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My obsessions include but are not limited to: SLEEP TOKEN, All types of music, Top Gun Maverick, Marvel, Supernatural, music, coffee, dogs, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sam Wilson, angsty fics, Steve Rogers, Michael B. Jordan, Rick Flag, Joel Kinnaman, fluffy fics, things that make me laugh, Bucky Barnes, Henry Cavill, Tommy Vext, smutty fics, funny men, and so much more.
Summary: When it comes to the Impala, there's no joking.
Author Notes: Humor; Offended Dean; A collab with @princessmisery666, she came up with the idea. :)
Word Count: 1,178
Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester
Word of the Day: (June 4, 2026)Â - Alloy
Graphics:Â Made by me.
Word of the Day Master Lists: June // May
It's another dingy motel, next to a worn-down gas station slash auto shop, in another back-end-of-nowhere town. Dean has been driving for hours, and though it's still early evening, you've all grown road weary and agree it's time for a break.
Sam offers to get the rooms, so you and Dean take the opportunity to stretch your limbs while waiting outside. Peering through the large front window, you can tell it will be a while before Sam returns with the keys. The clerk is chatting him up, and his relaxed stance shows he's enjoying the conversation.
The faded blue bench out front has seen better days, but it is a more welcome option than getting back into the car. At least the weather is nice. Dean chose to lean against the trunk, staring at the abandoned barn in an otherwise open field across the street.
Tilting your head back against the wall, you're about to close your eyes when you catch movement to your right. Sitting upright, you watch the portly man, whom you assume to be the shop's mechanic, make his way over to Baby. As he wipes his dirty hands on an already grease-filled cloth, your eyes dart to Dean as you silently recite, "Don't touch the car. Don't touch the car."
With an admiring gaze and a slight lisp, the man offers, âSheâs beautiful.â
Dean turns, puffing his chest as he straightens, âDamn right she is.â
The mechanicâ'Gary' according to the name tag stitched to his shirtâslowly circles the Impala, nodding and humming approval while, thankfully, keeping his hands to himself.
Gary mentions his appreciation for the classics, and you sigh as Dean gets looped into the fanboying, discussing craftsmanship, performance, and the dedication and devotion it takes to keep them running. It's easy to see the moment Dean decides he likes the guy.
âOriginal wheels too."
Dean nods, "Yep," grinning widely as if heâd made them himself.
âThatâs rare. Most people modernize them.â
âNot this one.â He lovingly pats the Impala's roof.
Sighing, you look over your shoulder. Sam is now leaning on the counter, face turned enough that you see his smile. Not interested in being involved in either conversation, you decide you're going to take an extended walk around the hotel, when Gary pipes up.
âWell, sure, but you could make a few improvements.â
Oh, shit.
You know exactly how this is going to turn out. A quick glance at Dean finds him open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and momentarily speechless. Deciding this will be much more entertaining than a walk, you take a couple of steps closer to the front of the car.
Dean blinks, finally muttering, âImprovements?â
Gary gestures toward the tires, âYeah, you could swap those for some nice alloys.â
Dean stares, body stiff. The mechanic smiles, looking to you when you mumble, âOh no.â
Gary's smile fades seeing you shake your head. âWhat?â
âDid you say alloy?â
âYeah,â he stretches the syllable out with uncertainty, looking between you and Dean. "What's wrong with that?
âYou want me,â Dean slowly utters, âto replace her rims?â
âWell ...â
âFactory rims.â
âSure. Why not?â Gary laughs, but with nervous hesitation.
Dean looks personally wounded. âOn purpose?â
âDean,â you caution.
âNo." He shakes his head and wags a finger at you. "No. I wanna make sure I understand.â
Gary shrugs as he looks to you and daringly pushes on. âYou know, better performance, less weight.â
âYou think she needs to lose weight?!â Dean shrieks, horrified.
Okay, now it's getting funny, and you have to bite your lip to hide your grin.
âWhat? Itâs just a car. All I'm saying is, you'd get better handling, and if you made some additional modifications âŠâ Gary lifts a hand as if to run it along the hood, and you quickly clear your throat to get his attention and vehemently shake your head. Finally realizing that he may have stepped into a minefield, he weakly finishes, "You could turn her into a show car."
âJust a car!â Dean gestures wildly toward Baby. âSheâs perfect!â
You snort, quickly putting a hand over your mouth to hold back the laugh that wants to follow.
âIâm just saying alloys have advantages.â The smile that tugs at his lips hints that Gary knows that he's riling Dean up, and he's getting a kick out of it now.
âHer rims are awesome!" Dean looks like he's ready to throw fists as he huffs, "And âŠand they have the advantage of character!â
You lose the battle and laugh out loud.
âActually, Dean,â unable to stop yourself, you tease, âDude has a point. Chrome alloys might look nice.â
His head whips around so fast, you're afraid he might have given himself whiplash. âSERIOUSLY?â
âIâm just saying.â
âNO!â
âMaybe lower the suspension a little.â
âStop. Talking.â
Voice deadly calm, he wears the same demeanor as when he's plotting something's demise. You hesitate for a second, thinking that you pushed him a bit too far. After all, you'd stopped early because you had all reached your limit of exhaustion and polite, confined coexistence.
