So we have all concluded Jake is vocal and talkative in bed from your last fic.
Bradley is def a grunter. Maybe a few swears under his breath. But breathy and grunting.
NSFW thoughts under the cut‼️‼️🤭
And you know what ? You are absolutely right anon, like spot on.
Jake is loud and a huge reason for this is because he likes and wants to be. Likes for his partners to be fully aware of his pleasure.
Bradley ? I truly think a huge part of it is unintentional. Like that man couldn’t keep his sounds for himself even if he tried to.
AND YES, you are right on the money, that man is a grunter through and through. I can’t stop imagining him just draped on top of you, his huge body almost covering yours entirely. His head either in the crook of your neck, mouth almost right by yours ears or facing you head on, his hazel eyes diving into yours with a passion and desire that almost makes you shy away. AND THE SOUNDS ??? GOD HIS SOUNDS.
They are these deep, masculine grunts that rumble in his chest. They sound strained, like being forced out of him, like the pleasure you’re giving him is almost just too much to handle. He would sound almost pained if the context wasn’t making it clear he was drowning into the depths of pleasure.
And yes, through groans and grunts, he’ll occasionally let out these breathy sighs, surprisingly soft like, a strange contrast from his usual grunting, but not an unwelcome one. Sometimes he’ll get so engrossed in the way you feel he’ll just start rambling. Sometimes it’s incoherent, but when you can actually understand, you’ll hear broken praises about your body and how good you make him feel, how perfect and beautiful you are…
“Fuck, you feel so good… you’re perfect for me, sweetheart, perfect pussy, perfect fucking body….”
When he cums ? Literal music to your ears. Groans and grunts that truly sound like they are being forcefully dragged out of him.
Bradley sounds like a man and I absolutely love it.
You guys have been FEEDING me with these asks and trust that I am getting down to answer all of them !💞🫶
Summary: Sam intervenes as you and Dean devolve into petulant children.
Author Notes: A collab with @princessmisery666, and a continuation of She's Perfect
Word Count: 590
Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester
Word of the Day: (June 11, 2026) - Testy
Graphics: Made by me.
Word of the Day Master Lists: June // May
"What'd I miss?"
You and Dean simultaneously huff…
"Ask her!"
"Ask him!"
Sam looks between the two of you, waiting for an explanation.
Dean looks like a grieving widow, while your smile is tight, and you can feel the pressure of tears welling in your eyes. It's a trait you hate. Exhaustion always makes you weepy over the dumbest things.
“You two look like somebody died."
“Just Dean’s sense of humor,” you mutter.
Dean lets out an offended scoff. “It wasn’t funny.”
“You’re just testy because you're tired and hungry.”
“No! I’m pissed because you were being disrespectful.”
“Oh, c’mon! You compared alloy rims to a hate crime.”
“They should be.”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Does someone want to explain?”
“She suggested racing stripes!” Dean spits, lightly running a hand over Baby's hood.
"Did not! Gary did." You don't care that you sound like a petulant child.
Pitch louder and more aggravated, he throws his hands in the air, "W-well then the purple mica velvet whatever!"
"Hey, Velvet Purple is sleek and dark. It also looks awesome with that bit of shimmer added." Your level of snark rises to match his overblown outrage. "Would you prefer Envy Lime or Alta Orange?"
Before either of you can say more, Sam intervenes.
“Okay. I’m sorry I asked."
You hadn't realized it, but you and Dean have been shifting closer to each other with each heated exchange.
Moving to be a buffer between the two of you, Sam questions, "Who is Gary?"
"The mechanic!" Dean and you shout, each aggressively pointing toward the shop next door.
"She agreed," a finger jabbed in your direction again, "when he said I could make improvements to Baby!"
Sam raises an eyebrow, looking in your direction. Crossing your arms, your response is an eye roll and a huff.
Dean continues undeterred. "Said I should lower her suspension!" The icy glare is the last straw.
Angrily dropping your arms, you take a step forward, lean around Sam, and shout, "IT WAS A JOKE!" as Dean puffs his chest and sets his stance.
"SLANDER!" His fingers flex, and his jaw clenches tight enough to snap teeth. You have a fleeting thought that it's probably good that Gary isn't within striking distance right now.
"OK. Whoa!" Sam raises his hands to keep you separated while quickly looking around. "Let's, uh, let's go to the rooms before one of you commits a felony.”
Placing a hand on your back and one on Dean's shoulder, Sam practically shoves the two of you away from the entrance and down the covered walkway, apologizing as you pass an elderly couple staring from the doorway of their room.
When he stops at a door further down and pulls out a key, you spit. "I'm not sharing a room with him."
"Yeah, well, right back at ya!"
"Fine." Sam's pinched face and clipped tone leave no space for discussion. "But we're all three going in this room before someone calls the cops on us."
Neither you nor Dean moves, and Sam snaps. "NOW!"
Feeling slightly chastised, you stomp into the room, immediately taking up occupation on the bed closest to the door because you know that it's always the one Dean prefers, and watch through the doorway as they have one of their stupid silent conversations.
With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean finally trudges inside. Neither of you has time to react as Sam tosses the room key onto the table and orders, "Figure it out," slamming the door closed as he leaves.
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
Word Count: 5353
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.
The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.
Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.
Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.
“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.
Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.
“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.
Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”.
The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.
Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.
Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.
Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.
Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.
Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up.
“You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.
Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.
Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.
Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.
Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.
Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.
Eventually you woke up slowly.
Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.
Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.
Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.
Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.
Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.
Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.
Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.
Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted.
“Ready”, she whispered.
Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.
At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.
Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.
You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.
Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.
It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.
At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother.
“He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.
Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.
Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.
-
Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady.
Dean was thriving.
Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.
At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.
Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.
But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.
And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.
-
Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.
Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.
Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.
Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”.
She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.
By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.
-
Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.
Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.
“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”
Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.
The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.
When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.
“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.
She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.
You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud.
“She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.
And for the first time in years, you believed it.
-
It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.
“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.
“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.
Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.
Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.
“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.
Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.
Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.
Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.
You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.
“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”.
Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls.
“—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.
“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.
“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.
“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.
You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.
Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.
“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.
Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.
He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.
“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.
Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.
Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.
Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.
Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.
But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.
And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.
“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.
Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.
She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry.
Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.
“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.
“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.
“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.
She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.
“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.
That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.
Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry.
The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.
Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.
Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.
Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.
Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.
“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.
Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways.
One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.
A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.
After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous.
“You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.
Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”.
Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.
Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.
Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.
Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.
Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.
“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.
Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.
Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.
Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.
“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.
Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin.
“Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.
“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.
Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.
Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.
Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.
-
Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.
Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.
You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.
You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.
Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.
Still nothing.
“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.
That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.
Dean grinned. “Not here”.
Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait.
When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it.
“Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.
You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.
“Dean—”.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.
Your pulse jumped.
He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.
Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.
You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand.
“C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.
You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.
Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him.
“Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.
You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.
The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.
“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.
But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything.
“You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.
You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.
He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.
You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.
Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.
“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.
Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.
“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.
"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.
Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a too-friendly little town keeps stranding couples for sacrifice, so dean decides the obvious solution is pretending you’re together—which would be easier if it didn’t feel so natural.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1310 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical case danger, fake dating, scarecrow monster, mild violence, flirting, banter, almost-feelings
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the town is too cute, which almost makes everything worse. white fences, flower boxes, a tiny main street with a diner that sells pie by the slice and a mechanic who smiles too hard when dean pulls the impala into the shop.
there are pumpkins stacked outside the grocery store even though halloween passed two weeks ago, and everyone waves at you with this shiny, neighborly cheer that makes your skin itch.
it’s the kind of place where people say things like we take care of our own and somehow make it sound less like a promise and more like a threat.
dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.
“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”
you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”
“yep.”
“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”
“probably.”
“great. very rural.”
dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”
you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.
“no,” you say.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face is handsome and innocent.”
“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”
he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”
you stare at him.
he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”
“i’m not calling you honey.”
“baby?”
“absolutely not.”
“snookums?”
you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”
“hot. committed to the role already.”
the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”
dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.
“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”
you blink. anniversary.
right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.
“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”
dean’s eyes flick down to yours.
the mechanic clears his throat.
you win.
by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.
his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.
“you’re quiet,” you comment.
he hums, “thinking.”
“dangerous.”
“about us.”
your heart trips.
then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”
you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet, you married me.”
“fake married.”
“vows are vows.”
the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.
his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”
he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.
“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”
he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.
the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.
dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.
“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”
you elbow him. “dean.”
“what? communication is important.”
then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.
“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.
“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.
“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”
the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.
you burn the scarecrow together.
flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.
the town is quiet now.
you look down at your joined hands. so does he.
“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.
dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”
you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.
you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 6657
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.
Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.
You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people.
So you got your quiet.
A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.
You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises.
Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.
You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it.
Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.
Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his.
He was trying, though. God, he was trying.
With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.
And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.
Because you had insisted.
“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.
He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.
“It isn’t funny”.
“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.
Then he went anyway.
The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.
Now it was habit.
This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still.
He was just watching you.
You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.
Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.
“Benjamin”.
That made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“You want the truth?”.
“I assume I’ll regret it”.
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.
“You look beautiful”, he said.
The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it.
“It’s for church”, you said.
“As if that changes anything”.
You almost smiled.
From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.
You reached for your earrings. “What is”.
“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.
“Saturday”.
He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.
You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.
“I am behaving”.
“That was not behaving”.
“That was admiration”.
“That was trouble”.
His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.
You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.
That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.
He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway.
When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.
You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.
You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar.
“I know”, you said.
His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.
The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.
“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.
You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.
He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.
“Awful man”.
“Your husband”.
That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.
You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right.
Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.
Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there.
“Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.
“Can’t help it”.
“Yes, you can”.
“Not this one”.
You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary.
He made a face. “Cruel”.
You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.
Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.
You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word.
Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.
You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.
His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together.
“Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.
You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.
Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment.
“There”, he said quietly.
You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.
“No promises”.
“Benjamin”.
He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.
You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.
-
Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better.
Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.
You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.
You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.
Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.
“Benjamin”.
He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.
You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.
His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen.
“What", he said, too casually.
You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.
“That makes it worse”.
Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.
“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.
That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase.
“This is not funny”.
“It is a little funny”.
“You need help”.
“I’m aware”.
You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.
You did not stop.
But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse.
A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.
You were scandalized.
You were also fascinated.
So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.
Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.
“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.
He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”.
Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.
When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.
You gave him a smug look. “I know”.
He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you.
“Don’t get cocky”.
“You ate half the pan”.
Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.
One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.
Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet.
Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.
You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.
He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.
That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”.
You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”.
That had shut him up in the best possible way.
You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.
You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.
And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties.
Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.
He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there.
Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake.
“No”, he said quietly.
You looked up from the counter. “No what”.
“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.
Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning.
“You remember that?”.
“Yes”.
Something moved over his face too quickly to name.
When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him.
Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.
You smiled a little. “Still good?”.
He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake.
“Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.
It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby.
The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.
You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.
“I saw it in the file”, he said.
Your chest tightened before he even finished.
“The medical records”.
You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”.
Ben didn’t move.
“I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.
He stared at the floorboards.
You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.
“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.
Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”.
The word came sharp. Immediate.
You looked at him.
“No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.
The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke.
Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”.
You blinked at him.
He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own.
“I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.
You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.
He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.
“You are impossible”.
“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.
You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.
“Probably”.
“You should be ashamed”.
“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.
The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.
But only a few nights later, it happened.
You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim.
“You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You nodded once.
Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.
He went completely still.
Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.
Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet.
“Yeah?”, he asked.
You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.
His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.
When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.
It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.
And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.
By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.
He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.
By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.
Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself.
His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.
Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.
You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin.
He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.
“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.
“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.
You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.
“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.
Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.
The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.
“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.
You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.
“You’re impossible”, you muttered.
“And you married me anyway”.
“I was young”.
“You still like me”.
That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere.
Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful.
“Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.
“You are indecent”.
“Mm-hm”.
“And vulgar”.
“Sure”.
“And entirely too full of yourself”.
That actually made him grin. “There she is”.
You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.
Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him.
His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.
You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.
-
Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to.
It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.
You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.
He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.
Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem.
And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”.
He never did.
He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.
He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint.
That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.
You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.
Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.
You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.
“Same thing”.
You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.
Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.
Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed.
Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.
You tilted your head. “You like it?”.
He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.
He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.
He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.
“Why’s it gotta beep.”
“So we don’t die.”
“I’m not dyin’.”
“I am.”
He stared at you.
Then he installed two.
At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.
And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.
“I am not cute”.
“You’re fucking adorable”.
“You need prayer”.
“I need you”.
That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.
Then days were passing.
You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.
One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math.
“You’re late”, he said.
You blinked. “Late for what”.
He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.
Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.
“What? You are”.
“That is not your business".
He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently.
Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor.
“Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.
You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.
He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else.
“We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.
You frowned. “For what”.
He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.
Your mouth fell open.
At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.
Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.
“You are not watching me take a test”.
He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.
“You’re literally standing guard”.
He shrugged. “Habit.”
You shut the door in his face.
From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.
“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".
When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed.
“Yeah?”, he whispered.
You nodded once, breath catching.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides.
“You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.
You swallowed. “I think so”.
He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant.
What came out instead was, “Holy shit”.
Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.
You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.
-
The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.
You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.
You watched him for a moment.
“Ben”, you called.
He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.
“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.
He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.
“You’re allowed to sit”.
He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.
You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”.
You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking.
“Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.
Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek.
“Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.
He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.
You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.
The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.
Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.
Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.
He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.
After a minute he said, “You scared?”.
You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.
You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.
Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.
You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.
“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.
Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.
“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.
You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.
“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.
You tilted your head. “Yes”.
He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.
“You need it”.
“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.
You smiled into your mug. "I know".
———————————
A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈
✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 6: Springtime Weeds
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Five✦
✦summary: you and dean grow on each other (more and more and more)✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: i love the game of "who's gonna break first"✦
You’d been in love before.
But never like this.
This is almost like being sick.
You lose sleep, and feel it aching every single second. When you walk out the door in the morning, a hollow opens in your chest that won’t be filled until you stumble back home. When you shower you make the water cold, trying to combat the overheated desire that’s burning under your skin. Like pressing an icepack to a burn, where Dean had casually touched you moments before.
Every night, you stare at the ceiling and imagine a world where he’s lying next to you. You bunch the sheets between your legs and mold them in your arms, until they’re a crude mockery of Dean’s body. He’d be warmer. His heartbeat would lull you to sleep, his hand rubbing your spine until you became a happy, relaxed putty in his arms.
Then, every morning, you look him in the eyes and play like everything is fine. It’s the only point in the day where you don’t feel a phantom limb, flailing around in the cavity of your chest and trying to find something to hold onto. When Dean passes you coffee, your knuckles brush, and you’re shot up to float around in the heavens.
It just makes the fall all that harsher, when you have to let go.
Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.
Hard.
Not impossible.
You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.
It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.
You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.
In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.
In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.
From a single fucking touch.
You think you might be close to losing your mind.
It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.
Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.
“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”
You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”
“I know. Makes it funnier.”
Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.
Which has you on it. Basically around you.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“
“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”
That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.
“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”
You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”
“I like you and respect you-“
“You poked me.”
“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”
You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.
The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.
“It’s fine- I’m fine-“
“Sweetheart.”
“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.
The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.
It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.
And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.
You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.
“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.
Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.
And neither of you speak about it again.
This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.
She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?
Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.
She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”
You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”
“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”
You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.
“Do you have a wife?”
“No. I’m single, El.”
Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.
“Why?”
“Because. Adult reasons.”
Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.
“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”
“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.
“That kid adores you.”
“I’m good at my job.”
“I know you are.”
You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.
He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”
“At the thing I get paid for.”
“At, uh- Kids.”
“At kids?”
“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”
He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.
Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.
You might need help.
“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”
“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”
You snort, kicking her leg under the table.
Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.
Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.
That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.
You told her she didn’t have to.
“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”
You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.
But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-
“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.
You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”
Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”
“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”
“Uh huh. Write it down.”
You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.
You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.
Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“
She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-
“Kind and sweet are the same-“
“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”
Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.
“You have to add two more cons.”
“I don’t have any more cons-“
“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”
That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.
Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.
Pro. He listens to you.
By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.
“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”
“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.
“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“
“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”
Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”
“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”
“I didn’t know it was this bad!”
“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“
“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”
“Was he playing chubby bunny?”
“Yeah, but-“
“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”
Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.
You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.
“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”
Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.
It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.
✦Chapter Seven✦
✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
So let me know if this may be of interest to you but I have a lot of medical bills and expenses these past few weeks that are legit killing me so I was wondering if personalized edits with a fic or making a ship x reader drabbles would be something people would be interested in. I’d set it up somewhere like Venmo or if anyone has a better method we can do that. This is an idea inspired by @wendichester ‘s astrology readings and I’d be happy to do supernatural or any other fandom I have knowledge in. I can try other ones but I don’t want to disappoint if I don’t know all the lore or the character LOL. You can either dm me with the ideas you’d like to see or submit it through asks. Maybe I’ll even make a google survey link, whatever is easiest. I’d charge maybe between $3-5 depending on how complicated or long it turns out. Hope this isn’t stupid as we all are struggling rn I’m sure ❤️ lots of love y’all just thought this was a cute idea!!
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after sam leaves for stanford, dean shuts down so hard it feels like you lost him too—and one bad joke in the impala finally makes you snap.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 842 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ heavy angst, abandonment feelings, grief over changing dynamics, emotional shutdown, argument, no clean resolution
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the impala is too quiet without sam.
that’s the worst part, maybe. not the empty motel beds or the way dean stops ordering extra fries out of habit, or how every hunt feels a little more hollow now that there isn’t a second voice correcting research from the other side of a diner booth.
it’s the car. it’s the miles of road stretching ahead while dean drives with both hands on the wheel and says almost nothing, jaw set hard, music turned loud enough to pretend silence isn’t sitting between you with its knees drawn up.
before, it used to be you, dean, and sammy.
sam with his too-long legs shoved in the front seat, complaining about dean’s music, stealing your snacks when he thought you weren’t looking. dean calling him princess. you laughing until sam threatened to switch cars at the next gas station. stupid things. little things. the kind of things you don’t know are holding your life together until one person leaves and the other one starts acting as if anything soft has become a liability.
dean doesn’t joke with you anymore. not really. not the way he used to, with his mouth crooked and his eyes bright and all that ridiculous flirting tossed at you just to make you roll your eyes. he barely looks at you unless it’s about the case. location. weapons. salt. iron. exit points.
you miss sam so much it makes you angry, but missing dean when he’s right beside you feels worse.
so, yeah—by the time you pull up outside the old farmhouse, your face is probably doing something awful. dean notices. yet, he picks the worst possible thing to do with it.
“gee,” he says, glancing over as he parks. “poor ghost that has to face you tonight. we might not even need the salt rounds. your face’ll do all the work.”
it’s meant to be nothing. a jab. a little scrap of the old dean, thrown badly into the air between you. but it lands wrong.
you turn your head slowly. “are you kidding me?”
his eyebrows lift, already defensive. “what?”
“don’t what me.”
“it was a joke.”
“no, dean, it was you remembering how to speak to me for three seconds and choosing to be an asshole.”
that wipes the almost-smirk off his face. good.
you hate that it feels good.
he looks out through the windshield at the farmhouse, all black windows and peeling paint, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “we have a job.”
“we always have a job.” your voice comes out sharper than you expect, but you’re already opened up now, you’re already bleeding in the passenger seat, and there is no neat way to stop it. “that’s the problem, right? there’s always some house, some ghost, some excuse not to talk about the fact that sam left and you decided i had to lose both of you.”
his face changes. just a fraction. but you see it.
“you didn’t lose me,” he says, too fast.
you laugh once, ugly and hurt. “didn’t i?”
“i’m sitting right here!”
“no, you’re driving the car.” your throat tightens, and you hate that part. hate the wobble. hate how young you sound. “you’re loading guns and reading police reports and telling me to duck. you’re not here. you haven’t been here since he left!”
dean turns toward you then, anger rising because anger is easier—it’s always easier for him. “what do you want me to say?”
“anything,” you snap. “literally anything real.”
“real?” he repeats, voice low. “you want real?”
“yeah, i do.”
“sam walked out.”
“sam went to school.”
“he left!” dean bites out, and there it is, mean and raw and still not the whole truth. “he left, and dad’s pissed, and everything’s screwed, and i don’t have time to sit around holding hands and talking about feelings because people are dying.”
you stare at him, chest heaving.
outside, the farmhouse waits. the job waits. everything always waits just long enough to take something else from you.
“i wasn’t asking you to hold my hand,” you say quietly. too honest. too tired. “i was asking you not to disappear while sitting next to me.”
dean flinches. then he looks away, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on the house as if the ghost inside is easier to face than you. maybe it is.
you sit there for a few seconds, the engine ticking softly, the cassette still playing low under the silence. neither of you moves for the weapons bag. neither of you apologizes.
finally, dean reaches for the keys and shuts the car off. “let’s go,” he says, voice rough, smaller than before.
you nod, even though nothing is fixed, even though the empty seat still feels louder than both of you, even though you know this conversation is going to crawl into the space between your ribs and stay there.
you open your door before he can look at you again. and when you step out into the cold, you don’t wait for him to follow.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you can survive hunting beside dean winchester; what’s harder is surviving the slow, unbearable heartbreak of almost being loved by him.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x chubby!oc ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 3580 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ mutual pining, friends to lovers, body-image insecurity, slight age gap, jealousy, mention of dean’s casual flirting and past hookups, emotional avoidance, roadside argument, dean winchester’s spectacularly poor self-worth, crying, comfort, kissing, soft ending!!
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ this is my very first commission for the lovely @croatcan and god damn is it special! 🥹 i think it turned out lovely, so i hope you enjoy reading this 🩷
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ request your fanfic ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the problem is that dean winchester touches you almost as if he’s forgotten you’re not his.
it’s never enough to call him out on. that’s the clever part, whether he intends it to or not. his palm settles against the small of your back when he guides you through a crowded bar, warm and broad through the thin fabric of your shirt, but it’s gone before you can turn the moment into anything more dangerous. his knee presses against yours beneath diner tables because he always takes up too much room. he drapes his arm around your shoulders when the three of you are walking back to the impala after a hunt, pulling you close enough that your hip bumps against his side whenever you take a step. and he calls you kid when you elbow him for it.
none of it means anything. that’s what you tell yourself.
dean is dean. he flirts when he’s bored, when he’s nervous, when the waitress is pretty, when the bartender has long legs and a low-cut shirt. the women he notices are always beautiful in that uncomplicated, glossy sort of way. slim waists. narrow hips. the effortless confidence of somebody who knows exactly what happens when a guy like him looks across a room and smiles at them.
you know what happens, too. you’ve been hunting with the brothers long enough to see the pattern.
and the harsh truth is that it shouldn’t bother you. you know the softness of your stomach doesn’t make you less capable of putting a bullet through a moving target. you know your thighs are strong enough to carry you through a graveyard at a sprint, your arms steady enough to haul sam upright when something throws him into a wall. you love your tattoos. you like the curve of your waist and the way your brown hair falls around your face when you stop trying to tame it. you don’t need to become smaller to deserve anything.
it would be easier if he stopped touching you. it would be easier if you wanted him less.
“it’s gonna open up again if you keep glaring at it that hard.” dean’s voice brings you back to the motel room.
rain taps steadily against the window, turning the parking lot outside into a blur of wet pavement and neon. the room smells faintly of bleach, damp denim, and the pizza sam has abandoned on the small table beside an open laptop. sam is in the shower, washing graveyard dirt out of his hair while you sit on the floor between dean’s knees at the edge of one bed.
his flannel is open. the black t-shirt underneath is pushed up far enough to expose the shallow gash along his ribs, angry and red but no longer bleeding. you’ve cleaned it carefully. all that remains is the bandage, which would be easier to apply if dean would stop watching your face.
“i’m not glaring,” you mutter.
“you’ve got the murder eyes.”
“these are my regular eyes.”
his mouth twitches. “nah. regular ones are bigger. cuter.”
you press the adhesive strip down harder than necessary.
dean sucks air through his teeth. “jesus, annie.”
“sorry.” you are not. still, the brief sting of guilt settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs when he lifts one hand and curls his fingers loosely around your wrist.
his thumb brushes your pulse once, absent and affectionate, as if this is not slowly hollowing you out from the inside. his expression changes when you pull away. not dramatically, though. dean is too practiced for that. he drops his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it back into place with a shrug that is almost convincing.
“all fixed,” you say, standing before he can find another reason to keep you close.
his gaze follows you. “you okay?”
“fine.”
“you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
you busy yourself with the first-aid kit. the gauze packet refuses to slide into the side compartment properly. you try again, jaw tight. “probably because i’m fine a lot lately.”
“right.” the answer is dry enough to scrape.
you’ve been trying to put space between you for three weeks. it’s not working particularly well because hunting doesn’t offer much room for distance. there are still hours folded into the impala beside him, cramped motel rooms, diner booths.
but you’ve stopped curling against his side on the couch when sam puts on documentaries none of you are truly watching. you sit in the back seat more often. you avoid the kitchen when dean cooks breakfast in his robe, bare-legged and half-awake, because he always presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he reaches over you for the coffee grounds.
it’s embarrassing how badly you miss something you never had.
“we should get a drink,” dean says.
you glance at him. “we should sleep.”
“we killed a nest of vamps in a barn that smelled worse than the trunk after that rugaru in ohio. we earned a drink.”
the bathroom door opens before you can argue. sam steps out with damp hair and a towel draped around his shoulders, his eyes moving between you and dean with the cautious awareness of somebody who knows exactly what you’re both feeling and keeping bottled down.
“drink?” dean asks him.
sam looks at you for half a second too long. “i’m going to finish the research.”
“nerd.”
“somebody has to make sure there isn’t a second nest.”
