summary: he knows it’s wrong, you are his brothers girlfriend after all. but he can’t help it when you want so badly to be punished.
tags/cw: dom!dean . cheating / homewrecking . p in v . begging . rough sex . degradation & derogatory names . choking . spitting in mouth . hair pulling / gripping . manhandling . light sadism / pain
notes: title from the all american rejects! i do not condone infidelity nor do i encourage it, this is a work of fiction /// sorry this is so short! also wrote this in one sitting so not proof read and definitely not my best work
“sammy not keepin’ it up?” he teased when you first asked. “maybe you need a real man,” he said with a wink. a light joke, nothing real. after all, he wouldn’t do that to his brother right?
he was so, so wrong for it. he knew how happy sam was when you first started dating; he was practically jumping for joy. you were his first everything: kiss, love, body.
but now, dean felt like the worst brother in the entire world. and yet, he seemed to revel in it. it wasn’t his fault, though. you wanted him—no, you begged him.
your back arched under him as he thrusted into you from behind harshly. he held your arms behind you, immobilizing you, leaving you with only the ability to scream and moan. “f-fuck, dean—“
he used his free hand to grip your hair, pulling it roughly. “such a fucking whore,” he scoffed. his thrusts slowed as he spoke, agonizingly teasing. he pulled your hair so far that your back was flush against his chest and your head on his shoulder. “you love this, don’t you? getting pounded by your boyfriends older brother, hm?” he snickered, releasing your hair and pushing you back down onto the bed.
he pulled out of you to turn you around. his hands felt rough against your bare skin, scarred and calloused. “i wanna hear you fuckin’ say it,” he demanded. his hand snuck around your throat, gripping it tightly. “say you’re a fuckin’ cheating slut. a cheap cockwhore.”
you let out a whimper, clit pulsing and head spinning. “i-i’m a cheating slut… a-a cheap cockwhore.” your face burned in shame, watching as dean laughed in your face like you were some joke. honestly, you kind of were.
“that’s right,” he growled. his thumb circled your puffy clit, causing you to squirm. “sammy’s too good for you; he won’t treat you like the dirty thing you really are.” you moaned under him, his weight fully put on you. his leaking cock rested between your thighs, warm and heavy. he pinched your bean a little too harshly, causing you to squeal and arch, trying to pull away. he simply scoffed, “what? that hurt, bitch? well, you fuckin’ deserve it.”
you whined at his words, guilt washing through you. “p-please, dean,” you begged. “just fuck me.” your arms flexed above your head as you gripped the pillow under you. he obliged, thrusting straight through your walls, pushing his cock so far into you.
your head lolled to the side as a silent scream overtook you. his hips slammed against yours in a fastened pace, all the while he whispered dirty words against your neck. his hand held your throat in a firm grip, letting it squeeze tighter occasionally. he was toying with you, reminding you who was in charge.
he pulled away from you, his thrusts slowing in an uneven pace. his fingers gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to his. deans pupils were blown wide and he held a wide grin. “open your mouth, slut.” and when you did, he spat onto your tongue. you swallowed it with your gaze still against his. he hummed and began to rub circles on your clit while he pounded into you.
you squirmed, legs trembling around him as you moaned. “dean. dean, i’m close,” you whined. “s-so close.”
his thumb practically vibrated against your bean, mixing deliciously with his abusive thrusts. he groaned, “me too. come on your boyfriends brother’s cock.” he chuckled, letting himself bottom out repeatedly.
you saw stars before squeezing your eyes shut. your back arched and head fell back as you came undone. you clenched around dean, making him groan.
“fuck, you want it that bad, huh?” he teased, before he twitched inside you. he moaned before he spilled his seed deep inside you, thrusts slowing. “fuckin’ milking me like a good whore.”
after pulling out, he didn’t even bother to tackle an ounce of aftercare. instead, he got dressed. he didn’t even look at you, instead picking up his phone to send a few texts. then, when his eyes finally met yours, he just scoffed.
Sympathy for the Devil | Supernatural Series Rewrite
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Warnings: FLASH WARNING FOR GIF!!!!, canon violence, canon gore, religious trauma vibes, everyone's a lil traumatized, reader is noooot doing well, general angst
Word Count: 4501
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Season 5 | Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
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Even with your eyes shut, white light blinded you. Then suddenly, it was gone. You blinked slowly, frozen and still clinging to Dean. A child in the aisle across from you watched an in-flight movie starring a cartoon red devil and Yosemite Sam.
Your head turned to the side. “What the fuck,” you breathed out.
“I don't know,” Sam replied quietly.
Over the intercom, the pilot spoke, “Folks, quick word from the flight deck. We're just passing over Ilchester, then Ellicott City, on our initial descent into Baltimore—”
“Ilchester? Weren't we just there?” Dean whispered.
“So if you'd like to stretch your legs, now would be a good time to— holy crap!” The pilot cut himself off just as a large shock wave knocked the plane off-kilter.
Oxygen masks fell from the compartments above, and the three of you hurried to put them on. The white light was back, except this time, coming from outside the plane.
****
Your eyes were wide as you stared out the window of the rented car. The plane managed to land safely at an airport outside Ilchester despite the chaos, but your anxiety hadn’t calmed since finding Sam at the convent.
Speaking of which, the radio in the car droned, “—and Governor O'Malley urged calm, saying it's very unlikely an abandoned convent would be a target for terrorists, either foreign or homegrown.”
“Change the station,” Dean grumbled.
“On it,” you replied, poking a button.
“—Hurricane Kinley, unexpectedly slamming into the Galveston area—”
You clicked the button again.
“—announced a successful test of the North Korean nuclear—”
And again.
“—a series of tremors—”
And one last time.
“—swine flu—”
Silence followed after you clicked the radio off.
“Guys, look—” Sam finally said.
Dean barked, “Don't say anything.” He finally said a little more quietly, “It's okay. We just got to keep our heads down and hash this out, alright?”
Sam didn’t say anything for a moment. “Yeah, okay.”
“Alright, well, first things first,” Dean sighed. “How did we end up on Soul Plane?”
“Angels, maybe? I mean, y’know, beaming us out of harm's way?” Sam suggested.
“Well, whatever. It's the least of our worries. We need to find Cas.”
Unfortunately, that would be easier said than done. By the time you got to Chuck’s house, Castiel was dead. The angels blew him into a million pieces. Some of him had even ended up in Chuck’s hair.
Suddenly, the wiry writer looked around.
“What?” you asked.
“I can feel them,” he replied.
“Thought we'd find you here.”
The four of you whirled around to face Zachariah and the two angels accompanying him. “Playtime's over, Dean. Time to come with us.”
“You just keep your distance, asshat,” Dean replied.
Zachariah deflated. “You're upset.”
“You’re spoon-feeding the earth the apocalypse,” you deadpanned. “So, yeah, a little.”
“Maybe we let it happen.” The angel shrugged. “We didn't start anything. Right, Sammy?” He winked at the younger brother in a way that made your skin crawl. “You had a chance to stop him, and you couldn't. So let's not quibble over who started what. Let's just say it was all our faults and move on. 'Cause like it or not, it's Apocalypse Now. And we're back on the same team again.”
“Define ‘same team’.”
“You want to kill the devil. We want Dean to kill the devil. It's synergy.”
Dean scoffed. “And I'm just supposed to trust you?”
“This isn't a game, son,” Zachariah replied. “Lucifer is powerful in ways that defy description. We need to strike now— hard and fast— before he finds his vessel.”
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “His vessel? Lucifer needs a meat suit?”
“He is an angel. Them's the rules,” the angel shrugged. “And when he touches down, we're talking Four Horsemen, red oceans, fiery skies: the greatest hits. You can stop him, Dean, but you need our help.”
“You listen to me, you pussy,” Dean snarled, “after what you did, I don't want jack shit from you!”
“You listen to me, boy! You think you can rebel against us? As Lucifer did? You think we would allow you to stray so far? Your little quips will break under the weight of what we have coming for you. You swore to serve Heaven, as did (Y/N). If you even think about breaking those promises...” he trailed off and cleared his throat, straightening out his jacket.
A shudder ripped through you, but your face stayed blank.
Just then, Zachariah noticed Dean’s hand. “You're bleeding,” he said.
Your partner wore a wicked smirk. “Oh, yeah; a little insurance policy in case you showed up.” He slapped his bloody hand on a banishing sigil he’d drawn on a pocket door. “Learned that from my friend Cas, you son of a bitch.”
The angels vanished in a flash of light, and you immediately insisted on wrapping Dean’s hand.
****
You hadn’t slept at all the night before despite Dean tracing patterns on your back with the tips of his fingers. When that didn’t work, his breathing deliberately slowed and deepened. He eventually lulled himself to sleep while you continued to lie awake.
“(Y/N)?” You faintly heard Dean call. He leaned closer to you and snapped his fingers twice. “Sweetheart, you in there?”
You shook your head. “Sorry.” You returned to the task of cleaning the gun in front of you.
“You okay?”
With a sigh, you nodded.
