Be yourself, for everyone else is taken ❤️. Call me Hia (She/Her, 21) Dark Romantic || Dean Girl || Indian || Requests Open || My Wattpad: @My_Stories_Vault || Masterlist
what kind of dads do you think sam and dean would be ?
⋆˚꩜｡ sam and dean winchester as dads,
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dean winchester as a dad 🧸🔥
dean is a protect-first, ask-questions-later dad. he’s the guy who stands a little too close at the playground and glares at anyone who looks sideways.
he’s not great at talking about feelings, but he’s incredible at showing up. early mornings. late nights. fixing broken toys with duct tape and pride.
dean is a fun dad. movie nights. junk food he swears is “our secret.” letting the kid stay up way too late because “c’mon, we’ll do an early night tomorrow.”
he’s softer than he ever thought he’d be. cries quietly the first time they fall asleep on his chest. never admits it. ever.
discipline-wise? lots of warnings. lots of “don’t make me do this.” but when he does lay down a rule, it’s because he’s scared, not angry.
dean struggles with guilt. constantly worried he’s going to mess them up. tries to be better than john without always knowing how.
he’s the dad who teaches them how to drive, how to throw a punch, how to survive—but also how to laugh when things get heavy.
if someone hurts his kid? absolutely feral. biblical consequences.
sam winchester as a dad 📚🌱
sam is a gentle, intentional dad. he reads parenting books. actually uses them. highlights passages.
he listens. really listens. gets down on their level, asks questions, waits for answers.
sam is big on emotional safety. he wants his kid to know they can tell him anything. no judgment. no fear.
he’s the one doing homework help, science projects, bedtime stories with different voices that are way better than he pretends.
discipline with sam is calm, firm, and fair. lots of explanations. lots of “help me understand what you were thinking.”
sam worries too—but his worry turns inward. am i enough? am i doing this right? am i giving them the life i never had?
he’s deeply affectionate in quiet ways. hand on the back. brushing hair out of their face. steady presence.
sam raises kids who feel seen.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
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Summary: A snapshot of how you help Mark get through his medical treatment, post-surgery.
AN: As fun as the family fluff is, I thought it would be interesting to come back to this time for Mark and reader, when they're still essentially newlyweds having to go through so much.
Word Count: 1.5K
Posted on Patreon: Dec. 5, 2025
Tags & Warnings: (Set during the Epilogue) Established relationship (married), talk of medical treatment (radiation), hurt/comfort, Luke Finau and Keyonte Bell mentioned
Series Masterlist
Mark woke to something gentle and familiar.
As your fingers sifted through his hair, he managed to pry his eyelids open, as if each one was weighed down by hurricane shutters.
He breathed in deep, let it out slow.
“Morning,” he rumbled.
“Not quite,” you said.
He rubbed the sleep gravel off his eyes and blinked blearily at red, digital numbers. Once his vision evened out, he recognized the clock on his nightstand.
5:30 in the afternoon. Jesus.
He now remembered shuffling to the bed for a nap around noon. You’d made him some kind of creamy chicken soup, but he’d only been able to stomach a few slurps. Not because it didn’t taste good, but because if he’d taken another bite, he probably would’ve thrown it up back into the bowl.
You laid a kiss on his bicep, over a faint smattering of freckles. Your lips traveled in a row of soft kisses up to his shoulder, lingering on his cheek, and then the side of his head as he smiled.
He glanced over at you. “You seem to be a lot nicer to me on the third week of the month.”
“I’m always nice to you,” you retorted.
Your fingers continued to comb his hair back. He watched your amusement fade as you sighed, tracing delicately around the healing scar on the side of his skull. His hair was starting to grow back there, but he knew another patch was thinning not too far from it.
The surgery had been successful, mostly. There was still enough of the tumor left that Indira put him on a pace of radiation treatments. The sessions themselves were painless.
It was the aftermath that made him feel like he’d gone a few bare-knuckle rounds with Finau (and lost). It was entire body fatigue, the kind that seeped into his bones and made what was left of his brain fuzz over like static on an old TV.
All this fucking work for a benign tumor, Mark thought.
“You hungry?” you asked. “I can make you some grilled chicken.”
Mark grimaced. “Gotta be honest, sweetheart, I’m sick of chicken.”
“What would you want then?”
He slowly shifted onto his back so he could see you better. He trapped your hand on his chest and managed a smirk.
“Greasiest double cheeseburger you can find, with some nice, crispy bacon and a side of chili fries. And tell ‘em they better not skimp out on the fuckin’ cheese.”
Your body shook with quiet laughter. “Two bites in, and you’d be hugging the toilet.”
“That’s a price I’m willing to pay,” he said, with a raise of his “serious” brows.
You bit your lip against a deeper smile, shaking your head. At least he’d retained his incurable wit.
“I can make the chili part happen. Keyonte actually sent us a good recipe, plus a few others I think you should try,” you said.
Mark groaned, casting an arm over his eyes.
“You’re gonna make it all healthy and shit.”
You just patted his chest.
“That’s literally what the doctor ordered, babe.”
He cracked a grumpy look at you, and your heart twinged with sympathy.
You leaned down for a soft kiss. He gave in with a brief sigh, letting his arm fall around your waist instead.
“It’s not much longer,” you said, a near whisper. “Just a couple more sessions.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And it wasn’t even a total lie this time. He was fucking lucky; despite all else, he still had you. That was more than enough.
“You want to get up, or you want to rest a little more?” you asked.
Mark shook his head and made a monumental effort to move his body, sitting up and pushing back the covers. Even that almost made his head spin. You helped him with a hand on his arm, and then on his back.
By now he knew he needed your help, even though it chafed to have to lean on you so much, in too many ways. He’d promised himself that after this, it would be different. Hell, he’d promised you too, more than once. He was going to make it stick this time.
In sickness and in health, he thought wryly. Just a few months into this marriage, and you'd already dealt with more than most wives might put up with in a decade. What fucking newlywed bliss.
You braced him when he got to his feet. He tried to disguise the shake in his balance with a short stretch, dropping a hand on your shoulder to twist and crack his own back.
“Jesus, I’m stiff,” he grunted. “Think we need a new mattress.”
“Or you can finally try doing yoga with me,” you said, only half teasing. “Could make you more limber.”
He arched a brow at you. “Oh, yeah? Trying to teach me some more compromising positions?”
His hand slid down to your ass for a squeeze, making you smile. But you both knew that his loss of appetite had come in other forms. Even if he could get it up for you, his body's stamina was somewhere in the proverbial basement. Just yesterday, he got dizzy after lacing up his fucking sneakers for a ten-minute walk after lunch. He used to run three miles before breakfast.
He tried to set aside the pity party, though. Instead, he focused on getting from his bed to the bathroom with your help. He wanted to splash some water on his face and try to feel a little more alive before he inevitably passed out on the couch.
“Yoga's much more low-impact than your usual workouts,” you pointed out, giving him an impish look. “And muscle strengthening too.”
Mark chuckled at that, with no small amount of self-deprecation.
“Hate to say it, but I don't think downward doggy style's gonna be doable for me right now," he remarked dryly. "You'd probably have to peel me off the fucking floor.”
You laughed lightly, until you got him into the bathroom. You noticed the way he hesitated, catching sight of himself in the mirror after you flipped the wall switch.
The lighting did him no favors, he thought, and his hair wasn’t the only thing that was thinning out. A plain gray LAPD shirt hung more loosely on his frame, and despite all the time he spent sleeping and recovering, there were depressions under his eyes, hollowness in his cheeks, a pallid hue to his skin.
Your hand on his chest distracted him. He looked down at you and found the teasing run out of your gaze. A knowing gleam replaced it.
“Hey. You know I was just kidding, right?” you asked. "What's important right now is you keeping your strength up, not our sex life."
Mark quirked a humorless smile. “Yeah. Trust me, I get it."
