Author: I drive alot when I don't feel great mentally, and I feel like Dean would absolutely understand more than anyone else. So here to my first supernatural post! I do have requests in the making but I've been extremely depressed lately so I've had zero writing energy, sorry. ❣️ Also a little bit of new formating!
Masterlist - all my work!
Word count: 1k
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You drive to escape the demons in your head. Sometimes the demons tell secrets to the passenger seat.
( Cg!Dean x little!reader , where as your driving you tell dean about your regression, and a door opens for you both. [!!SFW INTERATIONS ONLY.!!])
⚠️Warnings!!: Mild cussing, mentions of alcohol, drugs, self-harm, mental demons, bad mental health, and MILD mention of near death experience.⚠️
CG!DEAN X LITTLE!READER (mentions of Sam!)
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Sometimes when shit fell apart, the only thing you knew how to do was drive.
You would climb into the drivers seat of whatever car you had access to and drive for miles, hours, just for some peace and quiet. A sliver of something you almost never had.
Your playlist plays at a good level, helping to erase the demons that begin to cloud, and tape up the boxes of memories you just dont want to dust off, not yet. Or ever.
When Sam and Dean came into your life, your drives eventually added them, talking was minimal when your demons came, and all you needed was your music and to drive. Whether it was after a particularly hard day, or a hard job, the boys knew it would be a escape for you to drive.
Dean wasn’t particularly happy when you first started to drive baby, but after time, he enjoyed him and you in the drivers seat with sammy asleep in the back. You two would talk, reaching a level of understanding with eachother that you didn’t feel like could be found with others.
Thats how you told him about your regression, it spilled out on accident, your mind so flooded with hauntings that your most vulnerable secret came out of your mouth like it was easy. Like it didn’t make your throat scratch when you realized what had just came out of your mouth.
“You- Regression? I’m not sure I know what that is.” Dean answers.
His look of concern makes yourself want to just end the conversation, turn up the music, and continue on your last 6 hours of a drive.
A awkward amount of time passed before you started to slowly explain to Dean. His face changed from pure confusion and concern to a look of understanding.
All hunters had a way of getting the feeling of their life to fade, even if it wasn’t the best. Alcohol, drugs, self-harm, something to ease the mind. Your mind just took you in a different direction with it.
You and him talked through quite a bit of it as you headed down the road, only stopping when sammy started to snore and Dean needed to take photos of the drool smeared face that sam had in the backseat.
The job came and went, Dean looking at you every now and then as it progressed, checking in and making sure you were okay. He wasn’t exactly sure when you had the chance to use a coping mechanism other than driving.
He took Sam’s laptop when he could and looked further into age regression as much as he could, trying to understand what he could do to help, to grasp on to what helped you mentally.
As the job ended, the three of you full of exhaustion even after crashing at a motel, begin to pack and head to the next job. A haunting somewhere in Philadelphia, a long drive ahead.
Dean goes to hand you the keys, thinking you’d want to drive after nearly being killed by a ghost this week, but you just shake your head and walk off to the car. Putting your suitcase in the trunk, you slide into the passenger seat as the boys grab the rest of the belongings you all had.
Dean took the silent hint, Sam didn’t quite grasp on, but he was just glad he could get shut eye in the back again. It was surprisingly comfortable. The boys finished packing down the car and climbed in. The engine roared and off you went.
About three hours in, Dean looks over to you and sees your lip between your teeth, blood being drawn. Your body was drawn into itself like your anxiety was spiking through the roof, and you could barely contain it.
Dean glanced in the back, seeing that Sam was asleep with his head on the door, he sighed gratefully. He knew you weren’t particularly fond of people knowing of your regression, but since he knew already, he couldn’t help but be invested.
“You alright?” He asks eventually.
“Yeah, just, yeah.” You mutter out.
Your head had been trying to crash into regression for the last few hours, apparently telling people you regress meant that your brain automatically wanted to make it their problem.
He glanced at you again before reaching his hand out for you to grab. A invitation to let him in, to let him help.
He goes to retract his hand but just before he can, you gently grab his hand, pulling it to lay on your knee. You begin to focus on his hand, uncurling from the door, you begin to pull and play with his hand.
Dean smiles, full on bright smile as he sees you let him in, even if its not alot, he knows you feel safe enough. The trip begins to lighten as Dean clenches his hand into a fist and you try to open it, ultimately failing and pouting at him until he opens his hand flat again, chuckling at you.
Although it wasn’t much, it was enough for you both. Something between you both just clicked, there was no words of explaining or knowledge that needed to be done for Dean to be there. To handle the big stuff and let you have some time not acting strong.
The front of the car became a sense of safety for you both, if dean was in a bad mood, he’d drive. Letting himself have peace, but also welcoming you to regress. Your regression became not only something that would lessen the load on your shoulders, but it gave dean a opening. Something to cherish that others couldn’t ruin.
If you needed to drive, he'd use the time to tell you stories about Sammy and him, the things he and his brother used to get up to. Things he usually called sappy and didn't like to talk about.
He’d do anything for you as you sit in the passenger seat, retelling him a story he’s heard a million times, a slight lisp added on and sound effects he didn’t know you knew.
