Warnings: Pure fluff, clingy!reader, established relationship, cuddling, soft!Sam, no angst, just tooth-rotting sweetness
The bunker was quiet for once—no alarms, no research panic, just the low hum of the vents and the occasional rustle of pages. Sam was stretched out on his bed, back against the headboard, one of those massive old lore books balanced on his lap. His hair was still damp from the shower, gray henley soft against his skin.
You had zero interest in giving him space tonight.
Sam glanced down as you crawled up the bed like a determined little koala, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Baby,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement, “I’m only on chapter four. This thing’s got like six hundred pages.”
You just hummed and wrapped yourself around his left leg, cheek pressed to his thigh, one arm looped around his thigh and the other hand fisted gently in his sweatpants. Sam chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. He shifted just enough to stay comfortable without moving you, then went back to his book. His free hand dropped after a minute, long fingers threading through your hair, stroking slow and soothing.
He felt you nuzzle closer, hooking one of your legs around his ankle like you were claiming every inch of him. The clinginess had been strong today—Sam didn’t mind one bit. After everything, having you glued to him like this made something warm settle deep in his chest.
Minutes slipped by. Sam kept reading, but his attention kept drifting to the way you fit against him, the soft weight of your body, the way your breathing slowly evened out. His fingers never stopped their gentle rhythm in your hair.
He didn’t realize you’d genuinely fallen asleep until he closed the book and set it aside. You were out cold—mouth slightly parted, lashes against your cheeks, one hand still loosely curled around his leg like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.
Sam’s heart squeezed. “Clingy girl,” he whispered, barely audible. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, then leaned down as far as he could without jostling his leg and pressed the gentlest kiss to the top of your head.
He grabbed the duvet from the foot of the bed, draping it carefully over both of you. Instead of pulling his leg free, Sam slid down to lie beside you properly, letting you keep his thigh hostage. One long arm wrapped around your back, so you were half-curled against his side and half-sprawled over his leg.
“Sleep as long as you want, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and full of quiet affection. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And with your face still happily smushed against his thigh, Sam smiled to himself, content to stay right there as long as you needed him.
A/N: Sam would 100% let you use his leg as a pillow forever
TW: MINORS DNI — Explicit makeup sex after an argument with grumpy, pissed-off Soldier Boy (heavy eye-rolling, huffing, stubborn denial + “still mad” attitude), morning wood, teasing seduction, handjob, riding/cowgirl, creampie, size kink, light dom/sub, rough possessive gripping, emotional whiplash (anger → reluctant surrender → desperate pleasure), budding praise, in an established relationship. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
A/N: I know that this is Pt.1 of Soldier Boy smut and I know that it’s out of order, but whatever. Gonna put myself in the time out corner for posting this at midnight because I procrastinated so long. Semi-based off of this gif here. Enjoy!
The morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds of the safehouse bedroom, casting striped shadows across the rumpled sheets. You stood in the doorway for a second, heart hammering, still wearing the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on last night after storming out. The argument had been stupid—something about him being reckless on the last mission, about you worrying he’d get himself killed just to prove he was still the strongest supe in the room. He’d yelled. You’d yelled back. Then you’d slept in the guest room like a stubborn idiot.
And he’d been right. You hated admitting it, but he had.
Ben—Soldier Boy—was already awake, propped up against the headboard with a scowl etched deep into his handsome face. Shirtless, of course, the sheet pooled low around his hips, one thick arm slung behind his head. His dark hair was messy, stubble shadowing his jaw, and those green eyes flicked toward you with pure irritation.
You stepped inside and closed the door softly. “Ben…”
He rolled his eyes so hard you almost heard it. “Save it, sweetheart. I’m not in the mood for your little apology tour.”
“I was wrong,” you said, walking closer. “You were right. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I just… I got scared.”
Another eye roll. He huffed, shifting under the sheet and tugging it higher up his chest like he was suddenly modest. “Yeah, well, too fucking late. You wanted space, you got it. Now you can keep it.”
But you didn’t miss the way the sheet tented obviously over his lap. Morning wood. Hard and insistent, straining against the thin fabric. He noticed you noticing and growled, yanking the sheet even higher with a sharp tug.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped. “I’m not fucking you just ‘cause you came crawling back with those big doe eyes. I’m pissed, and I’m staying pissed. Go back to your room.”
You bit your lip, fighting a smile despite everything. God, he was such a stubborn asshole when he wanted to be. It was stupidly hot.
You climbed onto the bed anyway, knees sinking into the mattress as you crawled toward him. He watched you with narrowed eyes, jaw tight.
“Baby,” you murmured, sliding a hand up his bare thigh under the sheet. His muscle jumped under your palm. “I said I was sorry.”
“Apology not accepted.” But his voice was already a little rougher.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over his sternum, then another higher up on his collarbone. He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t push you away. You trailed your lips along the side of his neck, tasting salt and warm skin, and felt his pulse jump.
“You’re really gonna turn me down?” you whispered against his ear, letting your breath ghost over it. Your hand crept higher under the sheet until your fingers brushed the thick, hot length of him. He was rock hard, velvety skin stretched tight, a bead of pre-cum already slicking the tip. “Even though you’re this hard for me?”
He hissed, hips twitching once before he caught himself. “Don’t fucking start.”
You wrapped your hand around him and gave one slow, lazy stroke. His abs clenched. “I know you’re mad,” you cooed, kissing the corner of his mouth even as he turned his face away. “But I can make it up to you. Let me.”
Another huff, but his breathing was getting heavier. You stroked him again, thumb circling the head, spreading the wetness. His cock throbbed in your grip, betraying him completely.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rolling his eyes again even as his free hand fisted the sheet. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
You smiled against his neck and kept stroking, slow and teasing, until his hips started rocking up into your fist despite himself. Only then did you swing a leg over, straddling his thighs. The sheet was trapped between you, but you tugged it down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed dark, veins standing out. It slapped heavily against his stomach.
You ground down against him, letting your soaked panties drag along his length. “Please, Ben. I need you.”
He groaned, head falling back against the pillows. “Fuck… you’re really gonna make me cave, huh?”
You rocked again, harder, and leaned down to suck a mark into his neck. “Yes. I am.”
He lasted about ten more seconds of stubborn grumbling before his big hands grabbed your ass, squeezing hard. “Fine. But you’re doing all the fucking work, princess. And I’m still pissed.”
You didn’t care. You shoved your panties aside, lined him up, and sank down onto his cock in one slow, slick glide. The stretch was perfect—burning and full and so fucking good. Ben’s jaw dropped, a low, filthy moan tearing out of him as you bottomed out.
“Shit… tight little pussy,” he growled, eyes fluttering half-shut. His hands stayed on your hips but didn’t guide you yet, still clinging to that last shred of defiance.
You started riding him, rolling your hips deep and steady, hands braced on his broad chest. Every time you sank down, his cock dragged against that sweet spot inside you, making you whimper. His morning wood was even thicker than usual, pulsing hot and heavy.
Ben’s head tipped back, eyes rolling again—but this time in pleasure. “Fuck, that’s it… just like that. Goddamn it, baby.”
You leaned forward, kissing him properly now. He resisted for half a second before he opened his mouth and kissed you back, hungry and angry and desperate all at once. His tongue slid against yours as you rode him faster, the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.
He finally broke, gripping your hips hard and thrusting up to meet you, fucking you from below with short, powerful snaps that made your toes curl.
“Say it again,” he grunted between thrusts. “Tell me I was right.”“You were right,” you gasped, clenching around him. “You’re always right, Ben. Fuck—please—”
“That’s my good girl.” His voice was wrecked. One hand slid up to grip the back of your neck, holding you close as he pounded into you. “Now come on my cock like you mean it.”
You did—shattering around him with a cry, pussy fluttering and squeezing so tight he cursed loudly. He followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with hot, thick pulses, groaning your name against your mouth like he hated how much he needed you.
Afterward you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. His arms finally came around you, one big hand stroking down your back.
“Apology accepted,” he muttered gruffly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But next time you sleep in another room, I’m dragging your ass back here and fucking the attitude out of you. Got it?”
You smiled against his skin. “Yes, sir.”
He huffed, but you felt him twitch inside you again already.
The aftershocks were still rippling through you when Ben’s arms locked around your back, pulling you down flush against his chest with a heavy, satisfied groan. His cock was still buried deep inside you, twitching with the last pulses of his release, warm and thick and full.
"Easy, baby… easy,” he murmured, voice low and rough but suddenly softer than you’d ever heard it. One big hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he pressed slow, lazy kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it. Just breathe for me.”
You whimpered softly, boneless and trembling on top of him. Ben shushed you tenderly, the same man who’d been rolling his eyes and huffing at you twenty minutes ago now cradling you like you were made of glass.
“You did such a good job, sweetheart,” he whispered against your hair, stroking down your spine in long, soothing passes. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Took all of me like you were made for it. Look at you… still fluttering around my cock. That’s my baby.”
He stayed inside you for a long minute, just holding you close, letting you hide your face in the crook of his neck while he rubbed slow circles over your lower back. When he finally eased out, you whined at the loss, and he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Shh, I’ve got you.” He rolled you gently onto your back and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand. “Here, sweet girl. Small sips.”
He cradled your head with one hand and brought the bottle to your lips, watching with soft green eyes as you drank. A little water dribbled down your chin; he wiped it away with his thumb and kissed the spot.
“Good girl. Drink it all for me. You worked so hard riding me like that… my perfect fucking princess. You were such a good girl saying I was right, too. Took every inch and came so pretty on my cock. I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Your cheeks burned, but the praise melted you even more. Ben set the water aside and grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom (he must’ve gotten it while you were still floating). He cleaned you up with careful, reverent strokes between your thighs, murmuring the whole time.
“Look how messy you are… all full of me. That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it. You just lie there and be my pretty girl.” He kissed the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then gently over your sensitive clit, making you twitch. “So good for me. You did such a good job letting me fuck all that attitude out. My sweet, stubborn baby.”
When he was done, he tossed the cloth away and pulled you straight back into his arms, tucking you against his chest so your head rested over his heart. One thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand stroking your hair, your cheek, your shoulder—constant, gentle touches like he couldn’t bear to stop.
“You’re shaking, honey,” he cooed, voice all soft and low. “C’mere. Let Daddy hold you.” He tugged the sheet up over both of you and curled around your smaller frame, cocooning you completely. “That’s it. Just relax. You were such a good girl coming back to apologize… such a good girl taking my cock and milking me dry. I’ve never been prouder of you, baby. Never.”
You nuzzled into his warm skin, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers kept petting through your hair.
“I love you,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “My good girl. My best girl. Rest now, alright? I’ve got you. Gonna keep you right here all morning, spoil you rotten. You earned it.”
He kept murmuring soft praises against your hair until your breathing evened out—endless little “good girl” and “you did so good for me, sweetheart”—his big hand never stopping its gentle strokes down your back.
Stubborn, grumpy Soldier Boy… and yet, when it mattered, he gave the sweetest aftercare in the world.
Summary: You're coasting through the final months of filming season 7 of Supernatural like any other year on set—long hours, endless takes, and the usual family chaos with the cast—until the leaked hallway video blows everything wide open, confirming what the fandom had started to suspect: you're secretly dating Jensen Ackles. In this piece, your character is the tough hunter Roxy, currently paired with Sam on-screen, and it turns your carefully guarded world upside down.
Tags: Set in season 7 (post-leak era), Jensen isn’t a dickhead in this piece—he's an absolute sweetheart, co-workers to secret lovers, strangers to lovers vibes at the start, love confessions, steamy-adjacent make out sessions, friends with Jared and Misha already, on-set drama, convention chaos, fandom fallout, what the hell this got long, so much in one piece, I'm going to cry.
Author's note: Look, I keep telling myself I'll post on a schedule, but then life/deadlines/Supernatural rewatches happen and suddenly it's 3am and I'm 5k words deep into a Jensen fic instead of sleeping. Classic me missing every self-imposed deadline known to man. Anyway, here—have a very, very sweet Jensen (single, not married to Danneel in this universe because we’re in full fantasy mode) who is completely gone for you. Just because I use an em-dash (—) and a semi-colon (;) does not mean this piece is written by some AI bot! I love writing, I'm not a perfectionist but I hate bad spelling and bad grammar so I proofread everything 7 times over, so if it has no errors I swear that's just the OCD!
The convention hall buzzes with energy as you step onto the stage, the roar of the crowd hitting you like a wave. It's 2012, and Supernatural is at its peak—fans screaming for Sam, Dean, Castiel, and now Roxy, your character who's been shaking things up since joining the cast last season. You've got that signature smirk plastered on your face, the one that mirrors Roxy's tough-as-nails hunter vibe, but inside, your stomach twists. The video leaked just minutes ago. You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket as you waited backstage, a frantic text from your publicist: "It's out. Hallway clip. Call me ASAP."
You glance sideways at Jensen, who's already settling into his chair with that easygoing grin, but you catch the flicker in his eyes—the one only you recognize after months of stolen moments. Jared plops down next to you, his massive frame making the chair creak, and Misha slides in on Jensen's other side, adjusting his mic with a dramatic flourish. The four of you wave to the sea of faces, phones flashing like stars, but the air feels thicker than usual. Whispers ripple through the audience; you can practically feel the shift.
The moderator—some enthusiastic con host—kicks things off with the usual pleasantries, but you tune it out, your mind replaying the video in your head. It was from last night, after a late shoot: you and Jensen in the hotel hallway, thinking you were alone, his hands on your waist, your lips crashing into his with that desperate hunger built from weeks of secrecy. Someone must have been lurking with a camera. And now? It's everywhere online, blowing up Twitter feeds just as the panel starts.
First question comes from a fan in the front row, a girl with a Winchester tattoo peeking from her sleeve. "This is for Jared and you," she says, pointing between you two. "Roxy and Sam have such amazing chemistry on screen—those romantic scenes are fire! Is there any chance that spills over into real life? You two seem so close off-set."
The crowd erupts in cheers, whoops, and a few "Jaroxy!" chants—your ship name with Jared that's been trending since Roxy's first kiss with Sam aired. Jared laughs, that booming, genuine sound, leaning into his mic. "Oh man, where do I start? She's incredible to work with. We hang out all the time—poker nights, pranks on set. But real life? Nah, we're just buds. Right?" He nudges you playfully, oblivious for a split second.
You force a smile, nodding. "Totally. Jared's like the big brother I never wanted." The audience laughs, but you feel Jensen's gaze burning into you from across the panel. Misha raises an eyebrow, sensing something off, but he stays quiet.
Another fan steps up, this one bolder, holding her phone like a weapon. "Okay, I have to ask about the elephant in the room. That video that just dropped—like, five minutes ago. You and Jensen... in the hallway? What the hell?!"
The hall falls silent. Not the excited hush before a reveal, but a thick, awkward tension that presses down like fog. You hear chairs creak as people lean forward, breaths held. Jared's smile freezes, his eyes darting between you and Jensen. Misha's mouth opens slightly, then closes, his usual chaos replaced by wide-eyed surprise.
Jensen shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck—a telltale sign he's buying time. You meet his eyes, and for a heartbeat, it's just the two of you, remembering the feel of his stubble against your skin, the way he whispered "I love you" in that hallway before pulling you closer. But now? The secret's shattered.
"Uh," Jensen starts, his voice steady but laced with that Texas drawl that always calms you. "Look, we're all friends here. That video... it's private. But yeah, it's real." He pauses, the silence stretching, fans exchanging shocked glances. No one claps. No one cheers. Just the hum of the AC and a few muffled gasps.
Jared recovers first, leaning back with a forced chuckle that doesn't reach his eyes. "Wait, seriously? You two? Since when?" His tone is light, but there's an edge—betrayal? Amusement? You can't tell. The crowd murmurs now, a low buzz building.
Misha jumps in, ever the wildcard. "Well, this explains why Jensen's been so chipper lately. And here I thought it was the craft services coffee." He winks at the audience, trying to diffuse, but the tension lingers, heavy and unspoken. Fans whisper, phones out, no doubt live-tweeting every awkward beat.
You clear your throat, gripping the mic tighter. "It started a few months ago. We kept it quiet because... well, this." You gesture vaguely at the room, the weight of a thousand eyes. "We didn't want it to overshadow the show or mess with the dynamics. Jared, Misha—you guys are family. Nothing changes that."
Jared nods slowly, but his smile is tight, the silence after your words dragging on too long. A fan in the back shouts, "But what about Jaroxy? We shipped you two so hard!"
Laughter bubbles up, nervous and scattered, but it dies quick. Jensen reaches over, his hand brushing yours under the table—just a fleeting touch, grounding you. "Ships are fun," he says into the mic, "but real life? It's messier. And better." His eyes lock on yours again, a promise in the chaos.
The next question pivots to safer ground—Misha's latest charity run—but the air never fully clears. Every pause feels loaded, every glance between the four of you amplified. Jared cracks a joke about Sam needing a new love interest now, but it lands flat, the silence swallowing the punchline. Misha overcompensates with wild gestures, recounting a set prank, yet even he falters, the usual rhythm off-kilter.
As the panel wraps, fans applaud, but it's subdued, the shock still fresh. Backstage, away from the lights, Jensen pulls you into a quick hug. "We got this," he murmurs. Jared claps him on the back, awkward but sincere. "Dude, congrats? I think?" Misha grins. "Finally, some real drama off-screen."
But you know the internet's exploding, the secret out. And somehow, in the midst of the tension, it feels like freedom.
Break
The backstage area feels like a war zone the second the panel ends—curtains drawn, security ushering fans out, but the echo of their murmurs lingers like smoke. You slip off stage with Jensen's hand grazing your lower back, a subtle anchor in the storm, but Jared and Misha trail behind, their footsteps heavier than usual. No one's talking. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant hum of the convention center and the frantic buzz of phones in pockets.
Your publicist, Sarah—a no-nonsense woman with a clipboard perpetually glued to her hand—meets you in a makeshift green room, her face pinched like she's swallowed something sour. Jensen's manager, Tom, is already there, pacing with his phone pressed to his ear, and your manager, Lisa, hovers by the door, scrolling through alerts. Jensen's publicist rounds out the group, bursting in last with a laptop under her arm, slamming it down on the table.
"Alright, damage control," Sarah starts, her voice clipped, no preamble. The room falls into that awkward hush again, everyone exchanging glances—yours landing on Jensen, who leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set. Jared sinks into a chair, rubbing his temples, while Misha perches on the armrest, uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes flicking between you all like he's piecing together a puzzle.
Tom jumps in first. "The video's everywhere—TMZ picked it up, E! News is running with it. Views are skyrocketing. Fans are split: half thrilled, half pissed about the 'Jaroxy' betrayal." He shoots a look at Jared, who just nods, the silence thickening as Lisa pulls up screenshots—tweets, forums, the works.
Your heart pounds. "How bad is it?" you ask, voice steadier than you feel.
Sarah sighs, long and heavy. "Bad enough that sponsors are calling. The show's family-friendly image? This throws a wrench. Secret dating on set—people will speculate about favoritism, drama bleeding into work." She pauses, the room so quiet you hear the clock ticking. Jensen shifts, his eyes meeting yours, a silent apology in them.
Lisa chimes in. "We spin it positive. Joint statement: 'We're happy, supportive of the show, no impact on production.' Keep it vague on timelines—don't confirm when it started. And for god's sake, no more hallway makeouts." She glares at you both, but there's a hint of a smile, breaking the tension just a fraction.
Jensen finally speaks, his voice low. "What about the cast? Jared, Misha—you guys okay?" Another beat of silence, awkward and loaded. Jared exhales, leaning forward. "Man, I'm happy for you. Just... shocked. Wish I'd known." Misha nods, adding lightly, "Yeah, next time, loop us in before the internet does." But the words hang, the air still heavy with unspoken what-ifs.
They hash it out for another hour—statements drafted, social media strategies outlined. You and Jensen agree to a low-key approach: own it, but don't feed the frenzy. By the end, Sarah claps her hands. "We handle the press. You two? Act normal on set. The show's the priority." As everyone files out, Jensen pulls you aside, his forehead against yours in the dim light. "We got through the panel. We'll get through this."
But the internet doesn't wait. By evening, as you scroll from your hotel room—Jensen asleep beside you, his arm draped over your waist—Tumblr explodes. You stumble onto a random Supernatural fan community, "SPNFamilyForever," where a masterpost titled "JENSEN AND ROXY ACTOR: THE SIGNS WERE THERE ALL ALONG!!!" is gaining traction, reblogged hundreds of times in hours.
The OP starts with caps-lock frenzy: "OKAY GUYS, THAT VIDEO? MIND BLOWN. But let's rewind—Jensen's been heart-eyes for her since she joined. Proof below!"
They link clips from past interviews: That 2011 Comic-Con panel where you teased Jensen about Dean's leather jacket, and he laughed a little too long, his gaze lingering as you spoke. "See how he watches her? Not like with Jared or Misha. That's LOVE."
Then behind-the-scenes footage from season 7: A gag reel where you flub a line, tripping over a prop, and Jensen catches you, holding on a second longer than necessary, his grin soft, not the usual prankster smirk. "He's always positioning himself next to her in group shots. Coincidence? I THINK NOT."
More: A PaleyFest interview where a fan asks about on-set crushes, and Jensen deflects with a joke, but his eyes flick to you off-camera, a subtle tell the fans now dissect frame by frame. "And remember that BTS photo from the vampire ep? Jensen's arm around her shoulders, looking at her like she's the only one in the room. We've been blind!"
Comments flood in: "Holy crap, you're right! Rewatching now—every con, he's stealing glances." "Jaroxy was cute, but JenRox? ENDGAME." "How did we miss this? He's been smitten FOREVER."
You chuckle softly, the tension from earlier easing as you read. Jensen stirs, peeking at your screen. "Fans figuring us out?" You nod, showing him. He smirks, pulling you closer. "Let 'em. They were gonna anyway." The silence between you now is comfortable, the world's chaos fading as you drift off, the pieces finally falling into place for everyone.
Break
The days following the leaked video feel like living inside a snow globe someone keeps shaking. Every channel, every website, every radio segment wants a piece of the story. You and Jensen hole up in the Vancouver hotel suite between shoots, curtains drawn against paparazzi lenses, phones on silent. But the world outside refuses to quiet down.
Monday morning, December 2012. You wake to the television already on—Jensen must have fallen asleep with the remote in his hand. CNN’s entertainment ticker scrolls across the bottom of the screen: “Supernatural Stars Jensen Ackles & Co-Star Confirm Real-Life Romance After Viral Video.” The anchor, a polished brunette, tilts her head with practiced sympathy.
“In a story that has the internet in an absolute frenzy, a grainy hotel hallway video surfaced over the weekend showing Supernatural heartthrob Jensen Ackles in a passionate embrace with his newer co-star, the actress who plays fan-favorite hunter Roxy. The twist? On the hit CW series, Roxy is currently in a heated romance with Sam Winchester, portrayed by Jared Padalecki, sparking one of the fandom’s most beloved ships, affectionately dubbed ‘Jaroxy.’”
Cut to file footage: you and Jared in a season-seven promo, arms wrapped around each other, laughing as fake blood drips down your faces. Then the hallway clip—blurred for network TV, but unmistakable. The anchor continues, “Sources tell us the couple had been dating secretly for months. At a convention panel on Saturday, Ackles confirmed the relationship when directly confronted by a fan, saying simply, ‘Yeah, it’s real.’ The room fell silent for several long seconds—an eternity in live television.”
They roll the convention footage. There it is: the fan’s question, Jared’s frozen half-smile, Misha’s wide eyes, your own hand tightening around the microphone. The silence is deafening even in replay. The anchor raises an eyebrow. “Awkward doesn’t begin to cover it. But in the hours since, the fandom has begun to pivot. While many are mourning the apparent end of ‘Jaroxy’ hopes, a new ship is rising fast: ‘JenRox.’”
The segment ends with a split-screen of old Jared/you photos and newly resurfaced Jensen/you candids—him steadying you on an icy Vancouver sidewalk last winter, you handing him a coffee on set with a private smile. The chyron reads: “From Co-Stars to Couple: The Signs Were There All Along?”
You mute the TV and bury your face in the pillow. Jensen stirs beside you, voice gravelly with sleep. “They’re never gonna let this die, are they?” You shake your head against the cotton. He pulls you closer, lips brushing your temple. “Good thing I don’t want them to.”
By noon, every major entertainment outlet has run some version of the story.
Terrence: “Let’s be honest—this is the kind of drama we live for. Secret on-set romance, leaked video, live convention reveal. It’s like a script the writers couldn’t even dream up.”
E! News devotes a full ten-minute block. Giuliana Rancic and Terrence Jenkins sit on the white couch, a montage of Supernatural clips playing behind them.
Giuliana: “And the fandom reaction is fascinating. Initially, there was heartbreak. ‘Jaroxy’ has been trending globally since Roxy’s first appearance. Fans invested years in Sam and Roxy’s slow-burn. But now? Tumblr, Twitter, Reddit—they’re digging through archives like detectives. And what they’re finding is convincing a lot of them that Jensen has been quietly in love with her since day one.”
They cut to a graphic titled “The Evidence Timeline.”
- March 2011: Your first table read. A fan-captured photo shows Jensen watching you read Roxy’s introduction scene, chin propped on his hand, expression unreadable but intense.
- July 2011: Comic-Con. In the press line, Jensen steps aside so you can go first, his hand hovering at the small of your back without quite touching.
- October 2011: Behind-the-scenes video. You trip over a cable; Jensen catches you instinctively, holds a beat too long before letting go, cheeks pink.
- February 2012: PaleyFest panel. When asked who has the best chemistry on set, Jensen jokes, “Well, I’m biased,” and glances at you with a grin that lingers.
Giuliana: “Fans are calling it ‘the longest slow-burn in history.’ And the more they rewatch, the more converts they make.”
Terrence holds up his phone. “Hashtag JenRox is now out-trending Jaroxy for the first time ever. And the fan art? Next level.”
The screen fills with digital drawings: you and Jensen as Dean and Roxy stargazing on the Impala’s hood; soft watercolor portraits; even some cheeky hallway re-creations with heart filters.
Over on TMZ Live, the tone is predictably chaotic. Harvey Levin leans into camera, surrounded by his barking staff.
Harvey: “Forget the sweet stuff—this is juicy. We’re talking betrayal vibes for Jaroxy shippers. Jared Padalecki’s married in real life, so no love triangle drama there, but on-screen? Roxy and Sam are endgame—or were. Now writers have to figure out how to handle the real-life couple playing… not a couple.”
A staffer yells, “We got sources saying Jensen and her started flirting almost immediately after she joined. Quiet dinners, late-night script runs. Crew knew, but nobody talked.”
Harvey: “And that panel silence? Gold. Jared looked like someone told him Santa wasn’t real. But give the guy credit—he’s already tweeting support. Quote: ‘Happy for my brother and my friend. Family sticks together.’ Class act.”
They flash Jared’s tweet, timestamped late last night, already at 80k likes.
Access Hollywood takes the high road. Nancy O’Dell and Billy Bush host a roundtable with two entertainment reporters.
Nancy: “What’s remarkable is how quickly the narrative shifted from scandal to celebration. Yes, there was initial shock, but the deeper fans dig, the more they embrace it.”
One reporter: “It helps that there’s no villain here. Jared’s happily married with kids. No cheating rumors. Just two single co-stars who fell for each other while playing other people in love. It’s almost poetic.”
Billy: “And the chemistry was always there—just misdirected. Fans thought the sparks between her and Jared were real because the writing was strong. But watching old interviews now, Jensen’s reactions are… telling.”
They play a compilation titled “Jensen Being Whipped: A Thread.”
- You telling a story at a con; Jensen laughing harder than anyone, eyes crinkling.
- You singing along to music between takes; Jensen filming you on his phone with the softest smile.
- You shivering on location; Jensen wordlessly draping his jacket over your shoulders and leaving it there for hours.
Nancy: “It’s hard to stay mad when the evidence is this cute.”
Even late-night shows can’t resist. Jimmy Fallon opens his monologue with it.
Jimmy: “Big news in TV land, folks. Jensen Ackles from Supernatural is dating his co-star—the one who plays Roxy. Now, on the show, Roxy dates Sam, Jensen’s on-screen brother. So basically, Jensen pulled the ultimate ‘I saw her first’ move. Sorry, Jared.”
Audience laughs. Jimmy continues, “Fans are calling it JenRox, and they’re making compilations proving Jensen’s been in love since 2011. That’s longer than most of my relationships.”
Cut to a fake “evidence” clip Fallon’s team edited: every time Jensen looks at you in old panels, a cartoon heart pops up.
Meanwhile, the fandom itself is undergoing a full renaissance.
On Tumblr, the blog spnarchaeology posts a 5,000-word essay titled “How JenRox Rewrites Seven Seasons of Subtext.” It gets reblogged 40,000 times in two days. Key points:
- Dean’s protectiveness toward Roxy always read slightly different than toward other hunters—more personal, less big-brother.
- Every time Roxy flirted with Sam, Dean’s micro-expressions showed… something. Fans previously read it as jealousy over Sam’s happiness. Now they see romantic jealousy.
- The season-seven episode where Dean teaches Roxy to shoot? The lingering close-ups on Jensen’s hands adjusting your grip? “We thought it was Dean/Roxy tension the writers were teasing. Turns out it was just Jensen unable to hide it.”
Comments pour in:
user1: “I’m still Jaroxy forever in my heart, but I can’t deny JenRox is real and beautiful.”
user2: “Multishipping is the way. Let me have my Sam/Roxy fanfic AND real-life JenRox happiness.”
user3: “The hallway video is hot, but the quiet moments—him looking at her like she hung the moon—are what sold me.”
Reddit’s r/Supernatural has multiple megathreads stickied.
One titled “Official JenRox Appreciation Thread – All Evidence Welcome” hits 10k comments. Users upload slowed-down gifs, color-enhanced stills, audio isolates of Jensen’s voice softening when he says your name in interviews.
Another thread: “Jaroxy Isn’t Dead – It’s Just Fiction Now (And That’s Okay).” Moderators pin it to calm the grieving shippers. Top comment, 15k upvotes: “Ships don’t have to be real to be valid. I’ll keep writing Jaroxy epics till the day I die, but I’m genuinely happy for Jensen and her.”
Fanfiction.net and AO3 see an explosion. Jaroxy fics still update daily—many authors add notes: “Canon-compliant through 7x12, then AU because real life happened.” JenRox RPF (real-person fic) skyrockets, but tastefully—most focus on soft domestic moments, convention shenanigans, first kisses that mirror the leaked hallway scene.
One wildly popular 50k-word fic, “Visible Only in Flashbulbs,” imagines the entire secret relationship from your first table read to the leak. It updates twice a week and has a cult following.
Twitter trends cycle hourly: #JenRox, #ProtectJaroxy, #SPNFamily, #MultishippersUnite. Misha tweets a photo of the four of you at dinner post-panel—Jared’s arm around Jensen, your head on Jensen’s shoulder, everyone laughing. Caption: “Family dinner. No demons invited.” It gets 200k likes and calms a lot of worried fans.
Jared posts an Instagram of him and Jensen on set, fake-fighting with prop knives, caption: “Still my brother. Always.” The comments flood with heart emojis.
Back in the hotel that night, you and Jensen order room service and binge-watch the coverage on mute, subtitles on. You laugh at the over-the-top graphics, cringe at the slowed-down hallway kiss replayed for the hundredth time. But mostly you feel… relieved.
The initial wave of shock has crested. The awkward silence from the panel is now meme legend, but it’s affectionate meme legend. Fans have taken the broken pieces of their expectations and built something new—something that holds space for both Jaroxy’s fictional fire and JenRox’s quiet realness.
Jensen sets his fork down, pulls you into his lap. “Think we survived it?”
You trace the line of his jaw, the one you’ve memorized in secret for months. “We didn’t just survive. They rewrote the story with us.”
He smiles—that soft, private one he saves just for you, the one fans are now dissecting frame by frame. “Good. Because I’m not done writing it yet.”
Outside, the snow starts to fall over Vancouver, blanketing the city in hush. Inside, the world keeps spinning, talking, shipping, celebrating. But here, in this room, it’s just the two of you—no secrets left, no silence except the comfortable kind.
And for the first time since the video leaked, you both sleep through the night.
Summary: You're staring your senior year like a normal person, well, as normal as it can get when you're dealing with the supernatural, until you catch the attention of a cute doe-eyed boy named Steve, and it turns your world upside down (pun intended).
Tags: Set in season 1, Steve isn't a dickhead in this piece, strangers to lovers, so many words, love confessions, steamy-adjacent make out sessions, friends with Robin already, what the hell, so much in one piece, I'm going to cry.
Author's note: I get random s-tier story ideas or writing bursts of of nowhere, so I present to you a very, very, cute Steve who adores you. Just because I use an em-dash (-) and a semi-colon (;) does not mean this piece is written by some AI bot! I love writing, I'm not a perfectionist but I hate bad spelling and bad grammar so I proofread everything 7 tones over, so if it has no errors I swear that's just the ocd!
WC: 4.5k
Y'all...I was writing some of this shit at midnight and accidentally pressed post instead of saving it 😭
It was 1983, you had managed to survive junior year without incidents, now you were stepping out onto the scene as a senior, having a fresh wave of students filling in your place. You weren't and out cast or weird kid, but you weren't popular either, you sat in the middle of the food chain where everyone heard of you but might not know you.
However, what people didn't know was that you were related to a freshman, specifically - a boy named Dustin Henderson. Like I mentioned, because you were in the middle, not many people knew. You were friends with Nancy, and some girl named Tracy in your algebra class and a girl named Jackie from your humanities studies you'd skip class with and sneak out of the hates to go get fast food. This year was different somehow, you'd recently gotten stuck with Steve Harrington as a class partner for a chemistry project because he was failing and your teacher, Mr. Clarke thought you were "a perfect student" in his words...you weren't. After that, funnily enough, Steve-the-hair-Harrington started to notice you, not in the all of a sudden way, but in the gradual way. The kind of way that made him show up earlier to class because it annoyed you when he way late, the kind of way that made him actually pull his weight because he didn't want to disappoint you, the kind of way where he fell deeper into this hole of slowly falling for you and revelling in your smile when he cracked jokes. Slowly over time he developed a kind of thing for you, and he was oblivious to it all. Months later, after "adopting" Dustin and his friends as his "kids", he was driving them around constantly, he went to go sneak into Dustin's window because he was sent a radio about some cool new project, however, he miscalculated and knocked on your window instead. Startled, you'd grabbed a aluminium bat you had just in case, bringing it to the window and pulling open the curtains before allowing yourself to have a heartattack when you realised it was Steve, then Steve had one when he thought he'd gotten the wrong house and just woken you up for no reason. You'd slowly unlocked the window before opening it, checking to see if anyone was following behind him, then very quickly pulling him into your room and quietly shutting it closed.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!" You gave me a heart attack!" You whisper-yelled at him, eyes bugging out of your head.
"Uh...is this not Dustin's House?.." he looked so confused, the poor guy freaking out.
"Well, no, the house doesn't belong to him but he does live here. What the fuck are you even trying to see my brother at...1:37 in the morning?" You whispered, looking over to the alarm clock in the corner of your room.
"He, uh...had some new project to show me..." He admitted sheepishly
"Sound like him, but you're a little off... explains why you were talking before I'm math." You snipped, clearly tired and grumpy. "His room is down the hall to the right, you can't miss it, he decorated his door."
Steve nodded, grateful, moving hallway down the hallway before freezing, the mental does connecting in his head, the little hearts spinning, soon realising...holy shit...the girl he's in love with is literally his best friend's sister... he's so dead if or when Dustin finds out.
He ran up Dustin's room, quickly shutting the door and hiding against it. "You didn't tell me you had a sister! Especially not her!" He frantically whisper yelled
"What do you mean?" Dustin asked, looking up from a new project.
He looked at Dustin like he was acting stupid on purpose before repeating your name to him and looking at him incredulously.
"Oh, yeah, she's my sister, what about it?"
He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the inevitable. "You remember that girl I told you about? The one I was crushing on and you said that I was dumping for and kept giving me shit about it?...well, as it turns out, it is your sister." Quickly panicking and frantically adding. "But I really didn't mean to, I didn't know you guys were related- I swear on the life of my hair."
"Like I said, simping- wait what!" Dusting exclaimed, his eye twitching like crazy, almost bugging out of his head.
"keep your voice down! Don't get us caught!" He murmured to Dustin, quickly easing his hands in a placating gesture to calm him down.
"How the hell am I meant to calm down?! You want to get with my goddamn sister!" He sharply hissed back.
"I'm sorry, how can I control who I crush on?!" Steve sarcastically muttered back.
"Gee, I dunno, maybe ask for a last name? Ask your crush if they have siblings? The usual thing?- whatever, just have a look at this then go." He uttered quietly under his breath.
Steve left half an hour later, utterly confused at the so called 'nerd-speak' Dustin used. It was about 7am, chilling in your cosy room, talking to Tracy through your phone, the cord connecting it was just long enough to sit lay down in the opposite side of your bed and face away from the receiver and still have more cord to wrap around your fingers. At that point is when Dustin barged in, mumbled something about breakfast before leaving for school on his bike with his friends. Thinking it was weird, you hang up the phone, got dressed, stole some toast, then headed out to school in your sweet, sweet, 1967 Chevy impala passed down to you, hearing that engine roar to life before soaring past the street, totally not ignoring the speed limit. You were friends with Dustin, who was friends with Eleven, so he let you off most days as long as you did volunteer work every so often. Soon you bright the car you a stop, shutting off the engine, locking up the car and heading into the school. You walked through the halls, and you got so many stares, not knowing what for, you thought you were going insane until you went up to Nancy and practically begged her to share any knowledge she had.
"It's because Steve likes you, as soon as Steve thinks a girl is hot, or has the hots for a girl, so do all of the guys and all of the girls get jealous."
"...what?" You said, looking at her like she'd grown two heads.
"No...did you seriously not know?" Nancy gave gave you a sympathetic gaze. "Poor thing, Steve's been giving you heart eyes for months, have you not noticed?"
You were about to reply but the school bell ringing out cut you off, announcing your first period class was going to start, which had Nancy rushing off and your feet reluctantly dragging you towards your class. You'd gotten to the science door at the same time as Steve, accidentally brushing hands, something that's normally fine, sent an electric which through your body, feeling like fire in your veins, you felt it, and your sure he felt it too. You both tried to awkwardly get through the door before he finally pushed it open and you awkwardly stumbled inside, sitting down in your seats.
"So, uh...I finished my work? I, uh- did it on time too..." He offered, turning award so you couldn't see the blush running across his face.
"Yeah, uh...cool." You curtly replied before going back to doing your work, and Steve kind of visibly deflated from that.
"So, you- Dustin- you're-...yeah..." He tried to fill in the silence, instead tripping over his words. "You guys are siblings?"
"Mhm." You grunted, giving a nod as you solved an equasion in your textbook.
"That's...something- how does nobody know you're related?"
"He's a freshman, it's not really new, why were you there anyways? I know you told me why, but why are you friends with a 13 year old?"
"It's a whole thing, will went missing in the upside down, will knew Mike, Mike's sister is Nancy, I got myself involved in the supernatural at that time, then she involved me with Mike who knows Dustin, and it's a whole thing, I know I sound like a teenage girl rambling."
"Whaaaa?~ that's crazy you definitely don't." You say with obvious sarcasm.
"You try being friends with children." He retorts at you.
You scoffed right back at him. "One of those teenagers is my brother?"
His brain shirt-circuit for a minute, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water until a board eraser soared past his head, making him duck, with the teacher glaring at him.
Mr. Clarke was staring him down. "Mr. Harrington! You're here to learn! Not to flirt with your girlfriend and slack off!"
Steve went bright read, and we're talking as red as a tomato, coughing and spluttering in shock. "Sir- that's not- we're not- this isn't-"
Nr. Clarke sharply cut him off. "I don't want any of your excuses, I want results, get up here and solve the question or you're off to detention for a week."
The whole class snickered a little as he dragged himself out from his seat and to the chalkboard, sadly staring to solve the dreaded word problem.
As lunchtime rooms around he sprints to the band room, not caring about the onlookers as he sorts through people to find his best friend.
"ROBIN! ROBIN!"
"Jesus! Over here, calm the hell down!" She arrives as the ribs her ear dramatically.
He quickly rushed over to her spot grabbing her by the shoulders and explaining everything, making her eyes bug or of her heart because he's rambling so fast she can only pick up every other word.
"Wait, wait, wait, so, correct me if I'm wrong, but you sick into her room thinking it was her brother which you found out that night because she was the girl you a had a crush on and the mystery girl you kept the name of from her brother, you told Dustin, then when you had your first class together after the incident, you got an eraser thrown at your head but it missed, the teacher called her your girlfriend, told you two to stop flirting, and made you solve a problem on the board after making you pick up the eraser?"
Suddenly Steve wished the the ground would swallow him whole, his voice came out in a small squeal. "... When you put it like that I sound pathetic..."
Robin burst out laughing, grabbing Steve's shoulder to stable herself as the other clutched her stomach because she laughed so hard her stomach started aching.
"Rob- seriously, c'mon, you're meant to help me out right now."
"I'm - oh god...I'm sorry, that's just hilarious."
"Screw you, I didn't even need your help anyways." He frustratingly grumbled, turning to walk away as Robin grabbed his arm.
"Wait, no, stay, I'm sorry, please come back." She asked, giving him her best puppy dog eyes and he caged instantly.
"Fine then, if you want me to stay, what should I do? Hmm?" He snipped at her.
"You should 'accidentally' knock on her window again."
"What?- Rob, why the hell would I do that?" He gave her a look of judgement and put confusion.
"Because, you did that once, she didn't scream or cry, she just calmly pointed you to Dustin's room, who in their right mind would do that if they weren't good friends with you or had a teensy weensy crush? No one, that's who. So you are going to sneak past Dustin's window, tap on hers, when she invited you in, you play the 'wrong window' card again and as you go to leave you keep stalling and checking out her room, distracting her and flirting with her, and you might even get to confess your feelings~" She added with a suggestive wink when the absolute most he could get was a peck on the cheek.
He rolled his eyes in frustration, ruining a hand over his face and through his hair, somehow the hair didn't get messed up, he managed to live up to his name. He started walking back to the cafeteria feeling slightly defeated.
"Screw you, Harrington." Robin said, playfully rolling her eyes, grinning.
"Back to last names?...I'm wounded." He uttered while putting a hand over his heart and feigning offence
"Get off your high horse, and stop calling me those ridiculous names."
"Why? It's so fun, sweetheart."
"Whatever, you suck." She admitted
Later that night, Steve was getting ready, putting in maximum effort. Using a new and fancy smelling cologne, styling his hair perfectly, brushing his teeth about 7 times before he finally got in the car and started driving to your house with some flowers. His heart was racing, pounding so hard he could hear the blood running and feel the pulse in his ears. His hands were sweating so badly every few second he had to wipe them on his jeans. Finally, he put the car in park, shutting off the engine, grabbing the flowers and sneaking up to your house. He made sure to crouch low and admire your car for a second before he got moving to your bedroom, sneaking up to Dustin's room to ask him a final question, pushing through the open window.
"Hey Dustin, you good? Doesn't matter. Okay, do I look too much?" He asked, gesturing with his hands to his entire outfit
Dustin, who got scared nearly jumped out of his seat. "Jesus! What the hell man?!" He exlaimed
"Dude, just answer the question." Steve insisted
"I dunno? I guess? What are the flowers f- wait, are you going to ask my sister out?! Dude! Major bro code violation!" He started freaking out
"Dustin, calm the hell down, it's not that serious." He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"The hell it's not! Get out of my sight, and I better not here you guys smooching through the walls."
Steve looked absolutely mortified, going silent before touching up his hair in a mirror and jumping back out of his room, sneaking up to yours and tapping on your window, yet again. You walked over to unlatch it and open it up.
"Steve, man, you gotta stop doing this, by now you would've though the the great Steve Harrington was able to get the right window, but alas." You said cheekily as he climbed in.
"Actually, I'm not here for Dustin. I'm here for you, and so are these flowers." He held out the bouquet to you, which you accepted.
"What's all this about? Hmm? You trying to flirt with me-"
He cut you off with a smirk. "Maybe I am, is that going to be a problem?"
You went quiet, blush rising to your face before he started walking towards you, and you started walking backwards until eventually you were backed against a wall, you flowers fallen and forgotten on the floor, one hand bracing the wall beside your head as he looked down at you.
"Steve..." You whispered, your voice embarrassingly vulnerable.
"I like you, I have for months now, and I need to know if you do too."
"But, Steve-" he sharply cut you off again.
"I don't care about Dustin, or my reputation, or if fucking Tommy C and Carol decide to give me shit about it-"
"Steve." You tried interrupting him, but he wouldn't listen
"I don't care, I care about you and I need to know if-"
"Steve!" You shouted, finally stopping his rambling.
"Yeah? What's wrong?" He asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"You're such a fucking idiot." You murmured, inching closer to his face, standing on your on your tippy toes before leaning in to kiss him.
He just smiled into the kiss with that lop-sided grin that would make anyone swoon, closing the space between you. The kiss was soft in the beginning, tender and warm, his hands slid to cup your face, fingers stroking your cheeks as you curled one hand around the hairs at the nape of his neck while the other curled into his short, gripping it and pulling him closer. He let out a breathy groan that sent shivers down your spine and pressed you harder against the wall. He stepped in fast, crowding you until your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, eliciting a gasp from you. A flip switched, not a nasty lustful desire, but a desire to be closer to you. He kissed you hard, mouth clashing against yours, nipping at your bottom lip before sitting it over with his tongue and sliding that very tongue into your mouth whenever you faked it came up for air. Steve kissed you until he turned your knees into Jell-O. He pressed his entire body against yours, pinning you under his weight. You could feel each soft puff of his breath between kisses, feel his heartbeat racing through the thin clothing. He walked both of you backwards until the back of his knees hit your mattress and sat down, pulling you onto his lap. You couldn't get enough of him, the smell of his cologne, that's of his mouth, the way his kisses made you dizzy, and he couldn't get enough of you either. The kiss got deeper, heavier, slower. Every single thought in his mind went out the window and was solely focusing on you now because time felt like it had frozen - felt like it could last forever; but that was short lived. Then you heard it, a creak in the floorboard from Dustin's room, you froze. Steve read your stiffness as something totally different, most likely thinking he found the one spot on your neck that felt the best, but he was way off.
"Steve!" You harshly whispered at him, pawing at his shoulder.
"I know it feels good, baby." He purred, continuing to kiss your neck, missing the creek of Dustin's door opening.
"No, Steve!" You exclaimed, pushing him back so he was sitting on his knees. you held a finger up to your lips, telling him to be quiet and listen in for noises.
Then you hear it, small footsteps coming towards your door, footsteps like your little brother's. His faced paled, you jumped out of you bed, throwing his shoes at him, which he caught and put on. You silently ran around collecting his stuff, jacket, watch, whatever he had, balling it up and chucking out the window before helping him out. He looked torn between leaving and staying before cheekily stealing one last forehead kiss while grabbing his stuff and running back to his car, winking before driving off into the night. You shut your window just in time and sprinted to your bed, diving under the covers and pretending to be asleep. As he drives off into the night, he realises that he's in deep.
Dustin hit the brakes too hard and skidded slightly as he rolled into the bike racks, metal clanging loud in the morning air. Mike groaned something about ‘death wish’ behind him, Lucas laughed, and Max shot past them like she was late on purpose.
Normally, Dustin would’ve been talking. Loudly. About literally anything.
Instead, his brain was stuck at 1:37 a.m.
He locked his bike, slower than usual, fingers tightening around the handlebars as his mind replayed it again. The sound. Not footsteps exactly — lighter. Careful. The faint thud near the house. The whispering that stopped too fast when he shifted in bed.
You don’t just accidentally hear whispering at one in the morning.
“Okay,” Dustin said suddenly, spinning around to face them, backpack sliding down one shoulder. “Hypothetically.”
Mike sighed. “Oh no.”
“Hypothetically,” Dustin repeated, ignoring him, “if you hear noises in your house at night that definitely aren’t pipes, and definitely aren’t the TV, and definitely aren’t your sister getting a glass of water—”
Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Your sister had a boy over.”
“What? No,” Dustin snapped instantly. Too fast. “That’s not what I said.”
Lucas tilted his head. “You didn’t have to.”
Dustin crossed his arms, jaw tight, already regretting opening his mouth as they started walking toward the building. “I’m just saying something was weird. That’s all. Weird doesn’t automatically mean boy.”
Max grinned. “It always means boy.”
Dustin hated that she was probably right — and hated even more that one specific name kept trying to surface in his head.
He shoved it down.
Hard.
Eleven, all too curious for her own good had to speak up. "Hasn't your sister been really close to Steve lately?
Dustin's eye twitched, jaw clenched, turning to Eleven a little too fast. "What about him?" He asks, trying to act indifferent but they all spotted it.
"So it does have something to do with Steve?" Max spoke up, being a shit-stirer.
"I mean, he was talking with me about her but i don't quite remember everything. I kind of blacked out because he scared the shit out of me." Dustin begrudgingly admitted.
Lucas had the bright idea to add his 2 cents. "So, you forgot what happened because you got scared? Wuss."
"Hey! I am not a wuss!" He quipped back.
"Are too! He shouted.
They kept bickering back and forth so much they completely missed Steve's car pulling into the parking lot. Max tried to get their attention but there was no use. It wasn't until Mike pushed them and turned them to face Steve got out of his car. He had the smuggest look on his face by the way you were walking towards him. The kids were watching in confusion, which was short lived as it slowly turned into horror as Steve pulled you in by the hips, pushed you against the car and started making out with you.
Dustin didn’t blink. He couldn’t.
His brain refused to process what his eyes were seeing — Steve Harrington’s hands on your hips like they belonged there, the way you didn’t shove him off, the way you leaned in. The car door thunked shut behind Steve as if punctuating the moment, and suddenly there was no room for doubt, no technicality to hide behind. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This wasn’t a coincidence.
This was real.
Everything from the night before slammed together at once. The footsteps. The whispering. The window. The way you’d acted that morning — too awake, too upbeat, humming under your breath like nothing in the world was wrong. His stomach dropped so hard it felt like he might actually be sick.
“Oh,” Dustin breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
Mike followed his gaze, his expression shifting instantly. Lucas went rigid. Max’s eyes widened in a way that said called it even as her mouth fell open. Eleven tilted her head, studying the scene with quiet intensity, already understanding more than Dustin wanted her to.
Steve pulled back just enough to say something to you — something that made you smile — and that was it. That tiny, casual intimacy snapped whatever thread of restraint Dustin had left.
“Nope,” he said sharply, stepping forward. “Absolutely not.”
The others turned to him as one.
“That is my sister,” Dustin continued, voice rising despite himself, finger jabbing in Steve’s direction. “And that is Steve Harrington.”
No one spoke.
Dustin was already moving, heart hammering, anger buzzing through his veins as one thought drowned out all the rest:
Oh, he is so dead.
Steve doesn’t even remember leaning in.
One second he’s talking, smiling, feeling that stupid warm buzz he gets when you look at him like that, and the next the rest of the school just… drops away. Skateboarders, voices, the bell echoing through the school — gone. It’s just you, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, close enough that his brain stops working like it always does around you.
He’s dimly aware that this is a bad idea.
He’s much more aware that he doesn’t care.
Your mouths meet and it’s quick at first, instinctive, like muscle memory he didn’t know he had. His hand comes up without thinking, fingers brushing your jaw, grounding himself there like if he lets go he might actually float off the floor. He forgets about Dustin. About consequences. About literally everything except the fact that you’re kissing him back.
Then—
“STEVE.”
It cuts through everything.
He doesn’t even have time to pull away before something slams into his shoulder. Hard. Steve stumbles back a step, boots scraping against the tile, hands flying up on reflex more than defence.
“What the—?”
Dustin is suddenly there. In front of you. Between you.
Steve blinks, stunned, trying to recalibrate his brain as the parking lot rushes back into existence — the noise, the people, the watching. Dustin shoves him again, smaller but furious, all elbows and betrayal, pushing Steve farther away like he’s physically trying to erase him from the situation.
“Are you kidding me?!” Dustin is yelling, words tumbling over each other too fast to fully catch. “What is wrong with you?!”
Steve opens his mouth to respond and immediately realises that nothing he could possibly say would help. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even a joke. Dustin’s eyes are wild, face flushed, hands clenched like he’s barely stopping himself from swinging again.
“Dustin, hey—” Steve starts, holding his palms out, backing off a half-step. “Okay. Okay. Calm down.”
That does not help.
Dustin fires back with more accusations, more volume, more raw, panicked anger. Steve only catches pieces — my sister, my house, my friend — and with every word, the guilt sinks deeper. Not regret. Not really. Just the understanding that this was inevitable.
Steve shifts his stance slightly, angling his body so Dustin’s attention stays on him, not you. He keeps his voice low, even, doing what he always does with the kids when things spiral.
“Hey,” he says again. “I’m not trying to start anything. I promise.”
Dustin looks like he might explode anyway.
And that’s when it hits Steve.
The absurdity of it. The image — Dustin Henderson, thirteen years old, trying to square up to him in the middle of the school hallway like some furious guard dog. The fact that less than twenty-four hours ago he was sneaking out a window like a criminal. The way every single one of his life choices has somehow led here.
The tension snaps.
A laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it — loud, sharp, totally inappropriate.
Steve clamps a hand over his mouth a second too late, eyes wide with the realisation that, yeah, that just made everything worse.
Second-person POV (Reader/Riley Character insert, no Y/N)
Established Jared Padalecki x Reader relationship (3+ years, public, everyone ships it)
Set during Supernatural Season 11 filming + VanCon 2016
Canon-compliant filming chaos, convention chaos, and zero proposal/engagement
Extremely soft fluff, found-family cast shenanigans, height-difference worship, teasing to the max, light embarrassment kink (because the entire internet saw them bang on network TV)
One very tasteful on-screen sex scene, lots of off-screen making out, zero explicit smut in the fic itself
Rated Teen+ for language and everyone being horny on main about a fake wall
Just because I used an em-dash (-), doesn't mean it's AI!
Summary:
You and Jared have been ride-or-die best friends and very not-secret lovers for years. Then the writers finally pull the trigger on the Sam/Riley slow burn with a confession kiss, a bunker sex scene, and a morning-after walk of shame written purely to torment Jared’s soul. What follows is the most gloriously awkward, soft, chaotic two weeks of your lives: filming the fallout, surviving the table read from hell, shooting the scratch-covered kitchen scene while Jensen commentates like it’s the Super Bowl, and then getting lovingly roasted by thirty thousand fans at VanCon who now have a religion built around “the wall.”
It’s basically 10k+ words of the entire cast, crew, and fandom refusing to let you live while you and Jared cling to each other, laugh until you cry, and realize the embarrassing parts are the best parts, because you’ve got him and he’s got you. Height difference jokes, therapy jars, and piggy-back photo ops included.
You lean against the craft services table, stealing a handful of Jared’s trail mix—the one he pretends to guard with his life—while he towers over you, pretending to be annoyed. Season 11 is in full swing, Vancouver is cold and wet as usual, and the two of you have basically turned the Supernatural set into your own personal bubble. The rain patters relentlessly against the soundstage roof, a constant white noise that blends with the hum of generators and the chatter of crew members hustling between takes. You've got your favorite oversized hoodie on, the one that's practically swallowed you whole, and your boots are caked with mud from trudging across the lot earlier. Jared, on the other hand, looks like he stepped out of a catalog—flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, jeans that hug his long legs just right, and that perpetual five-o'clock shadow that makes your heart skip every time he smiles.
“Stop eating my M&Ms,” he grumbles, but there’s zero heat in it. He just bends down (way down, because even in your heeled boots he’s got a solid foot on you) and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand lingers on your shoulder for a second, thumb brushing your collarbone through the fabric, and you feel that familiar warmth spread through you. It's these little moments that make the long hours bearable—the stolen touches amid the chaos of filming.
Because it is natural. You've been together almost three years now, and it feels like you've known each other forever. It started back in season 7, when you first joined the show as Riley Hawthorne, the rogue hunter with a sharp tongue and a backstory tangled in demon deals and lost family. You were supposed to be a one-off guest star, but the chemistry with Jared's Sam Winchester was electric from the first read-through. The writers noticed, the fans noticed, and before you knew it, Riley was recurring—popping in for monster-of-the-week episodes, bantering with the Winchesters, and slowly building that unspoken tension with Sam.
Off-screen, though, things moved faster. You and Jared clicked immediately. Late-night script sessions turned into coffee runs, which turned into hikes in the Vancouver mountains where he'd tease you about your "tiny legs" struggling to keep up with his strides. He was fresh off a tough breakup back then, and you were nursing your own wounds from a string of bad auditions and worse dates. But with him, it was easy. No games, no pretenses. Just two people who got each other on a level that felt rare in this industry.
The fans clocked it somewhere around season 9 when the paparazzi caught the two of you holding hands outside a diner in Austin at 2 a.m. You remember that night vividly—the greasy burgers, the endless refills of coffee, talking about everything from childhood pets to the meaning of life until the sun started creeping up. You'd reached across the table for his hand without thinking, and he'd laced his fingers through yours like they'd always belonged there. The photo hit the internet the next day, and boom—#JaredsGirl started trending. (They never quite settled on a consistent ship name; some went with #PadaleckiPair, others stuck with variations like #SamAndRileyRealLife, but the sentiment was the same.) Conventions exploded with questions, fan art flooded Tumblr, and someone even made a thirty-minute compilation of every time Jared looked at you like you hung the moon during convention panels. It has twelve million views now, and you've watched it more times than you'd admit—mostly because Jared's puppy-dog eyes in those clips still make your stomach flip.
Jensen pretends to gag every time Jared reaches down to lace his fingers through yours between takes, but he’s the one who started calling you “Short Stack” in interviews just to watch Jared’s face go soft. It's become a running joke on set. Misha joins in sometimes, dramatically clutching his chest and declaring, "The height difference! It's too adorable! I can't handle it!" But underneath the teasing, everyone knows how real it is. The cast and crew have seen you two weather everything—grueling 18-hour shoots, convention exhaustion, the occasional tabloid rumor that tries to stir drama but fizzles out because there's nothing to stir. You're best friends first, lovers second, and that foundation makes everything else unbreakable.
Today you’re filming the episode where your character, Riley Hawthorne, finally, officially, joins the Winchesters full-time. The writers have been teasing the slow-burn best-friends-to-lovers arc between you and Sam for years, and the irony is not lost on anyone that real life beat the show to it by a mile. In the script, Riley's been dancing around her feelings for Sam since her introduction—helping on hunts, patching up wounds, sharing quiet moments in the bunker library over lore books. Fans have dissected every glance, every lingering touch in fan theories that span thousands of words on Reddit. But off-camera, you and Jared have been living it. You've got inside jokes about Sam's "emo hair" phase, and Jared's got a playlist of songs that remind him of you, blasting it in his trailer during downtime.
The set for this episode is a dingy warehouse replica, all flickering fluorescent lights and fake blood splatters on the concrete floor. The air smells like fog machine haze and rubber from the stunt mats. You've already done the fight sequence twice—kicking demon ass in your leather jacket and boots, wielding a prop angel blade like it's an extension of your arm. Your muscles ache from the choreography, but the adrenaline buzz keeps you going.
“Places!” Bob Singer calls from his director's chair, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crew.
Jared squeezes your hand once before letting go. You head to your mark, a chalk outline on the floor where Riley's supposed to collapse after the demon ambush. He lopes off to his (those stupid long legs eating up the distance in half the steps it takes you), positioning himself at the warehouse entrance. Jensen's already there, Dean's leather jacket slung over his shoulders, smirking as he adjusts his prop gun.
The scene is simple: Sam and Dean burst in to find Riley bleeding out after a demon fight gone wrong. Dean covers while Sam rushes to her side, scoops her up, and carries her out. In the script, it’s written as a fireman’s carry—practical, no-nonsense. But when the cameras roll and Jared reaches you, he doesn't sling you over his shoulder. Instead, he scoops you up bridal-style, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. You fit perfectly there, your head tucking into the crook of his neck, and nobody says a word. Not Bob, not the script supervisor, not even Jensen, who's supposed to quip something snarky in character but just raises an eyebrow instead.
You bury your face in his neck so the camera can’t see you grinning like an idiot. He smells like fake blood, coffee, and the same cedar-and-citrus cologne he’s worn since you met—earthy, warm, grounding. His heart is hammering; you can feel it under your palm where your hand rests on his chest. It's not just from the scene; you know him well enough to recognize the real emotion bleeding through. Sam's desperation mirrors Jared's protectiveness, the way he's always been your shield—whether it's from pushy fans at cons or the exhaustion of back-to-back episodes.
"Riley," he breathes in character, voice rough with worry. "Hold on. I've got you."
The line hits different when it's him saying it to you. You let out a scripted gasp of pain, clutching at his shirt, but your fingers linger a second too long, tracing the familiar lines of his collarbone.
Dean—Jensen—fires off a few shots at imaginary demons, yelling, "Sammy, let's go!" And Jared carries you out, his strides steady despite your weight, his arms never faltering.
“Cut! Reset for coverage,” Bob calls, sounding pleased. The lights brighten, and the crew starts buzzing again—adjusting cameras, wiping down props.
Jared doesn’t put you down right away. He walks you off set still cradled in his arms, ignoring Jensen’s fake retching noises behind you. "Get a room, you two," Jensen calls, but there's laughter in his voice. You flip him off over Jared's shoulder, and he just chuckles, shaking his head.
“You’re gonna throw your back out one of these days,” you tease, poking his chest. It's an old joke, born from the first time he carried you like this—off a muddy trail during a hike when you'd twisted your ankle.
“Never,” he says, low and serious, the same way he always does when you make that joke. “Not as long as it’s you.” His eyes meet yours, that hazel swirl of green and gold that still makes your breath catch. He sets you down gently by the craft services table again, but his hands stay on your waist, thumbs brushing your sides.
You stretch up on your toes to kiss him—quick, because you're still on set, but enough to taste the coffee on his lips. "Sap," you murmur against his mouth.
"Guilty," he replies, grinning that dimpled smile that crinkles his eyes.
The reset takes about twenty minutes—time for makeup to touch up your "blood" stains, for lighting to adjust. You spend it chatting with the stunt coordinator, going over the next beat where Riley wakes up in the Impala, bandaged and bantering with Sam about how she's not some damsel. Jared's across the set, huddled with Jensen, probably plotting some prank. It's tradition; last week, they filled Misha's trailer with balloons. You eye them suspiciously, but Jared catches your gaze and winks, all innocence.
When filming resumes, it's from a different angle—close-ups on your face as Jared carries you. This time, you let the emotion play out more: Riley's vulnerability, the way she clings to Sam not just from pain but from the unspoken fear of losing him. It's easy to draw from real life. You've had those moments with Jared—late nights after tough scenes where he'd hold you through the emotional hangover, whispering that you're okay, that he's there.
By the time Bob calls wrap on the scene, you're both wiped. Your "wound" makeup is sticky, and Jared's shirt is smeared with corn syrup blood. You head to wardrobe together, shedding the character layers. He helps unzip your jacket, fingers grazing your skin, and you swat his hand away with a laugh. "Behave. We're not alone."
"Yet," he says, eyebrow arched.
In the makeup trailer, the artists wipe away the grime while you scroll through your phone. Social media is already buzzing—someone from the crew must have leaked a behind-the-scenes photo. There's a shot of Jared carrying you, captioned "Sam and Riley finally making it official? #SupernaturalSeason11." The comments are a flood: "They're so cute together!" "The height difference kills me every time." "Jared looks at her like she's his whole world."
You show Jared, and he snorts. "They have no idea."
Later, in his trailer between scenes, you’re curled up on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap, script pages scattered everywhere. The trailer's cozy—string lights draped along the walls, a blanket you knitted (badly) during downtime last season thrown over the armrest. Jared's got his feet propped on the coffee table, one hand rubbing absent circles on your ankle, the other scrolling through Twitter on his phone. The rain's picked up outside, drumming a steady rhythm that makes you want to nap.
“Listen to this,” he says, voice warm with amusement. He reads a tweet aloud: “‘I need what Sam Winchester and Riley Hawthorne have in real life. The way he looks at her like she’s the only person in the room. I’m not okay.’”
He glances down at you, hazel eyes soft. “They’re not wrong.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You’re cheesy.”
“Only for you.” He leans down (folding himself practically in half) to kiss you slow and lazy, the kind of kiss that still feels like the first time even after years. His hand slides up your calf, squeezing gently, and you melt into it, the world narrowing to just him—the taste of trail mix on his tongue, the scratch of his beard against your skin. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “Love you,” he murmurs. “So much it’s stupid.”
You reach up, fingers threading through his hair (still too long, still perfect for tugging when he kisses you breathless). “Love you more, gigantor.”
He laughs, that big, bright sound that makes the whole trailer feel warmer. Outside, someone knocks (probably Jensen with some dumb excuse to interrupt), but neither of you move. "Ignore it," Jared whispers, nuzzling your neck.
The knock comes again, louder. "Padalecki! You in there? We need you for the bunker scene!"
Jared groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Duty calls."
You push him up with a grin. "Go be Sam Winchester. I'll be here."
He steals one more kiss before heading out, leaving you with the script and a fluttering heart.
The afternoon drags into evening—more scenes in the bunker set, where Riley officially moves in. The dialogue is sharp, full of that trademark Supernatural wit: Riley teasing Sam about his healthy eating habits while Dean stuffs his face with pie. Off-camera, it's much the same. Between takes, Jensen sneaks you a slice of actual pie from craft services, winking. "Don't tell Health Nut over there."
Jared catches you mid-bite and feigns betrayal. "Traitor!"
You lick frosting off your finger. "What? It's research."
By wrap time, it's past midnight. The set's emptying out, crew packing up lights and cables. You and Jared walk to his car together, his arm slung over your shoulders, yours around his waist. The height difference means you fit perfectly under his arm, like a puzzle piece. Vancouver's streets are slick with rain, streetlights reflecting in puddles as you drive back to the apartment you share during filming season.
It's a cozy two-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood—bookshelves crammed with scripts and novels, a kitchen where Jared experiments with smoothies (and you counter with takeout). Tonight, you order pizza, too tired to cook. You eat it cross-legged on the living room floor, backs against the couch, watching reruns of some old sitcom.
Jared's head lolls onto your shoulder. "Today was good."
"Yeah," you agree, running fingers through his hair. "Riley's finally home."
He looks up, eyes serious. "You're my home."
Cheesy, but true. You kiss him, tasting pepperoni and contentment.
The next day brings a convention—Vancouver Con, a smaller one but packed with die-hard fans. You, Jared, and Jensen are panel mainstays. The green room's chaotic: Misha practicing card tricks, Rob Benedict strumming a guitar. Jared's got you perched on his knee while he signs autographs for the staff.
On stage, the energy's electric. Fans scream as you walk out, signs waving: "Marry Me Jared!" (he points at you with a grin), "Riley + Sam Forever!" The moderator dives right in: "So, season 11—Riley's joining the team. How's that feel?"
You lean into the mic. "Amazing. Riley's been through hell—literally—and finding a place with the Winchesters... it's like coming home."
Jared nods, arm draped casually over the back of your chair. "Sam's thrilled. He's got his best friend by his side." His fingers brush your shoulder, subtle but there.
A fan asks about the height difference: "How do you film kisses? Does Jared have to kneel?"
You laugh. "Lifts in my boots. Or he picks me up. It's a workout."
Jared flexes dramatically. "Worth it."
The panel ends with photo ops—fans hugging you, gushing about how "real" you and Jared are. One girl hands you a drawing of Sam carrying Riley, bridal-style. "This scene killed me!"
You show Jared later, and he frames it in the trailer.
Weeks blend: filming hunts, motel scenes where Riley and Sam share a bed "platonically" (fans riot online). Off-set, you hike, cook, binge-watch. Jared's your rock—holding you after emotional scenes, celebrating milestones.
One night, after a rough day (Riley's backstory flashback, tears for hours), he draws a bath, lights candles. You sink in together, your back to his chest, his legs bracketing yours.
"Better?" he asks, massaging your shoulders.
"Always with you."
He kisses your temple. "Ride or die."
And that's it—you and Jared, best friends, lovers, unbreakable. The world knows, and it doesn't matter. This is your bubble, and it's perfect.
author's note: i just LOVE text messages so much and the concept of bf!dean is just *insert cynthia erivo*. anywayssss, as always, feedback is very much welcome bc i looove to hear what ya'll have to say!!! i've been very busy lately w midterms but i'll survive and be back very soon. been working on some requests and some soldier boy stuff bc i miss my wife. hope you guys are doing fine... i love youuu
Summary: Soldier Boy can’t help his obsession with his little Beverly Hills beauty and spoils her for Christmas.
Warnings: Smut 18+, cursing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, daddy kink, sugar daddy vibes, possessive behavior, subspace, degrading, praise kink, creampie, and lots of other goodies🔞☃️
Notes: OBVIOUSLY inspired by “buy me presents” by Sabrina Carpenter. I went REALLY feral with this one🤭 Merry Christmas @jays-bonnie-on-the-side 🎄
//
“I sure wish you were coming here for Christmas, daddy,” she purred into the phone, twirling the cord around her manicured finger.
Ben groaned on the other end of the line, “Gonna get me hard on set, doll. Don’t be naughty. You know I got a shit ton of PR bullshit to do ‘round here.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t wanna buy me any presents,” she pouted her red lips.
His chuckle in her ear sent tingles across her skin, “I’m startin’ to think all you want is my black card.”
“That’s not true!” she playfully whined, “I want your dick too.”
Ben smirked, “I know you do, baby. Daddy’s been dyin’ without that sweet lil’ pussy on his dick, his mouth, his fingers.”
He was trying to tease her, but his plan backfired when he felt his dick strain in his pants. The little pathetic whimper he heard made it twitch. “Shit, you better not be playin’ with yourself!” he growled.
“N-No, I’m not, daddy. But, you’re being so mean and unfair,” she whined.
“I know, honey, I’m just a bastard, aren’t I?” his cocky tone made her groan in annoyance, “Keep bein’ nice, and Santa is gonna spoil the shit out of his Vixen.”
She moaned and rubbed her thighs together at the playful name. Damn Vought for making him work. Damn the modeling agency for making her work. She’d give anything to skip her latest photoshoots to be back in the arms of her Supe lover. It’s been weeks since the last time she was wrapped around him, and the ache was starting to get unbearable. Chills trickled down her spine remembering the way he slammed the head board of his Alaskan King bed into the plaster as he felt her creaming all over his pistoning cock. By the time she had to leave for Beverly Hills, the whole damn tower knew her name.
As the memories swirled in her lust riddled eyes, a whimper slipped from her painted lips. Ben’s deep groan pulled her from her thoughts. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, baby? Thinkin’ about how daddy had your naked body pressed against the cold glass of his penthouse last time you were here? ‘Cause I think about that all the time. How hard your nipples got, how our body heat fogged up the glass, how you soaked the carpet underneath us by the time I was done with ya,” he grabbed his bulge, “Bet those assholes in make up had a hell of a time coverin’ up all those hickeys.”
She clutched the phone tighter in her hand, panting and moaning into the receiver. He didn’t play fair. She wasn’t allowed to touch herself unless he said so, and he rarely said so. Soldier Boy was a glutton for her suffering and neediness, for those desperate pleas for sweet release. She only disobeyed him once, concluding he couldn’t possibly tell the difference, but he certainly did. The punishment was fucking herself on him while he didn’t do shit, simply sitting back and smoking a joint while she weakly tried to get off without his help. Absolute torture.
“Please, let me touch myself, daddy,” she whined pathetically, “Could be an early Christmas present.”
His laugh made a pit of disappointment settle in her stomach, “Nuh uh, sugar tits. You can wait till I get there next week.” Suddenly, there was the sound of voices in the background. The supe barked at them to fuck off he’d be there in a minute. “I gotta go, honey.”
She pouted, “Fine.”
“Be good, Vixen,” he chuckled, “Santa’s coming to town real soon.”
They were having way too much fun with the Christmas themed teasing.
//
It was around 10 o’clock the next night when a knock echoed through her empty home. She’d fallen asleep draped across the couch waiting on their nightly call. She yawned as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Adjusting her silk robe, she slipped off the couch and padded towards the door. She wondered who could possibly be knocking this late as she slipped down the main hallway. A familiar figure came into view, identity hidden by the frosty privacy glass around the door. She didn’t need to see his face to know who was standing on her front porch. A delighted squeal left her lips as she rushed towards the door and flung it open.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” Ben smirked.
“You better not have any other ho’s,” she playfully scolded, “What are you doing here? I thought you had PR with Vought.”
“Yeah, I told those fuckers to gargle my ballsack I gotta see my lady,” he smiled.
Removing the duffel from his shoulder, he swept her into his arms and walked into her home. The metal buckles of his suit were cold through the thin silk of her robe and pajamas. Lipstick marked his skin with every kiss she bestowed upon his handsome face. “Save some of those kisses for later, honey. You know how much I love lipstick on my cock,” he growled into her ear.
“Depends on what Santa got me before I decide if I’m feelin’ generous,” she teased.
“Well then let’s get to openin’,” he smiled as he carried her into the beautifully decorated living room.
Once he set her down, she bounced onto the couch, sitting on her knees patiently. Ben sat next to her with a huff and swiftly unzipped the black bag. She giggled excitedly as he began pulling out the most gorgeously wrapped gifts and set them on the coffee table. The paper was a shiny baby pink wrapped with a velvet hot pink ribbon. Once all the presents were spread out for her to pick apart, the supe propped a foot up and lit a cigar. She took a moment to admire the handy work of some poor intern at Vought Ben had most likely intimidated into doing it. Soldier Boy didn’t wrap gifts.
He watched with an amused grin as his spoiled lover suddenly perched herself on his knee and opened every expensive gift he’d picked out: beautiful jewels from Cartier and Tiffany (he couldn’t decide which was better so he went with both), designer clothes and shoes from her favorite name brands, lingerie, and even a sable fur coat.
“Ben! Oh my god, baby! Is this real?!?” she gasped as she held the fur to her chest.
“Of course it’s real. Only the best for you,” he smirked as smoke curled from his perfect lips.
She wrapped her arms around his strong neck and passionately kissed his lips, tasting his cigar. A large hand held her waist as he slipped his tongue against hers. She was quick to face him and straddle his lap properly, “I’m feelin’ very grateful, Santa. I must have been an awful good girl to get all these presents.”
Ben squeezed the plush of her ass, “It’s the naughty things that got you on my nice list, Vixen. And, Santa’s got one more for ya.”
“Oh I can feel it,” she ground her hips down into his.
He clenched his teeth and groaned, “Not that. That’s in a minute.”
Ben picked her up and placed her on the couch, setting his cigar in an ashtray. Kneeling down before her, he took her right leg in his grasp, resting her foot against his shoulder. She leaned back and shivered as his soft lips and rough beard tickled her ankle. They dragged up towards her calf, smirking into her skin when he heard her quiet moan. His free hand reached into his pocket to pull out a small silver chain with a charm dangling from it. The metal was warm as he wrapped it around her slender ankle. Once it was clasped and freely hanging, Ben sat back to let her look at it.
“An anklet?” she asked curiously.
“Mmhm. Look at the charm,” he encouraged.
She removed her foot from his shoulder and tucked her leg against her body, looking down to admire the charm. It was an exact replica of the metal eagle patches on the upper arms of his suit. Her fingers felt engravings on the back. Flipping it around, she read the words, ‘Property of Soldier Boy.’
“I would have paid for a tattoo, but I know that’s not your style. This is muuuuch sexier,” he brought her ankle back to his chest, admiring the silver gleaming in the dim light, “Had it made special for ya. Something pretty to dangle in your face when I’ve got ya bent in half.”
“Isn’t that what your face is for?” she teased as she push her foot against his chest.
With a deep chuckle, he caught her behind both knees and yanked her legs open, pulling her to the edge of the couch, “It’s also a little reminder of who owns this ass.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist, “Make sure no body touches what’s yours, daddy?”
“Oh nobody would ever dare come near ya. If not from my lil’ reminder, then your expensive taste would bleed’em dry,” he leaned forward and kissed her neck.
She thread her fingers through his soft hair, “Your fault for spoiling me so much. Ruined me for any other man with that black card and thick dick.”
“Damn fuckin’ straight, honey,” he bit down hard where her neck and shoulder met, “Ya gonna let me unwrap my present now? Drink you like a warm glass of milk? Santa’s pretty thirsty.”
She nodded with a sweet sigh as his hands began to roam her body with determination. A moan slipped from her throat when he sucked on her jawline below her ear. Small hands slipped down his body and expertly began to unbuckle his suit. Ben let go of her long enough to slip it off. Her flimsy robe went next as his hands greedily shoved up under her tank top, groping her breasts in his large hands. She whimpered as he bit her lip and pinched her nipples.
“Fuck me, I missed these tits so much,” he groaned. She moaned into his mouth and ground her hips into his abdomen. The warmth from her pussy radiated through her flimsy shorts and into his skin. Every pass of her hips made her wetter, soaking through the silk. “C’mere,” Ben yanked her closer to wrap her legs around his waist and stood up.
It was a quick sprint up the stairs before entering her bedroom. He tossed her to the mattress, and she bounced, tits jiggling beautifully. “Naked. Now,” the order was gruff as he began unbuckling his belt. The green of his eyes turned dark watching her slip out of the cute little sleeping set. Only thing left on her body was a silver anklet and a sultry smile. She maneuvered herself on the bed to lay on her stomach, face inches from his hips. Ben’s gaze never left hers as he tossed his boots and pants aside.
He had a cocky swagger as his hard dick bobbed with every step. Her mouth watered, and she licked her lips at the sight. A deep chuckle reverberated from his chest, running his fingers through her hair before taking a handful, “I know that look, doll.” She bit her lip and stared up at him through her lashes, her crossed ankles swaying in the air. She leant forward and placed a bright red kiss mark at the base of his cock. He shuddered at the feel of her soft lips and warm breath.
Just as he asked, she decorated his cock in her lipstick. First, leaving kiss marks all the way up to his head. They all began to smear once she took him into her mouth, bobbing up and down until she was ready to take more. The hand tangled in her hair started guiding her as his hips started fucking into her mouth. Tears burned in her eyes, mascara beginning to run, but she kept going. He was taking it easy on her considering how long it had been since the last time they’d fucked.
“That’s my girl. You remember how to do this. Relax your throat a lil’ more for daddy,” Ben growled, “J-Just like that. Fuck, you’re such a good girl!”
She moaned around his length.
“Gonna cum down that pretty throat, honey,” he growled, “Swallow it. Fuckin’ swallow it!”
Her throat constricted around his girth as he came. He slowly began to pull his cock out, still throbbing and squirting into her mouth. He smeared the head of his dick against her tongue. She held her tongue out to show the last of his essence before swallowing. Ben kneeled with a sly grin and wiped her tears with his thumb, “That’s my good lil’ slut.” Her eyes were glazed over and her lips wet as she nuzzled into his hand. He suddenly picked her up and laid her against the plush pillows.
He caught her shamelessly watching his muscles stretch and flex as he laid on his stomach, throwing her legs over his broad shoulders. The tinkling of the anklet made a feral feeling settle in his body. “Your turn,” he grinned.
“Oh daddy!” she cried as his mouth enveloped her pussy.
The way he swirled his tongue around her clit then dip into her entrance made her begin to pant. Tiny, pathetic whimpers escaped her lips as she tried to roll her hips against him. The scratch of his beard her favorite sensation when he went down on her. Ben moaned and shook his head side to side, letting his tongue and facial hair rub against her sensitive folds. “I fucking love your beard, daddy! I want beard burn on my pussy!” she cried. His chuckle vibrated against her. He loved the sound of her desperate babbling.
Her small hands grasped at his hair frantically when he stuck his tongue inside her and ran his thumb over her clit. The calluses on his fingers added to the sparks tingling her nerve endings. She suddenly arched her back to rub her pussy against his face more. Two thick fingers replaced his tongue, and he sucked her clit into his mouth. Hooking his fingers, he assaulted that sensitive little spot inside her.
She nearly screamed as the damn burst, and she gushed all over his face and hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! YES, DADDY!” she screamed.
Ben’s groan vibrated through her and helped in adding to her pleasure. Her body trembled and spasmed as the waves crashed over her. Her first orgasm quickly bled into another as he kept up the pace. He only stopped when she began to push his head away and whine. “T-Too much, daddy! Need your cock! Now! P-Please!” she hiccuped.
His hot breath panted against her abused center. Their eyes met, and he could swear he saw cute little pink hearts in her blown pupils. Sitting up on his knees, Ben wiped his beard before pulling her hips to his. Her legs wrapped around his waist and his massive length rested against her slick sex. He held her hips in his hands as he watched her large breasts heave with each pant that escaped her bitten lips.
“Those fuckers you work for should put this image right here on the cover,” he felt her pussy lips clench on the underside of his cock, “Fuck, you like the idea of people seein’ what a cock drunk lil’ whore you are, baby?”
She dumbly nodded, not a thought forming in her fuzzy, lust-fueled mind.
Ben rut his hips back and forth, coating himself in her slick, “That face right there is why Santa was so good to you this year. Ain’t even put it in yet and you’re already a fucked dumb whore.”
She whined and whimpered, hips wiggling in anticipation as he notched his tip at her entrance. The need burned deep in her stomach, but she was being patient for him.
“My fucked dumb whore. My pretty lil’ slut,” he started to press his hips forward, “My favorite girl. Daddy’s spoiled princess.”
Ben moaned as her cunt clenched around him at his praises. He was a possessive son of a bitch, and feeling that anklet pressing between his lower back and her ankle made him fucking animalistic. His right hand slid from her hip to circle her clit with his thumb. She cried out and he moaned when their hips were flush together, tip kissing the back of her cervix. She never got tired of that overly full feeling only he could give her. That sweet stretching of her opening was addicting. Ben leaned over her, left hand holding her hip while right leaning against the mattress next to her head. Just as she was about to beg for him to move, his hips snapped forward. Each thrust hard and deliberate in reshaping her plush, velvet walls to his cock again.
Small hands held on to his strong neck and broad shoulders as her eyes watched his abs flex. She drooled over the way his body looked as he fucked her. She didn’t know what possessed her mind to conjure it, but she thought he was so pretty. Prettier than any gift he’d gotten her. It was odd to think of a man so ruggedly handsome as pretty. His forest green eyes dark with lust, his long hair hanging in his face, perfect smile adorning his face every time she cried out his name. It was beautiful.
“Sss…ssso pretty, d-daddy,” her right hand skimmed down his chest, red nails tracing down his V-line, “Prettier t-than m-me.”
Ben chuckled down leaned down on his forearm to brush his lips against her cheek, “Not prettier than you, baby, but I appreciate the compliment. Ya like daddy’s pretty cock inside ya?”
She gasped when he picked up his thrusts. The way her nails kept tickling his V-line made him shudder. Suddenly, he took her hands in his, intertwining their fingers and holding them above her head. Her legs wrapped tighter around his hips as he drove into her deeper. The only sound leaving her lips ‘uh, uh, uh’ over and over again. He sucked on her neck, leaving large bruises all over her neck. Each love bite soothed over with the pass of his tongue.
Her whole body was tingling and writhing. This was why he didn’t want her to play with herself. Her body was so sensitive and responsive to him it was insane. Selfishly, he wanted her to only get pleasure from him. Only cum when he wants her to, in the way he wants her to, however many times he wants her to. She was completely at his mercy, addicted to his touch. He suddenly flipped them, placing her on top before letting go of her hands to wrap his arms around her. She slipped hers around his neck and head, grasping his brown locks to make him look her in the eye.
His thrusts continued at a brutal pace. His teeth bit into her bottom lip as she moaned and trembled. When his right hand trailed up her spine, he took a fist full of her hair and pulled her mouth to his. The mind melting way he kissed her made her move her hips more with his thrusts. Suddenly, his left hand moved down to harshly grab and slap her ass. He swallowed her gasp when he suddenly circled his finger around the hole he wasn’t fucking. “O-Oh, fuck, baby!” he stuttered as her inner walls choked his cock, “Didn’t know you wanted daddy to play with your asshole, did ya?”
She could only whine, enjoying the constant circling of his middle finger over the small hole. The way their bodies pressed together made her rub her clit against his pelvis. She frantically rode him as he kept fucking up into her. Her voice went up higher in pitch the closer she came to exploding. “Look at you! Gettin’ off to daddy teasing your ass and fucking you raw. I’m gonna have to pull out.”
She gasped and held him tighter, nearly sobbing, “No! D-Don’t pull out, daddy! Stay i-inside! Want…huh…it inside!”
Ben smirked at the sound she made when he ground the tip of his dick into her cervix. He fucked her like a beast, primal need driving him to claim her in the most feral ways possible. And, she was going to let him for as long as he pleased. Her orgasm hit them both like a truck. She dug her nails into his chest, screaming and whimpering as she squirted all over his lap. The wet sounds filling the room were fucking obscene. It sounded like a dog drinking water as he kept ramming into her.
“Oh fuck, you can’t stop,” he laughed, “You can’t stop cummin’, can ya? This pussy won’t stop squirtin’!”
She let out little panting whines as her body jerked and convulsed. A scream of ecstasy came from her mouth when Ben hooked the tip of his finger into her asshole and slammed her on his cock. Both nearly blacked out as he came deep inside her with a loud roar that bled into a moan. The way her walls constricted and tried to push him out made him pump harder, deeper, forcing her sensitive body to spasm around his cock.
The two rode their highs, gently rutting against one another. Sweat clung to her skin while only a light sheen dusted the his. It would take a couple of rounds before the supe truly broke out in a sweat. Ben whispered sweet things in her ear as she floated down to earth.
“You did good, baby. Daddy’s so proud of ya,” he cooed into her ear, hands moving soothingly over her skin, “Best Christmas present I could’a asked for.”
She only hummed as she littered his chest and neck with kisses. Neither moved from their position, staying as close as possible. She stayed pressed against the expanse of his chest as he leaned over and took a joint from the night stand. The lighter flicked to life and the smell of weed filled the air. Her mind was still foggy and lightheaded, snuggled up in a syrupy sweet state. If he pulled out right now, she’d throw a desperate and pitiful tantrum, but he had no intention of leaving her insides any time soon.
Ben heard her heart rate slow and breathing begin to equalize. Her mouth nuzzled against his jaw playfully as her hands wondered over his muscles, “I have a present for you, daddy.”
“Another one? The only present I want is to do THIS until one of us passes out,” he smirked.
“We do that all the time,” she giggled, “Grab the black folder from the drawer.”
Holding the joint between his lips, he once again reached to the small table. He opened the drawer to find black folder with his Supe name printed on the cover in silver letters. Ben settled back onto the bed and opened the gift to reveal a spectacular sight. Picture after picture of her in the most revealing, jaw-dropping lingerie, while posed in the most ball-achingly, sinfully delicious positions.
“Holy shit! When did you do this?” he asked looking down at her.
Her giggle turned into a whimper as she felt him begin to throb and harden inside her, “Playboy asked to do a shoot with me a few weeks ago. I asked Hugh if I could borrow the set up for something special for America’s Hero.”
The more he kept flipping through the glossy pictures, the stiffer he became inside her. She weakly pushed herself up to sit up and on his dick. By the time he tossed the folder on the bed, she was rolling her hips and frantically fucking herself on him like a bitch in heat. “You read my fuckin’ mind, doll,” he moaned as she took his large hands and placed them on her tits.
“One…one more…present,” she panted, hands encouraging his to be rougher with her chest.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from where his dick disappeared inside her, “Thought I was supposed to spoil you? What else did ya get me?”
Her eyes had been pinched closed, but she pried them open to look at him. She bit her lip before finally letting it slip, “I want you to f-fuck me at H-Herogasm. In front of everyone, daddy!”
Ben almost came again, “Goddamnit, seriously?!? Are you for real?”
She nodded frantically as she kept bouncing, “Only you. N-No one else!”
His head thumped against the headboard as he groaned in deep satisfaction, fingers pinching her nipples, “Just me, honey, you got it! Christ on a cross! I think I’m in love!”
She let out a breathy giggle, eyes rolling into the back of her head, “M-Merry Christmas, daddy.”
─── 🍎 Teases you for taking too long to get ready every morning, but never complains and patiently waits for you to get your pretty lil ass into the impala so he can drive the both of you to school everyday.
─── 🍎 In fact, he probably starts showing up even earlier just so he can watch you get all dolled up for school. Then spends every minute staring up at you from your bed, fighting back a grin when you protest and call him a perv for always being there when you get ready in the mornings.
─── 🍎 If he's going to be on your bed every morning anyway, you decide to at least make him useful and start asking him for his input on fashion choices. Whether he wants to or not, Dean will definitely know the difference between white, off-white, and cream by the time y'all graduate.
─── 🍎 He likes when you ask him to pick the colours of your next nail set, even offering to do your nails for you while you guys watch a movie after school. He sucks ass but it's nothing a little acetone can't fix, and Dean's a quick learner. Him painting your nails somehow becomes a monthly after school routine.
─── 🍎 Dean likes to be included and would also do pretty much anything for you, so after a bit of pouting and “pleasee? we'll have matching nails that'll be so cute c'mon!”, he relents and sits very still for you as you paint his nails.
─── 🍎 He'll never admit it but he liked the idea of matching with you a bit too much. Anything to let people know that you're exclusively his is welcomed, there's too many flies around you.
─── 🍎 Speaking of matching, couple necklaces! He probably started saving up a little while before y'all got together, then spent the money on a pair of necklaces for your one-year anniversary. One that would suit your soft feminine style, and a matching pair for him that's just a touch more manly. Just in time to replace a beloved necklace of yours that broke after wearing it daily.
─── 🍎 Everyone at school thinks that you and Dean are an odd combo. Your pink and cream cardigan laced with frills starkly contrasting with his black leather jacket a little worn at the edges as you guys walk hand in hand down the halls.
─── 🍎 But Dean brings an edge of excitement into your mundane life and you soften his edges, carved out by a life of instability. You're an unlikely couple for sure, but one that's gonna last.
────── ⋆₊˚꒰ঌ ໒꒱⋆₊˚ ──────
my first attempt at getting into writing, kinda nervous.. this was also hardly proofread but hope I did well w dean!
NOTES: You cannot convince me that Ben wouldn’t be utterly obsessed with his girl. I won’t hear anything of that silliness. He’s crazy in love with you and he’d be a total wife guy.
TW: smut, romanticized ben, oral/fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, wedding ceremony, getting married, this is just such a fun time to me, ben says fuck it to tradition
You’re walking down the aisle, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands, vision hazy with happy tears and sunlight. Everything is warm. Perfect. A dream.
And there he is.
Standing at the altar, looking way too handsome in that suit to be real. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes are locked on you, dark and wild and hungry. He looks like he wants to throw you over his shoulder and disappear, which, honestly, is fully within the realm of possibility for him.
You don’t notice the lace right away, too locked in on Ben and the fact that you’re about to get married. He’ll be yours, for better or worse. Until death do you part.
Everything is a bit of a blur at first, including the soft flicker of white peeking from his breast pocket. You had picked the blush pocket square he was meant to wear yourself, spent hours painstakingly matching the color to the linens, the roses, your blush.
That isn’t it.
You blink, once. Twice.
White lace.
You recognize that lace. It’s yours. Your favorite, in fact. The soft scalloped lace, delicate and feminine. A tiny satin bow.
Your panties.
The ones you’d worn just the night before. The ones he’d taken off you the night before.
They now sat tucked in the breast pocket of Ben’s suit, like a twisted little keepsake.
You hadn’t meant to let it happen.
You’d been in your room, tucked into the ridiculous bridal suite with white sheets and pressed linens and a do not disturb sign on the door. Hair perfectly blown out, veil steamed and hanging next to your dress, a glass of cucumber untouched on the bedside table. Your maid of honor had just left with a stern “don’t let him sneak over here, you know he’ll try.”
And you really did try to be good.
Until your phone buzzed.
-> New Messages: BEN ❤️🔥
baby
this tradition fucking sucks
i’m losing it
You smiled. That helpless, hopeless smile you only got with him.
Then came more texts:
come over here
please
i’ll behave, scouts honor
i miss you so bad i can’t think straight
And this is exactly why no one told him what your room number was—because he absolutely would have shown up and never left if he could have.
You were already blushing when he called.
“Ben-”
“Where are you,” he asked immediately, low and wrecked. “Are you wearing that ridiculous little robe? You better be wearing that robe.”
Your stomach flipped. Something you’d come to love throughout the planning process was how much he’d listened to your ideas. This one in particular being the custom, satin robe you’d ordered for tonight and the morning.
“We agreed to this, Ben. We’re not supposed to see each other until the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”
“I’ve seen you naked more times than I’ve seen you dressed, baby. You think I’m gonna up and forget what you look like because of some old-ass wedding rule?”
You snorted.
“Baby, I need you. I'm suffering.”
“You’re being dramatic, Benjamin.”
“I’m being deprived,” he groaned. “My hands are shaking. I’m half hard and fully miserable. I can’t sleep in this stupid king-sized pillow fort bullshit without you breathing next to me like a soft little kitten. I’m a wreck, babe.”
You were already halfway out of bed. “Ben, seriously.”
“You wanna be a blushing bride tomorrow? You want me standing at that altar with a straight face? Sober? Something’s gotta give, sweetheart. I won’t touch, scouts honor. Just let me see you. Two minutes.”
He was lying.
You knew he was lying.
But when you stepped into his suite just one floor down—barefoot, breathless, the aforementioned robe tied too tight (as though that’d deter him) and cheeks already warm—he looked at you like he might actually drop to his knees at the sight.
“Christ on a cross,” he rasped, stepping toward you. “You’re a vision.”
“Two minutes,” you warned.
“Sure, sure,” he said, already pulling you in by the waist. “Two minutes, maybe three. Five tops.”
“Ben-”
“You’re my girl,” he whispered, mouth against your neck. “You think I’m gonna sleep well without making you come first? Not a fuckin’ chance.”
You gasped, pointing at him accusedly despite the smile on your lips, “You promised! You said scout's honor!”
“Yeah, well, I lied. And I wasn’t a scout, so it doesn’t even count. And, if you care to remember,” he started, voice dropping, “when I asked you to marry me, I promised to get you off every single day for the rest of your life. You think our wedding day is the exception? Absolutely not, sweetheart.”
You were already laughing. Giggling against his chest like a traitor.
“Let me take care of you,” Ben muttered, voice rough, breath warm against your cheek as his hands slid beneath your robe. “Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be goin’ to bed all tense. That’s real bad luck.”
You tried to swat at him, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he said, pulling the robe open, eyes flicking down to your panties with something hungry. “I’m in love. And I’m about to marry the hottest girl alive, and some dumb old fuck decided I’m not allowed to even see her tonight, let alone get my mouth on her.”
You giggled, flustered. “It’s tradition. It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“It’s bullshit,” he huffed. “I should be fallin’ asleep with my face between your tits, like God intended,” he muttered, already easing you back onto the bed.
Your legs parted for him automatically. You didn’t even try to pretend they didn’t.
He settled between them like he belonged there, big hands wrapping around your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin. His eyes locked on the spot where the lace met your inner thighs—thin, soft, soaked.
He groaned. “Fuck. Look at this.”
“Ben…”
“Lemme see her,” he said, already tugging the panties to the side. “Just for a sec, baby.”
You moaned before you could stop yourself.
Ben grinned.
“There’s my girl,” he said, leaning down and mouthing against your inner thigh. “Missed this pussy all fuckin’ day. Been tryin’ to think about anything else. Couldn’t get you off my mind.”
“Stop talking,” you gasped, face flushed.
“I will not,” he said proudly. “You’re all wet and pretty and you were tucked away in that fucking suite, hiding all of those from me. You think I’m not gonna revel in the fact I got you to break the rules and come in here?”
“You’re such a-”
He didn’t let you finish. He ducked his head and licked, slow and broad and hot—one long drag from your entrance to your clit that made your thighs twitch.
You gasped, high and breathy. “Fuck, Ben.”
He moaned into you, thick and greedy. “God, baby. You always taste this good? Or is it just ‘cause you’re about to be mine forever?”
You let your head fall back with a whimper. “I’m already yours.”
“Damn fucking right you are,” he muttered, right before his mouth sealed around your clit and he sucked.
You jerked against the bed, a choked sound slipping from your throat as your hips arched into him.
“Thought about this all day,” he went on, barely pulling away. “Your legs over my shoulders, hands in my fuckin’ hair, those little noises you make—fuck, I’m obsessed with you.”
You were panting now, thighs shaking as his tongue licked up and down your folds, slow and relentless.
“Tell me you missed this,” he said, dragging his mouth over your clit again.
“I did,” you gasped, one hand gripping the soft hotel sheets tightly.
“Tell me you didn’t want me tonight. That you didn’t hope for this.”
“I always want you,” you cried, your back arched off the bed just so.
He groaned, voice low and reverent. “You gonna come for me, baby? Make it nice and loud. C’mon, give me a fuckin’ wedding gift.”
Your fingers curled hard in his hair. “I- I’m- Ben!”
He latched onto your clit again, tongue flicking, sucking, moaning like you were his last meal. One of his hands moved to slip his fingers inside you. His grip on your thigh tightened, and the second your hips started to shake, he pulled you in tighter—wouldn’t let you go.
“Let go, baby. Be sweet for me.” He said, hot and breathy, as his nose nudged at your clit, and crooked his fingers just right inside you.
You came with a whimper, back bowing off the bed, one hand flying to cover your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair as your legs clamped around his head and shook.
Ben growled.
“I got you,” he said, licking you through it, slower now, indulgent, slowing his finger’s movements but never stopping. “Good girl. Just like that. Fuck, sweetheart, look at you. You should see how pretty you look when you come.”
You trembled under him, brain fried, mouth slack, robe slipped halfway off your shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick, chin shining, and he looked so fucking smug when sucked his fingers clean.
Eventually sat up on your elbows, still dazed, and you reached for your underwear only to find that Ben had them in his fist.
You narrowed your eyes, “don’t even think about it.”
He just grinned. “Nah, I’m gonna keep em. I need company tonight.”
“Ben-”
“I need something to sleep with,” he said, deadly serious. “Otherwise I’m gonna lie awake thinking about how fuckin’ sweet you tasted, and how stupid it is that I’m not allowed to keep my mouth on you all night like a decent husband.”
“We’re not married yet.”
He ignored that statement in its entirety. “They’re mine now,” he said, folding them like a goddamn gentleman and tucking them neatly into the pocket of his sweats. “You gave them to me.”
“I did not!”
“You knew what this was, baby. Don’t act all holier than thou about it.”
And now, dressed to the nines and just half an aisles length from him, your eyes flick back up to his. He doesn’t look away. Just tips his chin like, what are you gonna do about it, baby?
Your cheeks flush, lips parting to mouth, ‘seriously?’
He gives you a smirk. Barely there. Just enough. Yeah. Dead serious.
By the time you make it to him, your heart’s pounding louder in your ears than the music. You let out a soft breath as you pass your bouquet to your maid of honor.
He takes your hand, brining it up to press a kiss to you knuckles, that smirk melting into something softer. His thumb slides slow over your knuckles, gaze dipping down your body with zero shame.
“Wasn’t gonna make it through the whole thing without ‘em,” he murmurs, low and lazy.
You blink. You try not to laugh, pressing your lips together.
“Pocket square didn’t smell like you,” he adds.
You make a quiet, shocked noise that gets swallowed up by the crowd.
“You are mentally unwell,” you whisper back to him, praying to officiant didn’t hear him, even though you were certain he did.
He winks. “And now you’re stuck with me.”
You’re still blushing by the time the officiant starts the vows.
When the time for "I do's” comes, Ben says it before he’s even supposed to—loud and clear and without hesitation, like someone might try to interrupt him.
And when he kisses you, it’s not delicate or practiced. It’s a little rough. A little too eager. His hand slides around your waist, fingers flexing just enough to remind you’re in for a very long night.
After, as the guests cheer you on as you recessed down the aisle and out of the venue to the waiting car, you lean close to whisper, “you better hope no one else noticed.”
Ben just grins and taps his pocket. “I sure fucking hope they did, sweetheart.”
And then he winks.
And you’re going to be so late to the reception if he’s got any say in it.
Hey! Love how you write the boys here! I love a hard core man that can squirm. Would you be willing to write if each are ticklish and if so, where? It can totally be a SFW piece, just something fun. Thanks!!!
Hey there! Why thank you. 🥰❤️ While I’m not actively taking requests, this prompt is too cute, and I've been saving this in my inbox for when I had the time and headspace to do headcanons again!
HEADCANON: Who's ticklish?
Between Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), Mark Meachum and Russell Shaw...
Let's go in order of least to most ticklish. 😂
(Small 18+ warning for SB's part.)
Soldier Boy (Ben): Not Ticklish (but a little sensitive)
Thanks to his invulnerability, Ben doesn't feel things the same way even most other supes feel. That goes for pain and pleasure.
It would take a set of titanium claws to make him any version of "ticklish," at least on his skin.
Thanks to his extensive time in captivity though, he's also very aware (and avoidant) of touch. The only time he willingly allows someone to put his hands on him is if it's you.
It's taken a while for him to get used to gentler kinds of intimate touch again, not just as sexual foreplay...
Like your hand wrapped in his while walking together.
A gentle brush across his back as you pass by him in the house.
The way you run your fingers through his hair, giving his scalp a gentle scratch.
Or those rare intimate moments, where you lure him closer to the edge of vulnerability with a caress of his cheek.
But of course, despite his super soldier strength, there are parts of him that are more...sensitive.
If you kiss his neck, or start wandering below the belt with your hand, you can expect his big hands to tighten their grip on you, keeping you right where he wants you.
Needless to say, it doesn't take much to rile him up. He's attuned to your every move, and every touch—light or firm, gentle or rough.
"That's it, sweetheart," he grits out. "Nice and slow..."
You smirk against his skin, letting him savor every sensation you mean to give him with your hands (followed shortly by your mouth).
Mark Meachum: Ticklish Neck
You discover it by accident, when Mark ducks you after you try to help him straighten his shirt collar for a date night out. He flinches just slightly when your fingers brush his neck, and he takes over the straightening of his clothes.
"You okay?" you ask in concern, thinking maybe he has another headache coming on. They've been coming more frequently, even though he says he's—
"Fine," he replies breezily. "Come on, we're gonna be late."
You snort. "Since when do you care about that?"
You don't know how many reservations you've had to reschedule because this man has no concept of time when he's at work.
"Since rush hour starts in T-minus 20, and I'm looking forward to a nice juicy steak," Mark says, lightly smacking your ass.
You roll your eyes, despite your smile.
Mark thinks he's been slick enough to avoid suspicion, but later that night, he sits on the edge of your shared bed and winds his jacket off his shoulders, rolling his neck with a deep breath.
You notice that he's seemed more fatigued lately, and stressed. You move in behind him and begin massaging his shoulders. He groans, damn near becomes putty under your hands.
"Aw, hell, yeah."
You laugh lightly. "You like that, huh?"
He only flinches when your thumbs graze his neck. It gives you pause.
You brush your fingers more deliberately, making his shoulders clench up as he attempts to dip away from you.
"Whoa, hey, hey—"
"Ooh, you're ticklish!" you say triumphantly. "I fucking knew it, you liar."
You remember vowing you'd have your vengeance one day for all the times he's teased you by prodding your sensitive waist. He'd claimed you couldn't pay him back.
("My body's built like a rock, baby. Dead inside.")
"Shit," he utters on a laugh.
Before Mark can vault himself off the bed and away from your teasing fingers, you capture him with your arms wrapped around his neck, cackling as you drag him back into the war zone.
Russell Shaw: Ticklish Back & Sides
Russell is also not one to admit it, because he honestly didn't know it himself.
Growing up on the compound, learning the skills it takes to survive in the wilderness, his family wasn't exactly a touchy feely bunch. Plus, he's spent most of his life being a bit of a lone wolf, even in the military. So it stands to reason why he's spent over forty years of his life unaware of this small aspect of his own body.
You both find out one day when he's in the garage, working on tuning up his car. For once he's divested of the jackets he wears over layers of shirts, wearing a grease-stained crewneck while the hood of his Chevelle Malibu is popped open.
You enter the garage and shimmy past him in search of something, letting your hands skim along his sides and across his sweaty back.
"'Scuse me, sir," you tease.
To your curiosity, he flinches away from your touch and coughs a little.
"Hey, watch out. I've got some tools on the floor here," he says, pointing around with his finger.
You heed the warning, but you're more interested in testing out a theory. You lean close to him again, brushing your hand against his waist.
"How's she coming?" you ask, peering around his arm.
He tries to be subtle about it, but he still does that weird sideways sway that people do when they're ticklish. As you suspected.
He wraps an arm around your waist instead of having you behind him. "Almost done for today. Just need to check the oi—ah-hey!"
He flinches and stifles a laugh when you stroke featherlight fingers up and down his side, prodding along his ribs too.
"Oooh, big man's so ticklish," you cackle. "Is that why you have so many jackets?"
"All right, that's enough outta you." Russell manages to wrestle your scheming hands into one of his bigger ones. With a pointed brow raise at you, he closes the hood of his car. He then grabs you by the hips and perches you on it, steadying you when you yelp in surprise.
He smirks down at you, stepping in between your legs.
"Weren't betting on this, were you?" he says.
You trail your hands up his arms. He has his elbows firmly pressed to his sides, so you can't try and attack him from the flank again.
"You can't keep me here forever," you say, plucking innocently at his collar and smoothing down grease-stained fabric. "Sooner or later, you're gonna get hungry."
He smirks. "I'll just tie ya down to the hood and pick me up a sandwich."
He does love his damn sandwiches.
You laugh, but your hands take on a new path—down his chest, down to his belt.
"In that case, I guess I'll just have to play dirty."
Dean Winchester: Ticklish Sides & Under Arms
At night, after the many layers of jackets and flannel come off, you get a kick out of teasing him.
Dean doesn't like it. He's a man, damn it. He isn't meant to flinch and squirm and laugh when he doesn't want to.
But his grin still threatens to hurt his cheeks when your wily hands find their way under his sleep shirt. You map little constellations and mini tap dances over his ribs, under his arms, tweaking his nipples just to be a brat.
"Hey," he barks, unsuccessfully trying to stop himself from laughing.
He soon manages to roll over, grab your wrists and pin you down beneath him on his bed. His eyes roam over your unrepentant face, your equally disheveled clothes, your messy hair and breathless giggles.
"You're playing with fire, sweetheart," he warns.
"Yeah? What if I wanna get burned?" you reply, a cheeky challenge.
After a hunt, you like to see a different kind of fire in his eyes. You try to knock his head out of his darker regrets and tease that familiar smirk back onto his face, right before he claims your lips with his own.
Whether he realizes it or not, you're lightening his load a little bit at a time.
Beau Arlen: Ticklish Neck, Sides & Feet
This man won't easily admit it, but Beau is hella fucking ticklish.
Once you learn this fact, it becomes impossible not to tease him, especially in moments where he's trying to use his sheriff voice on you.
It's all too easy to agree to whatever he's saying, then just slip your arms around his waist in the pretense of a hug. There you run your fingers lightly up his sides.
His body caves to your touch all too easily, while reflexive laughter has his brows furrowing in an attempt to remain stern.
"H-Hey, that's not fair. You can't just—"
He grabs your arms and pins them to your sides, but as he stares down at you, annoyance and frustration gives way to heat—for both of you. Whatever it was he was saying before gets lost in the way he kisses you then, devouring and demanding.
Entirely worth the tease.
And on those rare times you wake up before him, you find it cute whenever you see his big feet sticking out of the covers in bed.
How can you not graze your nails under the tender arches of his feet?
Watching them disappear under the covers, his grunt of annoyance—it shouldn't amuse you as much as it does.
But it also happens in lazy moments, snuggled up on the couch or in bed. Your hand travels, sometimes up his chest and grazing your fingers along his neck, into his hair. You feel him flinch lightly, shuddering a little.
"You okay?" you giggle, giving his scalp a little scratch.
"Actually, feels kinda nice," he mutters, pressing a kiss against the side of your head. A beat of hesitation, and then...
"Do that again."
AN: I realized how much I missed writing these headcanons. 😂❤️ Who was your favorite this time?
My favorite part of this is seeing who you guys gravitate toward. It's almost never what I expect!
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cw: 18+ smut.ᐟ protected oral [m receiving].ᐟ overstimulation.ᐟ flavoured condom use.ᐟ male whimpering.ᐟ dean is a begging pathetic mess.ᐟ
wc: 377 sam winchester ver
dean let out a raspy whimper as you dragged your tongue up his covered shaft, the flavour of the rubber from the ‘fruity fun’ box overwhelming your taste buds in the best way possible.
you hummed against his cock, one of your hands wrapped around the base and lazily pumping him as your mouth did it’s job.
“wow… it changes flavour!” you moaned excitedly, continuing to lick him up and down like a lollipop.
dean’s lips were parted, his brows frowned, hips jerking up slightly with each passing second, all he could do was watch you lick his cock.
“hmmmm tastes so good~” you hummed against him, sending vibrations straight to his very core.
dean was never the type of man to pray, but my god if he wasn’t praying for you to finally put his cock in your warm mouth.
“fuck- baby.. please.” his voice came out in a soft whimper.
his cheeks slightly flushed as his cock leaked precum into the tip of the condom before you even properly got to it.
his fingers instinctively pushing through your soft locks and gripping them for any type of support.
this man was unraveling on the motel bed right in front of you, simply from you enjoying the fruity rubber, which he insisted on purchasing in the first place let’s not forget.
“sweetheart i don’t know how long i can last like this..” he whined under his breath, the grip on your hair tightening.
you looked up at him with his tip barely in your mouth, your tongue just swirling around it.
dean let out a desperate groan, “..please.” his head hit the mattress with a soft thud as he threw his head back, his eyes fluttering closed.
as soon as you wrapped your lips around his cock, a gasp escaped dean’s soft plush lips. his hand pushing your head down further onto his cock.
“f-fuck.. that’s it baby, just like that..” dean moaned out, his face contorting. the muscles in his thighs tensing up under your fingertips as you sucked his cock.
and honestly it didn’t take long for him to come in the rubber, filling it with his hot milky semen.
but little did he know, you weren’t near done enjoying the ‘tropical burst’ packet.
Dean x Reader
Summary: Dean flirts with everyone… except you. Suddenly, the guy who’s usually so smooth can’t seem to string two words together, and Sam has to step in to keep things from getting completely out of hand.
Genre: Fluff ♡
Word Count: 3.1K
Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.
He’s blending a pile of vegetables in the kitchen when Dean walks in and… just stands there. Staring.
Sam can feel it, Dean’s gaze boring into the side of his head. He keeps blending. If he ignores it, maybe, just maybe, his brother will go away.
He does not.
There’s only so much liquefying you can do to a zucchini, so eventually Sam gives up and turns around. “What?”
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Do I look approachable to you?”
There it is.
Sam exhales through his nose. “What are you talking about?”
Dean isn’t even looking at him; his eyes are fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, I think I am. I guess. But maybe I’m not. Maybe I look… I dunno… standoffish.”
Sam blinks. “Standoffish.”
“I’m just saying, there’s a line, okay? Too friendly, and you look like some creepy guy offering free candy. Not friendly enough, and people think you’re gonna stab ‘em.”
Sam shuts off the blender, grabs his smoothie, and sits. Dean drops into the chair across from him, and he stares expectantly, eyebrows up.
“Dean, man... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, if you were a girl and saw me at a bar—”
“Great. Can’t imagine a better start,” Sam mutters.
“—would you think I was approachable? Like… someone you’d walk up to?”
Sam looks down into his glass, searching for the strength to keep going. Nothing. No strength. Just spinach.
“Dean… where is this coming from?”
Dean Winchester, the man who has picked up so many women he's lost count. And yet here he is, acting like he needs a pep talk.
Finally, Sam sighs, giving his brother at least the courtesy of an honest answer. “You’re approachable. You’re… you. People like you.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t ease at the reassurance. If anything, he looks more frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth in a pout that he’d absolutely deny making. “Then what the hell was she talking about?”
“…What? Who?”
Sam’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh.
You.
He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Shakes his head. “Dean… dude. Just talk to her.”
“I talk to her,” his brother insists.
“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re in here interrogating me about your ‘approachability,’ right?” Sam deadpans, leaning back with the weary authority of a brother who has lived through this many, many times.
“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, immediately hating where this is going. He pushes up from the table and heads for the coffee machine, chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to think a hole through it.
Two minutes later, you step into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge like you always do. And Sam sees it. God, he sees all of it. Front-row seats.
Dean cuts a glance at you from the corner of his eye, stands a little straighter, then his hand shoots up to flatten his hair. Sam just shakes his head. He swears he’s going to start avoiding the kitchen entirely when the two of you are in here together.
“Would you hand me a spoon, handsome?” you ask, completely unaware of what you just triggered.
Sam watches Dean freeze at the pet name.
“Spoon. Yeah. We, uh… we have spoons,” he stammers, somehow producing one like it’s a rare artifact. He hands it to you with the confidence of a Victorian maiden having her first conversation with a man.
Then he retreats to the safety of the coffee machine.
Yogurt and spoon in hand, you head out of the kitchen. Dean’s eyes track you the whole way, drawn like a magnet. The instant you disappear down the hall, something in him lights up.
The man beams.
“Handsome,” he says to the empty air, chest puffing up. “She thinks I’m handsome.”
Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, riding the high.
Sam shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
Two seconds later, Dean reappears, deflating the dramatic exit. “Forgot my coffee,” he says, grabbing the mug with forced nonchalance. He doesn’t make eye contact.
Sam just snorts.
—
It’s been around two hours when you spot Sam in the library, typing away on his computer.
You sit down across from him and wait.
When his eyes finally lift from the screen, one eyebrow raised, you say, “Can I run something by you real quick?”
“Sure,” he replies, tone calm. “What’s up?”
You hesitate. Usually, maybe you wouldn’t even ask. But it’s Sam, and you trust him. “How would you… rate me, on a scale from one to ten?”
“What?”
“Like, hypothetically… let’s say you walk into a bar and I’m sitting there. What’s your first impression of me?”
Sam, who doesn’t even like bars, has already been dragged into two bar hypotheticals today, and it’s barely ten in the morning. He resists the urge to sigh. “Just… talk to Dean,” he says. “Trust me.”
“How did you know I—”
“Really good intuition,” he interrupts.
You stare down at the table, lips pouting. “It’s just… He flirts with everyone, literally everyone – even the old lady at the market. He just… never flirts with me. So I try to be casual. But this morning... it sort of got out before I could stop myself, and I called him handsome. And he, uh – I don’t think he liked that.”
Sam lets out a quiet snort.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he mutters quickly, eyes darting back to the computer. “Just… maybe ask him to grab a coffee sometime. Keep it casual. Start small, you know?"
You hum thoughtfully, weighing the advice. “Yeah… maybe I could do that.”
Sam smiles faintly, satisfied, and goes back to typing. He can survive this, probably.
—
Dean is sweet.
Okay, maybe he doesn’t flirt with you. Not the way he does with everyone else.
But if you’re being even a little logical, you know he cares. A lot.
He worries about you no matter what you’re dealing with: hunt injuries, a headache, a papercut, a sneeze. One fragile little “achoo” and he’s glancing over all concerned.
And he pays attention.
You mention things offhand like your favorite snacks, a brand of tea you like, or that one candle scent you can never find... and the next time he comes back from the store, they’re sitting on the table like they magically appeared.
He never says it was him.
Probably thinks it’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing. Not to you.
And sure, old Joanne at the market gets called “sweetheart,” and you don’t. But Dean has never bought her chocolate before.
…Wait. Has he?
Doesn’t matter.
Because the point is: you’re going to follow Sam’s advice and ask him out for coffee.
Even if he doesn’t like you back, Dean is sweet, and he deserves good coffee.
And you’re brave enough to offer it.
With this thought in mind, you walk into the kitchen the next morning.
Sam is already blending something green. You hover in the doorway until he finally shows mercy and switches it off because you really don’t want the sound of zucchini being pulverized to mark the beginning of whatever is about to happen.
Only then do you cross the room and sit down right across from Dean, who still hasn’t noticed you’re there.
He’s cradling his coffee, eyelids heavy, hair sticking up in five different directions. But the moment you enter his line of sight, he nearly jumps. His back goes straight, and he immediately smooths a hand over his hair, one stubborn piece still popping right back up.
God, he’s adorable.
“Mornin’,” he says softly, still half-asleep, voice rough like gravel, and your brain just… fries. Completely.
Not a thought up there for a good minute.
You had a speech planned, had summoned enough courage for it, and now there's just… nothing.
Soon enough, Dean’s hands are on the table, pushing him to his feet. “All right, I’mma—head to the store,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the door.
Sure. Go flirt with Joanne, you think. Bet she likes that a lot.
But then he turns those big, hopeful eyes on you. “Wanna come?”
“What?"
“Yesterday,” he adds quickly, “you said you wanted to go…”
Your chest melts a little. You only said that to Sam, and Dean… still paid attention.
You manage to smile. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
Dean smiles back before he tries to cover it up with a half-suppressed nod. “Cool. Yeah. Uh—let’s go then.”
He nearly walks into the doorframe on the way out.
—
“Joanne, looking incredible this morning,” Dean practically whistles at the older lady at the counter the second you step through the door.
“Right back at you, gorgeous,” she beams.
Of course she’s beaming. You’d beam too if he said you looked incredible.
Then she leans in conspiratorially, glancing around like she’s sharing state secrets. “Placed an order for that pie you like. Should be here tomorrow.”
Dean grins. “Sweetheart, you sure you wanna keep your husband? Competition’s fierce… just sayin’.”
You glare at the mismatched floor tiles and make your way toward the fridge aisle, while Joanne giggles behind the counter. Again, who can blame her?
Then they start talking in hushed tones, leaning in toward each other. You’re pretty sure they’re talking about you because of the way she keeps sneaking glances your way. You strain to hear while pretending to examine the products, but you’re too far away to catch a word. By the time you edge closer, the conversation cuts off, and Dean doesn’t even glance in your direction.
When you finally reach the till, Joanne leans in and whispers, “Darling, you gotta snatch that before it’s too late.”
She nods toward Dean, who’s hovering near the snack aisle. “I mean, look at him,” she adds, shaking her head with exaggerated approval. Your eyes follow hers, taking in everything from head to toe. “Seriously. If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t just stand there doing nothing.”
“The way he looks at me?” you echo, because apparently that’s the only sentence your brain can manage.
Joanne stares at you. “Sweetheart… are your eyes just for decoration?”
“What?"
Before she can say anything else, Dean returns with a bag of chips and puts it down gently on the conveyor belt. “Got the ones you like,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.
Aww, he's so cute.
You glance at Dean.
Then at the chips.
Then back at Joanne, who lifts her eyebrows in a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of way.
Okay.
Yeah.
You do have to snatch that before it’s too late.
—
The way he looks at you.
You’ve been chewing on that the whole ride back, trying to decode what the hell Joanne meant.
Sure, Dean glances at you, checks if you’re okay, keeps track of you the way he keeps track of Sam, Cas, his car, everything he cares about. That’s just… Dean. Nothing special about it.
Right?
“What were you and Joanne talkin’ about?” he asks suddenly, low and careful. His eyes flick over to you, then right back to the road. “What’d she say?”
He sounds almost… worried.
“Uh, nothing,” you lie, light as possible. “She might have a crush on you, though.”
That gets a small smile out of him, soft and relieved. Then he glances again. “That's all she said?”
“Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Just… wonderin’.”
You do not bring up her actual comments, because dying from embarrassment in this car is not on your bucket list. “What about you?” you ask, as casual as possible. “What were you two whispering about?”
“Uh… she, uh… has this niece she wanted me to meet.”
“Oh.” It falls out of you flat and tiny.
“Yeah,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thought I might be interested.”
“Really?”
“I’m not,” he says immediately, too immediately. “Interested, I mean. But Joanne kinda figured that out right away,” Dean finishes. “So it’s all good.”
The old lady wasn’t joking. Someone less insecure is going to snatch him up one of these days, and you’re going to regret all this waiting around doing nothing.
But the question is, how are you supposed to live in the bunker with him if you go all in on your feelings and he doesn’t feel the same? That’s just a recipe for disaster.
But then again… The way he looks at you.
You make it your personal project to figure out just what the hell that means.
Truthfully, it doesn't even take long to gather hints, one after the other.
He does look at you, more than you’d realized. Not the teasing, smirking kind of glance he gives literally everyone else. Not even the playful, flirty looks. No, this is different. His eyes linger, soft, careful, like he’s making sure you’re okay, or memorizing something only he can see.
And maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe. But every time he flusters when you tease him, or he scratches the back of his neck when you hand him a simple compliment, your brain takes notes. You start keeping a mental tally, just to make sure you’re not imagining things.
You’re also pretty sure you’ve seen him blush around you a couple of times. Enough to make your heart skip.
Dean Winchester, master of casual charm and reckless confidence, gets… flustered. Around you. And it’s the smallest, most perfect kind of proof.
After weeks of quietly gathering evidence and comparing notes with Sam, Cas, and even Jack, your case feels airtight. And with it comes a little surge of courage.
And then, out of nowhere, you stumble onto the final piece.
The big one.
You weren’t even supposed to be in the bunker.
You were meant to be at Charlie’s for the weekend: movies, junk food, girl talk, a detox from the job, and the crises that come with it. But she comes down with a brutal flu and refuses to get you sick, so the whole plan gets pushed back.
You were going to text the boys and let them know you were still home, but you never got the chance.
Because the second the front door slams, you hear Dean’s voice echo down the metal stairs: “That’s just stupid,” he grumbles. “I’m not doin’ that. I don’t even know if she likes me.”
You freeze mid-step.
Sam’s answer comes fast, like he’s run out of patience for the year. “Dean. Be serious. Are your eyes just for decoration?”
Sam and Joanne could be good friends, you think. They’re both full-time members of the Dean Appreciation Squad anyway.
Dean huffs loudly. “She lives here, Sam. What if you’re wrong? I don’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” His voice dips, softer, almost guilty. “God knows I probably already do.”
Your heart drops.
He actually thinks he might be making you uncomfortable.
Dean Winchester.
A man who apologizes when you bump into him.
A man who brings you your favorite snacks without a word.
A man who looks at you with care and devotion.
He thinks any of that is unwelcome.
You press back against the wall, breath catching in your throat, because the truth finally lands and it's undeniable.
He likes you.
Really likes you.
And he’s holding himself back because he’s afraid his feelings might somehow upset you.
...Well.
You’re going to have to show him exactly how wrong he is.
—
You stroll into the garage one slow morning, no hunts, no plans – just a little time to make yourself feel… well, you. No flannel. No worn-out boots. Today, something that hugs your curves just right, a touch of makeup to bring out your best features. You even had time to make your hair cooperate.
Dean’s under the car, elbow-deep in something greasy, when you lean against the wall, arms crossed casually.
“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” you murmur, voice soft but teasing.
Metal clangs to the floor. “Son of a—” He scrambles out from under the car, rag in hand, eyes widening as they travel up and down you, and he almost freezes. “You… uh… you going out?”
“That depends,” you say, tilting your head. “Are you busy?”
“Huh? Me?” Dean stammers. “Why? You… you need a ride somewhere?”
"No, not really. Wanted to take you out.”
For a moment, he just blinks. The words don’t seem to register. “Take me out?”
“A date,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though inside you’re practically combusting.
“A date,” he repeats slowly. “You… and me?”
“Yeah. If you want to.”
A faint blush spreads across his cheeks, just enough to reveal his heart. "For real?"
"Yeah," you nod. "Do you want to?"
“God, yes,” he says, voice almost too fast. “I… uh… I’mma go change, real quick.”
Before you can even react, he’s already rushing to the garage door, as if he hesitates another second, you might change your mind. He pauses, hand on the handle, then spins back with a quick glance. “I don’t think I mentioned it, but you look... amazing. Just…” He shoots you an approving look, the kind that makes your chest tighten, before finally ducking out.
—
Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.
Actually… scratch that.
It might already be too late.
He did start looking at local classes: pottery, pilates, and even a book club. But he never registered for any of them. And now? Now he deeply regrets it.
Because the poor man walks into the kitchen, thinking only about making a smoothie, and instead walks into—
Yeah.
That.
There you are.
There Dean is.
And you’re kissing him like you’re both about to start something Sam definitely doesn’t want to picture.
Right in front of the blender.
And - oh no - your fingers slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and his breath itches. And then he's all like, “Oh baby, if you keep this up, I’m gonna put you right on this counter and—”
Sam slams his ears shut and salutes the blender for its bravery. Then he bolts from the room, muttering something about bleach and possibly moving to another state.
The next day, the blender is quietly relocated to the war room, where it can recover from trauma in peace, and Sam doesn't venture back into the kitchen for at least two weeks.
And you… Well, you’ll owe Sam a proper thank-you someday... Once he can glance at the two of you without immediately questioning every decision that has brought him here.
