Summary: Dean comes back to the motel hurt. You take care of him, because Lord knows he won't take care of himself.
Word Count: 1.1K <3
Tags: Gender neutral reader, fluff, first kiss
Warnings: Minor wound care and mentions of blood
Note: Hi! This is my first Supernatural fic :) I'm a little bit new to Tumblr formatting (and currently figuring out how I want my future fics to look) but I'm excited to be posting! Enjoy <3
View my masterlist here!
Dean nearly crashes in through the door of the motel room. He has a slight limp and uses one hand to feel against the wall of the dark room. Blood is seeping through his black shirt, which glints in the moonlight, and sweat stings against the scratches on his face. None of the wounds bother him as much as the pounding in his head.
You’re asleep under the covers when Dean goes into the bathroom, turning the sink on and hurriedly running through the first-aid bag Sam had prepared months ago. There’s basic bandages, cleaning pads, and neosporin. No medicine.
Dean curses.
“Dean?” You say, half-asleep and bleary.
“—fuck, where’s the fucking—“
You rustle in the covers and swing your legs out. There’s a clock on the bedside table, blinking 3AM in red digits. The crack of light from the bathroom door gently illuminates the small bedroom area.
You walk slowly and raise your hand to knock gently. You can already see him. He’s seated on the edge of the bathtub, rinsing his hands under the faucet. It goes down the drain in shades of brown and red.
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice is gruff. “Go back to bed.”
Your brows furrow. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve got it,” Dean tells you, but winces as he moves.
“Let me in,” you say. “Please.”
You push the door open all the way, and your eyes go to his clothing. His bruises and scratches. Your lips press in a thin line.
“Where’s Sam?”
“He’s handling it,” Dean answers.
“Can I take a look?”
He says nothing but moves his legs aside to make room. You crouch in front of him, your head nearly touching his knees. The first aid kit is in his hands, which you start to sort through.
“Here, hold these,” you say. You hand Dean the largest bandages and the neosporin, but take the cleaning pads away from him. “Those are going to hurt if I use them. I’m going to lift your shirt up, okay?”
Dean nods.
Your fingers reach out to the hem of his shirt, and you can already feel the heat of his skin underneath. You take in a breath as you take the black material and begin to lift. His torso is smooth, tan, and muscular. Your eyes hardly know where to go, flicking from his grim face to his exposed skin.
As more of the wound is revealed, you see that it’s a bad scrape, mingled with dirt, sweat, and torn bits of his now ruined shirt. Dean grips the edge of the tub.
There’s a small cup on the countertop, which you take and start to fill with clean water from the faucet.
“How?”
“Security found us in the graveyard. Told Sammy to finish burning the bones while I dealt with it.”
Classic salt-and-burn, which is why they didn’t take you along. The morning before, you had been out in town, trying to investigate if any of the ghost sightings were connected. No luck, but Sam seemed set on it.
“And the Impala?”
“Still with him. I walked here.”
“God, Dean,” you sigh.
Each gentle pour of water runs down his side and into the drain. Some of it gets on the waistband of his pants. Neither of you say anything about it, but your face is flushed. You want to blame the body heat permeating in the small space, or how Dean’s eyes never seem to leave your concentrated face.
“I’ve been dragged to hell once or twice,” he says simply. “No need to fuss over a scrape.”
“That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.”
Fresh blood wells as the wound becomes more visible underneath.
Dean is quiet for a second. “Did I wake you?”
You smile softly with closed lips. “What do you think?”
“My head is fucking killing me. I wasn’t thinking about it.”
“I have medicine in my bag. I have to clean this first, though.”
The water is lukewarm, and you use the simple bar of soap on the sink to start cleaning around the edges. It’s not the best, but you know that it’s better than nothing.
Knowing Dean, he’d have likely rubbed away at his scrape with the alcohol pad and called it a day if you hadn’t come in.
Your first touches with the soap make him flinch.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “I need you to relax.”
“I know.” Dean’s voice is soft. He lets his shoulders fall a fraction. His eyes close for a moment and he breathes.
“The neosporin will hurt a little more.”
When you gently place the ointment onto the scrape, you let Dean hold onto your shoulder. His thumb moves up and down the length of your collarbone.
You can hardly focus. He squeezes your skin gently when it hurts, and you nearly gasp at the contact of his palm to your bare shoulder.
You start to place a large bandage on each area. His hand stays.
“Dean,” you warn.
“It’s for balance,” he explains.
The cuts on his face are much easier to clean. They have already stopped bleeding, which lets you get rid of the sweat and grime around them. Dean’s hand is sending warm waves down your back, and his eyes flit across your skin. You avoid his gaze intently and top the cuts with ointment.
None of his cuts need a band-aid, but you stand up and take Dean’s chin in your hand to apply them despite. After the first is on, you stoop below to kiss his cheek. So gentle, only a whisper of your lips, on top of the fabric.
Dean takes in a breath.
And then to his nose.
The hand that was once on your shoulder goes down to your waist.
His other cheek.
His forehead.
His eyes are fluttering, and a shiver goes down his spine. “Feels better,” he says in a whisper.
You lift his chin upward and capture his lips with your own. He’s warm, soft, and gentle. Your other hand goes to the back of his neck and upward into the soft tufts of his hair.
When you pull away, Dean tries to follow, wanting to be close to you.
“I don’t like to see you like this,” you say.
“I could use another.” His green eyes glance at your lips.
“Talk to me in the morning, yeah?”
“Yeah, okay.” His eyes brighten. “And if I’m hurting then?”
“Only if Sam’s not here.”
“Damn him.”
“The medicine is in the right pocket of my duffel,” you tell him. “I’m going back to bed.”
Dean gently tugs on your hand as you’re walking out. He turns your hand over, pressing slow kisses across your knuckles before trailing them to your wrist.
“Thank you,” he says.
You let your hand cup his face. Dean leans into the touch and closes his eyes.
Summary: You bring lemonade to Dean after a long day of working in the yard.
Content: You and Dean have your apple pie life, domestic fluff, kissing, suggestive language, implied female reader
Word Count: 394
Notes: Decided to write a short piece for domestic!Dean... it's what I wanted for him all along </3 Season 6 of SPN I'm coming for you
You use your hips to push open the screen door leading onto the back porch, balancing a tray in your hands. You're wearing a cotton sundress that brushes your thighs and a pair of sandals. A light breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle from the patches growing along the edge of the woods. Dean is reclined in a wooden lawn chair under an oak tree, his eyes roaming over the freshly cut lawn before he has to return the mower to the garage.
You smile as you approach from behind, steadying the pitcher and nudging the glasses apart on the tray.
As you set the tray on the ground beside his chair, Dean sighs softly, taking your hand and kissing it. You stand by his shoulders, brushing your fingertips over the back of his neck, watching as his eyes flutter.
"What’s this?" he murmurs. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, and freckles dot his nose.
"Lemonade," you say. "I wanted to try something new."
“Mhm,” Dean hums. He toys with the hem of your dress. “And where’d you get this?”
You swat his hand away with a knowing glare. “You’re sweaty.”
Dean reaches for the pitcher, pours you a glass first, then fills one for himself. Ice clinks gently against the glass as he brings it to his lips. After a sip, one corner of his mouth lifts. “Didn’t ever stop us before.”
“And what will the neighbors think?”
Dean glances at the house next door and sighs. “We don’t have a fence.”
“Maybe that can be your next project.”
The fence would only add to Dean’s list of projects—putting a sunroof in the kitchen, installing shelves in the study, and upgrading the bathroom sink.
"Maybe," he agrees. Dean sets his glass on the thick, soft grass and pats his thigh. “C’mere.”
You settle onto his lap as Dean's hands find your waist. His warmth seeps through the cotton of your dress.
“My girl,” he says, pressing slow kisses to your neck and the bare skin along the straps of your dress. “Always doing sweet things for me.”
You bury your face in his hair. “Come inside. I’ll start on dinner.”
“Just stay here with me for a moment, yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around him as the sun lowers beyond the treeline.
I wasn't looking for him. I was trying to forget my grief, mistakes, the life I thought I was supposed to have.
One afternoon. One bar. One stranger with a worn jacket and tired eyes. And suddenly I was standing in the middle of something I didn't understand yet.
He didn't promise forever.
He didn't try to rewrite me.
He stayed.
Even when staying meant monsters, secrets, and blood on the floor.
(Dean)
I wasn't looking for anything when I rolled into that college town. Just a drink. A night where nobody knew my name.
Then there was her.
One night turned into consequences I couldn't outrun. A child I didn't know how to protect from the world I live in, and a woman who refused to be kept in the dark.
Protecting her is instinct.
Protecting our child is survival.
Convincing myself I won't destroy them both? That's the real fight.
Content warning: 18+, MDNI, graphic depictions of violence, strong language, sexual content, horror and gore, trauma & PTSD, panic attacks & emotional breakdowns, one-night stand, kidnapping/hostage situation, gun violence and explicit threats, psychological terror, mutilation, trauma response/emotional breakdown, grief/betrayal, explicit sexual content, unresolved emotional conflict, tense family dynamics, harassment, pregnancy & pregnancy-related themes, abandonment & betrayal, past child abuse, controlling behavior
Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel
Warnings: Cas’ honesty.
Word count: 711 words.
Dividers by: easytiger xo
A/N: This story popped into my head as I remembered my own little headcanon that Castiel helped take Dean’s photo for that dating app in S10E07. This is a very dialogue based fic, and to make it clearer who's saying what I have coloured Cas' lines blue. Please let me know if that works or not.
Dean's Photoshoot
“Dean, this is… complicated.”
“Cas, just hold it up and press that big white button in the middle of the screen.”
“There is no button in the middle of the screen.”
“It’s a white circle-“
“That’s not in the middle, it’s more in the lower quarter of it.”
“Just take the damn photo, Cas!”
Castiel presses the white circle with his thumb and the screen freezes.
“The screen, Dean. It did something.”
“Did I look good?”
“I am unable to ascertain whether you appear pleasing or not.”
Dean frowns and jumps off the impala with a sigh and jogs over to his friend.
“Come on, man, lemme see.”
He takes the phone away from Cas and groans.
“You’re not supposed to cover the lens with your hand, Cas.”
“That is not my hand, it is my index finger.”
“Yeah, alright. We’ll try again, but this time make sure that you can see me on the screen before you take the picture.”
Cas nods and Dean trots over to the car again. He hops up on the hood and smiles towards the confused angel.
“Can you see me on the screen?”
“Yes.”
“Is your finger in the way like before?”
“No.”
“Alright! Take a lot of pictures, and we’ll find the right one later.”
“I have taken several already, Dean.”
“Good! Lemme just cycle through a few poses.”
“Why do you need a bicycle?”
“A bicy-? No, man… I meant I’ll sit a few different ways, and you can keep taking photos.”
“How many?”
“Just… keep taking them and I’ll delete the ones I don’t want.”
“Okay, I understand.”
Dean proceeds to shift his foot from the ground to the bumper, from sitting leaning forward to leaning backwards on the black hood, then finally just standing next to his beloved car while grinning to the camera. After a few minutes of Cas concentrating and Dean posing, the latter walks over to see the results.
“I took many pictures, Dean.”
“Awesome.”
As Dean scrolls through his camera reel, his smile falters.
“Dude. You weren’t supposed to zoom in on my face like that. And is… is that my butt?”
“You were on the screen the entire time.”
“Yeah, but I wanted you to also fit Baby in it!”
“Why?”
“Because I- … Why d’you think I wanted to sit on top of her while you took the photos?”
“I have never understood your preferences, Dean, and I have stopped questioning your reasoning. You wanted to be on the screen. You are on the screen.”
Dean rubs his hand down his face and sighs dramatically. He then proceeds to hold the phone towards the Impala, zooms out and gestures for Cas to grab the phone.
“You hold the phone right here. No zooming, no fingers or hands over the lens. Just take the damn photo when I tell you to. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“When I get over there, you’re going to take a picture of me sitting on Baby’s hood.”
“Yes.”
“I will tell you when I’m ready, ok?”
“Ok.”
“You don’t have to take pictures while I’m walking over there.”
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Ok.”
“Good.”
Dean leans against the car, placing one foot on her bumper and leans forward, making sure to place his arms so he can flex them just right and looks at Cas – who is still holding the phone exactly the way he was told.
“Alright, Cas. I’m ready. Take the photo.”
“Ok.”
“Did you take it?”
“Yes.”
“Was it good?”
“You have a look.”
“A look?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, a look?”
“The one you have before you run to the bathroom after eating too many burritos.”
“You saying I look like I’m about to shit myself?”
“Now you are looking angry.”
“What the hell, dude?”
“You look exasperated.”
“No, man. Come on. Just take the picture!”
“I have taken several.”