You really didn't think he did. Frowning, you slipped out from under his arm so you could stand in front of him, drawing his face between your hands. Your thumbs brushed tenderly under his tired eyes. You earned his attention on you, rather than the mirror.
“You're doing so well, you know that?" you said. Your hands moved down to his chest. "You are going to get better."
"But I'm gonna be different," he said. "I already am."
You tilted your head at him.
“Yeah, maybe so. But I've already told you I'm here for it.” More teasingly, you added, “If you thought I was that fucking shallow, then you shouldn't have married me.”
Mark's lips tugged upward, more genuinely. He held your hands where they were, giving into an amused shake of his head, but he stayed uncharacteristically quiet. You still had to wonder if he believed you.
“You know what, let me ask you this. How’re you going to look at me when you knock me up one day?” you said, more cheekily, but there was still a challenge there. “I could gain twenty, thirty pounds. Swollen hands and feet, questionable bladder control, varicose veins, stretch marks. Maybe all that and more.”
Mark paused, and his chest tightened. After all this, he thought it might be a miracle if he could get you pregnant. He wasn’t about to voice that, though, especially because he knew what you were getting at. He softened.
“I’m sure you’re gonna have that sexy glow they’re always talking about in the movies,” he said, his lips quirking into a grin. “But as long as you’re healthy, that’s all that’s gonna matter.”
You smiled back. “Exactly.”
When you hugged him, the warmth of your words only sunk deeper into his bones. Sometimes it was hard for him to believe how much you loved him. Probably because there hadn’t been that many people in his life who actually gave a shit, regardless of what he had to bring to the table. You had a habit of giving there, more than taking. Mark had a habit of taking.
But he’d made a promise he was determined to keep.
For now, he was standing steady on it.
AN: This one got me deep in my feels. 💙 How about you?
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Just wanted to pop in and know so much more about "The Beach"! 🙃
Hi my love! ❤️
Don’t mind me being super slack. I thought I’d have more time once the kids went back to school, and I have - but I’ve been writing away instead 😁
I shared a snippet of this a couple of times now, but basically I was inspired by my boys while we were at the beach over the school holidays, and I started another Dean x reader one shot ❤️ thing is, it turned deeper than I intended, and I haven’t touched it again since 😅
Here’s a snippet 😘
The water dries on his skin the second it lands, even in the places Dean hasn’t submerged underwater yet. It’s like a film of glue, sticky, pulling at the hairs on his arms and legs, and—no, wait, something just nipped him. That can’t be good.
“What the hell is that?” He shakes his foot. Up top he’s trying his best to keep himself from flailing.
My other lovely H, I want to ask you about Artist’s Galore because I don’t recognise that title, and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m still waking up or you haven’t told me about this one??? (I’m trying to portray fake anger, but it’s not working for me right now) 😘
Haven't I told you 😭?
Man, I do remember talking about it on the generally with @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @ambiguous-avery heh - but it was so long ago and I haven't had the time to fully pen it down yet 🫠
It's basically this tribute I wanted to pay to different Artists - I've mentioned this in the post with Liane, too: Culturally and familially for me, artists and people who study Humanities don't get the respect or credit they deserve. So this story is supposed to be an artist appreciation by their common muse - Dean 🤭.
It's impossible to describe structurally in a sneak preview and I've mentioned a portion of the first scene in the previous one, so I'll show another scene in this one, hehe.
Sneak Preview:
Bathroom routines usually start with music.
It's in the way your foot taps, or your throat gargles, or the way you hum while you pee.
Although your inner artist doesn't really peek out until you hit the showers. Your pipes have been warmed up by the time you've let the bathroom pipes open for a perfectly-pressured steam shower.
Sometimes, Dean likes to join you. On those days, you have to stop singing because Dean finds some other use for your voice.
But days like today, when he is feeling particularly lazy, he will lay in your shared bed, unmoving as your voice floats to him, balanced carefully on the fragile steam wafting from the sliver you left open of the bathroom door. The falling waterdrops make a nice chorus and he gets goosebumps when you let your silken voice dip into the song.
The one you wrote about him.
A/N: I should note here that these are excerpts from my first draft and subject to change!
(P.S.: I'm gonna plead my case by blackmailing you with my birthday today, Beth 🤣. Love you 😘❤️)
Hi, friend! How are you? <3 I'm curious about the Artists' Galore (Dean Winchester X Reader) one, if you wanna share any details about it!!
Hello, Liane 🤗!
I'm good. And how are you?
Oooh, that's a good one. I'd love to share about it! Thank you for asking me ❤️
It's this tribute I wanted to pay to different Artists. Culturally and familially for me, artists and people who study Humanities don't get the respect or credit they deserve. So this story is supposed to reprsent different artists and their single muse - Dean 🤭
It's impossible to describe structurally in a sneak preview but I'll put a segment of it down!
Sneak Preview:
When the muse hits you, there are nights Dean can't bring you back to bed. He leaves you with one mug of coffee.
In the morning, the coffee mug has made unindentical clones of itself. And you're still there with a paintbrush in your hand, with far too many battle stains of colour on your clothes than Dean left you with.
It's endearing. It's exasperating.
'Sweetheart!' he exclaims on one such morning. 'It's 10 a.m. You never came back to bed!'
'Huh?' You frown at him distractedly at him like you aren't used to seeing real life objects after staring at your canvas for so long. 'Oh, sorry,' you said after Dean gives you a beat to process his words. 'I'm almost done though. . . . I think.'
Dean sighs. Pitfalls of dating an artist, he thinks, amused and fond.
'What have you been working on?' he asks, stepping into your studio room - the one you converted when you moved in with Dean. As much as he loved your drive, sometimes it was ridiculous the way he had to pry you from the doorframe of this place only if it was to feed you or coerce you into the bed.
'I have named it yet,' you mumble. 'And I feel like something's missing!'
'Can I have a look?'
You gave him a thoughtful side-eye. He knew better than to sneak a peek without your permission - he'd had enough earfuls for a lifetime about how "a painting is supposed to him square in the chest".
'Actually,' you dragged the word. 'I think I have an idea . . . '
Thank you so much for tagging me @bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery @zepskies @aylacavebear and @supernotnatural2005
It's been a while since I've participated in any tag games. (Blame my college.) So I'm excited for this, hehe.
RULES: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it. WHY IS THIS FUN? because it helps us find out what people might be excited to read and gets us writers excited to write it!!!
My Ongoing Series:
The Supernatural Wars (Dean Winchester X Raeder)
Goodbye Series (Dean Winchester X Reader)
Hushed (Dean Winchester X FBI!Reader)
Wanted: Trouble (Mark Meachum X Reader)
On My Case (Sam Winchester X Reader)
One-Shots:
Artists' Galore (Dean Winchester X Reader)
Your Human Angel (Dean Winchester X Angel!Reader)
Loving Him Infinitely (Damon Salvatore X Reader)
Chosen Limbo (Damon Salvatore X Reader)
More Series (lol):
Dandelions (Soldier Boy X Reader)
Cross Off Borders (FBI!Dean Winchester X Indian!plus-sized!Reader)
Challenges:
Untitled (But I'm participating in the lovely @chevroletdean 's 5K challenge and I'm pysched for it!.)
No pressure tags: @pink-sparkly-witch @waynes-multiverse @voodoochildthings @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jollyhunter (+ anyone else who wants to join!)
Dean x Reader
Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
Word Count: 2K
Read the Prologue - Part 1
Rain came down relentlessly as the Impala rolled toward a small town you’d never crossed before. Up front, neither Sam nor Dean said a word.
Dean stared straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel.
Sam sat in the passenger seat with his headphones in, a podcast murmuring low as he tried to drown out the silence.
You watched the rain instead—the way droplets chased each other down the window, merging and breaking apart—missing the glance Dean stole through the rearview mirror, the way his eyes searched for you in the backseat before snapping back to the road.