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God, you were pathetic—so damn pathetic for Dean. Anything he did, you would pick up for him. Any mess he made, you would clean up for him. You were just his toy.
You were at his place. It was dark out, the moonlight softly illuminating the small bedroom.
"Kneel," Dean commanded. You complied immediately, sinking obediently to your knees.
"Mmm, good boy..." he purred. His cold hands moved to his belt, pulling the leather strap slowly through the metal loops.
"Dean, please... Dean..." you whimpered. Your crotch was already tingling and warming up because you knew what he was going to do to you.
"Shh, baby..." Dean consoled as the loose denim finally fell to the cold wooden floor.
You tucked your thumbs into your waistband and pulled your pants down yourself, completely focused on the rock-hard bulge in his briefs.
"Dean... Ruin me. God, please..." you cried, shoving your pants the rest of the way down. Your cock was painfully hard now.
"Gosh, begging all-fucking-ready?" Dean scoffed. His hands flew to your hair, tousling your dark curls.
"Baby, please... I'll make you feel good, I promise..." he soothed, pressing his bulge against your cheek and grinding slowly.
"You'll be fine..." Dean promised again, even though he knew he would probably break that promise. You would end up crying if you tried to take his massive cock.
Finally, after what felt like years, he pinched the thin fabric of his briefs and started tugging them down. His pubes were revealed inch by inch.
His underwear came off, and Dean's thick, heavy cock sprang free, throbbing and leaking. He looked down at you and smirked.
"Shit... Holy fuck..." you swore. Your mouth was already filling with saliva just from the sight of his cock.
"Look what you did to me..." Dean groaned, pulling your head closer to his heavy, cum-filled balls.
You sniffed eagerly, desperate to please and satisfy a real man. Your own cock was straining hard against your tight underwear, tenting the silky fabric.
"Go on," Dean offered. He wrapped a hand around his cock and rubbed the slick tip across your face.
You whimpered as you moved your lips toward his pink tip. You suckled gently, trying to draw even the slightest reaction from him.
"Good... Just like that, yeah—" he groaned, pushing your head deeper as tears streamed down your pathetic face.
You sucked harder, taking him even deeper than before. Your tongue swirled around his cockhead like a lollipop, making him thrust harder.
"Fuck... fuck..." Dean groaned. His hand fisted your hair while his cock pistoned in and out, bruising the back of your tight throat.
"So fucking perfect..." he praised. Tears and sweat dripped down your forehead and face.
You could feel he was close already. His cock throbbed violently down your throat while your own dick leaked and twitched uselessly between your legs. You knew he wouldn't let you come—ever.
"F—Fuck! Damn it, take it all!" His huge, heavy cock erupted, spraying thick ropes of hot cum straight down your throat with no sign of stopping.
"Awhh, baby, swallow it all!" Dean commanded.
The flow finally slowed. You swallowed every drop of his salty cum, spit dripping down your chin as he pulled out of your abused mouth, his dick glistening with your saliva.
Summary: A one shot collection that fills in the gaps of Castiel's journey and his relationship with Dean. Intentionally canon compliant, but with a Destiel twist using my own head canon for things canon doesn't discuss or leaves vague; bridging the subtext to actual text.
Word Count: 89.3k
Rating: T/M/E (There are two Explicit entries, one for violence and one for smut, which can be skipped if preferred.)
Author's Note: Many entries can be read stand alone, but there is also character and relationship development that may lose context without previous entries. Many S9 and S11 entries have heavier non-canonical relationship development for Cas and Dean. Established Cas/Dean begins in S13.
This work is now complete, however I may possibly add an epilogue someday, but I have other fic ideas I'm interested in exploring. If you enjoy this series, you can subscribe to the series (not individual entries) if you want future updates. Cheers!
⬇️EXCERPT UNDER THE CUT⬇️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Castiel and his Garrison fell unto Hell like comets. Working in pairs, they were to clear the Demons, find the Righteous Man and return him to Earth before the final Seal could be broken. Castiel was partnered with his close companion Uriel, which may or may not have lead to some amount of overconfidence. They landed hard, black feathers scattering across the basin of Hell, which burned up as they touched the ground. Speaking via telekinesis, they agreed the stay close, but work separately, each checking an area and reporting back in an effort to find the Righteous Man faster. Time was of the essence if they were to stop the Seal from being broken. His Grace illuminated the dark caverns of Hell, but even so, his millions of eyes would see in pure darkness. Enormous black wings pulsed gently, rhythmically, as they passed through Hell, methodically searching every crevice. At his back, he could feel Uriel’s Grace lashing out at any Demon that dared come close enough, complimenting his as he followed suit.
By luck or fate, Castiel was first to find the Righteous Man. He informed Uriel, who took up a defensive position, then Castiel moved closer. He could see the Righteous Man attacking another damned soul with a fervour. The visage of his body moved in a way that showed immense pleasure in his task, his bare shoulders and back drenched in sweat—perhaps from the heat, or maybe the effort. For a moment, Castiel recoiled... They had taken too long, the Righteous Man had been here too long. Castiel suddenly had doubts he could even save him at this point, but he had his mission and he would complete it. As his Grace illuminated the chamber, the Righteous Man turned to face him; his eyes pure black and his mouth in a vicious grimace. His hand was raised, ready to attack with the weapon of torture he still grasped, defiant despite the foe. Castiel's Grace began to radiate a bright blue colour, he was ready for anything... but oddly, the Righteous Man calmed. His body slumped in place and he dropped the weapon, a loud crack ringing out as it hit the stone floor below. The black bled from his eyes as he stared down at his hands and then, before Castiel stood his charge, the soul of Dean Winchester. But they were too late, everything was already set in motion…
The First Seal was broken.
Not much gives an Angel pause, but Castiel was momentarily stunned by the sight of the Righteous Man. He had seen many human souls in the course of his existence. Each was unique, each burned brightly and each had its own properties that made it beautiful. But he had never seen one quite like this soul. This soul was blinding—brighter than Grace itself. It shimmered opalescent with hints of gold and was overflowing with altruism and compassion. This was a soul that was still virtuous even after being left in Hell so long. Even after three decades of torment. Even after a decade of what Castiel witnessed him doing just before. This was a soul that should not be in Hell. Castiel began to have thoughts that bordered on sacrilege. Before him was no ordinary soul… it sang to him, called to him in a way he’d never experienced before. Something about the very makeup of this soul, spoke to his Grace as if they’d known each other since the beginning of creation.
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“Don’t taint this ground with the colour of the past … You seem like an orchard of mines … So fragile on the inside … Tread careful; one step at a time.”
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Dripping Wings & Heavy Things
Chapter 3 • Tread Softly Because You Tread on My Memories
Fog scrambling his thoughts thinned. Dean knew full well where the blinding rage he’d nearly let loose on Castiel came from. A thing with a mind of its own, planted and thriving in the putrid soil of every awful thing he’d seen, done, and suffered. At a loss, he met Cas’ glare for moments, unable to look him in the eye thereafter, ashamed.
Seeing Dean fold and offer no defence smothered the angel’s flaming anger like water. His hold on Dean’s head became gentle again. “I’m able to affect what someone feels, Dean. I’m an angel.” Cas’ intent gaze asked Dean to look at him with words unspoken. Slowly, Dean did. “If I hadn’t heard your heartbeat that first night, I would’ve thought you lie dead beside me. Your trust was absolute. I hope some of that was my doing, but not the way you’re afraid of. What happened? What’s changed?” Castiel demanded, but softly. With every word Cas spoke, Dean turned his head further away again, almost cringing. Castiel’s tone returned to its gentler register. “Dean, talk with me.”
“I can’t, Cas… I can’t talk about it. Any of it,” Dean shrugged helplessly, childlike. There was too much that was too awful for words. He couldn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t want to carry it alone anymore. Cornered. Unwilling to stay, unable to go. There was no way out…
“I can help y—”
Snapping, Dean shoved Cas back against the side of the Impala. “You want to know? Fine! Look!” Castiel’s gaze fell for a moment as he gauged whether or not Dean’s inviting him in might inflict even more damage on the bond they shared. “Fucking look!” Dean shouted from inches away, shaking him again. Their unyielding gazes locked and stayed that way until Dean felt something give. He exhaled sharply, blinking. A single tear ran down from one of his eyes. Face devoid of comprehension, Dean wiped it away. Slowly, understanding followed.
Dean couldn’t speak aloud the things he carried—not even close—but he wanted Castiel to know, to understand. Resting a comforting hand on either side of Dean’s rigid neck and jaw, Castiel guided Dean’s face back toward him and looked into him, eyes wide, drawing nearer.
Castiel’s piercing gaze transfixed Dean. Somehow, it rounded off hard edges—hypnotized—made his head wobble on his neck. Had him wanting to fall in, let go, and peacefully… drown.
!Trigger Warning! Content beyond this point contains physical and sexual abuse of a minor.
"Where’s your brother?!” The vicious shout fractured the silent night air, despite coming from inside a motel room. Castiel walked over the empty parking space outside the window into the room. Closed, smoke-discoloured venetian blinds couldn’t keep his eyes from seeing what transpired on the other side. Dean stood close behind him and to one side, near enough he could feel his warmth.
Dean scrunched his eyes closed and opened them again. The blinds were gone. He looked in on himself, witnessing the memory disembodied. He watched himself shrink back from his father as his dad took step after shuffling step closer, looking exhausted, ragged, fresh from a hunt, down into the bottom of the bottle in hand, his pupils so dilated they were almost black. The demon possessing John Winchester tonight was not one born of Hell, rather the cornfields of Tennessee.
“Don’t shrug at me and tune out when I’m talking to you!” John swung. The hit landed on the side of Dean’s head square and with full force; it took his knees out from under him. He fell back into the wall, his shoulders and the back of his head making full-on contact. The hit robbed him of any control of his arms. Couldn’t break his fall. Another blow landed on the side of his mouth. He spent weeks after this worried he’d lose a tooth. Somehow managed to salvage it.
If he made too loud a sound, John hit him harder. So, he closed his stinging lips, gritted his aching teeth and kept quiet.
John seemed to realize what he was doing couldn’t show. He stuck to body shots. Hits to the head landed in his, at that time, longer hair. On Dean’s raised arm. Long sleeves it was, then.
I lost Sammy.
When you screw up so badly it can get someone else killed, this is what happens.
I deserve it.
Water sprung into Dean’s eyes as he watched his father work him over from the sidewalk, through the motel wall. Suddenly, this weird vertigo got ahold of him, inexorably drawing him into the room even though his feet stayed in place on the pavement. No. No, no! His heart started beating frantically, fear he’d never shown before had the muscles in his face and neck taut, his eyes wide, and tears falling without his eyelids having to move at all. He would have given anything not to be inside this memory again, but felt powerless to stop it.
Cas’ arm came up in front of him, his forearm against his belly—he jumped at the touch—and, in an instant, the vertigo and fear disappeared. The gravity dragging him back into being that boy inside all over again had been severed with what seemed an odd, surprising finality. He turned his head to watch Cas watching him—them?—without pity or condolence, taking it in, unblinking.
Never look away from suffering.
Bobby’s words echoed in his mind. The corner of Dean’s lips turned up as he looked fondly over the angel’s profile. A blunt, aching feeling took a squeezing hold of his heart.
Castiel stood, watching, as the man Dean loved, trusted, and idolized lay down a beating on his son—his baby boy—that would kill Dean if he didn’t stop.
Then, he did. His hand went still, cocked back in the air. Dean found his feet again, the way he always did, as John turned and stumbled away, summoning every scrap of restraint he could muster.
“Get out.”
Dean looked up at his father, bewildered. John would lay one on him then send him to another room, out to the car, or somewhere out of mind if out of sight wasn’t possible, needing to pretend he didn’t exist for a while, but never… “Where am I gonna go?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” The words hit Dean in the face like a slap.
“Uh… I need to—” …wash the blood off before I go...
Summary: March 2020. After a hunt, the Impala breaks down in a small Texan town. Dean, now stranded, kills time at a bar that plays music he’s never really listened to. The hunter proceeds to say “Fuck it” and then have too many margaritas on an empty, dehydrate stomach. Let him have this, he deserves it.
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 3,178
AO3 Link
A filthy drum beat shook the foggy windows of the only bar in the small town of Domingo, Texas, at least an hour outside of San Antonio. The setting sun outlined the historic-saloon-turned-dive, illuminating a small taqueria, laundromat, a few sundry business buildings and long bodega on the corner. This, apparently, was "town".
Squinting, Dean peered from the message he'd sent Sam into the window from the street: flashing lights, writhing bodies, a bar lined with patrons dancing in their seats. Twenty years ago, he'd have strolled right in, less for the music and more for the alcohol and rhythmic company.
But now?
Now, it was loud and he was worried about his Baby.
His lips flattened into an unimpressed frown as he glanced to the garage.
Gimme two hours, give or take a few more, the mechanic had said. She's a classic, and parts for her ain't easy to find, 'specially not these days and all the way out here, son. I'll do what I can. With a jerk of his chin, he'd recommended the food at the bar.
The hunter's stomach grumbled, again. Hunting a pack of chupacabras in an abandoned cistern had given him an appetite before the Impala's radiator had started smoking, let alone now.
His calloused hand dragged down his face before he sniffed and let out a sharp sigh. "Fuck it, time for happy hour." He stepped onto the porch and swung the doors open.
Latin trumpets, a complex drumming rhythm, and Spanish lyrics met him first. Heat, heavy with the smell of saccharine cocktails and sweat, smothered him second, in sharp contrast with the dusky winter evening outside. The base dropped and pulsed in his chest, inviting him in with the promise of anonymity and alcohol. His vision adjusted and his eyes widened at the sight of grinding and glistening skin. A smirk flickered across his lips—if he was only twenty years younger. Hell, ten years younger and he'd still have been eyeing the crowd for whoever looked the most single.
He shook his head, That ain't you anymore, Winchester. Christ, I'm old enough to be a father to some of them, he cringed as he dodged tables and patrons and took a stool. The bartender was clearly busy and he was in no rush, so he continued to take in the atmosphere. His foot had just begun to tap in time to the beat when the bartender stopped in front of him to fix a drink, her long, silken black hair bouncing as she kept in time with the song.
A wide, welcoming smile that immediately told Dean she knew how to get tips, "Hey! You're new! What's got you here on a Friday night, white boy?"
He blinked before a small, sheepish smile crept across his face. "Haven't been called that in a very long time, ma'am."
"What, you like viejito more?" She snickered, a playful challenge in her crooked grin and light brown eyes. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, maybe.
He paused, his smile widening as leaned forward, "I'll be honest, my brother's the one who took Spanish. All I know is 'cervesa', 'donde esta la sal', and 'mujeres'."
She stifled a laugh, "Yeah, you're accent's terrible. Don't worry about it, viejito, you'll learn some more by the end of the night."
His eyebrows bounced dubiously, then looked around. "You guys usually this busy? I can feel the floor shaking."
"We usually get a lot of business on Friday nights, but this is the first Friday after Bad Bunny dropped that album. It's good for business! People came in from other towns, too," she beamed.
"…What dropped?"
She leaned over the counter, "Bad Bu—he's a singer," she changed her tactic, resulting in a nod from the man who was clearly out of his depth. "You not a reggaeton kinda guy, huh?"
"More of a Metallica kinda guy," he replied before giving a quick shrug. "I'm just here until my car gets fixed, anyways," he patted the counter, looking around.
Her smile turned into a feigned grimace.
He noticed from the corner of his eye. "What?"
"I feel like I should tell you, the only mechanic in town is also the owner of the only motel in town." She tilted her head, shrugging. "Come to your own conclusions."
Dean's jaw slacked. He was hours away from the bunker, Castiel was off doing Chuck-knows-what, and Sam had taken Jack on what amounted to a field trip to find pertinent lore. He nodded, his lips flattening for the second time that night. "Awesome."
She glanced from the finished cocktail to him, hesitating, before speaking over the music again, "He's always got a room open and it's always cheap. Relax, pretend its a quick little vacation," she shrugged, the bright smile returning. "First drink's on me, okay, gringo?" She winked and delivered the cocktail before returning.
"You don't have to, ma'am, it's very nice, but—"
She pursed her lips and searched him with her eyes.
"…What?"
"You look like you like margaritas. Amiright?"
He frowned slightly, then gave an impartial smile, considering it, "I mean, I usually do bourbon, but—"
"Called it! Okay, white boy, one margarita coming right up." She started throwing together the ingredients in an empty shaker.
Dean huffed a laugh, pausing to appreciate her: thin eyebrows framed her lined, brown eyes and a few strands of hair clung to her blushing cheek bones. She was flushed, busy, and loving it. Tattooes twirled down her muscular bare arms, the roses on them matching the same shade as her lipstick. He looked away, catching himself noticing her lips for a moment longer than felt decent and he rubbed the back of his neck to ground himself. This wasn't the place or time and he had bigger things to keep track of than a charming bartender. He wasn't gonna be that guy when he was already behind the eight ball in half a dozen ways that night.
Dean felt the glass land next to his hand and turned to see a twelve-ounce tumblr with a salted rim, light ice and a lime wedge garnishing the drink.
"On the house, sweetheart, that should keep you for a while," she tapped the counter and turned to take more orders.
He pressed his hand on her fingers to get her atttention, "Hey, thanks again."
She patted his hand with her free one. "Don't worry about it! Welcome to Domingo!" With a smile and a wink, she slid free from him and moved along.
He felt a smile quirk at the edge of his lips right before his stomach growled in protest. Before he could even think to flag her down again, she had disappeared into the kitchen. Turning on the stool, he looked around for any other free waiters or waitresses, in vain.
Dean looked down at the drink in his hand: the ice cubes tumbled and the smell of lime rose to greet him.
He looked around at the bar: the heavy beat had started to feel a bit more at home in his chest, albeit the lights were still a bit much.
He glanced down at his phone: no new messages from Sam or Cas.
As far as he knew, he'd be staying the night at some flea-bag motel in the middle of nowhere, and Chuck would still be off doing who-knows-what.
A deep inhale followed by a shrug. "Fuck it." And down went half the margarita.
He pulled the glass away, licking his lips and leaning back against the sticky counter with a hiss. After a long day in the sun, he probably needed water more than anything else—which he knew—but this was delicious.
And strong.
In a minute, he took another sip. In five minutes, his foot was tapping on the stool rung. In ten minutes, he'd taken another gulp and couldn't seem to get his waist to stay still, regardless of how stiff it felt. He brought the drink to meet his widening eyes when a voice came over the speaker, "Como te llamas, baby?". It wasn't his usual beat, but it fed something in him he never realized he had, and he couldn't seem to stay on the stool any longer.
Sam Winchester knew the effect more than one margarita had on his brother.
Castiel knew that Dean couldn't dance to save his life.
On this night, Dean Winchester knew neither.
Twenty minutes later, the bartender's page out for extra help materialized, and she found five minutes to herself. Two waters in hand, she sidled up to the spot where the middle-aged man in flannel had been having a bad day; rather, where she thought he'd been having a bad day. In his spot, she found another customer sipping a Blue Moon.
A small shock of concern raced through her. For some reason, she felt responsible for the stranger and her eyes darted around the establishment: the back corner was full of Hernando's friends, all probably playing poker; the main drag was full of couples and friends who were taking a break from the dance floor; the dance floor—
Her chin dipped in pleased surprise.
The dance floor held a crowd, along with one tall man with a flannel pulled through his belt loops and a margarita in hand, attempting to dance by himself with his eyes closed, completely in his own world.
Her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a snort before she rounded the counter and made her way towards him.
"Hey—hey," the speakers, only two feet away, drowned out her voice. She tried to get his attention as he took a sip, eyes still closed and hips moving out of time with his shoulders, and tapped his arm. "Hey, viejito."
He blinked, some awareness entering his eyes as he saw her. "HEY! You! Whoa, you!" He tapped the empty glass, his own eyes slightly glossed, "This shit was gooood."
The bartender blinked at the glass in his hand: the drink she'd made was supposed to last him more than an hour, and he'd inhaled it in less than half the time.
"Is this the, uh, that Bad Rabbit guy you were talking about?" He lifted a finger towards the music rippling off the ceiling. "It's not bad!" His voice cracked.
She shook her head, holding a laugh at bay, "No, this—this is Don Omar. It's an old song."
"I dig it!" He tried to sway his hips in time with the accordion, and just as quickly gave up, pausing to look at her.
Dean leaned down towards her ear, "You buy me a margarita, you make me a margarita, and you make it strong enough to take down God—trust me, I'd know—and I don't even know your name." He straightened up just enough to see her face, his own tilted and inches away.
The bartender's smile held both pity and amusement before she leaned towards his ear, "Amaya."
His eyebrow rose, "Amaya? That's pretty." A lazy, flirtatious smirk lit his face, "You know, I know an Amara—"
"Yes, I'm sure you do," the bartender replied, beginning to usher him back to the counter.
"—But she's kinda, um…she's complicated."
"Oh, I'm sure you think so."
"She was sort of locked up in a prison—" Dean followed her lead back to the stool, "—until I busted her out."
"She sounds fun," Amaya answered, passively.
"Ohoho, you have no idea, ma'am." He sat with the confidence of a sober man the way only Dean could, biting the corner of his lip and squinting at her. "But I'll be honest, pretty sure you're winning by a landslide, right now." His hand rose and shot her a cheesy finger gun.
Amaya shook her head and pulled the water she'd brought to their side of the counter, "You're gonna need this."
A broad smile, "That's mighty kind of you."
"Less kind and more wise. I don't think I could carry you out of here myself."
He grinned over the rim of the cup, "I'm lighter than I look."
"I can see that," she nodded with a knowing smirk. "You should probably eat something."
He downed the glass of water, then squinted at her, "What?"
"I said—you should probably eat. "
"Oh…yeah, probably. I haven't had anything to eat since…what time is it?"
A roar came from the crowd as a song began, everyone immediately rising from their seats and either heading to the dance floor or rocking in place. Dean's eyes widened in glossed panic and intrigue and he immediately stood, one hand on the bar and the other now on her shoulder.
"Relax, it's one of the new songs!" She patted his arm and then leaned across the bar to call her coworker over. "Hey, Marcela! Marcela! Can I get a plate of empanadas here?" She straightened back off of the counter, "Pretty sure you'll like…them…" she trailed off, turning to the hunter who was bobbing his head to the song, lip bitten, eyes closed and brows furrowed. "There you go! Get those shoulders into it!"
He laughed, rubbing his face, "I might be too drunk for this."
"Sweetheart, you're not drunk enough for this, but we'll work with what we got." She started to mimic him, but with better rhythm. Eventually, his hips moved in time with the rest of him and she shooed him to the dance floor. He shimmied slightly into the crowd, soaking in the beat and the energy.
Amaya chuckled, wondering if he had ever let loose like this before. Probably not.
She cocked her head as he tried to dance at the edge of the crowd, completely in the zone. Pretty soon, he found a few partners who were happy to bring him deeper into the fray, and he happily complied. A "Dios de bendiga" left her lips as she shook her head and returned to her usual side of the bar, collecting orders and tips.
An hour later, Dean approached the bar again, sweating and smiling with a new drink in hand, his spiked hair now plastered to his forehead. He waved for a bartender, got Marcela, then asked where her partner was.
"Break," the second bartender replied, clearly sizing him up.
He frowned, "She comin' back?"
"I sure hope so, I can't do this alone!" With that, Marcela returned to making drinks and chatting with regulars at the end of the bar.
Dean glanced around and caught a glimpse of his bartender coming back through the doors, stuffing a carton of cigarettes back into her jacket pocket. He felt his mouth curl into a bright grin, his tongue peeking from between his teeth, and walked over to her.
Her eyes met his and she looked him over, "Viejito, you're still alive!"
"Hell yeah, and I learned some things, you were right."
"Oh?" A coy tone to match her expression. "Hopefully, nothing that would make that Amara mad, huh?" She smirked, heading towards the bar to hang up her jacket. A plate of cold empanadas covered in plastic waited on the back counter. She picked it up and handed it to him. "Here, I felt bad giving a hungry man a drink instead of something to eat.”
He slowly took the plate, surprised, "Thanks. I'd ask if everybody in this town is so nice, but your friend didn't give me that impression," he gave a wistful, still buzzed smile and nodded to Marcela.
Amaya's eyes glinted with that same challenging energy again, "Well, you are a sweaty stranger who can't roll an 'r' to save your life."
He ducked his head with a laugh, and met her eyes again, "Yeah, well, I think the tequila might've helped with that. How much do I owe you?"
She pursed her lips and leaned against the counter, looking at the clock. Six more minutes before her break was up. She was about to say something when a familiar intro blared through the speakers. Again, the bar roared and flocked to any open part of the floor. Amaya lifted a hand, deadly serious all of a sudden, "Tell me you know 'Gasolina'."
He frowned, "…I mean, I have a car—"
Her tongue dipped into her cheek and she shook her head, "Whiter than a marshmallow."
He gave another crooked smile in response, his eyes bouncing between hers. "I've learned a lot of tricks, but I'm still an old dog."
"Old dog"? She'd been calling him an old man because he was closer to her age than most of the kids that showed up there. He didn't strike her as old, just worn and tired, and significantly less so in this moment. There was still plenty of life in those eyes.
"Well, then, how about this? Did you get any better at dancing to this stuff?" She jerked her head towards the DJ.
"A bit," he smiled like he'd hidden a case of bourbon for later.
"You show me, and if you're good, you don't pay a thing. Deal?"
His eyes lit up. "Deal."
"Then let's go, viejo!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the floor just as he placed the plate back on the counter. To her surprise, he had, in fact, thoroughly learned something.
A knock at the motel room door sent a splitting headache through the hunter's skull. He flailed, confused, and fell off the bed. His body ached in ten different ways.
"Dean? You in there? Jack and I were stuck in a dead zone yesterday, but I got your message this morning. The manager said he saw someone drop you off here yesterday. And, from what I can tell, you're the only person staying here…"
"Sam?" He groaned, rising from the floor. "Ugh, god," a calloused hand held his face, "no mas margaritas ever again," he mumbled, stumbling to the door. Sunlight streamed in and blinded him even further.
"Dude, what the hell?" Sam took a step towards him. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
Dean braced himself against the console table, "Hurt? Yes. What happened was I had a few too many and…well…" he gestured to the room then held his head as the same room began to spin. "Ow."
Jack stepped out from behind Sam, took one look at Dean, nodded, and added, "I'll wait in the car."
The car.
The CAR.
Dean's eyes shot open and he lunged for the door, only for Sam to catch him. "Easy there, the Impala's fine, I already paid the guy for the repair. I'm driving it back with you, Jack's got the Prius and he'll follow us back." Suddenly his nose scrunched up, "You smell god-awful." Taking a step back, "Yeah, dude, I'm not driving with you like that, go clean up or something. I'll grab you a spare shirt from the car."
Eventually, Dean emerged from the motel like a beaten butterfly from its chrysalis, wobbly-kneed and stiff. He gave a half-hearted wave to the mechanic-slash-motel owner and slid into the passenger side of the Chevy, the door closing softly after him.
Sam's brows lifted. "What happened to you, dude?"
Dean leaned against the window, sunglasses still on. "Amaya, margaritas, and a really good bad rabbit." A slow smile crept across his face. "Me gusta."
Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader
Word Count: 1784
Summary: While staying in a cozy inn during a case, Sam surprises you with a gingerbread house kit he picked up at the local store.
Warnings: Fluff, playful banter, NSFW, explicit sexual content, consensual intimacy
A/N: This is for @moosekateer13 I'm your secret Santa for @spnfanficpond's Secret Santa 2024. I'm using the prompt for the @fluff-cember challenge, day 6: gingerbread house. I hope you like it!
The sound of the wind whistling outside the inn’s window pairs perfectly with the crackling of the small fireplace across the room. The case has been quiet so far—too quiet—but for tonight, you’ve managed to carve out a rare moment of peace. You’re curled up on the couch, flipping idly through an old book you picked up at the local thrift store when the sound of Sam clearing his throat pulls your attention. He stands in the doorway, his tall frame slightly hunched to accommodate the low ceiling. In his hands, he holds a brightly colored box, his dimples deepening as he grins at you.
“What’s that?” you ask, sitting up and tucking the blanket around your legs. Sam steps closer, holding up the box—a gingerbread house kit. It’s kitschy, with cartoon snowmen and candy canes decorating the front, but something about the gesture warms your chest. “Seriously? You bought that?”
Sam chuckles, setting the box on the coffee table in front of you. “I figured we could use a break. And hey, it’s festive.” You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Alright, Winchester. Let’s do this.”
The table is soon transformed into a sugary battleground. The kit includes walls, a roof, frosting in a plastic bag, and an assortment of candies that look slightly questionable but smell undeniably sweet. Sam carefully arranges everything with the precision of someone who has built a thousand IKEA bookshelves while you eye the frosting like a hawk–already scheming. “Okay, we start with the base,” Sam says, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pipes a line of frosting along the edge of the cookie walls. His big hands are surprisingly steady, and you can’t help but admire his focus.
“That’s cute,” you tease, picking up your own piping bag. “But my side is going to blow yours out of the water.”
“Oh, we’re making this a competition now?” Sam raises an eyebrow, his grin growing. “I thought this was supposed to be a team effort.”
“Teamwork is overrated,” you reply, nudging his elbow just enough to make his line of frosting wobble.
“Hey!” he protests, laughing. “You’re going to regret that.”
It starts innocently enough. You’re both diligently working on your respective sides of the gingerbread house, each stealing glances at the other’s progress. Sam’s side is neat, with perfectly aligned gumdrops and a roof that could be in a magazine. Yours… well, it has personality. “Why do you have all the gumdrops?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as Sam sneaks yet another piece of candy onto his side.
“Because I got here first,” he says, popping one into his mouth for good measure.
“That’s cheating,” you declare, grabbing the frosting bag and aiming it at him. Without thinking, you swipe a dollop of frosting across the bridge of his nose. The look of pure shock on his face makes you burst out laughing.
“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” Sam warns, his voice low and teasing. Before you can react, he dips his finger into the frosting and smears it across your cheek. You gasp, feigning outrage as you grab a handful of flour from the nearby bowl and toss it at him. It’s chaos after that—frosting, flour, and candy flying in every direction. Sam’s laugh is loud and carefree, the kind of sound you don’t hear often enough from him, and it fills the small room like sunlight.
By the time the battle subsides, the table is a disaster. Flour dusts the air, and bits of candy stick to your fingers. The gingerbread house stands in the center, a wobbly, candy-laden masterpiece that looks like it barely survived a storm. You’re both out of breath, sitting side by side on the couch and surveying the mess. “Well,” you say, brushing a streak of frosting from your arm. “It’s not winning any awards, but it’s ours.”
Sam leans forward, inspecting the lopsided roof with a critical eye. “It’s got character,” he agrees, his voice soft. You glance at him, your heart skipping a beat, when you notice the frosting still smeared on his nose. Without thinking, you reach out and wipe it away with your thumb. His green eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you can respond, he leans in, closing the space between you. His lips are warm and soft against yours, the kiss slow and sweet, like the moment itself. When he pulls back, his hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray bit of flour.
The air between you shifts, charged with something deeper, something you’ve both been skirting around for weeks. His eyes darken, flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits, his voice husky.
Your breath hitches, and before you can think, you’re tugging him closer, kissing him with a fervor that surprises even you. His hands find your waist, pulling you onto his lap as the kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans softly against your mouth, the sound making your pulse race.
Sam’s hands slide under your sweater, his touch warm against your skin as he trails his fingers up your back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips moving to your neck, kissing and nibbling along your jawline until you’re squirming in his lap.
You tug at his flannel shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the toned muscles underneath. He’s breathtaking, all broad shoulders and lean strength, and the way he’s looking at you makes your knees weak. “Sam,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as he shifts, laying you down on the couch and settling between your thighs.
He pauses, his hand cupping your cheek as he searches your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentle despite the tension in his body.
“Yes,” you breathe, pulling him down for another kiss.
Sam’s lips trail fire down your neck as his hands caress your sides, the warmth of his touch chasing away every thought but him. He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the heat of him sears through your clothes. Your hands slide over the planes of his shoulders, gripping him as his mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.
The soft glow of the fire bathes the room in flickering light, casting shadows across Sam’s face as he pulls back to look at you. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, his lips swollen, and his chest heaving. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I don’t think I can take my time with you.”
Your fingers skim over his jaw, your thumb tracing the edge of his lips. “Who says I want you to?” you tease, your voice breathy. The words light a spark in him, and he leans down, claiming your lips with renewed intensity.
In one fluid motion, he sits back, lifting you into his arms as though you weigh nothing. You let out a soft laugh of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours as he settles over you. The tension between you hums like a live wire, the weight of his body grounding you in the moment.
His hands are sure as they slide beneath your sweater, pushing it up and over your head. You shiver as the cool air brushes your skin, but Sam’s touch is quick to warm you. He leans down, his lips brushing across your shoulder, then lower, kissing along the curve of your breast. Your back arches as his hands explore, every touch sending sparks skittering down your spine.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the heat and strength of him, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch. Sam groans softly as your fingers trace the lines of his abdomen, his hips pressing against yours in response.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs, his lips finding yours again. His kiss is fierce, all-consuming, and you lose yourself in the sensation of him. His hands trail down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your pants and tugging them down. You help him, shimmying out of them as he follows with his own, leaving you both bare and vulnerable in the firelight.
Sam pauses, his gaze raking over you as though committing every detail to memory. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, his voice reverent. His words make your heart flutter, but there’s no time to dwell on them as he leans down, his lips brushing over your ear. “Let me show you.”
What follows is a blur of sensation—his lips and hands exploring every inch of you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, the way his body moves with yours in perfect rhythm. The fire crackles in the hearth, the snow falls softly outside, and the world narrows to the heat between you, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.
Time seems to stand still as you reach the peak together, his name spilling from your lips as he groans yours into your neck. He holds you close, his body trembling slightly as the moment washes over you both. The room is silent except for the sound of your breathing, the fire casting a warm glow over the two of you.
Sam rolls onto his side, pulling you into his arms. His hand brushes your hair back from your face, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I think we make a damn good team,” he murmurs, his voice low and content.
You smile, resting your head against his chest. “Only when you don’t steal all the gumdrops,” you reply, your tone teasing but affectionate.
He chuckles, his laugh rumbling against your cheek. “Fair enough. Next time, I’ll share.” His arms tighten around you, and you let yourself relax into his embrace, the warmth of him and the fire lulling you into a blissful haze.
The snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the world in quiet, but inside the inn, the earlier chaos has given way to something softer, deeper, and undeniably real. For now, the case and the danger can wait. Tonight, it’s just you and Sam, and that’s more than enough.