“You know what… Just forget it. We’re done.”
Dean returns to grab the phone from Castiel and looks through the twenty new pictures he took.
“Alright, now we’re talking! These were pretty good, thanks buddy!”
Dean stops at one where he looks directly at the camera with a perfect pose the ladies will love.
[Picture credit: Kissthemgoodbye ]
“This one’s good.”
“That is the burrito face.”
“Shut up.”
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Let me know what you think, I love comments and reblogs <3
I've read so many amazing stories on here by amazing authors. I've been meaning to make a post so I can keep them in one spot, and, of course, share them easily with all of you.
There were far more of you than I realized. lol Enjoy everyone and feel free to recommend any fics you think I might enjoy in the comments.
Just giving this a little update with a couple more stories, and more great authors.
Supporting Writers <3
@spnexploration
- Pack - A/B/O
- Collared
@zepskies
- Smoke Eater - first one of hers I read.
- Dean Master List - everythings good.
@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior
- Master List Dean
- Green is My Favorite Color
- Things Learned & Unlearned
- Starting At The End
@holylulusworld
- Honestly, anything by them. Amazing writer. Lots of A/B/O stuff too.
@luci-in-trenchcoats
- Master List Dean - Series lots to choose from.
Read The Ranger first. Amazing series. A/B/O
- Feral A/B/O
- The Dark Lord
@bettystonewell
- To You I Belong - A/B/O
@queen-of-deans-booty
- Right After All
- Deadly Proposal
Lots of amazing things to read on their master list.
@yet-another-deanw-girl
- The Prophecy
@godmadeaterribleerror
- Willing to Break
- The Babylon Series
@thememoryofadream
- Feet of Clay Series
- Passion Play Series
@watermelongirl01
- Sweet Rescue Series
@gh0stvi0lets
- She Was Sunshine, I Was Midnight Rain
@nocturnalandflawed
- Masterpost (& So On)
@jollyhunter
- Master List
- Daily Dean Winchester
@ambiguous-avery
- Chasing Shadows - A MUST READ!
@my-stories-vault
- Dean Winchester Series
Purgatory & The Supernatural Wars are amazing!!
@maddie0101
- Rodeo Nights
@kazsrm67
- Dean Winchester Series
I have SOOOO many more to read on here. lol
@angels-silhouette
- Ten Years Gone
@bewitchedfaeyrie
- The French Mistake (I think is the title)
@jessjad
- Rightfully Deceived
@girls-alias
- Master List Dean Fics
I recommend Dean's Dream - Djinn, which is excellent.
@stusbunker
- Never Doubt The Best Man
- Known
@k-slla
- Master List
Several excellent fics to read.
@waywardxwords
- Master List
Several excellent fics to read.
@deanbrainrotwritings
- Master List Dean Fics
@julesthequirky
- The Choice
@notinthislife50
- Dean Masterlist
@deanwritings
- Master List
- The Guest House
I recommend Night Falls - Excellent. Lots to read though.
@impala-dreamer
- Good Vibrations
They have a lot of other great fics too.
@layce2015
- Supernatural Rewrite
@deanwanddamons
- Mechanic & Mistletoe
@pink-sparkly-witch
- Can't Fight This Feeling A/B/O
@nescaveckwriter
- Paintbrushes & Romance
I couldn't find the master list link for this story. It's beautiful and so worth the read.
@whimsyfinny
- Master List
Recommend both series they have written. Amazing.
@alexsoenomel
- Dean Master List
Pretty sure I read everything on here, lol.
@maximumkillshot
- When You Call A/B/O
I also read a lot of what they wrote. lol
@spnhunter4life
- So Long
@meowmeow-motherfucker
- The Fox & The Squirrel
@winchesterfanatic1967
- Master List - Recommend Picking Up the Pieces
I've read a lot of these. Amazing.
@fanfictionalraven
- Master List
Recommend - Piece By Piece & Dream Warriors - excellent
@winchesterwild78
- Unexpected Hunter
@dwonfilm
- Come Hell or High Water
@jawritter
- When the Lights Go Out
Other amazing fics on their master list, including A/B/O
@brightlilith
- In Another Universe
@acreativelydifferentlove
- Carry On A/B/O
@thelibrarylesstrektraveled
- To The Victor A/B/O
@sofreddie
- New World Order A/B/O
@lila-lou
- Taking Her In
@kittenofdoomage
- Neiras - oneshot but excellent
Another List of Amazing Authors - Here
@supernatural-jackles
- Where It All Began
@writtenbyadriana
- Master List - read Bound In Blood - Excellent
@amentiaewrites
- Ordinary Master List - Amazing - So is the sequel
@atwistoffate
- Dean x Reader Master List
- Read: About Time
To all my favorite authors out there, every time I find a story that really hits me, I add it here so I can go back and reread it. Stories I found that I never wanted to lose with all that I do post. I've added to this since I started it, and I know it will keep growing until I'll need to make another post entirely. :)
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
You meet Sam and Dean on a hunt in your town and things aren't the same afterwards.
(Dean X Reader, no y/n)
There was nothing unusual about a summer thunder storm, especially after the recent heat, but this one had been rumbling for a bit too long now. The first day of the storm was the day you moved in to your new house, the wind creaked through the wooden door, whistling cold air into your new house. Once the wind died down, the thunder and lightening came. It rumbled through the neighbourhood, sending bright flashes into the darkening sky.
After the first couple of days, the storm became boring. The perpetually grey sky was more of a disappointing annoyance than relief from the beating July sun, it was hot and sticky without any of the enjoyment that came with sunny days. Your friends invited you out to blow off some steam after unpacking all day, they said it would be fun to try somewhere new and Angela had heard good things about the bar around the corner from your house. Inside the bustling bar, the air conditioning whirred a welcoming breeze over your table, wicking the sweat from your face and neck which had accumulated on the walk over. The bar's hubbub aside, you could still hear the manager's conversation a few tables over.
"Yeah, he was a good guy, I have no idea why he'd do something like that..." Her face was scrunched up, trying to understand what caused his behaviour a few weeks ago, "I mean, it's not like he needed the money, he was earning a good wage, he had a full ride and perfect grades so he didn't need to pay for school..." She trailed off, the two suited men glanced at each other.
The taller one cleared his throat, "Thank you Marissa, here's my card in case you remember anything else that was out of the ordinary".
The shorter one thanked Marissa and turned around, adjusting his cheap tie, you hastily turned back to your cosmopolitan, pretending that you weren't listening to a conversation which definitely did not involve you. You hadn't turned quick enough, his green eyes met yours and with a flush of your cheeks, you reinserted yourself back into your friends' gossip.
"I'm not saying that I'm going to ever take him back, but what if he wants to settle down?"
You snorted, Fleur was talking about her pig of an ex boyfriend. Again. "Fleur. It'll be a cold day in hell when Gus decides to settle down. Don't reduce yourself to that." She shook her head with a smile and took a long sip of her drink. She knew better, and she knew that you knew better. Fleur and Gus had finally broken up for good around the time the storm started, he had been distant for a few weeks beforehand, but he seemed to get worse in the unbearable heat, and Fleur finally realised that she deserved better and sent him packing a few days ago. She had been helping you move in to distract herself from the chaos which seeped out from her love life.
Angela rubbed Fleur's arm, knowing that she was still hurting – douchebag or not, she had still fallen pretty hard for the guy. "I'm calling it," Angela hiccuped, "Girls night. Tonight, right now." The three of you laughed and finished your varying drinks in agreement. The rest of the night was a blur of tequila, cocktails and pounding music, with messy pictures cluttering your camera roll.
You woke up around nine the next morning, head pounding still in last night's makeup, you shuddered and stumbled your way to the cool bathroom, you wiped off the mascara which was now smudged underneath your eyes. As you patted your puffy face dry, something moved just out of the corner of your eye, but before you could get a proper look, it had vanished and the room suddenly felt all too warm. You shook it off as hangover chills and brushed your teeth.
BZZZZ BZZZZZZ BZZZZZ
Your phone rang, making you jump. You walked back to your bedroom and picked up, it was Angela and Fleur, asking you to come to Fleur's apartment. Angela had stayed there after your impromptu girls night, opting to share a bed with Fleur as she was too drunk to get home by herself. She pleaded you to grab breakfast on your way over. Begrudgingly, you slipped on your tired jeans and the nearest t-shirt after giving it a whiff, and stepped out into the muggy July day, making your way to the diner near Fleur's.
The bell above the door rang as you walked in to the smell of over-roasted coffee and sizzling bacon, stifling a hungover gag, you walked up to the counter and ordered yourself a breakfast muffin with extra bacon and a large coffee, pancakes for Angela, and a veggie scramble for Fleur. The aging lady who served you smiled and told you to sit and wait for a few minutes, you tapped your fingers on the countertop, your silver rings hit the surface softly while you poured sugar into your coffee. You turned to take in the Sunday morning scene, too soon for church goers, but not entirely empty, your eyes caught on the black car which roared into the parking spot outside the diner, your dad would have loved it's shiny black body and chrome accents, wanting to get a better look, you stood up as the doors creaked shut. The two men walked in, opting for jeans and flannel over t-shirts rather than the poorly fitting suits they had donned in the bar the night before, the tall one walked over to the counter, briefly glancing at your t-shirt. The other one walked in and flashed you a cheeky grin, seeing that his partner had gone in the opposite direction to you didn't deter him from walking up to you, staring at your now feeling too tight t-shirt.
"Nice, Blue Oyster fan?" He asked, leaning on the counter, getting a better look at what you knew wasn't just your shirt anymore. You nodded, but before you could reply, the waitress had returned.
"Here's your order honey, have a nice day now." Before you could acknowledge her, she had already disappeared, leaving you alone with the man.
"Uh yeah, they were my dad's favourite," You replied, standing up to leave. He moved back slightly, giving you just enough space to squeeze past. "It was nice to meet you..."
"Dean", he held out his hand to shake yours, you shook his hand as he passed you your freshly refilled coffee cup. You gave him your name as you made your way to the door, opening it with a struggle. You walked along the pavement to meet your friends and you couldn't quite get Dean's piercing green eyes out of your mind, you hoped you'd bump into him again.
Walking into Angela's house, you were met by her fresh out of the shower, her neat red hair sat damp on her shoulders. Fleur was lying on the sofa, she looked exhausted, water bottle in hand and messy brown ringlets stuck shoved up into a bird's nest on top of her head, she waved lazily as you made your way over, passing her breakfast didn't seem to make much difference. As the three of you sat and ate your breakfast, rejuvenating you all for a day of sitting and doing nothing.
After the first awful movie, and halfway through the second, you heard the roar of a car outside which wasn't unusual for the area but when it stopped outside, your ears pricked up, "Did you guys hear that?" You looked to your friends for an answer.
Angela nodded, "Did you order something for dinner?"
"No did you?" They shook their heads. You could hear a familiar voice coming from outside of the neighbour's house.
"Well no, Sammy, I don't think it was this Mikey kid, it's definitely a case now shut up" Dean knocked on the door and waited for a response. "Mrs Kessler? Detectives Plant and Rose, may we come in?" Then you heard the door shut.
"Angie? Who lives next door?"
Angela fiddled with the remote, "You know that Mikey kid we went to school with? His mom lives there, poor woman. Her husband dies and then her son does an Italian job around all of the jewellery stores, they think he killed someone too."
"Oh. Have they caught him yet?" You leaned in further and Angela shook her head.
"No, scary right?" You stared at her, mouth agape. You had no idea that Mikey would be the type to do that, he was always the nicest in the class, quiet, but he was nice.
You fiddled with your hands at the thought of someone so nice turning into such a bad person when you were shaken by the sound of knocking on the door. You got up and opened it, being the closest to it and there he was.
"Hi," There was that boyish grin and green eyes again, dressed in the same cheap suit from the night before. He was a tall drink of water that you couldn't help but take in, it had been some time since you had had that type of company.
His partner stepped in, "I'm sorry about him, uh we're here regarding your neighbour, Mikey Kessler, we're scouting the neighbourhood trying to find out more about him." He flashed you a detective badge whilst Dean searched his pocket for his.
"I don't live here sorry but I went to school with him, he was a pretty nice guy I guess." You poked your head back around the corner and beckoned Angela over, she invited the two in and made room for them on the sofa, Fleur got up and walked to the bathroom.
"Sorry for the mess, we went out last night." Angela apologised as the men shuffled in their seats. "What did you say your names were, sorry?"
"I'm Sam Rose," The taller one replied, "And this is Dean Plant. We're here looking into what happened in town, trying to get a feel for what he was like before the attacks."
Angela nodded and simply repeated what she had told you earlier, none of you had seen him since grade school, and Angela had only just moved back into her family's home after her parents passed. You sat watching the conversation unfold, spinning the ring on your thumb with nothing more to add to the conversation.
