Just a writer lost in a world of fictional characters.
Writing about Fantasy, Romance, and Smut. Currently obsessed with Supernatural/Enemies to Lovers.
Thanks for stopping by.
---
"Here, stories never truly end. They just find new authors and live a thousand different lives."
I wasn't looking for him. I was trying to forget my grief, mistakes, the life I thought I was supposed to have.
One afternoon. One bar. One stranger with a worn jacket and tired eyes. And suddenly I was standing in the middle of something I didn't understand yet.
He didn't promise forever.
He didn't try to rewrite me.
He stayed.
Even when staying meant monsters, secrets, and blood on the floor.
(Dean)
I wasn't looking for anything when I rolled into that college town. Just a drink. A night where nobody knew my name.
Then there was her.
One night turned into consequences I couldn't outrun. A child I didn't know how to protect from the world I live in, and a woman who refused to be kept in the dark.
Protecting her is instinct.
Protecting our child is survival.
Convincing myself I won't destroy them both? That's the real fight.
Content warning: 18+, MDNI, graphic depictions of violence, strong language, sexual content, horror and gore, trauma & PTSD, panic attacks & emotional breakdowns, one-night stand, kidnapping/hostage situation, gun violence and explicit threats, psychological terror, mutilation, trauma response/emotional breakdown, grief/betrayal, explicit sexual content, unresolved emotional conflict, tense family dynamics, harassment, pregnancy & pregnancy-related themes, abandonment & betrayal, past child abuse, controlling behavior
Hm...let's see. 🤔 Scoobynatural, Baby, Mystery Spot, Folsom Prison Blues, Bad Day at Black Rock, Yellow Fever, Wishful Thinking, It's a Terrible Life, I Believe the Children are our Future, Changing Channels, Sam Interrupted, Dark Side of the Moon, Weekend at Bobby's, the French Mistake, Lebanon...wow! 🤭 I don't think that's all of them. But yeah...thank you. How about yours?
Beau is there for you after a bad day at work. (Beau Arlen x Reader, Big Sky)
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I'll See You by @winchestergirl2
Working a case with Colter leads the Shaw brothers to a shadow organisation. An organisation that wants Russell to handle one last job for them. With no choice but to do what they want, Russell has to make a call to you. (Russell Shaw x Reader, Tracker)
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Not Only For Duty by @zepskies
Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. When Éomer is injured while on patrol, you both begin to learn important lessons in patience, and Valar forbid, communication. (Éomer x Reader, Lord of the Rings)
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Call Out My Name by @spn-bee
To save her friend, runaway Alpha Alex Donovan needs a hunter. She gets Dean Winchester, an Omega hiding his true nature. When a mission exposes his secret, they're thrown into a war with her old life and an obsessive ex. Trapped between instinct and training, their only hope is each other. (Omega!Dean x AlphaFemale!OC, Supernatural)
Chapters: 19/? (New Chapter: Chapter 14: The Line We Crossed)
Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005), Supernatural
Rating: Mature
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Azazel (Supernatural), Ellen Harvelle, Bobby Singer (Supernatural), Gabriel (Supernatural), Gabriel's Vessel (Supernatural)
Additional Tags: Eventual Smut, Drama & Romance, Action & Romance, Mystery, Fluff and Angst, Strong Language, Unplanned Pregnancy, Pregnancy, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Demon possession, Sexual Content, Protective Dean Winchester, Overprotective Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Elements, Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Past Trauma, Betrayal
Summary:
(Rae/Reader)
I wasn’t looking for him. I was trying to forget my grief, mistakes, the life I thought I was supposed to have.
One afternoon. One bar. One stranger with a worn jacket and tired eyes. And suddenly I was standing in the middle of something I didn’t understand yet.
He didn’t promise forever.
He didn’t try to rewrite me.
He stayed.
Even when staying meant monsters, secrets, and blood on the floor.
(Dean)
I wasn’t looking for anything when I rolled into that college town. Just a drink. A night where nobody knew my name.
Then there was her.
One night turned into consequences I couldn’t outrun. A child I didn’t know how to protect from the world I live in, and a woman who refused to be kept in the dark.
Protecting her is instinct.
Protecting our child is survival.
Convincing myself I won’t destroy them both? That’s the real fight.
Summary: Dean has spent months doing the responsible thing. But Rae is done being handled, and when she pulls him over the line, he stops pretending too. For a few minutes, it’s almost enough.
Until Garth knocks.
Characters: Dean Winchester/Dean Campbell, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Mary Rae Campbell/Reima M. Park-Gibbs (OFC)
Content/Trigger Warning: Consensual sexual tension/escalation, interrupted sexual encounter, pregnancy-related vulnerability, strong language, emotional distress, betrayal/secrets, references to prior trauma and a past assault, and a heated argument
**No on-page pregnancy loss. No graphic violence in this chapter.**
(Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
(Dean's POV)
The kiss was supposed to stay careful.
It didn't. Not right away. Not before Garth started trying to knock the damn door off its hinges.
But for a few minutes right before everything went to hell, there was nothing but her mouth, her hands dragging me closer, and the small, wrecked sounds she made against my lips.
That got under my skin fast.
Her hand slid up into my hair, nails scraping lightly at the back of my neck, and my hands wanted too much. I grabbed the quilt instead of her, cotton bunching in my fists, because if I grabbed her the way I wanted to, I wasn't sure I'd remember how to let go.
I angled closer, chest almost against hers. She smelled like warm skin, laundry soap, and that faint pear stuff she used, and none of it helped.
Against my mouth, she let out this low and shaky sound meant entirely for me.
Mine to hear.
God help me, I liked that too much.
I pulled back half an inch, my lips still brushing hers.
"Rae."
She chased my mouth before I could get the rest out. I held back just enough to make her miss.
Her eyes opened, and she gave me the look. Like I had personally offended her, the bed, and the whole damn room.
"What?" Breathless and irritated.
I almost smiled. "You good?"
She stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Dean."
"Yeah?"
"If I wasn't good, you'd know."
Yeah. There she was. No hiding, no backing down.
I huffed a rough laugh against her lips, and she swallowed the sound with another kiss, harder this time. Less careful. Her fingers twisted into the rough cotton of my shirt, like she was done letting me retreat, and any joke I had left in my head went straight out the window.
Months.
Months of wanting her and doing nothing about it. Months of lying beside her with every inch of me locked down. Months of walking away before I did something stupid.
And now she was right here. Pulling me closer. Choosing it. Choosing me.
I kissed her deeper, angling my head to take more, and this time I let myself touch her. One hand braced beside her hip, the other slid up to her jaw, thumb finding the hard beat of her pulse. Fast.
Just like mine.
Rae made this small, impatient sound against my mouth and dragged her hands over me like she couldn't decide where to start. My chest. My stomach. The front of my shirt. She tugged at the fabric hard.
I would've laughed if I had any air left.
Then her fingers slipped under the hem. Warm palms against bare skin.
That was it. My whole body tried to move at once.
I went still. Not because I wanted to stop. God, no. Because right now, a part of me wanted to move into her, over her, against her. Taking more than I trusted myself to take slow.
So I stayed where I was. Breathing hard, one hand braced beside her hip, the other still at her jaw.
Her fingers curled slightly against my skin. "Dean?"
I looked at her. Flushed cheeks. Wet lashes. Mouth swollen from mine. Scared, yeah. But still in the room with me.
"We don't gotta do this tonight," I said.
Her brow pulled tight like I'd just spoken Enochian. "What?"
Her fingers loosened against me, her hand landing my thigh. Not teasing now. Then she leaned back just enough to see my face, and I watched the hurt turn right into attitude.
"Are you stopping because you want to stop," she asked, "or because you think I'm going to break?"
Damn.
My thumb brushed her cheek. Stupid. Soft. Exactly the kind of thing that made me want to forget why I'd opened my mouth in the first place.
"I mean it."
Her mouth tightened.
"Don't think for one second I don't want this," I said fast.
"Then what are you saying?"
I made myself pull my hand away, planting it on the mattress beside her hip. Safer there. If I kept touching her face, I was gonna cave.
I dragged in a breath through my nose. Bad idea. She was too close. Her scent. Her hand on me. Her lips right there like it had no respect for the fact that I was trying to be a decent guy. The stupid animal part of me was not helping.
"Look, tonight was hell." I swallowed hard. "And I'm right here." Her eyes stayed on mine.
"Don't make me the guy you grab because he's standing closest."
I needed to hear it plain. Hated that I did. My throat had gone tight, and every old screwup I had with her was sitting right there between us. Because the last time we got anywhere near this, grief had yanked her away from me.
That, and some fake English bastard in her headphones.
I wasn't doing that again. Not to her. Not to me.
Rae's fingers curled against my thigh, just enough that my body forgot we were having a conversation.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"I want you."
My grip tightened in the sheets.
She leaned closer, her mouth almost touching mine."Dammit, I want you," she said. "Not because you're here. Not because tonight hurt. Because it's you."
A heavy silence settled between us. I didn't trust a damn thing that might come out if I parted my lips.
"If I wanted a distraction, I would've asked for one." A quick kiss landed on my mouth.
"I asked you to kiss me because I wanted you." Another kiss. Softer. Meaner somehow.
"And I'm telling you to stop interrupting me."
"Rae—"
"No." Her hands came up and caught my face, gentle enough to hurt.
My breath caught. She held me there, eyes locked on mine. "I love you," she said, quieter now. "I want you. I'm scared. All three can be true, genius."
That one hit hard.
I'd been doing what I always did. The second she looked rattled, I backed off, shut down, and started looking for something to kill.
But she was looking right at me.
Scared.
Wanting me anyway. And for once, maybe my job wasn't to fix it. Maybe it was to believe her.
"You got your answer. So unless you actually want to stop," she said, "shut up and kiss me."
God help me.
I almost smiled. "Always this damn bossy?"
"You always this bad at following directions?"
She was gonna be the death of me.
I kissed her before she could say another damn word. This time I let some of the control go. Just enough to let my hands do what they'd been begging to do for months. My hand slid down her side and caught at her hip, fingers bunching in the fabric. I pulled her closer, careful without wanting to be, keeping my weight off her stomach even when every dumb part of me wanted more.
Rae shifted against me, impatient and awkward, trying to get closer when there wasn't much closer to get.
My hands went to her hips on instinct. Not just because I wanted them there, but because she wasn't steady. The edge of the bed was too damn close, and one wrong move would send her to the floor before I could stop it.
My brain was real helpful like that. Half hard-up idiot, half damn fire alarm. But it didn't last long.
A frustrated little sound broke against my mouth.
Yeah. That made two of us.
I pulled back just enough to look down. Pink overalls. Right. Of freaking course.
My forehead dropped against her shoulder. "You gotta be kidding me."
"What?"
"These things come with instructions?"
For half a second, she just stared. Then she laughed. A real one.
"Shut up, Dean."
"I'm serious. There's buckles. There's straps. This is a whole situation."
"You disarm cursed boxes faster than this."
"Cursed boxes don't kiss me while I'm working."
She made this smug little sound and kissed the corner of my mouth.
Yeah.
My head had checked out.
I fumbled with the straps until the buckles finally gave.
"Ha."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you. Huge personal victory."
"Dean."
"Right. Shutting up."
Her fingers slid under my shirt again, and that shut me up better than anything. I lifted my arms when she pushed the fabric higher, and she tugged it over my head, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed.
Her eyes dropped to my chest. And stayed there. On the tattoo. The old scars. The marks I didn't think about unless somebody looked too long.
Her fingers hovered for half a second before they touched me, softer than I was ready for. They brushed the ink first, then dragged lightly over one of the scars near my ribs.
For a moment, I thought she might ask. She didn't.
Her eyes came back to mine instead. She looked wide awake, a little desperate, and pissed off that I could tell how much she wanted this.
I knew the feeling.
I reached for her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. She turned into my hand and kissed my palm. That should've been sweet. Then her mouth curved against my skin, and the tip of her tongue flicked over the center of my hand.
That hit low and dirty, and my jeans got real uncomfortable real fast.
Rae looked up at me, and there was the smallest, meanest little smile on her mouth.
God help me. She was a menace.
"Reima."
"What?" she asked, all innocent.
"Don't start something you don't want me to finish."
Her smile widened just enough to be dangerous. "Is that right, Winchester?" Then she pushed at my shoulders.
I went down easy because I wanted to. Because she wanted me down, and there wasn't a single decent thought left in my head arguing against it.
My back hit the pillows, and before I could get myself together, she was climbing over me, all tangled up in those loose straps and stubborn as hell about it. Her shirt had ridden up beneath the loose bib, just enough for my thumb to brush warm skin.
That little bit of her hit harder than it had any right to.
August flashed through my head. Her under me. My hands on her. No baby between us. No reason to be this careful except the ones we'd made a mess of afterward.
If she hadn't been pregnant, I would've rolled her over and let my body remember the rest.
Which was exactly why I didn't move.
My hand stayed there, thumb against bare waist, every part of me wanting more.
She noticed. Rae huffed through her nose, her jaw setting slightly like she was choosing not to pick that fight. Her mouth curved.
"You really want to test me tonight." I muttered.
"Maybe." That was her whole answer.
My fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, slow enough to give her time to stop me.
She didn't.
Instead, she moaned, and I was not ready for it. Not even close. Her back arched into my hands, and I caught her hips before she could throw herself off balance. "Careful." Her glare could've peeled paint.
"I swear to God, if you hover right now—"
"Not hovering. Just trying to keep you from cracking your skull open."
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass."
"Yeah? Could've fooled me, sweetheart."
"Keep talking and I might prove it."
I grinned despite myself.
Then she settled over me, knees braced on either side of my hips. Her belly kept her from getting as close as either of us wanted, and somehow that made it worse. Hotter. Meaner. I pushed up onto one elbow so she didn't have to lean so far.
Her hands landed on my chest. For a second, neither of us moved. The whole damn room seemed to hold its breath. Hers was already rough. Mine wasn't doing much better.
"Rae."
Her eyes closed for half a second. When she opened them again, she wasn't asking anymore. She leaned down and kissed me. No question in it this time.
I groaned into her mouth before I could stop it. Her hips shifted over mine, and every part of me wanted her closer. Wanted her under me. Wanted inside her. Now.
My hands tightened on her hips. Too hard.
I forced them loose, spreading my palms over her instead of gripping. I was not going to bruise her just because I wanted more than I knew what to do with.
Her mouth moved to my jaw, then down my throat, and my head tipped back against the pillow. My back came off the mattress a little when her mouth found that spot below my jaw.
"Rae." It came out more warning than name.
She didn't stop.
Her hips moved again, small and clumsy with the way she was balanced over me, and my fingers dug into the sheet instead of her.
Then her hand slid down my stomach. Slow. Her fingertips skimmed the waistband of my jeans, brushing bare skin like she hadn't meant to and absolutely had.
"Jesus, Rae..." I groaned against her touch. Her hand paused there, warm against my lower stomach.
"Hey." Her fingers hooked at my belt.
"Look at me." Her eyes lifted to mine.
I dragged in a breath. "This isn't one night for me." I hated how naked that sounded, so I made it meaner. "You hear me?"
Her fingers went slack against my belt.
"So if you're gonna run tomorrow," I said, "tell me now."
She leaned forward until her forehead touched mine, her face too close. "Dean Fuckin' Winchester. I'm not running. Okay?"
"Rae."
"I'm scared. There's a difference."
That one shut me up.
"Your move, Dean." Her fingertip traced a slow line down my stomach, stopping just above my waistband.
A hard shudder went straight through me. I dropped my hand back to the mattress and let her have the belt.
She worked at the buckle, muttering under her breath when it caught. Her tongue poked out between her teeth as she fought with the stiff leather and the heavy metal prong.
I laughed, breathless. "You want help with that?"
"No." She gave the belt a savage little tug, and the buckle finally gave. Then her fingers went for the zipper. My whole body locked up.
The zipper came down slow. I stopped breathing like an idiot. For half a second, she just stared.
And yeah, the old me? The stupid, cocky bastard wanted to smirk. Because the look on her face? That was a hell of a thing. But then her lips parted, her tongue barely touching the corner of her mouth, and every bit of smug I had left burned straight out of me.
The pressure eased just enough to make everything worse. My hips lifted before I could stop them.
"Sweetheart..."
Her eyes flicked up to mine, way too pleased with herself. "Move down."
I was too far gone to argue. Hell, I don't think arguing even crossed my mind.
I shifted down until my boots hit the floor. Rae slid down with me, slower than she wanted to, one hand braced on my thigh and the other catching the edge of the bed for balance.
Then her hands pushed my knees apart.
Christ.
"Reima..." I leaned back, bracing my palms flat on the mattress behind me.
She only looked up at me.
And I completely stopped breathing.
She leaned in—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Dean!"
We both froze. For half a second, all I could hear was us breathing.
Then Garth hit the door again. "Dean! Man, open up! The snake's awake! He's talking!"
Rae went still, both hands braced on my thighs. Her mouth stayed open. No sound came out.
Mine either.
I knew that tone. Trouble. Real trouble.
"Dean?" she whispered.
The door swung open before I could answer. Garth stumbled in, already talking. "I know, I know, I am so sorry, but the demon finally started talking and Gabriel said the demon's—"
He stopped dead. And yeah, I knew exactly what he saw.
Me shirtless, jeans open, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Rae between my knees, straps hanging loose, hands still flat against my thighs.
His eyes went wide, bounced off Rae, bounced off me, then shot straight to the ceiling.
"Oh. Wow. Okay. Hey, Rae. Sorry. I knocked—Well, I thought I knocked. I'm just gonna look at the pipes. Nice pipes in here."
"Garth." My voice cut hard. "Door."
Son of a bitch. The word was already in the room.
Demon.
Rae didn't look away from me. Completely motionless. Then her fingers tightened against my thighs. Not like before. Leverage. She shifted her weight back, one hand bracing on the mattress, the other against my knee as she tried to get one foot under her. It was awkward as hell and too careful for how furious she looked.
I moved before I could stop myself, reaching to catch her elbow.
Her eyes snapped to my hand. “Don’t.”
I froze, my fingers an inch from her skin.
She pushed herself up anyway, slow and stubborn, her palm sliding across the nightstand when her balance wobbled. By the time she was on her feet, her breathing was harder than she wanted me to notice. Her overalls were still hanging open, her shirt was wrinkled, and the color had drained out of her face under all that anger.
I reached blindly for my discarded shirt. My stomach dropped hard. The bed, her mouth, her hands on me...all of it got shoved behind that word.
My brain snapped back into the room before the rest of me caught up. Door. Hall. Rae between me and both. Too close to the open doorway. Too exposed.
"Rae—"
"You brought a demon here?"
Garth made a small, miserable sound from the doorway. "I'm just gonna—"
"Stay," Rae snapped, without looking at him.
Garth froze.
I pulled my shirt over my head. "Rae. Hey. Look at me."
She didn't.
"He's locked down. Devil's trap. Heavy cuffs. Wards on every wall. Three floors down. He doesn't get near you."
Her laugh came out sharp and wrong. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"I'm telling you he can't get to you."
"You don't get to promise me that."
My mouth shut.
"Rick did." Her hand went to her stomach.
"Do you remember why I live down here?" she asked, voice low. "Do you remember why I'm not out there? Why I'm sleeping under concrete and wards and weapons?"
"Rae."
"No." Her eyes were wet now, furious and scared in the same breath. "You brought a demon into the bunker."
I had nothing that didn't sound like an excuse. Rae heard the silence anyway. Her gaze slid past me to the doorway.
"Garth."
Garth went stiff. "Uh—"
"How long?"
He looked at me. Pleading.
Rae's hand jerked toward the nightstand like she needed to steady herself.
She caught the lamp instead. It tipped with a heavy thud, the bulb flickering but not breaking.
Something small and metal went with it.
The ring.
It struck the floor and skidded under the bed.
Garth flinched.
So did I.
Rae didn't even look down.
That was the part that turned my stomach.
After everything that ring had meant, she didn't even blink.
"How long has there been a demon in this bunker?" she asked again.
Barzail was talking. Gabriel was downstairs with him. Every second we stood there was another second something could go wrong. But Rae was looking at me like every wall in the bunker had just moved closer.
"Twelve weeks," I said.
Her lips parted. For a second, she didn't move at all. Then she laughed once. Small. Broken.
"Twelve weeks." She repeated. My stomach dropped.
Because I knew exactly where her head went.
The rice. The diner. Thirty-one candles burning down while she smiled at me like I deserved it. That stupid audiobook in her headphones. Every night I slept too close. Every grocery run. Every appointment. Every glass of water I put within reach. Every time I kept myself close enough to reach her if something went wrong.
All of it.
I thought I was keeping the world off her back.
"You didn't leave my side for twelve weeks."
"Rae—"
"Was that because you wanted to be with me?" Her voice cracked, and she hated it. I could see it. "Or because you knew there was a demon downstairs?"
That hit like a fist to the ribs.
"Don't do that." My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. "Don't twist it like that."
Her shoulders went rigid. "You don't get to tell me what this is."
"Are you kidding me?!" The words came out rough before I could stop them. "You think I stayed because of him?"
Her face didn't change.
"It wasn't a job." I shifted my weight, trying to force her to see me. "You weren't a job."
"Then what was I?"
Everything. The word hit the back of my teeth and stayed there.
"Damn it, Rae. I kept coming back because I wanted to." I took one step toward her. "Because of you."
Her mouth twisted. "Right." I wanted to go to her. I couldn't.
"I was keeping you safe," I growled. Anger. Easier than the guilt. "I wasn't gonna lose you."
The rest jammed behind my teeth. I swallowed hard.
"Not to a demon. Not again." The second it left my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing. Her face closed.
"Funny," Her voice went flat. "Because I don't feel safe." She fixed the loose strap on her overalls with shaking hands.
"Rae, wait. Where are you going?" My hand jerked toward her. She stepped back before I could touch her.
"Away from the demon. Away from you." Her voice shook, but she made it mean. "Guess I'm safest when I don't know shit."
She brushed past Garth without looking at either of us.
Garth stood there, pale and miserable. "Buddy," he said quietly, "I am so sorry."
I stared at the empty doorway. My shirt was half on. My jeans were open. I could still feel her hands on me. I needed a drink. Or a wall to hit.
I didn't answer. Couldn't afford to.
Rae was gone. Barzail wasn't.
I shoved my shirt down and fixed my belt with hands that didn't feel like mine.
"Garth."
He swallowed.
"What changed?"
"That's the thing." His eyes flicked toward the hall. "He didn't just start talking."
"Spit it out."
Garth's face went even paler. "He asked for you, man."
My hand froze on my buckle. "He said my name?"
Garth nodded once. "Said he's done talking to Gabriel. Wants Dean Winchester."
That shut the rest of me down. Of course he did. Because why the hell not. I stepped forward.
it's the way dean needs to keep his mouth busy at all times so he just eats you out over and over again till you're too sensitive. 50 minutes have passed since he's started and yet there was no sign of him stopping any time soon.
he's got you trapped, his muscular arms wrapped around your thighs, securing you in place. "ngh~ dean-" you moaned, pulling onto his hair trying to move his face away, yet his tongue kept lapping at your folds like he was starving.
you knew that dean was a man with a huge appetite but you thought that only applied to food. he groaned to himself. "mhmm fuck, look how puffy your pretty cunt is. so red and mhm- sensitive." his flattened tongue licked your folds, his nose pressing against your clit. a small cry escaped your lips. "d-dean god please. I can't take it anymore." you begged knowing he would still keep going after this round is over too.
(Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
(Dean's POV)
The passenger seat was empty.
Rae had been right there a second ago, twisting against the seat belt, screaming Michael's name like I wasn't even in the damn van. My hand was still out, fingers curled around nothing.
My eyes dropped to the empty belt. Then the floor. Then the seat. A minute ago, she had been right there under my palm. The kid had been kicking against my fingers like that meant I had them safe.
Now there was nothing. No body. No Rae. No kick. My hand finished the reach anyway. Empty air. I couldn't move. Then the smell hit me. The sweet scent of melted chocolate and malted nougat.
Gabriel. Son of a bitch.
Nothing in me moved. The radio hissed static. The engine idled rough under my boots. Behind me, Garth's breathing was too fast.
"Dean," he said.
I couldn't answer.
