#spn fic

[peachpitdiaries]

happy pride month

[aseafullofstars]

control ☆ sam winchester

summary: who knew sam liked it so much when you were in control?

pairing: sam x angel!reader (gn) | genre: hot smut !! mdni | word count: 7.4k

warnings: older!sam, sub!sam (ft. a lot of whining and other sounds), a lotta edging, unprotected sex (dont do this), grace-play + sam's newly discovered grace kink, marking (giving sammy hickies !!), dean being a pain, dom!reader (?), i think that's it

notes: wow, writing something that's not a request ???? @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @aniresrene made me do it (thank you both !!). i took a bit of inspiration for some of this from a fic by @theedaythatnevercomes and her c'mon baby, get in fic :] as always, mdni with my smut !! and also as always, i'm too asexual for writing smut on the regular, this is not an open invitation to request heavy smut from me :]

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There’s something hot under your skin. It doesn’t burn, because it can’t. It doesn’t singe or scorch, because it hasn’t learned how. But it simmers, bubbling gently, a rolling ocean that laps along the shore in soft waves, curved and gentle like crescent moons on the sand. The longer you let it sit, the stronger it gets, coasting toward something like a boil that makes your skin hot and your stomach warm. It drips lower, a slow line of heat that lands heavy when it hits the pit of your core, spreading molten heat in a honey-slow crawl ever downward.

Across the table from you is the reason for your distress. Not that he would notice, of course, because you’ve spent too many years taking the time to learn to cover it up. He’s not in tune with the rhythm of your grace yet, can’t notice when it flares around him, doesn’t seem to realize how it burns stronger on days like these. Sam is many things, and unfortunately, oblivious to the way he makes you feel is one of them. You’ve learned you have to be painfully direct with him, because speaking in wraparound metaphors is never going to get your desires across. He needs facts, statements, full sentences that start and end with Sam, I need you. He needs you to be bold. So tonight, you will.

Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.

You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.

Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.

Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.

“I am not staring,” you reply.

Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.

“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.

“I’m not kidding,” you say.

“I know.”

He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.

Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”

You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m not busy.”

“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”

Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”

You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.

“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.

“Where are we going?”

You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”

Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”

Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

“I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.

“But you look…uncertain.”

“Not uncertain.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.

“Anticipation.”

You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.

“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”

Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“But you-.”

Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”

You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”

Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you-. Can I do it again?”

Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”

You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.

“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.

You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”

“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”

You nod, slow. “There is no door.”

“Right.”

“And Dean could walk past.”

“Right again.”

“And you would like to be somewhere else.”

“Three in a row.”

You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.

Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.

Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.

You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.

Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.

Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.

“Sam?” you ask, breathless.

Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.

“Do you want to try something new?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.

“Making you feel what I feel.”

“You feel it different?”

You nod, the motion jerky.

“What kind of different?” he prods.

“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”

One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.

Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.

“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.

“Want to feel you.”

“You will.”

Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.

Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.

And he lets you. And he likes it.

He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.

The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.

The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.

His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.

Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.

A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.

“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”

Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.

“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.

To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.

To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.

“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”

When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.

You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.

“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.

“I-.”

“I am an angel, Sam.”

“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”

You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”

“You’re sure?”

You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”

Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.

“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.

“What?”

You nod toward him. “I heard you.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”

“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”

Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.

“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”

You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.

“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.

“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.

“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.

“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.

You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.

“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”

Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.

“Make it quick.”

“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”

“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.

Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.

“What’s the question?” Sam asks.

“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”

“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”

“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”

You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.

“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.

“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”

Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.

“Oh..kay. Weird.”

“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”

“Why would I know?”

“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”

Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.

“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.

Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.

Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.

“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.

You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.

“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.

“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”

Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Is it Celtic?”

Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.

“No,” you and Dean both say.

Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”

That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.

“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.

“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.

“Pr- probably binds- ah.”

You stop.

“No, sorry. Not binding.”

You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.

“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”

“Uh…left.”

A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.

“Hurts,” he whines.

Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.

“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.

“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”

“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.

“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.

“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.

“Seven, I think.”

You stop. Sam whines.

“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”

“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”

“Shut up.”

You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.

“Seven was hail, Sam.”

“I know.”

“Ask him what the man drowned in.”

Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he drown in? Water?”

You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.

“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”

Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”

Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.

“What now?” he murmurs to you.

“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”

“I don’t know how to remove it.”

“Yes, you do, Sam.”

Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”

“Fire?”

You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.

“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.

You stop.

“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”

“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.

“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.

“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”

Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.

Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.

“Hurts s’bad,” he whimpers.

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, ‘s- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Please, I need-.”

You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.

You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.

He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.

Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.

“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”

“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.

You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”

Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.

Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.

When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.

“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.

“Was it too much?”

Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.

“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”

“Would- would you do it again?”

Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”

You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”

“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.

“Okay?” you ask when he stills.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.

You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”

“You know I will.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”

“You know I love you too.”

“I know.”

It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.

tags : @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @violained, @vfwwm, @cloudsincalifornia, @bejeweledinterludes2, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @deersammys, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theedaythatnevercomes, @rafs127, @fox-saturn

[doll2kiss]

the concept of getting your pussy eaten by 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐎𝐘!𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 inside of his chevrolet impala 67 wasn't on your personal bingo card. like ever, he was far away from your league—even for your own pleasure.

this guy was something else. a bit cocky, a complete brat sometimes. such a devastating mix that made everyone wonder if he spends his weekend doing anything else than ride this fuckass car.

for at least three semesters alone, you were watching him across the quad on tuesdays, every morning. vintage leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders that bucked among the others while saying hi in his characteristic tone, always gaining attention even if he wanted or not.

so, what was the hook to end up like this? well, tutoring him. everything felt so rushed than you couldn't put a finger on how you are inside his dad's car and not on the library with him.

now you're hovering space inside the passanger seat, knees digging into the bench of the car, hands almost ripping apart the leather material of it. and he's looking at you like you were his last meal in earth, mouth covering each sides of your neck, palms grasping your clothes away like an old desperate men in cellibate.

inside the impala everything felt cramped, messy. dean doesn't do the gentle act, he's all friction and uncontrolled heat as his fingers fumble with the zipper of your pants, holding an uncharacteristic lack of grace.

for a guy who plays the so called "too cool to care" act, his eyes glanced at you like you were the only thing keeping him on the ground. dark, blown-out sight and being stripped of that frat-boy smirk.

his now puffed lips were roaming from your belly to your crotch, rubbing the end of his nose right throught the satin cloth covering your soaken and untouched pussy. "breathe sweetheart, 'cause m'not going to be a gentleman when it comes to her," he whispers, one long, bruising stroke from bottom to top that leaves you gasping.

he just uses his thumb to pin you open, exposing you to the cool air of the car for only a second before his mouth covers you completely. and fuck he's good at eating.

he’s silhouetted by the flickering light of the street lamp near the entrance of your apartment, he's gripping your thighs so hard it might leave some fingerprints on the skin. you won't even try to move but not from fear but it comes from the way his tongue is going back and foward on your core—oh and when his eyes, green fucking orbs are starting to look up at you with this hunger and dysregulated glance? yeah you lose it.

dean's sucking hard enough to make your toes curl and your hips jerk off the leather, every time you try to pull back, his grip tightens even more.

groans, moans and shit-talking in between each stroke of his tongue sent a vibration straight through your spine. then he began rocking the tip of his nose over your sensitive bud—a tiny nip that makes you yelp and arch your back until your head hits the window, eyes as white as pearls.

he inserts just one finger first, then two, and when you couldn't handle the pressure anymore a third appeared and sent you to heaven, moaning his name out loud for anyone to hear it.

"de—oh my god! please," you cried, fingers clenching in his hair so tight you’re practically pulling him into your core.

yet he doesn't back off, he slurps every inch and drop of you, mouth becoming dirtier with your juices dropping down his chin and staining his nose. and when dean finally pulls away—his entire face is slicked and flustered by the sight of you gasping and begging for him to stop.

then he leans at you, lips over yours, kissing you so softly it almost made you forgot how strong your orgasm were.

"thanks for the lecture, sweetheart."

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Real Life

Summary: Porn creates unrealistic expectations. Dean wants to show you how much he loves your body in a brand new way.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, body image issues, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, soft!dom Dean, reader's first time receiving oral, established relationship, marking

WC: 1K

A/n: I randomly thought of this while I've been nesting, figured I'd leave you a parting gift before my maternity leave <3

“I promise you’ll love it, sweetheart, but if you don’t, I’ll stop.” 

It was hard to deny the shirtless man kneeling between your thighs. Dean looked like the god of sex appeal—perfectly toned body, emerald green eyes that you wanted to drown in, and the loving gaze that you melted beneath. The way his warm, rough hands lightly dragged across your soft thighs felt electrifying. 

You’d accidentally stumbled across some of his porn (seeing as he never closed his browser tabs)  and you didn’t look anything like those women. Dean, on the other hand, had a body that was made to be admired. You knew that female porn stars got bleached and waxed, and that it created an unrealistic expectation for women.

Still, you were self-conscious of your body. 

Dean had been begging you to let him eat you out. When he found out you’d never let anyone before, his eyes lit up. He wanted to be the one who showed you how good it feels to have all the attention on you. That, and Dean loved eating pussy. 

He wanted to watch your back arch off the bed and feel your fingers in his hair, pulling gently. He imagined how sweet you would taste, even sweeter when you came. 

You could feel his thick cock pressing against your leg through his boxers, making your mouth water. You closed your eyes and nodded, feeling your cheeks blush. 

“You want me to?” He needed your consent, and he wanted to hear you say it. 

“I want you to—um…” you stammered, feeling embarrassed to say it out loud. 

“You want me to eat that sweet pussy, baby?” 

You blushed and covered your face. 

“Dean—“ 

He laughed softly before gently moving your hands and kissing you sweetly. 

“It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart, trust me.” 

You were already in your bra and panties as he started to trail his mouth down your body. He stopped at your breasts, grazing his teeth over your hardening peaks underneath the thin fabric. You whimpered and arched into his touch making him smile against your skin.

Dean sucked marks into the soft skin of your belly and dragged his tongue over the small bruises. By the time he got to your panty line, you were soaked with a small wet spot developing on the cotton fabric. When he hooked his fingers into your panties to pull them down, you pressed your thighs together and blushed, causing him to glance up at you. 

“Just relax, sweetheart. Can you open up for me?” 

You slowly relaxed your legs, but he didn’t pull your panties off yet. He lowered himself between your thighs and you felt his warm breath on your clothed core making you shudder. 

The sweet aroma of your arousal made his cock twitch. 

He placed a kiss on your clothed pussy to get you used to the contact. Then he licked a long strip from your entrance to your clit. His thumb started rubbing your clit, the extra sensation from the fabric made your hips buck slightly. He noticed every time your breath hitched, every time you twitched. He felt like you were ready. 

“Can I take these off now?” 

“Please,” you begged, gently nodding your head.

His heart swelled seeing you open up to him. 

Finally pulling your underwear down, you were nervous again. When his eyes landed on your bare pussy, he stifled a groan in his chest. 

“So fucking pretty, sweetheart.” 

“No I’m not,” you said quietly, covering your face with your hands. 

Dean frowned, looking up at you. “What are you talking about?” 

“I dunno…I’ve seen what girls look like…in pornos…and I’m nothing like that…” you trailed off. 

His face softened and he tilted his head slightly. 

“That ain’t real life, baby. They might get all that work done, but I bet they don’t feel as perfect as you do.” His gaze fell to your core and his voice got low and gravely. “I love this pussy. So warm and tight, feels like you were made for me.” 

His praise made you blush and smile nervously. 

He placed another kiss to your clit, making you flinch from the sensitivity. Dean pushes forward and lightly drags his tongue against your glistening folds.

“And you taste so sweet,” he growls. “So perfect.” 

Using his thumbs, he gently parted your folds and tongued your entrance causing you to clench. It still felt unnatural, but you laid your head back and relaxed into the new sensations. 

He slid one finger inside you to give you a familiar feeling to focus on while he continues to work on you. 

He hears a tiny moan making his hips rut against the mattress. 

“Does that feel good?” 

You hummed in response.

His mouth settles around your clit and he starts to suck rhythmically, and slides another finger inside you. He continues to thrust them, hooking his long fingers to rub against your g-spot. 

The intensity of his ministrations leave you desperate for something to grab onto and ground yourself. Your hands settle on his head, gently gripping his hair and applying the perfect amount of pressure at his roots. He moans around your clit, causing you to clench hard around his fingers, triggering one of the most intense orgasms you’ve ever had. 

“Fuck—Dean! Oh my god—“ 

He laps up your increasing wetness while he continues to gently thrust his fingers, feeling your walls flutter around him. 

After a few moments you pull back— the sensitivity was overwhelming. 

Your thighs were soaked and the stubble on his face was glistening with your wetness. He felt incredibly proud of himself. 

Your gaze was still focused on the ceiling while your breathing slowed. Crawling up towards you, Dean scanned your face for signs of discomfort. 

“You okay?”

You huffed out a tired laugh, a sweet smile spreading across your face. 

“Uh…yeah. That was…amazing,” you said, still looking blissed out. 

Dean just gazed down at you. Seeing you like this definitely fueled his ego, but he also loved making you happy. 

His cock was aching in his boxers and he desperately wanted relief, but he wasn’t done with you yet. 

“Good—you’re about to give me another one, sweetheart.” 

Hope you enjoyed! <3

[wildwestdean]

almost (sweet music)

summary: when out on what was supposed to be a supply run, dean gets captured by a djinn and thrown into a world that's full of everything he didn't realize he wanted - what happens once he's saved?

pairing: dean winchester x female reader; bestfriend!sam winchester x female reader (platonic)

word count: 17.4k+ (i am sooo not sorry)

warnings: hunting/working a case, dean goes missing, dean gets attacked, dean is held captive, swearing, angst, alternate reality, wife!mom!reader, husband!dad!dean, mentions of reader's parents, mentions/allusions of age gap, mentions of pregnancy/childbirth, alcohol consumption, magic use, manipulation, mature themes, dean thinks he's losing his mind again, angst, arguments, cannon level violence, idiots oblivious to their own feelings, idiots in love, unknown mutual pining, dean is a dick to reader for a bit, friends to lovers, denial of feelings, hurt/comfort, eventual love confessions, fluff, angst, use of [y/n], nicknames, homage to s2 ep20, did i mention angst?

“We need more beer,” Sam announced, emerging from the kitchen with two bottles in his hand. “We’re running low.” 

“I’ll go,” Dean quickly volunteered, slamming his book shut as he practically jumped from his chair. 