“annie?”
you should say no. you’re tired, and your nerves feel worn thin beneath your skin. sitting in a bar with dean is an exercise in pretending you don’t watch him without meaning to.
instead, you sigh. “one drink.”
his smile comes too easily, bright enough to make your chest hurt. “that’s my girl.”
it’s a thoughtless phrase. dean is already grabbing his jacket when he says it. he doesn’t even notice how still you become.
but sam does. his gaze catches yours over dean’s shoulder, sympathetic in a way you cannot bear to acknowledge, so you look down and zip the first-aid kit closed.
the bar is attached to the motel, a narrow room with battered tables, a glowing jukebox, and the sort of carpet that has survived several decades through sheer stubbornness. a baseball game plays silently on the television above the liquor shelves. dean orders whiskey. you ask for a beer and slide onto a stool with one empty seat between you, a small act of self-preservation that lasts approximately two minutes before dean moves closer when somebody needs to squeeze past. he doesn’t move away again.
you talk about nothing. that’s one of the worst parts. it’s easy with him. even now. you make dean laugh so abruptly he nearly chokes on his whiskey, and the warm, pleased feeling in your chest arrives before you can stop it.
“you’re trouble,” he says.
“i’m delightful.”
“you’re a pain in my ass.”
“and yet you keep me around.”
“somebody’s gotta supervise you, kid.”
the nickname comes softer than it should be, threaded through with fondness. dean shifts closer and drops his arm around your shoulders, drawing you against his side with an ease that feels practiced. his fingers rest against your upper arm. his thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt.
you know you should push him away. instead, you let yourself have it. just for a minute.
the bartender appears in front of you with dean’s second whiskey. she’s pretty, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that lingers when she places the glass down. her eyes move toward dean’s arm around your shoulders before returning to his face.
“anything else for you two?” she asks.
“think we’re good,” dean says.
she smiles. “your girlfriend keeping you out of trouble tonight?”
it should be nothing. a stranger making an easy assumption. a moment dean could laugh off in a dozen harmless ways. he could remove his arm. he could change the subject.
instead, his body tenses beside yours.
“annie?” his laugh comes out uneven. “nah. she knows better than to make that mistake.”
the bartender gives him a smile, already turning away.
dean’s arm remains around you.
that’s what breaks something open. the weight of his hand still resting comfortably against your arm, the warmth of him wrapped around you while he says it. it’s the easy, careless expectation that you’ll sit here and take whatever scraps he gives you because you always have.
you move before you think better of it, shoving his arm off your shoulders as you stand.
his expression changes immediately. “hey—”
“i’m going back to the room.”
“what? hang on.”
you walk out before your face can betray you. rain catches in your hair as soon as you step beyond the awning. the motel sign flickers overhead, buzzing pink and blue against the dark.
“annabella.” the use of your full name follows you into the parking lot.
you don’t stop.
“come on,” dean calls, closer now. “would you slow down for a second?”
you should go to the motel room. sam is there. the door is less than thirty feet away, warm light visible behind the curtains. but the thought of walking in and seeing the pity on sam’s face makes your stomach turn, so you keep moving, passing the impala and reaching the edge of the lot.
“where the hell are you going?”
“for a walk.”
“in the rain? it’s already dark!”
“i need air.”
“annie, get back here.”
you turn then, rain sliding down your cheeks, anger burning hot enough to overpower the ache lodged beneath it. “stop telling me what to do.”
dean freezes, even if for a second. then, his jaw tightens, his fear disguising itself as irritation so quickly you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him this well.
“fine,” he says. “you want air? take a minute. but you’re not walking down some dark road alone in the middle of nowhere.”
“just leave me the hell alone, dean.”
dean’s face closes in that familiar, infuriating way. the wall comes up. he stands beneath the motel lights with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.
you walk away.
the road is nearly empty, slick with rain and edged by wet grass. you fold your arms across your chest and keep moving, breathing through the pressure building behind your eyes, furious with him and with yourself and with every stupid little moment you have held too close.
you make it less than half a mile.
the roar of the impala reaches you first. headlights sweep across the road before the car pulls sharply onto the shoulder ahead of you, tires spitting water across the gravel. the driver’s door opens almost before the engine cuts.
“get in the car.”
you stop walking. “no.”
“annabella.”
“i said no.”
his hands flex uselessly at his sides. “then talk to me.”
“there’s nothing to talk about.”
“bullshit.”
“go away, dean.”
“not happening.”
“you can’t order me into the car because you feel guilty.”
“guilty? this isn’t—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. his eyes are wide and bright beneath the passing sweep of another car’s headlights. “i don’t know what the hell just happened back there.”
a laugh catches painfully in your throat. “of course you don’t.”
“so tell me.”
you stare at him. dean has always been able to do this, somehow. he digs and digs until the truth is bleeding between your teeth, then acts surprised that it has a shape. you are exhausted. too tired to make it prettier for him. too tired to protect him from a feeling he has been carelessly feeding for months.
“i’m in love with you.”
you hate how much it hurts that he stills. you hate that some small, humiliating part of you has waited for this exact second anyway, always searching for proof that you might have misunderstood him. but he says nothing, and the silence is unbearable.
you nod once, swallowing hard. “yeah. that’s what happened back there.”
“annie—”
“i know.” your voice cracks. you look away, blinking against the rain. “i know you don’t feel the same way. i am not asking you to. i thought i could handle it. i thought it would pass if i stopped being stupid about every little thing you do, but you keep—”
you press the heel of your hand against your chest, frustrated by the tears slipping free despite your best efforts.
“you keep touching me as if i’m yours. you keep looking at me as if there is something here. you pull me into you, and you call me your girl, and then you flirt with women who look nothing like me because that’s what you actually want. that’s fine. it is. you’re allowed to want whatever you want. but i can’t keep standing beside you while you remind me that i’m not it.”
“no.” the word comes out rough.
you shake your head. “i’m tired, dean.”
“listen—”
“i’m tired of trying to be grateful for whatever version of you i get. i’m tired of feeling pathetic every time you put your hand on me and i let myself think about what it would feel like if you meant it. i never wanted to make this your problem, but i can’t do it anymore.” your breath shudders. “i can’t keep hunting with you. i can’t keep living like this. i don’t want to see you again.”
panic strips every trace of irritation from his face. “don’t say that.”
“dean—”
“don’t.” he moves toward you, then stops himself so abruptly it looks painful. his voice drops, ragged at the edges. “don’t say you’re leaving.”
you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “what else am i supposed to do?”
for one awful second, he only stares at you. then, dean winchester sinks to his knees on the wet roadside.
gravel crunches beneath his jeans. rain beads in his hair. he reaches for you carefully, both hands settling against your hips as if he needs something solid to hold on to, his fingers curving around the softness of your body without hesitation.
“dean, get up.”
“no. listen to me.” his voice breaks. “please.”
you look at him and his eyes are wet. maybe it is only the rain.
“you’ve got this wrong,” he says, each word unsteady. “god, annie, you’ve got it so so wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into your sides, grounding himself more than you. “i meant it every time i touched you. i mean it right now. you think you’re not what i want because you don’t look like some woman at a bar? sweetheart, i know exactly what you look like. i know how you fit against me. i know i’ve spent months trying not to stare at your mouth whenever you smile. i know i think about putting my hands right here so often it makes me feel sixteen and stupid.”
the softness of it nearly ruins you.
“then why?” you whisper. “why would you say that?”
his expression folds inward. “because i’m a coward.”
you shake your head automatically, but dean doesn’t let you rescue him from it.
“i know how to lose people,” he says. “i’m good at that. i know how to want something for one night and walk away before i screw it up. but you love people with your whole damn body, annabella. you hold on. you make space. you keep showing up.” his grip turns gentler. “and i wanted all of it. i wanted you so bad i convinced myself the decent thing was leaving it alone, because you deserve better than getting stuck with me.”
there it is—the ugliest, most familiar part of him. the piece that believes love is another weapon he might mishandle if he lets himself hold it too tightly.
“dean,” you whisper.
“but i feel it too.”
the words stop you cold.
his hands tighten around your hips, enough to keep you there while his voice turns rougher with every breath. he looks terrified. not of the rain, or the roadside, or the possibility of something lurking beyond the dark line of trees. of you. of what he’s saying and what happens after he can’t take it back.
“i love you too, annabella.” his throat works around the words. “so damn much it scares the hell outta me.”
you stare down at him, unable to move.
“you think i don’t know what i’m doing when i touch you? you think i don’t notice every time you lean into me, or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, or when you wrap your arms around me after a hunt and hold on a little tighter because you know i need it?” his eyes search your face desperately. “i notice everything. i remember everything. that’s the problem.”
rain slides down the sharp line of his cheek. his voice lowers.
“people close to me get hurt.”
“dean—”
“they do.” he shakes his head before you can soften it for him. “and i can’t—annie, i can’t be the reason something happens to you. i can’t get you killed because i got greedy and wanted something good for myself. i can’t watch you bleed because some monster figures out exactly where to stick the knife.” his breath catches, and for a second, he has to look away. “i’d die if something happened to you. i would lose my damn mind.”
your chest aches so fiercely that breathing feels strange.
“something could happen to me anyway,” you say quietly. “i’m a hunter.”
“yeah, well, i hate that too.”
a wet, startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. dean’s gaze snaps back to your face. something fragile loosens in his expression when he hears it, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth despite the fear still sitting plainly in his eyes.
“there she is,” he murmurs.
your fingers find his wrists. his pulse beats hard beneath your touch.
“you don’t get to decide what risks i’m allowed to take,” you tell him. “not for me. and you don’t get to love me halfway because you’re scared of what happens if you let yourself have it.”
his face crumples for half a second before he catches himself. “i know,” he says. “i’m sorry.”
you believe him. that’s the dangerous thing. you believe every messy, frightened word of it.
dean rises slowly from the gravel, his hands sliding around your waist as he stands. he stays close when he reaches his full height, close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the rain, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.
“i’m probably gonna screw this up,” he whispers.
“probably.”
his mouth twitches. “little harsh.”
“you earned that.”
“yeah.” his thumb brushes your side. “fair.”
then his gaze drops to your mouth, and all the teasing drains out of him.
“annie,” he says softly.
dean cups your face with one hand and draws you against him with the other, his mouth warm and careful for all of two seconds before months of restraint crack open between you. the kiss turns deeper, needier, rain cold against your cheeks while his body presses solidly into yours. there’s nothing uncertain in the way he holds you. nothing apologetic. his palm spans the curve of your waist as if he has wanted to know the shape of you beneath his hands for far too long.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. both of you are breathing too hard.
“you’re freezing,” he murmurs.
“whose fault is that?”
“yours, obviously. walking dramatically into the rain. real chick-flick behavior.”
you stare at him.
“what?” he gives you a toothy smile. “too soon?”
a laugh breaks out of you, shaky and helpless, and dean smiles properly this time.
“say you won’t leave.” the words leave his lips carefully. there’s no demand in his tone. no typical dean winchester stubbornness. just a little more vulnerability that he’s willing himself to show because he cannot physically move without making sure.
you nod once. “i’m staying.”
relief softens his entire face. he kisses the corner of your mouth before bending suddenly and sliding one arm behind your knees.
“dean!”
he lifts you easily against his chest.
you grab his shoulders, startled laughter spilling out of you. “what the hell are you doing?!”
“saving you from pneumonia.”
“put me down.”
“nope.”
“dean!”
he carries you back toward the impala, holding you securely against him while your arms circle his neck. by the time he reaches the passenger side, your anger has softened into something tender and sore. not gone. not forgotten. but no longer yours to carry alone.
dean lowers you carefully onto your feet and opens the door.
“seat,” he says, pointing inside with a stern expression that lasts less than a second. “now.”
you roll your eyes as you climb in. “bossy.”
“yeah, yeah.”
he rounds the hood and slides behind the wheel, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his jacket. the engine rumbles to life. for a moment, neither of you speaks.
then dean reaches across the space between you and leaves his hand resting palm-up beside the gearshift. an offering. you look at it, then lace your fingers through his. his grip closes around yours gently.
dean pulls back onto the road with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours between you, as if he’s still afraid you might disappear the second he lets go.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
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: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 8790
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.
It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress you’d worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.
Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. “Only Dean Winchester”, she muttered with a grin, “decides on a Wednesday he’s getting married by Saturday. God help us”.
Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. “Mommy, you’re a princess! Daddy’s gonna say ‘wow! so pretty’”.
You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. He’d kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, “Marry me. Now”. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And the thing was… you’d said yes.
Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like you’d been swallowed by a cloud.
Sally caught your expression and snorted. “Relax. You’ll find something. Or we’ll hack one of these into shape. I don’t care if Dean’s a certified panty-melter, he doesn’t get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.”
Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. “That one! Mommy, that one!”.
You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.
Sally was already on her feet, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Oh honey. That’s the one. No contest”.
You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… the first one that actually fits”, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.
Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof”.
