Dean might look short next to Sam, but that doesn't prevent a height difference between you two.
tags \\ warnings. size difference + fluff
Dean had spent most of his life next to Sam, and there was something comical about the way everyone insisted on reminding him that his younger brother had inherited every extra inch their father forgot to spare ! Shelves were still easy to reach, sure, but Sam always made him feel smaller one way or another.
It wasn't something that truly bothered him, but over the years he'd stopped thinking of himself as "the tall one."; that title belonged to Sam for as long as he could recall.
Then you wandered into his life; the prettiest girl he had ever seen and also the shortest.
Suddenly, he was looking down whenever you spoke to him, how you fit beneath his arms, disappeared inside some of his jackets, and tilted your head back so often that he found himself absentmindedly rubbing the back of your neck after conversations as though he could soothe away the ache you didn't even mention
At first, he barely thought about it, for him it was simply another thing that made you.. Well, you ! You're, basically, his short queen !
Not to lie, it was a bit of an ego boost, but not a feeling of being more masculine or dominant at the same time; he just thought he could make someone feel safe in his embrace for once in his life.
He ended up slowing his stride so you wouldn't have to rush to keep pace beside him if you guys went together on a hunt and holding doors open wasn't some exaggerated gentleman act to get some girl under the sheets anymore; he did it to see the grateful smile that made the gesture worthwhile. Even whenever the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder looking through old case files spread across the bunker library table, he'd angle the lamp a lil lower because you couldn't see good around the stack of books from your side.
Tiny accommodations that asked nothing of either of you, but somehow made him feel useful.
Althought there were the things you refused to let him help with— the love of his life was certainly just as stubborn as he was !
Watching you drag a chair across the kitchen just to reach a cabinet he'd opened. You'd glare if he tried to intervene, insisting you were capable, balancing carefully on your toes as your fingertips barely brushed a cereal box.
Dean would lean against the counter, hiding his smile behind a mug of coffee, waiting until you let out a defeated sigh before silently reaching over your head and placing the box in your waiting hands.
"You know," you'd grumble, refusing to look at him, "I would've gotten it eventually."
"Mhm sure, sweetheart."
"Don't look so smug." "I got the face I got !"
"You've got an annoyingly handsome face."
The poor man was handsome indeed and used his puppy face so you wouldn't get mad, but you didn’t need to sound annoyed because of it, you know ?!
Tho, the thing that seemed to frustrate you most was something a lot simpler.
For you could never kiss him however you wanted.
Dean would be wiping down Baby after a hunt, absorbed in polishing away streaks of dirt or blood, only to feel your fingers curling around the sleeve of his flannel.
Looking over, he'd find you standing on your toes, lips pursed in hopeful expectation, your expression carrying the idea that if you stretched a little farther, you'd make it.
More often than not, you didn't. Your mouth brushed the corner of his jaw before your heels settled back onto the pavement with the tiniest sigh of defeat, one you always tried to disguise before asking sheepishly, "Can you come here for a second?"
For the love of God, sometimes he wouldn't even let you set back onto the floor at all.
Dean never could let you stay for long and he couldn't tease you with how you asked.
The second he noticed your calves beginning to strain, he'd bend without a word, meeting you halfway. Sometimes he'd cup your jaw. Sometimes his hands would get into your hair and other times he'd duck his head until your foreheads touched first, lingering there for a heartbeat because he liked looking at you, at your pretty eyes, before the kiss even happened.
His favorites were the ones where his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted your body completely off the ground.
"You know," you started one night, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression, "it's actually kind of inconvenient dating someone this tall."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? So why keep me around?"
You pretended to consider it, your lips pursing like you were weighing the pros and cons.
"...You make a very comfortable armrest." You finally said and rested your cheek against his shoulder with a satisfied little hum.
He shaked his head and kissed the top of your hair. "Good," he said. "Would've hated to find out it was my personality."
Your snort echoed through the woods, and the playful shove given to his side made him kiss your cheek as you guys started to walk once more.
And so he slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. It was simple, comfortable, and ordinary, to the extent possible in the life of a hunter.
Exactly the way Dean liked it.
♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞
♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
💭: Really short bc I was in need of writing something Dean related so there might be typos or mistakes !!
You plan a weekend at the motel in town, needing some time to get a handle on your feelings for a certain green-eyed hunter. But guess who shows up at your door?
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Word Count: 2329
Warnings: None, just some angsty fluff
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
You’re sitting on the bed, watching the end of The Proposal, painting your toenails a lovely shade of burgundy. Mulberry Wine. Or Black Cherry Kiss. Or some kind of purple-ish color with a fruity name, it doesn’t really matter – you are actually painting your nails. You had treated yourself to an almost hour-long bubble bath, with candles you brought with you and soft, soothing music. You are pampering yourself, and it feels indulgent and glorious.
You stop for a moment, looking around at your motel room with a smile. Complete peace, total privacy, no bickering brothers in the background or complaining about your choice of movie. It was heaven. Well, almost. If you keep telling yourself that, you might start to believe it.
You clench your jaw and stare doggedly at the TV, determined to focus on the movie and the quiet and the luxury and definitely not the black hole of hopeless longing your mind tends to gravitate towards every time you don’t keep yourself occupied. You told Sam and Dean you just needed some alone time to do girly things, read and watch chick flicks, and just get out of the bunker for a couple of days. Sam had completely understood. Dean had said he understood - with his green eyes fixed on you, searching, reaching into your soul. At least, that’s what it felt like. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds for weeks now.
You just finish the last toe when a soft knock sounds at your door. You look up, confused, then sigh and hobble awkwardly over to peer out the peephole, trying not to mess up your freshly painted nails. You freeze for a second when you see who’s standing there.
Dean.
The very reason you had come up with this brilliant getaway in the first place. What the hell is he doing here? You take a breath, blowing it out slowly and trying to control your body’s reactions to his proximity before opening the door.
“Dean?” You look at him, your eyebrows raised in question.
“Yeah, hi. I know, I’m not supposed to be here.”
Your expression shifts to concern. “Are you okay? Did something…”
He was shaking his head, looking down at the ground, scuffing at the concrete with his boot. “Nooo, no, world’s not blowing up or anything.” He looks up at you again, clearly out of his comfort zone. “Look, I didn’t plan to…” He stops and starts over. “I just came into town to have a few beers, and… I really didn’t mean to bust up your whole,” his hands gesture aimlessly, “girl-time, whatever.”
You recover yourself enough to take a step back and even manage a weak smile. “Come in, tell me what’s going on.”
Bottom lip in the grip of his teeth, he shuffles his way in, and you close the door behind him. You duck-walk your way over to the bed, and plop down, looking up as he smothers a laugh. “What? I just painted my toes, they’re not dry yet,” you protest, unable not to smile.
“Sorry, it was just cute. Couldn’t help it.”
“Well, make yourself useful and grab us a beer, there’s some in the mini-fridge.” He raises his eyebrows in approval and grabs two long necks, opening one and handing it to you. “Thanks. So maybe you should sit down and tell me what’s going on?”
He pulls a chair out and turns it to face you, then sits and takes a long pull from his bottle. He holds it up afterwards, nodding, “Thanks,” setting it on the table and then slowly exhaling before looking at you once again. “Just be honest with me. Did I do something? Did I piss you off? Or say something that hurt you?”
