“Open,” said Dean as he walked over to where you sat in the library, looking at your computer.
‘Open what-” you said when you suddenly felt something being jammed in your mouth. You tried to spit it out but a strong hand fell under your chin, keeping it closed. When you opened your eyes you realized it was a thermometer.
“You’re quiet and wrapped in a blanket and not eating enough. I know when you’re sick and you’re not telling me, Y/N,” he said sternly. You went to open your mouth to respond but Dean pressed harder under your chin, preventing you from speaking.
You glared at him and he gave you one back, his more authoritative than anything else.
“Go ahead and get pissed. I’m taking your temperature whether you like it or not,” he said, looking at his watch. You grumbled.
“I hate you,” you tried to say but it only came out as an odd mumbling sound.
“Y/N, I swear you are the grumpiest sick person on the planet,” said Dean.
“Are you guys doing weird stuff in here, like stuff you shouldn’t do when I’m home stuff?” asked Sam as he popped his head into the room cautiously. You eyed him for help but he only laughed. “Oh, she’s sick,” he said, walking over to you. You shook your head as best you could in that position but Same simply rolled his eyes.
“Of course, you’re perfectly healthy. That’s why you’re acting like this. You turn into a toddler every time you get a cold I swear,” said Dean. You glared at Sam now who took advantage of your unfortunate situation to pat you on top of the head. You growled, wondering what the hell was taking so long with the damn thermometer.
“Let him take care of you for once, would ya? Before he has to stand guard over you in your room. Again,” said Sam, turning to walk away. You knew he was right but you hated being sick and you really hated Dean feeling like he had to drop everything and take care of you.
You looked up at Dean when you were alone, his eyes gentle as the thermometer went off.
“How sick are you?” he asked, pulling his hands away, glancing down at it. His eyes widened before he looked at you where you were curling your blanket around yourself. His hand snatched the thing off of you and you whined.
“Dean, I’m cold,” you said as his hand felt your forehead and he looked at the thermometer again. You knew you were sick but it wasn’t that bad.
“Hospital, right now. You are way too hot” he said, pulling you up by the arm. You didn’t bother to fight him. It was hard to ignore his concern when you felt like your insides were freezing and on fire at the same time. “Sammy! Y/N is going to the hospital. You’re driving.”
“I’m fine, Dean-”
“Y/N,” he growled. “For once would you-”
“You’re cute when you’re mad,” you said, trying to get him to relax. You sighed. “I’m in trouble once I get better, aren’t I,” you said, wrapping an arm around him.
“I just want you to get better...and yes, you are in a world of trouble for not saying anything. But first let me get you some help, okay?” he said, kissing the top of your head. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“Okay,” you said, walking down the hall, “Whatever you say, Dean.”
Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings
Word Count: 2.8k
A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵
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Florida can eat his ass.
Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.
And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.
Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.
It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.
And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”
It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.
Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.
Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.
Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.
And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.
Which is impossible.
Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.
The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.
All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.
Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.
Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.
His vision whites out at the edges.
You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”
Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.
You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.
Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”
“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”
You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–
Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.
Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.
This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.
Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.
But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.
You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.
And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.
But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.
He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–
Stop it!
You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.
But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:
You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.
He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.
His dick twitches miserably.
He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.
“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.
Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.
You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”
Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.
You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”
Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You just–
Did you–
He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.
You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”
“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”
You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.
Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.
His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.
The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.
Dean’s mind drifts again.
He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.
He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.
He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.
He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.
He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.
He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.
“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”
Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”
You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."
Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.
“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”
You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”
Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”
You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.
“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”
He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”
“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.
Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.
Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”
Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.
Yeah. Pretty.
Pretty much the goddamn end of him.
“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”
Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.
And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.
“Dean?”
He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.
You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”
Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”
But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.
You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.
He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.
He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–
Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.
But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.
At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.
He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.
Florida is hell.
You are hell.
And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.
Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.
Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.
“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.
Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”
“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.
Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.
“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”
Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.
“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.
You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.
You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.
“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”
“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”
“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.
Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”
As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.
He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.
Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.
Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️
All credits and support to original authors: @stargazedwinchester @andmeiamherdagger @midnightfragment @pieandflannel @reginaphalangelobster @fanfic-idjit @dontyouworrydaddy @maddie0101 @withluvmia @bruisedfig @very-merry-birthday @dollyivy @wendichester @aseafullofstars @godmadeaterribleerror @spitefulsatanfics
Prompt: “Don’t touch me.” Day 13 of the Mating March writing challenge hosted by @monthlywritingchallenges
Word Count: 275
Summary: You rescue Dean from a vampire.
Warnings: Show level violence. Dean is the damsel in distress. Handsy female vampire. Hurt & Comfort.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean seethed.
His green eyes glittered in rage, his head tilted back in the female vampire’s grasp, exposing his neck to the tip of her nose. After inhaling deeply, she smirked on an exhale. Clearly relishing Dean’s disgust.
“What’s the matter, Winchester?” She licked up his neck to the base of his ear and whispered hotly there, “I’ll be gentle, baby, don’t you worry.”
Dean’s face contorted; his body rigid in the vamp’s grasp.
“Hey,” you spoke just loud enough to get her attention.
The moment she whirled to face you, your machete was already slicing through the meat of her neck.
“Hands off,” you growled, your voice steel as you watched her head roll and her body slump to the floor. Dean visibly relaxed upon seeing you.
“Cut that kind of close, didn’t you?”
Your eyes gentled when they landed on him. Immediately, you worked on setting him free from his binds.
“What happened?”
“She got the jump on me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, just – in dire need of a hot shower.”
Your hands pat across his chest, turned his chin from side to side to confirm that Dean was in fact alright.
“That was unbelievably hot by the way,” Dean added to get your attention off him.
You stared dryly into his face.
“She must have banged your head pretty good. You probably have a concussion.”
He scoffed and allowed you to wrap one of his arms around your shoulders to then encircle your own around his waist.
“Thank you,” he quietly said, after taking a few steps.
You tightened your hold around his waist and looked at him.
Could you write a headcanon of what Dean (and/or Sam) would do to make your birthday special?
Ahhhh yes!
Also, I’m writing this at work, so excuse the lack of editing on this one, guys 😅. Once I’m home again, I’ll probably clean up the formatting, editing, tags, and stuff. (DONE :) )
Also, only did Dean, my beloved, because honestly, I have so many thoughts for him (like I got really carried away), and I honestly think the boys would have very similar plans for their partner’s birthday lol
When I say Dean SPOILS his girl, I mean SPOILS. This is YOUR day, and he’s going to make sure it is 100% about YOU.
So that being said you’d probably have huge influence on what the actual plans for the day are but in general, there are some things I think he would definitely make sure of.
#1 cake for breakfast. This would be the cutest thing ever, okay? He’s so excited to wake you up, but once he decides he can’t possibly wait any longer, he wakes you up with soft kisses all over your face and head. He whispers a soft “time to wake up, birthday girl.” All soft and sweet, and when you open your eyes, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed holding your favorite type of cake with a huge grin.
And after the cake, it’s birthday sex (Du,h it’s Dean)… but only a preview of what’s coming later. The morning is soft and slow, and he makes sure to spend a lengthy amount of time worshiping every curve and scar and freckle on your skin. At one point, you try to touch him while he’s at it, and he pins your hands down. “This is about you, baby, don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.”
Then it’s time to get the day really started. You wanna get your hair done for your birthday- he’s paying for it. Your nails? Those too. Hell, you wanna go get your makeup done professionally- well, he prefers you without, but if it makes you happy and it’s what you want, then hell yeah, he’ll take you and lay that card down faster than you can blink.