Then Gary, who looks delighted that you agree with him, tosses another log on the fire. âExactly. Maybe some racing stripes.â
Screw it. This is the most fun you've had in weeks. âOr âŠâ holding out your hands like you're framing Baby for a photo shoot, "a Velvet Purple Pearl Mica paint job.â
Dean clutches his chest and croaks out, "You people are sick."
You're about ready to toss out another one, but see Dean's chest heaving. He looks like he's about to hyperventilate or have a stroke. You've definitely gone too far now, but Gary hasn't caught up yet.
âWeâre justâŠwhat do you kids call itâŠ" he looks to you questioningly, then snaps his fingers, "brainstorming.â
âYouâre committing crimes! People have been killed for less,â Dean spits.
Lightly touching Gary's forearm, you grab his attention and shake your head with a conspiratorial smile. He gives another glance to Dean and then turns back to you with a knowing wink. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your evening.
You walk over to Dean as Gary walks back into his garage. "Hey."
He jerks away when you reach for him. "Leave me alone."
"Dean, come on," you plead. "We were just joking."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't funny."
Turning his back on you, he runs a hand over the Impala's roof, murmuring reassurances that she's perfect, and no one is going to change anything about her.
Putting on your best pout, you whine his name, "Deeeeeeean," but he ignores you.
Sam steps out of the lobby a moment later, two keys dangling from his fingers, "Hey, is it okay if you two share a room tonight?" His grin is hopeful, but quickly fades as he assesses the situation. Dean is bent over the hood, arms spread wide, cheek resting on the now-cooled metal. You stand a couple of feet away, hands on your hips, and a sad frown on your lips.
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Icy cold rain pelts the pavement, stinging where it hits his face. The brown paper bag of groceries is nearly soaked through. He's certain it will crumble to nothing at any moment.
Bucky picks up his pace to nearly a sprint. As he passes the alley beside his building, he's assaulted by the smell of garbage, made worse by dampness.
Just a few steps from the entrance and warmth, the storm worsens, sending a torrent of water and wind down on him. He barely catches the small, pitiful cry that pulls him to a stop.
The tiny mewl happens again, and he abandons all thoughts of quickly escaping the weather and turns back to the alleyway.
Eyes scanning, he focuses his hearing, waiting for a sound to give him direction. Turning at the angry cry, as if it were shouting at the falling sky, Bucky spots the bedraggled white kitten.
âHey, little guy,â he coos.
Distracted from the pointless war with the weather, the feline presses tighter against the wall, eyeing him suspiciously, before rushing toward him. Bucky squats and scoops her up just as the cat reaches his feet.
âWhat are you doing out here?â he asks, holding her up to his eye level. âOh, little lady, I apologize.â
Shuffling the grocery bag, he tucks her under his jacket and hurries into the safety of the building.
Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.
After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.
"Iâm not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.
âOkay, thatâs better,â Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. âNow weâre both dry and warm.â
Her eyes begin to droop as if sheâs fighting sleep.
âItâs okay,â he soothes, âYou can sleep, youâre safe now.â
Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.
âOh crap,â he sighs. âIâm keeping you, arenât I?â
A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasnât disturbed the tiny creature. But sheâs too warm and content to notice.
Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she wonât roll off.
A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.
âMiss Livingston,â he says, pulling the door open.
Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, âDo you have a cat in there?â
âNo,â he answers immediately.
âI heard something screeching.â
âTelevision.â
âWhere did you get those scratches?â
âUhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.â
Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. âThe bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.â
âI know,â he says.
âBreaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.â
âI know,â he smiles, wide, too wide. âGood night, Miss Livingston.â
He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.
Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, âShit.â
Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.
The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!
Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.
Itâs the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.
Until the one time it isnât funny anymore.
Two minutes. Maximum.
Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now sheâs gone.
Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.
The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.
Sheâs gone.
âOkay, Alpine,â he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. âNot funny.â
He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.
âAlpine.â
The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.
Bucky freezes.
Denise.
Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now heâs going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.
He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
âHey,â he says warily.
You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. âI think this belongs to you,â you whisper.
Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. âI can explain.â
âItâs a cat, not a body,â you chuckle.
Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.
âShe came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldnât get out my side.â
âRight, yeah, sorry.â He takes Alpine carefully, like sheâs made of glass. âSheâs apparently committed to ruining my life.â
You grin. âIf all the laughter Iâve been hearing is you, I donât believe that for a second.â You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.
You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.
Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.
âHelp me hide her,â he panics.
âIn my hood, quick.â
You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.
âWhat if she moves?â he whispers.
âShe wonât, sheâs already snuggled up.â
âShe likes you.â
Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.
âI heard it again,â Denise complains.
Neither of you responds.
