest. “that’s kind of the problem.”

something shifts in his face, small but visible, like he’s filing that away with great care.

he doesn’t let go immediately. neither do you. and when his thumb moves once across the back of your hand, barely there, you realize he isn’t there just to smell the lotion anymore. maybe he never was.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[ateotdwinchester]

✩ the thrill of it all / teen!dean masterlist ✩

based on my teen!dean sneaking to see you headcanons !

a scared teenage student with no experience in the world of monsters, meets an experienced teenage hunter. maybe a right place at the right time scenario, or it was the monster him and his father had been tracking all along— leading straight to you.

helping a victim was the good thing to do, getting you home, making sure you weren’t hurt. that’s all it ever was. nothing less, nothing more.

but, there was something about you, something that made dean winchester go back to you, check on you, make sure you always got home from class safe. even if it was against both of your parents wishes.

maybe it was love, or maybe it was the thrill of it all.

chapter one 𖦹 not your imagination … coming soon

── .✦ you didn’t think monsters were real, only in books and fairytales. until, you got chased by one on your way home one night. thankfully, you weren’t as alone as you originally thought.

[saltcirclesigil]

Castiel examines m!reader's fangs, and he couldn't be more fascinated by his beauty. (demon!male!reader, fluff, kisses and gentle biting<3 I've requested u b4, and u didn't disappoint ^_^!!!)

Stab The Voice~🪽

Socials | Masterlist | Intro | Rules ~💫🪽

Castiel x Male Demon!Reader | Ex lovers reunited, dialogue heavy, cocky reader, dominant Cas, biting, kisses, very minor injury, friendly teasing

Summary: It took you some time, but you finally found your old lover friend Castiel in hiding among humans. He doesn’t want to remember you…he thinks. Too bad he’s a sucker for you.

Note: LOVE this prompt! Sorry if it looks rushed though… Thanks for giving me the motivation to write male readers <3 (Big thanks for also being a recurring req, keep an eye out for a surprise in the future!)

You feel offended for being reduced to a random demon… At least, that’s what he thought you were. Castiel chose the lie that he could ‘hardly recognize you anymore’. The angel didn’t want to admit that somewhere in your eyes he knew that soul of yours was familiar.

And he knows those teeth.

Even in hell you had a figure that reeked of power; not many demons lean into the folklore-y cosmetics that you do. If you weren’t already a powerhouse in the spiritual sense, those signature double canines solidified your reputation, and enamored Castiel in some shamefully sick way.

You’d found his motel room by talking to a horde of hunters at the local bar; funny how much a man can stick out merely for wearing a trench coat. Even funnier how cooperative barmen are when you mention looking for an ex lover.

He's let himself go, you think. At least, his choice of motel could be better than this. Though you do understand the sacrifice that comes with accompanying the Winchesters: Sam being needy all the time, dealing with a violent and emotionally constipated brother. Dean's constant prayer for help only when it's convenient to himself and severe alcoholism never helped either. The only reason he's alive is because Castiel routinely fixes the hunter's liver with his 'angel mojo.' Word goes around fast when the name Winchester finds its way in. Now you’re seated on his tarnished bed. Castiel doesn’t sleep. Oh, Filthy angel.

The door creaks open. You flinch from excitement when he looks at you in an instant.

“Castiel.”

The angel shivers. “…Demon.” His eyes drift to your mouth where you shoot him a smile. The room is quiet, only with the breeze that knocks on the window and the motel neighbors talking amongst themselves.

“You remember me?”

“...” He smooths out the wrinkles on his trenchcoat.

“Cute.” You beam.

Castiel looks a bit irritated. “I forget how much time has passed since our previous exchange.”

“Not long enough if you’re looking at me like that without a proper hello.”

“You’re not the only one who looks like you do. I needed to confirm your identity.”

“Yeah, but I was the first. And really, who from this side of the sky actually cares to visit you?”

Castiel opens his mouth to answer, but not a word comes out. His eyebrows scrunch together in frustration.

“That’s what I thought.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, beckoning the angel who steps forth. It’s definitely you, the demon he’s known longer than anyone.

That same confirmation rattles around redundantly in Castiel’s skull, as if it’ll grant him permission to put his hands on your face just to take a closer look. Your legs part, a natural manspread to which the angel fills the gap, standing so his knees graze your inner thighs and his fingers beginning to trace your face.