Once that is done, it would then be whatever your preferred activity would be. So you’re a bookworm, it’s all the local book stores, if it’s shopping, it’s the mall, outdoorsy stuff, a hike with beautiful view, movie buff, the theater, etc., etc., but wherever it is you guys do, he’s definitely paying- no arguments.
By the time that’s done, you’re probably starving, which is just according to plan- Dean takes you to your favorite restaurant and waiting for you there are your closest friends and/or family. It’s not a huge group, but it’s the people you love and that love you the most.
At dinner, you get gifts, and even Dean has something for you despite having spent hundreds of dollars already on you today.
He gets you something personal- not exactly sentimental, but something he knows you’ll love. Maybe it’s something from your favorite band, or TV show, or hobby- whatever it is, he’s extremely proud of it and knows you’ll love it.
After dinner, he takes you for a drive in baby and actually lets you pick the music. The one day of the year you get to touch the radio.
And then it’s home again (the bunker, a motel, an actual home, whatever home means in this era). Which means it’s time for Dean to show you what he’s really got in store. Again, he asks if you have any spicy birthday requests, but he knows you like the back of his hand anyway, so he already. And tonight- Dean fucks you like he’s on a mission to kill via too much pleasure. You swear he purposely is making a point to check off every single one of your kinks tonight. He makes you cum over and over and over again until you’re so overstimulated and full of cum that you’re crying. And of course he loves that and wipes your tears away gently, saying “awww poor baby, didn’t mean to make you cry on your birthday, pretty girl. Come on, just one more, yeah? You can do it for me, right? You’re a big girl-“
So, of course, you can’t say no to that, and he fucks you one more time as he whispers praises and loving sentiments to you until he makes you cum one last time.
You’re exhausted after, and he’s not done spoiling you quite yet, so he makes sure to clean you up gently and with care. He lets you stay in bed and cleans you up there with baby wipes and washcloths, even making sure you can still do your skin care despite being all sleepy and thoroughly fucked out.
After that, he takes care of you and curls back up with you in bed, pulling you onto him, head resting on his chest, and runs his hands over your back, whispering, “Happy birthday, baby girl- I love you.” Before you drift off to sleep.
A/N: I swear I am still writing this! This a drabble fic that does not follow chronological order. It jumps around from past/present/future in every part. The reader is the same reader throughout.
The day Dean Winchester crashed into your life, something changed. A shift. An alignment. Call it what you may. He was everything. Strong, handsome, and a skilled hunter. You were helpless about the man 12 years your senior. He left as quickly as you met him, but it wouldn’t be the last time you crossed paths. Far from it. Dean Winchester trusted you, and he would bring you pain, life, heartache, and euphoria in return.
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, angst, language, past miscarriage, Age gap, sexual situations
Words: 9,014
July 2011 — 20 years old
Between 6.2 Two and a Half Men and 6.3 The Third Man
"Really, Sam? The one time you choose a strip club, I don't want to go?" Dean asked, incredulous as he pulled into the almost packed parking lot of Paradise City Lounge.
"I wouldn't call it just a strip club. They're more performative, for lack of a better term."
"Lisa—“ Dean frowned.
"The food here is phenomenal and has some of the best pie in the state.”
Dean had to bite his tongue to refrain from stating you made the best pies in the state... the state he had left you. It took a minute to pull his thoughts away from you. Before he could wonder if you were happy and what you got up to now, over a whole year later since he had last seen you.
“Y/N?” "Sam gave Dean an almost jovial smile.
"Don’t,” Dean warned, he had avoided Conversations of you with Sam for the last few months and he would like to continue to do that for as long as possible.
"Touchy," Sam snarked and headed towards the entrance. Not waiting for Dean.
Paradise City pleasantly surprised Dean. It was definitely the cleanest strip club he'd ever stepped into. He wasn't sure how he'd never stopped here before. It was right near Sioux Falls. He'd had to have passed a million times, yet he'd never noticed.
Sam was right, much to Dean's annoyance. It wasn't a strip club per se. Sure women were half naked, pole dancing, but it seemed more choreographed. This was confirmed When an emcee announced three dancers who came onto the stage and did the same moves on the triangular set poles on the elevated runway. They even had coordinating outfits.
It almost felt too artsy. They were seated at a table to the back. The booths are near the front were packed with both men and women.
Dean immediately saw the pie specials displayed on the table.
"Yeah, I'll be having the caramel apple pie with a beer. Before my meal,” he alerted the waitress who laughed.
"You have the right idea. They sell out fast. They're made fresh in house.”
Sam shook his head, biting back the devious smile that was pulling at his lips.
Dean already had his fork in the air as the waitress approached with his pie. Dean had hardly any time to survey the place before and definitely not now. The pie had his full attention.
“Oh my god." Dean held it up to his eyes after his first bite. It was heaven, an almost familiar heaven he had tasted before. "Are they lying about it being made in house? I feel as if I've had it before? Maybe a diner in Sioux Falls?”
Sam made a nonchalant humming noise as the dance ended and he looked curiously back stage at a silhouette in the shadows.
Dean took another bite, trying to really taste it this time instead of his usual inhale. A perfect balance of sweet, tart, and rich. He just needed some ice cream to complete it.
A distant pangs struck Dean in his chest. He stopped breathing for a few seconds. The sadness and guilt was painful as Dean realized why the pie was perfect to him. It tasted just like yours. Not as fresh, as he usually ate them within an hour of you pulling it out of an oven.
The times you were able to bake for him were rare with the intensity of your final hunts. But you happily whipper everything up from scratch by hand. Dean was pretty sure the the cast iron pan and minimal cooking supplies were still stashed in the trunk of Baby. Most likely tucked safely in the crate that held a few emergency snacks, which were probably stale now over a year later.
Sam hadn't missed Dean tense even though his eyes still lingered on the silhouette who was now bouncing in her heels. "It tastes like Y/N’s. Nearly identical from the few slices you allowed me to have back then.”
Dean frowned. “Maybe it's a special South Dakotan recipe. She said her mom taught her."
"Sure," Sam acquiesced.
"What are the chances Y/N, our Y/N—“
“Our?" Sam questioned.
Dean ignored him and continued. "Made these pies for a strip club"
"You're right what are the odds Y/N ran off to a strip club after you left her." Sam smirked to himself.
Dean was preparing to chew him out but the emcee would have drowned out anything he would have said.
"It is my honor ladies, especially the ladies, and gentleman to welcome the lovely, multi talented, Lacey D. C. "
There was a roar of applause and hooting and hollering from the crowd, like they had been anticipating this.
Dean snorted. "I always felt like that was a stripper name whenever Y/N used that alias."
Sam had to stifle the laugh that was threatening to burst out of him.
"She thought she was being so creative, "Dean mused, getting a slightly distant look in his eye , the opening to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" started to play. The dancer slowly strutted to the center of backstage, her profile hidden by the silvery wig. Her body not fully on display, hidden in a satin black robe. She played with it at her shoulders, teasing it down with a sway in her hips.
Dean didn't have to see much of the dancer for alarms to go off in his brain. Each new part exposed made it increase in decibel. He knew that form. He was intimately familiar with it.
Dean's mouth went dry as the dancer dropped the robe at the pick up of the song, and threw herself at the center pole. She elegantly whipped around it in a feat of acrobatics he'd never witnessed at a strip club.
"What the fuck?" was all Dean could say. “Y/N?”
"In the flesh." Sam grinned, pressing a beer bottle to his lips. Enjoying the range of emotions running across Dean's face. Confusion, shock, anger, amazement, lust, and then settling back on anger.
When he had told you to find something else to do besides hunt, this was not something he had in mind. He expected, no wanted, you to go to go to college and put your brilliant mind to use.