Denise elaborates. âI heard crying through the vents.â
âSorry,â you say quickly. âThat was me.â
Denise squints. âYou were crying through the vents?â
âWe were playing a game,â Bucky adds.
Deniseâs eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. âA sex game.â
Denise goes scarlet.
Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.
You smile brightly. âVery immersive.â
Denise looks moments away from passing out. âWell,â she splutters, clutching her necklace. âKeep it down.â
âLet me guess,â you mock, âthere are Bylaws about that?â
She nods once, âIndeed,â before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.
Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.
Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.
Bucky points accusingly at her. âYou are a menace.â
The kitten blinks at him innocently.
âOkay,â you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. âWe need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.â
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
A collection of Drabbles, Ficlets, and One-shots, using the Wordle answer of the day.
Multiple fandoms. Warnings will be listed accordingly.
Fics written by @princessmisery666 + @deanwinchesterswitch -
A simple idea to help each of us with some creative motivation!
While we likely won't write a piece every single day, we will be attempting as many as we can.
June 1, 2026 - Child
June 2, 2026 - Basis
June 3, 2026 - Notch
SPN - Well-Chosen - by @deanwinchesterswitch - Always hoping that your one-night stand is creative enough to earn a notch on your bedpost, the man youâve chosen this time surprises you in more ways than one.
Dean x female reader. W/C: 1,790. Warnings: A bit of foreplay; Implied sex
June 4, 2026 - Alloy
SPN - She's Perfect - collab with @deanwinchesterswitch - When it comes to the Impala, thereâs no joking.
Summary: Always hoping that your one-night stand is creative enough to earn a notch on your bedpost, the man you've chosen this time surprises you in more ways than one.
Warnings: A bit of foreplay; Implied sex
Word Count: 1,790
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word of the Day: (June 3, 2026)Â - Notch
Author Notes: Thanks for the read-through @princessmisery666.
Graphics:Â Made by me.
Master List:Â Word Of The Day
Lips and tongues locked together in a delicate yet fiery dance of desire, you walk him backward into your bedroom while working his belt open. Jackets and shoes had been discarded in the foyer, his tie tossed over the stair railing, shirt abandoned on the first landing, your top and bra cast off in the hallway.
His surprised grunt when his back hits the solid wood breaks the kiss. Hands still snug on your hips, he spins and practically tosses you onto the bed. Eyes hungrily roam your body as he reaches to grip the bedposts and almost immediately drops his hands.
Raising an eyebrow, he leans over to inspect the detail heâd felt beneath those rough, warm, and wonderfully large hands. With a chuckle, he asks, âAre these what I think they are?â
âWhat,â slipping off the rest of your clothing as you shuffle up to the pillows, recaptures his attention, âdo you think they are?â
The corner of his mouth curls as he removes his remaining garments.
Your eyes shift downward, hips rolling with the clench of your pussy. Pride triggers a wave of endorphins and heat pools in your core, certain in the knowledge that you chose well, and this one will earn the twist of your knife to mark his time here.
His smile is smug as he puts a knee on the mattress. âI think,â resting his weight on his forearms, he settles above you, âIâm going to be a notch on your bedpost.â
âMmmm, well, thatâ heâs suckling the pulse in your neck, but not hard enough to leave a mark, âdepends on how good you are.â
âOh, yeah?â He kisses along your collarbone, fingers gently gliding down your side.
âY-yeah.â You feel him smile against your skin when he hits a ticklish spot, and your body reacts. âOnly the good ones earn a notch.â
âWhat if,â a tiny nip at the top of your breast, a quick flick of his tongue over a taut nipple, âIâm better than good?â
Your body instinctively arches, craving to have that perfect mouth latch onto you, teeth scraping your flesh. Instead, his fingers knead your thigh, holding you down as he places kisses across your stomach. âThen you get a place on the headboard. Or, if youâre really, really good, I'll let you carve it yourself âŠwherever you want.â
The answer distracts him from his descent. He pushes up enough to scan the unmarked panel behind you. Tilting his head, he searches the nightstands and the frame above. âReally?â
His shocked demeanor makes you chuckle, but there is also something akin to sadness in his expression. Like heâs displeased for you. Shaking your head, you sigh, âSadly, no. I have very high standards.â
Lips pursed, he seems to mull that over for a moment. Lying on his stomach, he nudges a shoulder against your leg, urging you to rest it across his back as he wraps his arm around to hold it there. Face hovering over your mound, he lifts his gaze, and a lethal smirk slowly forms on plump, ruddy lips. âChallenge accepted,â he states, burying his gorgeous face in the wet heat between your legs.
You wake with a groan, muscles protesting as you stretch, but itâs a good ache. Memories of last night make you smile as you snuggle back into the pillow. Calloused fingers ghost over your shoulder and down your arm.
âSleep well?â
âMhmm,â Eyes still closed, not wanting to face reality quite yet, you ask, âYou?â
âBest I have in a while.â
âGood,â you mumble, and pat his chest, feeling the laugh before you hear it.