You lean into it, tilting your head to feel the cold of his digits on your lips. The sudden clamp down on his thumb is no accident. He doesn’t flinch or pull back.

“We’ve discussed this before. I’m not a masochist,” the angel whispers. “Not like you.”

You wrap one leg around his waist to force his body closer. For the cherry on top, you put on a cheesy smile. “But you’re one hell of a sadist. You don’t need sharp teeth to bite back.”

Maybe he’s gone soft, Castiel. Too many nighttimes spent with the shared intimacy of a human being that a demon suddenly becomes too much to handle. It’s hard not to try though, and your bites start extending to his wrists and forearms.

“Agh…” Castiel groans. He can’t get himself to say your name— it’d be too much. Still it’s bothersome how he clumps you into the horde. So your other leg wraps around his waist to push his body on top of yours. No run-of-the-mill demon can give the Angel of Thursday what he needs. “Be gentle if you so indulge.”

Bedsheets start shifting, tangling, copper starts teasing your taste buds, and Castiel’s by extension when he begins to kiss you.

You pull away to search for discomfort on Cas. “Am I hurting you at all—?”

“Open your mouth.”

Your eyes flicker to black, instantly complacent. You shift on your back, neck propped uncomfortably on the headboard so Cas can slide his thumb across the canines. He’s straddling you like it’s the most natural way he could be sitting. One hand occupied with your mouth, the other rests on your unclothed chest: firm, powerful, and deeply masculine. Is it that hard for Castiel to say he missed you?

He begins to relax. Castiel’s head moves to your shoulders to imprint a soft bite back.

“That didn’t take a lot… I forgot you’re a man of few words,” you groan out a laugh.

“You’re a man of too many.” He retorts between slow kisses to your body. Fingers graze waistbands and lips seek out one another. Kisses or not, your mouth stays open for Castiel to examine his favorite part of you.

The night goes on and the rooms next door cease their conversation. The silence is isolating, chilling, exciting. Castiel’s been taking his time with you just as you have him. In between prying your mouth open like a doll he allows you to sink bite after bite on his body. Watching your artistry heal or turn a light purple is an exciting gamble, and Castiel doesn’t seem to mind either result. It gives you a reason to move around and explore more when the table side lamp is all that lights the room. Your hands stay firmly on Castiel’s stomach to traces the faint v-lines that lead to his belt buckle and happy trail. You have to resist tearing your face away from his hands just to take a bite.

Moments later Cas’s fingers leave your mouth to cup your chin, his piercing stare asking to hear your voice.

“…did you want a review?” You drool.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Hm.” He presses his fingertips to your lips. “Don’t get rid of these.”

“Did I awaken something?” You can hear his heartbeat quicken. “Or do you just feel bad for mingling with the enemy?”

“I like them. That is all.”

“That’s all?”

“I’d appreciate it if you were to bite harder next time.”

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[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Hey!! I was wondering if you could do a Sam x reader fic where they both get captured during the benders episode (1. 15) and reader or Sam confess how the feel and when they get free/go back to whatever motel they are staying in it turns maybe smutty?

I’ve never really requested before so I hope this makes sense!! 🫶

⁠♡ 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓮

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader (hunter)

CW: 18+ MDNI, canon violence & injuries, friends to lovers, language, oral & fingering (f receiving), some overstim, protected pinv, pet names, lots of precious fluff <3

WC: 2.5K

A/n: I love episode-specific requests! Anything with season 1 Sammy is a plus. He looked so cute with his metal bracket in his giant dog kennel omg

“They were just people?” Dean glanced at you in the rearview mirror, his brows knit in confusion.

“Very fucked up, inbred people who hunted humans for sport—yes.”

Sam chuckled in that effortlessly handsome way, his eyes flashing to you briefly before returning to his lap. 

The air in the Impala was uncomfortably thick, bordering on oppressive. 

It wasn’t what he said. He didn’t say anything. 

You had been knocked down, quickly scrambling backwards, reaching a discarded hatchet on the ground. The man had you lined in his sights. A gunshot erupted and you waited for the pain to come, or your world to go dark. He collapsed, nearly landing on you. Sam rushed to your side, his hand brushing hair out of your face while he scanned you for injuries. His rough pad quickly traced your jawline 

It was the way he looked at you when he realized you weren’t hurt. Relief that he didn’t have to try and live without you. Panic at how close he came to losing you. He quickly helped you to your feet and pulled you towards him with his big hand firmly on the back of your neck, pressing you tight against his chest. Close enough to hear his pulse hammering and his breath shaking.