Gabriel took her. That was the only thing my brain could hold onto. She hadn't helped Rae. She hadn't calmed her down. She'd just ripped her clean out of my reach.
I don't remember getting us back on the road, only the gearshift slamming into place. I ignored Garth when he grabbed for his seat belt, and I ignored him when he yelled my name. There was only the road. Headlights cutting through the dark, gravel spitting against the wheel wells when I took the shoulder too fast, and the high, desperate whine of the minivan's engine because my foot wouldn't let up on the gas.
The empty passenger seat kept dragging at me. Some stupid part of me expected her to snap back into the vinyl. She didn't.
Garth didn't tell me to slow down. Smart guy.
We hit the bunker garage too fast. The tires shrieked against the concrete. The van slid sideways and stopped inches from the workbench.
I killed the engine and was out before the van stopped ticking.
Gabriel was already there, arms crossed, standing between me and the hallway. No way that was an accident.
"She's safe," Gabriel said, her voice level.
I kept walking. "Where?"
"Your room."
Garth shoved past both of us and took off down the hall. I tried to follow, but Gabriel stepped directly in front of me.
"Move."
She didn't.
I came up short, close enough to smell chocolate and nougat all over again. "Get out of my way."
"She's asleep," she repeated, her gaze steady. "And before you start swinging, the baby's fine."
That cut through the rage. The breath I'd been holding came out hard. The baby's fine. Good. Thank God.
Then my fist closed at my side, nails digging deep. "You took her."
"I got her out."
"You yanked her out of her seat," I snapped. "Out of the damn van. You don't just snap your fingers and make her disappear because you think you know better."
Her mouth tightened. Not guilt. Not exactly. "She was gone, Dean. You saw her. I couldn't leave her there."
"She was with me."
"She was not with anybody, Dean." The words hit like cold water. I hated how true it felt.
I stepped closer. "What aren't you telling me?"
Gabriel didn't blink. The engine ticked behind me, loud as a damn clock. "She's fine physically," she finally said.
"Physically," I repeated. "Awesome. And the rest?"
Gabriel tipped her chin toward the hallway, then squared back to me. "She doesn't remember the van. Or the panic. To her, the entire day ended with a dream about a park."
My mouth opened. Gabriel cut me off before I got a word out.
"I didn't touch her memory."
I went still.
"Don't look at me like that, Winchester. I made her sleep. That's it."
I dragged a hand over the back of my neck and let out a humorless laugh. "She was screaming his name," I said. "That wasn't just a dream."
"No. It wasn't."
That shut me up. Great. I got every second burned into my head, and Rae got nothing.
"So what?" I asked. "I'm supposed to just walk in there and play pretend?"
"I'm saying don't go stomping in there and make it worse."
"I don't need you telling me how to handle her."
Gabriel's face didn't change. That pissed me off more than if she'd argued.
"You don't get to rip her out of my hands, then stand there and tell me how this goes."
For the first time, Gabriel looked tired. It wasn't the kind of tired you could sleep off. Something deeper. Impossibly older.
"She needed more than you could give her in that van."
I wanted to hit something. Her, maybe. The wall. The whole damn bunker. Instead I forced the words out. "Where are you going?"
Gabriel turned back toward the corridor, her focus already somewhere else. "Unfinished business."
A smirk touched her mouth.
Then the lights buzzed once overhead, and I was standing alone in the empty garage.
Garth was coming out of my room when I hit the hallway. He stopped short and lifted both arms, surrender-style.
He kept his voice low. "She's breathing. Start there."
Start there. Like that was supposed to be enough.
"Dean."
I stopped with one hand braced against the frame, the wood biting into my grip.
Garth's voice dropped. "Easy, man."
I didn't answer. I made myself unclench before I walked in there looking like I was ready to hit something. Then I stepped inside.
She was staring at the ceiling when I walked in. I stopped just inside the room and watched her shoulders rise and fall under the quilt. Entirely relieved that she was alive, awake, and not screaming. The tight knot in my gut finally gave an inch.
"Hey," I said quietly.
It took her a beat to find me. "Hey," she murmured, shifting her weight to sit up.
My body wanted to cross the room too fast. Grab her. Check her. Make sure she was real. I didn't. Then she winced, and that did it.
I was beside her before I could talk myself out of it, one hand steadying her back. "Easy," I murmured. "No rush."
She blinked at me. "I must've been more tired than I thought. I don't remember you carrying me back to bed." She gave me this small smile.
That smile hit wrong. She had no idea. She didn't know she'd tried to claw her way out of the damn van.
"I didn't," I said.
Her brow pinched. "You didn't?"
"Gabriel did."
"Gabby?" Her fingers found the faded pattern in the quilt. "Was I... was I that hard to wake up?"
I almost laughed, but nothing came out. She'd been screaming for a dead man. Trying to break herself free for someone who wasn't there. And she didn't remember a single second of it.
The mattress groaned under my weight as I sat on the edge of the bed. Almost instantly, Rae reached for me. Like it was instinct. She cupped my cheek, and I leaned into it, letting my face rest against her skin.
That was what did it.
I should've asked what she remembered. Should've let it go. Should've walked out of the room and let us both pretend. Instead, I opened my mouth and made it worse. "Do you love him?"
Her hand went still against my face. "Who do you—"
"Rae." I couldn't hold back. "I know what I'm asking."
Her fingers froze, then slowly dropped away. I hated how fast I missed it. "What?" she whispered.
I knew better. I did it anyway. "You were screaming his name."
"Whose—"
"Michael."
The color drained from her face. "No." The denial came too fast. "No, I wasn't."
"You were."
She waited for a joke, a lie, a punchline. Anything that made sense. When she didn't find one, she pulled away.
"No," she whispered again, but the fight had gone out of it. I could see her trying to line it up and failing.
"There was a park."
My jaw hurt from how hard I was gritting my teeth. "And him."
She turned her face quickly. Then her fingers lifted to her mouth, her thumb barely grazing her bottom lip. I hated how fast I noticed.
She looked like she wanted to stop there. Like saying the next part would make it real. She said it anyway.
"I kissed him." Her voice barely made it out.
That landed ugly. I turned toward the blankets before my face gave me away.
Rae swallowed, then winced, her hand drifting down to her throat. "My throat hurts," she whispered.
Yeah. I knew. I kept quiet.
"And I can still..." She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. "Dean."
"What?"
She shook her head once. "I can still taste the kiss."
Something twisted in my chest. What was I supposed to do with that? Pick a fight with a dead Marine? Tell a ghost to keep his hands off her? Michael wasn't even in the room, and somehow he was still between us.
Pulling her knees a little closer under the quilt, Rae curled around her stomach. "I thought it was a dream," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I thought...God, I thought my brain was just being cruel to me."
"Gabriel said that's the part you'd remember."
Her shoulders stiffened. "Gabriel?"
"She brought you here."
Her brow pulled tight. "You already said that earlier. You said she carried me."
I didn't say a damn thing. I couldn't. Her eyes moved over my face, too fast now.
"What, Dean?" she whispered. "How did we get here?"
I still didn't answer.
"Dean."
I forced myself to look at her. "Gabriel pulled you out."
"Out of what?"
"The van." The words came out flat. "We'd already pulled over. We were on the shoulder." That did not help.
Confusion drained out of her face, and panic rushed in after.
Her whole body went tight around her stomach. "She pulled us out? What?"
"Hey. Hey."
"Is Sam—"
I caught her shoulder before I could stop myself. She was trembling so damn hard I felt it through my grip. "The kid's okay," I said, too fast. "Sam's okay."
Her mouth trembled. "How do you—"
"Gabriel said everything's fine. And yeah, she's an ass, but she'd know. She can hear the heartbeat, feel the kid, whatever the hell archangel mojo that is."
Rae dragged in a shaky breath. Then another. She didn't look convinced. Not all the way. She kept rubbing slow circles over her stomach like she was trying to talk the kid into answering.
I looked at her, my chest locked tight. I wanted a kick. A shift. Anything. Proof the kid was okay. Proof Gabriel hadn't screwed something up.
Then her fingers stilled. Her face went slack in a way I didn't like. The fear didn't go away. It just made room for something else.
"Hey," I said, moving closer before I thought better of it. "Look at me."
"No." She pulled back slightly, her gaze fixing on the blank drywall past my shoulder. "No, that wasn't... That wasn't just in my head."
"Rae."
"He touched me." Her voice cracked. The tears finally spilling over. "He kissed me goodbye."
Every word sounded wrong. Worse, some ugly part of me wanted to be mad about it. At him. At her. At a dead man who'd only come to say goodbye.
When she finally faced me again, she was wrecked. "That was real?"
I didn't know what to say. I'd spent my whole life dealing with ghosts, spirits, and dead things that didn't know how to stay dead. But this was Michael. Her Michael. So I gave her the only answer I had.
"Real enough."
A broken sob escaped her, and she folded around it.
Pain? Cramp? Blood? I didn't know. I hated not knowing. She was still curled around the baby, but she wasn't clutching like something hurt. She was just trying to hold herself together.
I could handle blood. Broken bones. Teeth on concrete. Hell, I'd take a beating over this any day.
"Reima."
She didn't look up. I put my hand over hers on the blanket. Didn't squeeze. Didn't grab. Just stayed there.
"He was real enough," I said quietly. Her shoulders shook. "And I'm sorry, Rae. I'm sorry you had to lose him twice."
My hand stayed right where it was. A sound caught in her throat.
"Hey. Look at me."
When she finally lifted her face, her eyes were completely wrecked.
"You're here," I said. "The kid's okay. You're in the bunker. I got you. Both of you."
She stayed with me.
"I'm here. Every damn day. Driving you all over creation. Arguing with you about stupid crap. Pretending I know what the hell a breast pump does."
A broken little sound escaped her. Not a laugh, but close enough.
I swallowed hard. "And yeah, I know he was here first. I get that, Rae. But I'm not the ghost."
The second the words left my mouth, I knew it wasn't enough. Rae went quiet, her eyes dropping to the blanket between us, and I could see her trying to make what I'd said smaller. Safer. Something she could handle.
It wasn't.
Screw it.
"I love you."
There. It was out. Damn it.
She went still, and the silence made me wish I'd kept my damn mouth shut.
"Scares the hell out of me," I muttered, rushing the words before she could say anything that would break me. "But I do. I love you."
"Dean..."
"No, let me get this out before I chicken out."
Her mouth closed.
"I'm not asking you to say it back." I pulled my hand away.
God help me, I was.
She didn't answer. So I kept digging.
"Look, it didn't start because of the baby. Or because of the van. Or because some angel shoved us into the same damn mess." I rubbed a hand over my mouth. "It started that day at the bar."
That pulled her back to me.
"Because of you, Rae. You looked at me like you already knew I was full of crap." My mouth twisted. "And then you opened yours and proved it."
Yeah. Real smooth, Winchester.
"I tried backing off," I admitted. "I tried giving you space. Tried not pushing. Tried staying close enough to catch you if things went wrong and far enough back that you didn't tell me to screw off."
A laugh tried to come out. It didn't make it. "Turns out I suck at that."
Her lips pressed flat, but she held her ground.
"You matter to me, Rae. That's the damn problem."
She pulled back half an inch.
I dropped my attention to my boots. Much more of that, and I was gonna start begging. And that? That I couldn't do. "If it's him...then say that."
Her fingers stopped twisting in the quilt.
"I'm serious." My hands curled against my jeans. "I'll still be here. For Sam. For you. That doesn't change, okay?"
The words sucked coming out.
"But I can't keep doing this halfway. I can't keep standing right here while he's the one between us."
Rae wiped at her face with the heel of her hand. It didn't help.
I rubbed at my jaw. "And I know that's not fair. I know what he was to you. I know goodbye doesn't fix dead."
I wanted to stop. Wanted to let her breathe. Didn't.
"I'm not him. I'm not dead. I'm standing in front of you." I heard the edge in it too late. "I love you. And I need to know if that means a damn thing."
She stared at her lap until the silence started answering for her. Her fingers twisted into the quilt, bunching the faded fabric.
I thought I had my answer.
Then, she whispered, "You."
I almost didn't hear it.
"What?"
She didn't let go of the blanket. "It keeps being you, Dean."
I didn't move. Didn't even dare breathe.
"It shouldn't," she continued, voice shaking. "I tried not to let it. I tried so hard."
I couldn't move.
"Michael was already gone. Loving him couldn't take anything else from me."
She lifted her head then, and I saw the part that scared her. "You can."
I swallowed, but nothing went down.
"I love you." The words looked like they hurt. "And I hate that I do."
"Rae—"
"No." She shook her head, tears getting away from her now. "I hate it because loving you means I have something to lose again."
I never saw that coming. No smart-ass comeback. No deflection. No joke to hide behind. I didn't trust my voice, so I moved instead.
I pulled her into me, hard. Then caught myself and eased up where her stomach pressed between us. She let me pull her in, her arms wrapping around my back like she'd been waiting for permission.
Then she broke. Not pretty. It was a muffled, ragged sound against my shirt that went straight through me.
"Hey," I muttered into her hair. "I got you." She shook against me, fingers bunching in the back of my flannel.
"I'm here," I said. "You hear me? I'm not going anywhere." Her chin dipped once, but it didn't stop the crying. Her face pressed hard into my shirt. So I held on.
We stayed like that until the sobs thinned out. Until her grip loosened by half. Until my hands stopped shaking. Until I stopped expecting an angel to snap her out of my arms again.
Then something jabbed me right in the ribs. Every muscle in me locked.
Rae went still against me, her breath catching. Neither of us moved. Then her palm pressed harder to her stomach.
"There," she whispered, voice breaking. "There you are."
Another tiny kick answered her. Rae made a sound I didn't know what to do with. Half laugh. Half sob. All relief.
I looked down at her hand. Then at her. Some of the panic loosened in her face.
The knot under my ribs loosened so fast it almost hurt. Slowly, I pulled back enough to look down at her stomach. "Guess we're not the only ones with opinions."
A second thump. "Yeah, yeah. We hear you, kid."
Rae made that sound again, softer this time. "It's okay, Sammy."
Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. I sure as hell hadn't thought that. I frowned. What the hell?
Then the kid kicked again, and it was gone. I glanced at her. "Bossy already. Gets that from you."
That got a real laugh out of her. Small, but real. "More like you," she murmured.
"Yeah, okay. Kid's definitely doomed."
I reached up to wipe her cheeks, but she caught my wrist before I could. She held it there, her thumb tracing the white-gold band on my finger. Michael's ring.
Then she leaned down and kissed my knuckles. I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just let it happen.
"This doesn't belong to you," she whispered. Slowly, she slipped the ring off my finger.
"It belongs to a life that already ended."
She didn't look at the ring once it was off my hand. That mattered.
She set it on the nightstand. No big speech. No ceremony. Just metal against wood.
Then she leaned back against the headboard, her palm settling over her stomach.
I stayed where I was, letting the quiet settle around her. Her eyes were red, swollen at the edges. Tear tracks still wet on her cheeks. Her body had eased against the headboard, steady enough that I could stop bracing for the next hit.
"You okay?"
She tried for a smile. Didn't quite get there. "Yeah," she whispered. "I think I am."
I sat back beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, and kept my damn hands to myself.
She shifted closer until her cheek rested against my arm.
"What?" I asked.
Her mouth twitched, a smile barely touching her lips. "You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"Hovering."
I laughed. "Yeah, well. Been kind of a night, sweetheart."
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
She turned into me, fingers catching the edge of my collar.
"Kiss me."
Everything in me went still.
"Rae?" My voice dropped. "You mean that?"
She gave the fabric one small tug. "I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't."
Yeah. That was Rae.
For the first time in months, it didn't feel like Michael was sitting between us. Just her. Just me.
So I leaned in slow. Gave her every chance to change her mind. She didn't.
When I kissed her, I barely pressed in at first. Her lips tasted like salt, and I had to stop myself from pulling her in too hard. Then her fingers curled into my shirt and she kissed me back.
All night, I'd been chasing her through panic and ghosts. Now she felt here. With me.
Then the door took three hard hits. "Dean, open up!" Garth yelled, voice cracking. "The snake's awake!"
@spnheadbang @leysol (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
The cabin door slammed open hard enough to rattle the windows. Dust sifted from the ceiling logs. Dean turned. Whoever this guy was, he'd never seen him before.
He filled the doorway. Bigger. Meaner too. Built like he'd never lost an argument he could win with his fists. For a split second, nobody moved. Then the wolf saw Dean, and all hell broke loose.
The rough wool of his flannel bit hard into his throat, his bad shoulder screaming the instant his weight was slammed into the nearest wall. The logs rattled. Dean hissed through his teeth. "Son of a bitch..."
"Xander!" Grayson barked. The wolf ignored him completely.
The one named Xander glared down at him. A simple punch would've been easier to take. This looked like blame.
"You."
Dean's back pressed harder into the logs. The wall groaned under the pressure.
"Easy," Grayson warned, rising from his chair.
"No." Xander didn't even spare Grayson a glance. "No, I don't think I will."
Dean could've fought back. A week ago he would've. Hell, yesterday he probably would've. But all he could see was Alex collapsing into the dirt. So he didn't throw a punch. Didn't shove back. Didn't even look away. Because every accusation was already running laps in his own head.
Xander leaned in. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Dean swallowed. The wolf stepped closer, crowding his space. "What she had to do to pull that thing off you?!"
Grayson moved forward. "Xander."
"Stay out of it." The warning growl that followed was entirely directed at Grayson. And for the first time, Dean saw the other wolf hesitate.
Grayson pulled up short. Dean didn't know what passed between them. He only knew the younger wolf wasn't stepping in again.
The room fell silent. Logs shifted in the fireplace with a dull, heavy pop.
Xander turned back to Dean, his face inches away. "Your fault."
Dean's jaw tightened. He knew. As if he could forget.
"She told me to stay behind." The words came out rough.
Xander blinked. Dean stared right back at him.
"She told me not to come." Silence.
"I went anyway."
Xander let out a humorless chuckle. "Congratulations." The wolf's voice dripped contempt. "That makes me feel so much better."
Dean didn't answer. Because there wasn't a damn thing he could say to that.
Xander's grip yanked his collar even tighter. A second later, the wolf's forearm pressed hard across his throat. Breathing became work. Dean caught the smell of cedar, old leather, and woodsmoke. And something underneath Dean couldn't place.
Every survival reflex he owned screamed at him to drive an elbow into Xander's ribs. To shove back. To fight. Dean ignored them all. Xander wasn't saying anything he hadn't already told himself.
"You know what the healers are saying?"
Dean already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.
Xander's eyes flashed. "She's not healing fast enough!"
The wolf's ragged breath hit Dean's face. Dean closed his eyes for a heartbeat. He hadn't been ready to hear it out loud. He tried to swallow, but the pressure against his throat made it hurt.
"Xander." Grayson again. Softer this time.
The wolf ignored him. "My Artemis is barely alive while you're sitting here breathing."
Dean flinched. He wished Xander would just hit him.
The wolf leaned closer. "Tell me, Winchester." His voice dropped. "What exactly makes you worth it?"
The question landed harder than any shove. Dean didn't have an answer.
The worst part? A piece of him agreed.
__FLASHBACK__
Lunch was the most awkward meal of Dean's life. The silence between the two Alphas was so heavy he was surprised the table didn't crack under it. Aurora, the Luna, was the only one pretending this was a normal lunch.
They weren't arguing. Somehow that felt worse. He should've been halfway out the door by now. Every instinct screamed werewolves. But something kept him glued in his chair. Every time he thought about leaving, his Omega dug its heels in. It made no damn sense, and he hated that he was still sitting there.
"Dean, you must understand, Alexandria was always such a willful child," she began, her eyes twinkling. "Did she tell you about the time she decided to 'tame' Mister Snuggles, the neighbor's cat?"
"No way." Dean let out a faint chuckle.
"Mother, please," Alex groaned, her face flushing a deep red. Dean stared. Alex, embarrassed? That was new. And surprisingly...cute. He was used to seeing her annoyed. Angry. Sarcastic. Embarrassed was new. And his Omega perked up.
Nope. Absolutely not. He shut that down immediately.
"Nonsense, dear," Aurora ignored the protest completely. "He was a twenty-pound Maine Coon with the disposition of a cornered badger. She came back with scratches all down her arms, covered in mud, but she had that cat purring in her lap."
"Yeah, sounds about right." Dean couldn't help but smile, picturing Alex flatly refusing to lose to a cat. The second she caught him smiling, Alex narrowed her eyes like he was the one acting strange.
The moment didn't last. "Aurora, my love," Napoleon said smoothly. "I doubt our guest cares to hear old stories. And you have that appointment with the pups' caretakers, don't you?"
Aurora paused. Just for a second. Then she set her napkin down. "Of course, dear." She gave Dean's hand a gentle squeeze. "It was truly a pleasure to meet you, Dean. Please don't be a stranger."
Then she was gone. Dean found himself alone with the two people least interested in talking. Neither Alpha looked at the other. Nobody spoke. Dean suddenly wished Aurora had stayed.
Yeah. Dreary didn't cover it. He was trapped.
The door had barely clicked shut before Napoleon stopped pretending to be polite. He leaned forward. Dean immediately liked him less.
"Everett Bloom is a fool," he started. "But he is a wealthy and well-armed fool. When his men put you in the ground, do not expect this pack to avenge you."
Alex's fork clattered against the plate. Her fingers dug into the edge of the table. Most people would've missed it. Dean didn't. The way Napoleon said it made Dean think he already knew exactly what Alex was planning.
It didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like Napoleon had already decided how this would end.
"Is that all?" Alex sounded calm. Dean knew enough about her by then to recognize that as a bad sign. "Or did you drag me here just to watch me fail?"
Napoleon didn't blink. "He's taken the Eclipse pack in Washington."
Dean didn't understand the pack politics, but he understood Alex. She looked like she'd just been handed bad news. That was enough.
Alex didn't answer right away. "That changes nothing for me."
"It changes everything for me," Napoleon countered. "Bloom is no longer just a nuisance; he is a rival power on my border. I will not risk a war for your personal vendetta."
"I never asked you to."
"Then what is your plan?" Napoleon snarled, finally turning that cold, dismissive gaze toward Dean. "To hide behind this... unbound Omega?" His lip curled. "He is a weakness, Alexandria. He will be the death of you."
Omega. Not Winchester. Not hunter. Just a label. A weakness. Napoleon might as well have stamped it on his forehead. Well. That pissed him off.
Dean met his stare without blinking. A short laugh escaped him. "Wouldn't be the first."
The smile that followed never reached his eyes. "Tell him to get in line."
__END OF FLASHBACK__
The memory tasted a hell of a lot less clever now. Alex's blood still felt like it was on his hands. He stood in a cabin full of wolves who thought Napoleon might've been right.
The silence stretched. Dean could still hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Then: "Xander."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. Every muscle in the room locked. Including Xander's. Slowly, the wolf turned.
Aurora stood in the doorway, her hands folded calmly over the front of her coat. She wasn't shouting. Somehow, the calm made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.
The room was quiet. Her gaze drifted from Dean to the forearm pinning him against the wall.
"If Alexandria could see you right now," she said softly, "what do you think she would say?" The question hit harder than a command ever could.
Xander looked away. For the first time since he'd walked into the room. Because they all knew the answer. Alex would be furious.
Aurora stepped farther into the room. Her voice never changed. It made arguing impossible.
"Let him go." Not an order. Not quite.
Xander's chest rose and fell in a sharp, ragged breath. For a second, Dean felt the arm against his windpipe tighten. Then, the pressure vanished.
Dean stumbled backward, catching himself against the rough log wall. Air rushed back into his lungs so fast it made him cough.
Aurora's expression softened. Only slightly. "Thank you."
The wolf looked like he'd rather fight ten monsters than hear those words. But he stepped back. Xander shot Dean one last look of disgust before leaving. The door slammed behind him. The cabin felt bigger after he left.
Dean rubbed his throat. Every swallow reminded him where Xander's forearm had been. "Starting to think getting rescued by a Donovan is becoming a habit."
To his surprise, Aurora's mouth twitched. "My daughter would say you make it a habit."
Her eyes drifted over him slowly. It felt less like being looked at and more like being examined. The bruises. The shoulder he kept trying not to favor. The exhaustion. Nothing seemed to escape her. "Are you injured?"