When the pair had asked all of their questions you followed them to the door, Dean held out a card and handed it to you, lingering for a second too long. "If you remember anything else just give me a call." He gave you a smile and they left.
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester with a girlfriend that’s so gentle with him, he doesn’t know what to do with himself
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, softhearted!reader, yearner!dean, dean winchesters in love, dean getting the treatment he deserves, 1.5k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ Every time I see this man I have the strongest urge to take care of him, so I wrote a little about it
Dean doesn’t know what he did right in the his life to get a girl like you. Your gentle touches and sweet smiles weren’t meant for a guy like him. He was a broken, bruised, used, angry man— there was no world where he’d ever deserve the privilege and responsibility of holding your heart in his rough hands.
Dean felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth before he’d even opened his eyes. The warm morning sun filtering through the ratty old sheers, lighting up the outdated motel room with a soft glow that almost makes it look cozy.
Your lips were soft and warm as they pressed gentle kisses onto his skin. He was barely conscious, and you were hardly awake yourself, your frame curled into his side, practically draped over him.
He can feel your soft hand at his jaw as you litter affection across his features. Kissing every freckle, every scar, every curve that made up his pretty face.
“W’dya doin?” His gravely morning voice murmured, a small sleepy smile on his lips, and his hand moving to settle on your waist, fingers flexing against your skin.
“G’morning, handsome” is all you reply with, your own features mirroring his smile, leaning in again to press a soft kiss to his lips, then another, and another. Not caring about morning breath one bit.
His smile softened, almost shyly, at the nickname and finally his eyes start to flutter open. Your hair’s a mess and you’re wearing one of his old band shirts, the stretched out collar practically hanging off your shoulder, flashing that sweet smile that makes his heart skip a beat.
His smile widens and he chases your lips, softly pulling you closer and kissing you back, sleepily but so lovingly.
He sighs in contentment, his hand moving from your waist to pull you even closer, your body comfortably settling over his. A sound leaving your lips, a sound that signifies you feel safe and happy in his arms— his arms. He still can’t believe it.
It was moments like this that Dean never wanted to see end, because if he thinks about it too long he’ll start to wonder why you choose to be here.
A frustrated sigh leaves Dean’s lips, hands scrubbing over his face as he sits back. An array of research, books, papers and Sam’s laptop scattered in front of him. He’d been at this for hours.
The door to the motel room creaked open, the key jingling in your hand. Sam was following a lead while you and Dean stayed behind to research, much to his dismay. You headed out a little bit ago to grab some brain fuel from a cafe close by.
You walked in and set down the takeout bag, the one with thank you printed repeatedly on the thin plastic, and the coffees. Pushing one towards Dean before he could even say “hi”— a black coffee with a sugar packet, and some cinnamon for a little extra pizazz, an order you’d memorized so easily.
You’d always thought he was just one of those gruff guys who drank black coffee and thought it was pansy to have anything else, until one day you stole a sip in a desperate need for caffeine, and you were shocked, but the cinnamon was all you.
A little smirk pulled at his lips, despite his brain being fried, at the sight of the pie and it widened when he took a sip of his coffee.
“You remembered,” he murmured, letting the warmth of the drink take over.
“Of course— it’s what you always get,” you shrugged, “but I did add the cinnamon” you said with one of your sweet smiles, walking closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his hair. He somehow already begins to soften at that alone.
“Figured a little pick me up was in order” you muttered, hands drifting to massage his shoulders a little, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "y’working too hard.”
Dean's shoulders relaxed, his eyes closing for a moment, hand coming up to briefly squeeze yours. Humming a soft sound of agreement.
He played it off well but something as small as you knowing his coffee order and telling him to take a break, pulled at his chest. Just the fact you’d cared enough about minuscule details enough to memorize them, for him, and taking time to take care of him did something to his insides.
Another day, another night coming back to a motel room after killing something awful. You, Sam, and Dean walk into the motel room, everyone banged up and exhausted. Sam practically beelines it to shower first, leaving you and Dean to finish peeling off your dirty bloody layers.
“Sit,“ your gentle voice broke the silence, tone syrupy sweet even now, your arms reaching for the homemade first aid kit that’s saved all of you so many times.
“m’fine, sweetheart” Dean mumbled, waving you off, his tone dripping with fatigue. He winced just a little as he pulled off his jacket— definitely not helping his case.
“Dean—” you warned, meaning it even though the kindness in your voice hadn’t wavered. You sat the, now opened, kit on the bed, motioning for him to sit again.
He complied with a little sigh of defeat, he couldn’t resist those soft pleading eyes of yours even if he tried. You got a rag damp with the spare water bottle on the nightstand, walking back over to Dean, standing between his legs and tilting up his face. His hands automatically settling themselves on your hips, like it was an inevitable gravitational pull.
The damp rag glided across his jaw, cleaning the half-dried monster blood off his face while your other hand cradled his head, your thumb absentmindedly caressing, just a little, where it rested on his skin.
The concentration on your face was so unnecessarily adorable, Dean just couldn’t look away. The tiny crease in your brow, the focus in your eyes, it made something warm grow in his chest.
“There he is,” you half-whispered under your breath once you’d finished, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His heart fluttered and a smile teased his lips at the endearment, hands flexing where they rested over your jeans.
He was quiet, suspiciously quiet, as you finished patching him up— he didn’t even make a slightly suggestive joke when you told him to take off his shirt, in order to get to his shoulder.
Unbeknownst to you, he was having a mini mental breakdown every time you touched him, every time you whispered a little “sorry” with a kiss when he’d tensed or winced, every glance or smile you threw his way.
Nobody ever took care of him, he took care of him along with everyone else. But you take care of him like it’s as easy as breathing, like it’s somehow automatic. He couldn’t let you slip away. You were the soft to his hard, the gentle to his jagged, the warmth to his emptiness, he’s never felt so affected by one person.
He’d thanked you when you were done, with the softest voice he could muster up. The smile it brought to your face made him want to speak like that forever.
“You don’t gotta thank me, Dee.” You replied with a kiss, “can’t have my guy hurt and bleeding all over the place, now can we?”
He just pulled you in again as a response, arms circling your waist, kissing you deeper than the little peck you gave him. You melted into it anyway, dropping the roll of bandage in your hands and your fingers moving to his hair.
When he pulled away you were a little breathless, cheeks dusted pink and there was a smile plastered on your face. Before you could say anything or remind him that Sam would be done showering any minute, he breaks the silence.
“I love you”
You freeze, genuinely pause— still looking in his eyes, wondering if you heard him wrong or if Dean Winchester actually just said I love you.
Before you could ask for clarification he kissed you again, and of course you followed despite your state of shock. It was a shorter kiss but nonetheless heartfelt. You blinked when he pulled away again.
Yep— that was definitely an I love you.
It wasn’t a you’re sweet, or a thanks, angel, or even a love ya, like usual. It wasn’t casual, it was a real “I love you” and he said it with the softest expression you’ve ever seen him wear. He didn’t stutter, didn’t hesitate, didn’t take it back, and wasn't drunk. He was stone cold sober.
You didn’t think you’d ever hear him actually say it— sure, you knew he cares about you, he likes having you around, and he kisses you like it’s his birthright, but— you’ve always loved or cared about people more than they loved you. Not to mention, Dean's reputation didn’t really scream commitment.
“I mean it…” he practically whispered, no doubt sensing your shock. You snapped out of it, a big shy smile growing bright on your lips despite how hard you tried to contain it.
“Yeah?…” you murmured, your smile audible. You ran your hands through his short strands, suddenly a little nervous.
He just nodded, the most lovesick expression taking over his face, your stunned state wasn’t lost on him. It felt like a physical pain to his chest that him saying I love you was so unbelievable that it would render you speechless, but the thought was interrupted by a little squeal escaping from behind your lips and many excited kisses.
summary: Dean is not in the habit of accepting help - especially not from rich, pretty college girls - but this time it really can't be helped. Badly injured and without his Baby, he is forced to take a lift from you for one long road trip to try to save Sam. He finds there are worse things than playing passenger princess.
pairing: dean winchester x f! reader
warnings: smut, canon-typical violence, angst, semi slow-burn, canon-typical dean self-loathing, very brief references to suicide, sam haunts the narrative like crazy, reader referenced as having hair and has a set backstory / unnamed family
a/n: i have learned from past mistakes and pre-written all parts of the series in advance, so we have a posting schedule below *everybody stands up and applauds*. this was a very special project for me and i can't wait to share it with you 🤍 drop a comment to join the series taglist or join my overall taglist here!
Contents:
1 The Road ✧ 6.4k words ⤷ 14/04
2 Burnout ✧ 6.6k words ⤷ 21/04
3 Under the Hood ✧ 5.3k words ⤷ 28/04
4 Insult and Injury ✧ 7.1k words ⤷ 05/05
5 In Bad Faith ✧ 7.6k words ⤷ 12/05
6 Courage Equal to Desire ✧ 9k words ⤷ 19/05
a/a/n: all 6 parts are set in s2 ep14 'born under a bad sign', with changed details and prolonged timelines. it is not necessary to have seen the episode to read this as the events of the episode itself are only a small fraction of the first and last part!
You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night, Dean’s also up. Fluff ensues.
You woke up at one in the morning with a throat so dry it rivaled a desert.
After a long hunt the day before, you didn’t take care of yourself at all, opting instead to change into pjs and flop into bed.
You slowly slipped off the squeaky fold-out and blearily navigated the messy motel room to the connecting bathroom, trying to keep quiet as to not wake Sam or Dean. After a few dixie cups full of water you tiptoed your way back only to run into someone. You stumbled back and looked up to see Dean.
“Why are you up so early?” He questioned, voice rough with sleep.
“I got thirsty. Why are you up?” You retorted quietly and rubbed your eye.
“Had to piss.”
“Sorry for the hold-up.”
“Whatever, go put a movie on. I’ll join in a sec.”
You nodded and the two of you went your separate ways.
The channels were severely lacking in the movie department so late at night, but you found a western that would knock you out quick and keep Dean occupied for a bit before passing out from exhaustion. While you waited for him the blankets and pillows were shuffled to make a nook to tuck in to. Dean returned and crawled into the fold-out beside you.
“Thought you were gonna go back to your bed.” You mumbled.
“Better view.” He murmured back as he shifted closer to you.
“Sure.”
It most certainly was not a better vantage point, but you weren’t gonna complain. His warmth was welcome in the cold room.
The thump of hooves and twang of barely comprehensive dialogue from the tv quickly melted your brain and pulled at your eyes. You were on the verge of dozing when Dean shifted again. He pulled you close, your back to his side and head on his bicep.
“Dean, why’d you move?” You whined and tried to get comfortable again.
“ ‘m cold.” He mumbled.
“No way, you’re literally scorching.”
“I am so shut up.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever.” He mocked and turned to spoon you, wrapping his free arm around your stomach.
You rolled your eyes and melted into him. As much shit as you gave him, you rarely ever meant it. Especially when he wanted to initiate any sort of touch. Being a hunter was lonely, and both of you were touch starved, so it was a win-win situation when he did.
You eventually got to the point of dozing again, the movie and Dean’s breathing harmonizing into a gentle rumble that soothed your restlessness. When you reached that space of just barely hanging on to consciousness, you felt the press of warm lips against your shoulder and finally fell back asleep.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 2541
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighbor’s house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldn’t cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.
Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.
You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology you’d give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didn’t for anyone else at pickup.
“…could leave my number”, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. “You know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lights”.
Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. “Right. The neighbors”. Her voice brightened, like you’d just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—sure, why not”.
You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didn’t latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.
It took a second. Of course it did. You’d trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.
Dean’s gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasn’t his name.
“Mommy!”.
Delilah—Lilah—came at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.
“Look what I made!”, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.
“It’s amazing”, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. “Museum quality”.
Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. “Oh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangs”.
“Her name is Midnight”, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.
A shift in the air told you he’d finally turned. You didn’t look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughter’s hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.
He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didn’t knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.
Dean’s gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who you’d been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats.
It went on long enough that you felt Lilah’s weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. “Do you like her?”, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the bat’s crooked smile faced him. “My bat. Her name is Midnight”.
The sound broke the spell. Dean’s eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldn’t decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way he’d always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.
“She’s… awesome”, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. “Midnight’s a tough name to live up to”.
Lilah’s whole face lit. “She can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothing´s around to fly inside”.
“Mommy’s smart”, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.
“How old are you, kiddo?”, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.
“Four", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. “Four”.
The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadn’t been.
“C’mon, baby, we need to go”, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadn’t started yet and you weren’t going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.
Ms. Rivera’s smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Dean’s eyes to Lilah’s and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. “I’ll—um—finish the attendance”, she murmured, already retreating. “See you both tomorrow”. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.
“Wait”. Dean’s hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like he’d hit an invisible fence. “Can we—”.
“Not here”, you said, low. Lilah’s arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. “Not now”.
His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. “I didn’t—”. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. “You’re right”. A beat. “But… can you give me a minute?”.
You angled past him toward the door. “You had a year”, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. “Then you had four”.
He took it, the hit and the history. “You’re angry”.
“You think?”. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. “We’re done”.
Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. “Mommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?”.
“Midnight can bathe in sprinkles”, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.
Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didn’t touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.
He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.
“Dean”. You made your voice calm and flat. “Get out of my way”.
His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer you’d built since he left. “Just… a minute. That’s all I’m asking”.
“You already long enough”, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldn’t hear it as more than a hum in your chest.
He flinched but didn’t move. “I just—look, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adults”. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. “Catch up”.
You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Catch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?”.
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like the words cost him. “I had reasons”.
“Yeah? So did I”. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. “Mine wore diapers”.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasn’t allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didn’t know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilah’s lashes, your mouth, Lilah’s hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.
“She’s beautiful”, he said, quiet, reverent. “She’s… she’s got your smile”.
The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didn’t correct him. You didn’t need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didn’t say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.
“She likes loud cars”, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, you’d toss them like knives.
He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Figures”. He exhaled, almost shaky. “So she’s—”.
“Don’t finish that sentence”.
His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. “I just… I need to know if—”. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If you’re okay. If you both are”.
You met his eyes, steady. “We are. Without you”.
The words landed, and he didn’t even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didn’t move.
“Coffee”, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it you’d hear something else in it. “Just half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just… me and you. Please”.
You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.
“Get out of my way, Dean”, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.
His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldn’t say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.
And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.
Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilah’s back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.
“Don’t eat it”, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.
“I wasn’t!”, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because that’s what four-year-olds did. “Mommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?”.
Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. “Yeah, I saw it”.
“It was shiny”, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. “And so big. Not like ours. Ours is… ours is squeaky”.
“Our car gets us where we need to go”, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.
“But the black one was like—vroom!”. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. “Can we get one like that?”.
You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.
“Can we get one?”, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchester’s child could be.
You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.
And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.
Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Sam’s tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.
You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t believe you were real and alive after what you’d just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.
And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.
You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.
“Someday, maybe”, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.
She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.
“Mommy! I’m stuck!”.
“That’s the point”, you teased, securing the last corner. “No escape for the burrito”.
She wriggled delighted. “Burrito with sprinkles!”.
You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.
This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.
Summary: A crying baby, rising pain and a tumor that won’t stop. Mark´s running out of time and all that’s left is love, heartbreak and a fragile bit of hope.
-requested-
Pairing: Mark x Reader
Warnings: Language, Angst
Word Count: 2350
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had only been out of the shower for a minute when you heard Ally’s cries echo off the hallway walls. Mark was trying. God, you knew he was trying.
You wrapped your towel tighter around your sore, still-healing body and moved carefully down the hall. Everything in you ached. Not just from the birth, but from the way life had been piling on lately.
The door to the nursery was cracked open. You saw him hunched over in the glider, Ally cradled in one arm, bottle in the other. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. That vein near his temple, the one you dreaded, already pulsing hard.
“C’mon, baby girl”, he muttered under his breath, his voice unded like sandpaper, “just take it—fuck—take the damn bottle”. Ally wailed louder.
You could tell the pain had crept in. The tumor again. It always hit at the worst times. He’d been hiding it better before the birth, always brushing off your worry with a gritted smile and a muttered “I’m fine”. But not tonight. Tonight, he looked like he was about to break.
You moved toward them slow and quiet. He didn’t notice at first, his hand was trembling as he tried to adjust the bottle’s angle, his other arm going rigid, muscles twitching from holding her too tight.
“Mark”, you said softly.
He flinched like he’d been shot.
“I’ve got her”, you added, reaching out. Not just for Ally, but for him, too. For the part of him that never asked for help even when he was drowning.
“I got it!”, he snapped, louder than he meant to, maybe louder than he even realized.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through the room. Ally jerked in his arms, her tiny fists flailing, her face scrunching tighter as her cries rose into a desperate wail.
Your heart clenched. Not just at the sound, but at the look that crashed over Mark’s face in the next breath. Regret. Instant and raw and so damn brutal.
“Shit”, he muttered, pulling her closer like he could somehow undo it. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to scare her—”.
You stepped forward again, slower this time, gentler. “Mark. Give her to me”.
He looked up, and for a second, he didn’t look like your husband. He looked like a man unraveling. Haunted, sleep-starved, battling something deeper than just pain. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and that vein in his temple was beating like a war drum. He just stared at you, like maybe if he sat perfectly still, the whole thing would stop. The crying, the guilt and the pounding in his head.
But Ally kept screaming. And he cracked. “Fuck”, he hissed, slamming the bottle down onto the side table so hard the plastic bounced. His free hand gripped the arm of the chair like he needed something to anchor him, something to keep him from shattering into pieces.
You didn’t flinch. Even though everything in you wanted to wrap your arms around him, you kept your voice steady. For Ally. For him. For yourself. “Mark. Let me take her”.
“She won’t stop”, he choked out. “I—I tried. I’ve been sitting here for twenty fucking minutes, and she just keeps—”. He didn’t finish.
You moved in slowly, not to startle either of them. Her, fragile and red-faced; him, barely holding it together. You crouched in front of the glider, ignoring the ache in your legs, your ribs, the tight pull of healing scars across your abdomen.
“She’s okay”, you whispered, voice soft as breath. “You’re okay”.
Mark didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on Ally like she was a stranger he’d already failed.
You reached out carefully, easing her from his arms. She was stiff at first, fists balled, breath catching in sharp hiccups from how long she’d been crying. But then her little body relaxed the second she settled against you, chest to chest, skin to skin. She knew your heartbeat. She knew your smell. She knew you were safety.
And just like that, she stopped. The only sound in the room was her ragged little breathing, settling slowly into something steady. You picked up the bottle he’d thrown down, checked it, then offered it to her gently. She latched without protest.
Mark stared, hands limp in his lap now. That haunted, hollow look in his eyes deepened.
You stood slowly, knees creaking under the weight of your healing body and your now-dozing daughter. Every muscle felt like it had aged ten years in the last two weeks, but you didn’t complain. You couldn’t. Not when he was sitting there looking like the floor might crack open and swallow him whole.
Ally stayed tucked against you, warm and small and soft. Still drinking, barely now, just enough to keep her close.
“I’ll be right back”, you said quietly, already moving toward the hallway. “Keep breathing”.
Mark didn’t answer, but you saw the slight nod. Barely there.
You made your way to the bathroom, flipping on the dim light with your elbow. The mirror reflected your own exhaustion right back at you. Sunken eyes, damp hair from the rushed shower, towel still bunched under your arm where you hadn’t bothered to fix it. You looked like someone who’d just walked off a battlefield. And maybe… you had.
You grabbed the pill bottle that sat behind the mirror, tucked in with a mess of other prescriptions, without needing to read the label. You knew the weight of it by heart now. Topiramate. One of the few things that didn’t make him feel worse. Not better, not really. Just… a little less worse.
You opened it with one hand, Ally still nestled tight against you, and counted the tablets automatically. Eight left.
He’d taken one this morning, you had watched him. But it hadn’t touched the pain. Not this time.
It had been like this for almost three weeks now. The pain was getting worse. And faster. You knew the signs, his agitation, the tremors in his hands, the way he rubbed at his temple like he could dig the thing out of his skull.
He’d chalked it up to stress. Sleepless nights. The crying. The worry. You weren’t sure if that was the truth or just the version he needed to believe to keep going.
You walked back into the nursery, bottle tucked under your chin, pill clutched loosely in your fingers. Mark hadn’t moved. His elbows were still on his knees, head hanging. He looked up when you re-entered, and the moment his eyes met yours, you saw the pain.
“She’s asleep”, you whispered. “Almost”.
He nodded once, slowly, like he was afraid to move too fast.
You handed him the pill. He hesitated. “Babe”, you said gently. “Don’t argue”.
“I already took one today”.
“I know. This one’s not about prevention. It’s about not collapsing in front of your daughter again”.
His lips twitched, not into a smile, but something like it. Bitter and aching. He took the pill, dry swallowing it in one practiced tilt of the head.
You moved back toward him, gently rocking Ally now. Her lips had fallen off the bottle, and she was curled into your chest like she’d never leave.
Mark was staring at her again. “She’s so fucking small”, he muttered, voice hoarse, like it physically hurt to speak. “And I’m already fucking her up”.
You stayed quiet. You knew he wasn’t looking for comfort, not yet. He was bleeding, and sometimes you had to let the wound speak before you could start to clean it.
“I can’t even feed my own daughter”, he hissed, barely holding the tremor out of his voice. “She screamed the whole time. She screamed because of me”.
“She screamed because she’s a newborn”, you said gently, bouncing Ally ever so slightly as her breathing deepened, her cheek warm against your chest. “She screamed because the world is big and loud and her stomach’s the size of a grape”.
He shook his head, eyes narrowing, not at you, at himself. “No. She screamed because I was holding her wrong. I couldn’t get the angle. I couldn’t get the bottle right. I couldn’t stay calm”.
You saw his spiral happening in real time. The slide into that dark, jagged place where he carved every failure into himself like penance.
“I’ve interrogated cartel leaders with more control than I had five minutes ago”, he said, spitting the words like poison. “And now I’m just sitting here shaking like some goddamn—”.
“Stop”. He blinked.
Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through. Ally stirred a little and you adjusted her automatically, patting her back with slow, practiced motions.
“She doesn’t need perfect”, you said again. “She doesn’t need a soldier or a cop or someone who never messes up. She needs you. The you who stays even when it’s hard. The you who tried, even through the pain. Who showed up even when your head was splitting open”.
He looked at you, and the glassiness in his eyes gave way to something worse, self-loathing. “You looked scared when you walked in”, he said quietly. “Not of the crying. Of me”.
You swallowed hard. “I was scared for you”.
“Same thing”.
“No”, you said firmly this time. “It’s not”. You shifted, carefully sitting down beside him again, holding Ally between you. You guided his hand to her tiny back. He resisted for a second, but you didn’t let go. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his palm rest there. Her body rose and fell with each breath, soft and warm and alive. “You didn’t fail her”, you said. “You’re here. Even when you’re hurting, even when you think you’re screwing everything up—you’re here”.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing like it hurt, and you watched his jaw clench again before he finally shook his head, frustrated.
You didn’t push him. You just whispered, soft and steady, “Go lay down. I got this”.
He scoffed, bitter, wrecked, and low. “Yeah? Got this?”. His voice cracked. “You’re two weeks out from nearly dying giving birth and you’re still the one getting up at night. You’re the one feeding her. Rocking her. Holding me together”. He finally looked at you, and it was like looking at a man losing a fight with himself. “Not only am I failing her, I’m failing you, too”.
You started to shake your head, but he kept going, chest rising and falling too fast.
“I see you limping around the house when you think I’m not watching. Wincing when you sit down, pulling your shirt over the bandage too carefully like it doesn’t feel like hell. And still—still—you’re the one doing the most, because I can’t fucking function. I can’t be in this house without the walls spinning and my skull feeling like it’s gonna crack open. And you…”. He laughed once, hollow. “You’re the one telling me to go rest”.
You didn’t speak at first. Just let the air between you cool, let his words settle. Because you knew how much it had cost him to say them out loud.
Mark’s pain had always come in waves. That was how the doctors explained it. Pressure in his brain would build, settle, build again. Some days were fine. Some were even good, he’d make coffee, kiss you and make dumb jokes in that low voice that always softened your bones.
But not lately. For the last three weeks, it had barely let up. And it was wearing him down. Not just physically. All of him.
You reached out and took his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. He didn’t resist. “Mark”, you said softly, voice steady but full of everything you didn’t want to cry about, “you’re not failing me”.
He opened his mouth, probably to argue.
“No”, you cut in gently. “Listen to me. You think you’re failing because the pain’s in control right now. But you’re here. You haven’t left. You take every wave, every flare-up, every breakdown and you stay. That’s not failure. That’s the bravest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.
He looked away, blinking fast, jaw twitching. “Then why do I feel like I’m drowning?”.
“Because you are”, you whispered. “And I am too, sometimes. But that’s why we take turns pulling each other up. Not because one of us is stronger. But because we don’t let the other sink”.
Ally stirred again in your arms, just a small twitch, a sleepy sigh, but it broke the tension like a pin to a balloon. Mark looked at her, red-cheeked and milk-drunk, and for just a moment, the sharpness in his face softened.
“She looks like you when she’s asleep”, he muttered.
You smiled, tired but real. “She’s got your mouth. That little grumpy pout? All you”.
He let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. “God help her, then”.
You squeezed his hand. “Go lay down. Just for a little while. I’ll wake you if I need you”.
He looked at you, eyes tracing over the slope of your shoulders, the sag in your posture, the stubborn tenderness still etched across your face even with everything you were carrying.
“You always say that”, he whispered.
“And I mean it. Every time”.
He hesitated, then nodded. Slow, reluctant, but a nod nonetheless. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Ally’s head. Then to your shoulder. His lips lingered there a second longer than usual. “Thank you”, he murmured.
wordcount: 767
summary: despite having the dream life, Dean can’t help but focus on the stubborn patch of skin on his stomach– maybe that’s what his wife is for, making ‘im forget all about it with gentle words of reassurance.
warnings: cursing, fem!reader, body image issues, kissing, angst if you squint, fluff, comfort.
Dean never once thought he’d actually get a chance to have a ‘normal’ life, yet here he was, picket fence and all. The house was everything his freckled, chubby faced kid self dreamt about while napping in the back of John’s car. It was big enough to completely contrast every motel room he’s ever slept in, photos of his chosen family littering the halls, a cozy room his wife decorated (thank God he let you choose the color– red walls was not the move), wooden floors that echoed his kid’s footsteps running over them every morning…
Life was finally good to him– too good– he thinks to himself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Jesus Christ when did all of that get there? His roughened hands grip at the soft fat that now covered what was once abs. He has a dad stomach, I mean he is a dad but still! Him?
Dean Winchester. World famous hunter. Michael 's vessel. Savior of the World. Him?
For God’s sake how come he never noticed? Had you noticed? Well of course you did– you lived with him, saw him everyday– there’s no way you didn’t. Why hadn’t you said anything? This version was nothing like the Ken doll Dean you met back in the day, he’s always been so used to relying on his looks, now he didn’t even have that?
Unbeknownst to you, your husband was having a full blown crisis while you’re calmly putting the baby to sleep– which was much easier now that your toddlers were nowhere in sight. It isn’t until you step into the bedroom that you catch a glimpse of a very frowny Dean in front of the bathroom mirror.
“Baby?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his self-deprecating train of thought.
“Sweetheart, why didn’t y’ tell me I was getting all–” he gestures vaguely to his stomach, clearly displeased “ –round.”
“All round?” You echo with a gentle (slightly disbelieving) chuckle, stepping closer to him in the small bathroom to place a featherlight kiss on his shoulder, careful hands trailing down his back muscles.
“Yeah,” Dean nods like it was the most obvious, wildest thing in the World “I look like a middle aged man.”
“Honey, you are a middle aged man…”
The look that meets you in the mirror is nothing short of unamused. “Y’know what I mean.”
“I know, I know…” you press another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, arms snaking around his waist to grab at the ‘oh so offending’ pouch of stomach. “Guess I never really stopped to think about it, why’re ya so focused on it?”
Seeing your husband’s shrug is what finally sends alerts ringing in your mind, could this man possibly think he wasn’t attractive anymore?
“Really?” You coax him, all the patience and love you could despite wanting to slap him for ever thinking some bullshit like that.
“It’s just weird, y’know?” Dean’s gravelly voice sounded doubtful for once. “Always been this jacked, badass hunter n’ now I’m just… this” once more he gestures to his body.
“Honestly?” You catch his attention by sliding around to stand between him and the mirror. “I prefer this version of Dean” God, you should’ve taken a picture of the face he makes. “Don’t get me wrong, baby-faced Dean was amazing… but dad bod Dean is the man I made a life with.”
Despite your husband’s stubbornness to maintain a grumpy, stubborn facade– you see the crinkles by his eyes that signaled his fond smile.
“This, as you call it–” you continue, gesturing to his soft belly, “ –was what held me when the nerves of leaving The Life got to my head, when we welcomed all of our beautiful kids to this messed up World, when I go to bed every night…” Each word is punctuated by a soft rub of your thumb over his stubbled cheek. “So yeah, I didn’t mention anything cause I never cared about it, Dean. I care about seeing my smoking hot husband smile everyday in this quiet life we built together.”
He chuckles softly, a deep rumble bubbling from his ribs as his hands cradle the sides of your head. “Y’know… baby-faced Dean would call this a chick flick moment.” There it is, that stupid humor and that boyish grin you missed– even if you roll your eyes at him right now.
“But smoking hot husband Dean ‘preciates it sweetheart.” He leans down to press a tender, all too familiar kiss to your lips, smiling against it.
“Anytime.” You chuckle softly, pressing another soft, fleeting peck to his lips.
might make a smut part 2 if y'all would like that...?
A sweet little "Dean is so happy, he winds up getting a Dad Bod, and doesn't like it, so you assuage his doubts" Apple Pie Hubby!Dean x wifey!reader 🩵💜
Dean decides to treat his girl to a birthday she'll never forget, because hey, your only 40 once! (yes of course I did a Dean version 😊🥰 enjoy guys 🥰 ❤️)
You lie there for a second, confused… until you hear soft music drifting from the kitchen and the quiet clink of dishes.
A smile spreads across your face.
“Dean…” you murmur.
You pull on one of his shirts and wander down the small motel hallway.
When you step into the small kitchenette area, you stop dead.
Standing at the stove is Dean Winchester, sleeves rolled up, completely focused as he flips pancakes in the pan like a pro.
Not a single burned edge in sight.
There’s a full spread already on the counter:
Bacon. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Coffee.
And what looks suspiciously like apple pie cooling by the window.
You lean against the doorway, watching him for a moment.
“Okay… now I’m impressed.”
Dean glances over his shoulder.
That slow grin spreads across his face the second he sees you.
“Well, look who finally woke up.”
“Have you been up long?”
He shrugs casually.
“Couple hours.”
Your eyes widen.
“Dean!”
“What?” he says defensively. “Birthday breakfast.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
He flips another pancake perfectly.
“Yeah, I did.”
A few minutes later you’re sitting at the little table while Dean slides a plate in front of you.
Stack of pancakes.
Perfectly golden.
“You made these?” you ask suspiciously.
He scoffs.
“Woman, I’ve been cooking since before you knew me.”
You take a bite.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh my god.”
Dean leans back in his chair, smug.
“Right?”
“These are amazing.”
“Damn right they are.”
After breakfast he pours you another cup of coffee and sits beside you instead of across from you.
Close enough that your knees bump.
Outside the motel window the morning sun is just coming up.
“You doing okay with the whole forty thing?” he asks.
You shrug.
“I guess. It’s weird.”
Dean studies you for a second.
Then he shakes his head.
“Don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Why people act like it’s a bad thing.”
He gestures toward you.
“You’re tougher than most hunters I know. You make better pie than half the diners we’ve stopped at. And you somehow put up with my crap.”
You laugh.
“That last one’s a full-time job.”
“Exactly.”
His voice softens.
“So yeah… forty suits you.”
Your cheeks warm.
A little later he grabs the keys and nods toward the door.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Dean smirks.
“Drive.”
Of course.
Soon you’re cruising down the road in Baby, classic rock playing softly while the morning sun pours through the windows.
Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed.
You glance over at him.
“Best breakfast I’ve had in years, by the way.”
He grins.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You doubted me.”
“I had reason!”
He laughs.
“Next time I’ll make you my chili.”
“Oh I’ve heard about that.”
“Legendary.”
By evening you end up parked by a quiet lake.
No hunt. No monsters. Just the two of you.
Dean pulls a cooler from the backseat.
Inside is dinner he packed earlier.
“Dean… did you seriously cook twice today?”
He shrugs.
“Birthday rules.”
You sit together on the hood of the Impala, sharing food and watching the sun set over the water.
For once the world feels calm.
Dean nudges your shoulder.
“Make a wish yet?”
“I did this morning.”
“Good one?”
You smile.
“Yeah.”
He studies your face for a moment.
Then he reaches over and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Happy birthday,” he says quietly.
You lean over and kiss him.
Dean hums happily against your lips.
When you pull back, he’s smiling that crooked Winchester smile.
“Best part of the day,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He bumps your shoulder again.
“But wait until you try the pie later.”
You laugh.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dean just leans back against the Impala, satisfied.
“Damn right I am.”
Night settles quietly around the motel.
The hunt-free day has left the two of you relaxed in that rare way hunters almost never get to feel.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed while Dean finishes cleaning up the small kitchenette from the dinner he cooked earlier. You offered to help but he politely told you to sit your sweet ass down.
You watch him from across the room.
Sleeves still rolled up. Hair slightly messy. Humming along to the classic rock playing softly from his phone.
“You know,” you say casually, “I’m starting to think you’ve been hiding the whole ‘amazing cook’ thing from me.”
Dean glances over his shoulder.
“That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is,” you say. “Tonight was… pretty perfect.”
He dries his hands and leans against the counter, studying you for a second.
That familiar smirk slowly creeps across his face.
“Well,” he says, voice dropping just a little, “birthday’s not over yet.”
Your eyebrow lifts.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
He walks over, stopping right in front of you.
“Still got one more thing planned.”
“Is it more food?”
Dean laughs softly.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, “you’re gonna like this one better.”
He reaches past you to turn the lamp down, leaving the room in that soft golden glow.
Your heart starts beating a little faster.
Dean notices.
Of course he does.
He always does.
“You nervous?” he asks, amused.
“Should I be?”
“Maybe.”
He steps a little closer, resting his hands on either side of you on the bed.
Now you’re very aware of how close he is.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about something all day.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah, probably.”
His eyes flick down to your lips.
“You.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“Me?”
He nods slowly.
“Forty years on this planet… and somehow you still manage to surprise me.”
“With what?”
Dean’s hand comes up to gently tilt your chin toward him.
“With how damn beautiful you are.”
Your cheeks warm instantly.
“Dean…”
“What?” he grins. “Birthday means I get to say nice things.”
“Oh is that the rule?”
“Yep.”
Then he leans in and kisses you.
Slow.
Warm.
The kind of kiss that starts soft but deepens when neither of you pulls away.
When he finally does lean back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
Summary: It's Valentine's night, 1999, which means it's time for the annual party at the mines in this small Pennsylvania mining town. But this year will be unlike any other when terror erupts and he has one target in particular in mind...
Pairing: Tom Hanniger x reader
Word Count: 3,800ish
Warnings: language, all the usual horror movie things
A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! Please enjoy my very first Tom Hanniger fic! While this story does diverge from what happens in the movie, do not read without having seen the movie first as there as some plot spoilers within! (That means you @zepskies 😂)
“Can I watch Halloween?” asked your little brother Terry. You sighed over the top of your book, the ten year old staring back with pleading eyes. “Please?”
“Are you going to get nightmares?” He shook his head as you flicked your eyes back to the page. “No way in hell, kid.”
“Come on! Mom and dad will never know.”
“Yes they will because you’ll have nightmares and demand to sleep in their room for the next month. Watch Pokemon or something,” you said.
“It’s eight on a Friday night,” he deadpanned back. “Pokemon isn’t on.”
“Well, we’re both disappointed with how our nights are going then,” you said absentmindedly, closing your eyes when you say him pout. “Sorry. I had plans to go to a party was all.”
“Why do teenagers have parties at night? Don’t you guys get tired?” You smirked as he plopped down on the end of the couch.
“Ask me that in 9 years when you’re my age,” you chuckled, sitting up and tucking your book on the coffee table. “Alright. How about I let you watch something rated R but I pick. Deal?”
“I’m making popcorn!” He hopped up and ran over to the kitchen, your ears perking up at the sound of the house phone ringing. You got up and picked up the phone from the cradle.
“Hel-”
“Y/N, it’s mom.” Her voice was off, a frown immediately on your face. “Where are you and Terry?”
“In the house? What-”
“I want you to go next door to the Robsen’s right now. Right now. Don’t ask questions.”
“Mom-”
“Do what I tell you!” Your eyebrows were sky high when the call ended, less than a minute passing before you were grabbing Terry by the arm.
“What did mom want?”
“Listen to me,” you said, his whole body stiffening at your tone. “Put on your sneakers and jacket. Now.”
He did as told, watching you slip into your own. You took his hand and jogged across the yard to the Robsen’s, the door already opening before you could ring the bell.
“Get inside kids,” said Mr. Robsen, a shotgun in his hand.
“Terry, go see if Mrs. Robsen has some cookies,” you said. He didn’t buy it but he knew enough not to argue. Mr. Robsen sighed at you, shaking his head when you were alone. “What is happening?”
“Your mom is safe.” Your eyes went wide but he saw you about to start freaking out. “A miner was brought into the hospital, you know Harry Warden?”