“Sam…”

He shook his head, breaking whatever trance he had fallen into, realizing the danger was far from over. He quickly released you so you could regroup with Dean and the sheriff's deputy.

Now, he stared out the window hoping that you hadn’t clocked his moment of weakness. 

What was an appropriate amount of time to wait after the tragic loss of a partner? Anyway, you'd probably just dismiss him as your best friend’s lovesick kid brother.

You stopped at the small diner near the motel. Dean somehow still had an appetite—yours was gone after seeing the jars of human teeth and other miscellaneous nastiness. 

Even after being kept in a human-sized iron dog kennel for more than a day, Sam was barely touching his food. Dean side-eyed him, stealing fries from his plate without so much as a glance.

Sensing awkward tension that he had no interest in talking about, Dean dropped you both off at the motel. You were dirty and sore. Disgusted from being manhandled by those animals. Grateful you had gotten a tetanus shot in the last ten years given the large gash on your low back from a piece of scrap metal. 

“Mind if I shower first?” 

Sam nodded, graciously insisting, still struggling to maintain eye contact for more than a millisecond. 

You were eager to wash the grime and the tension from your aching muscles. 

While you showered, Sam started running lines in his head. Possible scenarios. Your reactions. Preparing himself for the rejection. Coming close to psyching himself out. 

“Hey, Sam?” 

Your voice calling him from the bathroom brought him back. The sound of his name on your tongue always made his heart race. 

He stood up quickly, making his way to the door.

“Y-yeah?” 

You needed him to take a look at the cut on your back. It already felt angry and was bleeding again after drying off. 

He grabbed the med kid and gingerly opened the door, asking again if it was okay that he entered. 

You had put your bottoms on, a pair of cotton shorts that sat low on your hips, and a sports bra, but you were clutching a towel, keeping your chest covered. He swallowed hard. 

He’d seen you in your swimsuit a handful of times when you’d take advantage of being at a motel with a pool, or at the lake in the summer. This was different somehow.  

You turned your back to him, and he winced at the painful looking gash. 

“I might need to throw a stitch or two in that. It’s pretty deep.” 

You groaned but were relieved it was Sam taking care of it. Despite having the man-equivalent of bear paws, he was soft and delicate when the task required it. 

He closed the toilet lid and sat down to get a better angle and to work comfortably. 

“Uh..just, c’mere.” He guided you to stand in front of him with a carefully-placed hand on your hip. You stumbled a bit but his firm grip steadied you. Your breath hitched slightly at the way his calloused pads grazed the soft skin in between your hips. 

Trying to still his shaking hands, he took a deep breath and you felt the warm puff of air against the dip in your back. 

“Try and stay still, ‘kay?” 

You nodded in response.

He got to work sanitizing the wound. The sting from the antiseptic made you twitch. He apologized quietly and rubbed his thumb on your side to comfort you. You winced when he threw each stitch, but he was quick and gentle. Once he cut the excess string, you finally broke the silence. 

“So…Sam? Can we talk?” 

His eyes widened and he hummed in response. 

“What was that? The look you gave me…the way you—I don’t know. Never mind.” You chuckled nervously, gently shaking your head. 

“Hey—“

Gently turning you around to face him, he took a moment to collect himself while admiring your soft expression.

“I was scared. Really fucking scared. That I might have lost you. I couldn’t—can’t.” He shook his head, trying to extinguish the thought. “It made me realize that I’ve wasted a lot of time.” 

You frowned and tilted your head slightly. One of the small things you did that made his heart race and lips curl into a smile. 

His mouth was dry, making the attempt to wet his lips impossible.

“I, uh—I love you. I always have.” He smiled to himself, a relieved sigh escaping him. It felt so right hearing himself say it. “I’m crazy about you. I miss you when you leave for five minutes, I can’t stand being away from you…”

“Sam—“

It was like he didn’t even hear you. 

“But I can’t keep pretending anymore. I don’t want to be just friends anymore. When I see you with someone else I just—“

“SAM.”

He finally looks up at you with glossy eyes and that puppy-dog expression. 

You gripped his face with both hands, dropping the towel, and pulled him towards you, kissing him harder than he was prepared for. He was too shocked to react. He was still holding the surgical thread and scissors in his hands when you pulled away. 