You stare at him in surprise. “Dean, no! Of course not. I told you and Sam, I just needed a little time alone. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He picks up his beer again and takes a swallow, then leans forward, arms on his knees, picking at the label as he goes on, stumbling a little as he searches for words. “It just feels like – not just today when you left, but all the time lately… We used to be so easy around each other, you know, and it seems like you’re not anymore. Comfortable, I mean. With me. Like you’re kind of trying to keep your distance or something, I don’t know. And maybe I’m just being stupid, but it felt like this whole time-to-yourself thing… like it was because of me.”
You’re beginning to feel trapped, and you’re doing everything you can to pretend things are normal – drinking your beer, pulling the foam spacers from between your toes, looking everywhere but at those candid moss-green eyes that are focused intently on you. You tuck one leg beneath you and glance his way, beginning to follow Dean’s example and destroy the label on your bottle.
He speaks again, and the quiet urgency in his voice sends a twinge of guilt through you. “Talk to me.”
You take a shaky breath and answer him softly. “Some things I just can’t talk to you about, Dean.” Your eyes are glued to the floor, and you close your eyes as he rises from his chair and comes to sit next to you on the edge of the mattress.
“You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”
There’s a hard lump forming in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to make it disappear. “Maybe I’ll just go lock myself in the bathroom until you go away,” you try to joke, but it falls flat.
“Like I can’t pick a lock?” You steal a sidelong glance at him, just in time to see the little smirk that curves his lips for a moment.
You attempt a smile, but it’s weak and short-lived, your eyes filling with tears. “Damn it, Dean. You can’t just let me crawl into a hole and hide in peace, can you?”
“Nope.” He pops the ‘p,’ and he raises his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “C’mon, Nug, tell me what’s goin’ on.”
You close your eyes, shaking your head with a little smile at his nickname for you (Nugget because you’re smaller than him and Sam, like 90% of the population of the world) and blink some of those tears away before you look at him. He can see you were about to cry, he never misses anything, and his brows furrow a little, concern in his eyes. “Damn it, I can’t look at you,” you say, turning away a little, hugging your arms around yourself as if that could protect you. If you tell him how you feel, things will never be the same. Permanently never the same. He’ll never think of you the same way, treat you the same way. But he’s right, things haven’t been the same anyway. You have been avoiding him. You haven’t been comfortable around him. Because you’re in love with the jerk and he doesn’t have a clue.
“Okay, I’m gonna talk, but you have to listen and just – listen. Okay?”
He’s silent for a moment, then answers you softly. “Okay.” There’s hesitation there, and a little apprehension, like he’s not going to like what you have to say. He has no idea.
“So, I guess I have been kind of avoiding you a little. Okay, a lot. I can’t relax around you because I’m too busy tryingn to hide how my heart starts beating faster, and I can’t breathe like a normal person, and my brain goes all numb and I’m afraid I’ll make an ass of myself. My stupid body has a mind of its own when I’m around you.” There are tears in your voice as you continue, fighting to stay in control, but the dam has burst and words come pouring out of you in a torrent. “I tried really hard not to, but I’ve got feelings for you, Dean. Major, earth-moving kind of feelings that I can barely keep under control, and all I wanted was a couple of days away from you to try and get a handle on what’s happening with me. Because I never – never – want to mess up the relationship we have. And now you had to go and make me tell you and it’ll be awkward and awful and I’ll never be able to just be with you like we always used to. I miss cuddling up to you while we watch a movie, or having you lay with your head on my lap, or having you rub my shoulders or play with my hair. I can’t do any of that any more because it just makes me want more, makes me want everything, and that can’t happen so I’m just miserable and I was scared to let you see the effect you have on me, so I just run and hide and cringe away when you come near me.”
You finally take a breath after the endless rant, and swallow a sob that’s fighting to escape your throat. “So now you know, and you can go home and figure out how you can disappear on a hunting trip for like, the next year or so to avoid dealing with me.” You’re literally shaking now, your teeth clamped together so hard they ache to try and hold back tears. “So go, Dean! You made me tell you, now go away!”
Your nails are digging into your palms as you sit there, every part of you tense and rigid, waiting for him to leave so you can lose control in private. Instead, he just sits there, and you finally hear him take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before he speaks. “Did you ever think that maybe you should just talk to me about it? That maybe I was feeling the same way?”
You turn your head, staring at him with tear-filled eyes, in shock at his words. He’s staring at the floor, his palm rubbing up and down his thigh, something he always does when he’s nervous. He finally raises his eyes, and the naked vulnerability there makes your heart lurch in your chest.
“I have feelings for you, too, but I – I just kept hoping you’d find somebody. Somebody who could give you a regular life - a normal life, and a normal family, somebody who’s not so twisted up and damaged that they can’t treat you like you deserve.”
“What makes you think I want normal?” Your voice is a little louder than you intended, and you take a beat to calm yourself, continuing in a more gentle tone. “If I wanted normal, I could have left a long time ago. I want you. I want you and I’ll take everything that goes along with that.” You feel a tear escape and run down your cheek, and you swipe it away impatiently. “Dean – if you’re not here to tell me I can have that, then I just need you to leave.”
The muscle in his jaw is twitching, his teeth clenched as he stares down at the floor again. “I wish I was strong enough to tell you what I should. But I’m not.” He looks into your eyes again, and his expression quickens your pulse, makes time seem to stop for a moment. His hand comes up to sweep your hair back, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone, and his gaze lingers on your parted lips before he leans in. He brushes his mouth across yours, sharing your breath, then seals his lips over yours in a kiss so filled with the longing you both feel that it makes your chest ache.
When you finally part, he looks at you, watching you, his hand still on your face. You lean into his touch, your eyes finally fluttering open as you meet his. “For the record, you have always treated me better than anyone in my life ever has. What you’ve been through has made you the most caring man I have ever known. I could never – never – find anyone better.”
His eyes are glistening, and he blinks hard a couple of times, gnawing at his lip a little before he speaks, his hand dropping down to take hold of yours. “So – if we’re gonna do this, maybe we should take it kinda slow, do you think?” His thumb is brushing over your hand, and you give his fingers a gentle squeeze as you nod.
“Yeah, I think so. We need to get used to us this way. And I think we’re worth the wait.” He smiles, a touch of something akin to shyness in his eyes as he glances down for a moment.
“So I guess I should leave then. Let you finish your little girly getaway.”
“Or…” You giggle as he looks up hopefully. “Or you could stay, we could order some pizza and you could suffer through a chick flick with me.”
He scoffs, then softens it with a smile. “I happen to love chick flicks. Well, some of ‘em.”
A little while later, you settle in with your backs propped up by pillows, legs stretched out on the bed with pizza and beer in hand, the opening credits of Overboard on the screen.
“I love Kurt Russell,” you say, your mouth full of pizza, and Dean smirks at you.
“Yeah? Well, I love Goldie Hawn,” he fires back, bumping you with his shoulder. You laugh, and then you’re both quiet as the movie gets started. Once the pizza is gone, he puts an arm around you and you settle onto his shoulder with a contented sigh. He leans closer and says softly, “Sorry I ruined your alone time.”
You look up at him, your heart shining in your eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything. Being alone with you is way better.”
Summary: You go out to a bar to decompress with Dean, but he can't handle what comes to the surface when a guy wants to bring you home.