“We still have-” Sam tried to reply, but Dean waved him into silence. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go,” Dean reiterated, slipping his flannel from the back of the chair and shrugging it on. 

“Well, since you’re going out,” you started, glancing up at him. “Can you get me something to eat?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do food,” he replied with a nod, flashing you a sheepish grin. 

“Thanks,” you said, matching his grin for a moment too long again. 

Sam awkwardly cleared his throat while taking his seat, causing you to rip your gaze away and focus back on your book, heat burning under your skin.

“Just hurry up, would you? Stop using this as an excuse to get out of doing research,” Sam cut in with a huff. 

“I would never,” Dean gasped, feigning offence as he held a hand to his chest. 

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Sam sarcastically agreed, taking a sip of his beer. 

“Whatever,” Dean muttered, sharing a look of contempt with you that had you giggling quietly, and Sam rolling his eyes. 

“Dean-” Sam began to chastise, before being quickly cut off. 

“I’m going!” Dean said defensively, holding his hands out in surrender as he backed away from the table. “Call me if you need me.” 

“Yup,” you and Sam agreed in unison, both locking back onto the task of researching the case. 

Footsteps sounded heavy on the stairs, and the bunker door screeched open and shut before plunging you and Sam into silence. 

“How long do you think he’ll take this time?” you asked after a few minutes, a smile playing on your lips.  

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Probably long enough for us to figure this all out.” 

You hummed in response, closing your book and selecting a new one. “Probably,” you agreed, flipping through the pages with a chuckle.

The fact that Dean was gone for just over an hour at this point wasn’t entirely intentional. He may have spent some extra time chatting to the patrons when he stopped in for some cases of beer. He may have spent longer than necessary reading the menu once he walked over to the diner you liked - he knew your order by heart, but no one needed to know that, did they? And yes, maybe he put up with the flirtations of the waitress a little longer than he should have, but it’s not like he was purposely avoiding getting back to help with research. 

Yet it still came as no surprise to him when your name showed up on his caller id, your irritation practically palpable through the screen already. 

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Dean placated, answering the call as he made for the door. “Food’s hot, I’m on my way back.”

“Are you actually on your way back, or are you just saying you’re on your way back?” you questioned, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle as your inquisitive stare came into his mind's eye. 

“I’m on my way back, smartass,” Dean grumbled, setting the food on Baby’s roof as he fumbled for his keys. “Though don’t wait up for me to come save the day and crack the code on this thing,” he added playfully. 

“Aw, don’t worry, De,” you comforted lightly, before taking on a more serious tone. “We’re not.”

A grin found its way to Dean’s face as you abruptly ended the call, and he laughed quietly as he unlocked his door. 

He really, truly, was on his way back. He was halfway in the car when a noise reached his ears, his attention snapping to the alley across the street. He stilled, waiting in silence for a few moments as he listened for anything else. His hand was on the door, ready to snap it shut when it happened again. 

Heaving a sigh, he got back out of the car and gazed across the street, a feeling of unease brewing under his skin.

“It’s just a cat,” he rationalised to himself, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol as he surveyed his surroundings. “Or, it’s whatever the hell we’ve been trying to track down.” 

Inching slowly across the street, he carefully pulled the pistol from the confines of his jeans and mentally ran through all the things he could possibly encounter, trying his best to ready himself. 

“Please be a cat, please be a cat, please be a cat,” he pleaded quietly, stepping into the shadows of the alley. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold of darkness, a hunched shadow darted across the back wall, taking on all the likeness of a terrible Hollywood movie villain. “Not a cat,” he determined, quickly making his way through the alley. 

Unable to find anything after searching three times over, Dean decided to cut his losses; he’d get back to the bunker, fill you and Sam in, and the three of you could regroup here later and see what could be found. 

It was a good plan, except Dean never got to execute it - he never even made it out of the alley. He only made it halfway before he was met with blinding blue light, pain, and then nothing but darkness. 

Dean woke with a start, a pounding in his head and cotton in his mouth as he frantically surveyed his surroundings.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbled, throwing his head back on his pillow after recognizing his own room. 

He laid there for a few minutes, running through the events of last night - or, what he thought was last night, but was maybe only a dream - before getting ready and making his way to the kitchen. 

“Hey, there he is!” Sam greeted cheerfully. “I was starting to think you’d miss breakfast all together.” 

“Nothin’ can keep me from my bacon,” Dean teased, making himself a cup of coffee as Sam fixed a plate for him. 

“Well, here’s an extra helping,” Sam announced, sliding the plate onto the table before Dean. “Since today’s a special day.” 

“Right, thanks,” Dean muttered, his mind running into overdrive as he tried to determine what made today special. “So, uh, what exactly happened last night?” 

“What do you mean?” Sam questioned, sitting down across from his brother. 

“I mean what happened,” Dean repeated gruffly, taking a hefty bite of his food. “I don’t even remember getting back to the bunker, next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room not even fifteen minutes ago.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s not really shocking,” Sam replied with a snicker. “You were pretty out of it.” 

“I was?” Dean asked through a mouthful of food. 

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed with a grimace. “Look, just shut up and eat your food so we can go meet up with [Y/N].” 

“[Y/N]?” Dean repeated. “Where is she?” 

“At the house,” Sam answered, off-handed. 

Dean only stared at him, trying to determine if he was seriously supposed to know what the hell Sam was talking about or not. “The house?” 

“Yes, Dean,” Sam confirmed, already exasperated. “You guys got the keys today, remember? [Y/N] wanted to get a head start on setting up the nursery and we’re supposed to go help her. And we’re late, so hurry the hell up.” 

“Nur-... the nursery?” Dean spat, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Since when the hell is she even pregnant?” 

Sam stared at him like he suddenly grew three heads before rolling his eyes. “Hilarious, Dean. You know full well it’s for Ellen.” 

“Harvelle?” Dean wondered, feeling like he was losing his mind - or Sam his; hell, or both. 

“Winchester,” Sam supplied in disbelief. “Your daughter - dude, are you still drunk?” 

Dean felt his blood run cold, his heart getting lodged in his throat. “I, uh, yeah - yeah, probably, I don’t know,” Dean sputtered, chugging the rest of his coffee with a shaky hand. Having completely lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away and abruptly stood. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re not gonna finish eating?” Sam asked curiously. 

“Nah. Like you said, we’re late,” Dean answered, hurrying from the kitchen before Sam could see the look of terror on his face. “You should probably drive,” he added over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed, following Dean out. “Sure.” 

Dean spent the entire car ride feeling like he was going insane. Half of him wanted to search through his phone, figuring it would have most, if not all, of the answers to whatever the hell was going on. Though the other half of him was terrified by what he may find, and he was having a hard enough time trying to fend off the panic attacks already. So he settled for sitting in silence, wracking his brain for a single clue. He barely even noticed that they pulled into a driveway until Sam’s voice startled him out of his daze. 

“Welcome home!” Sam cheered, eagerly exiting the car. 

Dean felt like he was being weighed down with lead as he climbed out of the car, following Sam to the front door. “[Y/N/N] always loved this house,” he muttered softly, cluing in to the fact they were headed into the very house you always gushed over when driving by. 

“Why do you think she was so excited to finally get the keys?” Sam asked with a laugh.

Dean continued to follow him up the stairs and across the front porch, feeling as though he was on autopilot and copying his brothers every move. 

“Ready?” Sam asked with a grin. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure am,” Dean replied awkwardly, nodding in agreement. 

“You’re nervous,” Sam pointed out, not entirely wrong. “Look, I know it’s a big change, but you have nothing to worry about. You’ve already been such an amazing dad, and that’s not gonna change just because you three won’t be living in the bunker anymore. Okay?” 

Everything inside Dean started burning, screaming at him to get the hell away from this situation. It only just now truly sunk in that this wasn’t just his house. It was your house. He would be living here with you and his daughter. Wait, did that mean the two of you- 

The front door was suddenly yanked open, jarring him from his thoughts. His bewildered eyes landed on your mother - grinning from ear to ear as she took in the sight of him and Sam - and your father, standing a few steps behind her with a polite smile. “I thought I heard you two!” 

Stepping aside, she eagerly ushered them in, and Sam nearly had to shove Dean over the threshold as he grumbled incoherently about how weird he’s being. 

Dean, once inside, had to steady himself when he saw you. 

It wasn’t because you suddenly appeared from around the corner without warning. 

It wasn’t because you had an infant resting on your hip; a precious little copy of you. 

It wasn’t because the first words out of your mouth were a melodious “Daddy’s home!” when you spotted him. 

Hell, it wasn’t even the ring on your left hand, catching the light so perfectly that it almost put the brightness of your smile to shame. 

It was because when he saw you - grinning from ear to ear, dishevelled and exhausted from a never ending list of things to do, mysterious stains littered across your shirt - Dean swore you had never looked more beautiful. 

“Hi,” he breathed out, wiping his suddenly clammy hands on his jeans. 

“Hi,” you repeated with a laugh, advancing towards him as the child in your arms reached out for him. 

He wasn’t sure what was more surprising: how natural it felt when he reached for her in return, how comfortable it was to hold her, or how easily he reciprocated the kiss you casually placed on his lips; as if you’ve been doing so for years. 

“Sorry I left without waking you,” you confessed, wiping away a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I figured you could use the extra sleep given how hard you went at Garth’s party.” 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean replied automatically, despite not having a clue what you were talking about. 

You and Sam both laughed, which irritated him. It felt like there was some inside joke that he was the butt of and wasn’t allowed to know. 

“No, of course it wasn’t,” you teased, turning your attention to Ellen. “Daddy’s just as young as ever, isn’t he, baby?” you added, playfully pinching her cheek to elicit a laugh from her that made his heart soar. 

Dean grinned mischievously, adjusting his grip on Ellen. “Yeah, well, I don’t think my age was a problem for you back when we made this little angel, now was it?” 

Part of him was surprised he even said it, given he has no recollection of his life with you, let alone that, while the other half of him beamed with pride over how easy it was to play along.

“Oh, god,” Sam groaned, cutting off any chance you had to reply. “That’s my cue to leave. Who wants to help me make coffee?” 

Quickly agreeing, your parents followed Sam towards the kitchen, leaving you and Dean grinning at each other in the hallway like smitten teenagers. 

“Okay, come on! I need your opinion on paint colours for her room,” you gushed, tugging on his sleeve. 

Firmly taking your hand in his, he followed in your wake as he listened to you ramble over the ideas you had. He wasn’t sure if he was really supposed to give his opinion or not, considering you never gave him much time to speak up, though he knows he would have agreed with you anyway just to keep that smile on your face. 

He was glad you never gave him time, though, because at some point he completely stopped listening. It was neither intentional nor because he didn’t care. It was simply because you looked so happy, so excited and at ease. It felt like forever since Dean saw this sparkle in your eyes; he didn’t want to do anything to take it away. 

It took you staring at him with raised eyebrows to realize he was supposed to say something. 

“You weren’t even listening, were you?” you asked. 

“Yes, I was!” he argued, setting Ellen down in her playpen. 

“Okay, which colour is the one I like most?” your voice held a challenge, but the look on your face showed you were more amused than angry, much to Dean’s relief. 

Scanning the colour samples on the wall, he confidently chose the one he knew to be your favourite before grinning in triumph. 

You sighed, shaking your head with the shadow of a fond smile on your face. “Please, we both know that’s only there to make my mom think it has a chance. That colour is just awful.” 

Playing it off as a joke, Dean laughed as casually as he could without making it obvious he was losing his footing all over again. 

This was your favourite colour. He helped you paint your room in the bunker this colour. Nearly every trinket or accessory he ever bought you was this colour. Hell, he almost lost a bet that had him upholstering Baby in this colour - a bet he, to this day, has no idea why he accepted. Dean knew this was your favourite colour. 

Yet, apparently, it wasn’t. 

“So, like I said, I was thinking of this colour,” you continued, pointing to the last colour Dean would’ve thought you’d ever pick. “I figured it’d go really well with the wallpaper we picked out for the accent wall, don’t you think?” 

Dean had no idea what the hell wallpaper you were talking about, but he nodded away. “Almost a perfect match.” 

You grinned enthusiastically, planting a firm kiss on his cheek before beginning to ramble again. Not even Sam coming in to deliver mugs of coffee and steal away Ellen could stop your ideas from being known. 

As the day carried on, you dragged Dean throughout the house to have him help you decide on final touches in each room, littering kisses across his face whenever you could and leaving him flustered each time. 

As the day carried on, he grew more and more at ease, leaning into your touch every time. 

Before he knew it, he had learned Ellen's nighttime routine while he helped you get her ready for bed, and was now sitting beside you at the dinner table to enjoy what seemed like a feast created by your parents. 

“The first dinner in your home should be a special one,” your mother declared, seemingly reading his mind as she added the last dish to the table with a grin. 

After expressing his thanks, he quickly fixed your plate before serving himself; a gesture that was familiar to him, as he knew he'd done this countless times before in the bunker. The kiss he received from you in return, though, was a gesture he still wasn't familiar with. Yet, it was one he guiltily realized he wouldn't mind getting used to. 

The conversation flowed so easily between the five of you that Dean almost felt fooled into believing he's done this time and time again. Hell, maybe at this point he just wanted to believe it. Or better yet, maybe there just wasn't anything abnormal going on after all. If he had a crazy night out like you and Sam said, then maybe all his confusion could be chalked up to a crazy hangover. Maybe this really was his life. Maybe-

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts. 

“What?” he asked, turning to look at you. “Yeah, why wouldn't it be?” 

You arched an eyebrow at him, clearly picking up on the waver in his voice. “You were lost in space. What're you thinking about?” 

“Nothing,” he assured, wiping some sauce from your cheek. “Just a long day.” 

It looked as if you wanted to argue at first, though you quickly plastered a smile back on your face. “Alright.” 

“He's tired,” your mother announced. “Remember that he isn't as young as you are,” she chided playfully, pointing a finger at you. 

“Yeah, and neither are we!” your father cut in with a laugh. “I think it's time we call it a night.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” agreed your mother. “Let's just clean up first.” 

“No, absolutely not,” Dean declined with a shake of his head. “You two did all the hard work, we can handle the clean up.” 

“Don't bother arguing,” you pitched in, cutting off your mothers reply. “I'll make Dean kick you out if you don't go willingly.” 

Dean stammered over his response, trying to figure out if that was really something you expected from him or not, before he was met with laughter from everyone; laughter he belatedly joined in on. 

“We're going, we're going!” appeased your father, standing from the table with a laugh. “No need to sic your attack dog on us.” 