He gave you a look.
“I’m fine. It’s only the end of the world,” you shrugged.
Dean stared at the ground. “I’m sure what Zachariah said isn’t helping you, either.”
You bit the inside of your lip.
“He won’t hurt us,” he tried to assure you. “I won’t let that happen.” Dean knew you weren’t convinced. “C’mere.”
Immediately, you got up from the floor and crawled onto the bed beside him. He’d set the gun he was working on aside and held your hand, staring at the wall ahead.
Just then, the door handle clicked.
“Hey,” Dean said, leaning back against the headboard with you unmoving beside him.
Sam replied, “Hey,” and threw something at his brother.
Dean easily caught the object with one hand, and you sat up only slightly to look at it.
“Hex bags. No way the angels will find us with those. Demons, either, for that matter,” Sam explained.
“Where'd you get it?” Dean asked, looking up at Sam.
“I made it.”
“How?”
Sam hesitated before answering, “I… learned it from Ruby.”
The mention of her name sucked the air out of you.
“Speaking of,” Dean said, “how you doing? Are you jonesing for another hit of bitch blood or what?”
“I— it's weird. Uh, tell you the truth, I'm fine. No shakes, no fever. It's like whoever… put me on that plane cleaned me right up.”
“Angelic methadone,” you murmured.
“Yeah, I guess,” Sam replied.
An awkward silence fell over the room.
“Hey, uh—”
Dean cut him off. “It's okay. You don't have to say anything.”
“Well, that's good,” Sam breathed out. “Because what can I even say? ‘I'm sorry’? ‘I fucked up’? Doesn't really do it justice, y’know? Look, there's nothing I can do or say that will ever make this right—”
“So why do you keep bringing it up?!”
Sam sighed again.
Dean quieted his tone a little. “Look, all I'm saying is, why do we have to put this under a microscope? We made a mess. We clean it up. That's it.”
“Alright, so, say this is just any other hunt,” you said, sitting up straighter, “what do we do?”
“We'd, uh, figure out where the thing is,” Sam replied.
“So we just got to find…” Dean trailed off, “the Devil.”
****
Truthfully, you knew your friendship with Sam would be on the rocks for a long time.
The man in question was staring at his dad’s journal, and you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. Dean sat on the bed beside you watching television; some environmentalist was rambling about carbon emissions.
“Yeah, right, wavy gravy,” Dean grumbled in response to the news story.
Suddenly, a knock on the door shook you out of your thoughts. You and Dean immediately grabbed your guns, and Sam answered it reluctantly.
Behind it was a woman dressed in a vest and pleated skirt; her smile so wide you thought her face would split in half. You furrowed your brow.
“You okay, lady?” Sam asked.
The woman reached out a hand toward Sam. “Sam? Is it really you?”
She pressed her hand to his chest, saying, “And you're so firm.”
The brunet stepped back in surprise. “Uh, do I know you?”
“No. But I know you. You're Sam Winchester. And you're—” the woman looked over at you and Dean who were still in an “attack dog” stance. “—not what I pictured. I'm Becky.” She invited herself into the room and started pacing and giggling. “I read all about you guys. And I've even written a few— Anyway, Mr. Edlund told me where you were.”
“Seriously?” you scoffed, getting off the bed. “Chuck?”
“He's got a message, but he's being watched. Angels. Nice change-up to the mythology, by the way. The demon stuff was getting kind of old,” Becky answered.
Sam shook his head. “Right. Just, um...what's the message?”
“He had a vision. ‘The Michael sword is on earth. The angels lost it’,” she explained.
Your mind raced as you tried to imagine what that meant.
“The Michael sword?” Dean asked.
Sam broke in before she could answer. “Becky, does he know where it is?”
“In a castle, on a hill made of forty-two dogs,” she replied.
“Forty-two dogs?” All Dean could do was repeat the words in shock.
“Are… you sure you got that right?” Sam looked uneasy.
“It doesn't make sense, but that's what he said.” Becky stepped back toward Sam. “I memorized every word. For you.” She started touching Sam again.
Sam looked uncomfortable. “Um, Becky, c—uh, can you... quit touching me?”
She was still smiling. “No.”
You stood from the bed beside Dean and stalked over to the oblivious fangirl. With the tips of your fingers, you steered her shoulder back toward the door.
“(Y/N), it’s fine—” Sam tried.
You carried on wordlessly. She did as directed, cowering away before sprinting down the hall. You shut the door and locked it behind her.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean asked. He wasn’t mad, just bewildered.
“We don’t have time for that shit,” you replied, “and I’m not gonna sit there and watch it happen.”
Sam looked at the floor sheepishly, looking more like the shy twenty-two-year-old you once knew. “Thanks.”
You nodded sharply.
****
While Dean called Bobby and the three of you waited for him to arrive, you tried your best to take a nap. Still, sleep wouldn’t come.
Frustrated, you sat up and groaned. “I hate feeling like this.”
“What?” Sam questioned.
You hesitated to answer, but you did anyway. “My mind won’t shut the fuck up. I haven’t slept, in like, forty-two hours. Talk about running on fumes.”
Sam gave a sympathetic look.
“I’m sure once you start feelin’ like we’re moving in a positive direction, you’ll be able to sleep,” Dean tried.
You sighed. “I hope so.”
Bobby arrived soon after, and you were grateful to have another familiar face in the room. The best advice he could give was to crack open a few books he’d brought and get to work, but Sam piped up before you could begin.
“Bobby, this is all my fault. I'm sorry,” Sam admitted.
“Sam—” Dean tried to cut his brother off.
He continued anyway. “Lilith did not break the final seal. Lilith was the final seal.”
“Sam, stop it.”
“I killed her, and I set Lucifer free.”
Bobby went still for a moment. “You what?”
All the younger brother could do was stare at the floor. “You guys warned me about Ruby, the demon blood, but I didn't listen. I brought this on.”
Bobby stood and moved toward Sam, who was unmoving from his place by the door. “You're damn right you didn't listen. You were reckless and selfish and arrogant.”
“I'm sorry,” Sam mustered.
“Oh, yeah? You're sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of shit don't get forgiven, boy. If, by some miracle, we pull this off… I want you to lose my number. You understand me?”
Although it seemed justifiable in your mind, you never thought Bobby would say such a thing.
Sam’s eyes never moved from the floor as he started to the door. “There's an old church nearby. Maybe I'll go read some of the lore books there.”
Bobby continued to stare him down while he left. “Yeah, you do that.”
Hours ticked by. None of you said a word. You couldn’t. The air in the room felt thick and stale, threatening to choke you if you dared speak.
Finally, Bobby was the one to break the silence. “I never would have guessed that your daddy was right.”
“About what?” Dean asked.
“About your brother.”
Dean looked up from his book.
“What John said; you save Sam or kill him. Maybe…”
The hair on your arms stood on end.
“Maybe what?” your partner murmured.
“Maybe we shouldn't have tried so hard to save him.”
“Bobby,” he warned.
“He ended the world, Dean. And you and I weren't strong enough to stop him proper. That's on us. I'm just saying, your dad was right.”
A lightbulb went off in Dean’s brain. “Dad.” He rummaged through his duffel bag before finding a Ziploc bag full of cards. “It's got to be in here somewhere.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bobby scoffed.
“Here.” Dean pulled out the card and read it to himself before looking up wide-eyed at you. “I don't believe it. It's a card for my dad's lockup in upstate New York. Read it.” He tossed it to you.
“Castle Storage. 42 Rover Hill,” you repeated.
“Castle on a hill of forty-two dogs.”
You tossed the card back to Dean.
Bobby furrowed his eyebrows. “So you think your dad had the Michael sword all this time?”
“I mean, he was a bit of a hoarder,” you joked.
Something in Bobby’s face changed. “Yeah. Okay. It's good enough for me.”
Before you had a moment to think, Bobby attacked Dean, throwing him through the short wall between the kitchenette and Sam’s bed.
Before you could move, there were two hands holding your wrists behind you. You tried to kick back at the man and woman holding you, but it was no use. They knocked you to the ground and held your arms out, stretching them painfully.
Dean was down and bleeding, and the woman behind you gestured to Bobby for him to take her place.
“I always knew you were a big, dumb, slow, dim pain in the ass, Dean. But I never dreamed you were so V.I.P.,” the woman said. She saw Ruby’s knife on the table and picked it up, inspecting it mockingly.
“I mean, you're gonna ice the Devil? You? If I'd have known that, I'd have ripped your pretty, pretty face off ages ago,” she smirked, stooping to his level.
“Ruby,” Dean grunted.
“Try again. Go back further.”
You piped up. “Meg?”
She turned back to you with a wide grin over her shoulder. “Hi. These are the days of miracle and wonder, friends. Our father's among us. You know we're all dreaming again for the first time since we were human? It's Heaven on earth. Or Hell. We really owe your brother a fruit basket.”
“My god, you like the sound of your own voice.” Dean rolled his eyes.
“But you, on the other hand, you two 're the only bump in the road. So every demon— every single one— is just dying for a piece of you.”