Word Count: 1.7K+ <3
Content: Female reader, jealous/protective Dean, tipsy reader, reader is SASSY, yearning, first kiss, respectful Dean, so many emotions, suggestive language, little bit of angst (reader and Dean have a disagreement)
Note: Title from Crush by Ethel Cain (the entire song is Dean coded to be fair)—Edit: Thank you so much for all of the love!
How is he supposed to breathe?
You stand across the room, your form leaning over the edge of a pool table as you line up your shot. The stranger playing with you glances at the wad of cash up for grabs, frowns, and says something that you laugh at. Your smile sends Dean's stomach spinning.
Dean takes a swig of his beer as you sink your third ball in a row. He knows that within the next five minutes, you’ll be pocketing the bets and patting your opponent on the back.
He’s the one who taught you how to play.
He’s the one who knows how it feels to have your body nestled against his while he shows you how to make a draw shot.
The men gathering around you are all trash talking your game, claiming that it's a stroke of beginner's luck.
But you win, just like Dean knew you would. The man and his no-good friends are all hollering and giving you fist bumps while you roll your eyes. Dean can read your lips from here.
“What, a woman can’t be good at pool?”
“How about I get you a drink?” The man is practically hovering over you, his eyes dark and glinting.
You tilt your head to the side. “Sure.”
The two of you make your way to the bar, and before you sit down on a stool three seats down the way, you look over at Dean and shrug.
His blood is thumping. He can’t even hear the jukebox anymore. Dean blinks, wanting to tell you everything and nothing, his lips opening and closing as no words come out.
Rum and coke, he guesses.
“Rum and coke,” you say to the bartender.
You did your hair tonight in nice curls, your eyelashes lengthened and dark. Dean notices how your jeans hug your hips, how tight your top is against your chest. Apparently, your friend sees the same, because his eyes are roaming your body as he gets himself a whiskey.
The man holds out his hand to you. He has brown hair and green eyes. “I’m Cal.”
God, even his name is obnoxious.
You reach out and shake it, laughing into the touch as you give him your name. “I thought we were past the honorifics,” you say.
“We can be.”
You and Cal make easy conversation—life, weather in town, work. Dean smirks when you say that you’re in the electrical contracting business, but it’s wiped off of his face when Cal takes an interest in everything that you say. Cal is leaning forward into your space, and you’re letting him in, smiling up at him and toying with strands of your hair. His friends are toward the back entertaining themselves with darts, but they nudge each other's shoulders every time they glance back at you.
Dean can’t talk to you like Cal can. He’s never given a damn about the rain. He’s never had a normal life to make small talk about, actually. You and Dean talk about cases, monsters, weapons, travel routes, movies, music, the next gas stop on the road.
Tonight is the first time that Dean has ever heard you mention that you love dogs.
Cal brings out his phone to show you a photo of his dog back at home, a handsome golden retriever with a tennis ball in his mouth. His name is Buddy.
“Original,” Dean says to himself.
But then you’re nearly cooing over the photo, insisting that Buddy must be the best boy in the whole world. Cal is as smug as it gets, smirking as he tells you that you can meet Buddy. Only if you want to, of course.
Dean has had enough, heard enough, seen enough. He slides a twenty across the bar to cover his tab and a tip as he makes his way over to you, placing a hand against the warmth of your bare shoulder.
You look back at him with a quick smile, and then toward Cal. “Dean! Cal, this is my—“
“Boyfriend,” Dean butts in. He looks at Cal with a squint. “Nice to meet ya.”
Cal’s eyebrows raise. “Boyfriend,” he repeats.
Your face is flushed as you try to put together an explanation. Dean’s hand on your shoulder squeezes once.
“I am so sorry about all of this, man,” Dean tells Cal. “She gets a little… you know… when she’s had too much to drink.”
“What?” You stammer. “Dean isn’t—he isn’t my—“
Cal is standing up from the stool with a blank expression, leaving his unfinished whiskey on the bar. “Nice talking to you,” he mutters as he walks away.
“Thank god,” Dean laughs. Cal is openly glaring at him now. “That guy was a total douche."
“Dean, what are you talking about?”
“Let’s go back, yeah?”
“What the fuck.”
“I just saved you a night of disappointment. I mean, c’mon, him?”
“I wasn’t going to go back to his place!”
“He was totally giving you fuck-me eyes, sweetheart.”
“Like you’d know!”
“I would know. I'm a guy."
“Right, because you’ve been with nearly every woman across the country.” You stand up and grab your bag. “Thanks, Dean.”
Dean follows you out the door, his hands ready to grab you in case you fall. You’re not completely drunk, though you have a decent buzz going. Even if you did stumble, he’s not sure you would let him help you. He can feel your anger pulsing off of you in waves, can feel it when you slam the door of the passenger side of the Impala and slide into the leather.
Typically you choose the CDs when he drives, turning on the radio and rolling down the windows. Some nights you’ll stick your hand out into the night air, letting the breeze coast through your splayed fingers.
Dean frowns when you stare outside instead.
The roads back to the motel are quiet. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Want me to drive you back?”
“Drive me back where, Dean?”
“To the bar.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t want to fuck him.”
“I’m not allowed to talk to people?” You throw your hands up in the air. “Even if I wanted him, I'm really struggling to see the issue here."
“Just… if you want a guy, don't let it be him."
“Who then?”
Dean is silent.
He doesn’t want you with anyone, and he can’t stand the thought. They wouldn’t treat you right, at least not in the way Dean thinks you deserve.
“You better figure it out soon, Dean, because I haven’t…” You stop yourself.
“Haven’t what?”
“We’ve been on the road for months,” you laugh.
“Christ,” he breathes. His hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles briefly turning white before he releases them. “You seriously haven’t… y’know?”
“Let me know when you stop judging me.”
“I’m not.” Dean takes in a breath. “But those guys, sweetheart, they aren’t gonna give you what you need. I can read dudes like Cal for a living, and trust me, he’ll kick you out before the sun rises.”
“Takes one to know one, huh?”
“I wouldn’t kick you out. Not a chance in hell.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
And if Dean thought he couldn’t breathe earlier, he certainly can’t now. Not with your eyes back on him.
“Get you out of that bar and take you to dinner, a real nice place downtown. Maybe I’d have you wear something nice. We could talk and I’d get you whatever you wanted off the menu. Talk to you about the weather. Rain and shit. Show you a dog, if I had one.”
“Dessert?”
“Of course. Tiramisu?”
“That’s my favorite.”
“I know,” Dean smiles.
He wishes that he could know everything about you, if you'd let him.
“You wouldn’t take me home?”
“No. Not if you didn’t want to.”
“So what kind of guy are you? Second-date, third-date?”
Dean is well aware of his reputation—meet a woman, go back to her place, grab his things and leave before she wakes. He never cared in the past that anyone knew he was a non-committal player, but it hurts him now.
“Doesn’t matter. Whenever you wanted.”
“Then it’s too bad you don’t want me.”
“Who said I didn’t want you, baby?”
“Pull over.”
Dean’s brows raise, but he turns right at the next stop, pulling the Impala into a desolate strip mall parking lot. His heart is racing helplessly.
You unclick your seatbelt when he parks and nearly crawl into his lap. “Tell me,” you say.
“Tell you what?"
“Why’d you tell him you were my boyfriend?”
“I can’t—I couldn’t let you. It would’ve killed me.”
“Do you want to be? My boyfriend?”
“Fuck, sugar. You can’t say things like that when you’re like this.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“But you’ve had a few drinks.”
