#spn fic

[luciferines]

ALL WE ARE IS BULLETS

pre-series supernatural | sam&dean | canon-typical winchester attachment style | 2k

but sam’s not looking–not talking–not touching him. how unthinkable. they used to be mind readers.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/90149136

[prattery]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"You're not like the other angels, are you, Castiel?" says The Shadow. "In fact, I'm willing to bet that your biggest regrets are still to come."

After the Shadow came to collect, Castiel thought that he was finished. Except, of course, things are never that simple.

He comes to in Dean's room.

Words: 6k, Chapters: 2/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Supernatural

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Categories: M/M

Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), The Empty | The Shadow (Supernatural), Sam Winchester, Jack Kline

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair (Supernatural), Fix-It, Grieving Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On (Supernatural)

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

wc: 893

cw: 18+ mdni, angsty smut w/ comfort, established relationship, degradation gone wrong, pinv, reader having a traumatic past implied but not expressed, pet names, rough sex, poor communication on both sides

a/n: a little drabble I thought up randomly. Poorly proofread as I’m super sleep deprived 🫩 I’m thinking of doing one w/ Sam , too.

You had a stoplight system.

Green means you’re good.

His soft lips planting warm, open mouthed kisses down your throat. Occasionally raking his teeth across your sensitive skin. Pinching enough to send a pulse of electricity down your spine directly to your core.

When he got to your pussy?

You were green, green, green. As emerald green as his eyes. The ones that would watch you writhe beneath him while he lapped at your cunt like the fate of the universe depended on it.

Yellow means slow down.

When he finally buried himself into the hilt as your velvety walls struggled to accommodate him. Your palm would press firmly against his solid chest while your eyes fluttered shut.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” He’d purr. His voice already sounding wrecked.

You’d babble as your throat tightened.

“c’mon, talk to me. what color?”

“yellow—I’m sorry, I just need a minute.”

And he’d give you a million. All while he’d kiss you slowly and deeply. Barely moving a millimeter. All while rubbing your sides gently and brushing away any tears that crested your eyelids. His eyes wouldn’t leave your face as he waited for your brows to relax and your breathing return to normal.

Red meant stop. No questions asked. Not, ‘are you sure?’

Stop.

That’s a line Dean would never cross. And he never did. You finally had a healthy sex life with a partner you trusted completely. You even enjoyed trying new things.

Spanking? Loved it.

Restraints? Fuck yes.

Role play? Yes, officer.

The first time it slipped out completely by accident. You were on your knees in front of him. His hand was loosely knotted in your hair as he fed his thick cock down your throat. A mix of drool, tears, and precome was smeared across your chin and trailing down your throat. His knees threatened to buckle with how perfectly you swallowed around him.

“you’re my perfect girl—my fucking cum slut.”

He sucked in a quick breath as his eyes widened. He was watching you and waiting for you to react. Silently praying to Chuck and any god who would listen that he didn’t just cross a line. One he couldn’t come back from or redraw.

You didn’t react how you expected either. Your cunt clenched tight around nothing, the soft walls pressing in on themselves. You hummed around him as your eyelids fluttered.

“you like that baby? You like being my little slut?”

To both of your surprise, your head nodded feverishly.

“what color?”

You pulled off of him with a wet pop.

“Green.”

Dean seemed happy. You were happy.

You were.

Something started to happen once you came down.

It felt like there was a chasm forming in your chest. A hollowness that light couldn’t reach. Masking your emotions was second nature. Forgetting yourself was easy. Especially when making him feel good was so addicting.

That was until the aching pit in your heart finally collapsed in on itself.

He had you on all fours, buried so deeply inside you it felt like he was splitting you open. Thrusting so hard that you could barely breathe. He gently fisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail to deepen the beautiful arch in your back. You were so close to coming and tears of raw pleasure were blotting your vision.

“you gonna come f’me? milk my cock like a dumb little slut.”

Your cheeks burned. The words landed like a hot blade. They used to be a perfect balance of shame and pleasure. Now the two had uncoiled and all that was left was shame. Red hot shame.

The angle he had your neck craned made the cry sound like a shriek. He’d never heard that sound come out of you, so he stilled his hips and gently untangled your hair. You immediately crumpled forward onto your knees and pressed your face tightly into your hands. Weeks worth of rolling sobs tore through you.

“Baby girl, what’s wrong? Does something hurt?” His arm curled loosely around your waist in an attempt to unfold you.

You just shook your head and tried biting your cheek. Fat tears that were born in pleasure fed the heartache.

“What, fuck—what color?” His voice was tight.

“Red.” You sniffled quietly.

Panic silently jolted him. He tucked himself back into his boxers and lowered the lights. The way you like them when you want to feel cozy and comfortable. He fumbled in the dark living room to find your favorite throw blanket from the back of the couch to wrap you in and settled next to you.

“Can I hold you?”

Your chin quivered as you draped yourself across his lap and stifled some hiccuping cries.

“I thought I was okay.” You finally choked out. He hummed and tucked your hair behind your ear. His big hand gently petted your side over the blanket.

“M’sorry, Dean. I really tried…”

“Honey.” He gently cut in to keep his chest from breaking in half. “I didn’t like it either.”

You pinched your brows together and looked up at him in a way that made his heart swell.

“I was just…tryin’ something out. I thought it made you happy.”

You couldn’t help but huff a sleepy laugh.

His hand gently tilted your face towards him. His thumb brushed back and forth along your jaw.

“You’re my perfect girl. Mine. And I never want you thinking you’re anything less than perfect.”

Dean Winchester taglist:

@youre-djoking , @staley83 , @winchesterfields67 , @ferncloud0191 , @mylpsl1kesuga , @ackleskisser-mp4 , @ashlizshack , @pucknerd , @lawboy-69

❈ join my taglist ❈

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: A Date from Hell(hound)

Part 38 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

READ THE 1st IN THE SERIES: Chapter 1 - Arrival

Summary: S12 E21 Something About Mary Rewrite You go on a date with Sam and it wouldn't be a Winchester date without a near-death experience.  But who's responsible for this one, and the six other recent hunter deaths? 

Accidentally a Winchester Series Master List: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/821736348581085184/series

A Date from Hell(hound) - S12 E21 There's Something About Mary

It isn't your first date. It isn't your hundredth, either. It's been a while, long enough that when Sam catches sight of you in the war room, something crosses his face before he can stop it.

"You look really good," he says, like it surprises him every time, like he hasn't seen you in something other than field gear in months. Which is fair. He hasn't.

"So do you." He's actually ironed something.

You sniff at his shirt. "No beer."

"Nope, I ironed it myself… with water. I didn't trust him not to use beer again."

You laugh.

He offers his hand and you take it.

The drive out is quiet in the good way, windows cracked, some song neither of you bothers to name playing low under the engine noise. No hunts, no British Men of Letters, nothing supernatural. Just a night that happens to have somewhere nice at the end of it.

The restaurant is small, the kind of place that seats maybe thirty people and doesn't bother advertising, tucked between a hardware store and a laundromat on a street that goes dark early. Sam picked it. You didn't ask how he found it, and he didn't offer, which usually means Dean was involved somehow and neither of you wants to examine that.

The hostess seats you near the back, away from the window, an old habit neither of you comments on anymore. Sam orders wine for the table without checking with you first, then catches himself and asks if that's okay, and you tell him it's fine, and he relaxes the way he does when he's more nervous than he's let on.

"So," you say, once the bread's arrived and there's nothing left to fuss with. "No case tonight. No emergency. Just us."

"Just us." He says it like he's testing whether it's true.

"You keep looking at the door."

"No, I'm not."

"You've looked at the door four times since we sat down."

"Force of habit." He picks up his water glass instead of answering further, and you let him have it, because it is force of habit, his and yours both, and pretending otherwise for one dinner isn't going to undo two years of it.

The food comes. It's good, better than the bunker's kitchen ever produces, and for a while you just eat and talk about nothing. A book he's been meaning to finish, whether Dean's going to keep Baby's current paint job or finally deal with the dent from Wichita, a stray joke about whether "Men of Letters" was really the best branding decision a secret society ever made.

"They had, what, four hundred years to come up with something better," you say. "And that's what they landed on."

"To be fair, the British ones aren't exactly winning on branding either."

"Kendricks Academy. Very ominous. Very murder-your-best-friend-for-a-grade."

Sam's smile falters, just slightly, and you realize a half second too late where that joke actually lands these days.

"Sorry," you say.

"No, it's…" He shakes his head. "It's fine. You're not wrong."

You reach over and take his hand on the table, and he turns his over to hold yours properly, and for a minute neither of you says anything, which is its own kind of conversation.

"I like this," you say eventually. "Whatever this is. Normal. Boring, even."

"Boring's good." His thumb moves once over your knuckles. "I could do a lot more boring."

"Don't jinx it."

He laughs a little, and it's real, and for a little while longer the world stays exactly the size of this table.

By the time the check comes, it's fully dark outside, the street is quiet the way small towns go quiet after nine. The check comes and Sam pays, same as always.

"Ready?" he says.

"Ready."

He takes your hand again as you step out into the night air, and the walk to the car is short, half a block, past two closed storefronts and a stretch of parked cars where the streetlight's out.

The car's not far, half a block down, past a laundromat with its lights already off and a stretch of curb where the streetlamp's been dead long enough that nobody's bothered to fix it. Sam's hand is warm around yours. You're not thinking about anything except how nice it is not to be thinking about anything.

The growl comes from your left. Low, wet, and close.

Both of you turn toward it at once, some old instinct expecting eyes to find it the way ears already have. There's nothing there. Just the dark, the quiet street, the closed shopfronts.

"Something's here," Sam says.

It moves. You can hear it circle, and both your heads track with it, uselessly, turning to follow a sound that offers no shape to match it to. Then a rush of motion aimed straight at you. The sound of growling moves toward you.

You feel nothing. It lands somewhere past your other shoulder, a heavy thud of paws hitting pavement, weight and momentum with nowhere to go. You and Sam both turn again, toward the new direction of the sound, still seeing nothing at all.

"Hellhound," Sam says.

It doesn't slow down to process the miss. It turns, and you can hear that too, a scrape of claws pivoting on concrete, and comes again, faster, a low snarl building right up until the moment it should connect and it lands a second time on your other side, the same nothing, the same wasted weight hitting the ground behind you. Your head turns with it again, and so does Sam's, chasing a shape that isn't there to be found.

Sam's the one who stops turning first. He's got it now, the rough position of the thing built from the two impacts, close enough together to draw a line between them. He lunges, blade first, aimed at the space his instincts are building for him.

He misses. You hear it, the scrape of the blade. It couldn't be more than a scratch. The growl that answers isn't pain, it's something closer to anger.

It comes for him instead.

The weight hits his chest and drives him straight down onto his back, air punching out of him in one hard grunt. His shoulders are pinned flat, but his arms are still free, working with visible effort to get the blade up and angled against a hold he can't see, can't predict, can only feel.

"Sam!"

Sam's arms are shaking with the strain of forcing the blade upward against something with all its weight braced down on him.

You're already moving. You can hear it breathing, hear the low continuous growl right where Sam's throat is, and you go in low, blade horizontal, driving it in sideways along where sound and instinct both tell you its body has to be.

Steel finds something that isn't air.

The shriek that answers has no visible mouth behind it. Sam gets his own strike home a half second later, and the weight above him goes slack all at once, then drops, sliding off him sideways, a heavy dead weight settling next to him. Nothing to see. Just the sudden, unmistakable presence of something dead and still there, invisible and undeniable at once.

Somewhere close, behind a parked van someone who was never quite visible to begin with goes very still, watching a fight he can't see either, doing math of his own. It isn't adding up.

Ketch doesn't move. He doesn't approach. Whatever he came here to finish, he isn't finishing it tonight. Not with a Winchester on his feet, blade still in hand, eyes scanning the dark like he already knows there's more out there than one dead dog.

By the time you get Sam into the car, he's already gone.

Sam drives one-handed, the other pressed to his sleeve where the fabric's gone dark and sticky, and neither of you says anything until you're a few blocks clear of the restaurant, the adrenaline draining out in that shaky, hollowed-out way it always does.

"You're not stopping at the ER?" you ask.

"It's not that deep." He flexes his hand around the wheel, testing it. "I've had worse."

"That's not as reassuring as you think it is." You study his profile for a second, weighing whether to push it, then let it go, because you already know how this argument ends and it isn't with him in a waiting room. "Fine. But I'm looking at it the second we're home."

"Damn it, Cas." You drop your head back against the seat. "Where is he?"

Sam doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. You're both thinking it, the same unspoken math. An angel who heals with a touch would've made tonight a lot less complicated, and he's been unreachable for weeks.

"So, what the hell just happened?" you ask, when the silence stretches too long to hold.

"Hellhound."

"Yeah, but what was it doing? And why the hell would it come after us?"

"I think it was going for you. It just… couldn't."

"Like trying to pounce on me …but going through me like a ghost? I didn't feel anything."

"I did. It must be your immunity."

"Maybe it's like ghosts. The whole thing is magic. Like, no real corporeal form, just 100% magic."

"That makes sense."

"Then, when I went for it with the angel blade, it turned on me. That's what they do."

"Ok, but why would it be after either one of us? We didn't make any demon deals."

"I don't know but they're all Crowley's pets."

Dean's at the table when you come down the stairs, boots up, a beer half gone in front of him, and he's got maybe two seconds to register the state of Sam's sleeve before he's on his feet.

"What happened?"

"Hellhound," Sam says, already peeling off his jacket, wincing as the fabric pulls away from the wound.

Dean's face does something complicated, fast, somewhere between alarm and disbelief. "A hellhound just... what, jumped you? In a parking lot? On a date?"

"Pretty much."

"But nobody's after either of you." Dean's already moving, grabbing the first aid kit off the shelf like his hands need something to do. "You didn't make a deal and she can't make one. Demons can't even touch her."

"It couldn't touch me." You sit Sam down at the table, start working his shirt off his shoulder before he can argue about doing it himself. "It went straight through me. Then Sam went at it with his blade, and that's when it turned on him."

Dean sets the kit down harder than it needs to be set down. "It went through you?"

"Like I wasn't even there."

"It couldn't get you." Dean looks at Sam, and something unspoken passes between them, the kind of look that's had a lot of practice. "So Sam engaged it, and it went for the threat instead."

Sam hisses as Dean starts cleaning the gash.

"You're lucky it's shallow." Dean's voice has gone clipped, all business, which is how you know he's actually rattled. "Another inch and we're having a very different conversation right now."

"I know," Sam says.

"A hellhound had to have come from Crowley, right?" you ask.

"Yeah, he's the only one that has them," Dean answers.

"I'm calling him," Sam says, already reaching for his phone.

Sam steps a few feet away, phone to his ear, and you and Dean both watch him wait through several rings before the call connects.

"Crowley."

"Moose. To what do I owe the pleasure of a call this late?"

"Cut the small talk. A hellhound attacked us tonight."

There's a pause on the other end, just long enough to notice. "Attacked 'us'? Are you referring to you and Squirrel or you and your little mouse?"

"Me and my fiancé. It was after her."

"Oh? I hadn't heard." You can practically hear him deciding to be offended by it. "Congrats to the happy couple. I assume my save the date card is in the mail."

"The hellhound, Crowley."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Moose."

"They're your hellhounds. Tell me who's responsible."

"I'm telling you, I don't know anything about it." Even through the phone, tinny and distant, Crowley's voice carries that particular bored contempt he saves just for Sam. "I don't have any reason to go after your little mouse. Not since you destroyed the Last Ledger. And why on earth would I bother sending a hellhound after the one person on this entire planet it can't touch?"

"Only a demon can control a hellhound. Which means one of your people was involved."

"If that were the case, I would know about it. There are no missing hellhounds. I was cuddling with them just last night."

The line goes dead before Sam can answer. He stands there a second longer, phone still at his ear, before he lowers it and turns back to the table.

"Well?" Dean says.

"He's lying about something." Sam sets the phone down harder than it needs to be set down. "But I don't think he knew who the target was."

Later, once Dean's gone quiet in the kitchen and the bunker's settled into that thin, waiting kind of silence, you find Sam in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed with his shirt already off, a large patch of gauze taped across his chest.

You sit down next to him. Run your hand down his arm, softly.

"Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry."

"For this? I've had so much worse."

"But not because of me. This is my fault." You kiss him very lightly around the edge of the gauze, moving to his neck.

"It's not your fault. It's the hellhound's fault. And whoever sent it."

He puts his hand on the side of your face. "I'd take much worse for you."

"Aw, Sam."

You kiss him, and for a little while neither of you thinks about hunters, or hellhounds, or anything waiting outside this room.

You, Sam, and Dean are at Mary's last motel room. All of her stuff is gone. It looks like she hasn't been there in days. She'd left a message for Dean saying, "Dean, call me. We have a problem," and nothing else. Dean's already tried calling Mick six times, and he hasn't been in contact since he was supposedly sent to London.

So Dean calls Ketch, and it goes about as well as you'd expect, clipped and useless, ending with Ketch claiming he hasn't seen her in over a week.

"But Mom called two days ago," Sam says. "Said she was working a case with him."

"Which means he's lying." Dean pockets the phone.

Nobody says what that probably means. Not yet.

It's been a week since the Mary's motel room, since Ketch's flat lie and nothing about any of it has resolved. You're in the car, running errands, some list of ordinary things none of you has the attention span for today, when you look down at your hands and think about the whole strange math of a night that started with wine and ended with your fiancé bleeding on a kitchen table because someone sent a hellhound to kill you. It couldn't touch you. When Sam tried to defend you, it went for him instead.

It comes without warning, the way it usually does. Not a memory exactly. A flicker. A man's face, calm and precise, a dog whistle, and a treat fed to something invisible.

"It was Ketch. He's the one who sicced the hellhound on me." you say.

Dean and Sam both turn to look at you.

"You saw him?" Dean asks.

"I saw it just now. In a memory flash." You press the heel of your hand against your eye for a second. "In the show. He gets a hellhound to attack Eileen. It kills her."

"But it came after you instead," Sam says slowly. "…and you said it was originally Eileen who accidentally shot Renny."

"Yeah."

"That must be why he sent it after you instead," Sam says. "The Code."

"But it's a hellhound. It still had to have come from Crowley," Dean says.

"Except Crowley knows about her immunity." Sam's voice goes flat. "He wouldn't waste one of them on something he knows can't work." He's working it through. "Unless they didn't tell him who the target was."

"So it's not Crowley's play." You say it slowly.

"But, I don't understand. Mick let it go. He let us walk," Sam says.

"Maybe he still filed a report." Dean looks at you. "They saw he didn't kill you, so they sent Ketch to take care of it."

"So the British Men of Letters must be working with Crowley. They got a hellhound, but didn't tell him who the target was," you say.

"He's not going to be happy that dog's dead, either," Dean says. "They just cost him an asset for nothing."

Nobody says anything for a moment.

"Six," you say quietly. "There are six hunters dead in three weeks. Supposedly all from monsters."

Dean's jaw sets. "Yeah. What, did every last thing out there suddenly decide to start working together?"

"Monsters and demons don't team up." Sam says. "Six hunters gone. Hellhound attack on us. We can't get a signal off Mom's phone. Cas has Kelly Kline somewhere, no idea where. Mick's slipped off the grid. Ketch is lying straight to your face." He exhales, sharp. "I want to punch something."

"Good." Dean's voice goes low. "Hold onto that."

You're still turning it over, the shape of it settling wrong in your chest. "He used a hellhound on me so it would look like a monster killed me.

"Six hunters," you say. "Killed by six different monsters, all with explanations nobody thought twice about because that's just the job. That's just what happens to people who do what we do."

"You think it's all him," Dean says. It's not a question.

"I think it's easy to fake a monster attack when you've got one on a leash." You look between the two of them. "How many of those six weren't monsters at all?"

Nobody answers that, because nobody has a version of the truth that isn't awful.

Outside the post office, Dean's got the mail and Sam has his phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, I appreciate it. Thanks." Sam hangs up. "So I've been calling around about all of the hunters that died. Every one of them had years of experience."

"We got a letter from Eileen," Dean says, already sorting through the stack.

"Eileen?" you say.

"She sent it four days ago. It went snail mail 'cause she thought that her phone and her computer were both hacked." Dean hands it over. "She was scared."

"Scared of what?" Sam asks.

"After she heard about the recent hunter deaths, she started getting paranoid and started watching for tails and searching for bugs."

Dean hands Sam the letter and he reads it out loud, her handwriting cramped and fast across the page. "I know they're following me, watching me. They tapped my phone. I found a microphone in my room."

He looks up. "You think the Brits were watching her?"

"If Eileen says they were…" you say.

"Then maybe that's not the only place they've got ears." Sam's already folding the letter, already moving toward the car.

All three of you go back to the bunker and start searching, methodically, room by room, running hands under tables and along shelf edges and behind picture frames.

Dean's the one who finds it, kneeling by the map table, one hand braced against the underside.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just points so you and Sam can both see it, a small dark cylinder taped to the underside of the table.

You and Sam kneel down next to him.

Dean settles back on his knees, voice pitched normal, easy, like nothing's different. "Those hunters you were talking to. Is one of them Terry Marsh?"

Sam plays along. "Yeah. Terry Marsh, in Missouri. I talked to him. He's also thinking it's not monsters doing the real killing."

"Okay, well, I got a text from him," Dean says. "He's been nosing around. Says he's got a fair idea of what's going on."

"And?" Sam says.

"He doesn't feel safe talking about it on the phone. He wants to meet."

"The old iron works off the interstate. Tomorrow night at 9:00. He says park off the road by the warehouse," Dean continues.

"All right," Sam says.

You just shake your head, small and involuntary, eyes narrowing into something close to a glare, not at either of them, at all of it.

Sam's mouth is twisted into a tight grimace, every muscle in his face taut with the effort of keeping his temper.

You stay with the Impala, parked close to the building, a low bush the only thing between you and the black car British Men of Letters rolled up in. Sam made you promise to stay put before he got out. You didn't like it, but you did it anyway.

You watch him and Dean go around to one of the doors. Then you watch two men getting out following. Toni stays behind in their car.

Sam and Dean disappear inside. The two men from the second car follow a minute later, and the door swings shut behind them.

For a moment nothing happens. The door is around the corner of the building, out of sight from where you're parked, but you catch the scrape of the bolt sliding home, and then, faint, muffled, the sound of someone on the other side realizing too late that it's locked.

Toni's watching the building through the driver's side window, waiting for whatever's about to come out of it. She draws and cocks her weapon.

She doesn't see Sam circling from the other direction then the passenger window shatters behind her.

She twists and fires through the broken glass, fast, no hesitation, and you don't see whether it hits anything, just Sam dropping low, out of the line.

Dean's already at the driver's door, wrenching it open, and he's got her gun before she's finished bringing the gun back around. He grabs it from her hands and throws it on the ground. She's out of the car in the same motion, and her knee catches him in the crotch hard enough that he folds forward with a sound you feel more than hear.

She dives for the gun. Sam gets there first, boot coming down flat on top of it, his own weapon already aimed directly at her. 

She holds his eyes for a moment, then rises slowly, something resigned settling over her face.

"If you keep this up," Dean says, still bent over, "we're gonna have to start dating." 

She looks at Dean, something in her face doing all the work an eye roll would if she bothered, then turns back to Sam and the gun still leveled at her face. 

They walk her back toward the Impala and you open the back door without being asked. Sam guides her in. She sits like she's used to being handled, spine straight, chin up, giving nothing away.

Sam looks at you, then tips his head toward the front. You climb in first, sliding to the middle of the bench seat, and Sam gets in beside you, Dean rounding the hood to take the wheel.

Sam's turned in his seat, arm extended straight over the back of the bench, gun leveled at her face at close range. "Why are you spying on us? And what do you know about a hellhound attacking us?"

Toni's brow draws together, something almost like real confusion crossing her face. "Hellhounds?"

"Did you – did – did your people, send it?" Dean asks.

"Probably. Rule of thumb, if you think we were trying to kill someone, then we probably were." She pauses. "Although we don't often fail." Her eyes flick to you again, brief, recalculating. "Speaking of, you do realize that by attacking me, you invite the retribution of the entire British Men of Letters? Investigation, no trial. Just punishment and ruin. Possibly at the hands of Mary Winchester."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean's voice has gone hard.

"Your mother. She's our permanent guest."

"She's your prisoner? Why?"

"Prisoner? Who said anything about prisoner?" Toni's mouth curves, thin and pleased with herself. "No, Mary's joined the team. Even has her own super secret decoder ring."

"You're lying."

"You're right. There is no ring." A small, cold laugh. "Oh, boys and their mums. See, you see her as Mummy. We see her as one of our best killers."

"You know," Dean says, "just 'cause she works with Ketch doesn't mean she likes him. Or you."

"Oh, that Oedipal myopia again. And did you really think she was just working with Ketch? All those days and nights?"

"That's enough," Sam says.

"He said it was some of the best sex he'd ever had."

Dean slams on the brakes hard enough that everyone lurches forward. "You wanna rethink that?"

"Fine." Toni doesn't so much as flinch. "He said it was the best sex he'd ever had."

Dean's already reaching back over the seat before Sam gets a hand on his arm.

"Dean. Dean."

Toni makes a small, satisfied sound, like she's won something.

"All right," Sam says, still holding him back.

"Keep it up," Dean mutters, settling back into his seat, jaw tight.

You look at Toni for a long moment, then at Sam. "You know, Sam. She did shoot you in the leg." You look Toni up and down, slow, deliberate. "It wouldn't even kill her."

Sam's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Hmm, good point. I'll think about it." He doesn't lower the gun. "Now, what about Mick? Where is he in all of this?"

"Mick?"

"Yes. Mick."

"Oh, Mick's dead."

"He's dead?"

"Quite." Toni says it like she's reading a weather report. "It was determined he was too sentimental for the job. Turns out he was too much like you two, and all the other U.S. hunters. Ergo, soon each and every hunter in this country will join him. Jody Mills, Claire Novak, all your other flannel-wearing, whiskey-swilling friends." She pauses with something almost like relish. "They're dead."

The four of you come down the bunker stairs single file, Dean first, then Toni, Sam right behind her with his gun trained on her back, and you last. 

"So we're clear?" Dean says. "You call Ketch, tell him if he wants to see you alive, he gets his prissy ass over here."

You reach the bottom of the stairs. For a second the room looks empty.

"Interestingly," Ketch says, stepping out from the side, unhurried, "his prissy ass is already here."

Men fall into position around the room as he speaks, guns rising from doorways and behind pillars, one on every side of you.

Sam's gun comes up toward Ketch, fast, and for half a second nobody moves.

"Lady Bevell," Ketch says, pleasant, like he's asking her to pour tea. "Would you mind disarming them?"

Sam's eyes find yours for the briefest second, something sharp and deliberate in the look, a warning dressed up as nothing at all. Get down.

Toni reaches for Sam's gun.

He grabs her arm instead, hard, and in the same motion puts a bullet in the man on his right without so much as looking at him fully.

Dean doesn't even turn. His hand goes to the small of his back, and he draws and fires in one motion, taking the man on his left clean, before even bringing the gun to the front of his body.

You're already moving, dropping low behind the war table, your own gun already in your hand before you've fully processed drawing it. You start to rise, angling for a shot at Ketch yourself.

"Stay down." Sam doesn't even look at you to say it, all his focus on Ketch, but the order lands hard enough that you drop back behind the table without arguing.

Ketch tips his gun toward a side hallway, and the last of his men peels off in that direction, moving fast.

Dean sees him do it. Sam catches Dean's eye and jerks his own gun toward the hall, marking the direction without a word.

Dean's already moving into the same corridor, footsteps fast and quiet. He gets maybe halfway before the hall bends, and he turns the corner gun up, and puts the man down fast.

He doesn't stop. He keeps going, circling back around toward the war room from the library.

Then he's behind Ketch, sliding in, grabbing the gun from his hand and pressing his own against  Ketch's back.

"Get up," Dean says.

"All right, Ketch," Sam says, still holding Toni like a human shield. "How many more guys are in here?"

"Our mom." Dean's voice cracks, just slightly. "Where is she?"

"Don't move."

The voice comes from your right, and you turn to see Mary stepping in from the corridor, gun raised and steady, aimed square at Dean.

"Ah," Ketch says, something almost fond in it. "Speak of the devil."

"Perfect timing, Mom," Sam says.

"Just stay where you are," Mary says.

Ketch starts to bend for his own gun, still lying where it fell when Dean first disarmed him.

"Hey," Dean says, "You heard her."

"I was talking to you." Mary's eyes haven't left Dean once. 

Dean says, "Mom?"

She fires. The shot buries itself in the pillar more than a foot from his head, close enough to feel the spray of stone, clearly never meant to hit him. But it's enough. In the half second everyone flinches, Ketch twists free, grabbing both guns. First, Deans from his hand and then his from the ground. He stands with a gun in each hand. One aimed at each brother. 

"Hey! Ketch, stop!" Sam says.

"I really wouldn't move." Ketch's voice is calm, almost gentle. "She will shoot you."

Mary's gaze cuts to the table. "You. Come out from under there."

There's nothing to do but obey. You rise slowly, hands where she can see them, and she crosses to you first, close enough that you can see nothing behind her eyes at all, and takes your gun from you without a word.

Then she moves to Sam and takes his gun without a word.

"Mummy always was a talented hunter," Toni says, watching Mary work. "Just somewhat confused about obeying orders."

"What did you do to her?" Sam's voice is low, dangerous.

"Lady Bevell cleared up that confusion." Ketch's tone is conversational, easy. "And I suspect she told you the American hunters are a dying breed. Hmm?"

Toni starts to follow as Ketch starts up the stairs.

"Oh." He glances back at her, almost bored. "For heaven's sake, where do you think you're going?"

"Ketch," Tony says.

"Remember at Kendricks, how they taught us we were all expendable?" His eyes don't warm at all. "That wasn't idle chat."

"Mom!" Dean calls. "Look at me." Dean takes a few steps moving toward Mary. 

Mary is already at the top of the stairs, one gun in each hand, still raised, aiming them down at all of you.

"It's us." Dean is pleading now, all the earlier steel gone out of his voice. "Please. What's wrong with you? Mom!"

"Your bunker is an excellent fortress." Ketch surveys the room like he's admiring the architecture. "An even better tomb. So we've rejiggered the locks, we've shut off the water, and once we leave, the pumps that bring in the air shall reverse. Your oxygen should be gone in two days. Maybe three." He smiles, faint and cold. "You dying in here. It's almost poetic, hmm? Come along, Mary."

"Ketch!" Toni's voice cracks with something close to panic.

He doesn't look back. He and Mary go together, and the heavy door slams behind them with a sound that seems to swallow the whole room.

Dean's already moving, taking the stairs two at a time, trying the door then pounding both fists against it. "No!"

The lights go off with only red flashing emergency lights on. After a few seconds, somewhere deep in the walls, something shifts, the sound of air pumps turning on. Going the wrong direction now. 

Thank you to @lelapine on tumblr for the "mouse" nickname idea!

👉Read THIS on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90095561

if you ❤️ SAM 👉 Read my SPN fanfic: Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5664826 No use of "Y/N"!

Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

List of Sam x Reader Cute Little Fluffs https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/819080920363565056/sam-x-reader-cute-little-fluffs-list

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

❈ 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Oklahoma rodeo star!Dean Winchester x cowgirl!reader

❈ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: the Winchesters were well known in the professional rodeo industry. First through John, until an injury abruptly ended his career. Now, it’s Dean’s turn to make a name for himself.

Dean had spent the first twenty years of his life trying to earn the approval of a man who kept moving the finish line.

This was going to be the season where his career took off. He was sure of it.

Until he saw you. You were chasing big dreams in tiny towns dotted across the state. Serving fresh pie and coffee at a diner during the day. Then, chasing hundredths of a second under bright arena lights at night.

Dean had always had his eyes on the scoreboard. Now, his eyes were fixed on you.

❈ 𝘸𝘤: 3.8k

❈ 𝘤𝘸: Oklahoma AU, cowboy Dean, slow burn & yearn, spicy tension, horse babble & cowboying, Sammy goes back to college, tooth rotting western romance, canon John, Dean, Sam dynamic

𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | ▶︎ •ıı||ı|ıı| listen along

Your truck idled loudly outside the dorms as Sam hopped out of the back. His bag was slung over his shoulder while he tried patting as much dust off himself as possible before heading inside.

It was shortly after midnight when you finally pulled away. Only after Dean made sure Sam got inside the building. You expected some teasing from Audie in the backseat, but now that Sam was gone, she’d stretched out across the bench and pulled her hat over her face to sleep.

Dean followed suit once you were back on the highway. He didn’t stand a chance against the fading light as you drove away from the city and steady hum of the diesel engine. He hadn’t even bothered asking where you were going.

You were heading back to Nowhere. To your family’s small ranch. Your dad was the livestock veterinarian for some of the bigger ranches in the county, so he worked a lot. Your mom was somewhere in Arizona. Or New Mexico. It had been a while since she’d sent you a tacky postcard with a cactus on it. She’d left when you were little. The parenting thing just wasn’t for her. Luckily, you’d learned to coexist with the sting of her abandonment.

Ever since then, your dad had given you a pretty wide berth and let certain things slide.

Like bringing home handsome, green-eyed cowboys without asking.

It was one-thirty in the morning when you killed the engine beside the barn. Dean and Audie were still passed out, and you rolled your eyes.

You opened the door, and a frustrated grumble came from the backseat when the cab light flicked on. Dean inhaled sharply and sat upright. He was immediately disoriented, blinking into the darkness as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The moment he saw you, he sighed and let his shoulders fall away from his ears.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” you teased.

“Where are we?” His voice was still rough with sleep.

“Nowhere.” You grinned playfully. “Now help me turn the horses in for the night.”

You quietly settled the horses into the stable. Dean spent a few extra minutes in Blue’s stall helping him settle in for the night. You smiled to yourself as you listened to the tough, calloused man speak so softly to a twelve-hundred-pound animal. It was clear Blue wasn’t just an expensive horse that earned him a lot of money.

They were deeply connected. Like any good cowboy and his horse.

His first few steps into your house were cautious. Even though you’d assured him your dad wasn’t home, Dean was still half-expecting to meet an angry man with a shotgun.

You noticed his gaze land on the couch in the living room. Audie was already fast asleep. Still wearing her clothes, minus her boots and earrings. You shrugged a blanket over her.

“Looks like you’re bunking with me.” Your mouth twitched as you let out a nervous laugh.

Dean swallowed hard and followed you down the hallway. His stomach flipped anxiously at the prospect of sleeping beside you. He slowed his steps to study the old photographs lining the wall. Most were of who he assumed was you as a child. A smile tugged at his lips when he spotted a picture of toddler-sized you wearing oversized cowboy boots and leading what must have been an incredibly patient horse.

Your hand suddenly slipped into his.

It fit there effortlessly, like it had been molded specifically to be held by his.

Any remaining exhaustion jolted from his body, leaving a warm, tingling feeling in its place.

“Let’s go,” you whispered impatiently.

The room was already dimly lit by a bedside lamp when he stepped into your space. His eyes wandered while you gathered clean clothes for after your shower. The wallpaper had a nondescript floral pattern scattered across a soft yellow background. A few piles of clothes had taken up permanent residence on the bed and floor.

A pair of black, lacy panties caught his eye. Those certainly wouldn’t be comfortable to ride in. He wondered where you wore them.

Maybe you’d wear them for him.

Dean quickly dragged his attention elsewhere.

He took a few steps toward your bed and inspected the Polaroids pinned to the wall above it. Some were of you and Audie over the years. Clearly, her friendship was important to you.

An old postcard from Arizona was tucked behind the bedside lamp. Important enough to keep. Hidden enough that you didn’t have to look at it.

Your bed wasn’t made. Just a twisted mess of sheets that looked like they’d been kicked away in a hurry. Maybe you’d overslept that morning. He wondered if you were hard to wake up. If it would take some gentle coaxing to get you to open your eyes.

Or maybe you’d slept there with someone else.

Maybe those sheets had been kicked away while someone else’s legs tangled loosely with yours.

A sharp ache of jealousy pinched his chest, but he shoved the thought aside.

There was no sense getting worked up over something he’d invented in his own head.

He finally noticed the corner of a box sticking out from beneath the bed. How he’d managed to spot it among the miscellaneous chaos was a mystery. He nudged it gently with the toe of his boot and glanced toward the doorway before kneeling down.

The top of the box was labeled:

CALIFORNIA

A quick peek inside revealed a decent amount of cash. Probably a few hundred dollars, at least.

Dean immediately closed the lid and pushed it back beneath the bed.

“You’re up.”

He turned and found you sleepy-eyed with an oversized-tee hanging off of your shoulder. The way you were rubbing your eyes made him want to carry you to bed himself.

You pressed a fluffy towel into his chest and muttered something that sounded like hurry up. He hoped you would stay awake for him.

He made sure to shower quickly. But he took a moment to enjoy the sweet scent of your shampoo that clung to the steam as he watched red dirt from the weekend circling the drain below. Like he was washing the stain of John away. At least for a little while.

Securing the towel low around his hips, he made his way back into your bedroom. He was happy to see you still awake. You were inspecting your wrist as a bruise was beginning to form there.

“Is that hurtin’?”

Your eyes flicked up and you smiled at the sight of him.

“A little bit.”

He knew for a girl like you, that meant it was really hurting.

He pulled some clean shorts on and sat next to you on the bed. Gently gripping your wrist and pulling it closer to inspect it in the glow of the lamplight. His eyes flicked between your face and wrist. Making sure he wasn’t hurting you.

You winced slightly when he turned it over.

“Dean, it’s fine. Really.”

He traced his calloused thumb back and forth across your pulse point while studying you intently. Desperately trying to memorize the image of you at that moment. Soft. Vulnerable. Relaxed. Perfect to him.

“What?” You giggled.

“You.”

Your nose wrinkled as your head shook dismissively. You laid back and patted the spot next to you.

He swallowed thickly and he settled close to the edge of the bed.

“What’re you doin’ all the way over there?” You said while adjusting the pillow under your head.

“Just being polite.”

Dean studied you for a beat before scooting closer while still trying to give you space.

You closed the distance and settled your arm on his chest and face nuzzled against him. His heart was doing somersaults as he let his hand lightly cover yours. Careful not to apply too much pressure. He stretched his other arm around you. Letting his fingers trace lazy circles on your shoulder until sleep pulled him under.

When you woke up, it was bright and sunny. The digital clock read nine fifteen. The chorus of cicadas had already begun their loud protest against the oppressive heat to come. Mourning doves cooed lazily in the trees nearby. You blinked slowly and let the sounds of a summer morning wash over you.

The gentle rhythm of Dean’s heartbeat thrummed beneath your hand. He was still sound asleep. You smiled as you watched him for a moment. His face twitched gently in his sleep. You wondered what he was dreaming about. Or if he was sleeping too deeply to dream.

Eventually, you carefully peeled yourself away and quietly slipped out of the room.

The quiet padding of bare feet against tile pulled your attention away from the eggs you were scrambling on the stove. Dean had finally crawled out of bed and was still tugging his shirt over his head when he wandered into the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” you called warmly over your shoulder.

He echoed you with a tired smile before settling onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in the details had been shrouded in darkness the night before. Country decorations and family photographs. A scattered collection of equine and livestock magazines. Eventually, his attention drifted toward the bay window overlooking the paddock, where Blue grazed near the house. His tail lazily swatted at horseflies while he periodically lifted his head to survey his unfamiliar surroundings.

“Audie must’ve turned ’em out before she left this morning,” you said, nodding toward the horses.

You set a plate of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon in front of him before settling onto the stool beside him.

“And you cook?”

You shrugged and stole a piece of bacon from his plate.

“If I woulda relied on my daddy to cook, we’d have starved to death.”

Dean gave you a knowing look before stabbing his fork into the eggs.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and immediately sighed at the number of missed calls waiting for him.

You didn’t have to ask.

John.

Before his thumb could hit redial, you snatched the phone from his hand and snapped it closed.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, an anxious edge creeping into his voice. “He’s gonna go nuclear if I don’t call him back.”

He smiled, but there was a slight waver behind it.

You tucked the phone behind your back as he stood and tried to give you a stern look. It only took a few flutters of your eyelashes to make the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Gimme one day. Please.”

He cocked his head.

“Have fun with me. No work. No dads. No worryin’.”

Dean sighed deeply as you blinked innocently up at him.

“Hell, I can’t say no to you, baby girl.”

He took a step closer.

One hand settled gently against your hip, his touch featherlight as his fingertips ghosted over the thin strip of exposed skin above your shorts.

His eyes flicked between your lips and your eyes.

Your pulse fluttered.

“Nice try.”

You slipped his phone into your pocket before he could sneak it away from you.

Dean stared.

“Damnit, woman.”

“You’ll live.”

“Dad might kill me.”

“At least you’ll die on your feet instead of livin’ on your knees.”

“Right up here.”

You called over your shoulder as you guided Ricochet off the trail. The rhythmic lapping of water against the shore was like a siren song in the summer heat.

By the time Dean cleared the tree line, you’d already slid out of the saddle and kicked off your boots. You were shimmying out of your shorts, leaving you in a pair of red polka-dot bikini bottoms.

“You swim in that water?”

You gave him a confused look before glancing around.

“Yeah? Where else am I supposed to swim?”

It was only in the mid-nineties that day, but the temperature hadn’t dipped below eighty in what felt like two months. The reservoir was big enough to stay cool and refreshing all summer.

Perfect for swimming.

Dean was still sitting atop Blue, who had wandered to the water’s edge and was dragging one hoof through the shallows. He pawed again, inadvertently splashing water toward Dean.

“See!” You pointed at him. “Even he thinks the water’s fine.”

You’d already shed your cami and were slowly backing into the water, trying to entice Dean to join you.

“I don’t trust lakes around here.”

“It’s a reservoir.”

“Even worse.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Find me a river out in the country and I’ll swim in it all damn day.”

You wrinkled your nose.

Ridiculous.

Then a playful smile tugged at your lips. The one Dean was quickly learning to be nervous about.

“What if I sweeten the deal?”

You were chest-deep by then. Your fingers slowly found the string at the back of your bikini top.

Dean’s expression immediately changed.

You tugged and the knot loosened.

His eyes widened.

“C’mon, girl. Don’t do me like this.”

He groaned and tipped his head toward the sky like he was asking God himself for strength.

You laughed and turned toward deeper water. You barely made it two paces when a loop of rope dropped into the water around you.

Your jaw fell open.

You spun around to find Dean standing beside Blue with the most insufferably smug expression you’d ever seen.

The other end of the lasso was secured around his saddle horn like he’d just roped a calf. He didn’t pull it tight. He simply let the loop float loosely around you.

“What?” Dean shrugged.

His grin widened.

“Figured I’d get some practice in while you’re gettin’ sick in the reservoir.”

You stared daggers at him. He stared back.

“You did not just rope me.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

“Get it off.”

“Come back to shore.”

Your eyes narrowed. Dean’s grin faltered. He was beginning to recognize that look.

“Okay, now—”

You grabbed the rope with both hands and yanked hard.

Dean stumbled forward. His boots hit the muddy shoreline.

“Oh, you little—”

You yanked again.

This time his boots slipped out from under him. Dean hit the water with a tremendous splash.

Blue immediately backed away from the commotion, looking thoroughly unimpressed with his rider.

You doubled over laughing.

Dean surfaced a few seconds later, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered across his forehead.

The look on his face only made you laugh harder.

“You think that’s funny?”

You could barely breathe.

“Little bit.”

Dean wiped the water from his eyes.

Then he started toward you.

Your laughter died.

“Oh, shit.”

You turned and tried to run.

Running through waist-deep water wasn’t particularly effective. Dean caught you around the waist before you’d made it three steps. You squealed as he hauled you backward against him.

“Gotcha.”

“Dean!”

“Shoulda quit while you were ahead, sweetheart.”

You twisted in his arms, still laughing as you tried to shove him away.

Then something changed. Neither of you really knew who noticed it first but everything slowed. The water stilled, and the wildlife quieted to a low hum.

His arms were still around your waist. Your hands had settled against his chest. His wet shirt clung tightly beneath your palms.

The laughter slowly faded and Dean looked down at you.

Your smile softened. His gaze fell to your mouth. Before he could lean any closer, Audie’s voice called from the treeline.

“There you are! It’s payday and we’re tailgating tonight. Let’s go!”

Your dad eventually came home from a large vaccination clinic at a ranch the next county over. Dean had an immediate reaction to the older man. Your dad was in his fifties, with a thick accent and even thicker calluses earned from decades of hard work in an unforgiving climate. Dean quickly stood from his spot on the patio and wiped his palm against his jeans before extending it to meet your father’s.

“I knew your daddy before he was ever famous.” Your dad sighed as he settled into a patio chair. “Helped me wrangle calves out at Red River Ranch when you were barely knee-high.”

It was such a common experience in Oklahoma. Everyone was connected somehow, even if they didn’t know it yet. Paths crossed and tangled together until a stranger wasn’t really a stranger anymore.

“Speakin’ of which, if y’all ain’t busy doin’ whatever it is you’re doin’, I could use some help.” Your dad nodded toward Blue, who was grazing beside Ricochet in the pasture. “That fancy horse of yours work cattle?”

Dean nodded eagerly. Blue was expensive for a reason. He was an exceptionally versatile Quarter Horse with plenty of cow sense. He knew how to read cattle almost as well as Dean did, keeping enough pressure on an animal to move it without getting either of them into trouble.

Worth his weight in gold.

When the three of you and your horses arrived at the ranch, Dean pulled Blue to a stop and squinted across the pasture.

“Sir?”

Your dad slowly turned in his saddle.

“Those are… bison.”

You snickered as you adjusted your reins.

“Excellent observation, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean stared at the herd again.

“You said cattle.”

“I said I needed help.”

“Those are two very different sentences.”

You laughed.

Blue’s ears flicked toward the unfamiliar bellows rolling across the pasture. He didn’t spook, though. Just stood beneath Dean with his head high and eyes fixed curiously on the herd.

“Blue’s never worked bison.”

Your dad shrugged.

“He’ll learn.”

Dean looked at you.

You smiled.

He didn’t find that particularly reassuring.

“Same basic idea,” your dad continued. “We’re movin’ ‘em toward the working pens. Don’t crowd ‘em. Don’t get between a cow and her calf, and don’t go thinkin’ they’re just hairy cattle.”

Dean stared at him.

“That last one’s makin’ me feel real good about this.”

“Good. Means you’ll pay attention.”

Your dad nudged his horse forward.

You followed.

Dean remained exactly where he was.

“C’mon, cowboy!” you called over your shoulder and offered a little wink.

He looked down at Blue.

“Well, buddy.”

Blue flicked an ear back toward him.

“Apparently we’re doin’ this shit now.”

He squeezed his heels gently against Blue’s sides and followed you into the pasture.Dean was more nervous than his horse. Blue learned the new animals quickly. Bison were notoriously unpredictable and far less willing to yield to pressure than cattle. Blue seemed to sense that immediately, giving them a wider berth while maintaining enough presence to gently separate the calves and guide them toward the working pens.

Dean learned quickly, too.

He stopped trying to work them like cattle and started watching Blue instead. Trusting the horse beneath him to read an animal neither of them had ever encountered before.

By the end of the afternoon, they almost looked like they knew what they were doing.

After the job was done and the sun began sinking toward the horizon, you turned the horses loose to cool themselves in the water. You stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the pasture, both of you sweaty and streaked with red dirt and bison hair. You let your head settle against Dean’s shoulder as you watched Blue and Ricochet climb out of the water only to immediately roll in the dirt.

“So much for the bath,” Dean muttered.

You laughed softly.

His arm slipped loosely around your waist, keeping you flush against his side.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

“I can’t help but notice you haven’t called your dad back.”

Dean looked down at you.

The fading sunlight caught in your eyes, making them glow against your dirt-streaked face. There wasn’t anything particularly glamorous about either of you at that moment.

Dean thought you were beautiful anyway.

“Haven’t really checked my phone.” His mouth twitched. “Been too busy tryin’ to keep up with this crazy cowgirl.”

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to hide your smile.

“Are you happy?”

“‘Course I am, darlin’.”

Your gaze lingered on him.

“Like… really happy?”

His smile faded.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You sighed and looked back over the pasture.

“Are you happy stayin’ here your whole life? Some place like Nowhere?” You paused. “Ridin’ the rodeo circuit until you’re too hurt to ride anymore?”

Dean didn’t answer. He’d never really thought about it. His whole life had been dedicated to making everyone else happy.

Keep Sammy safe. Listen to Dad. Make Mom proud.

Three simple rules he’d followed for as long as he could remember. There had never been a fourth.

Be happy.

He’d never asked himself what he wanted because he’d been raised to believe it didn’t matter. There was always something more important. Someone who needed him more than he needed himself.

But Sam didn’t need him anymore. He was safe and exactly where he belonged.

And without his little brother to protect, Dean was left with a question he had absolutely no idea how to answer.

What the hell was he supposed to do with himself?

His gaze wandered across the pasture.

Blue stood knee-deep in the water, nosing lazily at the surface.

He thought about that first afternoon at the diner. The little slice of rhubarb pie you’d slipped into his hands when his dad wasn’t looking.

Rhubarb in a pie had sounded ridiculous. He’d taken a chance on something strange and unfamiliar. It turned out to be some of the sweetest pie he’d ever tasted.

Then there was Blue. That horse hadn’t been bred to work bison. He’d never even seen one before that afternoon.

Dean had been nervous enough for both of them. Blue figured it out in spite of his trepidation.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“You don’t have to answer—”

“No.”

You started to lift your head.

Dean’s arm tightened around your waist while his eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

“No, I’m not happy.”

Something in his chest loosened. A knot he’d been tangling since he was a kid.

On the drive home, he flipped his phone open and discovered he had eighteen more missed calls.

DAD

Over and over in his call log.

Normally his mind would be racing to call him back with an explanation. Not tonight.

His gaze settled on you. Your hand rested lazily across the steering wheel as you drove. Your hair whipped around your face in the warm night air. Some old country song crackled through the speakers, nearly drowned out by the tires humming against the pavement.

He snapped the phone shut and tossed it in the backseat of your truck.

It was a battle for another day.

Tonight, he was twenty one.

Dean Winchester taglist:

@youre-djoking , @staley83 , @winchesterfields67 , @ferncloud0191 , @mylpsl1kesuga , @ackleskisser-mp4 , @ashlizshack , @pucknerd , @lawboy-69

❈ join my taglist ❈

[pleaseraisemefromperdition]

Orion's Hollow

Have you read this? Is there a scene you'd like to see?

I'd like to practice some arts but I'm stuck for scenes. Come at me sickos (affectionate)

What would you like to see?

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

time

fandom: supernatural

pairing: dean winchester x reader

word count: 1500

rating: mature

summary: sometimes dean just needs time

tags/warnings: established relationship, angst, complex relationships, mother/son relationship,

notes: pls dont come and defend her ive not got my listening ears on (sammys version coming tomorrow!!)

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

☆ drabbleathon ☆ tag list ☆ read on ao3 ☆ request a drabble! ☆

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

You didn’t know why you’d said it. Well, actually you did, but you hadn’t meant it to come out like that. But Dean, he pushed. He always did when you were quiet. It didn’t matter that when he got mad, he gave you the silent treatment. It didn’t matter that it would take God himself to pry the words from his lips if he didn’t want you to know what was eating at him.

The minute you were silent, he couldn’t bear it. You’d known he was watching you. You’d known you were acting off but the thing was you had to hold your tongue. Because this wasn’t him leaving his clothes on the floor or forgetting to put the toilet seat down.

This was his mom.

Mary Winchester.

The woman you’d heard so much about. The woman you’d learned to idolise through Dean’s words. You should’ve known she’d never compare.

And it wasn’t that you didn’t get it. You did. She’d come back from the freakin’ dead and her babies weren’t babies anymore. They’d lived lives she never would have chosen for them. But her choices had led to that. They’d suffered the consequences of her actions and now they had her, now Dean had her back, and it was like she wanted nothing to do with them.

You knew it wasn’t simple. They weren’t kids. They didn’t need her to kiss their skinned knees or sit at home and bake cookies for them. But they needed something. Something she just didn’t seem to have in her to give.

But the thing was, whatever that was – Dean had already had to give it his whole life. Mom. Dad. Brother. Soldier.

And now he just needed her to take the reins, just a little.

It wasn’t easy, you knew that. It hadn’t been when the two of you had gotten together, too used to doing everything himself that letting you in had been a chore. But he was trying more with Mary. More willing, more vulnerable.

And she…well she was questionable.

You watched his face fall time and time again. Watched him stuff down the hurt. Watched him pretend it didn’t bother him that after thirty-three years, he had his mom and she needed time.

You held your tongue. And Dean noticed.

You’d just finished up dinner and were washing the plates at the sink, humming to yourself as the boys chattered behind you. You didn’t even hear Dean’s phone buzz until he was announcing it.

‘Mom’s taken another case up in Washington, probably be gone another week,’ Dean said as though it was nothing. Sam mumbled just as non-committally and then the two of them returned to their talk, like it bothered neither of them. But it settled under your skin like fire, prickling at you as you turned around. Dean noticed your face because you couldn’t quite tighten it to hide your irritation.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asked. You smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything, keeping whatever might come out tight under lock and key seemingly the best route for all parties. It was easier to speak when you didn’t have to face him, something mumbled over your shoulder about getting ready for reading in bed though it would be hours until you felt sleepy.

Dean followed.

‘You okay?’ he asked, leaning against the doorframe, watching you pull his old clothes from the dresser to change into.

‘Fine.’

‘You sure?’ he frowned, ‘because you don’t look it.’

‘I’m just tired, Dean,’ you offered.

‘No, something’s off,’ he declared, ‘you’re acting like you always do when I mention Mom.’

Your hands stilled in the drawer for a moment, your breath catching just a touch, before you carried on.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, his voice low and already bubbling with irritation.

‘No.’

‘Why don’t I believe that?’

‘I just-’ you started but then you looked at him, arms folded, trying to look tough, though his eyes were already hurt and impossibly sad.

‘Just what?’

‘Dean,’ you sighed.

‘You got something to say?’

‘It’s nothing,’ you promised.

‘But?’ he asked, coming closer, forcing you to stop, sad eyes searching your face.

‘Dean just stop,’ you pleaded.

‘I’m a big boy sweetheart you don’t gotta-’

‘I hate your mom.’

It was blurted and the abruptness hit like a slap in the face would.

‘No, I don’t…’ you tried to backpedal as his eyes went wide, then sad, and then cold. His jaw ticked before he shook his head and turned away.

‘Dean I didn’t mean-’

But he was gone, the door slammed hard enough to rattle the stone around it.

That had been two weeks ago. And he hadn’t offered a word since. Sam had asked but you hadn’t the heart to tell him what was going on. Dean had offered nothing. Even when Mary had finally rocked back up and he’d gone on the offensive trying to convince her everything was fine, he still hadn’t offered you anything. Unfortunately you knew he just needed time. Ironically, like mother like son you’d realised.

So, you’d forced yourself to sit at family dinner and pretend. You’d eaten a meal he prepared because his mom had said she’d liked it once. You’d listened to her recount stories of being away, watched Dean beam like a little boy.

Then you’d tried to help clean up. Dean had practically snatched his mom’s plate out from under your grasp like she’d be able to feel the hate radiating off you despite having spent the last hour making pleasant conversation with her.

‘Dean,’ you griped.

‘I got it,’ he insisted. You didn’t let him, following him to the sink. You danced around one another, his jaw set, your eyes rolled. Sam very quiet.

Mary cleared her throat.

‘Okay am I missing something?’ she asked.

‘No,’ the pair of you lied.

‘Are you two fighting?’

‘No,’ you both answered just as Sam said, ‘yes.’

You and Dean glared at him.

‘Okay…’ Mary sighed, looking at you like you were the problem, ‘look it’s none of my business-’

‘No it’s not,’ you bit. Dean said your name tightly, scoldingly, like you were a child. You scoffed, looking up at him incredulously, ‘what? You really wanna get into this in front of your mom? Because I will. Happily.’

Dean looked at you like he was going to say something, then over at his mom watching expectantly, and then at Sam, who looked worried. Then he just turned around, angrily turning the faucet on.

‘Thought not,’ you huffed and then you stomped from the room. Your own cold front blowing in.

That was of course until it had happened. Until she’d left, no until she’d been thrown out. You’d watched it all unfold in silence. You’d watched Dean fight not to crumble. You’d watched Sam, desperate not to lose he last chance of a connection with her but too loyal to his brother, tell her to go.

You’d given Dean space. Time.

You’d let his words break your heart over and over again. And you’d known they weren’t your words. You knew this wasn’t a seed you’d planted. It never was your issue, he’d always known, you’d just touched that nerve before he was ready to deal with it.

It was quiet when you stepped in your room. Dean wasn’t in bed, He was on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him, beer in hand.

‘Dean?’ you asked softly, watching from the doorway.

‘If you’ve come to say I told you so…’

‘I haven’t,’ you promised, feeling it was safe enough to creep in. He looked up at you and you offered a weak smile, which he returned faintly before you took a seat on the floor beside him. You looped your arm through his, resting your head on his shoulder.

You took a moment, trying to find the words. Words that wouldn’t hurt like he already was.

‘I don’t hate her, you know,’ you offered after a while, ‘I hate this.’

Dean stayed quiet.

‘I hate what she does to you. To Sam. I hate that I can’t fix it,’ you admitted, locking your gaze on where your hands met, dancing against one another’s, ‘I know she’s all you ever wanted.’

‘Baby,’ Dean said sadly. You pulled back to look at him, sad green eyes meeting yours again.

‘You don’t have to lie to me Dean. Family comes first. I know that,’ you said.

‘You’re my family too,’ he promised.

‘I know. And I know I should’ve said it better. I just didn’t know how to without hurting you,’ you said sadly.

‘Well, I guess that’s something,’ Dean murmured, ‘can’t say many people are too worried about that.’

You smiled sadly but forced it into something more upbeat.

‘Maybe she’s right, maybe some time and you’ll work through this,’ you offered gently.

‘Maybe,’ Dean said unconvincingly.

‘But for now you got me. And Sam.’

‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

supernatural/dean tags

@greenery-stings @elisabethturner1919 @caitlin1996 @amara-liu @samwchsgf @robynn9436-blog @fratbrochrisgf @ghostoftimeandbugs @parakissss @jointhehunt67 @spectralgalaxygauntlet @soueulais @bleh

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐰𝐨

❈ 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Oklahoma rodeo star!Dean Winchester x cowgirl!reader

❈ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: the Winchesters were well known in the professional rodeo industry. First through John, until an injury abruptly ended his career. Now, it’s Dean’s turn to make a name for himself.

Dean had spent the first twenty years of his life trying to earn the approval of a man who kept moving the finish line.

This was going to be the season where his career took off. He was sure of it.

Until he saw you. You were chasing big dreams in tiny towns dotted across the state. Serving fresh pie and coffee at a diner during the day. Then, chasing hundredths of a second under bright arena lights at night.

Dean had always had his eyes on the scoreboard. Now, his eyes were fixed on you.

❈ 𝘸𝘤: 2.8k

❈ 𝘤𝘸: Oklahoma AU, language, violence/injury, John Winchester is a horrible father (canon), implied abuse, lots of rodeo talk, 17 yo Sammy going back to college, slow burn & yearn, unresolved tension, reader & Dean are in their early 20s.

❈ 𝘢/𝘯: writing as I go so this segment is a little shorter than the last.

𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | ▶︎ •ıı||ı|ıı| listen along

Dean found you back by your trailer after his run. He was sore in more ways than one, feeling every step he took across the paved lot. His teeth were still rattling from jumping off his horse and tackling a calf.

It was still a hundred and one degrees outside as the sun sank over the fairgrounds, but that wasn’t why he was sweating. Well, it wasn’t the only reason he was sweating.

Even sweaty and covered in red dirt, you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Prettier than the purple mountains in Montana. Wilder than a pissed-off bison. Tougher than any cowboy he’d ever worked with. Yet there was another side of you he figured most people didn’t get to see. A warm tenderness that John would call a weakness. He’d felt it in the way you’d pressed that ice pack to his jaw.

Hard enough to soothe the injury, but gentle enough to heal his heart.

Dean was down bad.

He had been since he’d met you at the diner. Until a few hours ago, Dean hadn’t even been sure you liked him. He still wasn’t entirely convinced you hadn’t been trying to kill him with that bar fight. But he’d never prided himself on being the smartest man alive, so here he was.

Back at your trailer.

Ricochet noticed him first, snorting as her ears flicked back momentarily. She was right to be protective. Cowboys could be dirty assholes.

He’d be protective of you, too.

Hell, he already was.

You lifted your head and smiled when you noticed him. A few scratches along Ricochet’s neck disarmed her almost immediately, her body relaxing as she leaned into your touch.

Dean knew the feeling.

“You found me.” You grinned as you ducked beneath the rope tying your horse to the trailer. “How’d you do?”

“Uh, good, I think.” Dean nodded to himself. “Didn’t really stick around to watch anyone else.”

Your expression softened slightly at that.

He didn’t even realize the implication of what he’d said. He figured if he hadn’t done well enough to make Fort Worth, he’d hear about it sooner or later.

“Anyway,” he sighed, trying to move past the subject. “How’d your run go?”

“We ran a sixteen. Not too bad,” you said, gazing affectionately back at Ricochet.

“No,” a feminine voice drawled from somewhere behind him.

Dean turned slightly and spotted a young woman with long dark hair sporting denim, cowboy boots, and brightly colored beadwork.

“Fifteen point nine. Girl’s goin’ to Fort Worth!”

He watched as the woman joined you beside the trailer. Clearly she knew you.

That, or you let strange women store their shit in your trailer.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You gave her an incredulous look, tilting your head as your eyes narrowed.

“Ugh. Do I even wanna know?”

“I’m makin’ that woman my wife!” the woman called over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Audie’s got a weird thing for older women. Like, older women.” You shuddered before turning your attention back to Dean.

“So…you ran a fifteen point nine?”

You nodded slowly, glancing around like you hadn’t just put down a time that had half the barrel racers at the fairgrounds chasing you.

“That’s a hell of a horse you’ve got there.”

He stepped cautiously toward Ricochet, making sure she could see his hands before resting one against her neck.

Your jaw fell open. Then you laughed.

“‘Hell of a horse?’”

“Yeah?” he answered, suddenly unsure where he’d gone wrong.

“You think she’s the one doin’ all the work, huh?”

Your arms folded across your chest while one eyebrow arched.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well… I wouldn’t say all the work.”

He nodded toward Ricochet. “But she sure does run fast.”

You let out an amused little scoff.

“Oh, bless your heart.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“You really believe barrel racing is just sittin’ on a fast horse.”

“Well…” He shrugged.“Ain’t it?”

You stared at him for a beat. Then you smiled.The kind of smile that usually got people into trouble. The one he’d seen before you started a bar fight.

“Go get Blue.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“Get your horse and meet me at that old practice arena.” You pointed toward the uncovered arena at the south end of the fairgrounds.

“What for?”

“So I can embarrass you.”

Dean barked out a laugh.

“Oh, now hold on—”

“Unless,” you interrupted, “you’re scared I’ll prove you wrong.”

His competitive streak immediately took the bait.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He grinned.

“You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.”

You started walking backward.

“No.”

You winked.

“I’m talkin’ to Dean Winchester out of Comanche, Oklahoma.” You said in your best announcer voice.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he called after you as he disappeared between rows of trailers.

He obediently tacked Blue up and led him toward the old practice arena. The first thing he saw was you wrestling a rusty barrel across the dirt.

He couldn’t help laughing.

“You need a hand?”

“Nope!”

You gave the barrel one last shove before stepping back to eyeball the pattern.

“Glad to see you didn’t chicken out, Winchester.”

Dean smirked.

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I’ve got reason to be.”

As you walked over, your attention immediately shifted to Blue. Your whole demeanor softened.

“Well hey there, handsome.”

Blue flicked an ear toward your voice. You rubbed his neck with slow, practiced strokes. His muscles twitched beneath your hand before he relaxed with a deep sigh.

Dean watched Blue lower his head toward you to receive more affection. He couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or jealous.

“Bet he cost a pretty penny.”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckled. “He was thirty thousand dollars.”

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.

“Thirty thousand?”

“Yep.”

You whistled softly.

“Is that all?”

Dean laughed.

“I don’t know whether you’re makin’ fun of me or my horse.”

“A little bit of both.” You gave him a playful grin that made him nervous. “I paid $500 and a twelve-pack for her.” 

Dean tilted his head at that. 

“She came with a trailer. That’s what the $500 was for. I gave the man who had her a twelve-pack to not turn her into glue after she threw his daughter and broke her arm.” 

Dean stared.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“She threw somebody?”

“She threw lots of somebodies.” You patted Ricochet’s neck. “She just hadn’t found somebody worth listenin’ to yet.”

Dean looked between you and the mare. Then back again.

“Now…” You held Ricochet’s reins out toward him.

“You’re gonna ride my fast barrel horse and tell me how good she is.”

Dean hesitated.

“Oh! And little Sammy here has volunteered to hold the stopwatch.”

Dean finally noticed Sam leaning against the arena fence, trying very hard to look like he wasn’t hanging on your every word.

“What for?”

“Well…” You smiled sweetly. “I needed somebody who can count.”

“Very funny.”

Dean rolled his eyes as you and Sam laughed at his expense.

Ricochet behaved exactly how you expected. Her ears locked forward and her feet danced beneath her. She champed at the bit, anxious to be turned loose.

Dean gently pulled one rein, trying to redirect her attention before she launched herself out of the alley.

Eventually he gave Sam a silent nod. Sam clicked the stopwatch.

Dean relaxed the reins and Ricochet exploded into the arena.

“Easy…”

Dean sat deep approaching the first barrel.

You couldn’t help smiling. Ricochet tossed her head, clearly frustrated. Silently screaming we’re not moving fast enough.

Dean waited one stride too long before asking for the turn. They rounded the barrel cleanly, but too wide.

Ricochet was already thinking about the second barrel while Dean was still correcting the first.

Out of habit, he nudged her with his boots. She barely acknowledged him. She already knew where she wanted to go.

By the time they reached the second barrel, Dean started adapting.

Instead of fighting her shoulder he let her drop into the turn.

Your mouth twitched as you watched it start to click.

His inside boot scraped the second barrel.

Clang.

Dean’s hand shot down instinctively, catching it before it could roll.

Sam let out a whistle and his eyes darted toward you.

You raised an eyebrow and gave Dean a subtle nod.

She slowed perfectly at the third barrel and Dean grinned.

“Atta girl.”

Your heart fluttered listening to him praising your horse. He wasn’t working her. She wasn’t working him. They were working together.

The electronic timer chirped when he cleared the gates.

Sam looked at the stopwatch and smirked.

“Sixteen point three-zero-five.”

You hissed through your teeth.

“Oof.”

Dean rode over wearing the grin of someone who thought he’d just proven his point.

“Well?”

Sam simply held up the stopwatch.

Dean frowned.

“That can’t be right.”

“Dude,” Sam laughed, “there are five-year-old girls that run barrels better than that.”

Dean’s ears turned pink as his head snapped towards you.

“You think you could do better on Blue? He’s never rounded a barrel in his life.”

You smiled.

“Dean, honey. I know I could.”

You strutted over to Blue, intentionally allowing your hips to sway on each step. 

“Uh…what are you doing?” 

Dean cocked his head and watching you ease Blue’s bridal off of his head. You slid a neck rope over the gelding’s neck before swinging into the saddle.

“What?” you asked innocently. Batting your eyelashes. “Just evenin’ the playing field.”

Dean glanced toward Sam just in time to catch his little brother watching you climb into the saddle.

He elbowed him hard in the ribs. Sam doubled over.

Dean shot him a look that said I saw that.

“Ready, Sammy?” You called over to him.

Sam swallowed while he recovered from the hit.

Then raised the stopwatch.

Blue was a completely different animal. Ricochet was a live grenade. Blue was a holstered pistol waiting to be drawn. Waiting for your direction to run.

You nodded.

Sam started the clock.

With one soft kiss and a tap of your heel Blue surged toward the first barrel.

You lightly fisted the neck rope, instructing him to slow while you shifted your seat. 

He dipped his shoulder beautifully and executed a crisp turn towards the second barrel. 

“Good boy.”

Dean would have been bitter if he wasn’t so transfixed. He wasn’t sure what impressed him more. The way his horse ran or the way you rode him.

You were nearly at the second barrel when a voice cut through the arena like a lightning bolt. 

“‘The hell’re you doin’?” 

Everyone’s head twisted towards the edge of the arena. 

Both boys straightened in their boots at the sight of their dad. His eyes were dark. The sheen of sweat and the slight wobble in his step told them through experience that he was drunk. Or close to it. 

Blue’s gait faltered and you didn’t have a chance to correct your seat. He reacted to your loss of balance and jerked to the left. 

You fell. Hard.

Instead of rolling with it you tried bracing your fall and felt the painful crunch in your wrist. 

Before your vision jolted, you saw Dean vault the fence into the arena and run in your direction. 

Your breath was knocked out of you but you managed to push yourself on your knees. You clutched your wrist while you tried to focus on drawing a breath. 

You could hear Sam talking quietly to John. Clearly trying to calm him down. 

Dean kneeled at your side and tried to steady you.

“Hey, hey are you okay? Look at me.” 

He tried looking at your wrist and scanned you for other injuries. Blue slowly returned to you while hanging his head lowly. As any good horse does after their rider goes down.

Your vision tunneled on the man responsible, and you pushed yourself upright before you could take a full breath.

“Motherfucker.” 

Dean followed your line of sight and felt a mix of dread of rage boiling in his chest. 

He recognized that fire and raw focus now that he had ridden your horse. 

“See, look at that, boys,” John sneered, “‘Girl can’t even ride a damn horse let alone rodeo.” 

Sam was trying and failing to redirect John. You were quickly making your way towards the edge of the arena. He didn’t know if he was protecting you from John or the other way around. 

“At least I can still get on a horse, you washed up old asshole!” 

Dean tried blocking your view with his broad frame. That only redirected your anger.

“He coulda killed me, Dean!” 

“I know, I know, just listen to me—

“Why’re you so scared of him?” You interrupted him. 

You could hear him barking orders at Sam and you pushed past Dean. The image of John hitting Dean the previous night flashed in your mind. 

“What kind of father treats his sons like fuckin’ cash cows? You’re a bully.” 

John turned back towards the arena to see you climbing over the fence with one arm. Or attempting to, anyway. 

Dean pulled you back down. Both horrified and amazed at your tenacity. Like an angry coyote waiting to sink your teeth into John. 

John lets out an amused laugh. 

“That’s right. Get your woman in line, son.” He called over Sam’s shoulder. 

You managed to kick a decent amount of red dirt at him before attempting to climb the fence again. Immediately staining his white shirt a dusty copper color. 

John’s amused laughter was making your vision redden. 

Dean managed to move you back from the fence while quietly wondering what he had gotten himself into. 

“I will deal with this, okay? We really need to get your wrist looked at.” His rough hands were gently framing your face to keep your eyes on him. 

“Don’t bother.” 

You brushed his hands away when you felt tears stinging your eyes. The last thing you wanted to do was let any of them see you cry. You quickly grabbed Ricochet‘s lead and guided her back towards your trailer. As soon as they were out of view the first tear crested your eyelid and you quickly wiped it away. 

Dean’s jaw clenched tightly as he watched you lead your horse down the row of trailers. He was getting tired of watching you leave and being rooted somewhere he didn’t want to be. 

He wiped a hand down his face before turning back towards the arena. He locked eyes with Sam who subtly nodded in your direction. Another silent conversation that spoke volumes. 

He found you in the medical tent with Audie. She was chewing her thumb nail while she watched the nurse exam your wrist. 

“Think it’s broken?” Audie asked nervously. 

“No. Looks like it’s sprained pretty good though. I’d give it a few weeks to heal. Plenty of ice and rest.” 

You groaned and let your head flop back against the exam bed. You finally noticed Dean standing outside the tent, hat in hand. 

“But what about Fort Worth?” Audie’s voice was tight. She knew how important that competition was. Five grand was a big deal and you had a real shot at winning it. 

“There’s no way in hell I’m missing it.” You said as you pushed yourself off of the cot awkwardly. “C’mon, Audie. Thank you ma’am.” You nodded politely towards the nurse. 

Audie paused and gave you a look when she noticed the green-eyed cowboy waiting for you outside the tent. 

“Go get Ric loaded up for me?” 

She nodded and gave Dean a stern once-over before heading towards the trailer. 

“I am so sorry. About everything.”

“Why do you put up with that? The way he treats you and Sam…it’s just wrong.” 

Dean shrugged. He didn’t have a good answer. He thought he had done a good job at keeping his brother safe. But after one weekend, Sam was already bruised, dirty, and tired. 

“Come with me, Dean.”

He blinked at you as he let the words wash over him.

“Get your brother. Get your horse. Don’t think about it.”

He opened his mouth to protest the idea but he couldn’t. Not If it meant getting Sam back where he belonged. Away from John. 

The sun was set and the moon was rising as Dean situated Blue alongside Ricochet in the back of the old, dusty trailer. He gazed back over the parking lot with a twinge of guilt in his heart. 

“Dude, let’s go,” Sam called over the bed of the truck. “I’d like to clean the horseshit off of everything before my roommate gets back.” 

Four doors shut almost in unison and you threw your pickup in drive. All of you ready to put the fairgrounds in your rearview mirror after a long weekend.

Dean smiled when the chill of your truck’s AC hit his face. 

He glanced over at you when he felt your soft hand brush his knuckles. You gave his hand a squeeze before returning it to the steering wheel. Just that simple gesture was enough for him to rethink a future following in his father’s footsteps.

a/n: I haven’t been on a horse in years but I’ve been thrown/fallen twice and -10000/10 do not recommend. Anyway, howdy y’all, hope you enjoyed. More romance smuttiness coming soon xoxo

Dean Winchester taglist:

@youre-djoking , @staley83 , @winchesterfields67 , @ferncloud0191 , @mylpsl1kesugar , @ackleskisser-mp4 , @ashlizshack, @lawboy-69

❈ join my taglist ❈