“What?”, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the number—and nearly burst into tears. “Oh, no. Nope. Forget it. That’s… that’s insane”.
“Sweetheart”, Sally said carefully, “it’s a wedding dress. They’re all insane”.
But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormones—God, the hormones—you actually felt your eyes blur. “I can’t. I can’t spend that much. Not on one day. Not when—”. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
“Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. “You don’t like it?”.
You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. “Baby, I love it”, you whispered, kissing her curls. “I just… it’s a lot”.
Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.
“Sally—don’t you dare—”.
But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. “Hey, Winchester? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t panic, everyone’s fine”. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. “I just need to know how much money your fiancée is allowed to spend on looking amazing for you”.
Your mouth fell open. “SALLY”.
On the other end, you could hear Dean’s voice, tinny but sharp: “What? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phone”.
“Nope”, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. “She’s currently hyperventilating because she thinks she can’t buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. What’s the number, Dean?”.
There was a long pause. Then Dean’s voice, incredulous and rough: “The number? It’s whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?”.
“She loves it”, Sally said firmly.
“Then buy it”, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, you’re welcome. Then, into the phone: “Good answer, Winchester. I’ll make sure she doesn’t faint before the cashier”.
Dean’s voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. “Put me on with her”.
Sally handed you the phone like she’d just won a prize.
You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. “Dean—”.
“Sweetheart”. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. “You look beautiful, don’t you?”.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what I look like right now, Dean”.
“I do”, he said simply. “I can see it in my head. And I don’t give a damn about price tags. You hear me? You’re my wife, and you’re gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. That’s it. That’s all that matters”.
A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendant’s arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didn’t trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.
The attendant cleared her throat gently. “Will this be on your card?”.
You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Dean’s name lighting up the screen. A new text.
Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.
You frowned, thumb tapping back.
You: Dean. Please tell me this isn’t one of your fake ones.
His reply came instantly.
Dean: Doesn’t matter. It’ll go through. Just swipe it. I’ll handle the rest.
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.
The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.
Sally whistled low. “Guess your man knows what he’s doing”.
“Oh, he knows”, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.
Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Can’t wait to see you in it. I’ll probably forget how to breathe.
Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.
The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker.
“Daddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!”. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. “She got such a pretty dress! You won’t believe it!”.
Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. “A princess, huh?”. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. “Guess I’ll have to see this for myself”.
You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh…”. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. “Do you… want me to try it on? For you?”.
For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer.
“Nah”, he murmured, shaking his head. “Not yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When you’re walking down to me”. His throat bobbed. “That’s the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life”.
Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.
Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. “But Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!”.
Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll take you up on that, Buzz”. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. “But the real thing? That’s mine to see on the day”.
After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. “Close your eyes, Buzz”, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. “No peeking”.
Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. “I’m not peeking!”, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.
Dean snorted. “That’s cheating”.
At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You ready for the grand reveal?”.
Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.
Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, “Okay, Buzz. Look”.
Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.
The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.
Lilah wriggled out of Dean’s arms and bolted across the room. “It’s mine! It’s my room!”. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. “There are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!”.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Well, Sammy helped”.
Sam raised both brows. “You mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paint”.
“It’s sparkly bees!”, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.
Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. “Told you she’d love it”.
You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “She does".
After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time.
From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Dean’s exaggerated monster voices.
Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. “Uh… hey”.
You glanced at him. “What’s up?”.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldn’t hear. “Your friend. Sally. The one from the party”. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “She, uh… is she… single?”.
You blinked, then smiled. “She is. She’s a single mom”.
His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. “She seemed… nice”.
“She is nice”, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Smart, too. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone. You’d like her”.
Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Dean’s exasperated, “Lilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?” and Lilah’s unapologetic giggle.
When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.
“She won”, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. “Every damn time”.
“Daddy got wet!”, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.
You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said don’t even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.
Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s… good at that”, he said softly, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“He is”, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilah’s room. “Better at braiding than me now, too. She won’t even let me touch her hair anymore”.
Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.
You tilted your head, catching it. “So… do you want her number?”.
His brows rose. “Sally’s?”.
“Mhm”. You smirked, folding your arms. “Because she’s been talking about you for days. I think she’s just waiting for me to play matchmaker”.
Sam’s ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hide the smile even if he wanted to. “…You’re serious?”.
You nodded. “Dead serious. She asked if you were ‘as good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza duty’”.
Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. “God”. He shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe… give it to me”.
After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.
Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. “You okay?”.
You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. “In three days”, you whispered, “I’m gonna be married. To the most unusual man alive”.
Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. “Unusual, huh?”.
You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah”, you said, a lump rising in your throat. “But mine”.
Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. “So…”, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, “no cold feet?”.
You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. “You’re literally making sure my feet aren’t cold”.
He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. “Yeah, well. Just covering all the bases”.
The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.
Dean’s grin softened as he watched. “You’re really not nervous?”.
You cracked an eye open to look at him. “About marrying you?”. You paused dramatically. Then: “Never”.
-
The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, “Me and Buzz got errands. You rest”.
Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.
He’d bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.
“Daddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommy’s?”.
“Not unless you want it to be, Buzz”.
“Can it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?”.
Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’ll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?”.
She gasped. “Daddy, of course”.
At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, “I need the sparkliest dress for my mommy’s wedding!”, was a sight to stop traffic.
The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. “For the flower girl?”.
“Yes!”.
Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. “Buzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?”.
She looked at him very seriously. “Will Mommy smile when she sees me?”.
Dean’s chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. “Guaranteed”.
Dress after dress followed—pink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like she’d just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.
“Daddy”. Her voice was a whisper, awed. “Can i have this?".
Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. “Yeah, Buzz. That’s the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommy”.
“Perfect like Mommy”, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.
Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.
Her voice came muffled against his collar. “I’m glad you’re done saving the world, Daddy”.
His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.
“Yeah, Buzz”, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’m done. World can save itself for a while”.
She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. “Good. ‘Cause Mommy and me need you more”.
-
The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was small—just how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.
The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And Sam—Sam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.
Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldn’t back out of.
And then the doors opened.
Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Dean’s hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasn’t supposed to.
And then he saw you.
The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.
Dean’s breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Every step you took, Dean’s chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.
When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline.
And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like they’d been waiting all day.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise he’d waited half his life to keep.
You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.
From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, “Ugh, you’re kissing forever!”, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.
Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. “Damn right we are”, he whispered and then kissed you again.
-
The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.
Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldn’t stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.
“Careful, Winchester”, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. “You’re making me look like I can’t stand on my own two feet”.
“You don’t have to”, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. “Not anymore”.
You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, “Goddamn. Miss Winchester lookin’ too good tonight. Think I married outta my league”.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You’re insufferable”.
“Yeah?”. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldn’t stop. “Can’t help it. My wife’s gorgeous”.
From across the yard, Donna whistled. “Get a room, newlyweds!”.
Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Ewww! Daddy’s kissing Mommy again!”.
“Better get used to it, Buzz”, he called back, still swaying you softly. “I’m never stoppin’”.
A while later, you’d started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadn’t hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the day—your body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly.
“C’mon, Mrs. Winchester”, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. “Let’s get you outta this before you melt”.
You swatted him lightly with the plate. “Smooth, Dean”.
“Not complainin’ about the view”, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “But you’re sweatin’ through silk, sweetheart”.
He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.
“Arms up”, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.
The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.
"Dean".
“Relax”, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. “Just gettin’ my wife comfortable”. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.
Dean’s hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.
When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. “Sit, sweetheart”, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like he’d been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.
The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.
You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. “Dean—”.
He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.
Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. “Stay right there, sweetheart”, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.
“Dean—oh my —”. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.
The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing.
That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.
When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. “Still got it”, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasn’t finished.
“Dean?”, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. “Lilah burned her hand on the grill”.
Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, “She’s okay, just… some tears. Can you—?”.
Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion.
When he opened the door, Lilah was on Sam’s hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Sam’s palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. “Daddy—”.
Dean’s entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?”. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man who’d been between your thighs seconds ago.
Sam gave you an apologetic look over Dean’s shoulder as he explained, “She touched the edge of the grill. It wasn’t bad—red, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured she’d want her dad”.
“C’mere, lemme see that hand, baby girl”, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilah’s damp cheeks.
Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you”.
-
Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldn’t believe it.
“Kid’s already got my right hook”, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “Bet he comes out swingin’”.
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. “He’s just stubborn. Like his dad”.
Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. “Yeah, but you love that about me”.
Your laugh came out tired but true. “Most days”.
Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Dean’s hand tightened instinctively.
“If it weren’t for him in there, I’d have you bent over this tub already”.
You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. “That a promise or a threat?”.
Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. “Don’t tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, I’ve been good”.
You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. “Who said I don’t want it?”.
He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. “You’re eight months, I’m not—”. His hand spread protectively over your bump. “I’m not takin’ chances”.
“Dean”, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. “I’m horny. And you’re hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and just—”. You nipped his lower lip. “—touch me”.
“Sweetheart…”. His voice was ragged. “Don’t make me—don’t do this to me. It’s not—”.
You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.
“It’s our wedding night”, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasn’t entirely put on. “I want you. Please, Dean”.
He groaned, low and guttural, like you’d just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen”.
You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop talking and fuck me”.
Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himself—and losing.
Finally, he snapped. “Fuck it”.
His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. “You win, Mrs. Winchester”, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. “But don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow”.
The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, fu—”.
Dean’s head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. “Shit, sweetheart… been weeks”.
You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didn’t have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones.
“That’s it”, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. “Just like that“.
Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Dean’s whole body jolted like you’d shocked him.
“Damn—”, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart… how the hell am I supposed to last?”.
Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. “Then don’t—”.
“Don’t tempt me”, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tub’s edge.
You whimpered. “Dean—”.
A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldn’t help it. “Sit tight—clothes coming right up”, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.
You reached for your bra on the counter… and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl.
Well. Hello, Henry.
“Dean?”, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. “Babe… my water just broke“.
He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still.
“Son of a bitch”, he muttered. “I knew it—I knew we shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I knew it”.
You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Dean—”.
“No, don’t—don’t tell me this ain’t my fault”. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. “We—Jesus, sweetheart, we just… in the tub, and now your water breaks? That’s not a coincidence. I did this”.
You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasn’t going to stop him from spiraling.
“Dean Winchester”, you said firmly. “You did not break my water by having sex with me”.
His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. “How do you know?!”. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. “Look at you! We finally—y’know, after weeks, and now—bam! Kid’s knockin’ at the door!”.
You shook your head, laughing now. “Henry’s been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just… happens to be the night”.
He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldn’t let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved.
“Not my fault?”, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish.
You reached out, catching his wrist. “Not your fault. Promise”.
Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. “Still feel like I should apologize to the kid”.
Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. “I’ll, uh—”. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes he’d dropped, only to set them right back down again. “The bag. Right. Where’s the bag?”.
“In the closet, by the door”, you said softly, watching him.
“Right. Okay. Bag”. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldn’t stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. “We’re good. We got time, right?”.
“Plenty”, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. “Contractions aren’t even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a while”.
“Right”. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.
You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. “Dean”. He froze. “You’re here”, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. “That’s all I need”.
For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilah’s first moments, for the years he wasn’t there. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I wasn’t there last time”.
Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. “You’re here now. For me. For him. That’s what matters”.
Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldn’t touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead.
“Okay”, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. “We got this. I got you”.
Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“Seatbelt on?”, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.
“Yes, Dean”, you sighed, hiding a little smile.
Baby’s bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Sam’s contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.
On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”.
Dean didn’t even let you speak first. “Her water broke”, he blurted, voice rough.
Sam was instantly awake. “What? Now?”.
You gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and cut in steady. “Yeah, now. We’re heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?”.
“Yeah”, Sam said. “I’ll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henry”.
Dean muttered a gruff, “Thanks, Sammy” and hung up before his brother could say more.
-
You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while.
Translation: this was going to be a long night.
Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadn’t left you in twenty minutes.
“You okay?”, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.
You gave him a tired little smile. “Dean, I’m fine. Contractions aren’t even bad yet”.
“Not bad?”. His brow furrowed. “You just winced like someone stuck a knife in you”.
“That was a cramp”, you corrected gently. “We’re not even close”.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “God, this waiting’s worse than a hunt”.
You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. “Dean”. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just be here. That’s it”.
His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Yeah, well, not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘just sit there’ job”.
“Funny”, you teased lightly, “’cause you’re actually killing it”.
That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.
You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henry’s heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.
“Hey”, you said softly. “Come sit up here. You’re hovering a hole in the floor”.
He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared.
“This part… it just keeps reminding me”, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. “I wasn’t there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everything”.
You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. “You didn’t make her kind by being gone, Dean. She’s kind because that’s in her, because it’s in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? That’s you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way back”.
He swallowed. “Sometimes I look at her wall and… it feels like a ledger. All the pictures I’m not in”.
“It isn’t a ledger”, you said firm. “It’s a map. It led you home”.
He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, then nodded. “Home”, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.