Dean laughed on time at that, because, well, he'd gone to bat for you many times before, and he doubts your parents are where he'd draw the line - and he's glad your father seems to know that. 

Having said your farewells with them, Sam pitched in to help you and Dean clean up, carrying on your idle conversations from dinner as you did so. This is when Dean felt like things were finally normal again. With you and Sam tackling the dishes and laughing over your dumb jokes, while he tried to ignore you both and put the food away. Just like how it always was. 

“Well, I think that about does it,” Sam announced, tossing the dish towel onto the counter - which earned him a glare from you as you quickly hung it up. “I should head out, too.” 

“Already?” you questioned. 

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “I got a new lead I wanna follow up on.” 

Dean almost jumped for joy over his brother's response. “You hunting something?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam informed awkwardly. “Yeah, I've been working on a few cases.” 

They were still hunting. Another sign of normalcy. This was good. He really was starting to think this was somehow just one massive misunderstanding. “Great! What do we got?” Dean asked eagerly. 

The look shared between you and Sam made his blood run cold again, and he felt a pang in his heart as he watched you dip your head to play with your ring, a deep frown on your face. 

“Well…” Sam started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “We don't have anything, Dean. I'm still working alone.”

“What?” Dean asked curtly. “Why the hell are you hunting by yourself? I'm not allowed to help you anymore?” 

The sound of your defeated sigh filled the room, and his attention snapped back to you. Avoiding his gaze, you said goodnight to Sam before practically running from the kitchen. 

“Sometimes I don't know whether you're an asshole or just an idiot, Dean,” Sam said haughtily, running a hand through his hair. 

“What did I do?” he asked helplessly. 

“Dude, come on,” Sam sighed, taking a seat in the breakfast nook. “Why would you say that in front of her?” 

“Say what? That I wanna help you?” he asked, joining his brother where he sat. 

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed. “You don't do that anymore, Dean.” 

Dean felt like he was caught in a sea of confusion, and every time he thought he'd break the surface, tendrils weaved from mystery and misunderstanding wrapped themselves around him, pulling him back under to where he was destined to drown. 

“I don't… help you anymore?” Dean wondered, not understanding anything. 

“You don't hunt anymore!” Sam replied, being as loud as he could dare without waking Ellen. “You stopped hunting as soon as you and Y/N learned she was pregnant, and you swore off hunting altogether as soon as Ellen was born.” 

“Yeah, but-” Dean tried to say, before falling silent. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? 

“Look,” Sam butt in. “I'm sure you were only offering to help with research, but that's how it starts.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired, and he almost had to laugh, because he was suddenly reminded of when he first had to give the hunting talk to Sammy as kids - only this time, he was the one asking Sam all the questions. 

“You have a wife, Dean,” Sam announced somberly, and Dean wondered fleetingly if his heart would ever stop skipping a beat when someone mentioned you as being his in such a way. “You've got a beautiful daughter, a house, a family. A family that you and Y/N are trying to make bigger. Why would you want to go back to hunting in any capacity?” 

Dean fell silent, taking in what his brother had said and feeling like his head would explode. 

All because he doesn't remember. 

He doesn't remember dating you. He doesn’t remember proposing or getting married. He doesn't remember you being pregnant or getting you pregnant. He doesn't remember Ellen being born, or when you both apparently decided to have another child. He doesn't remember his life. But this is his life, and something in him doesn't want to lose any part of it. 

“I guess I don't,” he finally admitted quietly, shocked at how true that answer felt to him.

Sam nodded, remaining quiet for a minute as they each gathered their thoughts. “I know you've been… freaked out, I guess, today. I don't know why, but if the reason has you wanting to start hunting again, you need to talk to Y/N about it.” 

“That's not what's happening,” Dean denied, shaking his head. 

“Alright,” Sam accepted with a nod. “Whatever it is, it's between you two, anyway.” With that, he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder in consolidation before standing up to take his leave. “I'll see you all tomorrow.” 

Dean only nodded, his mind too far away to formulate any other response. He remained sitting there after Sam had left, staring at his surroundings for who knows how long. By the time he came to his senses, his initial instinct was to get up and find you, but instead he decided to wander around the house in search of some answers.  

There was still so much left to do with the place, yet there were pictures littering the mantle and hanging up on walls that made him want to tear his hair out as he examined them. Engagement photos, wedding photos, maternity photos, vacation photos - an entire life with you portrayed right in front of him that didn't stir even the faintest bit of recollection within him. 

Terror laid claim on his heart, his mind growing hazy as the world around him began to crumble. He felt like he couldn't breathe, a weight on his chest so heavy that the air was trapped in his lungs. 

“Who the hell am I?” he asked himself, the picture before him beginning to blur as tears clouded his vision. 

He was stuck. Stuck in a net made up of lies and deceit and impossibilities and he needed to get out but those woven tendrils had him wrapped up tight, binding him to a mind he couldn't trust and dragging him down, down, down into the sea. 

“Dean?” you called softly, sounding muffled and far away. 

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out; he couldn't even fucking breathe let alone talk. He tried to answer again, but it felt like he was choking, his throat burning every time he opened his mouth. 

“Baby?” you pressed, sounding louder to him this time. 

It wasn't just because you were closer now, having tentatively approached him during his struggle. It was the hand you gently placed on his arm, pulling him out of the black abyss and onto dry land once more. 

“How is this real?” he choked out, unable to peel his gaze away from the photo above the fireplace. 

“What do you mean?” you asked tenderly, taking his hand in yours. 

“I mean this,” he breathed, squeezing your hand for effect. “How can this all be real? It shouldn't be real.” 

He kept muttering to himself, and you gently took his face in your hands to get him to look at you. 

“You feel that?” you asked quietly, wiping away his stray tears with your thumbs. “I'm real.” 

“It just doesn't make sense,” he confessed, struggling to meet your gaze. 

“Everything is alright, baby. I'm real. You're real. We’re real,” you told him, gentle yet firm.

“We're real,” he repeated shakily. “This is real,” he added, needing to convince himself further. 

“I know this is all a big change for you, De,” you admitted, trailing your hands down to rest on his chest. “But why didn't you tell me it was this hard for you?” 

“I don't think it's the move,” he told you, resting his hands on yours. “I just- I feel like I'm forgetting something. Like something important is slipping away from me, and I can't figure out what it is.” 

You studied him carefully for a moment before threading your fingers through his. “Well, we'll just have to figure it out together, won't we?” 

Dean smiled sadly, tightening his grip on your hands. “Yeah, I guess we will.” 

All Dean could do was hope that everything would be better come tomorrow. 

“Did you get a hold of him?” you asked, re-entering the library after shedding your pyjamas.  

“No, still going to voicemail,” Sam said with a frown, pulling the phone away from his ear as he glanced over at you. “Why the hell did you change, where are you going?” 

“Where do you think I’m going?” you asked in turn, staring at him as though the answer were obvious - which, in your defence, it really was. 

“We don’t even know for sure if something’s wrong,” he sighed. “And you’re gonna… what? Just march around town looking for him?” 

“Yes,” you said stubbornly. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” 

Sam stared at you for a moment, and you readied yourself for his speech about it being a stupid idea; but it never came. Instead, he simply nodded and stood from his seat. “I’ll get my jacket.” 

You wanted to grin in triumph, as you almost never got away without bickering with Sam over things like this, but the worry you had for Dean prevented it. Something just wasn’t right here. You aren’t exactly sure how it was that you knew, but you knew. 

“Let’s go,” Sam called, heading for the garage. 

You hurried after him, patting yourself down along the way to make sure you did in fact have your weapons on you - yeah, every vehicle you guys drove had some kind of arsenal, but you needed to know you had something at the ready. Just in case. 

“So, what exactly is it that you think happened to him?” Sam questioned, starting the car. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “All I know is that he should be back by now, and not only is he not back, but neither of us can reach him, and we’re in the middle of working a case fully revolving around people going missing and never being seen again, so clearly there has to be some kind of connection because-”

“Hey, okay,” Sam gently interrupted your rambling. “I know you’re worried, but let’s just see what we can find in town before we start thinking like that, okay?” 

“Okay,” you muttered, wringing your fingers together as you stared at the passing scenery. “We should check around the pub first.” 

“Wouldn’t that’ve been the first place he went?” he asked, casting a glance at you. 

You shook your head, keeping your gaze outside. “Yes, but the diner I like is just up the street.” 

“Well, that’s good for you, but I’m not really hungry right now,” he replied, shifting in his seat. 

Caught off guard by his response, your head snapped in his direction as you stared at him in surprise. You were about to make a snarky comment until you saw the corner of his mouth twitching, and you realized what he was doing. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you snorted, grateful for his attempt to lighten your mood. 

His poker face finally crumbled as he chuckled along with you, and the atmosphere surrounding you both really did feel lighter for the rest of the drive.

It felt lighter right up until Sam turned the final corner and you caught sight of Baby parked up the block, stationed and solitary, glistening under the glow of the streetlamp. 

“Sam,” you said quietly, sitting up a little straighter. 

“I see it,” he said, matching your uncertain tone as he pulled up to the curb.

You both seemed to struggle with leaving the car - wanting to run out to not waste any time, while simultaneously being held back by the fear of what you may find. 

Surveying the immediate surroundings, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as you both approached the impala - an observation that was voiced by Sam. 

“Everything looks normal,” he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Maybe he’s just getting another drink.” 

“I don’t think so,” you said confidently, eyes catching sight of the takeaway left abandoned on the passenger’s seat. 

Sam noticed your gaze, though being on the driver’s side, he couldn’t see what you were looking at. “What?” he asked stiffly, bending down to glance through the window. “Okay, definitely weird, but not panic worthy,” he cautioned, coming back into view over the roof to give you a meaningful look. 

“It’s unlocked,” you declared, ignoring his attempts to keep you from panicking. “He’d never leave it unlocked.” 

“It’s not-” he started to argue, wanting to prove you wrong by pulling on the handle, but his words stopped short when the door opened with ease. “Okay, getting weirder,” he breathed out, looking over at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“I told you something was wrong!” you exclaimed. 

“We still don’t know for sure!” he exclaimed in return. Yet you could see in his eyes that he was just as afraid as you were, and you suddenly weren’t sure if his denial remained for your sake or his. 

“Should we split up?” you asked, trying to move on. 

“No,” he stated, closing the door. “I don’t feel like losing both my brother and my best friend all in one night.” 

“Sam,” you started, wanting to offer him some comfort, but he cut you off. 

“Come on, let’s start asking around.” 

He came around the car and nudged you in the direction of the pub, to which you quickly obliged, silently hoping you were wrong and Dean would be there. Though as you stepped inside, your hope was immediately shattered, for none of the gazes that you met held that familiar sense of home you’d grown accustomed to. 

With a heavy sigh, you started talking to the patrons, while Sam did the same. You both ended up with the same information: Dean got there maybe two hours ago, stayed about thirty minutes to have some drinks and chat, bought some cases of beer, and left. Nothing new, and nothing helpful. 

Refusing to acknowledge the time wasted, the two of you made your way over to the diner to start your next line of questioning - which was started by someone else as soon as you walked through the door. 

“Oh, no. Did we mess up your order?” Lori, a greying server you often got whenever you came in, asked you. 

“I- what?” you wondered, confused by why she was asking. 

She tsked, tucking her notepad back into her apron. “That man of yours was in earlier and ordered your favourite, figured he was bringing it back to you.” 

“My-... Dean?” you asked in confusion. 

“Yeah, that green eyed statue of a man you stop in with from time to time,” she informed, giving you a smile that suggested she knew more than you. 

“How long ago was he here?” you questioned, ignoring the feeling of unease her expression gave you. 

Lori sighed, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Let me check the slips,” she answered, jerking her head towards the counter before heading in that direction. 

You and Sam followed close behind, watching with increasing impatience as she sifted through the order slips. 

“Aha!” she exclaimed, finding the right one. “It was about… an hour ago.” 

“Was he here long? Did he talk to anyone? Did anyone leave around the same time he did?” you fired off anxiously. 

Lori stared at you, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are we thinking he’s cheatin’ or something?” she asked conspiratorially.  

“I- we- he-” you stammered over your response, all versions of he isn’t at all my man, we aren’t even dating, and he’s fucking missing and could be dying somewhere lost to your frustration. Tears of fear and anger clouded your vision as you ran your hands through your hair. 

“Hey,” Lori soothed, misreading the reason for your emotions but validating them nonetheless. “Hey, sit. Sit, I’ll tell you what I know.” 

Ushering you onto a stool as she came around the counter, she hopped up beside you, patting your hands for reassurance.  

“Now, all I know is he came in about an hour ago,” she began, repeating what you all just discovered. “He took some time going over the menu, more so than usual, but it didn’t look like he was waitin’ on anybody. He finally ordered what you usually do and somethin’ for himself, Cindy chatted him up while he was waitin’, then he got the order and left.” 

“Cindy?” Sam asked, and you tried to ignore the sick feeling in your stomach to learn that you were worrying while he was just here flirting with someone - with Cindy no less; she was practically sex on legs. 

“Yeah,” Lori said with a shrug, squeezing your hand. “One of our servers. Oh, she eyes him up every time he’s here, not that I blame her. Figure she thought it was an opportunity given that he was here alone this time.” 

“Did it…. work?” you asked meekly, wondering if he was just off having a one night stand and nothing was wrong after all.

You were almost startled by Lori’s bark of laughter, and you watched her eyes sparkle in amusement as she answered you. “You rest assured, sugar. That man is completely hung up on you. I’ve never seen someone look right through that girl before, not a flicker of interest in him let me tell you. First guy in here I’ve ever seen turn her down, hand to god.” 

You wanted to ask where in the world she was drawing these conclusions about you and Dean from, and why, but Sam’s voice stopped you from speaking up. 

“Did that make her angry?” he asked. “Him denying her?” 

Lori looked at him curiously, as if wondering why such a question was necessary, but she answered anyway. “She was upset, sure, but I don’t think she was angry, no. She moves on pretty quick. By the time he was leaving she was already talkin’ to someone else.” 

“And you’re sure he left alone? He didn’t talk to anyone else?” you asked desperately, giving her a meaningful look. If her thinking you were accusing him of infidelity would get you answers, then so be it. 

“I’m positive, sugar,” she assured, smiling sadly. “He was only here maybe half an hour, and he rushed out when he got your call.” 

“My call?” you wondered, face scrunching with confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, well, I assumed it was you,” she replied simply, sliding off the stool. “The way his face lit up and all. Had that smile he always gives you.” 

“Did you hear anything he said?” Sam asked quickly, catching her before she walked away to confirm it really was your call she heard. 

