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The Devil You Carry

Chapter 2 - But It Does

Chapter summary:

Something follows them out of the case—and this time, it doesn’t let go.

What’s said in the dark doesn’t stay there. And some truths… don’t disappear once they’ve been heard.

👥 Characters:

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Reader Insert (Y/N)

Others: multiple demons, Castiel, Crowley.

🔞Rating:

Mature

⚠️ Warnings:

Possession, Demon manipulation, Psychological torment, Emotional vulnerability, Non-consensual body control, Injury (stab wound), Blood, Sexual themes (non-graphic), Humiliation, Angst.

A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/88739631

——————————————————

You don’t stay in the bathroom as long as you want to.

At some point, the water running becomes too loud, too obvious — like you’re hiding in there instead of just taking a minute — and that thought alone is enough to make you push yourself upright.

You splash your face with cold water, more out of habit than anything else, and grab your toothbrush like going through the motions will somehow reset everything. Like you can walk back out there and it won’t feel like anything’s changed.

It has, though.

Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But enough that you feel it.

You dry your hands slowly, watching yourself in the mirror one last time — checking, without really knowing what you’re checking for — before you reach for the handle.

When you step back into the room, Dean’s changed.

Fresh shirt. Jacket back on. Like he’s already moved on from last night, from whatever happened, from everything that’s still sitting heavy in your chest.

Of course he has.

Sam’s still at the table, laptop open, coffee halfway gone.

Dean’s pacing slightly now, keys in hand, that restless energy already creeping back in.

“Alright,” he says, glancing between you both. “You good to go?”

You nod before you can overthink it.

“Yeah.”

Your voice comes out steady enough, which feels like a small win.

Sam closes his laptop, pushing himself to his feet.

“Second victim’s place is about twenty minutes from here,” he says. “Hospital already released the body, but we might still get something from the house.”

Dean nods once.

“Then let’s not waste time.”

⸻

The drive is quieter this time.

Not tense.

Just… quieter.

Sam runs through what little they’ve got — timelines, witness statements, anything that might give you a clearer pattern — but there’s less conversation between the three of you than there was yesterday.

Less joking.

Less back and forth.

You sit in the backseat again, watching the road blur past the window, letting Sam’s voice fill the space without really focusing on every word.

You’re aware of Dean, though.

Of the way he drives.

Of how relaxed he looks — one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift — like nothing’s different, like last night didn’t happen, like you didn’t hear him this morning talking about it like it was just another story.

You tell yourself to stop.

You don’t.

“—so if it’s the same thing,” Sam is saying, “we’re looking at short-term possession again. Few hours, maybe less.”

Dean nods.

“Yeah. In and out. Fast.”

You lean forward slightly.

“Which means it’s not settling in,” you say. “It’s just… passing through.”

“Or it’s being forced out,” Sam adds.

Dean glances at him.

“By what?”

Sam shrugs.

“Could be something else hunting it. Could be it’s unstable. We don’t know yet.”

You sit back again, folding your arms loosely.

“Or it’s testing something.”

Dean catches your eye briefly in the rear-view mirror.

“Testing what?”

You hesitate for half a second.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Pattern, maybe. Seeing what it can get away with.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary — just long enough that it feels like he’s trying to read something more than what you’ve said — then looks back at the road.

“Yeah,” he says. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The house is bigger than the last one.

Not massively — not enough to stand out on the street — but enough that it feels a little more spread out. A couple of extra rooms, maybe an extension at the back. The kind of place that probably made sense when it was built, but now just feels… slightly off in its layout.

More space than necessary.

More places to check.

Dean cuts the engine.

No one moves straight away.

You feel it before you even step out.

Not strong.

But there.

That same faint, wrong edge in the air — subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but once you do, it’s impossible to ignore.

You push the door open anyway.

The cold hits first, sharp enough to wake you up properly, and then—

There it is.

Stronger than before.

Not overwhelming.

But enough.

You pause just slightly beside the car, eyes flicking toward the house.

Dean notices.

Of course he does.

“You feel that?” he asks, quieter this time.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

Sam steps out on the other side, glancing between you both.

“What?”

Dean shuts his door, gaze fixed on the house now.

“It was here.”

Sam’s expression tightens slightly.

“Recently?”

You glance toward the front door, something in your chest pulling just slightly — not fear, not exactly, just… awareness.

“Very.”

There’s a shift between the three of you then — subtle, but familiar.

Whatever this is—

It’s close.

Closer than it should be.

Dean adjusts his jacket slightly, already slipping into that sharper version of himself.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s move.

Dean knocks first.

Firm. Controlled. The kind of knock that usually gets an answer, even when people don’t want to give one.

Nothing.

He waits a beat, then knocks again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

You shift your weight slightly, glancing toward the windows, trying to see past the reflection of yourselves in the glass.

“Maybe they’re not—”

Sam moves before you finish.

“Dean.”

You follow his line of sight.

There’s blood.

Not a lot — not immediately — but enough. A dark smear along the side of the house, half-dried, like someone tried to wipe it away and didn’t quite manage it.

Dean’s already moving.

“Round back.”

You follow quickly, the three of you stepping carefully along the side of the house, the air feeling heavier the further you go.

The blood trail gets worse and more obvious.

Drops now, not just smears. Leading somewhere.

Leading you.

It stops at the sliding glass doors round the back.

Although one of them slightly open.

Dean slows, just for a second, then pushes it the rest of the way with the tips of his fingers.

“Hello?” Sam calls in, voice carrying through the house.

Silence.

Not empty.

Just… quiet in the wrong way.

Dean steps in first.

You follow just behind him.

Sam comes in last, pulling the door closed behind you.

The place has been torn apart.

Not completely — not like a full ransack — but enough.

Drawers half pulled out. A chair knocked over. Something glass shattered on the floor near the kitchen, pieces crunching lightly under Dean’s boot as he moves further in.

There’s more blood here.

Spattered now.

Not clean.

Not controlled.

Something happened here.

Something fast.

Dean scans the room, jaw tightening slightly.

“No bodies.”

Sam nods, already moving his gaze toward the hallway.

“Which means they either got out…”

“Or got taken,” you finish quietly.

Dean glances at you.

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam exhales, shifting slightly.

“We should split up. Cover more ground.”

Dean hesitates for half a second — not long, but long enough that you notice.

Then he nods.

“Stay sharp.”

⸻

The hallway feels narrower than it should. Or maybe it’s just the silence.

You move slowly, careful with each step, eyes scanning everything — doors, corners, shadows that don’t quite sit right.

Your hand brushes lightly against the wall as you pass, grounding yourself in something solid.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

It’s just a house.

Just another case.

Just—

You stop.

There’s a door slightly ajar.

You push it open carefully.

Bedroom.

Nothing immediately wrong.

Bed unmade. Wardrobe half open. Clothes still hanging, untouched.

Too untouched.

Like whoever left didn’t have time to think about it.

You step further in.

And then—

It hits you.

The smell is strong.

So strong it makes your stomach twist slightly.

Sulphur.

You turn slightly, scanning the room again, more carefully now—

And something shifts behind you.

Before you can react—

A hand clamps over your mouth.

Your body jerks, instinct kicking in immediately, but whoever’s behind you is stronger, arm locked tight around you, holding you in place.

You try to shout—

Nothing comes out.

Your pulse spikes, breath coming sharp and fast against the hand pressed over your mouth as you struggle, twisting, trying to break free—

“Hey there, pretty girl.”

The voice is wrong.

Too calm.

Too amused.

You look up—

A woman steps into view in front of you.

Smiling.

Not warm.

Not friendly.

Something else entirely.

Your stomach drops.

You fight harder, trying to kick back, trying to get any leverage—

It doesn’t work.

Her eyes flick over you, slow, assessing, like she’s already decided exactly what she wants to do with you.

Then—

Black.

Her eyes turn black, and the smile sharpens.

“It was real nice of you,” she says lightly, “to bring the Winchester boys along.”

Your chest tightens, panic flaring harder now.

“I was getting bored.”

She tilts her head slightly, considering you.

“I think I’ll enjoy ripping their throats out while you watch.”

Your body tenses violently, adrenaline flooding through you as you struggle harder—

“Or maybe…” she adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I’ll make you do it.”

Something in you snaps.

You twist hard, bringing both feet up and kicking forward as hard as you can.

Your heel connects with her stomach.

She stumbles back with a sharp exhale—

And that’s all you need.

You bite down hard on the hand over your mouth.

The man behind you swears, jerking back—

His grip loosens.

You wrench yourself free but you don’t get far.

Pain explodes through your thigh.

Sharp.

Hot.

Immediate.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you as the knife sinks in, your leg giving out beneath you as you drop to your knees.

The woman steps closer again, expression shifting into something almost irritated.

“Oh,” she says, tilting her head. “Now you’ve done it.”

She yanks the knife back out.

The pain spikes—

Then drops, not gone, but distant, like it’s already starting to fade at the edges.

You barely have time to process it.

Her body arches suddenly—

And then—

Black smoke spills from her mouth.

Fast.

Violent.

You try to move—

Try to crawl back—

But you’re too slow.

It hits you.

For a second, you don’t understand what’s happening.

Then it forces its way in.

Your body jerks violently as it enters, breath catching, lungs burning like you can’t get enough air—

And then—

Everything changes.

It doesn’t feel like you expected.

There’s no sudden blackout.

No instant loss of awareness.

You’re still there.

You can still see.

Still hear.

Still feel.

That’s the worst part.

Because your body—

isn’t yours anymore.

Your fingers twitch.

Not because you moved them.

Your hand presses against the floor.

Not your choice.

You try to pull back—

Nothing happens.

Your breathing steadies.

Too steady.

Controlled in a way that doesn’t belong to you.

The pain in your leg is still there, but dull now. Muted. Like it’s been pushed to the background, turned into something distant and unimportant.

Like your body has decided it doesn’t matter anymore.

Or—

something else has.

You try to speak—

Your mouth opens.

But the breath that leaves you doesn’t feel like yours.

Footsteps.

Fast.

“—Y/N?!”

Dean.

Your chest tightens—

You try to move.

Try to answer.

Try—

Nothing.

Your head lifts slightly.

Not because you did it.

Because it’s being made to

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

The second he sees you on the floor, he’s moving — fast, gun already out, eyes flicking past you to the figure still standing behind you.

The man.

The one who grabbed you.

“Dean—” Sam starts, just behind him, but Dean’s already closing the distance.

The demon lunges first.

Too slow.

Dean drives the blade forward without thinking, muscle memory taking over, the angel blade catching the man clean in the chest.

There’s a sharp, strangled sound—

Then black smoke spills from his mouth as the body collapses.

Still.

Gone.

Silence drops heavy in the room for half a second.

Dean doesn’t even look at him again.

His attention is already back on you.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

He drops to his knees in front of you, one hand coming to your shoulder, steady but careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he’s too rough.

Behind him, Sam moves quickly into the room, eyes scanning once before landing on the woman crumpled on the floor.

“Was that you?” he asks, glancing between the body and you.

Dean barely spares it a glance.

“Doesn’t matter.”

His focus is entirely on you now.

“Talk to me,” he says, softer this time.

You feel your head lift.

Not because you do it.

Because you’re made to.

Your mouth opens.

Your voice comes out—

and it sounds like you.

“I’m—” a shaky breath. “I’m okay.”

The demon leans into it.

You can feel it.

The way it shapes your voice, pulls your expression into something convincing — something just unsteady enough to be real.

Pain.

That’s what it chooses.

Your hand moves to your thigh, pressing over the wound, and this time you do feel it — a dull ache instead of the sharp agony from before.

Muted.

Manageable.

Not yours.

“I didn’t—” your voice falters slightly, like you’re trying to catch your breath. “She—she stabbed me—”

Dean’s gaze drops immediately to your leg.

“Son of a—”

There’s blood.

Not pouring, not catastrophic, but enough.

Enough to matter.

“Alright, okay,” he mutters, already shifting closer. “Stay with me, alright? Don’t—don’t move.”

You almost laugh.

You can’t move.

Not really.

Dean reaches for his jacket, already pulling out a cloth.

“We need to get you out of here.”

“I can walk,” you say quickly.

You can’t.

But the demon makes you shift anyway, forcing your weight onto your leg just enough to sell it.

The ache spikes slightly—

still distant.

Still wrong.

Dean’s hand is on your arm immediately, steadying you.

“Easy,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t gotta prove anything.”

Something twists in your chest at that.

The demon ignores it.

———

The drive back isn’t as quiet as before.

It can’t be.

Dean keeps glancing at you in the rear-view mirror, like he’s checking you’re still there, still upright, still breathing the same way you were five seconds ago.

“Start from the top,” he says after a minute, voice tighter than he probably realises. “What happened in there?”

The demon answers for you.

You shift slightly in the backseat, one hand still pressed to your thigh, keeping pressure on the wound.

“There were two of them,” you say, breath just uneven enough to sound real. “I didn’t hear anything until it was too late. One of them grabbed me from behind and—”

You swallow.

Let your voice falter slightly.

“—and the other one… she just stepped in front of me. Like she’d been waiting.”

Sam turns slightly in his seat.

“Did she say anything?”

“Yeah.” A small pause, like you’re replaying it. “Something about you two. Said I’d brought you to her.”

Dean’s grip tightens slightly on the wheel.

“Of course she did.”

You shift again, letting out a quieter breath this time.

“She stabbed me after I got loose. I didn’t… I’m stupid for not seeing it coming.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. That’s enough for now.”

It isn’t.

You all know that.

But no one says it.

———

By the time you get back to the motel, the ache in your leg has settled into something dull and constant — noticeable, but not enough to stop you moving.

Not enough to make them question it.

