#honey-oddities

[honey-oddities]

In Your Hands

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (gn)

Warnings: None, just fluff and Dean being a softie

Prompt: Reader having their nails always done despite Deans comments.

An: Hope you enjoy! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

Word count: 1298

The first time Dean saw your nails, he blinked. Then blinked again.

"You're kidding."

You held up your hands, wiggling your fingers with a fat grin on your face. The afternoon light caught the rhinestones you'd had embedded in the coffin-shaped acrylics. Each nail had a deep burgundy chunky French tip with multiple rhinestones on each finger. They were so extra. 

Dean's face went through about five different expressions before settling on confusion.

"We're hunters," he said, like you might have forgotten. "We stab things. We get dirty."

"And?" You examined your nails with appreciation. "I can stab things and look good doing it."

"Those are…" He gestured vaguely. "Those are long."

"They're coffin-shaped. Very practical."

"Practical?"

You'd laughed at his face, and Dean had just shaken his head and muttered something about "hunters these days."

He didn't bring it up again.

Until the next town.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

You had a system, and Dean learned it fast.

Roll into town. Check into the motel. Get the lay of the land. And then, without fail, you'd find the nearest nail salon.

"Seriously?" Dean had asked the third time. "We're supposed to be working a case."

"We are working a case." You were already pulling up some inspo nails in the last few magazines you saved. "I'm gathering intel."

"You're getting your nails done."

"Exactly." You gave him a small smile. "You know how long I sit in that chair? The gossip I get? These ladies know everything about everyone in town. It's better than checking the police blotter."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Sam, sitting at the motel table with his laptop, didn't even look up. "She has a point. We've solved three cases faster because of her salon trips."

“And thank you, Sam."

Sam shot you a quick grin. "Anytime."

Dean stared at both of you like you'd grown second heads. "You're telling me…you're both telling me that the secret to our success is nail salons?"

"It's not the secret," you said, already heading for the door. "It's just a really good tool. Be back in two hours."

And you were.

Two hours later, you walked back into the motel room with freshly done nails, this time a warm brown with tiny white swirls and hibiscus flowers painted on each accent nail, and a full report on the local disappearances. Who'd been seen where. Who was acting suspiciously? Who had a history of weirdness.

Dean had just blinked at you.

Then he'd taken the notes and started the research.

He never complained about the salon trips again.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

The thing that really got him was the scratching.

It started small. You'd be sitting next to him in the Impala, reaching over to brush a piece of lint off his shoulder, and your nails would graze his neck by accident. Just enough for him to feel the drag of them against his skin.

Dean had shivered. He'd tried to hide it, but you'd noticed.

"Sorry," you'd said, not sounding sorry at all. "Did that tickle?"

"No," he'd said, too fast. "It was...that was nothing."

You'd smiled that smile, the one that meant you knew exactly what you were doing. And you'd done it again. On purpose this time.

Your nails trailed down the side of his neck, leaving goosebumps. Then you'd dragged them through the short hairs at the back of his head, scratching gently at his scalp, and Dean had practically melted.

"What the hell," he'd breathed.

"Good, right?"

"It's.." He swallowed hard. "It's okay. I guess."

"Okay?"

"Shut up."

You'd laughed, but you didn't stop. And Dean didn't ask you to.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

It became a thing. A Dean thing.

Whenever you got your nails done, he'd find excuses to be close to you. Sitting next to you on the motel bed. Leaning over your shoulder to look at your laptop. 

And every time, you'd oblige. A scratch down his back. A gentle drag of your nails across his stubbled jaw. A slow scrape against his scalp that made him go boneless.

"It's the sharpness," you'd told him once, examining your newly done stilettos. They were a white base with pink airbrushing all over, with metal stars on the middle fingers. "The sharper they are, the better the scratch."

Dean had made a sound that was suspiciously close to a whimper.

You'd filed that away for later.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

The salon thing escalated when Dean started coming with you.

He claimed it was for protection. That he wanted to get as much intel without you being the middleman. "Can't have you wandering around town alone," he'd said, his tone a little gruff. "Small towns are dangerous."

You'd raised an eyebrow. "I've been hunting for years, Dean."

"Yeah, but." He'd shrugged, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. "I have nothing better to do. Rather not go insane by staying in the same room as Sammy for the next few hours.”

You'd let him have that. You'd let him have everything.

The first time he walked into the salon, he looked wildly out of place. Broad shoulders and a leather jacket, standing awkwardly in the middle of the pastel-colored room while the techs giggled behind their hands. You'd watched him squirm for exactly three seconds before taking pity on him.

"Sit," you'd said, patting the chair next to yours. "You'll be fine."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look cute."

"I do not look-“ 

You'd scratched his hand lightly, just once, and he'd shut right up. Sat down in that chair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The techs had loved that.

Dean got his first manicure because the tech with the most incredible acrylics he'd ever seen asked him directly.

"Do you want?" she'd said, gesturing to his calloused, slightly bitten-down nails. "We will make it nice."

"I don't- I'm not-! " He'd looked over at you, panicked. "I don't do that."

"He does," you'd said with a smile. "Clear polish. Just a buff and shine. Keep it plain."

Dean had started to protest, but the tech had already grabbed his hand, and he was helpless against the force of her will. Twenty minutes later, he had the smoothest, shiniest nails of his life.

"Huh," he'd said, holding them up. "That's not terrible."

"You look pretty," you'd told him.

"I'm gonna kill you."

"You love me."

He hadn't denied it.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Your nail designs got wilder as time went on. And Dean loved every single one.

He loved it when you came back with tiny cartoon ghosts painted on your coffin nails. Loved when you had rhinestones that caught the light during his drives. Loved when you went full-out with intricate flower patterns that wrapped around each finger.

And he really loved when you'd scratch his back with them at the end of a long hunt, your nails raking down his spine through his shirt. It made him sigh and forget every bad thing that had happened that day.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

"Admit it," you said one night, sprawled across his chest in some cheap motel bed. Your nails were a soft lavender with little crescent moons painted on each one, and they were currently tracing lazy patterns across his bare skin.

"Admit what?"

"That you love the nails." You propped your chin on his chest, looking up at him with that knowing smile. "That you think they're the best thing that ever happened to you."

Dean snorted. "I don't think I'd go that far."

"Dean."

"Fine." He grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "They're not the worst thing. Happy?"

"Ecstatic actually."

He pulled you up for a kiss, and you laughed against his mouth, your nails scratching lightly at his jaw.

Dean smiled into it.

Because at the end of the day, your nails meant you.

And you meant everything ‪♡

[honey-oddities]

Mall Date

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader (gn)

Warnings: None, just fluff. Reader shops at typically feminine brands.

Prompt: Sam treating reader to a mall date!!

An: Sam would absolutely be the boyfriend who carries all your bags without complaint and remembers exactly which store you spent the most time in.  Hope you enjoy!! <3

Word count: 1.3k

It started with a complaint.

"I swear to God, if I have to dig through one more half-empty box of rock salt, I'm gonna lose it." Dean had been rifling through the trunk of the Impala, muttering under his breath. "We've got like. Three shells left. Three, Sam. That's not even a damn warning shot."

Sam had listened, nodding along while Dean catalogued everything they were running low on. Ammo. Salt rounds. Iron bars. Rope. The list went on, and it was depressingly long.

"So," Sam said when Dean finally paused for breath, "sounds like we need a supply run."

"That's what I've been saying!"

"I'll take care of it."

"Okay, but-" Dean squinted. "What's the catch, Sammy?"

Sam had smiled. "No catch. I'll handle the supplies, don’t worry about it."

And he did. Because Sam Winchester had a plan.

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

You'd been curled up on the motel bed when Sam came back from whatever errand Dean had sent him on. The case had wrapped yesterday, Dean was off doing something that you didn't ask for too many details about. And you'd assumed it would be an afternoon of nothing, a mini break before you three had to handle another case.

Instead, Sam had walked in with a hopeful look and a single question:

"Want to go to the mall?"

"The mall?"

"It's been a while since we did something that wasn't…" He gestured vaguely. "Diners or gas station coffee."

"That's literally our entire lives."

"I know." He'd crossed the room, settling on the edge of the bed next to you. "That's why I want to take you somewhere else. Somewhere normal. Just for the day."

And he'd looked so genuinely hopeful that you'd found yourself nodding before you could even think about it.

"Okay," you'd said. "Okay. Let's do it."

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

The mall was a two-hour drive from the motel.

Sam had chosen it deliberately. It was far enough that Dean wouldn't casually show up. Plus, it was big enough that there was actual variety in the stores and food selection. 

"We need to get supplies first," he'd explained as you pulled into the parking lot. "Ammo, salt rounds, the boring stuff. There's a hunting store on the way in. Then.." He glanced at you. "Then we can do whatever you want."

"You planned this."

"Maybe a little."

You'd reached over and squeezed his hand, and his ears had gone pink in that way they always did when you caught him being sweet.

"Sam," you'd said, "you're adorable."

"I'm six-foot-four."

"That's irrelevant."

He'd ducked his head, still smiling, and you'd let him lead you into the store.

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

The supplies took exactly twenty minutes.

Sam moved through the aisles; grab, check, double check, and toss in the cart. He knew exactly what they needed and where to find it. Salt rounds, iron bars, holy water, rope, duct tape, and enough ammunition to make a small army nervous.

You'd watched him work, leaning against the cart and occasionally handing him things when he pointed. He was in his element, all tall and focused, his brow furrowed slightly as he counted boxes.

"You're staring," he said, not looking up. 

"Am not."

"Your head is literally tilted."

"Maybe I'm just resting it."

He'd finally looked at you then, one eyebrow raised, and you'd grinned at him.

"Done?" you'd asked.

"Almost." He'd grabbed one last box and dropped it in the cart. "Now we're done."

"Great." You'd bounced on your heels. "Now the fun part."

Sam had laughed and let you drag him toward the exit. 

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

The first store you wanted to visit was Victoria's Secret.

Sam had paused at the entrance, suddenly looking very, very out of his element. There was a pink-and-black color scheme. The huge photographs of attractive models in various lingerie sets. The mannequins were wearing things that made him blush, and there was a sales associate who spotted you both.

"You don't have to come in," you'd said, tugging his hand. "You can wait…"

"No no no-." He shook his head. "I'm coming."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He'd held your hand the entire time, eyes fixed straight ahead, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone. You'd found it hilarious.

"Sam, relax. It's just a store."

"It smells like…" He'd swallowed. "Flowers. And something else."

"Perfume."

"Right. Perfume."

You'd squeezed his hand, holding back your laughter. "You're doing great."

"I feel like everyone is staring at me."

"They're not staring."

He'd looked down at you, very much unconvinced. "I'm a six-foot-four man in a Victoria's Secret. They're definitely staring."

And he wasn't wrong. But you'd just pulled him deeper into the store, grabbing a few things you'd been meaning to buy for yourself.

Plus, it was nice being able to show him off in this way. 

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

Sephora was next, and this time Sam was ready.

He'd learned from the Victoria's Secret experience to keep his eyes forward. Sam didn't look at anything too closely and used you as a human shield when the sales associate approached to ask if he needed help finding anything. 

"I'm good," he'd said, holding up his hands. "I'm just here for…" He'd gestured at you. "For them. I'm just the bag holder."

"You're very sweet," the associate had said, and Sam had made a small, awkward smile in response.

You'd ended up buying a few things, and Sam had carried them without complaint, adding the small Sephora bag to his growing collection of your bags.

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

Then there was Bath & Body Works. 

"I just want to smell the candles," you'd said.

"It smells like…a lot." He scrunched up his nose at the overwhelming sweet scents that hit him. 

"That's the point, Sam."

He'd followed you around the store, sniffing candles when you handed them to him, making faces at the ones that were too sweet or generally too fragrant, which could cause a headache. It had become a game; you'd hold up a candle, he'd sniff it, and either nod or wrinkle his nose.

"That one smells like a beach," he'd said at one point, holding up a small jar. "And something else. Cocount?"

"It's literally called Waikiki Beach Coconut.'"

"Okay, so I was right."

"You were right." You'd smiled up at him, and he'd grinned back, looking so damn happy that you'd almost kissed him right there in the middle of the store.

You'd settled for squeezing his hand instead.

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

The food court came next, and Sam had executed his plan flawlessly.

Both of you got your favorite kind of cuisines that you weren't able to get more often on the road. You two were settled at a comfortable table in the corner and had an hour just being together. 

"You planned all this," you'd said, halfway through your food.

"A little," he'd admitted. "I wanted it to be good. We don't get a lot of days like this."

"We really don't."

"I know." He'd reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. "That's why I wanted to make it count."

୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

The drive back was quiet and comfortable. It was filled with the hum of the radio and the warmth of Sam's hand on your thigh. You'd watched the sun set through the windshield, your bags piled in the backseat, and felt something settled and peaceful in your chest.

"Thank you," you'd said quietly.

"For what?"

"For today." You'd turned to look at him. "For doing all of this. For making it special."

Sam had glanced at you, his expression soft in the fading light. "You deserve it. You deserve all of it."

You'd leaned over and kissed him. It was slow and sweet and full of everything you couldn't quite say.

And when you pulled back, his lips were just a little bit shiny.

"I love you," he'd said.

"I love you too, Sam."

And for a little while, the world had felt normal ᥫ᭡.

[honey-oddities]

Sugar and Shimmer

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader (gn)

Warnings: none

Prompt: Sam Winchester always has lip gloss residue after kisses.

An: This is my first time writing for Sam Winchester ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- I'm still pretty new to the show, but I wanted to do something silly and cute with him. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 527

The thing about your lip glosses, Sam learned, was that they were everywhere. 

Now you were not messy with your collection, absolutely not. No, you had a system with the sheer amount, often keeping them in specific places for specific purposes. And Sam became quickly observant and familiar with this quirk of yours. 

The first spot was the glove compartment of the Impala. This was where you kept your clear glosses. These were thick, syrupy in consistency, and often scentless. You would reach for these during a drive, pulling the visor mirror to reapply while Dean side-eyed or scoffed at the sight. This touch-up would last through multiple coffees, through gas station snacks, through hours upon hours on the highway. 

The next spot that you claimed was Sam's jacket pocket, much to his surprise. This would often be before hunts, you'd subtly slip into a baby pink or cherry colored tube. It was almost a game to see how many you could sneak before Sam eventually noticed. And you would reach into his pocket after a closed case, reapply it with a small smile on your face. Then you'd kiss him, leaving behind that soft color residue on his lips that he'd catch himself pressing together just to feel.

The third most common area was motel bathrooms. Now this was where you often kept your more beautifully packaged glosses. These would often have some kind of sparkle, whether it was chunky glitter that could be seen from miles away or fine glitter shimmer that needed to be caught with the right lighting. Morning gloss, you called it. For starting the day right.

Then, finally, your bag was the motherlode. Sam had witnessed you pull out several different tubes all at once, placing them on the motel bedspread to neatly arrange them back in your bag. This was where Sam could find a gloss for every occasion that had every kind of finish: high-shine, metallic, opaque, satin, sheer, buttery, oil-infused, shimmery, glittery, pigmented, and finally plumping. 

Oh, plumping gloss. Now that was for...well. That one had its own purpose.

Plumping gloss was Sam's favorite.

Sam still remembered the first time you’d used it. He kissed you hello, and his lips started to tingle within seconds. It was a strangely warm, fuzzy sensation that spread across his lips. He pulled away, startled, and you giggled at his expression.  

“It's plumping,” you explained, showing him the tube with a fancy-looking font that said LIP INJECTION. “It makes your lips look fuller by increasing blood flow.” 

"It feels more like burning."

"Tingles," you corrected. "Don’t worry, the feeling will fade away."

Sam got used to the tingles left behind. More than used to it. Sam would often reach for you even more on days when you wore that particular gloss. When you kissed along his jaw, moving down the column of his throat, the lingering sensation of those warm tingles was sweet.  

So every kiss of yours left something behind.  A shimmer. A stain. A tingling warmth that lingered for hours.

Sam Winchester always had your lip gloss residue after kisses.

And he wouldn't really have it any other way ♡

[honey-oddities]

Cat's Out of the Bag

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (gn)

Warnings: None, just a silly late-night thought I had!

Prompt: Dean becoming a catboy due to a run in with a witch.

An: Hope you enjoy! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

Word count: 1.5K

Dean Winchester had been a hunter long enough to expect the unexpected.

He'd been turned into a teenager. He'd been possessed. He'd been to Hell and back. So when the witch's spell hit him square in the chest and nothing happened, he shrugged it off and kept fighting. The witch had gone down easily after that, and Dean had assumed that was the end of it. You three assumed that any spells had fizzled out, rendering Dean as fine. 

He went to bed that night in the motel room; you and Dean on one bed, Sam on the other. He'd fallen asleep without issue, dreaming of nothing in particular.

Then he woke up with a pounding headache and something very wrong with his lower back.

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

The first thing he noticed was the pressure. Like something was pressing against the base of his spine. He'd tossed and turned, reaching up to rub at his aching spots…

And his fingers brushed against something soft. 

Dean froze.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached up again. His fingers found a pair of triangular shapes sitting on top of his head. They twitched when he touched them. They were attached.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet, and launched himself into the motel bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating the mirror and the reflection staring back at him.

Brown-patched tabby cat ears. Set right where they should be, blending into his hair like they'd always been there. And when he turned, he caught a glimpse of a matching tail poking out from the waistband of his boxers. 

"No," Dean whispered. "No, no, no-"

A low sound rumbled from his chest. 

He was purring.

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

You woke up to someone roughly shaking your shoulder.

"Hey. Hey. Wake up."

You groaned, swatting blindly at the offending hand. "Dean, it's like three in the morning…"

"I need you to wake up and look at me."

"Dean…"

"Please."

You blinked your eyes open, squinting in the dim light, before you sat up in shock. 

"Dean. Your head."

"I know." He was kneeling by the bed, his eyes wide with horror and desperation. "I know. The witch. The spell. It…" He gestured at himself. "This happened."

You stared. The ears were soft-looking, brown with darker patches, twitching nervously as Dean watched you watch them. And the tail. The tail was *moving*, curling and uncurling behind him like it had a mind of its own.

"Dean," you said slowly. "You're a cat."

"I'm not a cat. I'm a…" He made a frustrated noise. "I'm a guy with cat parts. There's a difference."

"Is there, though?"

The ears flattened against his skull. The purring grew louder.

"Shut up," he muttered. "This is not funny."

"I'm not laughing."

"You're thinking about laughing."

He wasn't wrong. But you bit your lip and pushed yourself up, reaching out to, carefully, because you'd seen his claws, touch his face.

"I'm not laughing," you said. "I promise. We're gonna figure this out."

Dean leaned into your palm without meaning to, his eyes fluttering half-shut. The purring only intensified.

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

The next morning was a disaster.

Dean had refused to leave the motel room, which meant Sam was out doing research on his own while you stayed behind to keep Dean from completely losing his mind.

"I hate this," Dean announced from the bed, where he was sprawled out. "I hate everything about this. I hate the ears. I hate the tail. I hate the…" He gestured vaguely at his own chest. "The noises. The *sounds*."

"The purring?"

"Yes! The purring! It won't stop!"

You looked up from your phone, where you'd been pulling up every article you could find about cats. "Are you stressed right now?"

"*Yes*, I'm stressed! Obviously!"

"Then that's why you're purring." You set your phone down while turning to face him. "Dean, cats don't only purr when they're happy. They purr when they're scared, too. It's self-soothing. Like a comfort mechanism."

Dean stared at you. "What?" 

"You purr when you're safe. When you feel secure. Or when you're freaking out and need to calm down." You shrugged. "Right now, you're probably both."

"I am not..." He stopped. His ears perked forward. "Wait. How do you know all this?"

"I did a lot of reading. Cats are misunderstood, Dean. People think they're aloof, but really…"

"Of course you did," he muttered. "Of course, you know about cat psychology."

"It's not psychology, it's…"

"I don't care what it is. Just…" He waved a hand. "Just need this fixed."

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

Sam came back three hours later with a stack of books and some takeout, since nobody wanted to see a hangry cat Dean with his temper.

"Nothing yet," he reported, dropping the pile on the table. "The witch is dead, so we can't get answers from her. I've got some leads on reversal spells, but.."

"But what?"

Sam glanced at Dean, then quickly looked away. His shoulders were shaking.

"Sam," Dean said flatly. "Are you laughing?"

"No."

"You're *totally* laughing."

"I'm not. I'm just-" Sam cleared his throat. "You look...interesting."

"I get it, I look like a damn cat."

"A very.." Sam coughed. "A very fluffy cat."

Dean threw a pillow at him. Sam caught it, and Dean made a sound that was suspiciously close to a growl.

The ears flattened again.

"Okay," you said quickly, stepping between them. "Let's focus. What do we know about the spell?"

Sam pulled himself together, grabbing one of the books. "It's old. The witch's grimoire mentioned something about 'animal traits as punishment.' But it didn't specify which animal or how to reverse it."

"Great." Dean flopped back onto the bed, tail flicking irritably. "So I'm stuck like this forever."

"No one's stuck like anything forever," you said. "We'll figure it out."

The ears perked up. The tail curled slightly.

Dean hated how much his body responded to you.

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

The research continued for hours.

Sam buried himself in books. You bounced between helping him and checking on Dean, who was growing increasingly restless. The motel room was too small. The walls were too close. He'd paced the same five feet of floor so many times that he'd worn a path in the carpet.

"Dean," you said gently, "you need to sit down."

"I can't sit down. I'm twitchy."

"Then let's do something else."

"Like what?"

You thought for a moment. "Do you want to play?"

Dean stared at you. "Did you just ask me if I want to play?"

"I mean-" You held up a pen that had been sitting on the table. "You could chase this?"

"I'm not a cat."

"You have cat instincts, Dean. That means you probably-"

"I am not chasing a pen."

Ten minutes later, he was chasing the pen.

You'd flicked it across the floor without thinking, and Dean's body had moved before his brain could catch up. He'd launched himself after it, snatching it up with a triumphant noise. 

And then he'd realized what he'd just done.

His face went red. The ears flattened. The tail curled around his leg like it was trying to hide.

"Don't," he said, pointing at you. "Don't say anything."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were thinking about saying something."

"I was thinking you looked cute."

"Don't."

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

Dean was sprawled on the bed again, head in your lap because you'd insisted it would help him relax. He'd protested very loudly, of course. But you'd scratched behind his ears exactly once and he'd gone completely boneless. 

Light, careful strokes along the base of his ears, the spot where they met his skull. Dean had started purring so loudly you could feel it through your thighs.

"Dean," you'd said softly, "you're making biscuits."

"I'm doing what?"

"You're kneading. With your hands."

He looked down. His fingers were flexing against the motel blanket, opening and closing in a rhythmic pattern that was unmistakably kneading.

"Oh my God," he breathed. "Make it stop."

"I don't think I can."

"Please."

But he didn't pull away. And when you kept petting, he kept purring.

✧ ^. .^₎⟆

Eventually, the reversal spell worked.

Sam found it in the back of some obscure grimoire, and after a few hours of prep work and a lot of chanting, Dean was back to normal. No ears. No tail. No uncontrollable purring.

He'd never been happier to be completely human once again.

"Never again," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm never hunting a witch again."

"You say that every time."

"This time I mean it."

You laughed, reaching up to touch his face. He leaned into your palm automatically and then caught himself, pulling back as his cheeks warmed up slightly.

"...Sorry," he muttered. "Reflex."

"It's okay." You smiled at him. "I kind of miss the ears."

"Don't even joke about that."

"I'm not joking. You were adorable."

"Adorable?"

"Absolutely adorable."

Dean groaned out at your insistence with a smile on his face. And when you scratched lightly at his scalp, he didn't pull away ⋆˙⟡♡

[honey-oddities]

Castiel dating Male!Reader who he takes anywhere and everywhere. If he goes on a case with the brothers, he brings his boyfriend; if he goes out somewhere, he brings his boyfriend, it's simply out of the question (unless Reader refuses ofc). (Fluff, crack, Dean getting annoyed and Cas being confused why T_T)

(Halloo!!! I'm also getting into writing via fanfiction on here, so I wanted 2 send in a req!! Ur profile is also sooo cutee :3!! <3)

Velcro Angel

Pairing: Castiel x male reader

Warnings: None, just Dean being annoyed at gay people.

An: Hello @s-kellie-z !! Ahh, thank you so much for the request and the kind message! ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა♡❀ You just made my day! This was so much fun to write, and I really hope it lives up to your expectations!

Word count: 1,013

Castiel did not do casual.

If Castiel went anywhere, you were coming along. The Angel needed to be possessively present with you. Why would he not? And usually there wasn’t a refusal on your end, but when you would? He’d be confused, but would never push your answer. Your word was final.

You were his human. His person. His…

“His emotional support human.” Dean had muttered once, loud enough for everyone to hear in the motel room. 

Cas had tilted his head, considering this. "That is... not inaccurate."

You'd laughed so hard you nearly choked.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The first time Castiel brought you on a hunt, Sam had raised an eyebrow but really said nothing. He'd worked with you before. Sam knew you could handle yourself. So having you around wasn't a liability.

Dean, however, had opinions. Very vocal opinions.

"Seriously?" He'd watched Cas materialize in the motel room with you beside him, your duffel slung over one shoulder. "You couldn't have given us a heads-up? Some kind of text?” 

"I did," Cas said flatly. "I told you I was bringing him."

"You said, 'I'm retrieving my partner.' That could have meant anything!"

"It meant exactly what I said."

Dean had opened his mouth, closed it, and then just pointed a finger at you. "You. You're paying for your own food."

"Already planned on it, man," you'd shrugged, already not surprised by Dean's negative reaction. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

But you were useful, that was the thing. Dean couldn't even pretend the fact.

On hunts, you moved like you'd been doing this your whole life (because you had). You checked corners, asked the right questions, and never froze when things got ugly. More than once, you'd spotted something the brothers missed, your hunter instincts just as reliable as the Winchesters.

And Cas would watch you work like you were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Which, honestly? You probably were.

The problem, and Dean would insist it was a problem, was that Cas had no concept of personal space when it came to you.

He hovered. Constantly.

If you were researching at the motel table, Cas was right there, shoulder pressed against yours. The Angel would be reading over your arm like he couldn't bear to be even six inches away. If you were eating breakfast, he'd sit beside you and watch you chew like it was the most riveting activity on earth.

"You're staring," you'd mumble, mouth half-full of pancakes.

"I like looking at you," he'd reply. "Your face is...pleasant. You look better now that you’ve eaten.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Now the real issue was that Cas didn't know how to let you handle things on your own.

He did not mean to be malicious. It wasn't even intentional. But the second a situation seemed even slightly dangerous, Cas would step in. 

The one example you could remember was when you were questioning a witness, a super nervous looking gentleman who seemed like he was about to bolt. You had it handled, hell, you'd dealt with worse. But then the man's hand twitched toward his pocket, and suddenly Cas was there.

"He is armed," Cas announced, his hand clamping down on the guy's wrist. "You may proceed with your questions."

"Cas," you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I had it."

"You did," he agreed. "But he was reaching for a weapon. I simply-“ 

"I know what you did. My eyes work."

Cas blinked at you, genuinely confused. "You are upset."

"I'm not upset, I'm…" You sighed, rubbing your face. "Babe. I can handle myself."

"I know."

"Then why-“ 

"You are capable," Cas said simply. "But I am here as well. And I will not let anything hurt you. That is...not negotiable."

The same scenario would happen again. And again. And again.

A vampire grabbed you? Cas had it pinned before you could even draw your knife. A demon tried to get in your head? Cas was in its head first, blue eyes blazing, making it scream.

Every single time, you'd turn to him with that look that was full of fondness and exasperation. But so in love, it made his grace flicker, and the interaction between you two would say something like:

"I had it."

"I know."

"Cas."

"I am not sorry."

And he wasn't. Not even a little.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The thing about Castiel was that he knew Dean was annoyed. More than he usually was. 

He just couldn't figure out why.

"Is there a problem?" Cas asked one afternoon, appearing beside Dean in the library of the bunker. Dean jumped about a foot in the air.

"Jesus-!! Cas, warn a guy!"

"I am not Jesus. I am Castiel. And you have been sighing loudly for the past thirty minutes. Are you unwell?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine."

"You do not seem fine."

"Cas. Drop it."

"Your heartbeat is elevated. Your breathing is-"

"Cas!"

Cas tilted his head. "You are irritated. Is it because of me?"

"No- yes-!! I don't know!" Dean threw his hands up. "You're just always around! And he's always around! And you two are so…" He made a vague gesture that somehow conveyed everything and nothing. "That!"

Cas stared at him blankly. "I do not understand."

"Of course you don't."

"I love him," Cas said simply. "Why would I not want to be near him? He is kind. He is brave. He makes me feel..." He paused, searching for the word. "Whole."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it.

He just shook his head and walked away, muttering something about "angelic emotional support boyfriends" and "can't take them anywhere."

Cas watched him go, genuinely confused.

"You did good," you said, appearing at his elbow with a small grin. "That was the perfect response."

Cas turned to you, expression softening instantly. "He seems upset."

"He'll get over it." You tugged on his tie, pulling him down for a quick kiss. "Come on. I want to show you something."

Cas followed without hesitation, his hand finding yours.

Because of course he did.

You were his partner. Where else would he go? ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[honey-oddities]

Man's Best Friend

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (gn)

Warnings: None, Dean being dramatic with another transformation.

Prompt: Dean Winchester gets turned into a dog. Again.

An: Hope you enjoy @prosperousprophet! Thank you for the fun idea! ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა

The first thing Dean noticed was that something was wrong with his face.

He'd woken up slowly, his head pounding like he'd been hit with a truck. The motel room was dark, Sam was snoring in the next bed, and you were a warm weight pressed against his side.

Except his face felt...different. Like something was resting on top of his head that shouldn't be there. And his lower back felt weird, a phantom sensation that he couldn't quite place.

Dean groaned, rolling over and reaching up to rub his eyes.

His hand brushed against something soft and floppy.

He froze.

"Don't," he whispered to himself. "Don't you dare."

Slowly, he reached up again. His fingers found the thing on his head, the floppy thing, and he realized with dawning horror that it was attached to him. It was warm and soft, and it moved when he touched it.

Ears. Floppy, droopy, dog ears.

Dean sat up so fast he nearly fell off the bed.

"No," he breathed. "No, no, no…"

He scrambled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor, and that's when he felt the tail. Small and soft and wagging slightly despite his best efforts to control it.

Dean made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

The bathroom light flicked on. Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror.

There they were. Floppy brown ears that hung down. They looked soft and silky and unmistakably canine. They looked like they belonged on a spaniel or a hound dog. Super unthreatening breed in his opinion.

He'd expected something tough. A shepherd. A pitbull. Hell, even a boxer would've been better than this.

"I look like a golden retriever," he whispered to himself, his tail dropping.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You woke up to the sound of whimpering.

It was barely audible over Sam's snoring, but it was enough to pull you out of sleep. You blinked and realized the sound was coming from the bathroom.

"Dean?" You sat up, rubbing your eyes. "You okay?"

A muffled whine.

You got up, shuffling across the motel room, and pushed open the bathroom door.

Dean was standing in front of the mirror, his shoulders slumped, his expression utterly defeated. And perched on his head were two very real dog ears.

"Oh," you said. "Oh, Dean."

"I'm a dog again." His voice cracked. "I don't know how, I don't know why, but I'm a dog."

You stepped closer, your hand reaching out instinctively. Dean flinched, but you just gently touched one of his ears.

It was soft. The fur was a rich brown, slightly lighter at the tips. In your eyes, it was actually quite fitting for him. He looked much friendlier despite his frown and narrowed eyes.

"Huh…it’s not like a shepherd," you commenter.

"No, it's not." Dean's voice was flat. "I'm a floppy-eared dog. I look like I should be carrying a stick in my mouth."

You hum, shrugging at the idea of Dean with a stick in his mouth. "You look cute."

"I don't want to be cute, damn it!”

But his tail was wagging. Just enough for you to notice.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Sam woke up to the sound of Dean's tail thumping against the bathroom door.

"Not again," he said, not even opening his eyes.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Dean's voice was muffled through the wood. "I didn't do anything! I just woke up like this!"

Sam sighed. "We're going to need more research."

"You're telling me!"

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The three of you had some experience with this.

The Inuit mind-meld spell that let Dean communicate with animals. That had been a choice, a temporary solution to a case. Dean had barked at the mailman and chased a squirrel.

But this was a little different.

No witch. No spell. No curse. Dean hadn't eaten anything questionable. He hadn't touched any weird artifacts. He'd just...gone to bed human and woken up a dogboy.

"I don't understand," Dean said for the fifth time, pacing the motel room. His ears were flattened against his head, his tail tucked between his legs. He looked like a kicked puppy with his eyes being a little wet. "I didn't do anything, damn it. I didn't do anything!!”

"Maybe it's a residual effect from the last time?" Sam suggested, not looking up from his laptop. He knew that this wasn’t ideal at all, but at least the effects were the most drastic. "The spell might have left something behind. Like a...latent trigger."

"That doesn't make sense."

"None of this makes sense."

You watched Dean pace, your head tilted. "Are you hungry?"

Dean stopped when hearing your voice. His ears perked up. "What?"

"You're pacing a lot. That's usually a bored or hungry thing. When was the last time you ate?"

"I don't know. Yesterday?"

"That was twelve hours ago."

Dean blinked. And then, as if on cue, his stomach growled. Yeah, he needed something in his stomach. It wouldn’t fix this problem but food certainly soothed.

"Okay," he admitted. "Maybe I'm a little hungry."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Luckily, the motel had a continental breakfast. Nothing super special selection wise, there being some sad looking borderline grey eggs, greasy sausage patties, and a couple fruit cups. The only nice, fresh option was waffles due to their being a waffle maker.

And Dean happily stood in front of the waffle maker, his eyes fixed on the batter dispenser. His ears were perked forward, tracking every sound in the room: the coffee machine, the toast popping up, the lady with the chihuahua in the corner.

"Dean." You touched his arm. "You're staring."

"I'm not staring. I'm observing."

"You're drooling."

Dean wiped his mouth.

"It's the dog instincts," he muttered. "I can't control it."

"Could’ve fooled me."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The chihuahua was a problem.

Dean had been doing fine, eating his loaded up waffles, keeping his tail still, pretending everything was normal, until the lady with the chihuahua walked past their table.

Dean's ears perked up. His tail started wagging. His whole body tensed like he was about to- 

"Dean." You grabbed his arm. "Don't even think about it."

"What-? I'm not thinking about anything."

"Your tail is wagging."

"I can't control my tail!"

"Your ears are perked."

"They're ears, they.."

The chihuahua yipped.

Dean yipped immediately back.

Sam buried his face in his hands. You stared at Dean, your expression mixed with horror and amusement at the fact Dean yipped. Like an actual puppy. And Dean looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

"I'm gonna kill myself," he announced.

"Don't do that," you said while Sam tried to muffle his laughter. "You'd leave a mess."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The protectiveness started almost immediately.

Dean had always been protective; it was part of who he was, part of being a Winchester. But this was different. He couldn't help himself.

It started when a guy at the motel front desk looked at you for too long. His eyes lingered on your figure for the most part. Dean's ears flattened. His tail stopped wagging. A low growl rumbled in his chest.

"Dean," you said quietly. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"You're growling."

"I'm not growling. I'm…" He looked down at himself. 

Dean forced himself to relax, but he didn't stop watching the guy. His eyes stayed on him across, ready to intervene if necessary.

"He was looking at you weirdly," Dean muttered.

"He was looking at me. Nothing to worry about."

"I know what I saw."

You just sighed at his insistence, squeezing his hand. "Come on. Let's go back to the room."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Dean had always been affectionate, with casual touches, shoulder bumps, and many kisses when no one was watching. He couldn’t keep his hands off you honestly, they were always drawn to you.

But this only intensified that itch of his. Now he was always in your space. Leaning against you on the motel bed. Resting his head on your shoulder. Pressing his whole body against your side like he was trying to melt into you.

"You're warm," he said, not looking up from your lap.

"Dean. Sam is right there."

"So?"

"So this is weird."

"It's not weird."

Sam looked up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised. "You realize you're acting like a dog, right?"

"I'm just comfortable, Sammy." He rolled his eyes. “Nothing worked with that.”

"You're literally resting your head on their lap like a golden retriever."

Dean's ears flattened, scoffing. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I hate both of you."

But he didn't move. And his tail was wagging, just a little, happy against the motel blanket.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The scratching was a thing, too.

Dean's new ears itched. Like a lot. He couldn't stop scratching at them, his hand reaching up every few minutes to rub at the base of his ears like he was trying to dislodge something.

"Stop doing that," you said.

"I can't, babe. They itch, kind of hard to ignore."

"You're going to damage them or something from how rough you’re being.”

"They're just ears."

"They're attached to your head. You need those."

Dean made a frustrated sound, his hand falling away. But the second you looked away, he was scratching again.

You sighed, reaching over and gently pulling his hand away. "Let me."

"You're going to…"

"I'm going to help." You reached up, your fingers finding the base of his ear, and started scratching gently. "Better?" 

Dean's eyes slid half-closed. His tail started wagging. A sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a happy little whine. This was practically therapy.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The research phase of you guys took a little longer this time.

Sam and you dug through every book, every lore database, every weird supernatural website he could find. Nothing. No spells, no curses, no artifacts that matched Dean's symptoms. It was like the transformation had just...happened.

"I'm starting to think this is just a thing now," Sam admitted on the third day. "Like a weird, spontaneous dog thing."

Dean groaned, dropping his head onto the motel table. "I don't want this to be a thing."

"You had a dog spell before. Maybe it messed with your DNA or something."

"Sammy."

"I'm just saying."

Dean lifted his head, ears flat, tail tucked. "I don't want to be part-dog forever."

"You won't be. There is a chance it might fade like the spell."

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

And Sam was correct with that theory. The transformation faded after a few days.

Dean woke up without ears an a tail, without the overwhelming urge to protect his pack. He sat up slowly, touching his head, and let out a breath of relief.

"Thank God," he muttered.

"You're human again?" You were already awake, watching him from your bed.

"Yeah. I think so."

"No ears?"

"None."

"Tail?"

"Gone." He paused. "I think."

You sat up, stretching. "That was...weird."

"That's one word for it."

"I thought it was kind of cute. It was a nice feature for you to have.” You smile, having a puppy version of your boyfriend wasn’t something you realized you liked so much.

Dean's head snapped toward you. "What?"

"Cute. The whole thing. The ears, the tail, the protectiveness." You smiled at him. "It was adorable."

"I was not adorable. I was…" He paused, searching for the right word. 

"You barked at another dog and a little old lady."

"That was a damn warning towards that thing."

"It was a bark."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then he just sighed, shaking his head. "I hate you."

"You love me."

His tail might have been gone, but you could swear he almost wagged ꨄ︎

[honey-oddities]

✿⋆.˚⋆₊ ⊹ 🍯 Dean Masterlist 🎀

✿ ⊹catalogue !

One-shots / Drabbles / Headcannons

⟢ In Your Hands

⟢Cat's Out of the Bag

⟢Man's Best Friend

[honey-oddities]

✿⋆.˚⋆₊ ⊹ 🍯 Castiel Masterlist 🎀

✿ ⊹catalogue !

One-shots / Drabbles / Headcannons

⟢ Velcro Angel