You slid your thumb over his ring. “You’re here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too… school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands it”.
“I’m already the braid guy”, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when it’s not exciting. Especially then”.
“Good”, you whispered. “That’s all either of them need”.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry I missed her first breath”, he said, voice rough. “I won’t miss his”.
“I know", you whispered.
Dean’s throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked.
“Y’know”, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, “last time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involved”.
You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Dean”.
“I’m just sayin’, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I could—”.
“Dean Winchester, shut up”, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.
And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”.
Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. “Uh—yeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progress”.
You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.
The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. “Not quite there yet”, she reported after a moment. “About three centimeters. Still some time to go”.
Dean exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, “Three centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you to—”.
“Dean!”, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.
The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. “You are insufferable”.
Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. “And you love me for it”.
Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didn’t blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.
“So when he comes out—does he, like… breathe right away? Or—”.
You smiled, sleepy. “He’s been practicing in fluid. Once he’s out, he’ll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything up”.
Dean nodded, storing it like intel. “Okay. Crying is good. For once”. He glanced at the monitor. “And he can’t… y’know… drown before that? I know it’s a dumb question, but—”.
“It’s not dumb”, you said. “Cord’s still doing the job till he starts on his own”.
“Right. Backup line”, he murmured, oddly comforted. “Can I cut it?”.
“If you don’t faint”.
He snorted. “I delivered a ghoul’s head once. I can handle a cord”.
-
Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Dean’s hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.
“Breathe with me, sweetheart”, he tried once. “In through the nose, out through the—”.
“Shut up, Dean!”, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.
He winced like you’d shot him, but nodded fast. “Yep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpful—”.
“DEAN”.
“Right. Silent”. He pressed his lips together.
Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.
The doctor’s voice cut through: “Okay, we’re close. Next one, I want you to push”.
Dean’s hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. “Almost there, baby”.
The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “We’ve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost there”.
Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide.
“Holy shit”, he breathed. “Sweetheart—I can see him. I can see him. He’s—he’s got hair, oh my god, he’s right there—”.
You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “DEAN. Not helping!”.
He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. “Right. Sorry. Just—you’re—he’s—”. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. “God, he’s… he’s right there. Push, baby, push—bring him out—”.
Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.
Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.
Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.
“Strong set of pipes”, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like he’d never seen anything holy before.
When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.
Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting it—don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.
But then Henry’s tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldn’t stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.
His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. “Hi, buddy. Hey…”. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. “God, you’re perfect”.
The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Dean’s shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple.
“You did it, sweetheart”, he whispered.
You stroked Henry’s damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurse’s quiet prompt. “Want to cut the cord?”.
“Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah, I got it”.
He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.
The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.
Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful.
For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbelief—all of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henry’s chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out.
Dean’s whole body jolted. “Shit—sorry, bud, I didn’t—”. His voice broke, quiet and panicked.
But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged.
Dean’s lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, “That’s my boy”.
You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.
The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.
He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newborn’s face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldn’t quite catch.
Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.
“Got a sister waitin’ for you, buddy”, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henry’s cheek. “She’s the loud one. You’re gonna love her”.
Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than you’d ever heard. “That’s it… already got opinions, huh? Just like your mom”.
The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henry’s tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t believe this wasn’t something fragile he’d only ever dreamed about.
He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henry’s head. “Uncle Sammy’s across the street. That’s your guy. He’ll teach you the boring stuff… and I’ll teach you how to drive before you’re supposed to. Don’t tell your mom”.
You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.
Dean hadn’t moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadn’t noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadn’t even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little world—just him and Henry. You’d never seen him so still.
You smiled softly. “Hey”.
He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. “You okay?”.
You nodded, slow and tired. “Think I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?”.
Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasn’t quite done grounding himself.
“Jesus, you’re incredible”, he whispered. “I don’t know how the hell you just did that, but… you did”.
Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henry’s tiny nose. “Well… I had a really cute baby to look forward to”. Dean’s chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. “Though”, you added, smirking faintly, “I gotta say… this is getting a little unfair”.
Dean frowned playfully. “What is?”.
You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. “He looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilah”.
Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. “Oh, c’mon—worse?”.
“Way worse”, you teased, though your voice was warm. “It’s like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpowered”.
Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Guess that means I gotta stick around, huh?”, he murmured. “Can’t have two mini-mes runnin’ around without supervision”.
You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “God help me”.
Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Can’t ask for more than that”.
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: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 7496
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.
When Dean woke up the next morning, for a moment, he looked confused, caught between dream and waking. Then his gaze found you. And God, the way his whole face softened, made your chest ache.
“Hey”, he rasped, voice rough from sleep.
“Hey”, you whispered back, careful not to wake Lilah where she was now tucked in snug between you.
Dean glanced down at her, then back at you, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “She sneaks in like a damn ninja”.
You smirked, brushing a curl off Lilah’s forehead. “Wonder where she gets it from”.
His smile widened just a little, then faltered when he realized his hand was still resting on your stomach. He stilled, eyes flicking from your belly up to your face, a flicker of awe and fear tangled together.
You swallowed, heart thudding, but you didn’t move his hand. You didn’t want to.
Dean’s thumb brushed once, tentative, as if he couldn’t help it. His eyes locked with yours.
Neither of you spoke. The quiet was heavy but full, threaded with everything you hadn’t figured out how to say yet.
Then Dean leaned the smallest bit closer, his lips brushing your temple in the barest kiss. “Merry Christmas”, he whispered.
Dean’s lips had barely left your temple when Lilah stirred. For a second she just looked between the two of you, like her sleepy brain was trying to put the pieces together. Then her face split into a grin. “Merry Christmas!”, she shouted, way too loud for the hour.
You and Dean both winced, stifling your laughs as she scrambled upright. She tugged at Dean’s arm. “Daddy, Daddy, get up! Santa came, I heard him!”.
Dean groaned, rubbing his face with his free hand while keeping the other protectively curved over your stomach. “Buzz, it’s barely—”. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned louder. “It’s not even six”.
Lilah gasped like he’d just told her the worst lie in history. “Santa doesn’t care about clocks!”.
You bit your lip, laughing into the blanket. Dean gave you a helpless look, eyes crinkled in amusement despite his grumbling. “You did this to me”, he muttered.
Lilah was already half off the bed, tugging at the hem of his sweatpants. “C’mon, Daddy, presents! We gotta go now!”.
Dean sighed like a man doomed, then leaned over to press a quick kiss to your lips, gentle but sure, before letting Lilah drag him toward the living room. “Alright, alright”, he muttered, shuffling after her with his hand in hers. “Let’s go see what the big guy left”.
A little while later, the living room looked like Christmas had exploded. Shreds of wrapping paper everywhere, bows stuck to the carpet, and Lilah buzzing from one pile of toys to the next, holding up each treasure like it was made of gold. You and Dean sat side by side on the couch, shoulders brushing.
When Lilah finally settled on the floor with her new craft set, already trying to glue three different things together, Dean shifted beside you. He reached down, pulled something from under the couch, and set a small, square package in your lap.
Your brows rose. “Dean…”.
He shrugged, trying for casual, but the way his jaw clenched gave him away. “Just open it”.
You peeled the paper back carefully, and your breath caught.
It was a leather-bound journal, the edges worn like it had already been handled with care. On the cover, embossed into the leather, was a simple golden bee.
Inside the front cover, in Dean’s scrawl, were the words:
For Bee’s stories. For ours too. Don’t let me miss a damn thing this time.
Your throat closed up. You ran your fingers over the page, blinking fast. “Dean…”.
He shifted, eyes flicking to you nervously. “I figured… you always keep stuff. Pictures, cards, whatever. Thought maybe you’d… y’know, want a place to put it all. For her… For… the baby”.
You laughed through your tears, clutching the journal to your chest. “This is… perfect”.
Dean exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours, a small, crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”.
You leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “Yeah”.
Across the room, Lilah looked up from where she was gluing two plastic ponies together. “What’d Daddy get you?”.
You smiled at her, eyes still wet. “Something really special, baby”.
By late afternoon, the kitchen was humming with voices and laughter. Jodie had arrived with Claire and Alex, arms full of gifts and holiday dishes. Sam and Cas trailed in not long after, shaking the snow from their coats.
It had been over five years since you’d last seen Jodie and the girls. The second you stepped into the entryway, Jodie’s arms were around you, crushing tight, her voice thick in your ear. “God, I missed you”.
Claire and Alex hovered close behind, taller now, older, but both grinning with genuine excitement. Their attention, though, shifted fast to the little whirlwind buzzing around the living room.
Lilah had been shy for all of thirty seconds. Then she proudly announced to the room, “I’m Delilah, but Daddy calls me Buzz, ’cause I’m loud!”.
The three women lit up instantly. Alex dropped to her knees with a grin, Clair bent low with wide eyes, and Jodie’s hand came up to her mouth like she couldn’t hold back the emotion.
“The littlest Winchester”, Alex murmured. “Oh, my God”.
Lilah soaked it up like sunshine, showing off her bee-print pajamas under her Christmas sweater, then dragging them all to the tree to point out her presents.
Sam leaned against the doorway with a smile tugging at his mouth, Cas at his side looking oddly fascinated. “She has your confidence”, Sam said quietly to Dean.
Dean, who hadn’t moved more than a few feet from you since the guests arrived, snorted. “She’s got her mom’s charm too”.
What Sam didn’t point out, though you could feel it in his grin, was how Dean hovered. Always an arm brushing yours, a hand on the small of your back, his eyes finding you across the room whenever you moved too far. And when Jodie’s gaze landed on your hand, on the ring glinting there, her brows lifted high.
“Oh”, she drawled, looking between the two of you, the grin spreading across her face. “Well. Looks like Santa brought more than presents this year”.
Claire snorted into her hand. Alex nudged her with an elbow. Sam laughed outright.
Your face burned, and you ducked your head, but Dean just grinned, unashamed. He slipped his arm fully around your waist and tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The whole room knew, without a word: you and Dean weren’t just back in orbit. You were finding your way back, rings and all.
And Lilah, laughing in the middle of it all, cheeks flushed and curls wild, had never looked happier.
During dinner, the table was full. Plates of food were passed back and forth, laughter layered over laughter, Lilah climbing onto every lap she could until she settled squarely between Dean and Sam, proudly showing Claire her new glitter-glue set.
It was loud and warm and messy, and for a while, you let yourself sink into it.
Dean was at your side, close enough that his knee pressed into yours under the table, his arm draped on the back of your chair like muscle memory. He hadn’t stopped hovering all day, but instead of feeling suffocating, it felt… steady.
Jodie leaned back in her chair, her eyes flicking from Lilah to you. She hadn’t stopped grinning since she walked in, but now her voice softened, threaded with something more personal.
“So”, she said, tilting her head, “how are you doing? I mean, I know you’ve been holding it down all these years, but…”. She glanced at Dean, who was helping Lilah scoop mashed potatoes onto her plate. “This is a lot of change, fast”.
You offered Jodie a small, tired smile, resting your fork down for a moment.
“I’m… okay”, you said honestly. “It is a lot. Having Dean back, sharing the load after doing it alone so long—it’s good, but it’s an adjustment. I’ve been in survival mode for years. Now suddenly, it feels like…”. You hesitated, searching for the right word. “Like there’s space to breathe again”.
Jodie’s expression softened, her hand brushing yours across the table. “You deserve that space”.
Dean glanced over then, catching just enough of the exchange to look guilty and proud all at once. He didn’t say anything, just nudged Lilah’s plate closer and quietly filled your glass of water like it was second nature.
The conversation shifted back into laughter. Sam teasing Claire about her appetite, Alex stealing a roll off Jodie’s plate. Lilah giggled at all of it, swinging her legs happily as she shoveled food into her mouth.
Then, out of nowhere, she piped up in her sing-song little voice: “Mommy, you gotta eat more. Daddy said you have to eat for two now!”.
The whole table froze.
You nearly dropped your fork. Dean’s head snapped toward her so fast you were sure he’d pulled something in his neck.
Lilah blinked innocently, chewing on a green bean like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “What? That’s what you said, Daddy”.
You closed your eyes briefly, groaning under your breath. Of course.
Jodie leaned back slowly, her grin blooming wide. Claire and Alex both leaned forward at once, like they were front-row for the best kind of drama. Sam covered his mouth with his hand, trying and failing to smother a laugh. Cas, ever helpful, tilted his head and calmly supplied: “She means because you’re pregnant”.
The silence broke into chaos.
Jodie laughed so loud it startled Lilah, then pulled you into a fierce hug across the table. “Oh, honey. Congratulations!”.
Claire whooped. Alex clapped her hands and Sam finally let his laugh out, shaking his head in disbelief but looking so damn proud.
“Why is everybody laughing?”, Lilah demanded, brows knitting together. “What’s going on? Nobody tells me anything!”.
The table quieted again, all eyes sliding toward you and Dean.