But here you were, though you looked elated and at home in your performance, Dean couldn't quell the twist of guilt in his gut that somehow he may be at fault. That you have possibly pursued this to spite him, which made him angrier.
But he couldn't take his eyes off you as he tried to push down the ache of missing you. Of being with you. He had worked so hard at separating the friendly memories from the intimate ones. He had locked them in a safe in his mind as he watched you breakdown in the rearview mirror of Baby when he left you at Bobby's. He had tried driving away from anything the two of you could have ever possibly been.
"You knew didn't you?" Dean managed to say through gritted teeth. He wanted to sucker punch Sam so hard in that moment. "That's why you brought me here."
Sam shrugged. "I told you, we could use her help. I’m just getting the gang back together. Too bad Cas didn't stick around."
"How long have you known?"
"Do you really want the answer to that?" Sam was met with silence. “A few months before I came to you."
"And you didn't care to tell me? Wait, wait, Y/N knew you were alive before me, and she didn't think to call me?"
Sam laughed at this. "Did she have a number to contact you with? Better question, why would she call you. Fully expecting you to not answer."
"She told you about the aftermath?"
"Kinda easy to ask about when I first tracked you down to find you with Lisa playing house. I almost thought you would have—“ Sam stopped himself, knowing it would irk Dean. And he was right, Dean visibly bristled at the intent of the sentence. "I almost thought you would have stayed with Y/N. The woman desperate for your love and giving you so much for nothing in return. But you decided to take everything".
Sam didn't need to say it for Dean to think it. He was a masochist through and through. Always filled with guilt and regret.
Sam continued his guilt trip. “But you didn't answer my question. If she would have called , any one your burner phones, hell, your main phone, would you answer? Were your phones even on In case of an emergency?”
Dean downed the rest of his beer.
No. He had turned of all of his phones and chucked them in the back of Baby. Probably right next to your cooking supplies. Only to be forgotten while he continued living a white picket fence life.
“I mean I don't really need to ask. Y/N made it pretty clear when I saw her last that she had no way of contacting you. Accept showing up on Lisa's doorstep. Can't blame her for not doing that." Egging on Dean was new favorite game for Sam.
"How did you even find her?” Dean ignored him once again.
“It wasn’t that hard, she didn't go far. And she was, well is, still working local hunts with Bobby here and there."
Dean's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed in on you as smiled dazzlingly at the crowd. "She still hunts?"
"On her own terms,” Sam said with a tinge of annoyance. "I went and found her because Samuel wanted her to join us I offered and—“ Sam rolled his eyes.
"And?"
"She screamed in my face and told me to get the hell out. To not return again. Would have been hurtful if not for the fact I know me being alive again was still freaking her out."
"That doesn't sound like Y/N. “
Sam scoffed. “Well she did.”
The song ended and you happily collected the swaths of money strewn about the stage.
“What's your plan?" Sam finished his beer.
"Just wait till she notices us." Dean looked down at the menu. Trying to determine what would be best to eat while he bides his time until the inevitable confrontation.
“Chicken,” Sam said. "I've got a better idea."
* * * *
There was a knock at the dressing room door before the owner of the lounge, a muscled teddy bear of a man named Tank, walked in. The dancers all greeted him with wide smiles. It had been a good night so far with no unruly customers. Though those were far and few between because Tank ran a tight ship and wasn't afraid to join the security and bouncers to protect his employees. He searched the room till his eyes landed on you stashing the cash into your locker.
You noticed on his approach that he was a bit worried . His eyes tight and a frown, a rare sight, that only seemed to be directed at you.
“What is up? Is everything okay?" You reached down to undo you heels, you didn't have another set for an hour and just felt like relaxing instead of working the floor.
"You have a request for a private room."
You groaned and started to redo the buckle of the ankle strap. "Be right out."
But Tank didn't walk away. You saw his hand twitch in your peripheral. He was nervous. You looked up to meet his gaze.
"It's that guy again. The tall one,” Tank warned and your became uneasy.
“Okay," you breezed, trying to shake off the sense of unease. All you had to do was tell him off again. Maybe threaten to kick his ass, though you knew that would probably end up with your own ass handed to you.
"He has another man with him."
You sighed. He must have brought Samuel with to try and talk her into joining them. Odd to bring your grandfather to a strip club and to meet the former part-time entertainment of his other grandson.
“Y/N, what's going on? Are you in trouble? Do you need me to get security? Last time he spooked you so bad, you had to take off a whole week."
"No, it's fine. He just really wants me to get back into his family's business. I'll be okay."
You pulled an oversized sweater from your locker, not wanting to be half-naked around Sam ever again. Especially around his grandfather. It'd be weird.
"He just wants to talk and pitch yet again. I'll chew him out myself. It shouldn't take long. I'll hit the panic button if I need you." You patted Tank’s shoulder as you walked past him to the private room.
You took a steadying breath before you swung open the doors. "I thought I told you to not come back, Sam. I don't want to join another hunting group." You rubbed your temples, now wishing for this night to be over.
“He figured you'd say that.” A familiar velvet voice murmured. Your heart raced and you opened your eyes to see the back of Dean Winchester lounging in the deep green couch. He lazily swirled a whiskey glass around in his extended hand.
"Dean." You hated how torn up you sounded. Like you had a glimmer of hope he had finally come back for you.
“Y/N,” he greeted in a clipped tone. "This doesn't look like a college course to me?"
“Well, I tried it and it wasn't for me.”
"You didn't try very hard, seems like you've been here a while." Dean quirked an eyebrow at you.
“Well, I blew all I had left paying too help feed, shelter, and fund us that year. And I had nothing but the duffle you tossed at me and one small box at Bobby’s.” Anger lit in you. It was amazing how quickly it burned out any sentimentality.
Dean jaw clicked, unable to find a retort for that point.
"So what’s a woman to do with zero assets, and no place to live?”
"Bobby..."
"I wasn't going to burden him with my shit. So, I found this place, which was a fucking pit. Like love Tank, but this place needed some TLC.”
“Tank?"
"He's the owner, besides the point, Dean. I brought this place back from the brink of being condemned. Now it's a packed house every weekend and holiday. I think that's a great accomplishment for me."
"Taking your clothes off?" Dean scoffed. A peel of hysterical laughter burst out of you. Almost a witch’s cackle.
"That's fucking rich coming from you, the man of many perversions and frequent flyer of titty bars."
“Well, you’re you. I'm me."
“What's that supposed to mean?" You reeled, subconsciously picking at the bottom of your sweater. The man was good at luring out your hidden insecurities.
Dean's eyes softened a bit as he regarded you. A year ago it may have made you turn to
goo. Now it pissed you off.
"You can't be serious," you scoffed. "You still see me as an innocent
little girl who doesn't know what she's got herself into.”
It wasn't a question, it was as plain as day on his face. It was confirmed even more when he gave an exasperated sigh.
"Fucking hell, Dean. Stop pushing me back into the box of the young, naive girl you met 5 years ago whenever its convenient for you."
"I'm not pushing you into anything." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Then why are you acting like I shouldn't be here?"
"I just think you should be applying yourself elsewhere."
“I’m fine where I am thanks. And I’m damn good at my job. ”
“Then do it.” His eyes flicked harshly up at you.
“Excuse me?”
“Your job. Do it since you’re so damn good at it.” He didn’t break eye contact as he leaned back in the couch, slinging his arms up on the back of it.
“For you?” You despised the way heat was creeping up your neck and that your stomach was fluttering. He was only saying it to trip you up or to spite your choice. It wasn’t because he actually wanted you to dance for him.
