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𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Cass is dead and Dean is devastated. Failing to successfully drown his sorrows in his usual vices, he seeks out a new bad habit to make him feel better. You. Oh, and don't worry, Cass lovers. As is always the case in Supernatural, what's dead doesn't stay dead all that long.

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Dean Winchester x F! Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, consensual sexual violence, choking, smoking, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, death, anger, heartbreak, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Dean’s in his 40s), dead dove: do not eat.

no mention of Y/N · present tense · first person POV

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: This is my first ever fanfic so please accept my apologies if it sucks ass! I’m more of a Screenwriter than anything else, so I don’t tend to write prose — hence why this probably reads a little more like a script than it should.

It may shock you to learn that I have proofread this. However, I have also been staring at it for more hours than I care to admit so there is a slight risk of typos. Please feel free to take me out back and put one between my eyes (message me) if you spot any.

There are also some very light, subtle hints at Destiel maybe being a thing, but that’s entirely up to reader preference! You can choose to analyse the subtext however you like — that’s the beauty of creativity and interpretation, baby!

As always, there was absolutely no AI used here. Every single word of this mess is proudly my own.

Always open to feedback and discussion but please be kind !!

Cass is dead.

Dean has repeated those exact words fifteen times now. And he has that fucking look on his face again.

You and Sam stood there like part of the scenery after Dean barked at you not to touch him.

Watched him heave the angel’s broken body off the ground. Kick away the scorch marks of his wings.

He carried Cass to the impala and laid him on the back seats so gently you could have sworn you heard the sound of your own heart tearing in two.

Then came the part Sam doesn’t know about. Dean drove you in silence out to the crossroads and made you promise not to say a word.

To never tell a soul about how he dropped to his knees and screamed himself hoarse. To bury the memory of his desperate pleas to every creature he could think of to please bring Castiel back — he’ll do anything, please, God, just bring him back.

And now the three of you are standing here watching his body burn.

If it wasn’t so sickeningly devastating, you might let yourself think about how beautiful the view is. The fire in front of the lake, the deep green of the pine trees, the sound of the rain. But you can’t. Because Castiel is dead. You push away the unwanted reminder that he’ll never hear the rain again.

Sam’s saying a few words that you aren’t listening to. You’re too busy waiting for the yelling to start. But it never does.

Dean turns, looks right through you for a moment, then disappears into the trees without a word.

---

Several hours later you find Dean outside the cabin, leaning over the edge of an Adirondack chair. It takes you a second to taste the earthiness of Marlboro Reds in the air.

“Are you smoking?”

His eyes flit to your boots for a second, then they’re back to staring dead ahead, expressionless. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“You can hold the judgement. I found them in your duffel.”

You nod, watching his jaw tick.

“I doubt Cass would approve.”

Dean’s head snaps towards you at the mention of Cass’s name.

He throws you a look of disgust. Or hatred. You’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both? Either way, you know better than to read into it too much. This is Dean Winchester — Daddy’s angriest soldier — after all.

“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly here to voice his concern.” he huffs out quietly.

You let out a humourless laugh.

“Never seemed bothered whenever I did it though. But I guess I didn’t know him like you did, so—”

Dean cuts you off, venom in his words.

“You’re damn fucking right you didn’t. I lost a—”

He clenches his jaw. His lip curls upward for a second before he fixes his face.

“Brother.”

You take a step closer. Dean turns away, eyes fixed on the ground.

“I know.”

His lip twitches, eyes glazed over.

“No. You don’t”

You sigh softly, then bend down and swipe up the pack of cigarettes from the decking.

“You’re right, I don’t. But when you’re done being a brooding jackass and want to talk to someone about it, you know where I am.”

Dean’s blank gaze remains firmly focused on the ground until long after you leave.

---

It’s 3 AM and you’ve been staring out the window at the same godforsaken gap in the trees for several hours.

The fire in your room went out two whiskeys ago, the only source of light now the warm glow of a spiced vanilla candle by the bedside.

You’re too fried to even bother reaching for your gun when you hear the door creak open.

You find the rhythm of Dean’s heavy boots hitting the ground oddly calming as he approaches you cautiously from behind.

Turning around, your heart shatters a little at the sight of him. His eyes offer a painful glimpse of the storm raging inside him.

He stills when you make eye contact, holding your gaze with a fiery intensity.

A beat. A light clinking sound breaks your stare and you divert your attention to the two beers in his right hand.