The drive dragged on, broken only by a quick lunch at a roadside diner. The food tasted like cardboard.
The silence was even worse.
Neither brother looked at the other. You tried to start a conversation, but it earned you only a nod from one and a vague hum from the other.
You told yourself you'd try again later, worrying that this tension could slowly escalate into something worse.
When you reached town, you split up without discussion. Sam headed for the local library, Dean went to speak with the victim’s family. And you took the police station on your own.
When you stepped back outside afterward, the Impala was parked at the curb.
Dean sat in the driver’s seat, phone in hand, waiting.
You hadn’t asked him to come get you, which meant he wasn't against spending time with you. That settled your worries a little.
“How’d it go?” he asked as you climbed into the car. His voice sounded lighter than it had all day.
You told him what you’d learned as he pulled back onto the road, the motel looming closer with every passing minute.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
—
The sky had been dark for a long time when you stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to your skin as you wrapped the robe around yourself against the chill of the room.
The motel bedroom was dim, lit only by the small lamp on one of the nightstands. Sam was already asleep beside it, stretched out on his back, his face finally free of the tight, unhappy look he’d worn all day.
You softened at the sight.
Moving quietly, you crossed the room and adjusted the covers around him, careful not to wake him. He didn’t stir.
You turned to grab your pajamas and stopped.
Your gaze drifted to the other bed.
Dean’s.
It was still untouched.
He’d left early in the evening, muttering something about needing some air, and he still hadn’t come back. The clock on the nightstand said it was well past the time he usually turned in, especially after such a long day.
You stood there longer than you meant to, staring at the bed.
Finally, you looked away.
You reached for your clothes, hesitated, then deliberately set the pajamas back down.
Instead, you picked up a pair of jeans.
Then, once you were dressed, you scribbled a quick note for Sam.
—
The Impala was still parked in front of the motel, rain-speckled and dark against the neon glow of the sign. You stood there for a second, staring at it, before shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat and starting down the street.
There was a diner a little way ahead. A bar a few blocks behind.
You decided to check both.
Dean was at the bar, sitting at the counter with his elbows braced against it, talking quietly with the bartender. A glass sat in front of him, amber and untouched for a moment, no ice.
You slid onto the stool beside him.
He startled. Not much, but enough that you caught it. His eyes flicked to you, widened just a fraction, before he smoothed his expression into something neutral and familiar.
“Wasn't expecting any company,” he said. Then, after a beat, he nodded toward the bartender. “You want a drink?”
You nodded and placed your order, then turned slightly toward him. Dean lifted his glass and took a long sip, like he’d needed it.
“What are you still doing up?” he asked then.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He hummed, swirling what remained in the glass, watching the liquid crawl up the sides before draining it completely. He set it down with a soft clink and raised two fingers for another.
A long stretch of silence followed. Not the easy kind you used to share, but not hostile either.
Your drink arrived, and you murmured your thanks. Another glass was soon set in front of Dean, too.
“Are you okay?” you asked, watching his face.
He set his drink down slowly and turned toward you fully, really looking at you this time. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, like he was trying to decide how much truth to give.
“I’m good,” he said.
“It’s just…” You sighed, fingers tightening around your glass. You’d tried not to think about it, about Sam’s words, tried and failed for days. It wasn't something that could be forgotten.
“Sam said something," you admitted. "About you… having feelings for me. And I can't stop thinking about it.”
Dean let out a short, humorless breath and looked away. “Of course he did,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Can't trust the guy with anything these days."
Then he turned back to you. “What’d he say?” A pause. “That I’m in love with you?”
You didn’t deny it. The question hung there between you.
“Is it true?” you asked quietly.
Dean swallowed. His fingers curled loosely around the glass, thumb tracing the rim. He stared at it instead of at you.
“I had a crush,” he said after a moment. “Back then.” He shrugged, like it was nothing. “That’s all. I don't feel like that anymore.”
Somehow, the words hurt you.
“Oh.” The word slipped out before you could stop it. “Okay.”
He looked at you then, brows drawing together. “You look disappointed,” he said. “Kinda like you wanted me to say yes.”
You forced your face into something neutral. “Of course not. I just… want you to be okay.”
“I am.” He nodded once, firm. “I’m fine.”
Even though you didn't quite believe him, you still nodded, offered a hum in reply. And then, “Are you and Sam okay too? You're still not talking to him…"
The shift was immediate. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightening. “I don’t wanna talk about Sam,” he said, the words clipped. Then he sighed, softening his tone just enough. “If you wanna stay here with me, just—don’t bring him up. Okay?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
You drank in silence after that. The bar was quiet, a low song playing in the background, something slow and a little sad. You tried to catch the words, but they slipped past you.
“Why are you here?” Dean asked suddenly.
“Why are you here?” you shot back.
"I asked first,” he said simply. Then waited for your reply.
“I was worried about you,” you said honestly. “We've had a long day, and you were not in bed… Your turn now.”
He looked down at his glass. “Didn’t feel like standing there,” he said. “Felt like a third wheel. Figured you’d want some space.”
“…I didn’t want you to leave,” you said quietly.
He scoffed before he could stop himself. “Well, I didn’t want you dating my brother either, but here we are, aren't we?” The words left his mouth quickly, anger lacing itself onto them.
“You said we weren't fighting,” you offered.
"We aren't."
"Then why does it look like we are?”
Dean looked at you for a long beat, and something in his worn-out expression cracked your heart clean in two. “I'm sorry," you said, feeling your eyes sting. “I just… I don't know how to fix this.”
Softness crossed his face, blending itself with the hurt. "You don't have to fix anything," he said quietly but with certainty. “You did nothing wrong.”
“It feels like I did… all the time,” you admitted. “Everything just feels wrong, you know?” Your voice wavered as you continued. “I should be happy. I want to be. But I feel like I lost you.”
A soft exhale left him after your words landed. And he reached out instinctively to brush your cheek so tenderly you almost broke down. "You and me,” he said. “We're good. I promise."
You wanted to believe him so bad that you almost did.
“C’mon,” he said after a beat, pushing off the stool. “Let’s play some pool. Get outta our heads for a bit.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You can try and fail to beat me again.”
“Hey! I have gotten better."
"I know. That's ‘cause I'm an awesome teacher.”
You followed him across the bar, the ache in your chest easing just enough to let a smile through, maybe only temporary, but still real.
Dean allowed himself the same thing.
—
A while later, somewhere in the background, the Cupid watched you from the safety of his invisibility. The old list rested in his hands, edges glowing faintly.
Your name sat neatly beside Sam’s.
Carl frowned at it. Then at you.
He knew he’d done it right. Clean hit, no trace left behind. He’d aimed true, struck you and Sam square in the heart. He didn’t miss. He never did.
So why were you looking at Dean like he was the one you loved?
And why was Dean looking back at you the same way?
Carl shifted his grip on the list, irritation prickling under his skin. A faulty arrow, maybe. He’d heard some stories about it a few decades ago.
He could let it go; he could let whatever was happening unfold and accept the defeat. For a brief moment, he considered it.
He followed as you and Dean left the bar, the door swinging shut behind you, cutting off laughter and music. The night air was cooler, sobering. You walked side by side toward the motel, close without touching.
Halfway down the street, you stopped—again—to adjust the shoes that had been punishing your feet the entire night.
Dean noticed immediately.
“Here,” he said, already crouching. “Hop on.”
You laughed it off at first, but when he insisted, you gave in. Your arms slid around his neck, and he lifted you like it was nothing.
You laughed together as he carried you the rest of the way, drunk on cheap alcohol and each other, the world narrowed down to shared warmth and blurred streetlights.
He adjusted his grip, holding you more securely, and you tightened your arms around him in return. Your face rested close to his, breath brushing his cheek. His step faltered for just a second before he steadied himself and kept walking, a small, unguarded smile settling on his face.