“Is there anybody else here?” He looked from side to side, a wry smirk settling on his face.
You scowled at him. “You couldn’t afford me.”
He dug into his back pocket for his wallet and produced $50.
You laughed. “I’m not your usual county road stripper, no offense to those women, but here, we have standards for our clients.”
Dean pulled out five one hundred dollar bills and set it on the low table in front of him. “My bad. How’s this, princess?”
You fought the shiver that ran up your spine at being called a pet name. He was playing a game of chicken with the belief you would be the one to back down.
But you were in control. This was your space. How dare he intrude with his unwanted opinion? How dare he try to make you uncomfortable in a place you loved?
It was your turn to make him uncomfortable by playing along. Just a little at least.
“Better,” you purred and removed the hoodie. Exposing your skin to him. “But if you want this,” you motioned to your bra, “to come off, it’ll cost you extra.”
He was silent now, unable to speak. His throat had started to feel dry and a sip of his drink didn't even help.
You approached the pole on the slightly elevated on a platform, a cold look in your eye and a twisted smile on your face. “You know?"
Dean’s eyes tracked your movement.
"I still have nightmares about the vamp nest. Almost 3 years, and I still can't seem to shake it."
“Do normally talk during your performance?” Dean drawled, trying to maintain the illusion of withdrawn. You ignored him and continued on.
“What's even better about it. Back then, when you were still around, the nightmare played out how it actually happened." You absentmindedly pirouetted around the pole. The cold metal soothing under your hot palms. "Now..." You slid down with your back to the pole, hands held above your head.
"Well now, you never show up. I die every time and it feels so real." You said stretching onto your stomach first, your ass following slowly behind. “I think it's real."
His eyes followed your every move, torn between entranced at your slow fluid movements and upset.
"And that's not even the worst part. Death? No big deal. No, Dean Winchester didn’t even bother to attend my funeral. The man who claimed he would protect me and always be there for me, couldn't be assed to say goodbye. He went off to play house and just forgot about my existence.” You came to stop in front of him, kneeling at his feet and scowling up at him.
“Which got me thinking, if I died, would you come to my funeral? Would you even care?"
You plucked the whiskey glass from his hand and downed it in a single gulp. Placed it back in his hand before petting his leg patronizingly and getting back on your feet.
“It seems as if I'm the only one who came out scathed. Good bye, Dean.”
In an instant Dean dropped his facade and his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice strained. "I only did—“
"What you thought best for me? Cool. Thanks for letting me have a say about my own feelings." You quipped, shaking his grip away.
"I had just lost Sam,” Dean defended himself. "And I thought letting you go would save you from his fate too."
“You didn't even care to check in on me,” you snapped, unable to keep yourself from wrapping your arms around yourself. "I called every single burner cell number I had. Straight to voicemail." You flushed, feeling so pitiful. "I left a message every time, hoping that at some point you'd turn them back on. So please don't listen to those if you ever do.”
"I got rid of them at the first gas station. I called Bobby when I go settled in and gave him my new number. If something had happened, he would have reached out." You looked relieved at this. Dean didn't know why he lied about the phones. To spare her from the embarrassment of knowing the messages still existed. Or the fact Dean felt guilty he had kept the phones, but never bothered to see if she needed him for something. Or the fact that he was going to pull out the box of phones as soon as they got back to the motel and listen to every single message to make sure nothing terrible had happened.
”Happy hunting, Dean. Glad you and Sam are back at it, together."
“I can't believe I 'm saying this. But we came to ask you to join us. We need you.”
“I’ve got enough going on here. Fourth of July is weirdly busy. I'll make enough money to pay off my truck that night."
"A truck?" Dean shook his head. "Not the point. Y/N, we need your help."
"No. Do I need to spell it out?” You felt a rush of elation to be the one holding the cards finally. But a part of you, that part that would always love Dean and do anything for him, was begging you to jump at this opportunity. That maybe this time you could convince Dean to love you.
You desperately shoved that girl back in her grave.
“Seriously? For what reason?”” Dean objected.
"I don't know. This idiot told me I should stay out of this and do something else with my life. And you know what? Today I feel inclined to listen to him."
Dean's nostrils flared. Not happy to have his own words thrown back in his face.
"Sam says you're still hunting."
"Yeah, salt and burn cases locally. Maybe investigating some demon rumors if I have the time. But then I pass those off to other hunters if I turn up anything,” you shrugged. "Nothing intense."
"So you'll work with other hunters, but not me and Sam!?” Dean was pissed.
"Fuck off, Dean. You wanted me to break ties with this life and you. Don't expect me to drop everything I've built for myself without you. You wanted this. You can't just come back like this. Wanting me to be the opposite of what you abandoned me over."
There was a knock in the doorway. Sam stood filling it. His eyes flickered between the two of you.
"Everything okay?"
“Yep.” You snatched back up your sweatshirt and threw it back on. “Just heading out actually. Stay safe boys and keep me out of this." You shouldered Sam and didn't take a glance back.
"That looks like it went well,” Sam said sordidly. “What did you say that pissed her off so bad?"
"Shut it." Dean also shouldered Sam and stalked back out to Baby.
"Shit,” Sam murmured to himself. Maybe he shouldn't have left you two to figure it out. They needed your help, and it appeared Dean had made it even harder to convince you.
Granted Sam had been the first one to light that fire.
* * * *
Dean stared down it the cardboard box of various cellphones. He didn't know where to start. So he figured it was best to start with his main phone and plugged it into the charger that went into the cigarette lighter.
With trembling hands, he opened the voicemail box once it gained an ounce of charge. There were eleven voicemails. The first few were gut wrenching to hear. You mostly asked what you did wrong. Begging him to come back. That you didn't know what to do. Slowly you started to sound more conversationalist asking if Dean could look at something in John's journal for you. Bobby didn't have any books on whatever you were tracking for a hunter. Then asking if you could just have the journal if Dean wasn't going to use it, but you totally understood if he said no as it was his dead father's Journal.
Then how you should have been keeping your own journal, and how you should have have just made copies of John's to transcribe. Maybe Dean could possibly make a photocopy of it and mail it to Bobby's if Dean had the the time.
Then had Dean seen Cas lately? He showed up on your last hunt and he was acting super weird. At least more weird, as far as Cas goes.
Voicemail nine.
"Hey,” your voice was shaking. "It's probably nothing. I didn't know who else to talk to this about. And I'm too scared of what the answer may be. It's obvious you aren't checking any of your phones, or you decided not to call me back. If so, ouch." You gave a bitter laugh through a thick voice. Dean could tell you had been crying.
"Because if the answer is yes, I don't know what to do. I'm probably just stressed though, so I shouldn't be worrying myself or you. But..." a long pause follow by a deep breath, Dean's hand clutched the steering wheel. "I'm late, Dean. Like really late. Like a month. And I can’t find the guts to test. So... yeah."
* click *
Dean's stomach twisted, oh god. He couldn't make the next voicemail play fast enough.
It was just tears and sniffles at first, then a few shaky breaths. "So probably my worst nightmare, um, I made myself go to a clinic.” You paused for a breath. “So, I'm fucked. And since you didn't call me back after the last voicemail you are either not listening to them or you don't care. If so, good for you I guess. Enjoy life. But I thought I should make an attempt at telling you, slightly therapeutic and slightly so you can't say I didn't try to tell you if you ever see me again. But I'm pregnant Dean. A whole 10 weeks. You're the dad, if that wasn't clear. So, if you ever hear this, I shared this milestone with you. Bye Dean."
* click *
The burger and fries Dean had anxiously mowed down worked it's way back up. He at least had the thought to lean outside of Baby.
The last message there was silence to start.