Your small fingers threaded through his fluffy bangs. A simple gesture that always made him melt. He looked up at you like you’d hung the moon—hell, like you created the damn thing. His eyes drifted down, briefly eyeing your newly exposed skin. 

“Me too, Sam.” 

He quickly abandoned the supplies in his hand. The scissors dropped to the floor with a metallic clatter. He stood up quickly and was on you. Large hands threaded in your hair, tilting your head back to kiss you deeply. He only broke contact enough to breathe before he was swallowing your tiny gasps and moans. 

“Say it—please.”

You let out a breathy giggle. “Say what?” 

He groaned. Sam had a love-hate relationship with your teasing. 

“Tell me that you love me. Please, I need to hear it.” 

You pulled back enough to look at him with your forehead almost touching his. It was hard not to get lost in his eyes. They were swirling nebulas of green, blue, and brown. 

“I love you, Sam Win—“ 

He moaned against you. A beautiful sound that shot straight to your core. He lifted you with both hands cradling the backs of your thighs. His rough pads squeezed your flesh while he carried you out of the dingy motel bathroom.

He laid you on the mattress like you were delicate, but his mouth moved like he was starving. His tongue sliding against yours. Teeth occasionally nipping at your bottom lip. He pulled away to admire you beneath him—your swollen lips and flushed cheeks, only a thin layer of fabric separating him from the breasts he’d dreamt about for years. You pressed your thighs together at the sight of him towering over you, but you knew you were safe with him. 

“You have no idea what you do to me, baby.” 

Your cheeks flushed at the pet name. 

“Yeah? Show me, Sam.” 

The look on your face was threatening to undo him. He pulled off his shirt and popped the button on his jeans before kicking them off and kneeling over you again. The sight of him—perfectly toned, a deep v of muscles continuing below the waistband of his boxers, his soft, golden skin—made your mouth water. Your cocky attitude was lost when you saw the hard line straining against the thin fabric of his boxers. A man that sweet and shy had no business being that gifted. 

“You okay?” 

Now it was your turn to feel nervous. You nodded and tried to swallow the dry lump in your throat. 

“I’m gonna take care of you-–always gonna take care of you.” 

Sensing your apprehension, he kissed you softly and felt you start to relax while he traced his fingers across your collarbone, slowly moving to tease the edge of your bra. 

“Can I take this off?” 

You hummed, nodding more eagerly as you helped him unclasp it, and discarding it on the floor. 

He admired you for a moment like you were a piece of fine art. He finally palmed your breast, gently rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. His mouth landed on the other, sucking the hardened peak and nipping gently causing your breath to hitch. 

His palm trailed down your belly, fingertips pressing into your soft flesh, and skirted the edge of your waistband.

“Tell me what you need.”  

“Please touch me—I need you.” 

He felt like he had died and gone to heaven. His hand slid past the elastic and he felt nothing but your soft skin above your wet, puffy folds. 

“Fuck, no panties?” 

You smiled nervously and shrugged. “I don’t like wearing them to bed—sue me.” 

He quickly pulled your shorts down and quietly moaned at the sight. He was desperate to bury his face between your legs—he’d had dreams about how sweet you taste. How soft and warm you feel. The sounds you’d make when he made you come. This was putting all of those fantasies to shame.

You closed your knees anxiously, but his palms gently parted your thighs for him. 

“Can I? Please? Wanna taste you.” 

You hummed sweetly and relaxed back into the plush comforter.

He slid two fingers though your slit and coated them in your wetness. He couldn’t help but taste you, sucking the sweetness off both of his digits before pressing them past your tight entrance. 

You wrapped around him like a velvety glove and the sound he drew from you was so sweet and melodic. Once he wrapped those pretty lips around your clit, every ounce of nervous energy was gone. He switched between broad licks and rhythmic sucking, every speed and variation, trying to figure out what you needed. All the while thrusting his curled fingers in your dripping cunt, filling the room with obscenely wet sounds. 

You moaned and twitched, responding to every touch. It was too much and not enough. He laid an arm across your belly to keep you still and he couldn’t help but paw at your soft breasts. 

When your orgasm hit, he kept pumping his fingers and massaging that sweet spot deep inside, where his long fingers hit perfectly. Your thighs closed around him, but his broad shoulders left him plenty of room to work. Once your fingers started tugging at his locks and you wiggled away from the oversensitivity, he slowly withdrew his fingers and admired the creamy wetness coating them from your climax. 

