⛥ This is a multi-fandom blog but will most heavily feature Supernatural 🥾🧥🫎
⛥ Main blog is @saltingburning (previously stormwinchester)
⛥ Masterlist + lots more fics coming very soon!
⛥ New to fanfic but not new to writing (I mostly write screenplays) please be kind !!
⛥ Always happy to chat so please feel free to say hi and / or ask me as many unhinged things as you desire !! 𓆏
This is an 18+ blog with posts containing explicit / nsfw content. Minors, please don't interact. Please check all tags & warnings before reading.
This is also an AI-free zone. I will never use AI in my writing & please don't feed my work to AI / chatbots. I will, however, use em dashes because I like them. Long live creative outlets, and a very sincere fuck you to big corporations draining our water supply + our souls :)
Please don't post my work elsewhere or share without credit ♥
new fics coming really soon i promise !! i’m sorry it’s taken so long but i will ride in on horseback and drop a bunch on the dash then disappear off into the sunset v soon
me, driving around in my ex-military father’s car, angry as shit, more comfortable with the notion of going to war than confronting any form of emotion:
huh, i wonder why i relate to dean winchester so much
So what then, we’re supposed to just walk around now carrying this show in our souls like it’s completely normal ?? It happened and now it’s over and we just have to live with that ??
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: John Winchester has never forgiven himself for raising his sons in the life, and he sure as shit won’t be dragging anyone else along for the ride. That is, until one of the students in his boxing class is targeted by the Djinn he’s hunting.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: John Winchester x F! Reader
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: TBC [ｏｎｇｏｉｎｇ]
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, this blog operates a dead dove: do not eat policy. Please check the warnings of each chapter for specifics.
This is my first ever request so I really hope I’ve done it justice !!
I was originally going to make this a short burst, but it turned into a more detailed one-shot with some extra tension between Hotch & the reader. I hope that’s okay ??
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re pretty sure Hotch hates you. Either that, or he thinks you’re a shitty profiler. Or it’s both. But when you volunteer to be bait for New York’s latest serial killer, the dynamic between you shifts, and you find yourself realizing that Aaron Hotchner might just care about you after all.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Aaron Hotchner x F! Reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, oral sex, public sex, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, bondage (non-sexual), sexism, toxic masculinity, death & injury detail, dead dove: do not eat.
no mention of Y/N · present tense · second person POV
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Protective Hotch, you have awakened something inside of me.
This is my first ever fic request !! Thank you SO much to the anon who asked for this. I loved writing it and really hope I get more requests soon ❤
masterlist | requests
The briefing room is for very serious conversations about very serious shit. You know that, but it doesn’t stop you and JJ from relentlessly teasing Spencer before Hotch arrives.
“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”
Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.
“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.
A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.
“This conversation is so inappropriate.”
JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.
“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”
That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.
Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.
Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.
Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.
“Freaky.”
Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.
“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”
Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.
“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”
JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.
Prentiss takes the floor first.
“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”
Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.
“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”
It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.
“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”
Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.
“Go on.”
“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”
Hotch’s eyes bore into you.
“Elaborate.”
“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”
He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.
“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”
Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.
“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”
---
Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.
Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.
Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.
“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”
He feigns innocence.
“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”
The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.
“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”
Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.
“Holy shit.”
Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.
“What is it?”
“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”
Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.
“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”
A beat. More keyboard clicking.
“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”
“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”
Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.
“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”
You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.
“Great, that narrows it down.”
Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.
“Hardly.”
You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.
“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”
Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.
“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”
You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement.
Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.
“Unless we plant one.”
She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.
“No.”
You huff out a frustrated laugh.
“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”
Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation.
Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.
“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”
You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.
“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”
JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.
“How’re you gonna do that?”
You shrug.
“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”
“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.
Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.
“It’s our best shot and you know it.”
---
Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.
You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.
Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them.
The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway.
“Damn, woman.”
You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.
Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.
He shifts uncomfortably for a second.
“It’s a bit much, no?”
You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.
Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.
“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”
That shuts him up.
---
One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things.
They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet.
Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.
As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.
Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.
“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.”
Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.
You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.
Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.
Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of sight behind a pillar.
“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.
Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.
Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.
“He’s gone.”
As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”
“Good.” he grits out.
“Good? We have him.”
Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.
“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”
Now you really lose your cool.
“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”
Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”
You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.
“I am not.”
Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.
“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.
Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”
You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.
Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.
“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”
Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.
With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.
Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.
Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length.
Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.
Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely.
Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.
You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.
Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.
As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.
The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.
Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.
Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.
“Bathroom.”
Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.
Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.
JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.
“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”
You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.
“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”
Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.
“Huh. That’s... out of character.”
---
Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.
You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.
There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.
Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.
You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull.
Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.
---
Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.
Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied.
Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.
You feel a presence looming behind you.
“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”
With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
You bark out a laugh.
“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”
Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.
It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.
“Women like you need to learn your place.”
Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers.
One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.
You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.
Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red.
Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.
Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.
“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.
Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.
Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.
Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub.
You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.
Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.
“You doing okay, kid?”
You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.
“How did you find me?”
Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.
“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”
Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.
Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now.
The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head.
“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”
His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.
“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”
You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.
Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.
“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.”
You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.
“Is he dead?”
Hotch lets out a small sigh.
“Yes.”
You lower your voice.
“Did you do that for me?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently.
Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.
“Everything’s fine. I promise.”
And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: John Winchester has never forgiven himself for raising his sons in the life, and he sure as shit won’t be dragging anyone else along for the ride. That is, until one of the students in his boxing class is targeted by the Djinn he’s hunting.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: John Winchester x F! Reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit language, slow burn, yearning, age gap, sexually suggestive content, no real smut in this one but it's coming I assure you, discussion of death / dead bodies, dead dove: do not eat.
no mention of Y/N · present tense · mix of second person & third person limited POV
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: This is part one of my first ever chaptered work! Important context: John is still alive, kicking, and annoying the shit out of his sons. Cass & Bobby are around too. John & the boys hunt and live life mostly separately with occasional visits, and the obligatory family reunions whenever shit really hits the fan.
This series will be like Daddy issues on crack. You have been warned.
(That said, there will be no use of the word ‘Daddy’ in a sexual context in my writing — I would never yuck someone else’s yum, but I still call my own father Daddy so I simply ⊹₊⋆ cannot ⊹₊⋆. I assure you it's in a Beth/John Dutton type of way, not an Oldboy way !!)
masterlist | requests
John Winchester is an asshole composed of fifty percent self-loathing and fifty percent regret. He’s also an exceptionally good boxing coach.
You’d decided all that within the first fifteen minutes of this class. The man is rude as fuck. He’s clearly got issues, but he’s also the best sparring partner you’ve ever had.
A face-full of leather quickly reminds you that despite your mind wandering, you are still in class. You swat John’s gloved hand away.
“You know princess, maybe you’d be better suited to pilates or yoga?”
You retaliate with a body shot packing far more force than that comment called for. It gives you a rush you weren’t expecting.
John winces at the contact, then tosses you a cheeky wink.
“Attagirl.”
Detecting an ounce of pride in his voice, you can practically hear your Daddy issues rattling the sides of their cage inside you.
You break eye contact, denying yourself the satisfaction of seeing it in his eyes too.
John takes a small step back, noting the conflicted expression on your face. You’ve obviously weirded him out — and in a single session too, way to go.
He hovers near you for a beat, silently studying you, then strides off launching his gloves across the room in the process. The rest of the group all gather around him in the center. You linger on the edge.
“Alright, good work tonight everyone. No individual sessions this week ‘cause I’ve gotta head out of town for a job, so I’ll see you all next Monday.”
You had planned to stick around for some tedious small talk after, but the coffee truck out front is a lot more tempting right now, so you head out.
In a moment of weakness as you pass through the doorway, you quickly scan the room to catch a brief parting glimpse of John. He’s already left — which is definitely for the best. There’s a reason your friends keep begging you to date people that are not twenty years your senior. No matter how hot and grumpy they are.
---
John paces back and forth in the alley, pushing the image of his new student to the back of his mind. That is a problem for another day.
As though he can sense his father about to make yet another terrible decision from miles away, John’s phone rings. Dean’s contact card lights up the screen.
He releases a deflated huff, hitting accept.
“Dad? Listen we’ve taken care of the rugaru in Fair Oaks so we don’t need y—”
John rubs his temple, his tone stern.
“I told you to wait.”
“I know that. But people were getting hurt and we’ve taken out plenty before.”
Failing to suppress his frustration, John barks down the line.
“I know that, son. But this one was more—”
A beat.
“—complicated than that.”
The muffled sounds of Sam putting in his two cents in the background snaps John out of his rage. He sighs.
“No, you know what Dean, you’re right I’m sorry. As long as you boys are okay.”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence on the other line.
“We’re fine, Dad. That’s not why I called anyway. Sam got an alert on his phone about some missing folks in this town- uh, Maple Falls, outside of Washington. That’s where you’re at, right?”
John scans the space around him, immediately on edge. He takes a mental note of the people nearby, stilling for a moment when he finds a familiar face waiting in line at the coffee truck.
“Uh-huh.”
“You want us to meet you there? We’re about a day out.”
John tears his eyes away from her and forces himself to look at the ground.”
“No. I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure? Sam and I thought could stay for a couple days after and—”
John snaps. “I said no.”
John wishes he could take it back the moment the words leave his lips. Dean mumbles some generic farewell in response and swiftly hangs up. John tosses his head back and rolls his eyes at himself. Gold star parenting, as always.
That’s another problem for another day, because before he even realizes he’s moving, John’s boots are heading straight toward the coffee truck.
---
Downtowns’s usual cocktail of gasoline and coffee in the air soothes you as you take in the view of the courtyard.
Some local kids sit huddled under a tree around a Nintendo DS, vibrating with excitement about whatever game they’re playing. An elderly couple shares a croissant on the bench.
Is this place cute? Sure, but it’s all a little too Hallmark for you, so you tune it out.
Walking up to the coffee truck, you’re greeted by the same guy that’s served you every day this week. His name’s Carl or Chris or something like that.
“Hey pretty girl, what can I getcha today?”
You don’t mind the compliment, but this guy’s not your type, so you smile sweetly and brush it off.
“Just an oat flat white please, Carl.”
“Sure thing. It’s Cole, by the way.”
Your mouth opens to issue a half-assed apology, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a voice you recognise in the distance.
Cole’s pathetic puppy dog eyes bore into you as you find yourself entirely focused on John’s harsh tone coming from the alley.
“Uh, here’s that oat flat white.”
You snap out of it, taking the cup.
“Sorry Cole, long day.”
You pretend you don’t see his phone number written on it.
Taking a sip of the nectar of the gods, you notice a shadow appear on the asphalt, swallowing your own.
“Of course you’re an oat milk person.”
The deep, gravel in John’s voice makes you want to melt, but you push that feeling down as deep as you can.
You spin around, silently enjoying the fact you hair whips him in the face a little. You raise a brow at him.
“Gotta make sure there’s enough half fat, decaf, vanilla shit left for you.”
John huffs out a laugh.
“I’ll get the iced banana frappe.”
Cole stares blankly at you both. His voice shakes when he addresses John.
“Are you— did you really want that?”
John glares at the poor kid, intimidating him further.
“No. Coffee, black. Thanks”
While Cole makes John’s drink with trembling hands, you decide to interrogate him about the call, pointing at his phone.
“That sounded pretty serious. Everything okay?”
His posture straightens instantly, shoulders tense.
“Uh, yeah. Just my sons.”
You nod slowly.
“Wanna talk about it?”
John barks out a laugh.
“Sweetheart, that is one can of worms you don’t wanna open. Believe me.”
Noted. John makes toward a nearby bench. You aren’t sure whether to follow him or not so you linger for a second, which Cole unfortunately reads entirely the wrong way.
Rolling up his sleeves and attempting to work up the nerve, he clears his throat a few times. You brace for discomfort.
“Hey, listen, I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna catch the game together this weekend?”
Desperate for an out, your eyes dart around the truck looking for anything to help you change the subject. They land on his tribal tattoos.
“Uh-huh, maybe some other time. Cool ink, by the way.”
Awkward as hell, you mumble some shit about wanting tattoos, slowly backing away until you feel the wood of the picnic bench pressing against the back of your thigh.
Cole diverts his attention to his next customer, ego sufficiently bruised.
John’s smug grin pisses you off as you sit down.
“You are cold as hell. That boy is down bad for you, you could’ve at least softened the blow a bit.”
You pout, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He continues the interrogation.
“Alright, so why boxing? You seem to enjoy smacking the shit out of people. You got some deep-seated issues I should be concerned about?”
Tilting your head to the side, you deflect the question.
“Have you?”
John groans, picking up a white napkin and waving it in surrender.
You decide to throw him a bone.
“Truth is, I don’t really have an answer for that. Guess I just wanted to feel a bit tougher?”
“You seem plenty tough to me.”
---
A few weeks later, getting coffee together after class has accidentally become a regular thing.
Occasionally, John will rock up with a gnarly bruise or a fat lip. You’ve decided it’s best not to ask since that time he sarcastically told you he got thrown against a tree by a vampire.
Despite the fact you’re spending more time together than you really should be, you still know a grand total of fucking nothing about John Winchester, so today you’ve opted for a different approach. ‘Break bread’ and all that.
You dump the offering down in front of John with minimal confidence.
“What the fuck is that?”
You roll your eyes dramatically.
“It’s a cinnamon bun, old man.”
John frowns.
“You cut that ‘old man’ shit out right now.”
Taking a sip of coffee, you stare him down.
“Come on, just try it. A man can’t live off hard liquor and burgers alone.”
He huffs out a laugh.
“Sweetheart, I’ve got a son on the road and a friend in South Dakota that would beg to differ.”
Today feels like a good day to poke the bear.
“Hmm maybe you should introduce me? Is your son hot?” you tease.
No response, he’s stoic as ever. You go in for the kill.
“Or even better, your friend?”
That gets his attention.
“Even better?”
You stare him down, expecting him to clam up and get all awkward. Instead, he catches you completely off-guard.
“One of my individual session slots has just opened up. If you’re interested?”
You’re not sure if you’re meant to read into that or not.
His gaze is firmly fixed on yours. The tension heats your cheeks, the look he’s giving you setting your body alight.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
You practically watch the thought cross his mind in real time. There’s a hint of an idea there for a moment, then it’s back to his signature frown. Always taking life too seriously. Punishing himself for that split second where he allowed himself to picture you on top of him. Head thrown back, mouth open, sweat glistening on your chest.
You wonder if he’ll go home and really punish himself for the thought later. Or if he’ll indulge the fantasy for a few minutes longer behind closed doors.
He clears his throat, pulling you out of the depths of your mind.
“Look, full disclosure; I’m a widower, I drink too much, I have two sons that don’t like me very much, I practically live out of my truck, and I’m over 20 years older than you.”
You blink at him, somewhat taken aback by his candor. He continues.
“I’m not putting the moves on you. I just thought you might want the extra training, that’s all.”
The bluntness of it all stings a little, but you’re glad he said it, regardless.
John has practically poured a bucket of ice water over whatever weird vibe there was between you, which is good because it was a recipe for disaster and you’ve decided to sort your life out — which is exactly why you agree to the 1-1 sessions. What could possibly go wrong?
---
In the gym, skin slick with sweat, you pound your fists against the bag.
John’s eyes track your every move, jaw clenched.
“Harder.”
You hit the bag again.
“Harder.”
And again.
“Harder.”
Again.
“Harder.”
You’re now officially sick of hearing the word ‘harder’, so this time you pummel the ever-loving shit out of the bag until you genuinely wonder if your hands are broken. And holy shit does it feel good.
John moves in closer and you can’t help but inhale the delicious smoky scent of his cologne. He studies the wild look in your eyes.
“Feel better?
You nod, breathless, chest heaving.
“Good.”
Pulse drumming in your ears, you’re transported back to that first session just the two of you.
John’s painfully intense gaze fixated on you as you hit the stupid bag. The words he said that you’ve found yourself hearing on repeat lately.
“Listen to me. Whatever fucked up shit you’ve got going on, whatever demons you’re running from— or to —you can lay down and cry about it, go bitch about it on the internet, OR you can fight it. Don’t throw in the towel just because you’re scared. Hit harder, feel better.”
In a turn of events surprising to absolutely nobody, things are getting a little too intense, so you decide to take five.
John heads out the back to make a call while you hit the water cooler.
Spiraling like an idiot, you run through every possible scenario in your head. At least you think you do, until you hear the scream. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that there are several scenarios you might have overlooked.
Bursting out the fire doors like a bat out of hell, you’re stopped dead in your tracks when you find John crouched over a dead body.
You recoil at the sight of it. It’s not the first dead body you’ve seen, but it’s definitely the gnarliest.
What was presumably a woman in her 20s full of life is now a pale, bloodless, husk with a permanent expression of sheer terror.
“Jesus fucking christ, John. What the hell?”
His head whips up in your direction, eyes frantic. You keep your eyes on him, desperately trying not to look at the corpse on the ground.
As bad as it sounds, the incessant shrieking from a middle-aged woman nearby offers you a small comfort, because you’re confident the scream you heard came from her and not the body John is currently crouched over. So if he didn’t do this, why is he crouched over the body?
John must have read your mind because within seconds he’s upright and heading straight for you. He grabs you by the elbow and steers you away from the crowd.
Once you’re out of sight from the chaos, he leans in close, his forehead practically touching yours.
“I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Just not here.”
You nod frantically, internally scalding yourself for enjoying being this close to a man who could potentially be extremely dangerous.
He pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket and pushes them into your palm.
“Go to my truck and lock the doors. Do not let anyone in but me. It’s parked in the main lot — I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
Judging by the severity in his voice, any protest would be fruitless, so you nod in agreement.
John places a hand at the small of your back as you slip away from the scene. Watching your every step until you’re out of sight completely.
You still feel the pressure of his palm against your back hours later. Sure, he could be dangerous, but that doesn’t stop from you sitting in his truck like an idiot, waiting for whatever comes next.
Think of this like your favourite diner hidden in the trees somewhere.
Grab a booth, take a load off, and read something a little dirty. ☕︎
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧?
⛧ 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐋 ⛧
𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓
𝘈𝘕𝘠𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘉𝘜𝘛 𝘛𝘈𝘓𝘒.
Cass is dead and Dean is devastated. Failing to successfully drown his sorrows in his usual vices, he seeks out a new bad habit to make him feel better. You. Oh, and don't worry, Cass lovers. As is always the case in Supernatural, what's dead doesn't stay dead all that long. | 4.4𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 · 𝑜𝑛𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡
𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓
𝘏𝘐𝘛 𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘋𝘌𝘙, 𝘍𝘌𝘌𝘓 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙. [ｏｎｇｏｉｎｇ]
𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 | 𝐓𝐰𝐨 | 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞
John Winchester has never forgiven himself for raising his sons in the life, and he sure as shit won’t be dragging anyone else along for the ride. That is, until one of the students in his boxing class is targeted by the Djinn he’s hunting. | 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 · 𝑤𝑖𝑝
𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒍
[ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃
𝑹𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑮𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔
[ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒉
𝘗𝘜𝘓𝘓 𝘔𝘌 𝘋𝘖𝘞𝘕. [ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
After months facing the sticky heat of Atlanta and relentless walkers alone, Shane catches an FBI profiler trying to hot-wire his truck. It doesn't take her long to figure out exactly what kind of man he is. They might be cut from the same cloth, but she has her shit very much under control despite this new world. Shane, on the other hand, does not. | 𝑜𝑛𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡 · 𝑤𝑖𝑝
𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒍 𝑫𝒊𝒙𝒐𝒏
[ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒
𝑨𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒓
𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘗𝘗𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘖𝘍 𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘌.
You’re pretty sure Hotch hates you. Either that, or he thinks you’re a shitty profiler. Or it’s both. But when you volunteer to be bait for New York’s latest serial killer, the dynamic between you shifts, and you find yourself realizing that Aaron Hotchner might just care about you after all. | 3.5𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 · 𝑜𝑛𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 // 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋
𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆
[ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑴𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒌
[ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｓｏｏｎ]
𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕?
This is a very new blog (hence why it looks a little naked currently) but I'd love to write some requested stuff too. Please place your order via the ask box !!
The more detail the better. Please give me an idea of your favourite tropes & desired "spice level" too.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
⋆ Most of my writing will feature at least a hint of spice.
⋆ This is a dead dove: do not eat space. Please check the warnings, and if something's not your cup of tea, don't read it !! 18+
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Cass is dead and Dean is devastated. Failing to successfully drown his sorrows in his usual vices, he seeks out a new bad habit to make him feel better. You. Oh, and don't worry, Cass lovers. As is always the case in Supernatural, what's dead doesn't stay dead all that long.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Dean Winchester x F! Reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, consensual sexual violence, choking, smoking, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, death, anger, heartbreak, age gap (reader is in their 20s, Dean’s in his 40s), dead dove: do not eat.
no mention of Y/N · present tense · second person POV
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: This is my first ever fanfic so please accept my apologies if it sucks ass! I’m more of a Screenwriter than anything else, so I don’t tend to write prose — hence why this probably reads a little more like a script than it should.
It may shock you to learn that I have proofread this. However, I have also been staring at it for more hours than I care to admit so there is a slight risk of typos. Please feel free to take me out back and put one between my eyes (message me) if you spot any.
There are also some very light, subtle hints at Destiel maybe being a thing, but that’s entirely up to reader preference! You can choose to analyse the subtext however you like — that’s the beauty of creativity and interpretation, baby!
As always, there was absolutely no AI used here. Every single word of this mess is proudly my own.
Always open to feedback and discussion but please be kind !!
masterlist | requests
Cass is dead.
Dean has repeated those exact words fifteen times now. And he has that fucking look on his face again.
You and Sam stood there like part of the scenery after Dean barked at you not to touch him.
Watched him heave the angel’s broken body off the ground. Kick away the scorch marks of his wings.
He carried Cass to the impala and laid him on the back seats so gently you could have sworn you heard the sound of your own heart tearing in two.
Then came the part Sam doesn’t know about. Dean drove you in silence out to the crossroads and made you promise not to say a word.
To never tell a soul about how he dropped to his knees and screamed himself hoarse. To bury the memory of his desperate pleas to every creature he could think of to please bring Castiel back — he’ll do anything, please, God, just bring him back.
And now the three of you are standing here watching his body burn.
If it wasn’t so sickeningly devastating, you might let yourself think about how beautiful the view is. The fire in front of the lake, the deep green of the pine trees, the sound of the rain. But you can’t. Because Castiel is dead. You push away the unwanted reminder that he’ll never hear the rain again.
Sam’s saying a few words that you aren’t listening to. You’re too busy waiting for the yelling to start. But it never does.
Dean turns, looks right through you for a moment, then disappears into the trees without a word.
---
Several hours later you find Dean outside the cabin, leaning over the edge of an Adirondack chair. It takes you a second to taste the earthiness of Marlboro Reds in the air.
“Are you smoking?”
His eyes flit to your boots for a second, then they’re back to staring dead ahead, expressionless. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth.
“You can hold the judgement. I found them in your duffel.”
You nod, watching his jaw tick.
“I doubt Cass would approve.”
Dean’s head snaps towards you at the mention of Cass’s name.
He throws you a look of disgust. Or hatred. You’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both? Either way, you know better than to read into it too much. This is Dean Winchester — Daddy’s angriest soldier — after all.
“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly here to voice his concern.” he huffs out quietly.
You let out a humourless laugh.
“Never seemed bothered whenever I did it though. But I guess I didn’t know him like you did, so—”
Dean cuts you off, venom in his words.
“You’re damn fucking right you didn’t. I lost a—”
He clenches his jaw. His lip curls upward for a second before he fixes his face.
“Brother.”
You take a step closer. Dean turns away, eyes fixed on the ground.
“I know.”
His lip twitches, eyes glazed over.
“No. You don’t”
You sigh softly, then bend down and swipe up the pack of cigarettes from the decking.
“You’re right, I don’t. But when you’re done being a brooding jackass and want to talk to someone about it, you know where I am.”
Dean’s blank gaze remains firmly focused on the ground until long after you leave.
---
It’s 3 AM and you’ve been staring out the window at the same godforsaken gap in the trees for several hours.
The fire in your room went out two whiskeys ago, the only source of light now the warm glow of a spiced vanilla candle by the bedside.
You’re too fried to even bother reaching for your gun when you hear the door creak open.
You find the rhythm of Dean’s heavy boots hitting the ground oddly calming as he approaches you cautiously from behind.
Turning around, your heart shatters a little at the sight of him. His eyes offer a painful glimpse of the storm raging inside him.
He stills when you make eye contact, holding your gaze with a fiery intensity.
A beat. A light clinking sound breaks your stare and you divert your attention to the two beers in his right hand.
Dean approaches and hands you one, taking a heavy swig of his own.
You follow and do the same. He steps closer, taking another swig.
You raise your bottle to your lips, forcing yourself to look at the pain in Dean’s eyes, illuminated by the flicker of the candle. You do a shitty job of ignoring the near-pornographic way his lips touch the bottle.
He advances closer, reaching for your bottle. Time slows to a crawl.
Before you can take another sip he takes it from you and leans to the side, setting both down on the window ledge.
You watch him, anchored in place. The flexing of his shoulder muscles has your mind wandering to places it really shouldn’t.
Dean steps closer, entirely in your space now. You share an intense look for several seconds, then his gaze slips to your lips.
He speaks quietly, voice pure gravel.
“I don’t want to talk.”
You find yourself fixated on his lips now. You know he’s hurting and you should tell him to leave and sleep it off. But of course, you won’t.
“Neither do I.”
His gaze flicks up to your eyes, then back to your lips, and then it’s too late. He surrounds you instantly and the second your lips touch it feels like you’re on fire.
No matter how battered, bruised, devastated, whatever you want to call it he is, he’s all man.
He slams you against the window in the most deliciously erotic way, and it doesn’t matter if he’s a broken man right now, you know what’s coming next. And you want it. You need it.
You offer a pathetically weak protest as he breaths hot air on your neck, whispering filthy things in your ear.
“Dean. We shouldn’t—”
He presses his forehead against yours, searching for something in your eyes, desperate.
“Can you just fucking let me do this please?”
Any resolve you had crumbles entirely.
You nod, moaning as he lifts your legs around his waist, pressing his hard length into you.
He places you down on the bed gently. You quickly blink away the painful memory of him doing the same with Cass’s body.
Distracting yourself, you claw at his shirt, tearing it off his back and running your fingers over his sinfully sculpted shoulders.
He follows your eyes as you take in every scar on his chest. Every old bullet wound, every badly healed slash, the deep purple bruising across his ribs.
“Does it hurt?”
A sad smile crosses his face for a split second. He nods.
“All of it does.”
You lean upwards and kiss him again. He groans into your mouth, savouring the taste of you.
Lost in the warmth of his arms and the smoky caramel scent of him, you spend a while like that. Tangled up together, limbs intertwined. Hands roaming everywhere, relentlessly kissing you with an insatiable need. Whispering in your ear about how he thinks about fucking you constantly.
But despite it all, he feels distant. Weighed down by his thoughts. Then something in him changes, like flipping a switch.
He kisses you harder, almost violently, pushing you deeper into the bed. Wrapping his hand around your throat. Your eyes tell him everything he needs to hear. Take what you need.
You’re completely breathless when he pulls your top over your head, losing any remaining shred of self-control as he moves his mouth to your tits. The sounds you make only encourage him further.
Dean moves lower, watching you intently as he slides off your panties.
His tongue is everywhere then, pulling filthy noises from your lips as he flicks, sucks, bites, until you unravel with his name on your tongue.
Fingers biting into your inner thighs so hard it hurts, the thought of the bruises he’ll leave on your skin turns you on more than you care to admit.
You commit the feel of his stubble against your skin to memory. You’re certain you’ll never feel this vulnerable or fucking euphoric with any other man.
You’ve officially lost access to any logic or reason at this point. Instead, you create a mental grocery list of all the downright obscene things you’re about to do with Dean Winchester as he pulls himself up from the end of the bed.
But you don’t get the chance. He stands motionless for a beat, sad eyes searching in your own again, then he turns and leaves without saying a word.
You lie there alone, confused as hell, and hungry for more.
A violent slam of his bedroom door makes you wince, shortly followed by the sound of what you can only assume is a deer mount meeting its untimely demise.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Sam.
SAM: He’s handling it well, then.
You text back.
YOU: I don’t think Agents Henley and Walsh are getting their deposit back.
You lie there for hours listening to Dean throwing crap around and tearing shit off the walls until the cabin finally falls silent.
---
The next morning you don’t have a clue what the fuck to say to Dean.
You paced back and forward for longer than you care to admit before coming downstairs to the kitchen. Sam immediately noticed something was up.
Thankfully, it seems like he’s chalked it up to the classic signs of another emotionally constipated hunter going through the motions of grief. But it’s not that.
Sam catches your eye and hits you with a tight-lipped smile accompanied by his signature puppy-dog eyes.
He slides a mug of coffee across the counter to you which you accept with a muttered thank you.
“Y’know, we’ve lost Cass before and Dean and I have both died so many times we’ve lost count. But this feels different.”
You look away from Sam’s sadness in an act of self-preservation, running your thumb back and forth gently across the mug in your hand.
You’re about to feed him some bullshit line about finding a way to bring Cass back when Dean steps into the room.
He pours himself a coffee, then leans against the counter, eyes boring into you. You immediately notice his knuckles are split and bloody.
Sam opens his mouth to speak, but you quickly raise your hand to stop him. Dean is a grenade right now and you’re almost certain Sam is about to tear out the pin.
“Sam has to go meet Jody and Donna. They’re at some cop convention in Chicago and they think there might be a case-”
Sam raises a brow. This is news to him. You shoot him a stern glance, silently pleading with him to go along with it.
“-and I have a lead I need to follow up on.”
Dean studies your face, arms folded, entirely unreadable.
Sam’s eyes dart between the pair of you.
“Uh, yep. I’ll be gone a few days. Dean, just call if you need anything.”
Your eyes practically roll into the back of your skull. Way to set him off, Sam.
Dean’s response is about as warm as you’d expect.
“Sammy, I’m a grown-ass man in my 40s. How about offering your help to the 20-something chick that had the shit kicked out of her yesterday instead?”
What Dean’s saying is true, but offensive nonetheless. If Cass hadn’t healed you right before he— well, it would have been a hunter’s funeral for two.
Sam lets out a defeated sigh, swipes up the impala keys, and heads out the door. You watch his giant frame dip into the driver’s seat through the window.
When you return your gaze to Dean, he’s scowling at you.
“What the hell are you planning?”
You tilt your head to the side, clenching your jaw as you try to read his expression.
“I have an old friend who’s heard some chatter on angel radio about the demon that killed Cass.”
Dean throws his hands up, instantly raising his voice.
“Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how stupid that is? We don’t know what the hell this thing is, but it’s not like any demon we’ve ever met before. We lost Cass. Sammy’s barely keeping it together, and I clearly can’t watch out for you as it is, and now you wanna fly off on a solo suicide mission?”
You temper your anger for a moment, narrowing your eyes at the man before you.
“Do you think it was your fault?”
“What?” he snaps.
“Yesterday. Me getting-” you throw in some dramatic air quotes “-the shit kicked out of me.”
Dean swallows deeply. He’s practically dripping with self hatred.
“Dean, it’s okay.”
“It’s not fucking okay. None of this is okay.”
Your patience is wearing thin and you’re itching to stare at something other than wood panelling, so you shove past him.
“I don’t know what the hell you want from me Dean, but it’s not your job to babysit me. I might be younger than you, but I’m a fucking adult.”
He stands in the doorway in silence, watching you move around the cabin like a tornado.
You pick up your duffel and throw some bullets, the demon knife, and a hoodie you left out in there. Dean stays eerily still as you pick up your Beretta M9, check the chamber, then slide out the mag.
Satisfied it’s loaded, you reach around to tuck it in in the waistband of your jeans.
Without warning, Dean storms across the room, grabs your gun, ejects the magazine onto the floor, and throws your M9 across the room.
You see red.
“What the fuck?!”
Whilst you scramble to grab your gun, he goes for your duffel next, emptying it out onto the floor.
Furious, you storm out the room, slamming the door behind you. Dean follows, practically tearing the door off its hinges as he makes after you. There’s an almighty crash when it hits the wall, making the whole cabin shake.
Now in the hallway, Dean still doesn’t utter a word. Instead, he stalks towards you and spins you around, crowding your space, picking you up.
It doesn’t matter how furious you are with him, your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.
He strides into your bedroom and heads straight towards the huge glass doors to the balcony.
Putting you down with a thud, he glares at you for a beat, then pushes you hard against the wooden door frame. Big, muscular arms boxing you in. You yell out in pain.
He scowls down at you, pushing his body weight against you, trapping you.
You manage to free your arm, and smack his face with brutal force.
He blinks at you, bewildered. You feel his dick hardening against you.
“Fuck.”
You look deep into his eyes, recognising the hunger staring back at you.
“Again.” he grits out.
You do as he asks, feeling exactly how much he loves it pressing against your body.
Dean moves back to grant you a little room, then wraps his hand around your throat. You roll into him, pulling a tortured groan from his lips.
“You like that?”
You nod.
He squeezes harder, your eyelids fluttering in response. He searches in your eyes for any sign of uncertainty.
You reassure him by palming his dick through his jeans. Looking up at him, doe-eyed and pleading.
“I can take it.”
He squeezes harder, your fingers work frantically on unbuttoning his jeans. His nose brushes against yours as he hovers over your lips for a moment, drinking you in.
You smirk up at his obnoxiously pretty green eyes and run your tongue across your teeth. He adds a little more pressure around your neck. You manage to gently choke out a sentence.
“You’re really mad at me, huh?”
He nods. Eyes fixated on your lips, grip loosening a touch.
“Want to tell me exactly how mad?”
Dean frowns, his expression turning sinister.
“No. I’m gonna to show you.”
You feel the sudden sting of cold air against your skin as the door to the balcony swings open.
Before you can even attempt to protest, he has you pressed against the wood railing, dangerously close to the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tight.
He leans down and kisses you, biting your lip so hard you can taste metal as he pulls away.
His hand moves upwards to your jaw, and he turns your head aggressively to the side, showing you how far down the drop is.
His mouth lightly brushes your ear as he leans down to threaten you. He speaks slowly, his tone dripping with desire and danger — your favourite combination.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
With one arm firmly wrapped around your waist holding you steady, Dean uses his free hand to tear your shirt off and launch it over the balcony.
“What the fu—”
His mouth crashing down onto yours again shuts you up instantly. He pulls back to admire your slutty little black lace bra before swiftly removing it and launching that over the edge as well.
You retaliate by pushing your thighs upwards causing him to stumble backwards a little, sending you further towards the edge and almost over it.
Now he’s seriously mad. Dean grips you tighter with one hand, and strikes your face with the other, pulling your jaw back to face him. You moan loudly, driving him wild.
You know he can hit a hell of a lot harder than that, but he won’t do that to you. Still, you revel in the hint of violence between you both. Truthfully, it’s probably a little fucked up how much you enjoy it, but you hunt monsters for a living so you’re hardly the poster girl for stability.
Dean manhandles you sinfully, squeezing your breasts, flicking his tongue over them. You run your hands through his hair, loving the feel of his rough palms against you.
The sounds coming out of him have you grinding against him, desperate.
Your patience has now officially expired, so you tear his hoodie off his back with all the tact of a wild animal. You attempt to throw it over the balcony but his arm flies up and grabs your wrist just in time. He launches it behind you into your room with a devilish grin, much to your annoyance.
You get over it pretty quickly though, lost in his muscles flexing in front of you. He inhales and exhales deeply. You watch his scarred, chiseled chest rise and fall.
Dean makes quick work of tearing off your Levis, lifting your ass up to slide them down, taking your panties with them. He throws your jeans on the floor but leaves your panties dangling from your ankle. The sight of it has him straining painfully against his own jeans.
You tug them down and find yourself practically drooling at the sight of him in his black boxers. The outline of his cock is, unsurprisingly, absolutely fucking huge.
You waste no time pulling his underwear down and wrapping your hands around his dick. He groans at the contact and throws his head back in sheer bliss.
You pump his dick a few times, delighting in the way his guard drops completely. Dean Winchester has never looked hotter. Or more of a mess.
He slides his hand between your legs and circles your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, lighting your every nerve on fire.
You run your other hand through his hair again, this time gripping it harshly and forcing his head closer to yours.
You search his eyes, pure want looking back at you.
“Dean?”
“Mhm?” He mumbles, drunk on the feeling of your hands on him, eyes wandering back to your lace thong still hanging from your ankle.