Dean barked out a short laugh. "Hey, I've looked worse."
Grayson made a noise suspiciously close to a snort.
"Thank you, Grayson," Aurora said, and somehow that sounded like a dismissal.
The younger wolf immediately straightened. "Luna." He dipped his head and stepped outside. The latch clicked into place behind him.
The silence came back. Without Xander and Grayson in the room, it felt different. Aurora moved over to the small wooden table, pulling out a chair with a quiet scrape before settling into it. She looked up at him, waiting.
Dean didn't sit. Not yet. His knees were shaking, but he kept his back pressed against the wall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets so she wouldn't see his fingers twitching.
"I want to see her."
Aurora studied him for a long moment. "You are not pack."
It stung more than he expected. "Yeah, I got that."
"Do you?" The question wasn't cruel.
She continued. "Right now my daughter is unconscious, injured, and drawing on every bond available to her."
He waited. When she didn't continue: "Okay... and?"
"And your presence will matter."
He stared at her. That didn't sound like a warning. It sounded worse. "What does that mean?"
"An injured Alpha doesn't stop being Alpha." She folded her hands in her lap. "Neither do the instincts surrounding her."
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. His shoulder started throbbing steadily beneath the bandage. The leather of his jacket squeaked against his flannel. "English."
A faint smile touched her mouth. "You're not the only one worried about her."
"You're also an unbound Omega."
"Yeah." He muttered under his breath before looking away.
Aurora's gaze lingered for a moment. Then she let it go. "Which complicates things."
"Can I see her or not?"
She looked toward the hallway. Toward whatever room Alex was fighting for her life in. Dean's eyes followed hers. The hallway suddenly felt a mile long.
"For a few minutes."
He didn't wait for her to change her mind. Dean was already moving past the table, his boots thudding heavily against the wood, when her voice caught him at the entrance of the hallway.
"And Dean?"
He pulled up short, stopping with his hand against the door frame, and looked back over his bad shoulder. Somewhere down the hallway, a monitor beeped once.
"Try not to wake her."
A corner of his mouth twitched. Then he nodded once. "I'll try."
----
The room at the end of the hallway looked nothing like the rest of the cabin.
Somebody had turned it into a field hospital. Medical monitors glowed a faint blue in the corner, and plastic IV bags hung from improvised stands. The room smelled more of antiseptic than pine.
Dean stopped in the doorway. For a second, he couldn't make himself go any farther.
Alex lay motionless in the center of the room. A blanket covered her from the chest down, tucked carefully around her body. Thick white bandages disappeared beneath the fabric. More wrapped around her shoulder and ribs. Bruises darkened her skin. Her lower lip was split. Dried blood stained her temple.
Two IV lines disappeared beneath the blanket. One bag was almost empty, the clear line still dripping. A clear tube looped beneath her nose, hissing softly with oxygen.
She looked smaller somehow. Dean hated that. Not physically. Just...smaller. Less like the woman who had stood toe-to-toe with Napoleon Donovan. Less like the Artemis. More like someone who had finally reached the end of her strength.
His eyes drifted lower to her arms.
The claws hadn't fully gone away. They rested against the blanket, slightly too sharp, slightly too long, the tips dark and curved. The sight made his stomach twist. It looked wrong. Alex wasn't entirely human, but she wasn't entirely wolf either right now. She was caught somewhere in between, like part of her mind was still out fighting on that ridge.
Dean swallowed.
The steady beep of the monitor filled the room. Alive. The machine was telling him she was alive. It should've been enough. It wasn't.
Slowly, he crossed the room. The chair beside her bed creaked under his weight. For a long moment, he just sat there, his forearms on his knees, looking at her. The memories came anyway, and Dean shoved them down, his hands curling into fists. The same hands that still felt stained no matter how many times he'd washed them.
"Hey." The word came out rough.
Alex didn't move. His hand started toward hers, then stopped halfway before he dropped it back into his lap.
Dean couldn't keep looking at her. Somehow this hurt worse than watching her get wounded.
"You know..." He rubbed a hand over his face instead. "This is usually where Sam tells me I'm being an idiot."
No response.
His eyes found the bandages again. The blood had been cleaned away. The memories hadn't.
"He knew," the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Stephen. He..." He tried again. "The second he got close, he knew."
The word still made his skin crawl. "Omega." He laughed once. Humorless. "Guess that's one way to come out of the closet."
Silence. The monitor beeped again. Dean breathed because it did.
"Should've left me there." His laugh died quickly.
"Hell." He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. "You saved me."
Then a bitter laugh escaped him. "Look where it got you."
He stared at the blanket instead of her. "Napoleon wasn't exactly subtle about it either."
If you were her Omega, she'd have another source to pull from. She'd be drawing from you. Grayson's words wouldn't leave him alone. Every time Dean shoved the thought away, it came back.
He wasn't her Omega. They weren't bonded. But Dean knew how monsters worked. Blood wasn't just blood. If her wolf was starving, if she was running on empty while the rest of the pack paid the tab, he had plenty to give. He didn't care about complicated. Or pack rules. He just wanted the machine to keep beeping. Whatever the cost.
He looked at Alex. She'd nearly died because of him. Hunters fixed things. They always found another way, or they made one.
His eyes drifted to the medical tray on the other side of the bed. A scalpel rested there.
Dean stared at it. Then at Alex. Then back again. "This is a terrible idea."
He looked toward the door. Aurora. Grayson. Xander. Any one of them would stop him.
Dean stood up, the chair scraping softly. He walked to the door, reached out, and turned the lock until it clicked into place.
He walked back to the bedside, his fingers wrapping around the cold, thin handle of the scalpel.
He glanced at Alex. "You're gonna kill me for this." His eyes flicked to the monitor. Still beeping.
"But right now..." He tightened his grip on the scalpel. "I don't give a damn."
Characters: Dean Winchester (Omega!Dean), Alex Donovan (Alpha!OC), Grayson (OC) Jurgen (OC), Stephen (OC)
Summary: Most Alphas would've saved themselves first. Alex didn't.
Taglist: @jc-winchester@ladysparkles78@kazsrm67@spn-fanfic-reblog-writes@deans-baby-momma@hobby27@kickingitwithkirk@lyarr24@krazykelly@chriszgirl92@barewithme02@kjah97@roseblue373@bumbleb10@nancymcl@x-nine-x-epic@emmily33@denimoveralls@alwaysthebiggerbear@spnheadbang@leysol(Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
Dean came to on the edge of a rough wooden bench, the smell of sap and iron thick in his nose. Log walls. Fire crackled in the fireplace. Shadows stretching too long across the floor.
A cabin, he thought. Or something pretending to be one.
His hands were red. Not scraped. Not bruised. Caked in red.
Drying blood along his knuckles and palms, dark and tacky, soaked into the cuffs of his jacket, smeared up his forearms like he'd been elbow-deep in it. He stared at them, detached.
None of it was his.
The memory hit in pieces instead of a whole. Hands grabbing him, too many of them, dragging him back while he fought and shouted and tore his throat raw screaming her name. Someone lifting him, slinging him over a shoulder. The slam of a door. Darkness. The engine tearing through the forest.
Alex.
His eyes burned, the heat rising fast under his skin. He couldn't remember the exact second everything went to hell. Only that one moment they'd been standing together, arguing. You kept it from me.
And then the next—blood. Way too much blood.
He couldn't breathe as his body finally caught up to the horror his mind had been dodging. His fingers curled into fists, trembling against his thighs. It was his fault. If he hadn't been pushing her, if he'd just—
"Winchester."
A voice pulled him back. Grayson. The only one who was willing to talk to him. The werewolf couldn't have been much older than thirty. Broad-shouldered but lean, built more like a runner than an enforcer. Dark hair, tired gray eyes. Not a soldier like Marcus. Not a fanatic like the guards at the gate. Just...a person. The kind of guy Dean would've grabbed a beer with under different circumstances.
The hunter in him hated that. It was easier when they looked like monsters.
"How is she?" Dean rasped. His throat felt torn open.
No answer.
"The Artemis will pull through," he finally responded.
Dean's jaw tightened, his teeth clicking under the pressure. Pull through. Like she had a bad case of the flu. Like she'd collapsed from a fever and not because she had been split open.
He stared at the blood crusted beneath his fingernails. A bitter, humorless chuckle slipped past his lips. For the first time, he finally dragged his eyes off his hands and faced Grayson.
"I didn't ask who she was," he growled roughly. "I asked how she is."
The werewolf's expression hardened. "You should not have been there."
That pissed him off even more. He knew that.
"Stay here."
"Not happening."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "You'll slow me down."
"And if you don't come back?"
They'd both gone silent then. And now, she was the one paying for it.
The wolf leaned back against the heavy wood of the doorframe, crossing his arms. "You know she'd be healing faster if you were bound."
Dean snapped fast, the snark rising like bile. "English."
"The Artemis is drawing on pack reserves right now. It's slow. It takes a toll on the rest of us."
Dean stared at him. "Okay."
A heavy sigh rolled off the wolf's shoulders. "Pack members can support an injured Alpha. But so can a bonded Omega. If you were her Omega, she'd have another source to pull from. Sometimes better."
Dean blinked. "I'm not her anything." Quick and sharp.
"No." The gray eyes drifted over Dean's trembling hands, entirely unimpressed. "You're not."
The silence stretched between them. Then:
"But if you were?" Grayson hesitated. "She'd be drawing from you."
Dean swallowed. The image hit him instantly.
Alex unconscious. Pale. Bleeding. Dying. While he sat here doing nothing.
"Stop," the wolf commanded quietly.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever guilt spiral you're building in that human head of yours." The wolf straightened up, taking a step.
Dean scoffed. "You don't know what I'm thinking."
"Don't I?" Grayson nodded toward his hands. "You've been staring at dried blood for twenty minutes."
The hunter turned away first.
"You weren't bound. She knew that when she stepped in front of you."
Dean looked away. He remembered. Stephen. The fangs. Alex hitting him hard enough to knock him out of the way. Jurgen. Her blood...
"She was trying to stay alive too."
Grayson was quiet for a moment. "Most Alphas would've saved themselves first." Silence settled between them, broken only by rain tapping against the cabin roof.
Dean didn't answer.
The wolf stepped closer, his scent of rain-soaked pine cutting through the iron stench of dried blood. "Taken a hit like that for a stray. Most Alphas wouldn't have done that."
Dean's jaw clenched at the insult, but he let it pass.
"Not for someone they weren't tied to. The strange part isn't that she shielded you, Winchester."
"Then what?" Dean spat, his defensive walls slamming up.
Grayson looked at him carefully, a look that was entirely too knowing. "It's how fast she chose." Dean's stomach knotted.
"She protected you like she'd already made up her mind."
"About what?" Dean whispered, hating how small he sounded.
"That you were hers to protect." The hunter opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
The words lodged somewhere deep and uncomfortable. His mind betrayed him immediately. Not to the blood. Not to the scream that still echoed in his ears. But to the last time he'd seen her standing.
_______________
The wind cut cold across the ridge, sharp enough to sting Dean's cheeks as he crouched beside Alex at the cliff's edge. Below them, miles of pine forest gave way to an open clearing. Bloom's compound sat right in the middle of it. Floodlights swept through the fog, tracing fences, watchtowers, and patrol routes.
"Yeah, that's not creepy at all."
Dean adjusted the binoculars, jaw clenched, breath ghosting white. "Tell me again why we're freezing our asses off on a cliff when we could be doing this from somewhere with walls?"
Alex didn't answer. She kept her attention fixed on the compound like he wasn't talking.
He exhaled sharply. "Right. Silence. Your favorite."
Still nothing.
He clicked his tongue, tried again. "You wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?"
A beat stretched between them. She didn't look at him. "Which part?"
"Oh, I don't know," he snapped. "The part where you forgot to mention you were a werewolf princess? Or the part where your old man nearly put me through the floor with whatever the hell that was?"
"Dean—"
"No," he cut in, voice low. "Don't 'Dean' me. Not after that."
She fixed the binoculars without looking at him. "We're here to locate Taylor and figure out what happened to the Eclipse Wolves. This isn't the time."
"Yeah?" He dropped his binoculars, letting the device smack against his chest. "Funny. I thought it was exactly the time. Since you werewolves—" he bit the word, "—you and Garth didn't bother to tell me what I was walking into."
Her head turned a fraction. "Leave Garth out of it."
Dean blinked. It was the first genuine reaction she'd shown since they'd climbed the ridge.
"Touchy subject?"
"He gave me a place to stay when I had nowhere else to go," she said flatly. "So yes. Leave him out of it."
"No," he shot back. This wasn't about Garth anymore. "You didn't trust me to make the choice for myself."
She turned to him. Unreadable. "If I had told you everything upfront, would you have helped?"
He stayed quiet. The answer was right there. Alex saw it anyway.
The silence seemed to settle something for her. She looked back toward the compound. "That's why."
Dean stared at her profile. He didn't have an argument. That irritated him more than anything.
Because if she'd sat him down two weeks ago and told him she was the heir to some werewolf pack, he never would've made it past that part of the conversation. Taylor would've never even come up.
"Still should've told me," he muttered.
"Maybe." Then she raised the binoculars again. Just like that, the conversation was over. For her, anyway.
He wasn't nearly done. Apparently she was. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "For the record? Your dad's still an asshole."
Alex didn't rise to the bait. "Focus. We're losing daylight."
He shifted beside her, irritated. She didn't even glance at him. She looked the same way she had standing across from Napoleon. Controlled. Guarded. Ready for a fight underneath.
He lifted the binoculars again. "I count eighteen guards on the north side. Human, I think. Guns, tactical gear, radios. This looks more like Blackwater than a monster hangout."
Alex hummed. "Bloom likes human security."
"Why?"
"Because wolves rely on instinct. Humans rely on procedures."
Dean tracked one of the patrols moving along the fence line. Two guards. Military posture. Not hired muscle.
He snorted. "Great. So he's got both." Alex didn't respond immediately, which made him glance over.
"What?"
Silence. Then: "Bloom's human."
He lowered the binoculars. He heard the words, but they just didn't make sense.
"Human," she repeated, eyes fixed on Bloom's property. Alex sounded disgusted. That surprised him.
"No pack. No wolf. Just flesh and bone."
A human didn't dismantle wolf packs. A human didn't make an Alpha like Napoleon Donovan sweat. "Then how the hell is he running all this? And how does a guy with no fangs cage a pack of wolves?"
Her mouth flattened. "Bloom didn't earn loyalty." Her gaze never left the compound. "He bought it."
Dean frowned. "Bought it?" Hunters bought silver. Guns. Information. Not loyalty.
"Money helps." Alex adjusted the focus on her binoculars.
"So does being the guy who owns the land, signs the checks, and decides who eats." Her voice flattened. "Bloom's family has been buying loyalty for generations. And you'd be surprised what people will follow when they're desperate."
The compound below suddenly looked different. Worse. Bloom wasn't building a pack. He was building an army.
A spotlight swept across the far fence line. Dean frowned. It lingered longer than the others. Searching instead of scanning. He adjusted the focus.
"They're doing perimeter sweeps this far out?" He lowered the binoculars slightly. "That wasn't on the patrol routes."
Alex stiffened. "They shouldn't be anywhere near this ridge."
"Maybe they're just patrolling wide?"
"No." She tracked the light sweep. "This is too far."
Another spotlight flickered on farther down the perimeter. He looked over. "Alex?"
She lowered the binoculars. "Something's changed."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. Either Bloom expanded his search pattern..." Her expression darkened. "...or someone talked."
Alex raised a hand. Dean stopped talking.
"What?"
She tilted her head. Listening. "Three guards."
Dean scanned the tree line beneath the ridge. Nothing. Just shadows and pines. Then a branch cracked. Another. It was moving uphill, with voices drifting up through the trees.
"...Jurgen said the north line's been quiet."
Alex didn't move. Somehow, that worried Dean more.
"Who is Jurgen?" No answer.
More voices drifted up through the trees, deeper this time. "Stephen doesn't trust that. He wants the ridge checked before nightfall. Said the Alpha might send someone."
Her expression didn't change. But she lowered into a crouch, eyes fixed on the trees.
He whispered, "Alex?" Nothing.
"Alex." Softer this time. "Who are Jurgen and Stephen?"
"Trouble." That's all she said.
She kept listening. Below them, the guards kept climbing. Flashlights swept across the rocks below. Boots crunched through the frost.
"Get down." She grabbed his jacket and yanked him down behind a boulder just as a flashlight beam sliced across the spot they'd been standing. He hit the ground hard.
She came down with him, one hand braced against his chest, the other planted on the damp ground. Her head stayed turned toward the trees, listening.
The beam swept past.
"Man, I hope we don't run into those two psychos tonight," one of the guards laughed nervously. "Jurgen gets twitchy before a full moon."
"Stephen's worse," the other muttered. "Bloom says they'll tear apart anything they scent out here."
Dean waited until the voices drifted farther downslope before glancing at Alex. Every part of her seemed focused on something he couldn't hear. "We need to move."
Then she looked past him. "They're already here." The words barely left her mouth.
A voice below them growled, low and unmistakably non-human: "Leave the ridge. Now."
"Jurgen," she breathed.
The guards didn't argue. A second later, boots started moving downhill. Humans obeying in fear, not respect.
Dean turned toward her. "Alex. Talk to me."
Her eyes never left the trees. "Run."
Dean's stomach dropped. They were already moving when something shifted behind them.
A twig snapped. Directly behind Dean. He spun.
A voice, smooth and far too close, whispered: "I found you."
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Alex hit him shoulder-first, slamming into his ribs hard enough to hurl him sideways. His back hit a tree trunk as claws ripped through the space where his head had been.
Bark exploded across his face. Splinters stung his cheek. Dean shoved off the tree fast, his Colt already in his hand.
The thing landed ten feet away. Too big for a human. It was just wrong. Moonlight caught fur. A wolf. Not a man. Not entirely. One of Bloom's wolves. Had to be.
His grip tightened around the Colt. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The wolf smiled. Dean hated that more than claws. He fired. The shot cracked through the trees. Dean never even saw it move. One second it was there. The next it wasn't. The round punched through a pine trunk instead.
"Fuck!"
Another crash swallowed whatever came next. Leaner than the first. Quieter. This wolf wasn't smiling. His attention was fixed entirely on Alex.
"Artemis." The title sounded wrong coming from him. Familiar, but mocking at the same time.
Alex's lips peeled back from her teeth. "Jurgen." One second they were standing still. The next, they weren't.
The impact sounded like a car wreck. Dean had seen monsters fight before. Nothing like this. He lost track almost immediately.
Dean caught flashes. Fur. Claws. A tree shuddered and split apart. Then they vanished into the dark again. They weren't fighting like monsters. They were fighting like people who already knew each other's moves.
He lost sight of them when Stephen crashed into his left side. Whatever was happening between Alex and Jurgen, he was on his own. He rolled with the impact before he even thought about it. Pain flared through his ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Years of training moved him before panic could.
Dean got the Colt up but not fast enough. Stephen lunged. A heavy forearm crashed into the gun. The impact rattled all the way up Dean's arms, and the gun flew from his grip, disappearing into the underbrush.
"Oh come on!"
Stephen laughed. Actually laughed. Blood dripped from his mouth. "Human."
The Colt was gone. Desperate, Dean reached for the knife at his hip. The silver blade flashed into his hand. "Original insult."
Stephen came at him again. Steel flashed. Dean felt the edge connect. Fur parted beneath the blade. Nothing else. Not deep enough to cause damage.
"Son of a bitch."
Stephen's hand shot out. He caught Dean's knife wrist. Then twisted. Pain shot through Dean's shoulder. "Motherf—"
Something popped loud and wrong. His knife slipped from his hand. No time to brace for whatever's next. One second his boots were on the ground. The next they weren't.
He was airborne. His back slammed into a redwood with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. White flashed across his vision. Something in his spine complained loudly.
He hit the ground. Hard. For a second all he could do was lie there, staring up at the swaying tops of the redwoods while his body tried to remember how breathing worked. Everything hurt. His shoulder hung uselessly at his side.
Great. Just great. He planted a hand in the mud and pushed. Managed half a step.
"Aw, hell." Not enough.
Stephen hit him like a truck. Dean saw fur. Then dirt. The impact drove him face-first into wet soil. Mud filled his mouth. Pine needles scratched across his cheek. He rolled, trying to create space. Didn't get any. The werewolf landed on him.
Dean drove his good shoulder into the wolf's chest. Nothing.
He kicked. Nothing.
"Come on..." Nothing.
Fangs flashed inches from his face. Drool splattered across his cheek. Then, the smell hit him. It was rotten and bloody. Warm. Disgusting. "Fantastic."
Stephen stopped. His nostrils flared. Then he smiled. Slowly. Dean knew that smile. Hunters got that smile when they found what they were looking for.
"Omega."
The word hit harder than the hand around his throat. Alex was still out there. Stephen's grip around his throat tightened. Black spots crowded his vision.
Somewhere in the darkness, Alex snarled. Jurgen answered. The sounds coming from the trees stopped making sense. Dean couldn't tell who was winning anymore.
He shoved against Stephen's chest. His arms burned. His lungs screamed. Nothing.
Stephen lowered his head. Closer. Closer until fangs brushed his skin. His throat.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Every instinct he had was screaming for distance. For safety.
For—
Then he heard her. A growl ripped through the clearing. Not human. Not even close. Pure Alpha. Ancient. Furious. Every hair on Dean's body stood up. Not from fear.
Alex.
"Get the fuck away from him!" The command crashed through Dean a split second before Stephen's weight vanished. Hot and fresh blood sprayed across his face.
He scrambled backward, coughing. Jurgen was still out there. Still alive. Alex had left him. For Dean. She was on Stephen's back. Her claws had sunk deep into his shoulders. Stephen roared.
Alex didn't. That was worse. She was silent, focused, and terrifying. For the first time since meeting her, Dean understood why other wolves lowered their eyes around her.
Her arm wrapped around Stephen's throat. Then she twisted. Bone snapped under her hands. Loud and sharp in the clearing.
But she wasn't done. The werewolf's body went limp. She didn't stop. Dean watched her bite down. Something warm hit his jeans. Blood. Too much of it.
He didn't move. Couldn't move.
Stephen hit the ground. Dead before he landed. His body was already changing back.
Silence. No words would form. Dean shoved himself to his feet. His gaze never left Alex. Everything hurt.
"Fuck!" His vision hadn't fully settled when he caught a glimpse of gray fur at the edge of the clearing.
Jurgen.
Blood darkened one side of his chest. Deep claw marks cut through the fur. Alex had gotten to him. Bad.
Jurgen wasn't done. He moved. Too fast.
"Alex!" Dean screamed.
Her attention flicked toward him. Claws punched into her side. Deep. Far too deep.
For a heartbeat nobody moved. Not Dean. Not Alex. Not even Jurgen. Then blood poured through Jurgen's claws. Far more than there should've been.
She took a step back. Then another. Jurgen ripped free. And she dropped to one knee.
Something inside him went cold as he watched her fall. Not the hunter. Not the Omega. Just Dean.
"Alex!" Dean stumbled toward her. His knees hit the ground harder than he intended. His hands were instantly covered in blood.
"No. No, no, no—" Her eyes found his. For a second. Just one.
She tried to say something. Nothing came out.
Through the edge of his vision, he saw Jurgen moving toward them again. Then something or someone slammed into the injured wolf. The impact sent them both crashing through a boulder. Dean barely registered it. All he saw was Alex.
"Stay with me, Donovan."
Then hands grabbed him.
"Get off me!"
He fought. Screamed. Kicked. It didn't matter. Too many hands. Too much strength. The last thing he saw before they pulled him away was Alex lying in the dirt. His hands were covered in her blood.
Summary: You knew Dean Winchester was dangerous long before he cornered you in the passenger seat.
You knew it the second he started acting like everything was fine. Singing, not talking. You knew the explosion was coming when he bypassed the bunker. He was done playing nice. Done pretending to be patient.
You should've told him to stop. You knew he would listen.
But instead, you dared him.
What started as jealousy became something far more dangerous: a game of control, exposure, and desires neither of you had been willing to say out loud. Dean pushed every boundary you secretly wanted crossed, and you let him...because the witch’s spell may have lowered your inhibitions, but it didn’t create the fantasies buried underneath them.