Dean approaches and hands you one, taking a heavy swig of his own.

You follow and do the same. He steps closer, taking another swig.

You raise your bottle to your lips, forcing yourself to look at the pain in Dean’s eyes, illuminated by the flicker of the candle. You do a shitty job of ignoring the near-pornographic way his lips touch the bottle.

He advances closer, reaching for your bottle. Time slows to a crawl.

Before you can take another sip he takes it from you and leans to the side, setting both down on the window ledge.

You watch him, anchored in place. The flexing of his shoulder muscles has your mind wandering to places it really shouldn’t.

Dean steps closer, entirely in your space now. You share an intense look for several seconds, then his gaze slips to your lips.

He speaks quietly, voice pure gravel.

“I don’t want to talk.”

You find yourself fixated on his lips now. You know he’s hurting and you should tell him to leave and sleep it off. But of course, you won’t.

“Neither do I.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, then back to your lips, and then it’s too late. He surrounds you instantly and the second your lips touch it feels like you’re on fire.

No matter how battered, bruised, devastated, whatever you want to call it he is, he’s all man.

He slams you against the window in the most deliciously erotic way, and it doesn’t matter if he’s a broken man right now, you know what’s coming next. And you want it. You need it.

You offer a pathetically weak protest as he breaths hot air on your neck, whispering filthy things in your ear.

“Dean. We shouldn’t—”

He presses his forehead against yours, searching for something in your eyes, desperate.

“Can you just fucking let me do this please?”

Any resolve you had crumbles entirely.

You nod, moaning as he lifts your legs around his waist, pressing his hard length into you.

He places you down on the bed gently. You quickly blink away the painful memory of him doing the same with Cass’s body.

Distracting yourself, you claw at his shirt, tearing it off his back and running your fingers over his sinfully sculpted shoulders.

He follows your eyes as you take in every scar on his chest. Every old bullet wound, every badly healed slash, the deep purple bruising across his ribs.

“Does it hurt?”

A sad smile crosses his face for a split second. He nods.

“All of it does.”

You lean upwards and kiss him again. He groans into your mouth, savouring the taste of you.

Lost in the warmth of his arms and the smoky caramel scent of him, you spend a while like that. Tangled up together, limbs intertwined. Hands roaming everywhere, relentlessly kissing you with an insatiable need. Whispering in your ear about how he thinks about fucking you constantly.

But despite it all, he feels distant. Weighed down by his thoughts. Then something in him changes, like flipping a switch.

He kisses you harder, almost violently, pushing you deeper into the bed. Wrapping his hand around your throat. Your eyes tell him everything he needs to hear. Take what you need.

You’re completely breathless when he pulls your top over your head, losing any remaining shred of self-control as he moves his mouth to your tits. The sounds you make only encourage him further.

Dean moves lower, watching you intently as he slides off your panties.

His tongue is everywhere then, pulling filthy noises from your lips as he flicks, sucks, bites, until you unravel with his name on your tongue.

Fingers biting into your inner thighs so hard it hurts, the thought of the bruises he’ll leave on your skin turns you on more than you care to admit.

You commit the feel of his stubble against your skin to memory. You’re certain you’ll never feel this vulnerable or fucking euphoric with any other man.

You’ve officially lost access to any logic or reason at this point. Instead, you create a mental grocery list of all the downright obscene things you’re about to do with Dean Winchester as he pulls himself up from the end of the bed.

But you don’t get the chance. He stands motionless for a beat, sad eyes searching in your own again, then he turns and leaves without saying a word.

You lie there alone, confused as hell, and hungry for more.

A violent slam of his bedroom door makes you wince, shortly followed by the sound of what you can only assume is a deer mount meeting its untimely demise.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Sam.

SAM: He’s handling it well, then.

You text back.

YOU: I don’t think Agents Henley and Walsh are getting their deposit back.

You lie there for hours listening to Dean throwing crap around and tearing shit off the walls until the cabin finally falls silent.

---

The next morning you don’t have a clue what the fuck to say to Dean.

You paced back and forward for longer than you care to admit before coming downstairs to the kitchen. Sam immediately noticed something was up.

Thankfully, it seems like he’s chalked it up to the classic signs of another emotionally constipated hunter going through the motions of grief. But it’s not that.

Sam catches your eye and hits you with a tight-lipped smile accompanied by his signature puppy-dog eyes.

He slides a mug of coffee across the counter to you which you accept with a muttered thank you.

