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Dean // SPN - 6x18
For @deangenchallenge - May 2022
Theme 🤠 WILD WEST 🤠
Dean Winchester Appreciation Week | Day 1 - Funny Dean
Dean Winchester Appreciation Week
Day 1 - Funny Dean
While I love Dean's wisecracks and one-liners, my favourite moments are more non verbal with his micro expressions, gestures and nuanced body language.
The last one is more on the dorky side but I love it ❤️
You tossed your keys down on the wooden table hard and Dean immediately stepped out of the library, a large leather bound tome in his hands. “Hey,” he said. There was a curious expression on his face and you had no idea how hard it was for him to keep a huge anticipatory smile from spreading across his lips. “Don’t ‘hey’ me!” you said immediately. “What? What’s the matter?” You scoffed. “You think that was pretty hilarious, don’t you?” He pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know what you mean.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “That guy? REALLY, Dean?” “You didn’t have a good time?” You cocked your head at him and glared. “Two minutes after I sat down he tried to invite himself back to my place for a ‘wham bam, thank you, ma’am’.” Dean’s jaw actually dropped and he burst out laughing. “Oh my God. That’s even better than I imagined!” “Oh, it gets worse! He wouldn’t stop talking about how much he loves The Beatles. Like THE WHOLE TIME. He’s OBSESSED with The Beatles to an unhealthy degree. He almost couldn’t talk about anything else. Oh, except for when he started talking about his political views--which included how women getting the vote is socialism--and explained that he only lives at home with his mom still because she ‘Can’t function without him’ but two sentences later let it slip that she does all his laundry, all the cooking and cleaning, and pays him a weekly allowance. He was like, I don’t know, 40? What the fuck, Dean?! Where the hell did you find that guy?” He couldn’t stop laughing at the look on your face. “At that gas station by the abandoned mall,” he said. You shot him another dagger of a glare. “Aright, not really. When we were at the bar the other night he tapped on my shoulder when I was getting the beers and told me he thought you were ‘as beautiful as a judge’ and I guess,” he shrugged dramatically, “I just knew right then that the two of you were meant to be.” He flashed you a huge grin. ”’As beautiful as a judge’? What the fuck does that even mean??” “I have no idea,” he grinned. “So, how’d you leave it?” “Well, obviously before the drinks even arrived I knew this was a strategically constructed disaster so I threw a wad of cash on the table and bailed!” Dean laughed again, hard, and you couldn’t help softening a little. It was a pretty harmless prank--the guy was a complete weirdo but not dangerous and Dean knew perfectly well that you could handle yourself. When next he looked up, those sparks of glee burning in his green eyes you couldn’t help but crack a smile and shake you head at him. “You owe me $50 plus damages for emotional distress.” He laughed again lightly and nodded. “Well, you obviously didn’t eat, so let me cook you dinner.” “That’s a start...”
Lucky | Part 4
Sam X Reader
Summary: You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside. Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?
Warnings: descriptions of injuries, cursing
Word Count: 2.1K
Series Masterlist
You don’t stop running. Even when you hit the tree line.
You’re finally forced to when you catch the toe of your muddy sock on something and pitch forward. You let out a clenched scream when you automatically catch yourself with both hands and pain shoots through the swollen, purple fingers of your left hand. You yank the cloth from your mouth with your other and lean over to finally retch.
You can’t hear the sounds of fighting anymore, but you still don’t feel safe enough to exit the cover of the woods to try and flag someone down on the road. You clutch your stiff left hand to your chest and keep moving.
The adrenaline burst of your escape is waning. Your steps become uneven as you start feeling more of the pain and dizziness from your injuries. You stop to lean against a tree and heave again, bringing up nothing but stringy saliva and hot bile. You look up, considering the road again, and see what looks like a gravel driveway perpendicular from where you stand.
The car comes into view as you stagger forward. It’s black and old. And familiar.
Long arms close around your shoulders and waist from behind. You can’t muster more than a whimper.
“Hey, hey it’s okay, Y/N. You’re safe now.”
The arms scoop you up as your body collapses and then you’re sliding into the backseat. The alarm bells are still blaring in your head. You feel anything but safe, but the fight is out of you. The car is loud, your ear pressed to the leather seat, and the movement makes your head spin. You groan, keeping your eyes squeezed shut and wishing you would just pass out again.
“She better not yack back there,” you hear over the roar of the engine.
“Hand me some water.” The other voice comes from above your head. “Oh, and the ashes.” The smell of campfire fills the car. There are hands pulling gently at each of your limbs, turning them over, and setting them back down. A large warm hand is at the back of your neck lifting your head. “I need you to swallow these. It’s just some stuff to help with the pain.” Three pills press past your lips, followed by the metal edge of a canteen. You groan again as your head rests back down and then you feel fingers lifting the hair around the lump at the back of your head.
“Hospital,” you murmur.
“Don’t worry, we got you. Try to go to sleep,” his voice soothes. A blanket drapes around you and you realize how bad you’re shaking. You feel his hands rubbing at the gash on your wrist. It stings, but you’re slipping away.
-
“I still don’t think we should be stopping yet.”
It’s bright and you keep your eyes squeezed shut as you’re jostled out of sleep and into someone’s arms.
“I need to get her cleaned up so I can splint her hand, Dean. It’s daylight, and if the ashes didn’t work, we’d know by now.” His voice rumbles in his chest against your ear. Your whole body is throbbing, but your head especially. You’re grateful when the light dims against your eyelids and your body lowers onto a bed. A stiff bed, but a bed.
You hear the man identified as Dean grumble and a door click shut. The bed dips near your legs and fingers brush your cheek.
“Hey,” he whispers, “I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to get you fixed up.”
His voice is pulling you from the haze of sleep despite how hard you fight it. You don’t want to feel the fear and pain returning. You feel a sock peeling from your foot. “Do you think you can shower?” You blink your eyes open.
“Greg?” you rasp. You must be hallucinating. You remember the car and his soothing voice and big hands.
He chuckles, stripping off the other sock. “My real name is Sam. I know this is all really confusing and I have a lot of explaining to do, but right now I’m just trying to help you. Your hand is broken, and I want to get you clean before I put fresh bandages on. Can you shower on your own?”
You nod slightly, eyes wide. You can’t make sense of a single thing that’s happened to you, including your rescue. Is that what this is? A rescue? You can’t help feeling, as the saying goes, out of the frying pan and into the fire. The last time you saw Greg, or Sam rather, you nearly called the cops on him. It felt like forever ago now.
Eyeing him warily, you hoist yourself slowly off of the ugly, floral-patterned comforter. You ignore the hands that come up to help you and start walking stiffly to the bathroom. You’re in a small motel room with two full sized beds and a lot of highway noise coming through the thin, yellowing walls. The bathroom is worse than the room with its stained and chipped plaster and questionable black crud on the tiles. The scariest thing in the bathroom, though, is the reflection in the dingy mirror above the sink. Finally getting sight of the physical toll of your experiences brings everything rushing back. Your wide eyes quickly fill with tears.
Your face is puffy, eyes red and purple rimmed. Your hair is wild around your face, pulled almost entirely out of the single braid it had been in during your hospital shift. There are dried rivulets of blood running from the back of your head and down your neck. Your scrubs are turned to a blackish color where blood has soaked into the navy fabric. And where there isn’t blood, there are cakes of mud. Your left hand looks terrible. There are likely breaks in many fingers as well as your hand, but it’s impossible to tell what’s broken and what isn’t with all the bruising and swelling. Your right hand is better off. The gash on the inside of your wrist is the only wound that looks to be cleaned. It was deep and will leave a nasty scar, but the healing has already started.
You start at the rap on the slightly cracked door.
“Hey, you should take some pain meds now, so they’ll have kicked in when I have to work on your hand.” He offers two pills and a metal water bottle through the door.
“I should be taken to a hospital.” You croak, unmoving.
“We’ll talk more when you come out.”
You take the medication from him. You imagine washing up will be hard on your aching body and you could already use some relief. You move to shut the crack in the door and meet resistance. “Sorry, I think you probably have a pretty bad concussion. Just leave it cracked in case you pass out and fall, or you need help.” You meet one green eye through the crack in the door. In one quick movement, you throw your shoulder against the door and turn the lock. He huffs on the other side but backs away.
Your small rebellion feels good, even if the quick movement makes your head reel.
The shower is difficult with one good hand, a tender head, and a tiny bar of soap. The difficulty doesn’t make it any less satisfying. The blood and dirt swirl down the drain with the scalding water. You let some tears fall into the mix too.
You dry your hair gingerly with a towel and then wrap it around yourself. You sigh and crack the door. “Umm…Sam?” He’s already standing on the other side.
“You okay?”
“All I have are my scrubs and- “
“Oh, hang on.”
His hand reaches through the door with a white T-shirt and plaid shorts. “Dean isn’t back yet but these have a drawstring.”
The clothes are ridiculously oversized for your frame, but also ridiculously comfortable. You exit to find him still standing right outside the door. You brush past him and plant yourself back on the bed. He stays put, staring at you, awaiting your cue.
You look up and meet his eyes, “So, your name is Sam?”
His face breaks into an easy smile, “That is your first question?”
“I don’t know where to start. Who the hell you are is as good a place as any.”
“No, you’re right actually.” He grabs a bag off of one of the nightstands and comes to your side, settling to his knees beside the bed. You shift your legs so he can spread the bag open and pull out medical supplies onto the bedspread. “My name is Sam, and my brother is Dean. We both have a bunch of fake IDs like the one you found. Driver’s licenses, badges, government ID, whatever gets us through the doors.” His eyes flick up to your cautious gaze. “We hunt down things that people don’t believe in. Supernatural things. We use aliases to get information on whatever we’re tracking. That’s the gist.” He holds out an open palm for you to place your injured hand into. You keep it held to your chest.
“You know, I’ve heard a lot of bullshit- “
He sighs and grabs the forearm of your other hand before you can pull away, holding it out palm up, “You’ve seen it yourself. They drank from you, didn’t they? The vampires?”
“Vampires?” you whisper.
“Yes. I know it’s scary to find out that things like that are real. And to find out the way you did. Most people live their lives blissfully unaware, but some of us aren’t so lucky.” He reaches his palm out again, “I’ll tell you everything, but please let me see your hand.”
You place it in his and hold your breath as he begins wrapping it in a splint. “We’ve been in town hunting these vampires. We’ve had a run in with this particular nest in the past. We offed a lot of them, but not all of them. Sebastian, their leader, got away with the few remaining and we couldn’t find them again. Since then, they’ve got their numbers back up and got our attention again. Exactly what they wanted. Sebastian now has a personal vendetta against me in particular for killing his mate. Vampires mate for life.”
He offers your bandaged hand back to you and reaches for your other. This one is quick. He adds butterfly bandages to hold the laceration on your wrist closed, some antibiotic ointment, and a bandage.
“And now, where you come in. Coincidentally, I meet you twice. I know now that it truly was a coincidence, but you have to understand that in my line of work, coincidences aren’t a thing. Everything has meaning.”
“Everything is suspicious,” you echo venomously.
“Yes. I followed you just in case. I really am sorry about that night.” He looks into your eyes when he says it, squeezing the repacked bag in his long fingers. “I didn’t think you’d recognize the car. I just…I’m sorry.”
“It kind of sticks out,” you spit. The kinder his words, the more the anger bubbles in you. You don’t even doubt the sincerity of his story, however crazy, or his apology. You’re angry anyway.
He huffs out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah, tell that to Dean.”
He moves back a couple of feet and sits on the edge of the opposite bed. “Anyway, Sebastian took our meetings as interest and targeted you.” Despite yourself, his implied lack of interest stings. “An eye for an eye, my girl for his girl, I guess. He also knew that if he took you, we’d come. That’s our job.” He shrugs. “I saw you run. Thank god you did. We were outnumbered. Losing. So again, we just hurt them. They’re not finished, and Sebastian is still alive.” He sighs and runs a hand through his long hair. His eyes flick back to where you stew. “And that’s the hardest part of this. You have to stay with us. When a fang has your scent, they hang onto it for good. The saffron, cabbage, and trillium ashes helped throw them off for now, and they’re hurt too. But they’re more pissed than ever. They’re not waiting around for another year to get us.”
There it is. You’re captive again. All of your emotion has channeled into pure rage.
“You think- “ you start in a low growl, but the door swings open, the handle meeting the pre-existing dent in the wall behind it. Dean waltzes in, bags in hand, and a rolling cot in tow.
“Dibs on a real bed,” he crows with a grimace, kicking the cot the rest of the way into the room. “For you sweetheart,” he adds dumping the bags at the foot of the bed you sit on. He carries a fast food bag with him and flops in the center of the bed where Sam still sits on the edge.
“Tense.” He mutters with his mouth full of burger.
Confetti
CAS: Let’s get dressed into something more presentable and then go? We can have those miniature pastries you like so much.
DEAN: *Scowls* Hey! You said you’d never bring that up again.
CAS: I still love you even though you like miniature pastries, Dean. I don't understand why it’s such an issue?
DEAN: Because Dude, it’s...you know, gay.
CAS: *Frowns* But… you are gay.
DEAN: No. I’m heteroflexible.
CAS: Right, what is that exactly?
DEAN: *Grinns* Like, gay-adjacent.
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Read More:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659205/chapters/36373026
Supernatural | 13x08 - The scorpion and the frog
Cas: Look how's coming crawling to me now.
Dean: you fucking idiot! You either fix my legs now or give back my crutches.
