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[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

𝙻𝚒𝚎

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 ≫

You had a vague understanding of what the family business was. He spared you the gory details, but you did his laundry. You’d seen his scars. You knew that what he did was inherently dangerous.

What you didn’t realize was how beautifully insidious that danger could be.

That he was being slowly drained of his humanity.

One drop at a time. ≪

Pairing: Ruby x demon blood!Sam Winchester x civillian!fem reader (not polyship)

CW: 18+ MDNI, heavy angst, toxic relationship, codependency, some smut (pinv), addiction, infidelity, pet names, canon violence/gore, some domestic violence, biting & drawing blood, marking, mean sam. If season 4 was upsetting this might not be the fic for you.

WC: 3.9k

a/n: This started as a little kernel of an idea and just exploded in my notes app. Apparently, I like poking around in painful topics and seeing what pokes back.

.✦ ݁˖ 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 .✦ ݁˖

It started with little things.

Things anyone would miss. Hunter or civilian.

His eyes lingering on his phone screen when normally it’d be on the charger by now. Forgotten as soon as he walked through your door. 

He didn’t see the way you frowned at him in the kitchen. Too engrossed at whatever was keeping his mind on the road.

“Sam, I haven’t seen you in a week, c’mere.” You wrapped your hand around two of his thick fingers and pulled. There was an almost obnoxious level of whine in your voice that made you cringe, but it always did the trick on him.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on, sweetheart.”

Tossing his phone aside, he quickly wet his lips before cradling your head in his hands and crashing his lips against yours. Seeing you in one of his old shirts beaming up at him made him forget whatever had happened when he was gone.

It was always this way when Sam came home from a hunting trip with his brother. You’d spend nearly every second together once Dean dropped him off at your doorstep. The first few hours were normally spent in bed or in the shower, depending on the condition he came home in.

He’d given you the monsters-are-real talk.

You had a vague understanding of what the family business was. He spared you the gory details. But you did his laundry. You’d seen his scars. You knew that what he did was inherently dangerous.

What you didn’t realize was how beautifully insidious that danger could be. 

That he was being slowly drained of his humanity.

One drop at a time.

It was little things, here and there.

The way his fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on his thigh.

You were curled up at his side on the couch. He had one arm wrapped around you, holding you tightly against him. Everything was perfect. 

Almost. 

The sound of his fingertips tapping against the worn denim kept demanding your attention.

You watched as his eyes tracked the movements on the TV screen, but he wasn’t really watching. He was thinking. So hard that you could almost hear the gears turning in his mind.

“Sam.”

He sucked in a breath like he’d been caught drifting off.

“Hm? Oh, m’sorry.”

He flexed his hand a few times to dispel the nervous movement and relaxed it at his side. He pulled you closer and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head as you settled into him again. Even though he was home, his mind was still on the road.

With someone else.

Cracks appeared when you were most vulnerable to each other. 

When he’d be buried inside you—typical after he came back from a trip—splitting you open on his thick cock. Hitting that special spot with every thrust. Right as he felt your walls start to pulse around him he’d rake his teeth across your throat. Using enough force to only pinch the skin. He’d feel you tense around him and dig your nails a little deeper into his broad shoulders. Pushing him to fuck you with abandon while he chased his own high.

Sam had never been rough with you before and it caught you off guard. It wasn’t enough to scare you and it didn’t really hurt.

But you noticed him slipping a little more each time. 

Beginning to pass the pleasure-pain threshold. Always waiting until you were close to the edge before sucking an openmouthed kiss into your neck or shoulder before biting down. Then soothing with a pass of his tongue. 

With his face pressed against you, he couldn’t see the way you’d wince. He just felt the way your cunt would spasm and hear the tiny breath you sucked in amidst your soft moaning. 

As time went on, it got worse. Until finally, he drew blood. Your pained yelp hit him like a bolt of electricity. He pulled back and saw you pressing your palm tightly to your collarbone. Pulling your hand away you were horrified to see a smear of red across your shaky palm. 

He studied you with a look of horror when he noticed the tiny bruises and bite marks in different states of healing blooming across your skin. His eyes traced them like a roadmap of his progression towards depravity.