Dean smirked. “Get in line.”
“Oh, I'm in the front of the line, baby. Let's ride.” She kissed him forcefully, despite Dean trying to push her off. You threw your weight against the demons holding your wrists, gritting your teeth.
Dean made a face when she finally pulled back. “What is that, peanut butter?”
“Y’know, your surrogate daddy's still awake screaming in there. And I want him to know how it feels slicing the life out of you.” She gestured to Bobby again, giving the knife to him and taking his place behind you. She dug her nails into your wrist.
“Bobby, stop!” Continuously, you tried to rip yourself free from the demons’ grasps, their mocking laughs echoing in your ears. Dean tried to fight back against Bobby, but he was too hurt.
“Bobby!” your partner cried.
“Now!” Meg screamed at the demon inside Bobby.
He raised the knife to stab Dean, and you screamed his name. Before he could hurt Dean, though, Bobby managed to stab himself in the stomach.
The light of the demon’s essence flickered and faded as Bobby collapsed.
Dean took advantage of the shock on the demons’ faces and rushed the male demon. You took the opportunity to drag Meg to the ground by the wrist she was holding, and you managed to roll on top of her. Pain ripped through your shoulders while you tried to fight Meg.
Just then, Sam reentered. “No!” he shouted when he saw Bobby bleeding on the ground.
Sam joined the melee, exchanging petty insults with Meg. You took the opportunity to grab the knife from Bobby’s stomach and shoved Dean out of the way to stab the demon he was fighting with it. Meg got off Sam and backed away with her hands up in surrender.
You went to rush her, but she left the vessel’s body before you could reach her.
Immediately, you moved to tend to Bobby. The entire ride to the hospital, you were putting pressure on the bleeding from his stomach and listening to his chest to ensure there was still a heartbeat.
You watched in horror while the nurses at the hospital carried Bobby away to an operating room for emergency surgery. As much as you wanted to stay with him, you knew the Michael sword was of utmost importance.
As quickly as Dean could drive, you got to John’s lockup at Castle Storage. With weapons in hand and your sore shoulder back in place, you braced yourself for yet another fight in the storage room.
However, when you went inside, Zachariah stood amidst dead demon bodies sprawled across the floor. “I see you told the demons where the sword is,” the angel smirked.
“Oh, thank God. The angels are here,” Dean sighed.
“And to think, they could have grabbed it any time they wanted.” Zachariah waved a hand to close the door to the lockup, keeping you and the brothers trapped inside. “It was right in front of them.”
Your heart raced as you scanned the walls for an exit pathway.
“Don’t even think about it, (Y/N),” the angel warned.
You looked back at him, unblinking.
“We may have planted that particular piece of prophecy inside Chuck's skull, but it happened to be true. We did lose the Michael sword. We truly couldn't find it. Until now. You've just hand-delivered it to us.”
Dean scoffed. “We don't have anything.”
Zachariah’s expression was unamused. “It's you, chucklehead. You're the Michael sword.”
The room went quiet.
“What, you thought you could actually kill Lucifer? You simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing? No. You're just a human, Dean. And not much of one.”
“What do you mean, I'm the sword?” It was as if Dean’s brain was malfunctioning.
“Because you're chosen! It's a great honor, Dean.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, life as an angel condom. That's real fun. I think I'll pass, thanks.”
Zachariah became angry. “Joking. Always joking. Well, no more jokes.” He raised a hand with his fingers in the shape of a gun. He pointed it at Dean, then at Sam, and finally, at you. “Bang,” he said.
You collapsed immediately, pain ripping through your abdomen.
Dean was at your side in an instant, cursing at Zachariah, “You son of a bitch!”
“Keep mouthing off, I'll do that and more. I am completely and utterly through fucking around. The war has begun. We don't have our general. That's bad. Now, Michael is going to take his vessel and lead the final charge against the adversary. You understand me?”
“How many humans die in the crossfire, huh? A million? Five, ten?” Dean shouted back, his attention primarily focused on you.
The angel shrugged. “Probably more. If Lucifer goes unchecked, you know how many die? All of them. He'll roast the planet alive.”
“There's a reason you're telling me this instead of just nabbing me. You need my consent. Michael needs my say-so to ride around in my skin,” Dean realized.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, there's got to be another way.”
“There is no other way. There must be a battle. Michael must defeat the serpent. It is written.”
“Yeah, maybe. But, on the other hand, eat me. The answer's no.”
Zachariah sneered, “Okay. How about this? Your friend Bobby— we know he's gravely injured. Say yes, and we'll heal him. Say no, he'll never walk again.”
“No.”
“Then how about we heal you from… stage-four liver cancer?” Zachariah mused.
Dean doubled over next to you and coughed up blood. Still, he said, “No.”
“Then let's get really creative. Uh, let's see how… Sam does without his lungs.”
Sam began gasping for air, but Dean wouldn’t budge. “Just kill us,” he weakly challenged.
“Kill you? Oh, no. I'm just getting started.”
Suddenly, a bright light flashed behind Zachariah. One of the angels that was standing behind him now had a bloody hole in his throat. From behind the falling corpse, Castiel stepped out.
A small smile appeared on your face despite the pain you were in.
“How are you…” Zachariah trailed off as Castiel approached him.
“Alive? That's a good question. How did these three end up on that airplane? Another good question. Because the angels didn't do it. I think we both know the answer, don't we?” Castiel’s blue eyes had a challenging look in them.
“No. That's not possible.”
“It scares you. Well, it should. Now, put them back together and go. I won't ask twice.”
Zachariah complied and vanished, leaving you completely healed of the gunshot wound Zachariah had conjured. Sam could breathe again, and Dean wasn’t coughing up anymore blood.
“You need to be more careful,” Castiel chastised.
Dean stood from the ground to face him. “Yeah, I'm starting to get that. Your frat brothers are bigger dicks than I thought.”
“I don't mean the angels. Lucifer is circling his vessel. And once he takes it, those hex bags won't be enough to protect you.” He put his hands on Sam’s and Dean’s chests before he touched your collarbone. Sharp pain shot through you, feeling like your lungs had turned molten. Still, it barely managed to pull a cough and flinch out of you.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean questioned, groaning as he held his side.
“An Enochian sigil. It'll hide you from every angel in creation, including Lucifer,” Cas answered.
“What, did you just brand us with it?”
“No. I carved it into your ribs.”
Sam piped up after a moment, “Hey, Cas, were you really dead?”
“Yes.”
“Then, how are you back?” Dean asked.
Before you got an answer, Castiel disappeared.
****
With your head rambling endlessly with unanswered questions, you walked down the hall to Bobby’s hospital room.
You could hear him fussing at his doctor that was retreating from the room about the fact that Bobby would likely never walk again. Of course, his knee-jerk reaction was anger, but you knew his threats were empty.
Sam and Dean were already inside the room, and you’d left only momentarily to go to the bathroom.
“You believe that yahoo?” Bobby asked the brothers.
Dean shook his head. “Fuck ‘im. You'll be fine.”
“So, let me ask the million-dollar question,” Sam began. “What do we do now?”
Bobby took a breath. “We save as many as we can for as long as we can, I guess. It's bad. Whoever wins, Heaven or Hell, we're fucked.”
Dean somehow looked hopeful. “What if we win?” At the unsure expressions on your faces, Dean continued, “I'm serious. I mean, fuck the angels and the demons and their crap apocalypse. Hell, they want to fight a war, they can find their own planet. This one's ours, and I say they get the hell off it. We take 'em all on. We kill the Devil. Hell, we even kill Michael if we have to. But we do it our own damn selves.”
“And how are we supposed to do all this, genius?” Bobby scoffed.
Dean shrugged. “I got no idea. But what I do have is a GED and a give-'em-hell attitude, and I'll figure it out.”
“You are nine kinds of crazy, boy.” Despite his words, there was a smile behind Bobby’s eyes.
“It's been said.” Dean patted Bobby on the shoulder before moving to the door. “Listen, you stay on the mend. We'll see you in a bit.”
You followed behind your partner, keeping in time with his pace. “You really think we could win?”
Dean scoffed. “Hell, no. Just said a bunch of crap for Bobby’s benefit.”
“Liar,” you said, scanning his face as you continued to walk.
Dean shot you a weird look.
Sam caught up to you when you made it to the hospital parking lot. “You know, I was thinking, guys— maybe we could go after the Colt. We could use it on Lucifer.”
“C’mon, man.” Dean stopped short. “We don't stand a snowball's chance, and you know that. I mean, you of all people know that.” He moved to brush past his brother.
Sam called out his name. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
Dean considered his words carefully. “I tried, Sammy. I really tried. But I just can't keep pretending that everything's all right. Because it's not. And it's never going to be. You chose a demon over your own brother and look what happened.”
Sam shook his head and looked to the ground.
“I would give anything, anything, to take it all back.”
“I know you would. And I know how sorry you are. But, man… you were the one that I depended on the most. And you let me down in ways that I can't even…” Dean stopped and closed his eyes. “I'm just— I'm having a hard time forgiving and forgetting here, y’know?”
