⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ ⋆ ｡ ࿐ sleeping next to 𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 during summer nights.
SAM WINCHESTER who´s become your personal human heater, makes winter nights feel different now—warmer, softer, no longer fighting the cold under thin motel sheets; instead, it´s now replaced by the warmth of his body against yours. of course, sam has never minded the closeness, if anything, he adores it: loves the way you fold into him, melt under his hands, weighing over him with an arm around his middle and legs intertwined.
it´s a sweet yet simple routine he´s grown used to, the quiet comfort he´d spent so long searching for, somehow manifested in cozy cuddles and body warmth. but during the summer? let´s just say that it becomes a bit unbearable.
one night, you’re lying on your back, halfway through your second dream when you feel a heavy weight settle on your side—grounding rather than crushing, but still there. you ignore it at first, not thinking much of it.
but after a few minutes, that weight turns into a slow, creeping warmth that envelops you until your whole body feels like it´s overheating. you force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and there he is, the culprit: his hair is all over the place, splayed on your pillow while his arm cages your torso, his head nestled into the crook of your neck. you make an attempt of mumbling out his name, voice low and still laced with sleep.
nothing happens.
you clear your throat once more, and you find your hands threading through his hair absentmindedly, “sammy, you´re cooking me alive, move.” though your words come out without any real force behind them.
still, he doesn’t move, and all you get in return is a small, protesting sound to the side of your neck. you try to ease yourself out of his hold, rolling onto your side, but the second you move, he’s next to you again, chest pressed up against your back while his head finds its usual spot on your neck, his 6’4 frame shadowing over you in an instant.
you sigh and scoot farther from him, but it´s useless—he reels you back in, trapping you under his embrace again. when he finally wakes, rubbing his eyes as he slowly adjusts to the darkness, he just stares at you for a hot minute before mumbling, “you run cold.” and then has the audacity to press his forehead to your shoulder like that explains everything, leaving no space between you while you´re seconds away from evaporating into thin air.
and what´s worse is that he believes in it, he thinks it´s sweet reasoning.
“cold? sam i´m literally sweating through the sheets.” you groaned in exasperation, looking down at him with every intention of giving him an earful, but the second your eyes land on him, your voice falters.
he just gives you that look—puppy eyes, bottom lip jutted out in a pout and all. you quickly avert your gaze from him, refusing to fall for his antics because he knew exactly how to get his way, “don’t give me that look, you’ll make me feel bad.”
he smiles, head tilted to the side, “is it working?”
“unfortunately.”
cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ small small fluff blurb i wrote yesterday when i was dying bc of the freaking heat oh my lord save me from this heat wave please!!!
tagging my sweetest lola <33 @samwspn ty for helping me choose my sammy pics for this!!
nsfw tw. 𝒇𝒕 𝜗ৎ — Dean & Sam Winchester and Castiel Novak. English isn’t my first language, so I use grammar checkers to translate. Sorry in advance if anything sounds weird.
CASTIEL ✸ COWGIRL
At first, I thought that the favorite position of our favorite angel would be missionary. However, the inexperienced Castiel would adore you taking control and teaching him the perfect rhythm while you ride his lap.
I imagine he would place his hands on your back, not to guide you, but to reverently trace your skin in time with the sway of his hips. His fingers would timidly tangle in your hair as he leaned in to kiss you. For him, seeing your face twisting in pleasure is the most beautiful abstract work of art in the world. He wants to understand every one of your reactions—how a simple touch can make you cry out in ecstasy and how pleasure affects you just as intensely as it does him, a completely new sensation.
“You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, before giving a gentle squeeze to the soft skin of your hips. “The way your body moves… it’s a very new sensation for me. Please, don’t stop.”
DEAN ✸ DOGGYSTYLE
Unlike our beautiful Cass, Dean Winchester is an absolute fanatic of the filthiest side of things. His main obsession? fucking you on all fours until your legs shake.
He loves having a perfect view of your arched back and that round, firm ass, along with the obscene sound of their bodies slamming together hard. With one hand, he presses your face into the pillow, while with the other he grips your hips and drives them back to the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. Sometimes he even spreads your ass cheeks just for the sheer thrill of watching his cock slide in and out of your wet, swollen pussy. The wet, almost dirty sound of his balls slapping against your clit pulls screams from you that sound like pure music to him.
“Come on, baby. You can take it,” he says with a dark chuckle. His hand wraps around your throat, lifting your torso until your back is pressed flush against his chest. “That fucking perfect pussy of yours… I’m gonna fill it until it overflows.”
SAM ✸ SPOONING
I feel like Sammy Winchester would be the most likely of the three to have a somewhat less conventional favorite position. And I’m sure that, although he’s the softest and tenderest of the brothers, that doesn’t make him soft in bed at all. If Supernatural has shown us anything, it’s that Sam is incredibly passionate.
Just imagine it: his body pressed tight against your back, his hot breath on your neck as he covers it with hickeys and bites, a strong arm wrapped around your hips so you can’t pull away even an inch, and as the finishing touch, his cock buried to the hilt inside your pussy from a spectacular, completely new angle, fucking you with such force that the bed creaks with every thrust.
He’s not the most talkative in bed, unlike Dean (that man never shuts up and I could definitely confirm it), but he’d let out low, husky moans in your ear along with whispered praises: “Fuck, you’re the best… Your pussy always takes me so well, so hot and tight.”
summary: sam's working, you're comfortable. so what if dean takes a little nap on you ?
pairing: dean x reader (gn) ft. sam | genre: fluff !! | word count: 2.2k
warnings: cute sleepy dean and a ton of cat comparisons, some lore-accurate sam research-isms :]
notes: okay so i wrote this one MONTHS ago but i never posted it because i hated it lowkey </3 but i got a second opinion and i wanted to post a lil somethin for you while i'm writing exams, so here you go :]
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It’s cold enough in the Impala that you can almost see your breath. Your fingers have been freezing for the last twenty minutes, even with your gloves on. You’ve tucked your feet up under you in the backseat of the car, but it’s not doing enough to fix the chill that’s living in your shoes. You don’t even have to touch your face to know that your cheeks and nose are freezing, probably already going a little numb from the cold.
Dean, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, but other than that, he looks like the cold can’t touch him in the slightest. It’s infuriating, actually, but it’s to be expected. Dean ‘I run hot’ Winchester was not lying. His leather jacket is wrapped around your shoulders, leaving him in just a flannel and t-shirt, and he’s even got the sleeves on the flannel rolled half-way up his forearms.
He catches you glaring at him in the rearview mirror, sending you an exaggerated wink that has you rolling your eyes.
“What?” he drawls, twisting around in his seat to look at you.
“Can’t believe you’re not cold,” you mutter under your breath.
He smirks. “I already told you, sweetheart, I run-.”
“You run hot, yeah. I know,” you finish for him.
Dean’s hand comes over the seat, squeezing your thigh gently.
“Hey, we’ll be fine. Sam’ll be comin’ back soon.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And you know this how, exactly?”
He winces, knowing you caught his bluff.
“Wish we could’ve gone in all three of us, ‘s all,” you add, turning your attention back to your book.
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Can’t let lore boy have all the fun, can we?”
That wrangles a tiny smile out of you, and Dean grins like he’s just won the lottery. You avert your eyes back to reading the cramped lines of text and scrawled notes in the margins of John’s hunting journal. Sam’s a lucky bastard, you think as you read. The library seems to be the only warm place open in the whole town today, meaning every single person was in it. They’d only had capacity for one more, so the three of you mutually agreed that Sam would be the most efficient.
You’re regretting it now, the icy air biting at your exposed skin. You tuck Dean’s jacket tighter around you and shiver, goosebumps crawling up your arm. You start rubbing your hand up and down on your arm, and if you concentrate hard enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s working. Apparently, the rustle of fabric is frustrating Dean, because he opens his car door and steps out.
“Where are you going?” you shout after him, the door slamming shut before he turns and opens yours.
“Here,” he says cheekily.
“Close the door, Dean. ‘S freezing.”
He shuts the door with a little too much force, shaking his hand to get the tingles out of it. Dean slides down the bench until he’s mostly pressed against your side, head snaking over your shoulder to peek at your journal.
“Whatcha readin’ ‘bout?” he says in a sing-song voice.
You shoot him a glare, and he grins. “Your dad’s journal.”
“Yeah, I know that. I asked what you’re readin' about.”
You make a non-committal motion with your hand. “Dunno. Anything I can find that makes any damn sense?”
Dean hums, sliding closer. “Whatcha lookin’ at right now?”
You sigh, flipping a page back and pointing to a crudely drawn picture of a wraith. “That. Think it might be one of these.”
He frowns, taking the journal from you and examining it. You squawk indigently, but his eyes have focused on the page you were reading. His tongue pokes between his teeth just a little, and you can’t help but think it’s cute. Kind of like the tongues on cats when they finish drinking water or when you scratch them in that perfect spot behind the ears.
“So, what’s the verdict? Wraith?” you ask.
“What?”
“Wraith. Yes or no?”
“Yeah, probably.”
You raise an eyebrow again, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t really care?”
Dean shrugs, kissing your forehead before sliding away from you and laying down on the seat, sprawling himself across the bench.
“Sammy’s searchin’. We don’t gotta do anythin’," he says, exaggerated as he stretches.
You tuck up into the corner, back jammed between the seat and the door. It’s not perfectly comfortable, and the metal is cold on your back, but you know Dean isn’t set on leaving you here. Not when he’s got that childish twinkle in his eyes that says he’s either about to do something extremely stupid, or extremely endearing.
“Dean,” you warn. “We’re working.”
“I know.” He rolls dramatically onto his back, staring at the roof of the car and stretching his arms up to touch it. “I don’t really care.”
You shrug your shoulders helplessly. “Why not?”
He twists his head around, craning his neck uncomfortably to stare at you. “’Cause I don’t want to.”
You swat at his head, and he ducks away from your attacks.
“Be nice to me," he whines.
“I am nice to you. You’re distracting me,” you complain.
He seems to realize that he has been and sits up properly on the opposite end of the bench as you. He hands the journal back to you, watching you get comfy in the space he’s vacated. Dean’s basically radiating warmth, and given that he’s so close to you, you’re already starting to warm up yourself. The beginnings of a smile work their way across Dean’s face, and you note the way it softens as it grows. Maybe his goal was just to warm you up after all.
You stretch your legs out on the bench, poking Dean with your shoe covered feet and pushing him even further into the corner. It’s a mostly unconscious maneuver, but now that you’re aware you’re doing it, it’s a little bit fun.
“Aw, c’mon, why’re you doin’ that?” Dean whines, swatting your feet away for the hundredth time.
“You were bugging me. I’m bugging you.”
He scowls, launching himself forward onto you not unlike the cat you’ve compared him to before. The air gets punched out of your lungs, and you laugh weakly as he shimmies himself around.
“What’s this about?” you tease, kissing the tip of his nose.
“You’re bein’ annoying,” he grumbles.
You run a hand through his hair, and he melts into you like butter in a hot pan. Completely boneless, like gravity decided to pull him against you and lay him out like a shag carpet.
“Am I?” you say softly, lowering your voice for his sake.
You’re calling his bluff before he even has a chance to push it too far. He gets like this when he’s tired; a little bit more annoying, a little bit whinier, a hell of a lot clingier. If he doesn’t have anyone to tell him off (Sam), he’ll drape himself over you wherever you are. Coincidentally, a lot like the cats he’s unfortunately allergic to.
“Mhm.”
He’s already drifting a little, his warmth soaking into you. You shuffle down the seat so you’re lying flat on your back. Dean has to fold a little bit to fit, those stupid long legs of his half-hanging off the seat, but he’s comfortable enough. You take off his leather jacket, balling it up and putting it under your head like a pillow.
“When’s Sam coming back?” you murmur.
Dean shrugs, grumbling something about how he could be years, I dunno. You chuckle, hoping Sam comes back in time to see his brother completely soft and pliable under your touch. Dean’s pride would never recover, but it would be funny.
You prop the journal up on Dean’s back, adjusting constantly to make sure his deepening breathing doesn’t disrupt your research. The minutes bleed together as you read, and you barely notice the snow starting to come down on the town outside the frosted car windows. With Dean laying on you, you barely even notice the chill.
Eventually, as the afternoon starts to bleed away into evening, the words on the pages you’re reading aren’t sticking in your brain anymore. They’re blurring together in new ways, merging so badly you could make your own language out of them. You close the journal, marking your page, and set it on the ground.
Hands freed, you rest them in Dean’s hair. You start moving them in slow circles, brushing through the dusty brown strands of his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He hums, the sound like rough gravel, melting infinitely deeper into your embrace. It’s almost pathetic if it weren’t so damn adorable; his big bad hunter façade completely leaves his body when you lay your hands on him.
In another life, you’re cozied up on your couch, in your very safe house, very unaware of the supernatural things outside your door. You’ve got Dean with you, but instead of lying chest down across your body, he’s curled up beside you. Maybe you’ve convinced him a cat is required, despite his frequent complaints, and maybe that cat is curled up in your lap right now. Your hand rubbing it on the head between the ears, its little paws tucked around you, purring softly.
That sounds too real. Something’s not right about this picture. You freeze, half-awake, distinguishing your daydreams from reality. No cat, no house. Dean’s here, and so is the purring.
When it finally clicks, your mouth opens slightly, an amused ‘o’ on your lips. The sound is coming from Dean. He’s sort of snoring; not a proper one, but not something you can confidently say is just an inhale. It’s kind of soft, actually, the way he’s letting himself dissolve into the warmth of the car. It melts something in your soul to know that he trusts you enough to let his guard down, even when he’s working a hunt. At this point, he’s too far gone to even care who comes in and sees him.
Which is great, because Sam’s back. He slides into the passenger seat, freezing for a second and looking around when he doesn’t see you or Dean. Craning his neck and twisting his upper body, his gaze lands on you in the backseat, Dean spread out across you.
“Aren’t you two cozy,” he deadpans.
“I’m being suffocated,” you tease.
“I’m sure. He doesn’t have a good concept of personal space.”
“I heard that,” Dean grumbles.
Sam stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jacket. “You wanna head back to the motel then?”
Dean mutters something about how he’s getting up soon, but when he doesn’t move a muscle, you answer for him.
“Yeah, Sam. Might as well. ‘S warmer in there anyways.”
Sam hums in agreement. “Thought so.”
He slides into the driver’s seat before turning to you once again. “You find anything?”
You nod, pointing to the general location of John’s journal on the floor of the car. “I have some ideas. You?”
He nods excitedly. “So, get this. Turns out we are dealing with a wraith.”
You smile to yourself, having already made that conclusion, and gesture for him to continue.
“Apparently, one of the hospital patients said she remembers seeing a specific doctor come in to see her earlier in the week. Then, three days later, she says the same exact doctor came to see her again, acting like it was the first time. After that? Chance brush of a hand when she drops something, creepy face in the mirror, then everything goes all Girl, Interrupted.”
“Nice work, Sam,” you say, at the exact same time Dean says, “You talk too much.”
Sam and you exchange a look, bursting into laughter that makes Dean groan. You apologize with a light kiss to Dean’s lips, and he settled down again as Sam pulls the car out of the lot and back toward the motel. Dean’s knocked out by the time you get there, the steady hum of the road under the Impala’s tires making a perfect white noise for him. He’s not happy about being woken when you pull into the parking lot, making a show of groaning and complaining as he stretches.
“What, did we ruin your catnap?” you tease as you pull him out of the car.
“I was not havin' a catnap,” he complains.
“You absolutely were,” you reply.
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
“Was not.”
“Dude, you totally were. You were snoring when I came back in,” Sam chimes in after unlocking the door.
“I don’t snore, Sammy. Don’t spread lies about me.”
“Yes, you do. You talk in your sleep sometimes, too,” you finish defiantly.
You and Dean follow Sam into the motel room, arguing the whole way to bed about whether or not he snores, and whether the things he talks about in his sleep are “sexy and awesome”. You and Dean collapse on one bed, Sam takes the other, and when everyone’s settled again, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. The motel room isn’t cold, and you have the deep breathing of both brothers to listen to and help lull you to sleep.
summary : you and dean are just as grumpy when it comes to waking up early.
warnings : just a fluffy blurb!
wc : 480.
notes : guys i’m taking requests for dean too from now on btw!! if you have any ideas pls lmk, i really wanna write more abt him but i just feel like i don’t really have original ideas, so help a girl out!!!
You firmly believed that there wasn’t a more excruciating sound in this world than the buzz of an alarm clock during an idyllic morning — such as that one.
A ray of sunshine attacked your tired eyes as soon as they fluttered open at the irritating ring. You rebelled against the brightness immediately, burying your face back into Dean’s shoulder.
“Oh, Jesus Christ…” a low grunt vibrated in his chest underneath you.
The digits on the clock announced it was 7 a.m. Yesterday, you and Dean had promised Sam it would be the last time you two turned up late to an investigation. Poor guy had been up on his feet doing research practically since sunrise, letting you night owls get your beauty sleep. Nights were getting shorter, and mornings had been growing colder since winter came around, and you both couldn’t help but let yourselves turn a bit lazy.
“Dean. It’s seven,” you groaned, accompanying the alarm, yet still not moving a muscle. “We promised Sam–“
“Sweetheart, please just smash that piece of trash,” his whine rumbled over your head, fed up with the noise. You felt him affectionately squeeze the soft back of your thigh between the grumpy hums that slipped past his lips. Clingy as he always was during such an hour.
Too sleepy to question the order you actually approved of, you leaned over to the nightstand. Dean’s hand crept up your waist and clutched at the curve, keeping you from falling off the bed as you reached out your arm. The chilly air of the motel room grazed your skin in places where the covers slipped off as you finally hit the device, turning it off.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered in a hoarse tone followed by a pleased hum. “Now get back here.”
You felt Dean’s palm rubbing circles on your back, warming you up, making sure you’d crawl right back into his arms. With a deep sigh, you dropped back on the mattress.
You snuggled back into his hold. Your legs intertwined in a familiar way, his arms wrapped around your frame with a crushingly affectionate force. “‘S too damn cold...” you heard him mumble grumpily.
“Mhm. Let’s just…five more minutes,” you groaned and felt him tug you closer right away, burying his face in the softness of your hair.
“You read my mind baby.”
A nice shiver crossed your skin as his nose gently nudged the ticklish spot below your ear. He held onto you like he was afraid you would evaporate into thin air and deprive him of the softness of your body, the nice smell of your skin, the love of your touch.
Your eyelids fluttered shut immediately. How could they not when his body was like a damn heater? When his deep, steady breaths soothed your body and mind? There was no way in hell you’d deny yourself that.
Hear me out..I absolutely love the idea of teen!Dean and fem!reader who are both hunters and are best friends (maybe a little more) and only have each other. LIKEE they’re each other’s North Star, the person who’s there when no one else is, ugh I love the intimacy and vulnerability of it. (Mainly because I love vulnerable Dean…)
stop because I love this concept so much it hurts me a little bit to think about it... Like yeah vulnerable soft Dean who's found his person..... But also- fuck- the inevitability that it'll never be okay for Dean, and the Family Business of it all just getting in the way ow ow ow ouchy...
🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼
Dean's still got your chapstick on his cheek when he walks in. Doesn't even remember it's there, just a sticky sparkling patch against his skin.
John doesn't notice, barely even looks at him. He doesn't need to, he knows exactly where he's been, "Thought I sent you on that hunt solo."
"I was solo." He lies, he knows it's a mistake as soon as he says it.
"Who's the girl?"
"She's no one." He lies again. This time it isn't a mistake. He can't tell his Dad something like that. He can't let you exist somewhere like this.
He closes his eyes, and for a second he's there again. In the back of his Dad's impala, fry grease and salt on his fingers. You're laughing at the music he put on- Dean would face ridicule from you every second of every day if it meant hearing that laugh.
There's one milkshake, one straw, shared between you both. And somewhere along the line he thinks what's the difference between that and just kissing you. So he does. And it's messy when he tries it at first, and you laugh in his face in a way that throws him off guard. But somehow you start kissing him back.
He's got his hand up your shirt and you've got your fingers in his hair and you're making out in the one place his Dad's always told him is off limits but he doesn't care because jesus it's you! How the fuck could he say no to you??
When the cassette ends and the speaker start spitting out silence you pull away, but Dean doesn't mind. He gets to look at your face again, gets to hear your laugh.
You spend the night tracing murders on maps and spreading police reports out on the dashboard. When you point out that one of the witnesses lives next to a cemetery Dean thanks some god he doesn't believe in because he never would've spotted it without you. Somewhere mixed into it all you kiss him again, and then again, and you keep on kissing him the whole hunt until he drops you back off two miles out from the motel.
He opens his eyes, Sam's asleep on the bed already, curled into the sheets. There's a field stripped shotgun at the foot, his Dad has the barrel in his hand.
"When I give you an order- you listen to it."
Dean swallows, he's smarter than the response he wants to give.
"Next time I tell you to do a hunt solo, you do it solo."
You and Sam had been pushing yourselves through back to back hunts for weeks, staying up late to research, waking up early to get a jump on going over crime scenes and talking to family members of victims. You'd been pushing yourselves too hard and it was finally starting to catch up to you.
You were sorting through the bloodied up clothes you had to fit in your bag somewhere away from the clean ones, when you felt a hand clamp down on your arm, tugging you back until your feet got caught behind each other, landing on the mattress with a thud.
"Sam!" You batted at him arms, feeling both of them close around you.
He didn't respond, merely humming as he brought you into his chest, caging you in.
"Baby, we need to clean up, and shower, and get ready for bed-"
"We're in bed, honey" He mumbled, nuzzling closer, lips against your temple, too tired to even press a kiss there.
"You know what I mean"
"Gimme five minutes. Then you can get up"
"Sam, I just need-"
"You need to stay, for four and a half minutes"
"C'mon, I-"
"Four and a half minutes, that's all I'm asking"
"Fine" You huffed, pretending not to be tempted to stay.
Your forehead shifted to rest against his shoulder, his warmth beginning to soak in, luring you to rest.
"Four and a half minutes" You slurred, melting into his hold "Tha's all"
"Four and a half minutes, baby" Sam's hand smoothed up and down your back, keeping you close.