“Sam, that really hurt.” Your voice shook and your chin quivered as you looked up at him. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

He left to grab you a warm washcloth to help clean you up. Before he left the bathroom he caught his reflection in the mirror. For a brief second he could have sworn his eyes had blackened. After peering closer, he shook the image from his mind and chalked it up to lack of sleep and overwrought nerves.

Or maybe a guilty conscience. 

Because when he sank his teeth into you while you writhed beneath him, he wasn’t thinking about you. In his mind he was in a rundown motel room with Ruby. The demon whose blood he’d been drinking to help prevent the apocalypse. Saving the world. Saving you.

At least that’s what he told himself. 

Why he was sleeping with Ruby was a question he didn’t have the answer to. 

It has just sort of happened. He was completely disgusted with himself when he crossed that line. One that he had never crossed with a partner before. Let alone with a demon wearing the meat suit of a woman. 

It might have been the promises she whispered into the shell of his ear. When her plush lips would graze his skin just enough to make him shiver.

“We’re so close, Sam. You’re almost strong enough to take Lilith down. Just a little more.”

Maybe the way her painted nails would rake through his hair while she smiled down at him. Offering praises while he wrapped his lips around the cut on her arm. Praises that made his cock twitch in his jeans. 

“You’re such a good boy, Sammy. Takin’ what you need.”

It was something he didn’t know he needed to hear. Her words were soft fingers gently twisting themselves around in his brain. Convincing him that what he was doing was righteous. That his ability was for good. Not a harbinger for chaos and misery. 

She’d almost convinced him that you were working against him. That you were just slowing him down.

“Why are you still wasting your time with her? She’d never understand your gift. She’d just call you a freak. She’s exactly like your brother.” 

She’d already frayed the bond of brothers to the breaking point. His isolation was almost complete. With how strung out he had become, it was only a matter of time before he crossed another line.

Like most times he came home, you’d start a load of laundry. He was terrible about emptying his pockets before putting his clothes in the wash. 

You hollered as much through the closed bathroom door to which he returned an oh, thanks baby. 

Pulling his clothes out of his duffle bag, a strange metallic flask clattered on the hardwood floor. You cocked your head at the sight. Sam wasn’t much of a drinker and you were sure it must have been Dean’s. Or maybe it was a relic of his father’s.. 

Curiosity drove you to open the lid and inspect it with a quick whiff. You were prepared to be greeted with the strong smell of alcohol. Instead, the bitter, metallic odor caused your face to twist in surprise. 

You glanced over your shoulder first to make sure you were still alone. Satisfied, you shook it and the sound told you there was clearly liquid in it

Perplexed, you walked to the kitchen sink to pour the contents out. A quiet gasp escaped you when you saw what were clearly blood droplets forming in the sink.

“Hey!” 

You jumped at Sam’s voice booming from the doorway. The flask landed in the sink with a startling crash. In two strides he was on you. Rough hands wrapped around your arms, jolting you twice and nearly lifting you up to his level. 

“What are you doing?!” 

You hadn’t noticed how sunken and red-rimmed his eyes were until he was inches away from your face. Water droplets that still clung to his hair made you flinch when they reached your skin. His jaw was clenched tight while his eyes flicked between yours. The tears in your eyes became heavy enough to crest your lids and trail down your cheeks. 

“w-what is that, Sam?” 

His grip on your arms tightened. Hard enough to feel a soft crunch of muscle rubbing against bone.

“Don’t go through my things, d’you hear me? Ever.” 

You only managed a shaky nod. He released his grasp on you suddenly and you caught yourself on the counter. His chest heaved slightly as he released an exasperated breath. He paced for a moment, raking his fingers through his wet hair and turning back to you. 

Your teeth pinched your lower lip to stop it from shaking. Without the gentle giant facade, you realized how naturally fear came to you. How truly imposing his figure could be. How easy it would be for him to break you.

His face softened when he noticed you shrinking in front of him. 

“Shit,” he groaned. “c'mere, honey.” 

You flinched from his outstretched hand.