Sam’s jaw tensed as he tried to fight back his guilt. “What can I do?”
“Honestly? Nothing.”
Sam nodded, seemingly expecting that answer.
You watched quietly as Dean finished, “I just don't… I don't think that we can ever be what we were, y’know? I just don't think I can trust you.”
Sam finally looked up at you and Dean. Unable to stand it any longer, Dean just moved to the driver’s seat of the Impala.
Writers! Are you baking something delicious in your WIP folder? Share it with us under the following categories, then tag some fellow writers to keep that oven HOT! ❤️🔥
᯽ Special thanks to @bettystonewell and @jollyhunter for tagging me! ᯽
There are 3 options:
🎂 Three-tier-cake with cherries on top: this WIP is nearly done and just needs some final touches before it's served.
🧁 Cake mix (but it comes from the heart): this WIP has either been sitting in your pantry a while, or lives somewhere between "I'm technically writing it" and "I stopped writing in the middle of it and don't remember the recipe plot"
🥚 I forgot to buy eggs: this is a mere idea, a gleam in your eyes, an itch in your balls. You're not totally sure what it's gonna be when it grows up, but you're excited about it nonetheless.
Once you're done, tag some lovely mutuals!
Ok, here's some of what I've got cooking. This is basically a writing update, now that I think about it...
🎂 Three-tier-cake with cherries on top:
🤠 Return to Me (Dean Winchester x Reader):
Modern Cowboy!AU || Think Sweet Home Alabama meets Yellowstone. Exes to lovers with a lot of messy drama in store!
There's more info for this series coming soon, but it's definitely my biggest project right now. My lovely Patreon subscribers just got a full update on this with a sneak peek of Part 1! 👀
🧁 Cake mix (but it comes from the heart):
⚔️ A Broken Accord (Éomer x Reader):
Part 5 in The Appeasement Bride series || One year after Éomer makes a promise to you, the hope and optimism you once had during Yuletide has all but disappeared, and Éomer must make a choice: fight to keep you with him in Rohan, or send you home to Gondor.
Fully outlined the whole series, I just need to put metaphorical pen to paper and write the next chapter. I've gotten more buzz for this than I ever thought I would, considering how old the fandom is!
🌄 Run to You (Soldier Boy x Supe!Reader):
Sequel to Lost On You || You and Ben managed to escape the United States after ruining Vought’s multimillion-dollar investment, Project: Homelander, incidentally reuniting John with his biological father. Striking a tenuous deal with Vought, you’re able to privately carve out a new life in the mountains of Medellín, Colombia. But you and Ben have very different ideas on how to create a safe environment for your children, and your enemies, old and new, may be trying to find a way to topple your castle on a hill.
This mini series has been on the back-burner for... *checks files* Jesus Christ, two years now?!? 😭 I wrote LOY back in 2024, so I'm not sure if there's any real interest in a sequel, but maybe I'll do a poll of some kind when I'm ready to write another mini series.
🥚 I forgot to buy eggs:
These are things that are either just a spark in my imagination or a full on daydream mapped out in my head, but I fully plan to write them after I finish drafting the new Dean series!
❤️🩹 Left Like Us (Part 3): (Tom Hanniger x Reader):
You and Tom go back to Harmony and begin to make decisions about your future together, but first, you both will need to face the people you’ve left behind.
💚 Future one-shot (Soldier Boy x Reader):
Ben's pretty ragged when he claws his way back to America and tracks down the Legend. The supe doesn't feel human again until he encounters you, the one Legend ropes into cleaning him up.
(Requested by @wvffles on Patreon)
🌶️ Pepper Dick (Dean x Latina!Reader):
From the Midnight Espresso-verse series || On a rare date night, Dean takes his turn cooking you a zesty meal. You just should've washed your hands more thoroughly before you expressed your appreciation.
(A fun little idea that came to me from @lamentationsofalonelypotato lol. The plan is to write this in time for Hispanic Heritage month! 🇨🇺🇵🇷🇩🇴)
🪖 Future SB Series (Soldier Boy x Supe!Reader):
Prequel to Hold me tighter than you can || An idea that sparked from S5, and will be set both in the 1940s and the present S5 events —with a twist. I started to conceptualize this, but I'll need to wait until Vought Rising to really flesh this out. However, I can guarantee there will be some kind of "fix it" to the Clara/Liberty/Stormfront situation. (fucking yuck)
There are more little ideas in my files, but these are the most concrete ones that I still plan to write except for maybe Run to You.
Writer friends! Join in (no pressure tho, and sorry if you've already been tagged) - @luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @chevroletdean @supernotnatural2005 @rizlowwritessortof @spnbabe67 @tofics
Please, I am begging you. Please use a Read More break when you posts fics on Tumblr.
It's quick, it's easy (from mobile or desktop), and it is appreciated by all those who might be scrolling through. You can place it right about where the end of the first page would be, if your fic was a printed book, so readers get that first little hook of writing to pull them in.
Here's one as an example...
It looks like this on mobile (or, at least it looks like this on my old version of the app):
And it looks like this on the desktop/web browser:
But it greatly improves the overall tumblr experience for everyone! Thank you!
i saw the requests post and couldn't miss it 🤭 how about charlie pairing up her very single friend with a very emotionally constipated hunter? just dean flirting shamelessly because reader is a cutie and he has the full green light from charlie to lay it on thick ☝🏻🙂↕️
i love you and it's incredibly awesome to have you back 🩷
Just Give Me A Second
Summary: When your friend Charlie pulls you into the orbit of Dean Winchester, you have a choice to make: fall for his charm, or give him a run for his money.
Contents: Dean + Reader, strangers to friends, Charlie is an innocent wing woman just trying to help her friends out, teasing, flirting, drinking, awkward silences, and plotting revenge.
Note: This was written completely with you in mind, Liv. I hope you find all my little nuggets. It's funny to me that I had the first part written in about an hour, and then struggled for three days before a good idea came to me. But it is fun and cute and I hope you like it!
The first time you heard the name Dean Winchester, you weren’t quite sure what to think.
You didn’t know why Charlie brought him up in the first place. Both of you had been hanging out by the coffee pot, not willing to leave and risk losing claim to the first fresh cup that was currently brewing. Charlie asked about your weekend, which was completely uneventful, and when you inquired back, she got this weird look on her face and said it was interesting.
“Ok, but you can’t just say that and not give me details.” You demanded, trying to figure out why she looked both pleased and scared at the same time.
“I-I-…well, I, uh, kinda got roped into a side gig and helped possibly save some lives?” Charlie replied impishly, a smile spreading across her face.
You stared at her dumbfounded. The percolator hissed next to you, the red light dimming to indicate it was done. Neither of you moved.
“What are you talking about?” You hissed, eyeing the door to the break room to make sure no one was nearby.
“Well, you know that I had my Larping event this weekend, right?” Charlie waited for you to nod. “It kinda turned dark, and a couple people died, but then I freed a fairy from a curse, and…”
“Charlie,” you cut in, your eyes growing wider by the second, “people died? You sound insane, you know that?” You watched her ponder that while looking a bit embarrassed. “And a fairy! You mean someone larping as a fairy, right?”
“No…” Her voice squeaked a little as she trailed off.
“But there’s no such thing as fairies!”
“Well, that’s not true, you’ve just never seen one. Dean told me this fairy was totally different from the last one he fought off.”
“Who is Dean?” You racked your brain, but that definitely wasn’t someone she had mentioned before.
“Oh, Dean? Well, him and his brother, Sam, they, well…” Charlie twisted a strand of her hair around her finger. “They, uh, save people from bad things.”
“Like fairies?” You asked incredulously.
“No, fairies are good! This one was just bound by a spell to hurt others.”
Your brain was about to explode. Charlie was smiling at you like she had taken a hit of acid, and you were about to ask her if that was actually the case, when your manager walked in and asked if the coffee was done. Figuring that it wasn’t smart to talk nonsense in front of others, you poured yourself a cup while Charlie chatted with the manager about the meeting later that afternoon.
Even though you were kitty corner from Charlie, you both got pulled into different projects and didn’t talk for the rest of the day. On your lunch break, you did a search for fairies that led you down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories and people who had seen spirits in their basements. Half of it sounded batshit crazy. But you had known Charlie for almost 6 months now, and she wasn’t one to overexaggerate things. At least, you didn’t think so.
Waiting by the elevators for Charlie to finish her work and walk down with you, you debated whether to bring this all up again. It was too early in the friendship for you to consider calling a professional for a psych exam, but at the same time, you were concerned that something was really wrong.
Before you could decide what you wanted to do, Charlie snuck up next to you, bumped your hip, and grinned.
“I did something.” She teased. There was a glint in her eye that you had only seen once before. And that night had ended very badly.
“What?” You groaned, pressing the ‘down’ button to call the elevator.
“I sorta asked Sam and Dean if they could let me know the next time they were nearby. And then we can all get drinks.”