Youâre drifting off again when he clears his throat. âUhm, so.â
âNo.â
âNo?â
Burrowing deeper into the covers, you whine, âDon't want to get up yet.â
âThatâs not-â
âWhat?â
âSorry. Never-â
Blinking your eyes open at the rustle of sheets and the shift in weight, you grip his arm before he can stand. âWait. Iâm sorry.â Shifting to a more upright position, you run a hand over your mouth to quickly check for drool and, thankfully, find none. âIâm not a cheery morning person.â
âNo worries.â Turning to place a knee on the bed, he leaves the other foot planted on the floor, and you realize heâs already half-dressed. âI get it.â He smiles, his demeanor seems expectant.
You smile back, giving a weird little shrug, not sure what to say. Why is this so awkward?
Oh, right. They usually donât stay.
Then it clicks. None of the others had noticed the marks. Or if they did, they didnât bother to ask. Heâs the first one you discussed it with. He woke you to see how he did. A laugh bubbles in your throat, but then he pats the bed.
âWell, I should probably go.â
âWait.â The word is pushed out on a frantic exhale, louder than you intended. âSorry. Just âŠhold on, I have something for you.â
He arches a brow, feigning surprise, but you can tell he knows whatâs coming and expected this outcome. This time, you do laugh and tease, âAss.â
A hand goes to his chest in mock offense, but the laugh he shares is genuine.
Reaching behind the wood frame next to your head, you pull the knife from its hidden sheath and hold it out to him.
âWow.â
Youâre not quite sure if heâs scared or impressed; maybe itâs both. âSafety first, right?â you unapologetically state.
âUh, yeah. Iâm a little frightened now, but thatâs badass.â
He carefully grips the hilt, testing its weight before thoroughly inspecting it. âThis is a good knife.â
âThanks,â you say cheerfully, unsure why youâre elated by his approval. âAlright, Iâm gonna,â sliding from the bed, you tilt your head toward the bathroom, âwhile you, uh, do your thing.â
âHeadboard?â he calls out as you reach the doorway.
Peering over your shoulder, you match his cheeky grin. âAnywhere youâd like.â
Youâve never seen a more brilliant smile in your entire life.
Though expected, youâre disappointed to find him gone when you exit the bathroom. Youâd taken a few minutes to make yourself more presentable just in case, or to give him a little extra time if he wanted to leave without further conversation.
His mark is easy to find, and your smile grows as you draw closer. He scarred the headboard, right above your pillow. Not with a simple notch, but two distinct lettersâD.W.
Fingers tracing the freshly carved wood, youâre reminded that this is where you flattened your hand to protect your head and to give you leverage as he railed into you. Pressing your hand against the carving, you find that the letters fit perfectly within the space of your palm.
Impressed by his attention to detail, you check behind the headboard to find your knife safely back in its hiding place. Yep, you chose well. Heâs going to be a hard act to follow. Too bad you couldnât have more time with him.
Heading downstairs after getting dressed, you hear him before you see him. He turns, phone to his ear, as you hover in the doorway.
He holds up a finger and quickly finishes his conversation, âI gotta go. Yeah, thatâs fine. Iâll see ya then.â Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he gives you a sheepish grin. âSorry. That was my brother. I was gonna make you some coffee before I left,â he gestures to the pot and bag of coffee grounds on the counter, âbut then he called.â
âYou were going to make me coffee?â Sexy and sweet.
Grimacing, he rubs the side of his neck. âThatâs, uh âŠyeah, thatâs not weird at all. OK, right,â he gives a clipped nod and points toward the door, âIâm gonna go.â
As heâs about to pass by you, you ask, âWould you like a cup?â
âWhat?â
Walking toward the coffee maker, you repeat, âWould you like a cup of coffee?â
âUh. Yeah, that âŠthat would be awesome.â
âGreat. Have a seat.â He offers to make it for you, but when you decline, he sits, fingers fidgeting with a dish towel you'd left on the countertop. Checking the carton in the fridge, you find the cream is only two days past expiration, but give it a sniff test to be sure and find it passable. âCream or sugar?â
âBlack.â
Nodding, you pull two cups from the cupboard, and though itâs not done brewing, you fill one nearly to the brim, adding cream to the other as an escaped drop sizzles on the base plate.
"Thank you." Dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as you set the steaming mug in front of him, he states, âYou donât have to be polite. Iâll leave if you want me to go.â
âHuh?â He lifts his chin toward the machine behind you as another drip falls to bubble and burn away. âOh. No.â You wave off his concern with a laugh as you replace the glass decanter. âIâm impatient. I always have at least one cup before it finishes.â
Youâre also horrible at small talk, and wonder if he is too, or if he's sensing the same surreal tension as you. You can hear the soft rattle of the metal barstool as his leg bounces while you stand across from him, each silently drinking your coffee. Should you ask his name? Or would that make it even more awkward at this point? The faint clanking stops with the thud of his foot hitting the floor.