The same hand that would stroke your back gently when you had a rough day. 

The same one that had felt your forehead for a fever when you were sick. 

It was like your body was warning you that this hand didn’t belong to the man you loved. But someone who was living a double life. Someone who wasn’t completely human anymore.

“Who’s Ruby?”

The words made his blood turn to ice. Rage born from fear boiled to the surface first. 

“What?” His voice landed like a bite.

“I saw the text messages. Who is she?” You asked, feeling braver now. He couldn’t deny what you saw with your own eyes. 

He squared his shoulders in front of you again. Ready to flip the script on you.

“So you’re going through my phone now, too?” He scoffed. “And you’re scared of me?” 

He looked baffled by your insecurity. As if he wasn’t the one who created it by abandoning your trust. 

The bravery you had sown was gone. Now replaced by embarrassment and self doubt. Even though in your heart you knew you weren’t wrong in your suspicions. 

“Sam—”

He held his hand up to stop you.

“—I don’t need this right now.”

With that, he grabbed his duffle bag and left. Ignoring every attempt you made to keep him with you. Where you knew he was safe.

The sound of the door slamming behind him faded along with the muffled footsteps of him jogging down the front steps.

All that was left was a painful silence that reminded you that you were losing him.

If you hadn’t lost him already.

You’d copied Dean’s number down from Sam’s phone. That was the only reason you violated his privacy. Because you needed him to fill in the blanks for you. Surely he would know what was going on with his brother.

“Listen, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes at the demeaning pet name.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But I’m working on it, okay?”

Really, he didn’t want to ruin the only good thing in Sam’s life by telling you what a freak he’d become. Sam had promised him that he was done with Ruby. Clearly, that wasn’t the case anymore.

But he was going to set his brother straight.

He just had to find him first.

Days turned into a week. Then two weeks.

Every day was longer than the last. Every night your bed was colder.

You picked up extra shifts, trying to stay as busy as possible. Anything that kept you out of the house where all you could do was hope.

Hope that he might stumble through the front door at any moment.

Hope that he’d call you back. If only to tell you he hated you.

Even working sixty hours a week, you had to go home at some point. When you got home, you closed the door and pressed your back against it. Bracing yourself for another long night of anxiety and restlessness.

Looking down, your heart fluttered at the sight of Sam’s shoes by the door.

“Sam?”

You hurried through each room, hoping the universe wasn’t playing a cruel trick on you.

You finally found him on the floor of the bathroom. You immediately rushed to his side, ignoring the fact that he was clearly sick, and wrapped your arms around his chest.

His hand found your arm again, loosely this time, as he tried to anchor himself to you.

“M’so sorry.” He groaned at a volume barely above a whisper.

Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have allowed yourself to grovel like this. To hold the man who had held you so cruelly. At that moment, you realized you were as sick as he was. When you love someone so deeply and completely, it feels traitorous not to be.

You helped him to bed, which was pitiful to watch for a man of that stature. You helped him change into something clean and dry. Got him to drink some water. Then watched him fall asleep for the first time in what must have been days.

Once he was asleep, you quietly got up to take care of yourself after working twelve hours—for the fifth day in a row.

While getting ready to take a shower, you heard the unmistakable sound of a cell phone buzzing against a hard surface. You found Sam’s phone on the floor next to the toilet, probably having fallen from his pocket when he was dry heaving.

Dread flooded your body. Whoever was calling him was making it harder to ignore what he had been doing behind your back.

The incoming call ended and you quickly grabbed his phone and brought it into the kitchen to put it on the charger. As soon as you turned your back, his phone started buzzing again.

Almost mockingly.

Curiosity won out. You spun on your heels and snatched his phone off the charger.

Incoming call: Dean

Why wouldn’t he answer a call from his brother? He was probably worried about him. You would just let him know Sam was safe with you.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?”

“Hey, um, Sam’s here. He was here when I got home.”

“Oh? How does he seem?”

You glanced around again to make sure Sam hadn't gotten up. While satisfied, you still spoke in a hushed tone.

“He’s sick, Dean. I don’t know what’s wrong with him...but he’s really sick.”

