Dean Winchester who finds the reader wearing a cat-woman latex suit. Headcanons
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His jaw would probably hit the floor. He'd stop dead in his tracks, eyes wide, and just stare for a solid ten seconds before he could even process a coherent thought.
The first thing out of his mouth would definitely be a low whistle or some classic Dean-level flirty remark, like "Well, hello there, kitty cat. What's a nice girl like you doing in a suit like that?"
He'd try to play it cool, but you'd totally see the flush creeping up his neck. He might even nervously adjust his shirt or run a hand through his hair.
He wouldn't be able to resist circling you, admiring the... details. He'd probably have a mischievous grin, already thinking of all the trouble you two could get into.
He'd totally insist on you doing a "meow" or a dramatic pose. And then he'd probably grab his phone to take a picture, claiming it's "for evidence."
BONUS
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He probably bought a Batman costume just at the last minute, giggling to himself about the surprise he had in store for you after a long, successful hunt. He'd be posing dramatically on one of the motel beds, maybe with a single lamp on for mood lighting.
He'd hear the door open and immediately strike his most heroic, brooding Batman pose, ready to deliver a cheesy line like, "The night is young, Catwoman," or "Gotham needs us."
Then Sam walks in, probably carrying a bag of groceries or a stack of lore books, and just stops. His brain would short-circuit for a good five seconds, trying to process the sight of his older brother in full Caped Crusader gear.
Dean's face would go from smug anticipation to absolute horror in a split second. He'd probably yelp, stumble off the bed, and try to hide behind a pillow or pull the covers over his head, muttering, "Sam! What the hell?!"
Sam, after the initial shock, would probably burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but full-on, wheezing, bending-over-double laughter. He'd pull out his phone immediately to snap a photo, threatening to send it to Crowley.
Dean would be beet red, yelling, "Don't you dare, Sammy! This is private! You ruin everything!" while Sam is still wiping tears from his eyes, asking, "Were you… were you waiting for me to be Catwoman?" The teasing would last for weeks.
You being blissfully unaware what's happening.
Too focus on removing the latex suit in the impala.
✦ Summary: Sleepy Dean who believes he doesn’t need sleep. His girl who knows otherwise.
✦ Characters: Dean!Reader, F!Reader
✦ Tags: Sweetie pie fluff, one-shot, no use of y/n, no description of reader, bf!Dean
✦ Word Count: 1395
✦ Author’s Note: Lowkey just shit this out so..enjoy? Enjoy! Let me know what you think, requests are open. Ta ta! Love you lots like polka dots!
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She sensed it the moment it started. As soon as she looked up from her book and laid eyes on him? It was more than obviously time to call it a night. His breathing had slowed and he’d sagged against the edge of the table. She watched Dean’s eyes droop as he reread the same page.
He hadn’t flipped it in nearly ten minutes.
Suggesting outright that they tuck in would’ve been useless. Dean would’ve grunted, waved his hand, and reminded her how much work he had to get done. Then somehow manage to stay up longer than he would’ve if she’d just said nothing.
His face illuminated by only candlelight—the motel lost power an hour into the storm—made him sleepier against his will. Combined with the heavy rain, his doting girl using the kitchenette to make dinner, and far away thunder. Surprisingly, Dean didn’t snap and pack up as soon as the electricity bit the dust. Claimed the case was too important and the season was too accommodating. Mid-to-late fall in northern Louisiana carried a tolerable chill in the wind. Besides, they still had water.
She turned the pages of her book gently. Quietly waiting him out now that the first signs have shown. Keeping her eyes on words she pretended to read just in case he jumped awake, and checked to see if she caught it. Any minute now he’d slip on his own. Become subdued enough to let her drag him to bed and pull the covers up to his chin. She treated his masochistic insomnia like something to outsmart, and well, it always worked.
Every night since she’d come on the road with him, she exerted subtle (yet very tender) assistance when it came to Dean getting his rest. Not sleep, rest. Did what she could to make beds of various motel rooms more comfortable. Made him cut back on all-nighter’s, only as truly needed. Sometimes she sprayed a bit of lavender water around the bed to lull him just that extra bit.
Dean would've told her ages ago that none of it really made a difference; if he didn't worry about the possibility she'd be even a little sad at the knowledge. Not the all-nighter restrictions, not the lavender or multitude of other tricks she’d tried. Even though he never felt any results from the ministrations, he didn't complain about them either. Hardly put up a fuss when she insisted because, what really chased away the nightmares and restlessness, was sleeping next to her.
The way she'd slide easily as he drew her close. As soon as her warmth and honey-sweet scent encapsulated his weary soul, he'd exhale in relief, and let his body sag against hers. Her arms always wrapped around his shoulders as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, or between her breasts. Her hands softly combed through his hair in the most soothing lullaby he'd ever known. Especially when simultaneously rubbed tension from his back with every exhale. Each hand sent him deeper into pure comfort.
He'd wake up easily the next morning. No achey jaw from ground teeth all night. No headache from repetitive nightmares that interrupted his snoozing. No 1,000-pound feeling in his body from tossing and turning the way he had since he was six. He slept peacefully, as she long as she was next to him, in his arms like his personal stuffie.
Without a word, his chin slid out of his palm, next went the side of his face, until he's leaned so far forward he's completely hunched over the desk. Her face softened as she looked over him; the semi-dark circles under his eyes, the little crease between his brows because he wasn’t comfortable, the way his bottom lip jutted out slightly as if pouting in sleep. Unfairly betrayed by his own body while it succumbed to exhaustion. Poor, sweet thing.
It made her heart do a fond, but sad little flutter in her chest. Seeing him so drained just made her want to wrap him up, tuck him safely inside her ribs, and hold him there until he recharged. That pouty-sleep-face was so adorable, she nearly felt guilty for wanting to kiss it.
She closed her book quietly and stood. Moving through the dim motel room to pull back the covers on the king size bed and fluff his pillow a bit. She blew out the candles on the nightstand before padding back over to him.
"Baby, come to bed," She murmured softly as she gently rubbed his back where he slumped over the desk. He stirred slightly at first.
His taut muscles relaxed under her touch, but he didn't respond. Only made a slight noise of protest from somewhere low in his chest. Could've been a gruff whine about moving or a refusal—his usual response—since he “still had work” and blah blah.
"You're practically drooling on the pages honey, c'mon. Come to bed with me," She cooed this time. Still soft and gentle with her sleepy man. Dean made another petulant sound, but began to rouse reluctantly. That crease between his brows deepening as that plush pouty lip jutted out a bit more.
He sat up groggily as her hands soothed the expanse of his upper back and over his tired shoulders. She eventually coaxed him out of the chair and over to the bed, blankets already turned down for him. He plopped on his back with zero grace, eyes barely opening once.
Her mouth twitched with an affectionate smile before removing his boots and socks. Jeans next, which Dean barely made easier, then his shirt. Leaving him to sleep in just his boxers like he normally did. She lifted the bottom corner of the cover and tucked his legs in. Feeling the warmth and the semi-softness on the sheets, Dean burrowed under them, mumbling under his breath.
He looked so precious when he was sleeping. Not the trauma-hardened hunter with a taste for blood. Something sweeter, entirely vulnerable. Younger to the naked eye and softer in ways he'd never get to be consciously. Like he knew his soul was safe with her, he knew she'd handle him with care.
Which was why he lifted a lazy hand and tugged weakly on her wrist, "lay w'me," he whined. Voice slurred with exhaustion but sweet as pie. That sleepy pout still on his face, even as he tried to force his eyes open enough to see her. His hair already disheveled and sticking out every which way.
"I am baby, let me blow these candles out first," She murmured softly as she brought his knuckles to her lips. Pressing a soft but lingering kiss that elicited a quiet hum from him.
She blew the candles out quickly and straightened up his books before returning to the bed. Already dressed down into pajamas, all she had to do was slide in place next to him.
He sensed her immediately. Whether it was the mattress dip from her weight, her warmth, or her scent. He sensed it and he moved. Clumsily laid on her chest with a half-assed huff, then nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck. Both arms snaked under back and wrapped snuggly around her waist.
Hers came up around his shoulders. Pulling the covers up before one hand threaded through his soft hair. Gently cradling his head to her collarbone. The other hand slipping under the covers, undulated over the bare muscles of his back in a soothing glide. His exhale was reflexive. Long and oh so tired.
“Sleep, Dean,” She whispered as she kissed his brow.
Dean made another petulant sound, quieter this time, and nuzzled closer. Hooking one of his legs around hers and tightening his arms just a bit.
“g’ni, l’ve you m-girl,” he slurred once more. Fluent in half-asleep-Dean, she smiled as she heard “goodnight, love you my girl.”
“Love you most,” she whispered, “goodnight, honey.”
And just like that?
His body sagged entirely against her with another exhale. Like he’d been hanging on with the tips of his fingers just to hear her say it back. She pressed another kiss to his brow before settling in herself. She fell asleep thankful Dean always told her goodnight, no matter what.
❤︎ Summary: Dean loves using cute little nicknames for his girl, especially since she hates ‘em.
❤︎ Characters: Dean!Reader, F!Reader,
❤︎ Tags: Fluff, one-shot, no use of y/n, no description of reader, bf!Dean
❤︎ Word Count: 714
❤︎ Author’s Note: Yo yo yo! This is my first fic post in a looong time so I completely wiped my blog, started very small, and very underwhelming lol. Something I also like to do is republish the same fics but reader gender swapped, or non-binary! Everyone deserves a fic. If you’re interested holla at ya girl. Let me know your thoughts. I DO take requests. Ta ta! Love you lots like polka dots!
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You'd never been big on pet-names. Not as a young girl, teenager, or as a woman. It didn't matter what it was or who said it. Hell, when they weren’t being used directly on you the shit still made you twist in your skin. Leaving an uncomfortable, invisible residue your conscious mind couldn't figure out how to scrub off.
Until Dean Winchester, the bastard.
Dean's never withheld a pet-name. Ever. Not even the ridiculously sweet ones that probably would've made you vomit on the spot had anyone else said it. It could’ve been his devastatingly handsome face. That boyishly sweet smile he flashes occasionally? Maybe it was because of those soul-deep green eyes. Whatever it was—obviously the fact you loved him, but shh—let him completely rewire that part of you.
"Sweetheart," is the most public-friendly in his eyes. It made you feel warm and squishy inside. Landing in your ears as gently as a butterfly kiss. Always said with the corner of his mouth upturned or a full smile. His favorite to use when he's feeling tame, in a crowded place and doesn't wanna embarrass you too much. The verbal equivalent to his hugs and snuggles. Mini embraces wrapping around your heart each time he addressed you by the name. An easy way for him to express how soft and sweet on you he truly was. Especially since once you'd started dating, all pet-names were just for you. However, it could also be condescending or sarcastic. Depending on the stupidity of whatever you just said to him. Thankfully, he never called you stupid, but you could hear it in the way he took a stale tone with the name. Resulting in a missing whiskey bottle and revoked panty-dropping privileges until he took it back.
"Aw c'mon sweetheart. Look—we'll try it your way, save mine as plan B. Sound good? Good. Now tuck that lip 'fore I bite it," he'd smile charmingly with a gentle pinch to your pouty lip, a stupidly gentle purr to his voice. You'd huff despite your smile.
"Baby," is a double entendre with him. Sometimes he'd use it with a subtle smirk, knowing the effect it had on you, teasing you softly. Tracking the pink that dusted your cheeks like a sleepy predator. Paired with a not-so-innocent hand on your waist, even that half-lidded look was nearly enough to make your body heat up ten degrees. A lot of the time, he'd say it sweetly, call you his baby, and smother you in affectionate kisses. Usually when he'd missed you or just got a wave of cute-aggression he couldn't release any other way. Most times though? When Dean was calling you baby; he was already balls deep, or making it clear to another bastard he would be later.
"This tool botherin' you baby?" He'd ask lowly as he slid an arm around your waist, spanning his hand over your lower belly to pull you flush against his front. You'd blush furiously as the stranger of the night clearly got the barely-hint and retreated.
"My love," is special from Dean, flat-out. Not one he’d use with the slip of a tongue or bat of an eye. Very rarely would he call you by that, so you never told him it was actually your favorite. Always after a fight, after he'd stormed off, truly offended you, or said something he didn't mean and made you cry. He'd return with his tail between his legs, his eyes and voice the softest they could possibly be. Murmur apologies laced with my love's until you let him pull you close and earnestly make it up to you. The best way he knew how. Gentle but heavy touches, holding and leaving lingering kisses across your skin, worshipping you while slowly taking you apart. All while using the pet-name as another way to assure you and soothe the abrasion from his harshness. When you both were breathing a little steadier, he'd kiss you tenderly, mending with his lips. Pulling a breath away only to ask you, "ya still my love, sweet girl? Hm?".
You'd always respond, "yeah, you mine?"
He'd smile and prove all over again just how much he was.
Summary: You convince your boys to go on those silly pedal boats. [WC: 515] [Ao3]
Warnings: fluff
Request: (per our yap sessions) You know those silly boat rides that’s people ride on lakes and stuff…? What about mick x ketch x reader going on one? Mick and reader are like IT'LL BE FUN and Ketch is just like I can just picture ketch being so stiff and not wanting to participate but the reader kisses his cheek and he melts over it But you know… he has an IMAGE to uphold. @0ccvltism
Mick’s the one who spots it first.
“Oh absolutely not,” Ketch says immediately, hands clasped behind his back like he’s inspecting a crime scene instead of a dock full of novelty boats. He face screams a lack of patience at the antics between the pair of you all morning.
You were supposed to be on a watch. You were supposed to be working. But then, of course, when it comes down to the trio, nothing ever goes according to plan.
“It’s a swan, Arthur,” you say brightly, pointing at the boat ride with a glistening twinkle in your eye. “It’s majestic.”
“It’s a fiberglass bird with foot pedals.”
“Which makes it whimsical.” you argued back playfully.
Mick is already paying the bored teenage attendant. “We deserve whimsy,” he declares. “We nearly died twice last week.”
Ketch pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t do whimsy.”
You loop your arm through his. “You do today.”
The three of you wobble your way onto the swan boat. Mick hops in with boyish excitement and immediately starts pedaling like he’s in a competitive race. You laugh, settling beside him.
Ketch sits stiff-backed across from you, knees angled carefully, hands folded, posture straight enough to balance a textbook on. He looks like someone forced a British assassin into a children’s birthday party. “This is humiliating,” he mutters as the boat lurches forward.
“It’s charming,” Mick counters, grinning at you.
“You’re both enjoying this far too much.”
The water is calm. The sun is warm. It’s stupidly peaceful.
You reach across the small space and tap Ketch’s knee. He looks at you with that guarded, exasperated expression — but it softens instantly when you smile. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know.”
“I am having fun,” he lies.
“You look like you’re preparing to deliver a lecture.”
“That child just splashed us.”
“It’s water. We’re on a lake.”
He sighs dramatically.
You lean forward without warning and press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick. Sweet. Completely unceremonious. And he just Short-circuits.
His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. The stern line of his mouth melts into something helplessly soft.
There’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck.
Mick notices immediately. “Oh, there he is,” Mick teases. “That’s the Arthur we like.”
“Quiet,” Ketch mutters, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, he leans just slightly closer to you.
“See?” you murmur. “Not so terrible.”
He looks at you like you’ve just handed him something priceless instead of a tiny kiss. “For the record,” he says quietly, voice low and sincere, “if this boat sinks, I am saving you first.”
Mick gasps in mock offense. “Rude.”
“You can swim.”
“I can also sulk.”
You laugh, and Ketch’s expression warms further at the sound.
He reaches for your hand and holds it like it’s something precious. The swan boat drifts lazily across the lake. Mick keeps pedaling enthusiastically. Ketch pretends not to enjoy himself. But every few seconds, he glances at you with that softened look. And when you lean your head briefly against his shoulder? He goes completely, irreversibly molten.
synopsis :: when there is no job for you and the Winchester boys, why not watch horror movies. It’s not like your life isn’t hell already…right?
warnings :: none, horror movies? fluff!
word count :: 1.2k
pairing :: Sam Winchester x reader
supernatural masterlist (not yet linked!)
The neon sign outside the motel flickered in a rhythmic, buzzing hum, casting a sickly green glow over the peeling wallpaper of room 214. It was late October in Salem, Massachusetts, and the town was leaning hard into its history. Pumpkins sat on every porch, and plastic skeletons dangled from streetlamps.
Despite the atmosphere, all three of you were restless. You'd been "patrolling" for three days, but so far, the most supernatural thing you’d encountered was a teenager in a cheap vampire cape trying to shoplift a Snickers bar.
"I can’t do it anymore," Dean announced, grabbing his leather jacket and the keys to the Impala. "If I spend one more hour looking at Sam’s 'research face' while the smell of stale coffee fills my soul, I’m going to lose it. There isn't a ghost in this town that isn't a paid actor, guys. I’m going to that bar down the street. I heard they have a burger with a fried egg on it."
Sam didn’t even look up from his laptop. "Try not to get into a fight with a guy dressed as a werewolf, Dean."
"No promises!" Dean called out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room fell into a comfortable, heavy silence. You leaned back against the headboard of your twin bed, watching Sam. He was hunched over the small circular table, his long legs tucked awkwardly beneath it, eyes scanning local police blotters. He looked exhausted—not just 'long drive' tired, but 'I forgot how to relax' tired.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?" he murmured, finally looking up. His hair was a bit of a mess, and the dim light caught the hazel in his eyes.
"There’s no case. Dean’s right. Salem is currently the safest place on earth because everyone is too busy selling overpriced candy to haunt anything." You swung your legs off the bed. "Let’s do something. Something normal."
Sam sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Define 'normal' for a Winchester."
"A horror movie marathon," you declared. "There’s a vintage rental shop two blocks over that still does VHS tapes. We get the cheesiest, oldest slashers we can find, some junk food, and we actually enjoy Halloween for once."
Sam hesitated. "I don’t know. If something pops up—"
"Then we’ll pause the movie and go kill it," you countered, walking over and gently closing his laptop. "Come on, Sam. Just one night."
He looked at your hand on his laptop, then up at your face, and his resolve crumbled. "Fine. But I’m picking at least one of the movies."
The rental store was a cramped, nostalgic dream. The air smelled of dust and plastic. You and Sam wandered the aisles, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you navigated the tight spaces.
"Okay, The Thing is a classic, we have to," Sam said, holding up the clunky black plastic casing.
"Only if we get Scream," you replied, tossing it into the basket. "I want to see if you can figure out the killer before the reveal."
Sam chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made your chest tighten. "I hunt monsters for a living, I think I can handle a guy in a ghost mask."
By the time you headed back to the motel, you were armed with a stack of tapes, two bags of oversized popcorn, and enough sour gummy worms to make a dentist weep.
Back in the room, the atmosphere had shifted. The harsh overhead lights were off, replaced by the soft, warm glow of a bedside lamp and the flickering blue light of the CRT television.
Sam had claimed his bed, propping up a mountain of pillows against the headboard. He looked surprisingly domestic in his grey hoodie, his large frame taking up most of the mattress.
"You coming?" he asked, patting the space beside him.
You didn't need to be told twice. You climbed onto the bed, settling in next to him. At first, you kept a polite distance, but as the first movie started—a low-budget flick about a killer scarecrow—the chill of the drafty motel room took over.
"You're shivering," Sam noted. Without waiting for a response, he reached down to the foot of the bed and pulled the heavy, scratchy motel comforter up over both of you.
As he settled back, his arm naturally found its way behind your shoulders. It felt like a bold move, but when you leaned into his side, he didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you closer, his thumb idly stroking your arm through your sweater.
"This is ridiculous," Sam whispered twenty minutes into the movie, gesturing at the screen where a girl was running toward the dark basement. "Why would she do that? Check the locks! Call for backup!"
"Not everyone has an arsenal in their trunk, Sam," you laughed, looking up at him.
He was looking down at you, his expression softening. The flickering light of the TV danced in his eyes, but he wasn't looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at you with a quiet, intense fondness that made your heart skip.
"I guess I’m just used to being the one doing the saving," he said softly.
"Well, tonight you're off duty," you said, reaching for a handful of popcorn. You popped a piece into your mouth and then held one up to his lips. He hesitated for a second before biting it out of your fingers, his lips brushing your skin.
By the middle of the third movie, the "scary" parts had lost their edge. You were tucked firmly under Sam's arm, your head resting on his chest. You could hear the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart—a grounding sound that reminded you that despite everything they faced, he was right here, safe and warm.
Sam’s hand had moved from your shoulder to your hair, his fingers gently twisting a strand of it. It was a soothing, repetitive motion that made your eyelids feel heavy.
"You still awake?" he breathed, his voice vibrating through his chest against your ear.
"Mmhmm," you lied, snuggling deeper into his side. "The scarecrow is back."
"The scarecrow died two movies ago," Sam teased gently. "We're watching the one with the haunted videotape now."
"Too many sequels," you mumbled.
Sam shifted slightly, not to get away, but to wrap his other arm around you, effectively cocooning you against him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, exhaling a long, contented breath.
"This is nice," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "No monsters, no silver bullets. Just... this."
You shifted your head to look up at him, and found him already watching you. The distance between you was non-existent. In the quiet of the room, with the muffled sound of the movie playing in the background, the rest of the world felt miles away.
"We should do 'normal' more often," you whispered.
Sam leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. "I’d like that."
He didn't move away. For a long moment, you just breathed in the scent of his cologne and the salt from the popcorn, perfectly content in the middle of a haunted town in a run-down motel. When he finally pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, you knew that even if a real monster knocked on the door right then, you wouldn't change a single second of the night.
em speaks! I think this lowkey sucked but that's ok lol
summary: you've known for a while that dean wants a family. you can't give him the children he wants. dean shows you he loves you anyways
pairing: dean x reader (f) | genre: comfort | word count: 2.9k
warnings: discussions of pregnancy and inability to get pregnant (reason not specified), dean being soft and so in love, a little bit of self-doubt/feeling unworthy, some shame (that is immediately kissed better)
notes: requested !! i hope i was able to do this justice, thank you for trusting me with this :] and to anyone who might be struggling with this, just know that anybody who puts your ability to have kids before the rest of you can go suck it. you're worth more than that, i promise <3
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You’re not expecting to have the conversation tonight. It doesn’t feel like a night for airing out your deep fears or treasured secrets. It’s not late, it’s not heavy or dark or cold, and there’s nothing special about tonight. When you’ve thought about having this talk with Dean, you’ve always imagined it happening with an argument, maybe with Dean storming out because you can’t give him what he wants. Maybe it would happen when you’re half-drunk, so you don’t have to think too much about your words, so that the inevitable rejection doesn’t sting like you’re sure it will.
Maybe that’s what makes the conversation that much heavier. There’s a weight to it that only comes from unexpectedly talking about the things you keep close. When you started the night, you’d had no reason to assume it would happen, and maybe, it’s a good thing. Otherwise, you might have talked yourself out of it, convinced yourself that there was no way Dean Winchester would stay with you after knowing what he’s about to know. He deserves someone who can give him what he wants, when he wants it; not you, who feels like a moral failure for a simple fact of biology.
The guilt’s been gnawing at you since the first time Dean offhandedly mentioned getting out of the life. You know his life plan by heart at this point; a real house that isn’t a bunker surrounded in ghost lore, a wife who he can love with everything he has, a couple of kids who won’t ever grow up knowing about the supernatural. He wants something normal, something safe and typical, a chance to prove that he’s a better father than his father was. Dean needs to know that he’s still good and safe, and he wants you to help him learn it.
You can’t. You can stick with him if he’ll have you, and you can love him with your entire soul. You can let him dote on you and shower you in kisses when he sees you after a long day. You can spend your free time tucked into his side, head on his shoulder, watching cheesy movies because that’s allowed now that you’re out and safe. You’ll do anything to make sure he can have that sanctuary he deserves, and if that means leaving so he can have someone who can give him the children he so desperately wants, then that’s what you’ll do.
Dean’s noticed something off about you the whole time you’ve been sitting beside him. You’re in the Dean Cave, the chairs pushed together so you can sit side by side and still have your hands on each other. He’s in that mood where he doesn’t want you to stray far from him at all, and some part of him is drawn to some part of you like a magnet. Dean’s palm currently rests on your thigh, thumb sliding mindlessly back and forth across the skin, dipping into the curve of your hip and back out again. His eyes are fixed on the screen, the light of the TV splashing across the bridge of his nose and making his eyes sparkle. These moments are your favourites, because Dean looks soft. He looks like he’s finally allowed himself to take the weight off his shoulders and exist as something other than the protector. He keeps glancing over at you occasionally, mouth twitching into a frown each time he sees your face furrowed in thought.
If he looks at you any harder, you swear he might be able to see the tension in your bones. It sits there, hot and heavy, like a fire that’s burning where it shouldn’t. It fills your lungs with smoke and makes your head spin and your heart race. The fear is all-consuming, even though it shouldn’t be; you’re safe here, with Dean. Only his future is the one at stake, but you carry that burden like it’s yours to hold.
Your hands are fiddling with the hem of your shirt, occasionally dipping to toy with Dean’s fingers in your lap instead. The rings on his fingers make for nice things to fidget with, and you’re grateful for the distraction. It keeps you from falling too deep into your thought spiral, and it stops you from thinking about your worth to Dean as something other than the one he wants to parent his children. Tonight, though, your usual tactics aren’t working. Dean’s eyes on you feel heavy, like they know something you don’t, or like they can see right through you.
You lose yourself in your mind again, replaying every moment of your life and searching desperately for something you could have done. Maybe if you’d eaten differently, or stopped hunting, or taken more vitamins as a kid, none of this would have happened. You can’t count how many things you wish you could have done differently, even if none of them would change a thing. To you, it feels like a failure. You’ve been told your whole life you’ll have children of your own someday, and the way it was told to you made it sound like gospel truth. You would have kids, and they would be your own, that you’d birthed. Except, you can’t.
Maybe you’re broken, something damaged and tainted with the kind of poison that seeps through the skin and infects the ones you love. Maybe if you can get far enough away from Dean, you won’t give him your disease. He can get out, have a life, marry a girl who can give him kids. You know that’s not in the cards for you, and as much as it hurts you say it, maybe it’s better for Dean if you leave. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by your biological failures, by your anatomy that’s been deprived of its one intended function.
“You okay sweetheart? You’re doin’ an awful lot of thinkin’ over there.”
You blink once, twice, three times as heat spreads across your face. Looking around, you realize Dean’s had the movie paused, and it likely has been for longer than you want to admit. You drop your gaze to your lap, hands tangling in your sleeves as you curl tighter around yourself, drawing your knees up.
“I’m fine, Dean. You can keep watching your movie.”
“Hey, hey, don’t be like that. Tell me what’s up. Somethin’ I did?”
You shake your head. “God, no, Dean. ‘S not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing. Don’t- don’t worry about it.”
Dean looks you over once, eyebrow slightly raised in concern, but he doesn’t say anything. He won’t push you if you don’t want to talk, because the last thing he wants to do is push you away or make you feel pressured to say what’s on your mind. He’s good at giving you that quiet reassurance that you can tell him anything, at your own pace. He’ll wait you out, giving you all the time in the world to think about whether or not you’re ready. He deserves to know what’s going on in your head, you think.
The movie keeps playing, but you’re not paying much attention. Now could be your chance to tell him everything you keep locked so close to your heart, but you’re still unsure if giving him the key is a wise choice. Realistically, he’ll treasure that key and keep it polished and make sure it doesn’t rust in the rain or get lost. He cares about this kind of thing, and you know he does, because you’ve seen it in the way he comforts others. But does that still apply to the person he loves? Does that change if you tell him you’re not what he thinks you are?
On screen, the girl and the guy share a kiss. He’s somewhat handsome, dark eyes and hair that curls at the edges like a halo. He looks strong and stable, tall, like he could take on the world for his lover. She’s pretty, soft and sweet, and she’ll be able to give him what he wants. She’ll have no problem starting a family with that man, because she’s not doomed to the same reproductive fate you are. Fictional, yes, but no less disheartening.
“Hey- Dean,” you start.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever-.” You clear your throat before continuing, the sound like sandpaper. “Do you ever wish you had someone else?”
Dean blinks, taken aback. His mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words.
“Wh- No, ‘course not. Why’re you askin’?”
You feel shame flood through you, despite knowing your question was completely serious. Dean’s reaction makes you feel like you’ve just asked him if the sky was green, and for some reason, it makes you shy away from him. If you retreat far enough into the shadows of the Dean Cave, maybe he’ll forget you exist, and you can run away and let him be free like he deserves. He shouldn’t be chained down by someone like you.
“It- I- It’s stupid, never mind.”
Dean’s hands find yours, taking them in his and squeezing lightly. “C’mon sweetheart, it’s not stupid. It’s eatin’ you up inside, I can tell. Talk to me, what’s goin’ on?”
“I just- you always talk about a family and…” You trail off, eyes still on your lap where Dean’s hands rest with yours.
“Do you not want that? We don’t gotta have it if you don’t want.”
“It’s not that.”
He tilts his head to the side, hair flopping over slightly. The wrinkles near his mouth get deeper as his frown does, and his eyes are watching you with a protective sort of worry. It hits you then, that he really cares about how this conversation goes. Something in you wants to back out now, to pretend it never happened and carry on with your life. Dean wouldn’t let you, of course, not when you’re this worked up about it.
“Whatever’s botherin’ you, we can figure it out. Don’t gotta worry about a thing, sweetheart, I’m not gonna ditch you for that.”
“Dean-.”
“Promise. Whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”
“Dean, just stop talking for a second.”
He laughs softly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry. I’m listenin’ now.”
You rub your palms on the blanket, the sweat collecting on them cold compared to the room. This shouldn’t be scary, you think. You’ve fought vampires and werewolves with less nerves that you’re feeling right now. Dean himself even said family doesn’t matter if you’re not there, but somehow, you’re still worried he’ll hate you after you tell him. Irrational, maybe. But right now, this feels like the hardest thing you’ll ever do. And it feels very, very real.
“When you talk about a family, you always talk about kids, and- and how you want them.”
Dean nods slowly, brow still furrowed.
“And I guess I just- I didn’t tell you earlier because I was scared to.”
You’d half-expected him to just say something and break your fear, but he’s quiet. You almost think it would be easier if he just said something outright, and you could get the disappointment over with, but his silence is heavy. Not heavy in the way that judges, but heavy in the way that means he genuinely cares what the outcome is.
“I can’t,” you blurt out.
“You- can’t?” Dean asks. “Can’t what?”
There it is you think. His way of letting you down slowly.
“Can’t give you kids.”
“Why? Don’t want to? That’s fine.”
You huff an exasperated sigh. “It’s not fine, not to me. I can’t have kids, Dean. Can’t get pregnant, can’t give you what you want. Do the details really matter that much?”
Dean’s expression crumples, and you internally curse yourself. You shouldn’t have told him, you should have just left one night when he was asleep and wouldn’t have felt you leave. It would be easier to argue with him about your disappearance than it is to face his dreams for the future being crushed because you can’t do what you’d grown up believing you would do.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will back the thorny tears in your eyes, but it’s no use. One slips free, tracking down your cheek until it rolls into your mouth. It’s salty, poisoned, just like you’d anticipated. Dean’s hand is on your cheek, warm and solid, and you should push him away before your tears burn him, but he doesn’t move. His thumb swipes across your cheekbone when your eyes flutter open again, and he’s looking at you with that sickly sweet expression of fondness he always gets.
“’Course it matters, sweetheart. I gotta know if I can do anything. If it’s a- if it’s somethin’ dangerous to you, I gotta know so I can help you.”
You laugh, but there’s no humour. “It’s not dangerous unless you count the fact it makes me feel stupid for being born this way.”
Dean’s hand cradles your cheek as he looks at you. He takes you in, all the way from your slightly knotted hair down to your borrowed sweatpants. You, the one he fell in love with at first sight in that stupid diner, who stitches him up without a complaint because it’s better than him doing it himself. You, who goes on drives with him and rolls down the window, shouting the lyrics to his favourites as you go, who makes fun of the way he pronounces certain words. You, who’s always made him feel like he mattered, like he was home, is worried about how he’ll react.
How could he react with anything besides love and adoration? You’re the best thing that’s happened to him, the one constant in a life of turmoil. He’ll do anything to keep you by his side, and he sure as hell won’t leave you because you can’t have kids. He’d be an idiot to ditch the one person that’s made him feel like life is worth living. You cracked his chest open the first time you hugged him, letting golden light seep through him and illuminate his soul. He can’t let you go, not after you did that. He needs to see you glowing too.
“’S not your fault,” he says softly.
“Isn’t it? It’s my job, Dean. This is what I’m supposed to do, and I can’t do it.”
His expression turns shocked, brows pinching. “Hey, woah. Not your job, sweetheart.”
“No? So, all the people who keep asking if I’m excited to have kids are just making stuff up?”
“Your job isn’t to have kids. Your job is to be happy. Your job is to do what makes you the happiest, and everyone else can suck it.” Your job is to love me the same way I love you, he almost says, but it doesn’t sound quite right in his head. You don’t have a job in this relationship besides being yourself and sitting still sometimes so Dean can shower you with kisses.
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you, making Dean smile.
“You’re not mad?”
“God, no. I could never be mad about that.”
“But you want kids.”
“Maybe, but I want you the most. Kids don’t matter, ‘specially not when I’ve got you.”
You snort. “’Kids don’t matter’?”
“Okay, so maybe that sounds bad. But I’m serious. Me having kids doesn’t matter if you’re not gonna be there. If you want kids, we can adopt or somethin’. If you don’t, then we’ll just keep doin’ what we’re doin’.”
“You don’t regret this? Getting with me?”
“Sweetheart, the day I say that is the day you stab me with an angel blade. I could never regret this, never in a million years. You’re it for me, whatever that means, okay?”
You nod, some of the uncertainty flooding from you in the form of relieved tears. Dean tugs you into a hug, made slightly awkward by the chair situation, but comforting, nonetheless. It’ll take a bit longer for the anxiety to fade, but now you know Dean will stick around with you throughout it all. Dean loves you more than he loves what you can or can’t do; he’s pretty sure he loves you more than he loves himself. As long as he gets to touch you and love you and make you feel special, that’s plenty good enough for him.
He gives you a soft kiss to your lips, all pressure and the weight of undying love. A second kiss to your temple, then one to the top of your head. He adjusts the blankets around you, tucking you further into the warmth of the soft material. His arm goes around your shoulders, curling you against his side, his cheek resting on your head. You’re safe with Dean, no matter what happens. He’ll always love you, and he’ll always make you feel worthy, especially after talks like these.
You focus on the movie, letting your mind get carried away by the plot. Your worries seem far away now that you know what Dean’s really thinking, now that you know what really matters to him. It’s not so heavy anymore, not when you have him. The future can wait; the struggles of what life looks like after hunting is a discussion for later. Someday you’ll come back to this conversation and talk about what you want to do with your lives, but for now, you can soak in the revelation that Dean will never leave, that he loves you for you. It’s warm, safe, Dean’s heartbeat in your ear a calming rhythm that rocks you toward sleep in his arms.
word count: 1.7k
genre: fluff mixed with angst?
summary: Dean and you are captured by a djinn. You hallucinate a romantic fantasy with Dean, and he realizes something is off...
tags/warning: mention of suicide (drowning)/self harm.
The willow branches swayed like strands of hair in the wind, letting beams of sunlight slip through and scatter soft, flickering shapes across the grass. You were lying down, watching the surface of the water and soaking in the quiet of the morning. In the distance, mountain peaks rose like giants, guarding the valleys around the vast lake stretching out before you.
Dean was sitting beside you, his hand resting on your knee, his long fingers absentmindedly toying with the fabric of your skirt. Suddenly, he shifted, turned his head toward you, and kissed the tip of your nose—then your lips—and finally the spot where your jaw met your neck, tracing the entire line of your jaw with gentle kisses.
“I love these moments when it’s just us by the lake,” he said. “But instead of sitting on a blanket in the grass, I could finally get us a hammock.” He laughed and sealed his words with another kiss.
Dean’s kisses were gentle, steady, effortless—filling you with lightness and quiet joy. He kept playing with the hem of your skirt, brushing your skin now and then, while his other arm curved around your waist as he leaned over you, his hand resting in the grass.
Flickering shadows traced patterns across your skin and Dean’s. A gentle spring breeze carried the scent of a freshly awakened pine forest, along with birdsong echoing all around the lake.
“We should get a hammock,” you said with a smile. “But I don’t know how long it would survive with those little bandits around.”
“I don’t think they’ve ever been this calm,” you added, glancing briefly at the two children—a boy and a girl—playing along the lake’s edge about twenty meters away. They were scooping up mud and reeds with a bucket. Yours and Dean’s kids.
“Which doesn’t mean they won’t suddenly decide to run along the edge of the jetty again,” Dean said with a smile—but it didn’t reach his eyes. A dark shadow crossed his expression. He grew serious, uneasy, scanning left and right.
Then his gaze snapped back to you, and he pulled his hand away from your knee as if burned.
“How long have we been together?” he asked, confused.
A chill of fear ran through your body.
“Dean, what’s wrong with you? We’ve been together for years. Are you okay?” Was this some kind of joke?
“Listen to me. This isn’t real,” he said.
Your world collapsed in that instant, because the only thing you could think was that Dean was starting to lose his mind.
The beautiful, shimmering surface of the lake was still there. The breeze carried the scent of the forest through the willow branches. Your house still stood behind you, tucked into the edge of the woods, reached by a single narrow, half-hidden road.
“Dean… what are you talking about? Is this some kind of PTSD from the hunting years?”
Your shared, fenced-in paradise suddenly felt unreal. You cupped his face, kissed him. “It’s going to be okay.”
Dean looked at you as if he were truly seeing you for the first time. His next words were calmer, gentler, as he took your hand in his.
“We’re in a djinn’s world. Sam is fighting him right now—that’s why the illusion is weakening. I was in his nest, but he managed to knock me out and capture me. We’re both hallucinating. Somehow, I slipped into your hallucination.”
“Dean, this isn’t a hallucination. This is our life. You and me. Here.”
Then a sharp, traitorous thought pierced your mind—surfacing for only a millisecond.
Since when do Dean and I have kids? Weren’t we just hunters? Distant friends who occasionally worked together?
You shuddered and looked back at the children playing near the water. You couldn’t see their reflections in the lake. You stared harder. Didn’t they look… blurry? As if the edges of their bodies were dissolving, wavering like tiny ripples?
“Okay. We’ve lost it,” you said breathlessly, standing up. “This place, being so far from the city—it’s messing with us.”
You began pacing along the shoreline, Dean following you closely.
“The only way out of this is to—”
“I know,” you cut in. “I’m a hunter too, remember? But I’m fighting the doubt.”
You stopped and searched his eyes, trying to see if this was really him. He looked intense, impatient—but beneath it, there was something tender. You turned your gaze back to the lake.
“I… this place… I’ve never been happier.”
For a moment, Dean looked torn. Quietly, he said, “Neither have I.” Then, more firmly, “Look at me.”
He took both your hands. His face was close—one blink and he was closer still, close enough for you to feel his breath. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his lips. He pressed your hands to his chest.
“Look at me and tell me if I’m lying.”
His eyes glowed with a green sheen, completely open to you, as if he were surrendering himself to your gaze.
“Fuck… if this is an illusion and I end up dead, I’ll haunt you for the rest of hell,” you said, anger, desperation, and fear tangled in your voice. You were fighting the madness of the idea—but your hunter instincts screamed that this was the djinn’s illusion.
“We go into the water together,” Dean said seriously. “Stuff your pockets with stones. Every instinct will tell you to swim for the surface.” He squeezed your hand. “And with a little luck, we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Hand in hand, you stepped into the water, your pockets heavy with stones and mud, your clothes weighing you down as they soaked through. When the cold water closed over your head, you tried not to think.
Your body buzzed with panic—this felt too real. Your thoughts spiraled, fractured by fear and doubt. For a moment, you opened your eyes. Despite the murky water and the sting in your eyes, you saw Dean looking at you, his expression saying, I’ve got you. I won’t let go.
You blinked—and—
You woke up curled on the floor of a dark, abandoned warehouse. Sam and Dean were trying to help you sit up. A few meters away, the djinn lay motionless, his tattooed face frozen in a grotesque mask of ancient evil, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
“I’ve got you. That’s it,” Dean said as he helped you to your feet.
“Dean. Sam. I don’t even know what to say… thank you.” You looked from one to the other, overwhelmed with relief that the nightmare was over—that you were alive. You were still unsteady on your feet; the djinn had drained you badly.
“I’ll take care of the rest,” Sam said, stepping away.
Dean draped your arm over his shoulders, holding you around the waist with his other arm as he helped you walk. You couldn’t believe it had almost ended like that—a slow death, trapped in the illusion of a life with Dean.
You were quiet, heavy with thoughts. The warmth of his body was grounding. As a hunter, you knew you’d recover quickly—but right now, all you wanted was to disappear under warm sheets in a real bed. Dean seemed to read your mind.
“You know… I was there too,” he said, a hint of unease in his voice. “I saw everything you saw. Felt all of it.” Then, gently, “I’m taking you to the first motel we find. You need rest.”
“I’m sorry,” you said irritably. “I didn’t mean to drag you into my stupid, naive fantasy. I just… I always imagined it could be you. Kids. A house. I felt less alone with you.” You exhaled. “And the djinn used my wishes against me.”
“Don’t apologize,” Dean said. “Honestly… I kind of liked it. I’ve thought about it too. In another life…”
“You liked living by the lake? With a family?” you asked. Did things like this really happen to someone like you?
“Yeah. But… it wasn’t just the place. It was you. Being there with me.” Dean slowed to a stop as you stepped out of the warehouse into the sun.
The view wasn’t idyllic like the lake—scrap cars, rusted pipes, trash everywhere.
In the distance, the city. Noise. A river flowing endlessly. It wasn’t beautiful—but it was real. Just like Dean beside you.
“I’d like you to stay with me in the room. Just until I fall asleep,” you said challengingly. “And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”
Dean laughed openly. “Sure, sweetheart. I just spent an entire day inside your fantasy. But sure—tell me what I’m allowed to do.”
He tightened his grip around your shoulders, guiding you slowly toward the Impala.
A smile of relief crossed your lips, and you shared a brief look—one quiet moment of closeness between you.
The squeal of the tires echoed through the empty parking lot. He knew Dean was going to be pissed, but right now, the only thing he cared about was seeing her and making sure everything was okay.
Sam's heart dropped to his stomach when he got the call from Bobby, telling him there had been an accident and that he needed to get to Sioux Falls as fast as he could.
"Here we go," he said to himself when he heard the ring of his cell. Using his knee to steer the Impala straight, he fished the phone out of his pocket and raised it to his ear. "Dean, look…"
"Don't you dare 'Dean look' me right now," he retorted.
"Just let me check on Jody, and I'll bring it right back."
"Like hell! Bring her back now, and I might not kill you."
" Dean…" Sam sighed, "you know I can't do that."
"I swear, Sammy, if there is one scratch, one dent, one-"
"There won't be."
Sam ended the call and tossed his phone into the passenger seat before Dean could start yelling again. "Sorry, big brother," he said, pushing the gas pedal down to the floor again.
Four hours was the time Dean had estimated it would take them to drive all the way back to Sioux Falls; Sam made it there in three. There were no scratches, no dents — though he might have to buy the Impala a new set of tires; it was worth it.
The hospital was calm, eerily calm, like today was just another day. For him, it was the day that would change everything.
"Jody Mills!" he muttered when he got up to the reception desk. "She was in an accident. I need to see her."
The blonde behind the desk raised her eyebrows. "You're here to see the Sheriff?"
"Yes."
"Are you family?"
"Yes." Sam didn't even think about it; she was family, his everything. He let out a sigh when her eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Look, the truth is I love her," he admitted for the first time out loud. "And maybe one day…" his words trailed as he realized he probably would never have the life he was about to describe.
The nurse stared at him for a beat, then exhaled as her features softened.
"If anyone asks…" she said, grabbing a small piece of paper and scribbling something on it. "You're her cousin."
"Thank you."
"Third floor, ICU room six."
"ICU?"
"Yeah, she was hurt pretty bad. I'll let her doctor go over the details."
"O-Okay…"
His heart pounded against his chest as he waited for the elevator.
ICU
Hurt pretty bad
Here we go again, another life lost because Sam Winchester loved them.
The thick wooden door swung open after Sam gave the speaker box his information. His breath caught in his throat when all the beeps from the critically wounded filled the air. Lead filled his limbs the closer he got to her room, stopping in his tracks when he reached the sliding glass door with Jody Mills printed under the number six.
Sam swallowed hard and slid the door open.
If it weren't for the nose tube, the IV in her arm, and the wire taped to her that was connected to the machine, keeping a constant track of her vitals, Sam would have thought she was just sleeping.
There was a ping in his chest as his eyes dragged over the purple and blue marks on Jody's beautiful features, and the swollen lip that was busted open made him wince.
"Oh, sorry… I can come back in a minute."
Sam's head swiveled toward the small voice, finding an older woman in blue scrubs, probably Jody's nurse. "No, it's okay. Do what you need to do."
"It's nice to see her have some company; she does so much for the community."
Sam couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from rising, "Yeah, she's a saint."
"She really is. Tragic what happened to her. And then to be jumped, right out in front of the sheriff's department. Just awful."
"Sure is." Sam tried to push the anger out of his voice, but failed. "Were there any witnesses?"
"None that I know of, though you might have better luck talking to her deputies about that." The nurse continued checking the machines attached to Jody's arm. "I just have to check her catheter. Do you mind?" she asked, gesturing toward the door.
"No, not at all."
Sam let out a heavy sigh as he stepped back into the hallway. He swore Bobby had said she had been in an accident. Now, he couldn't remember the conversation at all. All he could focus on was the god damn beeping.
"All done, dear. You can go back in," the nurse said after taking off the gloves she'd worn while attending to Jody. "I'll let her doctor know you're here so he can swing by and go over everything with you."
"Thanks."
"No problem at all."
Sam stood there, listening to the switch of her sneakers, anything to get the high-pitched dings off his mind.
His attention snapped back to Jody's room when he heard the rustling of blankets, hoping, praying, though he didn't know what good that would do him, that it was her.
"Sam…"
He fell to his knees beside the bed, the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders. "Hey…" Before he knew it, her hand was in his, and he was bringing it to his lips, placing soft, gentle kisses on top. "I was so worried."
"You're not getting rid of me that easy."
Sam chuckled, even though the rasp in her voice sent a shiver of gloom through him. "Good!"
"Oh, look who's awake!" A tall man, not as tall as Sam, but still tall, walked up on the other side of her bed. "You gave us quite a scare, Sheriff."
"So I've heard…"
"How bad is it, Doc?"
"Well, we were able to repair the spleen; the knife just grazed it, so it was an easy fix."
"The knife?" Sam croaked, what the fuck actually happened?
"Yes, her attacker stabbed her twice, actually. The first puncture barely missed her lung, the second cut a small tear on the left side of her spleen. She is very lucky they didn't do any more damage."
"Well, they didn't, and I am fine," Jody spoke up. "When do I get to go home?"
"Sheriff, you've just had a major surgery with a blood transfusion. It's going to be at least a few days."
"Yippie," Jody retorted with a roll of her eyes.
"We will need to monitor how you're reacting to the new blood, also make sure the internal damage starts to heal properly," he explained. "But you are awake and alert, so I see no reason you can't be moved out of the ICU."
"So she is going to be okay?"
"She's out of immediate harm, yes. But we still need to take it easy," the doctor said, narrowing his eyes at Jody.
"Yeah, yeah."
"I'll tie her down if I have to," Sam quipped, earning a chuckle from both of them.
"As soon as we get it all processed, a nurse team will be in to get you moved."
"Thanks, Doc."
"Of course," he said with a nod before leaving the room.
"So…" Sam murmured, raising her hand to his lips again. "You wanna tell me exactly what happened?"
"Does it matter? I'm good, well, alive anyway. Let's not-"
"Jody. Please tell me what happened." She let out a deep breath when Sam turned on the puppy dog eyes. "Please tell me who did this to you."
"I don't really remember much," she said, getting a quirked eyebrow from him. "Honestly, Sam, I don't," she paused, running her thumb over his cheekbone, the rough stubble letting her know Sam hadn't shaved in a couple of days. "I didn't… I didn't even hear footsteps; it was like someone appeared behind me."
"So, you think it was something supernatural?"
"It doesn't make sense… what monster would use a knife?"
"I could think of a couple."
"Would they happen to have brown hair…"
"Fur?"
"No strands of dark brown human hair," she said, watching all the color quickly fade from his face. "What?"
"Noth-nothing," Sam stammered, rising to his feet. "I gotta go."
"You got that crazy look in your eye."
Sam ignored her observation, leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers.
"I'll be back soon."
"Sam…"
"Baby… I promise."
She gave a nod, still not ready to let go, but after another quick peck, he was gone.
"Sam…"
His hand twitched when she appeared behind him; it took all his strength not to turn around and gut the black-eyed bitch.
"I'm so sorry…"
He took a deep breath, turning around to face her.
"I know how much she meant to you."
"Yeah…" he lied, noticing how Ruby was using the past tense. Did she not know Jody was alive? "The doctors said they did everything they could."
"Do they know what happened?"
He stopped himself again as her arms wrapped around him, pulling Sam as close as she could. She wasn't this stupid; if she knew that he knew, she wouldn't be allowing him this close to her.
"They said she was jumped by some junkie... Right outside the Sheriff station," he told her, reciprocating the hug. "Can you fucking believe that?"
"I can. People are nuts, Sam."
"Yeah..."
Ruby's breath hitched in her throat, his fingers twisting in her hair as his grip tightened.
"And pretty fucking stupid, huh?" he sneered, pulling her head back by the silky strands, exposing her neck.
"Sam..."
"Did you think I really would find out?"
"I can-can explain," the demons stammered, "She was getting in the way, Sam. Do you remember? Remember the plan? Killing Lilith?" Her voice began to rise when his hand pulled hard. "Getting revenge for your brother? Stopping the goddamn apocalypse?"
"Oh, sweetheart, I still plan on doing all these things," he smarted, letting Ruby's own blade fall down his sleeve, catching it the second he felt it on his empty palm. "But unfortunately, you won't be here to see it."
"Sam, don't - don't do this. You need me - need my blood."
A sinister smirk twisted on his lips. "No, Ruby. I don't need you. I never did."
One final scream bellowed through the air as he watched the glowing aura of orange and red ultimate under her skin as he plunged the knife deep into her chest, eliminating the demonic soul from existence.
"What the hell did you do?"
Jody heard the whispers, knew the voices, but she didn't open her eyes; she figured she would get more of the truth if she eavesdropped.
"Don't act like you're not happy about it, Dean."
"Doesn't matter if I'm happy about it, Sam. You went up against Ruby by yourself. How the hell did you think we were going to react?!"
"Newflash, I am fine."
"For now! I still have to check the Impala over."
"Alright, alright. That's enough."
She would know that grumpy voice anywhere, even if Bobby was speaking at a whisper.
"Sam is fine, Ruby is dead, Jody is going to make it, and from what I seen, your precious car is just fine. Can't we agree to disagree on the details and take the win?"
"Fine," the Winchesters grumbled in unison.
"One question."
"What now, Dean?"
"Why'd ya do it?"
"Does it matter?" Sam retorted, Jody could see his smug little smirk through her eyelids.
"Just answer the question."
"Because, given the choice between a demon and her, between anything and her…" Sam let out a soft sigh as he watched Jody blink her eyes open. "It's going to be her every time."
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed.
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