Lori shrugged, taking the pen out from behind her ear. “Not really. Just heard that he got the food and was on his way back, then he was out the door.” 

“Okay,” Sam said with a nod. “Thank you for your time.” 

“Sure,” she said with a half shrug. “See you around, sugar,” she told you, giving you a meaningful look before finally walking away. 

You weren’t entirely sure if you thanked her or not, because your head was spinning with all the information she just gave you, but either way she’d be getting a big tip the next time you came. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Sam declared lightly, staring down at you with an amused smirk. 

“Was it?” you asked hotly, hopping down from the stool. “Too bad we didn’t get anything that can help us.”

“Well, we got a solid timeframe,” he pointed out, gesturing for you two to leave. “That’s something.” 

“I guess,” you sighed, trying to ignore the churning in your stomach as you stepped back outside.

“Let’s walk through it,” Sam suggested. “Like any other case.” 

You let out a breath, nodding in agreement. “Well, he would’ve come out talking to me,” you declared, standing outside the door. “And he’d be heading back over to Baby, since he said he was on his way home.” 

You and Sam both made your way in that direction, taking the path he most likely would’ve taken, finding nothing amiss along the way. 

“Did you hear anything on the other end at all?” Sam asked, stopping beside you. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, going over the call in your mind. “No,” you determined, shaking your head. “Nothing unusual, just him getting into the car.” 

“You’re sure he got into the car?” Sam asked, brows raised. 

“No,” you admitted in defeat. “Though the food’s inside, so he was at least here to drop it off.” 

“True,” Sam agreed with a nod. “Plus it was unlocked, which suggests he was likely surprised by something.” 

“Yeah, but what?” you wondered. “Nothing here points to a struggle, and Dean’s not exactly someone that’s easy to sneak up on.” 

“No, he’s not,” Sam sighed, glancing around once more as he went over everything in his head. 

A sound caught your attention, and your gaze snapped to the alley across the street, an idea dawning on you as you stared into the shadows. 

“What if he was lured away?” you asked, regaining Sam’s attention. 

He turned to you, following your gaze and quickly catching on to your thoughts. “Let’s check it out.” 

You each drew a weapon, his gun and your knife, as you made your way across the street. 

Desperation clawed at you while you and Sam searched every inch of the alley, a familiar feeling of dread settling in your bones when you both came up empty handed. 

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” you seethed, kicking away an unsuspecting trash bag in frustration. 

Sam’s answer was lost on you as all your focus was pulled to the dumpster, the street lights glittering off an object hidden underneath, previously obscured by the trash bag you just sent flying. 

Quickly dropping to all fours to retrieve it, you felt a sob claw its way up your throat as you realized you now held Dean’s pistol. 

Each day that went by, Dean found more and more things that were out of place. 

Things he would’ve bet his life on turned out to be completely wrong. 

Events he bore witness to never happened. 

The people he had saved were gone. People that he lost were alive. Sam remembered all kinds of stuff about their lives that he didn’t. 

Then there was you. 

The food you liked was different. Your taste in music has changed. The clothes you wore weren’t your usual style. The little details that made you you were gone - you were the same, yet somehow a completely different person. 

Dean tells himself this is what made it so easy to love you so openly. It was why he stopped squirming under your lingering gaze. It was why he took you out for a night on the town so he could show you off every chance he got. It was why he took you and Ellen to every event he caught wind of in order to boast his beautiful family. It was why he stopped running away from your wandering hands. It was why he started letting his own hands wander. It was why he found himself meaning it more and more each time he uttered the phrase I love you. 

Dean wanted to accept it more than anything.

He wanted to believe that this was really his life. That he was the loving husband and father you made of him. That he finally freed himself from the shackles of hunting. That he found his happily ever after. 

He needed to believe it, because he had gotten everything he never knew he wanted, and he didn’t want to give it up.

Yet he has to, because he knows something’s wrong; that something bigger is at play - hell if he knew what, though. 

“What about Alec?” you suddenly asked from where you lounged beside him on the couch, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Alec?” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”

You sighed half heartedly, and he watched with a faint smile as you crossed the name off the list you held; a smile that widened as the title Baby Winchester, Round 2! ♡ caught his eye. 

“Daisy?” he suggested. 

“As in Duke?” you asked with a laugh. “Not a chance.” 

Dean’s laughter echoed yours, and he pulled you in close as he fired off another name. 

The two of you made suggestions back and forth, taking turns laughing at some of the choices made by the other in between actually agreeing on some. You had built a pretty solid list before you stood with a groan, his gaze lazily trailing over you as you stretched.

“Where’re you going?” he wondered. 

“Errands,” you huffed. “Gotta pick up some last minute things for our announcement before everyone gets here.” 

“I’ll come, too,” he quickly offered, eyes lighting up. 

“Did you forget we have a child napping in her room?” you asked with a chuckle. 

“No,” Dean lamented. 

You grinned as you leaned over him, quickly kissing away his pout before it fully formed. 

“I’ll be quick,” you promised, giggling as he chased your lips for one more kiss. 

“Or,” he started, his palm cupping the back of your head to hold you in place. “We can wait until she wakes up and then we can all go together.” 

“Dean-” 

“C’mon,” he whined, taking hold of your hips. “I know some ways we can kill time.” 

“I don’t have any time to kill,” you told him, placing a hand on his chest as you freed yourself from his grasp. “There’s a lot left to do for tonight.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Dean followed as you left the living room. “Then let me help! Look, why don’t you give me the list of what we need and I’ll pick it all up?” 

“You’re sure?” you asked. 

“Of course,” Dean laughed. “I gotta check on some parts for the car, anyway. Was gonna wait on it, but may as well grab ‘em and help out my girl all at once.” 

“A true gentleman,” you teased, though the look on your face made it clear you meant it. “It’s not too much, so it shouldn’t take long, but I’ll try to not wake Ellen while you’re gone. Lord knows she can’t go that long without her daddy.”

He grinned in response, grabbing the list from you. “Don’t worry, I always race home to my two best girls.” 

“Maybe three now,” you grinned, placing your hands on your belly. 

“Maybe three,” he echoed, his insides turning to goo as he placed a hand over yours. “And I’ll be back before the three of you can even miss me,” he added, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before backing away. 

“Oh - baby, wait!” you called out, catching him just as he made it to the front door. 

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to face you from down the hall. 

“I forgot to add it to the list, but I noticed we ran out of gin - could you get some?” 

“Gin?” he repeated, the word sitting heavy on his tongue. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I wanna make sure we have some for my dad later.” 

“Gin?” he asked again, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. 

“I know,” you laughed, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he was suddenly facing. “I don’t know how he can drink the stuff, either.” 

“Right,” he said, laughing awkwardly as he opened the door. 

His mind was spinning the moment he left the house, trying to work out what was weighing on him. His chest was growing tight, and the feeling was the same as what he’s been experiencing since he first woke up here. He did his best to shake the feeling for the rest of the drive, deciding to blast the radio as he sped towards the garage. 

“The hell are you doing here?” met Dean’s ears the second he left the car. 

“Good to see you too, Bobby,” Dean replied, turning to face him with a grin. 

Bobby rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “You know, people usually spend time with their families while on vacation, not show up to their place of work.”

“I’m running errands!” Dean defended, strolling over to look under the hood of a broken down Nova. “Still don’t have her purring yet? Man, you really are lost without me.”

“Shove it, boy,” Bobby grumbled. 

With a boyish grin, Dean walked away from the car and plopped himself down on a nearby stool. “We got those parts in for Baby yet?” 

Huffing in annoyance, Bobby set down what he was tinkering with and turned to Dean, wiping his hands on a rag. “What did I tell you when you put in the order?” 

“You’d call if they came in while I was gone,” Dean said, awkwardly shifting in his seat.

“And did I call?” Bobby pressed. 

“No,” Dean said meekly, clearing his throat. 

“Well there ya go,” Bobby announced, turning back to his work. “Answered your own question.” 

Dean sighed, getting up from his stool with hands raised in surrender. “Alright, I get it. You’re busy, works piling up without me-”

“If your name wasn’t up on that sign, too, you’d be kicked to the curb,” Bobby cut in, shaking his head. 

“You and your empty threats,” Dean teased, making his way out. 

With a fond smile on his face, Bobby chuckled quietly. “See you tonight, kid.” 

“See ya, Bobby,” Dean replied, sliding behind the wheel with a smile of his own. 

You weren’t lying, there really wasn’t a lot to pick up. Dean was wrapping up the shopping not long after he left the garage, bouncing quickly from store to store. He felt at ease again, focusing all his attention on the list you gave him, and the fact that in a few hours you’d be revealing to all your loved ones that baby number two was on the way. 

Feeling giddy and eager to get back home, Dean breezed through his last stop. Grabbing a bottle of scotch for Bobby, some whiskey for himself, and wine for everyone else, he then searched the shelves for a bottle of gin. 

It felt heavy in his hands once he found it, the bottle staring back at him seeming entirely unfamiliar as he moved through the check out.

His chest was tight again as he drove back home, the feeling once more the same as when we woke up to this life.

When he first woke up. 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he had that thought, the realization bouncing around his mind. 

A memory of a blue light flashed behind his eyes so vividly he had to swerve off the road, skidding to a stop as pain followed suit. Gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white, he gasped for air as he tried to calm himself down. 

“Djinn,” he breathed out through a wave of panic. 

You were handed a miracle. 

It was all you could think as you stared at Ethan, the young man sitting before you and Sam.

The same young man who was listed as a witness to the latest abduction, but was quickly written off by authorities once they heard his story. The story which you and Sam were hearing now. 

“You’re saying Mr. Kleinman was tased?” you clarified, starting to wonder if this was related to Dean after all. 

“I mean, either that, or it was some kinda hoodoo crap,” Ethan told you with a shrug. 

“Well, what makes you say that?” Sam asked gently.

Ethan sighed, seeming to consider whether or not to explain, before answering. “One second, I’m seeing the guy putting groceries in his car, right? Then, next thing I know, some creepy looking dude comes up behind him. He reaches out for the guy, and there’s this weird, like, blue light, then the guy is just… out cold. I don’t know what else could’ve done it.” 

“And you didn’t see where they went?” you questioned. 

Ethan shook his head. “No, it was like they just… vanished.”

“Vanished?” Sam repeated. 

“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I swear it was like they just turned to smoke or something. They were there, and then they were just gone.”

“Did you actually see any smoke before they were gone? Or smell anything weird?” you asked. 

“No, I- it wasn’t so much smoke as just… like, mist, I guess?” 

“Mist?” you echoed. 

“Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe it. They just… vanished into the air.” 

You and Sam shared a quick look before you jotted some more notes down. 

“You guys don’t believe me either, do you?” Ethan asked. 

“We believe that the brain copes with seeing terrible things in any way it can,” you told him sympathetically. “Though believe it or not, you’re being very helpful.” 

“Really?” he asked hopefully. 

“Really,” you confirmed. “Though I do need to ask - earlier, you described the suspect as being creepy looking. What exactly made you say that?” 

“He was bald, and wearing some kind of dress or cloak or something,” Ethan explained. “And he had these crazy tattoos.” 

“He had tattoos?” Sam asked, perking up. 

“Yeah, and they must have cost a fortune. They were all over his face and head, his hands too. Who knows where else.” 

“What did they look like?” asked Sam. 

“They were just, like, crazy black swirls and lines. Kinda tribal, I guess.” 

“Huh,” Sam said quietly, getting lost in thought. 

“Do you think that can help you identify him?” Ethan wondered. 

“I think there’s an excellent chance of it,” Sam said honestly, standing from the couch. 

“Thank you for your time, Ethan,” you said sincerely, standing beside Sam. “This was incredibly helpful.” 

“Good, I- I’m glad I could help,” he said awkwardly, standing as well. “I hope that guy is okay.” 

“We’ll do everything we can for him,” you promised, hoping to ease his mind. 

Ethan nodded, leading you both through the living room. 

Once at the front door, Sam handed the young man his card. “In case you happen to think of anything else.” 

“Yes sir,” Ethan said, taking the card before opening the door for us. 

Sam made a beeline for the car as soon as he stepped out of the house, immediately sliding into the driver's seat.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, scrambling to get in for fear he’d drive off without you. 

“I know what took Dean,” he told you, making your head snap in his direction, seatbelt poised in hand.

“You what?” you asked. 

“It’s a Djinn,” he told you simply. 

“A Djinn? How the hell did you figure that out?” 

“We’ve dealt with them before,” Sam grits out, hand coming down on the steering wheel. “I should’ve realized sooner.” 

“You’re allowed to not know everything, Sam,” you comforted. “We worked with the information we had, which wasn’t a lot.” 

“But I should’ve known!” he hissed. “He shouldn’t be going through this again,” he added, more so to himself. 

A beat passed as you processed what he said, clicking your belt into place as the car picked up more speed. “What does that mean?” 

He was quiet for so long you didn’t think he’d answer, and your gaze shifted from him to the window as his voice rang out. “Dean’s been captured by a Djinn once before.”

“What?” was the only thing you could force out. 

“It was a long time ago,” he started to explain. “Way before you came around. Classic hunt gone wrong.” 

“Dean never told me that,” you admitted. 

Sam chuckled bitterly. “He’s not exactly one to brag about his shortcomings.” 

“Right,” you frowned, staring at your hands clasped on your lap. 

The only time Dean was anywhere close to being an open book was when he was with you. You knew there was still a lot you didn’t know, but he had shared with you some pretty horrific parts of his past, and it made you wonder what about that experience was so distressing that he didn’t want to share it with you; and if it was so hard for him that first time, was this time going to be even worse?

Steeling your resolve, you shifted your attention back to Sam. “How do we catch this thing?”

“Warehouses,” he began, which had you pulling out your phone to search for any abandoned sites nearby. “It was the main thing they had in common - setting up home in empty warehouses.” 

“What do you mean the main thing they had in common?” you asked, fingers stalling over your keypad. “Are Djinn not all the same?”

“Just- let’s start with the warehouses, okay?” Sam replied, dodging the question. 

“Fine,” you huffed. “Closest one is just off Milner Road, but it’s pretty central. There’s one a few miles outside of town, off Fowler and Carson that seems pretty secluded, so I’d put my money on that one.” 

“Alright, so we start with that one, then.” 

Dean swore his tires were going to burn out before he even made it to the warehouse, yet he refused to ease up on the gas. 

Once he was able to bring himself back from the brink of terror, it didn’t take him long to put the rest of the pieces together. Given his last dealings with Djinn, he knew the abandoned warehouse outside of town would be his best bet; reality always bleeds through on the feeding grounds, and Dean needed to see for himself whether or not he was going crazy. 