“Y’know, we’ve lost Cass before and Dean and I have both died so many times we’ve lost count. But this feels different.”

You look away from Sam’s sadness in an act of self-preservation, running your thumb back and forth gently across the mug in your hand.

You’re about to feed him some bullshit line about finding a way to bring Cass back when Dean steps into the room.

He pours himself a coffee, then leans against the counter, eyes boring into you. You immediately notice his knuckles are split and bloody.

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but you quickly raise your hand to stop him. Dean is a grenade right now and you’re almost certain Sam is about to tear out the pin.

“Sam has to go meet Jody and Donna. They’re at some cop convention in Chicago and they think there might be a case-”

Sam raises a brow. This is news to him. You shoot him a stern glance, silently pleading with him to go along with it.

“-and I have a lead I need to follow up on.”

Dean studies your face, arms folded, entirely unreadable.

Sam’s eyes dart between the pair of you.

“Uh, yep. I’ll be gone a few days. Dean, just call if you need anything.”

Your eyes practically roll into the back of your skull. Way to set him off, Sam.

Dean’s response is about as warm as you’d expect.

“Sammy, I’m a grown-ass man in my 40s. How about offering your help to the 20-something chick that had the shit kicked out of her yesterday instead?”

What Dean’s saying is true, but offensive nonetheless. If Cass hadn’t healed you right before he— well, it would have been a hunter’s funeral for two.

Sam lets out a defeated sigh, swipes up the impala keys, and heads out the door. You watch his giant frame dip into the driver’s seat through the window.

When you return your gaze to Dean, he’s scowling at you.

“What the hell are you planning?”

You tilt your head to the side, clenching your jaw as you try to read his expression.

“I have an old friend who’s heard some chatter on angel radio about the demon that killed Cass.”

Dean throws his hands up, instantly raising his voice.

“Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how stupid that is? We don’t know what the hell this thing is, but it’s not like any demon we’ve ever met before. We lost Cass. Sammy’s barely keeping it together, and I clearly can’t watch out for you as it is, and now you wanna fly off on a solo suicide mission?”

You temper your anger for a moment, narrowing your eyes at the man before you.

“Do you think it was your fault?”

“What?” he snaps.

“Yesterday. Me getting-” you throw in some dramatic air quotes “-the shit kicked out of me.”

Dean swallows deeply. He’s practically dripping with self hatred.

“Dean, it’s okay.”

“It’s not fucking okay. None of this is okay.”

Your patience is wearing thin and you’re itching to stare at something other than wood panelling, so you shove past him.

“I don’t know what the hell you want from me Dean, but it’s not your job to babysit me. I might be younger than you, but I’m a fucking adult.”

He stands in the doorway in silence, watching you move around the cabin like a tornado.

You pick up your duffel and throw some bullets, the demon knife, and a hoodie you left out in there. Dean stays eerily still as you pick up your Beretta M9, check the chamber, then slide out the mag.

Satisfied it’s loaded, you reach around to tuck it in in the waistband of your jeans.

Without warning, Dean storms across the room, grabs your gun, ejects the magazine onto the floor, and throws your M9 across the room.

You see red.

“What the fuck?!”

Whilst you scramble to grab your gun, he goes for your duffel next, emptying it out onto the floor.

Furious, you storm out the room, slamming the door behind you. Dean follows, practically tearing the door off its hinges as he makes after you. There’s an almighty crash when it hits the wall, making the whole cabin shake.

Now in the hallway, Dean still doesn’t utter a word. Instead, he stalks towards you and spins you around, crowding your space, picking you up.

It doesn’t matter how furious you are with him, your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

He strides into your bedroom and heads straight towards the huge glass doors to the balcony.

Putting you down with a thud, he glares at you for a beat, then pushes you hard against the wooden door frame. Big, muscular arms boxing you in. You yell out in pain.

He scowls down at you, pushing his body weight against you, trapping you.

You manage to free your arm, and smack his face with brutal force.

He blinks at you, bewildered. You feel his dick hardening against you.

“Fuck.”

You look deep into his eyes, recognising the hunger staring back at you.

“Again.” he grits out.

You do as he asks, feeling exactly how much he loves it pressing against your body.

Dean moves back to grant you a little room, then wraps his hand around your throat. You roll into him, pulling a tortured groan from his lips.

“You like that?”

You nod.

He squeezes harder, your eyelids fluttering in response. He searches in your eyes for any sign of uncertainty.