“Hey Dean,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, “so, uh, don't worry about me if you ever listen to this mortifying and depressive series. Our situation," he could almost hear her grit her teeth, "is no longer a situation."
You gave small hiccup. “A few days ago, I started bleeding. And... when I went in there was no heartbeat. Apparently stopped growing at 13 weeks. The doctors say it's common and nothing was my fault. I wish I could believe them, but my body has been through hell since this began. A whole apocalypse prevention.”
You gave a hysterical laugh. "And it’s so dumb, but I had just begun to accept it. Maybe even look forward to it. But it's over now and I should probably just stop calling. You have your life. I have no reason to care anymore. Good bye, Dean. I hope you're happy." And you meant it.
Dean knew you didn't say it in a way that was accusatory or trying to make him feel guilty. you truly wanted him to be happy above all else.
And it made Dean ashamed and unsure. Unsure of what to say or do for you. He had inflicted more damage than he had intended. He had just wanted to do enough for you to move on from him. Instead, he has left you vulnerable and carrying his child alone. Dean picked up his current phone, unable to look at the picture of Lisa on his screen. The guilt gnawed through him.
The phone made an outgoing call.
"Hey Bobby, I need an address."
Bobby was none too happy about this. "Dean, leave Y/N alone. You've given that girl enough grief for a lifetime. You're like a son to me, but Y/N is also my family.”
"I know, I did her wrong but I need to see her. Now."
"It is three in the morning Dean. What could possibly be so important that you couldn't wait for me to ask Y/N if she wants to speak with you?"
Dean faltered, he didn't know what to say that wouldn't result in Bobby skinning him. While he loved Dean, he loved you just as much and felt five times more protective at that.
"You know?" Bobby grunted.
"Know what?" Dean asked for clarification.
"Don't play stupid with me boy. The fact that you saw fit to share your genes with Y/N. Many times from what I could unfortunately glean from when I grilled her about it."
"You know?" It was Dean's turn to ask, getting equally as angry as Bobby. "And you never told me?”
"I only know because I had to put her in the hospital, Dean. And then it was like pulling teeth trying to figure out who did this to her."
"Hospital? "
“So you don't know!” Bobby said flatly.
"I know that she lost—” Dean was unable to finish the sentence.
"And would have died had she not been living with me."
"What?”
"She was catatonic and bleeding like a hellhound got to her. She was in the hospital for weeks, Dean. Blood transfusions and then a nice long padded wall stay."
“I—I,” Dean stammered. "I'm sorry. For not being here."
"Don't apologize to me you, idgit.”
"I wouldn't have to do so right now If you just called me when you found out. I would have came straight away. You had my new number, Bobby."
"And then what, Dean? Have you leave her again? Go back to your apple pie life? Which you deserve. But not at the expense of the woman who has been in your corner for years. And for some god damned reason loved you unconditionally even though you gave nothing in return," Bobby spat.
‘’I don't know what I would have done,” Dean admitted.
"And I wasn't going to risk your uncertainty."
"Please, Bobby. I need to talk to her about this,” Dean pleaded, his voice breaking.
"She hasn't changed her phone number. Let her decide if she wants to see you."
* click *
That was how Dean found himself standing outside your apartment at four in the morning, too nervous to knock.
He had texted you: I need to talk with you in person. I'm sorry for earlier. Please let me come talk to you.
It had taken fifteen minutes, but Dean got an address back for an apartment in downtown Sioux Falls.
Followed by a text telling him to bring something strong.
Dean was more than happy to oblige. He would need a drink too. A bottle of whiskey was tucked in the crook of his arm when he finally had the courage to knock
You cracked the door and he slowly stepped in, taking in your small apartment. Small, but not rundown. It was quite quaint and old, but fit you.
Dean was overcome with your scent. It had been so long since he had been around it. His body basically sighed in relief.
You stood guarded, a bathrobe tightly tied around you and hair still wet.
He could smell the shampoo you always used. Mint and lavender. Dean couldn't even count the amount of times he had laid in the motel while you showered just to let the smell intoxicate him. The closest to a spa treatment he would probably ever get.
“What’s so important you had to come in person?” You rose an eyebrow as you shut the door behind him.
“To be fair, I didn’t even think you would answer a phone call,” Dean admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
“You’re not wrong there,” you murmured.
Dean held out the whiskey bottle to you, a peace offering. You took it and went into the kitchen to procure a pair of whiskey glasses. He settled into your couch.
“You’re still underage,” Dean remarked more to himself than to you. But it didn’t stop you from glaring at him when you handed him his glass.
“For that, I am keeping the bottle. Thanks for bringing a good one.” You settled onto the opposite side of the couch. Feeling more at ease than you would have liked.
Hadn’t you just been arguing a handful of hours ago? You were still pissed at him, yet, you felt soft looking at him in your little apartment. In the first space you had ever built for yourself.
“I’d have been an asshole to bring you the cheap stuff,” he teased, but quickly frowned when he assessed you in your corner of the couch.
“What?”
“I lied,” Dean’s voice was tense. “I’m sorry, and I lied.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “About what?”
He stared back down into his glass before gulping it down and pouring himself some more.
“Dean?” You nudged him with your foot and his hand came to rest hesitantly on your ankle.
“The, uh,” he cleared his throat, “the phones. I still had all the phones. All the voicemails.”
The air rushed out of your lungs. The ache in your chest that had been slumbering now viciously awake and clawing its way back to the surface.
Your whiskey was gone in an instant, and then the glass was filled again.
“Oh,” was all you could manage to say. If you said anything else, you would probably cry and you swore to yourself you were not going to cry in front of him again.
“I—I’m sorry you lost—” Dean started.
“Don’t,” you hissed, pulling your leg out from under his grasp. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“If I had kept my phone on me, I would have come.” He hadn’t been sure earlier, but seeing you now he was sure.
You laughed bitterly. “And than what Dean? Go right back to Lisa? What would you have even told her? Oh, sorry babe, I knocked up some 19 year old, but don’t worry, she isn’t pregnant anymore. I just have to go comfort her and I’ll be back in like a week?”
“Y/N,” Dean set his glass down on the coffee table and scooted closer to your side of the couch, “you’re not just some 19 year old.”
“Yeah, I’m 20 now,” you snorted into your glass and finished it off. You went to fill it up again, but Dean snatched the glass from your hand and put it next to his.
“Is that how you see yourself with me? As just somebody?”
You weren’t used to him being this open, and it made your chest hurt and it wanted nothing more then to put more walls up. The worst thing to happen to you would be you baring your soul to him again for him to just repeat history.
The only thing you could do was look away.
“Y/N, I care about you. A lot. More than someone should in our line of work,” Dean admitted.
You felt your chin start to tremble.
“And what we had was—” he cleared his throat, “is complicated.”
You shook your head up at the ceiling. Tears began to pool in the corners of your eyes.
“I shouldn’t have left you like that. I’m an ass for doing it to you. But you have to understand I’ve spent a majority of our time knowing each other trying to get you out of hunting. It seemed the easiest way to get you to move on. And I promised Sam I would leave hunting behind and go back to Lisa.”
You launched off the couch, your chest was too tight sitting still. Were the walls closing in around you? “Fuck Sam! Honestly! I should have known he had a hand in it when he warned me you would hurt me.”
“He was looking out for you too.”
You scoffed. “When do my feelings about me and you get factored in, huh? Both of you were quote unquote looking out for me, and look where that got me. Abandoned and bleeding out with a dead baby inside of me.”
Dean flinched. The tears blurred your vision now.