His feet were heavy as he walked through the door, his pulse echoing in his ears as he trudged past the dusty storage racks. He hadn’t yet decided on whether he would prefer to find the place empty or not when a voice rang out from the shadows. 

“You shouldn’t have come here, Dean,” he heard you warn. 

His heart stopped cold, and he knew without a doubt what he would find if carried on through the warehouse. 

“Why did you have to come?” you asked, stepping into view. 

Dean tried. He tried with all his might to find his voice, but the sight of you took his breath away every time he opened his mouth. 

It wasn’t real, he knew that, especially considering he saw you less than an hour ago, but there you stood, hands resting protectively over a full-term baby bump as you met his gaze. 

“Was I not enough for you?” you asked sadly, moving to close the gap between you two. “Were we not enough for you?”

“I don’t belong here,” he managed to choke out, fingers tightening on the hilt of his knife. 

“This is exactly where you belong,” you snapped. “This is everything that you ever wanted, everything that you deserve! Why would you want to ruin this?” 

Shaking his head, he took a small step back. “No. This isn’t real.”

“So what?” you asked, taking another step forward. “This is what you want, Dean.”

“I want to go home,” he found himself admitting. “I was happy there.”

“You’re happier here, and you know that.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, unsure who he was trying to convince. 

“No?” you wondered, tilting your head. “What waits for you there, Dean? Another lonely night in the bunker, eating cold burgers on the road as you risk your life for a thankless job?”

“I love what I do,” he defended. “I have no regrets about it.”

“Maybe,” you conceded. “Yet you still want out. You want the nine to five, you want the girl, you want the family. Well guess what, Dean? You got it. You got it all. You just need to stay.”

“None of this is real,” he said quietly. “It won’t last forever.” 

You approached him with a sad smile, resting delicate hands on his cheeks to wipe away tears he wasn't aware had fallen. “It can feel like forever. We can watch our children grow up, raise them in a life without hunting. We can grow old together. You can live out your whole life here, Dean. With me." 

“I can't," he denied. 

"Why?" you prodded. "I love you. I love you the way you deserve to be loved. You can't just walk away from this - from us." 

"There is no us," he whispered, feeling like he was choking on the words. 

"There is no us out there," you told him. "You're alone out there, Dean. We’re not yours. I'm not yours."  

"You may not be my wife," his voice broke. "But at least you'll be real." 

Before he could change his mind, he turned the knife on himself. 

The warehouse you chose proved to be the right one, and you couldn't help the sob that tore through you when you came across Dean, strung up like a marionette as he was being bled dry; barely even alive. 

Before you were able to make it to him, the Djinn got the drop on you, sending you crashing down. Pain radiated through your spine, your head pounding as you pushed yourself up off the concrete. 

"Always have to sneak up on your prey, huh?" you sneered, aiming a swing of your knife at him. 

Your attack was easily blocked, the blade sent skidding across the floor with a deafening clatter in the cavernous room. 

Fingers pierced your wrists as you wrestled for control of the situation, your foot landing straight into his knee once you started losing the upperhand. The momentary lapse on his grip let you break free, a fierce kick to his stomach giving you the opportunity to run to your knife. 

You underestimated how fast this thing was, and you landed back on the concrete after being tackled, blood pooling in your mouth when your chin ricocheted off the floor. Managing to flip yourself onto your back, you tried to kick him off of you to no avail. 

It wasn’t as if you were a stranger to losing ground during fights, though you were usually still always able to hold your own. When you realized that you couldn’t gain back the advantage against this thing, a wave of fear rippled through you. 

You flailed and kicked wildly when a hand clasped against your throat to hold you in place, a cry for help coming out as no more than a squeak when the air was stolen from your lungs. Terror widened your eyes as his other hand reached for your head, blue electricity dancing between his fingers. 

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, you stilled as you waited for the blow. 

When nothing happened, you peeled one eye open, afraid of what you would see. A cry of relief left you when Sam kicked the Djinn off of you, his limp body hitting the floor with a thud before dissipating in a stream of mist.

“You okay?” he asked, wiping the blood from his knife on his jeans. 

All you could do was nod, a hoarse cough coming out when you tried to speak. 

“Dean,” you croaked, rolling yourself onto all fours to try and pick yourself up. 

Sam hurried to your side, ready to help you up, but you quickly shook off his grasp. 

“No- get Dean,” you urged. “I’m fine.” 

Knowing better than to argue with you, he quickly let go and ran towards his brother, making quick work of unhooking the blood bags. 

Scrambling over as quickly as you could, you began to assess him, trembling hands meeting pale skin to check for signs of life.

As if the very touch of you awakened his soul, his eyes blinked blearily open to stare at you in fear and confusion. 

“Dean?” you asked shakily. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m with you. We figured it out, we're gonna get you out of here.”

He laughed. Quiet and barely noticeable aside from the small quirk of the corner of his mouth. 

“That’s my girl,” he muttered proudly, before his eyes fluttered shut again. 

You and Sam had finished getting him down and, after checking on the others and calling in an anonymous tip to local police, made it back home in record time.

You settled Dean in the infirmary so he could recover properly, hardly ever leaving his side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression. 

Which meant you were there when he finally woke in a cold sweat, confused and a little afraid, asking for a girl you had never met. 

“Where’s Ellen?” 

It was the first thing he asked, chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes scanned the room in a frenzy. 

“I-... I don’t know-” was the only thing you could stammer out. 

You had armed yourself with answers to the onslaught of questions he was bound to have once he awoke, even had a few questions ready yourself, though this was something you couldn’t have prepared for. 

Though it didn’t matter, since he didn’t seem to hear you. 

“Is she with your folks?” he further questioned, crazed eyes turning to you. 

“My-” your voice caught in your throat as tears sprung to your eyes. “My parents?”

He seemed to look right through you, eyes still glazed over in pain and confusion. 

“Dean, just lay back down,” you urged softly, approaching tentatively. 

He mistook your tone, flinching away from you. “Is she okay? What about the baby? Where are they, what happened?”

“Everything is okay, Dean,” you told him. “I need you to take some deep breaths for me.”

“I need you to answer me!” he declared, voice so fierce you jumped a little. 

“Okay,” you placated, slowly sitting on the end of the bed. “I will, just breathe for me first.”

His gaze followed your movements like a caged animal, but he did what you said. 

Once his breathing returned to a normal place, you started with a simple question. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He had to think about it for a while, which worried you to no end, though he finally recalled something. 

“I went out,” he muttered. “We needed supplies.”

Your heart turned heavy in your chest, thinking he didn’t know anything that happened since he left the bunker; you weren’t sure yet if that was a good or bad thing. 

Though when he carried on, you realized you were wrong. 

“We had to get the last minute things, because everyone was coming over for- for dinner…”

He trailed off, eyes laser focused on you. First on your stomach, then the rest of you, gaze cutting across every feature you had and piece of clothing you wore with doctoral precision before turning to take in the room. 

“What happened?” he whispered shakily.

So you told him. Slowly and carefully, you told him everything you knew ever since he left the bunker, your heart ripping in half as tears danced in his eyes while he listened. 

The silence when you finished explaining pressed in on you, thick and heavy. His mood became impossible to read, and he refused to meet your gaze any more. 

“Dean?” you prodded. 

“No.”

It was all he said, quiet and unsure; you didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or himself. 

“Dean?” you tried again. 

“No!”

Before you could even think, he was scrambling out of the sheets and ignoring all your attempts to get him to lay back down. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered, bypassing you and heading out into the hall. 

“Dean!” you called out, trailing behind as you tried to reason with him. 

He ignored everything you said as he marched through the bunker, and you didn’t know if it was intentional, or if it was because he was lost in his own thoughts. 

“Talk to me, please,” you pleaded. “Tell me what’s going on.”

When you were met with nothing but silence once again, you called out for Sam in the hopes he would be able to control the situation better than you could. 

He came quickly, managing to bypass Dean with just enough time to block the stairs, cutting off his escape as you covered ground behind him. 

“Move,” Dean demanded. 

You couldn’t see him, but you could tell by his voice that he had murder in his eyes. 

“Not until you tell us where the hell you think you’re going,” Sam cooly replied. 

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Dean said. “Now move.”

“No,” Sam denied, standing straighter on the steps and glaring down at his brother. 

“Sam I swear,” Dean warned. “Move out of the fucking way before I start swingin’.”

“Go ahead, Dean,” Sam accepted, arms opened wide in challenge before resting at his sides once more. 

Dean stood as rigid as a statue for a few moments, and you could practically feel the anger vibrating through him. In a last ditch effort to get away, he turned and spun on his heels so fast he smashed right into you, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud. 

You managed to catch yourself on your palms, hitting the concrete with so much force your hands stung and you were sure your tailbone would be sore for days. 

Dean looked down at you, shock lining his features before morphing into worry, then regret, then back to anger as he looked away, all but stepping over you as he marched his way towards the garage. 

You sat there in shock for a minute, dazed at how easily he had just dismissed you - he’d never done that before. Even when you two were in the middle of unresolved petty arguments, he had always made sure you were taken care of one way or another. Whether it was quietly leaving a mug of coffee on the counter for you, making sure the temperature in Baby was just right after a hunt, or letting your favourite program run on the tv in the Dean Cave while he and Sam shoot a game of pool - the gestures to prove he still cared were always there no matter what. 

Tears prickled behind your eyes, though you did your best to brush it all off. You knew he was going through something you couldn’t even begin to imagine, and that he wasn’t himself right now, though it didn’t do much to lessen the pain of it all.

Sam stepped down from the stairs, helping you up. “You okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine,” you muttered, dusting yourself off. “Let’s just go get him.”

By the time the two of you made it to the garage, Dean was long gone, leaving you to guide Sam from the passenger seat as you tracked the GPS on the car Dean took. 

You quickly pulled up to an area that was familiar to you, unable to think of a single reason as to why Dean would be here; it was nothing but a regular country lane on the border of town, a pretty farm house littered here and there. 

When Sam rolled to a stop just behind where Dean was parked, you saw he was leaning against the car and staring out at the house you once declared your favourite, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Dean?” Sam called. He approached slowly, like he was afraid to startle him away. 

You followed loosely behind, letting Sam take the lead this time - you weren’t in a hurry to relive how he looked at you when he left. 

“Talk to us, man,” Sam urged, stepping closer when there was no answer. “What’s going on?” 

“I had to see,” Dean mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Okay,” Sam said. “See what?” 

Dean shook his head, eyes still fixed on the house across the street while he remained silent. 

“Listen, you’ve been through a lot, okay?” Sam soothed. “Let’s get you back home, and we can talk about it if you want to.” 

“Home,” Dean whispered, not bothering to wipe the stray tears that let loose. 

“Home,” Sam echoed with a nod. 

“That’s gone,” Dean muttered. 

“What do you mean gone?” you found yourself asking, voice just loud enough to carry over to him. 

His gaze finally tore away from the house to land on you, a fire burning in his eyes that made you take an instinctive half-step back. 

“Everything,” he choked out, looking back to the house. “It’s all gone.” 

“Everything is still here, Dean,” Sam told him. “We’re still here - your home is still here.”

“Is it?” Dean asked quietly. 

“Yes!” you lamented, finally making your way over to him. “So please, just let me take you back there.”  

His jaw clenched, head shaking as if trying to clear away his own thoughts. You placed a hand on his arm, hoping to steady him, but he ripped himself away from you as if your skin burned. 

When he looked at you, you had a fleeting thought that this Dean must be the version of him that all those monsters he’d slain had seen right before the end. Breathing ragged, eyes wild, a sneer as if he couldn’t stand to look at what was right in front of him; you had no idea who this Dean was. 

“Fine, I'll go” he huffed, turning to Sam. “But I’m not going anywhere with her.” 

The words hit you like a gut punch, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched him climb into the car. You had no idea whether he meant for you to hear him or not, but given the less than fleeting glance he gave you before closing the door, you had a feeling he didn’t care either way. 

“Alright, come on,” Sam cooed, quickly taking hold of your arm to lead you away. “Let’s get you back home, too.”

You nodded, feet numbly following along as he brought you back over to the passenger side while Dean peeled off down the road. 

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” he promised quietly, before gently closing the door behind you and rounding to his side. 

The drive back passed in a blur, and the weeks that followed were just as hazy. 

Dean was withering away, you were hollowing out, and Sam was drowning trying to keep each of you afloat. 

“What do you think I did?” you asked Sam, like clockwork, staring at the ceiling as you stayed buried in your blankets. 

His answer never changed. “You didn’t do anything.”

You groaned, shifting to look at him in his place beside you. “I mean the other me. I - she - must have done something. ”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “And I still don’t think you did anything. Either version of you.”

“Well something had to have happened!” you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady. “He can barely even look at me.” 

“He’s just… still processing everything,” he told you, but you knew him well enough to catch the undertone of uncertainty. 

“He hates me,” you broke, unable to stop the tears from flowing. “He hates me, and it’s not even my fault.”

Sam sighed, falling into the well practiced routine of pulling you in towards him, comforting arms holding you as you cried. “No he doesn’t.”

You heard him every time he said it, but the words were always lost on you. How else would you explain the way he treated you? The way you suddenly became a stranger? The way he looked at you like he couldn’t even bear your existence? 

It started with little things, things that could be chalked up to him getting his bearings again after being thrust back into reality. Things you tried to brush off. 

First it was the way he forewent his morning greeting when meeting you in the kitchen, keeping his distance and ignoring the mug you already had ready for him, held out like an olive branch. 

Okay, you told yourself, he’s probably just tried.

Then it was the way he always chose the seat at least two away from you in the library, never letting his limbs tangle with yours the way they used to; overly cautious not to let his skin brush yours the way it always did like second nature. 

Fine, you said. Space is okay when he needs it. 

You quickly noticed that he started using only your name to address you, a sound foreign to your ears when it was laced with his voice. No more sweetheart or sunshine, no more darlin’ or princess, no more shortcake or firefly. No more exasperated smartass, no more playful brat or menace, no more quietly proud trouble. Only ever your name, clipped and professional, as if you were always only ever someone he had to work with. 

Well, nicknames aren’t always necessary, you rationalized.

Then you noticed the breath he always took whenever you entered the same room, as if bracing himself for your presence, before refusing to look in your direction unless strictly necessary. The way his body was always angling itself away from you, shoulders tense. How he always retreated a half beat before he needed to as soon as he realized he didn’t have to be there.  

I guess he just has a lot on his mind, you excused. He’s always been busy. 