Dean shifted uncomfortably. For all the hunts, all the monsters, all the life-and-death calls he’d made, this, telling a four-year-old her whole world was about to change, made him look nervous.
You reached across the table, laying your hand over his. “Dean”, you said softly.
His eyes flicked to yours. The look you gave him said we do this together.
He exhaled slowly, then turned Lilah on his knee so she was facing him. He tucked a curl behind her ear, his voice gentle. “Buzz”, he started, “you know how you’ve been asking if you could have a little brother or sister?”.
Lilah’s pout deepened. “Yeah. But nobody listens”.
Dean’s lips twitched. “Well… turns out, Mommy’s got a baby growing in her belly right now”.
Her whole face froze. Eyes wide, mouth a perfect O.
“A BABY?”, she shrieked, so loud everyone at the table jumped.
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Buzz. A baby. You’re gonna be a big sister”.
Lilah gasped. Then she flung her tiny arms around Dean’s neck, nearly knocking his beer over in the process. “BEST! DAY! EVER!”, she yelled.
-
April 24 came in on a blue sky. Five candles waited on a bee-yellow cake inside, but out back the real party was already happening: Dean and Lilah were stress-testing the swing he’d hung from the maple yesterday.
He’d overbuilt the thing, of course, galvanized chain, lag bolts you could hang a truck from, the seat sanded smooth and painted with black-and-gold stripes. “Engineer-approved”, Sam had called across the street when he pulled up earlier to drop paint swatches at the ex-haunted house he’d bought last week. He wanted to be close. That was the whole point.
Now Dean crouched eye-level with Lilah, all serious business despite the birthday crown crooked in her curls. “Hands tight. Belly forward. Toes reach for the sky, Buzz”.
“Toes to the sky”, she echoed, and launched. The chains sang, sunlight sliced through the leaves, and Dean jogged behind her with a hand hovering like a spotter, laughing every time she squealed.
You watched from the porch, one palm curved over the round you’d started carrying without trying to hide. Twenty-three weeks. Five and a half months. It showed now, under the soft knit of your dress, in the way you leaned back without thinking… in how Dean’s hand drifted to your belly even in sleep.
And God, you remembered the first ultrasound.
Dean had paced before you both got called, jitter simmering under his skin like he’d rather be facing down a bunch of ghosts than waiting for a doctor. He’d cracked a joke about cold gel; then the screen bloomed gray and snow, and there was the baby.
“That’s… that’s ours?”, he’d asked, voice already wrecked.
The doc turned the sound on and the room filled with whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, steady and impossibly fast. Dean’s hand found yours and squeezed so hard it should’ve hurt. He cried without making a sound, blinked them away and pretended he hadn’t. He asked for extra printouts and tucked one in his wallet, one under a bee magnet on the fridge, one—God help him—in Baby’s sun visor.
Last week, at the anatomy scan, he’d been worse. Counting fingers, counting toes, counting tiny ribs on the screen like if he named every part he could make a whole life safe. Lilah had come in a shirt that said PROMOTED TO BIG SISTER and asked the ultrasound tech if the baby liked glitter. The baby hiccuped and kicked; you laughed; Dean had to sit down.
Back in the yard, Lilah yelled: “Did you see me, Mommy? I went sooooo high”.
“So high”, you promised, opening your arms. She barreled into your middle on instinct, then remembered and patted your stomach very carefully with the flat of her hands. “Hi, baby bee”, she whispered.
By ten, the doorbell started a marathon. Little sneakers. Paper crowns. Gift bags. Parents filtering in with polite smiles and casseroles they pretended were “nothing”. You’d slated family for tomorrow. Today was kindergarten land.
Dean had thrown on a gray tee that read BEEKEEPER (you swore you didn’t buy it… maybe Sam did), sleeves clinging to his biceps like a public service. He was thirty-something, tan lines and forearms and that walk—half swagger, half “I’ll fix your cabinet right now”. Every mom over thirty-five short-circuited at least once. You could feel the collective sigh when he lifted the drink cooler like it weighed nothing and said, “Where do you want this, sweetheart?”. (To you. You. Which didn’t stop Mrs. Smith from nearly dropping her hummus).
You stifled a laugh becaue he had no idea. Until it was more obvious.
When a blonde in a very determined athleisure set lingered too long asking about “weekend availability for playdates”, he smiled easy, tipped his chin your way, and added, “My fiancée can text you”. You caught his eye; he winked. The athleisure set melted into apologetic chatter and a fruit cup.
Games helped. Dean herded tiny bees with the authority of a drill sergeant and the patience of a saint. “Alright, workers! Bee Olympics in five! Stations are: Pollen Relay, Nectar Scoop, and Hive Build. No stings, no tears, high fives on demand”. (All his ideas).
You worked the craft table, building bee masks with pipe-cleaner antennae. Every so often Dean dropped a kiss to the top of your head on the flyby because he couldn’t not, because it was muscle memory now. He refilled your water without asking. If anybody hadn’t noticed the ring, they had now.
On late afternoon, a dozen kids sat cross-legged on the blanket, faces shiny with sunscreen and happiness, working their way through greasy slices because Dean had declared, “It’s her birthday, we’re doing pizza. I don’t give a—” (you elbowed him) “—hoot if the kale committee revolts”.
You and Sally—Mia’s mom, your first real friend on the block you met years ago—finally sank into camp chairs by the cooler. She bumped your knee with hers, eyes glinting.
“Okay, two things”, she stage-whispered, glancing toward Dean at the drinks table. “One: I now understand why you never showed me a picture. Criminally hot. Two: I also understand why Lilah is that pretty. Genetics did overtime”.
You snorted into your water. “Shut up”.
Sally grinned softer. “He’s good with them. The way he talks to the meltdown kids? I almost cried during Hive Build”.
You looked across the lawn just as Dean crouched to Mia’s level to help her re-tie her bee mask, voice low and patient. Pride punched right through your ribs.
“And… how are you?”, she asked, flicking a glance at your dress, at the way you’d unconsciously braced a palm against your belly. “How far now?”.
“Twenty-three weeks”, you said, smile tipping. “End of August, if this one’s punctual. Which, considering their father—”.
“Hey now”, Dean appeared like he’d been summoned by name, a paper plate stacked with two heroic slices balanced on one hand and a fistful of napkins in the other. “Their father is extremely punctual when pizza’s involved”. He dropped a kiss to your hair without thinking and offered Sally a napkin like a peace treaty. “You want a slice?".
Sally took the napkin, amusement blooming. “I’m good. I was actually grilling your fiancée”.
Dean’s mouth did that lopsided thing. He slid a palm over the small of your back, then, like gravity, settled it where it’s been settling for months now: gentle over your bump. “Grill away”.
“So… end of August?”, Sally prompted.
“Give or take”, you said. “Besides that, the baby likes pancakes and naps during staff meetings”.
“—and classic rock”, Dean added solemnly. “Kicked me during ‘Fortunate Son’".
Sally bit back a laugh. Around you, the mom cluster tried very hard to keep up a conversation about the Spring Fair volunteer list while not blatantly staring at Dean, who dropped into the chair beside you, knees sprawled wide, jeans stretched indecently tight over thighs and hips.
You’d warned him. He’d ignored you. And now half the kindergarten moms were visibly fighting for composure. Every few seconds, their gazes flicked sideways. To the way the denim clung shamelessly over his thighs. To the curve that made you bite your lip sometimes without meaning to. Dean Winchester was blessed, and there wasn’t a pair of Levi’s in the world built to hide it.
He was oblivious. Mostly. He tipped his chair back, chewing through another slice, his palm resting easy on your knee, and the ring on your hand catching sunlight like a warning bell. Still, you caught one mom drop her phone when he shifted to grab his coke.
You caught him licking pizza sauce off his thumb, casual as anything, while the moms collectively forgot how to spell brownies.
Leaning in, you smirked. “You really have no idea, do you?”.
Dean arched a brow, chewing slow. “About what?”.
You tipped your chin toward the semi-circle of women across the blanket. All of them laughing a little too loudly, eyes darting anywhere but directly at him, like teenagers caught staring at the quarterback.
Dean followed your gaze, blinked once, then turned back to you, smirk curling lazy and wicked. “What, them?”. He leaned closer, and before you could stop him, his teeth grazed your jaw in a playful nip. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch.
You swatted at him, hissing, “Dean—”, but it was too late. Half the moms visibly sat up straighter, heat crawling up their necks.
And of course, Dean chose that moment to let his voice drop, low and gravel-warm, not even bothering to keep it discreet. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. You look so damn good carrying my kid. Drives me outta my mind every time I see you”. His hand slid across your thigh, casual but not casual enough.
You froze, cheeks flaming. Sally choked into her soda, covering it with a cough while shooting you the most oh my God look imaginable.
-
You braced one hand on the tiled wall, head tipped under the spray, letting the warmth run down your spine. Dean stood behind you, bigger than the space allowed, arms caging you in without even meaning to. His lips brushed the back of your shoulder, slow, unhurried, tasting water droplets.
You laughed breathlessly, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him. “Thought we were supposed to be showering”.
Dean’s hands skimmed down your sides, pausing to trace the curve of your belly before sliding back to your hips. “We are”, he said, voice low. He pressed himself against you, hard already. “I’m multitasking”.
You rolled your eyes, but it came out shaky when his mouth trailed down the slope of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Dean…”.
“Shhh”. His hands flattened over your stomach. He nosed at your damp hair, lips brushing your temple as he whispered, almost like a confession, “You have no idea what you do to me like this”.
You huffed a laugh, breath fogging the glass. “Dean Winchester”, you teased, voice low and shaky, “do you have a kink?”.
He groaned, forehead pressing to the back of your neck. “Don’t call it that”, he muttered. “I just—”. His grip on your hips tightened. “You’re carrying us. And you’re so goddamn beautiful I can’t think straight”.
Before you could quip back, he shifted, nudging your legs apart with his knee. One hand braced on your belly, protective even now, the other guiding himself. You gasped as the blunt head of him pressed against you. “Dean—”.
“Easy”, he soothed. With one steady push, he slid inside, burying himself to the hilt. The heat, the stretch, the way his chest pressed flush against your back, it was overwhelming.
You clutched the slick tile, a broken sound leaving your throat.
Dean’s groan rumbled against your skin.
“Fuck—yeah. That’s it”.
The water hammered down, but all you felt was him. Every inch of him, every shift of muscle pressed flush against your back. His hips rolled into you, the motion forcing your palm tighter against the slick tile. Your other hand fumbled for the rail, gripping hard, because these days, damn, you were too sensitive. Every drag of him made your legs shake.
“Hold on for me, sweetheart”, he rasped. He guided you into his rhythm, one arm a steel band across your chest, the other cradling your stomach like he was afraid the world might steal it away.
You whined his name, head dropping forward, water streaming over your face, and his mouth was instantly at your jaw, kissing, biting softly, whispering, “I’ve got you. Always”.
He wasn’t fucking you like it was just about heat. He was inside you like he was memorizing you, claiming you. Every time his hips met your ass, his hand pressed firmer against your belly.
Your thighs trembled with each push, each drag, pleasure curling tight in your spine too fast, too sharp. Dean groaned again, his lips brushing your ear. “Sensitive, huh? Baby, you’re—”. His words broke into another thrust, another groan. “So damn perfect like this. All mine”.
The rhythm didn’t last long. “Shit—”, Dean gritted out, hips grinding deep. “Not gonna—can’t—”.
You grinned breathlessly, even as the pleasure coiled hot and fast in your gut. “What happened to—”, you gasped as he ground harder against that spot inside you, “—iron man stamina, Winchester?”.
Dean huffed a broken laugh, already sliding one hand down to where you needed him, circling you with maddening precision. His favorite trick, the one he always pulled when he knew he was close but refused to leave you behind. “Still got enough”, he rasped, lips dragging down your neck. “Always get you there, don’t I?”.
The words, the hand, the angle, it was too much. Your body clenched hard around him, the orgasm tearing through you so fast you cried out, forehead pressed to the tile, the rail digging into your palm as you shook apart.
Dean groaned, following right after you, his hips driving once, twice more before he buried himself deep and spilled inside with a shudder. He held you tight through it, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as the water roared around you both.
You panted, boneless against him, still twitching from the aftershocks. Then, when you could breathe again, you managed a breathless little laugh. “Guess you’re not twenty anymore”.
Dean chuckled into your damp skin, still catching his breath. “Yeah, well—”, he kissed your shoulder, voice rough but smug, “—didn’t hear you complaining”.
You rolled your eyes, grinning, still trembling. “Not yet”.
“Smartass”, he muttered, pulling you closer under the spray like he never wanted to let go.
When you padded out onto the bathmat, towel knotted under your arms, Dean followed, towel slung low on his hips. Without a word, he grabbed the lotion off the counter, uncapped it, and dropped to his knees in front of you.
It had become his ritual. Every shower, every night—you didn’t even have to ask.
Lotion spread over his palms, and then his hands were on you in gentle circles over your bump.