But when Dean finally snaps, you discover something worse than his jealousy.
He wants this just as badly as you do.
Content/Trigger Warning: Consensual Non-Consent (CNC), dubious consent, 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, rough sex, overstimulation/toy use, oral sex (cunnilingus), P in V, unprotected sex, aftercare, jealousy-driven and possessive behavior, dom/sub theme, public sex/exhibitionism, voyeurism theme, emotional manipulation, obsession/possessiveness, strong language, intense emotional conflict, praise/degradation, feral Dean Winchester, possessive Dean Winchester, jealous Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester has feelings, protective Dean Winchester, determined reader, defiant reader, competitive dynamics, angst, smut
Characters: You (Reader), Dean Winchester
Pairing: Dean Winchester x You, Dean Winchester x female!reader
The food run was a masterclass in pretending. Dean cranked Zeppelin, sang off-key like he was trying to drown out his own thoughts and drummed a restless rhythm against the steering wheel. You played your part. Eyes on the window. Letting the Impala do what it always did, soothe you. Something you could trust. Easy.
Nothing else was.
The air between you was packed with everything you weren’t saying. Every time he glanced over, you felt it. He was holding something back. Like an accusation he didn’t want confirmed. He knew. He had to. But he kept it together. Grip loose on the wheel, grin in place, voice steady. For now, you let him. For now, you were normal too.
The twenty-four-hour grocery store passed in a blur. Whiskey. Steaks. A bag of salad you both knew Dean wasn’t going to touch. Mundane items. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He stayed a step behind you. He was close enough to guard, far enough not to touch.
Back in the Impala, instead of taking the turn toward the bunker, he stayed on the highway a little longer. Then he signaled and pulled off into a rest area. You noticed, but you held your tongue. You’d learned when Dean went quiet like this, it was smarter to wait.
The place was secluded. Empty. The kind of place that probably saw families and tour buses during the day, but now it was nothing but asphalt and trees. Dark, tall woods on all sides, the area overwhelmed with pine and rot. One flickering streetlight overhead, throwing long, warped shadows across the lot.
He drove past the first few spots and parked at the far edge, directly beneath a security camera mounted on a utility pole. A little black dome. Unblinking. He killed the engine.
The silence rushed in all at once.
“What are—” you started. Your voice carrying too loud. You were going to ask why he’d pulled over. You didn’t get the chance.
The second you turned toward him, he was already moving. Dean slammed into you, pinning you against the passenger door. No warning. No space. His mouth crashed into yours. Not a kiss, not really. All teeth and pressure. His hand locked on your jaw, forcing your face up. Forcing you to look at him.
Rage. That was your first thought. Pure Winchester finally snapping loose. “You think I’m deaf?!” he growled, the words vibrating through your chest.
The strength to push him away vanished the moment he asked. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You tried to look away instead. “Wh-what are you talking about?” The denial came out thin. You heard it. So did he.
“Shower,” he corrected, thumb dragging hard along your jaw. Nothing gentle about his touch. You clenched your teeth.
One word. That's all it took.
You braced for it. The blowup. The accusation. The moment he asked what you’d done. But it didn’t come.
What you felt instead was the hard line of his cock pressed tight against your stomach, his jeans the only thing between you.
Oh. This wasn’t just anger.
Heat rushed to your face first. Sharp. Humiliating. Your stomach dropped. He’d heard the shower. Every wet sound, every ragged breath you’d surrendered. He knew exactly how Jensen had tasted you, how he'd used you, and he’d been on the other side of the door for every second of it. Of course he knew.
"Look at me when you lie."
No more pretending.
The spell answered before you could. Embarrassment twisted fast into something hotter, meaner. You tried to shut it down. Your body didn’t listen. Magic never did. You forced yourself to breathe. To think.
Your eyes slid past him, catching the security camera. “Dean,” you breathed. A warning. “The camera...”
He followed your gaze. A slow grin crept across his mouth. It wasn't amusement. It was satisfaction. “I know,” he whispered. The look in his eyes told you the camera wasn’t a problem. It was leverage.
“You like being watched, Pet?” His hand, already on your jaw, tightened. You tried to turn away again, but this time, he wouldn't let you.
His thumb dug into the soft space beneath your chin, forcing your face to him. He held you there until your eyes fixed on the utility pole. On the dark, unblinking lens fixed at the top. He made sure you were looking. “Good," he rasped. "Let 'em watch.”
Before you could answer, his hand slid up your thigh. No hesitation. He grabbed your skirt and hauled it up hard, bunching the fabric at your hips, his fingers finding the damp lace as though he'd expected it.
He didn’t waste time with your underwear. He hooked his fingers into the lace and tore it aside. He didn’t just want you exposed. He wanted it gone. No buffer left between you and him.
The sound of fabric ripping startled you for a split second. He had never done this before. Not once.
Your body didn’t let the thought linger. The pull came back hard.
“Dean, stop,” you whispered, catching his wrist. Your fingers closed around him, but not to move him. Not really. It was a warning. A dare. You knew it the second you did it. The risk of it, how badly it could blow back on you, only made it harder to pull away. “Not here,” you whispered. “Not like this. Please...”
“Don’t bullshit me,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. You couldn't help yourself. Your hips rolled. You liked it.
"I heard you," he went on.
"Every sound." Your breath shuddered. He hadn’t just heard you. He’d listened to every second of it.
"While he fucked you and used you." Another beat. Sharper.
"While he had my face and didn’t earn it."
And God help you, you wanted him to keep talking. Wanted him to tell you exactly what he’d heard. Wanted the shame dragged out into the open in his voice. The idea of Dean standing on the other side of that door, listening while you unraveled with another man, should’ve made you sick. Instead, it left you drenched and desperate.
Dean didn’t know that part. He probably thought it was guilt.
It was.
Just...not only that.
Before you could answer, he was already lowering himself. Too close. His breath brushed your inner thigh. He didn’t hurry. He took his time, watching you the whole time, tracking the exact second you’d crack. He could feel the heat coming off you, smell the need clinging to your skin. He pushed your legs wider, unapologetic, his broad shoulders wedging you against the door. Then his mouth followed, tracing a slow, wet trail.
Your back arched on instinct. You bit down hard on your lip, refusing to give him the sound he was clearly hunting for.
It held. Barely.
The noise slipped anyway.
Dean lifted his head and smiled. Not cocky. Not playful. This was darker. Meaner.
"Huh,” he breathed. “Was this how he tasted you?" Another flick from his tongue. Everything you’d been holding back went up at once.
"Uh-huh." A thin and breathless response slipped out of you. You couldn’t focus anymore. Your breath left you in a broken rush, vision blurring at the edges as your body tipped forward into it. Your back twisted, helpless.
“So that’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh, followed by a kiss. “That’s the fantasy.” His thumb dragged slow against your clit, not giving you enough. Never enough. “Same face. Same voice. A matched set.”
The accusation hit hard. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. But your body had already answered for you.
He laughed softly, his wet lips brushing yours. "Thought so, Pet." He didn’t wait. He leaned in and bit your inner thigh. Just enough to mark you without breaking skin. You moaned. “Should’ve known one of me wasn’t enough for you...
"I stood there," he muttered against your wet skin, his breath hot. You shivered. "Listened to you beg for it. Listened to him call you a 'good girl'..." His hands tightened on your thigh.
Then his mouth was on your pussy again, faster this time, rougher, like he was trying to drag every sound out of you and take over the memory of you and Jensen.
The sound that left you was low and continuous, a moan you couldn’t seem to stop. Your head lolled back against the window, jaw slack, useless. A thin line of wetness gathered at the corner of your mouth because you’d forgotten how to swallow. How to breathe. How to be anything but a mess for him.
He pushed two fingers inside you in one rough move.
“Is this how he did it?” he growled against your skin, voice muffled and vibrating right through you. “Hm? Did he hit this spot?”
He curled his fingers, finding that deep place that made your toes curl.
A jagged, choked-off scream tore out of you. Your fingers clawed at the leather seat as your hips bucked helplessly against him.
“Or was he too busy playing pretend?”
Your thoughts scattered. Adrenaline flooded through you. Every word landed exactly where he meant it to, stripping away what little pride you had left.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Your body was already giving him everything your mouth wouldn’t.
He worked your clit harder, rougher, dragging sounds out of you that filled the cramped space of the Impala. The leather creaked beneath your hands. Your knees shook. Your composure cracked.
“You’re so damn wet for me.” His voice rough against your skin. “Listen to that. You hear yourself?”
You hated how much that affected you. You reached down, fingers fumbling against him like you meant to push him away. You didn’t.
“Dean…” you gasped. “Please...no...”
He looked up just enough for you to see the damage that did. His mouth curved, dark and satisfied.
“You sure?” he rasped. “Cause right now, your body's calling you a liar.”
Then he leaned in harder, dragging another broken sound out of you like he’d been waiting for the excuse. He let the sound linger between you before pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild.
“You like knowing they could see, don’t you?” he rasped.
Your heart raced, and he felt it. His mouth curved, but there was nothing amused in it.
“He didn’t make you sound like this.” A beat. Lower. Rougher. “Yeah. Didn't think so.”
You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Your body was already falling apart under his mouth, under his hands, chasing the edge he kept dragging closer. But it wasn’t enough anymore. You didn’t just want release. You wanted him. All of him.
So you shifted back, palms sliding over the dash and the seat, not far enough to get away. Just enough to make him follow. To make him prove he would.
“Dean, please—” you moaned. Too breathless.
He reacted fast, hands catching your waist and dragging you back against him. His face hovered inches from yours, his breath warm and uneven against your mouth. For one second, his gaze searched yours. You didn’t look away.
“Don’t bullshit me,” he growled. “You want to run, princess? Then run like you mean it.”
He didn’t waste another second. His door opened, cold night air rushing into the hot, musky car. Then his hands were on you, pulling you across the seat. Your feet barely touched the gravel before you took a half-step back. His grip tightened hard enough to pull a sharp yelp from you. Then he turned you toward the Impala, slamming you forward until your stomach met the hood.
The metal was warm from the long drive, heat bleeding through your clothes. You gasped, and Dean pressed in behind you, his weight keeping you there without crushing you.
“Look at it, Pet,” he rasped against your ear. His hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the little black dome on the pole. "That's better."
His hand moved lower, hiking your skirt at your waist again, and the cold air hit everywhere he’d left you exposed.
“You’re still a mess for me,” he muttered. “Even out here. Even after him.” His mouth brushed your ear. “Tell me he didn’t get this far.”
You tried to squeeze your legs shut, a last-ditch effort to keep some part of yourself private in the middle of the dark parking lot. It’s useless. Dean just grunts, his heavy thigh wedging between yours and forcing you back open against the warm metal. He’s much stronger, and he used his weight to crush you down until you’re pinned flat.
He leaned over you, breath hot against your ear. "I wouldn't, if I were you..."
“Wait—” you gasped. “Not out here.” Your pulse was out of control now. The rest area. The camera. The open dark around you. This was insane.
Seriously? On the hood of the car? In public? Has he completely lost his damn mind?
He loomed over you. The sound he made was more threat than question.
“Wait? Thought you didn’t like it cramped,” he murmured. “Let’s give camera guy a better view.”
Something twisted inside you. It wasn't about nerves. You were turned on. Hard. Of course that was his answer. He was taking back what he thought he’d lost to Jensen, and he didn't care who saw him do it.
The way he pressed you into the hood. The outdoors. The idea that someone or something might be watching. It made your skin feel too alive.
And still not enough.
You clenched your hands against the Impala. “You’re out of your mind,” you fought back, jaw clenched. But you didn't move. You stayed exactly where he put you.
He didn’t wait for your permission. He reached between your legs and drove his fingers inside you. Sudden. Rough. Another scream tore out of you, the sound echoing off the asphalt.
This should’ve been where you stopped playing. Where you told him no for real. You knew he would listen. That was the dangerous part.
Instead, your pride betrayed you. His fingers curled in slowly, twisting against that one spot deep inside you that he knew better than you did. Than Jensen. This was him reminding you that he knew your body better than anyone. That he could break you whenever he wanted.
You were getting lightheaded, breath coming uneven, skin hot and overly aware. The sound of him working you closer. It was obscene.
And still, you didn’t use the word that would make him stop.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his mouth brushing your ear. “Just like that… is my Pet ready?”
You swallowed hard. “Stop… calling me… pet,” you managed between broken breaths.
He caught it instantly. His arm came around you, firmly holding you still against the hood. You twisted your hips, testing him. His grip tightened quick.
His voice dropped, dark and close to your ear. “Careful, Pet. Keep talking like that, and you're gonna get exactly what you're asking for.”
You met his stare and smirked. “You gonna do something about it, Winchester?” you challenged him. “Or are you just here to hear yourself talk?”
His smirk vanished. He went very still. For a second, you thought you’d pushed too far.
Then he leaned in. There was no love in the way he spoke.
“Oh, I’m gonna do something, Pet. I’m gonna make damn sure you remember who you belong to.” The promise hung in the air until the silence felt like it might crush you.
Then he moved. His hand closed around your waist and turned you exactly where he wanted.
“Knees on the hood,” he ordered. Not a suggestion.
You intentionally hesitated, barely, and that was enough. His hand shot up fast, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He dug his thumb into the sensitive dip at the base of your skull. It wasn't about pain. A reminder on who exactly was in control.
“Now, Pet.” He didn't raise his voice. He watched you, sounded satisfied. The thrill hit you, sliding straight down your spine, and pooling between your legs. You didn’t wait for a second warning. You moved.
You could have blamed the spell. Maybe you would, later. It was easier than admitting this had lived under your skin long before the witch got her hands on you. The spell didn’t put this in your head. It didn’t invent the things you’d fantasized and shoved away because wanting them felt too bold, too dirty, too much.
Fear, want, shame...all of it tangled together until you couldn’t tell where magic ended and you began. But your will wasn’t gone. Right now, it wanted Dean.
He didn’t move right away. He just stood there, waiting, watching you bent over the hood of the Impala. He let you sit in the silence and the heavy weight of his stare. You squirmed. You were completely exposed to the woods and the dark.
Bare. Aching. Helpless.
A low sound left him. Approval. His hand came around your ass, his palm rough as he began to slowly knead the flesh. He wasn't rushing; he was paying attention to every reaction you failed to hide.
“Damn.” His voice was dark and possessive. “Look at you, Pet.”
He took his time. Dipped low, close enough that you felt his breath before you understood what he was doing. Wet. Warm. Intentional. His mouth dragged over you, tasting you, slow enough to make your knees weaken. He didn’t use his hands. Not yet. Just his mouth, spreading you open, leaving you exposed and shaking in the night air.
The sounds tore out of you. You didn’t bother trying to stop them anymore. Your hips jerked on instinct, body tipping past restraint. He was relearning you. Making sure you felt it. Making sure you heard every second of it. Every lick. Every breath. Every filthy sound he pulled out of you.
This wasn’t about speed. It was about control. The second you gave him even the hint of pulling away, his hands closed firmly around your thighs. He stayed there, between your legs, long enough for them to start shaking, for the edge to get so close it burned. He held you there, letting you feel the friction, then he pulled back. Slow. Not clean. Like stopping took effort.
You were left bent over the hood, gasping, muscles trembling, need screaming under your skin.
“Don’t stop.” It was your turn to growl.
He laughed. “Impatient, Pet?” There was nothing gentle in the laugh. “You want it? Then beg.”
Thing was you don’t beg. It’s not who you were. The reflex was there. To just tell him to go to hell, to make him work harder, to keep that last scrap of pride between your teeth...but pride was getting harder to hold onto. Not because the spell forced it out of you. Because the spell made it easier to stop pretending you didn’t want this.
The sound that slipped free was small and broken. A whimper you barely recognized until it was already out. Need, stripped bare. No defense. "P-please..."
Dean heard every second of it.
“That’s a start.” A slow, satisfied grin cut across his face under the streetlight.
You were so close it hurt. You were furious at yourself, yes, but not for wanting it. Furious at him for dragging the truth out of you.
And right now? Pride didn't matter nearly as much as getting what you needed. What you wanted.
"You're shaking so hard the car is moving, Pet," he said, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. "You wanna run? Try it. But careful, Pet. Keep pushing me, and this gets a whole lot rougher.”
You stayed slumped over the hood. You were a mess. Your hair stuck to your damp forehead, lips wet and swollen...you just couldn't find a rhythm.
He walked away, boots crunching over gravel. You didn’t move. Didn't want to.
Then came the heavy creak of the trunk opening. Whatever he grabbed from the back, it wasn’t going to help you keep what little control you had left.
You held your breath as the trunk slammed shut. The metallic bang echoed through the lot, sharp enough to make you flinch.
For half a second, you caught his face under the light. A wide, satisfied grin. Dangerous, even. It wasn’t playful. It was planning.
Dread and excitement tightened in your gut.
Gravel crunched again as he walked back. He didn't rush, letting you hear every heavy step until he stopped right behind you. He was close enough you felt his warmth against your thighs. Close enough that the fine hairs on your neck stood up.
“Had a surprise for you,” he mused, far too pleased with himself. He paused, letting the words sink in while you stood exposed in the cold air.
“Was gonna wait ’til next week.” Another beat. “But I think now’s a real good time to open your gift.”
You didn’t have to see it to know.
The sound gave it away first, a low buzz cutting through the silent parking lot. You held your breath. Your body jerked on instinct. Too late. It touched you, just briefly, vibrating against your slick skin. It nearly knocked you off the hood.
“Jesus—” A rough, unfiltered sound tore out of you, and your body bucked. The sensation slammed straight through every defense you had, turning your legs weak and your grip useless.
The world disappeared. Noise. Vibration. Pressure. Nothing else. A raw scream ripped out of you. The force of it knocked the breath from you. You shifted like you might slide off the hood, but Dean caught your hips and held you there. Exactly where you needed him to.
“Dean. Stop, please.” The words shredded out of you on a breath you didn’t have to spare. Not because it didn’t feel good. Because it was too much. You’d never needed a shortcut like this before. Not with him. And now your body was tipping, seconds from coming. Right here. Out in the open. No hiding it.
It stopped. You slumped against the metal, lungs burning as you breathed in. The aftershock lingered deep in your muscles. You blinked, disoriented, when his grip loosened and the sound cut out. He didn't say a word. He just held you there for a second, letting you feel him there while the cold night air hit your skin.
“On your back,” he said, almost gentle. You took your time obeying, lungs still trying to catch up. The hood was warm against your skin. Your head was spinning. You couldn’t read him. Was this it?
He didn't give you a chance to figure it out. The second you settled, he leaned in, his mouth crashing into yours before you could even brace yourself, stealing the questions right off your lips.
He hesitated when he felt the dampness on your skin. Not the mess between your legs, but higher. On your face. He lifted himself off you at once, finally hearing the way your breath was shaking. A way you hadn’t even noticed yet.
“Hey,” he said, quieter than he’d been all night. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping it clean.
You blinked up at him, startled by the tenderness more than the tear itself. Of all things, that had done it. Not the camera. Not the cold. Not him dragging every ugly little truth out of you. Just him stopping. Just him noticing.
You breathed out through your nose, trying to steady yourself. Then again, slower this time. His eyes stayed on yours, narrowed with something that wasn’t anger anymore. Concern.
“You okay?” he asked. Not a challenge. A real question.
"Huh?" You caught the look on his face and immediately understood. “Yeah...”
His brow furrowed, searching your face. “I’m not stopping,” he rasped, the sound barely a breath against your lips. “But I need to know you’re here. With me.” And if you didn’t, you knew he’d stop. No hesitation.
You held his gaze long enough for him to believe you. Then your mouth curved.
“I’m here,” you admitted softly. Then slyly added, “so don’t make them wait for the big finale.”
The surprise on his face lasted half a second. Then it vanished. He didn't waste time. He kissed you hard, taking your answer seriously. Like he was done holding back.
You hooked your legs over his shoulders, surprising him all over again, drawing him in as close as you could get. His breath caught, but only for a second. Then his hands braced on the hood on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.
You didn’t even realize his jeans were already open until he settled against your slick cunt and the hard length of his cock dragged against you. Your lips curved, slow and pleased, like some part of you had been waiting for this all night.
The buzz returned. He didn’t touch you with it this time. He put it in your hand. “Your call, sweetheart,” he said against your mouth. You bit his lower lip and took the choice for yourself.
The silicone tip barely grazed you before a broken sound tore through the quiet. Your head snapped back, focus blowing apart as the vibration hit and his cock filled you at the same time. Hard. Unforgiving. Ripping you apart. No space. No warning. Too much, all at once.
He didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, buried deep, watching you, waiting it out.
Then he moved, every thrust slow and heavy. Grinding into you in time with the vibration shaking through your hand. The car shifted beneath you, metal groaning, and you couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the next started.
“Look at me,” he grunted.
It took effort, but you did it. You met his eyes. The need was written all over him now. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing just as hard. You gripped the toy tighter, the pressure building. Sharp. Unstoppable. You couldn’t get enough air. Knowing that there was nowhere to hide finished what little control you had left.
You finally broke.
The sound that tore out of you didn’t feel human at all. Your body arched clean off the hood shaking, riding the orgasm.
"Fuck!" You’d never come like this before. Never this far gone. Never with him watching every second of it. And God help you, you loved it. Every bit of it. The weight of him over you. The way he kept pounding you, turning the orgasm into something sharp enough to hurt and good enough to chase. It was brutal. It was addictive. It broke over you again and again, violent and sweet, until you couldn’t tell if you were begging him to stop or begging him not to.
Dean covered your mouth when the sound kept tearing out of you. Not to silence you. To keep himself from losing it. Hearing you come apart always unraveled him, and this time was worse. His lips pressed to the back of his own hand, breath hot against your skin.
“Shh, Princess. Please,” he grunted, voice strained. He was fighting it too. You felt it in the way his pace picked up, in the rough sounds he forced down with every drive of his hips. Dean didn’t lose control easily.
You felt every inch of him proving it.
“Dean—” you begged, the word breaking apart as your fingers clawed at his back. “I can’t—”
Another wave hit before you could finish. His cock drove deeper, harder, stealing the thought completely. The toy dragged over your clit again and again, merciless. Your body pressed into him, useless against it, your cunt clenching tight around him in violent, uncontrollable spasms.
The sound it tore from him was rough. Wrecked. Almost painful.
“Not yet,” you managed, the words shaking loose as another wave rolled through you. “Don’t you dare come, Winchester.”
The words surprised both of you.
He froze.
You felt the way his body went rigid, the way he locked himself down instead of driving forward. His breath stuttered once, sharp, then steadied.
“I didn’t tell you to stop fucking me.” You rocked against him just enough to make his control crack. A sound escaped him, half curse, half plea. Every muscle in his body screamed for release, and still he held himself back.
Right on the edge.
And he obeyed.
The realization hit harder than it should have. Dean Winchester, all discipline and control when it mattered, was waiting because you told him to.
You moved against him again, slow and deliberate, watching the strain carve itself across his face. You needed to see him unravel the way you had. Needed proof you could still pull him apart.
With a sharp curse, he ripped the vibrator away and flung it into the ground. It skidded somewhere into the dark. He didn’t want the toy anymore. Didn’t want anything between you and what you were doing to him.
Both his hands closed around your wrists above your head, pinning you there, but it didn't feel like control this time. It felt like surrender.
He dropped his mouth to your ear, breath ragged. The sound that left him was a half plea, half warning, but he still didn’t take what you hadn’t given.
“Wanna come?” you asked, your own control slipping back into place.
He nodded against your neck, already undone. "Please..."
"Yeah? Then do it, Winchester," you whispered. "With me..."
The last of his control snapped.
He broke. No pacing now. No restraint. Just Dean, raw and desperate, fucking you like he could erase the last hour if he drove deep enough.
You lost count somewhere between thrusts. He made you come, again and again, until all you could do was hold on.
His hands, which had been punishing before, softened your shoulders, pulling you closer instead of holding you down. He wanted you. Needed you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, like he needed the contact as much as you did. His mouth found yours, not gentle exactly, but desperate. A kiss meant to keep you with him while he finished what he’d started.
He was close. You felt it in the way his body tensed, in the way he hesitated instead of letting go. You held him there, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs still hooked over him, wanting to feel him give. Wanting to take from him the way he’d taken from you.