“You want me to get drinks with the people you claim hunt evil?” You leveled her with a look you usually gave your dog when he was getting into something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Well, it occurred to me at lunch, that you have been struggling to find someone, and Dean is very cute and very single…”
“Charlie!” You shrieked. Thankfully, you were alone in the elevator, so no one was going to come running at the sound of your panic. “You just said “next time he is in town”. Which means he doesn’t live here. Why would I want to go on a date with someone I can’t see regularly?”
“Trust me,” Charlie continued, like there was no room for argument. “You’re gonna love him.”
Begrudgingly, you had to admit that Charlie had been right.
Dean Winchester was, in fact, a lot more than just cute.
You were sitting down in a booth when the Winchesters arrived, which only emphasized their height. For a second, you thought they were strangers that had come to tell you they had just backed into your car. But when Charlie saw them, she squealed and jumped out of the booth. The taller one was smiling, his hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over to embrace her. When Charlie moved to hug the other one, you noticed he was a little stiffer, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He also whispered something into her ear. Charlie beamed and nodded.
Charlie introduced you, then grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him to the bar. Before you could call after her, Dean slid across from you and crossed his arms over the table.
“Hey.” This smile was different than the one he had given Charlie. You also didn’t miss his eyes grazing over your body.
“Hi.” You picked up your drink and tried not to shudder. Even though he was incredibly good looking, he was coming on way too strong.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Charlie.” Dean’s tongue flicked over his lips like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
“Like what?” You asked, trying to keep the smile off your face.
“Uh, well, she said that you guys worked together. So, you must be good with computers.”
“Well, it is a software company. I would hope that they hired competent staff.” You delivered sarcastically.
Dean blinked quickly, and then looked over at the bar and shifted in his seat. He glanced at you again.
“How long you guys known each other?”
“Since she started.”
With a sigh, Dean started drumming his fingers on the table. It was obvious that he didn’t usually get this much resistance and was mentally trying to figure out what to do next.
“You, uh, need a refill?” Dean offered, pointing at your glass.
“Nah, I’m good.” You sipped at your drink as Dean slid off the bench and made his way to the bar. He made a direct beeline for Charlie and Sam, and a smile tugged at your face. He might be cocky, but he folded like a cheap suit when he was challenged. And that was highly entertaining.
You pretended not to watch Dean converse with Charlie. He seemed a little irritated, especially when Charlie shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. They exchanged some more words while Sam sat between them looking miserable. Suddenly, all three of them glanced at you. Before you could choose whether to ignore them or stare back, Dean was crossing the room with a beer bottle in his hand.
“Everything alright?” You questioned sweetly.
“Oh, yeah.” Dean waved his hand and scoffed. “Just a little friendly teasing.”
“Ah, okay.”
Dean had apparently decided to take a different approach and seemed to be quietly waiting for you to show interest. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of striking up a conversation, so you let your eyes graze over the bar. Still, you could feel his blood pressure rising as the silence stretched on.
“You, uh, know how to play pool?”
“Nope.” You replied simply.
“I could teach you if you…”
“Nah,” you interjected. “Not interested.”
With tight knuckles, Dean brought his beer to his lips. He didn’t even try to be subtle about the glare he shot in Charlie’s direction. Pressure was building in the back of your throat and chest from holding down your laughter. You weren’t sure if you could keep it reined in much longer. From inside your purse, your phone trilled with a notification.
“Sorry.” You grabbed your phone and woke up the screen. It was from Charlie.
Stop toying with him! You’re being mean.
“Wait.” Dean said slowly as you tried to rearrange your face to hide the giggle that was bubbling. “I know that tune.”
Now it was your turn to look a little stunned.
“I doubt it.” You told him as your pulse began to quicken.
“No, no, it’s…it’s right there.” Dean furrowed his eyebrows. Your phone was long forgotten in your hand as you watched him think.
With a snap of his fingers, his eyes lit up, and he said the name of your favorite anime. One that you had been convinced was obscure enough that no one would ever link you to it. Your jaw went slack.
“You know about that show?” You blurted out.
“Know it? I was just watching it last night!”
Both of you stared at each other in awe. Now you felt a little bad about messing around with him. Maybe he wasn’t just the charming bad boy that you had painted him as.
“Have you seen the whole thing?” You wondered hesitantly.
“I’m close, got a few more episodes before I finish it.” Dean’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and your stomach twisted in delight.
Abandoning your teasing, you and Dean talked for almost two hours. You had forgotten what it was like to discuss something you enjoyed and not try to hide your inner geek. Even after the conversation shifted away from the show, you could feel the connection between you strengthening. It almost felt like time stilled around you. When Charlie walked over and asked if you were ready to go, you stared at her because you had genuinely forgotten she was there.
Dean was quick to ask if you wanted to exchange numbers. There was no hesitation in grabbing his phone and typing in your info. Charlie stood over the table grinning. Part of you wanted to give her crap for whatever she had told Dean this was. The other part was hoping that one day you’d be thankful she introduced the two of you.
Both of you stood and Dean leaned in first to give you a hug. Cedarwood and leather filled your nose, making you want to pull him even closer so the smell would linger. Just as you were starting to pull away, Dean tightened his grip and put his cheek up against your ear.
“Next time I see you,” he whispered, “I’m getting back at you for tormenting me.”
Your stomach dropped out from under you. It took your limbs a little longer to return to your side once Dean had shifted to hug Charlie goodbye. Sam gave you a quizzical look before waving goodbye and heading towards the door with his brother.
“So, it went well?” Charlie asked excitedly. You were watching the boys leave, and Dean turned and threw a wink over his shoulder before the door closed.
Face flushed, you looked over at your friend. “I am in serious trouble.”
Please like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoy! Thank you for reading!
A03 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/88308176
—————————————————
There are different kinds of quiet in the bunker.
There’s the good kind — the kind that comes after a hunt, when everyone’s back, alive, patched up enough to pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore. When the silence feels earned. Safe, in a way that’s rare for a life like this.
And then there’s this kind.
The kind that stretches a little too far, that lingers just long enough to make you aware of it. The kind that leaves you sitting with your own thoughts and nowhere to put them.
Which is never a good idea.
You’re sat at the table with your laptop open in front of you, the screen glowing softly in the dim light. You’ve stopped reading at some point — you don’t remember when — and now your fingers just hover over the trackpad like you might start again if you try hard enough.
You don’t.
Instead, your attention drifts.
Not to Sam — though he’s there, a few seats down, head also buried in his own laptop, focused and steady like always. Predictable in the best way. Easy to be around, because you know exactly what you’re getting.
No.
Your attention drifts further than that.
Across the room.
To him.
Dean’s by the counter, beer in hand, back half turned. He hasn’t noticed you looking — or if he has, he’s choosing to ignore it. That’s the thing about him. He notices everything, always has.
Just… not always the things you wish he would.
You should look away.
You know you should.
But you don’t.
Because moments like this — the quiet ones, the in-between ones where nothing’s happening — they’re the hardest to deal with. There’s no hunt to focus on, no danger to distract you, no reason to keep your thoughts in check.
Nothing to hide behind.
So instead, you sit there and watch him — the way he tips his head back slightly when he drinks, the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction when he thinks no one’s paying attention. Small things. Stupid things.
The kind that shouldn’t matter.
And yet they do.
You’ve tried to pinpoint when it started, when it shifted from nothing into… whatever this is.
You can’t.
There wasn’t a moment. No big, obvious realisation. No line you crossed where suddenly everything felt different.
It was quieter than that.
A slow build you didn’t notice until it was already there.
Late nights at this table. Long drives where conversation came easy, or didn’t come at all but still felt comfortable. The way he always steps in front of you without thinking when things get rough. The way your name sounds different when he says it — sharper when he’s annoyed, softer when he’s worried.
You didn’t mean to let it happen.
You just… didn’t stop it.
You drag your eyes away, a little too late.
“Tell me we’ve got something.”
Your heart does something stupid at the sound of his voice, and you hate that it does — hate that it’s that easy, that automatic.
You blink, forcing your attention back to the screen like you’ve been working the whole time.
“I’m working on it,” you say, and it almost sounds convincing.
Almost.
There’s a beat before he responds.
“Yeah?”
You don’t turn. You don’t need to.
You can feel him there.
Too close.
Close enough that you know he can see your screen, can see you haven’t moved in a while, can probably tell exactly what you’ve been doing instead.
“’Cause it kinda looks like you’ve been staring at the same page for a solid half hour.”
You exhale quietly, finally glancing over your shoulder.
“I have not,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’ve been reading.”
He leans on the back of your chair, the wood shifting faintly under his weight. Close enough that your shoulders tense without your permission, like your body reacts before your brain can catch up.
“Uh-huh.”
“Research,” you add, like that somehow makes it better.
“Right,” he says, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “And how’s that going for you?”
You turn back to the screen, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.
“Thrilling,” you mumble. “Honestly. Living the dream.”
There’s a quiet huff of a laugh behind you — soft, barely there — and it lands somewhere in your chest in a way you wish it didn’t.