“You don’t have to do this”, you murmured, watching the way his lashes lowered, how focused he was.
“Yeah, I do”, he said simply. “Keeps your skin soft. Keeps my head straight”. He glanced up at you then, green eyes bright. “Lets me talk to ‘em without you calling me crazy”.
Your heart tugged painfully. You reached down, brushed your fingers through his damp hair as he bent and pressed a kiss to the center of your belly, lingering there like it was holy.
“Got names”, he mumbled into your skin.
You blinked, surprised. “Oh, really?”.
Dean’s lips curved against your stomach. “Mhm. Been makin’ a list”. He smoothed more lotion. “Not sure which fits yet”.
You smiled softly, hand still in his hair. “Let’s hear one”.
Dean looked up at you again, cheeks a little pink despite himself. “Not till I cross off the dumb ones”, he said gruffly. “But… I’ll get there”.
You laughed quietly, brushing a drop of water off his temple. “You’re ridiculous”.
“Yeah”, he muttered, kissing your bump again. “Ridiculous about my girls”.
-
By late May, your body had given up any pretense of hiding. Your belly had rounded fast, the kind of growth spurt that had you tugging at shirts that fit fine last week and didn’t cover you now. Dean called it “perfect”, Sam called it “biology” and you just called it “unfair”.
The house echoed with the sounds of hammers and saws. Sam and Dean had torn half the upstairs apart in their free time, converting what used to be one big room into three. Lilah’s, yours, and now, a nursery. It smelled like sawdust and fresh paint, a Winchester mix of chaos and love.
Downstairs, you’d claimed the couch, a pillow under your back, one hand absently stroking the swell of your stomach. Lilah had crawled up beside you with her cheek pressed firmly to your bump.
“Shhh”, she commanded you, one finger over her lips. “I’m listening”.
You smiled, brushing hair out of her eyes. “And? What do you hear?”.
Her little nose scrunched. She leaned in closer, brow furrowed like she was decoding a secret code. Then, suddenly, she gasped. “The baby said it want a Happy Meal for dinner!”
You laughed, startled and full, your hand automatically cradling her head. “Oh, did they?”.
“Mhm!”, Lilah’s eyes were wide with certainty, her tiny hand splayed across your skin. “With nuggets. And fries. And a toy. It said so”.
“You are so your daddy’s daughter”, you murmured, kissing the crown of her curls.
Lilah tipped her head back to look at you, confused but smiling. “Because of the Happy Meal?”.
“Because of everything”, you said, brushing her cheek with your thumb. “The stubborn, the silly, the way you make up rules no one else knows about…”.
“And because I’m cute?”, she asked, grinning wide, gap-toothed.
You smirked. “That too”.
Upstairs came the muffled sound of Dean cursing when something clattered to the floor, followed immediately by Sam’s long-suffering sigh. Lilah’s giggle mirrored yours perfectly, like you’d both heard this routine a thousand times.
“Daddy says bad words when he thinks I can’t hear”, she whispered conspiratorially, then pressed her ear back against your belly. “Baby probably heard it, though. Daddy better be careful”.
You laughed so hard you had to hold your side. God help Dean—one sass machine in the house was already more than enough, and now you had two.
Just then, Dean’s boots thudded on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, sawdust in his hair, T-shirt clinging with sweat, and a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’s so funny down here?”.
Lilah sat up, eyes sparkling. “Mommy says I’m just like you”.
Dean wiped his brow with his wrist and smirked. "Damn right you are, Buzz”.
Then he pushed off the doorframe and came right for you. He leaned down, braced one hand on the back of the couch, and kissed you.
Not a quick peck. Not a “hi, honey, I’m home”.
A long, slow, sweaty, ridiculously hot kiss that tasted like sawdust and salt and Dean being Dean.
You melted, one hand curling into his damp T-shirt before you even thought about it, your body giving away every bit of how much you craved him, even like this. Especially like this.
“Ewwwwww!”, Lilah squealed, squirming beside you. She slapped both hands over her eyes and fell dramatically onto the cushion. “Mommy, Daddy! That’s so gross!”.
Dean pulled back just enough to laugh against your mouth, still close enough that his breath was hot on your lips.
“Daddy!”, Lilah sat back up, nose wrinkled, eyes squinting like she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen. “You’re all stinky and sweaty. Don’t kiss Mommy like that!”.
Dean smirked, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip. “Buzz, Mommy doesn’t seem to mind”.
“Ewwwwwwww!”, She squealed again, rolling into your side and burying her face against your arm like that would erase the sight.
You laughed, cheeks flushed, shoving lightly at Dean’s chest. “She’s not wrong. You do stink”.
Dean just grinned wider, cocky, and pressed another quick, defiant kiss to your temple. “Worth it”.
Then he leaned over, and ruffled Lilah’s curls until she squeaked and tried to bat him away.
“Alright, Buzz”, he said, his tone gentler now, that softness he saved only for her. “Think Mommy’s up for a little field trip?”.
You tilted your head at him. “Field trip?”.
Dean’s grin widened. He bent down, slid a hand carefully under your elbow, and helped you shift upright off the couch. “Nursery’s pretty much finished. Thought maybe you’d wanna check it out”.
Your heart gave a funny little squeeze. “Already?”.
“Mhm”. He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head like he couldn’t help it. “Furniture’s built, crib’s set, Sam’s still upstairs cleaning up sawdust”.
Lilah bounced off the couch. “Can I come? Can I come see? Pleeeease!”.
Dean laughed, scooped her up with one arm, and offered his free hand to you. “What do you say, sweetheart? Wanna see what we pulled off?”.
Your fingers curled around his instinctively, your belly brushing the edge of his arm as you stood. You nodded, a smile tugging despite the heat in your cheeks. “Yeah. Show me”.
Dean led the way up the stairs, Lilah perched on his hip and bouncing like she had a spring coiled under her. She had both hands gripping his shoulders, whispering loudly in his ear, “Is it pink? Is it blue? Is it bees? Please let it be bees, Daddy”.
Dean just grinned and shot you a look over his shoulder. “Buzz, I told you—you gotta see for yourself”.
When you reached the door at the end of the hall, he stopped, shifting Lilah to the floor. “Okay”, he said, crouching to her level. “This is important, alright? You and Mommy get to be the first to see it finished. You ready?”.
Lilah nodded so hard. She grabbed your hand with both of hers, tugging like she couldn’t wait another second.
Dean opened the door with a small, almost nervous flourish.
And your breath caught.
The room was transformed. The walls were soft cream, not too babyish, but warm, sunlight spilling across them through fresh curtains. The crib was sturdy, wood smooth and polished, a tiny bee mobile dangling overhead, spinning lazily in the breeze from the window. A rocker sat in the corner, draped with the quilt you’d kept folded away for years, and shelves already held storybooks, toys, and jars of glittering glass marbles Lilah had “donated”.
Dean had even stenciled little honeycomb shapes along one wall, uneven but so unmistakably him.
“Oh my God”, you whispered, your hand covering your mouth. Tears pricked instantly, hot and unashamed.
Lilah squealed, breaking free from your hand and running straight to the crib. She peered through the bars, then turned wide-eyed to you. “Mommy! Mommy! The baby’s bed! It’s soooo tiny!”.
Dean stood back a little, watching your face like he was terrified you wouldn’t like it, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “It’s not perfect”, he said, voice rough, “but—”.
You cut him off with a watery laugh. “Dean. It’s beautiful”.
Lilah was bouncing on her toes now, pointing at the mobile. “Look, Daddy! Bees! Baby Bee’s gonna love it!”.
Dean chuckled and scooped her up again, and kissed her cheek as she squealed. "Yeah Buzz".
Sam shuffled past the doorway with a broom in hand, his flannel sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair was dusted with sawdust like he’d aged fifty years in an hour. He gave the room a quick glance, then huffed out a dry laugh. “Looks good, right?”, he said, leaning on the broom. “Really good. Can’t wait to start all over again in Lilah’s room tomorrow”.
Dean barked a laugh. “Aw, c’mon, Sammy. You love this domestic crap”.
Sam shot him a look. “I don’t love inhaling half a tree’s worth of sawdust, Dean”. He jabbed the broom toward his brother, smirking. “And you’re buying me beer for this. A lot of it”.
That evening, you stood at the little white dresser, folding tiny onesies.
Tomorrow you’d know. Boy or girl. You’d see another little face on that grainy screen, hear that heartbeat again. And this time, you weren’t walking into that doctor’s office alone.
The thought alone had your throat tight.
The floor creaked. You looked up to see Dean in the doorway, fresh from the shower. Lilah was finally down for the night and the exhaustion around his eyes said bedtime had been a battle. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching you. Not saying anything at first, just… looking.
You set another onesie in the drawer, smoothing it flat with your palm, your chest tightening under the weight of it all. Not doing this alone. Not counting pennies. Not carrying all of it by yourself. Being loved so much it scared you.
“Hey”, you whispered.
“Hey”, Dean echoed, his voice low. He stepped into the room and came to stand behind you. His hands slid around your waist without hesitation, palms warm over the swell of your bump. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his reflection meeting yours in the dresser mirror.
“Didn’t think I’d ever get to do this”, he murmured. “Fold baby clothes. Argue about where the socks go. Build a crib that might actually hold”.
You covered his hands with yours, tears pricking.
He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “Tomorrow we find out, huh?”.
You nodded, smiling faintly at the reflection of his hand cupped so carefully over your belly. “Tomorrow”.
Dean’s grin crooked, boyish, hopeful. “You got a guess?”.
You smiled faintly, resting your hands over his. “I think girl”.
Dean huffed a soft laugh. “Figures. Winchester women outnumberin’ me for the rest of my life”.
You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his grin in the mirror. “What do you think?”.
He hesitated, then shrugged a little. “Boy, maybe. Just feels like a… buzz cut and scraped knees kinda deal”. His grin widened. “But I’ll be happy either way. Long as they’ve got your smile”.
The words tightened your chest, but underneath them, something else pressed in. A weight you’d only just started to notice the past few days.
Dean was here. Really here. Cooking, building, folding laundry, reading Lilah to sleep. And he was good at it. But every now and then, when he thought no one was watching, you caught it in his eyes. A restlessness. A muscle twitch. The part of him that had been forged by the hunt and hadn’t stretched in over seven weeks. It was the longest you’d ever known him to stay put. And though he hadn’t said a word, you knew. He missed it.
You placed a folded pair of socks in the drawer, fingers lingering, and said quietly, “You’ve been grounded a long time, Dean”.
His body tensed, just slightly, behind you. “What d’you mean?”.
You turned in his arms, searching his face. “Seven weeks. No hunts. No bunker. Just… here. With us”.
Dean’s mouth opened, closed, his jaw tight. He tried to play it off with a shrug. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta make sure your Happy Meal orders are supervised”.
But you saw the flicker in his eyes. The truth he wouldn’t say.
“You should join Sammy again”, you whispered, your palm smoothing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath.
“Wait—what?”. His brows drew together, his voice low and rough. “No. No way. I’m not leavin’ you and Bee again. Not now”.
You shook your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I didn’t say leave. I said join him. Just for a case. A short one. You’ve been here seven weeks, Dean. I see it in your eyes—you miss it”.
He scoffed, looking away, but you caught the flicker of guilt before he masked it. “That life almost took me from you once. I’m not risking it again”.
“Dean…”. Your voice cracked a little. You pressed your hand firmer against his chest, grounding both of you. “I don’t want you to resent this. Resent us. If you need to go out there sometimes, then… then go. Come back. But go”.
“Sweetheart—”.
You cut him off softly. “You were a hunter for thirty years. You can’t just switch it off like a light. I know you miss it. And if you don’t let yourself breathe every once in a while, you’re gonna suffocate here. And we’ll all feel it”.
Dean stared at you. The silence stretched, heavy, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the curve of your bump.
“You’d really be okay with that?”, he asked finally, voice raw. “Me takin’ off for a weekend, leaving you here?”.
Your throat tightened, but you nodded. “As long as you come back. Every time. To us”.
-
The next morning, the clinic waiting room felt too small. Dean hadn’t stopped fidgeting since you walked through the door, flipping through outdated magazines without reading a word, cracking his knuckles and tugging his flannel sleeves up and down.
“You’re making me dizzy”, you murmured, sliding your hand onto his thigh to still it.
Dean froze, then huffed out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. Just—”. He shook his head. “I’ve faced down wendigos, demons, hell, even death—and I swear, this is scarier”.
You smiled faintly, leaning toward him. “It’s just an ultrasound”.
He gave you a look. “It’s our kid”. His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and his hand slipped over yours, lacing your fingers tight. “What if I mess this up? What if—”.
“Dean”. You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him stop. “You’re not gonna mess this up. You’re already doing it. Every day”. Before he could argue, the nurse opened the door and called your name. Dean shot up like he’d been drafted. “That’s us”, he said unnecessarily, gripping your hand like he thought you might bolt.
Inside, Dean hovered at your side, one hand braced on your shoulder, the other gripping yours so tight your fingers tingled.