“I’m still telling the truth.” You clamber over to his side, settling your thighs around him. Dean’s hands go to your waist. “Cal looked like you.”
“I noticed, baby.” His thumb reaches up to stroke your cheek. “Wanted me that bad?”
You hum, your head going to his neck, placing a delicate kiss there. Dean closes his eyes and lets out a low noise. He’s dreamt of this, dreamt only of you.
When you start to press down into his lap, Dean slowly pulls you off of him. “Sweetheart," he chokes.
You blink at him. “You don’t want it?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.” You’re suddenly shy in his arms, leaning away from him and looking downward.
“I… you have no fucking idea. I want you to be sober, and I certainly won’t fuck you in this parking lot. I have to make it good for you, baby.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Dean places a hand on your chin and brings you in, his mouth moving slowly against yours. He’s reeling at the taste, the smell of you, and the small noise that comes from your throat when he brushes a hand through your hair.
But he pulls away, taking your face into his hands. “I want to take you to dinner.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Tomorrow. Take me out tomorrow.”
“And take you back to the motel after?” Dean says with a twinge on his face.
“Get us a real hotel room.”
“Sammy said no big purchases on the credit card."
You reach into your bra and pull out the cash from your pool bet. "We don't have to use a credit card."
"That's my girl," Dean sighs.
He kisses your cheek and helps you back into the passenger seat, smiling in the darkness when your head rests on his shoulder for the drive back home.
summary: a quick stop at the roadhouse for a case brings out some jealousy on you, and dean secretly loves it
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The Impala rumbled softly as Dean parked outside the familiar building of the Harvell Roadhouse. The second the engine shut off, you groaned quietly in your seat.
Dean immediately smirked.
Oh, he knew that sound.
He knew exactly why you were making it, too.
Jo had a very obvious crush on him, and subtlety wasn’t in her vocabulary. Even after Dean had made it clear that he was with you, she still tended to hover around him whenever you stopped by the Roadhouse.
Dean doesn't encourage it or reciprocate it in the slightest, but the girl's lingering stares and overly friendly attitude are enough to test your patience.
Unfortunately, Ellen had information you needed for the case, so stopping here before getting back on the road had been necessary.
Beside you, Dean leaned back against the seat, clearly fighting a grin.
Truthfully? He found your jealousy ridiculously hot.
Not because he liked other women flirting with him, he genuinely doesn't care for it since you two got together. It’s the fact that seeing you get possessive and jealous turns him on like nothing else. He can practically feel his blood rushing down his pants just watching you scowl.
Still, he wisely hid most of his smirk. He’s fully aware he might get an elbow to the ribs if he mocked you.
So instead he tilted his head innocently and asked “What? You suddenly don’t like the beer here or something?”
You shot him a glare “It’s not funny”
Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
You crossed your arms “If she tries to make another move, I’m gonna—” You pause, letting out a deep breath “…ignore it. Because I’m mature”
Dean’s smirk widens "That's my girl" He chuckles.
A second later, the two of you climbed out of Baby. Dean reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers together before leading you inside.
The Roadhouse looked exactly the same as always, smelling of beer and food, with a couple of hunters scattered at the tables.
Ellen stood behind the counter cleaning a glass when she saw you both "Well, look what the cat dragged in” She offered a smile.
You greet her back, walking up to her to get straight to the point. You wanted the lead Ellen promised on the creature you’ve been tracking, and you want to get it before—
“Dean!”
Jo walked in, carrying a couple small boxes in her arms, but the second she noticed Dean, her entire face lit up.
Way too enthusiastically, in your opinion.
She immediately set the boxes down and walked over "Hey! I didn't know you were coming by”
Her eyes landed on you for a fraction of a second before locking back on Dean.
Dean gave an awkward little smile “Hey, Jo”
You keep your mouth shut, maintaining your composure, though your jaw tightens.
Dean and you turn your attention back to Ellen. You try your absolute best to focus on the coordinates she’s giving you, but your eyes keep drifting.
Jo has planted herself right next to Dean, leaning heavily against the bar counter. She’s tilting her head, smiling with her eyes locked on him as he speaks to Ellen.
Dean noticed. He wasn’t looking at Jo, but he can practically feel the irritation radiating off you.
Without interrupting Ellen, his hand casually slid to your thigh under the counter, thumb stroking slowly there.
The silent reassurance helps, but you’re still wanting to get out of there sooner rather than later.
Thankfully, the conversation didn’t last much longer.
"Alright, that gives us a head start" Dean says, nodding at Ellen.
The second business was handled, Jo lightly grabbed Dean’s arm.
“So…” She said with a smile “You wanna stay for a drink before you head out?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. He smoothly pulls his arm back, sliding it around your waist instead, pulling you closer against his side.
“Thanks, Jo. But duty calls” He says “My girl and I have a son of a bitch to catch"
Jo’s enthusiastic smile tightens, faltering at the emphasis on your title. She clears her throat, straightening up reluctantly "Right. Yeah, of course"
Dean thanked Ellen, then he guided you gently towards the exit.
Dean barely made it three steps outside before turning to you with the biggest smug grin on his face.
“Oh, don’t start” You warned immediately.
But he was already laughing softly.
Then he pulled you closer by the waist and kissed your forehead.
"I didn't say anything" He mumbles against your skin "But for the record? You're incredibly hot when you're jealous"
absolutely no hate towards jo!! i really like her character, this is purely for the fic’s purpose haha
𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 ⭑ your first day as soldier boy’s executive liaison becomes a test of nerve when you’re left alone with him.
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⭑ soldier boy x reader ( f )
𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 ⭑ 3938 words 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 ⭑ tense fluff (basically foreplay)
𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⭑ canon-typical violence and death references, sexual harassment, misogynistic comments, objectification, intimidation and threats, references to imprisonment and torture, workplace power imbalance, strong language.
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐦 ⭑ heck, i am so darn excited for your feedback on this first chapter. please be kind to it!! it’s been sitting in my google docs for far too long
‧⭑.ᐟ masterlist ‧ join the taglist ‧ support my work
vought tower looks cleaner than a place with this much blood in its walls should. the thought isn't helpful.
the second thing that crosses your mind is that the floors are too shiny. polished black stone, glass walls, chrome edges—all of it reflecting you back in pieces as you walk beside stan edgar through the private upper levels of the building.
your shoes almost don’t make a sound. his make none at all. you wonder if that is something men like him practice.
edgar doesn’t rush. around him, though, people do. assistants with tablets, security in fitted black suits, executives managing crises. they part for him before he reaches them, a sort of silent corporate tide, and for one ridiculous second, you feel as if you’re being escorted through the digestive tract of some enormous, expensive animal.
then again, maybe that’s exactly what this place is.
“the official title is executive liaison,” edgar explains. “you’ll be assigned to legacy asset reintegration.”
you hold your folder against your chest with both hands, mostly because it gives you something to focus on. your résumé is inside it, along with your references, your employee onboarding paperwork, a signed nondisclosure agreement thick enough to make any pre-law student sweat.
“legacy asset,” you repeat, glancing at him.
edgar glances back, not quite amused. “soldier boy.”
right.
you knew who the position was attached to before you accepted the interview. vought hadn’t been subtle about that part; only vague in the way rich companies get when they want you to understand danger without being able to prove they warned you. the listing had said ‘high profile individual support. crisis communication. schedule management. confidentiality required. prior experience with sensitive personalities preferred’.
the last one was probably what had made you land the gig. you had worked reception for a media firm during election season, handling men who screamed over tepid coffees, women who cried in conference rooms and then came out smiling, publicists who could lie through three layers of teeth. you had also once been called useless by a billionaire’s nephew because his oat milk cappuccino had foam.