He planted a soft kiss on your thigh and gave you a moment to come down. He left to grab a condom from his duffle bag. When he turned toward you again, he found you sitting on your heels with a pretty little smile, waiting for him to come back. He did his best to commit the image to memory. 

“Can I put it on?” You held your hand out and gestured towards the silver wrapper.

He huffed a weak laugh watching you use your teeth to tear at the corner, then at your proud little smirk when you finally got it open. 

You tugged the waistband of his boxers down and stared in wonder at the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen. Flushed pink tip that was already leaking precome. You gave him a few pumps before he caught your wrist. 

“Fiiine.” You playfully rolled your eyes and finally rolled the condom down slowly. You could barely fit a hand around him and he felt so heavy. 

He kissed you again and you could still taste your sweet arousal on his lips. Laying down, he rolled you on top of him and let his cock settle against your tight entrance.

“You’re so pretty, Sammy.” 

A pink blush spread across his face and he laughed nervously. “I think that’s my line, sweetheart.” 

You raised your hips and rubbed his swollen tip through your sensitive folds before lowering yourself down onto him. The stretch was all you imagined but your walls slowly fluttered to accommodate him perfectly. His fingertips pressed tightly into the plush flesh of your hips as he encouraged you to take him deeper. 

Your head lolled back, and you softly mewled as you settled in his lap. You only gave yourself a moment to adjust before bracing your hands on his chest and rocking your hips. 

“Fuck—you feel so good.” He gripped you tightly and guided you along his length, bucking his hips up to thrust into you.  Sam watched as your tiny fingers started rubbing your clit, chasing your high again. 

“Dirty girl.” He mumbled as he flipped you over without pulling out. 

He brushed your hand aside, replacing it with his own, and rubbed tight circles around the sensitive bud. His hips rocked perfectly to massage your g-spot making your eyes roll back. 

“Say it—again. Please.” 

Your eyes fluttered open and your lips turned into a soft smile.

He stilled his hips enough to make you whine at the loss of friction. 

“love you, Sam—soo much.” 

He leaned over you and drank the words in like he was parched. 

“Sounds better every time I hear it.” 

His hips snapped against yours at a blinding pace, his fingers petting your clit to match his thrusts. It took no time for you to gush around him again, screaming his name like it was the only word you knew anymore. The way your walls pulsed rhythmically around him milked him dry, filling the condom up, but wishing it was you. 

Sam nearly collapsed on you. Just propping himself up on his forearms and pressing his forehead against yours. Both of you panting and shimmering with sweat. 

After another shower, together this time, and throwing one of his soft t-shirts on, you slipped into the cool sheets together. He pulled your back flush against his chest, letting you nuzzle into his arm like a pillow. With his head tucked against your shoulder, the last thing you heard before being pulled under by exhaustion was another quiet I love you. 

Hope you enjoyed! I'm slow getting to requests right now, but please keep them coming.

[hopelessbrain]

SOMEBODY WHO STAYS

wordcount: 1647 summary: A night of quiet conversations in the bunker– whoever said Castiel didn’t understand humans clearly never saw him worry for those he cares about. warnings: gn!reader, could be read as platonic or romantic (reader x castiel), mild angst (emotional vulnerability), comfort/fluff, cas being a sweetheart, think that’s all

The bunker was never truly silent.

Pipes always groaned somewhere in the walls, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and from down the hall you could hear the muffled sound of Dean snoring loud enough to qualify as a medical condition. Still– at three in the morning– it was as close as it could get to silence.

You shuffled into the kitchen still half-asleep, wearing sweatpants and one of Sam’s old shirts, he’d outgrown decades ago, mostly focused on the idea of getting something to drink– you nearly jumped when seeing Castiel already there.

He looked up from the table, calm as ever. “Hello” The kitchen light casts everything in bright, blue-ish light. His tie was loosened slightly, coat folded over the back of the chair and a book sat open in front of him, untouched.

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Jesus, Cas”

“I don’t believe He is also awake”

That pulled a tired laugh out of you despite yourself. “Cute” You’re not sure whether the angel was being serious with his statement, or whether it was one of his poorly prepared attempts at humor– either way, you’re too tired to question it.

Castiel tilted his head a little. “You are awake later than usual”

“So are you”

“I do not require sleep”

“Yeah, but you usually go stare at bees or plants when you’re waiting for us to wake up”

A pause.