“Healthy heartbeat”, the doc said gently. “And—if you want to know today—we can check the gender”.
Dean looked at you like you were the one holding the whole world. “Do we…? You sure you wanna know?”.
You nodded, your heart hammering as you glanced at Dean.
The doc adjusted the probe, squinting at the screen. “Alright… looks like you’re having…”. She tapped a spot, angled the wand just right, and smiled. “A boy”.
For a second, Dean didn’t react. His eyes flicked from the screen to your belly to the screen again, like he couldn’t make the math work. Then it hit. His lips parted, a shaky laugh escaping. “A boy”, he whispered, his grip on your hand almost bruising now. “Holy shit. A boy”. Dean let out a broken laugh, dragging his free hand down his face, and when he dropped it, there were tears streaking down his cheeks. “I… I got a son?”. His voice cracked hard on the word. He shook his head in disbelief, grinning through the tears. “I got a daughter and a son?”.
You squeezed his hand, your own tears spilling over. “Yeah. You do”.
-
When you walked through the door, Lilah was sprawled on the living room floor, glitter glue and construction paper everywhere. Sam sat on the couch, clearly on babysitting duty, though from the looks of the chaos, “duty” had been stretched thin.
“Mommy! Daddy!”, Lilah scrambled up, eyes wide. “Did you see the baby? Did you? Did the baby say hi?”.
Dean scooped her up mid-run, settling her against his hip. His face was flushed, eyes still rimmed red, but his grin was unstoppable. “We did, Buzz. And guess what—”. He paused dramatically, eyes flicking to you for permission. You nodded, biting your lip.
Dean lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s a boy”.
Lilah gasped loud. “A brother?”.
Dean chuckled, kissing her temple. “That’s right”.
She wriggled in his arms, eyes sparkling. “What’s his name? Does he have a name?”.
Dean’s grin softened. “Yeah”, he said quietly, his voice catching just a little. “He does”.
Sam leaned forward, curious. You waited too, your heart thudding. You hadn’t known Dean had settled on one. You’d told him weeks ago: I chose Delilah. This time, it’s yours to give.
“Henry”, he said finally, voice low but certain. “Henry Winchester”.
Your chest clenched.
“Always liked that name. Strong. Simple. Feels like… I dunno. Feels like family, without the baggage”.
“Henry”, Lilah said, testing it out with all the drama of a queen declaring a law. Then her face lit up like Christmas morning. “I love it! Henry is perfect! Hi, Henry!”.
From the couch, Sam’s voice came quiet but warm, that deep rumble that always carried. “Henry Winchester”. He let it sit in the air for a beat, then smiled. “Congratulations. Both of you”.
Your eyes stung as you nodded, meeting Sam’s gaze. There was pride there, and relief, and something heavier, like he was seeing his brother finally get the life he’d been robbed of for too long.
Dean’s grip on you tightened, one arm still holding Lilah, the other hand reaching for yours. “Thanks, Sammy”, he murmured, voice a little rough.
Was thinking of some… touch starved Dean with a female reader?
Smut but very intimate.. just cradling Dean in your arms while you take him. Always had this idea floating around in my head of being on top while holding his big head with my small arms. So my chest is pressed under his chin and he just burrows his nose in my shoulder..
I love your blog sm and couldn’t wait to give you my first ask💕💕
⋆｡ ˚ hold me like this
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean, aching for touch he rarely asks for, lets you cradle him close while you ride him slow.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 713 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ soft smut!!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, touch starvation, intimate sex, emotional vulnerability, soft dom reader, gentle penetration, slight size difference emphasis
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
you’re on top, thighs bracketing his hips, and the motel room feels smaller than usual. just the low hum of the heater and the sound of dean breathing against your skin. he’s so warm beneath you, broad and solid, yet right now he feels fragile in a way that makes your chest ache.
you cup the back of his head with both hands, your smaller arms wrapping around him like you can hold all of him together. his forehead presses to your sternum, nose buried deep in the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. every shaky exhale ghosts hot across your collarbone.
“that’s it,” you whisper, sinking down another inch. he stretches you perfectly, thick and hard and already twitching inside you. “i’ve got you, d.”
a low, broken sound vibrates against your chest. not quite a moan. something smaller. needier. his arms circle your waist, hands splaying wide across your back like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
you roll your hips slow, grinding instead of bouncing. your breasts press soft and warm under his chin, skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. he nuzzles closer, lips brushing the swell of one breast, then hiding again in the crook of your neck like he can’t decide whether he wants to taste you or disappear completely.
“been so long,” he mumbles against your skin. his voice cracks halfway through. “didn’t realize how bad i… fuck.”
you tighten your arms around his head, fingers threading through short hair, cradling him like something precious. you rock a little harder and he groans, the sound muffled against you. his hips lift to meet yours, desperate and uncoordinated, like his body is chasing contact more than release.
“i know,” you breathe. the words feel too honest, too raw. “i’ve got you. just feel me.”
you keep one hand on the back of his head, the other sliding down to grip his shoulder. every time you sink down fully, taking him to the hilt, his breath stutters.
he’s shaking. actually shaking. you can feel the fine tremors in his thighs, in the arms wrapped around you. his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, then soothing with his tongue. needing to taste, to feel, to consume the warmth he’s been starving for.
you tilt your head, pressing your cheek to his hair. “you’re safe here. with me. let it out, baby.”
a whimper escapes him then. real and quiet and so unlike dean it makes your heart clench. you ride him a little faster, still deep, still close. the wet sound of your bodies meeting is soft. sweat slick between your chests. his nose stays buried in your shoulder like it’s the only place he wants to be.
you squeeze around him on purpose and his whole body jerks.
“shit—sweetheart—” his voice is wrecked. “don’t stop. please don’t stop.”
“i won’t,” you promise, lips against his temple.
dean touches people like he’s waiting for them to break at the contact. but right now, he’s letting you hold him, letting you surround him, letting you fuck him slow while he hides his face in your body. your arms start to burn from holding his head so close, but you don’t loosen them. not even a little.
he comes first, hips stuttering up into you with a muffled groan that vibrates straight into your chest. you follow right after, clenching around him, forehead pressed to his hair as the pleasure rolls through you warm and heavy.
afterward, you don’t move. you stay wrapped around him, his softening cock still inside you, his face still tucked into your neck and shoulder. his breathing slowly evens out, but his arms stay locked around your waist.
you stroke his hair, gentle and slow. “you can have this whenever you need it,” you whisper. too honest. a little clumsy.
dean doesn’t answer with words. he just presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then hides his face again like he’s not ready for you to see whatever expression he’s making.
the ache in your arms matches the faint, sweet ache between your legs. you hold him tighter anyway, and for a little while longer, dean winchester lets himself be held like he matters more than anything else.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary: When it comes to the Impala, there's no joking.
Author Notes: Humor; Offended Dean; A collab with @princessmisery666, she came up with the idea. :)
Word Count: 1,178
Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester
Word of the Day: (June 4, 2026) - Alloy
Graphics: Made by me.
Word of the Day Master Lists: June // May
It's another dingy motel, next to a worn-down gas station slash auto shop, in another back-end-of-nowhere town. Dean has been driving for hours, and though it's still early evening, you've all grown road weary and agree it's time for a break.
Sam offers to get the rooms, so you and Dean take the opportunity to stretch your limbs while waiting outside. Peering through the large front window, you can tell it will be a while before Sam returns with the keys. The clerk is chatting him up, and his relaxed stance shows he's enjoying the conversation.
The faded blue bench out front has seen better days, but it is a more welcome option than getting back into the car. At least the weather is nice. Dean chose to lean against the trunk, staring at the abandoned barn in an otherwise open field across the street.
Tilting your head back against the wall, you're about to close your eyes when you catch movement to your right. Sitting upright, you watch the portly man, whom you assume to be the shop's mechanic, make his way over to Baby. As he wipes his dirty hands on an already grease-filled cloth, your eyes dart to Dean as you silently recite, "Don't touch the car. Don't touch the car."
With an admiring gaze and a slight lisp, the man offers, “She’s beautiful.”
Dean turns, puffing his chest as he straightens, “Damn right she is.”
The mechanic—'Gary' according to the name tag stitched to his shirt—slowly circles the Impala, nodding and humming approval while, thankfully, keeping his hands to himself.
Gary mentions his appreciation for the classics, and you sigh as Dean gets looped into the fanboying, discussing craftsmanship, performance, and the dedication and devotion it takes to keep them running. It's easy to see the moment Dean decides he likes the guy.
“Original wheels too."
Dean nods, "Yep," grinning widely as if he’d made them himself.
“That’s rare. Most people modernize them.”
“Not this one.” He lovingly pats the Impala's roof.
Sighing, you look over your shoulder. Sam is now leaning on the counter, face turned enough that you see his smile. Not interested in being involved in either conversation, you decide you're going to take an extended walk around the hotel, when Gary pipes up.
“Well, sure, but you could make a few improvements.”
Oh, shit.
You know exactly how this is going to turn out. A quick glance at Dean finds him open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and momentarily speechless. Deciding this will be much more entertaining than a walk, you take a couple of steps closer to the front of the car.
Dean blinks, finally muttering, “Improvements?”
Gary gestures toward the tires, “Yeah, you could swap those for some nice alloys.”
Dean stares, body stiff. The mechanic smiles, looking to you when you mumble, “Oh no.”
Gary's smile fades seeing you shake your head. “What?”
“Did you say alloy?”
“Yeah,” he stretches the syllable out with uncertainty, looking between you and Dean. "What's wrong with that?
“You want me,” Dean slowly utters, “to replace her rims?”
“Well ...”
“Factory rims.”
“Sure. Why not?” Gary laughs, but with nervous hesitation.
Dean looks personally wounded. “On purpose?”
“Dean,” you caution.
“No." He shakes his head and wags a finger at you. "No. I wanna make sure I understand.”
Gary shrugs as he looks to you and daringly pushes on. “You know, better performance, less weight.”
“You think she needs to lose weight?!” Dean shrieks, horrified.
Okay, now it's getting funny, and you have to bite your lip to hide your grin.
“What? It’s just a car. All I'm saying is, you'd get better handling, and if you made some additional modifications …” Gary lifts a hand as if to run it along the hood, and you quickly clear your throat to get his attention and vehemently shake your head. Finally realizing that he may have stepped into a minefield, he weakly finishes, "You could turn her into a show car."
“Just a car!” Dean gestures wildly toward Baby. “She’s perfect!”
You snort, quickly putting a hand over your mouth to hold back the laugh that wants to follow.
“I’m just saying alloys have advantages.” The smile that tugs at his lips hints that Gary knows that he's riling Dean up, and he's getting a kick out of it now.
“Her rims are awesome!" Dean looks like he's ready to throw fists as he huffs, "And …and they have the advantage of character!”
You lose the battle and laugh out loud.
“Actually, Dean,” unable to stop yourself, you tease, “Dude has a point. Chrome alloys might look nice.”
His head whips around so fast, you're afraid he might have given himself whiplash. “SERIOUSLY?”
“I’m just saying.”
“NO!”
“Maybe lower the suspension a little.”
“Stop. Talking.”
Voice deadly calm, he wears the same demeanor as when he's plotting something's demise. You hesitate for a second, thinking that you pushed him a bit too far. After all, you'd stopped early because you had all reached your limit of exhaustion and polite, confined coexistence.
Then Gary, who looks delighted that you agree with him, tosses another log on the fire. “Exactly. Maybe some racing stripes.”
Screw it. This is the most fun you've had in weeks. “Or …” holding out your hands like you're framing Baby for a photo shoot, "a Velvet Purple Pearl Mica paint job.”
Dean clutches his chest and croaks out, "You people are sick."
You're about ready to toss out another one, but see Dean's chest heaving. He looks like he's about to hyperventilate or have a stroke. You've definitely gone too far now, but Gary hasn't caught up yet.
“We’re just…what do you kids call it…" he looks to you questioningly, then snaps his fingers, "brainstorming.”
“You’re committing crimes! People have been killed for less,” Dean spits.
Lightly touching Gary's forearm, you grab his attention and shake your head with a conspiratorial smile. He gives another glance to Dean and then turns back to you with a knowing wink. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your evening.
You walk over to Dean as Gary walks back into his garage. "Hey."
He jerks away when you reach for him. "Leave me alone."
"Dean, come on," you plead. "We were just joking."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't funny."
Turning his back on you, he runs a hand over the Impala's roof, murmuring reassurances that she's perfect, and no one is going to change anything about her.
Putting on your best pout, you whine his name, "Deeeeeeean," but he ignores you.
Sam steps out of the lobby a moment later, two keys dangling from his fingers, "Hey, is it okay if you two share a room tonight?" His grin is hopeful, but quickly fades as he assesses the situation. Dean is bent over the hood, arms spread wide, cheek resting on the now-cooled metal. You stand a couple of feet away, hands on your hips, and a sad frown on your lips.