“he was revived twenty-six hours ago,” edgar continues. “physically stable. psychologically combative.”
“that feels expected,” you say before you can stop yourself.
edgar’s eyes flick toward you again. you force your face to stay pleasant. his mouth barely shifts. “it is.”
that’s the thing about stan edgar. he doesn’t make you feel stupid for speaking. he makes you feel stupid for thinking you have said something he didn’t already know.
you pass a wall of framed promotional posters from vought’s older campaigns. beside them, newer displays have already been updated and homelander’s face removed from the central wall with the kind of speed only corporate panic can arrange. the empty spaces are worse than the posters would have been.
everyone saw him die. everyone saw it in pieces, replayed from a dozen angles, slowed down, zoomed in, dissected on morning shows by people with perfect fake teeth and no shame. you watched the clip once and then never again, because watching someone die on national television felt less like witnessing justice and more like being handed a disease you couldn’t scrub off.
“does he know?” you ask.
“not yet.”
and because everything feels vague, you press a little harder. “about homelander?”
“about several things,” edgar replies.
that’s not comforting. that’s the complete opposite of comforting. you keep walking.
“he believes he’s being detained.”
“is he?”
he doesn’t look back. “he’s being housed under controlled conditions until we determine his capacity for reintegration.”
sure. okay. corporate english. “so, yes.”
this time, his mouth actually does move. barely. “you’ll find precision useful here.”
“i usually do.”
“good.” he turns down another corridor, narrower than the last, with fewer people and more security. the walls are warmer here, paneled in dark wood, expensive enough to pretend at comfort. “your responsibilities include calendar coordination, communication screening, controlled external access, coordination with legal, medical, public relations, and myself when necessary.”
you nod as he lists. “and unofficially?”
the security checkpoint ahead scans edgar without stopping him. the guard looks at you, then at the temporary badge clipped to your blazer, then back at his screen. your picture stares up from it, stiff and glossy, smiling with the manic calm of a woman who needs dental insurance.
edgar stops just beyond the checkpoint and turns to you. “unofficially,” he starts, “you observe, you redirect, you document, you do not provoke unless required, and you do not indulge unless useful.”
something in your throat dries. “that sounds less like an assistant position.”
“most positions at vought are mislabeled.”
you almost laugh but choose right at the last minute not to. rent is due in twelve days. your student loans still exist. your last job dissolved after the homelander fallout collapsed three media clients in one week and your boss called it restructuring, which was rich, considering the structure was apparently you and two interns getting kicked to the curb.
you need work. that’s the ugly little truth at the bottom of this polished hallway. you need work, and vought is hiring, and morality does not pay your electrical bill.
edgar starts walking again. “he responds poorly to visible fear.”
“most men do.” you feel the words leave you and briefly wish you could reach out and snatch them back by the ankle.
edgar’s expression doesn’t change. “you have a communications degree.”
“yes.”
“use it carefully.”
“of course, sir.” and there it is—the voice. clean, polite, employable. you smooth it over yourself the way you smoothed your blouse this morning, pressing down every wrinkle, every opinion, every inappropriate instinct to tell the truth too soon. in front of edgar, you’re the girl from the résumé photo. capable. composed. professionally warm. the sort of woman who says happy to help! and only thinks about arson in private.
he leads you to the last door in the hall, and from the outside, it doesn’t look like a cell.
the door is dark wood with brushed gold hardware, wide and tasteful, surrounded by a discreet security frame that probably costs more than your childhood home. there’s no barred window, no blinking red light, no warning sign. just one suited guard on either side and a small panel that scans edgar’s palm, then his eye, then his badge.
three locks disengage inside the wall.
not a cell… right.
the door opens. the suite on the other side screams macho. dark leather couch, heavy wooden table, low amber lamps, crystal decanter on a sideboard, though you notice the caps on the liquor bottles are sealed with electronic tags. a shelf of war books so untouched they might as well still be trees. and, to give it a touch of home, framed black-and-white photos of soldier boy from a century ago, all grin, jaw, uniform, and old american violence made marketable.
the windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling along the far wall, showing the city below in a cold afternoon shine. none of them open. soldier boy’s standing in front of one.
he’s broader than you expect. which feels stupid to think because everyone knows what he looks like. his face’s been on posters, documentaries, old commercials, conspiracy forums, museum installations, trading cards, t-shirts. you've seen him in archive, footage with women hanging from his arms and soldiers laughing too hard beside him, seen the public-service reels where he tells kids to drink milk and report communists.
but footage flattens people. posters make them symbols. this man is not flat. he’s solid in a way that makes the room feel built around him and still insufficient. barefoot on the expensive rug, dark sweatpants low on his hips, white shirt stretched across his chest, beard rough, hands loose at his sides, but nothing about him is relaxed.
“soldier boy,” edgar calls.
he turns his head slowly. the look he gives edgar could curdle milk. “if this is your idea of hospitality,” he stars, voice rough from sleep or disuse or rage, “i’ve had warmer welcomes from the russians.”
edgar steps into the room as if he’s not just been casually compared to enemy captivity by america’s most unstable museum exhibit. “you broke the reinforced door in medical.”
“should’ve reinforced it better.” he’s all teeth and anger.
“we made a note.”
“here’s another one—fuck you.”
your fingers tighten around the folder. and almost like he sensed it, soldier boy’s eyes move to you.
there’s no gradual discovery in it. no polite assessment. he looks at you the way men in bars do when they’ve already decided politeness is something women invented to make them work harder—shoes, legs, skirt, blouse, mouth, eyes. then, because he wanted you to know he’s doing it, back to your chest.
you keep your face still. it takes effort—not because you’re flattered, but because you’re deciding how many times you can run your mouth on your first day.
“this is your new executive liaison,” edgar ignores the tantrum completely and instead gives your name cleanly. “she’ll be handling your schedule, communications, appointments, and necessary coordination during your reintegration.”
soldier boy stares at you for one more second before he looks back at edgar. “i don’t need a ‘sitter.”
“good thing she’s not a babysitter, then.”
“then what is she?”
“qualified.”
soldier boy snorts. “for what?”
you open your mouth, but edgar answers before you can—which is probably for the best. “for managing difficult personalities under public scrutiny.”
soldier boy laughs once without humor. “public scrutiny. that what we’re calling it now?”
he starts toward the sitting area, all heavy steps and barely contained force, and you notice the guard by the door shift his weight. soldier boy notices too. his eyes cut sideways and the guard stills. good to know.
“you drag me out of ice, stick me in a room with cameras behind the vents—real fucking original, by the way—give me liquor i can’t open, and now you bring me a secretary.” soldier boy scoffs.
“liaison.” edgar corrects.
“do i look like i give a fuck?”
you smile. it’s not a nice smile, but it’s small enough to pass inspection.
soldier boy catches it. his attention returns to you, sharper now. “something funny, doll?”
edgar looks at you. not with warning exactly, but close enough that you let your smile become professional. “no.”