“Yeah…” He wiped a hand over his mouth, pulling you into the quite dining room. “The one in a coma after the accident. What-”
“He killed the other survivors in the mine.”
“What the fuck?” He glared at your language but you shook your head. “What-”
“The town is keeping it quiet but Y/N, he woke up and just killed a bunch of people at the hospital.” Your heart dropped, Mr. Robsen shushing you. “Your mom is safe. She and some other nurses barricaded themselves.”
“I um, I need to call my dad. He…he’s on a work trip,” you said, trying to remember the name of the hotel.
“Honey, don’t worry about that. But Harry’s lost it and there’s no telling who he’s going to attack next. You and Terry need to stay here with us until it’s safe, okay?”
“Yeah…yeah that’s-” Your heart clenched. “Tom.”
“Tom? Tom Hanniger?” You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Why-”
“Because everyone thinks the accident was his fault. I’m sure Harry thinks that…I have to go. There’s a party in the mines tonight for Valentine’s like there always is. I have to-” Mr. Robsen grabbed your arm when you tried to leave but you shook your head. “I’m sorry.”
He grunted when you kicked him in the balls and ran out the front door, rushing across the yards and over to your dad’s truck. “Y/N!”
You grabbed the keys from the visor flap and turned the ignition, already backing out by the time he was down his front steps. You gripped the wheel tight, swallowing thickly as you sped down the quite streets of your small town.
“Dammit, dammit.” You floored it as much as the truck could take, cop cars passing you and not even bothering to stop you. You spun the wheel and in a few minutes, hit gravel, the truck fishtailing as you swung it around the path down to the mines. You nearly slammed head on into Axel’s truck as he rounded the bend, both of you braking hard.
“Where’s Tom!” you shouted when you rolled down the window.
“It’s too late!” He yelled, the girls shrieking on the bench seat beside him. “He had him cornered. You have to-”
“You left him?” you snarled. Five seconds later, you nearly rolled the truck as you sped down to the mine entrance. There was no sign of Tom or Harry, only sounds of Pearl Jam playing faintly from a boom box nearby and overturned coolers. You parked, taking the pepper spray in the glove compartment out, tucking it in your back pocket.
Everything felt wrong when you exited the vehicle. There was a stench, something foul like death in the air. Carefully, you entered the bright mine, grabbing an old shovel laying near the old storage locker. You didn’t make it more than three feet before you spotted blood and a body.
You jerked, gripping the shovel hard. Leave. You were about to make the biggest horror movie mistake you could. You needed to just get the fuck out of there.
A startled shout snapped you out of it. “Harry. H-Harry stop!”
You ran towards his voice, panic in your veins when you saw Tom on the ground, staring up helplessly at a figure in a mining outfit, bloody pickaxe in his hand.
“Hey, Harry!” The figure turned, in a full mask, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop you from bashing the end of the shovel against the side of his head. He stumbled backwards, dropping the pick as he fell. You brought the shovel down again on his body and once more, a pained shout escaping him. A bone snapped on the next hit and then he was screaming, gripping his leg. “You tried to kill my mom, asshole! Tom didn’t do jack shit to you, psycho!”
“Y/N!” You panted over Harry, holding the shovel for dear life when you spotted two officers from the sheriff’s department rushing inside the mine. They took in the scene for a moment, adrenaline coursing through you. “Y/N…put down the shovel.”
You ignored them, choosing to turn to Tom who looked equally horrified and in awe. You held out a hand, Tom shakily taking it, letting you pull him to his feet. He was covered in blood but you still had him lean on you, the officers taking Harry into custody while you walked out to the entrance with Tom. You ditched the shovel and walked him over to the side of the truck, holding him by the waist before you hugged him tightly.
“Y-You sav…savd…” He shivered, resting his chin on your shoulder. You shushed him, putting a hand on top of his head. “Isum..safvd.”
“You’re in shock. S’okay. It’s okay,” you whispered, Tom holding you too hard, blood smearing your cheek. He kept gripping your jacket, fisting it tight in his large hands. More cars arrived, one of the older officers approaching the two of you.
“You kids alright?”
“Is the hospital open?” you asked. He pressed his lips together, chewing his bottom lip. “He’s in shock and needs a doctor. Now.”
He shook his head and grumbled. “I would not take that boy anywhere public right now. Warden just killed twenty some odd people at the hospital all because of-”
You slapped the officer across the face. Hard. More than a few heads whipped around at you, Tom jerking behind your body.
“He covered for his asshole father and this town is too far up Walter Hanniger’s ass to even realize that there’s no way in hell a nineteen year old kid that drives the forklift would have been operating the oxygen lines. You want to blame someone for those miner’s deaths? Blame Walter. You want to blame someone for murdering half the town tonight? Blame that psycho in there. But don’t you dare,” you got in the officers face, his feet stepping backwards, “Dare, blame Thomas Hanniger. Now call the hospital, tell them we’re on our way, and make sure that the best damn psychologist that works there is waiting for us.”
You turned and took Tom’s hand, walking him over to the passenger side of the truck. You tucked him away inside, shedding your jacket to let him hold onto in the process.
“Call. Now,” you barked at the officer when you rounded the hood back to the drivers side. When you got in the truck, you rolled up the window, Tom sitting in the middle of the bench seat, clutching your jacket in his lap. You grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “We’re just going to make sure you’re okay and then you’re going to come over my house and stay the night, okay?”
“T-They left me behind.” He was speaking to himself more than you. You weren't sure what horrors he’d just lived through but you could imagine it was enough to give him a lifetime of trauma if the one body you had seen was enough to go off.
“You’re okay,” you said softly, trying not to think of how your friends, his own girlfriend, had left him behind to die. “You’re okay, Tom. I’m right here.”
He nodded, holding your hand so hard it went it numb, all the way to the hospital.
“Things are a bit chaotic around here but I want to admit him for the night for a few hours at least to monitor. You made the right call to bring him here. I-” The doctor's pager went off for the millionth time again, the doctor cursing under this breath. “Can you stay with him until I can get back? Just keep him under the blanket, talk calmly. You saved his life so he sees you as a protector right now, even though he can’t articulate that at the moment. I know I’m asking a lot kid but-”
“But you have plenty of people in this hospital to take care of. I understand.” You watched him go before sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed, the blanket draped over his legs. You rubbed his back, his head going between his knees. “Soooo would now be a bad time to drop that I’ve been crushing on you since I was thirteen?”
His head slowly raised, the fogginess gone from his eyes, confusion in it’s place. “You’ve had a crush on me for the past six years?”
“While you are quite abhorrent,” you teased, stroking his freshly cleaned cheek, “I do quite enjoy looking at your face and hearing the words that come out of it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up more, shaking his head. “Are you the one in shock? You, Y/N Y/L/N, do not have a crush on me. You like Axel.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“Uh, Sarah?” You raised an eyebrow, his own raising. “My Sarah? She told me in like middle school-”
“Dude, I told her I liked you in middle school. Next thing I know, you two are a thing and I’m watching my best friend with my other best friend for the better part of the next five years.”
“You went to prom with Axel though.” You rolled your eyes. Was dating in your small town what you wanted to talk about right now? Not at all. Was it distracting Tom? Absolutely and you’d divulge all your darkest secrets if it meant he wasn’t a shaky, incoherent mess again.
“Thomas, you are so sweet you never saw what was in front of your face. Axel likes Sarah. She was my best friend so yeah, he would hang out with me sometimes. He is shit at sex by the way. I think he lasted six seconds my first time. Yeah, I was super eager to get with that real winner again.”
He cocked his head at you, biting his bottom lip to fight back a smile. “I always liked you but then Sarah happened and…she told me I was like a brother to you.”
“I have a brother. What I feel towards you is not brotherly,” you said, Tom smiling faintly. “The joys of school drama.”
“Yeah, well. After tonight, I think I know who actually gives a shit about me and who doesn’t.” You sighed, throwing your arm over his shoulders. “You didn’t leave Terry alone to come get me, did you?”
“Ditched him at the neighbors.” He nodded, resting his head against your shoulder. “This is probably the wrong thing to say at this moment but there is a high probability my mom kills me tonight for running at a spree killer with a shovel.”
“I’ll save you. I owe you one.” He chuckled to himself. “Only you would know the difference between a serial killer and spree killer.”
“What can I say? I’ve got a kid brother that I love to inflict sibling trauma on by telling him all about the horrors of the world,” you said, gulping when you saw your mom round a corner down the hallway. “Oh boy. Prepare yourself.”
“Tom, are you okay, sweetie?” she said, bypassing you and going straight in for hugging him from the other side of the bed. You blinked wildly, watching them embrace. She checked him over, finishing with her hands on his cheeks. “Your parents are out of town?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said quietly.
“Well, you’ll stay with us until they’re back,” she said, standing and giving you a look to kill. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.”
“Hi?” you squeaked out, her eye twitching. “I would like to remind you that I’m nineteen and you can’t ground me anymore.”
“I would like to remind you that you are a nineteen year old girl and when a psychopath is running around town, you do not go run towards him!”
“In her defense,” said Tom, raising his hand slowly, your mom sighing. “She did save my life…and maybe others…and she was pissed about you almost dying. Technically, she made sure Terry was safe before she went to help me so maybe we settle this at giving your traumatized daughter a hug and we forget the rest?”
“That was so stupid of you,” she said, stepping around the bed and hugging you.
“Didn’t you meet dad when he crashed his car and you pulled him out of a burning vehicle?” you teased.
“Shut up,” she smiled back, breathing deeply. “God, tell me you at least told him you’re in love with him after all that.”
You physically winced, Tom not even bothering to hide his smirk. “Love? You said it was a crush, Y/L/N.”
“Watch yourself, Hanniger,” you mumbled, your mom ruffling your hair. “Why must you torture me so?”
“Deserved after the stunt you pulled. And Thomas…you can do better than Sarah. You can probably do better than Y/N-”
“And Tom needs his rest now, thank you very much,” you said, pushing her away. “Go help people or whatever it is you do.”
“Mhm. Just wait until your father hears about this.” You groaned, Tom’s arm wrapping around your waist as she went back to work.
“She has a point. You shouldn’t have come for me.”
“Don’t you know you’re worth saving?” He stilled, eyes downcast to the end of the bed. “I didn’t think, I just…I knew Harry blamed you and everyone knows about the Valentine’s day party at the mines. I just kicked Mr. Robsen in the nuts and went for it.”
“Why aren’t you scared?” His voice was barely above a whisper. You shook your head.
“I’m terrified. But you need me right now so…I went a little crazy to protect you. I know you have a girlfriend but that doesn’t mean…” You looked away, Tom tucking you into his side.
“Something in me broke when they drove away without me…and then you showing up like…like Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor all rolled into one badass…you fixed it. I’d be so lost without you. I’d be dead without you. And I have to confess something.”
“What-” He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. A simple, slow, gentle and sure kiss. A brief moment of light on a very dark night. He nuzzled your noses for a moment, breathing softly.
“I’ve been in love with you for ages. But it felt wrong and tonight…tonight showed me the girl I was actually in love with was the one who would do what a town full of people wouldn’t. You didn’t just save my life. You told the truth. Everyone has hated me the past few weeks and I didn’t do anything wrong,” his voice cracked. “My dad told me to take the blame, that I wouldn’t get in trouble, that the town would go under if people found out he cut the oxygen line to save money and didn’t realize it would buildup the gas overtime and cause the explosion and I just…”
“He’s an awful man for putting that on you. But don’t you worry. I will gladly tell every person in this town who’s fault this really is.”
One Week Later
A knock came at the front door, your parents eyeing it wearily. Terry thankfully was still in the dark about what had transpired last week but you all knew it was only a matter of time. School re-opened next week and you were sure he’d be sleeping on your bedroom floor for the next several months.
You got up to answer, your dad scowling under his breath, right on your heels. He hadn’t been as angry as you feared but he didn’t exactly want you going out at night right now either.
He reached around you, pushing him behind himself as he opened the front door, your head ducking under his arm.
“Hi, Mr. Y/L/N. Is uh, oh hey, Y/N.” Tom shifted awkwardly on the front step. “I uh, wanted to see if you wanted to…you know…go out for dinner at the diner…on a date…with me.”
“I’m a little old for you, Hanniger.” You slapped your dad’s chest, shoving your feet into a pair of boots. “Did I say you could go?”
“Who got you a new job with less travel and more money this morning as the new CEO of Hanniger Mining? Would it make you feel better if I brought my shovel?” you teased. You tried to step past him, feeling a finger curl under your shirt collar, tugging you back. “Dad.”
“Home by ten.” You spun around, deadpanning him. He rolled his eyes. “You got anyone else out there that might want you dead, Hanniger?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll just hide behind your daughter if any come up though,” said Tom with a smirk. Your dad returned it, patting your bottom.