Silence. Then a sigh.

Then came the full, unadulterated truth. Demon blood—not a street name for any kind of drug you’d ever heard of. God, how you wished it was, though. And Ruby was his whorish puppet master. His dealer for blood, sex, and manipulation.

You waited for Dean to roar with laughter and tell you it was all a joke. That never happened. He just gave you the watered-down explanation of why, but it still managed to be overwhelming.

“Well, it sounds like he’s kicking it, but I don’t think it’ll be as easy as sleeping one off.”

Silence.

“Hey, you there?”

Your head was thick with all of the questions you didn’t want answers to.

“Listen. I know that’s probably not what you wanna hear, but this is about more than him being a shitty boyfriend.”

“I can take care of him.”

You heard a sympathetic grumble.

“Sweetheart—”

“Trust me, Dean.”

You ended the call and took a deep breath. Trying to convince yourself you’d made the right choice.

If Sam would just stay with you, things would work themselves out. Nothing bad happened to him when he just stayed home. The world wasn’t ending. Heaven and Hell weren’t battling for control of the planet.

It was just you and him.

As soon as you slid into bed behind him, you passed out. Like you’d finally come home after being thousands of miles away.

At some point in the night, Sam had woken up drenched in a cold sweat. Feeling like his body was trying to turn itself inside out.

Out. He needed to get out.

He barely glanced back toward your sleeping form as he stumbled out of the bedroom and moved toward the door.

He found his phone on the charger and grabbed it without questioning how it got there. He was already scrolling through his contacts looking for Ruby’s.

A familiar creaking floorboard grabbed his focus.

There you were. Sleepy-eyed and draped in his T-shirt with your hair in a messy bun.

“Sam?”

The sight of him with his phone and jacket in hand made your stomach drop. Normally, he’d apologize for waking you up and guide you back to bed.

“I gotta go, Y/N.” He said quietly. His eyes couldn’t linger on you for long. It was too painful.

“Why? So you can go back to Ruby?” Fear shattered the words and made them sharper than they should have been.

He scoffed and shook his head while pocketing his phone. He moved toward the door again and panic gripped you by the throat.

“Sam, please don’t go. I’m sorry. Please.”

You grabbed his hand again. The size difference made you feel even more childish as you tried to stop him from leaving.

His jaw clenched at the feeling of your soft hands pawing at him. Making this even more agonizing for him.

“Just stop,” he growled through his teeth.

Grabbing you by the shoulders, he manhandled you away from the door like a small child he’d grown frustrated with.

“Trust me when I tell you—I’m no good for you right now.”

He paused for a moment to make sure the words had time to reach you.

Once he crossed the threshold, you disobediently followed him out the front door. The cold ground bit into your bare feet as you called after him. You stopped when you saw a pretty little brunette idling in a car out front. It had to be Ruby, based on the knowing grin she wore.

He turned to you again before climbing into the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

At that moment, grief felt like it had the ability to be lethal. All you wanted was for the earth to open up and swallow you whole and drag you down. Down to whatever circle of hell Sam had fallen to.

Dean could hardly understand you when you finally forced yourself to go inside and call him. He made it over to your house to try and clean up yet another mess his brother had created. 

He let you cry on his shoulder while clinging to him. Once you had tired yourself out, he covered you up and waited til you fell asleep before slipping out to find Sam. 

You were the only good thing in Sam’s life. The only thing he had to look forward to after a long day. Secretly, Dean thought you were his brother’s ticket to an apple pie life.

The fact that he’d left you a broken mess on the sidewalk meant that Sam was farther gone than he realized.

Dean promised he would fix this, but you knew there were some things people couldn’t come back from.

A few weeks later, Dean called you. He gave you an address and begged you to meet him there. After some persuasion and reassurance that you would be safe, you reluctantly agreed.

You were greeted by an older man that you recognized as Bobby. A man who had essentially been a father figure to the brothers.

“It’s Sam.”

He watched as your shoulders sagged and tears filled your eyes again. He gently caught your wrist before you could turn to leave.

“He’s alive. He needs to see you. Just give him a few minutes. Please?”