“I had nobody. I didn’t have any friends to lean on. I left them and normalcy behind nearly three years ago. Never had I regretted following you and Sam into the fire until that moment. And I was so mad at myself for getting myself in that situation and then believing I could make the best of it before it was ripped away.”
You paced the living room, words long unspoken bubbling out of your mouth. Hot tears now streaming down your face.
“I was terrified, but a part of me started to be happy. Hopeful even. I was going to take your advice and get out of hunting for the sake of our child. I was going to break the cycle. If you got to go live a normal life, why the hell shouldn’t I? As a single mom sure, but I could do it. I got a job at the coffee shop again. I was going to make it work, Dean. Whatever it took. And then—” you gasped for air, “it didn’t matter anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Y/N, so so sorry,” Dean approached you cautiously, as if you were a wild animal ready to run if spooked.
“I-I gave up in that moment,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “When I found out, I just became numb. It felt like I had nothing left and nothing mattered anymore. If it weren’t for Bobby finding me, I would have laid there and let myself die because I didn’t matter.”
The lump in Dean’s throat became lead and it felt like a cold bucket of water had been dumped over his head.
“You do matter!” He gripped your shoulders and his watering eyes bore into yours. “You matter to Bobby. You matter to Sam. To Cas. And most of all you matter to me.”
A small part of yourself lightened at the confirmation and the doubt that had always existed since you began whatever it was you had with Dean lifted as he pulled you to his chest and held you there.
The dam you had been trying to patch for months finally broke and you sobbed uncontrollably into him. The pair of you crashed onto the floor. Dean rocked and his hand brushed away the hair plastered to your face from the tears.
That was how you fell asleep. When you woke up you were tucked into your bed. But he was still there, snoring on your couch. And your chest ached knowing you were going to have to let him go.
He wasn’t yours to keep and it would hurt too much to be beside him knowing his heart belonged to someone else.
****
Early February 2016 - 24 years old
11.12 Don’t You Forget About Me
The sight of Baby had your heart pounding against your rib cage pairing dangerously with the ball of anxiety in your stomach. You put the truck in park and glanced in the back seat. MJ stared back at you in her mirror and gave a gummy smile when she caught your eye.
”Daddy's here,” you said with a shaky breath. "The time is now."
You kept the calm appearance for her sake. If she hadn’t been in the truck with you, you would probably be cursing for the argument to come. The last major argument you had had was about him leaving you. Now the tables had turned and you had done something worse.
And Jodi was going to take some of blame for going along with your wishes.
You went to grab the keys from the ignition and you hesitated. What was stopping you from taking a little vacation with MJ?
You could text Claire to text you when the coast was clear.
But your bank account wouldn't get you far. You had just started back at Paradise City, but you were just a bartender now. You had a long way to get back into shape to perform like you had before. Tank was ready for you to go out on the floor as is, but your core muscles still hadn’t fully come back together six months postpartum. You could barely hoist yourself up the pole.
Also, the diaper bag only had enough supplies for a day and MJ was just starting solids. Not to mention, where would she sleep?
"Fuck,” you murmured and finally pulled the keys from the ignition. MJ squawked at your delay. Most definitely ready for dinner.
You weren't sure how to even approach this. Knock? That way Jody answers the door?
You stood frozen on the doorstep, MJ’s car seat getting heavier by the second and the cold seeping through your coat. The irritated squawk of a now cold and hungry MJ had you just entering the house like you lived there. Well, you did live there. It was your home.
It was a relief when the living room was empty. You could hear the clinking of silverware in the dining room.
Claire rushed into the living room looking panicked. "I texted you. Y/N, holy fuck."
You hadn't noticed the notification. Checking now, you saw that Claire had warned you during your swim lessons with MJ.
"They're distracted, let's sneak you back out." Claire started to pull MJ’s carseat out of your hands.
You opened your mouth to protest but the sound of Dean's voice coming close sucked the air out of your lungs and rooted you to the spot. You couldn’t have even moved if you tried.
"Hey Claire, about this—“ Dean abruptly halted in the living room. His eyes blinked rapidly. Anger, relief, and happiness all warred on his face.
Relief and happiness won out first because you were swept into his arms. His face buried in your hair as he held you tighter than he had in a long time.
You had never been the one to leave him before. At least, abruptly with no explanation or a goodbye.
He could have thought you were dead and that sent a wave of guilt through you.
He pushed you back at arms length, assessing every inch of you.
“Where have—?” he choked out before pulling you back into another bone crushing hug. “You're okay?"
“Yeah, Dean. I’m okay.” You clung tightly to the calm before the storm. You breathed in the familiar leather, outdoors, and soap before he would inevitably distance himself from you.
Jody, Sam, and Alex had joined the crowd in the living room. Both Jody and Alex were on edge and looked to Claire holding the car seat. Dean had been too distracted by you to notice, but Sam clocked it immediately. His eyebrows had furrowed and his forehead creased.
And as if on queue, the hungry infant protested at being home and not promptly put in her high chair. Dean's eyes drifted over your shoulder and you took a deep breath. Claire gave you an apologetic look, but you weren't mad. It was bound to happen. Your paths always crossed, even when actively avoiding each other.
"Nanny duty?" Dean rose any eyebrow at Claire. “At this hour?"
You gave Claire a perplexed look. Was that the cover for all the baby items littering the house?
"Yeah, there was an emergency,” Claire tried to keep up the lie. She took MJ out of her car seat, trying to sooth the hungry baby.
The attempt was short lived as MJ outstretched her arms to you and whined.
Dean looked down at you confused as he tried to process you taking her into your arms.
He opened his mouth, but you spoke before he had the chance.
"I know I have a lot to explain and apologize for." You took a deep breath. "But if she doesn't eat she will scream bloody murder. As long as there is no yelling, I will entertain questions." You didn't look to either the men and beelined to the kitchen.
MJ was set down and given some crackers while you prepped her dinner. You pointedly ignored the boys when they came in. Jody followed shortly after, but Alex and Claire hung back.
In the corner of your eye you could just make out Dean looking back and forth between you and MJ. The question was heavy in the air.
“You've been here this whole time?" Sam was the first to break the silence. The person with the least to do with this turn of events.
"Drove straight here,” you said as light hearted as you could.
"And you didn't tell us because?" Dean narrowed his yes in on Jody. He was fighting to maintain a normal volume.
"I asked her not to,” you defended her. “Place no blame one her, please. She asked me to call. Too many times to count."
"You couldn't have at least sent us any indication that you were safe?" Dean took a seat next to MJ, making your heart clench as she regarded him in person for the first time.
To your relief she was quick to accept him and reach a cracker-crumbed hand out to him.
All the effort of trying to establish Dean was "Dada" seemed to pay off.
“You left because of her?" Dean asked, his voice thick.
"Yes." You set her plate in front of her and she quickly squished the avocado and banana in her tiny hands before mashing them into her mouth.
“The less people who knew, the safer she was."
“How old is she?" Sam wondered, trying take a step towards the one question burning in both his and Dean's mind.
"Just over six months." Your hand shook as you brushed a hand through what little hair she had.
"She nearly had MJ here at the house. It took me ages to convince her to go to the hospital,” Jody mused.
"MJ?” the boys echoed.
Your heart skipped a beat. “Yeah, uh, that’s her nickname.” You made eye contact with Dean. "Mary Jude is her full name.” That answered their question.
Sam while not surprised, was still in shock. Dean had froze and paled a few shades at the confirmation. As if there was a small part of him that had doubts about your unwavering devotion to him.
He rubbed his face vigorously and directed a watery smile at MJ. "Hey MJ.”
He held out a hand to her, she latched on with her non dominant hand, and continued stuffing her face with her dinner.
If you could take a picture with your mind, it was this moment you wished you could the most. It was akin to a parent laying eyes on the newly birthed baby for the first time.
The lump in your throat grew when you felt the next wave of guilt. He could have been there. He could have felt the awe of her first breaths in the world. And even though Dean had experienced a lifetime of guts and gore, something told you he may have been a little light headed at the horror of you giving birth. Claire was for sure scarred into not having kids possibly ever.
“I’m going to shower quick,” you murmured to Jody, “Do you mind—?”
“Of course, take your time.” Jody nodded.
“We were at a mommy and me swim class,” you explained lamely. “And pregnancy made me ridiculously sensitive to chlorine so I have to rinse off as soon as possible.”
Dean watched you intently. You were sure he was trying to figure out how pissed off he was with you. You could only hope that MJ being a healthy and happy baby would be enough to tamp down the level.
You ducked out of the kitchen and took a long shower. Not because you were trying to delay the inevitable, but it was hair wash night. And you realized Dean had not seen you in 10 months and your body was not the same as it had once been.
You stared into the mirror before kicking yourself for reverting back to a self-conscious teenager worried about what Dean thought. Which was always stupid because hunting could be gross at times. He had seen you at your worst and this was not your worst.
Sure, you were a bit softer and curvier, with a handful of stretch marks, but it’s not like he’d be seeing you that up close and personal, right?
Then you had to kick yourself again because your thoughts went into the gutter. But it was hard not to. You had been celibate for 10 months. Your longest dry spell since you were 19. And you had missed out on indulging your raging pregnancy hormones. It was rather unfortunate.
“Stop.” You pointed at yourself in the mirror, face flushed and sighed. It was best to face the music.
When you got out you could hear Jody cooing at MJ in the other bathroom followed by splashing. You padded over to her, your heart full.
Jody was your savior and the closest thing you had to a mother these days. You didn’t know what you would have done without her.
“You didn’t have to give her a bath Jody, but thank you.”
“Nonsense, she’s ready for bed anyway. Figured I’d get the routine started for you,” Jody looked over her shoulder at you and smirked. “What, no nursing pajamas tonight?”
Dammit. She’d noticed. She would.
“It unbuttons, it works,” you defended, heat creeping up to your face. It’s not like you were wearing a sexy silk number, which you definitely had stashed in your old duffel bag under your bed, it was just a simple, button down, cotton pajama set without the flap for nursing.
“Sure, dear.” Jody plucked MJ out of the bath and put her in your towel covered arms.
“Sue me,” you muttered.
“He went out for a drive right after you went to shower,” Jody informed.
You hummed in response and brought MJ back to your shared bedroom. Dean going for a drive was for the best.
Jody followed behind, watching you closely as you went through the steps of MJ’s routine.
“Do you want me to have him comeback tomorrow after he’s had the night to cool off?” Jody offered.
“No, no. I’ll be fine and I deserve whatever I have coming.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He has the right to be upset, but it was a sound judgment. Now that the mark is gone, maybe he’ll have a bit more time.”
“Something tells me there are bigger things going on that I don’t know about,” you countered.
Jody looked slightly guilty.
“There is,” you sighed. “And you haven’t thought to tell me?”
“I’m trying to keep you out of it. Think of it as me unilaterally making a decision that Dean would have wanted. Really, we need to keep you out of it. We’ve flown you and MJ low enough under the radar. We should keep it that way.”
“He’d agree,” you nodded. “I agree.” You looked down to the precious infant who stared up in awe of you with her father’s eyes. “Whatever it takes for her.”
****
A soft knock came to your bedroom door as you nursed MJ to sleep.
“Come in.”
Your heart skipped a beat as Dean filled the doorway, though looking a bit skittish.
“Do you want me—uh,” he cleared his throat and looked to the ceiling, “wait for you to finish?”
You rolled your eyes. “You can barely even see anything past her big head, which she got from you. Thanks for that, and you’ve seen it all anyway.”
It was easy to make the jokes and push the serious conversation off.
“Touche.” Dean shut the door behind him and sat on your bed adjacent to where you sat on the old rocking chair.
“I’m sorry.” You ripped the bandaid off. “Not for all of it, but for sure for leaving the way I did.”
His jaw tensed as he watched MJ contentedly play with the collar of your pajamas as she ate.
“I knew you’d worry about me, but I didn’t want you to have to worry about the two of us. Or risk our enemies and not so trustworthy allies finding out about her.”
Dean looked up and met your gaze. “I understand, Y/N.”
You were stunned. You weren’t met with anger like you had expected.
“Does that mean I’m happy about it? Hell no, but I get it.” He reached out and brushed his thumb over your cheekbone. “And I was pissed at first, but then I remembered what you went through last time without me.”
Your throat tightened.
“So, I think we’re even.” His eyes softened. “I will not hold this against you. I only ask for no more secrets and no more disappearing acts.”
“I can do that,” you said, your voice cracking.
“And I will too. Open line of communication and total honesty.”
You chuckled. “Who are you and what have you done to Dean Winchester?”
He shook his head, almost in disbelief himself. “It must be the dad coming out in me.”
“It suits you,” you whispered, grabbing his hand.
“I want to be involved as much as I safely can. There may be weeks at a time that I don’t reach out, but I promise to always do my best to come back to you two.”
Your nodded, not trusting your voice. He didn’t just promise to come back for your daughter, but you as well. It wasn’t I love you, but it felt the closest thing to it.
Summary: Y/N finds herself unable to resist capturing a rare, peaceful moment of Dean Winchester sleeping in a motel room. But when Dean wakes up and catches her in the act, what starts as an innocent photo op quickly turns into an intimate encounter.
Warnings: light smut, fluff, Dean being hot while he’s asleep (if I missed any lmk)
Y/N couldn’t help herself. Dean Winchester, the ever-tough hunter, was sprawled out on the motel bed, sound asleep. His usually furrowed brow was relaxed, lips slightly parted, and his broad chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The sight of him so vulnerable, so at peace, was a rare one, and Y/N felt a flutter in her chest that she couldn’t ignore.
She quietly picked up her phone, careful not to make any noise that might wake him. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the cracked blinds, casting soft shadows across Dean's face. The perfect light for a candid shot. Y/N brought her phone up, framing the image, and snapped a few photos. She moved slightly closer, wanting to capture the way his lashes brushed against his cheekbones and the stubble that darkened his jawline.
In her concentration, she didn’t notice the small twitch in Dean’s fingers, nor the way his breathing changed ever so slightly. As she leaned in for a closer shot, a low, gravelly voice broke the silence.
Y/N froze, her heart skipping a beat as she looked up to find Dean’s piercing green eyes fluttered open and stared back at her, one brow arched in that classic Dean Winchester way. His lips curved into a lazy smirk, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Enjoying the view, sweetheart?”
“I, uh…” She fumbled for words, trying to explain herself, but Dean just chuckled, the sound deep and warm.
“Could’ve just asked for a picture, you know,” he said, pushing himself up on one elbow. “But I gotta admit, it’s kinda cute you were sneakin’ around like that.”
Y/N bit her lip, her embarrassment quickly turning into something else as Dean’s gaze lingered on her, his smirk fading into something more serious. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her hand, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Come here,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost a command.
She didn’t hesitate. Y/N moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. Dean’s hand slid up her arm, his touch gentle but firm as he pulled her towards him. She leaned in, her heart pounding in her chest, until their faces were just inches apart.
“You gonna keep takin’ pictures, or are you gonna give me something to remember?” Dean’s voice was a low rumble, and the way he was looking at her made her pulse quicken.
