ThatOneWriter15

My Fics | Archive Writer | Reader | SUPERNATURAL Enthusiast Only Here for Positivity | Content May Be 18+ | AI-Free [She/Her]

[thatonewriter15]

The Color of Love

Relationship: Dean Winchester/Reader; Dean Winchester/Original Female Character

Rating: General

Word Count: 1,148

Additional Tags: Fluff

Summary: After she makes a comment about Dean's eyes, green follows him everywhere.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/88628081

[wendichester]

Hiya sweets. So my thought is a little season 15 angst. Dean x Reader. Dean finds out about God manipulating their lives, and starts doubting if reader really cares about him or if they would have gotten together if God hadn't intervened. A little angst, a little fluff? K love you byeeee

⋆｡ ˚ not his to write

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after learning god’s been shaping your lives, dean starts to doubt whether your love was ever really yours. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 2037 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ hurt / comfort warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ season 15 spoilers, god/chuck manipulation, existential crisis, relationship insecurity, dean’s self-worth issues, emotional argument, fear of being unloved

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

dean gets quiet once he learns the truth.

not the usual quiet, either. not the kind where he’s tired from a hunt and needs ten minutes with a beer before he can talk without biting someone’s head off. not the kind where the case got ugly, where the blood took too long to wash from his hands, where the drive back to the bunker stretched out under bad radio static and nobody knew how to make the car feel normal again.

this is different… this is dean sitting at the library table with his hands around a bottle he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes, staring at the label. this is dean flinching when sam says chuck’s name. this is dean looking at you from across the room and then looking away so fast your stomach twists before you can stop it.

you give him space at first. you hate giving him space. space, with dean, is a dangerous thing. space turns into walls. walls turn into locked doors. locked doors turn into dean making decisions alone because he convinces himself that pain counts as protection.

but you try anyway.

sam disappears somewhere down the hall, probably to read until his eyes burn or call eileen with that terrible softness he tries not to show too much around dean. the bunker settles into its late-night hum, pipes ticking behind concrete, old lamps throwing tired yellow light over books and weapons and half-empty cups of coffee.

you stand in the doorway for a long time before dean speaks.

“you should go to bed.” his voice is low. flat.

you fold your arms. “is that what you’re doing?”

he does not look at you. “eventually.”

“dean.”

his jaw tightens. the warning sign. the little shift in his face that means your voice got too close to something sore. you step into the room anyway.

“don’t do that” he says.

you stop beside the table. “do what?”

“do the thing.”

“the thing where i care about you?”

he laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. only something bitter and worn thin. “yeah. that.”

your chest goes cold. “look at me.”

he doesn’t. you wait. you’re good at waiting when you need to be, even when every part of you wants to reach across the table and drag his face up with both hands.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, dean looks at you. he looks awful. something underneath him has come loose. there’s a crack in his expression you don’t know how to patch, and the worst part’s that he looks embarrassed by it. ashamed to be this shaken. ashamed to need anything after finding out need itself might have been written into him by a cruel little man with a god complex and a writer’s room in his head.

“what’s going on?” you ask, softer now.

dean looks away again. “nothing.”

“don’t insult me.”

his mouth hardens. “i’m not.”

“you are. you think i don’t know when you’re spiraling?”

that gets him, but not enough to make him talk. enough to make his fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.

you sit across from him. “say it.”

he shakes his head.

“dean.”

“what do you want me to say?” he snaps, sudden and sharp, and the sound of it cracks through the library. “that i’m having a bad night? that finding out every screwed-up thing in my life was some sick bastard’s entertainment doesn’t exactly make me feel great?”

“yes,” you say. “start there.”

he stares at you, breathing a little harder. “fine. i feel great. fantastic. i love knowing my mom burning on the ceiling was a plot point. love knowing sam’s pain was a season arc. love knowing every choice i fought for, every person i lost, every time i thought i was doing something right, chuck was sitting there getting off on it.”

his voice breaks on the last few words.

dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “and now i keep thinking about you.”

something inside you tightens. “what about me?”

“all of it.” he gives you a look then. wrecked. angry at himself before he even answers. “you showing up when you did. staying when anybody with half a brain would’ve run. loving me.” the word comes out rough, almost resentful. “how am i supposed to know that was real?”

the room seems to tilt. you hear the heater click somewhere in the walls. hear the tiny shift of paper under your elbow. hear your own breath come in too slowly, because if you breathe the way you want to, you’ll start shouting before he finishes digging the grave he apparently plans to throw both of you into.

dean’s eyes drop to the table. “maybe chuck wrote that too,” he says. “maybe he needed me happy for a minute so it’d hurt worse later. maybe he wrote you into this because it made better television. maybe you and me were just—”

“don’t you fucking dare—” the word leaves you quiet.

dean stops.

you stand so abruptly the chair legs scrape against the floor. “do not finish that sentence.”

his face tightens. “i’m just saying—”

“i know what you’re saying.” your hands curl at your sides, shaking now from the effort of not throwing something. “you’re saying he gets to have that too.”

dean blinks.

“you’re saying he gets your childhood. your mother. sam. every awful thing you survived. fine. he took enough. he wrote enough. he poisoned enough.” your voice rises despite the way you try to hold it steady. “but now you’re sitting here trying to hand him me.”

“how dare you,” you say, and it comes out less polished than you meant. too honest. almost ugly with hurt. “seriously, dean, how dare you look me in the face and tell me loving you might be something he made me do.”

his jaw works, but no words come out.

“i chose you when you were unbearable,” you say, stepping around the table because distance suddenly feels insulting. “i chose you when you shut me out. i chose you after hunts where you came back mean because you were scared and didn’t know how to say it. i chose you in motel rooms with bad water pressure and diner booths at three in the morning and in that stupid car when you sang too loud on purpose because you knew i had a headache.”

his eyes flicker.

you keep going, because if you stop now, you might cry, and you’re too angry to cry first.

“i chose you when it was inconvenient. when it hurt. when i had every reason to walk away and could have. don’t you dare make that small. don’t you dare make me into some line in a script because you’re scared there’s no other reason i’d stay.”

that lands. you see it hit him, see the flinch he tries to bury under his usual hard stare. except there’s nothing usual about him right now. he looks younger, almost. not softer, exactly. exposed. standing there in the wreckage of a thought he probably carried alone for hours before you ever came into the room.

“i don’t know how to trust anything,” he says finally.

the anger in you stumbles.

dean’s voice is quieter now, scraped raw at the edges. “i look at you, and i want to believe it’s mine. that this is ours. but then i think about him watching, moving pieces around, putting people in the right place so i’d break the right way, and i can’t—” he stops, swallowing hard. “i can’t tell where his story ends and my life starts.”

your throat tightens. you move closer, slowly this time, until you’re standing in front of him. dean doesn’t reach for you. his hands stay braced on the table, like touching you without certainty would be another kind of sin.

“i can’t prove it,” you hate the truth of that. hate it. there’s no neat answer, no holy stamp you can press onto your heart to make it undeniable. chuck has ruined that, too. certainty. memory. trust in the shape of your own choices.

his eyes lift to yours.

“i can’t prove he didn’t shove us into the same room the first time,” you say. “i can’t prove he didn’t make the road bend or the hunt go bad or whatever else he does when he wants to feel clever. but he didn’t make me sit with you afterward. he didn’t make me learn how you take your coffee. he didn’t make me stay up when you couldn’t sleep, or get pissed when you threw yourself in front of something dangerous again, or love that stupid face you make when you’re trying not to smile.”

dean’s mouth trembles faintly.

“he didn’t make me angry at you right now,” you add, voice breaking a little. “that’s all mine.”

dean looks down.

“and i am angry,” you say, quieter. “because i love you. because you’re scared and you decided the safest thing to do was doubt me before i could disappoint you.”

his eyes shut. the silence after that is heavier than anything either of you has said.

you reach for him, then stop before your fingers touch his sleeve. for once, you let him see the hesitation. let him see that this hurt you too. that love isn’t endless softness, not with him, not with anyone. sometimes love is standing in a cold library at night, furious and scared, trying to pull the truth out from under god’s dirty fingerprints.

“i’m not asking you to be okay,” you say. “i’m not even asking you to believe me all at once. but don’t punish me for what he did.”

dean’s face crumples so briefly you almost miss it. then his hand catches yours. fast. desperate. rougher than he probably means. he holds onto your fingers without looking up, thumb pressed hard against your knuckles as if he needs the bones of you to argue with the thoughts in his head. “i’m sorry.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “i know…”

he nods once, still staring at your joined hands. “i didn’t mean—”

“i know.”

and you do. that’s the awful part. you know him well enough to understand the wound and still be hurt by where he pointed it.

dean’s grip loosens, giving you the chance to pull away. instead, you step closer until your knees bump his, until he has to tilt his head to look at you. his eyes are red but dry, jaw tight with the kind of restraint that’s ruined him more than once. you lift your free hand and touch his face, careful at first, two fingers against the rough edge of his cheek.

he leans into it.

“you’re not a puppet to me,” you whisper. “you’re not a character. you’re not some doomed thing i was assigned to love.”

dean’s breath shakes.

“you’re my dean,” you say, and it sounds too simple for what you mean. too small for the size of him in your chest. “and i’m here because i want to be.”

his hand rises to your waist then, hesitant, almost asking. the first touch is careful. then firmer. he draws you in by inches, giving you time to refuse even now, even after everything. when your body meets his, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and something in him finally gives. just the slow, heavy exhale of a man who’s been holding himself together with both hands and is too tired to keep pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the broken parts.

you thread your fingers through his hair.

dean’s voice comes muffled against your shirt. “i don’t want him to have this.”

“then don’t give it to him.”

his arms tighten around you. for a while, neither of you moves. the bunker keeps humming. somewhere far away, the world remains terrible and watched and written over in ways you don’t know how to undo. but dean’s warm against you, breathing unevenly into the fabric at your shoulder, and his hand is splayed over your back as if he’s trying to memorize something chuck can’t narrate properly.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[thatonewriter15]

This hurt, but was also such a beautiful representation of true love. A delicate balance, and you nailed it.

[bejeweledinterludes]

. . . 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 .ᐣ ♫ ⋆.˚

𐃘 read part one !

DEAN’S HEAD HURTS. that’s the first thing he feels, when his mind decides to pull him out of sleep. that, and he feels warm all over—but not uncomfortably so. more like that feeling when a towel is wrapped around you from being freshly out of the dryer.

he also smells something really good. familiar, but he can’t piece together who or what smells like that—making his brain all fuzzy that had nothing to do with his raging headache he’s experiencing. he doesn’t necessarily want to get up, but something… doesn’t feel right, despite the cloud of inebriation hanging over him.

first, this isn’t his bed, he realizes after a few moments, because if it was, he’d be getting a much different whiff of these sheets. instead of smelling like his deodorant and faintly of beer, the sheets smell like…

you.

he freezes, when the thoughts set in. he’s in your bed. on your sheets. and his face is in one of your pillows.

jesus. dean’s head pounds again, as he adjusts his body slightly—and his arm catches on something that seems to not be a pillow or your blanket. despite his protesting head, he knows that it is in fact, again, you.

dean has an overwhelming urge to run. to leap out of your bed and never see the inside of your room again. he doesn’t know how he got you to stay here with you, let alone sleep in your bed next to you—because he wasn’t that convincing. not sober, at least.

he blinks his eyes—adjusting to the little light in your room. the bunker had no windows, so it didn’t take long. from what he can tell, you’re still asleep.

next to him.

in your bed.

this is not how he imagined things would go between you. he could make a break for it now, he thinks. just slip out and leave—but he knew that you hadn’t been drinking last night like he had, so you’d remembered everything dean said and did.

oh, god, what did he say?

he can’t remember. dean tries to recall anything he said last night after sammy had been telling him for the millionth time to tell you how he felt about you, but he can’t remember. the one time he absolutely needs to remember, he can’t.

your voice breaks dean out of his spiraling thoughts. you’re looking at him when he focuses back on you, and you don’t look upset. that’s a good sign. you don’t want to kill him. usually he says stupid things when he gets drunk—and whatever he said to you wasn’t stupid enough to get him kicked out.

“hey,” dean rasps—then clears his throat, tries again—but it sounds the same. you smile at that, and he pretends to be annoyed with his throat being shot to hell. he must have slept with his mouth wide open.

you sit up more, reaching over to your nightstand, facing dean with a water in your hands. the gesture’s small, yet dean almost melts into your bed again. instead, however, he sits up, too, chugging the water down.

“uh—” dean starts after he sets the now empty water down, “did, i, uh, y’know— how bad did i mess this up?”

you tilt your head at him, scanning his face. sleep is still lingering over your expression, your eyes low and voice raspier. you look beautiful. you sound beautiful. “you don’t remember anything?” dean pauses, then shakes his head.

oh. you don’t know how to tell him what he said. it might make him spontaneously combust if you tell him just what he said to you last night. but you know, deep down, that you can’t keep this a secret. hell, you’ve wanted to tell him since he passed out next to you hours prior.

“you, uh… kinda said you… had feelings for me.” you start, eyes on your blanket. “i mean, you didn’t say that verbatim, but… you were saying how i like, know what you’re thinking. and that your heart does a weird thing when you look at me. so. i just, uh… assumed that’s what you were saying, too.”

well, dean wants to crawl into a hole and die. more so than usual—because not only did he spill his guts, he didn’t even remember it. he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. he wants to take it all back. he rasps your name again, but you cut him off when you continue.

“you said you couldn’t stop thinking about me. and…” you take a deep breath. “i said, i couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. and i said i care about you, more than anyone. and that’s the truth. ‘cause i… do.”

and dean knows you’re not lying. because you’re nervous, he realizes when you’re not meeting his gaze, probably more nervous than he is. so dean takes your hand that’s fidgeting with the hem of your blanket, holds it in his own.

“y’know i… y’know i care about you, too, right?” dean asks, searching your face. you nod, meeting his gaze.

“yeah. i know.”

so dean takes that. he might not be able to say what and how he really, truly feels yet—but he knows you know.

and that’s enough for him, for now.

📨 thank you to @beakaleak32 for giving me ideas for a part 2! <3 reminder that august is coming up, so i will not be as active soon! read more here :)

@ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[thatonewriter15]

EEEEE, this was cute.

I especially liked the little detail of giving him water. Observant, taking care of him. <3

[dean-ness]

[dina-winchester]

Drifting

Pairing: Dean x reader // Established relationship

Warnings: None. Enjoy the summer vibes with Dean! 🫶

The day arrived wrapped in the kind of warmth that made time feel lazy.

Golden sunlight poured across the water, a light breeze stirred the trees, and the waves whispered against the shore like the world was finally exhaling. No hunts. No omens. Just the slow, sun-drenched peace Dean had insisted you both deserved.

“No monsters, no drama, no saving the world,” he’d said, tossing a bag over his shoulder before giving you that familiar half-smirk. “Just you, me, and some serious relaxation.”

You had laughed because coming from Dean Winchester, “relaxation” usually meant sitting somewhere with a beer while pretending he wasn’t constantly watching the horizon for danger.

But today was different.

Today, he actually let himself be still.

You spent the morning barefoot along the beach, collecting shells you both pretended were pointless, arguing over whether the seagulls were secretly demonic.

“They’re too organized,” Dean had muttered, squinting at a flock.

You had looked at him, completely unimpressed.

“They’re birds, Dean.”

“Exactly. That’s their cover.”

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the smooth conch shell in your hand. Dean watched you the whole time, eyes warm, like your laughter was the only sound worth listening to in the whole damn universe.

By the afternoon, the sun was high and the water was perfect.

Dean was already waist-deep when you waded in, the sun high and the waves gentle against your skin.

“What?” you asked, catching him staring.

“Nothin’.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Just appreciating the view.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting your own grin. “Smooth, Winchester.”

“Wasn’t even trying.” He shrugged. “Alright, yeah… maybe a little.”

You moved closer until the water lapped at your waist. Dean reached for you without urgency, just need. His arms slid around you, strong and sure, pulling you in until your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms circled his neck. You tucked your face into the warm curve of his shoulder, breathing him in—salt, sunscreen, and that familiar scent that always meant safety.

He held you like that, one hand splayed across your back, the other rising to cradle the back of your head. His fingers moved slowly through your hair, gentle strokes that said everything words didn’t need to. The waves rocked you both in a slow, effortless drift.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against your temple.

You nodded, melting deeper into him. “Very.”

“Good.”

No teasing. No walls. Just Dean—solid, steady, letting the ocean carry you while he kept you anchored. Every so often he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head, almost absentminded, like he couldn’t help it. The sun warmed your skin. The water cradled you. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your cheek.

Sleep tugged at you, heavy and sweet.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” he whispered, amusement threading through his voice.

“Maybe.”

“In the ocean?” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“You’re holding me,” you mumbled.

That silenced him. Because you trusted him completely, and Dean knew exactly how rare and precious that was. His arms tightened just a fraction, protective even in perfect peace.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You believed him. Your eyes slipped shut, the world narrowing to the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of his skin, and the constant, soothing sweep of his hand in your hair.

When you were fully out, Dean moved with the same careful reverence he reserved for the few good things in his life. He carried you back to shore without jostling you, your body limp and trusting against him. On the warm sand under the shade of the trees, he spread the towel and lowered you down gently. You barely stirred, only curling closer to where he’d been.

Dean watched you for a long moment, something tender and almost disbelieving in his expression. “Yeah,” he whispered to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

He stretched out beside you, lacing his fingers with yours. For once, he didn’t scan the treeline. Didn’t brace for the next nightmare. He simply closed his eyes and let the breeze move over him, the ocean murmuring nearby.

No monsters today.

No missions.

No goodbyes waiting around the corner.

Just you, breathing soft and steady beside him.

Just the two of you, drifting together in a rare, golden pocket of peace.

And the quiet promise that, for as long as he could, he would always be there to hold you.

A/N: Thank you so freakin’ much for 1k! When I first started posting a year ago, I never imagined my stories would reach anyone, let alone 1k of you. Thank you for every like, comment, and reblog. Seeing you all loving my work warms my heart. 🥹

Hope you liked this lil celebration fic! 💕

[thatonewriter15]

How I'd love to visit the beach with him. Truly a dream.

“They’re too organized,” Dean had muttered, squinting at a flock. “Exactly. That’s their cover.”

This made me laugh out loud. So very "Dean"; I loved it. xD

And then, shortly after, tears sprung up over:

“You’re holding me,” you mumbled. That silenced him. Because you trusted him completely, and Dean knew exactly how rare and precious that was. His arms tightened just a fraction, protective even in perfect peace. “Okay,” he said softly. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

[bejeweledinterludes]

you are my absolute favorite spn writer, I love your writing so much <33

could i please request a drabble for dean where reader can't stand seeing him stressed and tense, because of a rough mission, and offers him a massage? it can be fluffy or suggestive, whichever you like better

📨 okay hey fun fact you are actually the sweetest ever, thank you so much for your kind words! i am honored to be your favorite spn writer :’) most of the time it’s hard to make myself believe that people like what i write so. thank you for washing away some insecurities of mine… 🫠 anyway hopefully i did your request justice cause this is SUCH A GREAT SCENARIO <3

. . . 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄. ♫ ⋆.˚

THE HUNT WENT TERRIBLE, TO SAY THE LEAST. you all were on edge—stressed out beyond belief—especially dean, per usual. always the one to take the blame, to put the most weight on his shoulders, all for the sake of lightening the load for someone else. it’s almost annoying, his false sense of self-righteousness, the need to place all the pressure on himself, since he has so much already—but mostly, you just want him to stop beating himself up.

tonight, however, the monster you all hunted did the beatings for dean before he himself got the chance. there were bruises and cuts littering his entire face, and you knew that the marks would look worse tomorrow as you glanced at dean’s side profile again.

you were sitting in the passenger seat—sam calling the backseat to “lay down”, but you knew it was because he knew dean was a ticking time bomb. the impala was in a stifling silence the entire way back to the bunker, and you could feel the tension radiating off of dean. it broke your heart—because you knew how much he was beating himself up more than the thing you rid the world of tonight ever could.

you don’t lay eyes on dean until about 4 hours after you get back. of course, you tried to build up the courage to say something to him, to try and make him feel better when you originally first got back to the bunker—but chickened out before you ever could. as much as you hated to see dean like this, a part of you was expecting that he’d take his stress out on you.

he’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking broody, as he does on nights like this. you weren’t expecting him to be sitting there, but really, where else would he be when a hunt went like it did today? it was a late hour, despite you being awake. you hadn’t really slept, per se—it was more like your brain couldn’t shut off all the way. like your body couldn’t rest, not when dean was close by and suffering in silence.

dean doesn’t look at you when you walk in—because he knows what yours and sam’s strides sound like. he doesn’t greet you, either—in fact, he almost looks shameful about the fact that you’ve now seen him, despite him quirking a corner of his mouth at you in recognition. you almost chicken out again and leave when he looks back down again, but something stops you.

the bottle and glass in front of him aren’t in use. the bottle’s still sealed, and the glass is still clean. and dean’s just staring at the glass, eyes glazed over. like he’s not really there. you’d like to bring him back, just for a little while. just until the sun comes up, maybe. so instead of going for your midnight snack like you originally planned, you find yourself going over to dean.

you know he’s in deep, when it takes him a second to even recognize the fact you’re closer to him now. his hand lets go of the glass he was fidgeting with, instead looking up at you next to him. he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you—not yet, at least.

you take in his features, now that you’re up close—and at least he had the sense to patch and clean himself up a little before staring at a bottle of whiskey for an eternity. you place a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. just a little. you tilt your head, concerned—but don’t comment on it. you just leave your hand there, testing.

dean, finally, leans into your arm—just enough for you to know that he’s not hating this. your thumb brushes on his shoulder once before you step just a little closer. it seems the less space that remains between you and dean the more you can feel the tension inside him. he’s still looking at you, but he’s not all the way there.

your hand slides down his shoulder, over his arm, until it reaches his own hand. you take it in yours, tug at him gently. dean hesitates, no doubt weighing his options. and yet, he stands up, leaves the unopened whiskey on the table, and lets you lead the way.

you don’t take him to his own room, which shocks dean—but not enough to actually say something about it. he’s tired, he realizes—more tired than he has been in a while. and not all of it is something that can be fixed with a good night’s rest.

both of you stop at the foot of your bed, hands still intertwined. you looked at him again, stepping closer. dean felt his heart jump when you did—and not because he didn’t want you close. quite the opposite, really. he swallows hard when you start taking off his flannel for him.

“don’chya gotta buy me dinner first, or somethin’…?” dean inquires, but it’s barely above a murmur and half-assed. the question almost dies in his throat—and you don’t entertain his habitual attempt at lightening this moment.

“lay down,” you murmur as you nod to your bed, not answering—and if dean was a little less tired and a lot less starved for your attention than he was now, he’d never would laid down—but he was, so he laid face down on your bed, immediately met with the scent of you filling his lungs.

dean’s not sure what he was expecting—but when you get onto your bed after him and start touching his shoulders and back, he realizes.

you’re trying to coax the tenseness out of him. trying to make him less stressed out. a strange feeling blooms in his chest upon this development. he wonders why he’s almost uncomfortable with the fact that you want to comfort him. he doesn’t want to think about it too hard—because he’ll spiral like he’s been doing all night.

maybe it’s because he’s spent his entire life not having any comfort, or maybe the fact that he’s so used to being the one giving out comfort, he doesn’t know what it feels like to receive it—but whatever it is, dean forces the looming thought to be shoved into a box for tonight.

your hands act as if they’re touching something holy. but it’s just him, who’s receiving your attention. your fingers work at the tightness of his shoulders, and it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. it feels… strangely good. it takes him a second, but he stops holding his breath in, lets out a soft sigh. you take it as a win.

dean is tense, obviously. almost unbelievably so. his shoulders, neck and back seem permanently wound up as you work at them with your hands. you weren’t sure if dean was comfortable having his undershirt off, so you just left it on—but your fingertips sneak just a little under the collar of his t-shirt, grazing his bare skin. dean lets out another sigh, adjusts his head deeper into the pillow.

he feels tired again now that he’s in a bed. if he was more awake, he’d be more jokey, more easygoing, cracking a joke about you trying to get in his pants. but not tonight. tonight, dean’s tired. so unbelievably tired. he’s slowly seeming to melt under your touch, despite his mind’s initial protests.

he feels an overwhelming urge to cry, all of a sudden. over the fact that you’re touching him solely to try and make him feel better, over the fact that you’re doing it for the only purpose of comforting him. the urge almost suffocates dean—but he chokes it down, lets his eyes shut instead.

dean doesn’t moan—but some sort of rumble leaves him when you knead at a specific tender spot on his back. you debate making a comment on it, then decide not to, focusing on your thumbs now working down dean’s spine.

you risk a peek at dean after you hear his breathing slow and even out—after whispering his name, he doesn’t stir, even a little. he fell asleep, knowing only your touch and scent, instead of pain and his own thoughts turning on him. he can’t recall the last time he felt so safe. so loved. it seemed like a good way to fall asleep, surrounded by softness and you.

so for once, dean let himself have this slice of warmth.

@ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[thatonewriter15]

Oh, I have melted!

I love the idea of massaging him, under any circumstances. But doing so as a comfort when he's beating himself up extra hard? It's not a want, it's a neeeeed.

he fell asleep, knowing only your touch and scent, instead of pain and his own thoughts turning on him.

What an honor it would be to accomplish soothing him to this level.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

'What's bakin'?' TAG GAME

Writers! Are you baking something delicious in your WIP folder? Share it with us under the following categories, then tag some fellow writers to keep that oven HOT!

There are 3 options:

🎂Three-tier-cake with cherries on top: this WIP is nearly done and just needs some final touches before it's served. 🧁Cake mix (but it comes from the heart): this WIP has either been sitting in your pantry a while, or lives somewhere between "I'm technically writing it" and "I stopped writing in the middle of it and don't remember the recipe plot" 🥚I forgot to buy eggs: this is a mere idea, a gleam in your eyes, an itch in your balls. You're not totally sure what it's gonna be when it grows up, but you're excited about it nonetheless.

Once you're done, tag some lovely mutuals! I'll start!

🎂Three-tier-cake with cherries on top:

Smut piece one year on from the ending of I wish I'd known you in your wilder days, in which you and Dean have fun on the couch (again).

Cast Away (working title): Sam's arm is in a cast, and when you find out why he's in such a bad mood, you give him a hand (and a mouth, and a...) to cheer him up.

Scream if you wanna go faster: Butcher meets you in a Vegas hotel. No names, no promises. Just sin (and no sleep).

🧁Cake mix (but it comes from the heart):

Office romance (working title): sequel to Late night call, in which Sam and you enter an affair with a strong dom/sub dynamic (and Sam gets subbed the hell out)

It wasn't forever: Pamela Barnes is haunted. When she goes out to escape the ghosts, she meets you and takes you home with her. -> This one's super sad lesbian yearning and internalized homophobia, so I can't always work on it a ton before needing a break.

Moth: Things aren't right. Dean keeps telling you they are. But why do you feel trapped? -> This one's dark as shit so I also need to be in the right mindset to write it.

🥚I forgot to buy eggs:

Demon!reader x Dean (inspired by an ask). Dean comes to you, all righteous anger. If you can't give him the information he wants, he'll take something else. -> Scenes of this keep swirling in my head and I'm taking notes, I just don't wanna fully start this while busy with so much other stuff.

Kidnap fic: two men break into your home and from one moment to the next, your life is changed forever. They tell you you've been kidnapped by demons, your memory erased, but as they take you with them and tie you up in their motel room, you realize they're not gonna let you go.

Modern western McCarthy Yellowstone thing: only specs of this exist, but it's you coming back to a small town rife with corruption, and back into the arms of the Winchesters, the reigning family (and at least a few of them are your ex-lovers). Dark and grimy and nihilistic.

There are many more but I will stop here and tag some lovelies! If you see this and want to participate, please do! ❤️ @kblognar @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @jollyhunter @aseafullofstars @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @theedaythatnevercomes @reginaphalangelobster @raspberry-starship @spectralgalaxygauntlet @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @velvourne @aniresrene @ashlizshack @tinysnacklefan

[thatonewriter15]

I couldn't resist doing this because I have exactly three (3) WIPs at the moment, one for each of these categories.

🎂Three-tier-cake with cherries on top:

Fluff, fluff, and more fluff set over a period of three years. An ode to the green of Dean's eyes. The reader is enamored with them, and when she calls attention to them, Dean can't get her comment out of his head. A "Ctrl+F" edit to make sure I did not absolutely abuse the use of certain words and another read-over, and it's good to go!

🧁Cake mix (but it comes from the heart):

A combination of fluff and angst with a drop of spice. Dean pays her a visit after having been away for too long, and they are both just so happy to be together again. This full fic came to me in the wee hours of the morning nearly a year ago, and I scribbled bullet points into a notebook in the dark.

🥚I forgot to buy eggs:

Reverse hurt/comfort for Dean/Reader, but it's from Bobby's POV. They're staying at Bobby's house, and Dean has a nightmare and yells out. She and Bobby go to him, but she beats Bobby. Bobby watches in the wings, seeing how much they love each other, even if those idjits have not done anything about it yet. This one has been in my head for a while, but I have not been able to narrow down exactly how I want to approach it.

It's rare for me to have more than one WIP at a time, so seeing them laid out like this is interesting to me. xD Thanks for this! <3

[rizlowwritessortof]

Heat Wave

The heat wave is making you a little crazy. But when it brings a gorgeous stranger and his overheated car to your front door - well, it's not the only thing that gets overheated.

I blame my bestie, Liz ( @jensensgotyoudean ) for this, so I'm dedicating it to her! 😉🥰 Dividers from @firefly-graphics ❤️

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3487

Warnings: Just hot, sweaty smut! 😁

It was utterly miserable outside – 111 degrees, humidity like a sauna, not a cloud anywhere in sight.

You had forced yourself to go out, hook up the sprinkler hose that was nestled throughout the flowers around your house. At least they were in the shade of the building, but they were still wilting and sad. You turned the water on and hoped it would soak in and help them survive this apocalyptic heat.

You could feel the sweat trickle down between your breasts, and you tugged at your tank top with the flimsy built-in bra (the only bra you could fathom wearing in this heat), fanning it out from your body in an attempt to cool yourself down, but it was hopeless. At least you weren’t stuck in a city full of concrete. You lived on a little acreage a couple of miles from Smith Center, Kansas, Highway 36 in view from your front yard. At least you had green grass and trees. If they didn’t dry up and burst into flames like giant tiki torches from the weather.

You had air conditioning in the house, but you were sick of being cooped up inside. So you let the water soak the flowers and went in to grab a glass of iced tea, then sat down on the porch swing, kicking your flip-flops off. Even your cut-offs and tank top felt stifling on your body, but at least you were getting some fresh air. Super-heated, humid, almost unbreathable fresh air.

You heard the rumble of an engine on the highway, squinting to watch as a large, black car came into view from behind the trees, heading east. As it drew near your driveway, you could see what appeared to be smoke pouring out from under the hood. It made the turn into your drive, sputtering as it made its way close to where your car was parked, then died.

You rose to your feet and slipped your flip-flops back on, glancing down at your clothes. It wasn’t like you were dressed for company, but it was too late to worry about it now. You tried to see who was behind the wheel, but the sun glinting off the windshield made that impossible, so you shrugged and went down the steps to greet whoever was driving. When he climbed out of the car, your mouth dropped open, and you stopped in your tracks for a second.

You could have sworn the temperature just rose another 20 degrees. This man was a whole other level of hot. Drool-inducing, panty-melting, fantasy-inspiring hot - tall, lean, bow-legged, broad-shouldered, and gorgeous. As you forced yourself to close your mouth, he swore, talking to the car.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Come on, Baby, we’re almost home.” The frown between his brows (even that was attractive) smoothed out a bit as he saw you approaching (once you recovered your ability to walk). “Hey, sorry about that. I guess this heat is too much even for my Baby today.”

“I can see that!”

He turned to raise the hood, steam surrounding him as he propped it in place, and you swore you could hear porn music playing in the background as you stared at his biceps. You stifled a groan at the play of muscle underneath his grey t-shirt, which was rapidly growing darker with sweat in the heat and clinging to his back. “I’d better let her cool off.”

“I can hook up the hose so you can put some water in the radiator after it sits for a bit.” You were sounding far less wilted than you had felt before he got out of that car, that was for sure.

He smiled, and your heart did a somersault in your chest. “That would be awesome, thanks.” He followed you around to the side of the house, and you shut off the water to your flowers, then reached to unscrew the sprinkler hose. It had apparently welded itself to the spigot – you couldn’t get it to budge. You bent over, struggling to force the stubborn coupling to loosen up, but it was hopeless. You turned, frustrated, and your unexpected visitor’s eyes traveled quickly back up to your face as his tongue swept over his lips. “I – uh… Here, let me give it a try.”

He stepped forward to deal with the stubborn fitting, and you blushed at your thoughts. Had he been staring at your ass? Speaking of… Your eyes were currently glued on his backside as he finally managed to unscrew the sprinkler hose. You shook your head to break the spell and rushed over to grab the regular hose from its storage on the side of the house, handing it to him without meeting his eyes. You had to calm your hormones before you made a total ass of yourself over this guy.

“I have some iced tea in the house – or would you rather have a beer?”

He straightened up after hooking up the hose, turning to grin at you and sending another flood of those pesky hormones flooding into your bloodstream. “A beer sounds great, thanks. And my name’s Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

You smiled back at him as you introduced yourself, then went up the steps and into the house to fetch a couple of cold beers from your fridge. Of course, you stood with your head inside of it for a couple of minutes first, thinking about the way you could feel his eyes following you as you had walked away from him. And you had thought this stay-at-home vacation was going to be boring.

You headed back outside, and Dean walked back towards you from where he had dragged the hose over near his car. You couldn’t stop staring at that bow-legged stride, the denim of his jeans hugging those strong thighs, and you dropped down to sit on the steps to mask your agitation. He plopped down beside you, gratefully taking the beer you offered. “Thanks - nothing like an ice cold beer when it’s hot as hell out,” he said grinning over at you. You agreed, watching as he tipped his bottle and took a long pull. You followed suit quickly, because otherwise you were going to moan out loud at the sight of his perfect lips on the rim of the bottle, the tip of his tongue touching the opening before he drank. There were several very filthy thoughts battling for space in your head, and you could feel your pulse beating between your thighs.

“Soooo,” you started, a little too loudly, but you quickly caught yourself and adjusted your volume. “I heard you say you were almost home – where are you from?”

“My brother and I live a couple miles south of Lebanon.”

“I guess we’re almost neighbors, then,” you said, inwardly cringing at your lack of small talk skills.

Dean gave you a crooked smile, nodding his head. “Yeah, I guess we are. So if I come knocking at your door to borrow a cup of sugar, you got me covered?”

You smiled. “Any time.”

He picked at the label on his bottle, shooting a sideways glance your way with a sly quirk of his lips. “As long as your boyfriend isn’t the jealous type.” You laughed softly, and he nudged your shoulder with his. “What, too subtle?”

“No boyfriend. Just an ex-husband, but that’s old news.” You met his green-eyed gaze, which had your breath catching in your chest for a moment. “How about you?”

“Nope, completely free.” A warm smile slowly spread across his face, making your stomach do a little flip. “So far.” He winked, so quickly that you weren’t completely sure you hadn’t imagined it, and then drained the rest of his beer and rose to his feet. “Let’s see if I can bring Baby back to life, huh?”

You went to the side of the house and waited for his shout, then turned on the water. You waited for him to call out again to shut it back off, then walked back around the house as he slid behind the wheel. You heard him turn the key with a ‘Come on, Baby!’ and then a ‘That’s my girl!’ when the engine roared to life. You were trying to stifle your smile when he shut the engine off and climbed back out, but he just grinned back at you before turning around to put the hood down.

He headed back your way, wiping his hands on the tail of his t-shirt. “If you’re not in a hurry, you could come inside and cool off before you head home, have another beer.” You shrugged as if it was no big deal, but you were holding your breath as you waited for his reply.

“Yeah, thanks. Lead the way.” You smiled and turned to go up the steps, Dean right behind you. You both let out a relieved sigh at the cool air in the house compared to the sauna-like atmosphere outside. “Damn, does that feel good,” he said as you kicked off your flip-flops. He bent to untie his boots, but you stopped him.

“You don’t have to do that, really.” He glanced up to see that you were sincere, gave a little nod in acknowledgment, and followed you into the kitchen.

You went to the fridge, grabbed a couple more beers, and handed him one, turning to lean against the island as you opened yours. Dean settled against the counter top across from you, flipping his lid into the trash with perfect aim, then tilting his head back to take several swallows as you lost yourself in the sight.

His t-shirt was stuck to his body, his nipples showing through the damp cotton of his shirt. You stared at his throat as he drank, watching with bated breath as a bead of sweat trickled from his hairline all the way down his neck. He licked his lips as he set his bottle down beside him, his eyes moving from your parted lips to your breasts as they rose and fell with your rapidly increasing breathing. Your heart was beginning to pound, and you took your bottom lip between your teeth for a second before you spoke, your voice breathless. “So, do you wanna…”

“Hell, yeah,” he growled out before you could finish, and then he was on you before you could blink. You reached back blindly, your beer thankfully settling in an upright position as he pinned you against the island and took your lips in a ravenous kiss, all tongues and teeth and hunger. He had both hands on your ass, kneading and squeezing as your fingers clawed at his back, and you could feel him rapidly growing hard as he pressed closer.

He finally broke the kiss, barely parting from you and still nibbling at your lips as he spoke. “I’ve got some condoms in my bag in the trunk.”

You shook your head, kissing him again and making him moan as you sucked the tip of his tongue. “Down the hall, nightstand, top drawer,” you managed before he flashed a grin, giving your left cheek one more squeeze before he rushed away to follow your directions.

Dean was back before you finished taking a swallow of your beer. He took the bottle from your hand, turning to set it next to his on the opposite counter top. “Might need some room,” he said as he moved close again, putting his hands on your waist and boosting you up to the top of the island. He slipped his fingers up under the hem of your shirt, looking into your eyes. “Can I?”

You nodded, holding his gaze as he slowly peeled your tank top up, then over your head. He tossed it behind him without taking his eyes from your breasts. “Your turn,” you said softly, giving his shirt a tug, and he pulled it off in one quick move, then moved in close. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him snug between your thighs as you ran your fingertips over his chest, tracing the pattern of his tattoo.

He put a hand on your knee, moving it up slowly until his fingers slipped under the frayed hem of your cutoffs. “I should tell you, these Daisy Dukes have been making me crazy,” he rumbled, making you shiver as he traced a line forward and along the crease of your thigh. He leaned down to kiss you as he worked your zipper open, and you moaned into his mouth as he shoved his hand into your panties, his strong fingers gliding through your slick folds as he hummed against your lips.

“Well, I should tell you I’ve been wet for you since you first climbed out of that car,” you said, your voice raspy with arousal. His lips curved into a sexy smirk, and you leaned back on your elbows to lift up a little as he pulled your shorts and panties down, letting them fall to the floor.

He pulled you back up against his chest, kissing you again as he slipped a finger up inside you, stroking, searching until you squirmed with a little whimper. You felt him smile against your lips, and then he added another finger, rubbing firm circles over your clit with his thumb as he brushed his fingertips repeatedly over your sweet spot.

Dean rested his forehead on yours as you raised you hips to chase his thrusts. It felt amazing, but at the moment there was only one thing you wanted. You clutched desperately at the waistband of his jeans, popping the button free and jerking the zipper down. He grunted as you gave his erection a squeeze, then tugged at his jeans until he pulled his fingers from you, a low chuckle in his throat. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he managed to say as you looked up at him with a coy smile, and he shoved his pants down, your eyes widening a little at the sight of him. He rolled the condom on and moved in close again, rubbing his sheathed cock through your slick pussy.

“Dean….” you whined softly at the friction on your swollen clit, and he leaned close, whispering in your ear.

“Shhhh, sweetheart, I got you.” He reached down, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing forward as you clutched at the back of his neck. You chased his lips, kissing him desperately as he worked his way inside you with short strokes until he was buried deep, your hips rising to meet him. Every sensitive nerve inside you was singing, your body trembling at being filled to the limit.

You were panting as you pulled back from the kiss, and Dean put a hand to your face, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead, his green eyes warm as he gazed into yours. “You doing ok?”

You leaned into his touch with a euphoric little smile, then nodded. “I’m good. Really good.” He flashed a quick grin before giving you a gentle kiss, letting his hand drift down to cup your breast. “Could be better,” you mumbled against his lips, giggling as he drew back and looked down at you with a cocked eyebrow, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah?”

You reached down to squeeze his ass – his very firm, pert ass – and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Fuck me, Dean.”

He didn’t make you wait. He braced one hand on your hip and wrapped an arm around you to hold you close as he began to rut into you, staying deep inside you at first, then pulling out farther and driving back into you faster and harder. Your thighs tightened around him, your hips bucking into his thrusts as your fingers dug into the muscle of his back, his skin slick with sweat. Moans of pleasure and grunts of effort filled the air as you began to clench and pulse around his cock, and you arched your back and cried out as you came undone.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean swore softly as he lost control, his cock throbbing inside you as your orgasm sent him over the edge with you. You strained against him, whimpering at the intensity of the sensations washing through you, finally slumping with your face against his chest, a shudder making you clench around his still-pulsing length. He leaned forward, slightly trembling, holding you tight with one arm as he braced a hand on the counter, his chest heaving beneath your cheek as he slowly came down from his high.

He rested his head on top of yours, his warm breath stirring your hair. “You’re fucking incredible,” he breathed, raising back up as you moved to look up at him.

“Pretty incredible yourself,” you responded with a languid smile. “I haven’t felt this good in – well, ever.” His eyes searched yours as he bent close to kiss you, sending a wave of warmth through you.

“You know, I could kiss you for hours. Possibly days.”

He laughed softly, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “Well, maybe we’ll work on that. But I should probably take care of…” He glanced down pointedly at where you were still joined, and you smiled.

“Oh – yeah – I guess so.” You held your breath as he pulled himself free, then put his hands on your waist and helped you down off the island. He smiled down at you, his eyes scanning over your body with a naughty smirk as he let out a soft ‘Mmm-mmm.’

“I’ll be back,” he said, hitching his pants up, and you stared as he walked away from you, heading to the bathroom. You collapsed back against the counter, blowing out a breath in aroused appreciation. You had just had sex with a complete stranger who was hot enough to fuel your fantasies for many, many years into the future – and you were pretty sure you weren’t finished with him yet. In fact, you were sure of it. So you stood up straight and headed for the bathroom, in all your naked glory, with a big smile on your face.

When he opened the door, you were standing there waiting. His eyes widened a little, his smile slowly growing as you peered up at him with a flirty expression. “I need a shower. And you’re welcome to join.” You pushed your way by him, letting your breasts brush against his arm on the way by, grinning to yourself as you heard him chuckle.

You reached in and turned on the water to let it warm up, and Dean watched you with appreciation, pulling his lip between his teeth. “I – uh – have some clean clothes out in the car. I’ll be right back.”

You shot him a sidelong glance with a smile as you stepped into the shower, sliding the glass door shut behind you. He let out a low whistle before he rushed to the front door, heading for the car to get his duffle bag and pulling out his phone to call his brother. “Sammy? Yeah, had a little car trouble, I won’t be home until tomorrow sometime. Nah, nothing serious. Yep, later.”

Sometime tomorrow. Next day at the latest. He smirked to himself as he closed the trunk, patting the Impala’s roof on the way by as he headed back to the house. “I owe you, Baby.”

Three weeks later:

You sat on the porch swing, a cold beer in hand as you relaxed after a long week of work. The weather had finally cooled off, and it was pleasant on the porch, a light breeze stirring your hair. You reached for your phone as it rang, smiling as you looked at the screen. “Hello,” you said, a smile in your voice.

“Hey, there – it’s me, your neighbor.”

“Hi, neighbor,” you laughed. “What’s up?”

“Well – as it turns out, I’m completely out of sugar.”

“Completely, huh?”

“Absolutely. Totally out. I could really, really use some sugar right now.” His voice was already sending vibrations through you that made you want to tell him to get in the car now. “And you know I’ve got a sweet tooth that just won’t quit. I need sugar, sweetheart.”

You laughed as you heard Sam’s voice in the background, threatening to throw up if Dean didn’t stop. “Well, you know you’re always welcome to come over for sugar if you need it, Dean.”

“I knew I could count on you. You’re the best neighbor ever. And we can fire up the grill, I’ll make my world-famous burgers, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds amazing. And I’ll handle dessert.”

He growled into his phone, making you laugh again. “Yeah, you will. Mmmmmm. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

You sighed happily as you hung up, swinging lazily with a smile on your face. Maybe you should put on those Daisy Dukes again.

Without panties, of course.

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967         @deanslittleangel2y5  @deanwinchesterswitch

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma  

[thatonewriter15]

Finding a new fic from you on my dash continues to feel like Christmas morning!

Whoo-whee, was this hot. Spending a heat wave with that man is probably the only thing that could turn me into a summer person. xD

You were panting as you pulled back from the kiss, and Dean put a hand to your face, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead, his green eyes warm as he gazed into yours. “You doing ok?”

This warmed my heart so much.

And the little bonus of "Three weeks later" was so fun!

[nugparfait]

I know you write a lot of dean fics but can I PLEASE get one of like drunk sam confessing his feelings or being overly fluffy🙏🙏 hes like super clingy,completely different from his normal self etc. (you got the rest😉)

|| dial drunk (2.2k words)

sam x reader, drunk confessions, fluff, eventual smut

The door of the motel room swung open too hard, the door slapping loudly against the wall. You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was; his mumbled “shit, sorry, sorry” made it obvious it was Sam.

You stood, rounding the corner of the bed to face him. He was clearly drunk, his eyes soft and fragile while he swayed on his feet, just staring at you. Not to mention the bottle of beer dangling from his hand.

You knew Sam well enough to know that he only drank when something was upsetting him. So, tentatively, like approaching a startled deer, you spoke: “Sam, where were you?”

He narrowed his eyes at you as if trying to look angry, but he only looked pouty. “Uh, a bar. Duh.”

You couldn’t help chuckling at his childish indignation, raising your hands in surrender. “Right. Dumb question. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his face immediately falling back to that defenseless, heartbroken look. “No, no, don’t apologize.” Sam leaned sideways to set the beer bottle down on a small, round table near the door. He leaned heavily against it for support in his drunken stupor, pressing his other forearm to his face. “M’ sorry. For showin’ up like this. I just… couldn’t think about this sober.”

“Think about what sober, Sammy?” you asked carefully, taking a small step towards him.

Sam dropped his arm back to his side, the limb swinging limply at his side as he stared at you with all the vulnerability and trust in the world. “I just…”

“I love you.”

You had to stop yourself from gawking at him. The room seemed to quiet for a long moment, time stalling as if to let you process what had just left the lips you had admired since the first time you saw them, the person you had cared for for months but were too afraid to fully open up to. Of all the times you’d dealt with Sam drunk (which was very few, since he hardly drank), this took the cake as the most outrageous thing he’d ever said. Yet despite yourself, your stomach did that stupid little flip. You tried to shake it off, remind yourself that he was drunk, that he didn’t know what he was saying, but his confession didn’t stop there.

He stepped towards you, swaying on his feet. “I-I mean, when I first met you I– I mean, you were so beautiful– are so beautiful, a-and I… you’re so smart, and strong too, a-and reliable and so, so amazing I couldn’t stop myself, I was screwed from the start,” he rambled, those puppy-dog eyes wide and staring into yours. “I mean, I-I thought I couldn’t for Jessica, a-and I still love her more than anything, but, you… with you, I feel like I could tell you anything, trust you with anything and… and you wouldn’t leave, y’know?” He let out an awkward chuckle, lifting his hands towards you, reaching out but too afraid to touch.

His rushed rant left you stunned. It took a minute for you to collect yourself enough to reply. “Sam, you don’t know what you’re saying,” you began, but he quickly waved his hands, shaking his head.

“No, no… please, I just–” he let out a frustrated sigh, pressing his curled fists to his temples. “I need you. Okay? I can’t go on anymore without… without knowing if you feel the same. Or if you feel anything at all.” He came closer, directly before you now, all six feet and four inches of him looming over you.

Your eyes softened, gazing into those deep, needy hazel pools. “Oh, Sammy,” you whispered, reaching out to gently cup his cheek. He let out a near-whine, leaning his cheek into your palm practically desperately. You felt yourself swallow, a lump of so many different emotions that you’d fought to keep down for months trying to crawl out.

You reached out and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Sam, lie down, alright?” you murmured, coaxing him towards the bed. He sat down with a solid thump, the springs squealing in protest.

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded, his voice quiet and meek as he brought your still-clasped hand to his forehead.

“I won’t,” you promised. “Lay down.”

Sam obeyed, reluctantly releasing your hand to lie on his side, facing you. You sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, bringing your hand to his arm to rub it comfortingly up and down. You watched his eyes, trained on you, slowly relax, then flutter in exhaustion, before closing completely.

Your gaze roamed his peaceful face, his lashes, soft lips, hair falling over his forehead. You gently brushed it back, a pained sigh leaving you as you stood up and walked to the other bed, lying down to sleep. You didn’t trust yourself to stay beside him.

By the time you woke up in the morning, Sam was already hurling in the bathroom. You could hear him gagging and groaning in discomfort just out of view. With a weak moan, you sat up and stretched your arms over your head, your back arching slightly. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, carefully walking over to the bathroom door. You peeked inside, spotting Sam’s hunched body kneeling over the toilet.

“Too much to drink, huh?” you mused lightheartedly. He only moaned in reply.

You got him a bottle of water and a Tylenol for his headache. He took them, swallowing them down greedily. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice slightly raspy from the sting of vomit.

“Do you remember last night?” you asked him once he was able to pry himself from the toilet.

Sam shot you a wary look, his hands folding over his lap. “... yeah, I do.”

You sat down beside him, touching his arm. He flinched at the contact, those hazel eyes plagued with anxiety and doubt. “I’m real sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said those things. Please, just forget about it–”

“Was it true?”

The question slipped out on its own. Sam blinked at your voice, eyes widening in surprise. He swallowed, the ball of his throat bobbing up and down. “What would you do if it was?”

“I’d want to hear it from you sober,” you replied calmly.

Sam was dead silent for a while, just staring at you. His eyes flickered between each of yours, unusually timid.

Finally, he spoke. “I, uh… I love you,” he started. His hands folded together, forefinger and thumb pinching the thin skin between his fingers absently. “I have for… well, months now. I just… was scared of losing you, I guess. If you didn’t feel the same.”

You exhaled, an affectionate smile gracing your lips. His adorable vulnerability made your heart ache and your yearning strengthened nearly painfully. You reached out and took his hands in yours, your thumb brushing comfortingly over his knuckles. Kneeling face-to-face, your noses hardly an inch apart, you’d never felt so exposed in your life, yet an indescribable warmth flooded you when your eyes met his.“Oh, Sammy. I wish you had told me sooner,” you breathed. “Because I love you too.”

His eyes widened a fraction, his larger palms squeezing yours. Testing. Acknowledging that this was real, not a fantasy or a hallucination. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice wavering with months of emotions finally coming to light.

“Yes, Sam,” you reassured. One of your hands lifted to his face, cupping it just as you had the night before. And once again, he buried against it, tilting his head to brush his lips into your palm. A blush bloomed across your cheeks.

He breathed out your name, all tension and fear his body had held leaving with that breath. Like a long-held burden was finally gone from his shoulders. An almost disbelieving laugh left his lips, a smile slowly dawning on his face. Sam’s hand slowly lifted to your cheek, his thumb swiping over it in a tender arc. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice a barely audible whisper.

You laughed, a breathy chuckle that had you tipping your head forward. “Please wash your mouth first, you were just puking.”

“Oh-! Right, sorry,” Sam’s face reddened with an embarrassed flush. He quickly stood up and hurried to the sink, grabbing the toothbrush he had left there and brushing his teeth as fast as he could. You couldn’t help an amused smile from forming on your lips at his eagerness to kiss you. It was touching, too, to feel so desired. Especially by him.

He straightened up once he was done, hurrying back over to you. “Now?” he asked, and you nodded.

Both of his hands cupped your face this time, and he slowly leaned in, your lips coming together. The kiss was slow, warm, and everything you had ever hoped it would be. He kissed you with all the passion and devotion of a man who had been estranged from the one vice of his life. Sam’s hand left your jaw, sliding around your waist to haul you close to him, your bodies pressed together as the kiss deepened. He tilted his head just so, parting his lips in an invitation you happily welcomed, your tongues dragging together in a languid dance you never wanted to stop.

His other hand left your cheek, both palms dragging down your sides and settling at the backs of your thighs. With a small crouch, he hooked his palms under your knees and hauled your legs around his waist. A faint gasp of surprise left your lips. Sam immediately separated from your lips, looking over your face for any hesitation. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded, sliding your arms around his neck as he carried you from the bathroom to the bed. “More than okay,” you breathed against his neck, nipping down on the skin of his throat and sucking a hickey into the pale flesh, earning a sigh from him. He gently laid you back onto the sheets, his fingers just barely ghosting beneath your shirt to touch your waist. You shivered at the contact, a warmth spreading in your lower stomach that you knew only he could satiate.

You reached for Sam’s wrist. He willingly let you guide his hand to your shorts, his fingers curling into the waistband. His eyes searched yours once more, one last check that this was okay, that the desire he felt so strongly for you was mutual. “C’mon, Sammy. Don’t leave a girl waiting,” you hummed. He needed no further convincing, dragging your shorts down your legs and tossing them away.

Sam’s eyes raked over your form, the loose sleep shirt that hung to your hips, half covering the lace panties you had on beneath, and your bare legs spread on either side of him. A strangled groan left his throat, and you could practically see him twitching in his pants, his cock straining against his jeans.

Sam leaned back over you, kissing your cheek as he slotted his hips to yours, a whine breathed against your skin as he ground your bodies together. “Shit… so beautiful…” he whispered against you. Your hands gripped the back of his shirt, feeling the flex of his muscles every time his hips rocked forward. The friction against your clit was heavenly, just this having you already seeing stars. God, how long had it been since you’d been with someone? Months, at least. Not since you started having feelings for Sam. Then, no man seemed worth the time to chat up, take back to a motel, leave before morning. No one matched up to him.

“Sam,” you crooned, your voice breaking on his name. You were already close. All just because of him.

He pressed his face into your shoulder, a broken moan escaping his mouth. “Oh, god… I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, beginning to rut against you quicker, hastey in his need. He groaned out your name, shuddering against you.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, your hand sliding from his back to fist his pretty hair, tugging weakly on the brunette locks. “Oh my god, Sam,” you choked out, locking your legs around his waist to bring him impossibly closer.

With a few more rough bucks against you, the tight spring in your stomach snapped, a wanton moan leaving your lips as you came. Sam wasn’t far behind, lightly biting your shoulder to muffle a pleasured cry as he finished.

You breathed together in the quiet of the motel, the only audible noise being your labored pants against each other. It was a few minutes before Sam slowly peeled his body off of yours, a red stained across his entire face, completely mortified at himself for coming just from dry humping against you. You felt a similar embarrassment, nibbling the tip of your finger and absently looking away. “I can’t believe I just–” he breathed, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hand.

“It’s okay, Sam. I mean, I did too,” you awkwardly chuckled. Your finger hooked under his chin, guiding his face towards yours. “But next time, let's try and make it all the way, okay?”

His eyes widened at the implication of your words. “Next time–? I-I mean, yeah, yes, of course. I’d love to,” he stammered, tripping over his words.

You could only grin, shaking your head. So stupidly in love with this man, and happy to know he felt just the same.

|| note: why is writing smut so hard 😢 anyway, thank you for the request, I hope the story is what you were hoping for! 🫶

[thatonewriter15]

Gah, this was so sweet and adorable!

Also, dry humping? [Chef's kiss]

[nugparfait]

Hiii I saw you are taking requests so I wondered if you would write something for Sam x Fem!Reader.

After a hunt Sam has some injuries that Reader helps him take care of. During that Reader also sees all the other scars that Sam has, and after all the hunts, and torture, and cuts to use his own blood to draw wards (so palms and wrists), he has a lot of them. Sam thinks they are ugly but deserved, Reader tells him that nothing about him could be ugly and that they are reminder of what he endured. Soft kisses and touch and all the fluff.

Keep writing angel 🌬

|| all them horses (1.0k words)

sam x reader, established relationship, fluff, mild angst and comfort

warning: small mention of self-inflicted wounds

“God–!” Sam gritted out, keeling forward in pain. His muscles strained: you could see them ripple beneath the skin of his shirtless torso. The dab of the antiseptic was like a bolt of lightning through his already aching body, the sting rivaling the pain of the large gash it was being applied to.

You gently grasped his shoulder, retracting the cotton ball from the wound. “I know, I’m sorry, Sammy,” you whispered in some attempt to ease his pain, bringing your hand to his cheek to stroke your thumb across his face. “Just a little more to stop any infection, then I’ll wrap it up.”

Sam’s pained gaze lifted to meet your eyes: warm, steady, caring. He nodded after a moment, tilting his arm back towards you. The cut was a long, jagged thing, crawling up from his elbow to the top of his bicep. Just looking at it made you wince. Blood wept from its edges slowly, but the worst of it had long since gone. You brought the cotton back to his skin, lightly dabbing the wound. Sam winced again, so you leaned in to carefully blow on the spots you had swabbed, dulling the inevitable burn on the open wound.

When his muscles had stopped trembling, you shifted back to examine his arm again, simultaneously reaching for the roll of gauze set out on the bathroom sink. “There. Not so bad, right?” you grinned at him, patting his hand encouragingly.

Sam shot you a pointed, unamused look. “Stop patronizing me,” he muttered, yet he kept his arm obediently still as you began to wrap it.

The task was slow, the white fabric going around his bicep in a rhythmic cycle. Your eyes absentmindedly drifted over the rest of his torso, bare and exposed. Pale lines and old scars littered his body. Some were imperfect cuts, like the one you were treating now. Some were perfect circles from bullets. On his palms and wrists were uniform slices from rituals involving blood or wards.

Your mind strayed. You had known Sam for a long time. Long enough that you had patched many of these scars yourself. Even so, something about the sight made your chest ache at even the smallest nick on his skin.

“You’re staring.” Sam’s voice startled you out of your daze.

A guilty smile drew up your lips, your gaze returning to your work. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. A dull shadow had fallen over his normally bright eyes. You grabbed a pair of scissors from the table and cut the gauze from the roll, finishing up the patch job on his arm.

You knew that look on your boyfriend too well: when those self-deprecating thoughts of self-hatred reared their heads in his mind and made him drown in misplaced guilt. “Sam, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” you murmured, your hand finding his and giving it a firm squeeze.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Just… well, I get it. I mean, they’re awful to look at, aren’t they?” his voice was low, a vulnerability in it that had you furrowing your eyebrows in confusion and concern.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

Sam tutted. “They’re gross, is what I mean.” He stated it like a fact, like the most obvious thing in the world. “But, well, it’s what I get, right? For everything I’ve done. The people I’ve–” his voice wavered, ending on a faint crack as he turned his head to the side.

An initial wave of anger washed through you. Anger at the world for beating the man you adored so deeply to believe such a stupid lie, anger at every person, every spirit, every entity that had ever marred his flesh, anger at yourself for being unable to protect him when he needed you, physically and emotionally. Then a bone-tiring melancholy replaced it.

You cupped his cheek, leaning closer until your noses were a mere inch apart, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “Sam. Listen to me. I’m only going to say this once,” your voice was firm, resounding. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing about you could ever be ugly. Especially your scars.”

Sam’s body stiffened a fraction, breath catching in his throat, but you continued, pressing your forehead against his. “If anything, they only make you more beautiful, because they prove that despite everything you’ve had to endure, you’re still fighting. Because you’re amazing. Okay?” You glanced over his features. He tentatively nodded, the faint glimmer of unshed tears gathering in his eyes.

To push your point, you leaned forward to kiss his lips, a slow, reassuring thing, then parted from them to drift down to his torso. You began with a long wound on his neck, then down to a small scar on his shoulder, trailing over his body to lavish adoring attention on every perfect imperfection. Sam crooned your name, his voice wobbling with emotion.

Finally, your lips trailed to his palms, planting a long kiss on the prominent ward scars. Your eyes met his once more, following the tears sliding down his cheeks. “I love you, Sammy. So much,” you whispered.

He nodded, sniffling. “I know, I know. I love you too,” he mumbled out, leaning his head forward to rest it on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close. He needed you close.

You stilled, gently rubbing your hand up and down his back, letting his tears wet your shirt. “Shh. It’s okay, Sammy. Just let it out,” you murmured against his cheek. Your fingers carded through his hair, feeling how his shoulders shuddered and relaxed, his trembling breaths beginning to even. You just stayed. Holding him. Comforting him. Because this man, your man, deserved the world. And you’d fight like hell to give it to him.

|| note: omg guys give me more requests come awnnn don’t be shyyyy 🥹. Hope you enjoyed this fic, I’m kind of digging writing more sam tbh.

[thatonewriter15]

Ahhhhh! This was such beautiful hurt/comfort!

I'm a real sucker for the "kissing his scars" trope, and I sure was not disappointed! Sam not only thinking they're "gross," but that he deserved them for the things he'd done? Just drive that stake right through my heart. =']

[nugparfait]

|| drabble

There is no way Dean would be the type to degrade his lover in bed. He loves and loves hard, and even the slightest thought of hurting you or making you uncomfortable would send him spiraling.

Sam had left the motel room about an hour ago to get some fresh air and gather information on the current case you were working on. Rarely did you get any time alone with your boyfriend, and Dean certainly didn’t want to waste it.

“Mm, that good for you baby?” Dean crooned against your cheek, his hips rocking with rhythmic, long drags, his cock sliding along your sensitive walls. His hands held your thighs around his waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the pliant flesh as you arched beneath him. “So gorgeous f’me… perfect,” he hummed.

“Dean,” a breathy whine left your lips. The way he was looking at you–reverent green eyes admiring every clench of your body, each twitch in your expression–had you feeling nearly self-conscious, except for the complete trust you had in your adoring lover. This man wouldn’t even dream of hurting you. He’d sooner hurt himself.

And you loved that about him, but your pussy was throbbing for release, and his gentle pace wouldn’t get you there. “Dean, please,” you whispered against his skin, his lips pressing against the top of your head.

“Please what, baby? M’ here, just tell me,” he murmured, leaning back just enough to admire you, hand sliding up between your warm bodies to cup your cheek.

“Need you… faster, Dean,” you mumbled, leaning up to ghost your lips over his, Dean’s breath catching at the intimate action.

“You’re sure?” he asked carefully, his eyes soft as they met yours. God, that look. Those eyes could be stone cold when facing down a threat, but they always seemed wide and uncertain yet needy when they landed on you.

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down close once more. His lips pressed fully against yours, swallowing your breathy moans as his hips pistoned into your pussy. “So good, sweetheart… fuck… love you so much,” he groaned against your mouth, “take me so good… you like that?”

You could only nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure as he fucked you with all the love and lust in the world.

By the end of it, he was tenderly cleaning you up with one of the motel towels, pressing gentle kisses over your cheeks, nose, lips. “Does it hurt? Wasn’t too rough, was I?” he asked, hand sliding up and down your hip as if soothing any potential aches there.

You couldn’t help chuckling, shaking your head. Your hand found his cheek, cupping it, feeling the warmth and the faint scrape of his stubble. “No, it was perfect.”

Dean practically melted, leaning into your palm like a desperate puppy seeking affection. “Good. I’m glad.”

[thatonewriter15]

i can't feel my limbs

Gosh, just inject all of this directly into my veins. This was gorgeous in every way, but this part, especially, was so wonderful:

“You’re sure?” he asked carefully, his eyes soft as they met yours. God, that look. Those eyes could be stone cold when facing down a threat, but they always seemed wide and uncertain yet needy when they landed on you.

And, okay, this part, too:

Dean practically melted, leaning into your palm like a desperate puppy seeking affection.

Thank you for sharing this!!

[nugparfait]

|| ain’t no tellin’ (2.1k words)

dean x reader, love confessions, fluff

Dean shoved you forward, one strong hand pressed to the small of your back, herding you down into a cave off the side of the road. The hunt you were on had gone south. You and Dean had ended up separated from Sam, and whatever the hell you were hunting was hot on your tails. “Shit, shit, shit!” Dean cussed behind you, the pop of his pistol echoing in the mouth of the cave, your ears ringing from the gunshot. You clapped your hands over them, blindly running further inside the cavern.

It was dark, nearly pitch-black, and it only grew darker the further inside you went. You shuddered, the air inside the cave oddly chilling. The sudden and loud sound of rocks tumbling down behind you made you cry out, tripping forward and scraping your arms and knees on the hard, rocky ground. A moan left your lips as you pushed yourself up, blearily looking around.

You could just barely make out the lines of rock outcrops and jagged spikes on the cave’s low ceiling. The crevice you had run yourself into was narrow, so much so that if you spread your arms out wide enough, you could touch each side.

“Dean?” you called softly, the sound of your voice echoing around you eerily and disorienting you. “Dean!”

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here,” the abrupt sound of Dean’s voice behind you startled you, and instinctively you kicked out with a cry, your foot landing square on his stomach. He lurched forward with a groan, grasping your ankle and holding your leg up against him. “God-! Mhh, quite the kick you got, sweetheart,” he gritted.

“Dean! God, don’t scare me like that!” you hissed, pulling your leg free and stepping towards him to grasp his arm, needing something to hold on to for stability in the dark. “What happened? I heard a bunch of rocks or something after I ran inside.”

“Damn thing sealed us in. Whatever the hell it is, it’s smart. I’ll give it that,” he grumbled, his free hand digging into his pocket and grabbing out a lighter. With a few swipes of his thumb, he ignited it. His face came into view in the warm, orange light, his green eyes nearly black and searing into yours. “You alright? No scrapes, bumps, bruises?”

You shook your head. “I just fell a little coming in. But I’m fine.”

He shot you a skeptical look. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Dean. I’m sure.”

“Let me see.”

“Dean,” you whined.

“Let me see,” he repeated, grasping your hand and pulling your arm straight. He frowned, holding the lighter close to examine the faint red scrapes on your palms and the bruises already slowly forming on your forearms. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No. Seriously, I’m fine,” you sighed, pulling your hand out of his grasp–though you missed the feeling of his palm wrapped around yours.

He tutted, shaking his head. “Don’t be so stubborn. We’re stuck here together. Let’s not get pissed off at each other already.”

You narrowed your eyes half-playfully. “I dunno, it’s easy to be mad at you.”

Dean grinned, shooting you a wink. “Aw, baby, I’m hurt. I thought you loved me?”

“Shut up, Dean.”

You weren’t sure how long you had been in the cave. The chill air nipped at your skin, and you shivered, curling into yourself. Dean had lapped around the cave nearly a dozen times already, feeling and searching for a way out. When he was sure there wasn’t one, he had begun moving rocks out from where you’d been sealed in. His soft grunts and pants echoed in the otherwise silent cave.

You grabbed your phone from your pocket, flipping it open. You’d also tried messaging and calling for help, but to no avail: there was no cell service.

Dean eventually returned, slumping down against the cave wall beside you with a pained groan. “You just gonna sit here lookin’ pretty while I do all the dirty work?” he asked, looking at you through the corner of his eye. Even without the lighter, your eyes had adjusted just enough to see him faintly in the dark–the sharp line of his jaw, that tense, forced easy-going smile, his roughed-up leather jacket.

You curled your knees to your chest, offering your own forced grin. “That’s a man’s job.”

He rolled his eyes, nudging you with his elbow. “Like you believe that.”

You fell into an uneasy silence, the pressure of the situation weighing heavily on both of you. You had no idea the extent of the cave-in. For all you and Dean knew, it could take days to try and move everything out of the way. And without food or water, you certainly wouldn’t last that long.

A dreadful feeling crawled up your spine, your nails digging just slightly into the skin of your arms as you shuddered.

“Cold?” Dean asked, cocking his head.

“I guess,” you mumbled.

He hummed in acknowledgement. After a small pause, he shrugged off his jacket, his muscles rippling just beneath the tight fabric of his black t-shirt before he slid it around you. The coat dwarfed you, nearly swallowing your curled-up frame whole. But it was comfortable, and delightfully warm from Dean’s body heat.

He hesitated for a moment, gauging your reaction. When you didn’t move, he tentatively draped an arm around you, pulling you against his side. “Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

More than okay, but you only nodded, resting your head against his shoulder. The familiar churning of nervous butterflies in your stomach arose once again, as it always did with any “casual” touches between you and Dean.

Time ticked by. Hours dragged by in the span of minutes, and mere seconds lasted ages. The faint gnaw of hunger was just beginning to twist and claw at your stomach, and your throat was growing parched.

Dean seemed the only constant factor in all of this–a beacon of stability in the turmoil your mind was becoming. But wasn’t he always? Every hunt gone sideways, every close call, he was always there for you no matter the circumstances. And he always seemed to have just what you needed: a comforting touch, smooth words that put you at ease, a horrible joke that lightened the worst of moods.

Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket, tugging it further around you. The hand Dean still had around you rubbed up and down your arm, trying to soothe you, as always. Your body slowly eased further against his side. Dean looked down at you, quirking an eyebrow. “Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

You sucked in your lip. The direness of the situation was growing on you, and the overwhelming fear of being stuck here, dying here, had you feeling reckless and stupid. At least that's what you wanted to call it.

“Dean, I need to tell you something,” you breathed, your voice suddenly quiet and shaky.

He quirked an eyebrow, concern flashing across his face. “Hey, hey, what’s all this?”

Tears blossomed in your eyes, clinging to your lashes and slowly slipping down your cheeks. “Dean. Oh, Dean,” you whispered in a broken tone. “I’m sorry. I can’t die without telling you–”

Dean went rigid beside you, immediately whirling around to face you. “Whoa! Don’t say shit like that. We’re making it out of this alive, we always do.” He touched your shoulder with a gentleness that contrasted the fierce, nearly angry look on his face. “I’ll dig till my goddamn nails come off if it’ll get you outta here safe,” he snapped.

“Dean, let me finish, please,” you begged. The sudden anger in Dean’s eyes immediately dulled, and he nodded silently.

“Ever since I first met you, I-I always… well, I thought you were a dork and a jerk, really,” you mustered an empty chuckle.

Dean narrowed his eyes in mock indignation, but the smile growing on his face betrayed his amusement. “Ouch.”

“But then I got to know you, and I saw how… full of love you are. How much you care for all the people you meet, and the spirits we meet too. How far you’ll go to protect people, to save people. And… well, it’s hard not to fall for someone like that.” Your words seemed to fill the entire cavern; the emptiness suddenly swelled with months of buried feelings.

Dean stared at you like you had grown another head, yet those green eyes burned with such devotion as if you’d hung the moon with your own two hands. “You’re serious?” he murmured after a moment. You nodded, resting your hand over the one still on your arm. He breathed out a humorless laugh. “I mean… I never expected you to settle for a man like me.”

You scoffed, a tiny smile gracing your lips. “You’re supposed to say ‘I love you too’,” you mused.

His grin softened. “Hell, sweetheart, I’ve loved you for a long time,” he hummed, leaning down until your noses just barely brushed. Dean paused, waiting, and when you didn’t move away, he closed the space between you, cupping your cheek with all the tenderness he could as he pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was slow and intimate, everything you had ever hoped it would be. Considering the kind of man he was, the things he had to do and all the things he had done, Dean was careful, never pushing for more than you offered, letting you make every advance. His hand slid from your arm to your lower back, drawing you closer to him to press your bodies together. You melted into his embrace. Nothing had ever felt better, nothing as solid, as comforting, as his arms around you now. The cave disappeared around you, the worries falling away, and all you could focus on was the drag of his thumb over your cheek, the smell of gunpowder and leather, and him.

The shift and tumble of rocks startled the two of you out of the moment, Dean’s arms tightening instinctively around you protectively. Light swept through the cave, practically blinding you. Your eyes squeezed shut instinctively, and Dean let out a groan, blocking the blinding white with one hand.

“Dean? Are you two in there? Sam’s voice echoed from outside. You would have felt happier about being found if you hadn’t been completely wrapped up in kissing the man you had fantasized about since you’d met him.

“Hey, Sammy!” Dean grinned, standing up and hauling you up with him, walking you to the cave’s mouth where Sam and Bobby stood outside. “Bobby! I’ve never been so happy yet unhappy to see you.”

“It took ages for us to dig you out. I called Bobby for help,” Sam said. Dean’s words slowly processed in his mind, and a confused look crossed his face and furrowed his brow. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, nothin’, nothin’,” Dean shrugged, squeezing you against him and shooting you a playful look. Like the moment you had shared was reserved solely for you, an intimate, sacred secret.

“You both alright? Any injuries?” Bobby asked, stepping forward to check you and Dean over.

Dean shook his head. “We’re peachy. Thanks for all your help, Bobby.”

Sam and Bobby breathed a relieved sigh. “Good. The cars are down the road. We’ll catch you up on everything that happened while you were stuck,” Sam murmured. The two turned around, beginning the trek down the street.

A weighted silence lay between you and Dean. He looked you over, well visible in the light of day. His jacket was still around your shoulders, the leather a protective shell from the morning air. “Looks good on you,” he said calmly, testing the waters.

Your fingers worked the sleeve, suddenly shy. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” he said, shifting side to side on his feet like he was anxious for your response.

You smiled. It was an odd change to see Dean Winchester nervous around a woman, around you of all people. But it was something you absolutely didn’t mind. “I’d like that,” you replied, offering your hand.

A huff escaped his lips, a relieved smile spreading across his face as he took your hand. His large palm covered yours, an embrace you never wanted to let go of. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” The confidence had returned to his voice, your touch a balm for his lingering anxiety. You walked side by side, shoulders lightly bumping together every other step.

Nothing had ever felt more right

|| note: it took all my willpower to finish this story, so the ending is kind of rushed. Not my best work 🫩. I am working on requests next though so I PROMISE those are coming soon!!!

[thatonewriter15]

This was great! Sweet and sassy and angsty--a fabulous cocktail.

I so appreciate the way you wrote Dean, especially. His jokes, his protective nature. But even more so, his tenderness and vulnerability. I gobbled that right up. xD<3

[bejeweledstvrlight]

♡゙ nobody’s wanted somebody more | d. winchester

pairing.ᐟ dean winchester x reader

word count.ᐟ 1.9k

summary.ᐟ you are utterly, completely, brain-meltingly in love with your new boyfriend. the catch? you are terrible with words. when you try to make him a romantic mixtape to do the talking for you, your secret project backfires entirely. dean catches you sneaking around and assumes the worst and you have to prove that no melody on earth is big enough for how you feel about him. inspired by stupid song by olivia rodrigo. part of my you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love series.

warnings .ᐟ lowercase intended, angst (because who am i without it?), insecure dean who just needs a hug, ends with fluff

"if you use that specific brand of glue, the whole thing is just going to peel off the moment it hits a humidity spike," the old man muttered, not looking up from his workbench.

he was leaning over a disassembled 1950s radio, his fingers stained with solder and graphite. the shop smelled of ozone and old dust, a cramped sanctuary where the walls were lined with shelves of vacuum tubes and orphaned gears. it was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower, measured not by a clock, but by the slow drip of oil and the rhythmic clicking of a handheld soldering iron. most people in town avoided the shop, fearing the owner’s reputation for being overly particular about who touched his equipment, but for those who knew how to handle a delicate circuit, it was the only place to find parts that didn't come from a plastic bin at a big-box store.

"i'm not using the glue,"  you replied, carefully sliding a blank cassette tape across the scarred wooden counter. "i just need a high-quality recording head and a few clean swabs. the deck at home is eating my tapes, and i can't afford to lose what's already on here."

the man finally looked up, squinting through thick glasses. he eyed the cassette—a plain, unmarked piece of plastic—and then looked at  you. he didn't say anything for a moment, just grunted and pointed toward the back of the store where a bin of salvaged components sat. "aisle four. bottom shelf. don't touch the capacitors unless you want a shock that'll wake up your ancestors."

as you navigated the narrow aisle, your mind drifted away from the machinery. for the past few days, the house had felt different. the air was heavier, though not unpleasant; it was the feeling of something fragile occupying a space it didn't think it deserved. dean was there, physically present and warm to the touch, but he moved through the rooms like a ghost trying to remember how to be solid. he would catch you looking at him and immediately look away, his shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow, or perhaps just waiting for the moment the dream ended and he was pulled back into the dark.

you found the swabs and the recording head tucked between a heap of rusted vacuum tubes and a box of mismatched knobs. as you made your way back to the counter, you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in a polished chrome hubcap leaning against the wall. you looked tired, your eyes mirroring the frantic energy of the last seventy-two hours. you had spent every spare second scouring the local record store and digging through old shoeboxes of tapes, trying to find a melody that didn't feel like a lie. the problem wasn't a lack of music; it was that everything felt too small. a slow blues track felt too mourning, and the high-energy rock felt like it was trying too hard to mask the silence that always seemed to follow dean into a room.

returning home felt like stepping into a vacuum. dean was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee held in both hands, staring at a patch of peeling wallpaper as if it were a complex map. when he heard the door click shut, he jumped—just a fractional flinch, a tightening of the jaw—before he realized it was you. he forced a small, tentative smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his gaze flickering toward the small bag of parts from the repair shop.

"you were out a while," he said, his voice raspy and low. he didn't ask where you'd been, but the way he shifted his weight suggested he was counting the minutes, measuring the gaps in your presence. he looked smaller than he used to, stripped of the bravado that usually acted as his armor. every time he looked at you, there was a flicker of confusion in his expression, as if he were waiting for you to realize you were dating a broken machine and decide it wasn't worth the effort to fix.

you didn't say anything, instead heading straight for the living room to set up the deck. you spent the next hour in a state of focused frustration, meticulously cleaning the recording head and threading the blank tape. you tried a few songs you’d scribbled in your notebook—a soulful track that felt too much like a funeral and a pop song that sounded like a commercial for a brand of soap. every time you hit 'record' and then 'stop,' the silence that followed felt deafening. the music didn't fit; it didn't capture the way dean looked when he thought no one was watching, or the desperate, quiet way he held your hand in the dark.

by the third day, the notebook was a disaster of crossed-out lyrics and frantic scribbles. you had spent the afternoon pacing the hallway, clutching a stack of vinyl records, feeling a mounting sense of panic. how could a three-minute song possibly encapsulate the feeling of wanting to shield someone from their own memories? the more you searched for the "perfect" sound, the more you felt like you were failing a test you hadn't known you were taking. you felt a surge of genuine irritation at the music itself for being so limited, so unable to translate the sheer mass of your affection into something audible.

meanwhile, the tension in the house had shifted. dean had stopped asking where you were going and started watching you with a growing, quiet apprehension. he saw the secrecy—the hidden notebook, the closed doors, the way the you would start a sentence and then suddenly swallow it, your face flushing with frustration. to someone who had spent an eternity in a place where the only truth was pain, the sudden distance felt like a warning sign. he began to pull back, his movements becoming more guarded, convinced that you were simply gathering the courage to tell him that the version of him that came back from hell wasn't the version you had fallen in love with.

the notebook lay open on the coffee table, a chaotic graveyard of ink and desperation. you had just scratched out a lyric from a mid-tempo folk song for the fifth time, the pen nearly ripping through the paper. you were so engrossed in your frustration that you didn't hear the floorboard creak behind you.

"you've been acting weird."

the voice was barely a whisper, but it hit like a physical weight. you jumped, accidentally knocking the notebook onto the floor. dean was standing in the doorway to the living room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, though his knuckles were white. he wasn't angry; he looked terrified, his eyes scanning the your face with a desperate kind of intensity, searching for the exact moment the blow would land.

"i'm not—i'm not acting weird," you stammered, instinctively stepping in front of the cassette deck to hide the blank tape.

dean took a slow step forward, his boots heavy on the hardwood. he looked at the scattered records, the scribbled notes, and then back at you. the silence stretched, thick and heavy, until dean’s shoulders slumped. he looked away, his voice cracking slightly. "look, if you want out... if this is too much, or if i'm just... too broken to be what you want... just tell me. you don't have to sneak around the house for a week. i can handle it. just don't make me guess."

you felt a surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the sheer, unfair timing of it all. you had spent days agonizing over the perfect sonic translation of your heart, only for dean to misread the silence as a countdown to a breakup. the frustration of the music, the stress of the recording head, and the sight of dean looking so small in his own skin finally boiled over.

"i'm not trying to dump you!" you blurted out, the words colliding into one another.

in a sudden, clumsy motion, you reached for the cassette deck and snatched the blank tape, shoving the small plastic rectangle into dean’s chest with enough force to make him stumble back a half-step. your face was flushed, and your voice had jumped an octave, turning into a frantic ramble. "i was trying to make you a tape! i wanted to find a song—or ten songs—that actually sounded the way i feel about you, but everything is just... wrong! the rock stuff is too loud, the slow stuff is too sad, and the love songs all sound like they were written by someone who's never actually met a person!"

dean didn't move. he just stood there, clutching the blank tape in his large hand, his eyes wide and blinking. the silence that followed wasn't heavy this time; it was expectant, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

you realized you were still shaking, your chest heaving. you looked at the notebook on the floor—the scarred pages, the ink blots, the rejected lyrics—and then back at dean. "i just wanted it to be perfect," you whispered, your voice cracking. "but it’s impossible. i want you more than any stupid song could ever say, and i've been driving myself crazy trying to find a melody that wasn't a lie."

dean didn’t speak for a long moment. he looked down at the blank cassette in his palm—a small, insignificant piece of plastic that had apparently been the source of a week-long psychological war. slowly, the tension that had held his shoulders rigid for days began to dissolve. he looked back up at you, and the haunted, wide-eyed expression was gone, replaced by a look of profound, bewildered tenderness.

then, he started to laugh. it wasn't the loud, booming laugh he used to share with sam over a beer, but a soft, breathless sound that seemed to bubble up from his chest, shaking his whole frame. he leaned his forehead against your’s, his breath warm against your skin. "a mixtape," he murmured, the word sounding foreign and precious in his mouth. "you were stressing yourself into a panic attack for a damn mixtape."

the you let out a shaky sigh, the adrenaline finally receding to leave you feeling heavy and warm. "i just wanted you to know," you mumbled, your voice still thick with emotion. "i wanted to give you something that... that sounded like how much i love you. but the songs just sounded like noise."

dean pulled you in then, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing hug that felt like it was trying to fuse their two bodies into one. he held you with a desperate kind of strength, as if he were anchoring himself to the earth using the you as his tether. for a long time, neither of you moved. the silence in the living room was no longer a void or a warning; it was a sanctuary, filled only by the synchronized rhythm of your breathing and the distant ticking of a clock they had both forgotten to wind.

"i don't need a tracklist," dean whispered into the crook of your neck, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i don't need some singer in a studio trying to describe things he doesn't understand." he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze searching and raw. "hearing you scramble for words... seeing you get all worked up because you care that much... that's the best thing i've ever heard. it's better than any song."

@bejeweledstvrlight © ⭑.ᐟ 2026

[thatonewriter15]

Such a beautiful (attempted) gesture of love--making him a mixtape. This was great!

I so appreciated the emphasis that the search for songs was to highlight the softer, protected side of Dean.

it didn't capture the way dean looked when he thought no one was watching, or the desperate, quiet way he held your hand in the dark.

I mean, that is something sacred.

he looked away, his voice cracking slightly. "look, if you want out... if this is too much, or if i'm just... too broken to be what you want... just tell me. you don't have to sneak around the house for a week. i can handle it. just don't make me guess."

And Dean misinterpreting the reader's actions, leading to this... You ripped my heart clean out of my chest.

he looked back up at you, and the haunted, wide-eyed expression was gone, replaced by a look of profound, bewildered tenderness.

Then his understanding made my chest ache in another wonderful way.

[thehillywoodshow]

A long time ago, in a Parody far, far, away... The Hillywood Show® jumps into hyperspace and takes you on a galactic, cinematic, musical Parody, of the original Star Wars films! So grab your lightguitars and strap yourselves in! The Force is strong with this epic, screen accurate Parody of galactic proportions! 💫🎸

Created, Directed & Produced by Hilly Hindi and Co-Directed by Richard Speight, Jr. Starring Jim Beaver, Phil LaMarr, Matt Cohen, Tessa Netting and Hilly Hindi.

Shot on Anamorphic Lenses [2:39:1] inspired by the iconic 35mm scope of the original Trilogy, to present a theatrical, UltraWide 4K or 8K viewing experience!

NO GENERATIVE AI WAS USED IN THE MAKING OF THIS PARODY.

🎬WATCH THE BEHIND THE SCENES FEATURE: https://youtu.be/1d2rwXyejpw

[dean-ness]

[thatonewriter15]

Salvation

Relationship: Dean Winchester/Reader; Dean Winchester/Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit; 18+ Only

Word Count: 2,921

Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Sex, Pre-Series

Summary: Set during the Stanford era; Dean needs her to save him, and she's sure as hell gonna try.

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

[fatallyfixated]

Code Red

Dean Winchester x Reader (female reader)

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: You get really bad period cramps and Dean is there to comfort you.

A/N: I need more silly little ideas like this plssss. I always have no much motivation to write but nothing to write.

From the moment you wake up, you know it’s going to be a bad few days. You rush to the bathroom, feeling the all too familiar sensation in your lower abdomen, cursing biology and your own anatomy. The concept of periods were already bad enough, bleeding for days straight, with only a few weeks of reprive in between, but everything else that came with it was somehow even worse. You could deal with the bloodflow. Was it unpleasant? Sure. But manageable. The cramps though… those could sometimes take you out of commission entirely. And considering how bad they are already, you start mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

You look for painkillers in the bathroom. Anything– Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen, aspirin, fucking anything, but there’s nothing there. You sigh and wince as you stand, bracing yourself on the sink. You take a breath and slowly make your way through the bunker to the kitchen, where Dean is already sitting, nursing a cup of coffee. You ignore him as you walk straight to the cabinets and rumage through all of them.

“Fuck!” You shout in frustration, hand gripping your abdomen.

Sam stops in his tracks at your outburst, halfway through the doorway. He looks at Dean, then back at you. “What’d he do now?”

“What??” Dean sits up straighter. “I didn’t– She just–” He waves off his brother and focuses on you. “What’s wrong?”

“Where are all the goddamn painkillers?”

“They’re not in there?” he asks, and you give him a look that makes him regret asking. “Right. Okay…” His eyes drift down to your stomach and he notices the way you’re holding yourself. Oh. “I’ll go get some,” he says as he stands, taking one more sip from his coffee.

You don’t say thanks, but it’s implied. You sit down at the table and hold your head in your hands.

“You all good on… uh– supplies?” Dean asks from the doorway.

“Yes.” You grumble. “Just the painkillers.”

He nods and leaves without another word. Sam walks back over with two mugs, coffee for him, and tea for you. He sets it down beside you and you mutter a quiet thank you.

“I’m gonna go to the library for a bit, are you gonna be okay till Dean gets back?” He asks softly. You lay your head down flat on the table and nod.

By the time Dean does get back, he finds you back in your room, curled in the fetal position under the covers. He knocks gently as he enters. “You alright, sweetheart?”

“What do you think?” you mutter without moving.

He chuckles softly and makes his way over to you. “Here… Can you sit up for me?” He sits on the edge of the bed and drops a shopping bag beside you, digging through the contents. When you do sit up, you see he got a lot more than just pain meds.

“Jesus, did you buy the whole pharmacy?”

“Just some stuff I thought might help.” He takes your hand and pours a few painkillers onto your palm, then hands you a bottle of water. He keeps digging through the bag as you swallow them.

“Chocolates and candy if you want somethin’ sweet. Chips and other snacks if you want somethin’ salty. And… uh–” He pulls out a box. “This thing.” He shows it to you before opening it. It’s a heating pad. Not like the one you have, that you have to keep putting back in the microwave, forcing you to get up multiple times. This one’s electric, and weighted.

“The lady at the counter suggested it. Wanna give it a shot?”

You nod and he plugs it in beside the bed before walking over to the other side. He slides in beside you as you adjust the pad on your stomach, and places a kiss to the top of your head. He stays like that for a while, just letting you lean into him, waiting for the meds to kick in.

“Feeling any better?” he asks softly.

“Yes and no,” you mutter with your head tucked into his chest. “Pain’s a little better, but I still don’t wanna move…”

“That’s alright…” He reaches down and fidgets with the edge of the heating pad. “This thing doin’ its job?”

You nod.

“Good…”

“Tell me we don’t have to do anything today.” Your voice is quiet, a little muffled from the way you’re laying on him.

Dean chuckles again, not at you, or your discomfort, but at how cute and cuddly you get when you’re feeling like this. “No, sweetheart. You can lay here all day if you need to.” He gives your head another kiss and leans down to rest his own head against yours. “I’ll stay with you…”

He picks his head up a bit. “Unless… you’d rather just have the room to yourself?” he asks slowly.

You shake your head and tighten your grip around him, snuggling into him impossibly close, seeking every ounce of comfort from his presence. “Don’t go…”

Dean stiffens for a moment, then immediately relaxes into your embrace. “Don’t worry… Can’t just leave my girl when she needs me, can I?... You wanna watch somethin’? Help distract you a bit?”

“I can think of better distractions.”

He raises an eyebrow, knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and being all for it already. “Yeah?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “No… Maybe later, but…” You place your hand on your abdomen again.

“You’re not at all in the mood are you?” Dean asks with a smile on his face.

“No… Sorry. Just existing feels way too uncomfortable right now.” You sigh.

He places a hand over yours, then slides it under your palm, gently massaging over where you’re aching the most. “Don’t apologize, baby. Not for that. Never for that.”

You don’t respond, so he takes his hand and gently tilts your jaw up so that you’re looking at him, so close you can feel his breath. “I mean it, okay?” he says just above a whisper.

You nod, knowing exactly what he meant. He was never the type of guy to expect anything physical from you, even when he was at his neediest, nothing ever happened unless you both wanted it. He smiles down at you, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers as he leans down and places the gentlest kiss to your lips.

* * *

A few hours later, you walk back into the kitchen. You stop when you see Dean plating your meals. “You made steak?”

Dean smirks to himself as he walks over to the table and sets the plates down. “Told you I was makin’ dinner, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but… Steak?” You slowly sit down, taking a big whiff. It looks perfect, and smells even better.

Dean just shrugs as he walks back to the fridge to grab some beers. “Sam suggested it. Something about your iron levels or… somethin’. Honestly after he said ‘steak’, the rest sounded like the teacher from those Peanut cartoons.”

He grabs something off of the counter as he walks back to the table “Here.” He gives you a quick peck on the lips as he places your stuffed heating pad in your lap. “Warmed it up for you.”

“Mm… thank you.” You adjust it and take your first bite. “Where’s Sam?”

“You’ve got all this in front of you–” He motions to the food, and himself. “And you’re asking about my brother?” He fakes offense, but can’t keep the smile off of his face. “He said something about the new salad bar in town.”

The two of you eat peacefully, talking about nothing important, just the mundane things that almost make t feel like you’re living a life resembling anything close to normal. Once you finish, the takes the plate to the sink for you, and as soon as you stand, he’s there to scoop you up into his arms. You let out a little squeal but don’t do much resisting. He carries you back to bed, lets you use him as a human pillow, and holds you close. He even lets you pick whatever you want to watch, not once complaining if you pick something that isn’t his thing. He spends the rest of the day, and the following days, spoiling you to no end, just because you let him.

Dean hates seeing you in any sort of pain or discomfort, so when he knows you’re going through it, you hardly ever hear the word ‘no’ leave his mouth. It’s not like you would ever take advantage of his kindness, and he knows that, but even if you did, he wouldn’t care. Because from the day that you met, everything he does, he does for you. And he’ll continue to do it, for as long as you let him.

[thatonewriter15]

Cute, cute, cute!

“Don’t apologize, baby. Not for that. Never for that.”

And this nearly made me cry. <3