“Fuck me.”
His gaze flicks back up to your face, dark desire written all over his own. You dig your nails into the back of his hair a little.
“Rough.”
Your heart races as he slides a finger in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. He adds a second. You suck gently, watching his eyes flutter closed with pleasure.
Then, finally, Dean snaps.
He replaces his fingers with his tongue as he grabs at both of your hips, lifting you slightly. You line him up against you as he pulls you close to his chest. His hands trace your curves, one settling against your back, the other tangled in your hair.
You forget to breathe for a beat as he lowers you painfully slowly onto his dick. The sensation of the pain mixed with pleasure is intoxicating.
He gives you a second to adjust to the size of him, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover over yours and you nod, reassuring him.
Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing then brings you down with alarming force, pulling a scream of pure pleasure from your lips. The feel of him inside you is addictive.
Your bodies move together in perfect rhythm, hands roaming over every inch of each other, tongues intertwined as he uses you in every filthy way you want him to. Handling you with anything but care, leaving bruises across your skin. You fucking love it.
Sweat dripping down both of your chests, he slows a little, searching in your eyes. You grip him tighter with your thighs.
“It’s okay.” You urge.
Dean fucks you harder, faster, both of you panting as you hurtle towards the edge.
Breathless, you come together.
With his hand still wrapped around your throat, he gently pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty but devilishly satisfied. He lowers you down on the decking then pulls up his jeans.
You slide your panties back on, frowning down at your shirt and bra on the soaking wet ground below. Dean grabs your wrist, offering you his hoodie. You accept and put it on, feeling safer than ever before, surrounded by the smell of him.
“Is this a peace offering?” You ask sarcastically.
He grunts, expression back to stoic and unreadable.
“No.”
His head jerks up at a sudden clap of thunder in the distance.
“Rain’s coming.”
You roll your eyes at him.
“Seriously, Dean? Small talk?”
He turns away, avoiding the slightly hurt expression on your face.
The rain starts hammering down thick and fast as he strides back inside the cabin. You sigh, exasperated, watching him leave.
Dean stops in the doorway with his back still to you.
“You know killing that son of a bitch won’t bring Cass back. And it sure as hell ain’t gonna make any of us feel better. But it might get you dead.”
You don’t respond. He leaves, shoulders dropping slightly as he walks away.
Dean doesn’t need to tell you this, the risks of seeking retribution. It’s how you got into hunting in the first place. He knows that.
---
It’s been a couple days and the storm refuses to let up.
Sam came back in good spirits after blowing off some steam with Jody and Donna and is now rustling up some sort of vegan pasta bake in the kitchen. Dean will be less than pleased with that. This being the same Dean who has been out the back chopping wood in the rain for hours — just like all sinfully attractive men incapable of processing emotions should.
You, on the other hand, are curled up in front of the fire with a coffee and the case files Sam brought back. You gave the girls strict instructions to send him back with an “assful of cases”, and they delivered.
You’re particularly drawn to what seems to be some sort of cryptid in West Virginia. You’ll secretly be furious if it turns out not to be Mothman.
As you scan the autopsy report of one of the victims, the lights in the cabin flicker. You raise an eyebrow and survey the room. There’s more warding here than the bunker currently so it can’t be anything supernatural, surely? Sam's obviously had the same thought as he sticks his head round the door seconds later.
“You see that?”
You nod, shifting the mass of paperwork off your lap. Sam takes his gun from his back pocket. You follow suit.
Dean appears behind you both having come in through the back, demon knife at the ready.
A violent clap of thunder cracks right outside, following by the brightest flash of light you’ve ever seen. The three of you raise your wrists in unison, covering your eyes.
Dean strides towards the door, pulling you behind him.
“Well that sure as shit ain’t lightning.”
Sam stands firm next to you as Dean opens the door.
You lower your weapon instantly. Sam does the same.
Dean doesn’t move a muscle, completely blindsided by the sight of the broken, but very much alive, angel bleeding into the mud.
The next five minutes go by in a blur of dirt, blood, sweat, and rainwater. The three of you carry Cass inside and set him down on the sofa.
Sam fires a thousand questions at him. How is he back? Where was he? Is he okay?
Dean’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Cass.
He mouths at you. “Did you-?”
You shake your head.
The angel is yet to say a word and each of you staring at him anxiously isn’t helping, so you sneak off to make coffee.
When you get back in the room, Cass’s head is tilted towards your files, eyes scanning the words.
You set the mugs down on the coffee table, pointing at Dean’s to let him know which one has whiskey in it. Sam rolls his eyes, then swipes the spiked mug before Dean can can get to it. He’s rewarded with a brotherly blow to the back of the head.
Finally, Cass breaks the silence.
“Do you seriously think this ‘Mothman’ is responsible for these killings?”
That pulls a giggle out of you. Dean groans and scrubs his hand over his face.
“Not the Mothman shit again. Can someone please talk some sense into this woman?”
Sam gestures towards the files which you pass over eagerly, much to Dean’s dismay.
Cass thinks on it for a second.
“You know, it’s not impossible for cryptids to be real in some capacity. Maybe it’s a tulpa?”
You smile and scrunch your nose at Cass. It’s been one hell of a week and there’s a lot to talk about. But not tonight.
Dean grabs Cass’s shoulder as he stands to snatch the file out of Sam’s hand.