Carl walked close behind.
“We should do this more often,” you murmured.
Dean huffed a quiet laugh, slowing his pace like he was in no hurry to arrive. “Drink together,” he said, “or carry you around like this?”
“Both,” you replied, eyes drifting shut. The calm in your chest felt fragile and so precious. The streetlights cast everything in soft gold, and for a moment, this unremarkable stretch of road felt like the safest place in the world.
“I’m glad we’re not fighting,” you added softly. “I like being with you like this.”
“Me too,” Dean said as the motel came into view. “We’re almost there," he added, and you could swear the disappointment was louder than his voice.
You hugged him even tighter.
A minute later, he set you down carefully in front of the room.
The number on the door, an uneven 8, hung crooked, looking almost like an infinity symbol above your heads.
“Thanks,” Dean said. “For hanging out with me.”
"Thanks for letting me win. And for carrying me around.”
"Anytime.”
You smiled at him and leaned closer to give him a hug. His arms wrapped around you immediately, hugging you back tight.
A short distance away, Carl raised his bow. The arrow gleamed, heavy with intent.
Dean x Reader
Summary: Cupids have one job: bring soulmates together. After years of waiting, today is finally your day; your name written beside Dean’s, fate sealed in ink. But the Cupid hesitates, interferes. And one wrong choice sends you down a different path, into the arms of another, and away from the love that was always meant to be yours.
Word Count: 2.4K
Read the Prologue
Something had changed.
Dean didn't know what exactly, not yet, but the frown carved into his face instinctively when he saw you and Sam whispering in front of the library shelves. It only deepened when you both jumped apart the second he stepped into the room.
It didn’t help that Sam cleared his throat, trying and failing to look casual. “You’re back early,” he said.
Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked between the two of you. “What were you two whispering about?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, not looking at Sam. “Just, you know… research.”
“Research,” Dean echoed flatly. “...Right.”
Sam busied himself by looking at the shelves behind him, squinting his eyes at the old books as if looking for something, and you nodded at Dean once before walking out of the room as innocently as possible.
The weirdness didn’t stop there.
Dean noticed everything. The looks you shared when you thought no one was watching. The way Sam lingered around you for no real reason… And the whispering, the damn whispering.
That annoyed him the most. Because whatever you were keeping from him, it sure as hell couldn't be good.
So when he finally got you alone on a grocery run, with nowhere for you to disappear, he didn’t dance around it.
“What’s goin’ on with you and Sam?” he asked.
You froze in the passenger seat. “Nothing.”
Dean pulled into a parking spot a little harder than necessary and turned toward you. “I’m not blind. You're not actin’ like yourself lately. What the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” you said again, firmer this time.
His jaw tightened. "If it's nothing, why are you hidin’ it from me? Thought we didn’t do secrets.”
You looked at him helplessly, not even knowing where to begin, and your gaze retreated to the safety of the windshield, looking away from the concern growing in his eyes.
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look—just tell me if I should be worried, okay? 'Cause I'm startin’ to freak out, not gonna lie."
“It's not like that," you replied. “It's just…” A sigh left your lips before continuing. "We… didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
Dean frowned, brows knitting together. "Trust me, I'm already uncomfortable. Whatever it is, it can't be any worse. Can’t you let me out of my misery?”
You inhaled slowly, exhaled, trying to gather enough courage to speak. And then, “Sam and I… We’re dating.”
Dean snorted. “Oh, c’mon.” He shook his head. “That’s not—”
But you didn’t laugh, you didn’t move.
His breath stalled. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The word came out sharp, almost angry. “That makes no sense. You don’t—” He stopped himself, shook his head again. “You don't even like the guy like that.”
"But I do now,” you replied earnestly.
"Since when?"
“A couple of weeks ago. It just… happened.” You hesitated, then added, “We fell in love.”
Dean stared at you like you’d just spoken another language.
“Love?” he repeated. “No. No way. That’s—” He scoffed, voice rough. “Something's wrong with you. Something's wrong with both of you. This ain't right."
“Well, you can't predict who you're gonna fall for, right? And, yeah, maybe none of us expected it, but it still happened. Can’t you—” Your voice wavered. “Can’t you try to be happy for me? For us?”
Dean looked away, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The frown never left his face. "No,” he replied flatly. "There ain't no way.”
And with that, he shoved the door open and got out of the car, striding towards the store, without looking back.
—
You and Dean had always been on the same page without ever needing words.
From the moment you met, there had been an unspoken and instinctive understanding. Being around him never felt like effort. Even the silence was comfortable.
And store runs had always been your thing. An excuse, really. To wander the aisles side by side, to talk about anything, to joke about whatever caught your eye. To linger longer than necessary just because neither of you felt like rushing back. It was easy. It was fun.
This time, however, it turned out differently.
Dean didn't utter a single word the entire time. Not a joke. Not a sigh. He moved quickly, making sharp turns down each aisle, grabbing items off shelves and moving forward. He didn’t look at you once.
You walked beside him anyway, matching his pace, as the space between you grew colder with every step. It felt wrong, like walking next to a stranger wearing his face.
Outside, he tossed the grocery bag into the backseat and climbed into the car. Only then did you speak.
“Dean, can we talk?”
He slid the key into the ignition, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. “I’m not in the mood.”
The engine turned over.
You sank back into your seat, the words you’d rehearsed wilting on your tongue. “Okay,” you said quietly. Then, softer, “It’s just… we don’t do this. We don’t fight. And I really don’t wanna start now.”
He threw a glance your way.
“We're not fighting," he said. Then, without another word, he pressed on the accelerator, leaving the parking lot in the rearview mirror.
—
His mood didn't improve back at the bunker.
Not that day. Not the ones that followed.
Dean went quiet; clipped answers, long stretches of silence, a careful distance he never quite acknowledged. And on the rare occasions his eyes did meet yours, there was something there. Something like hurt and disappointment.
The small things stopped.
No leaning into your space when you passed in the hallway. No murmured jokes under his breath meant just for you. Once or twice, you caught him starting to do something — reaching out, opening his mouth — only to stop himself short, like muscle memory kicking in before his head could shut it down.
Like he was teaching himself not to.
It made everything heavier.
So when night came, and you were alone in the library, hunched over an old tome with a mug gone lukewarm at your side and notes scattered across the table, you didn’t hear him at first. Then you felt him stop behind you.
A second passed.
His warm jacket settled over your shoulders.
You froze and turned, heart jumping, but he was already halfway back, hands shoved into his pockets.
“It's cold," he said quietly. And then he walked out.
The warmth lingered, and for a moment, it almost felt like before.
But the ache came right after, because he still looked hurt when he left, and because you missed him more than ever before.
—
When Sam stepped into the library later that night and told you it was late, you nodded, but didn’t look up. The page in front of you hadn’t changed in a long while.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?”
His question barely registered.
"Have you talked to Dean?” you asked instead.
Sam sighed to himself before pursing his lips.
“I tried earlier. He said he wasn’t in the mood. And just… walked out.”
"Okay,” you said quietly, with a nod that was barely there. “I'm just— I'm worried about him.”
“I know,” Sam said gently.
He stepped closer and ran his fingers through your hair. You leaned into the touch without thinking.
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” he added.
You nodded at him, grateful for his answer, then gathered your notes and followed him out of the library.
Halfway down the hall, you noticed the light under Dean’s door.
It was barely anything, just a thin line spilling onto the floor, but it stopped you cold. Proof that he was awake. That he was right there.
You stood there for a second longer than you meant to.
Then you kept walking.
And every step felt wrong.
By the time you reached Sam’s room, your chest ached in that quiet, persistent way that meant sleep wouldn’t come anytime soon.
Down the hall, the light stayed on for a long time.
—
The next day, Sam kept his word.
You watched him hover at the edges of Dean’s orbit, waiting for an opening that never came.