The angel is caught between something like embarrassment and awe at you knowing his routines. “I was not aware my behavior had become predictable…”

You chuckle softly, voice warm and quiet in the empty kitchen. “Well most days you tell me all about the little creatures you saw, it’d be a pretty shitty listener if i didn’t know”

Castiel’s gaze drops briefly to the table, thoughtful. “I did not think you found those conversations interesting”

Your eyes blink, turning slightly toward him. “Cas, last week you spent twenty minutes explaining how bees communicate”

“I thought it was relevant”

“It absolutely was not” You can’t help but huff fondly.

“You still listened…” There’s something strangely sincere in the way he says it– not teasing, not self-conscious– just… observant.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, like you weren’t expecting him to react that way at something as simple as you listening about his bees and their dancing language. “Well–” You murmur softly. “ –I like hearing you talk” A pause as you turn fully to face him. “It’s not often you get to explain things of your interest, mostly it’s about hunting or Heaven”

Castiel goes still for a moment– not frozen– just quiet in that way he gets when he’s thinking deeply about something small. “Most humans do not enjoy listening to things they consider insignificant”

Your brows knit faintly, genuinely confused as to why he’d assume you disliked him talking about those subjects. “I don’t think the things you care about are insignificant”

His eyes lift back to yours then, impossibly blue under the harsh kitchen light. “Even when they have nothing to do with hunting?”

“Especially then… They’re more you” You reply– simple and honest, because to you it was that. Simple. Castiel talking with genuine awed interest about bees, flowers or whatever it was that fascinated them that day, always was nice.

Something unreadable flickers across the angel’s face– not confusion, something softer. His fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that suddenly makes the kitchen feel too small. “I do not believe many people distinguish between what I do and who I am”

The honesty of it catches you off guard, making your expression soften automatically. “Cas”

Castiel looks away briefly, gaze lost somewhere in the room. “It’s not criticism” He says quietly. “Humans tend to define each other by purpose”

“That’s depressing” You reply, brows furrowing.

“It is also true”

You lean back against the counter, crossing your arms loosely. “Well, for the record–I like hearing about the weird little stuff”

“The bees?”

“The bees”

“The flowers?”

“Very exciting flowers”

“They were blue”

That pulls another tired laugh out of you, warm and quiet in the empty kitchen. Slowly, the laughter fades into comfortable silence.

Castiel studies you for another long moment. “You are still avoiding sleep” He points out in a gravelly murmur– not pressing– assessing.

There it is. The truth. Vulnerability.

You exhale slowly through your nose, gaze dropping toward the floor just to avoid having to look him directly in the eyes. “You really don’t let things go, huh?”

“Not when they concern someone I care about”

Usually– you’d get defensive, brush off the prying comments from outsiders about your feelings. But Castiel was being kind, gentle and honest out of pure care for you. Instead of closing off, you can’t help the soft, fleeting smile that tugs at your lips. “M’fine Cas” You reply the same sentence that’s become automatic by now.

“You say that frequently” He noticed– of course he noticed.

“Maybe it’s because m’fine frequently” You retort, but it lacks believability even to your own ears.

Cas gives you an ‘are you serious’ look, furrowing his brows in that puppy-ish confusion he almost always seems to have. He doesn’t even need to point out he can quite literally hear your heartbeat stutter when you lie, you both know the truth.

“You say that–” He begins carefully. “ –as if it should end the conversation”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Fine” His voice is even, but there’s a subtle tension underneath it now. “It is often used to conclude discussion without resolution”

You let out a small, tired breath. “It’s just a word, Cas”

“Words are rarely just words” The angel replies immediately.

That makes you pause– because he’s looking at you like he actually means it, like he’s learned that from watching people shut doors in real time. Castiel’s gaze drops briefly, then returns to yours. “When you say you are fine–” He continues more quietly. “ –it usually means you don’t want anyone to ask further questions”

That lands a little too close, your shoulders shift slightly against the counter. “That’s not…”

“You also say it when you are overwhelmed” He interrupts softly, like he already spent hours carefully decoding your words, your worries, your mind.

Silence. Not heavy yet, just… precise. You glance away again, less sure now. “You’re reading into it”

“I am observing it” That punctuation doesn’t help much. Castiel leans forward just slightly, hands still resting on the table, voice softer now. “I don’t know why you decided that your feelings were something that had to be managed alone”

That line hangs there.