You don’t let yourself sit in that feeling for too long.
You’ve learned not to — because if you do, it tends to spiral into something you can’t quite control, something that lingers long after it should’ve passed. It’s easier to ignore it, to push it down and focus on literally anything else.
Luckily, Sam gives you that out.
“There’s been a few reports in Ohio,” he says, pulling your attention away before your thoughts can drift back to where they were. “Couple of unexplained deaths. Witnesses mentioned some… weird behaviour beforehand.”
Dean straightens slightly behind you, and even though you’re not looking at him, you feel it — that shift in him when something clicks into place.
“Weird how?”
Sam types as he talks, eyes scanning the screen. “Erratic. Sudden aggression. One of them apparently attacked his own family out of nowhere.”
Your hand stills on the trackpad.
You already know where this is going, and part of you wishes — briefly — that you were wrong.
Dean says it anyway.
“Demon.”
Sam nods once. “Yeah. That was my thought.”
A pause settles over the room then. Not heavy, not uncomfortable — just understood. The kind of silence that comes when all three of you land on the same conclusion without needing to say much else.
You close your laptop, the soft click sounding louder than it should.
“Then I guess we’ve got something.”
Dean’s already halfway to his room by the time you finish speaking, like he’s been waiting for that confirmation.
“Alright,” he calls over his shoulder, “ten minutes. FBI mode.”
You push your chair back, grabbing your bag as you stand.
“Try five,” you shoot back. “Some of us don’t take half an hour to do a tie.”
He pauses just enough to glance back at you, pointing slightly.
“Hey. Presentation matters.”
You snort.
“Yeah, I’m sure the demons are very intimidated by your Windsor knot.”
Sam huffs a quiet laugh as he disappears down the hall, and Dean just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he heads into his room.
⸻
By the time you step out again, the bunker feels different.
Sharper. Focused. Like everything has shifted into place now there’s a job to do.
Your trousers sit snug, flaring slightly at the bottom, your shirt tucked neatly in — a couple of buttons undone at the top because you refuse to suffocate yourself for the sake of appearances — jacket fitted just right.
Simple. Clean. Professional enough.
You adjust your sleeve as you step into the main room—
And stop.
Dean’s already there.
Of course he is.
Tie straight. Jacket on. Everything exactly how it should be.
And for a moment — just a second — it hits you a little harder than it should.
Because it’s not just the suit.
It’s him in it.
The way it fits across his shoulders, the way he carries himself like he belongs in it even though you know he hates every second of playing dress-up. There’s something about it — something annoyingly attractive — and you hate that your brain even registers it.
You look away quickly, busying yourself with your jacket like you weren’t just staring.
“Wow,” he says, glancing over at you. “You clean up alright.”
You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction.
“Careful, Dean. Sounded almost like a compliment.”
He smirks faintly.
“Don’t get used to it.”
Sam walks in then, already straightening his own jacket.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between you both. “We’ve got about a two-hour drive. If we leave now, we can hit the scene before it’s too late.”
Dean grabs his keys, spinning them once around his finger.
“Let’s roll.”
⸻
The drive is easy.
It always is.
There’s something about being in the Impala that makes everything feel… steady. Like no matter what you’re driving toward, this part — this in-between — is always the same.
Sam runs through the details, glancing down at his notes as he talks.
“Latest victim was yesterday. Male, mid-thirties. No history of violence, no known enemies.”
“Until he snaps,” Dean mutters, eyes fixed on the road.
You lean forward slightly from the backseat.
“Same pattern as the others?”
Sam nods. “Yeah. Sudden aggression, no warning. Witness said his eyes went—” he pauses briefly, glancing back at you, “—black.”
You sit back again, exhaling quietly.
“So we’re not dealing with something subtle.”
“If it’s jumping bodies,” you continue, thinking it through as you speak, “we need to figure out how long it’s staying in each host.”
“And how many we’re dealing with,” Sam adds.
Dean glances at him briefly. “Yeah. Last thing we need is walking into a damn nest.”
You sigh, leaning your head back slightly.
“Love that for us.”
Dean smirks.
“Hey. You signed up for this.”
You lean forward just enough to nudge the back of his seat lightly with your knee.
“I do not remember signing anything, actually.”
“That’s because you didn’t read the fine print,” he shoots back.
Sam chuckles softly beside him.
And just like that—
It feels normal again.
———
The Impala rolls to a stop just short of the house, gravel crunching lightly under the tyres.
Dean cuts the engine, but for a second, no one moves.
He glances up at the rear-view mirror instead, his expression shifting — not drastically, but enough. That familiar change into something sharper, more focused. Professional, in the way he always is when it matters.
“Alright,” he says, voice steady. “Game faces.”
You lean forward slightly from the backseat, catching his gaze in the mirror.
“Remind me,” you say, tone light but pointed, “are we taking this one seriously, or are you gonna flirt your way through it again?”
Sam snorts quietly beside him.
Dean doesn’t even blink.
“I don’t flirt,” he says, already reaching for his badge.
You raise a brow, unimpressed.
He glances back at you, just briefly.
“Focus.”
There’s something about the way he says it — not harsh, not annoyed, just… direct — that makes you hold his gaze for a second longer than you probably should.
Then you lean back again, giving him a small, almost mocking nod.
“Agent.”
That earns you the smallest flicker of a smirk before he looks away again.
The house looks like every other one on the street.
Nothing out of place.
Which, if anything, makes it worse.
Dean knocks, firm and practiced, and you hear movement inside almost immediately — slow, hesitant, uneven. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t entirely sure they want to open the door.
When it does finally open, the woman standing there looks exhausted. Not just tired — worn down in a way that suggests sleep hasn’t come easy for a while.
“Can I help you?”
Sam steps forward smoothly, flashing his badge with that calm, reassuring ease he always seems to fall into.
“Ma’am, we’re with the FBI. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”
She hesitates.
Her eyes move between the three of you, taking you in, assessing, unsure.
You soften your expression slightly, letting your tone shift just enough to take the edge off.
“We won’t take up too much of your time,” you add gently.
That seems to do it.
She steps back, opening the door wider.
Inside, the air feels… off.
Not strong.
Not enough that anyone else would notice.
But you do.
And Dean does too.
You don’t look at him, but you feel it — that subtle shift, that unspoken confirmation that passes between you both without needing words.
Sulphur.
Faint, but there.
She sits across from you, hands wrapped tightly around a mug that’s long since gone cold, like she’s forgotten it’s even there.
Sam does most of the talking — he always does in situations like this — his voice calm, measured.
“Can you walk us through what happened?”
Her grip tightens slightly.
“He just…” she shakes her head, like she’s still trying to make sense of it. “He wasn’t himself.”
Dean leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her carefully.
“How long was he acting like that?”
“A few hours, maybe,” she says. “It started small. He was… distracted. Agitated.”
You nod slightly, keeping your tone even.
“Did he say anything? About how he was feeling?”
She frowns, thinking.
“Just that something didn’t feel right. That he felt… wrong.”
Dean’s eyes flick briefly toward you.
You catch it this time.
You’re not sure why that matters.
But it does.
“And then,” she continues, her voice dropping slightly, “he said he could smell something.”
Sam leans forward just a fraction.
“What kind of smell?”
She swallows.
“Rotten eggs.”
Dean exhales quietly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’ll do it.”
You shoot him a quick look, and he lifts a shoulder in response, like — what?
He’s not wrong.
A few minutes later, you’re moving through the house.
Dean gestures toward the hallway.
“Bedroom’s down there.”
You nod.
“I’ll check it.”
Sam stays behind with the woman, asking a few more questions, and you head down the hall alone.
The door creaks slightly as you push it open.
Nothing immediately stands out.
Bed unmade. Clothes half folded. A life paused mid-motion.
Normal.
Too normal.
You step further in, scanning the room slowly, letting your eyes adjust—
Then pause.
There’s a mark on the wall near the doorframe.
Faint.
Barely noticeable unless you’re actually looking for something.
You crouch slightly, brushing your fingers just near it without quite touching.
The smell hits you stronger here.
Sulphur.
“Dean,” you call quietly.
Footsteps behind you almost immediately.
Close.
Always close.
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head slightly toward the mark.
“Here.”
He leans in beside you, closer than he needs to be, his shoulder just brushing yours as he looks.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s fresh.”
You straighten slowly.
“So it didn’t stay long.”
He nods.
“Which means it’s already moved on.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“Great.”
⸻
Back outside, the air feels easier to breathe.
You lean lightly against the Impala, arms folding loosely as Sam joins you, flipping through his notes.
“So,” he says, “pattern’s consistent. Possession, short-term control, then it jumps.”
Dean nods, glancing back at the house.
“Yeah. Question is—why here? Why these people?”
You shrug slightly.
“Could just be opportunity.”
Dean looks at you.
“Demons don’t usually do random.”
You tilt your head.
“Maybe this one’s bored.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Yeah. Lucky us.”
There’s a brief pause.
The three of you standing there, thinking it through, letting the pieces settle.
Then Dean claps his hands together once.