Dean gave him nothing. He came into the kitchen without a word and left just as quickly, vanishing into his room, then the garage.
Sam followed him there.
You stayed in the library at first, telling yourself you’d wait, that you’d focus.
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
The page in front of you blurred into something meaningless, the same sentence looping over and over without sinking in.
Eventually, you gave up pretending.
You stood, left the book open where it was, and walked down the hall. The garage door was only half a corridor away. You stopped just short of it, then eased it open enough to let the sound spill through.
“...told you I'm not in the mood. Let it go."
Dean’s voice was low, tight. Controlled in a way that meant it wasn’t calm at all.
Metal rang out a second later, a clatter that echoed off the ground.
“She’s worried about you,” Sam said. “I am too.”
There was another clang of metal, stronger, like a tool being thrown into a metal box.
“Worried?” Dean shot back. There was a bitter edge to it now, something raw underneath. “How can you stand there and say that to me after what you did? You knew, Sam. You fucking knew. You’re the one who pushed me to talk. Begged me to. So do me a favor and get the hell away from my face."
“Dean, I'm sorry. I didn’t plan it,” Sam said quickly. “I swear. It just— it just happened.”
“No.” Dean cut him off sharply. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You could’ve come to me. You could’ve said something. You’re always preaching about honesty, about communication, and then you go behind my back like that?” A breath, harsh and uneven. “You don’t get an excuse. So take your apology and shove it.”
“Dean—”
“Get out," Dean snapped. “Or I swear to God I’ll punch you in the face.”
Silence followed. Then footsteps coming towards the door, retreating.
You stepped back from the door before it could open, heart pounding, and turned on your heel, walking back toward the library as if you’d never left it.
—
You waited for Sam to come find you.
Minutes stretched. Then longer. Long enough that the silence stopped feeling temporary and started feeling deliberate. He didn’t come back to the library at all.
You found him eventually, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands. When the door creaked open, he looked up and gave you a smile that barely held together.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I think I made it worse.”
You closed the door behind you and sat beside him, legs folded beneath you, turning to face him. You didn’t rush him. You just waited.
He swallowed. “He’s… angry. At me.” A weak breath left him. “And he’s right. I screwed up.”
“How?” you asked.
Sam stared at the floor. “I shouldn’t have fallen for you. And even when I did, I should’ve handled it differently. I shouldn't have betrayed him like this.”
Something cold settled in your chest.
“How is us being together a betrayal?” you asked softly.
Sam didn’t answer right away. His fingers twisted together, knuckles pale.
“Because he’s in love with you,” he said at last.
The words landed heavily on you.
“What?” you whispered.
Sam nodded once, miserable. Shame was written on his face. “He has been for a long time.”
You forgot how to breathe.
Sam looked down at his hands, shoulders closed off. "I don't… I should have stopped myself, but I couldn't. I mean, I didn’t even try to… And I–" a sigh followed. “I don't know how that happened, you know?”
His sad gaze turned back to you, and you reached out, resting your hand on his shoulder to comfort him, as his words about Dean still echoed in your ears.
"Why did I do that to him?” Sam said quietly, more to himself than to you. "That's what I don't get… This isn't me."
You stayed in silence, not knowing what to say or where to begin. You didn't know how it had happened either. It just had. And the feeling had been so overwhelming and right that the thought of stopping it or going slow had not even crossed your mind. Or his.
And Dean… you didn't know about his feelings. The thought of something like that happening hadn’t really crossed your mind before. You hadn’t let yourself linger around ideas like that one.
That night, you didn't go to bed for a long time.
You sat alone in the library long after the lights had dimmed elsewhere, staring at the same open book without reading a single word, waiting for Dean to come home.
You hadn't seen him all day, and the car hadn’t been in the garage when you checked earlier.
It was past midnight when he finally came back.
His footsteps down the stairs echoed through the empty war room, slow and tired. He stopped when he saw you, sitting there, eyes ready for him to cross the threshold.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.” Your voice came out small. “Where’d you go?”
He shrugged. “Just… drove around, y’know.”
You nodded, lips pressed together.
There used to be no secrets between you, and now… secrets were all you had. Two worlds getting further and further apart every day. The sadness of it overwhelmed you, along with the knowledge that you were the cause of the hurt on his face, of the disappointment.
“I'm sorry," you said, voice cracking.
“Why would you be sorry?" he asked softly. “Have you done something wrong?”
A helpless shrug came in reply, and your voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know. Maybe I have…"
He stepped closer, and his brows crossed in a frown when he took in your face, your eyes. “Have you been crying?"
You shrugged again, not knowing what to say. And his eyes softened in reply, so much so that your heart hurt even more.
“I don't wanna us to fight, Dean. I want to fix this."
He sighed and stepped closer still, slipping his jacket off and settling it around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. The warmth hit you all at once, and your eyes burned anew.
“We’re not fighting,” Dean said gently. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “So don't cry anymore, okay?”
He gave your shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze, and then he walked away.
You cried anyway.
You clutched his jacket around yourself, breathing him in, wondering how any of this had come to happen. Wondering why it hurt so much to love another man.
You've shown us so much without telling much at all - this was wonderful, my eyesight blurred 😩💘
You sank back into your seat, the words you’d rehearsed wilting on your tongue. . . .
I love your descriptions so much! They're paced so well, and set the tone and emotion of your story from the get-go. Kept me on my toes from the first word to the last!
Also, making Sam the soulmate is so frigging cruel 😭 - oh, I dislike this, Carl!
They have to. Their jobs, their entire existence, revolves around it. True love, ancient and unbreakable, born when two perfect halves collide at exactly the right moment. A force older than time, older than Heaven itself.
At the beginning of every shift, Cupids receive a list. Names neatly paired, souls already aligned by something far above their pay grade. The fortunate ones, the inevitable ones. Then, arrows sharpened with intent, they descend, nudge fate along, and watch history click into place.
Cupids love love.
They were created to. It’s the only air they breathe, the only thing that sustains them. They watch first meetings from rooftops and clouds, linger during stolen glances and accidental touches. Sometimes, on quiet days, they come back years later, invisible and proud, just to see the life they helped stitch together still holding.
Every lifetime of love is a small miracle.
Every miracle is a success.
But every family has a problem child.
And Heaven has Carl.
Carl drags his feet through every shift and he hates the lists. Hates the smug certainty of them. Hates how everything is decided before the people involved even get a say.
True love, they call it.
Funny thing is, Carl’s seen what happens after the arrows hit. He’s watched people cling to each other through hell and back, yes, but he’s also seen them break. Hurt. Lose pieces of themselves trying to live up to a bond they didn’t ask for but can’t escape.
No one ever talks about that part.
And he hates it. He'd quit if he could.
But he can't.
Heaven won’t let him resign, not when love is literally hardwired into his grace.
“What about a reassignment?” he’d asked once, a few decades ago.
They had laughed.
What were they supposed to do with a rogue Cupid anyway? Deliver mail to the higher-ups? Spend eternity floating around passing out memos?
He’d sooner throw himself off the highest cloud.
So instead, he gets creative.
Every now and then, when no one’s watching too closely, when the lists feel especially smug and tidy, Carl switches things up. Just a little. Just enough to remind the universe it’s not as flawless as it pretends to be.
He swaps names.
Condemns two people who were never meant to meet, never meant to fit, to a love they can’t outrun.
Not out of cruelty.
Out of curiosity, out of boredom.
Free will, he tells himself. Chaos. A middle finger to destiny.
Today’s list flickers into existence in front of him, glowing gold against his hands.
Carl skims it once. Twice.
Then he stops.
Your name catches his eye.
He frowns.
You’re paired neatly with someone else. A clean match, balanced, meant to be. The righteous man, Dean Winchester.
Carl exhales through his nose and rolls his shoulders, wings rustling behind him.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “No.”