Simple. Direct. Not dramatic– which makes it worse somehow. You swallow a little, jaw tightening. For a second, you almost laugh it off again– something automatic, something easy– but it doesn’t come.

“I didn’t decide it” You finally say, quieter than before. Open in a way you hadn’t been in years, a way you definitely weren’t used to being. Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. He just watches you, like he knows there’s more but doesn’t want to rush you. Your fingers tap against the edge of the counter nervously. “It just kind of… became like that” You add, eyes dropping to the floor. “You deal with things, you move on. That’s how it works”

A pause.

“That is not how humans work” Castiel points out simply with that same confused tilt to his head from before.

You let out a breath through your nose. “Well, it’s how hunters work” That lands differently– more tired than defensive. Castiel’s expression softens in a way that’s almost imperceptible unless you’re already looking at him. (Which you definitely were)

“I don’t believe that is entirely true” The angel says. You glance up at that. He continues, voice still quiet. “I have seen you remain behind when others would have left, I have seen you stay awake when you are exhausted because someone else needed you to” A beat. “You don’t simply move on” That makes something in your chest tighten again, but not in the same way as before. This one is heavier, more personal. You stare at him for a second too long, because he’s right. And worse–  he’s right in a way that doesn’t feel like judgement– just observation. Like he’s describing patterns you didn’t realize you were part of.

You look away first. “Yeah, well” You murmur, aiming for something light, even if it comes out weaker than you’d like. “That’s kind of the job”

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, it’s quieter. “I don’t think it has to be” That makes you pause, your fingers stopping their taps against the counter.

“What?”

The angel’s gaze doesn’t leave you. “I don’t think you should have to become exhausted in order to deserve rest” He explains gently– no grand speech, no urgency– facts, delivered like it’s obvious. Somehow that’s what makes your throat tighten.

You let out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, but it dies halfway. “You make it sound easy” Your voice is softer now, more open.

“It is not easy” He replies simply. “But it’s still true”

Silence settles again– different now– less ‘question and answer’ and  more… suspended. You finally slide down slightly against the counter, like your body is catching up to the conversation, settling into itself.

“I don’t really know how to do anything else” You admit before you can stop yourself. It’s small, almost swallowed by the silence in the room– but it’s real.

Castiel stills. Not dramatically, just enough for you to notice him noticing you.

“I don’t really know how to do many things yet either” He admits with such raw kindness that it almost makes you want to cry and hug him all at once. “But I believe it might be easier if we try to do it together”

[s0urw00lf]

𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

pairing: cas x reader

Summary: cas notices a new necklace you started wearing. 

An: this is my first cas fic and I was so excited to write it!!! I’ve neglected my angel boy far too long! Thank you @athenadeen for your request I hope you like it. Also I love that necklace it is beautiful 🤭

WC: 664

The first time he noticed it was when he popped in on you, Sam, and Dean randomly one night. You were asleep on the couch. You looked ethereal under the gentle wash of moonlight, that softened the edges of the sharp and seasoned hunter that you are.

Sam and dean hadn't noticed him, or if they had they hadn't made it known. Not that he minded, he was too busy staring at you.

when a gleam of light reflected from your chest it caught his attention, only for it to disappear seconds later, then re-appear again.

He was confused for a moment, wondering if you were human, if he had missed something, how could he have missed something?

But, before he could question it, you turned on your side, now facing him fully and it was then he realized that your chest wasn't glowing, you were not some supernatural creature.

You were wearing a necklace.

An angel necklace. It didn't look like one of course, not really. But he had seen the little statues humans put up for Christmas, or the one some brought with them to church every Sunday.

He couldn't be mistaken.

You were wearing an angel necklace.

After that, any time cas would pop in, he checked to see if you were wearing it. You always were. During research, during hunts, in your sleep. He was almost positive you never took it off.

The one time he brought it up to you was when you prayed to him. He showed up before you could even finish your prayer. He stood right in front of you and watched as you continued to pray, holding the charm on the necklace like it was providing some sort of comfort.

He made himself known, and took care of the problem playing your mind. Only when he was sure you were okay did he finally ask…

"What does it mean to you?"

You looked at him in wonder. His head was tilted to the side like it did every time he was trying o understand something human. "What does what mean to me?" You asked.

"Your necklace, it's an angel." He answered " Does it represent your faith?"