You reassure him by palming his dick through his jeans. Looking up at him, doe-eyed and pleading.

“I can take it.”

He squeezes harder, your fingers work frantically on unbuttoning his jeans. His nose brushes against yours as he hovers over your lips for a moment, drinking you in.

You smirk up at his obnoxiously pretty green eyes and run your tongue across your teeth. He adds a little more pressure around your neck. You manage to gently choke out a sentence.

“You’re really mad at me, huh?”

He nods. Eyes fixated on your lips, grip loosening a touch.

“Want to tell me exactly how mad?”

Dean frowns, his expression turning sinister.

“No. I’m gonna to show you.”

You feel the sudden sting of cold air against your skin as the door to the balcony swings open.

Before you can even attempt to protest, he has you pressed against the wood railing, dangerously close to the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tight.

He leans down and kisses you, biting your lip so hard you can taste metal as he pulls away.

His hand moves upwards to your jaw, and he turns your head aggressively to the side, showing you how far down the drop is.

His mouth lightly brushes your ear as he leans down to threaten you. He speaks slowly, his tone dripping with desire and danger — your favourite combination.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

With one arm firmly wrapped around your waist holding you steady, Dean uses his free hand to tear your shirt off and launch it over the balcony.

“What the fu—”

His mouth crashing down onto yours again shuts you up instantly. He pulls back to admire your slutty little black lace bra before swiftly removing it and launching that over the edge as well.

You retaliate by pushing your thighs upwards causing him to stumble backwards a little, sending you further towards the edge and almost over it.

Now he’s seriously mad. Dean grips you tighter with one hand, and strikes your face with the other, pulling your jaw back to face him. You moan loudly, driving him wild.

You know he can hit a hell of a lot harder than that, but he won’t do that to you. Still, you revel in the hint of violence between you both. Truthfully, it’s probably a little fucked up how much you enjoy it, but you hunt monsters for a living so you’re hardly the poster girl for stability.

Dean manhandles you sinfully, squeezing your breasts, flicking his tongue over them. You run your hands through his hair, loving the feel of his rough palms against you.

The sounds coming out of him have you grinding against him, desperate.

Your patience has now officially expired, so you tear his hoodie off his back with all the tact of a wild animal. You attempt to throw it over the balcony but his arm flies up and grabs your wrist just in time. He launches it behind you into your room with a devilish grin, much to your annoyance.

You get over it pretty quickly though, lost in his muscles flexing in front of you. He inhales and exhales deeply. You watch his scarred, chiseled chest rise and fall.

Dean makes quick work of tearing off your Levis, lifting your ass up to slide them down, taking your panties with them. He throws your jeans on the floor but leaves your panties dangling from your ankle. The sight of it has him straining painfully against his own jeans.

You tug them down and find yourself practically drooling at the sight of him in his black boxers. The outline of his cock is, unsurprisingly, absolutely fucking huge.

You waste no time pulling his underwear down and wrapping your hands around his dick. He groans at the contact and throws his head back in sheer bliss.

You pump his dick a few times, delighting in the way his guard drops completely. Dean Winchester has never looked hotter. Or more of a mess.

He slides his hand between your legs and circles your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, lighting your every nerve on fire.

You run your other hand through his hair again, this time gripping it harshly and forcing his head closer to yours.

You search his eyes, pure want looking back at you.

“Dean?”

“Mhm?” He mumbles, drunk on the feeling of your hands on him, eyes wandering back to your lace thong still hanging from your ankle.

“Fuck me.”

His gaze flicks back up to your face, dark desire written all over his own. You dig your nails into the back of his hair a little.

“Rough.”

Your heart races as he slides a finger in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. He adds a second. You suck gently, watching his eyes flutter closed with pleasure.

Then, finally, Dean snaps.

He replaces his fingers with his tongue as he grabs at both of your hips, lifting you slightly. You line him up against you as he pulls you close to his chest. His hands trace your curves, one settling against your back, the other tangled in your hair.

You forget to breathe for a beat as he lowers you painfully slowly onto his dick. The sensation of the pain mixed with pleasure is intoxicating.

He gives you a second to adjust to the size of him, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover over yours and you nod, reassuring him.

Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing then brings you down with alarming force, pulling a scream of pure pleasure from your lips. The feel of him inside you is addictive.

Your bodies move together in perfect rhythm, hands roaming over every inch of each other, tongues intertwined as he uses you in every filthy way you want him to. Handling you with anything but care, leaving bruises across your skin. You fucking love it.

Sweat dripping down both of your chests, he slows a little, searching in your eyes. You grip him tighter with your thighs.

“It’s okay.” You urge.

Dean fucks you harder, faster, both of you panting as you hurtle towards the edge.

Breathless, you come together.

With his hand still wrapped around your throat, he gently pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty but devilishly satisfied. He lowers you down on the decking then pulls up his jeans.

You slide your panties back on, frowning down at your shirt and bra on the soaking wet ground below. Dean grabs your wrist, offering you his hoodie. You accept and put it on, feeling safer than ever before, surrounded by the smell of him.

“Is this a peace offering?” You ask sarcastically.

He grunts, expression back to stoic and unreadable.

“No.”

His head jerks up at a sudden clap of thunder in the distance.

“Rain’s coming.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“Seriously, Dean? Small talk?”

He turns away, avoiding the slightly hurt expression on your face.

The rain starts hammering down thick and fast as he strides back inside the cabin. You sigh, exasperated, watching him leave.

Dean stops in the doorway with his back still to you.

“You know killing that son of a bitch won’t bring Cass back. And it sure as hell ain’t gonna make any of us feel better. But it might get you dead.”

You don’t respond. He leaves, shoulders dropping slightly as he walks away.

Dean doesn’t need to tell you this, the risks of seeking retribution. It’s how you got into hunting in the first place. He knows that.

---

It’s been a couple days and the storm refuses to let up.

Sam came back in good spirits after blowing off some steam with Jody and Donna and is now rustling up some sort of vegan pasta bake in the kitchen. Dean will be less than pleased with that. This being the same Dean who has been out the back chopping wood in the rain for hours — just like all sinfully attractive men incapable of processing emotions should.

You, on the other hand, are curled up in front of the fire with a coffee and the case files Sam brought back. You gave the girls strict instructions to send him back with an “assful of cases”, and they delivered.

You’re particularly drawn to what seems to be some sort of cryptid in West Virginia. You’ll secretly be furious if it turns out not to be Mothman.

As you scan the autopsy report of one of the victims, the lights in the cabin flicker. You raise an eyebrow and survey the room. There’s more warding here than the bunker currently so it can’t be anything supernatural, surely? Sam's obviously had the same thought as he sticks his head round the door seconds later.

“You see that?”

You nod, shifting the mass of paperwork off your lap. Sam takes his gun from his back pocket. You follow suit.

Dean appears behind you both having come in through the back, demon knife at the ready.

A violent clap of thunder cracks right outside, following by the brightest flash of light you’ve ever seen. The three of you raise your wrists in unison, covering your eyes.

Dean strides towards the door, pulling you behind him.

“Well that sure as shit ain’t lightning.”

Sam stands firm next to you as Dean opens the door.

You lower your weapon instantly. Sam does the same.

Dean doesn’t move a muscle, completely blindsided by the sight of the broken, but very much alive, angel bleeding into the mud.

The next five minutes go by in a blur of dirt, blood, sweat, and rainwater. The three of you carry Cass inside and set him down on the sofa.

Sam fires a thousand questions at him. How is he back? Where was he? Is he okay?

Dean’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Cass.

He mouths at you. “Did you-?”

You shake your head.

The angel is yet to say a word and each of you staring at him anxiously isn’t helping, so you sneak off to make coffee.

When you get back in the room, Cass’s head is tilted towards your files, eyes scanning the words.

You set the mugs down on the coffee table, pointing at Dean’s to let him know which one has whiskey in it. Sam rolls his eyes, then swipes the spiked mug before Dean can can get to it. He’s rewarded with a brotherly blow to the back of the head.

Finally, Cass breaks the silence.

“Do you seriously think this ‘Mothman’ is responsible for these killings?”

That pulls a giggle out of you. Dean groans and scrubs his hand over his face.

“Not the Mothman shit again. Can someone please talk some sense into this woman?”

Sam gestures towards the files which you pass over eagerly, much to Dean’s dismay.

Cass thinks on it for a second.

“You know, it’s not impossible for cryptids to be real in some capacity. Maybe it’s a tulpa?”

You smile and scrunch your nose at Cass. It’s been one hell of a week and there’s a lot to talk about. But not tonight.

Dean grabs Cass’s shoulder as he stands to snatch the file out of Sam’s hand.

“Good to have you back, buddy.”