He glances around, no supervisors, no watchful seraphim, and with a flick of his fingers, the list reshuffles. Your name slides. Locks into place beside another.
“Sorry, love,” he murmurs. “Looks like today’s your lucky day.”
December is as cold as it can get. Luckily, Dean Winchester has plenty of ideas on how to keep warm: eggnog, baked goods and that incomparable smile of his favorite girl.
OR
Dean introduces you to a Winchester Christmas
Word count: 3.5 K
Tags: Fluff, Christmas themed, Christmas traditions, pining. No smut!
A/N: I wrote this for my lovely friend @my-stories-vault in our little SNN group's Secret Santa. Pulled a little bit of inspo (and the title) from Ella and Louis, check the song out! Enjoy!
“What do you mean, you've never celebrated Christmas before? Like, ever?”
You huff, shooting a quick glance at the photo of Dean, making a grimace at you from the screen of your phone that's lying on the dashboard. The world outside looks like it’s going to end any minute now, the snow is snowing, the wind is blowing. But you know you can weather the storm.
“Closest I've come to was watching Love, actually, and let me tell you, that movie has not aged well. The whole Keira Knightley storyline? So awkward. And don't even get me started on the power dynamics. Also, knowing what we know, I don't get why you still care that much about a dude in sandals who used to turn water into wine two millennia ago. Don't get me wrong, it's a great party trick and I'm sure I would have loved getting wasted with him, but I've seen witches do more impressive things…”
The snorting sound followed by a curse coming from the other end of the line indicates that Dean probably just spat out the contents of the can of beer he had cracked open earlier. It makes a little smile tug at the corner of your mouth. Getting Dean to forget his sorrows has always been one of your favorite pastimes.
“Well, still. Trust me, I'm the last guy on this earth who wants to throw the son of fuckin’ Chuck a birthday party, but that's not what it's all about. It's about traditions, good food and… and family.”
His voice cracks a little at the last word, but you try not to read too much into it. Instead, you focus on the icy road ahead. Try to convince yourself that you're looking forward to finding that pack of werewolves that's been wreaking havoc down south in Shreveport, that you would not much rather turn the car around and drive up to Kansas right this moment. There's an awkward little pause.
“Anyway. You should definitely come over once you're done with your case. Spend the holidays with us at the bunker. There's enough space, and, uh, maybe I'll… maybe I'll just whip some food up for dinner. Or, like, ya know. Something.”
You glance at Dean on your screen again. At the crossed emerald eyes and scrunched-up nose he always makes when he's trying to make you laugh. You clear your throat.
“Uh, sure. Why not. I'll swing by. But don't count on me getting you guys any gifts, I’m already taking a huge detour to get to Lebanon!”
Dean chuckles, the usual grandeur quickly finding its way back into his voice. He changes the topic, starts explaining to you all the things about werewolves you know anyway before you finally wrap up the call. But when you do you're already looking forward to Christmas Eve.
The door of the bunker flies open and Dean greats you with a broad grin. He's wearing a forest green Nordic sweater that brings out his eyes in a stupidly gorgeous way, and it's made from the itchiest damn material you've ever felt on your skin. You know that because a second later, he's wrapped you in a tight hug, pressing your face into his chest.
You giggle and, with moderate success, try to hold your breath so his scent filling your nostrils won't make you faint immediately, but you can feel yourself already melting into his embrace like a snowman on a beach vacation.
“Ugh, it’s horrible outside! I should have stayed in Louisiana, I can’t remember a worse December. Did you see the icicles outside? Humans aren’t meant to live under those conditions!”
“I'm so glad you made it,” he says, holding you by your shoulders as he beams at you. He then snatches your duffel from your hand and proceeds to sling an arm around you to usher you towards the stairs.
You're still shivering from the icy snowstorm outside, the tip of your nose feeling like it might just shatter if someone poked at it. You rub your hands together, trying to get the blood flowing again, not ready to shed your overcoat and gloves yet. Lean into Dean's delicious warmth. You’re so consumed with getting your body temperature up and not tripping on the stairs Dean is rushing you down that you only notice the gorgeous Christmas tree when you’re already halfway at the bottom.
Your mouth drops open when you take a moment to finally look at it. The tree almost spans all the way up to the Crow's nest, branches luscious, heavy with tinsel and straw ornaments. There's fairy lights glittering everywhere, not only in the green but all over the room, and a scent of cinnamon and pine filling the air around you.
“But why did you have to pick the tallest damn tree out of the whole—”
“Shut up, Sammy, and move, will you? This thing is heavy!”
Dean growls at his brother, gives the enormous Christmas tree a shove that almost makes Sam topple down the stairs. It takes the two huge men at least twenty minutes to maneuver it down the spindly stairs of the bunker. Dean chafes the skin on his left cheek when the white pine he hand-picked hits him in the face for the second time and Sam calls his brother jerk at least thrice, but when they finally manage to get it in an upright position, leaning on the banister, it does look impressive.
Sam looks up at the gorgeous, green branches filling most of the room now, still shaking his head at the fact that Dean would actually buy a tree that's almost as tall as both of them combined.
“Since when are you even that much into Christmas? I can’t remember you giving a crap about celebrating since the year you sold your soul, and now you’re suddenly all merry and jolly?”
“Leave me alone,” Dean grumbles, “nothing wrong with making an effort. I’m just feeling festive, okay? ‘Tis the season, and I just happened to find this tree that fits perfectly in the bunker, so quit yapping and help me fix it to the stand!”
Dean drags out a heavy box from one of the corners, a sheen of sweat already starting to build on his forehead. He then hauls out a big metal stand, places it next to the tree and gives Sam a clearly annoyed eyebrow-raise, but Sam doesn’t move. Instead, a smirk starts to spread over the younger Winchester’s face.
Dean’s cheeks flush immediately and the words he rambles are barely coherent when Sam asks him, “this is about her coming to visit, isn’t it?”
“Dean,” you say, impolitely talking with a mouthful of cookies, “those are amazing! I didn’t know you knew how to bake!”
Dean gives a bashful smile, waving your compliment away as he slides a mug of warm eggnog over the table to you. You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap the thick blanket he gave you tighter around yourself. Not that you really need it anymore, the air in the bunker is warm and crackling, but it just feels too cozy to put away.
“So, this is what Christmas is all about? Racking up calories so you don’t freeze and/or starve to death?”
Sam laughs, taking a big sip from his cup.
“It’s not all it is about. There’s so many different traditions. Lots centered around food. But here in the U.S., there's also nativity plays, children recite poems or sing Christmas carols, and then the whole gift-giving thing is a pretty big deal for most people. I think it's gotten pretty out of hand over the last couple of decades, with big corporations pushing consumerism to the max, but there's people who do Secret Santa for example, where every person randomly draws someone so everyone just gets one surprise gift. Others do a whole 12 days of Christmas or even advent calendar thing through all of December.
Then there's people who like to volunteer, help those who are less fortunate than them, lots of people go to church, it's just a broad variety of things that people do, usually changing with their heritage.
And you’re actually right about the calorie thing, food is always important at the festivities, and a lot of the seasonal baked goods use ingredients that will help get you through a cold winter.”
Sam’s cheeks turn slightly pink when he notices he geeked out for a minute, he grumbles something about the decline of culture as you and Dean give him a hard time for doing so. He then gets up, theatrically picks a book from one of the shelves and finally proceeds to busy himself reading it in an opposite corner of the room.
You and Dean sit at the table quietly for a while, the only noise disrupting the peace being your munching on his frosted snickerdoodles. Dean sips on his beer, because, of course, even with Christmas cookies Dean Winchester will be drinking beer, and stares off into the tree, awkwardly avoiding eye contact and the silence that settled once Sam was gone.
“You do stuff like that with your dad a lot?”
Dean’s attention snaps to you immediately as you speak. There’s a questioning look on his face though, so you try to elaborate.