The ice started to solidify next. His irritation seeped through into everything he said to you. His replies were always clipped and precise, nothing more than procedural. His eyes never left the work before him while discussing a case with you. His corrections were always too sharp and condescending whenever you got something wrong. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well, you told yourself. He’s just stressed and overtired. He always takes too much on. 

His interest in anything revolving you seemed to die completely. Any attempt you made at an inside joke fell flat, met with nothing but a blank stare. Every question you asked was answered with a distracted mumble, never any hooks to hang a conversation from. He never replied to any of the texts you sent of stupid things you knew would make him laugh. All the warmth and fondness that used to surround the two of you was replaced with cold indifference. 

Maybe I’m overthinking it all, you found yourself thinking. 

Then, you thought you were going crazy. Books you left open in the archives were closed and stacked away. Files you left scattered on the library table were gathered neatly. Mugs you put away were rotated, organized differently. Blankets you left crumpled up somewhere were folded neatly over chairs or armrests. You thought it was all in your head until you caught Dean refolding the dishtowel you had just put back, and you realized he was going behind you this whole time, erasing all the tiny traces of you from around the bunker. 

You didn’t have any excuses this time. 

Even the arguments were different - more often, sharper, harsh. With him never having the desire to say how he truly felt, or the care to fight for what used to matter, he always got in the last word after either blaming you for something or treating you like you were the problem.

Like when you drank the last of the coffee during a long night of research, and he came in before you started another pot. 

“Did you finish this?” he asked, slamming the carafe down harder than he meant to. 

“Yes,” you said, flinching ever so slightly at the noise. “I was going to make a new batch.” 

He whirled around, glaring at you. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted the last cup.” 

“I…” you faltered, trying to figure out if he was teasing you or not. “I never had to before, you always gave-” 

“So you just assumed you could have it?” 

“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “I just didn’t think to ask.” 

“Well,” he huffed, turning his back on you to busy himself with making a fresh brew. “Maybe you’ll remember to ask next time.” 

Or when you queued up your music on the ride back after wrapping a case, and he almost tore off the knob turning it off. 

“Not everyone wants to listen to music,” he snapped. “My head is killing me.” 

“You never once minded if I played something,” you countered. 

“What does that matter?” he asked, knuckles turning white on the wheel. 

“It matters,” you said, taking a calming breath. “Because you never used to mind.” 

“Yeah, you just fucking said that,” he bit back. 

“Because it’s true,” you told him. “Why do you mind all of a sudden?” 

“Because I do,” he said. “So drop it - and leave that shit off.” 

Even the time when you double checked he had his blade with him on a hunt was unwelcome.

“‘Scuse me?” he asked, taken aback. 

“I asked if you had your blade,” you repeated, meeker than the first time. 

“You mean the blade that’s our only way of killing this thing? That blade?” 

His tone made it obvious he wasn’t truly looking for a response, but you gave him one anyway. 

“I just- I didn’t see you grab it,” you explained. “I wanted to make sure.” 

He scoffed, unsheathing his blade from where it rested in his belt and brandishing it with a dramatic flourish. “Yeah. I got it.” 

“Okay, sorry,” you said a little too quickly. 

“I know how to do my job,” he grumbled, tucking his blade away again. 

“I never said you didn’t.” 

“You wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” he snapped. 

“I always ask!” you exclaimed. “You would always ask.” 

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, picking up his pace ever so slightly. “Let’s not pretend we both still care.” 

What got to you the most was when it became clear he no longer trusted you on hunts, shoving you out of the way to take a shot he felt you were taking too long to make. 

“What the hell was that, Dean?” you snapped, tossing your rifle into the trunk harder than you wanted to. 

“You froze,” he shrugged. “Had to take the shot.” 

“I did not freeze,” you seethed. “It was a calculated distraction.” 

“Was it?” he asked half-heartedly, shutting the trunk.

“I saved that kid!” you shouted. 

“Sure,” he agreed, sarcasm oozing off him. “While nearly getting yourself killed.” 

“Yeah, well, what do you care?” you muttered, words hitting him like a blow he’d never let you see landed. “You used to trust me on these things.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you were a liability,” he said simply. He stilled ever so slightly after he said it, and you thought maybe he’d take it back, or apologize. Yet he just carried on, opening the driver side door like nothing was wrong. 

“I’m a what?” you asked shakily. 

He sighed, as if the conversation was bothering him. “Hesitation gets people killed. You should’ve been smarter than that.” 

“So… what?” you implored. “You just don’t have faith in my ability to do the job anymore?” 

He paused for a moment. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold. 

“No,” he told you. “I don’t.” 

What you didn’t know, couldn’t see, was that Dean still reached for you every morning, a brief window where his mind was still half asleep and believed he was still married. The shock he felt every time he was met with nothing but a cold and empty bed was brash and cruel; it had him feeling the loss over and over again. 

He couldn’t greet you in the kitchen anymore, because he didn’t trust himself not to take your face in his hands and kiss you good morning like he grew used to. He couldn’t take the coffee from your hands because he was scared that if his fingers brushed yours he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intertwining them, because his hands felt empty without yours in them. 

He wasn’t able to sit beside you anymore, because the smell of your shampoo made him homesick. The heat of your skin was painful, because all it made him think about was the warmth you emanated each time he held you. If he got too close, too comfortable, he was worried he’d fall into new habits and sweep you into his lap. 

Your name was the only solace he had. Grounding him, reassuring him that you were still here. That you were still you. He couldn’t use the nicknames which used to replace your name in his vocabulary because they were too intimate. Too familiar. He didn’t deserve to use them anymore. He didn’t deserve to be that close to you anymore. 

He had to brace himself every time you walked into a room because all he wanted was to reach out for you. To find out how your day was going and wrap you in his arms as you rambled on. He couldn’t stand to look at you because all he felt was guilt when he remembered the way you looked underneath him. The way you looked carrying his child. Deep down he knows none of it was real, but the shame he felt over it all definitely was. Every part of him was always screaming out for you, and he never trusted himself not to do something stupid, leaving you in his wake the second his presence wasn’t needed.

His conversations with you had to be cut short because the way you laughed now conjured the memory of the daughter he never truly had. The inside jokes you made tore him up inside, making him realize things could never be the same as they used to. He always came off sounding harsh when he corrected your mistakes because he didn’t know how to be himself with you anymore - he didn’t have it in him to poke fun at you, and he had to force the words out each time otherwise his voice would fail him. He had to type and retype replies to your texts before giving up entirely, and all the things he saw that reminded him of you, that made him say oh she’d love this went unsent, because suddenly he thought she would… wouldn’t she?

You left traces of yourself everywhere, and he hated that more than anything. The messes you made, the products you used, the things you did, all of it brought him back to living in that house. When the only traces of your existence came in the moment: cooking dinner, playing with Ellen, putting your laundry away, doing the dishes. Nothing was ever out of place. He never needed to go in behind you and tidy something up or put things away. So when you left your books in the archive, staked haphazardly and waiting for you to go back and shelf them, he did it for you. When you left your files spread across the library after you no longer needed them, he ghosted his fingers across the words he knew you’d read and gently tucked the pages away. When he opened the cupboard to grab a glass and noticed the mugs you hastily put away, he rearranged them in a way he knew you would’ve if you had the time; by size and by colour, handles facing just slightly outward so you could grab them easily but not knock anything down. Blankets were tucked away neatly because, if he was fast enough to do it, they would still be warm from your touch, your fragrance wafting off them just enough that if he closed his eyes he could trick himself into thinking it was you he was holding. He wasn’t trying to erase the traces of you. He was cherishing your existence. He was reminding himself that you were real. That you were here. 

He was letting himself feel the love he had for you in a nonimposing way, because he knew now that he always loved you. 

He knew that what he felt in his perfect little dream world didn’t just come from nothing. It was always there, lying in wait until it was safe to come out. 

Which made it all worse. Because he let himself love a shadow of you before he let himself love the real you. It made him feel like he somehow took advantage of you, like he knew all these little secrets about yourself that even you didn’t know. 

How could he possibly explain that he was mourning a family he never had? That he missed a life that wasn’t real? 

How was he supposed to tell you he loved you, and make you believe he really loved you, and not the idea of you the Djinn gave him? 

He couldn’t. 

So he didn’t. 

Instead he tried to push the feelings away; he tried to push you away. 

He argued over you drinking the last cup of coffee without asking because he hated how you knew he’d let you have it like always. 

He argued over your music because he hated how routine it was for you to take over his radio. He hated how for that split second it felt like nothing changed. 

He argued over you making sure he was armed because he hated how much you still cared, even after everything, because he didn’t deserve your concern. 

He argued over the choice you made during a hunt because he saw how badly it could've ended for you, and he hated how scared he felt. He hated that he knew you’d never turn your back on him no matter what he did. No matter what he said. He hated that he needed to try anyway. 

So when Sam came storming in one day, holding your battered and bloody body like you were already dead… he didn’t know what to do. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked, shaky legs carrying him over. 

“Ambush,” Sam replied, bringing you towards the infirmary. “We didn’t think the nest was that big. She took the hit for me.” 

Dean could tell Sam already felt guilty, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“You went into a nest?” he snapped. “You let her take the damn hit for you?!” 

“It’s not like I planned on it, Dean!” grit Sam. “Just help me, okay?”

Dean took you in his arms before he even knew what he was doing, laying you on the bed with a tenderness he knew was being shown too late. He worked with Sam to patch your wounds, cleaning you up while muttering about how you’d be okay. 

Now it was his turn, never leaving your side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression. 

Which meant he was there when you finally woke up, cold and afraid, asking what happened. 

He told you what Sam told him. You got outnumbered. You managed to make sure Sam was clear and took on the heat yourself. Sam cleaned out the nest in record time after that, bringing you back home. 

His jaw ticked, fists clenching in his lap, and you could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air. 

“Go ahead,” you croaked, prompting him to quickly bring you a glass of water. “Say what you’re not saying.” 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked miserably. 

He sighed quietly, retaking his seat and watching as you sipped the drink, a small grimace on your face to show even such a small movement was painful. 

All you did was shrug, resting the glass on your lap as you refused to meet his gaze. “It was a job.” 

“Yeah, a job I didn’t even know about,” he pointed out. “Why the hell didn’t you at least have any kind of back up?” 

You laughed, raw and unamused. “Like who, Dean? You? You made it clear you wouldn’t watch my back any more.”

“That’s not true,” he said automatically. 

“Yes,” you said firmly. “It is. What the hell do you care if my case goes sideways? I’d just be another body for you to burn. You’d move on.” 

The words hit him like a kick to the face. Not just the words themselves, but how you said them; like you really believed it. 

He knew this is what he was working for the whole time, but now that he had it, he never wanted you to think that ever again. 

“Don’t say that,” he choked out. “Don’t you dare think that.” 

You scoffed, eyes still locked on the glass in your hands. “Please, Dean. You made it clear you stopped caring.” 

“I always cared.” 

“Well you sure as hell stopped acting like it,” you sneered. 

“I didn’t know how to!” he snapped. “I didn’t know how to go back to normal with you when I could barely even look at you.” 

“And why not?” you cried, fed up with still being in the dark. 

“Because every time I look at you all I see is what I lost!” he exclaimed, standing from his chair with so much force it clattered backwards. “Everything I… everything I can still lose,” he added softly, gesturing to where you lay. 

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” you yelled, angry tears rolling down your face. “What did you lose? Just tell me!” 

“Everything!” he yelled back. “I lost everything and nothing at the same time.” 

You let out a watery laugh of frustration. “If you don’t want to tell me the details, then at least tell me what it was that made you hate me so much. I at least deserve that much.” 

His gaze snapped to yours, a ragged breath leaving him when he saw how much pain you were in. He didn’t just mean the cuts and the bruises and the swelling. He meant the slumped shoulders, the red eyes, the tear stained cheeks and the quivering lip. He broke you, and he loathed himself for it. 

“Don’t,” he breathed out, feeling himself break right alongside you. “Don’t you say that.” 

“Just stop!” you sobbed. “Don’t turn around and tell me it’s not true when you’ve done nothing to prove otherwise since you recovered! I don’t know what the hell could have happened in a fake world that was so twisted it carried itself over in your heart to the real world but it was not my fault! And I am tired, so tired, of trying to fix whatever it was that broke while you’re standing there with the hammer behind your back.” 

Your name left his lips like a broken promise, begging you to look at him. 

So you did. Just long enough to say what you needed to say, but not long enough to watch the sorrow cross over his face. 

“Just leave,” you mumbled. “It’s apparently what you’re best at.” 

He never considered himself a coward before, but as he trudged towards the door he realized that when it came to you, that’s exactly what he was lately.

And you deserved better than that. 

So for once, he stayed.

“Look,” he muttered, stopping at the door, gaze fixed down the hallway. “I know I’ve done and said things that I shouldn’t have-”

“You meant them,” you cut in. 

He whirled around. “No. Who are you to say what I did and didn’t mean?” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes; or worse, chuck the glass in your hands at his head. “Then why?” 

“Because I was scared,” he admitted. 

“Of what?” you asked, holding back a laugh. 

“Of realizing that I loved you,” he said. 

He had said it so simply, yet after all he’d done the words hit you like a slap. 

You flinched, choking down a gasp. 

“Don’t you dare,” you seethed. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything." 

“I fell in love with you, and I didn’t even know it,” he carried on. “Then I fell in love with you in a life we never really had.” 

“What does that even mean?” you asked, fighting to keep yourself together. 

“You wanted to know what you did?” he asked, arms folding over his chest. “What that version of you did?” 

You nodded, no longer trusting your ability to speak. 

He laughed. Low. Quiet. Bitter. Heartbroken. 

“You married me, you menace.” 

The weight of his words pressed down on you, crushing the air from your lungs. The silence filled the room like a third occupant. 

“What?” 

He shrugged, like he didn’t just detonate a bomb. “We lived in that house - you know the one. No more hunting, just a run of the mill job at my own garage. Even owned it with Bobby. You stayed home, keeping everything perfect. Taking care of the house and our one and a half kids-” 

“Kids?” you breathed out, getting hooked on that detail. 

He smiled. Sad. Reminiscent. “A baby girl. She looked so much like you.” 

“Ellen?” you guessed, remembering how he asked for her when he first woke up. 

He nodded, laugh watery as he wiped away tears before they fell. “Yeah. The day I got out, it was when we were gonna tell everyone we were expecting again.”

“Why-” you choked on a sob, trying to process what he was saying. “Why didn’t you just tell me this before?” 

More tears fell as he avoided your gaze, but he didn’t bother wiping them away this time. “I didn’t know how. The guilt was killing me.” 

“Guilt?” you asked incredulously. 

“I had an entire life with you that you didn’t even know about; a whole family,” he lamented. “I realized that I was in love with you because I fell in love with the entire idea of you. I loved you, and I lost you, and I was mourning you even when you’ve been here right in front of me.” 

He paused, pacing slowly to work off the emotions rolling through him. “How can I not feel guilty for that? How can you ever look at me the same way knowing what I did? It feels like it was some sick form of betrayal. I told myself that if I pushed you away it would make it all stop hurting. So that’s what I did.” 

“Did it?” you asked quietly. 

“No,” he said easily. Too quickly. “God, no.” 

“Then what did it do?” you prodded. 

“It killed me,” he admitted shakily. “And it almost killed you.” 

His gaze trailed pointedly over your injuries, making it clear he meant it in more than one way. 

“I know I should have told you,” he said. “But when am I ever doing what I’m supposed to?” 

He tried for a laugh, but it didn’t come out quite right. Too high. Too fraught. 

“I can’t go back and change what I did. But know that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like that." 

You nodded dumbly, head too hazy to think of a response. You just sat there, watching as he stopped pacing to look at you. To really see you. 

“You-” he started, before cutting himself off nervously. “Don’t you ever, ever think that you’d be just another body for me to burn. I’d never move on from that. Hell, I’d throw myself on the goddamn pyre with you because you are the love of my fucking life.” 

The shock that ran through you was visceral, a sob tearing its way out of you. You had too many thoughts swimming in your head, too many things to process. 

“Please,” you begged, unsure what you were asking for. “How could you do this to me?” 

You weren’t entirely sure what you meant, but he seemed to know what you needed anyway. He always did. He always would. 

“I’ll go get Sam,” he said calmly. “And I’ll give you your space. If you ever want to talk… I will be here.” 

You lost all track of time after that. Dean was gone, replaced by Sam in what seemed like an instant but also an eternity. He held you while you cried. He listened while you explained what happened. He didn’t offer any advice or solutions; he just listened, and he didn’t leave until he was sure you were asleep. 

But it was a fitful sleep.

A sleep that didn’t soothe your heart, the ache so fierce it followed you into your dreams and forced you to wake up. An ache that stayed until you sought out the only thing you knew would help. 

You found him by instinct. Feet carrying you on their own, like you were following a thread he left for you to guide the way. 

He sensed you before he saw you, jumping to his feet as he turned to watch the door. His body tense, like he was waiting for an ambush, only relaxing when he saw you standing dwarfed in the doorway. 

“You hurt me,” you said, matter-of-fact. 

“I know.” 

“I am still so angry with you.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t forgive you. Not fully. Not yet,” you told him. 

He nodded in acceptance. “Okay.” 

“But it’s only fair for you to know that I-” you stopped yourself, composing your thoughts. 

“Don’t say anything you don’t want to,” he comforted, but you ignored him. 

“I’ve always loved you, Dean,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve always known, or if it took until hearing you say those things for me to realize, but it’s true.” 

He nodded once more, like reluctant acceptance. His face was stoic, body posed carefully, but the way his chest rose and fell gave his emotions away. 

“And that life you had, that we had,” you carried on, hands shaking. “You didn’t lose it. Not really. Because it’s still here, in your future. In our future.” 

His eyes flicked to your hands, his own flexing and relaxing on a loop as fought the urge to steady them. 

The silence dragged on, and you started to mistake his distracted gaze as rejection.

“If you… still want that,” you added quietly, hugging yourself as a way to ease the nerves. 

His attention snapped back to you in an instant. “I do,” he assured softly. 

Every fibre of his being screamed out for you, but he forced himself to stay put. Not wanting to make the first move before you could fully process how you felt about everything, he ground his jaw to steady himself. 

“Good,” you said, voice shaking as your eyes glistened. “Good, because I really missed you,” you admitted, voice blending with a sob as the emotions rolled over you again. 

This time he let himself move, body taking action before his mind could catch up. He folded you in his arms before you even fully finished your sentence.

He held you like he was afraid to break you even further, but his fingers gripped the blanket hanging off your shoulders like a lifeline, knuckles turning white as his eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to keep in the tears. 

“Believe me, sunshine,” he whispered into your hair, planting the ghost of a kiss to your head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, too.” 

BONUS SCENE

“Do you think it was prophetic?” you asked Dean, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

“Do I think what was prophetic?” he asked, coming up behind you.

“That her name was Ellen,” you explained like it was obvious. “I mean, is that what we need to name her now?”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head. “Well, first of all, we don’t even know if it’s a girl or not yet.”

You hummed, deep in thought, laughing softly as his hands shifted ever so slightly to rest on your belly. “I’d like it to be a surprise,” you admitted, resting your hands on his.

“Yeah?” he asked, placing a kiss behind your ear. “We could make that happen.”

“You don’t want to know beforehand?” you wondered.

He thought about it for a moment before you felt him shrug. “I want whatever you want, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter to me. Whether we find out early, or we find out in a delivery room, I’m gonna love that kid all the same.”

“Well aren’t you a smooth talker?” you laughed.

“Of course,” he laughed with you. “How else would I have convinced you to marry me?”

You giggled as he littered your skin with kisses, spinning in place to catch his lips with yours.

“I don’t remember much convincing being needed,” you told him with a sly grin.

“And I thank the stars every day that you haven’t come to your senses yet,” he joked.

“Never,” you chuckled. “You’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made sense to me,” you added on a more serious note.

“Who’s the smoother talker now, huh?” he teased, taking your hand to spin you back around.

You landed with your back against his chest with a laugh, and he wrapped you in his arms once more.

Standing there in the kitchen of your new home, you both stared at the sonogram taped to the fridge until the light flitting through the window bathed everything in sunset hues.

Sometimes dreams do come true, you each thought.

[castiwls]

Dean Winchester & mating press mdni (fem!reader) use of female pronouns and nicknames

"Dean! It's too much—ahhah" Your cries filled the dark room, Dean's eyes sparkiling almost at the way your hips bucked into his touch — how you fell apart the minute he had you alone.

"I'm not even halfway," His lips curled with a mock pout, the gleam in his eyes betraying any sympathy you thought he might have had. He'd never enjoyed anything more in his life. "C'mon, baby, you've done this before."

"Never...hmmm...never like this—oh!" The position only seemed to make him feel larger, filling you in ways that had your eyes rolling with every small swivel of his hips, every inch he fed deeper and deeper.

When he'd first mentioned wanting to try this, try a new position, you'd laughed. You weren't like the girls in those videos, nowhere near as flexible, yet somehow Dean had managed to fold your body exactly how he wanted.

One hand keeping your leg up and pressed against your chest, the other now drifting down, down, down from your chest.

"Feels good, huh? So good," You barely had time to agree, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, tight circles, making your eyes roll, his chest vibrating with a deep chuckle at the sight of your blissed out expression.

"Thatsss itttt. Let me in, doin' so well, baby." He sank another inch, your body stretching around him like he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

"Can't—can't. De it's too much. Too much hmmm," Your world felt underwater almost, your words slurred through whimpers and cries as his tight circles continued.

"Fuck! God so tight, so fuckin perfect f'me so perfect," His own chest heaved, his grip tightening on your ankle for a moment as he finally bottemed out, your body clenching like a vice.

Yeah, he could die happy.

[pieandflannel]

⋆˚𖤐｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ mystery solved

pairing: older!dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: you dressing up as daphne from scoobydoo makes your boyfriend absolutely feral

cw: 18+ smut implied.ᐟ roleplay.ᐟ doggy style.ᐟ

wc: 410

“tadaaaa” you walked into the library wearing a mauveine purple dress, lime green ascot, a bright lavender hairband and vintage amethyst versace go-go boots.

dean’s eyes lifted up from the books and you did a little twirl for him, big excited smile on your face. you knew daphne was his favourite scooby-doo character, you also knew he had a big crush on her as a kid, and probably still.

so you figured, why not dress up for him and fulfill his fantasy, especially that it was halloween.

his eyes widened slightly, lips parting as he was away to say something but nothing seemed to come out. he leaned back in his chair, eyeing you from head to toe. “wow.. i-”

and just like that, you clicked into character, the helpless damsel in distress needing help. “oh dean! there you are” you ran up to him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out the chair.

“i need your help in solving a mystery” you batted your pretty eyes at him.

“a mystery?” he smirked but couldn’t help rising a brow, curious as to what you have planned with this little surprise roleplay of yours.

“please dean, you’re the only one that can help me” you tugged at his arm, pulling him closer to the door which lead to the hallway.

“there is something very strange happening in my room” you added.

“your room huh?” he asked, his voice raspy and eyes already dark.

you nodded with helpless puppy eyes. “yes! all my panties seemed to go missing, all of them! i’m not even wearing any right now” you spoke innocently but let’s be real here, this was total foreshadowing.

“alright let’s check that missing-panties mystery out then” dean agreed with a cheeky smirk, playing along. he gave your ass a little squeeze, discretely checking out if you in fact aren’t wearing any, the sudden action making you gasp.

and let’s just say the mystery solving turned.. rather productive.

your dress pushed up and bunching up at your waist as dean’s thick and hard cock slid in and out of your soaked pussy from behind. your face buried in the pillows, moans muffled in the feathery cushions as his hips met your ass with every filthy thrust.

by the end of all the ‘solving’ the two of you did, to put it simply – your dress was not the only thing that was a complete mess and covered in cum.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated by the writers! <3

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[whatstruthgottodowithit]

not that kinda girl

fandom: supernatural

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

word count: 4k

rating: explicit

summary: dean is an adult. he can do as he pleases. so why do you hate that so much?

tags/ warnings: mdni, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up lads) oral sex, m receiving, jealousy, anger, flirting, secret feelings, admitting feelings, requested fic, creampie, intentional

notes: this was a request but tumblr is stupid and wont let me post it with the request so it's here instead @midnightpearlaurora here you go :)

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winchester wednesdays ☆ read on ao3 ☆ request a fic ☆ tag list

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You’d had enough. You’d had it empty beds and lonely nights. You’d had it with feeling sick to your stomach with jealousy.

You’d had it with Dean. 

Well no, not with Dean, not really. It wasn’t his fault you were in love with him. It wasn’t his fault your heart flip-flopped when he touched the small of your back to get past you, or that you craved that smile, that stupid, bright smile he gave you whenever he was trying to make you laugh, hanging on until he got the smallest smirk or eye-roll that told him he’d won you over. Because he always did. 

It wasn’t his fault he was just a good guy. Someone who cared about you, looked after you and made your heart squeeze in your chest every time he looked at you. It wasn’t his fault that you loved him and he didn’t look at you like that. That he reserved that for people he actually wanted to date. Like the countless waitresses he hit on in front of you, or the endless rotation of girls in bars he ended up with. He was an adult. He was allowed to date, admittedly in the loosest sense of the word. 

It wasn’t his fault the sight of it knocked you sick, or that hearing some bimbo scream his name through the motel wall made you want to cry yourself to sleep. He never saw it, and you’d never tell him because you knew there was no point. 

You had thought he might have felt the same at the start, back when you’d joined him on the road, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. Your flirting he took for harmless banter between friends. The way you looked after him - making him eat something relatively healthy once in a while, forcing him to sleep when he was dead on his feet, or stitching him up after a hunt - was all part of being a good partner. He did the same for you, after all.  So you’d given up. Hidden your needy heart behind a couple of walls and pretended that it didn’t sink when he floated the idea of going out tonight. 

He wasn’t asking for permission of course, just telling you how it was going to go. He no longer expected you to come along; that had been something that had died a death a few weeks ago. When you’d been in the middle of a game of pool and looked up after sinking the black only to find him necking on with some blonde girl out of nowhere. 

It had always been hard to watch. How he smiled at them. How he made them laugh. How he gave them everything you wanted. But after that it was like something had broken inside you. 

Yet the feeling hadn’t gone away. You’d thought that would be it. A clear sign he didn’t want you so you could finally let it go. But it just festered in your chest. You smiled back when he smiled at you, despite yourself. You couldn’t make yourself snap at him, because it wasn’t his fault. 

You couldn’t walk away. So after weeks of moping, you’d decided to be proactive. You chose to live by the mantra of getting over someone by getting under someone else. You weren’t sure it would make you feel any better, but it sure as shit would distract you for an hour. Or at least, you hoped so.

Dean had seemed surprised when you’d said you’d come with him. Not disappointed, he knew it wouldn’t impact his night in any way. He’d still find a warm bed and a sweet smile whether you were there or not. But he wasn’t overjoyed either, which you’d had to pretend didn’t hurt. Instead, you just locked yourself in the bathroom and got ready, taking extra time to make yourself look good. You were just finishing up as Dean knocked on, a grumbled, ‘you nearly done?’ coming from the other side of the door. You didn’t say anything in return; you just packed up your stuff and stepped out.

He was sitting on the bed when you did, wearing his normal jeans, t-shirt, and flannel look but his eyes went wide the second he saw you. It wasn’t much, well it wasn’t much at all, the dress you’d picked up skirting across your thighs and dipping so low you have to be conscious not to bend over to far unless you really wanted to.

‘You’re wearing that?’ Dean asked, his voice sharp.

‘Yeah,’ you said hesitantly pulling on the hem of your dress self-consciously as his eyes roved over you, ‘why don’t you like it?’

‘No, it’s nice,’ Dean said, clearing his throat and not looking at you as he stood up a muttered, ‘we’ve should get going.’

You spent most of the car ride in silence, Dean’s eyes flitting over to you ever so often and making your cheeks burn. He must think you’re ridiculous, you thought. Not pretty enough to pull something like this off like the girls he dated. But it didn’t matter, you reminded yourself. This wasn’t for him. This was for some dive bar Romeo yet to present himself.

It was crowded when you got to the bar, but you managed to snag a couple of stools up against the counter. Dean helped you climb onto yours, his hand nestling warm against the small of your back as your heels wobbled on the wooden slats. You tried to ignore how good it felt, and how easily he tugged a smile from your lips when he grinned and ordered your favourite drink. You were supposed to be looking for someone else, but the two of you slipped into conversation, easy as always. You were about three beers in before you noticed her. Slim, pretty, blonde. Sitting on the other side of the bar, her eyes flitting to Dean every few minutes.

‘You’ve got an admirer,’ you murmured into your drink, stopping his rant about how the Die Hard movies were quickly losing their coolness with every sequel and marring their reputation as action classics. Dean’s eyes flitted across the bar and then right back to you.

‘Aren’t you gonna go over there?’ you asked, pretending like when he said yes, you wouldn’t feel nauseous.