âSo," you say simultaneously, then chuckle in unison.
With a lopsided grin, he raises a hand, indicating for you to go ahead.
"You have plans today?â It feels like a strange thing to ask, but it's the first thing that popped into your head that seemed appropriate to say aloud.
âActually,â setting his cup down, he runs his hands over his thighs, âmy brother and I just finished up a job, and he decided to go visit his girlfriend. So I have a couple of days free.â
âThat sounds nice.â
âYeah, I guess.â
âItâs not?â
âWell, itâd be more fun if I had someone to spend it with.â Lips pursed, he waggles his eyebrows, nearly causing you to choke on the coffee you just slurped down. âWhatâdya think?â
âAre you actually asking, or testing the waters?â
Color tinges his cheeks, but then the confidence that drew you to him decides to shine. âIâm asking if youâd like to put a couple more notches on that bed, with me.â
Laughing, you set your cup aside and lean on the counter in front of him, giving him a nice view of your cleavage. âThatâs not how that works, but Iâd love to spend more time with you âŠâ
Co-author:Â @deanwinchesterswitch - as always Kym took what I had and made it what you see here.
Summary: Jake canât sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldnât be.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, post-break-up.
W/C: 786
Pairing: reader x Jake
Word of the day (May 26, 2026)Â - Couch
Notes: sequel to I See You.
Song Inspiration: UR HEARTBEAT (WHO DO U THINK ABOUT AT 2AM?) by Jessie Reyez
A/N: Yes it's late but the muses weren't playing ball until now. Plus, I make my own rules! đ
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The apartment is quiet. Not peaceful or relaxing, the kind that presses against Jakeâs ears until it's a sound all its own.
2:01 a.m.
The glowing numbers on the bedside clock glare back at him.
Rolling onto his back, he drags a hand down his face.
Exhaustion from long days of teaching or training used to allow him the freedom to deflect his thoughts, dragging him into slumber almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. But recently, a shift in the pattern was triggered. Around 2:00 every morning, eyes still closed, he reaches across the bed, searching for the warmth of the body he used to pull close.
When his senses register the cold, empty space next to him, his eyes snap open. Breath hitching, he feels like he's in a freefall. When his pulse begins to slow, fingers tightly curled in the sheets, he exhales an angry breath. He hates that a primitive part of his brain still expects to find you there.
The memory of you curled beneath too many blankets, snuggling into him, hits harder every time. You'd steal his pillow, so heâd end up resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
Sleeping on the couch doesn't offer an escape. It only reminds him of the times you'd fall asleep on him watching a movie you insisted you absolutely positively were not going to fall asleep during.
âDamn it.â
Squeezing his eyes closed, he tries to push the memories away, but not even ten minutes later, the silence wins. He throws on some sweats and an old t-shirt, grabs his keys, and slams the door on the way out.
The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.
Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. âYou're pathetic, Seresin."
This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.
Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.
He remembers a time when you couldnât sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.
"Why didn't you go to bed?"
"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."
Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.
Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.
With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message âŠfrom you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.
Canât sleep?
Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.
He continues staring until another message appears.
You used to have a problem with showing up.
He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isnât helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.
Youâre a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.
The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Come upstairs, Jake.
He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.
Doors unlocked.
This time, there's no hesitation in responding.
On my way.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Co-author:Â @deanwinchesterswitch - as always Kym took what I had and made it what you see here.
Summary: Jake canât sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldnât be.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, post-break-up.
W/C: 786
Pairing: reader x Jake
Word of the day (May 26, 2026)Â - Couch
Notes: sequel to I See You.
Song Inspiration: UR HEARTBEAT (WHO DO U THINK ABOUT AT 2AM?) by Jessie Reyez
A/N: Yes it's late but the muses weren't playing ball until now. Plus, I make my own rules! đ
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
The apartment is quiet. Not peaceful or relaxing, the kind that presses against Jakeâs ears until it's a sound all its own.
2:01 a.m.
The glowing numbers on the bedside clock glare back at him.
Rolling onto his back, he drags a hand down his face.
Exhaustion from long days of teaching or training used to allow him the freedom to deflect his thoughts, dragging him into slumber almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. But recently, a shift in the pattern was triggered. Around 2:00 every morning, eyes still closed, he reaches across the bed, searching for the warmth of the body he used to pull close.
When his senses register the cold, empty space next to him, his eyes snap open. Breath hitching, he feels like he's in a freefall. When his pulse begins to slow, fingers tightly curled in the sheets, he exhales an angry breath. He hates that a primitive part of his brain still expects to find you there.
The memory of you curled beneath too many blankets, snuggling into him, hits harder every time. You'd steal his pillow, so heâd end up resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
Sleeping on the couch doesn't offer an escape. It only reminds him of the times you'd fall asleep on him watching a movie you insisted you absolutely positively were not going to fall asleep during.
âDamn it.â
Squeezing his eyes closed, he tries to push the memories away, but not even ten minutes later, the silence wins. He throws on some sweats and an old t-shirt, grabs his keys, and slams the door on the way out.