“You said Christmas was all about family for you. You know, the other day, on the phone. Did you guys celebrate a lot when you were kids?”
A trace of something that you can’t quite place flickers over Dean’s face. Then he smiles, shakes his head.
“Oh. No, no. Not really. We moved around a lot when we were younger. Our dad wasn’t much of a… well, he was preoccupied with other things than building wholesome family traditions. One year we stole a plastic tree from the motel lobby and he actually got us gifts from a toy store instead of the usual ammo and guns. That was a really fun Christmas. It even snowed that year, I think. Just like today.”
Dean shifts, obviously uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken, and stuffs half a gingerbread man in his mouth. Then his eyes widen, he inhales sharply and almost chokes on the gingerbread, sending crumbs flying everywhere.
“I almost forgot,” he wheezes, hammering his fist against his chest. “I got you something.”
Dean vanishes into one of the corridors, his steps echoing hastily. When he reappears, he has a small bundle clutched tight in his right hand. He awkwardly stops in front of you, seemingly struggling for words, and when he doesn’t find any, just drops the small package in your lap.
You look at the bundle, clumsily wrapped in what looks like pages ripped out of a nudie mag, held together with lots of Scotch tape. You set your mug aside and pick the parcel up, examining it closer, then look at Dean who’s still standing there.
“Dean, I— I thought we said no gifts, I didn’t get you guys anyth—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts you. “It’s not even really a gift. I mean, it technically is, I guess, but I wanted to give it to you anyway. Not just because it’s Christmas. And I didn’t even go out to shop for it or anything. I found it. Lying around in one of those dusty boxes in a random drawer.”
You bite the inside of your cheek as you listen to Dean’s rambling, then you start prying the package open. The glossy wrapping rips easily, revealing a thin leather pouch underneath. It’s engraved, the symbols look like they could be incan or mayan, you’re not entirely sure though. You’d probably have to ask the resident geek to unveil the mystery for you. When you untie the string, the bag opens to reveal a delicate silver knife, superior craftmanship, and polished so you can see your reflection flashing on the curved blade.
“Dean, this is… this is beautiful,” you say, as you examine it closer, turning it around in your hands. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? This really is… this is a great gift. Especially since my old silver dagger went MIA on the last hunt. Thank you.”
There’s a soft blush playing around the freckles on Dean’s cheeks. He shrugs, nonchalantly, evidently pleased with your reaction as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He clears his throat.
“Well, uhm, you’re welcome. Anyway, there’s another batch of cookies I need you to try. I made them after this special recipe I found, they’re chocolate and nutmeg with a dash of saffron…”
“Ouch!”
Dean frantically shakes his hand, knocking over the baking tray and sending star-shaped cookies all over the kitchen floor. He wavers, stumbles over to the sink trying not to step on any baked goods, swirling and tip-toeing like he’s auditioning for the toy soldier’s role in the Nutcracker. When he finally opens the tap to let some cold water run over his burnt fingers, the stream hits so hard it sprays his face and most of the apron covering his front.
“Dammit!”
Dean rips off the apron, starts opening cupboards and drawers to find a towel to remedy the minor flood he just caused, still careful not to touch anything with the burnt fingers. He doesn’t really notice the dusty carton when he first picks it up, only gives it attention when he hears the clear clattering sound behind him after tossing it on the floor.
He turns around, scooting over to pick it up, the cool metal soothing the offended skin on his fingers. He runs his thumb along the blade, examining its quality. Twirls it in his right, tosses it to his left. It’s not big, not really flashy, very no-nonsense. But it’s evident that it can handle a tough job, and that it should not be underestimated.
It immediately reminds him of you.
“This is really nice, you know. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
Sam smiles, looking up from his crossword puzzle. You peel another chestnut, roll it over the table to him. Distantly, you can hear Dean clattering away in the kitchen.
“Well, it's been fun having you around. It really is nice to just drop everything for a couple of days for a change. Maybe this is the start of a new tradition after all.”
You cock your head, eyebrows slightly creased as you watch Sam popping the chestnut in his mouth.
“What do you mean, the start of a new tradition? Isn't this how you always celebrate? Or do you mean me coming over for the holidays?”
“Oh, like this?” Sam laughs, pushing his puzzle away and leans back in his chair. “No. This isn't how we usually celebrate. Usually, we either keep working whatever case we're currently working on, or Dean goes out to find some grimy dive bar to get wasted or pick up desperate women. This is not a typical Winchester Christmas.”
You peel another chestnut, prying the thin, hairy skin off with your nails. Take a big sip of the fruit punch sitting in your glass, trying to act cool.
“Grimy dive bar to pick up women, huh?”
“I don't mean he– well I,” Sam stutters, shrugging apologetically as he realizes what his remark might have sounded like. “I mean you know Dean. And I– what I'm trying to say is, this isn't something he just does. He's doing it for you.”
Your breath hitches a little. “Really? For me?”
“He was even going to sing Christmas Carols for you, which I managed to talk him out of at the last second. You can thank me later.”
You bite your lip, the mental image of Dean in his Christmas sweater hitting all the wrong notes invading your thoughts. It makes a nice, fuzzy warmth spread through your chest, and you can’t help but ask Sam,
“Now why in heaven's name would you do that?”
Dean swallows when he looks up from the record player, the black vinyl rapidly spinning at 33 1/3 on the turntable as Ella and Louis start echoing from the speakers.
You’re finally standing right there in the doorway between the war room and the library, gazing up at the mistletoe hanging from a nail he put there for this exact reason. You smile as you notice him, swirl the eggnog you’ve been nursing in your cup.
“That’s such a pretty little plant. Is it real? Can you eat those berries?”
Dean crosses the room in only a few strides, only stopping a couple of inches from you.
“No, it’s… it’s real. I don’t think you can eat them. But you’d have to ask Sam to be sure. That’s mistletoe.”
His eyes wander over your form, standing there, looking at him with those big, beautiful eyes. He wants to reach out, grab you, pull you into him, but for some reason, he feels like he’s glued to the spot.
“Mistletoe, huh? And what’s it for?”
Dean nervously shifts from one foot to the other. Tries to remember what Sam told him earlier while barely managing to keep the impulse to just kiss you under control.
“Uh, well, in some nordic cultures it’s used as protection, against evil spirits and such, but here in America, it’s mostly used as an excuse to kiss someone.”
“An excuse to kiss someone?”
Dean clears his throat.
“You know, when someone is standing under the mistletoe, that means that, well, that you get to kiss them. But it’s just a dumb tradition, obviously nobody has to kiss anyone here, I shouldn’t have put it up, it’s a silly…”
“Not that one,” the little old lady with the white hair and wrinkly hands says, “take this one instead.”
Dean looks up, puts the mistletoe he was holding back onto the pile and takes the one she’s offering instead. It’s not a big one, it looks a little stretched out but it’s juicy green and the pearly white berries almost look like they’re glowing from the inside. It’s beautiful.
“She likes you, you know.” Dean replies with a sheepish smile, only scratching his head as the woman continues. “Of course she does. You’re a strapping young lad. How could she not? And this will help, I promise,” she says, with a mischievous little twinkle in her eyes as she ties a red ribbon around the end of the twig.
She hits him in the arm with surprising vigor for someone as creaky when he pulls out a couple of crumpled bills from his pocket, trying to pay for his merchandise.
“Don’t try to insult me, young one,” she giggles. “I’m not taking your money for what fate wants to happen. And make sure you hang that mistletoe in a doorway, it won’t work just up anywhere on the ceiling!”
“Dean.”
He forces himself to look up when you interrupt his rambling. There’s a soft smile tugging on the corner of your mouth as you bite your bottom lip.
“I know what a mistletoe is. I’ve been standing here for at least fifteen minutes.”
Dean cocks his head, eyebrows going up in surprise.
“You… you have?”
You nod. And then you hold your hand out for him to take. Dean hesitates before he finally reaches out, and if there were such things you could have sworn sparks flew the instant your fingers touched. “What would you wait under the mistletoe for?”
You pull him in, smoothly guiding his hand to your waist where he immediately wraps his arms around your curves as your own hands find their way to his chest. You’re not entirely sure when and how it happens, but you’re standing on your tip toes, face suddenly very close to his.
Your gaze rakes over the many freckles adorning his cheeks, the emerald eyes making you want to take a plunge right into them, the perfect, pink, parted lips.
Dean doesn’t flinch when you reach up to cup his face, run your thumb over the scrape on his cheek.
“I think I might have been waiting for a Christmas miracle.”
Time stops when his head dips down. His lips are soft, warm, and they feel exactly the way you had imagined. Your eyes flutter shut as his intoxicating presence fills all of your senses, making your knees weak, tiny little whimpers escaping you with every kiss he presses onto your mouth. His stubble scratches over your skin. Teeth graze over your lips. Fingers dig into your waist.
You feel like nothing else matters anymore. Dean feels like nothing else matters anymore. Like something that destiny's been planning all along finally happens, you're doing what you've been meant to do forever. Dean's everything. Everything is Dean. The only thing other than him you’re still able to perceive is the raspy voice blaring from the speakers.
My heart's on fire, the flame grows higher
So I will weather the storm
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm
So, get this: this amazing human being wrote this amazing story for me for our Secret Santa last year 🥹.
It's one of the most beautiful, sweet, vulnerable things I've ever read stapled into amazing and amusing Christmas lore and I. Just. LOVE. IT 💘😃.
VC, I shared my thoughts on this with you but I cannot stress enough when I say this story will always be extremely special to me. Thank you so much for your time, efforts, and thought, lovely ❤️! You're simply the best 😘
alex !!! :D I hope you’re doin well lovely 💕 ik i’ve been a bit inactive, however I do have a random question for you :p (no pressure ofc<3)
for context, my boss got the team food from a cuban bakery today and of course, it made me think of you :) my question is;
if you (you specifically 🫵🏽) were to cook a meal for one of the guys, what would you make, and who would you make it for? 🫶🏽
Hey Jules! How are you, friend? 💗 No worries, I’m sure you have a lot going on. But first of all, I not only love that you got some bomb-ass Cuban food recently, but that it made you think of me! 😘😂
And of course I freakin’ love you for this question lmfao. I would love to feed any Jackles character the food of my people. Bless you for allowing me to dig into this HC further. 😩🤌🏽 You know food is the language of love for Latinos lol *ahem*
I'm going to have to pick at least one dish for each of them that I think they would enjoy the most (and I would most certainly enjoy making it for them). I also gotta rep my multicultural heritage 🇨🇺🇵🇷🇩🇴
HEADCANON: Cooking Hispanic/Latin food for Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), Mark Meachum & Russell Shaw
᯽Dean Winchester
I’ve written out my fantasy of cooking for Dean Winchester a lot throughout the Midnight Espresso-verse. ☕
⟡ Midnight Espresso — Cuban coffee (cafecito)
⟡ Devour Me (Part 1) — Ropa vieja, white rice/black beans, Cuban bread with olive oil and crushed garlic, and flan 🍮
⟡ Get Stuffed (Christmas Eve/Nochebuena special) — Lechón (roasted pork), white rice/black beans, yuca, coconut flan
⟡ A Wish to Build a Dream On — Spanish paella con azafrán y todo
He would really like ropa vieja though. It's more of an every day kind of meal that, while a bit time consuming with slow-cooking the beef, is totally worth every minute and every ingredient.
᯽Beau Arlen
I think Beau would be super into carne con papa (beef and potato stew). It’s the most hearty, savory dish that makes you feel the warmth of eating a good meal with your family—served over white rice.
With Beau also being such a canon foodie, and a Texan from Houston, he’d probably be used to being surrounded by Mexican food and other cuisines, so I think he’d be down for trying most Hispanic/Latin dishes you put in front of him.
These are too time-consuming to make them from scratch, but he'd for sure love Cuban pastries too, no matter the filling: cheese, guava and cheese, chicken, beef — don't matter. 😂
᯽ Soldier Boy (Ben)
Ben is a bottomless pit, in most respects.
He’d tear the fuck out of a palomilla steak (or two). I wouldn't serve it with the raw onions that usually goes on top because he'd probably just shove it off anyway lol. But I think he would enjoy the garlicky tender goodness of juicy meat. (😏)
It’s classic, like him.
However, shoutout to my Dominican side! In Lost in Translation (Soldier Boy x Afro-Latina!Reader), the prequel to Unravel Me, reader makes him carne guisada (similar ingredients to ropa vieja, but it's cooked differently). Aaaand I'm just now realizing that we Latinos have a lot of beef stews. 🤣
Matter of fact, if I made him a Dominican dish, it would be La Bandera: white rice, red beans, braised chicken (or beef lol), side salad, and tostones as a bonus. Fried plantains are a thing of beauty. 👌🏽
La Bandera is literally a representation of the Dominican flag on a plate. How's that for patriotism, Ben? 😂🇩🇴
᯽Mark Meachum
I'm going go with another of my favorite Dominican dishes for Mark, and that's mangú con Los Tres Golpes (the three hits).
This is the pinnacle of Dominican comfort food in my opinion, and after a long day of running down leads and getting into his adrenaline junkie hijinks, Mark would love this. Or in the morning on a Sunday after he works out. 😉
Mangú is plantains (plátanos), boiled and mashed and topped with pickled onions. Los Tres Golpes are just three awesome fried things: eggs (usually sunny side up), Dominican salami, and cheese (queso de freír).
It's not particularly healthy, but it is fucking delicious. 👌🏽
᯽Russell Shaw
All these men are such foodies! lmaoo Another reason to love Jackles characters. 🤣
For Russell, I'd do a special mashup: repping my Puerto Rican side with arroz con gandules (parboiled rice with pigeon peas), chicharrones de puerco (Cuban pork chunks), and plátanos maduros (sweet fried plantains).
Let's be honest, this man will likely eat just about anything. lol But I really think he'd appreciate these kinds of homestyle dishes that pack a lot of flavor and are very satisfying.
AN: Any other Latinos wanna weigh in on what dishes they think these guys would like?
I grew up on many of these from my mom, my aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Others I learned about as I got older and wanted to explore the sides of my heritage that I didn't get as much exposure to when I was young.
Not to get all serious when this is just a fun HC about feeding fictional characters 😂 but there are many parts of Hispanic/Latino culture that are so beautiful — our music, our art, our family values. But food is such a big connector in our communities. It's togetherness and memories and family traditions. (And in some cases, like my grandpa's flan, it's well guarded secrets lol)
Thanks again @wvffles, my fellow lovely Latina! I'd love to know what Mexican delicacies you'd make our favorite guys! 😋❤️
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So fun to learn about all the dishes! So interesting to see how every character is paired with food that means something special in different ways. Thank you for writing and sharing - love it so much 😍❤️!
I’m so glad to have been able to connect with you!
With all your beautiful stories, do you have any lines you are particularly proud of? Or any character building you are super proud of?
🖤🖤🖤🖤
Hello, lovely! 🤗
Thank you! Wishing you the same 😘. And likewise - so glad to have you as a dear friend ❤️!
Ah, not a line that jumps to mind, heh. Like I mentioned in Avery's ask - I don't have any favourites to harvest from my large farm-esque collection, lol.
As for the character building - I have several readers I've made from scratch and been super happy about, even some canon characters who I reset with new backgrounds and invented arcs for have captured my heart.
But, till now, unbeatably, the arc that hit me closest to home has to be the Reader and the Deans from Purgatory Series and The Supernatural Wars. I've been writing for nearly eight years now and by far, they're my greatest achievement - they basically encompass literally everything I've learned about writing to this date and - they're pretty special to me 💘.
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