You nodded while trying to gather your composure to face Sam again.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the chamber as you slowly approached the door. The painful knot in your throat nearly choked you when you tried to swallow around it. Your eyes burned at the sight of him.

His normally bright and vibrant eyes were sunken and red.

The soft skin that used to glow radiantly was ashen and clammy.

His humanity was fading along with his life force.

As soon as he laid eyes on you, he rushed to the door. His trembling fingers threaded desperately through the metal bars.

But he didn’t see you.

It was clear that he saw you as his ticket to freedom.

His passage back to Ruby.

Dean and Bobby could see you were having the desired effect. They traded hopeful glances. Maybe you could get through to him where they couldn’t.

“Oh, Sammy,” you whispered to keep your voice from breaking. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Hey, baby,” he beamed at the sight of a familiar face. Someone who loved him. Someone who would always be there for him. “What’re you doing here?”

You smiled tearfully as you gently grazed his fingers. They were cold. Like he was already gone.

“I came to say goodbye.”

Dean’s face dropped immediately as he uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the wall.

“What?” A look of confusion and frustration twisted Sam’s face.

“I have to let you go, Sam,” you said, even though your hand tightened around his. “You have to let me let you go.”

“No, why? You can’t leave me here! They’re gonna kill me—”

His voice was strained. Anger and fear clawed for dominance. You withdrew your hand from his and wiped at your face.

“Because I can’t survive hating you. I should hate you. But I can’t. I can’t let you hurt me anymore.”

You turned your back to keep yourself from taking the words back.

It was like the last drop of his humanity evaporated in an instant. Like you were the final tie to who he used to be, and it had snapped.

His hand slamming against the metal door was deafening and made everyone flinch. The facade of the helpless boyfriend crumbled and his jaw tightened into a snarl.

“Wait, you can’t go.” Dean was almost groveling.

You shot him a pained look when you realized you were just a tool for manipulation. A weapon that misfired.

“I’m sorry.”

The echoing screams chased you from the basement as you fought to hold yourself together. Dean followed, pleading with you to stay. To change your mind.

“Please… he’s gonna die if we can’t fix him. I’m sorry I lied. But you can’t leave.”

You were almost running by the time you got outside. You opened your car door and he caught it with his hand.

“Dean, can’t you see? He’s already gone.” The words hit you as hard as they did him. “You can’t want him to get well more than he does.”

Dean looked as broken as his brother. As badly as you wanted to, this wasn’t something you could fix. You’d nearly lost yourself while trying to keep him.

The only way to preserve your memory of Sam was by leaving.  You only hoped that Dean would make the same choice.

a/n: lmk if you think I should write another part :') sorry if it's a little shit, my kid forgot how to sleep i guess?

.✦ ݁˖ 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 .✦ ݁˖

𝚂𝚊𝚖 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

@staley83 @winchesterfields67 @ferncloud0191

[winfieldsreads]

Fucking Sam

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞

pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

WC: 3.4k

CW: language, canon-type violence, life-threatening injury (reader), medical jargon, mild age gap, yearning, angst w/o comfort, Sam’s Carhartt is an antagonist, mentions of drinking, Dean is emotionally constipated (canon obv)

a/n: based on an ask from my bestie @winchesterfields67 who also created the dividers <3

title from Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

Decades-old smoke stains still clung to the walls of the old bar, even though the lazy haze of cigarette smoke hadn’t lingered there in years. The scent of grease-soaked bar food mixed with stale tobacco as the door swung open and flooded Dean’s senses. Muffled classic rock and the sharp crack of pool balls filled the dimly lit room as his gaze drifted toward the bar.

He held the door open for Sam, who lagged a few paces behind with his eyes locked on the glowing screen of his phone.

“You comin’?”

“Yeah—yeah. Just got something from Bobby—”

Sam walked straight into Dean’s back, stumbling and nearly dropping his phone.

“What the hell, man?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He stood frozen in the doorway.

Sam followed his brother’s line of sight.

At the bar sat a woman holding a glass of something dark. For a split second, it felt like the world tilted beneath his feet.

She looked exactly like you.