The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.
Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. âYou're pathetic, Seresin."
This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.
Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.
He remembers a time when you couldnât sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.
"Why didn't you go to bed?"
"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."
Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.
Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.
With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message âŠfrom you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.
Canât sleep?
Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.
He continues staring until another message appears.
You used to have a problem with showing up.
He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isnât helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.
Youâre a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.
The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Come upstairs, Jake.
He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.
Doors unlocked.
This time, there's no hesitation in responding.
On my way.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Summary: A ridiculous pick-up line leads to something stunning.
Warnings: Nonlethal bodily injury; A tiny bit of swearing
Word Count: 410
Characters: Any Male x Reader
Word of the Day: (May 30, 2026)Â - Smile
Graphics:Â Made by me.
Author's Notes: Thanks for the read through and encouragement @princessmisery666
Master List:Â Word Of The Day
âHey, don't frown, you'll never know who might be falling in love with your smile.â
Not a single drop of internal rage seeps into your polite demeanor as you deadpan, âWell, you see, my brain is in the middle of a fierce internal debate about the correlation between smiling and punching you in the balls.â
As you reach for your drink, the jackass spits, âFucking, bitch.â
With a slow exhale, your fist slides off the table, arm smoothly swinging backward, and flawlessly finds your target. You inwardly smile when you hear his surprised grunt of pain. âOops, I guess we know the answer.â
Brow arched and your biggest fake smile plastered on your lips, you glare at the pinched-faced man cradling his balls, daring him to say more.
Two men approach, but neither utters a single word. One offers a single nod and pats his buddy on the back. Laughing, the other hooks an arm around the schmuck whoâs now whining like a baby and leads him away.
Hoping that will dissuade any more potential idiots, you take a drink and scan the bar, catching the eye of the gorgeous man sitting across from you. One brow is arched, and he wears a lethal smirk as he salutes you with his drink. Giving him a nod of acknowledgment, you lift your glass in a return gesture, then down the remains. Youâd seen him walk in, had hoped he would be the one to make a move when he sat at the table next to yours. Youâre unsure if you're impressed or disappointed that he hasnât.
So be it.
Sliding off the stool, you approach his table. âMay I?â
âPlease.â
Raising his hand to alert the waiter, he requests another round. A handful of drinks and a couple shots later, your cheeks hurt from laughing. With a heavy exhale to stop the latest round of giggles, you look up to find him staring at you with a slightly serious expression.
His fingers flex around the crystal tumbler, head tilting slightly. âAt the risk of getting punched in the balls, can I say that you truly do have a beautiful smile?â
Choking back a laugh, you pick up your drink and take a slow sip, eyeing him over the rim. When he shifts in his seat, looking a little nervous, you reply, âI will accept that with the intention in which it was given. Thank you.â
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feelsâbarely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isnât an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty âŠdreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box heâd packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled âSTUFFâ on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. Youâd laughed at him the entire time.
âBabe, itâs just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.â
These arenât forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, itâs in his handsâa terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, âDamn it,â and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired âŠdefeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armorâor whatever this isâhe stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
âHey.â
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. âHey.â
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. âI have some of your stuff.â
âOh, thanks.â You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
âThe place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didnât realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.â
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. âI have something for you, too.â Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
âNo.â Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
âJake.â
âNo.â When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. âIt's yours. I don't want it back.â
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
âYou know what kills me?â He's averted his gaze back to the ring. âI kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.â His jaw tightens. âYou didnât, though, did you.â
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. âJake.â You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. âYou were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if weâd always have time.â
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what youâd been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. âI wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.â
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. âI donât know if I missed my shot,â he hoarsely whispers, âbut if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.â
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes:Â fluff. W/C: 500. Pairing: Dean x fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Word of the day (May 11, 2026) - Newly.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics:Â title card + dividers @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
âIâm ready, Sam,â you state, walking into the library.
âWhere you going?â Dean interjects before Sam can reply.
âWeâre running into town,â Sam explains, âthe next book in the series Iâm reading has been released.â
âAnd I have some packages to collect.â
Deanâs brow raises high. âAnother package? Your Amazon habit is getting out of hand.â
âHey,â you pout, âeverything I buy is practical.â
âExcept the Highland Cow plushie dressed as a hot dog.â
âDonât act like you donât love him too, Winchester.â Narrowing your eyes, you tease, âIâve seen you smiling at him!â
âIâm not smiling at him. Iâm smiling at you, smiling at him.â
Sam loudly claps, putting a stop to the game of back and forth before it escalates. âOkay, letâs go.â
Dean grumbles at your newly purchased car accessory. âYou are not putting that thing in Baby!â
Pouting, you stare at the box containing a sleek black car caddy. You specifically chose black over the bright purple one you really wanted, hoping he might be more willing to install it. It makes perfect sense for you to have one. There are holders for pens, a book, your travel mug, and your phone. Plus a tray that folds down to hold your laptop. Sure, it will stick out a little bit, even when folded closed, and maybe it's a bit ugly, but it's practical, and you need it.