‘Nah,’ Dean shrugged.

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ you said. You didn’t know why you were pushing it. You didn’t want him to go, but you knew you should make him. Make yourself look for someone without dazzling green eyes and soft lips.

‘Do you want me to?’ Dean asked, his brow furrowing.

‘I don’t want to stop your night,’ you shrugged, ‘I mean you would if I weren’t here, right?’

‘Right,’ Dean said, something unreadable behind his eyes.

‘She’s coming over,’ you muttered looking back to your drink as she started to move, circling like a shark.

But Dean wasn’t chum. He was warm, friendly, and slipped easily into his usual charm, only hesitating when she invited him away from the bar. You could feel his eyes land on you, lingering. Probably to be polite, to tell you not to wait up or whatever. But you didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes fixed on your glass, your finger trailing down the condensation until he muttered something you didn’t hear and moved away.

You looked away after that, surveying the room. It was then you laid eyes on him. The guy at the other side of the bar. He was cute, handsome even, and he was watching you. You smiled, played with your drink and you looked up at him under your lashes. He moved over within seconds. Bought you a drink just as fast. And somehow, he made you forget about Dean.

Just for a little bit. When his hand touched your knee, it belonged to him, if you focused hard enough. When he said something flirty, his voice stayed his own, not that rich, velvety tone you’d come to love, but something just as nice. And when he suggested you head over to the pool table, you tried desperately not to think about who had taught you to play. How Dean had pressed himself up against your back to show you how to hold the cue, guiding your hands to put spin on the ball.

Instead, you thought about this new guy, Rick something. You slipped into your own flirty routine. You leaned against the table whenever he lined up a shot, leaning forward too much on purpose until his eyes looked at you instead of the ball. He called you a cheat, you laughed. He taught you how to play, and you let him. You didn’t think about Dean.

You didn’t.

You didn’t think about him at all. Not until you sunk your last shot, potting the black, and looked up to find him standing at the other side of the table, arms crossed as he looked down on you.

‘Dean,’ you said, forcing a smile as Rick appeared beside you to celebrate though his grin dimmed the moment he noticed where your gaze had been captured.

‘You playing pool?’ Dean asked, his eyes landing on where Rick had hold of your waist, narrowing when Rick answered, ‘yeah, we are.’

‘Cool,’ Dean said tightly, throwing his jacket on a stool beside the table before he reached into the return under the table to fish the balls out, his eyes never leaving you as he added, ‘winner stays on, right?’

‘Sure,’ you said quietly.

You didn’t know what he was doing here. Or why he was doing this.

You used to think that being in love with someone who didn’t love you back was the most pain you’d ever have to endure. But this? This was excruciating.

It was slow torture. Dean played, and he played well, far better than Rick, and they both knew it. But he wasn’t hustling with his usual easy confidence. There was no charm in his game tonight. His movements were rigid, his expression dark, and his attitude toward you was tighter than ever. When you sank a ball, he huffed. When you missed, he huffed. You could feel his eyes boring into every time Rick spoke to you. When Rick leaned in to whisper something in your ear right as Dean took his first swing, Dean broke the balls so hard he sank three of them in a single shot.

And you thought you knew why. He’d probably seen you throwing yourself at someone else and thought you looked pathetic. Some deep-seated, protective chauvinistic urge to stop you from embarrassing yourself had kicked in and dragged him over. But you didn’t want him here. You didn’t want him clogging up your senses and worming his way into your brain. You could at least pretend Rick was what you wanted when Dean wasn’t standing right there. You could pretend you liked blue eyes instead of green, and dark hair instead of hair that looked golden in the sunlight.

When Rick stepped away to get another drink, you stormed over to the other side of the table.  Dean was leaning over, pulling the balls from the pocket once more but he looked up, his eyes flitting back to the triangle rack he was lining up as he muttered, ‘what?’

‘Can you stop?’ you demanded.

‘Stop what?’ Dean asked.

‘Whatever this is,’ you said, crossing your arms across your chest. Dean stood up and looked at you, his jaw ticking before he looked back to the pool table and started slamming balls into their spots.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he muttered.

‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ you challenged.

‘What?’  he said, frowning.

‘Look I get it,’ you huffed, your frustration boiling over,  ‘you had your night planned and I tagged along and ruined it. But you don’t have to stay here with me. I wasn’t stopping you from doing whatever you wanted. You can go be with that girl.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Dean said flatly.

‘Well, you clearly don’t want to be here with us either,’ you challenged, ‘you don’t even like the guy-’

‘I don’t like what he’s after,’ Dean muttered, looking up as you scoffed, his jaw tightening like he didn’t want to ask, like he knew an argument was brewing but was determined to stand his ground, ‘what?’

‘What he’s after?’ you laughed, your tone dripping in sarcasm, ‘what, are you gonna tell me boys are only after one thing?’

‘Well, yeah, they are,’ Dean challenged, taking a step toward you, his eyes skimming down your body in a way that made your skin feel hot.

‘Like you, you mean,’ you countered, Dean scowled but you carried on, ‘oh or are we gonna pretend you were after the Dolly Parton knock off for her sterling personality?’

After that you braced yourself, waiting for something. A flicker of guilt. A sharp bite back. But nothing came.

‘You’re such a fucking hypocrite,’ you snapped, trying to push past him. But before you could move he wrapped a hand around your arm. It was warm, electrifying, and kept you locked into place as his voice dropped, his eyes softening as he murmured, ‘I just don’t think this is what you should be doing that’s all.’

‘Why not?’ you spat.

‘Because you’re not that kinda girl,’ he said.

You were sure he’d meant it to be nice. As a compliment. That he was saying it because he saw you as a friend. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt as though he’d slapped you.

He could’ve told you he thought of you as a sister. That you’d seen too much together to ruin your dynamic. But no, he said the one thing that felt like a punch in the gut. Because you could do it. You could haul your ass to a bar. You could sit yourself on a stool and make eyes at a nice, handsome man. You could flirt. You could go home with him. But to Dean, it wasn’t cool or effortless like it was when he did it. When you did it, it looked pathetic. Hell, you’d had to cram yourself in a skin-tight dress and heels just for someone to notice you. And even then, it was never going to be Dean.

‘Right,’ you breathed, the fight suddenly draining out of you.

‘Oh what now?’ he sighed. You fought to keep your tone angry. To not let the threat of tears make it wobble.

‘Look it might dumbfound you that someone might like me. Or that it takes me fucking cramming myself into a dress like this for people to actually do it, but you don’t have to be cruel,’ you said angrily. Dean paused, staring at you as if your words hadn’t quite registered, his grip loosening on your arm. Sensing your chance, you huffed, ‘you know what? Forget it.’

You were out of reach before he could make his brain could catch up. You pushed past Rick, who called out a confused, ‘Where are you going?’ behind you. You barely registered the sound of Dean knocking the drinks out of Rick's hands as he shoved through the crowd after you.

He called your name, but you ignored him. You didn’t know where you were going. He had the car keys, and you wouldn’t get far in these heels but your just kept your feet moving.

It was cold outside, but you didn’t stop. You just headed straight for the Impala with the heavy thud of Dean’s boots trailing close behind you.

‘Leave me alone,’ you called over your shoulder.

‘Would you just stop?’ he yelled back.

‘I said-’

‘And I said stop,’ he growled, grabbing your arm and spinning you around, pressing your back flat against the cold metal of the Impala. Your breath caught in your throat. You froze, staring up at him. All the irritation was gone from his face, replaced entirely by a raw, frantic worry.

‘Go away,’ you manged to choke out, though your voice lacked any real bite.

‘No,’ he said fiercely.

‘Dean,’ you whispered.

‘Not until you tell me what the fuck you meant in there,’ he demanded, leaning over you and trapping you in against the car.

‘I don’t-’

‘What did you mean?’

‘You said I wasn’t that kind of girl,’ you whispered.

‘What-’

‘The kind you like. The kind that are hot, that you’d pick up at a bar,’ you whispered, finally letting your gaze drop.

‘So? You’re not,’  he insisted.

‘Not to you maybe,’ you mumbled bitterly, ‘I get it, you’d don’t see me like that. But some people do-’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said firmly. His hand reached up, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You looked up, finding him watching you with absolute intensity, his bottom lip catching as your breath hitched.

‘Sweetheart you aren’t some cheap lay in a bar. You’re not some forgettable name. You’re,’ he hesitated, ‘you’re morning coffee…and stupid songs in the car. You’re the girl I tell stupid jokes for just in case it makes her laugh…I just didn’t want to fuck that up.’

‘Wait, you-’ you started, your brow furrowing in disbelief.

‘Have for a while,’ he admitted, a breathless laugh escaping him, ‘was just easier to pretend when you did have fucking Rick hanging off your arm.’

‘But the girls,’ you said, unwilling to let your heart believe it, ‘I’ve had to watch you-’

‘Never wanted any of them,’ he promised, his eyes burning into your face, ‘just you. Always you.’

He looked down at your lips, and then the space between you vanished. Suddenly, his mouth was slamming into yours. His hands came up to cup your face, holding you steady as he pressed you hard against the Impala, knocking the remaining breath right out of your lungs. You gasped into the kiss, your hands instantly fisting into his flannel shirt to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with a desperate, starved hunger before he finally pulled back, leaving you completely breathless.

‘Believe me now?’ he panted. You nodded but your fingers locked around his amulet, tugging him closer as you said, ‘but Dean?’

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘You wanna see what kind of girl I really am?’ you asked.

Dean’s eyes darkened as you pushed him back, yanking the back door open and gesturing for him to get in. He scrambled over the bench seat into the back, watching with wide eyes as you climbed in after him, shutting the door quietly to seal out the cold night. He watched as you climbed over him, pushing him back against the door so you could straddle his lap. He felt himself stiffen, the too few layers between his cock and your cunt all too real. But you didn’t let him touch you. Not yet. He watched as you reached back and unzipped your dress, pulling it over your head a second later and dropping it into the footwell along with your discarded heels. Dean marvelled at your bare chest, his hands reaching out to touch, but you grabbed his wrists and pushed him back, your chest skimming against his as his hands met the cold glass of the window.

‘Ah, ah,’ you warned, leaning in dangerously close until your breath mingled. Dean’s throat bobbed heavily.

‘Shirt off, there’s a good boy,’ you said, bumping your nose against his before you pulled back. Dean moved instantly, ripping his flannel and t-shirt off and throwing them into the darkness of the front seat. Your eyes darkened as you tracked the lines of his torso, your finger trailing down the centre of his chest, stopping just shy of his belt. Slowly, your hand slid lower, palming him through the heavy denim of his jeans. Dean’s hips bucked upward against your touch with an involuntary groan.

‘Fuck,’ Dean panted as you squeezed him through his jeans.

‘Needy,’ you teased, a small laugh bubbling up.

‘Need you,’ he breathed.

‘Then take ‘em off,’ you said simply. You shifted back onto the leather seat to give him room, watching as he quickly rid himself of his jeans and briefs. When he sat back, his cock was nestled against his stomach, heavy, rigid, and begging for your touch. You could feel your arousal growing, your core burning with a long brewing need. You wanted him to fuck you, wanted him to fill you up. For him to make you come on his cock. On his fingers. On his tongue. You wanted it all. But there was no urgency anymore. You knew you had time.

And you’d thought about just what you’d do if you’d ever got him here. So, you took your time.

Dean’s eyes went wide and you bent down, thong clad ass in the air as you pressed your cheek against his thigh, your warm breath tickling against his skin as you teased a finger along his hardening shaft. It twitched in response, leaking against his belly in a way that made him groan your name.

You wrapped your hand around him, slicking your palm before dragging it lazily up and down his shaft. Then, you leaned over, dragging your bottom lip from the base to the very top before locking your mouth around the head. It was soft, gentle, your tongue swirling around his gooey head before you slid down, inch by inch, until he was buried deep in the warmth of your throat.

‘Fuck baby,’ Dean whispered, his hand knotting in your hair as you started to move. Your cheeks hollowed with every upward pull, your hand working his base in perfect tandem.

‘You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,’ he choked out, the back of his head flopping back against the glass, ‘thought about it every damn day.’

You hummed around him in agreement.

‘Never thought I’d get it. Thought you didn’t like me. It’s why I hooked up with those girls,’ he admitted, his voice straining, ‘pretended they were you. Always wanted you. Shit, fuck - do that again.’

You looked up at him through your lashes, teasing your tongue against the sensitive underside of the head. Dean shuddered, his thighs tensing as his hips bucked upward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

‘Fuck, no stop,’ he suddenly begged, gently pulling your head back.

‘Why?’ you pouted, looking up at him like you were a kid who’d just lost their favourite lollipop.

‘Gonna come,’ he panted, his chest heaving.

‘That’s the idea,’ you chuckled, teasing your hand along him again.

‘Wanna cum in you,’ he breathed, looking down on you, his eyes adoring. You didn’t need telling twice. Dean watched, mesmerized, as you peeled your thong off and shimmied back onto his lap, nesting your knees on either side of his thighs. He caught your waist, his head dipping between the valley of your breasts as he painted hot wet kisses along each one, his tongue swirling around your nipple and sending a jolt through your core that made you grind against him. Then he reached down, guiding his length through your slick, deliberately bumping his cockhead against your clit.

You hissed at the touch, your pussy clenching around nothing.

‘Fuck Dean hurry up,’ you whined.

‘And you said I’m needy,’ he chuckled. You cut him off with a fierce kiss, sucking against his bottom lip as he lined himself up. Slowly, you sank down, stretching around him until he was buried down to the hilt. It felt entirely beyond anything you could have ever dreamed of. Nothing you could ever want more.

As you established a rhythm, he kept his mouth locked to yours, murmuring filthy praise for how well you took him, mixed with quiet curses that you hadn’t done this sooner. His hands pawed at your skin, his thumb finding your clit and rolling over it like an instrument made solely for his touch. And when you came it was like seeing heaven, your walls clamped around him in tight, desperate waves, your legs trembling until you completely forgot your own name. A second later, Dean let out a ruined groan and came deep inside you, his forehead resting against your chest, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer he’d known by heart forever.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault you were in love with him.

But this? This was the reason you would never be able to stop. And you knew whatever happened, you’d never have enough.

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request by @midnightpearlaurora

I was wondering if u can do a story where the reader had to witness dean countless flirts and one night stands until she decides enough was enough and flirt with another man causing dean to be jealous and having to confess his feelings to her which make them have s3x for lost time Thx u 4 reading

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dean tags

@caitlin1996 @robynn9436-blog

supernatural tags

@greenery-stings @samwchsgf @amara-liu @caitlin1996