“no,” soldier boy repeats, tasting the lie. his gaze drops again. “hell, she can stay.” he doesn’t sit. instead, he takes a step closer. “as long as she starts wearing nicer shirts. something that shows off the rack.”
there’s a silence. not shock. this is vought. that is soldier boy. and hardly anything that happens inside this building would shock those inside it for longer than 24 hours. still, the air tightens.
you raise your brows. there’s no gasp. no lecture. no blush. no trembling outrage for him to chew on. just your brows, your still mouth, and a look that says you’ve met men who thought they were funnier.
soldier boy’s smile widens. he’s pleased with himself. of course he is.
“your liaison’s wardrobe is not within your purview,” edgar says.
“shame.”
“neither is her body.”
soldier boy looks at him. “you’ve always been a bore.”
“consistency.”
soldier boy’s jaw tightens. for one second, something in his chest seems to draw in, not visibly glowing, but the room reacts anyway. the guards tense. the legal man takes half a step behind edgar, which is so pathetic you almost feel bad for him.
edgar remains still. the two look at each other across the room: one a relic with fists, the other a knife in a suit.
then edgar turns slightly toward you. “you have the preliminary schedule.”
it takes you half a breath too long to answer. “yes.”
“begin with the briefing. nothing external until i approve it.”
he means homelander. he knows soldier boy might ask. you dread it. but still, you simply nod. “of course.”
soldier boy looks between you. “you leaving her here?”
“yes.”
“alone?”
edgar’s eyes settle on him. “is that a problem?”
it’s a challenge, but wrapped so neatly that anyone with less ego might miss it. soldier boy, unfortunately, doesn’t.
his expression shifts into something ugly and entertained. “not for me.”
edgar turns for the door. “try not to make her first day unnecessarily difficult.”
stan edgar doesn’t wait for soldier boy’s response. he doesn’t even care if he had one. he’s already turning on his heel and heading for the door. the legal man practically evaporates after him. the guards follow but slower, reluctant, staying just outside as the door begins to close. you watch the gap narrow. for one stupid second, the survival part of your brain screams at you to step through it. go. go now. tell them you changed your mind. tell them anything. but the door shuts. the locks click back into place.
one. two. three. and you’re alone with soldier boy. not completely alone. there are cameras, guards beyond the wall, panic buttons you have been told exist but not shown exactly where to find them nor how to use them. you’re alone in the ways that matter.
soldier boy looks at the door. then at you. “well, this is fucking stupid.”
you let out a slow breath through your nose and walk to the table. not too fast. not timid. you set your folder down, place the tablet beside it, and take one second to straighten both because if your hands are busy, maybe they won’t shake.
then you look at him. “let’s get something clear—”
his eyebrows lift. oh, he enjoys that. immediately. the bastard. “that how you talk to your boss?”
your brow lifts right back. there are cameras watching. you're aware of them. the one in the vents over your head. the mirror looks suspiciously large. still, you keep talking. “—my ‘rack’, any other physical attribute, and my wardrobe are not up for debate.”
soldier boy watches you for a second. then another. it’d be easier if he looked angry. but he looks amused in that lazy, cruel way men get when they find a boundary cute because they’re going to step on it just to hear the sound.
his eyes drop again, slower this time. “your rack’s better than your ass anyway.”
for one long second, you say nothing. mostly because every normal professional response leaves your head at once. just empties out. your communications degree, your onboarding modules, the entire section of your employee handbook about maintaining workplace composure during high-stress interpersonal events. gone. burned. reduced to ash by the sheer prehistoric audacity of the man standing in front of you.
he smiles wider, pleased with whatever microscopic twitch he thinks he’s found on your face. “knew you had a look under all that secretary paint.”
you inhale once. just enough to keep yourself from saying something that gets you escorted out of the building before lunch. then you tilt your head. “are you finished?”
his smile remains intact. “with what?”
“trying to make me feel small.” you gesture lightly between the two of you. “because if that was your opening act, i should warn you, i’ve worked for men that would bleed if they got shot and had better material.”
“i think i’m employed.” you pick up your tablet and tap the screen awake, because looking busy gives your body something to do besides remember that he could fold the table in half and you with it. “and i think you’re mistaking me for temporary.”
“you walked in here with edgar and a folder. what the hell else are you?”
“the person currently standing between you and a lot of consequences.”
he lets out a short laugh. “consequences.”
“yes.”
“from you?”
“no.” you glance at him. “from the company that thawed you out and locked you in a luxury cage with tagged liquor.”
his face changes. it isn’t much. with another man, you might miss it. with him, it feels like someone pulled a wire tight in the walls. the amusement doesn’t disappear completely, but it hardens. something old and ugly moves under it, something less performative than the comments about your chest.
“you can call me whatever you want in your head. secretary, babysitter, doll… whatever makes the century less confusing for you. but out loud, you’re going to use my name, or you’re going to use my title, and you’re going to keep your thoughts about my boobs and my ass buried wherever you keep the rest of your outdated opinions.”
his mouth curves again, but it’s thinner now. “or what?”
you knew he’d ask. men like him always do. they don’t believe in fences unless they’ve personally thrown themselves against the wood and learned how much pressure it takes to crack.
you set the tablet down. “or they replace me.”
he blinks once. that’s not the answer he expected.
you smile, sharper than anything you’ve worn today. “that’s the part you’re not understanding. i’m not here because vought thinks i’m special. i’m here because the position is available and i’m qualified.”
he stares at you, the amusement slowly dripping out of him.
“if i don’t last, they’ll find someone else. and if that person doesn’t last, they’ll find another one. and after enough assistants quit, cry, file complaints, or get carried out of here with a concussion, someone upstairs is going to decide that this,” you gesture around the room, the expensive wood, the sealed windows, the cameras pretending not to exist, him. “is too much work.”
the air feels different now. you can hear the building hum. maybe it was always doing that. maybe you only notice because soldier boy’s gone very still.
“and when vought decides you’re too much work,” you continue, softer, cleaner, meaner, “they won’t build you a bigger room. they won’t give you more freedom. they won’t sit you down and ask about your feelings…”
his jaw ticks.
you hold his gaze. “they’ll put you back in the freezer.”
for the first time since edgar left, soldier boy doesn’t have an immediate comeback.
that should feel good. expect… it doesn’t. it feels like standing too close to a bomb you’ve just realized could go off.
his eyes stay on yours, green and flat and bright with something you’re very, very smart not to name. the room seems to shrink around him. no movement, no glow, no dramatic crack in the floor. only the sudden knowledge that the cameras in the vents and the guards behind the door aren’t in here with you.
you force yourself not to recoil. your body wants to. every old animal part of you wants distance. but your face stays still, because if you give him fear right now, he’ll use it.
soldier boy takes one step closer. measured. testing. “you threatening me?” his voice is lower now.
you swallow, and hate that you have to. “no.”
“sounds like a threat.”
“it’s an explanation of your current employment conditions.”
his nostrils flare. for a second, you think he might laugh. for another, you think he might put his hand through the table. he does neither. he just looks at you, and something in his expression shifts again. not softening. god, no. nothing that generous. more like a door inside him opens half an inch, not to let you in, but to check whether you’re worth locking out properly.
“employment conditions,” he repeats. his eyebrows lift and the corner of his mouth moves before he can decide whether to stop it. quick. unwilling. almost a smile. “you got a mouth on you.”
“i’ve been told.”
“by men who lived?”
“a few of them.”
this time, he does laugh. not much. barely more than air through his nose. but it breaks something in the room that had started to tighten too far. he turns away first, which feels like a victory until you realize your pulse’s trying to climb out through your neck.
he walks to the sideboard and picks up one of the liquor bottles. the electronic tag flashes red under his fingers. he looks down at it with pure disgust.
he twists the bottle once, testing the cap. the tag blinks again. somewhere outside the room, someone’s probably seeing an alert. maybe they can put subject attempted emotional support bourbon in the file.
“you gonna report everything i say?” he asks.
you pick up the tablet again. professional mode slides back over you, not because it fits perfectly, but because it’s safer than being here with your nerves showing. “depends.”
“on?”
“whether it’s necessary.”
that earns another look. less amused than before. more attentive. you decide not to enjoy it. enjoying things in this room feels like how people end up with preventable injuries.
you tap open the schedule. “your schedule will resume tomorrow morning. briefing is at nine.”
“not going.”
“you don’t know what it is.”
“don’t need to.”
“medical evaluation at ten-thirty.”
“definitely not going.”
“wardrobe fitting at noon.”
his head turns. “wardrobe fitting?”
“reintegration wardrobe review.”
“what the hell does that mean?”
“it means someone in branding wants to know whether you’ll still test well in green.”
his face does something deeply offended. “the suit tested fine.”
“in 1984, maybe.”
he points at you with the bottle. “watch it.”
you look at the bottle. “you’re threatening me with tagged bourbon. it’s not as intimidating as you think.”
he lowers it, but the ghost of amusement is there again, tucked meanly at the edge of his mouth.
you keep scrolling. “media training is tentatively scheduled for friday.”
“no.”
“that one wasn’t a question.”
“make it one.”
“fine. would you like to attend media training voluntarily, or would you like me to write that you refused because structured conversation frightens you?”
his smile comes back, wider this time. “you always this annoying?”
“only when i’m doing my job well.”
“you think this is doing your job well?”
you look up at him. “you haven’t broken anything since i got here.”
that one nearly gets you. not because it’s funny, though it is, but because his expression goes through three things too quickly to name. insult. anger. something almost like recognition. then he settles on a sneer.
he holds your stare.
you hold his.
the room hums around you. the city glitters beyond sealed glass. somewhere outside this door, stan edgar’s people are listening, waiting to see if the new hire survives her first unsupervised conversation with the company’s most expensive liability.
finally, soldier boy drops onto the leather couch with a heavy, irritated sprawl, one arm thrown across the back, knees apart, all arrogance and muscle and wounded pride arranged like he invented furniture. “fine. talk.”
you blink, completely caught off guard by the sudden surrender.
he sees it and looks pleased again, which is unbearable. “what?” he asks. “you wanted to go over my little list of to-dos, didn’t you?”
you lift your tablet a little higher, putting the screen between his face and whatever your expression might be doing. “yes.”
“then go on.” he settles deeper into the couch, watching you like he’s decided the meeting might not be a total waste after all. “orient me.”
you hate that he makes the word sound dirty. you hate more that your mouth almost twitches. instead, you square your shoulders, clear your throat, and let the résumé girl crawl neatly back into place.
“tomorrow,” you begin, voice smooth enough to invoice, “the briefing will start with behavioral compliance expectations.”
soldier boy grins. slow. mean. entertained. “can’t wait.”
| Dean dating a reader who’s overly independent and used to doing everything alone, and him being determined to change that ⋆˙⟡
❀ You’re used to having to handle everything yourself, to be the one to make all the choices and to be the one to take care of yourself
❀ Dean takes notice of it and becomes determined to change it. To become someone you can lean on and let him take care of you
❀ In the beginning of your relationship it’s small things, like him telling you to just get ready for your date and taking you to some nice place, instead of asking you to choose where the two of you should go
❀ Dean knows you don’t need help and that you can handle your stuff yourself but he wants to help you, take some of the weight off your shoulders
❀ Dean learns your body language and he notices when everything’s just too much for you. He’ll pull you in for a hug and mutter sweet nothings. Not forcing you to open up but making sure you know you can always be open with him
❀ In the long run Dean makes you feel comfortable enough around him to just shut off your mind. When the two of you’re wandering around some local town you don’t have to worry about each every little thing because Dean got you, guiding you throughout the town with his hand on your back
❀ Needless to say Dean is protective. During a hunt his eyes will wander where you stand to make sure you’re unharmed, and he wouldn’t think twice risking himself to help you
❀ Dean will also always take care of you. Make sure you eat enough “come on sweetheart you’ve barely eaten anything’ today, now eat up”. making sure you’re warm, and he’ll offer you his jacket as soon as he sees you shiver even slightly
Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged!}
You were seated in Dean’s lap, warm cup of tea between your hands, warming up your cold fingers. Some old black and white western movie playing on the tv, which has now become just a background noice for the two of you. It had been long and tiring past week, hunting from town to town, most days and nights spend driving around and being stuck eating cold meals accompanied by cold coffee from diners by the road. At least by the end you can always find solace in each other presence.
Dean’s one hand is securely around your waist holding you tightly against him while the other draws circles on your thigh. He starts to pepper the back of your neck with kisses as he murmurs against your skin “you’re such a pretty little thing”. “You aren’t too bad yourself” you answer which earns you a laugh from Dean. “I guess that will do” he says as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, taking in your scent and the warmth of your body. “I don’t know what I’d do without ya darlin’ “ Dean speaks up quietly, barely audibly, but enough the hear the sincerity in his voice.
You turn your body slightly to be able to face him. Your hands come around his neck as you speak “good thing you don’t have to worry about that, because I won’t be going anywhere” “you promise?” Dean asks as he looks up at you with nothing but sweetness and longing in his eyes. All you have to say is “promise” and smile comes to decorate Dean’s face and he pulls you in for a kiss by the back of your head.
Summary: Russell's been coming to your clinic for months now – always with a charming smile, food in his hands, and a question on his lips. You've always successfully thwarted his advances and stuck stubbornly to your professionalism till one night, he finally makes you listen to your heart.
Warnings: 18+ due to language and smut (oral f, fingering, cardiophilia 🤍), fluff
Word Count: 1.8k
Posted on Patreon June 7, 2026
A/N: Written for one of my sweetest readers and probably the first one who ever commented on a story of mine five years ago. You're one of the biggest reasons I'm still here, and I know tons of other writers in this fandom feel the same way about you!!! Cheers to you! You fully have my heart! @deans-spinster-witch 🤍🤍🤍
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You’re already half in love with the rich and deep timbre of his voice – not that you’d ever admit that to him (or anyone else for that matter). Call it professionalism or even self-preservation because every time Russell Shaw strolls into your VA clinic, you feel like you’re slowly losing your grip on sanity.
And it’s not just the voice, either. No, it’s that damn shit-eating smile that would make even nuns sin.
The former soldier has been coming into the clinic for a few months now for sleep therapy sessions – always with a grin and always with a flirtatious glimmer in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve never taken his flirting seriously and always giggled off his advances with heat in your cheeks. But the past few weeks, he’s upped his ante and started bringing you experimental takeout food, asking you out more directly. You’ve always said no, though. And not even that – you usually don’t even take him seriously when he says stuff like that at all.
Why?
Because a guy as handsome and charming as Russell surely couldn’t be interested in someone as simple as you. You’re just a nurse who’s used to eating vending machine trail mix for dinner, drinking awful hospital coffee, and smelling like antiseptic. It’s not exactly what most people would call sexy or desirable.