“Go have fun. And call if you’re not coming home tonight, alright?” You snagged your purse from the hook and gave him a kiss on the cheek before you were outside with Tom, your dad sighing heavily. “Be safe!”
“I’ll have her back by ten,” said Tom. Your elbowed him on the walkway down to his truck. “What?”
“No, you will not have me back by ten.” He laughed, opening the door for you. “You think I’m not serious?”
“I think you just want in my pants,” he said with a hum, trying to slide across the hood of his truck and nearly falling in the process. You waited until he got behind the wheel, Tom holding up a finger. “You saw nothing.”
“No. I’m so turned on. Do it again,” you deadpanned, his smile coming back, a sight you’d rarely seen the past week. You reached over and held his hand, Tom brushing the back of yours for a moment. “How are you?”
“I think the therapy is helping,” he said quietly. “Just…don’t tell anyone? I’m kinda embarrassed I’m going every day.”
“I won’t. But I don’t think you should hide it either. Needing help isn’t a bad thing.” He smiled, the truck interior still for a moment. “You good?”
“If we go to the diner, odds are we run into people we know. I don’t want drama on our first date.”
“Well, we can drive over to Little Rock where people don’t know us…or we can go have our date here and I’ll happily talk shit about anyone that says anything. Don’t you know? You’re dating the town rebel now.” He laughed loudly, shaking his head as he pulled onto the road, heading for the center of town. “I’m a baddie. I slapped a cop.”
“Is the chief still calling you asking if you’d consider going to the academy so you can join the force?”
“Every damn day. Told him I had bigger fish to fry.”
“You work at the grocery store,” he laughed.
“You’re unemployed. I’m the bread-winner here,” you laughed. He brought your hand to his lips, nipping it lightly. “You know I only recommended my dad temporarily take over because I think you should be CEO someday.”
“If I never step foot in a mine again, it won’t be too soon. I trust your dad will right the ship but I’m never working there again. I’ll be your trophy husband if you want to go catch bad guys though.”
You rolled your eyes, squeezing his hand when you glanced out the window. “Presumptious of you to think I want to marry you. I don’t even know how good the sex is.”
“You beat a killer half to death with a shovel for me. I think your affections towards me well known, Y/L/N,” he teased. “And the sex? Well…I know you so badly want in my pants-”
“Dick.”
“Yes, you are obsessed with that,” he laughed, earning a soft punch from you. “Let’s just say…I’ve only been with one other girl before and I’m sure there’s room for improvement…but I hope you’ll be the last girl I’m ever with if that makes sense.”
“Tom.”
“Hm?” You scooted over, resting your head on his shoulder as he drove along.
“I’m really glad I saved your ass.”
“Me too. Me freakin’ too.”
A/N: What did you guys think? Did you like this spin on Tom and the events of what happened this time around? Would you ever want to see more Tom Hanniger in the future?
Summary: Twenty-four hours postpartum in the bunker, Dean’s all rough edges and shaking hands, trying to be gentle for you and Luna.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: None, I guess
Word Count: 4891
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You had never been more aware of your own bladder in your entire life as you shuffled down the bunker hallway in Dean’s, well no, technically your flannel. Everything between your hips felt… wrong. Stretched and sore, like you’d done a hundred squats and then lost a fistfight with gravity.
The bathroom light was way too bright when you flicked it on. You squinted at yourself in the mirror for half a second: hair in a tangled knot, faint pillow crease still on your cheek and skin pale except for the flush over your nose. You had one of Dean’s old t-shirts on under the flannel, stretched over the soft swell of your still-not-quite-flat stomach.
“Supermodel”, you muttered to your reflection and dropped onto the toilet with a hissed, “Ow”.
Peeing after birth, they said. Magical experience.
While you handled that mess and tried not to overthink the fact that your body had literally pushed a person out less than twenty-four hours ago, you heard the sound. Faint at first, a soft whimper, then a sharper cry, echoing down the hall. Luna.
Your chest tightened. It was ridiculous how fast that little sound lit you up inside, nerves and something warm tangling together. You finished as quickly as your protesting muscles allowed, did the whole careful-wipe-try-not-to-curse routine, then washed your hands, fingers moving fast under the water. Her cries picked up, not frantic yet, but definitely unhappy. “I’m coming, kiddo”, you said under your breath, drying your hands on a towel that had seen better days.
Luna’s cries grew clearer as you turned into the hallway that led to your room. Well, your and Dean’s room. That was still new enough to feel like trying on someone else’s clothes.
You pushed the door open with your shoulder. She lay in the middle of the big bed, in a little nest of blankets Dean had made, tucked into the dip where his body usually rested. One tiny pink face scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut, fists like knots by her ears as she yelled her opinion about being awake.
Your heart did that weird stutter-step it kept doing every time you looked at her. Like it couldn’t quite believe she was real. “Hey, hey”, you murmured, crossing the room. “I was gone for two minutes. Drama queen already, huh?”.
You slid your hands carefully beneath her, mindful of her floppy head like the nurse had shown Dean five times until he’d snapped, “I got it” and then proceeded to handle her like a bomb with a smiley face drawn on it.
Luna was so warm. That was the first thing you always noticed. Warm and impossibly small. Her cries dropped from siren to wounded kitten as you lifted her against your chest, her face smooshing against your shirt. “There you are”, you breathed, swaying a little without thinking. “Didn’t like waking up alone, huh? Yeah. Me neither”. Her tiny fingers flexed against you, catching in the fabric. You could feel her breath, quick little puffs through her nose. There was that newborn smell clinging to her, milk and baby shampoo and something that just meant new.
“I swear I didn’t leave her there alone crying. She was asleep when I went to get food. I’m not neglectful, I’m just… hungry”.
You turned to find Dean standing in the doorway, balancing a plate in one hand and looking only slightly defensive.
“I left her for, like, three minutes”, he said, voice pitched low, eyes darting from you to Luna and back. “I checked, like, twice. She was out. I swear”.
“She’s a Winchester”, you said, shifting Luna so her cheek pressed against your shoulder. “She can sense when someone tries to eat without her present. Survival instinct”.
Dean’s mouth twitched, but his shoulders dropped a little. “Yeah, well, you missed out. I made you a sandwich. Heavy on the good stuff, light on the—”. He broke off, glancing down at the plate, then back up, as if remembering he was supposed to be chill about this. “Sam’s healthy crap. The stuff he tries to sneak in”.
“You took it off, right? Because if there’s kale in there, I’m filing for full custody”.
He grinned, crooked and soft. “All the kale’s in Sam’s sandwich. Yours is pure. Might’ve even put extra bacon on it. For… health”.
You made your way to the bed again, Luna’s little body pressed against you, making snuffles that said she was mostly just mad about being alone. Dean set the plate on the nightstand, eyeing you like you might tip over. “Need a hand?”, he asked quieter now.
You shook your head, shifting to sit on the edge of the mattress. “I got it. Unless you’re volunteering to handle this”, you said, nodding at Luna, who was now working up another cry, tiny mouth searching for something to latch onto.
Dean hovered with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “I would, but…”. He shrugged. “Not really equipped. You want the water?”.
You nodded, glancing at the glass he’d left by the bed. He passed it to you, careful not to jostle Luna. His fingers were so warm where they brushed yours. Just like Luna´s body. “Thanks”, you said and tried to sound casual about it, like this was normal. Like this was always going to be normal. Dean Winchester bringing you water, making you sandwiches, being here.
Luna’s face screwed up again, so you cradled her with one arm and awkwardly maneuvered your shirt with the other, grateful that the hospital had made you practice this about twenty times. She latched on quick, hungry and serious about it, like she’d never eaten before in her life. Dean turned away a little, trying not to watch and failing.
You cleared your throat. “You don’t have to look away, you know. You were there for the birth. You saw, like, everything”.
He snorted, but you caught the faint pink creeping up his neck. “Yeah, you almost broke my hand. Still got the marks”. You smirked, holding Luna with one hand, the other massaging your wrist absently. “You should’ve thought of that before knocking me up”.
Dean’s face went soft. He didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at you and Luna, the sarcasm slipping away like it always did when he thought you weren’t looking. For a guy who could walk into a room full of monsters and crack a joke, he sure struggled with emotions that didn’t involve bravado. He cleared his throat, looking down at his feet. “You know… I still can’t believe it. That she’s real. That you’re here”.
You smiled, because you felt the same… like the floor might drop out at any second. You and Dean. An actual relationship, not just a one-night thing that you both pretended didn’t mean anything for months after. Luna, all cheeks and tiny fists, a day old and already bossing you both around. The bunker, never really home until now.
“She’s got your attitude”, you said. “And your appetite. Congratulations”.
Dean looked up, grinning wide, eyes all crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, but she’s got your stubbornness. You try to put her down, she acts like it’s the end of the world”.
“She learned from the best”, you shot back, but it was gentle, affectionate. Your chest felt too full, in that scary, good way.
Dean stayed perched by the bed, hands still buried deep in his pockets like he was afraid they might accidentally do something wrong if he let them loose. Luna’s hungry noises filled the space. The silence stretched, full of things unsaid. Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking from your face to the baby, to the wall, to anywhere but the actual operation you were running on his bed.
You cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know, for a guy who once stitched a knife wound in a moving car, you’re surprisingly squeamish around some boobs”.
He let out a breathy laugh, glancing at you with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, usually when boobs are out, it’s for a whole different reason, and there’s a lot less crying involved. Usually”.
You smirked. “Wow. Real mature”.
Dean shrugged, his lips twitching. “You’re the one who picked me, sweetheart. You want mature, you should’ve stuck with Sam”.
You snorted, trying to shift Luna to the other aching boob without completely flashing Dean. You failed. Spectacularly. Your shirt got caught halfway, Luna slid an inch, you overcorrected, and for a solid two seconds you were just… out there. Full National Geographic.
Dean choked on absolutely nothing. “Jesus”, he coughed, whipping his head toward the wall so fast you were surprised it didn’t spin. “Little warning, sweetheart”.
You huffed, getting Luna latched on the other side with a wince. “Relax. You’ve seen them before. Extensively”.
“Yeah, when they weren’t being used for—”, he gestured vaguely, still pointed firmly away from you “—baby fuel”.
You rolled your eyes. “Same hardware, different purpose. Calm down, Winchester”.
He risked a glance back, careful, like you’d explode if he looked straight on. His gaze flicked from your face to Luna, then very deliberately stayed above your collarbone.
Eventually, you shifted, wincing as you eased Luna off your breast. She made a sleepy noise of protest, mouth working on air, then slumped against you, milk-drunk and limp. You adjusted your shirt one-handed, the other arm wrapped around her little body, already moving to settle her higher on your shoulder when Dean’s hand shot out halfway, then paused in midair.
“I can—uh”. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking from Luna to you and back. “I can take her. If you want. Y’know. Burp her. Or… whatever the technical term is”.
You blinked at him. He looked ridiculous and kind of adorable. Big, tough hunter suddenly nervous about asking to hold his own kid. And under that, something else, sharper: the way his shoulders squared a little with Sam standing there, like he wanted it very clear whose job this was now.
“Technical term is ‘burp,’ Einstein”, you said. “But sure. Be my guest”. You leaned forward carefully, passing Luna over. Dean’s hands were there instantly, bigger than they had any right to be, palms steady even if you could see the faint tremor in his fingers. He gathered her against his chest with a care you’d never seen him use on anything that wasn’t a weapon or the Impala.
“Okay”, he said, mostly to himself. “So I just… pat her? Or is it more of a… tap thing?”.
Your mouth twitched. “Do you want me to—”.
“I got it”, Dean cut in, a little too quick. His jaw clenched, shoulders squaring. “I can burp my own kid. I know how gravity works”.
You bit back a grin. “He’s trying to impress you”, you stage-whispered to Luna. “Prove he’s not just a pretty face and questionable life choices”.
Dean ignored you, focused entirely on Luna. He started with the gentlest little tap on her back, like he was afraid she might crumble.
“Dean”, you said. “She’s not made of glass. You pat me harder when I steal your fries”.
“She’s tiny”, he argued, eyes darting down. “I’m not gonna… I dunno. Knock something loose”.
You watched his face soften as he found a rhythm. Firmer pats, slow rubs in between. His whole body swayed instinctively, that unconscious rock you’d already caught him doing every time she was in his arms. Luna scrunched her nose against his shoulder, hands twitching, then relaxed again. One of her feet kicked out, sock brushing his wrist.
“Hey there, peanut”, he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register he only used with her. “C’mon. Work with me here. Give Dad a little something. Don’t make me look bad in front of your mom”. You huffed under your breath and Dean kept patting, just on the edge of anxious, mouth pressed into a line. “She’s supposed to burp, right?”, he asked after a second, glancing at you. “They said if she doesn’t, I’m not, like, killing her with air or something?”.
You smiled, the exhaustion sitting warm behind your eyes now instead of cold. “Relax. She’ll get there. She just likes to keep you sweating”.
“Yeah, that tracks”, he muttered, looking back at her. “Takes after her mom”.
You smirked and just then Luna let out a tiny, surprisingly loud belch, right against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s face lit up like someone had turned on a switch inside him. “Did you hear that?”, he demanded, looking like he’d just won a trophy. “You hear that? That was me”.
You laughed outright. “Congrats. You successfully helped a six-pound human expel gas”.
Dean beamed anyway, absolutely unbothered. “Fuck yeah I did”. He turned his head, pressing his cheek very gently against the top of Luna’s head. “That’s my girl. Look at you, showing off”.
You swallowed around the stupid lump in your throat. “Careful”, you said. “Keep talking like that and she’s gonna expect applause every time she farts”.
“Fine by me”, Dean said. “I’ll buy her a damn marching band if she wants one”. He kept grinning down at his daughter.
“Hey, Dean?”, you murmured.
“Yeah?”.
“You look good like that”, you said. “You know. All… dad”.
He glanced at you, a slow, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”.
“Yeah”, you said. “Kinda hot, actually”.
The grin turned wicked for half a second before he caught himself, eyes dropping pointedly to Luna. “Careful, sweetheart. I’m holding the kid”.
You laughed, tired and full and a little wrecked in the best way. “Relax. Overachiever. You already proved your point”. He huffed a soft laugh, then leaned down and, very carefully, pressed his lips to the top of Luna’s head.
-
One week later, the bunker felt almost like a real home, or as close as it ever would. You could walk without wincing, the mesh underwear was gone and you’d started to believe you might survive this whole parenthood thing, especially with Dean at your side.
Dean had gone from nervous rookie to absolute baby whisperer in record time. He could change a diaper one-handed, soothe Luna with a song (badly off-key, but she didn’t seem to mind), and he’d even figured out how to heat a bottle without setting off the fire alarm. You had no idea where he’d picked up half of it. Maybe it was all instinct, or maybe all those years of keeping Sam alive had finally paid off.
Tonight, the bunker was blessedly quiet. Sam was out running “errands”. It was probably an excuse to give you and Dean space. Luna was finally asleep in her little bassinet next to the bed, bundled up like a glow worm, her tiny fist curled beside her cheek.
You lay on your side facing her for a long moment, just… watching. Her lips twitched in her sleep, like she was arguing with someone in a dream. It still blew your mind that she existed at all, let alone here, in this ridiculous underground library with two emotionally stunted hunters for parents.
The mattress dipped behind you, springs creaking softly. Dean’s familiar weight slid in, the faint smell of whiskey and whatever body wash he’d bought last time wafting over you. He pressed in close, chest to your back, arm snaking around your waist without hesitation, palm spreading over your stomach like it had every right to be there.
“You staring at her again?”, he murmured against your nape, breath warm. “You know she’s not gonna do any tricks, right?”.
You smiled with your eyes still on Luna. “She’s very busy being adorable. It’s a full-time job”.
You felt his chuckle rumble against your spine. “Yeah, well… guess she gets that from her dad”.
You snorted. “Bold”.
He hummed, then his lips brushed the side of your neck. Just a soft, testing touch. You went still for a heartbeat, then melted, your hand coming up to curl around his forearm where it banded across your middle.
“You okay?”, he asked quietly, nose nudging behind your ear. “We can just sleep. Or pretend to. I know you’re still… healing and all that”.
You rolled over slowly to face him, knees bumping under the blanket. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in soft spikes, freckles dusting his nose in a way you tried not to stare at.
“I’m okay”, you said. “And I don’t want to sleep yet”.
One corner of his mouth tugged up. “No?”.
You shook your head. “No. I want you to kiss me like I’m your girlfriend, not just the chick whose name is on the birth certificate next to yours”.
Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt, guilt, determination all tangled together. He reached up, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “You are my girlfriend”, he said steady. “Been trying to show you that for a week now without… pushing”. His thumb skimmed your lower lip. “But if you’re asking…”.
You didn’t get the rest, because he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t the frantic, half-desperate way he’d kissed you that night months ago, when everything between you had finally snapped. This was slower. Careful. Like he was taking his time proving you’d done the right thing picking him.
His mouth moved against yours, warm and sure, his hand sliding back into your hair, cradling your head. You sighed into him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging him closer until your chest was flush with his.
He shifted, bracing himself on his elbow so he didn’t crush you, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. Every time he pulled back, he only went far enough to breathe your air, to steal another look at you before dipping back in, kisses trailing softer, then deeper, then soft again.
You lost track of how long you spent like that. The only clock in the room was Luna’s little huffing baby breaths and the way Dean’s thumb traced lazy circles against your cheek, over and over, like he had to remind himself you were really there.
Eventually, his hand slid down to your waist, fingers splayed wide and steady. He didn’t press and didn’t pull, he just held you as you let yourself sink into the safe, warm weight of him.
You nipped at his bottom lip, just to hear that little sound he always made in the back of his throat, and Dean smiled into your mouth, tugging you closer. His nose bumped yours. “Careful”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Keep that up and I’ll forget all about taking it slow”.
You grinned, catching your breath, your forehead pressed to his. “Promises, promises”.
He laughed, softer than you’d ever heard, eyes so open it made your chest ache. He brushed a strand of hair back from your face, taking his time. “You really have no idea how crazy you make me, do you?”.
Your grin widened as you felt the solid press of him against your hip. Dean didn’t pull away, didn’t even try to hide it, just looked at you like he was seeing the best kind of trouble coming his way. You shifted just enough to make sure he knew you felt it too. His breath caught quiet but unmistakable.
“Oh, I have some idea”, you murmured, the words coming out breathy.
His eyes darkened, that slow, hungry look you’d seen a hundred times in a hundred crappy motel rooms. But it was softer now. Less take what you can get before the world ends, more I can’t believe I get to have this.
“Yeah?”, he rasped. “What gave it away?”.
You shifted your leg deliberately, brushing your thigh along the length of him again. His jaw clenched, eyes fluttering half-shut.
“Wild guess”, you said, fighting a smug little smile. “You’re kind of… obvious”.
He huffed a shaky laugh. “Not my fault my girlfriend’s making out with me like I’m not on strict doctor-ordered ‘hands off the goods’ probation”.
You snorted. “Pretty sure the doctor didn’t say no kissing”.
“Yeah, well, she also didn’t see you in my bed”, he muttered, thumb stroking your hip through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. “Different level of difficulty”.
You slid your hand up under his shirt, palm flattening against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. “Big bad Winchester can’t handle a little PG-13 action?”.
He gave you a look. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing PG about the things I’m thinking right now”.
Heat crawled up your neck, settling somewhere low and heavy. “Yeah?”.
“Yeah”, he said, voice rough, forehead tipping against yours. “But I’m not gonna screw this up by rushing you. So I’m gonna be a gentleman and just… suffer”.
You grinned, heart twisting painfully around how earnest he was about it. “Your self-control is kinda hot, actually”.
He barked out a quiet laugh and you just laughed with him, then tugged him back down by the collar, kissing him again. Deeper this time, a little messier, your tongue brushing his. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no space between you at all.
You rolled your hips, just once, slow and unhurried, but there was no mistaking the way he sucked in a breath against your mouth.
“Careful”, he warned again, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.
“What?”, you whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Thought you were being a gentleman”.
“I am. I’m just not a saint”.
His fingers slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didn’t go higher, didn’t push his luck, just held you there, steady, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. He dipped his head, lips trailing slow, deliberate kisses along your jaw, then under your ear, one of those sweet spots that always made your breath catch. You closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into the careful press of his mouth, the steady anchor of his hand on your waist.
“God, you smell good”, he mumbled, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. “Missed this. Missed you”.
You smiled, tilting your head to give him more room. “You’ve had me all week, Winchester”.
“Not like this”. His voice was rough and so full of want it nearly undid you.
You slid your fingers through his hair, tugging him back up for another kiss, just as his hips pressed more firmly against you. Everything about him was warm and hungry and reverent, a careful balancing act between wanting you and wanting to do right by you. It made you ache in the best way. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw again, lingering there, breathing you in.
And that was when Luna let out a noise so loud and wet it sounded like someone had stepped on a ketchup packet.
Dean froze. You froze. Your lips were barely a breath apart, both of you blinking at each other as the sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by a small, satisfied grunt from the bassinet.
You tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. Laughter bubbled up and you pressed your fist to your mouth, eyes watering.
Dean’s eyes went wide. “No way”, he whispered, completely scandalized. “That did not just come out of her”.
You shook with silent laughter, the whole bed trembling beneath you. Dean was still frozen, pressed against you, utterly aghast. He looked back and forth between you and the bassinet, mouth working soundlessly.
You wiped a tear from your cheek. “I mean, you have to respect the comedic timing. She gets it from you”.
Dean let out a long, suffering groan and dropped his forehead to your collarbone. “Unbelievable". He pressed a quick, desperate kiss to your throat, then sighed, the heat of him now a little less insistent against your hip. You could feel the way his body shifted, arousal draining away as reality set in.
“That was a perfectly good hard-on. Gone. Murdered in its prime”, he muttered.
You grinned, sliding your hand down his back teasingly, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t worry, Winchester. You make more”.
He huffed, mouth quirked, but still dramatically put-upon. “Yeah, but that one was special. We were getting somewhere. I had momentum. There were plans”.
You pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to his cheek. “Your stamina’s legendary. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be good under pressure?”.
He shot you a look, incredulous but not unamused. “I’ve hunted shapeshifters in a meat locker with a broken toe. I can handle pressure. But that…”. He jerked his chin toward the bassinet. “That’s just cruel”.
You bit your lip, eyes twinkling. “If you hurry, maybe I’ll let you try again after you survive Diapergeddon”.
He gave you the most tragic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. “You promise?”.
You reached up, thumb tracing his lower lip. “Promise. But only if you don’t puke”.
He groaned again, but this time he pushed himself up, grabbing a clean diaper and wipes from the nightstand. “You know, I used to have a reputation, sweetheart. Now I get cockblocked by a six-pound poop machine”.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing again, shaking your head as Dean stalked across the room with the air of a man heading for the gallows. He leaned over the bassinet, steeling himself, muttering a steady stream of complaints.
“Okay, Luna, let’s see what fresh hell you’ve cooked up… Oh, God”. He gagged, actually gagged, while peeling back the diaper, making you laugh so hard your sides hurt. “How is this even possible? This should be illegal”.
You caught your breath long enough to call, “You’re doing great, babe! Real hero’s work!”.
Dean shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes squinting. “You just want to see if I’ll faint”.
You grinned, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Not if you finish before round two, I don’t”.
He shook his head, lips twitching, fighting a smile even as he gagged again. “Unbelievable”, he grumbled, but you could hear the affection, the love, the utterly resigned joy of being right here, right now.
You watched Dean as he worked through the disaster Luna had so proudly delivered. He muttered curses under his breath, nothing too creative, just the kind of exasperated grumbling that said he’d lost to a worthy adversary. But his hands were gentle. He wiped her down, humming a nonsense tune, the same one he’d started singing to her during late-night diaper changes, part Zeppelin, part “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”.
Luna kicked, her tiny legs churning, face scrunching with the beginnings of a wail. Dean didn’t even flinch, just leaned in closer, pressing his lips to her round, soft belly.
“Hey, hey, none of that”, he soothed. “You’re okay, kiddo. Just a little cleanup, then you can go back to dreaming about… whatever babies dream about. Milk, probably. Or new ways to sabotage me”. She blinked up at him, lip quivering. He reached for her fist, wrapping his big fingers gently around it. “I know. Tough life, huh? Born into the weirdest family in North America”.
He finished the diaper change, then scooped Luna up into his arms. She snuggled in against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her little fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her close, swaying just slightly. You could see the way his body relaxed the moment she settled in.
“See?”, he said, voice rumbling against her. “Much better. You got me wrapped, you know that? Totally whipped, and you’re not even out of diapers yet”. Luna blinked up at him, and Dean smiled, soft and small, just for her.
You saw something shift in him, something you’d always hoped he’d find. A sense of being enough, of being wanted, not for what he could do, but just for being himself.
He stroked her back, still swaying, his head bowed over her. “You and your mom… best damn thing that ever happened to me”, he said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret with her and no one else.
You watched from the bed, your heart aching in the gentlest, happiest way. Dean Winchester, holding his daughter like she was both treasure and miracle, humming off-key and whispering his love into the soft hair at her crown. No monsters, no darkness, just this. His world, in his arms.