âCome on,â you plead. âIâm almost always relegated to the back, and I get neck cramps trying to read with a book on the seat and juggling my computer in my lap. I donât have anywhere to put my things, so they don't roll all over the place. It's a matter of health and safety.â
âNo.â
âSo you don't care about my health or the possibility of one of us being knocked out by a flying thermos of coffee?â Yes, it's an exaggeration. No, you don't care that it's never happened.
âNo." Noting your shocked expression, he tries to correct. "I mean, yes, I care about your health, but nothing defiles Baby. Iâm not letting some cheap plastic crap mar her beauty.â
âFine,â you shrug, âthen Iâll send your present back, too.â
Though he tries to hide it, his eyes light up with intrigue as you start repacking the items. âSam would hate it anyway.â
Dean slides up beside you. âWhat would he hate?â
Slowly reaching into the larger box the delivery had come in, you quickly scan the area to ensure the younger Winchester isnât around, then pull out a small box and hand it to Dean.
Surprise slinks over his features as he reads the description. âBring your favorite songs to life with this mini cymbal for cars." Eyes now wide, he finishes with a head bob, "Fixes to the air vent."
Choking back a laugh, you reach for the gift. âBut, nothing defiles Baby.â
Dean twists, holding the item out of your reach. âMaybe we can give them both a go?â
âMhmmm. I thought so.â
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Beyond Repair and I See You are so heartbreaking! But in a great way! But please, tell me there will be more parts (no pressure though, I totally get it if you want to keep it a two parter and I am so glad you shared these two beauties too, so yeah, we are already spoiled so thank you!!)
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feelsâbarely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isnât an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty âŠdreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box heâd packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled âSTUFFâ on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. Youâd laughed at him the entire time.
âBabe, itâs just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.â
These arenât forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, itâs in his handsâa terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, âDamn it,â and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired âŠdefeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armorâor whatever this isâhe stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
âHey.â
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. âHey.â
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. âI have some of your stuff.â
âOh, thanks.â You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
âThe place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didnât realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.â
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. âI have something for you, too.â Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
âNo.â Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
âJake.â
âNo.â When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. âIt's yours. I don't want it back.â
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
âYou know what kills me?â He's averted his gaze back to the ring. âI kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.â His jaw tightens. âYou didnât, though, did you.â
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. âJake.â You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. âYou were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if weâd always have time.â
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what youâd been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. âI wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.â
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. âI donât know if I missed my shot,â he hoarsely whispers, âbut if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.â
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Jake forces himself to finally clean the disaster zone his apartment has become. The place looks like he feelsâbarely functioning. Flight manuals precariously stacked on chairs, lesson plans strewn across the table, empty coffee cups seem to be breeding on every surface, and a laundry pile that looks about ready to start moving itself to the machine.
The cleaning helps him outrun the silence. Silence is the enemy because it gives him a place to wallow.
Silence reminds him that he can't call to hear your voice. There isnât an email with venue choices waiting to be answered. No cute little notes taped to the fridge or the smell of his favorite meal cooking because you wanted to surprise him.
Silence reminds him of everything he lost.
Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty âŠdreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.
He's not ready to deal with it.
Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.
"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box heâd packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.
He had scribbled âSTUFFâ on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.
Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.
He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.
He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. Youâd laughed at him the entire time.
âBabe, itâs just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.â
These arenât forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.
His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, itâs in his handsâa terrible idea because it smells like you.
Jake closes his eyes, âDamn it,â and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.
Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.
He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired âŠdefeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.
Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armorâor whatever this isâhe stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.
âHey.â
You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. âHey.â
Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.
Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. âI have some of your stuff.â
âOh, thanks.â You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.
âThe place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didnât realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.â
Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. âI have something for you, too.â Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.
âNo.â Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.
Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.
âJake.â
âNo.â When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. âIt's yours. I don't want it back.â
You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.
âYou know what kills me?â He's averted his gaze back to the ring. âI kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.â His jaw tightens. âYou didnât, though, did you.â
It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. âJake.â You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.
Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. âYou were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if weâd always have time.â
It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what youâd been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.
Tears blur your vision. âI wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.â
His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.
Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. âI donât know if I missed my shot,â he hoarsely whispers, âbut if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.â
The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.
Part 3 - 2AM - Jake canât sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldnât be.
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Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitchÂ
Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main
Icy cold rain pelts the pavement, stinging where it hits his face. The brown paper bag of groceries is nearly soaked through. He's certain it will crumble to nothing at any moment.
Bucky picks up his pace to nearly a sprint. As he passes the alley beside his building, he's assaulted by the smell of garbage, made worse by dampness.
Just a few steps from the entrance and warmth, the storm worsens, sending a torrent of water and wind down on him. He barely catches the small, pitiful cry that pulls him to a stop.
The tiny mewl happens again, and he abandons all thoughts of quickly escaping the weather and turns back to the alleyway.