You looked down at the necklace laid against your chest. And back at cas, his expression was intense as if he was trying to understand its meaning before you told him.

You didn't know what to say, to be honest you weren't even sure why you wore the necklace, it was pretty, and it grounded you. And every time you touched it you thought of Cas.

"I guess" you answered with an unsure shrug.

"I wasn't aware you relied on faith." He said. You laughed to yourself. "It's not… like that. It represents my faith, but not in angels, not in heaven. It represents my faith in you" you reply quietly.

Cas blinked rapidly as if trying to understand your words. His eyebrows drew together "you have faith in me?" He asked "even after everything I've done?"

"We've all done bad things cas, doesn't make your heart any less pure."

cas looked stood up from his seat "it makes me… happy, that your faith is in me" he said before the sound of his wings fluttering softly and then he was gone. You blinked rapidly at the sudden departure of the angel.

"I think you just flirted with cas… that was definitely angel for telling someone you trust them"

"Go away Dean"

 Eventually cas came back around, he had apologized for his sudden departure and made no effort to flaunt the new bracelet on it. But you noticed because you always did.

His bracelet had two charms. A star, because he always noticed that at night you never failed to look up at the stars, and next to it was your initial.

When he caught you looking at the new peive of jewelry he leaned in close to you but not too close.

"I have faith in you too" he whispered with a small smile.

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ honey, hold still

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a bee stings you, and sam turns impossibly gentle about it. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 551 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ extra fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ bee sting, mild pain, soft caretaking, tiny bit of teasing

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

you don’t mean to be dramatic. because when the bee stings you, right on the side of your finger while you’re reaching for a stupid motel vending machine soda, you gasp like you’ve been shot and immediately drop the can.

it hits the pavement with a sad little clunk.

sam turns so fast his hair almost smacks him in the face. “what happened?”

you hold your hand up, betrayed. “i’ve been attacked.”

his face shifts from alarm to confusion to something dangerously close to amusement. “attacked?”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing.”

“your mouth is thinking about it.”

he presses his lips together, which is basically a confession.

you glare at him, but your finger is starting to throb, hot and sharp and annoying, and the offended little burn of it makes your eyes prickle more than you want to admit. not crying. absolutely not. just… your body being sensitive.

sam notices, and his teasing fades immediately. “hey,” he says, softer. “let me see.”

you hesitate for half a second, embarrassed by how badly you want the comfort. then you give him your hand.

he takes it carefully, like you’re something breakable and not someone who just declared war on an insect. his thumb rests under your palm, warm and steady, while he bends closer to check the sting.

“it left the stinger,” he murmurs.

“asshole.”

“a little.”

“sam.”

“sorry.” his mouth twitches again, but his hands stay gentle. “come on. i’ve got tweezers in the car.”

“you have bee tweezers?”

“i have regular tweezers.”

“for bee emergencies.”

“apparently.”

he guides you back to the impala, one hand hovering at your elbow though you’re perfectly capable of walking. it should feel ridiculous. it doesn’t. it feels sweet in a way that sneaks under your ribs and sits there.

sam sits you on the passenger seat with the door open, then crouches in front of you, knees nearly touching yours. “hold still,” he says.

“i am still.”

“you’re flinching.”

“it’s an emotionally scarring experience, sam.”

he looks up at you then, and the fondness on his face is so bare you almost forget your finger hurts. almost.

the stinger comes out quick. you hiss anyway, and sam instantly rubs his thumb over the uninjured part of your hand, slow and soothing. “sorry,” he says.

“i’m being pathetic.”

“no, you’re not.”

“i screamed over a bee.”

“you were startled.”

“i want compensation. weren’t you almost a lawyer? do something.”

“that’s fair.”

you laugh before you can stop it, and sam smiles, small and pleased, like he fixed more than the sting.

he cleans the spot with an alcohol wipe, then wraps your finger with a tiny bandage from the first-aid kit. it looks absurd. one little beige strip around the evidence of your near-death experience.

“there,” he says. “better?”

you look at your hand still resting in his. then at him. “maybe.”

his thumb hasn’t stopped moving. “want me to get you another soda?” he asks.

you lean back against the seat, trying very hard not to smile too much. “only if you protect me.”

sam’s eyes warm, soft and shy around the edges. “always,” he says, too seriously for a joke.

and your finger still aches, but now his hand is around yours, and you’re a little embarrassed by how much that helps.

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