"Fuck!" He came hard, shuddering over you as he called out your name. He stayed pressed to you, pounding you still, coming inside you until there was nothing left in him to give.
This was Dean Winchester. Not the hunter. Not the mask. Yours.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead dropped against your shoulder, both of you just breathing in the sudden stillness. Crickets. The streetlight’s buzz. The vibrator still humming somewhere on the gravel.
Your legs had all the strength of overcooked spaghetti. “You wrecked me, you son of a bitch,” you breathed, barely loud enough to be a sentence.
You felt more than heard his chuckle, vibrating through his chest and into you.
"That was the point, princess,” he murmured against your hair. He tapped your thigh, and you let your legs slide down from his shoulders, shaking. A moan escaped your lips as he pulled his cock out of you. He eased back, zipped his jeans like the two of you hadn't just defiled the hood of his car, and you stayed right where you were, sprawled across the warm metal, breath still nowhere near caught.
Your body ached in the best way, thighs trembling, skirt bunched high enough that you were probably lucky the rest area was empty.
He watched you for a second, unreadable in the flickering light. His tongue dragged slowly across his lower lip before he finally exhaled.
“C’mon,” he said, voice rough but stripped of its edge as he tugged your skirt back into place. Your underwear was a lost cause.
He slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you off the hood. He held you close, firm and careful. For a second, there was no spell, no camera, no audience. Just Dean holding you the way he always did when the world got too loud.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed him in. Sweat. Leather. Dean. It slowly brought you down from the high, piece by piece, until your thoughts started fitting together again.
Then your gaze drifted to the hood, and you winced. “I didn’t...did we scratch her?”
Dean followed your gaze, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Baby’s taken worse,” he said. “She’ll live.”
He set you gently into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking under your weight, his movements steady despite everything that had just happened. He didn’t rush away. He stayed there, one hand braced on the door, eyes locked on yours. The hunger was still there. Probably always would be. But for now, it had quieted.
He stepped back, retrieved the vibrator from the gravel, wiped it absently on his jeans, and tossed it onto the dash like it belonged there. Then, he caught your eye, and that wicked Winchester grin appeared.
It wasn't for them.
It was for you.
He slid back into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under him. He didn’t start the car right away. Just sat there, breath still a little uneven. A silence settled between you, and for once, neither of you rushed to break it.
Then you leaned over, body sore in all the right ways, and hooked a finger under his jaw, turning his face to yours. You kissed him slow then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Mine,” you said quietly, teeth catching his lower lip. No theatrics. Just fact. “Clear?”
The surprise on his face flashed quick and real. He hadn’t expected you to throw it back at him like that. Then that crooked and dangerous grin showed up. He leaned in until his mouth brushed yours. “Yeah,” he answered. “Crystal.”
He pulled back, dropped the car into gear, and the engine roared to life.
You smiled and curled into the passenger seat, satisfied.
“All right,” he added, tone casual again, but not fooled. “Let’s go home. Hollywood's probably wondering what's taking us so long.”
Summary: You knew Dean Winchester was dangerous long before he cornered you in the passenger seat.
You knew it the second he started acting like everything was fine. Singing, not talking. You knew the explosion was coming when he bypassed the bunker. He was done playing nice. Done pretending to be patient.
You should've told him to stop. You knew he would listen.
But instead, you dared him.
What started as jealousy became something far more dangerous: a game of control, exposure, and desires neither of you had been willing to say out loud. Dean pushed every boundary you secretly wanted crossed, and you let him...because the witch’s spell may have lowered your inhibitions, but it didn’t create the fantasies buried underneath them.
But when Dean finally snaps, you discover something worse than his jealousy.
He wants this just as badly as you do.
Content/Trigger Warning: Consensual Non-Consent (CNC), dubious consent, 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, rough sex, overstimulation/toy use, oral sex (cunnilingus), P in V, unprotected sex, aftercare, jealousy-driven and possessive behavior, dom/sub theme, public sex/exhibitionism, voyeurism theme, emotional manipulation, obsession/possessiveness, strong language, intense emotional conflict, praise/degradation, feral Dean Winchester, possessive Dean Winchester, jealous Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester has feelings, protective Dean Winchester, determined reader, defiant reader, competitive dynamics, angst, smut
Characters: You (Reader), Dean Winchester
Pairing: Dean Winchester x You, Dean Winchester x female!reader
The food run was a masterclass in pretending. Dean cranked Zeppelin, sang off-key like he was trying to drown out his own thoughts and drummed a restless rhythm against the steering wheel. You played your part. Eyes on the window. Letting the Impala do what it always did, soothe you. Something you could trust. Easy.
Nothing else was.
The air between you was packed with everything you weren’t saying. Every time he glanced over, you felt it. He was holding something back. Like an accusation he didn’t want confirmed. He knew. He had to. But he kept it together. Grip loose on the wheel, grin in place, voice steady. For now, you let him. For now, you were normal too.
The twenty-four-hour grocery store passed in a blur. Whiskey. Steaks. A bag of salad you both knew Dean wasn’t going to touch. Mundane items. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He stayed a step behind you. He was close enough to guard, far enough not to touch.
Back in the Impala, instead of taking the turn toward the bunker, he stayed on the highway a little longer. Then he signaled and pulled off into a rest area. You noticed, but you held your tongue. You’d learned when Dean went quiet like this, it was smarter to wait.
The place was secluded. Empty. The kind of place that probably saw families and tour buses during the day, but now it was nothing but asphalt and trees. Dark, tall woods on all sides, the area overwhelmed with pine and rot. One flickering streetlight overhead, throwing long, warped shadows across the lot.
He drove past the first few spots and parked at the far edge, directly beneath a security camera mounted on a utility pole. A little black dome. Unblinking. He killed the engine.
The silence rushed in all at once.
“What are—” you started. Your voice carrying too loud. You were going to ask why he’d pulled over. You didn’t get the chance.
The second you turned toward him, he was already moving. Dean slammed into you, pinning you against the passenger door. No warning. No space. His mouth crashed into yours. Not a kiss, not really. All teeth and pressure. His hand locked on your jaw, forcing your face up. Forcing you to look at him.
Rage. That was your first thought. Pure Winchester finally snapping loose. “You think I’m deaf?!” he growled, the words vibrating through your chest.
The strength to push him away vanished the moment he asked. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You tried to look away instead. “Wh-what are you talking about?” The denial came out thin. You heard it. So did he.
“Shower,” he corrected, thumb dragging hard along your jaw. Nothing gentle about his touch. You clenched your teeth.
One word. That's all it took.
You braced for it. The blowup. The accusation. The moment he asked what you’d done. But it didn’t come.
What you felt instead was the hard line of his cock pressed tight against your stomach, his jeans the only thing between you.
Oh. This wasn’t just anger.
Heat rushed to your face first. Sharp. Humiliating. Your stomach dropped. He’d heard the shower. Every wet sound, every ragged breath you’d surrendered. He knew exactly how Jensen had tasted you, how he'd used you, and he’d been on the other side of the door for every second of it. Of course he knew.
"Look at me when you lie."
No more pretending.
The spell answered before you could. Embarrassment twisted fast into something hotter, meaner. You tried to shut it down. Your body didn’t listen. Magic never did. You forced yourself to breathe. To think.
Your eyes slid past him, catching the security camera. “Dean,” you breathed. A warning. “The camera...”
He followed your gaze. A slow grin crept across his mouth. It wasn't amusement. It was satisfaction. “I know,” he whispered. The look in his eyes told you the camera wasn’t a problem. It was leverage.
“You like being watched, Pet?” His hand, already on your jaw, tightened. You tried to turn away again, but this time, he wouldn't let you.
His thumb dug into the soft space beneath your chin, forcing your face to him. He held you there until your eyes fixed on the utility pole. On the dark, unblinking lens fixed at the top. He made sure you were looking. “Good," he rasped. "Let 'em watch.”
Before you could answer, his hand slid up your thigh. No hesitation. He grabbed your skirt and hauled it up hard, bunching the fabric at your hips, his fingers finding the damp lace as though he'd expected it.
He didn’t waste time with your underwear. He hooked his fingers into the lace and tore it aside. He didn’t just want you exposed. He wanted it gone. No buffer left between you and him.
The sound of fabric ripping startled you for a split second. He had never done this before. Not once.
Your body didn’t let the thought linger. The pull came back hard.
“Dean, stop,” you whispered, catching his wrist. Your fingers closed around him, but not to move him. Not really. It was a warning. A dare. You knew it the second you did it. The risk of it, how badly it could blow back on you, only made it harder to pull away. “Not here,” you whispered. “Not like this. Please...”
“Don’t bullshit me,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. You couldn't help yourself. Your hips rolled. You liked it.
"I heard you," he went on.
"Every sound." Your breath shuddered. He hadn’t just heard you. He’d listened to every second of it.
"While he fucked you and used you." Another beat. Sharper.
"While he had my face and didn’t earn it."
And God help you, you wanted him to keep talking. Wanted him to tell you exactly what he’d heard. Wanted the shame dragged out into the open in his voice. The idea of Dean standing on the other side of that door, listening while you unraveled with another man, should’ve made you sick. Instead, it left you drenched and desperate.
Dean didn’t know that part. He probably thought it was guilt.
It was.
Just...not only that.
Before you could answer, he was already lowering himself. Too close. His breath brushed your inner thigh. He didn’t hurry. He took his time, watching you the whole time, tracking the exact second you’d crack. He could feel the heat coming off you, smell the need clinging to your skin. He pushed your legs wider, unapologetic, his broad shoulders wedging you against the door. Then his mouth followed, tracing a slow, wet trail.
Your back arched on instinct. You bit down hard on your lip, refusing to give him the sound he was clearly hunting for.
It held. Barely.
The noise slipped anyway.
Dean lifted his head and smiled. Not cocky. Not playful. This was darker. Meaner.
"Huh,” he breathed. “Was this how he tasted you?" Another flick from his tongue. Everything you’d been holding back went up at once.
"Uh-huh." A thin and breathless response slipped out of you. You couldn’t focus anymore. Your breath left you in a broken rush, vision blurring at the edges as your body tipped forward into it. Your back twisted, helpless.
“So that’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh, followed by a kiss. “That’s the fantasy.” His thumb dragged slow against your clit, not giving you enough. Never enough. “Same face. Same voice. A matched set.”
The accusation hit hard. You wanted to deny it. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. But your body had already answered for you.
He laughed softly, his wet lips brushing yours. "Thought so, Pet." He didn’t wait. He leaned in and bit your inner thigh. Just enough to mark you without breaking skin. You moaned. “Should’ve known one of me wasn’t enough for you...
"I stood there," he muttered against your wet skin, his breath hot. You shivered. "Listened to you beg for it. Listened to him call you a 'good girl'..." His hands tightened on your thigh.
Then his mouth was on your pussy again, faster this time, rougher, like he was trying to drag every sound out of you and take over the memory of you and Jensen.
The sound that left you was low and continuous, a moan you couldn’t seem to stop. Your head lolled back against the window, jaw slack, useless. A thin line of wetness gathered at the corner of your mouth because you’d forgotten how to swallow. How to breathe. How to be anything but a mess for him.
He pushed two fingers inside you in one rough move.
“Is this how he did it?” he growled against your skin, voice muffled and vibrating right through you. “Hm? Did he hit this spot?”
He curled his fingers, finding that deep place that made your toes curl.
A jagged, choked-off scream tore out of you. Your fingers clawed at the leather seat as your hips bucked helplessly against him.
“Or was he too busy playing pretend?”
Your thoughts scattered. Adrenaline flooded through you. Every word landed exactly where he meant it to, stripping away what little pride you had left.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Your body was already giving him everything your mouth wouldn’t.
He worked your clit harder, rougher, dragging sounds out of you that filled the cramped space of the Impala. The leather creaked beneath your hands. Your knees shook. Your composure cracked.
“You’re so damn wet for me.” His voice rough against your skin. “Listen to that. You hear yourself?”
You hated how much that affected you. You reached down, fingers fumbling against him like you meant to push him away. You didn’t.
“Dean…” you gasped. “Please...no...”
He looked up just enough for you to see the damage that did. His mouth curved, dark and satisfied.
“You sure?” he rasped. “Cause right now, your body's calling you a liar.”
Then he leaned in harder, dragging another broken sound out of you like he’d been waiting for the excuse. He let the sound linger between you before pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild.
“You like knowing they could see, don’t you?” he rasped.
Your heart raced, and he felt it. His mouth curved, but there was nothing amused in it.
“He didn’t make you sound like this.” A beat. Lower. Rougher. “Yeah. Didn't think so.”
You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Your body was already falling apart under his mouth, under his hands, chasing the edge he kept dragging closer. But it wasn’t enough anymore. You didn’t just want release. You wanted him. All of him.
So you shifted back, palms sliding over the dash and the seat, not far enough to get away. Just enough to make him follow. To make him prove he would.
“Dean, please—” you moaned. Too breathless.
He reacted fast, hands catching your waist and dragging you back against him. His face hovered inches from yours, his breath warm and uneven against your mouth. For one second, his gaze searched yours. You didn’t look away.
“Don’t bullshit me,” he growled. “You want to run, princess? Then run like you mean it.”
He didn’t waste another second. His door opened, cold night air rushing into the hot, musky car. Then his hands were on you, pulling you across the seat. Your feet barely touched the gravel before you took a half-step back. His grip tightened hard enough to pull a sharp yelp from you. Then he turned you toward the Impala, slamming you forward until your stomach met the hood.
The metal was warm from the long drive, heat bleeding through your clothes. You gasped, and Dean pressed in behind you, his weight keeping you there without crushing you.
“Look at it, Pet,” he rasped against your ear. His hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the little black dome on the pole. "That's better."
His hand moved lower, hiking your skirt at your waist again, and the cold air hit everywhere he’d left you exposed.
“You’re still a mess for me,” he muttered. “Even out here. Even after him.” His mouth brushed your ear. “Tell me he didn’t get this far.”
You tried to squeeze your legs shut, a last-ditch effort to keep some part of yourself private in the middle of the dark parking lot. It’s useless. Dean just grunts, his heavy thigh wedging between yours and forcing you back open against the warm metal. He’s much stronger, and he used his weight to crush you down until you’re pinned flat.
He leaned over you, breath hot against your ear. "I wouldn't, if I were you..."
“Wait—” you gasped. “Not out here.” Your pulse was out of control now. The rest area. The camera. The open dark around you. This was insane.
Seriously? On the hood of the car? In public? Has he completely lost his damn mind?
He loomed over you. The sound he made was more threat than question.
“Wait? Thought you didn’t like it cramped,” he murmured. “Let’s give camera guy a better view.”
Something twisted inside you. It wasn't about nerves. You were turned on. Hard. Of course that was his answer. He was taking back what he thought he’d lost to Jensen, and he didn't care who saw him do it.
The way he pressed you into the hood. The outdoors. The idea that someone or something might be watching. It made your skin feel too alive.
And still not enough.
You clenched your hands against the Impala. “You’re out of your mind,” you fought back, jaw clenched. But you didn't move. You stayed exactly where he put you.
He didn’t wait for your permission. He reached between your legs and drove his fingers inside you. Sudden. Rough. Another scream tore out of you, the sound echoing off the asphalt.
This should’ve been where you stopped playing. Where you told him no for real. You knew he would listen. That was the dangerous part.
Instead, your pride betrayed you. His fingers curled in slowly, twisting against that one spot deep inside you that he knew better than you did. Than Jensen. This was him reminding you that he knew your body better than anyone. That he could break you whenever he wanted.
You were getting lightheaded, breath coming uneven, skin hot and overly aware. The sound of him working you closer. It was obscene.
And still, you didn’t use the word that would make him stop.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his mouth brushing your ear. “Just like that… is my Pet ready?”
You swallowed hard. “Stop… calling me… pet,” you managed between broken breaths.
He caught it instantly. His arm came around you, firmly holding you still against the hood. You twisted your hips, testing him. His grip tightened quick.
His voice dropped, dark and close to your ear. “Careful, Pet. Keep talking like that, and you're gonna get exactly what you're asking for.”
You met his stare and smirked. “You gonna do something about it, Winchester?” you challenged him. “Or are you just here to hear yourself talk?”
His smirk vanished. He went very still. For a second, you thought you’d pushed too far.
Then he leaned in. There was no love in the way he spoke.
“Oh, I’m gonna do something, Pet. I’m gonna make damn sure you remember who you belong to.” The promise hung in the air until the silence felt like it might crush you.
Then he moved. His hand closed around your waist and turned you exactly where he wanted.
“Knees on the hood,” he ordered. Not a suggestion.
You intentionally hesitated, barely, and that was enough. His hand shot up fast, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He dug his thumb into the sensitive dip at the base of your skull. It wasn't about pain. A reminder on who exactly was in control.
“Now, Pet.” He didn't raise his voice. He watched you, sounded satisfied. The thrill hit you, sliding straight down your spine, and pooling between your legs. You didn’t wait for a second warning. You moved.
You could have blamed the spell. Maybe you would, later. It was easier than admitting this had lived under your skin long before the witch got her hands on you. The spell didn’t put this in your head. It didn’t invent the things you’d fantasized and shoved away because wanting them felt too bold, too dirty, too much.
Fear, want, shame...all of it tangled together until you couldn’t tell where magic ended and you began. But your will wasn’t gone. Right now, it wanted Dean.
He didn’t move right away. He just stood there, waiting, watching you bent over the hood of the Impala. He let you sit in the silence and the heavy weight of his stare. You squirmed. You were completely exposed to the woods and the dark.
Bare. Aching. Helpless.
A low sound left him. Approval. His hand came around your ass, his palm rough as he began to slowly knead the flesh. He wasn't rushing; he was paying attention to every reaction you failed to hide.
“Damn.” His voice was dark and possessive. “Look at you, Pet.”
He took his time. Dipped low, close enough that you felt his breath before you understood what he was doing. Wet. Warm. Intentional. His mouth dragged over you, tasting you, slow enough to make your knees weaken. He didn’t use his hands. Not yet. Just his mouth, spreading you open, leaving you exposed and shaking in the night air.
The sounds tore out of you. You didn’t bother trying to stop them anymore. Your hips jerked on instinct, body tipping past restraint. He was relearning you. Making sure you felt it. Making sure you heard every second of it. Every lick. Every breath. Every filthy sound he pulled out of you.
This wasn’t about speed. It was about control. The second you gave him even the hint of pulling away, his hands closed firmly around your thighs. He stayed there, between your legs, long enough for them to start shaking, for the edge to get so close it burned. He held you there, letting you feel the friction, then he pulled back. Slow. Not clean. Like stopping took effort.
You were left bent over the hood, gasping, muscles trembling, need screaming under your skin.
“Don’t stop.” It was your turn to growl.
He laughed. “Impatient, Pet?” There was nothing gentle in the laugh. “You want it? Then beg.”
Thing was you don’t beg. It’s not who you were. The reflex was there. To just tell him to go to hell, to make him work harder, to keep that last scrap of pride between your teeth...but pride was getting harder to hold onto. Not because the spell forced it out of you. Because the spell made it easier to stop pretending you didn’t want this.
The sound that slipped free was small and broken. A whimper you barely recognized until it was already out. Need, stripped bare. No defense. "P-please..."
Dean heard every second of it.
“That’s a start.” A slow, satisfied grin cut across his face under the streetlight.
You were so close it hurt. You were furious at yourself, yes, but not for wanting it. Furious at him for dragging the truth out of you.
And right now? Pride didn't matter nearly as much as getting what you needed. What you wanted.
"You're shaking so hard the car is moving, Pet," he said, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. "You wanna run? Try it. But careful, Pet. Keep pushing me, and this gets a whole lot rougher.”
You stayed slumped over the hood. You were a mess. Your hair stuck to your damp forehead, lips wet and swollen...you just couldn't find a rhythm.
He walked away, boots crunching over gravel. You didn’t move. Didn't want to.
Then came the heavy creak of the trunk opening. Whatever he grabbed from the back, it wasn’t going to help you keep what little control you had left.
You held your breath as the trunk slammed shut. The metallic bang echoed through the lot, sharp enough to make you flinch.
For half a second, you caught his face under the light. A wide, satisfied grin. Dangerous, even. It wasn’t playful. It was planning.
Dread and excitement tightened in your gut.
Gravel crunched again as he walked back. He didn't rush, letting you hear every heavy step until he stopped right behind you. He was close enough you felt his warmth against your thighs. Close enough that the fine hairs on your neck stood up.
“Had a surprise for you,” he mused, far too pleased with himself. He paused, letting the words sink in while you stood exposed in the cold air.
“Was gonna wait ’til next week.” Another beat. “But I think now’s a real good time to open your gift.”
You didn’t have to see it to know.
The sound gave it away first, a low buzz cutting through the silent parking lot. You held your breath. Your body jerked on instinct. Too late. It touched you, just briefly, vibrating against your slick skin. It nearly knocked you off the hood.
“Jesus—” A rough, unfiltered sound tore out of you, and your body bucked. The sensation slammed straight through every defense you had, turning your legs weak and your grip useless.
The world disappeared. Noise. Vibration. Pressure. Nothing else. A raw scream ripped out of you. The force of it knocked the breath from you. You shifted like you might slide off the hood, but Dean caught your hips and held you there. Exactly where you needed him to.
“Dean. Stop, please.” The words shredded out of you on a breath you didn’t have to spare. Not because it didn’t feel good. Because it was too much. You’d never needed a shortcut like this before. Not with him. And now your body was tipping, seconds from coming. Right here. Out in the open. No hiding it.
It stopped. You slumped against the metal, lungs burning as you breathed in. The aftershock lingered deep in your muscles. You blinked, disoriented, when his grip loosened and the sound cut out. He didn't say a word. He just held you there for a second, letting you feel him there while the cold night air hit your skin.
“On your back,” he said, almost gentle. You took your time obeying, lungs still trying to catch up. The hood was warm against your skin. Your head was spinning. You couldn’t read him. Was this it?
He didn't give you a chance to figure it out. The second you settled, he leaned in, his mouth crashing into yours before you could even brace yourself, stealing the questions right off your lips.
He hesitated when he felt the dampness on your skin. Not the mess between your legs, but higher. On your face. He lifted himself off you at once, finally hearing the way your breath was shaking. A way you hadn’t even noticed yet.
“Hey,” he said, quieter than he’d been all night. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping it clean.
You blinked up at him, startled by the tenderness more than the tear itself. Of all things, that had done it. Not the camera. Not the cold. Not him dragging every ugly little truth out of you. Just him stopping. Just him noticing.
You breathed out through your nose, trying to steady yourself. Then again, slower this time. His eyes stayed on yours, narrowed with something that wasn’t anger anymore. Concern.
“You okay?” he asked. Not a challenge. A real question.
"Huh?" You caught the look on his face and immediately understood. “Yeah...”
His brow furrowed, searching your face. “I’m not stopping,” he rasped, the sound barely a breath against your lips. “But I need to know you’re here. With me.” And if you didn’t, you knew he’d stop. No hesitation.
You held his gaze long enough for him to believe you. Then your mouth curved.
“I’m here,” you admitted softly. Then slyly added, “so don’t make them wait for the big finale.”
The surprise on his face lasted half a second. Then it vanished. He didn't waste time. He kissed you hard, taking your answer seriously. Like he was done holding back.
You hooked your legs over his shoulders, surprising him all over again, drawing him in as close as you could get. His breath caught, but only for a second. Then his hands braced on the hood on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.
You didn’t even realize his jeans were already open until he settled against your slick cunt and the hard length of his cock dragged against you. Your lips curved, slow and pleased, like some part of you had been waiting for this all night.
The buzz returned. He didn’t touch you with it this time. He put it in your hand. “Your call, sweetheart,” he said against your mouth. You bit his lower lip and took the choice for yourself.
The silicone tip barely grazed you before a broken sound tore through the quiet. Your head snapped back, focus blowing apart as the vibration hit and his cock filled you at the same time. Hard. Unforgiving. Ripping you apart. No space. No warning. Too much, all at once.
He didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, buried deep, watching you, waiting it out.
Then he moved, every thrust slow and heavy. Grinding into you in time with the vibration shaking through your hand. The car shifted beneath you, metal groaning, and you couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the next started.
“Look at me,” he grunted.
It took effort, but you did it. You met his eyes. The need was written all over him now. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing just as hard. You gripped the toy tighter, the pressure building. Sharp. Unstoppable. You couldn’t get enough air. Knowing that there was nowhere to hide finished what little control you had left.
You finally broke.
The sound that tore out of you didn’t feel human at all. Your body arched clean off the hood shaking, riding the orgasm.
"Fuck!" You’d never come like this before. Never this far gone. Never with him watching every second of it. And God help you, you loved it. Every bit of it. The weight of him over you. The way he kept pounding you, turning the orgasm into something sharp enough to hurt and good enough to chase. It was brutal. It was addictive. It broke over you again and again, violent and sweet, until you couldn’t tell if you were begging him to stop or begging him not to.
Dean covered your mouth when the sound kept tearing out of you. Not to silence you. To keep himself from losing it. Hearing you come apart always unraveled him, and this time was worse. His lips pressed to the back of his own hand, breath hot against your skin.
“Shh, Princess. Please,” he grunted, voice strained. He was fighting it too. You felt it in the way his pace picked up, in the rough sounds he forced down with every drive of his hips. Dean didn’t lose control easily.
You felt every inch of him proving it.
“Dean—” you begged, the word breaking apart as your fingers clawed at his back. “I can’t—”
Another wave hit before you could finish. His cock drove deeper, harder, stealing the thought completely. The toy dragged over your clit again and again, merciless. Your body pressed into him, useless against it, your cunt clenching tight around him in violent, uncontrollable spasms.
The sound it tore from him was rough. Wrecked. Almost painful.
“Not yet,” you managed, the words shaking loose as another wave rolled through you. “Don’t you dare come, Winchester.”
The words surprised both of you.
He froze.
You felt the way his body went rigid, the way he locked himself down instead of driving forward. His breath stuttered once, sharp, then steadied.
“I didn’t tell you to stop fucking me.” You rocked against him just enough to make his control crack. A sound escaped him, half curse, half plea. Every muscle in his body screamed for release, and still he held himself back.
Right on the edge.
And he obeyed.
The realization hit harder than it should have. Dean Winchester, all discipline and control when it mattered, was waiting because you told him to.
You moved against him again, slow and deliberate, watching the strain carve itself across his face. You needed to see him unravel the way you had. Needed proof you could still pull him apart.
With a sharp curse, he ripped the vibrator away and flung it into the ground. It skidded somewhere into the dark. He didn’t want the toy anymore. Didn’t want anything between you and what you were doing to him.
Both his hands closed around your wrists above your head, pinning you there, but it didn't feel like control this time. It felt like surrender.
He dropped his mouth to your ear, breath ragged. The sound that left him was a half plea, half warning, but he still didn’t take what you hadn’t given.
“Wanna come?” you asked, your own control slipping back into place.
He nodded against your neck, already undone. "Please..."
"Yeah? Then do it, Winchester," you whispered. "With me..."
The last of his control snapped.
He broke. No pacing now. No restraint. Just Dean, raw and desperate, fucking you like he could erase the last hour if he drove deep enough.
You lost count somewhere between thrusts. He made you come, again and again, until all you could do was hold on.
His hands, which had been punishing before, softened your shoulders, pulling you closer instead of holding you down. He wanted you. Needed you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, like he needed the contact as much as you did. His mouth found yours, not gentle exactly, but desperate. A kiss meant to keep you with him while he finished what he’d started.
He was close. You felt it in the way his body tensed, in the way he hesitated instead of letting go. You held him there, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs still hooked over him, wanting to feel him give. Wanting to take from him the way he’d taken from you.
"Fuck!" He came hard, shuddering over you as he called out your name. He stayed pressed to you, pounding you still, coming inside you until there was nothing left in him to give.
This was Dean Winchester. Not the hunter. Not the mask. Yours.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead dropped against your shoulder, both of you just breathing in the sudden stillness. Crickets. The streetlight’s buzz. The vibrator still humming somewhere on the gravel.
Your legs had all the strength of overcooked spaghetti. “You wrecked me, you son of a bitch,” you breathed, barely loud enough to be a sentence.
You felt more than heard his chuckle, vibrating through his chest and into you.
"That was the point, princess,” he murmured against your hair. He tapped your thigh, and you let your legs slide down from his shoulders, shaking. A moan escaped your lips as he pulled his cock out of you. He eased back, zipped his jeans like the two of you hadn't just defiled the hood of his car, and you stayed right where you were, sprawled across the warm metal, breath still nowhere near caught.
Your body ached in the best way, thighs trembling, skirt bunched high enough that you were probably lucky the rest area was empty.
He watched you for a second, unreadable in the flickering light. His tongue dragged slowly across his lower lip before he finally exhaled.
“C’mon,” he said, voice rough but stripped of its edge as he tugged your skirt back into place. Your underwear was a lost cause.
He slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you off the hood. He held you close, firm and careful. For a second, there was no spell, no camera, no audience. Just Dean holding you the way he always did when the world got too loud.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed him in. Sweat. Leather. Dean. It slowly brought you down from the high, piece by piece, until your thoughts started fitting together again.
Then your gaze drifted to the hood, and you winced. “I didn’t...did we scratch her?”
Dean followed your gaze, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Baby’s taken worse,” he said. “She’ll live.”
He set you gently into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking under your weight, his movements steady despite everything that had just happened. He didn’t rush away. He stayed there, one hand braced on the door, eyes locked on yours. The hunger was still there. Probably always would be. But for now, it had quieted.
He stepped back, retrieved the vibrator from the gravel, wiped it absently on his jeans, and tossed it onto the dash like it belonged there. Then, he caught your eye, and that wicked Winchester grin appeared.
It wasn't for them.
It was for you.
He slid back into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under him. He didn’t start the car right away. Just sat there, breath still a little uneven. A silence settled between you, and for once, neither of you rushed to break it.
Then you leaned over, body sore in all the right ways, and hooked a finger under his jaw, turning his face to yours. You kissed him slow then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Mine,” you said quietly, teeth catching his lower lip. No theatrics. Just fact. “Clear?”
The surprise on his face flashed quick and real. He hadn’t expected you to throw it back at him like that. Then that crooked and dangerous grin showed up. He leaned in until his mouth brushed yours. “Yeah,” he answered. “Crystal.”
He pulled back, dropped the car into gear, and the engine roared to life.
You smiled and curled into the passenger seat, satisfied.
“All right,” he added, tone casual again, but not fooled. “Let’s go home. Hollywood's probably wondering what's taking us so long.”
Thirty-two weeks pregnant, Rae is running on fumes. The plan was simple: buy a crib, survive Babies “R” Us, and ignore the way Dean Winchester looked behind the wheel of a minivan. For one afternoon, Dean isn’t just a hunter. He’s a husband. A father. A man naming his unborn child Sam.
But the past has a way of finding its own breath. When Michael finds Rae in her sleep, carrying the promise he never kept, Dean thinks he knows what grief looks like.
He’s wrong. One second, his hands are full. The next, he’s holding nothing but air.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Rae (OC), Garth Fitzgerald IV
Pairing: Dean Winchester (father-to-be!Dean) x Rae (mother-to-be!Rae/Reader)
CW/TW: Pregnancy, Pregnant Original Female Character, Expectant Father Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Angst, Baby Shopping, Garth Fitzgerald IV Being Garth Fitzgerald IV, Grief/Mourning, Past Relationship, Dead Lover, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Angst with Soft Moments, Panic, Distress, Emotional Breakdown, Dean Winchester Has Feelings, Dean Winchester Tries His Best, Found Family, Alternating POV
@x-nine-x-epic @emmily33 @denimoveralls @alwaysthebiggerbear @leysol (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
Rae
The van rocked gently as we headed home, soft rock mumbling from the radio. After a whole day running around with Dean and Garth, I was done. At thirty-two weeks, tired was my new normal. We’d spent the whole day playing house. We went shopping for cribs, bottles, blankets, all the little things that screamed a baby was actually coming. My head tipped against the cool window, the world outside smearing into green and gray.
Dean had the wheel, steady hands wrapped around it like he was pretending the van was Baby. He hated the thing, spent the morning grumbling about how a minivan was “an insult to mankind.” But that didn’t stop him from driving carefully. And Garth? Wedged in the back like a pack mule, humming off-key like he hadn’t just spent three hours wrestling strollers, car seats, and breast pumps.
There was still a mountain left to do, like paint swatches for the nursery, baby-proofing the bunker (good luck with that one, Dean), more doctor’s appointments, more checklists. But at least I wasn’t doing it alone. Everyone had been pitching in, even Gabby with her not-so-subtle drop-ins.
And Dean…well, he hadn’t left my side in twelve weeks. No surprise hunts. No vanishing acts. Just here. Always here. Sweet, yeah, but also kinda annoying. Everywhere I turned, he was there. That's why I no longer listen to audiobooks with my back facing the door. Learned that lesson.
But he’d become the ultimate "fixer," even if he still couldn't cook rice to save his life.
At this point, the baby basically ran the show. Everything ached, from my back down to my feet. Turns out pregnancy comes with DLC nobody asked for. Ever heard of round ligament pain or "lightning crotch"? Yeah, neither had I. Yet here I was, wearing a maternity belt every day and waddling like a penguin.
Heartburn’s a bitch, too. And somehow, the only thing that sounded good was diner food at two in the morning. The kind Dean swore fixed everything, and he wasn't wrong. I didn't even like greasy spoons before. Now? I'd sell my soul for a side of hashbrowns.
But if I was honest, it also scared me. The Dean I’d started to learn a few months ago wasn’t this man. He was a hunter, and from what Garth had told me, they didn't do this. They didn't stay, and they sure as hell didn't shop for strollers. Yet here he was, bending his whole life around me like he didn't know any other way to breathe.
Did it make me love our little peanut any less? Not a chance in hell. If anything, every ache, every kick, every time Dean’s face lit up when he felt movement, it just made me fall harder. For both of them. I just didn't know yet if I was watching him step up...or give up something he couldn't afford to lose.
A sharp twinge tugged at my left side. When I shifted my hand to rub it, the baby answered with a rolling kick. Dean’s free hand rested on his thigh, so I slid it over, guiding him to the spot. To anyone else, the constant "feel this" would’ve been annoying. But not him. Every time, he stopped cold, like the tiniest movement was enough for him to drop everything.
His thumb brushed slow circles, his shoulders easing. For a second the hunter face eased off. Then came that quiet smile, like he forgot how to be tough.
“Daddy’s hand is right here, peanut. Feel that?”
His hand twitched under mine. He swallowed hard, his ears going a little pink. He tried to play it cool, eyes fixed on the road, but that soft smile stayed anyway. Every kick wasn’t just movement to him; it was the only thing in the world that made sense.
“Whoa, easy there, slugger,” he muttered. “You're gonna break something in there before you even get out.” He looked from my stomach to my face, his green eyes warm.
I shot him a look, one brow climbing. “Break something? What? Am I incubating a wrecking ball, Papi?" His smile only grew.
From the back seat, Garth piped in. “Kid's a ballerina. No. Tap dancer. That's the vibe.”
Dean groaned. "Garth…”
“What?” Garth grinned. “Every great hunter needs a hobby. Why not jazz hands?”
I chuckled, my hand smoothing over my stomach. “Just picture it, peanut,” I whispered. “Daddy sitting in a dance studio full of moms, waiting for you to finish practice.”
The word still tripped him up. 'Daddy.' I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or secretly loving it. Maybe both.
“Oh yeah,” Garth drawled. “Just you wait. Your daddy’s gonna be layin’ that Winchester charm on thick when you’re older. We saw him with those checkout ladies today, didn’t we? Total chick magnet.”
Dean groaned, his ears turning a deeper shade of red. “Dude… just shut up.”
Flashback - Babies ‘R’ Us
Babies “R” Expensive. That’s what the store should’ve been called. Bright lights, pastel walls, price tags that made my head spin. Pink everywhere. Plush toys with blank little button eyes. A wall of pacifiers that made me wonder how any baby ever survived. Overwhelming? Yeah. But in a good way.
Dean looked like he’d just been dropped into a Care Bears-themed version of hell. Completely lost. I was already biting back a laugh when two employees in matching purple polos zeroed in, all smiles and perkiness.
One of them, blonde ponytail, maybe my age? She smiled way too big at him. “First time, huh?”
And of course, the patented Winchester smirk appeared. “That obvious?”
I rolled my eyes. Not jealousy. Nah, not exactly. But he caught it, anyway. His eyes met mine, amused, knowing. I see you, Rae.
I shot back a look of my own. Whatever.
The twenty-something year old giggled. And I mean giggled. Too flirtatious for a store full of diapers. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. I mean—uh, of you both.”
I glanced at Dean, already bracing for the charm. The harmless flirt he didn't even think about anymore. It never came. Instead, he reached for me. His large, warm hand slipping into mine, fitting perfectly, fingers lacing without hesitation. Then he bent just enough to brush a kiss against the top of my head, like it was something we’d done a thousand times before.
Hand-holding and a kiss? Seriously. I shouldn’t have been blushing. I definitely shouldn’t have been thrown off by it. But...dammit, Dean.
“Appreciate the offer,” he said smoothly. “But I think I’ve got my hands full with my wife. You’ll be my first call if we need backup.” His hand tightened around mine.
Wife. There it was again. Too easy. Too natural. Slid off his tongue like it belonged there.
Me? It still didn’t sit right. No matter how many times he said it. Maybe one day it would. Someday.
---
Strollers. Rows and rows of them. Monster trucks for babies. I swear some of them had more features than the Impala. Cup holders, suspension, tires thick enough to survive potholes, gravel, and whatever nightmare scenario Dean had already imagined.
He circled one with the same focus he gave weapons. Spun the wheel. Checked the frame. Muttered something about maneuverability.
“Sir,” I said flatly. “It’s a stroller. For a baby. Not a tank.”
“If we gotta move fast,” he replied, dead serious, “you’ll thank me for the swivel wheels.”
Oh, my God. He was actually weighing the options, like this was life or death instead of strollers. Trying to pick the one that would keep our kid safest. He was already being more of a parent than I felt like I was. I turned away, pretending to study the wall of car seats so I didn’t have to admit it.
As I wandered toward the heavy-duty bases, my hand brushed against a display box. I stopped when I saw it. A tiny, soft-white onesie sitting on top of a car seat, clearly abandoned by some other shopper who had changed their mind. I reached out, my fingers grazing the fabric. It was barely bigger than my hand.
And out of nowhere, thoughts of Michael crashed through me. The future I’d once planned. The one I lost. It suddenly became harder to breathe.
My hand had flown to my mouth, pressing hard like I could keep the sob trapped in my chest. Not now, Reima. Not with your husb—Not with Dean by your side...
Then there was a hand at my back. Warm. Steady. Broad enough to cover half my spine. Dean. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. He just stepped into my space and held me. I leaned in, my head against his chest.
My jaw clenched until it ached. I clung to his shirt, bunching the heavy fabric in my hand, hanging onto him. There were no words between us. Just his palm moving up and down my back, like he knew exactly where to put pressure.
After a few breaths, the shaking eased. Not because I talked myself down. Because he was right here, and my body finally believed it.
Just as I started to look up, ready to offer a trembling thank you, his entire body went still. His voice came out flat, horrified, and loud enough to turn heads. “What the hell are those?!”
I pulled my face away from him, already bracing for whatever nonsense had triggered that tone. And sure enough there was Garth, walking toward us, arms stacked high with boxes.
Not one.
Not two.
But three. He looked like he’d just hit the jackpot at a county fair.
Dean’s face was priceless. Wide eyes. Ears flaming red. I snorted. I couldn't help it. “It’s exactly what it looks like, hon---er, Dean.”
At first, I thought he heard me because he didn't say a word. He blinked, staring at the boxes. “You mean…” He hesitated, then jabbed a finger at one like it was cursed. “…that thing milks you?!”
For a split second, I was a little disappointed. But when I saw the horror on his face and heard what he said, it took me out. I laughed so hard my stomach tightened and I had to brace a hand over the bump. "Stop! Both of you. I'm gonna pee myself!"
He was so damn pure sometimes. Garth nearly dropped one of the pumps, wheezing. “Dude, you should see the travel versions!”
“Okay, laugh it up, you two,” Dean muttered, face still red. "Yeah, yeah. Real funny." He shot us a look, shaking his head. “Glad you’re both gettin’ a kick outta this.”
Back in the van
I couldn’t stop replaying Dean’s face. Thank God for these two, because without them, the day would’ve crushed me. Still, I was going to have to figure those pumps out on my own. No way Dean was surviving the first time one of them actually starts doing what it's supposed to do.
The bickering started up again, this time about setting up the car seat in the Impala.
"It's not going in Baby," Dean snapped.
"Dude, it's literally built for cars," Garth argued from the back.
I was too wiped out to weigh in, but yeah...nope. That thing wasn't going anywhere near the Impala. Not happening. I didn't even lift my head. "I swear to God if y'all start drilling into the Impala, I'm naming the kid 'Mazda'."
We had forty-five minutes left, and sleep was winning. It crept in slow, heavy, pulling me under piece by piece. The last thing I felt was Dean’s warm, steady hand resting on my stomach.
The last thing I thought of was Michael. The park. The day before he deployed.
And then the van was gone.
Michael and Rae
The cool breeze touched my face, carrying the sharp scent of freshly cut grass. I was lying on a gray blanket, the fabric soft and shaggy under my palms. Overhead, the sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere nearby, I could hear the river and children laughing. I pushed myself up slowly, confused. I hadn’t been here in years. Not since…
"Hey, darlin'..."
The voice. I turned, slowly, my chest already aching. Michael. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Just him. Crewcut neat. Hazel eyes still captivating. That crooked smile that used to feel like home. And his cologne, sandalwood, cinnamon, and leather warmed by his skin, still clung to him like the years had never happened.
“Michael,” I finally breathed. Saying his name hurt. I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. When I opened them, he was still standing there.
I didn’t think. I just threw myself into his arms, clutching him. My whole body shook as sobs ripped out of me. Ugly. Raw. The kind that tears straight through you.
"Why're you cryin', darlin'?" he asked, his thumb, warm and real, brushing my tears away.
All those nights I’d dreamed of this, one more day, one more conversation, but now that he was here, it wasn’t relief. It was agony. Nine months into his deployment, he’d been gone. No goodbye. No funeral I was allowed to go to. His family made sure of that. Just silence. Just absence.
“Why didn’t you come back?” I choked, shoving at his chest. “You promised! You said you’d come back!”
He caught my wrists, gentle, and dropped his chin. Michael didn’t do that. Not ever. He was a Marine to the bone, the kind of man who stood his ground no matter what. Seeing him do it now wrecked me.
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry. That wasn’t the plan.”
That hit harder than I was ready for. The life I’d wanted years ago had all been with him. The rings, the kids, the home. Hearing him say it now was tearing me apart. My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. His eyes followed.
The truth was right here, impossible to ignore: I was building the family Michael had wanted with me… but with someone else.
My mouth opened, then closed. I shook my head, looking away. “It’s not simple.”
His face crumpled. "Not simple?! Reima, you're carrying his child. You're living with him. Looks simple from where I'm standing. So tell me what I'm missing."
He said my name the way only he ever had. Reima. It burned.
Something in me snapped. "Because you’ve been gone, Michael!" My voice cracked on his name. "You have no idea what I went through since you left! What it took to keep breathing after you didn't come home." I turned away, needing air. Needing distance. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“Reima.” His voice hardened, harder than he probably meant. “So that’s it?" A beat, like he regretted it even as he said it. "I die, and you move on. And he just...gets everything I didn't?!” His eyes dropped to my stomach again.
"Tell me he's not just filling the space I left."
The slap landed before I could stop it. “How dare you?” My voice broke. “Is that really what you think of me?”
Regret hit him instantly. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just…” He stopped. Looked at me like he already knew the answer and still needed to hear it. “Help me out, darlin'. Why Dean?”
“Because he’s here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Because he came back. And then he stayed.”
The words were out before I realized I’d said them. And then quieter, "And... he loves me."
The truth hit hard. Terrifying. Real.
He bowed his head and for a second, I thought he might argue. Thought he might fight for what we used to be. But when he looked back up, his eyes were sad, not angry. “Then…choose him, darlin',” he said quietly. “Don’t make him pay for me.”
He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Reima...” he whispered. "Always."
“I love you, too,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Always. And thank you…for letting me say goodbye.”
And then he was gone. The warmth, the weight of him, the scent I'd memorized...it vanished like smoke. One second he was holding me. The next, nothing.
I folded in on myself, holding on tight. A broken, ugly sound tore out of me, too loud for this quiet place.
The next breath smelled of stale air. The van swayed. The radio mumbled. Dean’s hand was still on my stomach.
And I was still reaching for a man who wasn’t there.
Dean & Garth
In the passenger seat, Rae was finally out, his jacket draped over her. He didn’t move his hand from her stomach. Warm weight under his palm. A steady rise and fall. Right here, right now, it settled something in him.
“It’s just me and you, buddy,” he murmured. “Your mama’s sleepin’.”
The word still felt clumsy, the same way it still threw him off when Rae called him daddy. He almost wished he hadn’t said it, until the baby kicked against his hand.
Dean chuckled. “Okay. I hear you.”
“So,” Garth drawled from the back, “when you gonna do it?”
Dean’s eyes stayed on the road. “Do what?”
“You know. Ring. Wedding. The whole nine yards.”
He snorted. “It’s covered. Legal. On paper.”
“Paper ain’t the same as a promise,” Garth shot back, unusually serious. “You think she wants to tell your kid his parents got hitched by a hacker in a bar?”
Dean’s thumb brushed over the plain white-gold band where his hand rested on the wheel before he realized he was doing it.
Garth’s voice dropped. “And that ain’t helping either. Wearing that other fella’s ring.”
Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel. He didn’t answer. Garth already knew the whole story.
Silence settled until Garth tried again. Softer, this time. “So… you gonna name the kid after you? Dean Jr.? John, after your old man? Or, hear me out...Garth Winchester. Little G. He’d be the fifth.”
“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna saddle my kid with Garth Winchester. That’s child abuse.”
The joke died fast. Dean flinched at his father’s name. John. Motel rooms. Orders. Cold coffee. His kid was never gonna grow up like that. Ever.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not John.”
He hesitated. Another name surfaced, one that felt strange on his tongue, like it had been buried for years. “Sam,” he finally said. “Or… Sammy, maybe. Samuel for a boy. Samiera for a girl.”
Garth gave the names some thought. "Sam Winchester," he repeated out loud. He grinned. "I like it."
Dean did too, and that was the problem. The name landed heavier than it should’ve. For a split second, he almost looked over his shoulder, like someone had said it before. No one had. Then it was gone.
Maybe he could do it. Be a dad. Maybe there’d be a life waiting for them after Azazel. Hell, maybe he could even quit hunt---
The thought didn’t get to finish.
A scream ripped through the van, snapping both men straight into hunter mode. It wasn’t an attack. It was Rae.
Dean didn't have time to think. He hit the brakes hard, not a full stop, but enough to drag their speed down fast. Horns blared behind him, but he didn't care. The tires screamed as he forced the wheel right, eyes snapping between the road and her.
"Rae---!"
She bolted upright. Eyes wide. Glassy. Staring through the windshield.
He kept his voice steady by sheer force, one hand locked on the wheel. His other hand shot out, catching her shoulder and pressing her back against the seat. He didn’t know what was coming. He just knew something was wrong.
“Reima. Wake up.”
“Wait! Don’t leave!” she cried, clawing for the door handle, eyes fixed on something only she could see. “Michael!” The name tore out of her.
“Shit!" he snapped. "Garth!” He forced the van onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires.
Garth was already moving. He lunged forward, arms locking around her from behind, hauling her back against the seat. “Easy, Rae." To Dean, "I've got her.”
Dean twisted toward her as far as the console allowed, his hands framing her face. “Reima. Look at me. You’re in the van. You’re with me. Whatever you’re seein', it ain’t here.”
For a second, her eyes found his. Then they slipped past him again, and her hands pushed at his wrists like he was keeping her from Michael. Her sob tore loose, painful and broken.
“No! Let me go,” she sobbed. “Please, let me go.”
Dean’s chest caved in. She wasn’t with him. Not really. She was somewhere else, reaching for a dead man, and all he could do was hold on while it tore through her.
He had no idea how to bring her back.
One second she was there, screaming, fighting him, trying to get out of the cramped van. The next, his hands closed on empty air.
His jacket was the only thing left in the passenger seat, still warm from her body, slumped where she should’ve been. The seatbelt, still buckled, hung limp against the fabric. Garth was frozen behind him, arms wrapped around nothing, his face pale and horrified.
Her perfume was gone. So was the sound of her breathing. All that remained was the low, mindless hum of the radio and the ticking of the cooling engine.
“Dean?” Garth’s voice was a ragged whisper.
But Dean didn’t answer.
The van didn’t smell like exhaust or old upholstery anymore. It smelled like melted chocolate and malted nougat. A signature Dean knew too well. A calling card.
His fingers were still curved in the shape of her jaw, cupped around the space where she’d been a second ago. The feel of her tear-soaked face still burned in his palms.
He had just said the name Sam. He had just thought about home.
She was gone. And the silence was the loudest thing Dean had ever heard.
"I'm pregnant, bored... and the hormones. I needed a release... a relief."
I thought I knew every secret in the bunker. Turns out I missed the one sitting ten feet away, pretending she doesn’t need me. I’ve been so damn careful, thinking space was what she needed. Except somewhere along the way, “space” turned into distance. Now she's reaching for a voice in her headphones, letting some fake Duke talk filthy in her ear like I'm not right here.
She’s wrong. And I’m done pretending I don’t want her.
Content Warning:
1st POV (Dean), pregnancy, emotional hurt/comfort, heavy sexual tension, frustrated Dean, grief/mourning, banter, canon divergence, explicit sexual content (referenced), audio erotica
@x-nine-x-epic @emmily33 @denimoveralls @alwaysthebiggerbear @leysol (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
Rae: 28 weeks + 4 days (1:30 PM)
(Dean’s POV)
I knew the look.
I’d seen it a thousand times on a thousand different faces: witnesses, victims, monsters. It was the look of someone with a secret.
I found her sitting in her old bedroom. It threw me for a second. She hadn’t been in here for months, not since she started sleeping in my room. She was curled up in the armchair, feet propped up on the edge of the unmade bed, pretending to fold a mountain of our laundry. But she wasn’t folding. She was holding one of my heavy work socks in a death grip, staring blankly at the wall, her face flushed a deep, suspicious pink.
She was wearing her headphones. The big noise-canceling ones I got her so she could sleep through Garth’s snoring.
I stopped in the doorway, narrowing my eyes.
She bit her lip. Hard. Then she let out a shaky little breath and fanned her face with my sock.
What the hell?
My first thought, naturally, was threat. Was she in pain? Was something wrong with the baby? But she didn't look pained. She looked...flustered.
My second thought was suspicion. Who was she talking to?
I walked in, making my steps heavy enough to register. She didn’t hear me. She was gone. She squeezed her eyes shut, a small, giddy smile playing on her lips, and, I kid you not, she giggled. A breathless, girlish sound I hadn’t heard… well, in a long time.
I stopped right beside her chair.
“Rae.”
Nothing.
I waved a hand in front of her face.
She jumped a mile, ripping the headphones off so fast they clattered onto the table. She scrambled for her phone, locking the screen like she was hiding state secrets.
“Dean!” Her voice was an octave too high. Her cheeks were blazing. “Jeez! You scared me.”
“I walked loud,” I defended, crossing my arms. I nodded at the phone she was guarding. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
“You were smiling.”
“I was… listening to a podcast.”
“A podcast," I repeated, not buying it for a second.
“Yeah. Parenting,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “The… stages of… labor.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And that made you giggle and fan yourself with my sock?”
She looked down at the sock in her hand, then dropped it like it burned her. Nervous laughter. "It’s scary stuff, Dean. Cervix dilation. Terrifying.”
“Uh-huh.” I took a step closer, leaning my hip against the table. I knew a bluff when I saw one. “So if I put those headphones on, I’m gonna hear a doctor talking about contractions?”
I leaned back, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. I had her cornered, and we both knew it.
"What else do you think you're gonna hear?" she asked, trying to sound defiant, but that blush was still creeping up her neck.
"I don't know," I said, letting my voice drop a notch. "Maybe some Enya? Or one of those 'calming waves' tracks you like that sounds like a leaky faucet."
My eyes dropped to the phone she was still holding too tight.
"But you don't usually look like you're about to burst into flames when you're listening to a doctor talk about all that...biology crap," I pointed out. I reached out, my fingers hovering just an inch away from the headphones sitting on the table. "I’m curious. I like to stay informed. Might be tips in there for the guy who's gonna be stuck holding your hand."
I looked her right in the eye, a challenge written all over my face. "Hand 'em over, Rae. Let's hear about these 'stages.'"
She swallowed hard, looking between me and her headphones. “Ideally, you wouldn’t put them on at all. Because of boundaries. And---and hygiene.”
“Rae.”
“Dean.”
She was stalling. I moved fast. Before she could grab them, I snapped the headphones off the table and brought one cup to my ear, pressing play on the side.
“Dean, no!” she shrieked, lunging for me. I held her off with one hand, keeping her at arm's length while I listened. I was expecting a doctor droning on about labor, or maybe some sappy chick-flick soundtrack.
What I got was a deep, gravelly British accent that sounded like it belonged to a man wearing nothing but bad intentions.
“…I will not yield, you naughty girl. Not until I have tasted every inch of your defiance and heard you beg for the mercy…”
My brain stalled. A sound of rustling silk came through the speaker. A heavy, cinematic groan.
“'You made me look for fifteen minutes. That’s fifteen apologies. And I want them clear.' He doesn't wait for the first one. He drops to his knees on the cold floor, his large hands hooking under your thighs and pulling you flush against his face...”
I slowly lowered the headphones. The sound of his wet tongue, messy and loud, continued into the quiet room.
I looked at her. She had buried her face in her hands. Her ears were bright red.
“The stages of labor, huh?” I drawled.
She made a muffled noise into her palms.
“Sounded educational,” I continued. I could feel a grin spreading across my face that I couldn't control. It was too good. “Yeah. Learned plenty. Mostly about ‘defiance’ and...‘tasting.’”
She dropped her hands, glaring at me, though the blush hadn’t faded one bit. “Shut up. It’s a book. It’s literature.”
“It’s porn,” I corrected. “Audio porn. With a guy who sounds like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.”
“He’s a Duke!” she snapped, defensive now. “A cursed Duke.”
“Of course he is.” I snatched her phone. She’d locked it, thinking she was safe, but the title was scrolling right there on the screen in big, bold letters. “Fifteen Apologies?”
I shifted the phone higher, just out of her reach as she scrambled for it.
"Don't fucking judge me!" she snapped, her face practically glowing. She lunged again, but I moved the phone behind my back, watching her get all worked up. "I'm pregnant, bored... and the hormones. I-I needed a release... a relief."
She stopped, breathing hard, her eyes flashing with embarrassment and genuine frustration. "Just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm dead inside."
The grin I’d been wearing didn’t just slip; it vanished.
The humor in the room went with it. A release. Simple word. Coming from her, right then, it felt like I’d missed something obvious. I’d spent every night for months lying two feet away from her, staring at the ceiling and counting her breaths, doing everything in my power not to push. I thought I was being the "good guy," giving her space to grieve, space to breathe, space to just... be.
But seeing her standing there, defending some gravel-voiced Brit because she was looking for a "release" she didn't think she could get from me? That stung...bad.
I let the phone drop onto the unmade bed behind me. I didn't care about the Duke anymore.
"A release," I repeated. My voice had lost the teasing edge; it was low now, rough.
I stepped into her space, closing the gap before she could get a grip. It forced her back, her knees hit the edge of the armchair and she sat down hard.
I didn't stop. I kept coming until I was looming over her, planting my hands on the armrests on either side of her. I had her pinned. I wasn't touching her, but I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin and the way she held her breath.
"You think I don't know that, Rae?" I looked her dead in the eye, my face inches from hers. I could see the flecks of color in her eyes. "You think I haven't noticed?"
My gaze dropped to her mouth for a second before meeting her eyes again. My voice softened, the rough edge sliding into something quieter. Something honest. "You don't have to look for it in a pair of headphones. You don't have to hide from me."
I leaned down until our faces were inches apart. “You don’t need some damn Duke for that.”
I waited. I could see the conflict written all over her face. The embarrassment still there, but something else sparking underneath it. Something that didn't have anything to do with some audio-book Duke.
"Say the word," I whispered, "and I'll back off."
I held perfectly still. Made her choose. Her fingers curled around my bicep tight. I leaned in just a fraction more, testing how far she'd let me.
I brushed my nose against hers, slow, waiting. She didn't look away. For a second, I thought she might actually lean in. Her hand slid higher, up my shoulder, and she gave the smallest tug. Barely an inch. An answer. The fire from the argument was gone, replaced by something raw. I watched her bottom lip tremble, just a little.
“Why listen to a recording,” I whispered, dragging my lips along her jawline, “when you've got me?”
I pressed a kiss to that one spot just below her ear. It was a gamble. A specific memory I’d been hauling around, and she shivered so hard I felt it on my lips.
She let out a small, ragged sound and her head thudded back against the cushion. For a second, she was actually here. I could feel the heat coming off her and that pull that had been driving me into a wall since August. I could feel her shaky breath against my neck, and the way her fingers dug into me like she was trying to stop herself.
I didn't give myself time to overthink it. I moved in to kiss her for real—
She pressed her back into the chair, shrinking away. Her eyes dropped to my chest, tracing the buttons on my flannel because she couldn't meet my gaze anymore. She shook her head, a single, slow movement and a stray tear finally spilled over, tracking down her cheek.
“Dean… I…” She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “I can’t.”
I froze. I was still hovering over her, still close enough to smell her, but the wall was back up. Her hand tightened on my arm. It wasn't to pull me in, but to give me a gentle, desperate push.
I backed off. I didn't make a scene about it. I just straightened up and took two steps back, putting the space back between us again. It felt cold. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears caught in her lashes. She looked like it hurt.
“I can’t,” she whispered again. “Dean, I can’t.”
It wasn't "don't." It wasn't "no." It was can’t. Like there was a physical weight on her chest keeping her pinned to that chair.
“Okay,” I managed. My voice sounded like I’d been swallowing glass. “Okay, Rae.”
She finally opened her eyes, and the guilt in them was enough to gut a man.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just...it’s too...”
“Hey.” I reached out, my hand moving on instinct to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My thumb grazed her cheek for a split second, feeling the dampness of that tear, before I forced myself to pull away. I shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn't reach for her again.
“Don’t,” I said, giving my head a sharp shake. I rubbed the back of my neck, looking at anything in the room that wasn't her face. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not for that.”
I meant it. Didn't mean it didn't suck. I glanced at the phone on the bed where I’d dropped it. The Duke was still there, paused in the middle of his Fifteen whatever. Safe.
I forced a crooked half-smile. Probably looked like a grimace, but I tried.
“You stick with your Duke,” I said, trying to find that lighter tone again, even if it was a lie. “Seems like a safe bet. He can’t screw this up.”
I stepped back toward the hall before my mouth could get ahead of my brain and say something I’d regret. I needed to get out of that room before the smell of her perfume made me do something stupid.
“I’ll be in the garage,” I announced, not looking back. “If you… need anything.”
I heard the rustle of the bedsheets as she reached for her phone.
“Dean?”
I paused at the door, my hand on the frame. “Yeah?”
“He doesn’t talk back as much as you do...At least I can hit 'pause' on him when he starts getting arrogant.” I could hear the shaky laugh in her voice, the one that told me she was trying to pull herself back together. To patch whatever the hell this was between us.
A grin hit my face anyway. “Yeah, well. He probably doesn’t fix cars either.”
I didn't wait for a comeback. I headed for the stairs, my boots heavy on the floorboards. The plan was simple: get to the garage, crack a beer, and stay elbow-deep in an engine block until my head stopped spinning.
By the time I hit the concrete, I was already trying to convince myself it didn't matter that some fake-ass Duke was getting more action than I was. But I’d seen it, felt it. The way she’d reached for me before she caught herself. The want was still there, buried under all that grief. I just had to be patient enough to wait her out.
I’d been waiting this long. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Summary: Rae’s craving drags Dean out of bed and into his favorite diner at 2 a.m. Because arguing with a pregnant woman is a losing sport. It should've been simple: feed Rae, feed the baby, go back to bed. Coffee. Grease. Peace. What he gets instead is a birthday surprise, a moment he doesn’t know how to accept, and names Rae didn’t realize he’d been saving. It’s just pie… until it isn’t.
Content Warning: pregnancy/pregnancy cravings, catcalling (played for laughs), mild sexual humor, fluff and humor, hurt/comfort, soft angst, domestic fluff, soft Dean, established relationship-ish
Characters: Dean Winchester, Rae/Reima (OFC), Patrice (OFC)
(Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
A/N: Dean’s birthday always hits me a little, so I wrote this side quest as a small celebration for our favorite hunter. Rae making sure he gets a moment that’s just his. Hope this one feels warm...and extra sticky!
(Rae's POV) 26 weeks + 3 days 2:07 AM
I told him I was hungry while I was still half-asleep.
It came out mumbled into his shoulder, somewhere between a yawn and a complaint. My hand was tucked under his shirt, palm warm against his side, and the bunker was quiet. Even the walls seemed to be resting.
“Dean.” I nudged him with my knee. “I’m hungry.”
He made a sound that might’ve been a word in another language, or maybe just a grunt of protest. One arm tightened around me instinctively, pulling me closer.
“Rae,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and gravel, “it’s the middle of the night.”
“I know.”
“You just ate.”
“That was hours ago,” I countered, lifting my head enough to find his face in our dimly lit room. “And it didn’t count.”
He cracked one eye open. Green. Skeptical. “Didn’t count how?”
I shrugged against the mattress. “Didn’t hit right.”
That forced both eyes open. He studied my face the way he always did now when I said things like that. Careful, alert, like he was trying to decide if this was a craving, a mood, or something he was about to have to deal with.
“What’re we talkin’?” Dragging a hand down his face to wake himself up. “Toast? Cereal? One of those weird yogurts you keep pretending you like?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Diner food.”
He blinked. “Like… diner diner?”
“Yes.”
“With pie?”
“Maybe.”
“With hashbrowns?”
“Definitely.”
He stared at the ceiling for a long second, then exhaled a breath so heavy it rattled his chest. “You know normal people sleep at this hour. What time is it anyway?”
He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. One glance at the screen and he groaned. “Yeah. Still counts. Normal people are unconscious right now.”
“I’m growing a human,” I pointed out mildly. “That feels like an exception to the rules.”
He weighed the pros and cons of arguing versus sleeping versus eating. Finally he threw the covers back, defeated. “You’re lucky you're growing a human being.”
I smiled into the pillow.
Ten minutes later, we were pulling out of the garage. Dean had thrown on a cargo jacket, a red flannel over a black undershirt, while I wore a red knitted top, already happier just knowing Dean was taking "feed me" seriously.
The diner was exactly what you’d expect at two in the morning. Neon buzzing in the dark, windows fogged over by the cold, and the smell of grease and coffee and something sweet made my stomach perk up fast.
Dean slid into the back booth without even thinking about it. Wall to his back. Clear view of the door.
Patrice spotted us immediately. She was wiping down the counter, hair pulled back, eyes tired but softening as we approached. She grabbed two menus we didn’t need and walked over. “Well,” she greeted us, “if it isn’t my favorite pair of night owls. Late night again?”
“Early morning,” Dean corrected, smirking. He nodded toward me like that explained everything. "She's hungry."
Her eyes crinkled. “Say no more. I know that look. Baby wants what baby wants. Coffee?”
“Yes,” Dean answered quick.
“And you, honey?”
“Peppermint tea, please,” I added. “And pancakes.”
“And bacon,” Dean chimed in.
“And hashbrowns,” I finished.
The waitress laughed, her pen dancing over the pad. “And eggs?”
"Definitely!" We agreed in unison.
Patrice grinned, tucking the menus under her arm. "Anything else?"
"Ooh!” I sat up straighter. “A whole pie.”
Dean's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “A whole—”
“Apple pie,” I cut in. "Warm. Please and thank you."
Patrice didn't even blink. “Coming right up.”
I was all smiles. He waited until Patrice was out of earshot, one arm draped behind me. “You know I would’ve shared a slice.”
“I know,” I said, smoothing my palms over the curve of my stomach. “But I’m eating for two. And one of us is a Winchester.”
That pulled a genuine laugh from him, a rare, relaxed sound.
That’s also when the door swung open.
Four college students stumbled in, loud and buzzing with that "invincible" energy that comes from a few too many drinks. Two girls, two guys. They paused just inside the door like they’d expected applause.
They didn’t see me tucked in the corner. They saw Dean. Their voices dropped as they walked, but their whispers carried across the quiet room.
“Oh my God,” one of the girls started, clutching her friend's arm.
Followed by a breathless, “Holy shit.”
Then one of the guys, leaning in with zero subtlety, “Girl! Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm! Face card never declines.”
Dean didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just took a sip of his coffee like his life depended on ignoring them. But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. That Winchester smirk appearing just a fraction. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
The group slid into a booth a few tables away. Still in Patrice’s section, which meant they were well within earshot.
“I would absolutely let him ruin my life,” the first girl whispered with zero shame. She stared openly at Dean.
The other girl snorted. “Bathroom. Five minutes. That’s all I’m saying.”
I bit my lip from laughing, but it went down wrong and I ended up choking on it. Dean's attention snapped to me, his hand hovering near my shoulder to check on me.
"Wow," I mouthed, my eyes watering. "They're uh, very enthusiastic. Good for them." For a fleeting second, I remembered what it felt like to have a life where the stakes stayed small. Now I was twenty-three, pregnant, off-grid, and sitting in a diner because the baby wanted diner food like it was an order.
And then... “Look at the jawline. Papi looks like he bites.” One of the guys chuckled, the sound echoing off the windows.
This time, Dean actually choked on his coffee.
The laugh bubbled over then; there was no containing it. I wheezed into my hand as Dean coughed, pounding his chest, his ears turning red. I reached over and patted his arm, still struggling to breathe. “You okay... Papi?”
He glared at me, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You're enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.
"I mean..." I tipped my head, eyes flicking to the table. "You're kinda proving their point."
He cut a glance at me, his eyes narrowing in a silent don't. I didn't flinch. I simply leaned into his space, my fingers giving his bicep a firm, appreciative squeeze, feeling the heavy muscle beneath the flannel.
“Must be the flannel,” I hummed, unable to keep the smugness out of my tone. “Or the lighting. Either way, you're giving...‘ruin my life' kinda vibe.”
"Rae..."
“Face card never declines,” I teased, mimicking the guy’s tone. I chuckled as his ears turned even redder. He was used to the occasional double-take from strangers, but the commentary was clearly a bridge too far.
Dean let out a defeated groan, sliding lower into the booth. "Shut up."
The food arrived with a satisfying clatter. Real food, the kind that made my shoulders drop just smelling it. He took a few bites before he spoke.
“So,” he started, casual in a way that absolutely was not casual. “I was thinkin’ about names.”
I paused mid-syrup pour. Slowly, I looked up at him. “You were?”
He shrugged, eyes fixed firmly on his plate. “Yeah. I mean...” He cleared his throat, stabbing a piece of bacon. “Not planning or anything. Just… thinkin’.”
This from the man who pretended baby books gave him hives.
“Okay,” I ventured carefully. “What kind of thinking?”
He glanced at me, then away again, trying to look anywhere but my face. “If it’s a boy.”
My heart was pounding. “Yeah?” I prompted.
“Samuel,” he rasped. Then, quieter, “Sam. Sammy.”
I didn’t interrupt him. Didn’t joke. Didn’t fill the space. I’d learned that with Dean, some things needed room to breathe.
He continued, voice steadier now that it was out. “I don’t know why. It just… feels right. Not fancy. Just...” He shrugged again. “Good.”
I took a slow sip of my peppermint tea to hide my trembling lips. “Sam Winchester,” I mused. “Has a nice ring to it.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well. Kid’s already doomed.”
“And if it’s a girl?” I asked.
That caught his attention. He looked up, brows lifting like he hadn’t expected me to ask that so easily.
“Same idea,” he replied. “Just… adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?”
He hesitated. Just a beat. “Samiera." He watched my face. “Still Sam. But... it's got you in it, too.”
I sat in silence, replaying the sounds in my head. Sam. Reima. Samiera. I didn’t say anything right away. I couldn't. This wasn’t him joking. Or deflecting. This was him thinking ahead. Choosing something. Letting himself want it. Suddenly, it felt bigger.
“Dean,” I whispered finally.
He tensed, misinterpreting the silence. “You don’t gotta like it. Just throwin’ it out there.”
I pressed my fingers to his lips before he could say anything else. “I do like it,” I breathed. “A lot.” His shoulders eased a little.
“I was thinking maybe something with an ‘L,’” I admitted. “Or an ‘M.’ But… Samuel and Samiera?" I managed a watery smile. "They're pretty beautiful, Dean...”
I stared down at the table, but the tears escaped anyway.
“Hey,” he said immediately, a flash of panic crossing his face. “Hey. No, no. I didn’t mean...”
I shook my head quickly, swiping at my cheeks. “No. Don’t.” I laughed weakly through it. “These are… good tears.”
He froze, unsure, like he didn’t quite trust that.
“Seriously.” I insisted. “You gave it some thought. Those were not names just pulled out of thin air. Both names are perfect.”
He smiled then. Just a small, real one, like he was surprised to be allowed to have this. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I promised.
As the words left my mouth, I felt a steady shift in my stomach. I inhaled slowly, hand flattening there without thinking. Dean noticed immediately, his hand settled over mine.
“You alright?”
I nodded, smiling through it. “Yeah. I think our kid's just agreeing with you.”
Patrice chose that exact moment to arrive with a whole apple pie and two forks. She slowed, glancing from Dean to me, catching the wetness on my cheeks. Whatever she saw there, she kept to herself, setting the pie down with a knowing nod. “On the house.”
Dean stared at it. Then at her. “You sure?”
She glanced at me, then at my stomach. “Positive.” Without another word, she walked away.
He didn't reach for the pie. He kept his eyes on me. “We good?”
I nodded, drying my face. “Yeah.”
He didn't move. He studied me for a long second, searching for cracks. “You sure?”
I hated that I’d worried him, especially today of all days. I reached out, squeezing his hand where it rested on the table. “Dean. I’m good. That was just...” I gestured vaguely. “Hormones. Feelings. You.”
He let out a short breath, the tension disappearing. He flipped his hand to lace our fingers together, squeezed once, then let go.
“Okay,” he murmured. Only then did he pick up his fork, leaning in to claim his first bite.
I caught his wrist. “Wait.”
He froze. Fork hovering midair. “Wait? Why?”
“Just wait.” I turned slightly, my hand sliding into the inner pocket of his jacket.
He frowned, watching my hand disappear into the lining. “What are you doing?" Then, automatically, "Frisking me? Easy, tiger. We're in public.”
I rolled my eyes. “Relax, Winchester. I'm looking for something.” My fingers brushed against the worn lining until I felt the small wax sticks I’d slipped in there just before we left.
“Found ‘em.” I pulled out two birthday candles. It was a ‘3’ and a ‘1’.
He stared at them. Then at me. “Rae.”
I grinned. “Do you have a lighter?”
He didn’t move. He was still staring at the candles, trying to connect the dots. “Rae.” Slower this time. A little suspicious. But he reached into his jeans pocket anyway and handed me his silver Zippo.
“Why do you have candles?” he asked.
“Because,” I replied, snapping the lighter open. Clink. The flame sparked to life, warm and orange in the dim diner light. I stuck the ‘3’ and the ‘1’ into the center of the pie. “It’s January 24th, Dean Winchester.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Like the date didn’t mean anything to him. Then, slowly, it dawned on him. His mouth opened, then closed again.
“Oh,” he said softly.
I lit the second wick and sat back. “Yeah. Oh.”
“Happy Birthday, old man.”
For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Just stared at the pie. The candles. Then he huffed and leaned back in the booth. “You know,” he said slowly, “most people get cake.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I didn’t put candles in a cheeseburger.”
That earned me a smile. Barely there. He picked up his fork, spun it once between his fingers, then set it back down. “I haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted.
“Birthdays?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Like… actually doing something about them.”
I covered his hand with mine. He didn't pull away; he just squeezed my fingers.
“Guess I’m thirty-one now,” he said.
“Thirty-one,” I confirmed. “Still a papi.” I winked.
He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened, the joke failing to hide the emotion in his eyes. He leaned in and kissed me, tasting of coffee and warmth. When he pulled back, he didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.
"Make a wish," I whispered.
He looked at me, then let his gaze fall to my stomach. "Already got it," he murmured. And with one sharp breath, he blew out the candles.
He pulled the wax numbers out and set them on a napkin like they were fragile. He didn't rush. He cut the pie, serving me first, always first, before taking a slice for himself. He took a bite and closed his eyes, a low, appreciative sound escaping him.
He shook his head, a smile finally breaking through. He looked younger somehow. He nudged my plate closer. “You eatin’?”
I nodded. He went back to his pie. And I just watched him, thinking about all the years nobody lit candles for him, and I made a silent vow: I’m not letting that happen ever again.
Patrice took the photo right before we left.
I was putting on my coat when he stopped. He looked at the empty pie plate, then at me, then pulled his phone out. "Hey, Patrice," he called out, voice casual but eyes serious. "Mind taking one for the road?"
I stared at him. Dean Winchester asking for a photo was like a vampire asking for garlic. He ignored my look, handed over his phone, and pulled me flush against his side. He didn't make a face or look away. He wrapped an arm around me and leaned in close, his cheek pressing against my temple.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Jensen Ackles, You/Reader
Relationships: Dean Winchester/you (reader), Jensen Ackles/reader, Dean Winchester/reader/Jensen Ackles, Dean Winchester x girlfriend!reader, Jensen Ackles x female!reader
Warnings: This story is a work of dark supernatural erotica/romance featuring characters from the Supernatural fandom. I do NOT own any of the characters. OVER 18+, MDNI.
Dubious consent, non-consensual entry, overpowering/restraint, initial resistance, MMF group sex, degradation, power exchange, self-tasting, strong language, biting and marking, rough handling, pain-induced arousal, violent orgasms, P in V (no protection), oral sex, fingering, forced masturbation, canon divergence, not a shifter AU, meta-fiction, 2nd POV
@akshi8278 @babypieandwhiskey @bkwrm523 @buckys-zomdoll @canadianspnhunter @cas-backwards-tie @castieltrash1 @deanscarlett @deanwanddamons @ellewritesfix05 @emilyshurley @emoryhemsworth @evadne01 @firefly-in-darkness @idreamofplaid @ilovedean-spn2 @kalesrebellion @katelyn--renee @kayteonline @kickingitwithkirk @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @manawhaat @melbelle45 @mrswhozeewhatsis @mysupernaturalfics @notnaturalanahi @plaidstiel-wormstache @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @ssonia13 @supernatural-jackles @there-must-be-a-lock @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @trend90s @arwenadreamer @thoughtslikeaminefield (Please let me know if you want to be removed from the taglist. Thank you.)
Some days you hunt wendigos. Other days a witch drops you in a warehouse with two Deans and calls it a lesson.
One minute, Dean was lunging, angry and stupid-brave. The next, magic hit like a flashbang that smelled like burnt sugar, and both of you went down hard. When the smoke cleared, the witch was gone.
But not before she left a second Dean behind.
Your hand was already on the blade strapped to your thigh. You don't ask questions when a duplicate shows up. You usually just start stabbing.
"What the—" Dean started. Credit where it's due: he recovered fast.
The copy mirrored his stance. Same flannel, same worn-in jeans, same green eyes blown wide like he hadn't expected this either. "Who... Where am I?"
You kept your voice flat, the one you used on witnesses and demons trying to negotiate. "Old warehouse. Who are you?"
He blinked at you like you were supposed to know him. "Jensen. Jensen Ackles."
Dean let out a harsh laugh, closing the distance. "Jensen? What the hell kind of a name is that? You lose a bet with your parents?"
You saw the flash in Dean's eyes. It wasn't just pissed. Territorial. He hit his chest with his thumb. "Dean Winchester. Not the discount version."
"That's not possible," Jensen protested, then went off like a director's cut. How they "shot" a scene, how they "did" a djinn, blah blah blah. You and Dean traded a look, then stared at him. Great. He wasn't a monster. He was worse: unarmed and clueless. A civilian.
"You're an actor," you stated. "Of course you are. So our worst days are...episodes."
You almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was insane. Scars. Graves. Names you don't say out loud. Reduced to 'tune in next week.' Beside you, Dean went dead still. You could hear his molars grinding, a sound like gravel under boots. He looked ready to snap. If Jensen was any closer, Dean would've punched his own face clean off.
"The script says-" Jensen tried.
"You think this is a script?" Dean's voice dropped, getting quiet in that way that meant things were about to get loud. He jabbed a finger into Jensen's chest. "This is my life, you knockoff son of a bitch."
You moved, cutting between them before Dean decided to see if his double bled the same way a shifter did. You had a witch to find. This idiot wasn't the priority.
You pinched the bridge of your nose already feeling the headache coming on. "It's a dimensional spell," you said. Flat. Final.
"Dimensional?" Jensen blinked hard. "No. No, that's... what the hell are you talking about? Are you...are you high?"
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face like he could peel his own skin off. "This is-" He stopped, exhaled hard. "I'm gonna torch a witch," he said calmly. Way too calm.
Jensen looked from Dean to you, eyes wide. "A witch," he repeated, waiting for the punchline. Dean's face said there wasn't one.
You stepped in again before this turned into a full-blown disaster. "Okay, stop," you snapped. "You two can measure dick size later. Witch first."
"We go back to the bunker," you added, already reaching for Baby's keys. "We track Rowena. We make her undo it."
Dean tipped his head at Jensen. "We can't leave Captain Civilian here by himself. He'll get possessed by a lampshade."
It's never one problem at a time. You jabbed a finger at the actor. "You stay with us. Period."
Dean then decided to step in like he couldn't help himself. "And don't touch anything. Don't open doors. And for the love of God, don't read Latin out loud-" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Actually, don't read anything out loud."
Jensen swallowed and basically agreed. "Yep. Got it. No wandering. No reading."
"This is gonna be fun," you mumbled under you breath, tossing the keys at Dean.
He just shook his head, caught his keys effortlessly, and walked off, like the actor was your problem.
Back at the bunker, you felt crowded. You sat between them at the table like that was going to keep the peace...until it didn't.
You were used to being looked at. Men look. Whatever. But this was different. Hyper-fixation. Every time you glanced up, green eyes were already on you. Sometimes both. Maybe you were imagining it. You weren't. You were three chairs apart. And then you weren't.
Dean leaned in, his arm brushing yours. And your focus slipped, just for a second. On the other side, Jensen crowded you close, knee to knee. Same face. Same smell. It was like a cover song that was technically perfect but missed the soul of the original.
It messed with your head. Your body reacted like it didn’t care which one it was getting too close to, and the lack of control was infuriating.
You pushed back from the table before it got any worse. That’s when you saw the note in the margin of the grimoire. The ephemeral copy endures no longer than a single rotation of the earth. Twenty-four hours. A ticking clock. Good. Because you like problems with expiration dates.
Then you read the rest. The witch hadn't just screwed with dimensions. The grimoire flagged amorous enthrallment. Hunger illusions.
You didn’t look back at the page. You looked at them. Dean’s eyes were already on you. Jensen’s too. Tracking. Waiting. Every time you shifted, they adjusted without thinking. Their mouths slightly parted...Dean wetting his, Jensen biting down his lower lip until his canine left a mark.
Translation: she didn't just make a copy. The witch turned desire into a weapon and pointed it straight at you.
And you were sitting right between two loaded guns.
"Guys..." you started, trying to be calm. But it was useless. The way they were looking...they wanted flesh. The hunter in you knew the math. You were outmatched and out of time. You needed to move. Now.
You bolted for your room and slammed the door. Lock. Scanned the room for anything solid, anything you could swing. Not to kill them. Just to stop them.
Your hand closed around the bat by the bed. You gripped it hard, tested the weight with a quick swing.
Good enough.
"Twenty-four hours," you told yourself, forcing the words to stay steady. "Fine. Lock the door. Stay put. Ride it out."
Simple plan.
Which meant it was probably about to go to hell.
It took only but five minutes.
Footsteps in the hall coming straight for your door. You shifted your grip, knuckles whitening around the handle.
Then a voice on the other side. Familiar. Winchester-calm. He'd already decided. "I don't think that's an option, princess."
The lock turned slowly. That single metallic click told you everything. Master key.
Your plan died right there.
The tension in the room dialed to a hundred the second they stepped in.
"Don't," you warned, planting your feet and bringing up the bat between you. "I mean it."
They both smiled. It wasn't a kind look.
You swung once, more warning than attack, and a hand shot out, caught the bat mid-air, and ripped it from your grip like nothing. It clattered across the room like trash.
All right then.
"Come on," you snapped. "You're stronger than this." They kept closing. You saw the gap by the door and took it.
You were one step from the door, and then you weren’t. Something hooked around your waist and yanked you back hard. You hit the mattress, driving the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp. Hands slammed down on your shoulders, pinning you like cuffs.
"GET OFF ME!" you snarled, thrashing against the weight. Without warning, a strip of fabric slid over your eyes. The knot cinched tight, and the world went black. Everything else got louder. Breath. Weight. Heat too close to count as coincidence. Your body picked a terrible time to have opinions.
You fought harder anyway, even though you knew you were done.
"Can’t you do something about her?!" one of them snapped above your head. Jensen. The voice was the giveaway.
Instead of shutting up, you snorted. "Dean? He won’t hurt me. He never does."
He straddled you then, his heavy weight settling over your abdomen. His thighs trapped your arms, pinning you to the sheets. Oh no. He crowded close, his mouth brushing your cheek, close enough that you felt the words as much as heard them.
"Keep running your mouth, pet."
His mouth hovered over yours. Close enough to feel, but not close enough to touch. "See what happens."
You didn't back down. You lifted your head, blind and straining against the hands pinning you, trying to get back at him. Bite him. Anything to cause damage. He just pulled back an inch, and laughed under his breath.
Jensen swallowed hard. You felt him shift again, closer, heat bleeding off him. "Yeah," he murmured, almost breathless. "I don't think she believes you."
Your thoughts scattered. One Dean was already more than enough. Two had your instincts tripping over each other.
Jensen felt it. And instead of backing off, he pressed in.
"Easy," Dean warned. It wasn't for you. It was a command you give a dog that's about to break.
Jensen stilled. Not because he wanted to, but because he understood the hierarchy.
You thought you'd bought yourself a miracle as the room went quiet for a heartbeat. You dragged in a breath, trying to find your center. Then you heard the rasp of a zipper. Then yours.
Something was wrong. Your body wasn’t panicking anymore; it was syncing with theirs. You weren’t just angry; you were falling into step with them.
"Oh," you breathed, your whole body shaking. "Hime..." was the word you forced out.
Everything paused. A hand cupped your face. Lips brushed yours but didn't take. He was waiting. Dean knew the deal. Say it once, I'm in. Say it again, it's over.
"You sure?" he asked softly.
You searched for a lie and found none. "Yes." You decided. Not the spell. You.
Jensen didn't wait for an invitation. He dropped to the floor to get at your jeans. He didn’t just pull. He yanked them down with your panties to your ankles in one violent motion, the rough scrape of denim followed by the shock of hands forcing your thighs apart. Fingers dug into your soft flesh, seeking heat, seeking wetness. He was starving. Before you could make a sound, Dean crashed his mouth onto yours, tongue wrestling, tasting you like you were the last drink of water in hell.
His tongue was heavy, wet, and sloppy inside your mouth, owning you, while Jensen went lower. You felt the slick of his mouth against your sensitive lips, his thumbs spreading you apart as his tongue found your clit and flicked it with a rhythm that made your hips thrash wild. His hands cupped and kneaded your ass, digging in to pin you to the mattress.
Dean pulled back with a low growl. He didn't bother with the hem of your tank top. He grabbed the fabric and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing cotton was sharp, leaving your chest bare to the cool air. You weren't wearing a bra and now you were on full display.
"That's my slut," Dean rasped, the words possessive, before his hot mouth latched onto your nipple. The double assault with Jensen devouring you below and Dean claiming you above, was too much. You arched your back, trapped between them and loving every second of it.
Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, Jensen proved you wrong. Two fingers shoved inside you, pushing past your dripping cunt, sliding deeper than you thought possible. You locked your thighs around his head, trapping him in. That didn't stop him at all. He worked harder, the wet, lapping noises echoing against the concrete floor. He wasn't gentle. He finger-fucked you in time with his tongue. Curling, hitting your G-spot until you were a mess, soaking his knuckles. And you didn't give a damn.
You always assumed Dean was the only one who could eat you like that. Wrong again. Jensen went down on you with a hunger that matched the original. He pulled back, his lips coated with your own juices. "Fuck. You taste good," he groaned, sliding his fingers deeper to stretch you. "And so fucking tight. You really are a slut, aren't you?"
You tried to answer, but your brain was gone. All you could manage was a broken whimper. Jensen had stopped, and you wanted him back. You want his tongue back on you, spreading you wide open.
Dean didn't like the silence. He nipped at your nipple sharp, getting you to refocus. "Tell him," Dean ordered against your skin, his voice rough. "Tell him you are my slut, princess. Or he's not going to make you come."
You whimpered. You were right on the edge. You wanted--no, you needed--Jensen's tongue and fingers fucking you until you came all over his face. You hesitated, your mouth opening and closing. Dean twisted your nipple. Hard.
A loud, gutted moan ripped out of you. The pain went straight to your head, straight to your cunt. "Yes," you choked, the words tumbling out. "I'm Dean's slut."
He withdrew just long enough for you to feel the space. Then he kissed you, rough, like he was proud of you.
"Hollywood," Dean called out, abruptly ending the kiss. You couldn't see him, but you felt a change.
Jensen paused, his hot breath spreading across your pussy lips as he answered. "What?"
"Don't make her come. You want something tighter?" You felt his rough fingertip playing with your lips. "Try her mouth. She won't disappoint."
A strained, needy groan left your mouth. "But you said-" Your hips arched more, chasing friction that was suddenly gone. Bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing. You were seconds away from crushing Jensen's skull between your thighs, and Dean just pulled the plug.
Winchester didn't wait for an answer. His thumb dragged your lower lip down, holding you open. You couldn't see anything, but the violent rasp of a zipper right in front of your face told you everything. You didn't just nod. You lunged forward, desperate to choke on him.
"Yes," you gasped against his thumb. "Do it."
"Uh-uh, pet." His tone shut you down cold. "Suck him dry. Let him come in your mouth. You hear me?" His order was clipped. Final.
"And... and I want you to swallow every last bit." A hard kiss. Then he pulled away. The mattress shifted again as his weight left your side.
"Get on your hands and knees."
Your body moved on autopilot, scrambling to obey. You flipped over, knees digging into the mattress. You couldn't see them, but you could feel their eyes on you. Watching you.
"Back it up," Dean growled. "Right here."
Strong hands clamped onto your waist, hauling you back until you hit solid muscle. You felt him then. His thick cock pressing right against you, just ready to ravish you.
"Please," you begged, abandoning all dignity. "Don't make me wait."
Then a mouth swallowed yours. Hands on your jaw gripping hard. Jensen. His mouth messy, his face smeared with what he'd just wrung out of you. When his tongue swept into your mouth, you tasted yourself, salt and musk and heat. It was filthy, but you loved it. You kissed him back, hungrily, reclaiming what is yours.
He shoved his fingers past your lips, forcing you to taste every drop as he ravaged your mouth. You clamped down, swirling your tongue, sucking yourself off his fingers. Jensen let out a strangled groan as he felt the suction. "Fuck," he breathed. "Winchester, you weren't kidding."
"Damn straight," Dean grunted. He didn't wait. He thrusted his hips forward, burying himself deep in one brutal motion. You gasped, and before you could recover, Jensen took the opening. He slammed his hard cock into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged. Same size. Same weight. You were being stretched to the limit from both ends.
Whatever control you had fractured. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other started. Dean was fucking you the only way you wanted, brutal and hard. And Jensen? He wasn't just a copy. He was keeping pace. You wanted to see if you could break him the way you do with Dean. You tilted your head, letting the head of his cock graze the back of your teeth. A tease. That did it. Jensen bucked, a strangled noise tearing out of him. His hand tangled in your hair, gripping tight.
The noise triggered Dean. Smack. His hand landed hard on your ass. You leaned back into the sting, chasing the pain. A moan vibrated in your throat, humming against Jensen's cock. He shuddered violently at the sensation. "That's a good slut," Dean growled against your ear, his rhythm not falling for a second. "Break him."
"Slow down," Jensen gasped. His fingers tightened in your hair, trying to pull you back just an inch. "Christ, easy..."
You didn't listen. You belonged to Dean, and Dean said break him.
Your hand slid down Jensen's leg, fingers digging into his thigh to steady yourself. Whatever worked on Dean worked on the copy. You used the leverage to drive yourself deeper, finding the spots you knew made the real thing lose his mind. You knew his type. Hollywood polish on the outside, but everyone had a basement. You wanted to drag his out.
You tightened your mouth around him.
"Fuck you, Winchester," he choked out, his hips fucking your face. "Goddammit! Fuck!"
You felt Jensen start to spasm. You didn't let up. You lashed your tongue harder, faster. He panicked. His hand twisted in your hair, yanking back hard enough to bring tears to your eyes, thinking he could make you stop. Wrong. The pain just spiked the high. You hummed against him and sucked harder. He unraveled. With a broken, stripped groan, he flooded your mouth with salt and heat. You swallowed everything you could, choking it down while the rest spilled over your chin. You gagged, but you weren't about to waste a drop.
Before you could even think about pulling away, it was Dean's turn. He grabbed you by the hair, hard. The blindfold tore loose, slipping down your neck as you slammed against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you. He doesn’t give you a second to breathe. He shoved your hair off your neck, his teeth scraping over the skin before he bit down. Hard.
The pain hit straight between your legs. You went slack against him, eyes rolling back, completely blitzed. You were high on the bite, the sharp sting pushing you closer to the edge. He was marking you. Watching you break another man wearing his face had flipped a switch in him.
He never stopped driving into you, the rhythm desperate and heavy. You were dazed, your brain struggling to catch up between the taste of Jensen on your tongue and the feeling of Dean shredding you apart. Then his hand moved, sliding down your sensitive stomach, down between your legs to find your clit.
The scream ripped your throat raw. You scrambled forward, hips twisting, fighting for an inch of space. Bad move. Dean fed on the struggle. His arm locked around your waist like a steel bar, slamming you back against his chest.
"You okay?" he panted, the question sharp enough to cut through. You shook your head, dazed, desperate for the friction to come back.
"Don't...stop." You scratched his arm. "Just...please." He didn't ask twice. His grip tightened into a vice. His hand snapped up to grab your breast, twisting hard enough to leave a mark.
"Atta girl," he rasped, into a dark growl. "I'm gonna ruin you...pet."
He looked over your shoulder at Jensen, who was still trying to catch his breath. "Kiss her," Dean ordered. "Don't keep her waiting."
Jensen's eyes pinned on you, watching the man he played on screen actually ruin you. You didn't give a damn about the optics. Right now, you were a slave to your body. To Dean.
"Quit stalling, Hollywood," Dean rumbled. He reached around, his fingers rolling your nipple slowly, making sure Jensen saw exactly how he owned you. "You see how she's shaking? She's wide open. Take her. Like you're starving."
Hollywood didn't wait. You felt the cold trail of his tongue drag from your stomach upward until his mouth latched onto your right breast. The room was nothing but noise. The wet slap of Dean's hips against you, the frantic friction of his thumb on your clit, and Jensen's mouth working your nipple.
You couldn't help but moan continuously as the release began building. Your breathing turned erratic, and you felt a desperate pull deep between your legs. "Not yet. Please," you begged internally, but your body was losing the fight. You enjoyed edging, and Dean knew it. But this time, he wasn't playing fair. He was fucking you like he was on a mission. You tried twisting away, trying to put a space between you, Jensen's hot mouth, Dean's heavy thumb, and hard cock. But every move ground you even deeper into the friction. It was too fast. It was hitting the sweet spot over and over again. You were about to break. You couldn't outrun it anymore. You couldn't even draw a breath.
Dean whimpering and moaning in your ear was the finish line. The sound of him hitting his own limit, mixed with the friction and the pressure, finally broke the dam. Your throat became raw as another scream tore out of you, your whole body trembling as you came. You reached back blindly, tangling your fingers in his hair to pull him closer. You searched for him until your mouths found each other, swallowing his raw grunts while he drove himself deep one last time.
You screamed louder into his mouth as Jensen's teeth grazed your nipple making you cum again. You were pinned on your knees with no room to move. Dean suddenly broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to gasp for air as you felt the moment he lost it. His body tightening behind you. His grunts even louder. His fingers dug into your hips.
A muffled, broken moan escaped into the back of your neck before he bit down on your shoulder again, his whole body shuddering as he came inside you. The sharp sting of his bite sent you over the edge again. Harder, this time. Your body clenched itself dry around him while he buried his seed deep inside you, the rest spilling down your thigh.
After, you collapsed where you landed. Dean pulled you back against him, spooning you while he was still inside you. His cock slowly losing its size. Jensen was right there, facing you, watching the tremors still rolling through you. Three bodies, one mattress, and nothing in the room but rough breathing.
Jensen couldn’t keep still. His hand hovered near your hip, stopped short, flexed, pulled back. You feel his heat even without touching. He was restless, wound too tight, trying not to crowd you.
Dean moved first. He shifted behind you, his arm cinching tight around your waist to pull you flush against him. His heart was still beating heavy and fast against your back. You didn't fight it; you just held his arms tight, pinning them to your chest to let him know you were staying exactly where you were.
Jensen must’ve noticed. You feel him stay still beside you, the tension easing as his breathing slowed on purpose.
You stayed where you were, between them, letting the moment settle. "Twenty-four hours, huh?" you said at last, eyes closed.
The discount version of Dean slightly moved beside you, close enough that you had to open your eyes again. The spell hadn’t burned out. Just gone quiet. He leaned in slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn't.
His mouth met yours. No rush. No grab. A soft kiss.
"Careful, Hollywood," Dean growled, his mouth finding the back of your neck in a kiss that made it clear he wasn't about to be outdone.
Your body, which should've been settling down, kicked back to attention.
I wasn't looking for him. I was trying to forget my grief, mistakes, the life I thought I was supposed to have.
One afternoon. One bar. One stranger with a worn jacket and tired eyes. And suddenly I was standing in the middle of something I didn't understand yet.
He didn't promise forever.
He didn't try to rewrite me.
He stayed.
Even when staying meant monsters, secrets, and blood on the floor.
(Dean)
I wasn't looking for anything when I rolled into that college town. Just a drink. A night where nobody knew my name.
Then there was her.
One night turned into consequences I couldn't outrun. A child I didn't know how to protect from the world I live in, and a woman who refused to be kept in the dark.
Protecting her is instinct.
Protecting our child is survival.
Convincing myself I won't destroy them both? That's the real fight.
Content warning: 18+, MDNI, graphic depictions of violence, strong language, sexual content, horror and gore, trauma & PTSD, panic attacks & emotional breakdowns, one-night stand, kidnapping/hostage situation, gun violence and explicit threats, psychological terror, mutilation, trauma response/emotional breakdown, grief/betrayal, explicit sexual content, unresolved emotional conflict, tense family dynamics, harassment, pregnancy & pregnancy-related themes, abandonment & betrayal, past child abuse, controlling behavior
Taglist: @jc-winchester@ladysparkles78@kazsrm67@spn-fanfic-reblog-writes@deans-baby-momma@hobby27@kickingitwithkirk@lyarr24@krazykelly@chriszgirl92@barewithme02@kjah97@roseblue373@bumbleb10@nancymcl@x-nine-x-epic@emmily33@denimoveralls@alwaysthebiggerbear@leysol (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list. Thank you.)
Chapters
Chapter 1: Good Riddance, Mr. Winchester
Chapter 1.5: Dean's POV - Good Riddance, Mr. Winchester NEW!