Tonight, it’s four minutes past eleven o’clock, which means Russell is fashionably late again. Probably because he stopped somewhere to bribe you with more food he either got from a gas station, a questionable food truck, or an obscure friend’s kitchen.
Last week, it was candied jalapeños and a thermos of coffee so strong it could power a freight train. The week before, he brought a peach hand pie from a Mennonite market and something called ‘midnight curry burritos.’
Tonight? You’re bracing yourself.
“Evenin’, Nightingale,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a plate in hand, a smile on his face, and a soft glint in his eyes that never quite leaves.
“Russell,” you sigh – one part exasperation, two parts affection. “You’re late.”
“I was delayed by destiny.” He lifts the plate with a wink that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t sitting. “Beignets. Still warm.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bribing me with fried dough and powdered sugar?”
He grins broadly. “Tell me it doesn’t help.”
Damn it. It does. You hate how it does.
Still, you give him a flat look, trying not to show the little flicker in your chest that always sparks the moment he walks in.
He saunters closer and sets the plate on the counter in front of you. “I’m just tryin’ to spoil you a little.”
“Russell.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
He pretends to look wounded, which makes you want to roll your eyes. “I don’t flirt – I court.”
“You’ve asked me out eight times,” you point out and lead him straight to the examination room.
“Nine,” he corrects with a smirk as he follows and closes the door behind him. It’s routine by now. “I asked you out on that sticky note I left in the breakroom, too. Remember that one?”
“Right,” you snort, shaking your head. "You drew a stick figure of yourself holding a flower.”
“With a heart. Don’t forget the heart.”
You roll your eyes for real this time, picking up the clipboard to start his check-in. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for harassment.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you for theft,” he counters.
Your brows quirk. “I’m sorry – what?”
“You’ve been stealing my breath since day one,” he replies cleverly. Then his irresistible smile kicks in again, which is way too charming for his own good.
You let out a long, deep sigh.
“I know that one was bad,” he quips. “But I promise I’ve got better material. Just say yes to dinner and you’ll hear it all.”
You turn away before he can see the color rising in your cheeks. “Shirt off.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters with a grin, tugging the black fabric up and over his head.
And just like that, you’re confronted with the ridiculous reality that Russell Shaw is unfairly built. Broad chest, warm golden skin dusted with freckles, scars like constellations across the canvas that is him. You try not to stare and ogle him like he’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, but you’ve got a stethoscope in your hand and barely any willpower left.
You place the bell against his sternum and inhale.
Professional. Stay professional.
Truly, that’s been your mantra for months now. Surely, a guy like him only flirts because he can. It’s like second nature to him. But the beat beneath your fingertips is already quick.
lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub
His heart gallops like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. And God help you – it’s a fucking beautiful sound. It’s raw and real, like something primal is trying to claw out of his chest.
“You always listen longer than you need to,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than before.
You freeze imperceptibly for a half a second. Shit. Did he really notice that?
“I’ve noticed,” he adds casually, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
“I–I’m just checking for arrhythmia–”
“No, you’re not.”
Well, damn. Now your own heart is beating like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. Then, he lifts his large hand and gently curls his fingers over your wrist.
And fuck, before you can process it, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.
A kiss. Slow and damn deliberate. It’s not demanding. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that cradles you in softness, somehow still crumbles walls, and rearranges fucking stars into new constellations unknown yet to mankind.
Your heart jumps in your chest so hard the stethoscope nearly flies out of your hand.
He pulls back just enough to smile a little, watching your face closely as he guides your hand back to his chest – right over his pounding heart.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
“See what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.
And it hits you – he’s not flirting anymore. He’s showing you. This isn’t a game to him. His heart tells the truth.
You close your eyes, your breath stuttering.
Then his fingers slip around the stethoscope, guiding it from his chest to yours. He slips the earpieces into his own and leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Now let me hear you.”
And he does. He listens – carefully and reverently.
And God, your heart is racing wildly and unapologetically, thundering against your ribs like it’s begging to be finally felt.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s the sound I want. God, listen to you. That all for me?”
You whimper – literally. Man, you’re going to die of embarrassment.
But before you can squirm away into the deepest, darkest hole in the floor, he leans in again, kissing down your neck now, murmuring between kisses, “You sit here every night listening to me. You think I wouldn’t notice how you breathe differently? How your cheeks get hot? Your hands always linger right here.” He presses his palm flat to your chest, right over the cool bell. “Like you never want to stop.”
Your thighs squeeze together instinctively before his eyes drop, gaze darkening.
Then, in a smooth, almost graceful motion, he lifts you, spins you, and sets you down on the edge of the exam table. You gasp, your scrubs shifting slightly, body adjusting to the new angle.
He kneels between your thighs, right on the linoleum, forest green eyes solely locked on you like you’re the only damn thing that matters in this world. “Still think I’m not serious?”
You open your mouth, but no fucking sound comes out.
Because his hands? His hands are already on your hips, slow and steady, drawing your scrubs and underwear down with one fluid movement. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And every inch of skin he reveals is worshipped.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You can barely breathe as his lips brush your knee, then the inside of your thigh. He’s still listening to your heartbeats like music in his ears.
Kiss.
Thump.
Another kiss. Higher. Slower. Warmer.
Thump-THUMP.
“Heart’s racing,” he says, grinning like the devil. “You like me down here, huh?”
You choke on a laugh that melts into a moan as his mouth finally meets the ache between your thighs. He starts slow, agonizingly so, tongue gentle and reverent all at once, each stroke on your clit a new promise.
Honestly, you might be experiencing a heart attack at this point. Luckily, you’re already in a hospital.
Then he speaks again, breath hot against your core. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he murmurs wickedly, two fingers sliding inside your wet pussy without resistance while he still listens. “I’m gonna make you come to the sound of your own heartbeat. I want you to listen to yourself. To what I’m doing to you.”
And just like that, he swaps the stethoscope again, fits the earpieces back into your ears, and places the bell over your chest.
Your heartbeat explodes. It’s fucking deafening.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
Every lick. Every breath. Every teasing pass of his tongue or flick of his fingers – your body, your heart responds like a symphony composed just for him.
He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble like Mount Vesuvius before it took down Pompeii.
“Let go for me,” he says, deep voice velvet-thick. “Let me feel it.”
And Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t need to be told twice. When you come and fall apart, it’s with his name on your lips and your own heart roaring in your ears like a drum of holy thunder.
THUMP–THUMP–THUMP–
He licks you clean, takes every drop of you like it’s the best thing he ever tasted – damn the experimental food he’s brought you for weeks on end.
Afterward, he eases you down gently, kissing his way up your shaking body slowly and goddamn thoroughly. He presses his lips to your collarbone, your throat, your cheek, and then finally to your mouth again.
This time, you kiss him back like you damn well mean it – because you fucking do. God, you do. Word by word. Nerve by nerve.
“You gonna say yes to dinner this time?” he quips, grinning against your lips.
You exhale a breathless laugh. “I think I’d be an idiot not to.”
And Russell? He grins widely, proudly, and smugly in the way only he can.
“Told you. You gotta listen to your heart,” he says with a wink. And because he’s the worst, he adds, “Next time, we’re doing this at my place. With two stethoscopes.”
And your heart skips another beat.
Thump.
Hope you guys enjoyed this heartfelt little one-shot 😉
We're returning to our regular witchy programming next Friday with another interlude of Glitch 🔮 to see what our boys have been up to! Here's a reminder of the schedule for the next few weeks:
