Welcome to my Masterlist! Here you can navigate and find my work. I mostly write for Dean/Jensen. Hoping to maybe add some more of his characters in the future. Comments, likes and Reblogs are welcome. 💕
Important Notice: This is an 18+ blog. Fiction containing smut will be marked as such ** Minors do not engage!
fic authors self rec ! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to five other writers <3
Hey there, friend! Oooh that's a challenge because I have a lot of favorites that I put my whole heart into, but I'll try to pick at least one from a few fandoms that I've written for, in no particular order:
Smoke Eater - Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader
Midnight Espresso - Dean Winchester x Plus-size Latina!Reader
Break Me Down - Soldier Boy x Reader
'Til When Do Us Part - Mark Meachum x Reader
Every Second Counts - Russell Shaw x Reader
No pressure tags to share your own fav 5: @luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005
Hey love! Could I request Dean and wife!reader who have been trying for a baby and reader is finally pregnant and then during some celebratory sex, Dean has a moment where he realizes that he might have a tiny (massive) pregnancy kink? Maybe we can traumatize Sammy with it a little too just for fun
Burning for You
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: You're pregnant and it's awoken something feral, something instinctual in Dean.
Word count: 4.7k
Prompt: "But you said..."
Warnings/tags: Smut (18+), Canon divergence, 'fix it fic', fluff, pregnancy kink, established relationship. Kind of spoilers?
AN: Okay so I've done a 3 in 1 one with this one!😅 What originally started as inspiration from this gif 👆🏻 by @heytheredeann, then turned into writing up this prompt, which then felt like it would work well with this request too! 😂 This is set during and after the events of 'Carry On'. Yes, another "fix it fic" because, why not? 😂 I hate that ending! But, I hope you enjoy this one @sir-thisisadndserver and also excited to kick off my second @jacklesversebingo card 😁
Main Masterlist
JVB Masterlist
“But you said…”
“I know, baby.” You sighed, pausing as you folded a shirt into your duffle. “I promise, once this case is over, we will. Okay?”
Dean didn’t respond right away. When you glanced over at him, you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. He sat on the edge of the desk, head bowed, fingers fidgeting in his lap—like a little boy who’d just been told Disneyland was off the table. No tantrum, just pure, pitiful disappointment.
It was tempting to give in. But this was a decision you both had made—one final hunt, one last job, and then you were done. No more blood-soaked motel rooms, no more chasing monsters in the dead of night, no more wondering if you’d make it back alive.
Just a normal life. A real future. And maybe, just maybe, a family.
You, Dean, Sam—even Eileen—had all agreed. It was time. Let the next generation of hunters take the wheel. You’d earned your way out.
Of course, the universe had a sense of humour, because your last job wasn’t just any hunt. It was pulled straight from John Winchester’s journal—a cold case, buried since 1986.
Akron, Ohio. A family torn apart. The father drained of blood, the mother’s tongue removed, and the kids—vanished. Classic vamp MO, the kind John had chased for years but never managed to put down. Now it had circled back, like some twisted full-circle moment. And it was up to you three to finally put it to an end.
You sighed, taking pity on him and crossed the room, stepping between his legs. You let your arms slide over his shoulders, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, and his hands instinctively found your hips, thumbs stroking the skin just beneath your shirt.
“Look,” you murmured, tilting his chin up. His pout was as ridiculous as it was endearing. “I’m all for trying, I am. And if this is really it, our last hunt, then we’re gonna have all the time in the world to, you know…” You smirked, voice dipping suggestively.
Dean’s eyes lit up instantly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, hell yes.”
He leaned in, pressing a firm but chaste kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to study you. His fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, then skimmed down to your cheek.
“It is the last one,” he said, voice rough with conviction. His hands squeezed your hips like he needed you to feel it. “I want to stop. I want to do life with you.”
One of his hands then slid lower, resting over your belly where, for months now, he’d been dreaming of something more. A future. A family.
“I wanna make a baby with you.”
Your heart swelled, and your hand came to rest over his. “I want that too.” It left you in a whisper, but the second the words were out, Dean lit up—equal parts awe and that boyish joy that melted you every time.
“So…” he grinned, already pulling you in closer, “why not start now? We’ve got, what—” He flicked his wrist dramatically to check his watch. “Fifteen minutes before we hit the road. And technically, this is our last hunt…”
His eyebrows waggled as his hands slipped down to squeeze your ass, all charm and mischief.
You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh. “You’re impossible.” You huffed humourlessly as you pulled away. “I am not potentially conceiving our child during a quickie, Dean.”
He’d been pestering you for days to ditch the last layer of caution, but you’d held the line. You wanted to be sure—really sure—that this was the end of the road. No more hunting. No more living out of duffels. Just you and Dean, grounded in something real.
“Hey, some of our hottest moments have been on a time crunch, and you know it.” He pointed at you as if daring you to argue.
And honestly? You couldn’t. He had a damn point. Your wedding night, for instance—sinful, passionate, right there in the chapel, until an angry Elvis had chased you both out onto the Las Vegas strip.
But that was beside the point.
“C’mon, I’ll make it worth your while,” he coaxed as he stepped up behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist. His lips ghosted over your neck, trailing to that sensitive spot just below your ear, the one that had you shivering in his arms.
Goddamn it.
Twenty-five minutes later, you slid into the backseat of the Impala, cheeks still warm and hair slightly out of place. Dean climbed behind the wheel, looking like the cat who got the cream—smug, satisfied, and grinning like the devil himself.
Sam was already in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. The moment Dean turned the key in the ignition, Sam glanced between the two of you, narrowing his eyes.
First at the faint, fresh bruise on Dean’s neck.
Then at you, subtly tugging your rumpled shirt into place.
And it clicked.
“Guys. Seriously?” Sam exhaled through his nose and shook his head like a disappointed parent.
You bit your lip, fighting back a laugh. Dean didn’t even try.
“What?” he said, full of faux innocence. “I can’t show my girl a little love, but you can have phone sex with Eileen?”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “I—what? I wasn’t—”
“‘Course you weren’t, Sammy.” Dean smirked in triumph, looking far too pleased with himself. He may have accidentally overheard his little brother’s, not-so-innocent, conversation with Eileen over the phone as he passed by his room on the way to you.
To further prove his point, Dean continued, in a terrible imitation of Sam’s voice, “I can’t wait ‘til I can see your—”
“Dean!”
“Dude!”
You and Sam shouted in unison, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Dean just burst into laughter, the sound echoing as the car pulled out of the garage.
You shook your head, fond and exasperated all at once.
In all the years you’d hunted together—fought monsters, cheated death, faced down the end of the world more times than you could count—some things never changed.
This. Your family. And now, another chapter awaited. One you were looking forward to the most.
All it needed was for the three of you to make it out in one piece. Then, finally, that dream could become reality.
Three months later…
You couldn’t stop picking at the skin on your thumb, nerves fraying with each tiny tear you made. Your leg bounced restlessly, the stiff white paper beneath you crinkling with every tremor, filling the quiet exam room with a sound far too loud in the silence.
It smelled like antiseptic and latex gloves. That sterile scent that clung to medical offices, mingled with the chill of the air conditioning and the hum of fluorescent lighting above. Your palms were clammy and your mouth tasted like metal.
The door was closed, but every creak in the hallway made your breath catch in your throat.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, willing your heart to slow down, to stop pounding against your ribcage like it was trying to escape. It didn’t work. It never did. Especially without him.
The gentle knock came a moment later, and you startled slightly before forcing a smile as the nurse reentered the room. Her scrubs were a soft lavender, her badge clipped to her chest. Julia, RN.
“Sorry about the wait,” she offered, voice light as she moved toward the counter to update something in the chart. “Dr. Harlow’s busy with another patient. So I’ll be doing your ultrasound today.”
You nodded, swallowing thickly. Her practiced small talk filled the air like a balm—something to distract you from the gnawing anxiety. You let her ask the usual questions: last menstrual cycle, any spotting, morning sickness. You answered automatically, a little detached, but you caught her eyes flickering to the empty chair beside you.
You saw it—the subtle flicker of sympathy before she masked it again with professionalism, and you cleared your throat trying to stay composed.
“Will I... will I see anything yet?”
“Depending on how far along you are, yes,” she said gently. “We will be able to detect the heartbeat, too.”
You hesitated. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or girl?”
She gave you a soft smile, probably used to all these questions. “Not until around 18 to 20 weeks. But if you’re about twelve weeks, we should get a good look at the gestational sac, yolk sac, and your baby.”
Twelve weeks. You’d done the math a dozen times already. Calculating to the day you’d left for your last hunt three months ago. Where Dean had seduced you right before. Ironically, you’re certain that ‘quickie’ is what knocked you up in the first place.
Dean.
Your eyes drifted to the door and you blinked quickly, instead focusing Julia’s instruction to unbutton your jeans and tug your top up beneath your bra line. You did as she asked, shivering slightly as the cold of the exam room kissed your skin.
“This’ll be a little cold,” Julia warned, twisting the cap off the bottle of coupling gel.
Just as she lifted the tube, the exam room door clicked open.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” came a breathless voice—his voice. “Damn roadworks blocked off half the street. I had to park three blocks away and run the rest.”
Dean was flushed, chest rising and falling with each breath, a faint sheen on his forehead. He moved straight to your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before easing into the chair beside the exam bed.
Your hand reached for him instantly and he caught it without hesitation, wrapping both of his hands around yours, lifting your knuckles to his lips for a quick kiss.
Julia paused, arching a brow as she looked between the two of you. “I take it this is the father?”
Dean gave a crooked grin. “Well, I sure hope so.” You smacked his arm lightly, and he let out a playful hiss.
Julia chuckled under her breath and resumed her position beside the ultrasound machine, gliding the gel tube across your belly and dispensing a generous amount on your skin. You hissed slightly at the sudden chill, muscles tensing.
“Alright, let’s take a look,” she murmured, lifting the transducer probe and pressing it gently against the gel.
The machine beeped softly as she began her sweep, shifting the probe at various angles, the monitor flickering with black-and-white static before resolving into grainy anatomical structures. She adjusted the gain and depth on the control panel with quick, practiced movements, her eyes scanning the screen.
Dean leaned in instinctively, his brow knit with quiet intensity, both of his hands still wrapped tightly around yours. His thumb stroked over your knuckles—slow, nervous, steadying. You could feel the tension vibrating through him. Neither of you were breathing properly.
The room stilled.
Just the soft hum of the machine and the rhythmic taps of Julia’s fingers on the keyboard filled the silence.
Then—
“Right there,” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She angled the screen toward you both, her hand still steady on the probe. “That’s the gestational sac. And see that little oval inside? That’s the yolk sac.”
You both leaned forward, eyes locked on the image, as she adjusted the probe slightly, changing the angle.
“And here,” she continued, pressing a few more keys, “is your baby. Measuring around 12 weeks. Everything looks perfect.”
Dean’s grip on your hand tightened as if grounding himself. You could feel him trembling ever so slightly.
Then with a few more taps, the sound came—soft and crackling at first, then unmistakable.
Womp womp womp.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Julia said with a warm smile. “153 beats per minute. Nice and strong.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
There on the screen was the tiniest flicker of life. A rhythm. A pulse. A flutter of motion in a shape no bigger than a lime, with arms and legs now starting to form—so tiny, but so perfectly human. A miracle, unmistakable, undeniable. It was real. Yours. A heartbeat separate from your own, yet part of you. A miracle forming inside you.
Your chest ached, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Dean was completely still beside you, his thumb frozen on your skin. When you looked over at him, your throat tightened.
His eyes were wide and wet, his jaw clenched as though he was holding back everything he was feeling—but it was there. Every ounce of emotion was written all over his face. He looked like he was seeing the world for the first time.
Julia printed the sonogram photos and gave you some paper towels to wipe the gel from your stomach, all the while murmuring about your follow-ups and OB appointments before she stepped out for a moment.
Silence settled over the room again, and you both looked down at the black-and-white strip in your hands. Dean reached for it first, holding it so delicately between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.
“That’s… ours,” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges. “We made that.”
A tear slipped down your cheek with a quiet sniffle and before you could wipe it away, Dean turned to you, cupping your face gently in both hands. His thumbs brushed across your cheeks, catching the tears before they could fall any further. His eyes shimmered with unshed emotion, the vulnerability in them something you rarely saw—raw and unguarded.
The moment was made more intense for the fact you’d almost lost him on that hunt. A few more inches to the left and he would've had a rebar shaped hole in his heart. Could you imagine how ridiculous that would’ve been?
“I love you,” he breathed and your heart swelled to the point of pain, your lips parting on a breath.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice thick and trembling.
Dean leaned in and kissed you softly—slow, reverent, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into that one touch. Your hand tangled in his flannel as you kissed him back, your foreheads resting together as the kiss broke.
Then you both looked back down at the sonogram again. Two pairs of eyes locked on the tiny life that was half him, half you. A piece of each of you growing into something whole.
Excitement blended with your nerves for what came next. For the journey you were about to take—together.
By the time you made it back to the bunker, the emotional buzz hadn’t worn off. If anything, it had only deepened, sinking into your chest like warmth after a long cold spell.
Sam and Eileen were already up, rounding the corner at the sound of you and Dean descending the steps. Miracle was right behind them, tail wagging like he sensed the joy radiating off you both.
Eileen’s face lit up as soon as she saw you, her hands already moving. “So?” she signed eagerly, her smile wide with anticipation.
You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips as you reached into your bag and handed both her and Sam their own copies of the sonogram. Your fingers trembled slightly, the moment sinking in all over again.
Eileen gasped softly, lifting a hand to her mouth as her eyes scanned the blurry black and white photo. Tears welled in her eyes almost instantly. She looked up at you, her gaze shining. “It’s real,” she signed with a shaky laugh. “You’re really having a baby.”
You nodded, lips wobbling as you fought back a fresh wave of tears—only to lose the battle completely when Sam looked up at you, his eyes already glassy.
“This is… wow, I don’t even know what to say,” Sam breathed, laughing a little as he shook his head. He then pulled you into a careful hug, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of your head.
He kissed your hair before stepping back, visibly choked up. “I’m so happy for you both.” He said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
Then he turned to Dean, and the brothers embraced briefly, but it was more than the usual back-pat—it lingered, unspoken gratitude. Dean’s eyes looked a little misty when he pulled away, but he just cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck.
Eileen was already pulling you into her arms, sniffling softly against your shoulder. “You’re going to be amazing,” she signed when she stepped back, voice trembling as she spoke it aloud.
The celebration that followed was cozy, full of soft laughter and teasing. Dean poured a round of whiskey—apple juice for you—and you couldn’t help but grumble about your temporary drinking ban. But truthfully, you didn’t feel like you were missing out. Not tonight.
By the time the excitement had settled, it was late and you were exhausted. You and Dean said your goodnights, and headed down the hall to your room hand in hand. But the moment your bedroom door shut behind you, Dean turned and pressed you gently against it.
His mouth was on yours before you could catch your breath, his hands threading into your hair, tilting your head just right as he kissed you deep, slow, like he needed you to feel what words couldn’t say.
Your surprised squeak turned into a soft sigh, your hands finding the back of his head, fingers curling in the short hair there. His mouth moved against yours with aching tenderness, stealing your breath as easily as he always did.
“You’re really pregnant,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with awe. Like seeing it on the ‘big screen’ solidified it. “We’re really doing this.”
You nodded, heart thudding as you cupped his scruffy jaw. “We are.”
He kissed you again—softer this time—and then, without warning, bent to lift you into his arms. You gasped and instinctively clung to his shoulders as he grinned, carrying you across the room like it was the easiest thing in the world.
He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious. His lips brushed your forehead, your cheek, and then he kissed you again—slower, but with simmering heat.
Then he trailed down. Along your neck. Across your collarbone. He pushed up your shirt, his rough hands gentle as they skimmed along your skin, and pressed soft kisses down your stomach.
There was the faintest bump, only a hint of life growing inside you, and he paused at your navel, hands cradling your hips, thumbs moving in slow circles.
“That’s our kid in there,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent. “Our baby.”
Your fingers threaded into his hair, heart pounding as you looked down at him. The look on his face nearly undid you—pure awe, disbelief… and something else. Something darker. Needier. Hungrier.
Dean froze, staring at you like the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs—eyes wide, pupils blown.
“What?” you whispered, breath catching in your throat.
He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know, I just—” He shook his head, voice dropping, eyes darkening. “The idea of you carrying my kid? It’s so damn hot.”
You blinked, caught off guard for a second—then grinned. “Yeah?”
“I’m serious,” he rasped, voice low and rough as he slid back up your body, his gaze locked on yours, all heat and hunger. “You’ve always been sexy, sweetheart, but now?” His hand came to rest on your belly, possessive and tender all at once. “Knowing you're mine… and that you’re carrying my baby? That’s—fuck, that’s next level.”
He groaned as he kissed your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—like he was trying to devour you piece by piece.
Your breath hitched at the sheer intensity in his voice, the look in his eyes like you were something holy. Then your mouth met his in a crash of heat and urgency, and he answered with equal fervor—like something inside him had just snapped loose.
You tugged him closer, breath hitching as his hands gripped your waist, his body pressing into yours like he couldn’t stand a second of space between you.
You were both surprised by it—that sudden, burning need. But the more it sank in, that you were carrying his child, something primal flared to life in him. It rewired everything. Made him want to claim you all over again.
It wasn’t just lust—it was need. Raw, instinctive, protective. It was a part of him he hadn’t even known existed, But now, now it was fully awake.
And it had only just begun.
One month later…
You and Dean were curled up on the couch in the ‘cave’, the flickering images of an old action movie dancing on the TV screen, but neither of you were paying much attention to it.
Dean’s body was pressed flush against yours from behind, the heat between you simmering as he slowly moved inside you, his large hand splayed possessively across your belly—now rounder, more pronounced as your pregnancy progressed.
Your leggings and panties were long forgotten on the floor. Dean’s jeans and boxers were shoved haphazardly down to his knees, giving him just enough freedom to move inside you with that torturous, maddening pace—slow, deep, controlled. His cock dragged against your walls in that way that made your toes curl, made you arch back against him for more, always more.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin, voice low and reverent, “you feel so fuckin’ good like this. So full, baby.”
His lips grazed your neck, then your shoulder, kissing and nipping every inch he could reach while still moving inside you. His breath was hot and uneven, his mouth trailing along the shell of your ear as he rocked into you again, the thick heat of him stretching you open like he belonged there—because he did. God, he did.
And still, that hand never left your belly.
It was possessive. Proud. Worshipful. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were his—like he needed the physical reminder that you carried something he’d made.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your fingers digging into the couch cushions for purchase as your body trembled. You could feel him twitch inside you, thick and throbbing, pushing deeper with every roll of his hips. His other hand slid beneath you, rough and greedy, cupping your swollen breasts, teasing your sensitive nipple with a practiced touch that made your back arch and a strangled cry escape your throat.
“You like that, sweetheart?” he whispered, grinning against your skin. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Wrapped around me, nowhere to go…”
“Yes,” you breathed, whimpering as your body tightened around him again, helpless to the sensation. “God, Dean…”
You pushed back against him, chasing that edge, chasing him, needing it—needing him. The friction was heaven, his cock dragging slow and hard inside you, until you were right on the verge of—
The door creaked.
“Hey, I grabbed those chips you were—OH MY GOD.”
The sound of Sam’s voice cracked through the haze like a gunshot.
You both froze. For one hilarious, horrifying second, and then with a gasp, you scrambled for the blanket Dean had kicked to the floor after his wandering hands had convinced you to let him fuck you right here on the couch.
“Are you serious?” Sam exclaimed, hands flying to his face in an attempt to block his view, but it was clear he’d already seen far too much.
Your face went up in flames. You scrambled to yank the blanket up over you both, heart hammering in your chest. Dean didn’t even flinch—he just let out a low, unbothered scoff like his little brother had interrupted a commercial break, not mid-fucking.
“Don’t be jealous, Sammy,” Dean drawled with a smirk, voice thick with satisfaction. “One day you’ll knock up Eileen and then you’ll get it.”
“Dean!” you gasped, horrified, smacking his thigh as your eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh my God.”
Dean just chuckled, the sound deep and smug, like he was proud of getting caught. You practically shrivelled into the couch, trying to disappear into the cushions as Sam let out a dramatic groan, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him like he’d just witnessed a crime.
Dean snorted. “Damn kid needs to learn to knock.”
You covered your face with both hands, mortified, still curled up in Dean’s arms as the aftershock of the interruption pulsed through you. “Dean,” you groaned, voice muffled behind your palms. “This is the communal room.”
Dean just shook his head, utterly unbothered, and gently peeled your hands away from your face. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes soft with amusement as he looked down at you. “You weren’t complainin’ a minute ago.”
You tried to glare at him, but it faltered when he leaned in and kissed your burning cheek, then your jaw, then your lips—slow and deep, like he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
“Whose side are you on, sweetheart?” he hummed against your mouth.
You opened your mouth to retort, but it turned into a shaky breath when his hand slid down again, settling right over your belly with that same heavy, grounding pressure. Possessive. Reverent.
And then you felt him.
Still hard. Still inside you. Still twitching.
The heat flooded back like a wave, washing out the embarrassment and replacing it with a low, simmering ache. You shifted, breath catching as you clenched around him involuntarily.
Dean felt it too.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah... I’m definitely not done.”
And just like that, your argument disappeared. Along with any thought of Sam—or the damn chips.
You couldn’t help it.
Sam had become an unfortunate, unintended witness to this very new phase of your relationship with Dean—one that involved a whole lot more skin, a whole lot less shame, and a very inconvenient inability to keep your hands off each other.
Since finding out you were pregnant, something had shifted in him. Desire had always been a part of your relationship, but now… now it was constant. Insatiable. Like some primal instinct had flipped inside him. He touched you with a reverence that bordered on obsession. It wasn’t just sex anymore—it was possessive, protective, feral.
This wasn’t some generic “pregnancy kink.” No, this was Dean losing his mind because you were carrying his child. The thought alone seemed to short-circuit something in him.
And honestly? You were just as wrecked. Yes, you’d been mortified more than once—especially by Sam’s increasingly bad luck—but at the same time, it turned you on beyond belief. The way Dean made you feel, like you were the most beautiful, most desired woman in the world. It made your body hum.
Unfortunately for Sam, that devotion came with side effects.
Take a couple of mornings ago, when you were making pancakes, for instance. You’d opted for a pair of loose shorts despite the bunker’s steady chill, thanks to another hot flash, but it was enough to drive Dean out of his goddamn mind. Your body was changing—hips a little wider, breasts heavier, ass just a little more plush—and Dean worshipped every new curve like it was the first time he was seeing you.
He’d come up behind you at the stove, his hands spreading over your stomach with that now-familiar, possessive touch. His hips pressed into your backside, already hard, already needy. His mouth found your neck, and his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing your soaked folds like he had all the time in the world.
You’d barely gasped his name when Sam walked in—right as Dean slid a thick finger inside you.
Poor bastard hadn’t even gotten to the coffee pot.
And then there was the library. After dinner. Dean, completely unprovoked, hauled you up onto the nearest table and sank to his knees, muttering about wanting ‘his dessert’. You’d barely managed to stifle your cries when Eileen walked in, book in hand, and promptly turned on her heel like she'd never been there.
You tried to be discreet. Truly. But Dean didn’t care. Hell, he seemed proud when someone caught a glimpse of just how thoroughly he worshipped you.
And as mortifying as it all was, deep down… You loved it.
You loved him.
This time in your life could’ve been scary. Lonely. Uncertain. But Dean had made it something else entirely. He made it intimate. Raw. Beautiful. He made you feel like a goddess, like you were his whole damn universe—and he wanted the world to know it.
So maybe Sam had to suffer through a few mental scars. Maybe Eileen was avoiding eye contact for a while.
But as Dean curled around you again on that couch, hand warm and protective on your belly, still deep inside you, his lips brushing against your cheek like he’d never get enough—
Yeah.
You figured it was a price worth paying.
AN: Okay, so this was a new one for me, I've never been pregnant so most of this is research or from my friend. Plus shout out to all you moms out there, I know this isn't entirely accurate, but if I had me a Dean like this 😮💨. Let me know what you thought, and again thank you for the ask @sir-thisisadndserver, I hope this is what you were hoping for ❤️
If you would like to be tagged in this series or my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊
Had to read this first part too, so worth it. ♥︎ Love a happy, horny Dean whose biggest dreams are coming true. You write about the miracle of creating life and the joy of becoming parents so beautifully. ♥︎♥︎
Oh, and fixing the finale? A huge bonus, obviously. You did that so hilariously too. And I do like a traumatized Sam, mwahaha.
Main Masterlist ❀ Soldier Boy Masterlist
⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Soldier Boy/Ben x f!SupeReader
⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Are you hearing voices? That's nothing to worry about! Even the greatest heroes of America have them. Except if they're Starlighters. Call 2-800-122-8585 to report yourself now, and we'll remove those traitorous voices for you for free!
CW / TAGS Crackfic-Angst | 18+! The Boys styled
Ben's POV | Having watched S5 is recommended ! | E6 fix fic? (you BET!) | Ben's kinda losing it | Manipulation | SMUT ! | Drugs | Psycho-Horror Elements | (almost?) Love confession | Unreliable Narrator | Dark Humor | Timejumps | Mention of Nazis | We do NOT support Stormfront/Clara but fix the sheit out of this mess | No use of Y/N | SB's his own warning tag
English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me
⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)
“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.”
Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name.
But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.
It’s yours.
And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them.
None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.
Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.
And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.
It’s worse than that.
It’s inside his head.
He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice.
And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down.
But it’s there.
Since he’s back.
He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the trenches right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg.
But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again.
And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.
But this?
He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.
Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds.
“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”
Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win.
From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.
“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!”
“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.
Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear.
“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”
“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”
“No…”
Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.”
A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.
“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”
Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.
“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”
“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”
How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.
“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”
Ben’s grin dies.
The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.
Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.
There’s a man standing behind him.
He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall.
“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.
The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.
“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”
“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?”
“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters.
It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.
“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles.
“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.
“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”
“Are you… sure?”
Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face.
“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces.
Silence.
Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.
His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.
There’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks.
“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.”
Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.
Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.
The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.
“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”
If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk.
He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far.
Time to bust a nut.
While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat.
After all, this works like a fucking charm.
Until it doesn’t.
Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory.
“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”
Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.
“What?” Firecracker questions.
Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.
“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”
Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.
You are still there.
The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.
The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in.
Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–
Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.
At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him.
Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.
So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever.
If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.
Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face.
That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.
Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall.
The hell was that?
“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.
He’s pissed off at his own body.
Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—
His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones.
He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?
A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.
He doesn’t have a beard yet.
He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.
“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too.
He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of—
Huh, the name’s escaped him.
A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter.
“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos.
Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.
“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.
He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.
Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.
Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there.
Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.
He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place.
Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.
Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again.
The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.
Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?
And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?
Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it.
“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara.
There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development.
Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?
All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.
He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies.
As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.
With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.
Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now.
The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.
A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again.
What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?
The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.
He just has to know.
As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.”
But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.
Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”
Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind.
It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–
“Where is she?”
Homelander glances back at him.
“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.”
Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.
“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”
“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope.
She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him.
“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.
Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack.
Instead, he staggers.
He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–
Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.
“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.
“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent.
Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1?
She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him.
“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape.
“Thinking of your future, hm?” she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens.
“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it.
Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking?
Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.
But now the room temperature just dropped.
“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.
Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”
He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.
“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now?
Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”
Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here.
Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.
Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static.
All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.
“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”
He blinks. And you’re gone.
“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.
His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate.
He repeats it.
Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.
As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.
Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument.
If only he knew what the fuck just happened.
Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.
It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.
First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?
No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.
Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.
After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers.
He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough.
Nothing. No V1, no clues.
He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.
There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head?
His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk.
If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.
Yet, there’s nothing.
He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers.
“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”
Nothing.
“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!”
Silence.
His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.
You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.
CLINK.
His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.
Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it.
It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.
His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement.
His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.
“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.
He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.
But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.
You still looking for her?
“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two.
She’s not here. She never was.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.
He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone.
“What the fuck…”
Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.
“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room.
There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face.
So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.
But he’s still here.
The fuck?
And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.
“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her.
Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.
“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks.
“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.
“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question.
No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–
“Ben. Don’t listen to her.”
Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.
“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision.
Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him.
“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.
Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him.
Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.
“Remember-–”
“This isn’t–”
“She’s corrupting your–”
“—and my face–”
“Don’t give the–”
CRACK.
They – you – go silent all at once.
Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter.
Ben stands there.
Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.
Something’s touching his foot.
“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid.
It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.
Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.
“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”
Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore.
“But–”
Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation.
“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way.
Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.
Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.
“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.
Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.
Maybe that’s what’s happening to him.
He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.
His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.
You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic.
The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.
He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is.
And worst is, he fucking deserves it.
“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.
He’s still here.
Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato.
Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.
He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.
He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.
Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.
So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles.
But it still beats the alternative.
If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.
And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.
Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing.
It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.
Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now.
Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?
He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.
The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.
And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.
Ben's head screams of pain.
All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.
Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever Will Be, Will Be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.
For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.
Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lightning bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.
"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.
Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.
There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.
And now he understands.
Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble.
Your name slips through his fingers next.
The ache in his chest remains.
When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.
And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.
Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.
Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.
And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.
Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?
It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.
Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for.
What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero?
Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him.
And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for.
But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.
Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face.
Then goes for his throat.
His chest. His guts.
He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy.
Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –
Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm.
And there you are.
Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag.
Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?
You look like a fucking Goddess.
“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens.
“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts.
“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up.
“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.
“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours.
He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.
Christ. Fucking you is divine.
You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls.
He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress.
“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.”
That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his.
His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”
You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?
You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.
“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.
Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.
He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again.
“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.
“That’s not how it works.”
This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”
“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.
“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses.
His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.
Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”
“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.
“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he stops himself to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?”
The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.
“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”
“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”
“– or when.”
Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?
“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”
Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.
Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.
Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.
Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft.
It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.
Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get.
Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.
He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you.
The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts.
“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin.
You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.
“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.
“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”
I love you.
The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name.
How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?
Then the moment’s gone.
His mind resets.
“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”
Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that? His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves.
His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.”
Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters.
Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.
“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”
Then –
Black.
A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark.
Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn.
There’s noise. So much noise around you.
People are… talking. And… clapping?
“Good job, sir.”
“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–”
The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.
“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.” What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?
“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.
“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you.
“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends.
“Heart rate is increasing.”
“Signs of disorientation.”
“Put her back to sleep.”
“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…
“Start phase two.”
The woman with the German accent announces somewhere in the distance, followed by more clapping.
Until it’s all fading into black.
And the voice of Michael Jackson.
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3
First of all, welcome (semi) back 🫶🏻 i’m with you on the whole writers block and struggling to put thought to paper 🫠. But it’s so good to see you post ❤️ take all the time you need lovely 🫶🏻
However, that being said….
Me looking for the rest, because holy - What!?
Truly this was so intriguing and mind-boggling and hot, and traumatic and confusing and then woah 😅
But you did it so well, i genuinely felt like my mind was being fucked with, the way you weaved it all in to these memories, but with that ending i’m so curious as to how and the why 🤯
The scene with the stuffed monkey’s too 😩, the details and imagery were so gooood! i love a mystery, mess with your head thriller, and this gave me all of that 😍 i’m also sensing some subconscious time travelling/bending too 👀
But i agree with the confusion of the episode, there is a lot of holes in it all, which i think is being brought to life in VR, but this was such an interesting spin on it, to weave a reader into it too. Also Fanfic Ben is so different to S5 Ben rn 😅 he mellowed tf out or have we just desensitised ourselves with the fan fic version?🤣
Also i love the subtle dig at the SB and Firecracker love scene! There really was no work on his part🤣🤣
Honestly, this was so fun to read Jolly, I’m so curious to see where you would take this 😱, ofc no pressure, but know i would be very much interested in more of this story😘
Summary: Welcoming your first child had softened the harder edges of what was once a hunter life. Though Dean hadn't expected it to soften everything.
Warnings: Smut 18+, new parents, body image insecurities, lot's of fluff, Dad!Dean, soft!Dean.
Word Count: 7.8k
A/N: So i finally dusted off the old writers brain. This one's Based on this Request, and can be read as a standalone or sequel to Burning for you. I hope I've done it justice for you Anon, as I may have got a little carried away. But see it as an apology for the horrendous wait 😅🫶🏻
Masterlist
The bunker had never exactly been quiet.
Not really.
Even before your daughter, silence had always been a temporary thing. There had always been the hum of ancient pipes in the walls, the low buzz of the lights, the distant rumble of music from the garage, the clink of beer bottles, the scrape of chairs, the soft click of weapons being cleaned before a hunt.
The bunker had always been alive in its own strange, underground way.
But now?
Now it had become a warzone of rattles, burp cloths, half-empty bottles, tiny socks that vanished into other dimensions, pastel blankets thrown over the backs of chairs, and one very small human being with lungs powerful enough to wake the dead.
Your daughter was nine months old now, and somehow that felt both impossible and painfully obvious.
Impossible because it felt like you had only blinked since the day Dean had held her for the first time, his whole body trembling, eyes glassy and his face crumpled into something raw and awed as he stared at a part of him and you compacted into one tiny, perfect, human.
Painfully obvious because you could not remember the last time you had slept more than four consecutive hours since before you left hunting.
'Mom life' was well and truly underway.
It wasn’t soft-focus montages and glowing skin and peaceful mornings the way people liked to pretend in the movies. It was spit-up on the shoulder of your favourite shirt. It was crying at three in the morning because she was crying and you were exhausted and Dean was exhausted, and neither of you knew what else to try.
It was changing a diaper, only for her to immediately poop again with a look on her tiny face that felt almost smug. She was becoming her father’s double.
It was trying to shower while she shrieked from her bouncer outside the bathroom door because she had to be near you, Dean crouched in front of her, shaking her favourite stuffed bee like his life depended on it.
It was cold coffee. Burnt toast. Laundry you forgot in the washer for two days. Eating cereal out of a mug because all the bowls were dirty and neither of you had the energy to unload the dishwasher.
It was Dean standing in the kitchen at midnight, shirt rumpled, hair sticking up in all directions, bouncing your daughter against his chest while he warmed a bottle and mumbled, “I know, sweetheart. I know. Life’s hard when you’re tiny and unemployed.”
It was you crying because you felt like you were doing everything wrong, and Dean folding you into his arms before you could spiral too far, pressing his mouth to your temple and murmuring, “Hey. No. Don’t do that to yourself. She’s loved. She’s fed. She’s safe. That’s us doing it right.”
It was Dean, too tired to be charming and somehow more beautiful for it, lying beside you in bed with the baby asleep on his chest, one big hand cupped protectively over her back.
He had been amazing.
Not perfect. Neither of you had been perfect. There were snappy moments, stupid arguments over sterilised bottles and whose turn it was to sleep and whether Dean had actually restocked the wipes like he said he had.
But he was there.
Every day.
Every night.
There was no running off, no hunt to disappear into, no case to bury the fear beneath. Just Dean Winchester in the trenches of fatherhood, learning bottle temperatures and lullabies and which ridiculous face made your daughter giggle so hard she got hiccups.
He loved her with a devotion that almost hurt to witness.
And he loved you through every messy, fragile, overwhelmed version of yourself.
Which was why it took you a while to notice that somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped letting you love him back quite as freely.
At first, you blamed exhaustion.
It was easy to miss things when you barely knew what day it was.
You didn’t think much of it when he started changing quickly with his back to you, tugging his shirt off and replacing it with another before you’d even looked up from folding baby clothes.
You didn’t think much of it when he stopped walking around the room in just his boxers the way he always used to, shameless and sleep-warm and scratching lazily at his stomach.
You didn’t think much of it when he stopped pulling you into the shower with him on the rare mornings your daughter slept longer than expected.
Everything had changed. Of course some things felt different.
Your body had changed too. Your life had changed. Your routines were nonexistent. The two of you had gone from hunters with weapons hidden under motel mattresses to parents who could have a full-blown debate about which brand of nappy leaked less overnight.
Neither of you hunted anymore.
Not properly.
Not like before.
There were still phone calls. Research favours. The occasional weapon consult. Dean still helped younger hunters from the safety of the bunker, his voice gruff and confident over speakerphone while he paced with the baby strapped to his chest in a carrier.
But the running? The fighting? The adrenaline and motel coffee and gas station dinners eaten in the front seat of the Impala?
That life was gone.
And with it went the constant movement that had kept both of you lean and wired and running on fumes.
Now, meals were whatever was easiest. Frozen pizzas. Takeout. Leftover pasta eaten standing at the counter. Pie because, well, it's Dean and it's pie. Burgers because neither of you had the brain capacity to cook. Coffee because water felt too responsible.
Self-care had gone out the window somewhere around the first month, right alongside regular sleep, matching socks, and your ability to watch a movie without pausing it six times because you thought you heard your daughter cry.
So no, you didn’t notice at first.
Not until one evening when Dean thought you were asleep.
Your daughter had finally gone down after an hour of fighting it like sleep was an enemy combatant. You had collapsed into bed with your arm flung over your eyes, body heavy with that bone-deep tiredness that had become familiar.
Dean had gone to brush his teeth at the little sink nestled in the corner of the room. The layout of this place still baffled you.
You opened your eyes only because you heard him sigh.
Not the usual tired sigh. Not the dramatic huff he gave when your daughter threw her spoon on the floor for the fourth time.
This was quieter. Heavier.
You turned your head slightly and peered beneath your arm, you could see him standing in front of the mirror with his shirt lifted.
At first, your sleepy brain simply registered him.
Broad shoulders. Freckled skin. Bowed head. One hand braced on the sink, the other resting over his stomach.
Then your chest tightened.
Because his face wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tired in the usual way.
It was critical.
Sharp with something that looked far too much like shame.
He turned slightly to the side, looking at himself from another angle, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His hand moved over his middle, fingers sinking slightly into the softness there, and he exhaled through his nose like he was disappointed.
Your heart gave a painful little twist.
Dean had gained weight. Not drastically. Not in a way that made him any less Dean.
But his body had softened.
The hard lines carved from years of hunting had blurred at the edges. His stomach had a gentle curve now, a little belly that sat above the waistband of his sweatpants. His hips were softer. His waist had thickened. The muscle was still there in his arms, his shoulders, his thighs, but there was more give to him now. More warmth.
A 'dad bod'. Some would say.
But it was a body that had stayed home. A body that had rocked a crying baby at three in the morning. A body that had eaten whatever was fast because you needed him more than the gym did. A body that had finally stopped running long enough to be lived in.
You loved it.
God, you loved it.
But Dean clearly didn’t.
You watched him drop his shirt quickly, like even he couldn’t stand looking anymore. Then he leaned both hands on the sink and lowered his head.
And you knew.
You knew that look. You knew what it meant when Dean turned something inward and let it cut him quietly where no one else could see.
So you said nothing that night.
You waited.
Not because you wanted him to suffer, but because Dean Winchester could be skittish with vulnerability. Push too hard, too fast, and he’d deflect, make some crude joke, or kiss you until you forgot the question.
You noticed the way he avoided your hands when they drifted under his shirt. The way he shifted away with a joke when you tried to curl against his side in bed. The way he reached for hoodies more often. The way his smile went tight when one of his old shirts clung a little more than it used to.
And slowly, an idea formed.
It started with Sam and Eileen.
More specifically, it started with Eileen watching you nearly pour orange juice into your coffee mug while your daughter babbled happily from her high chair, tiny fists smearing mashed banana across the tray.
Eileen arched a brow. Sam, sitting beside her, looked between you and Dean with the cautious expression of a man assessing a live grenade.
“You two need a break,” he said.
Dean snorted from where he stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while your daughter’s spoon sat tucked behind his ear for reasons none of you had questioned anymore.
“We’re fine.”
You stared blankly at the orange juice carton in your hand, then down at your coffee.
Eileen signed something sharply and Dean glanced over.
“Hey, I caught that.”
“She said you look like the before picture in a mattress commercial.” Sam translated, far too amused.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean’s offended look lasted all of two seconds before your daughter squealed from her chair.
His face melted instantly.
“Yeah, I know,” he cooed, turning back to her. “Everyone’s mean to Daddy.”
Daddy.
The word still did something to you.
And not just because it was sweet.
Though it was. God, it was. There was something almost unbearable about hearing Dean call himself that, about watching the word settle into him more naturally every day, like fatherhood had found some hidden room inside him and filled it with light.
But it wasn’t only tenderness that pulled low in your stomach when you looked at him now.
It was the way he had eased into the role without ever really noticing he was doing it.
The way those hands — scarred, broad, steady from years of handling guns, knives, lock picks, and every weapon under the sun — had somehow become impossibly gentle around your daughter. Those same dexterous fingers that could take apart a shotgun blindfolded now tested bottle temperatures against the inside of his wrist, adjusted tiny sock cuffs, fastened poppers on sleep suits, and swept wisps of hair from her forehead with a care that made your chest ache.
It was the way his body had learned her. Her weight. Her moods. Her little tired sounds. The exact bounce that soothed her when she was fussy. The low rumble of his voice when he hummed Zeppelin under his breath because apparently your baby girl had inherited his taste in music before she could even talk.
It was the fierce protectiveness too.
That thing in him that had always been sharp, always been dangerous, but had changed shape the moment she came into the world. Dean had always protected the people he loved, but this was different. This was quieter until it wasn’t. This was him checking the locks twice without making a show of it. Standing between her stroller and a stranger who got a little too close in town. Sleeping lighter than he ever had on hunts, waking at the smallest sound from the crib.
It was the look in his eyes when he held her.
Like the world could burn itself down outside the bunker doors and he would still be there, one arm around his baby girl, daring anything in creation to try and take her from him.
That should have made you soft.
And it did. It made you ache with love for him.
But it also made him hotter than he had any right to be.
Dean, exhausted and rumpled, with banana on his shirt and your daughter’s spoon tucked behind his ear, calling himself Daddy in that rough, casual voice like he had no idea what it did to you.
Like he didn’t know the sight of him settling into fatherhood, strong hands gone gentle, battle instincts turned domestic, all that fierce Winchester devotion focused on one tiny girl, made heat bloom low in your belly even when you were sleep-deprived, unwashed, and currently holding orange juice over your coffee like your brain had left the building.
Maybe especially then.
Because this was Dean in a way you’d never had him before.
Not the hunter.
Not the soldier.
Not the man who had spent his whole life ready to die for everyone else.
This was Dean as a father.
And God help you, it made you want him all over again.
Sam cleared his throat, snapping you violently back to the kitchen, where you were still standing there with the orange juice carton hovering over your mug and, apparently, a very inappropriate expression on your face.
You quickly set the carton down.
“Seriously. Eileen and I can take for the night.” Sam continued.
You looked up too quickly. “A whole night?”
Eileen smiled at you and nodded. “You need it,” she said aloud, then signed, “Both of you.”
Dean opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you saw the hesitation.
Not because either of you thought Sam and Eileen were incapable. They always helped when they could.
And God, did they help.
When they were home, they would take your daughter so you could shower without hallucinating from exhaustion and Dean could do the much needed nappy run.
Eileen could calm your daughter with a patience that made you want to cry. She even cooked for you sometimes. Ran laundry, whilst Sam watched over the baby to let you and Dean nap for an hour like two corpses in a bed.
But they weren’t always here.
They had their own lives now too.
That had been the whole point of getting out, hadn’t it? Not just for you and Dean, but for all of you. Sam and Eileen had spent enough years chained to apocalypses and demon deals and whatever fresh horror crawled out of the dark. They deserved road trips that didn’t end in grave desecration. They deserved lazy weekends, hotel rooms without fake FBI badges, little towns they passed through because they wanted to and not because something was eating people.
So sometimes they travelled.
Sometimes they were gone for a week. Sometimes two. Sometimes they checked in with photos from some scenic overlook or roadside diner, and you were happy for them, genuinely, painfully happy, while standing in the bunker kitchen at two in the morning with dried spit-up on your shirt and a baby who had decided sleep was a personal insult.
But beneath the hesitation, there was something else.
A flicker of longing.
Not for freedom from your daughter. Never that.
Just for one night where the two of you could remember you were still people. Still lovers. Still Dean and you beneath the titles Mom and Dad.
One uninterrupted night.
Your hand found Dean’s lower back as you stepped beside him at the stove, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. “Maybe we do,” you said softly.
Dean looked down at you. And for a moment, his expression was unreadable.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “Okay.”
So you planned it.
Not a huge thing. Not some extravagant, impossible evening. You knew better than to aim for perfection now.
A little Italian restaurant in town. The one with warm yellow lights in the windows, red-checkered tablecloths, and bread baskets that smelled like garlic and heaven.
Then a hotel.
A nice one.
Not a motel with questionable stains and a vending machine that only sold off-brand chips. A proper hotel with clean sheets, thick curtains, a bathtub big enough for two, and a bed neither of you had to share with a baby monitor, laundry pile, or half-assembled crib toy.
You didn’t tell Dean about the hotel.
That part was a surprise.
By the time the evening rolled round, leaving your daughter felt both thrilling and devastating.
She was perfectly fine, you told yourself. Better than fine, actually.
She was sitting on Sam’s hip, one tiny hand fisted in his hair while Dean ran through the 'must haves' check list. Miracle hovered nearby like a furry bodyguard, tail wagging with great seriousness.
“You remember where the extra diapers are?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “Yes.”
“The teething gel?”
“Yes.”
“The little purple blanket, not the pink one, because she knows the difference.”
“Dean.”
“And if she does the cough thing after her bottle, don’t panic, just sit her up and pat her back—”
“Dean.”
He stopped.
Sam’s expression softened. “We’ve got her.”
You kissed your daughter’s warm cheek, breathing in the clean, powdery sweetness of her skin until your chest ached. “Be good, okay?”
Dean looked down, swallowing around something.
Your daughter chose that moment to slap both hands against Sam’s cheeks and babble loudly.
Dean laughed, but it came out thick.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “No parties. No boys. No summoning demons. And if Uncle Sammy tries to give you kale as a snack, you scream until he gives you something better.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Get out.”
Eileen gave you a knowing smirk and signed, “Go have some fun.”
And then Dean’s hand slipped into yours. Warm. Familiar. Steady. And for the first time in months, the two of you walked out of the bunker without a diaper bag, without spit-up on your shoulder, without listening for a cry that wasn’t coming.
The outside air felt strange.
Too open.
Too quiet.
Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving absently over your bare thigh.
You had worn a dress.
An actual dress.
Not leggings. Not one of Dean’s old shirts. Not something chosen based on how easily it could survive bodily fluids.
A dress.
Soft, dark, flattering in a way that made you feel like yourself and not just a half-feral creature living on coffee and lullabies.
Dean had stared when you came out of the bedroom. His eyes had dragged over you slowly, his mouth parting just slightly before he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“You look…” His voice had gone rough. “Damn, sweetheart.”
That alone had made the whole night worth it.
But at the restaurant, under the warm glow of hanging lights, with Dean sitting across from you in a dark button-down that stretched beautifully over his shoulders and arms, you realised how badly you had missed him.
Not Dad Dean.
Not the man passing you wipes at two in the morning while your daughter screamed the roof down.
Just the man who still looked at you like you were trouble and home all at once.
He also ate like he hadn’t had a real meal in months, which was probably accurate. He groaned around the first bite of lasagne, eyes rolling back dramatically enough that you kicked him under the table.
“Careful,” you teased, trying not to laugh as Dean closed his eyes around another bite like he was having a religious experience. “People are watching.”
“Let ’em,” he mumbled, absolutely shameless as he dragged another piece of garlic bread through the sauce. “I’d marry this lasagna.”
You arched a brow. “Wow. Good to know where I stand.”
Dean glanced up, caught the challenge in your expression, and smirked around his fork. “Baby, you’re in a whole different category.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Lasagna gets one evening of my undivided attention. You got the rest of my life. Also my car keys,” he added. “And the good side of the bed. Which, honestly, is huge for me.”
You laughed incredulously. “I had your child.”
“And I gave you the good side of the bed for most of the third trimester,” he shot back, pointing his fork at you like that settled everything. “Some would say we’re even.”
You sat back in your seat, folded your arms and mockingly scowled.
He held your gaze for all of two seconds before his grin cracked wide.
"C'mon, i'm kidding. We both know you've got me wrapped around your little finger." He huffed and shook his head like that bothered him.
You hummed and conceded with a cheeky smile on your lips. “Smart answer.”
"Still might give the lasagne a second date, though.” He mumbled around another bite.
“Dean!” You smacked his arm in jest.
“What? It’s got layers. I respect that in a partner.”
You laughed then, unable to help it, and his grin widened like that had been the whole point.
For a while, it was easy.
You talked about nothing and everything. Your daughter’s new habit of growling at mashed peas. Sam’s tragic attempt at assembling a baby walker last week. Eileen teaching her signs already, even though most of them currently looked like enthusiastic flailing.
Dean told you about a young hunter who had called him for advice on a ghoul case, and how weird it felt to be the guy on the phone instead of the one digging up graves.
“You miss it?” you asked quietly.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers around his glass of soda, thumb tracing the condensation.
“Hunting?” He thought about it. “Sometimes. In little pieces. The road. The music. The…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling useful, maybe.”
Your heart pinched. “You are useful.”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know. Diaper genie ain’t gonna empty itself.”
“Dean.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
You reached across the table, palm up. After a second, he placed his hand in yours.
“You are the reason I survived those first few months,” you said softly. “You know that, right?”
His jaw shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “You took care of me. You took care of her. You still do.”
He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb moving back and forth over your knuckles.
“Just feels like…” He stopped, huffed a humourless little laugh, and shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No. Tell me.”
“Nah.”
“Dean.”
His eyes flicked up. There was a warning in them, but not an angry one. A frightened one.
You softened. “Baby.”
His shoulders dropped slightly and he looked away, toward the window where the streetlights reflected against the glass.
“Just feels like I don’t recognise myself sometimes,” he admitted, so quietly you almost missed it. “Used to be able to take a beating from a vamp and still run three miles if I had to. Now I get winded carrying the car seat up the stairs.”
You said nothing, letting him find the rest.
His mouth tightened.
“And I know it’s stupid. I know I’m not twenty-five anymore. I know things are different.” He gave a rough little shrug. “But I saw myself in the mirror the other night and just thought… hell. When did that happen?”
Your throat tightened.
He still wouldn’t look at you.
“I let myself go,” he muttered.
“No,” you said immediately.
He let out a breath. “Sweetheart—”
“No.” Your voice was firmer this time. “You didn’t let yourself go. You stayed.”
That made him look at you.
You swallowed, emotion pressing hard against your ribs. “You stayed with me. With her. You stopped running yourself into the ground chasing monsters and started building a life. That body you’re so busy judging? That’s the body that carried our daughter around the kitchen for hours because she wouldn’t sleep unless she heard your heartbeat.”
Dean’s face shifted.
You kept going because now that you had started, you couldn’t stop.
“That’s the body that slept on the floor beside the crib every night when she had colic. That’s the body that wrapped around me every time I thought I was failing.”
His eyes had gone glassy, though he blinked quickly, trying to hide it.
You squeezed his hand again.
“I love your body,” you said. “Every version of it. But this one?” Your gaze dropped briefly, deliberately, over his chest, his stomach, the breadth of him. “This one is my favourite.”
Dean stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that.
So, naturally, he deflected.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough, one brow lifting. “You into the dad bod now?”
You smiled slowly.
“Oh, Baby,” you said, letting your thumb drag over his knuckles. “You have no idea.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Heat, yes. But uncertainty too.
You wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to take him apart slowly enough that he had no room left to doubt you.
Luckily, you had a hotel room waiting.
When dinner ended, Dean reached for the keys out of habit, and you plucked them from his hand.
“Uh, you planning on stealing my car?”
“Maybe.” You shrugged coyly, walking around to the drivers side.
His eyes narrowed. “Wait. Where are we going?”
You only smiled and gave him a wink before you slid into the divers seat.
The room was beautiful.
Not extravagant, but warm and clean, with soft lamps, thick curtains, a king-sized bed, and a bathroom with white tile and a deep tub that made you immediately think of Dean’s sore shoulders and your own aching feet.
He set the overnight bag, you'd secretly packed, down near the dresser, glancing around with a low whistle.
“Damn. We’ve come a long way from mouldy carpets and vibrating beds.”
You hummed, stepping behind him. “Kind of nostalgic, though.”
Dean snorted. “For the vibrating beds?”
“For motel rooms. Road trips. You trying to seduce me while Sam was ten feet away pretending not to hear.”
His grin flashed, but faded slightly when your hands slid around his waist.
You felt it. The way his stomach tensed beneath your palms. The way he inhaled and held it.
Your heart squeezed. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and held him gently.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
“Do what?”
“Brace like I’m about to be disappointed.”
His breath left him in a slow, uneven stream.
You kissed the back of his shirt.
“I’m not.”
Dean’s hands covered yours where they rested over his middle, but he didn’t pull them away. You kissed his spine through the fabric, then his shoulder blade, then stepped around to face him.
His eyes were darker now. Guarded, but wanting.
You reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Can I?”
For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.
Then his face softened.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, baby.”
You undid them slowly. One by one.
The room seemed to quiet around you, the distant sound of traffic muffled by the windows, the warm lamplight turning his skin golden as each inch of him was revealed.
Freckles. Scars. Softness. Strength.
Dean watched your face like he was searching for the moment your expression would change.
It didn’t.
If anything, you felt yourself ache more. By the time his shirt hung open, your mouth had gone dry.
His chest was still broad, dusted with freckles, solid beneath your palms when you pushed the fabric from his shoulders. His arms were still strong, still capable of making you feel weightless when he wrapped them around you. But beneath the familiar planes was that new softness you loved so much — the gentle curve of his stomach, the slight give at his waist, the warmth of a body no longer sharpened by survival alone.
You touched him there first.
Dean’s eyes fluttered. Just enough to betray him.
You flattened your palms over his chest and slid them down his abdomen slowly.
“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.
He huffed, but it came out broken. “That’s my line.”
“Not tonight.”
His hands flexed at his sides as you leaned in and kissed his chest. Once. Twice. Then lower.
Dean sucked in a breath when your lips brushed the soft swell of his stomach.
“Sweetheart…”
You looked up at him. His face was flushed. Vulnerable, but hungry.
You kissed him again, right there, and felt him shudder.
“I love this,” you murmured against his skin. “I love touching you.”
His hand came up, fingers threading into your hair as he gently urged you to stand.
For a second, he looked like he might crack wide open.
Then he kissed you.
And it was not gentle.
It was desperate, bruising, full of months of exhaustion and restraint and all the things he had been too afraid to ask for. His hands gripped your face, your waist, your hips, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound seemed to snap something in him.
He backed you toward the bed, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest.
His brows pulled together. “You okay?”
You smiled coyly and then you pushed him.
Dean landed on the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes widening as you climbed over him.
“Oh,” he said, voice dropping. “Okay.”
You straddled his thighs, smoothing your hands up his stomach and chest, watching the way his breath hitched under your touch.
“You spent months making me feel like I was the sexiest woman alive when I was pregnant,” you said, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “When I was swollen and tired and crying because my ankles looked weird.”
His lips twitched. “They did look kinda weird.”
You bit his earlobe and he groaned.
“You worshipped every inch of me,” you continued, dragging your mouth down his throat. “You made me feel wanted every single day.”
“You were wanted every single day.”
“So are you.”
Dean went still beneath you and you lifted your head and looked at him.
“So are you,” you repeated. “Every inch of you.”
His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking over the fabric of your dress as you kissed down his neck. Then his chest. His stomach. The soft skin above his waistband.
Dean’s head tipped back, his throat working as you took your time with him, letting your hands roam everywhere he had tried to hide. You kissed every scar, every freckle, every place his body had changed. You worshipped him with the same reverence he had given you.
By the time you reached his belt, his breathing was ragged.
“Baby,” he rasped, hand tightening in your hair. “You keep doing that and this night’s gonna get real short.”
You smiled against his skin. “Good thing we’ve got all night then.”
He let out a wrecked little laugh that turned into a groan when you opened his belt.
There was nothing hurried about it. That was the best part.
No baby crying from the next room. No monitor crackling. No whispered, frantic, half-dressed moment stolen between naps and laundry.
Just time.
You took your time undressing him, and you made him watch you love it.
His jeans came off first, pushed down his thighs with deliberate care, your palms dragging over warm skin, over muscle still there beneath the softness, over the body that had carried so much for so long. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the hem of your dress, and you lifted your arms, letting him pull it over your head.
The look on his face when he saw you nearly made your knees weak.
Not because you felt flawless. You didn’t.
Your body had changed too. Your stomach was softer. Your hips were wider. There were stretch marks on your skin now, faint silver lines that caught in the lamplight. Your breasts were different. You were different.
But Dean looked at you like you were holy.
“God,” he breathed.
You smiled, heart aching. “Still?”
His eyes snapped to yours, fierce and immediate. “Always.”
Then his hands were on you, warm and reverent, pulling you down against him. The feeling of him beneath you punched the air from your lungs.
Warm. Solid. Soft where you wanted him soft, strong where you needed him strong. His skin pressed against yours, his thighs thick beneath you, his arms firm around your back as his fingers found the clasp of your bra.
It came undone with a practiced flick and you let it fall away, tossing it blindly to the side.
The way he looked at you made heat bloom low in your belly — not just hunger, though there was plenty of that, but wonder. Pure, open wonder, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you like this.
And then you leaned back down and kissed him slowly this time. Deeply. Letting the hunger simmer instead of burn too fast.
Dean groaned into your mouth when you rolled your hips, the warmth of your core running against his length, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to make you gasp.
“Missed you,” he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. “Missed this.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Me too.”
“Not the quick stuff,” he said, mouth finding the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Not the ‘baby’s asleep, hurry up’ stuff.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “That stuff has its place.”
“Hell yeah, it does.” His teeth grazed your throat, and you felt his smile against your skin. “But this…”
His hands slid down your back, over your ass, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. When he looked up at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips parted, face flushed and open in a way that made your pulse stumble.
“This is better.”
You kissed him again, then shifted lower.
His breath caught as your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers brushing over the waistband of his boxers before you tugged them down. Dean lifted his hips to help you, impatient even now, kicking them off one foot with a clumsy little movement that would’ve made you laugh if your hand hadn’t closed around him a second later.
“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back against the pillows.
You stroked him slowly, watching pleasure soften his face, watching the insecurity loosen its claws inch by inch. His mouth fell open. His brow furrowed. That harsh, critical tension you’d seen in him earlier began to melt beneath your touch.
“You like me touching you?” you whispered.
His laugh was breathless and ruined. “That a real question?”
You tightened your hand slightly and his mouth fell open.
“Words, Winchester.”
His eyes flashed up to yours, dark and heated.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, sweetheart. I love you touching me.”
You leaned down, brushing your lips over his. “Good.”
When you finally sank down onto him, both of you went silent.
It had been so long since you’d done this without rushing. So long since you’d had the space to feel every inch, every stretch, every breath. So long since your bodies had been allowed to take their time remembering each other.
Dean’s hands flew to your hips, not forcing, just anchoring. His face twisted with pleasure as you took him slowly, inch by inch, letting yourself adjust, letting him feel how much you wanted every bit of him.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, forehead dropping to his.
His voice was rough against your mouth. “You okay?”
You nodded, breath shaking. “More than okay.”
He kissed you then, swallowing your soft moan as you settled fully against him.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You just stayed there, joined and breathing, your body wrapped around his while his hands stroked up and down your back like he was trying to memorise this version of you too.
Then you moved. Slowly at first. A gentle roll of your hips that made his grip tighten.
Dean groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His stomach pressed soft and warm against you every time you moved, and the intimacy of it made you dizzy. There was no distance. No hiding. No sharp edges.
Just him.
All of him.
You braced your hands on his chest and rode him with slow, deliberate movements, watching him unravel beneath you. The pleasure built in layers — the stretch of him inside you, the drag of your body against his, the heat of his hands, the broken way he looked at you like you were taking him apart and putting him back together all at once.
His eyes moved over your face. Your body. Then lower, to where you were joined, and his jaw clenched hard.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
You smiled, breathless. “Look at you.”
That made his cheeks flush darker and you leaned down, pressing kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot,” you whispered, breath ragged.
He made a strained sound, half protest, half pleasure.
“You are,” you insisted, moving a little harder now, enough to make both of you gasp. “You’re gorgeous. Sexy. Mine.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Yours?” he growled.
You clenched around him deliberately and Dean cursed, both hands grabbing your hips, holding on rather than guiding.
The pace changed then. Not rushed, exactly, but deeper. Needier.
Dean sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him. The change in angle made you cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you close and thrust up into you.
There was something overwhelming about it.
His softness. His strength. His mouth at your neck, your collarbone, your breast. His hands everywhere, greedy now, confident again because you had given that back to him.
“Feel so good,” he groaned against your skin. “God, I love you. Love you so damn much.”
You held his face and kissed him hard.
“I love you too.”
His forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing raggedly into the little space between your mouths.
The pleasure built slowly, then all at once. A deep, rolling heat low in your belly. The kind you hadn’t had time for in months. The kind that came from being touched everywhere, wanted everywhere, known everywhere.
Dean knew it too. He always did.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and coaxing as one hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, circling with steady, practiced pressure that made your thighs tremble around him. “I’ve got you. Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”
You whimpered his name, and his mouth found yours just as you broke, swallowing the sound as pleasure spilled through you in hot, shaking waves. You clung to him through it, body fluttering around his, every nerve lit up and trembling.
Dean followed seconds later, his whole body going tense beneath you, arms locking around your waist as he groaned into your shoulder and spilled his seed deep inside you.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breath. The soft tick of the hotel clock. The distant hush of traffic beyond the window. The warm press of his body under yours.
Your body melted against his, boneless and trembling, and Dean held you like he had no intention of ever letting go.
Eventually, he fell back against the pillows, taking you with him and you landed on his chest with a breathless laugh.
He chuckled too, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other rested heavily on your lower back.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Then Dean, because he was Dean, said, “So… just to clarify…”
You hummed sleepily into his chest, too warm and satisfied to lift your head properly. His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine.
“You’re officially pro dad bod?”
You lifted your head then, and looked at him incredulously.
His smile was teasing, but his eyes were softer. Still a little uncertain. Still needing the answer and your heart twisted.
So you shifted down his body, pressing a kiss to his chest, then his stomach and Dean’s breath caught.
You rested your cheek there, over the soft warmth of him, and wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I’m pro you,” you said. “Always.”
His hand stilled in your hair and when you looked up, his eyes were glazed.
He tried to hide it with a smile, but you crawled back up and kissed him gently, softer now, all tenderness and afterglow.
Dean cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
“Guess I needed that,” he admitted quietly.
“I know.”
He kissed you again, slow and grateful. Relishing in the reconnection of something he thought might never be the same again.
Later, you would take a bath together in the deep hotel tub, Dean wedged behind you with his knees bent awkwardly because he was still too broad for luxury plumbing.
You would laugh, sinking back against him while the warm water lapped at your skin and steam fogged the mirror. His arms would wrap around you from behind, hands gliding over your body beneath the water, soaping up your skin with a lazy kind of devotion that made your eyes flutter closed.
For a while, it would stay soft. His mouth at your temple. Your fingers trailing along his forearm. His chest warm against your back.
Then his hand would drift lower.
Because he could.
Because there was time.
Because after months of rushed touches and interrupted moments, Dean seemed determined to make up for every second you’d both lost.
He’d stroke you slowly beneath the water, lips brushing your ear while you melted back against him, your breath catching, your body turning loose and pliant in his arms as his fingers dipped inside your warm heat. You’d come once on his fingers, shaking against his chest while he murmured praise into your damp skin.
Then the softness would sharpen.
The water would slosh over the edge of the tub as he bent you forward, one arm locked around your waist, his body covering yours from behind. He’d press into you in one deep, thrust, fucking you hard and fast until you'd come again with his name breaking in your throat.
He’d follow right after, holding you tight as he spilled into you with a rough, helpless sound.
Afterwards, you’d both stare at the bathroom floor. At the towels. At the water everywhere. And Dean would clear his throat.
“You think they charge extra for flooding?”
And you’d laugh so hard your forehead would drop against the side of the tub.
Once you'd cleaned up, the two of you would order dessert from room service and eat tiramisu, wearing nothing but robes and smug smiles with one spoon between you as you watched whatever shitty movie cable had to offer.
Eventually, you would call Sam to check on the baby, only for him to send a photo of your daughter asleep on Eileen’s chest, Miracle curled protectively at their feet.
Dean would stare at the photo for a full minute, soft-eyed and quiet. Then he would set the phone aside, pull you back into his arms, and kiss you long and deep before he’d shift between your thighs, watching your face the whole time as he slid back into you.
This time would be different again.
Sleepier. Softer. No performance. No urgency.
Just Dean moving inside you with his forehead pressed to yours, his body warm and heavy, his breath mingling with yours as the pleasure built in lazy, golden waves.
And then you would sleep soundly through the night for the first time in almost a year. Your leg hooked over his, your hand resting over his heart.
And Dean would smile and cover it with his own, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.
AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Like i said, i may have gotten a little carried away 😅but, eh, it's been a while since i've completed a fic at all, so i'll take it. But i want to also thank y'all for sticking around and being supportive regardless. Let me know your thoughts. 💭
If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊
Ahhh Abbie!! I was so very happy to see this post, not only because I absolutely love Burning For You, but because I'm so glad you're sharing more of your beautiful writing with some truly exceptional Dean parenting fluff — one of my favorite kinds 🥹❤️
It was Dean standing in the kitchen at midnight, shirt rumpled, hair sticking up in all directions, bouncing your daughter against his chest while he warmed a bottle and mumbled, “I know, sweetheart. I know. Life’s hard when you’re tiny and unemployed.”
This whole opener felt so "real" and tugged at my heartstrings, because of course this is everything I would want for Dean in his hunting retirement. But this bit in particular made me cackle - SO him 😂
He loved her with a devotion that almost hurt to witness.
And he loved you through every messy, fragile, overwhelmed version of yourself.
Which was why it took you a while to notice that somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped letting you love him back quite as freely.
What?? Are we in for some classic Dean Self-Deprecation™️ 🥲
Self-care had gone out the window somewhere around the first month, right alongside regular sleep, matching socks, and your ability to watch a movie without pausing it six times because you thought you heard your daughter cry.
Aww but this is totally understandable. Hurts my heart that he thinks he has to hide his body while women often feel the same way after giving birth - as she reflected, her body has changed too.
Dean had gone to brush his teeth at the little sink nestled in the corner of the room. The layout of this place still baffled you.
lmao SO valid. I've referenced that sink in the room too. Like, why can't it just be an adjoining full bathroom instead of a community one down the hall? lol
Dean had gained weight. Not drastically. Not in a way that made him any less Dean.
But his body had softened.
The hard lines carved from years of hunting had blurred at the edges.
Aww my heart pulls for him, especially as a curvy girl myself. 🥲 But I love how you wrote that last line especially. Such a damn good line 👌🏽
But it was a body that had stayed home. - is another beautiful favorite here. We love a responsible, present, loving father and husband ❤️
Like the world could burn itself down outside the bunker doors and he would still be there, one arm around his baby girl, daring anything in creation to try and take her from him.
That should have made you soft.
And it did. It made you ache with love for him.
But it also made him hotter than he had any right to be.
Sweet Jesus, same HC my friend 😫💞
Soft, dark, flattering in a way that made you feel like yourself and not just a half-feral creature living on coffee and lullabies.
lmfao I'm weakkk. Good for them!! They deserved that date night so very much. And they were so fucking cute - Dean with that lasagna and the "layers" and "second date" comment had me absolutely dead 😂😂
You smiled, heart aching. “Still?”
His eyes snapped to yours, fierce and immediate. “Always.”
And I love this! Their entire night together and how she made love to him through all his insecurities and gave him back his confidence was truly so beautiful to read. I know we all enjoy when it's Dean doing the body worship and body appreciation, but he deserves it for all he's done to earn his lovely dad bod 💗💗
This is going down as another one of my favorites from you, Abbie - for real!
Aww tysm Alex 🥹 it’s been hard to get back on the saddle but i’m so happy you enjoyed this one! Burning for you was one of my favourites to write and i just knew i had to visit these two again ❤️
This whole opener felt so "real" and tugged at my heartstrings, because of course this is everything I would want for Dean in his hunting retirement. But this bit in particular made me cackle - SO him 😂
Haha, right!? It's bordering on envy at that point 🤣 But I love creating/seeing reading the small, regular moments he has as a father 😩
Aww but this is totally understandable. Hurts my heart that he thinks he has to hide his body while women often feel the same way after giving birth - as she reflected, her body has changed too.
Yeah, it was interesting to write this from Dean's perspective and from a males in general, I know it can be an struggle from both sexes, and I feel Dean is pretty confident, but I guess I played into the fact Dean seems to be a lot more modest than Sam, maybe it's a Jensen thing too, but he's usually always covered clothed, even in love scenes. Plus it was the request but, anything to show that man some love, I'm here for it lol
lmao SO valid. I've referenced that sink in the room too. Like, why can't it just be an adjoining full bathroom instead of a community one down the hall? lol
Right?! 🤣 I originally wrote a bathroom into the room, but then I went with what was cannon, but still, its such a random ass placement 😂
Aww my heart pulls for him, especially as a curvy girl myself. 🥲 But I love how you wrote that last line especially. Such a damn good line 👌🏽
But it was a body that had stayed home. - is another beautiful favorite here. We love a responsible, present, loving father and husband ❤️
Aww thank you ❤️ It did hit the feels for me on a personal level too. All shapes need the love! And it felt so Dean to me, I feel if he were a parent, we see it sort of with Ben, but his own baby, especially his baby-girl, he'd be so present 🥹
lmfao I'm weakkk. Good for them!! They deserved that date night so very much. And they were so fucking cute - Dean with that lasagna and the "layers" and "second date" comment had me absolutely dead 😂😂
he's irl Garfield I swear 🤣
And I love this! Their entire night together and how she made love to him through all his insecurities and gave him back his confidence was truly so beautiful to read. I know we all enjoy when it's Dean doing the body worship and body appreciation, but he deserves it for all he's done to earn his lovely dad bod 💗💗
This is going down as another one of my favorites from you, Abbie - for real!
Tysm my friend, I appreciate you taking the time to read and leave such lovely feedback 🥹 it truly means a lot. I'm so happy you loved this extension of these two, it was an enjoyment to revisit them ❤️❤️
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-level violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, super slow burn, eventual smut, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mystery, reader is also a CSI, tons of witchy vibes (tarot, auras, herbalism, spells...)
Word Count: 80k and counting...
A/N: My first full canon-divergent, non-AU series that’s been ten years in the making 🤓 It’s my little attempt to fix canon (aka making Dean happy). The goal is to eventually cover all 15 seasons in various shapes and forms, but each season is kind of its own "book." I’ll also try to keep it as OG as possible, only brushing past canon as far as it allows and focusing more on bonus content than episodic rewrites. Ready for an epic adventure with the Winchesters? 😉💜
I finally caught up on Patreon and i’m blown away again by another incredible series by yourself 😍 it hit all those charming witchy 90’s vibes and then some, mix that in with early seasons SPN, yes please.
100000000% recommend 🙌🏻 i am sat for the next chapter
Summary You share something with Dean that an ex used to say to you. Leave it to a Winchester to tickle the truth out of you. Kind of literally.
CWs Dean being his most charming self. Casual sex. Dumb exes. Squirting. Dean talkin' filth. Lots and lots of bodily fluids. POV: reader
18+. 1.6k words
AN Something short and sweet to start us off! Welcome, my darlings! ❤️
Smutober prompt Squirting
Smutober masterlist ⏐ Dean Winchester masterlist
“And that’s the thing,” witness number 5 says, not bothering to keep his gaze off your cleavage even for a second. “I like a chick who’s insatiable. Who wants to keep going even after we’ve gone over and over, you know?” He chuckles, looking into your eyes for the first time.
“Uh huh,” you say, wondering how the hell you got from talking about the last time anybody saw the victim alive to talking about this asshole’s preference in regards to chicks. Remember what Sam said, you tell yourself. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses–
“A wild cat, kinda,” he continues and you need to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and relocating his nose a couple inches deeper into his head. “Just can’t get enough, the little –”
“And that’ll be all, Mr., uhm…” you say, looking down at your notes. “Ambrose. Thanks for the info.” You throw a look over his shoulder at Dean, but not quickly enough to miss the douchebag in front of you fucking winking.
Four hours later, and you’re throwing your head back to down another shot. The glass lands on the table with a loud thud, and you suppress a violent burp.
“Jesus Christ!” you groan over the loud music being played in the bar, bringing up your hand to brush it over your forehead. “What is wrong with these people?”
Dean pushes your new beer towards you and you reach for it, shaking your head.
“They get someone who listens to them and they think you’re their shrink,” Dean says, taking a sip from his own beer.
“But still, they just tell on themselves,” you say, the mask of disgust slowly turning into a grin. You lean forward, one arm going out to steady yourself a little. Maybe the last two shots were a bit of a mistake. “This one guy, the sleazy one? He told me…”
You laugh, feeling some heat rise to your cheeks, but this is Dean. If anyone’s gonna love this story, it’s him.
“He told me all the women he has sex with are insatiable,” you continue, dramatically emphasizing the last word. “No matter how many rounds they went. Or he went, I guess.”
Dean’s eyebrows go up and the corners of his mouth quirk up in one of those endlessly charming smiles he has.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice all scratchy and curious.
“Yeah,” you say, regaining some of your composure. “I have this feeling he was getting insatiable and unsatisfied mixed up.” Dean scoffs, then chuckles.
“Some people just love oversharing,” he says, lips pouty. “Or maybe that’s what he was into? Like those guys that like it when you laugh at their dicks?” Now it’s your turn to raise your eyebrows.
“Dean!” you say and he laughs, evidently loving that he was able to surprise you. You shake your head, pick at the label on your bottle. “Well, can’t ever do it right, that’s what I learned. As a woman, I mean. Either you’re not coming often enough, or you’re too fast or too slow or you’re too loud, too… enthusiastic.”
Dean’s just taking a sip of his beer and he puts the bottle down with a frown.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet would complain about that last one.” You give an awkward chuckle, shift around on your stool.
“You’d be surprised,” you mutter, brushing some hair behind your ear, looking down at the table. You only look up when you notice Dean leaning back. He’s studying you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re serious?” he says. “What kind of douchebag–”
“My ex,” you interrupt him. Maybe you really shouldn’t have had those two last shots, but damn, it feels good to talk to someone about it. “He found it off-putting, said I got too…”
You look into Dean’s eyes and he’s looking back and all of a sudden, it feels like there’s something in the air between you, something fiery and heated, like a gas leak someone held a match to, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Could be the shots. Could be, well, just Dean.
“Wet,” you finish what you were saying. Dean’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, and then there’s that smile again.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, voice a little lower as he leans in again. “But I’m kinda itchin’ to see that for myself.”
Dean rolls the two of you so you’re on top of him and you push yourself up, hands on his chest, before you continue fucking yourself down on him at the same pace he just picked - which is fast and relentless. There’s loud, desperate sounds coming from your throat every time Dean’s cock hits that magical spot inside you, and for the first time in you can’t remember how long, you’re simply letting them out.
Dean’s not faring much better. He’s vocal, and you had no idea he would be, but it’s a damn nice surprise. One of his hands is on your hip, the other traveling up your side, squeezing the skin. He looks down at where he’s appearing and disappearing inside of you, his mouth dropping open.
“Jesus, fuck, darlin’,” he pants, then looks back up at your face. “You’re fuckin’ drenching me. Fuckin’ sexy.”
You moan loudly, your head dropping back again as another orgasm shakes your body, your toes curling, muscles trembling.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you cry out as all of you convulses, Dean groaning loudly under you as you keep riding him to prolong your release.
“Sit up, sit up,” he says, just as you’re coming down and your brain barely has the capacity to understand him, and it definitely doesn’t have the capacity to question him, so you do. Dean’s cock slips out of you and just as you’re wondering what the hell he’d want to go and do that for, Dean’s hand moves and then two thick fingers are pressing into you.
You see the tension in his underarm, the tendons and muscles playing, the strength there, and then you don’t see anything because you need to lean your head back and close your eyes as Dean fingerfucks you hard and fast, basically assaulting your g-spot. You nearly scream when another orgasm rips through you, and this time you feel it under you, the wetness, the spread, the all of it, as your stomach clenches and a volley of broken whines leaves you while your brain goes postal. But rather than express the disgust you expect, Dean seems to love it.
“Oh shit,” he presses out as you drop your head forward, try to focus on him, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” Your brain is pretty much mush and you try to lower yourself again, but it’s impossible with how your legs have turned to jello. Dean sits up, quickly, toned muscles moving under sweaty skin, and wraps an arm around you, flips you around. Your back meets the mattress, your head hanging off the side and then Dean pushes into your sopping pussy again and goes to town.
Your fingers claw into the thickness of his arms while his other thickness pounds into you. You’re gasping and crying out, no longer chief to your physical reactions. Dean groans loudly over you, then grabs your hip, pushing himself up, switching to smooth, deep, rolled thrusts that make you whimper.
“Look at that,” he says, and blinking him into focus is about as hard as, well, as hard as Dean is. You follow his gaze, see it’s going between your legs. “That’s all you, sweetheart. All for me.”
Dean’s cock is glistening with your wetness when he pulls out, only his head remaining inside of you. There’s also, and your insecurity might return at that if Dean hadn’t fucked it right out of you, a white ring of your arousal at the base of his cock, wrapped around it like a crown, shoved there by his relentless fucking.
“Dean,” you whine, but he’s already positioning himself again. He looks down at you, pretty brow glistening, chest heaving.
“Let’s see how loud you can really be,” he says and rams himself into you so hard you see stars.
Ten minutes later, you’re still on your back, but Dean’s lying next to you. You can feel his spendings slowly dripping out of you, and you’re almost certain you’re gonna have to burn those sheets you’re lying on, though they might be too drenched to actually catch fire. Dean is catching his breath, completely out of it, while your heartbeat is still roaring loud in your ears.
He groans, turns his head towards you.
“I think I got third degree burns on my johnson,” he mumbles and you snort, then give a lazy laugh. He smiles at you, looking blissfully fucked-out.
“Tell me about it,” you reply. Dean pushes himself up with a groan, but it’s only to roll closer to you.
“So,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “still feeling insatiable? Or unsatisfied?” You raise your hand, run it over his shoulder and then his back, as far down to his absolutely delectable ass as you can without moving the rest of your buzzing body.
“I’m pretty sure,” you reply, “that was my orgasm contingent for the year.” Dean gives you a broad, proud smile, presses a kiss to your shoulder, which must taste salty.
“Anything else your asscrack of an ex complained about?” he asks and you purse your lips, pretend to think.
“There’s a few things I seem to recall,” you say, voice playful and Dean grins, taking your meaning.
“Alright,” he says, slinging his arm over you and pulling you in. “Rest up. Sounds like we got work to do.”
rules: post ten GIFs of your ten favorite movies (no giving away the title) and tag ten people.
I was nominated by the lovely @apricustar and promised to deliver, so, here goes. I allowed myself two cheats: one gif is from a series, and two are stills because there are no GIFs. it was honestly SO HARD TO CHOOSE.
no pressure tags: @esote-rika @abbacadabara @samirasystole @romanticpursuit @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @singinginthecar @s-writing-s @robinavich and whoever else wishes! I love your writings and takes so I'd love to see your favourite films<3
This is cool as hell! It was difficult to pick just 10 so I picked 12, but super fun! This list is subject to change within a minute though. 😄 Thank you! ❤️
I'm not a very highbrow kinda guy, as you'll see. I added the names of the movies at the bottom. I did not understand the game originally but fixed it now. 😄
SUMMARY: The mundane life suits Dean Winchester better than he ever thought it would. He and his partner hang up the hunting boots and exchange them for snowshoes, except the hiking trip they planned out for him does not go as expected.
PAIRINGS: Dean Winchester x GN!Reader, Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy
GENRE: Fluff, Suggestive
PROMPTS: January 24 is Dean's 47th birthday! Write a fic celebrating him, something he loves, or simply what his birthday would look like! + Snowed in/Blizzard
TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Post-Canon Fix-it, Retired Hunter Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Dean Winchester is a Grumpy Old Man, Birthday Fluff, Cabin Fic, Snowed In
WORD COUNT: 3,064
A/N: “People who celebrate the birthdays of fictional characters are annoying, wah wah wah.” Screw that and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAN WINCHESTER! 🎂🥳💚 This is my entry for the FanFiction Writers of the Supernatural Fandom’s first Monthly Writing Challenge of 2026. The title of this fic was inspired by John Waite’s song and it, along with ‘No Brakes’ and ‘You’re The One’ make a small appearance in this story, so please give them a listen! Last, but definitely not least, I want to give a huge shoutout to @flanneledfae for being the greatest bet(s)a reader I could ever hope for. Your support means the world to me, thank you.
CREDIT & LINKS: Ao3 — Supernatural Masterlist — Main Masterlist
“You cannot be serious,” Dean grumbles, one suspicious eyebrow raised at you as you wave a folder in his face.
He can’t believe that you not only booked a hiking trip for the two of you, you even went through the hassle of printing everything out: The confirmation mail of the reservation you made, detailed information about the cabin, a guide on what to bring, and of course a goddamn map, the marked down route of which makes him dizzy just by looking at it.
Do you really expect him to walk that many miles in the dead of winter?
After decades of hunting, he kissed the uncomfortable motel mattresses goodbye and settled with you in an uneventful, small, idle town. The only long trips the two of you tackle now are the ones to the grocery store or your biweekly visits to Sam and Eileen.
You present your loot to him with your pride intact, no matter how begrudging his reaction may be. “Isn’t it great? Take a look at the pictures, the cabin is so cozy,” you’re smiling from one ear to another, not oblivious to Dean’s dismay but purposefully ignoring it. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”
Dean’s idea of fun is a lazy night spent in the comfort of his Dean Cave — yes, he set one up similar to the one in the Bunker in the comfort of your guys’s white picket fenced house, having added the upgrade of an even bigger screen and cinema seats with built in drink holders —, a tacky horror movie to watch with you, and a crisp can of beer. At most, he could get behind a fun evening out, dinner at that favorite bar of yours, or even a trip to that bubble soccer place you’ve been mentioning.
If you’re that keen on some action, did you really have to pick out something so elaborate?
On his birthday, no less. You’ve scheduled that little snowshoe tour for January 24, planning to reside in a tiny rustic cabin in the middle of buttfuck nowhere — with neither cable nor signal, he’s sure — all weekend.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Letting the silence linger between the two of you as if it could state the obvious to giddy ol’ you. You remain unfazed, tilting your head at him expectantly as he reluctantly flips through the pages of your neat folder. When you say nothing still, he decides to ask: “Is this a prank?”
Instead of pouting, you roll your eyes and grin even wider. “What? Is Dean Winchester getting too old for a little hike?” When you nudge his shoulder with a teasing wink, you know you’ve won.
Dean Winchester, whether hunter or civilian, is never one to back away from a challenge. He’s been through a lot in the past few years; he’s literally been to hell and back. Multiple times, mind you. How bad can some mountain terrain in Alaska be in comparison to slicing through guts and gore? Sure, his back aches more than it did when he was in his thirties, and his joints may crack and creak when he moves them at a weird angle. But he’s killed every monster in the book before; he won’t surrender to a little hill or two.
Albeit, he sees right through your little scheme. Still, you shall have your little adventure, and he’ll be damned if he can’t keep up with it. With a click of his tongue, he shakes his head. “Not a chance,” he huffs in response, taking the bait if only to see your eyes light up. “But I won’t be carrying you around the cliffs when you start whining about getting tired.”
“Pretty sure you’re the one complaining about your bad knee every day, Winchester,” you chuckle and lean in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.
Truth is, Dean is tired before you guys even arrive. In fact, you’re barely halfway there when he suppresses a yawn and rotates his shoulders in discomfort.
Even after moving further up north with you, Alaska is still a good day and a half away by car. Funny how after spending a life on the road, he still finds himself craving a couple of hours of shut-eye.
Not that he would ever admit to it; he won’t hand over victory that easily. So when you offer to get behind the wheel instead of him driving the whole time, he brushes you off with a quick “Nah, ‘s fine, baby,” and placates your concerns by gently squeezing your thigh.
He gives in, however, at your suggestion to stop at the next fast-food spot. A hearty cheeseburger and some fries are nothing if not the fuel he needs to make it through the next couple of hours. While he’s munching on his meal, you keep on babbling about what’s ahead. The brochures promise a beautiful panoramic view, allegedly the most magical winter scenery. Something right out of a fairy tale, the text states.
“You’re still not too excited, huh?”
Dean stills his chewing, glances up at you, and sees your smile fading for the first time. He swallows deliberately, washing down the salty chicken nuggets with a sip of water, and thinks about his next words carefully. You’ve been ecstatic about this trip, and grumpy as he may be, he does not want to spoil it for you.
Least of all does he want to come across as ungrateful. He never thought he’d have any of this, a peaceful life with the person he loves, a spontaneous weekend in the mountains, thoroughly planned out by you to bring a smile to his face. He appreciates the effort greatly, even if so far he’s been terrible at showing it.
“I forced this onto you, didn’t I? I thought it would be fun,” you sigh, mindlessly swirling your fries through the ketchup.
Dean’s not sure which is more alarming, the fact that this is a dead giveaway of you second-guessing yourself, or the fact that he picks up on your telltale signs like it’s second nature. Sometimes the familiarity between the two of you scares him, like it’s something unreal, something that can slip out of his fingers any second.
“I’m sure it will be,” he says then, offering you a smile. A warm and honest one. No teasing to be found, not even in his tone. Not initially, at least. “I mean it. Heck, we can even build the coolest snowman once we’re up there. And I can’t wait to beat you to it when we race for the top.”
You frown at him, flicking a drenched-in-ketchup fry his way, but thanks to the soft and familiar rumble of his chuckle, you can’t stay mad at him for too long.
“I’m serious!” Dean grins, popping the fry into his mouth. “It’ll be the best weekend ever.” And he’s not even exaggerating, let alone lying. So long as he gets to spend it with you, he’s content anywhere. Be it the depths of hellfire itself, your shared four walls, or a romantic cottage in Alaska. Time shared with you is time well spent.
After finishing your food and heading back to the car, you insist on driving for the next couple of miles. This time around, Dean doesn’t argue with you, except over the music you pick out. Some things are still sacred, he claims, and as much as he trusts you with Baby, he still wants to have a say in the soundtrack of your lives. You compromise by putting in John Waite, daring him to refute that it’s at least Rock.
Your fingers drum softly on the steering wheel, and you briefly turn your face to Dean, chanting from the top of your lungs: “But I’m curled up tight in your Chevrolet! And, baby, you got — Wow — You’ve got what it takes!”
With you singing along to what he usually would call a ballad at most, he can’t say no anyway. You have him wrapped around your little finger, and evident by the smile plastered on your face, you’re well aware of it, too.
Ultimately, he chimes in, joining your singing: “We ain’t got no brakes!”
The two of you make a stop at a motel, deciding to call it a day for now. You could push it, but for once, you’re in no rush to chase after a werewolf, and there are no victims to be saved from vampires either. When you check into a room, there is no research awaiting you there, nor any life or death situation weighing you down. No grime nor blood to be washed off either of you, no danger lurking around the corner.
“It feels kinda weird to say this,” Dean trails off, dropping his duffel bag by the end of the bed, “but I’ve kinda missed this. Classic stingy motel room, unidentifiable stains on the sheets, and a gorgeous face to gawk at all the way through.”
You snort, giggling even more when he pulls you close. “Pretty sure the latter is not exclusive to just road trips across several states.”
“Damn right it’s not,” replies Dean, voice laced with the reverence of someone who still can’t believe he managed to bag someone like you. Sometimes it’s still difficult for him to wrap his head around it, around you sticking by his side through it all. In the words of John Waite: Every step of the way. His smile softens as he connects his lips with yours.
The setting is all too familiar, yet he gets to experience it differently thanks to you. Thanks to the comfortable press of your chest against his. Thanks to the sweet noise you make as his fingers slip under your jacket. Thanks to the warmth of your hands combing through his hair; it’s grown slightly longer over the last few years, curling around his ears in a soft swoop. He remembers your endless teasing after you found a grey one among it, remembers the earnestness with which you expressed how lucky you felt for getting to grow old and sappy with him.
He loved the sound of that right away, loved the idea of getting to experience it all with you. All the mundane, normal stuff, without ever getting bored or tired of it.
The next morning, you wake up in a tangle of limbs, yawning and shuddering.
It’s the end of January, and the cold winter air is still seeping into your very bones. In his half awake state, Dean pulls your shivering body closer to his — your personal heater —, and mumbles something about needing five more minutes. You would love nothing more than to grant them to him, except maybe spending the whole day snuggled up with him like this. However, you guys have somewhere to be.
“We’re gonna be late,” you remind him, gently poking at his sides until he gives in. While he does not get out of bed without grumbling to himself, he makes his way to the kitchenette and fills a thermos bottle with some fresh coffee.
Once you’re ready, you continue driving. It takes the Impala just a minute longer than usual to start up properly during this weather, but she roars to life eventually.
“My girl gets me,” Dean shrugs. “Getting up early when it’s this damn cold is just cruel.”
You roll your eyes and grin, nudging his side with your elbow. “Wait until we reach the cabin, ‘s gonna be freezing up there.”
Dean tilts his head towards you, gaze briefly dropping down on you, then back up. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he smirks, voice dropping into a deep gravel. “I can think of a way or two to heat things up.”
Just that promise of his makes your cheeks flush with warmth, though you lose it at the half-suggestive, half-playful wiggle of his eyebrows. Laughing, you shake your head at him. “I’ll hold you to that,“ you grin.
The further north you drive, the more snow is falling from the grey sky. As beautiful as it is, you hope the weather will be kinder to you tomorrow in time for Dean’s birthday and the actual hiking. You signed up for a winter wonderland, but not for a damn blizzard.
It’s late noon when you arrive, and the hiking guide greets you straight away. You get a little tour around the area and are led to your designated cabin. The wooden cottage is covered in snow, looking exactly like the pictures in the brochure. The interior is nothing crazy, but definitely cozy — and surprisingly warm, considering the harsh climate outside. It’s tiny, rustic, and perfect.
“You’ve picked quite the weather,” the guide sighs, his gloved hand scratching at his bearded jaw. “I hope the snow will let up, otherwise we can’t walk the route.”
Your eyes widen a bit, but you don’t want to lose hope just yet. The man promises to alert you via pager in the morning to give you an update. In the case that the trip gets cancelled, you’ll figure something out. Refunds, rescheduling, whatever. You long lost track of his words, silently praying for a little sunshine tomorrow.
However, your wish is sadly not granted to you. After a good night’s rest, Dean and you wake up to heaps of white surrounding you. There’s so much snow that you suspect it would fall right inside if you opened the front door. A pager’s note confirms your biggest fear and puts the nail in the coffin — there’s no way you can go out walking for several hours under these conditions.
It’s not how you imagined celebrating Dean’s birthday. Crushed, you pout to yourself, when suddenly a pair of arms sneak around your middle from behind. His chest is solid against your back, his body heat surrounding you and effectively soothing your anxiety. You wanted this day to be perfect, and to say you were bummed would be an understatement.
“We’ll make the best of it, like we always do,” Dean reassures you, pecking your temple briefly.
Before you can even think of a proper response, he tends to the fireplace, lighting up some of the wood, and rummages around for more blankets. He even finds a dusty record player and, after some tinkering with it, manages to get it to work. At least you’re not without electricity. You even have some service up here; however, that is possible.
In the meantime, you shuffle about in the kitchen and heat up a store-bought apple pie. It’s not the fanciest thing, but you know it’s Dean’s favorite. While you’re busy sticking candles in the shape of a four and a seven into the crust, you hear Sam’s muffled voice from the lounge area.
“Dude, can you run that by me again? You’re where?”
“Alaska, we booked this snowshoe trip, but we’re snowed in,” Dean responds, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
Sam snorts over the phone. “What did they bribe you with?”
“Hey, c’mon! Is it that hard to believe that I’m up for a little exercise?”
You enter the room just in time to see Eileen nod and respond with a dry “Yup.” Spotting you in the background, just over Dean’s shoulder, her eyes light up, and she waves at you through the camera. Now alerted, Dean turns his head and is met with your toothy grin and lit-up candles sticking out of a warm pie.
“Happy Birthday, babe,” you whisper to him, leaning over the couch to place a fat kiss on his cheek.
Flustered, Dean takes the plate from your hands and clears his throat. “You shouldn’t have,” he brushes you off, but you urge him to make a wish and blow out the candles lest he wants to eat his pie with molten wax.
Once he does, Sam and Eileen start clapping, and you sit down next to your boyfriend. Their cheering ceases when Dean pulls you into a deeper, almost sloppy kiss. Well, Sam’s cheering slows down more so than Eileen, who chuckles and tells you two to get a room.
Dean, one hand still holding the pie, the other arm wrapped around your shoulders, breaks away from you just to grin into the camera. “We’ve got a whole cabin for ourselves. For the whole weekend, too.”
“Dude, don’t get gross,” Sam utters, nose half scrunched up, but still half a smile on his face.
You guys wrap up the video call, Sam and Eileen congratulating Dean once more. While he did not wait until hanging up to dig into his pie, he shovels an insanely large piece of it into his mouth right after putting his phone away. You can’t help but laugh, wiping some apple sauce from the corner of his mouth.
“Slow down, cowboy,” you tease. “It’s all yours.”
In the background, John Waite’s cassette tape plays. Smart call on Dean’s behalf to put it in his backpack. Originally, he meant for you and him to listen to some music on a Walkman during the hike. But this will do just fine.
“I’m just eager to get to dessert,” Dean jokingly winks.
You bite your lower lip in a failed attempt to refrain from grinning. “Isn’t pie technically dessert?”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” he shrugs, setting his fork and the empty plate onto the coffee table. In a swift movement, he stands up and sweeps you along, pulling you closer towards the fireplace, where he spins you once. All while singing, horribly off tune: “I’m a man of the world, and I’ve seen everything. And this time I see one I like; you’re the one!”
You bump your hip into his four times, matching the rhythm of the song. You even manage to make him twirl under your raised arm once, both of you nearly tripping over each other’s feet. When you meet again in the middle, your hands cup his face and draw him in for another kiss.
The world around you slows; the sun could be freezing or the snow melting, it’s all the same to you.
“Happy Birthday, Dean,” you smile against his lips.
“Thank you. Best one so far,” he whispers back.
Your hands guide his to the hem of your shirt as you grin up at him mischievously. “And you haven’t even unwrapped your present yet,” you purr, the spark in your eyes matching his.
I’m such a sucker for some domestic Dean fix it fic fluff! And i love me an organised reader, i’m with you there 🙋🏻♀️🤣 shame it didn’t go to plan…. Or did it. Being trapped in a snowy cabin with Dean sound perfecto to me 😍
But, man o man, was this just sweet and cute and mushy and i loved every minute Liane 😩❤️
Summary: Welcoming your first child had softened the harder edges of what was once a hunter life. Though Dean hadn't expected it to soften everything.
Warnings: Smut 18+, new parents, body image insecurities, lot's of fluff, Dad!Dean, soft!Dean.
Word Count: 7.8k
A/N: So i finally dusted off the old writers brain. This one's Based on this Request, and can be read as a standalone or sequel to Burning for you. I hope I've done it justice for you Anon, as I may have got a little carried away. But see it as an apology for the horrendous wait 😅🫶🏻
Masterlist
The bunker had never exactly been quiet.
Not really.
Even before your daughter, silence had always been a temporary thing. There had always been the hum of ancient pipes in the walls, the low buzz of the lights, the distant rumble of music from the garage, the clink of beer bottles, the scrape of chairs, the soft click of weapons being cleaned before a hunt.
The bunker had always been alive in its own strange, underground way.
But now?
Now it had become a warzone of rattles, burp cloths, half-empty bottles, tiny socks that vanished into other dimensions, pastel blankets thrown over the backs of chairs, and one very small human being with lungs powerful enough to wake the dead.
Your daughter was nine months old now, and somehow that felt both impossible and painfully obvious.
Impossible because it felt like you had only blinked since the day Dean had held her for the first time, his whole body trembling, eyes glassy and his face crumpled into something raw and awed as he stared at a part of him and you compacted into one tiny, perfect, human.
Painfully obvious because you could not remember the last time you had slept more than four consecutive hours since before you left hunting.
'Mom life' was well and truly underway.
It wasn’t soft-focus montages and glowing skin and peaceful mornings the way people liked to pretend in the movies. It was spit-up on the shoulder of your favourite shirt. It was crying at three in the morning because she was crying and you were exhausted and Dean was exhausted, and neither of you knew what else to try.
It was changing a diaper, only for her to immediately poop again with a look on her tiny face that felt almost smug. She was becoming her father’s double.
It was trying to shower while she shrieked from her bouncer outside the bathroom door because she had to be near you, Dean crouched in front of her, shaking her favourite stuffed bee like his life depended on it.
It was cold coffee. Burnt toast. Laundry you forgot in the washer for two days. Eating cereal out of a mug because all the bowls were dirty and neither of you had the energy to unload the dishwasher.
It was Dean standing in the kitchen at midnight, shirt rumpled, hair sticking up in all directions, bouncing your daughter against his chest while he warmed a bottle and mumbled, “I know, sweetheart. I know. Life’s hard when you’re tiny and unemployed.”
It was you crying because you felt like you were doing everything wrong, and Dean folding you into his arms before you could spiral too far, pressing his mouth to your temple and murmuring, “Hey. No. Don’t do that to yourself. She’s loved. She’s fed. She’s safe. That’s us doing it right.”
It was Dean, too tired to be charming and somehow more beautiful for it, lying beside you in bed with the baby asleep on his chest, one big hand cupped protectively over her back.
He had been amazing.
Not perfect. Neither of you had been perfect. There were snappy moments, stupid arguments over sterilised bottles and whose turn it was to sleep and whether Dean had actually restocked the wipes like he said he had.
But he was there.
Every day.
Every night.
There was no running off, no hunt to disappear into, no case to bury the fear beneath. Just Dean Winchester in the trenches of fatherhood, learning bottle temperatures and lullabies and which ridiculous face made your daughter giggle so hard she got hiccups.
He loved her with a devotion that almost hurt to witness.
And he loved you through every messy, fragile, overwhelmed version of yourself.
Which was why it took you a while to notice that somewhere along the way, Dean had stopped letting you love him back quite as freely.
At first, you blamed exhaustion.
It was easy to miss things when you barely knew what day it was.
You didn’t think much of it when he started changing quickly with his back to you, tugging his shirt off and replacing it with another before you’d even looked up from folding baby clothes.
You didn’t think much of it when he stopped walking around the room in just his boxers the way he always used to, shameless and sleep-warm and scratching lazily at his stomach.
You didn’t think much of it when he stopped pulling you into the shower with him on the rare mornings your daughter slept longer than expected.
Everything had changed. Of course some things felt different.
Your body had changed too. Your life had changed. Your routines were nonexistent. The two of you had gone from hunters with weapons hidden under motel mattresses to parents who could have a full-blown debate about which brand of nappy leaked less overnight.
Neither of you hunted anymore.
Not properly.
Not like before.
There were still phone calls. Research favours. The occasional weapon consult. Dean still helped younger hunters from the safety of the bunker, his voice gruff and confident over speakerphone while he paced with the baby strapped to his chest in a carrier.
But the running? The fighting? The adrenaline and motel coffee and gas station dinners eaten in the front seat of the Impala?
That life was gone.
And with it went the constant movement that had kept both of you lean and wired and running on fumes.
Now, meals were whatever was easiest. Frozen pizzas. Takeout. Leftover pasta eaten standing at the counter. Pie because, well, it's Dean and it's pie. Burgers because neither of you had the brain capacity to cook. Coffee because water felt too responsible.
Self-care had gone out the window somewhere around the first month, right alongside regular sleep, matching socks, and your ability to watch a movie without pausing it six times because you thought you heard your daughter cry.
So no, you didn’t notice at first.
Not until one evening when Dean thought you were asleep.
Your daughter had finally gone down after an hour of fighting it like sleep was an enemy combatant. You had collapsed into bed with your arm flung over your eyes, body heavy with that bone-deep tiredness that had become familiar.
Dean had gone to brush his teeth at the little sink nestled in the corner of the room. The layout of this place still baffled you.
You opened your eyes only because you heard him sigh.
Not the usual tired sigh. Not the dramatic huff he gave when your daughter threw her spoon on the floor for the fourth time.
This was quieter. Heavier.
You turned your head slightly and peered beneath your arm, you could see him standing in front of the mirror with his shirt lifted.
At first, your sleepy brain simply registered him.
Broad shoulders. Freckled skin. Bowed head. One hand braced on the sink, the other resting over his stomach.
Then your chest tightened.
Because his face wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tired in the usual way.
It was critical.
Sharp with something that looked far too much like shame.
He turned slightly to the side, looking at himself from another angle, his mouth pressing into a thin line. His hand moved over his middle, fingers sinking slightly into the softness there, and he exhaled through his nose like he was disappointed.
Your heart gave a painful little twist.
Dean had gained weight. Not drastically. Not in a way that made him any less Dean.
But his body had softened.
The hard lines carved from years of hunting had blurred at the edges. His stomach had a gentle curve now, a little belly that sat above the waistband of his sweatpants. His hips were softer. His waist had thickened. The muscle was still there in his arms, his shoulders, his thighs, but there was more give to him now. More warmth.
A 'dad bod'. Some would say.
But it was a body that had stayed home. A body that had rocked a crying baby at three in the morning. A body that had eaten whatever was fast because you needed him more than the gym did. A body that had finally stopped running long enough to be lived in.
You loved it.
God, you loved it.
But Dean clearly didn’t.
You watched him drop his shirt quickly, like even he couldn’t stand looking anymore. Then he leaned both hands on the sink and lowered his head.
And you knew.
You knew that look. You knew what it meant when Dean turned something inward and let it cut him quietly where no one else could see.
So you said nothing that night.
You waited.
Not because you wanted him to suffer, but because Dean Winchester could be skittish with vulnerability. Push too hard, too fast, and he’d deflect, make some crude joke, or kiss you until you forgot the question.
You noticed the way he avoided your hands when they drifted under his shirt. The way he shifted away with a joke when you tried to curl against his side in bed. The way he reached for hoodies more often. The way his smile went tight when one of his old shirts clung a little more than it used to.
And slowly, an idea formed.
It started with Sam and Eileen.
More specifically, it started with Eileen watching you nearly pour orange juice into your coffee mug while your daughter babbled happily from her high chair, tiny fists smearing mashed banana across the tray.
Eileen arched a brow. Sam, sitting beside her, looked between you and Dean with the cautious expression of a man assessing a live grenade.
“You two need a break,” he said.
Dean snorted from where he stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while your daughter’s spoon sat tucked behind his ear for reasons none of you had questioned anymore.
“We’re fine.”
You stared blankly at the orange juice carton in your hand, then down at your coffee.
Eileen signed something sharply and Dean glanced over.
“Hey, I caught that.”
“She said you look like the before picture in a mattress commercial.” Sam translated, far too amused.
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean’s offended look lasted all of two seconds before your daughter squealed from her chair.
His face melted instantly.
“Yeah, I know,” he cooed, turning back to her. “Everyone’s mean to Daddy.”
Daddy.
The word still did something to you.
And not just because it was sweet.
Though it was. God, it was. There was something almost unbearable about hearing Dean call himself that, about watching the word settle into him more naturally every day, like fatherhood had found some hidden room inside him and filled it with light.
But it wasn’t only tenderness that pulled low in your stomach when you looked at him now.
It was the way he had eased into the role without ever really noticing he was doing it.
The way those hands — scarred, broad, steady from years of handling guns, knives, lock picks, and every weapon under the sun — had somehow become impossibly gentle around your daughter. Those same dexterous fingers that could take apart a shotgun blindfolded now tested bottle temperatures against the inside of his wrist, adjusted tiny sock cuffs, fastened poppers on sleep suits, and swept wisps of hair from her forehead with a care that made your chest ache.
It was the way his body had learned her. Her weight. Her moods. Her little tired sounds. The exact bounce that soothed her when she was fussy. The low rumble of his voice when he hummed Zeppelin under his breath because apparently your baby girl had inherited his taste in music before she could even talk.
It was the fierce protectiveness too.
That thing in him that had always been sharp, always been dangerous, but had changed shape the moment she came into the world. Dean had always protected the people he loved, but this was different. This was quieter until it wasn’t. This was him checking the locks twice without making a show of it. Standing between her stroller and a stranger who got a little too close in town. Sleeping lighter than he ever had on hunts, waking at the smallest sound from the crib.
It was the look in his eyes when he held her.
Like the world could burn itself down outside the bunker doors and he would still be there, one arm around his baby girl, daring anything in creation to try and take her from him.
That should have made you soft.
And it did. It made you ache with love for him.
But it also made him hotter than he had any right to be.
Dean, exhausted and rumpled, with banana on his shirt and your daughter’s spoon tucked behind his ear, calling himself Daddy in that rough, casual voice like he had no idea what it did to you.
Like he didn’t know the sight of him settling into fatherhood, strong hands gone gentle, battle instincts turned domestic, all that fierce Winchester devotion focused on one tiny girl, made heat bloom low in your belly even when you were sleep-deprived, unwashed, and currently holding orange juice over your coffee like your brain had left the building.
Maybe especially then.
Because this was Dean in a way you’d never had him before.
Not the hunter.
Not the soldier.
Not the man who had spent his whole life ready to die for everyone else.
This was Dean as a father.
And God help you, it made you want him all over again.
Sam cleared his throat, snapping you violently back to the kitchen, where you were still standing there with the orange juice carton hovering over your mug and, apparently, a very inappropriate expression on your face.
You quickly set the carton down.
“Seriously. Eileen and I can take for the night.” Sam continued.
You looked up too quickly. “A whole night?”
Eileen smiled at you and nodded. “You need it,” she said aloud, then signed, “Both of you.”
Dean opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you saw the hesitation.
Not because either of you thought Sam and Eileen were incapable. They always helped when they could.
And God, did they help.
When they were home, they would take your daughter so you could shower without hallucinating from exhaustion and Dean could do the much needed nappy run.
Eileen could calm your daughter with a patience that made you want to cry. She even cooked for you sometimes. Ran laundry, whilst Sam watched over the baby to let you and Dean nap for an hour like two corpses in a bed.
But they weren’t always here.
They had their own lives now too.
That had been the whole point of getting out, hadn’t it? Not just for you and Dean, but for all of you. Sam and Eileen had spent enough years chained to apocalypses and demon deals and whatever fresh horror crawled out of the dark. They deserved road trips that didn’t end in grave desecration. They deserved lazy weekends, hotel rooms without fake FBI badges, little towns they passed through because they wanted to and not because something was eating people.
So sometimes they travelled.
Sometimes they were gone for a week. Sometimes two. Sometimes they checked in with photos from some scenic overlook or roadside diner, and you were happy for them, genuinely, painfully happy, while standing in the bunker kitchen at two in the morning with dried spit-up on your shirt and a baby who had decided sleep was a personal insult.
But beneath the hesitation, there was something else.
A flicker of longing.
Not for freedom from your daughter. Never that.
Just for one night where the two of you could remember you were still people. Still lovers. Still Dean and you beneath the titles Mom and Dad.
One uninterrupted night.
Your hand found Dean’s lower back as you stepped beside him at the stove, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. “Maybe we do,” you said softly.
Dean looked down at you. And for a moment, his expression was unreadable.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “Okay.”
So you planned it.
Not a huge thing. Not some extravagant, impossible evening. You knew better than to aim for perfection now.
A little Italian restaurant in town. The one with warm yellow lights in the windows, red-checkered tablecloths, and bread baskets that smelled like garlic and heaven.
Then a hotel.
A nice one.
Not a motel with questionable stains and a vending machine that only sold off-brand chips. A proper hotel with clean sheets, thick curtains, a bathtub big enough for two, and a bed neither of you had to share with a baby monitor, laundry pile, or half-assembled crib toy.
You didn’t tell Dean about the hotel.
That part was a surprise.
By the time the evening rolled round, leaving your daughter felt both thrilling and devastating.
She was perfectly fine, you told yourself. Better than fine, actually.
She was sitting on Sam’s hip, one tiny hand fisted in his hair while Dean ran through the 'must haves' check list. Miracle hovered nearby like a furry bodyguard, tail wagging with great seriousness.
“You remember where the extra diapers are?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “Yes.”
“The teething gel?”
“Yes.”
“The little purple blanket, not the pink one, because she knows the difference.”
“Dean.”
“And if she does the cough thing after her bottle, don’t panic, just sit her up and pat her back—”
“Dean.”
He stopped.
Sam’s expression softened. “We’ve got her.”
You kissed your daughter’s warm cheek, breathing in the clean, powdery sweetness of her skin until your chest ached. “Be good, okay?”
Dean looked down, swallowing around something.
Your daughter chose that moment to slap both hands against Sam’s cheeks and babble loudly.
Dean laughed, but it came out thick.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “No parties. No boys. No summoning demons. And if Uncle Sammy tries to give you kale as a snack, you scream until he gives you something better.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Get out.”
Eileen gave you a knowing smirk and signed, “Go have some fun.”
And then Dean’s hand slipped into yours. Warm. Familiar. Steady. And for the first time in months, the two of you walked out of the bunker without a diaper bag, without spit-up on your shoulder, without listening for a cry that wasn’t coming.
The outside air felt strange.
Too open.
Too quiet.
Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving absently over your bare thigh.
You had worn a dress.
An actual dress.
Not leggings. Not one of Dean’s old shirts. Not something chosen based on how easily it could survive bodily fluids.
A dress.
Soft, dark, flattering in a way that made you feel like yourself and not just a half-feral creature living on coffee and lullabies.
Dean had stared when you came out of the bedroom. His eyes had dragged over you slowly, his mouth parting just slightly before he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“You look…” His voice had gone rough. “Damn, sweetheart.”
That alone had made the whole night worth it.
But at the restaurant, under the warm glow of hanging lights, with Dean sitting across from you in a dark button-down that stretched beautifully over his shoulders and arms, you realised how badly you had missed him.
Not Dad Dean.
Not the man passing you wipes at two in the morning while your daughter screamed the roof down.
Just the man who still looked at you like you were trouble and home all at once.
He also ate like he hadn’t had a real meal in months, which was probably accurate. He groaned around the first bite of lasagne, eyes rolling back dramatically enough that you kicked him under the table.
“Careful,” you teased, trying not to laugh as Dean closed his eyes around another bite like he was having a religious experience. “People are watching.”
“Let ’em,” he mumbled, absolutely shameless as he dragged another piece of garlic bread through the sauce. “I’d marry this lasagna.”
You arched a brow. “Wow. Good to know where I stand.”
Dean glanced up, caught the challenge in your expression, and smirked around his fork. “Baby, you’re in a whole different category.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Lasagna gets one evening of my undivided attention. You got the rest of my life. Also my car keys,” he added. “And the good side of the bed. Which, honestly, is huge for me.”
You laughed incredulously. “I had your child.”
“And I gave you the good side of the bed for most of the third trimester,” he shot back, pointing his fork at you like that settled everything. “Some would say we’re even.”
You sat back in your seat, folded your arms and mockingly scowled.
He held your gaze for all of two seconds before his grin cracked wide.
"C'mon, i'm kidding. We both know you've got me wrapped around your little finger." He huffed and shook his head like that bothered him.
You hummed and conceded with a cheeky smile on your lips. “Smart answer.”
"Still might give the lasagne a second date, though.” He mumbled around another bite.
“Dean!” You smacked his arm in jest.
“What? It’s got layers. I respect that in a partner.”
You laughed then, unable to help it, and his grin widened like that had been the whole point.
For a while, it was easy.
You talked about nothing and everything. Your daughter’s new habit of growling at mashed peas. Sam’s tragic attempt at assembling a baby walker last week. Eileen teaching her signs already, even though most of them currently looked like enthusiastic flailing.
Dean told you about a young hunter who had called him for advice on a ghoul case, and how weird it felt to be the guy on the phone instead of the one digging up graves.
“You miss it?” you asked quietly.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers around his glass of soda, thumb tracing the condensation.
“Hunting?” He thought about it. “Sometimes. In little pieces. The road. The music. The…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling useful, maybe.”
Your heart pinched. “You are useful.”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know. Diaper genie ain’t gonna empty itself.”
“Dean.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
You reached across the table, palm up. After a second, he placed his hand in yours.
“You are the reason I survived those first few months,” you said softly. “You know that, right?”
His jaw shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “You took care of me. You took care of her. You still do.”
He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb moving back and forth over your knuckles.
“Just feels like…” He stopped, huffed a humourless little laugh, and shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No. Tell me.”
“Nah.”
“Dean.”
His eyes flicked up. There was a warning in them, but not an angry one. A frightened one.
You softened. “Baby.”
His shoulders dropped slightly and he looked away, toward the window where the streetlights reflected against the glass.
“Just feels like I don’t recognise myself sometimes,” he admitted, so quietly you almost missed it. “Used to be able to take a beating from a vamp and still run three miles if I had to. Now I get winded carrying the car seat up the stairs.”
You said nothing, letting him find the rest.
His mouth tightened.
“And I know it’s stupid. I know I’m not twenty-five anymore. I know things are different.” He gave a rough little shrug. “But I saw myself in the mirror the other night and just thought… hell. When did that happen?”
Your throat tightened.
He still wouldn’t look at you.
“I let myself go,” he muttered.
“No,” you said immediately.
He let out a breath. “Sweetheart—”
“No.” Your voice was firmer this time. “You didn’t let yourself go. You stayed.”
That made him look at you.
You swallowed, emotion pressing hard against your ribs. “You stayed with me. With her. You stopped running yourself into the ground chasing monsters and started building a life. That body you’re so busy judging? That’s the body that carried our daughter around the kitchen for hours because she wouldn’t sleep unless she heard your heartbeat.”
Dean’s face shifted.
You kept going because now that you had started, you couldn’t stop.
“That’s the body that slept on the floor beside the crib every night when she had colic. That’s the body that wrapped around me every time I thought I was failing.”
His eyes had gone glassy, though he blinked quickly, trying to hide it.
You squeezed his hand again.
“I love your body,” you said. “Every version of it. But this one?” Your gaze dropped briefly, deliberately, over his chest, his stomach, the breadth of him. “This one is my favourite.”
Dean stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that.
So, naturally, he deflected.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice rough, one brow lifting. “You into the dad bod now?”
You smiled slowly.
“Oh, Baby,” you said, letting your thumb drag over his knuckles. “You have no idea.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Heat, yes. But uncertainty too.
You wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to take him apart slowly enough that he had no room left to doubt you.
Luckily, you had a hotel room waiting.
When dinner ended, Dean reached for the keys out of habit, and you plucked them from his hand.
“Uh, you planning on stealing my car?”
“Maybe.” You shrugged coyly, walking around to the drivers side.
His eyes narrowed. “Wait. Where are we going?”
You only smiled and gave him a wink before you slid into the divers seat.
The room was beautiful.
Not extravagant, but warm and clean, with soft lamps, thick curtains, a king-sized bed, and a bathroom with white tile and a deep tub that made you immediately think of Dean’s sore shoulders and your own aching feet.
He set the overnight bag, you'd secretly packed, down near the dresser, glancing around with a low whistle.
“Damn. We’ve come a long way from mouldy carpets and vibrating beds.”
You hummed, stepping behind him. “Kind of nostalgic, though.”
Dean snorted. “For the vibrating beds?”
“For motel rooms. Road trips. You trying to seduce me while Sam was ten feet away pretending not to hear.”
His grin flashed, but faded slightly when your hands slid around his waist.
You felt it. The way his stomach tensed beneath your palms. The way he inhaled and held it.
Your heart squeezed. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and held him gently.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
“Do what?”
“Brace like I’m about to be disappointed.”
His breath left him in a slow, uneven stream.
You kissed the back of his shirt.
“I’m not.”
Dean’s hands covered yours where they rested over his middle, but he didn’t pull them away. You kissed his spine through the fabric, then his shoulder blade, then stepped around to face him.
His eyes were darker now. Guarded, but wanting.
You reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Can I?”
For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.
Then his face softened.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, baby.”
You undid them slowly. One by one.
The room seemed to quiet around you, the distant sound of traffic muffled by the windows, the warm lamplight turning his skin golden as each inch of him was revealed.
Freckles. Scars. Softness. Strength.
Dean watched your face like he was searching for the moment your expression would change.
It didn’t.
If anything, you felt yourself ache more. By the time his shirt hung open, your mouth had gone dry.
His chest was still broad, dusted with freckles, solid beneath your palms when you pushed the fabric from his shoulders. His arms were still strong, still capable of making you feel weightless when he wrapped them around you. But beneath the familiar planes was that new softness you loved so much — the gentle curve of his stomach, the slight give at his waist, the warmth of a body no longer sharpened by survival alone.
You touched him there first.
Dean’s eyes fluttered. Just enough to betray him.
You flattened your palms over his chest and slid them down his abdomen slowly.
“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.
He huffed, but it came out broken. “That’s my line.”
“Not tonight.”
His hands flexed at his sides as you leaned in and kissed his chest. Once. Twice. Then lower.
Dean sucked in a breath when your lips brushed the soft swell of his stomach.
“Sweetheart…”
You looked up at him. His face was flushed. Vulnerable, but hungry.
You kissed him again, right there, and felt him shudder.
“I love this,” you murmured against his skin. “I love touching you.”
His hand came up, fingers threading into your hair as he gently urged you to stand.
For a second, he looked like he might crack wide open.
Then he kissed you.
And it was not gentle.
It was desperate, bruising, full of months of exhaustion and restraint and all the things he had been too afraid to ask for. His hands gripped your face, your waist, your hips, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound seemed to snap something in him.
He backed you toward the bed, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest.
His brows pulled together. “You okay?”
You smiled coyly and then you pushed him.
Dean landed on the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes widening as you climbed over him.
“Oh,” he said, voice dropping. “Okay.”
You straddled his thighs, smoothing your hands up his stomach and chest, watching the way his breath hitched under your touch.
“You spent months making me feel like I was the sexiest woman alive when I was pregnant,” you said, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “When I was swollen and tired and crying because my ankles looked weird.”
His lips twitched. “They did look kinda weird.”
You bit his earlobe and he groaned.
“You worshipped every inch of me,” you continued, dragging your mouth down his throat. “You made me feel wanted every single day.”
“You were wanted every single day.”
“So are you.”
Dean went still beneath you and you lifted your head and looked at him.
“So are you,” you repeated. “Every inch of you.”
His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking over the fabric of your dress as you kissed down his neck. Then his chest. His stomach. The soft skin above his waistband.
Dean’s head tipped back, his throat working as you took your time with him, letting your hands roam everywhere he had tried to hide. You kissed every scar, every freckle, every place his body had changed. You worshipped him with the same reverence he had given you.
By the time you reached his belt, his breathing was ragged.
“Baby,” he rasped, hand tightening in your hair. “You keep doing that and this night’s gonna get real short.”
You smiled against his skin. “Good thing we’ve got all night then.”
He let out a wrecked little laugh that turned into a groan when you opened his belt.
There was nothing hurried about it. That was the best part.
No baby crying from the next room. No monitor crackling. No whispered, frantic, half-dressed moment stolen between naps and laundry.
Just time.
You took your time undressing him, and you made him watch you love it.
His jeans came off first, pushed down his thighs with deliberate care, your palms dragging over warm skin, over muscle still there beneath the softness, over the body that had carried so much for so long. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the hem of your dress, and you lifted your arms, letting him pull it over your head.
The look on his face when he saw you nearly made your knees weak.
Not because you felt flawless. You didn’t.
Your body had changed too. Your stomach was softer. Your hips were wider. There were stretch marks on your skin now, faint silver lines that caught in the lamplight. Your breasts were different. You were different.
But Dean looked at you like you were holy.
“God,” he breathed.
You smiled, heart aching. “Still?”
His eyes snapped to yours, fierce and immediate. “Always.”
Then his hands were on you, warm and reverent, pulling you down against him. The feeling of him beneath you punched the air from your lungs.
Warm. Solid. Soft where you wanted him soft, strong where you needed him strong. His skin pressed against yours, his thighs thick beneath you, his arms firm around your back as his fingers found the clasp of your bra.
It came undone with a practiced flick and you let it fall away, tossing it blindly to the side.
The way he looked at you made heat bloom low in your belly — not just hunger, though there was plenty of that, but wonder. Pure, open wonder, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you like this.
And then you leaned back down and kissed him slowly this time. Deeply. Letting the hunger simmer instead of burn too fast.
Dean groaned into your mouth when you rolled your hips, the warmth of your core running against his length, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to make you gasp.
“Missed you,” he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. “Missed this.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Me too.”
“Not the quick stuff,” he said, mouth finding the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Not the ‘baby’s asleep, hurry up’ stuff.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “That stuff has its place.”
“Hell yeah, it does.” His teeth grazed your throat, and you felt his smile against your skin. “But this…”
His hands slid down your back, over your ass, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. When he looked up at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips parted, face flushed and open in a way that made your pulse stumble.
“This is better.”
You kissed him again, then shifted lower.
His breath caught as your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers brushing over the waistband of his boxers before you tugged them down. Dean lifted his hips to help you, impatient even now, kicking them off one foot with a clumsy little movement that would’ve made you laugh if your hand hadn’t closed around him a second later.
“Fuck,” he hissed, head falling back against the pillows.
You stroked him slowly, watching pleasure soften his face, watching the insecurity loosen its claws inch by inch. His mouth fell open. His brow furrowed. That harsh, critical tension you’d seen in him earlier began to melt beneath your touch.
“You like me touching you?” you whispered.
His laugh was breathless and ruined. “That a real question?”
You tightened your hand slightly and his mouth fell open.
“Words, Winchester.”
His eyes flashed up to yours, dark and heated.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, sweetheart. I love you touching me.”
You leaned down, brushing your lips over his. “Good.”
When you finally sank down onto him, both of you went silent.
It had been so long since you’d done this without rushing. So long since you’d had the space to feel every inch, every stretch, every breath. So long since your bodies had been allowed to take their time remembering each other.
Dean’s hands flew to your hips, not forcing, just anchoring. His face twisted with pleasure as you took him slowly, inch by inch, letting yourself adjust, letting him feel how much you wanted every bit of him.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, forehead dropping to his.
His voice was rough against your mouth. “You okay?”
You nodded, breath shaking. “More than okay.”
He kissed you then, swallowing your soft moan as you settled fully against him.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You just stayed there, joined and breathing, your body wrapped around his while his hands stroked up and down your back like he was trying to memorise this version of you too.
Then you moved. Slowly at first. A gentle roll of your hips that made his grip tighten.
Dean groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His stomach pressed soft and warm against you every time you moved, and the intimacy of it made you dizzy. There was no distance. No hiding. No sharp edges.
Just him.
All of him.
You braced your hands on his chest and rode him with slow, deliberate movements, watching him unravel beneath you. The pleasure built in layers — the stretch of him inside you, the drag of your body against his, the heat of his hands, the broken way he looked at you like you were taking him apart and putting him back together all at once.
His eyes moved over your face. Your body. Then lower, to where you were joined, and his jaw clenched hard.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
You smiled, breathless. “Look at you.”
That made his cheeks flush darker and you leaned down, pressing kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot,” you whispered, breath ragged.
He made a strained sound, half protest, half pleasure.
“You are,” you insisted, moving a little harder now, enough to make both of you gasp. “You’re gorgeous. Sexy. Mine.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Yours?” he growled.
You clenched around him deliberately and Dean cursed, both hands grabbing your hips, holding on rather than guiding.
The pace changed then. Not rushed, exactly, but deeper. Needier.
Dean sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him. The change in angle made you cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you close and thrust up into you.
There was something overwhelming about it.
His softness. His strength. His mouth at your neck, your collarbone, your breast. His hands everywhere, greedy now, confident again because you had given that back to him.
“Feel so good,” he groaned against your skin. “God, I love you. Love you so damn much.”
You held his face and kissed him hard.
“I love you too.”
His forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing raggedly into the little space between your mouths.
The pleasure built slowly, then all at once. A deep, rolling heat low in your belly. The kind you hadn’t had time for in months. The kind that came from being touched everywhere, wanted everywhere, known everywhere.
Dean knew it too. He always did.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and coaxing as one hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, circling with steady, practiced pressure that made your thighs tremble around him. “I’ve got you. Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”
You whimpered his name, and his mouth found yours just as you broke, swallowing the sound as pleasure spilled through you in hot, shaking waves. You clung to him through it, body fluttering around his, every nerve lit up and trembling.
Dean followed seconds later, his whole body going tense beneath you, arms locking around your waist as he groaned into your shoulder and spilled his seed deep inside you.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breath. The soft tick of the hotel clock. The distant hush of traffic beyond the window. The warm press of his body under yours.
Your body melted against his, boneless and trembling, and Dean held you like he had no intention of ever letting go.
Eventually, he fell back against the pillows, taking you with him and you landed on his chest with a breathless laugh.
He chuckled too, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other rested heavily on your lower back.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Then Dean, because he was Dean, said, “So… just to clarify…”
You hummed sleepily into his chest, too warm and satisfied to lift your head properly. His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine.
“You’re officially pro dad bod?”
You lifted your head then, and looked at him incredulously.
His smile was teasing, but his eyes were softer. Still a little uncertain. Still needing the answer and your heart twisted.
So you shifted down his body, pressing a kiss to his chest, then his stomach and Dean’s breath caught.
You rested your cheek there, over the soft warmth of him, and wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I’m pro you,” you said. “Always.”
His hand stilled in your hair and when you looked up, his eyes were glazed.
He tried to hide it with a smile, but you crawled back up and kissed him gently, softer now, all tenderness and afterglow.
Dean cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
“Guess I needed that,” he admitted quietly.
“I know.”
He kissed you again, slow and grateful. Relishing in the reconnection of something he thought might never be the same again.
Later, you would take a bath together in the deep hotel tub, Dean wedged behind you with his knees bent awkwardly because he was still too broad for luxury plumbing.
You would laugh, sinking back against him while the warm water lapped at your skin and steam fogged the mirror. His arms would wrap around you from behind, hands gliding over your body beneath the water, soaping up your skin with a lazy kind of devotion that made your eyes flutter closed.
For a while, it would stay soft. His mouth at your temple. Your fingers trailing along his forearm. His chest warm against your back.
Then his hand would drift lower.
Because he could.
Because there was time.
Because after months of rushed touches and interrupted moments, Dean seemed determined to make up for every second you’d both lost.
He’d stroke you slowly beneath the water, lips brushing your ear while you melted back against him, your breath catching, your body turning loose and pliant in his arms as his fingers dipped inside your warm heat. You’d come once on his fingers, shaking against his chest while he murmured praise into your damp skin.
Then the softness would sharpen.
The water would slosh over the edge of the tub as he bent you forward, one arm locked around your waist, his body covering yours from behind. He’d press into you in one deep, thrust, fucking you hard and fast until you'd come again with his name breaking in your throat.
He’d follow right after, holding you tight as he spilled into you with a rough, helpless sound.
Afterwards, you’d both stare at the bathroom floor. At the towels. At the water everywhere. And Dean would clear his throat.
“You think they charge extra for flooding?”
And you’d laugh so hard your forehead would drop against the side of the tub.
Once you'd cleaned up, the two of you would order dessert from room service and eat tiramisu, wearing nothing but robes and smug smiles with one spoon between you as you watched whatever shitty movie cable had to offer.
Eventually, you would call Sam to check on the baby, only for him to send a photo of your daughter asleep on Eileen’s chest, Miracle curled protectively at their feet.
Dean would stare at the photo for a full minute, soft-eyed and quiet. Then he would set the phone aside, pull you back into his arms, and kiss you long and deep before he’d shift between your thighs, watching your face the whole time as he slid back into you.
This time would be different again.
Sleepier. Softer. No performance. No urgency.
Just Dean moving inside you with his forehead pressed to yours, his body warm and heavy, his breath mingling with yours as the pleasure built in lazy, golden waves.
And then you would sleep soundly through the night for the first time in almost a year. Your leg hooked over his, your hand resting over his heart.
And Dean would smile and cover it with his own, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.
AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Like i said, i may have gotten a little carried away 😅but, eh, it's been a while since i've completed a fic at all, so i'll take it. But i want to also thank y'all for sticking around and being supportive regardless. Let me know your thoughts. 💭
If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊
