Hi!! i love your writing! can you write a supernatural one with like a few times that deans sister/daughter (you pick) is terrified of him! and maybe shes like a teen. thanks!
Dean Winchester x little sister!reader
Summary: Dean gets mad a lot and unfortunately for you, you can't stay tough all the time when getting yelled at.
Warnings: yelling/anxiety/angst, lots of it
Notes: I wanted to write a little sister version of this one first but if you want I can also write a daughter version later.
The lights in the dingy motel room flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting erratic shadows across the faded wallpaper. You sat cross-legged on the scratchy bedspread, textbooks spread around you like a fortress of normalcy in a world that was anything but. At fifteen, you'd learned to find your homework oddly comforting—equations had answers, history had facts, and literature had meanings you could analyze and understand. Unlike the rest of your life.
Dean burst through the door with the force of a hurricane, his green eyes wild with something between rage and panic. Sam followed closely behind, his face grim but resigned, like he'd seen this storm brewing for miles.
"Where the hell were you?" Dean's voice cracked like a whip through the small room, making you flinch so hard your chemistry book tumbled to the floor.
You looked up at him, confusion written across your face. "I was... here? Doing homework?"
"Don't lie to me." He stepped closer, and you could see the muscle twitching in his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. This was Dean in full protective mode, but protective mode often looked terrifyingly similar to attack mode. "Mrs. Allen from the front desk said she saw a teenage girl leave around three. That was you, wasn't it?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had left—just for twenty minutes to grab a Coke from the vending machine by the ice maker. You'd been careful, looked both ways, stayed in sight of the motel. But looking at Dean's face now, twisted with fury and fear, you realized that twenty minutes might as well have been twenty hours.
"I just got a Coke," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the room's ancient air conditioning unit.
"You WHAT?" Dean exploded, and you scrambled backward on the bed until your back hit the headboard. "Are you out of your goddamn mind? We're hunting a pack of werewolves who've been targeting teenage girls, and you decide to go for a fucking stroll?"
The profanity hit you like physical blows. Dean swore a lot, sure, but never at you like this. Never with this raw, unfiltered rage that made him look like a stranger wearing your brother's face.
"Dean—" Sam tried to interject, his voice calm and measured.
"NO, Sam!" Dean whirled on his younger brother, his movements sharp and aggressive. "She could have been killed! Torn apart! And for what? A Coke?" He spun back to face you, and you pressed yourself harder against the headboard, wishing you could disappear into the ugly floral pattern. "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. Winchesters didn't cry. Dad had made that clear, and Dean had reinforced it a thousand times. But sitting there, with your big brother looming over you like an avenging angel, you felt like a little kid again. Small and helpless and terrified.
"I'm sorry," you managed to choke out.
"Sorry doesn't bring you back from the dead!" Dean's face was flushed now, a vein visible at his temple. "Sorry doesn't fix it when I have to call Dad and tell him I let his daughter get murdered because I wasn't watching her close enough!"
The words hung in the air like smoke, acrid and choking. You saw the moment Dean realized what he'd said, saw the flicker of regret cross his features, but it was too late. The damage was done.
You weren't his sister in that moment—you were Dad's daughter. Another responsibility. Another potential failure.
"I hate you," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Dean recoiled like you'd slapped him. The anger drained from his face, replaced by something that looked almost like grief. "Sweetheart, I didn't mean—"
But you were already moving, sliding off the bed and pushing past him toward the bathroom. You needed space, needed air, needed to get away from the suffocating weight of his disappointment and fear.
"Hey, wait—" Dean reached for your arm as you passed, and you jerked away so violently you stumbled into the small table by the window.
"Don't touch me!" The words came out as a sob, and you hated yourself for it. "Just... don't."
You locked yourself in the bathroom and slid down the door until you were sitting on the cold floor, finally letting the tears fall. Through the thin door, you could hear Sam's voice, low and soothing, talking Dean down from whatever ledge he'd climbed out on. But all you could think about was the look on Dean's face—the rage, the fear, the way he'd looked at you like you were a problem to be solved rather than a person to be loved.
Twenty minutes for a Coke. Twenty minutes that had somehow shattered something between you and the brother who'd raised you, sung you to sleep, taught you to drive in empty parking lots when Dad wasn't around.
You pulled your knees to your chest and tried to remember when Dean's protection had started feeling like a prison.
Three months later, in a different town with a different monster, you learned that sometimes Dean's anger was nothing compared to his silence.
The warehouse smelled like rust and death, decades of decay soaked into every surface. You crouched behind a stack of rotting crates, the cold seeping through your jeans and making you shiver. The iron knife felt foreign in your fifteen-year-old hands, too heavy and too light all at once.
You weren't supposed to be here. Dean had been crystal clear about that when he'd dropped you off at the library with strict instructions to stay put until they got back. But you'd overheard their phone call—heard the fear in Sam's voice when he'd said they were outnumbered, heard the tremor that meant things were going very, very wrong.
So you'd stolen a car. (Dean had taught you to hot-wire, though he'd definitely never intended for you to use that skill to disobey him.) You'd grabbed weapons from their backup stash and followed the GPS coordinates you'd memorized from Sam's research.
Now you were here, watching through the gaps in the crates as your brothers fought for their lives against three wraiths that moved like smoke and struck like lightning.
Dean was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, his movements slower than usual. Sam was limping, favoring his left leg. They were losing.
The smart thing would have been to call for backup. The safe thing would have been to stay hidden. But you were a Winchester, which meant smart and safe had never really been options.
You waited until one of the wraiths had Dean pinned against a concrete pillar, its ghostly fingers reaching for his throat, before you made your move. The silver blade sang through the air, catching the creature in its back. The wraith shrieked and took a few steps back, giving Dean the opening he needed to drive his own blade into the monster to make sure its dead then went for the second.
Sam took care of the third with his own blade and then the warehouse fell silent except for the sound of three Winchesters breathing hard.
For a moment, you thought maybe you'd done good. Maybe Dean would be proud that you'd saved his life, that you'd been brave and smart and useful.
Dean stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was no relief in his expression, no gratitude. Just a cold, terrible fury that made your blood freeze in your veins.
"Get in the car," he said quietly.
His voice was deadly calm, which was somehow infinitely more terrifying than when he'd screamed at you in the motel room. When Dean yelled, it meant he was scared. When Dean went quiet like this, it meant you were in trouble beyond anything you could imagine.
"Get. In. The. Car." Each word fell like a stone into still water.
The ride back to the motel was twenty-seven minutes of suffocating silence. You sat in the back of the Impala, watching the back of Dean's head, trying to read the tension in his shoulders. Sam kept glancing between you and his older brother, but even he seemed afraid to speak.
When you finally reached the motel, Dean parked and sat motionless for a long moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Sam," he said finally, his voice still that terrible, controlled quiet. "Go get some ice for your leg."
Sam hesitated, shot you a look that might have been apologetic or pitying, then limped toward the ice machine. You were alone with Dean, and the air in the car felt thick enough to drown in.
Slowly, Dean turned to face you. His green eyes were empty of warmth, empty of the affection you'd grown up seeing there. He looked at you like you were a stranger. Like you were a problem.
"What you did tonight," he said, and each word was carefully enunciated, precisely delivered, "was the single most stupid, reckless, dangerous thing I have ever seen anyone do."
You wanted to argue, wanted to point out that you'd saved his life, but something in his tone warned you that speaking would be a very bad idea.
"You stole a car. You took weapons without permission. You entered an active hunting situation with no backup and no plan." Dean's voice never rose above a conversational level, but you flinched with each accusation. "You could have been killed. You could have gotten Sam killed. You could have gotten me killed."
The look he gave you made your words die in your throat.
"You are fifteen years old," Dean continued, as if you hadn't spoken. "You are not a hunter. You are not my partner. You are a child, and you are my responsibility, and tonight you made it clear that I have failed completely in that responsibility."
Each word was a knife between your ribs. You'd thought the rage was bad, but this cold disappointment was so much worse.
"I'm calling Dad," Dean said, turning back to face forward. "You're going to stay with Bobby until we can figure out what to do with you long-term. Clearly, traveling with us isn't working."
The world tilted sideways. "What? No, Dean, you can't—"
"I can and I will." He got out of the car, moving with mechanical precision. "You've proven that I can't trust you to follow simple instructions. You've proven that having you around makes us all less safe. So you're done."
You scrambled out of the backseat, panic making your movements clumsy. "Dean, please, I'm sorry! I was just trying to help!"
He turned to face you in the parking lot, under the sickly yellow glow of the streetlight, and the look on his face made you take an involuntary step backward.
"Help?" Dean laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You call nearly getting yourself killed helping? You call making me choose between saving you and saving Sam helping?"
"I saved your life!" The words burst out of you, desperate and raw.
"And you endangered mine by being there in the first place!" Dean's control cracked, just for a moment, and you saw the fear underneath the anger. "Don't you get it? I can't focus on the hunt when I'm worried about keeping you alive! I can't do my job when part of my brain is always wondering if you're safe!"
The truth of it hit you like a physical blow. You weren't just a burden—you were a liability. A weakness that monsters could exploit.
"I won't do it again," you whispered, but even you could hear how hollow the promise sounded.
Dean studied your face for a long moment, and you saw the exact second he decided you were lying.
"You're right," he said quietly. "You won't."
He walked toward the motel room without looking back, leaving you standing alone in the parking lot with the weight of your entire world crashing down around you.
That night, you lay awake listening to Dean on the phone with your father, his voice low but carrying through the thin walls. You caught fragments—"can't control her," "too dangerous," "Bobby's place until we figure something out."
By morning, it was decided. You were being sent away, and Dean couldn't even look at you when he delivered the news.
Six months at Bobby's had changed you. You'd grown two inches, learned to rebuild an engine, and mastered the art of researching obscure lore without falling asleep at the desk. You'd also learned to live with the hollow ache in your chest where your brothers used to be.
Bobby tried. He really did. He made sure you ate, helped with your correspondence school work, and even taught you some basic warding that Dean had never gotten around to showing you. But Bobby wasn't Dean, wasn't the person who'd sung you to sleep and patched your scraped knees and made you feel safe in an unsafe world.
When Dean and Sam finally came to collect you—some crisis that required all hands on deck—you barely recognized the brother who climbed out of the Impala.
Dean had lost weight. There were new lines around his eyes, and his smile when he saw you was careful, measured. Like he was greeting an acquaintance rather than the sister he'd helped raise.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, and even his voice sounded different. Distant.
"Hi," you replied, suddenly shy around the person who'd once been your whole world.
The ride to the new hunt was awkward in a way it had never been before. Sam tried to fill the silence with updates about their recent cases, but you could feel Dean's attention like a weight, always knowing where you were, what you were doing, but never quite connecting.
It was during the planning phase that you realized how fundamentally things had changed between you.
"Okay, so the plan is simple," Dean said, spreading a map across the motel bed. "Sam and I go in through the front, create a distraction. The civilians should evacuate through the back exits."
You waited for him to tell you your part, to explain how you fit into the plan. You'd gotten better at research, better at thinking tactically. You had ideas.
Dean folded up the map without ever making eye contact with you.
"You'll stay here," he said, like it was obvious. Like it was already decided.
"What?" The word slipped out before you could stop it.
"You'll stay here," Dean repeated, still not looking at you. "Keep the research going in case we need backup information. Monitor the police scanner."
It was busy work. You all knew it was busy work.
"No." The word was final, absolute. "You stay here, you stay safe, we all go home happy."
But the way he said it, like you were a piece of equipment to be stored safely away, made your chest tight with a familiar fear. This wasn't protection—this was exile.
"I've been training with Bobby," you said carefully. "I'm better now. Smarter."
Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm sure you are."
"Because I said so." Dean's tone brooked no argument, but you caught something else underneath it. Something that sounded almost like pleading. "Just... stay here. Please."
The please broke your heart a little. This was Dean asking, not ordering, and somehow that made it so much worse.
You watched them gear up, watched Sam shoot you apologetic glances that Dean pretended not to notice. When they reached the door, you expected Dean to leave without a backward glance, the way he'd been doing everything else.
Instead, he paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"If we're not back in three hours," he said, still not turning around, "you call Bobby. You don't come looking for us. You don't try to help. You call Bobby and you follow whatever instructions he gives you. Understood?"
"Understood," you whispered.
Dean nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head, and then they were gone.
You sat on the bed for a long time after they left, staring at the door and trying to figure out when your relationship with Dean had become something you had to navigate so carefully. When had he started treating you like a stranger? When had you started being afraid of disappointing him so much that you could barely speak in his presence?
The worst part was understanding why he was doing it. You could see the logic, could even admit that he was probably right. But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less.
Three hours and seventeen minutes later, they came back bloody but victorious. Dean checked you over with clinical efficiency—no warmth, no relief, just making sure his responsibility was still intact and undamaged.
"You okay?" he asked, and you nodded because that's what he needed to hear.
"Good," Dean said, and turned away to clean his weapons.
You realized then that this was your new normal. Dean would keep you safe, would fulfill his duty as your guardian, but the easy affection and trust you'd grown up with was gone. You'd broken something that couldn't be fixed, and now you were left with the pieces.
It all came to a head on your seventeenth birthday.
Dean had forgotten. Not maliciously, not on purpose, but in the way that someone forgets things that aren't priorities. He'd been distracted by a case, focused on research, and it simply hadn't occurred to him that the date meant anything special.
Sam remembered. Sam always remembered. He woke you up with a cupcake from the gas station and a small wrapped present—a new leather journal for your notes and observations. It was thoughtful and sweet, and it made you want to cry because it highlighted everything that was missing from your relationship with Dean.
Dean noticed Sam's gift at breakfast and went very still in the way that meant he was mentally calculating dates.
"Shit," he breathed, and then looked at you with something that might have been panic. "Kiddo, I—"
"It's okay," you said quickly, because watching Dean realize he'd failed at something was always painful. "It's not a big deal."
But it was a big deal, and you both knew it. Birthdays had always been important to the Winchesters, one of the few normal traditions you'd maintained despite everything else. Dean had never forgotten before.
"I'll make it up to you," Dean said, and you could see him mentally rifling through options. "Tonight, after the hunt. We'll do something special."
You nodded and smiled and pretended it was fine, but something cold had settled in your chest. Another reminder that you'd become an afterthought in Dean's life.
The hunt should have been routine. Salt and burn, basic vengeful spirit, the kind of thing you could do in your sleep. You'd been benched again, naturally, relegated to research duty while your brothers handled the actual work.
But you'd been doing this long enough to know when something was wrong. When they were twenty minutes past check-in time, when the local police scanner started going crazy with reports of explosions and injuries, you knew they were in trouble.
And you knew that by the time you called Bobby, by the time help arrived, it might be too late.
So you broke Dean's rules. Again.
You grabbed weapons, salt, and a lighter. You drove the stolen (borrowed, you told yourself) pickup truck to the old Riverside Cemetery where your brothers were supposed to be finishing up a simple salt and burn.
What you found was chaos.
The spirit had been stronger than expected, angrier. It had trapped Sam under a fallen headstone, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Dean was unconscious, blood pooling under his head from where he'd been thrown against a marble monument.
The ghost was circling them like a predator, growing more solid with each pass, feeding off their pain and fear.
You didn't think. You couldn't afford to think.
You emptied a full container of salt in a circle around your brothers, creating a temporary barrier. The spirit shrieked and recoiled, giving you the time you needed to grab Dean's dropped lighter and sprint toward the disturbed grave.
The bones were partially burned but still intact—that's why the spirit had been so strong. You dumped the rest of your salt on the remains and flicked the lighter.
The ghost's scream when it finally dispersed was so loud it shattered three of the nearby headstone's. Then, silence.
You ran back to your brothers, hands shaking as you checked pulses and assessed injuries. Sam was conscious but in obvious pain. Dean was breathing but wouldn't wake up.
It took the paramedics forty-five minutes to arrive. It took another two hours at the hospital before Dean opened his eyes.
The first thing he did when he saw you was check the time on the wall clock. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath that sounded like defeat.
"You were supposed to stay at the motel," he said quietly.
"You were supposed to check in," you replied.
Dean looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw something crumble behind his eyes.
"You could have been killed," he said, and his voice was hollow. "Again."
"But I wasn't. And neither were you."
"That's not the point." Dean struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement aggravated what was probably a concussion. "The point is that I can't—" He stopped, swallowed hard, started again. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep failing to protect you."
The words hit you like a physical blow. "You haven't failed—"
"Haven't I?" Dean laughed bitterly. "You've been hurt, terrorized, nearly killed more times than I can count. You don't listen to me, you don't trust me to keep you safe, and apparently I can't even remember your goddamn birthday."
The raw pain in his voice made your chest tight. "Dean—"
"I'm scared of you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out like a confession. "Do you understand that? I'm scared of my own sister because every time I look at you, I see another way I'm going to fail. Another person I'm going to let down."
The silence that followed was deafening. You stared at your brother—your guardian, your protector, the person who'd been your whole world—and realized that somewhere along the way, you'd become his nightmare.
"I never wanted that," you whispered.
"I know." Dean's voice was barely audible. "But that's what happened anyway."
You both sat with that truth for a long moment, the weight of years of fear and misunderstanding pressing down like a physical presence.
"So what happens now?" you asked.
Dean was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw with exhaustion.
"I don't know, kiddo. I honestly don't know."