Dean shuts the door behind you harder than necessary.

“Sit,” he says immediately.

You lower yourself onto the bed, slower this time, letting it look like the pain is catching up with you.

Sam’s already moving, grabbing what supplies they’ve got.

Dean crouches in front of you, hands steady as he carefully pulls the fabric away from the wound—

And then he stops.

His expression shifts.

Not panic.

But close.

“Yeah… okay, that’s deeper than I thought.”

Sam steps closer.

“How bad?”

Dean exhales through his nose.

“Too deep for me to just wrap and forget about it.”

You feel your body tense—

Not your choice.

The demon reacting, calculating.

Dean glances up at you.

“I’m gonna call Cas.”

Before you can even process that—

He’s already standing, loving towards the end of the bed in the open space.

Dean runs a hand over his face, then looks up slightly, jaw tightening just a fraction.

“Cas,” he says, like it’s a command more than a prayer. “We need you.”

There’s a beat.

Then—

The air shifts.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

Castiel appears in the room, trench coat slightly rumpled, eyes already scanning the space like he’s walked into the middle of something he doesn’t fully trust.

“Dean,” he says.

Dean doesn’t waste time.

“Hey, Cas. We need your help.”

“What happened?”

“Demon,” Dean says quickly. “Stab wound. It’s deeper than it looks.”

He gestures toward you.

“Can you heal her?”

Castiel steps forward—

Then stops.

Something in his expression changes.

Subtle.

But immediate.

His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to place something that doesn’t quite fit.

“Dean,” he says slowly.

Dean frowns.

“What?”

Castiel’s eyes don’t leave you.

“That’s not Y/N, that a —”

Your body moves.

Fast.

Before Dean or Sam can react, you’re already on your feet.

The pain in your leg barely registers now, pushed aside completely as the demon takes full control.

Blood smears beneath your fingers as you drag them across the bedside cabinet surface in one sharp, practiced motion—

A sigil.

Dean’s head snaps toward you.

“—Y/N, what are you—”

Castiel looks down—

Recognition hits too late.

You press your palm down into the centre of it.

Light erupts.

Blinding.

Violent.

And Castiel is gone.

The room drops back into silence.

Heavy.

Wrong.

You straighten slowly.

Dean’s staring at you now.

Sam too.

Confusion first.

Then something else.

Something colder.

You tilt your head slightly.

Smile.

And finish the sentence Castiel didn’t get to.

“—a demon.”

Your eyes flash black.

Dean’s the first to move.

Not forward — not yet — but enough that the shift in him is obvious. His shoulders square, jaw tightening, something dark and sharp settling behind his eyes as everything clicks into place.

“Get out of her, or I swear to god —“

Your body tilts slightly, almost curious.

The demon smiles.

“Dean…where are your manners?” it says lightly, voice still yours, still familiar in a way that makes something twist in your chest. “No ‘are you okay?’ No ‘Y/N, can you hear me?’”

Its head tilts a fraction more.

“Straight to the point. I like that.”

Dean doesn’t react to the bait.

Not outwardly.

But his grip on the blade tightens.

“I said,” he repeats, slower this time, each word edged, “get out of her.”

You take a step forward.

“Now come on —“

Dean moves instantly.

Blade up.

Sam’s gun raised.

Not shaking.

Not hesitating.

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the room, sharp enough to stop anyone else.

It doesn’t stop you.

The demon just laughs.

Soft at first.

Then louder.

“Whatcha gonna do?” it asks, glancing between the knife and the gun like neither of them matter. “Stab me?”

It leans forward just slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“You know if you kill me—”

A pause.

A smile.

“—you kill her too.”

Something in Dean’s expression flickers.

Gone almost instantly.

But it’s there.

You feel it.

The demon does too.

And it enjoys it.

Sam shifts to the side slightly, trying to angle himself without drawing too much attention, eyes scanning quickly — looking for something, anything—

“Don’t bother Sammy”

The demon doesn’t even turn its head.

It just—

moves.

A flick of your hand.

Barely anything.

And Sam is thrown.

Hard.

He slams back into the wall with a force that knocks the air out of him, a sharp grunt escaping before he even has time to brace himself.

“Sam—!”

Dean turns—

That’s all it takes.

Another movement.

Dean’s body jerks violently sideways, lifted and slammed into the opposite wall, the impact loud enough to rattle the room. The blade clatters from his hand as it hits the floor.

You feel it.

Every part of it.

The movement.

The force.

But it’s not yours.

Your body stands perfectly still in the centre of the room.

Watching.

Dean tries to push himself forward—

He can’t.

His body locks, pinned in place like something invisible is holding him there, pressing him back harder every time he tries to move.

Sam’s in the same position.

Both of them trapped.

Straining.

Breathing harder now.

Pain written across both their faces.

The demon exhales softly, almost content.

“Honestly boys…You two really should start expecting this sort of thing by now.” the voice said, and it was your voice, but the tone was all wrong. It was lower, smoother, dripping with a lazy amusement. “Let’s get cozy”

You take a slow step forward.

Controlled.

Measured.

The ache in your leg is gone completely now.

Like it never mattered in the first place.

Like nothing does.

You stop just in front of Dean.

Close enough.

Too close.

He’s still fighting it.

Still trying to move, muscles tensing against something he can’t see, can’t break.

“You look tense, Dean. All that effort.” She chuckled, a soft, mocking sound. “It’s useless. You know it’s useless. But you keep trying. It’s one of the things she adores about you. That stubborn, beautiful defiance.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Let her go.”

The words come out low. Controlled. Dangerous.

The demon smiles wider.

“Oh, I’m not holding her,” the demon said easily, your body moving with a slow, almost lazy confidence that made your stomach twist. “She’s right here.”

A small pause.

“She can hear everything.”

Inside yourself, you lurched.

No—

“Little screams in the back of my head,” she added, amused. “Begging me to stop.”

A breath.

“It’s adorable.”

She leaned in close to him — your face inches from his — and you hated how clearly you could see him like this. The green in his eyes. The way his breath hitched just slightly despite everything.

The demon inhaled, as if savoring his scent.

“She’s been looking at you for a while,” the demon continued, softer now. “You didn’t notice?”

Dean’s voice came out rougher.

“Stop talking.”

“She notices everything,” the demon went on, like he hadn’t spoken at all. “The way you do that little half-smile when you’re flirting… or pretending not to care. The way you roll your shoulders before a hunt, like you’re bracing yourself for it—like you already know it’s gonna hurt.”

A soft breath left her, like she was savouring the memory.

“The way your jaw tightens when you’re trying not to say something… like you’re holding it all back.”

Her head tilted slightly.

“And the quiet things…” she added, softer. “The little hum you make when the food’s good. The way your fingers tap the steering wheel when a song hits just right.”

A pause.

“She notices all of it. It’s her favorite bedtime story.”

A faint smile.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means everything,” she cut in smoothly.

A beat.

“Don’t listen to it Dean, it’s not Y/N talking, you know that! Y/N, listen to me—”

The pressure tightened instantly.

His voice cut off into a strangled sound as his body jerked against the wall, his chest heaving like he couldn’t quite get a full breath in.

“Ah—” the demon exhaled softly, like she’d just been interrupted mid-thought and found it mildly irritating. “No.”

Your hand lifted slightly, fingers curling in the air as if you were holding something invisible between them.

Sam’s body followed the motion—tightening, locking, the air leaving him in a strained, choking gasp.

“Sam, Sam, Sam…” she crooned, almost fondly. “Always the clever one. Always the one who thinks he’s got it all figured out.”

Her eyes dragged over him slowly.

Measured.

Assessing.

“But you don’t know me,” she added, quieter now. “You don’t know anything about me.”

A sharp breath forced its way out of him—whether from pain or stubbornness, it was hard to tell.

“I know exactly what you are,” he managed, strained but steady. “Parasite.”

The demon’s mouth twitched.

Not offended.

If anything—

pleased.

“You lie, you manipulate—” he continued, pushing through it, “you get in people’s heads and twist everything until they don’t know what’s real anymore.”

A pause.

Then—

a soft, almost appreciative hum.

“Mm,” she hummed. “Still clinging to that, huh? That you understand people. That you can read them.”

She took a step closer to him this time, your body moving with that same unnatural ease, like the pain in your leg, the room, the situation—none of it mattered.

“Maybe you should’ve stayed at Stanford,” she murmured. “Finished that nice, safe little law degree. Pretended you actually knew how the world works.”

A smile spread across her lips—slow, pleased.

“Because if you were as smart as you think you are…” she added softly, almost thoughtfully now, “you’d know I’m not lying Sam.”

A pause.

The air tightened.

“Truth is my favourite weapon,” she said, voice dropping just slightly. “It cuts so much deeper than fiction.”

Her attention slipped from him like he’d already served his purpose.

Back to Dean.

Always back to Dean.

She continued, voice smoothing out again, calmer now. “I’m not twisting anything.”

A step closer.

Closing the distance again.

“I’m just… removing the filter.”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Your hand lifts — and this time, you step forward.

Slow.

Measured.

Predatory.

Dean’s chest rises and falls hard as you stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel your breath, close enough that your knee almost brushes his.

You can feel him.

That’s the worst part.

You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the tension in his body, the way his pulse kicks just slightly faster—and you hate that the thing inside you feels it too.

Enjoys it.

Your hand lifted again—this time slower—hovering just in front of his chest before settling there, palm flat, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.

“Speaking of truth. Let’s try a little slice.” She paused, letting the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable.

“You wouldn’t believe how many nights she’s spent with her hand in her panties thinking about you, Dean.”

Inside, you recoiled. A wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed through the trapped remnant of your soul.

No. No, no, no.

Dean’s expression shifted from anger to something more complex—disgust, confusion, a flicker of something else she expertly pounced on.

“See that?” the demon whispered. “That little crack. You’re wondering if it’s true. You’re wondering what she thinks about. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.”

She paced away, then back, controlling the rhythm of the room like a conductor.

“It’s not just the obvious stuff. Not just the fantasy of you kissing her, or pushing her up against a wall. It’s the details. The sound your leather jacket makes when you move. The specific calluses on your right hand. The way you’d probably be rough at first, all that pent-up frustration, and then… soft. She imagines you getting soft with her. She imagines you letting her see you soft. That’s the real fantasy, Dean. The vulnerability. She wants to be the one you’re not tough with.”

Dean’s head turned just enough to look at Sam for a fraction of a second—

Not doubt.

Not quite.

But something unsettled.

Something the demon caught immediately.

“Oh, don’t look at him,” she said lightly, almost amused. “He can’t help you with this.”

A small tilt of your head.

“In fact, baby brother Sammy there…” she added, glancing briefly toward Sam again. “He’s known all along.”

Sam spoke from his wall, his voice calmer, trying to reason.

“You’re trying to distract us. This is a game. Just a game.”

“Everything’s a game,” the demon agreed, turning her head toward Sam. “But some games have points. My point is to peel her open right here in front of you. To let you see all the little wet, wanting secrets she keeps so neatly tucked away.”

She focused back on Dean.

“She thinks about your mouth. A lot. How it would taste. Probably like cheap beer and desperation. She’d like that. She thinks about your hands on her hips, gripping too tight, leaving marks. She wants marks. She wants proof.”

Dean was breathing heavily now, the invisible bonds seeming to tighten with his rage.

“Stop using her voice.”

“It’s her voice,” the demon countered, leaning close again. “Her throat, her tongue. I’m just borrowing it to tell you her truths. She’s right here, Dean. She’s hearing every word. And she’s mortified. The shame is hot. It burns. And it tingles.”

She traced your fingertip along the edge of his plaid shirt collar, not touching him, but almost.

The intimacy of the gesture was a violation.

“She’s imagined this scenario, too. Not with a demon, of course. But with you. Alone in a room. Tension so thick you could choke on it. The moment where you finally look at her and see it. See the want. And then you’d either walk away… or you’d walk toward her. She’s played out both endings in her head. The walk-away one hurts. The walk-toward one… that one makes her sweat.”

Inside your prison, you were begging.

Silent and desperate.

Please stop. Please don’t. He’ll never look at me again.

The demon heard it.

She smiled with your lips.

“She’s begging me to stop now. ‘He’ll hate me,’ she’s crying. But he won’t hate you, little mouse. He’ll just know you. And knowing is so much more interesting than hating.”

Dean jerked against his bonds, a futile, violent spasm. “When I get you out of her, I’m going to send you back to hell in pieces.”

“Promises, promises,” she sighed, feigning boredom. But her eyes—your eyes—glittered with renewed interest. “You’re all bluster. It’s another thing she finds endlessly attractive. The big, bad hunter who’s secretly just a bruised man. She wants to kiss the bruises. Metaphorical ones. Real ones too.”

She was digging, as promised. Not with a shovel, but with a needle. Pricking at tiny, hidden pockets of longing and shame, letting them seep out into the cold air of the room.

“It was only last week,” the demon continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “after that ghoul hunt in Nebraska, you took your shirt off in the motel room to check your side. Just a scratch. She watched. You didn’t see her. She memorised the line of your back, the shape of your shoulders. She stood there for five full minutes after you went into the bathroom, just… feeling the image in her head. Then she went to her own room and laid down in the dark and touched herself, thinking about you”

Dean’s face was pale now. Not with fear, but with a kind of naked exposure. The demon was stripping him too, by exposing the secret gaze that had been on him for months.

Sam tried again. “Dean, don’t listen. It’s what they do. They twist things.”

“They reveal things,” the demon corrected, turning to Sam. “They lift the lid and let the stink out. And this one… she’s been fermenting for a long time.”

She came back to Dean, her posture now less playful, more intense. A slow, deliberate predator.

“You’ve really never noticed?”

She reached out with your hand and slowly, deliberately, placed it flat against the wall beside Dean’s head. Not touching him, but claiming the space.

“She wonders what you’d sound like. Not your voice. The other sounds. The grunts. The sighs. The sharp intake of breath when you finally… let go. She collects sounds in her imagination. She has a whole soundtrack for Dean Winchester in her head. And it’s dirty. It’s all sweat and friction and your voice breaking on her name.”

Dean closed his eyes, a brief retreat.

“Please,” he said, and the word was so raw, so stripped of its usual bravado, that it hung in the air like a confession.

The demon’s smile turned vicious. “Please? Is that for me? Or for her? Do you want me to stop telling you the truth? Or do you want me to stop making her hear it? Which pain are you trying to end, Dean?”

She dropped your hand and stepped back, surveying him. “You can’t protect her from this. You can’t protect her from herself. This wanting… it’s been in her long before I got here. I’m just the microphone.”

The demon goes quiet for a moment.

Not because she’s done—but because she’s choosing her next move.

Then a small tilt of your head.

Almost curious.

“You know she’s jealous, right?”

Dean’s brows pull together slightly.

“Jealous of what?”

There’s no bite to it this time. Just confusion.

And that alone is enough to make the demon smile.

“Of every woman you’ve ever looked at,” she says lightly. “Every one you’ve spoken to like they mattered for more than five minutes. Every one you’ve taken back to the motel”

Dean’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not—”

“She notices,” the demon cuts in smoothly.

Your fingers hover near his chest again, not touching—just there, close enough to feel.

“She notices the way you come back,” she continues, quieter now. “Hair a mess. Shirt half done up. Looking like you’ve just been — ruined.”

The word lingers.

“She hates that,” the demon adds. “Not because you do it.”

A small tilt of your head.

“Because it’s never her.”

Dean exhales sharply.

“That’s not true.”

The demon’s smile widens slightly.

“Oh, but it is.”

Your gaze holds his.

Steady.

Unblinking.

“She sits there the next morning pretending she doesn’t care,” she continues, softer now. “Pretending she didn’t hear you come back. Pretending she didn’t picture it but she always does.”

Something shifts in Dean’s expression again.

Smaller this time.

Harder to read.

“She gets frustrated,” the demon says, almost thoughtfully. “Not at them.”

A beat.

“At you.”

Your fingers finally brush lightly against his shirt.

Just once.

“Because she wishes,” the demon murmurs—

quiet.

Close.

“—she was the one who did it.”

The internal screaming was now a dull, hopeless throb.

You were exposed. Completely, utterly.

The demon wasn’t just telling Dean your secrets; she was proving to you how deeply they ran, how every casual interaction had been secretly catalogued and eroticized. The humiliation was a living thing, squirming inside the shared space of your possessed body.

There’s a shift.

Dean watches you — properly this time.

Not just reacting.

Thinking.

“What I don’t understand is, what are you getting out of this?”

The question cuts cleaner than anything he’s said so far.

The demon pauses.

Not because she has to—but because she enjoys that he asked.

Your head tilts slightly, studying him like something newly interesting.

“That’s an interesting question,” she murmurs.

“You’re talking a lot for someone who says they’re in control,” Dean adds, quieter now. “So what is it? You stalling? Or is this all you’ve got?”

A flicker of amusement crosses your face.

Brief and sharp

“Careful,” she says lightly. “You’re starting to think like him.”

A glance toward Sam.

Then back to Dean.

And this time she doesn’t dodge it.

“No,” she says simply. “I don’t get anything from it. Not in the way you mean.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Then why do it?”

Your shoulders lift in a slight shrug.

“Because it hurts.”

The words land flat.

Honest.

And somehow worse because of it.

“I don’t need anything from this,” she continues, quieter now. “I don’t need leverage. I don’t need information. I just like knowing it’s going to sit with you. That it’s going to stay.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “You think this changes anything?”

The demon smiles.

Slow.

Certain.

“Oh, it already has.”

Your fingers lift again, hovering near his chest — not touching yet.

“She’s going to remember this,” she says. “Every second of it. She’s going to remember that you heard everything.”

Dean doesn’t move.

But something in his expression shifts.

“She’s going to have to look at you,” the demon continues, softer now, almost conversational, “and wonder what you’re thinking. Whether you believe it. She’s going to question every look, every word, every moment between you.”

Your fingers press lightly against his chest again.

Grounding.

Claiming.

“And you?” she adds.

A faint tilt of your head.

“You’re never going to un-hear it.”

Silence stretches.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

The demon watches it settle.

Watches it work.

“That’s the fun part,” she murmurs. “Not the moment. But what comes after.”

Dean exhales sharply. “You’re trying to break her.”

“No,” the demon says softly. “I’m letting her break herself.”

Dean opened his eyes. They were hard now. Resolved. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You might,” the demon said, shrugging your shoulders. “But you’ll have heard everything first. And you’ll never look at her the same way again. You’ll see the want in her eyes every time, even when I’m gone. It’ll be a ghost in the room. A little phantom of desperation that she can’t ever bury again. I’ve done my job already. The unraveling is so much more fun than the killing.”

She leaned in one last time, her voice dropping to a breathy, intimate whisper directly beside his ear.

“The last thought she had before I took her? In that moment when the black smoke rushed into her mouth? It was of you. Not of fear. Not of Sam. Of you. And it was a thought of regret. That she never told you. That she never got to try. Now, you know. And she knows you know. That’s the knot I’ve tied. Enjoy it.”

She pulled back, looking satisfied, ready to perhaps continue, to dig even deeper into other vaults of secret desire.

But the room’s atmosphere shifted.

A new scent cut through the sulfur—expensive cologne and something older, like burnt parchment.

The pressure in the room changed, the demon’s hold on the Winchesters wavering for a fraction of a second.

A man appeared near the doorway, not having entered, but simply being there. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his expression one of mild, bored annoyance.

Meredith,” he said, his voice a dry, British-accented blade. “You’re making a scene.”

The demon—Meredith—turned your head toward him. Her confidence didn’t falter, but it tightened, becoming more formal.

“Crowley. I was just having a bit of fun. Cleaning up a loose end.”

“Fun is one thing,” Crowley said, stepping into the room with a sigh. “Psychosexual puppet shows are another. And you’ve borrowed a vessel without filing the proper paperwork. This one,” he gestured toward you with a dismissive flick of his hand, “is on a protected list. Nuisance, really. But rules are rules.”

He looked at Dean, then at Sam.

“Boys. As ever, you’re in the middle of something messier than you can handle.”

He turned back to the demon possessing you.

“Time to go, dear. The lease is up.”

The demon inside you bristled. You felt the protest ripple through her—your shared consciousness.

“I was just getting to the best part.”

“The best part is always the exit,” Crowley stated flatly. He raised his hand, a simple, effortless gesture.

The demon’s control snapped.

You felt it like a rubber band breaking inside your skull.

Then, you slammed back into yourself.

Your knees hit the cheap carpet.

Your own breath, ragged and real, tore into your lungs.

Your vision blurred, swimming with the afterimage of Dean pinned to the wall, his face stained with the knowledge the demon had painted there.

You heard Crowley’s voice, cool and distant. “She’ll be disoriented. Probably embarrassed. Do try to be gentle, for once.”

And then, the scent of cologne vanished.

You were on the floor. Dean and Sam were free, stumbling slightly as the force holding them dissolved.

They were both looking at you.

The silence was louder than any scream.

——————————————

[very-merry-birthday]

Worship

Anon requested: Priest!Sam or Priest!Dean eating you out on an alter because he says you(r pussy) deserve(s) worship -🫎

A/N: Anon I'm breaking your message into separate parts so I can do different posts for your ideas 🙈 though the third part of your message does have some similarities to what's coming with the apple pie series

Somewhat part 2 for this

Dean's glad you're not looking at him. He doesn't think he could take that.

Your eyes are shut, your lips parted in a tiny whimper. He's pretty sure this is what angels are supposed to look like, the way the sweat is beading on your skin, your legs spread like you're offering him everything he's been begging for. He's never been one to pray, but he'd plead with the Lord every day if it meant he got to stay in this moment.

He's on his knees, they're raw and bruised, the solid stone floor digging against bone. He can't even feel it, he's too consumed with your taste. He feels pathetic- his only saving grace is that you sound more pathetic than he ever could.

"F-father-" you mewl out. Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, it makes his cock twitch in his pants.

He's got you spread out on the alter, candles and crucifix lay scattered across the floor, thrown down in a rush as Dean pushed you against the table, your dress bunched up your hips before he'd even got his mouth on you.

"We can't- we shouldn't-" You keep repeating it, but your grip on his hair tightens, pulling him into you. You won't let him go, you need this too much. You're soaking over him, he's got spit and arousal covering his chin, sweat drenching his hair, already got cum soaking into his underwear, he really is pathetic.

He's so devoted, digs his fingers into the flesh of your thigh, pressing his whole mouth against you. You've got a sinners hands on you, a sinners tongue in you- not that you'd know, you have no idea of the guilt that courses through his blood.

"It's a- oh- it's a place of worship-" your voice cracks, pitchy and desperate. You don't believe your own words, you'll do anything Dean tells you to right now.

He looks up at you, eyes dancing over your body as he smiles small, "Only thing I need to worship is you."

[mxxnkake]

"We're just friends"

Fandom: Supernatural Word Count: 1300 Tags: Friends to Lovers, Backseat Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Fingering, Grinding, Dean Winchester is a Simp for You.

The interior of the ’67 Chevy Impala always smelled the same: old leather, gunpowder, cheap beer, and the faint, lingering scent of Dean’s sandalwood aftershave. Usually, it was a scent that meant safety. Tonight, it felt like an intoxicant.

For months—maybe years, if you were being honest—the two of you had been playing a game of chicken with your own hearts. It was in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a second too long after a hunt. It was in the way he’d let you pick the music, even if you chose something that wasn't "classic rock" enough for his tastes. It was in the silent, heated stares across motel rooms that Sam would break with a loud, pointed cough.

“We’re just friends, Sammy,” Dean would bark, his jaw tight, eyes never leaving yours even as he dismissed his brother.

Just friends. Friends don’t look at each other’s mouths like they’re starving for a feast. Friends don't feel the air turn to static the moment they're left alone in a car on a rainy Tuesday night.

But here you were, parked on a dirt road miles from the nearest town, the rain drumming a rhythmic, frantic beat against the roof. You weren't in the passenger seat anymore. You were in the back, straddling his lap, your knees pressed into the worn leather on either side of his hips. The quarter-zip sweater you wore was pulled down just enough to expose the swell of your breasts, and Dean’s eyes were devouring the sight.

"So. What now, pretty girl?" he rasped. His voice was a low vibration you felt in your own chest. His hands, rough and calloused from years of iron and grease, slid down from your waist to cup your rear, squeezing firmly.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. You leaned in until your lips were ghosting over his, breathing in his heat. "You always like calling the shots, Dean. You tell me."

He chuckled, a dark, hungry sound that vibrated through your thighs. He didn't hesitate. One hand shot up, his fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head back to give him better access. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed you.

It started with a bruising pressure, a desperate collision of teeth and tongue that tasted like unspoken promises. Dean groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender as he pulled you impossibly closer. He rolled his hips upward, a slow, deliberate grind of denim against denim that hit your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

A sharp, needy whine escaped your throat, swallowed by his mouth.

"Just friends, huh?" he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Friends don't make sounds like that for each other."

"Shut up, Winchester," you breathed, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. You needed skin. You needed to feel the heat of him.

He helped you, shucking his flannel and t-shirt in record time, his eyes never leaving yours. In the dim light of the dashboard, his skin looked like hammered gold, his muscles taut with tension. When you pressed your chest against his bare skin, the contact felt electric.

Dean’s hands were everywhere—on your back, your hips, sliding under your sweater to find the clasp of your bra. He popped it with practiced ease, his palms immediately finding the weight of your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs flicking over your nipples until you were arching your back, gasping his name into the cramped space of the car.

"You’re so beautiful," he growled, his voice dropping an octave into that gravelly register that always made your knees weak. "God, I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted to get you alone in this backseat for so damn long."

He moved his mouth to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive cord of your throat, marking you. His hands slid down, tugging at the button of your jeans. He made quick work of the zipper, his fingers diving beneath the lace of your underwear to find you.

You were already slick, your body betraying how much you’d been craving this. When his middle finger slid into you, you let out a strangled cry, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You lifted your head, eyes hazy with lust. He was watching you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. He pushed his finger deeper, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure.

"You're so wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips even as his eyes burned. "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you’re not 'just a friend' right now."

"Dean, please," you whimpered, your hips moving instinctively against his hand. "I'm not… I've never been just your friend. You know that."

That was the breaking point. The smirk vanished, replaced by a raw, naked hunger. He pulled his hand away just long enough to rid you of your jeans and toss them into the footwell. He worked his own belt free, his movements frantic but certain.

When he was finally bare, his length pressing against your entrance, he paused. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white.

"If we do this," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "there's no going back. I don't know how to be 'just friends' with you after I've been inside you. You get that?"

"I don't want to go back," you whispered, reaching down to guide him. "I want you. All of you."

Dean didn't need to be told twice. He surged upward, burying himself inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. The breath left your lungs in a sharp gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him. He groaned, a long, pained sound of pleasure, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"You're so tight," he choked out. "Perfect."

He began to move, his hands locked onto your hips to control the rhythm. It was a frantic, desperate pace, the Impala rocking on its springs with every heavy thrust. The sound of the rain was drowned out by the wet friction of your bodies, the slap of skin against skin, and the chorus of broken moans filling the small cabin.

You leaned back, hands braced against the ceiling of the car for leverage, as you took him deeper. Every time he hit your sweet spot, the world tilted on its axis. Dean was relentless, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every expression of pleasure he elicited from you. He loved the way your eyes rolled back, the way you bit your lip to try and stay quiet, the way you whispered his name like a prayer.

"That's it, sweetheart," he urged, his pace quickening as he felt your walls start to quiver. "Come for me. Give me everything."

He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, adding the friction you needed to tip over the edge. The combination was too much. You shattered, your vision going white as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, your body shaking as you clamped down on him.

The feeling of you coming was the final straw for Dean. He let out a loud, unrestrained shout, his back arching as he spent himself deep inside you. He held you tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, anchored to you as the waves of pleasure ebbed away.

For a long time, the only sound was the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts and the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Dean’s head rested on your chest, his breath hot against your skin.

He finally pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

"So," you whispered, your voice still shaky. "Friends?"

Dean let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning in to press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Not a chance in hell," he murmured. "You're mine. About damn time I admitted it."

You know that won't last long, not with his track record.

A/n: forgive me if it's not the most lore accurate! Credits to @diviniyae for the divider!

[indyredhead]

🍒 Gone Pt 4

Pairing: Dean x Reader 

Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.

Rating: 18+ 

Word Count: 3373

Warnings: Language, Violence

A/N: Please let me know what you think.

Gone Masterlist

Dean bit down into his cheeseburger. Sam had his laptop open and a big salad with grilled chicken sitting to the side of it. 

“Think she’ll reach out?” Sam asked. 

“I don’t know,” Dean said and then paused. “Strike that. Yes, I do,” he said motioning to the front door with his chin. Sam turned around and watched you walk through the door and begin to look around. 

Your eyes caught theirs and you slowly, shyly, walked towards them. You looked nervous, like you weren’t sure that you should really even be there. Stepping up to the table, you swallowed hard. 

“Um, hi,” you said, voice too soft. 

“Hi,” the brothers said in unison. Dean started to scoot over but you looked at Sam. “Can I sit here?”

Sam shot Dean a look but scooted over in the booth to make space. When your eyes met Dean’s again, he couldn’t help but look a little wounded. You hated that you've seen that look so many times since you met him but you felt a little more comfortable sitting next to the brother who didn’t stare at you with the heaviness and longing that Dean did.

“I-I’m only here because you said you know something about the hospital. I thought maybe you might know something about my accident.”

Sam quickly closed a couple of open tabs on his screen, leaving a clean official document visible before turning the screen slightly toward you. “Right. Of course. Well, first off, we dug into the records from that hospital in Georgia where you woke up two years ago.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just watched you from across the table, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten burger sitting in the basket. The wounded look was gone, replaced by that familiar, fierce intensity, but he was intentionally keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scare you off again.

“Here’s the thing,” Sam continued, his deep voice calm and professional as he pointed to the screen. “The hospital records say you were admitted under Jane Doe after being found on the side of Route 16. The intake report lists your injuries as a concussion and dehydration. But there is absolutely no mention of an automobile accident. No lacerations, no broken bones, no bruising consistent with a crash. Nothing.”

You squinted at the digital document, your chest tightening as you read the words No physical trauma noted. “But… Brian told me the police said it was a hit-and-run. He said my car was totaled.”

“We checked the DMV and police databases for this entire region,” Sam said gently, his eyes filled with sympathy. “There is no record of a car registered to you ever being towed, impounded, or involved in an accident around that date. And your medical chart? The neurologist who examined you noted that your amnesia didn’t look like it was caused by a head injury. He actually wrote down that the cognitive block was ‘atypical’ and recommended a psychiatric transfer before you were suddenly discharged against medical advice.”

You sat back against the vinyl booth, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The room suddenly felt very loud, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of other diner patrons buzzing in your ears. Your whole life for the past two years was built on the foundation of that accident. Brian had been the one to explain it to you, to hold you while you cried over your missing pieces, to help you start fresh.

“Why would he lie to me?” you whispered, your hands starting to tremble in your lap. “Why would Brian make all of that up?”

“Because he’s keeping you in a box,” Dean’s voice cut through the fog, low and rough. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, bringing himself closer to you. “Sweetheart, think about it. If you don’t have a past, if you don’t have a car, if you don’t have any family checking in on you, who do you have to rely on? Just him.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your voice rising slightly in panic. “No, Brian loves me. He’s sweet, he’s—he wouldn’t do something like this. He’s just a normal guy.”

“He might be a normal guy,” Sam interjected, trying to keep his tone soothing before Dean could push too hard. “He might just be a guy who found a vulnerable woman and saw a chance to build a perfect life. Or… he might be a part of whatever actually put you there. We don’t know yet. But the paperwork doesn’t lie. There was no accident.”

You looked from Sam’s steady gaze back across the table to Dean. His green eyes were completely locked on yours, practically begging you to see the truth. The ache in your chest flared up again, hotter this time, a chaotic storm of confusion, betrayal, and that terrifyingly deep familiarity swirling inside you.

“I have to go,” you stammered suddenly, sliding out of the booth before Sam could even move his legs. “I—I have to get back to the library. Brian is supposed to bring me lunch in twenty minutes.”

“Hey, wait,” Dean said, standing up immediately as you backed away from the table. He didn’t chase you, but his voice anchored you to the spot for a fraction of a second. “Take a breath. You don’t have to face him alone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow even to you. You turned and practically sprinted out the glass front doors of the diner, the bell jingling merrily above you as you burst back out into the bright morning air, your head spinning out of control.

Dean looked at Sam. “Well, she knows. That’s a start.”

“Do you think she’ll accept it though? Uproot the perfect life she thought she’d built here? With him,” Sam asked, raising a brow and tilting his head slightly for just a fraction of a second.

“I don’t know. But we can’t give up. She still has my phone number on her wrist. That has to count for something,” Dean said, voice low and rough. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brian came and brought a pizza with him. You both were sitting in the breakroom eating together when you noticed he was eyeing you a little. 

“What?” you asked, around a mouthful of pizza. 

“Nothing. You’re just… quiet,” he said, eyes still studying your face. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, quickly taking another bite to keep from answering another question. 

“Okay,” he relented but his eyes still had that look in them. 

You didn’t want to have a conversation with him yet. Not now. And definitely not here. You needed time to wrap your mind around everything, well as much as you could, before you asked him about the hospital. About the accident that apparently never really happened. 

After lunch you walked him out to his car. He pulled you into his arms and gave you a long deep kiss. Somehow, you managed to kiss him back like nothing was wrong. His embrace was warm and his kiss was steady. Nothing gave away that he might be hiding anything. That sent a shiver down your spine but you gave him a smile and started to pull away to go back inside. He kept his hold on your waist. 

“Honey,” he said, studying your face again. “Are you sure you’re okay after everything that happened last night with the weirdo?”

“Weirdo?” you said softly. “You mean Dean?”

“Yeah, him. He was weird and the whole thing really freaked me out so I can only imagine how you feel.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really, babe,” you lied. 

He looked at you for another moment before finally letting go of your waist and giving you a quick peck to your lips. “Okay then. I’ll see you tonight before my poker game.”

You nodded and gave him a small smile before turning and walking back into the library. 

You walked back into the breakroom to hang up your jacket. Immediately, your gaze dropped to your wrist. You pulled out your phone and saved Dean’s number in it. As a small sigh left your lips, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. As you opened your eyes, Mary walked in and you stepped back out to get back to work.

The rest of the afternoon shift dragged by in an agonizingly slow crawl. Every time the library’s front doors opened, your heart leaped into your throat, half-expecting to see those familiar green eyes or Sam’s tall silhouette walking through the door again.

But they didn’t come back inside.

Instead, you spent hours shelving books in a complete daze, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind spun in exhausting circles. Every memory you had of your life here—every sweet thing Brian had ever done, every comforting word he’d spoken when you woke up terrified and blank in that hospital room—now felt tainted. It was like looking at a beautiful painting and suddenly noticing a massive, ugly crack running right down the center.

No physical trauma noted. No car registered to me. Why would he lie?

By the time 5:00 p.m. finally rolled around, you were completely spent. You said a quiet goodbye to Mary, gathered your things, and walked out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement. You headed straight for your small white sedan. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Dean was sitting on the edge of the motel bed, looking at Sam who was digging up info on Brian over at the desk. Dean glanced at the hole in the wall above Sam’s head then looked into the main part of the room, not focusing on anything in particular. 

“Cas, get your feathery ass down here,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room for signs of movement. After a moment, he sighed. “C’mmon, Cas! This is the fourth time I’ve called you. I need you, man,” he gruffed, getting more annoyed by the second. 

Sam turned and looked at Dean. “Still nothing, huh? That’s rough.”

“Fuckin’ angels,” Dean grunted.

Sam shrugged and turned back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keys. 

Dean’s phone buzzed and he saw your number, your current number, pop up on the screen. He answered quickly, saying your name. 

“Dean,” you said in a whisper. 

“What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” he asked, panic flooding his green eyes as he jumped to his feet. Sam spun to look at him, a questioning look on his face, but he remained silent. 

“Dean, someone is in the house. Brian is gone at his poker game. I’m alone in here and I heard a crash downstairs,” you said quietly but fear penetrated every word and Dean heard it. 

“Text me the address. We’re on our way,” he said, his voice deep and certain. 

His phone buzzed again just as he slid behind Baby’s wheel. 

Dean entered through the front door while Sam went around the back. He didn’t see anyone downstairs so he headed for the second floor, his boots silent on the hardwoods. He peeked in the first room. Empty. He swung his body around to point his gun through the open door of the second room. Empty. In the third room, he saw a flickering light. As he entered the master bedroom he walked by the door to the master bathroom. The tub was full of water and there was some water on the floor. A big candle sitting on the vanity bathed the room in a warm flickering light but it was empty too. 

Dean turned and looked around the room. His eyes landed on the movement behind the curtains. He walked over to pull them back but didn’t have a chance. 

You lunged out from behind the fabric with raw, explosive speed, your body moving on a pure, instinctual autopilot that your conscious mind didn’t even have time to register.

Before Dean could even react, you slammed your body weight into his chest, throwing him entirely off balance. Your hands gripped his collar, and with a swift, practiced twist of your hips, you swept his legs right out from under him. He went down hard, the back of his head barely missing the edge of the nightstand as he hit the fluffy shag rug with a heavy, breath-robbing thud.

In a fraction of a second, you straddled his waist, your knee pinning his arm to the floor while your hand flew to his throat, squeezing just enough to keep him pinned.

Your chest heaved, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as you stared down at him, ready to strike.

Dean didn’t fight you. He didn’t even try to throw you off, though he easily had the size advantage. He just lay there on the floor, his free hand held up in a placating gesture, his green eyes locked onto yours. Even with your fingers pressed hard against his windpipe, there was no anger in his face—only a sudden, staggering wave of awe.

“See?” Dean choked out, a rough, proud little laugh escaping his lips despite the grip you had on his throat. “Told you... hunter, sweetheart.”

You blinked, the fog in your brain briefly clashing with the absolute lethality of the position you had just taken. You looked down at your hands, then at the way your knees were perfectly locked to pin his hips, realization slowly dawning on you. You didn’t know how to do this. You were a librarian. You spent your days shelving biographies, not dropping grown men to the floor like a SWAT officer.

“I...” your voice trembled, your grip loosening on his neck, though you didn’t get off him yet. “How…? How did I do that?”

“Muscle memory,” Dean whispered, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in the sight of you. “Your head might not remember the training, but your body does. You’ve taken me down just like that multiple times but usually it’s for the enemies.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice roared from the hallway as he came rushing up the stairs, his gun drawn. He rounded the doorway of the bedroom and froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, in a tiny little tank top and shorts pajama set with your hair pulled up into a messy bun, straddling and completely pinning his older brother to the floor.

Sam slowly lowered his gun, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, guess she’s still got it.”

“Shut up, Sammy, and help me up,” Dean grumbled, though he didn’t look the least bit upset about being held down. Dean watched, his eyes still holding the awe, as you released him and slowly stood up. You were now wrapping your arms around your middle shyly. “I…” you started. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” you murmured. 

Sam grinned at you both. “I’m just going to be,” he paused. “Yeah, anywhere else,” he said, turning and walking out of the room as he shook his head. A moment later, you both heard the front door close behind him.

Dean’s eyes never left you. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize.”

You nodded slowly. “Was there anyone downstairs?” 

“I didn’t fully clear it but Sam probably did. No sign of a broken window or anything though,” Dean said, climbing to his feet and smoothing down his clothes. 

Just then Dean saw a shadow moving in the hallway. He grabbed you and pulled you into the closet, his hand sliding over your mouth. The closet next to the master bathroom was small, not like the huge walk-in across the room. Your back was pressed to his chest, in order for you both to fit. 

His heart was slamming against his ribs. First you were straddling him and now you were pressed against him and he could feel the curve of your ass pushing against his dick, your slightly damp hair at the nape of your neck from where you’d been laying in the tub was against his neck, the smell of soap and your own personal scent overwhelming his senses. He whispered in your ear, without having to move at all, “Someone is out there. I’m going to lower my hand. Can you stay quiet?” 

You nodded. Dean lowered his hand and it landed on your hip instinctively. He didn’t notice—his focus was split between the threat and your body pressing so tightly to his that he was starting to get hard.

Shit. Not now. I’m really going to fucking scare her off now. 

Your breathing was ragged although you were trying to keep it quiet. As he spoke to you, you could feel his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm and intimate against your neck. You could feel his muscular chest pressed against your back. Then you felt it. Your breath caught and you couldn’t help but let out a tiny rasp of his name, “Dean.”

Dean tensed immediately. Your voice. The way you said his name. It was practically a fucking moan. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to hold it together. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Dean breathed against your temple, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. “I know. Just try to breathe.”

He forced his mind to lock onto the hallway, blocking out the torturous reality of how perfectly your body curved into his. His thumb brushed a slow, unconscious circle against your hip, his grip firm but gentle against the smooth, silky pajama shorts, keeping you anchored to him in the dark.

Every single one of your senses was on fire. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm in your ears, but it wasn't just from the fear of an intruder anymore. It was him. The solid, heavy heat of his chest pressing into your half bare back, the raw masculinity radiating off him, the possessive way he held you—it didn’t feel terrifying. It felt safe. It felt like home.

Outside the closet door, the heavy oak floorboards of the bedroom creaked.

Dean’s grip on your hip tightened instantly, his entire body going rigid as steel. He reached down with his free hand, his fingers quietly finding the grip of his gun. His chest stopped moving against your back as he held his breath, listening.

Slow, deliberate footsteps paced across the rug. They stopped right in the middle of the bedroom.

“Honey?”

The voice echoed through the quiet room, sounding completely normal, yet making your entire body go ice-cold.

It was Brian.

“Are you up here?” Brian’s voice called out again, closer to the closet this time. “The front door was unlocked. I came home early because I was worried about you. Honey?”

You felt Dean’s breathing change behind you, a dangerous, protective heat rolling off him as his fingers tightened on the weapon in his hand. If Brian opened this door and saw the two of you like this, Dean wouldn't hesitate. But you could also feel the intense conflict in the way he held you—he didn't want to blow this apart for you if you weren't ready.

Dean leaned his head down just a fraction of an inch, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Your call, sweetheart,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a vibration. “Do we go out there, or do I make him go away?”

You tried to hold your breath, to keep as still as possible, but the sheer sensory overload of Dean’s body heat, his scent, the absolute intimacy of the way his hand rested on your hip, and his lips brushing against your ear was too much. It made your heart hammer against your ribcage like a trapped bird. 

Suddenly, a blinding, white-hot spike of pain shot directly behind your eyes. It was so intense it made your vision go black for a split second. A sharp gasp cut through your throat, followed by a low, pained groan that you couldn’t hold back. You slumped backward, your forehead resting heavily against the side of Dean’s neck as you clutched at your temples.

Outside, the footsteps stopped instantly.

Part 5

Taglist: @throttlepascal @iloveneilperry @cauldronboilme27

[amentiaewrites]

CHAPTER 10: Misery

°⛧. A sequel to Ordinary ⛧°。

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Rating: mature, tension

Word count: 8.1 k

Summary: You and Dean finally have the talk you have both been avoiding, and every ugly truth he gives you pushes your exhausted body closer to shutting down.

CHAPTER 9 MASTERLIST

Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel

A/N: Okay, first things first: I’m sorry if the writing in this chapter feels a little off. I hadn’t touched writing in weeks, and I think it shows. I’ll probably come back to smooth it out a bit in a few days, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging any longer.

And now for the bigger apology. I’m sorry for going radio silent for a month. I was in a really bad place because one of the very few things keeping me sane was taken from me, brutally. It pulled me down so hard that I stopped finding joy in other things too. To the point that I couldn’t even write, and genuinely considered deleting all my work here.

But I managed to pull through, and I’m slowly rebuilding my relationship with the things that used to bring me joy.

You sat in the chair at the table, staring at the bottle of whiskey Dean had pulled from the paper bag, without really seeing it. Your mind had narrowed down to the steady sound of the hammer.

Metal against wood. Again and again. Dean was outside still working on the door he had broken, and somehow that was the part your brain chose to latch onto. The rhythm gave you something to focus on that was separate from the blood drying under your bandage, separate from the ache in your body, separate from the fact that you had just fallen apart on the floor in front of him.

You felt strangely numb. The sharp pain in your forearm was the only thing cutting through it with any real strength, and even that was starting to feel distant around the edges. The exhaustion had finally caught up with you. It was physical, sure. Lack of sleep, barely any food, hours of panic, fighting, running on fear, and now blood loss from the rushed, ugly cuts you had made with a filthy knife. All of that was more than enough.

You were done. Completely drained.

Three weeks of mourning. Three weeks of worry, searching, dead ends, burner calls, hope you were terrified to have, and fear you could not put down. Three weeks after all the dread and preparation for the mission that had taken your husband from you.

And after all that, the one thing you had always been able to rely on in danger, the only protection you had against demons, had not been enough.

Your blood had been enough. Your magic had been enough.

You had not.

You had been too slow. You hesitated, too afraid to use your own strength on a demon because the demon was still your husband. That was why you lost it when he knocked the knife from your hand. That was why it had been so easy for him to break the last thing holding you upright.

You felt weak in a way you had not felt for a long time, and the worst part was that you knew, logically, you had power here. Your magic could hurt him badly if only you stopped hesitating. You could probably kill him, if you truly wanted to.

You had the upper hand. Objectively.

But you wanted your husband back so badly that it gave the demon power over you, and you hated yourself for that more than you knew how to handle anymore.

Your eyes drifted from the bottle to your forearm, at the place where Dean had wrapped gauze around the cuts with careful, irritated hands. The bandage was already stained red in places.

You should have been embarrassed. Crying on the floor in front of him, folding in on yourself while he stood there and watched, should have made you want to crawl out of your own skin. Somehow, at this point, you did not even have the energy to care. Dean wanted fire from you, he wanted fight, attitude, the thrill of pushing until you pushed back. You knew that now. You had seen how he reacted to it. You had felt exactly how much he liked it when you jumped him in the car and threatened to burn him alive.

Too bad.

Your body had nothing left to give him.

You got so lost in the blankness that you didn’t notice the hammer stopping. The silence took a few seconds to register, and by the time your eyes focused again, Dean was already back inside. He tossed the hammer onto the couch with a dull thud and dropped into the chair opposite you, legs stretching out under the table with an exaggerated sigh.

‘So,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘About the bloody finger-painting.’

You lifted your eyes to him.

He motioned around the room with one finger, taking in the sigils on the windows and walls.

‘Thought I told you to wipe that crap off.’

There was no teasing in his voice this time. No lazy playfulness. He looked perfectly serious, and for several long seconds, you stared at him in silence.

Then you reached for the bottle.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t stop you.

You unscrewed the cap slowly, lifted the bottle to your mouth, and took a long drink without breaking eye contact. The whiskey burned all the way down and landed in your empty stomach with enough force to make your eyes sting. Usually, you did not reach for alcohol when your nerves were bad. You had enough bad coping mechanisms without adding that to the list. Right now, though, the warmth spread fast through your body and left a dull tingle in your fingers almost immediately. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was your body finally switching into preservation mode.

Whatever. You took what you could get.

You lowered the bottle and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean watched every movement.

You hugged the bottle against your chest with one arm, keeping your bandaged forearm close to your body.

‘Take them down yourself,’ you said finally.

Part of you expected him to snap. Bark another order. Slam a hand on the table. Remind you exactly how badly this could go if you kept testing him. A bigger part of you had stopped caring.

Dean said nothing at first. He just looked at you, quiet and still, eyes fixed on your face. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Fine.’

Your eyes narrowed. ‘Fine?’

He gave a low chuckle.

‘Yeah, fine. You’re clearly beat,' he said, looking you over slowly, and there was enough blunt assessment in his expression to make you feel exposed all over again. 'And I don’t need you bleeding out all over the place.’

His gaze stopped on your forearm.

You looked down too. The red had spread more through the thin layers of bandage, darker near the center where the cuts were worst.

Your chest tightened with irritated confusion.

Because why the hell was he doing this?

He was selfish now. Arrogant and cruel. A violent, possessive dick who had left you grieving for three weeks, tortured you with clues and phone calls, kidnapped you, dragged you into the woods, manhandled you, and ordered you around as if you were his property.

Then he promised not to hurt you. Gave you his flannel because you were cold. Patched up your arm.

Was that part of the game too? Another way to mess with your head? Give you scraps of care, little flickers of your husband when it suited him, just enough to see how badly you wanted to believe there was still something to hold onto?

Or was he really that desperate for your presence, your attention, your touch, that he was willing to work around the parts of you that hurt him?

You did not ask. You took another slow drink instead. This one went down easier, which was probably a bad sign.

A drop of whiskey caught on your bottom lip, and you wiped it away with your tongue before you thought about it. Dean’s arms tightened across his chest. You saw it. You saw his throat move when he swallowed.

Your teeth pressed into the inside of your cheek.

He wanted you. Badly. He had not been subtle about that from the start, sure, but maybe you had underestimated how much it was affecting him. Grinding at him. Making him impatient enough to take risks.

Good.

You needed to know what he wanted badly enough to make mistakes over.

You lifted the bottle for another sip, but Dean leaned forward and reached across the table. To your own tired surprise, you did not flinch this time. You did not pull back either.

He noticed.

A brief flash of satisfaction crossed his face before he covered it with that smug little curve of his mouth.

His hand closed around the neck of the bottle just above yours, his fingers brushing your knuckles long enough for heat to rise between you.

‘Easy there,’ he said, smirking as he pulled the bottle from your hand. ‘We’re supposed to share.’

He brought it toward his mouth, then stopped.

You frowned.

Dean looked down at the rim, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. Then he tapped the mouth of the bottle carefully against his lower lip and waited.

For a second, you had no idea what the hell he was doing. Then it clicked, and a ridiculous little breath pushed out of your chest.

He was testing it. Your saliva. The possibility that even as little as that might burn him.

The whole thing was so careful and so stupidly practical that you almost laughed, which probably meant you were closer to losing your mind than you thought.

But there was no reaction. No hiss, no sign of pain. Dean’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, and then he tipped the bottle back and took a long drink.

‘Besides,’ Dean said when he lowered the bottle, ‘you keep goin' like that, you’re gonna pass out on me.’ His smirk gained that bratty edge that made your fingers tighten around nothing. ‘And we still gotta talk.’

He took one more sip and handed the bottle back.

You reached for it and this time, you made sure your fingers closed over his hand. It was quick. Deliberate. Hard enough to make the point.

The burn snapped between your skin and his.

Dean hissed through his teeth, but his grin only widened when you gave him a pointed look and took the bottle.

The whiskey really was starting to work now. Mostly on the pain, which had dimmed from sharp stinging into heavy pressure under the bandage. Your limbs felt looser than they had any right to feel. The warmth spread fast through your bloodstream. Weeks of barely sleeping and barely eating were doing you no favors, and you knew that. You also did not stop yourself from taking another drink.

You were still watching Dean carefully, but with the panic dulled and the immediate fight over, curiosity pushed its way in.

He looked unfairly good, which was a big fucking problem. The black T-shirt clung to him in all the wrong places, and when he settled back with his arms across his chest again, the muscle in his forearms and biceps shifted in a way you were almost certain he did on purpose.

You dragged your gaze back to his face.

The smug grin told you he knew exactly where your eyes had gone.

His eyes were green. There was a spark in them that looked close enough to the boyish one you missed so much it made your chest hurt. For one stupid moment, you could almost pretend it was just Dean. Your Dean. Sitting with you on some random night, sharing a bottle, irritating you on purpose because he liked the reaction.

Then he opened his mouth.

‘Now,’ Dean said, voice low in the quiet room, ‘you good to finally talk? Like an adult this time? Or do I gotta pin you down again?’

You hated how your body reacted to that, so you rolled your eyes as hard as you could to cover it.

‘Weren’t you supposed to be scrubbing off the sigils right about now?’

The corners of Dean’s eyes tightened as he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.

‘You always did look good with an attitude.’

Memories hit before you could do anything about it. All the times he had fixed that attitude, using that exact tone in your bedroom, against a wall, in the Impala, everywhere your mind should not have gone while this version of him sat across from you.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

Goddamnit.

You took another sip because it was easier than letting him see your teeth clench.

But Dean saw it anyway. His grin told you enough.

‘I’ll get to it,’ he said, leaning back lazily. ‘Eventually. Right now, I wanna have a drink with my lovely wife.’

The mocking edge in his tone hit exactly where he meant it to. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

Dean’s smirk faltered, but you doubted guilt had anything to do with it. He was probably adjusting, choosing the next angle.

‘Alright,’ he said, straightening in the chair. ‘Let’s get one thing straight.’

You kept the bottle close, fingers wrapped tight around the glass.

‘I already told you. I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t wanna hurt you.’ His eyes dropped to your bandaged arm. ‘So quit bein' stupid.’

You pressed your lips together.

‘No, seriously,’ he went on, leaning forward now. ‘What the hell were you thinkin'? Huh? You were gonna turn this place into Fort Knox, sit on the couch, and wait me out?’

You said nothing.

Dean’s smile came back, slower this time.

‘Or was that the plan? Sit tight until Sammy comes charging in? Maybe Cas?’

Your stomach pulled tight.

Dean laughed under his breath and leaned back again.

‘Yeah. About that.’ He glanced around the cabin, eyes moving over the useless sigils. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, princess, but you’re not the only one who knows what these little smudges can do. Whole damn radius is angel-proofed.'

Fuck.

You kept staring at him.

‘So don’t waste your energy thinkin' Feathers is gonna swoop in and save the day.’

You should have expected that.

Of course he wouldn’t leave you somewhere Cas could simply appear and grab you. Of course he had chosen the place carefully. He was still Dean. Some part of him, at least. He knew you. He knew the first three desperate options your brain would reach for and had already taken them off the table.

The wards had been your one pathetic attempt at changing the rules, and you couldn't even finish them.

Dean scanned your face while the realization settled. He looked pleased with himself.

You watched him as he pulled the bottle from your hands and took another drink. Watched the amber liquid slosh inside the bottle as he set it back on the table and pushed it toward you with two fingers.

You grabbed it, drank, swallowed, and finally found your voice again.

‘Do you really think keeping me here against my will is going to make me cooperate?’

You wanted it steady. It came out close enough.

Dean looked at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

‘Of course not.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew you were gonna put up a fight. Kinda looking forward to that part, actually.’

You scoffed, disgusted despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

‘But you keep forgetting something, baby,’ he said, voice dropping lower. ‘I know you. I know everything about you. Every soft spot. Every button.'

Your fingers tightened around the bottle. Dean’s eyes stayed on yours.

'And eventually, you’re gonna be a real good girl and give me what I want.’

The arrogant certainty nearly pushed you over the edge again.

You twitched in your seat, ready to reach across the table and burn that smug face until the smile finally disappeared. But your body refused to follow through. Everything hurt. Your limbs felt heavy. Your head had started to buzz at the edges. You were too tired to make the movement worth it, so you pulled in a slow breath and held your ground from the chair.

‘And why the hell would I do that?’

You set the bottle down and crossed your arms over your chest. Then immediately regretted it when the movement shifted your badly buttoned shirt. Dean’s attention dropped fast. A muscle in his jaw ticked. The look on his face was pure hunger, and you yanked his flannel tighter around yourself.

Dean rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed. ‘Oh, come on.’

You straightened as much as you could and forced every word to come out clear.

‘I. Don’t. Want you.’ You glared at him. ‘I want my husband back. My Dean. And you know damn well that’s the only reason I’m not burning the fuck out of you right now.’

Dean reached for the bottle again, smiling.

‘Sure. Yeah. Right.’ He took a sip and leaned back. ‘Looked real convincing when you were bawling your eyes out on the floor.’

The words landed low. You went still.

That was dirty and you knew he meant it to be.

You deserved it, maybe. You had shown weakness in front of him, and now he had it in his hands. You wanted to tell him to fuck off. You wanted to tell him he had no right using that against you when he was the reason you had been coming apart for three weeks. You wanted to remind him that you had watched him die, that you had held him, that every second since then had felt like a knife being twisted in your heart again and again.

You did none of it. You said nothing.

Dean tilted his head, studying you.

‘You really do want him back, don’t you?’ He huffed and shook his head. ‘Well, sweetheart, I’m right here. Still me. Just without the guilt hangover.’

‘No, you are not him,’ you shot back, swallowing against the anger in your throat. ‘You’re not even close.’

Dean's brow lifted. ‘And what makes you so damn sure?’

There was actual curiosity in the question. Real enough that it pulled the answer out of you before you had time to think it through.

‘You hurt people. You killed people.’

Dean just shrugged. 'Killed people before.’

Your fingers found the bottle again because this conversation needed something to dull it. ‘Not like this.’

He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, already irritated.

'Oh, come on. Don’t get all cute and naive on me now. Those guys were all assholes.’ He leaned forward slightly, voice sharp with conviction. ‘Couple of scumbags who thought they were better than everyone else. I did the world a favor.’

You took a drink and winced when the whiskey burned down your throat. Then you set the bottle back on the table harder than you meant to. The sound cracked through the cabin.

You were getting angry again. Which was good, because anger was easier than the rest of it.

The worst part was how normal this kept trying to feel. Sitting across from him. Talking to him, arguing with him, hearing his voice answer yours. Watching his hands move when he reached for the bottle. After three weeks of silence and waking up to nothing beside you, he was finally here, close enough that you could see every flicker in his expression.

You were relieved. Scared. Excited. Furious. Drunk enough to admit it out loud if he asked.

You missed him so much. And now you were so overwhelmed you were pretty sure you would cry again if your body had anything left.

So you used the anger.

Because for whatever reason, you seemed to be the one person in the world still allowed to push Demon Dean’s buttons and live.

‘Oh, right,’ you said, letting every bit of snark you had left into your voice. ‘You’re a real damn hero.’

Dean’s mouth kicked up as he grabbed the bottle from your hand.

‘You know what this is really about?’ he asked.

You stared at him.

He drank quickly, then set it down with a soft thud. It was almost empty now. You felt the missing whiskey in the heaviness of your eyelids and the way the pain in your arm had dulled completely.

‘Please,’ you said flatly. ‘Enlighten me.’

Dean’s smile widened.

‘It pisses you off because you know this was underneath the whole time.’

The sentence hit hard enough to take your breath for a second.

Because you had thought that before. Of course you had. You had seen the darkness in Dean. The violence, the brutality, the rage. The part of him that could scare people just by going quiet. You had watched him work too many times to pretend he was only soft hands and bad jokes and that beautiful, tired smile he gave you when he hoped no one else was looking.

You loved every part of him. Even the damaged parts. Especially the parts he thought made him hard to love. They were inside a man who fought himself every day to be better than the world made him.

But hearing this Dean say it out loud with such a mocking tone made your stomach turn.

‘Your Dean spent half his life choking on shame,’ Dean said. He picked up the bottle and moved it lightly in his hand, watching the whiskey catch against the glass. ‘I cut that part out.'

He made a small toasting gesture toward you.

‘You’re welcome.’

You stared at him until your vision blurred at the edges. You pulled in a careful breath and made yourself speak.

‘Just… tell me why you’re doing this.’

Your voice sounded tired even to you.

Dean’s smile faded by a fraction.

You closed your eyes for a second and rubbed your forehead with your good hand. The whiskey, the blood loss, the panic crash, all of it was starting to really drag you under.

‘Really. Just cut the crap and tell me. Is this your idea of fun? Does seeing me like this make you feel good?’

When you opened your eyes again, Dean was no longer looking at you. His head had tipped back, eyes turned toward the ceiling, jaw set hard.

‘Dean.'

His name came out softer than it should have, but you didn't really care.

'I’m serious. What’s the fucking point of all this?’

He stood suddenly, chair scraping against the floor.

The movement made you tense, but he didn’t come toward you. He dragged a hand down his face and swore, loudly, before he started pacing.

‘I swear to God,’ he snapped, shoulders tight, ‘it’s like I’m talkin' to a damn wall.’

You watched him move, pulse climbing again despite the whiskey. He was angry now, but it didn’t feel the same as before. This wasn’t the cold threat from the car or the sharp impatience at the cabin door. This had frustration under it. Real frustration, coming from saying something too many times and still not being heard.

Dean stopped near the table and turned back to you.

‘How many times do I gotta tell you?’

His hand closed around the back of the chair. The wood creaked under his fingers, and for one second, you watched the pressure of his grip instead of his face. His knuckles went pale. Anger climbed through him fast now, visible in the line of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, the way his whole body seemed to hold itself back by force.

Then his eyes went black.

You had no idea whether he meant to do it or whether his patience finally slipped. Either way, the effect was immediate. Your stomach tightened so hard it was almost painful.

Dean pushed the words through his teeth.

‘I want you,’ he said. ‘Because you’re mine, and I like keepin’ what’s mine close.’

Yeah. Of course.

There it was again. His possessive bullshit, sharpened by the demon in him until it turned into something that sat wrong in your chest. You had already known that was part of this. You were his wife. He had decided your body, your time, and your choices all belonged to him.

And it got under your skin exactly the way he wanted.

‘I’m not anyone’s property,’ you bit back, forcing yourself to ignore the cold shiver his black eyes sent over your skin. ‘And I’m sure as hell not yours. I belong to my husband. My human husband. Not some… monster wearing his face.’

The chair made another strained sound under his hand.

Dean’s mouth twitched once, but there was no humor in it.

‘Yeah. You can call me a monster all you want.’ His voice came out low and too controlled. ‘Won’t make me any less yours.’

The words caught you off guard. For one second, every thought in your head stalled. Until now, it had always been about you being his. He had never said it the other way around. He had never implied the possession went both ways. That made something sharp pull behind your ribs.

Dean saw the hit land. His smile came back, slower this time, and his eyes flicked green in one lazy blink.

‘And I’m still very much Dean where it counts, baby.’ His gaze moved over your face, down to your mouth, then back up again. ‘Believe me.’

Something inside you snapped clean through.

‘But… I don't understand,’ you said. 'You can have anybody.'

Your voice came out sharper than you wanted, and once the words were out, you could not pull them back. Your heart started beating too fast.

‘Hell, you told me yourself. You take whatever you want. You do whatever you want. So don’t stand there trying to scare me with your black eyes and your demonic ass and tell me how much you care about what’s yours when you were the one who left me.’

You did not even realize you had stood up until the room shifted around you and the chair scraped behind your legs. Your head spun for a second, but anger held you upright better than strength could have.

Dean stared at you.

You probably should have stopped, but you didn’t.

‘You said you didn’t want to be cured, and then you left me. You left me in that bunker losing my fucking mind while you went screwing around God knows where with God knows who.’

The words were out before you fully understood what you had said.

Then you froze.

You stood there with your chest heaving, hand tight around the edge of the table, wishing you could drag every word back into your mouth and swallow it. You had just handed him something raw, another stupid thing he could use against you.

Dean watched you for a long second.

Then his grip on the chair eased, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

‘So that’s what’s got you all bent outta shape.’

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked away at once.

The movement pulled at your bandaged forearm, but the sting barely registered. You wanted to deny it, to give him some cold, clever answer that made you sound above all of this. But there was no point. You had already laid it all out.

His voice dropped. ‘You think I cheated on you?’

You chewed the inside of your bottom lip and said nothing.

‘Oh,’ Dean said.

Just that. Rough. Interested.

Your eyes stayed on the wall, but you heard the chair scrape softly when he moved around it. A few slow steps brought him closer, and you stayed where you were because your head spun when you tried to shift your weight. Maybe that was whiskey. Maybe the blood loss. Maybe the fact that your body was still stupid enough to respond to him even while your mind screamed at you to keep distance.

‘Is that what’s been keepin’ you up at night?’ he asked.

He stopped close enough that you could feel the heat of him before you looked back. Your throat tightened.

‘Your precious husband fucking somebody else?’

The sting in your chest was instant. Your stomach turned, and bile burned at the back of your throat because he knew. He knew how right he was. He knew you well enough to understand the thought had been eating right through you.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes.

Dean’s gaze dropped.

Your shirt had shifted again. Your breasts were pressed high under the way your arms were crossed in the half-buttoned fabric, and his attention locked there with a hunger that made your pulse kick so hard it almost embarrassed you more than the question had.

His hand came up.

You tensed immediately.

Dean noticed. His eyes flicked back to your face, and for a second, that smugness sharpened. Then his fingers caught the crisp edge of your shirt where it split open over your chest. He touched the fabric only, teasing it aside just a little, slow and deliberate, careful not to let his skin brush yours.

‘These hands,’ he said, voice roughening, ‘on somebody else.’

You tried not to visibly wince.

His fingers slid along the seam of your shirt, close enough that your skin heated under the fabric anyway.

Then he leaned down. Too close. Close enough that for one terrible second, you thought he was going to kiss you. The heat between you rose fast. His scent hit you, whiskey and leather and Dean under all of it, and you hated that your body loved everything about it.

His face hovered near yours, his eyes moved over your lips, and your chest rose rapidly no matter how hard you tried to control it.

‘This mouth,’ he said, quieter now, ‘kissing somebody else.’

Your breathing went shallow. Your anger flared hard, and thank God for it, because anger made you pull yourself together.

You caught his wrist. Hard.

This time the burn was immediate and brutal. His eyes flashed black inches from your face, and a growl tore out of him as he jerked back. Smoke curled from under your fingers before you let go.

Dean stepped away, teeth clenched, shaking his hand once at his side, but he was not angry. He smirked instead.

Your heart was still racing as you glared at him. From the fear, from the closeness, from the sick pain of what he had described. Because of course it had kept you up at night. Of course you had thought about him with other women. You kept telling yourself it was not him, that your husband would never do that to you, that whatever Demon Dean did while he was gone did not count.

It had hurt all the same.

‘You can glare all you want, sweetheart,’ Dean said, still smirking as he flexed his burned wrist. The red marks were already fading too fast. ‘Doesn’t change what your pulse did when I got close.’

‘Screw you,’ you snapped.

Your eyes dropped to his wrist. The burns were almost gone.

That stopped you for half a second. You had seen your magic tear through demons before. And Dean was healing from it much faster. The damage closed in front of your eyes, leaving irritated skin behind where there should have been a much nastier wound. Something was definitely off.

Dean followed your gaze, then lifted his wrist with a little tilt of his head.

‘What? See somethin’ you like?’

You dragged your eyes back to his face, but said nothing.

His smile sharpened.

Then he turned away, dropped back into the chair, and reached for the whiskey.

‘Anyway,’ he said as he lifted the bottle and found only one swallow left. ‘You can unclench. I didn’t do any of that.’

You kept glaring at him as he took the last of the whiskey, drained it, and set the empty bottle down with a hard little tap.

‘The kissing and the fucking, I mean.’

He said it so casually that your breath caught, which pissed you off all over again. You laughed once, short and disbelieving, because how could you not.

‘Yeah, right.’

Dean’s eyebrows lifted.

You lowered yourself back into the chair because your head spun hard enough to make the room tilt. The rush of emotion had burned through whatever false steadiness the whiskey gave you, and sitting seemed smarter than finding out what the floor tasted like.

'Do you seriously expect me to believe that?’

Dean’s expression changed. The teasing did not fully disappear, but something colder settled behind it. He looked at you across the table, eyes narrowed and too serious now.

‘Cheating’s for asshats who gotta go sniffing around because they can’t keep what’s theirs satisfied. That ain’t me.'

You blinked at him.

Then immediately rolled your eyes because the line was so absurdly corny and so ridiculous that you did not know what else to do.

Dean just shrugged, as if the rest was obvious. ‘Besides, I already had the good stuff at home.’

Was he serious right now? Honestly. Was he just… mocking you again?

This had to be another way to mess with you. Demon Dean could not possibly be sitting across from you with a straight face and claiming he followed some kind of moral marital line out of principle.

You let out another tired, humorless laugh as your fingers dug into the flannel around you.

‘Of course, now,’ Dean went on, irritation cutting back in, ‘I can’t lay one damn finger on my own wife without getting my ass kicked by her magic.’ He threw one hand out, exasperated. ‘That’s a problem.’

'And why is that?'

You knew it was stupid. Of course it was stupid. You were exhausted, drunk, bleeding through a bandage, and sitting across from your demonic husband asking him why he cared so much about touching you when he had already spent the whole day making that painfully clear.

Still, your attitude was the only thing making you feel like a person instead of a trapped animal, so you held onto it.

Dean blinked slowly. ‘Really?’

You lifted your chin, even though the motion made the room tilt a little.

He looked at you for a full second, then rolled his eyes so hard you almost expected them to get stuck.

‘We're actually doing this now? What are you, twelve?’

Heat crawled up your neck.

Yeah. You had walked right into that one. But what else were you supposed to do? Let him sit there and talk about your body like it was some kind of denied privilege?

You looked away for half a second, trying to gather whatever was left of your dignity, but it was getting harder to hold onto anything. Your body was really starting to shut down now. Your mind too. You felt the pull of unconsciousness somewhere behind your eyes. Your limbs were heavy. Your eyelids kept trying to fall. You needed to lie down. You needed food, water, sleep, stitches, maybe a hospital.

And still, for one stupid, obvious reason, you wanted to keep him talking.

Because he was here. Because he was responding. And every word gave you something.

So you pushed through the dizziness and forced yourself to focus.

‘I just don’t get why-’

‘Goddamnit, I need you!’

His voice tore through the cabin hard enough to make you stop breathing.

Dean stood with both hands braced on the table now, face twisted with anger that looked too close to desperation. The empty bottle rattled near his hand. His eyes were green, but there was nothing soft in them. He looked furious with you, furious with himself, furious with the fact that the words had come out at all.

‘Alright?’ he snapped. ‘That what you wanna hear? Yeah. I need you.’

He grabbed the bottle, remembered it was empty, and the uselessness of it seemed to piss him off even more. His fingers closed around the glass.

‘I tried everything,’ he said. His voice dropped, but the force stayed in it. ‘Every damn thing I could think of to get you outta my head. I drank. I fought. I let women hang all over me. I let myself do whatever the hell I wanted because, hey, that’s the whole point, right?’

His grip tightened. The bottle creaked in his hand.

‘And it still came back to you.’ He looked at you then, and the raw frustration in his face made your breath go shallow. ‘Every time. You. Your voice. Your face. Your body.’

Your throat closed.

Dean’s mouth pulled tight. His jaw was clenched. ‘Nothing else was enough. Nobody else was enough. It all came back to my body needing yours.’

The bottle shattered in his hand.

Glass cracked across the table. You jerked back in your chair as sharp pieces skittered over the wood, some stained red where they cut into his palm. Dean swore, loud and nasty, and shook the shards loose. His hand was a mess for maybe two seconds. Then the skin started knitting itself back together.

The healing should have been the part that stunned you. But that was not the thing that held you still.

It was what he had said. The way he had said it.

Irritated. Furious. Hungry. Desperate in a way that made your stomach tighten because Dean had needed you before. Your Dean had wanted you. Missed you. Reached for you in ordinary moments. Your Dean had loved you.

This was different. This was terrifying. Because he obviously hated needing you.

And underneath the fear, under the whiskey and exhaustion and the insane pounding of your heart, something else pushed through.

A thought.

He needed you enough to lose control. He wanted you badly enough to make mistakes. Badly enough to bring you here, to let you burn him, explain himself, come closer even when every inch of your skin was a weapon against him.

That meant something. It had to mean something, right?

Maybe it wasn't enough to save yourself. But maybe it was the only thing you had. If he wanted you this much, if his obsession was this strong, then maybe you could use it. If he was trying to manipulate you, maybe you could do the same. Just to slow him down. To keep him close enough for the cure.

To bring him back.

Not tonight, of course. Not while you could barely keep your eyes open and your arm was bleeding through the bandage. But soon. You had to get your head clear. You had to stop reacting to every word, every look, every familiar piece of him he used against you.

You had to lock the fuck in.

Dean shoved away from the table and walked to the sink. He turned the faucet on hard and rinsed blood and glass from his already healed hand. The tension in his shoulders did not ease. If anything, he looked more annoyed now, as if admitting any of that had pissed him off more than your burning touch.

A faint wave of satisfaction moved through you.

It would have felt better if your vision had not started blurring at the edges.

You looked down.

The bandage around your forearm was soaked through now. The cuts throbbed under it. You had used too much blood, too much strength. Your body had been warning you for a while, and you had ignored every signal because you didn't want to show any more weakness.

You needed to lie down. Badly. But you still had one thing to say.

You gripped the edge of the table with your uninjured hand.

‘If you need me that much,’ you said, and even to your own ears, the words sounded thin now, ‘then let me cure you.’

Dean stayed with his back to you. His hands were braced against the counter, head dropped between his shoulders.

You swallowed, fighting the pull behind your eyes.

‘Let me set this right and take you home.’

His shoulders went still.

You tried to stand, or maybe you only thought about standing. Your body did not cooperate either way.

‘Dean.’ Your voice almost broke on his name.

He did not turn around.

‘Let me take you home.’

‘No.’

One word. Low. Final. More growl than answer.

The room tilted.

You blinked hard, but the shapes did not come back right. Dean’s back blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Your injured arm still throbbed under the ruined bandage, and your fingers had gone cold around the edge of the table.

‘P… please.’

This time he turned.

‘I said no.’

His face was stone cold. Jaw set. Eyes fixed on you with a sudden sharpness that told you he noticed what was happening a second before you did.

He looked like he might say something else.

That was the last thing you remembered before everything went black.

‘Son of a-’

Dean moved before the chair could tip all the way back.

One second she was sitting there, staring at him with those exhausted, glassy eyes, and the next her body went loose. Her head dropped, her hand slipped off the edge of the table, and the whole damn chair started going with her.

He caught her before she hit the floor.

‘Awesome,’ he breathed under his breath. ‘That’s just awesome.’

Her weight was not the problem. Demon strength made that part easy. The problem was the heat that hit the second he pulled her against him. Her body pressed into his arms and chest, and the burn came fast, biting through his sleeves, through his shirt, through every place she was close enough for that magic of hers to react.

Dean hissed through his teeth and tightened his hold anyway.

‘Yeah, yeah, I get it,’ he muttered, carrying her toward the bedroom. ‘Still mad at me.’

She did not answer. Her body was limp in his arms, her head against his shoulder, one hand hanging loose, and she was still hurting him without even trying.

He crossed into the bedroom fast, careful not to knock her bandaged arm against the doorframe. The old bed creaked when he lowered her onto it, and Dean had to peel his hands away one at a time. His shirt smoked faintly. The skin underneath stung and pulled tight while it healed.

He ignored it.

He leaned over her, close enough for his mouth to hover near her throat, and listened. Heartbeat there. Weak. Fast. Too damn fast, actually, but there. Her chest rose under the half-open shirt, shallow and uneven, and the next breath brushed warm against his cheek.

Still breathing.

Something in his chest loosened and he hated that immediately. He did not like the weird flash of relief that hit him, and he sure as hell did not like how it felt to know she was breathing.

Dean straightened, rubbed both hands over his face, then planted them on his hips and stared down at her.

Yeah, he was pissed.

No. Pissed did not cover it. He was livid.

Part of it was at himself. Obviously. Because apparently he had decided to run his damn mouth until he handed her every ugly piece of truth she had been digging for. Great job, dumbass. Real smooth. This was supposed to be fun. He was supposed to be leaning back, enjoying the show, watching her get all mad and flushed while he pushed buttons he had earned the right to push. She was supposed to figure out how to shut that magic down so they could both stop wasting time.

Instead, she had pushed and pushed until he said too much.

Need.

He had actually said that. Out loud.

Son of a bitch.

Now she had one more thing to throw in his face when she got her strength back. One more little weapon for that big brain of hers to turn over until she thought she understood him.

No. She didn’t understand crap.

Still, the worst part was her arm.

Dean’s eyes dropped to the bandage. Red had spread through the gauze near her wrist and along the lower edge, darkening where it had soaked too deep. The sight made his teeth press together.

That was on her.

If she had not tried to be a goddamn hero with the bloody art project, if she had not grabbed the nastiest knife in the cabin and carved herself open to keep him out, she would not be lying there unconscious, drained, pale as hell, and making him deal with one more problem.

He should have let her sit with the consequences a little longer. That was the lesson, right? Pull a stupid stunt, pay for it.

Except the lesson was useless if she bled through the damn sheets.

‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered.

Dean reached down and checked the bandage again, using the edge of the flannel wrapped around her to lift her arm. The cuts probably needed stitches. Better cleaning too, because those little wipes from the kit were crap.

She needed sleep. Proper rest. He knew that. He wasn’t an idiot. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes the second he got close to her in the Impala. Seen the hollow look in her face under all that panic. Seen how hard she had been running herself into the ground.

He had just hoped she could keep it together long enough to get them somewhere useful.

Common ground. A deal. A plan. Obedience would have been great.

Dean looked at her face.

She was turned slightly toward him. Her mouth was slightly open, still breathing unevenly. She looked wrecked. Worse than she had at the table. Worse than she had on the floor, crying.

And still, goddamnit, he missed her so much it made him angry all over again.

His gaze moved before he could decide against it. The shirt was still half-open under the flannel, fabric pulled wrong from the fight, from his hands, from the whole stupid day. His eyes caught there first, because of course they did. Then lower, to the curve of her waist, her hips under the wrinkled fabric, all the places he had been thinking about for three miserable weeks while every other distraction bored him into a bad mood.

Then his eyes stopped at her lips.

Bad idea.

Really bad idea.

Dean exhaled through his nose and ran a hand over his mouth.

He could wake her up. Shake her until those eyes opened, tell her to quit passing out on him, tell her she had a husband right there and a few damn marital duties she was seriously neglecting. The thought came fast and ugly, because he wanted her real fucking bad.

His eyes dropped to the soft skin peeking through the open shirt again, and his jaw worked once before he forced himself to look away.

No.

Even like this, he wasn’t that desperate. He didn’t need to take it from her while she was half-dead on an old bed. He wanted her awake, looking right at him when she finally stopped holding back. He wanted her to want it. Wanted her to ask. Beg, if he did this right.

And he was damn sure he could get her there.

The red on the bandage finally snapped his head back where it needed to be.

Dean's mouth flattened.

He was gonna have to make another run. He needed better bandages. Real disinfectant. Stitch strips, maybe. Something he could use instead of needle and thread, because stitching her up while her skin tried to cook him was going to be a real fun time for nobody. Food too. Something with salt, sugar, protein, whatever the hell she needed after bleeding on every wall in the room. More booze for himself, because this whole thing had turned into a bigger pain in the ass than advertised.

But the stores were closed now, or close enough to it, and driving out would take too long. He had already left her alone once, and she had turned the cabin into a damn murder house.

No. He was staying put until he knew she was stable.

Dean left the bedroom and dragged one of the old armchairs from the main room. The legs scraped over the floorboards the whole way, loud enough to make her shift faintly on the bed. He stopped, eyes cutting to her face. She didn’t wake.

He planted the thing beside the bed, angled it toward her and the door at the same time, then dropped into it with a hard, annoyed huff.

He leaned back, stretched his legs out, and stared at her.

She slept on, pale and silent. Her breathing evened out and her pulse seemed to settle back toward normal.

Dean’s mouth tightened.

‘You better not make a habit outta this,’ he muttered.

She didn’t answer, obviously.

He settled deeper into the chair, eyes glued to the rise and fall of her chest.

For now, he would watch her. Make sure she kept breathing. Make sure the bandage did not keep soaking through. Make sure nothing came through the woods, through the patched-up door, or through any other damn thing trying to take what belonged to him.

Yeah.

For now, he was making sure she was alright.

And if anyone had a problem with that, they could bite him.

Tag list:

@tinysnacklefan @spacepl4ant @ladysparkles78 @foxyjwls007 @mbinvisible @freddiemcn @alliwantisanimeandfood-blog

A/N: If you want to be added to the tag list for this story, let me know in the comments or DM.

[winchester19-67]

Loving You : Finding You Timestamp

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of scary sitatution, Fluff

Word Count: 3,148

Summary: It's been two years since you were kidnapped. You've moved on, but Dean still has days where he can't let go of the fear. After a hard day at work, he's on edge. Until he walks through the door to find a sight that reminds him that everything's okay.

A/N: I am so excited to dive back into this series! I hope you all like this one!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Two Years Later

Dean stops outside the door to take his keys out of his pocket, and he frowns when he doesn’t find them. That’s right. He changed into clean jeans. He’s not wearing the same shirt he left the house in. He even left his shoes behind at work and changed into a different pair before coming home.

Now if he could have just left his mindset at work, that would have been great.

He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes slide shut. He wills the images away. The dead body. The suspect running from him. The gun shoved in his face when he caught up. The blood that splattered when his partner shot them in the hand. Just to disarm them. They wanted the suspect alive. But it left Dean with red spots all over his clothes, and more scars on his mind.

“Okay,” he breathes out before reaching out to try the door handle. It’s unlocked. Which is fortunate for him, but doesn’t help his concern any. He begs you to keep the door locked when he’s not home. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened two years ago.

He opens the front door and steps inside. He gets ready to holler his normal greeting. “Babe, I’m home!” But today, his words die on his tongue before he can even say one syllable. The sound that greets him stops him in his tracks.

Not in the way sounds stop him at work. The screeching of tires. A scream. The wail of despair when he has to break bad news to people. Or the most recent, a gun going off.

No, the sound of little baby giggles coming from the kitchen is definitely more pleasant.

It immediately makes his shoulders feel lighter. His heart less heavy. His troubles seem even further away when he hears your laughter join in. He smiles widely before walking off through the house to find you two. Dean walks into the kitchen and tries to stay hidden. He doesn’t want to ruin the scene he just walked into.

Your seven month old is strapped in her high chair, and you’re standing in front of her holding a baking sheet up with your left hand. You have a can of cooking spray in your other hand, and you spray the sheet with it. The sound causes another chorus of adorable baby giggles to fill the room, and Dean’s heart.

He smiles widely and leans up against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches you two. You walk around behind your daughter where she can’t see you, and you spray the sheet two more times. She laughs again, causing you to laugh, and his smile to widen. Your eyes are so fixed on your baby, you haven’t even noticed him yet.

“Ellie,” you say as you walk around to the front of her. She watches you with wide eyes, an almost serious look on her face now. You hold up the can, not even spraying it, and she immediately cracks up. “It’s just because you know what’s coming,” you laugh. Her laughter dies down a bit when she doesn’t hear the sound, but she’s still smiling widely at you, waiting. You give it a few seconds before spraying again, and she laughs so hard she spits up.

“Eww,” you laugh as you walk over to get a rag. You wipe her mouth off and shake your head at her. “What did you do, huh?” That alone causes her to giggle. “You’re a mess,” you tell her. You hold the sheet up again and spray the cooking spray onto it at least five times.

Ellie laughs so hard she can barely catch her breath, and you double over in laughter. When you straighten back up, you catch sight of your husband standing there in the doorway. You smile even wider, and your eyes light up.

“Hi,” you laugh.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he chuckles as he walks over to you. “It looks like my girls are having fun.”

“How long have you been standing there?” you ask him as he pulls you in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he smiles widely at you.

“Long enough to see the absolute cutest thing ever,” he chuckles.

“Wait,” you say, giving him a funny look. “Are you home early?”

“No.”

Your eyes widen. “Shoot! Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” he laughs.

“Because I…” You stop and sigh heavily. “Because I was going to have dinner ready when you got home. But I got the baking sheet out to put the vegetables on, and when I sprayed it, she… Well…” Your eyes stay on his as you spray the can again, causing another insanely cute giggle to echo through the room. “She loves it.”

“Sweetheart,” he chuckles. “I would much rather come home to the sound of our baby laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath, than a hot meal.”

“It’d be nice to have both,” you mumble.

“Hey.” He places his hands on your shoulders and leans his forehead against yours, looking you in the eyes. “I love you for wanting to make sure I come home to a meal. And you know I love your cooking. But if I have to choose between food and coming home to find my wife and baby making memories in the kitchen, then I am always going to choose the laughter. Okay?”

“Okay,” you smile. He kisses you again before pulling away. This time he walks over to the highchair.

“What are you doing, babygirl?” he asks Ellie in a baby voice as he tickles one of the fat rolls on her legs. She giggles again and kicks her foot out towards him. “Are you having fun? Huh? Is Mommy funny?”

“We’re going to have to buy another can of cooking spray.”

Dean looks at you over his shoulder “Oh, honey, I am going out tomorrow and buying a whole case.” You start laughing. “I think we have another can in here,” he says before walking over to the panty.

Ellie is watching you with her wide, green eyes. What little dark hair she has is too short to do anything with, but it still somehow manages to look wild. Just like her. You hold the can up, causing her to smile widely. She lets out a squeal of anticipation, and you start laughing.

“Now, Ellie, you gotta give Mommy time to…” Your words are cut off when you’re sprayed with something, and you turn to see your husband standing there holding another can of cooking spray. “Dean!” you laugh. 

“Told you we had another can,” he grins.

“You did not just spray me.”

“Oh, I think I did,” he says. You hold your own can out towards him. “Ah, ah, ah,” he says in warning as he holds his even closer to you. “Don’t even think about it.” You quickly bring the baking sheet up to use as a shield before spraying towards him. “(Y/N)!” he gasps.

Ellie’s cackling causes you both to start laughing. Dean grabs a pot out of the sink to use as his own shield, but even he has to admit it’s not as effective as your sheet of metal. You run behind the counter, and he raises his can higher.

“Put it down,” he says, giving you a warning look. You squeeze the top just enough for it to make a sound and he takes a step close to you. “(Y/N), I mean it.”

You can see the smile he’s trying to suppress, but you can’t stop yours. You and your husband are having a shoot out with cooking spray and kitchen utensils while your baby laughs so hard her little face is red. There’s no way you could even pretend to be serious right now.

“Drop your weapon. Hands behind your head.”

“Huh-uh, Detective Winchester,” you grin as you walk towards the table backwards, keeping your eyes on him. “You don’t have any authority here.”

“Drop the can, sweetheart,” he says as he walks closer to you. You dodge him and run to his left side and over to the dining table, spraying him as you pass. “Hey!” he yells as Ellie lets out another long round of giggles. He rounds the table just in time to watch you slip and land on your back.

“(Y/N)!” he says as he drops everything and runs over to you. He kneels down with his knees on either side of your body. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say breathlessly. “Just knocked the wind out of me.” You frown as you watch your can of spray roll away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he laughs as he helps you sit up. “It’s my fault because I was chasing you.”

You give him a look. “You wouldn’t have been chasing me if I hadn’t been running,” you laugh.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You didn’t hit your head?”

“Honey,” you laugh again as he takes his fingers and gently runs them through your hair as if he’s looking for a knot. He’s always been overprotective, but he’s even worse when he’s had a bad day at work. Especially after what happened two years ago. “Dean,” you say softly as you bring both of your hands up to his face. He looks you in the eyes, grounding himself, and you smile softly at him. “I’m okay, baby. Covered in cooking spray.” He chuckles at that. “But I’m okay.”

“Good,” he grins before leaning in and kissing you. “How about you go wash up, and I’ll order us a pizza. Deal?”

“Deal,” you nod. He helps you up off the floor and to your feet.

You want to ask him what’s wrong.You can tell he’s carrying some heavy weight around, but he won’t talk about it in front of Ellie even if she isn’t old enough to take in what you’re saying. That was one thing he was adamant about when you got pregnant. He didn’t want your kids growing up hearing about the details of his job.

“Now,” he says as he walks over to the high chair. “Daddy’s been waiting to get his hands on you, but I didn’t want to ruin the fun.”

Ellie laughs as he picks her up out of her chair and kisses her cheek. You watch them for a minute, just like Dean did with you two earlier. You watch the way his eyes light up as he bounces Ellie in his arms and talks to her. You watch the way she reaches her little hand out to grab onto his nose, causing him to smile so big his eyes crinkle at the corners. Eventually, Dean lays her down in her playpen so he can call in a pizza, and you head on upstairs to take a shower. ~~~~~~~

You listen to Dean’s heart beating underneath where your head is laying on his bare chest. He takes a deep breath as he rubs his right hand up and down your arm. His left arm is wrapped around you with his hand resting on your shoulder. He draws soothing circles into your skin as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You turn your head a bit to look up at him, and he does the same to look down at you. You smile softly at him as you use your fingers to trace invisible patterns on his chest.

“Tonight was nice,” you tell him.

“Which part?” he smirks. “The standoff in the kitchen? Pizza and a movie? Or the sex?”

You laugh and shake your head at him. “All of it,” you giggle. He chuckles and presses another kiss to your head.

“It was nice, wasn’t it?”

You look him in the eyes. “You know, I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“Ah, don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he says softly. “I’m alright now that I’m home with my girls.”

You press a little further. “Something happened today, didn’t it?”

He looks at you for a minute before nodding. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of gunshots in my lifetime. Especially in my career. But for some reason today…” He trails off and takes a deep breath, tugging you a bit closer to him as if that’s even possible. “We got a call for a wellness check. I was in the area so I stopped in. I found a dead body and called in backup. There was still someone in the house. I could hear them in the crawl space. He took off running, and I took off after him.

“I cornered him a couple blocks away, and he… I grabbed his shoulder to stop him, and he turned and had a gun right in my face.”

“Dean,” you breathe out. You know he’s okay, obviously. Still, you can't shake the fear you feel every time he has a close call.

“I’ve had guns pointed at me before, but I couldn’t get to mine and I didn’t know backup had arrived. So for a second, I thought I was gone.” You can see his eyes filling with tears. “For a second, I thought about what would happen to you and Ellie. Who would take care of my girls and love them like I do?” He clears his throat a bit and shakes his head. “Then the gun went off, and I thought I was a goner. But it wasn’t his gun,” he adds quickly. “Backup had come, and one of the others shot him in the hand.”

“Is that why you changed your clothes?”

He nods. “I had blood on me. I took a shower and changed my clothes at the station. I wish I could have left my memories from the job there as well. I don’t like bringing that stuff home.”

“I bet you probably sometimes wish you could go to work without some memories from here,” you tease. “Like when Ellie’s kept us up all night screaming. Or when I’ve been nagging you.”

“Nah, honey,” he says as he squeezes you even tighter. “Those are the ones I hold onto during the days. Those are what carry me through.”

You smile softly at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he says as he kisses you. “I’m sorry that I let this stuff get to me sometimes. After what happened to you a couple years ago, this job just bothers me more.”

“Don’t be sorry, Dean,” you tell him softly. “I want you to talk to me about this stuff.”

He shakes his head a bit. “I don’t know what I’d do if things had turned out differently,” he says. “If I hadn’t found you in time. If they hadn’t held you captive and had just…” He stops and takes a deep breath. “What if I had never taken that case in the first place?”

“I’m okay,” you remind him. You move so both of your hands are braced on his chest and you’re holding yourself up a bit. “You found me. And we have an amazing life together.” He smiles widely. “We have each other. We have a beautiful baby girl. We have so much fun, and make so many memories together.” You lay a hand on his face, and he leans into your touch. “I don’t want you to beat yourself up about what could have happened. It didn’t. You found me.”

“And now I get to spend all my days loving you,” he says before kissing you again. You hear a cry over the baby monitor. “Huh-oh,” Dean chuckles as he pulls away. He reaches over onto his nightstand to grab the video monitor. She’s laying in her crib, kicking her feet and chewing on her fist. “Looks like she takes after her old man.”

“What?” you laugh.

“She’s wanting a boob.”

You slap his chest, and he laughs as he sets the monitor back. You get up off the bed and walk across the room to grab your robe off the closet door.

“Well, crap,” Dean grumbles as you tie the robe around you. “I was enjoying the view.”

“Shut up,” you laugh before walking out of the room. You walk across the hallway to the nursery and you pick Ellie up out of her crib. “Hey, pretty girl,” you say softly as you pick her up. You walk over to the rocking chair and sit down with her cradled in your arms. You pull one side of the robe down, and Ellie immediately latches on. She quickly gets her fill, and Dean walks into the room just as you’re standing up with her.

“I figured she’d be about done and be needing changed,” he says as he walks over to take her.

“I could’ve done that.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But it’s like I’ve told you a thousand times. You've done all the hard work with her. The least I can do is change her diaper. You go on back to bed.”

You don’t argue. This has quickly become your favorite part of the nighttime routine when Dean’s home. You grab the video monitor and watch. You can’t see Dean yet, but you can hear him. He’s singing so softly, you can just make it out through the monitor. You can just imagine him bouncing her in his arms as he paces the nursery. You’d give anything to watch, but you know Dean would stop singing the second he saw you. He still hasn’t thought about the fact that you can hear him over the monitor, so you don’t say anything.

It isn’t long until your husband’s form comes into view as he leans over the crib to lay Ellie down. He makes sure she’s settled before he comes back to bed.

“Still awake, darlin’?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you grin. “Baby go down okay?”

“She’s out like a light,” he says as he crawls back into bed. He wraps his arms back around you, and he kisses your forehead.

“You okay now?” you ask him.

“I’m just fine, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Impossible,” you say, smiling up at him. He smiles back at you.

“I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers.

You smile. “If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that you’ll always find me, Dean.”

“Always,” he nods. “And now, I’m always going to be loving you.” He kisses you again. “I hope you know that I love you.”

“I know,” you smile widely. “Believe me, baby, I know. I love you too.”

“I know,” he grins. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight,” you yawn as you lay your head back down on his chest. You snuggle up to him and let your eyes slide shut.

You fall asleep peacefully in his arms knowing that you two will always find each other.

Tags: @sandlee44 @stilltoomuchafangirl @emoryhemsworth @coldmuffinbanditshoe @deanwanddamons @invisiblexnobodyximportant @kalesrebellion @starryeyeseunbyul @capandbuckylvr @supernatural-bellawinchester @karikatz12481 @prettysourabbie @deans-baby-momma @compresshischest09 @supernatural3002 @laphirablack @idksupernatural @cookiechipdough @vicmc624 @justanotherwinchester @busy-bee-angel-misska @flamencodiva @lokismistressofmayhem

[ceobuggy]

thinking about huntergf!reader who only became a hunter because she thought her boyfriend, dean, died on a hunt. turns out his dumbass forgot to text her back for 2 years and now she’s really upset and dean has to do his best to win her back.