Y/N didn’t need any more encouragement. She closed the distance between them, her lips finding his in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative. But Dean’s response was immediate, his hand moving to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss. The room seemed to fade away, the only thing she could focus on was the feel of his lips against hers, the way his stubble scratched her skin in the most intoxicating way.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them slightly breathless, Dean’s thumb brushed over her cheek, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Next time, you could always just ask for what you want, baby girl.”
She smiled, her earlier nerves completely gone. “And miss out on all the fun? I don’t think so.”
Dean chuckled again, pulling her down onto the bed beside him, his arm wrapping around her waist. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”
As they lay there, Dean’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on her skin, Y/N realized just how much she enjoyed these quiet moments with him, the rare times when the world seemed to slow down, and it was just the two of them. And maybe, just maybe, she’d have to start sneaking more pictures of him when he wasn’t looking. After all, Dean Winchester was a sight worth capturing.
Authors Note:
Hope you enjoyed this story!
@deanwinchestersgirl8734 requested this and I thought it was such a cute idea! Feel free to let me know what you think! I always love reading feedback!
summary: heaven or hell, dean will always crawl home to you.
warnings: brief mentions of hell, references to drinking, fem!reader
word count: 1.4k
a/n: i got a bit carried away with this one and it ended up a little longer than anticipated hehehe i had too many ideas. this song is so sickening and is so dean-coded in the very best way. i hope you enjoy <3
arj's 100 follower event
xxx
Dean awoke in a permeating blackness, blinking his eyes, unable to tell at what point they were open or closed. His first instinct? To draw in a deep, sharp breath. His lungs resisted him, hesitant to stretch and swell as if they had been sitting stagnant for months. They offered him no help in forming words, a call for help. It took him a minute to gather his bearings, but the next thought that came to his mind? You. And from that moment, his body took over. As he kicked his way out of the pine box and clawed his way through the cold and heavy earth, he felt almost animalistic. He didn’t know where he was, he hardly knew who he was, but he knew he had to crawl home to you. Wherever you were.
As Dean emerged from the ground, he gasped for air- clean, fresh air. It swirled around inside of him, exacerbating the emptiness of the cavern of his chest. He grappled with the earth around him, arms reaching out in a desperate fervor to pull him safely from the grave. There were sensations everywhere, almost screaming at him, so loud and foreign as if he hadn’t experienced them in… he didn’t know how long. The tickling of the damp grass against his arms, the hot sun beating down on his back, the heavy breeze settling behind him. It was you, he thought. It had to be your way of welcoming him back earthside- planting soft green kisses to his skin, wrapping him in healing warmth and light, and lifting him up to carry him home with the wind. He let his body push him to his feet, feeling every flex and release of his muscles individually, excruciatingly.
It was agonizing for Dean to will one foot in front of the other, trudging aimlessly in search of civilization. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the hunger, but he could see you right there next to him, clear as day, coaching him through each step of his journey. You floated along next to him like an angel, filling his emptiness and setting direction in his footsteps.
He thought back to the day your paths had been undoubtedly intertwined forever. You and Dean had known of each other for a while- hunters always did- but never exchanged more than a few cordial hellos in passing. That was until a vampire hunt in a small town drew the attention of more than just himself and Sam. When you showed up on the hunt, he couldn’t help but be enamored by you. The way you made hunting, something so dark and painful, into something so graceful, so elegant, so beautiful.
When he was able to convince you to stick around and celebrate after finishing the hunt, Dean felt both his heart leap and his stomach sink. As he drove, he kept glancing up into his rearview mirror to catch a glimpse at you, following behind him in your own car. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with conversation topics like he was rubbing together stones trying to create a spark. He was so excited to have you around, yet so nervous- an accusation he defended against when Sam taunted him on the ride over to the bar.
“I don’t get nervous, Sammy. I- I don’t know, man. There’s just something about her. Can’t put my finger on it.”
His eyes flickered back up to the rearview mirror as he spoke, catching you singing along to whatever song you were listening to. His heart fluttered- he wanted to know you, to memorize your favorite songs, to hear his inner thoughts spoken in your voice. In the here and now, where he was trekking through the woods, he smiled at the memory and let it instill in him a surge of motivation. He picked up his pace, humming your favorite song as he went, half to keep him grounded in the moment and half to help his mind wander back to you.
Still thinking back to that first day, he remembered getting to the bar and admittedly, letting his nerves get the best of him. He threw back shots and tipped back beers in the hopes of quelling his anxieties, suppressing the parts of him that weren’t useful and drawing out his confident, personable self. Sam had left early, as usual, leaving the two of you alone, sat at a table in the corner of a crowded bar. The surface was a graveyard littered with empty bottles and glasses, very few of which belonged to you. You had been nursing your drinks, sipping slowly as Dean downed and gulped. So when he got a little out of hand, you were there to carry him home.
When Dean woke alone the next morning, he was sure you had been a dream- too perfect to be real life, or his real life, anyway. His head pounded as he glanced around the unfamiliar motel room, noticing the single bed and feminine belongings that clued him he wasn’t in the room he had rented with Sam. He sat up, grasping at his head, trying to piece together where exactly he was. There was no way he had gone home with you. He remembered the way he had acted the night before, and how sober you had still been. You must have dumped him with a random girl to take him off your hands. His heart sank to his stomach- if he had messed up his chances with you, he wouldn’t forgive himself.
Before he could linger in this fear for long, he heard two separate laughs nearing the front door. When it swung open to reveal you and Sam, chatting and clutching coffees and paper bags of breakfast food, Dean let himself flop back down to the bed in relief. Wishing him a good morning, you tossed him pain relievers and a water bottle, setting a coffee and a breakfast sandwich down on his- no, your- bedside table. You briefly recounted the night before for him, noting how you had brought him back here when Sam didn’t answer his phone. You didn’t dwell on his actions, didn’t poke fun, didn’t complain or criticize. Your presence was light as a feather, your body and voice floating around the room as you tidied things up or nibbled at your breakfast. Sam shot him a knowing glance that would later be supplemented with verbal approval. I like her, Dean. Don’t mess this up.
Back in reality, Dean had finally emerged from the woods, stepping from the dense tree cover onto a dusty road. There wasn’t much to see- no buildings or signs of civilization in any direction. The breeze picked up and whistled through his ears in the form of your voice- keep going, Dean. So on he went.
As he walked, sometimes his image of you would flicker and fade like a ghost and his thoughts would plunge back down to Hell. There were a few moments along his path where he would pause to hinge at the hips and dry heave in a desperate attempt to purge the memories from his body alongside the dust in his throat. It made him sick, what he did in Hell. At a few points, when he got too caught up in his thoughts, he’d come to a full stop. In those moments, he didn’t care if he lived or died. His heart ached for you, but he didn’t deserve you anymore. You were the only pure goodness in the world that he had ever known, and now, he was tainted beyond repair. But then would come the breeze. This time, it smelled sweet- miraculously, as there was nothing but dirt road and baking heat to scent it. It was beckoning him, calling him home. It was washing him of his sins. You didn’t care, you never would. Always kind, always forgiving. That was his baby. Sweet as can be. The journey ended in your arms. At times, he thought it never would. He thought he was trapped, imprisoned on a long dirt path, being taunted with the promise of you like a carrot on a stick. But he found a car, found a map, found his way home. You didn’t believe it was him at first- why would you, when a long list of monsters seemed so much more plausible? But if Dean’s first act of repentance had been his passage home, his second act was proving himself to you. That it was him, here and now, real and resting in your fingertips. All Dean knew was Hell. It was real, he had lived it. But when you reached out your arms to embrace him, Hell was just a word that dissipated into space the moment it left his lips. This must be Heaven. You must be heaven.