Eyes scanning, he focuses his hearing, waiting for a sound to give him direction. Turning at the angry cry, as if it were shouting at the falling sky, Bucky spots the bedraggled white kitten.
âHey, little guy,â he coos.
Distracted from the pointless war with the weather, the feline presses tighter against the wall, eyeing him suspiciously, before rushing toward him. Bucky squats and scoops her up just as the cat reaches his feet.
âWhat are you doing out here?â he asks, holding her up to his eye level. âOh, little lady, I apologize.â
Shuffling the grocery bag, he tucks her under his jacket and hurries into the safety of the building.
Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.
After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.
"Iâm not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.
âOkay, thatâs better,â Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. âNow weâre both dry and warm.â
Her eyes begin to droop as if sheâs fighting sleep.
âItâs okay,â he soothes, âYou can sleep, youâre safe now.â
Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.
âOh crap,â he sighs. âIâm keeping you, arenât I?â
A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasnât disturbed the tiny creature. But sheâs too warm and content to notice.
Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she wonât roll off.
A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.
âMiss Livingston,â he says, pulling the door open.
Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, âDo you have a cat in there?â
âNo,â he answers immediately.
âI heard something screeching.â
âTelevision.â
âWhere did you get those scratches?â
âUhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.â
Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. âThe bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.â
âI know,â he says.
âBreaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.â
âI know,â he smiles, wide, too wide. âGood night, Miss Livingston.â
He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.
Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, âShit.â
Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.
The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!
Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.
Itâs the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.
Until the one time it isnât funny anymore.
Two minutes. Maximum.
Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now sheâs gone.
Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.
The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.
Sheâs gone.
âOkay, Alpine,â he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. âNot funny.â
He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.
âAlpine.â
The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.
Bucky freezes.
Denise.
Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now heâs going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.
He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
âHey,â he says warily.
You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. âI think this belongs to you,â you whisper.
Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. âI can explain.â
âItâs a cat, not a body,â you chuckle.
Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.
âShe came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldnât get out my side.â
âRight, yeah, sorry.â He takes Alpine carefully, like sheâs made of glass. âSheâs apparently committed to ruining my life.â
You grin. âIf all the laughter Iâve been hearing is you, I donât believe that for a second.â You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.
You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.
Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.
âHelp me hide her,â he panics.
âIn my hood, quick.â
You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.
âWhat if she moves?â he whispers.
âShe wonât, sheâs already snuggled up.â
âShe likes you.â
Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.
âI heard it again,â Denise complains.
Neither of you responds.
Denise elaborates. âI heard crying through the vents.â
âSorry,â you say quickly. âThat was me.â
Denise squints. âYou were crying through the vents?â
âWe were playing a game,â Bucky adds.
Deniseâs eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. âA sex game.â
Denise goes scarlet.
Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.
You smile brightly. âVery immersive.â
Denise looks moments away from passing out. âWell,â she splutters, clutching her necklace. âKeep it down.â
âLet me guess,â you mock, âthere are Bylaws about that?â
She nods once, âIndeed,â before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.
Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.
Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.
Bucky points accusingly at her. âYou are a menace.â
The kitten blinks at him innocently.
âOkay,â you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. âWe need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.â
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You donât need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
Summary: Sometimes there is no need for words.
Author's Notes: Light angst; Emotional comfort
Word Count: 270
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader
Word of the day (May 25, 2026)Â - Visit
Beta:Â @princessmisery666
Graphics:Â Made by me.
Master List:Â Word Of The Day
Shadowed, bloodshot eyes greet her as she opens the door. Rumpled clothing and stiff movements denote the miles he's traveled. He always seems to have come from so far away.
Tracing her fingers over the back of his collar, her hand gently lands on his shoulder.
A tiny flinch âŠthen he settles.
Only slightly, though. It takes time.
Helping him remove the jacket, she strokes his arm and briefly squeezes his wrist.
His eyes close âŠfingers uncurl.
Flannel is nextâso many layers. She's teased him about it, but it doesn't change. It's not important anyway. What matters is him.
A sharp inhale âŠhis feet shift.
She smooths soft, worn cotton over his torso and flattens a palm against his chest.
A tight exhale âŠslowing pulse.
The soft pad of her thumb strokes along his jaw until it unclenches.
He breathes.
She waits.
When the rumble of the engine is the phone call she didn't receive, she knows. She won't be gifted a brilliant smile or cheeky grin. No darkened, hungry gaze, or bright, mischievous eyes. That will come laterâwhen murky moss gives way to sparkling peridot.
Visits like this start quietly, slowly, with soft grounding touches, unspoken reassurance.
When his muscles finally sag, and a haunted, but grateful gaze lands on her, she blinks away a tear and snuggles against him. Holding him as tightly as she can, she splays her hands across his back. Strong, thick arms encircle her and squeeze as he rests his cheek against her head.
It's difficult to breathe, but it doesn't matter.
What matters is he's here. He's safe. He's with her.