“Well. We’re not getting much more out of this tonight.”
You glance at him.
“So what, we call it?”
He shrugs.
“Regroup. Hit the next location in the morning.”
Sam nods.
“We can check the other victim’s place. Maybe hospital records.”
You push yourself off the car slightly, rolling your shoulders.
“And in the meantime?”
Dean looks at you.
There’s a small smirk there now — familiar, easy.
“Food. Drink. Preferably both.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there you don’t bother hiding.
“Of course.”
⸻
The bar is exactly what you expect.
Nothing special.
But not bad either.
Just… somewhere to sit, drink, and forget for a couple of hours.
Dean seems satisfied with it immediately, which probably says more than anything else.
A couple of drinks in, the tension from earlier starts to ease — not gone, but softer around the edges.
Manageable.
Dean leans back in his chair, bottle loose in his hand.
“So,” he says, glancing between you and Sam, “any bright ideas, or are we just winging it tomorrow?”
Sam exhales quietly.
“We’re not winging it.”
Dean raises a brow.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him.
“I thought your whole thing was winging it.”
He looks at you.
“That’s different.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “When I do it, it works.”
You snort, shaking your head.
“Right.”
Sam chuckles into his drink.
It’s easy.
That’s what gets you.
Sitting here like this, talking about nothing important, letting the noise of the bar fill the silence — it’s easy to forget everything else for a while.
Easy to pretend this is all it is.
Just this.
“Hey.”
Dean nudges your foot lightly under the table.
You look up.
He jerks his head toward the back.
Pool table.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“Don’t.”
He smirks.
“Don’t what?”
“You already look too confident.”
“That’s because I am.”
You lean back in your chair.
“I could take you.”
Sam nearly chokes on his drink.
Dean goes still for half a second, then—
“Oh, you are definitely gonna regret saying that.”
You don’t.
At first.
Because your first shot goes in clean.
You straighten slightly, trying not to look too pleased with yourself.
“Alright,” you say casually. “Not bad.”
Dean just watches you.
Amused.
“Mm.”
“Don’t,” you warn, pointing slightly at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like you’ve already won.”
Dean takes the cue from your hand with an ease that’s almost irritating, rolling his shoulders once before he leans over the table.
“Sweetheart,” he says, lining up his shot, “I don’t act.”
There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, no need to line things up three times like you did. He just looks, decides, and takes the shot.
The crack of the balls is sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bar, and one of the striped balls drops neatly into the corner pocket.
You fold your arms, trying not to let how smug he looks get under your skin.
“Okay,” you say, watching him straighten. “That one doesn’t count.”
Dean glances at you, mouth already twitching.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I said so.”
He huffs out a laugh, low and amused, like he’s genuinely enjoying this more than he should.
“That,” he says, circling the table slowly, “is not how pool works.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty positive.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat in it. Not when Sam’s standing off to the side with that look on his face, halfway between entertained and fully expecting you to embarrass yourself.
You glance over at him.
“You could at least pretend to support me.”
Sam lifts his drink in one hand.
“I do support you.”
“That sounded fake.”
“It was a little fake,” he admits.
Dean grins.
“See? Even Sam knows when a game’s already over.”
You scoff.
“It’s not over.”
He meets your eyes as he leans down for another shot, the smirk still there, annoyingly steady.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped just low enough to make your stomach twist in a way you immediately resent, “it was over the second you challenged me.”
Then he sinks another ball.
Effortlessly.
You stare at the table for a second, then at him.
“I actually hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He says it without thinking, still focused on the next shot, and the words land a little too easily between you. Casual for him. Not casual for you.
You look away first.
That’s becoming a habit.
It only gets worse from there. Every time you think you’ve got an opening, Dean clears another shot. He barely even looks pleased with himself anymore, which is somehow more annoying than if he were openly gloating. Like he expects this. Like he knew from the second he picked up the cue exactly how this was going to end.
By the time you miss another shot badly enough that the cue ball kisses the side cushion and does absolutely nothing useful, even you can’t pretend this is going well.
Dean doesn’t bother hiding his reaction this time.
“Wow.”
You close your eyes for a second.
“Shut up.”
“That was rough.”
“Dean.”
“I’m just saying, if this hunting thing doesn’t work out, professional pool’s definitely off the table.”
You turn toward him, cue still in hand.
“Take your turn before I use this as a weapon.”
That only seems to amuse him more.
“There she is.”
You blink.
“What?”
“That attitude.” He steps closer, reaching for the cue. “Knew you had it in you.”
Your fingers loosen around the wood a second later than they should, and for the briefest moment his hand brushes yours as he takes it. It’s nothing. Barely anything.
Still, your pulse betrays you.
You hate that it does.
Sam, of course, notices everything.
“You two done?” he asks dryly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Or should I come back later?”
Dean doesn’t even look at him.
“She started it.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, that is such crap.”
Sam raises his brows.
“So mature. Both of you.”
“Thank you,” Dean says.
“I wasn’t complimenting you.”
Dean sinks another ball.
You watch the easy line of his shoulders as he straightens, the casual confidence in the way he moves. There’s something unfair about how good he is at things like this. Like even when he’s relaxed, even when he’s messing around, there’s still that edge to him. That certainty. That quiet assurance that makes everything he does look easier than it probably is.
You try not to think too hard about why that gets to you.
It’s during his next turn that you notice her.
Not properly at first. Just someone near the bar, laughing at something one of the guys beside her says. Blonde, pretty, confident in the way women in bars always seem to be when they already know they’re being looked at. You wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Dean’s attention hadn’t shifted.
But it does.
Only slightly.
A glance, then another, just long enough to register interest.
And because you know him — because at this point you know the tiny shifts in him better than you probably should — you notice it immediately.
The way he straightens a little. The way his gaze lingers half a second longer when she looks back. The faint, almost unconscious change in his expression, like something in him has already decided there might be some fun to be had here.
It’s easy.
That’s the worst part.
He doesn’t have to try very hard. He never has.
And you know that. Of course you do. You’ve seen it before — in bars, in diners, in cheap motel hallways, in places where the job is over for the night and he lets himself slip into that version of Dean that’s all charm and smirks and low, easy confidence. It shouldn’t come as a surprise.
It doesn’t.
But that doesn’t stop something unpleasant from twisting low in your stomach anyway.
Not because he’s doing anything wrong. Not because he owes you anything. He doesn’t. You know that. You know all of that so well you could probably recite it to yourself in your sleep.
He’s Dean. This is what Dean does.
The problem isn’t him.
It’s you.
It’s the fact that no matter how many times you remind yourself this was never yours to feel possessive over, something in you still reacts anyway. Still goes tight and uncomfortable when his attention lands somewhere else. Still aches in that stupid, humiliating way you’d never admit out loud.
You look back at the table before you can dwell on it too long.
“Your shot,” Dean says, stepping aside.
You nod, moving forward.
“Try not to mess this one up,” he adds.
You glance at him sharply.
“Keep talking and see what happens.”
He grins, pleased with himself.
You line the shot up more carefully this time, mostly because you need something to focus on other than him. Other than the woman at the bar. Other than the fact you can already see the way this night’s probably going to go.
The ball goes in.
Finally.
Dean lets out a low whistle.
“Well, look at that.”
You straighten, trying not to look too satisfied.
“See? I’m improving.”
He tips his bottle toward you.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
You roll your eyes, but some of the sting has gone out of things now that you’ve got the shot. The game carries on, loose and easy and full of stupid comments you know you’ll remember later more clearly than you should.
By the time you all drift back toward the table, your cheeks are warm from drink and laughter and the slow buzz of the evening settling under your skin. Sam drops back into his seat first. Dean lingers at the bar for a second, waiting on another drink, and you tell yourself not to look.
You do anyway.
The woman’s there now, closer than before.
Talking to him.
Of course she is.
Of course he’s smiling.
It’s not even a particularly big smile, not one of the rare real ones that catches you off guard. Just that easy, practiced thing he wears when he wants to be liked. When he wants something. His head dips slightly so he can hear her better over the noise, and she laughs, touching his arm like she’s known him longer than five minutes.
You look away so quickly it almost makes your neck ache.
Sam notices.
You know he notices because Sam notices everything, especially where you’re concerned, and definitely when it comes to Dean. He doesn’t say anything straight away though. Just takes a sip of his drink and waits you out, which somehow makes it worse.
“You okay?” he asks after a minute, too casually.
You give a short laugh, though it doesn’t sound all that convincing even to your own ears.
“Why?”
“Maybe because you look like you’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not.”
Sam gives you a look over the rim of his glass, one of those patient, unimpressed ones that says he’s not buying it for a second.
“You are.”
You pick at the label on your bottle, eyes fixed on your hands.
“It’s nothing.”
He doesn’t call you a liar. He doesn’t have to. The silence says enough on its own.
Across the room, Dean laughs again, and the sound carries more easily than it should.
You hate that you know the difference between that laugh and the others. Hate that some part of you hears it and immediately tries to figure out what kind of smile went with it.
“It’s stupid,” you say eventually, before you can stop yourself.
Sam stays quiet, letting you keep going if you want to.
You wish he wouldn’t.
Because now you’re halfway there.
“It’s just…” You exhale, jaw tightening briefly. “He can do whatever he wants. I know that. I’m not saying he can’t. It’s not like he owes me anything.”
“No one said he did.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
You take another sip of your drink even though you don’t really want it now, just to buy yourself a second.
“It just gets old,” you murmur.
Sam’s gaze softens a little.
“What does?”
You let out a quiet laugh that doesn’t feel much like one.
“Feeling like an idiot, mostly.”
Sam doesn’t answer straight away. He just watches you for a second, maybe deciding how much to push.
“You’re not an idiot.”
“It feels a lot like it.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“Then maybe you should tell him.”
That gets your attention fast enough.
You look at him properly for the first time in a minute.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
You stare at him like the answer should be obvious.
“Because then I’d have to live with that.”
Sam tips his head slightly.
“Or something good could happen.”
You shake your head straight away.
“Yeah. Or I could make it weird and ruin everything.”
Before he can answer, Dean returns, sliding back into his seat like nothing’s happened, drink in hand and that same easy energy still hanging off him. If he notices the abrupt silence at the table, he doesn’t say.
“What’d I miss?” he asks.
You’re the one who answers first, because you have to, because if Sam does there’s no telling what he’ll say.
“Nothing,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.
Dean glances between you and Sam.
“Uh-huh.”
Sam hides his mouth behind his drink.
Traitor.
A little while later, Dean disappears.
You don’t see the exact moment he leaves. Maybe that’s deliberate. Maybe you were trying not to watch too closely and missed it. Either way, one minute he’s there, leaning back in his chair with that loose, relaxed posture that only ever shows up when he’s off the clock, and the next—
he’s gone.
You don’t ask.
You already know.
And that knowledge settles heavier than it should.
By the time Sam nudges his empty glass away and looks at you, the room has taken on that softer blur that comes with drinking just enough to quiet your thoughts without actually getting rid of them.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
You nod, pushing yourself upright.
“Yeah.”
The floor shifts more than you expect when you stand.
Sam catches your elbow automatically.
“Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you mumble.
He gives you a look.
“Yeah. You always say that.”
The walk back to the motel is slower than it should be, mostly because you’re just unsteady enough to lean into Sam more than you mean to. He doesn’t comment on it, which you’re grateful for. He just adjusts, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet while the cold air helps clear some of the haze from your head.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then Sam glances down at you and says, quieter this time, “I meant it, you know.”
You frown.
“What?”
“About telling him.”
You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan.
“Sam.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Absolutely not.”
He smiles a little at that, but it doesn’t last.
“You can’t just sit on this forever.”
“I can try.”
“That sounds healthy.”
You bump lightly into his shoulder.
“Shut up.”
He laughs under his breath, and for a second it feels easier. Simpler. Until the motel sign comes into view and the night catches up with you again.
Back in the room, you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the carpet like it might give you something better to think about.
It doesn’t.
But it’s easier than letting your mind circle back to Dean. To where he is. To what he’s probably doing.
Sam sets a bottle of water down beside you, nudging it into your line of sight.
“Drink.”
You glance at it, then up at him.
“I’m not dying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
You huff quietly, but you take it anyway. The water’s warm and unpleasant enough that you grimace the second it hits your tongue.
“Ugh.”
Sam snorts.
“Yeah. Real five-star service.”
You set it back down, fingers lingering against the plastic for a second.
The room settles into a quieter kind of silence. Not uncomfortable. Just tired.
You can feel Sam watching you without making it obvious.
“You good?” he asks after a moment.
You nod automatically.
“Yeah.”
The word comes too quickly to mean much of anything, and you know from the look he gives you that he hears it too.
Of course he does.
Sam’s always been better at this than Dean — better at reading what people don’t say, better at noticing when something’s off. Dean notices too, sometimes. Just not in the same way.
You tug your other shoe off and let it drop to the floor.
You lean back on your hands and tip your head up toward the ceiling. It’s easier than looking at him. Easier than explaining something you barely want to admit to yourself, never mind out loud.
“I’m fine,” you say again, quieter this time.
Sam doesn’t push. Doesn’t call you out. But the silence that follows makes it obvious he doesn’t believe you, and the worst part is you don’t blame him.
Because even you know that isn’t really true.
———
You don’t remember lying down properly.
At some point you must have, because when you wake, light is creeping around the edges of the curtains and your head feels heavy in that dull, cotton-wool sort of way that makes everything take half a second longer to process.
Not awful.
Just slow.
You blink a couple of times and turn onto your side. Sam’s already up, sat at the small table with his laptop open and a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Morning,” he says without looking up.
You groan and drag a hand over your face.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Sam huffs a laugh.
“Rough night?”
You push yourself upright slowly.
“Shut up.”
“That bad, huh?”
You squint at him.
“I’m serious.”
He lifts one hand in surrender.
“Alright, alright.”
A knock sounds at the door a minute later. Short. Familiar.
Sam glances up.
“That’ll be him.”
Something in your chest tightens before you can stop it.
You hate that you still react like that.
Sam gets up and opens the door, and Dean walks in like he owns the place — which, honestly, he kind of does. He brings a different kind of energy with him, one that changes the room the second he steps inside.
He looks scruffier than usual.
Shirt wrinkled. Hair more of a mess than it normally is. Tie nowhere to be seen. There’s a faint smugness to him too, something satisfied sitting just beneath the surface like he hasn’t bothered to hide it.
Sam leans against the doorframe.
“Morning.”
Dean shrugs his jacket off and tosses it over the chair.
“Morning.”
Sam watches him for a second.
“Have fun?”
Dean pauses just long enough for the answer to be obvious before he even says it.
“Yeah,” he replies easily. “Yeah, I did.”
You look away before you can think too much about that. At the floor. At your hands. Anywhere but him.
Sam folds his arms.
“Oh yeah?”
Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just another night.
“Barmaid was…” He considers it for a second, then smirks. “Enthusiastic.”
Sam snorts.
“That’s…great Dean”
Dean only smirks wider.
“Yeah.”
It shouldn’t matter.
That’s the thought that hits first, immediate and familiar, the one you always reach for when this happens. It shouldn’t matter, because this is Dean and this is what Dean does, and none of it has anything to do with you.
But that doesn’t stop the quiet sinking feeling in your stomach anyway. Doesn’t stop the stupid, unwanted images your brain tries to supply the second he says it. Doesn’t stop the sharp little sting of knowing he can say something like that so casually while you’re sitting right there trying not to let it show on your face.
Dean moves around the room like nothing’s changed, pulling a clean shirt from his bag, and maybe that’s what makes it worse.
How normal it is.
How easy.
You stand a little too quickly.
“Bathroom’s free?” you ask, not really looking at either of them.
Sam nods at once.
“Yeah.”
You grab your clothes and move before either of them can say anything else, brushing past Dean without meeting his eyes. You’re aware of him as you pass — the closeness of him, the smell of stale beer and aftershave and something that is just him — and you hate that even now your body notices.
The bathroom door closes behind you a little faster than necessary.
The mirror is unforgiving.
You stand there for a moment longer than you mean to, looking at yourself properly, like maybe if you stare long enough you’ll find some version of yourself that looks less affected by all of this.
You don’t.
You just look tired. Slightly worn around the edges. Annoyingly normal.
You turn the tap on and let the water run, more for the noise than anything else. Something to fill the silence before your thoughts get too loud.
Because they’re already heading there.
You lean your hands against the sink and stare down at it instead.
It shouldn’t matter.
That’s the thing you keep circling back to.
It shouldn’t matter what Dean does, or who he leaves with, or how naturally he slips into that version of himself like it’s second nature. You’ve seen it before — probably more times than you could count if you really tried. Different faces, same outcome.
You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the sink.
It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.
He hasn’t promised you anything. Hasn’t looked at you in a way that gives you the right to feel any of this. If anything, he’s been exactly the same as he’s always been.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because you’re the one who changed.
Somewhere between hunts and late nights and long drives and all those small moments that felt harmless at the time, you let yourself start wanting something you were never going to get. Something that only ever existed because you let it. Because you kept feeding it every time he smiled at you, every time he said your name in that low, rough voice, every time he looked at you for half a second too long and you decided it meant more than it probably did.
Now you’re stuck with it.
And stuck with yourself for being stupid enough to let it happen in the first place.
You shake your head once, like it might dislodge the thought.
Keeping your feelings for Dean Winchester a secret has always been easier than admitting the truth.
But after a hunt takes an unexpected turn, the cracks begin to show. The harder you fight to hold everything together, the more it feels like something is working against you—and some secrets aren’t yours to keep forever.
The truth has a way of finding its own voice.
✍️Authors note:
I hope you all enjoy this one! It’s only a short series—just 3 chapters—but they’re all quite long
I’ve really been enjoying dipping my toe into the world of Dean Winchester, and there will definitely be more Dean fics to come! As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this one. 🌶️