Not similar. Exactly.

She sat beneath the glow of a television mounted over the bar, casually chatting with the woman beside her while her attention drifted between the conversation and whatever game was playing overhead.

“Dean… is that—”

Sam’s voice faded as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

It’d been five years. Dean had done his best to forget that night. The night he had decided to let you go. To set you free from the pull of his gravity. Like a black hole, he consumed everything around him. Every bit of light that strayed too close.

You were so young. Too young. In your late twenties—in the prime of your life. He was pushing forty. You weren’t damned to this life in the way he was. You could live a long, happy life with someone who would give you the world. Someone who could keep you safe and warm.

Dean remembered that night with painful clarity. The bad feeling had started while you were loading the Impala. You stood shoulder to shoulder with him at the open trunk.

“You’re not going to need a… what is this, exactly?”

“Oh, this?” Dean asked with a cocky grin, brushing his fingers over the polished metal. “A grenade launcher.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“A what? Are you telling me we have live grenades in the trunk?”

Sam appeared beside you and tossed his gear into the Impala with a scoff.

“No, he doesn’t have any.”

Dean shot him a glare.

“And even if he did,” Sam continued, “I wouldn’t let him drive around with them.”

Dean slammed the trunk shut.

“Like you could stop me.”

He ignored the matching eye rolls from both of you as everyone piled into the car.

The three of you spent the drive discussing the case. The research pointed toward the fae. You’d spent most of the morning trying—and failing—to convince Dean to stop calling them faeries. And that they weren’t tiny women with sparkly wings carrying magic wands.

Based on the survivor accounts, you were likely dealing with a banshee. 

Witnesses described bloodcurdling screams that drove people toward madness. Some victims had thrown themselves from cliffs. Others had wandered into traffic in desperate attempts to escape the sound.

You’d narrowed the search area to a section of the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Dean said from the driver’s seat. He didn’t bother looking at you in the rearview mirror. He knew better. Your eyes had a way of changing his mind. “I want you on lookout duty.”

“Dean—” Sam started.

“No! That’s bullshit and you know it!”

You sat forward and raised your voice a full octave. You could feel heat prickling beneath your skin. 

“I’m not askin’.” 

He finally glanced into the rearview mirror. Just long enough to catch the growing fire behind your eyes. 

Dean still believed it was his job to protect you. It had become second nature years ago when you first joined them on a hunt at twenty years old. Not even old enough to order a drink—legally.

Dean had been almost thirty then. He never let his thoughts wander where they shouldn’t. Not even once. You’d been filed neatly into the “younger-sister” category from the moment he met you.

Sam noticed things Dean didn’t. The way your eyes seemed to sparkle when he looked at you. How you looked away whenever you got caught staring. The way you’d follow him to the ends of the earth like a lost puppy dog. 

You’d groan and dismiss him wherever Sam teased you about it. Sometimes he’d get a hard shove if you were particularly frustrated with him that day—not that it had any effect on a man that size. 

Dean thought he was mentoring you, but he wasn’t blind. He recognized a crush when he saw one. What he couldn’t see was how your heart cracked a little every time he called you “kiddo.” Or how your face fell when he abandoned you and Sam to work his charm on a woman in a bar.

You were young and beautiful. He knew anyone would be lucky to have a chance with you. Like any other crush, he figured it would run its course eventually.

You really just got better at hiding your feelings.

Sometimes it would be months before you joined the guys on a hunt. You’d see other people, but it never worked out for one reason or another. As soon as you saw Dean’s name on an incoming call, your heart still skipped a beat. You quickly forgot the name of the person who had already lost your interest.

Getting over him was easier when he did shit like this. Assuming he knew what was best for you. Assigning you to lookout duty.

“You wouldn’t have even gotten to this point if it wasn’t for me, Dean!”

“Guys—” Sam tried to prevent the potentially explosive argument that was brewing.

Your voices overlapped, with Dean’s naturally winning out over yours.

“GUYS!”

Sam finally managed to cut through the argument. You slouched back into your seat while Dean stretched his neck, trying to dispel the tension in his muscles.

“Dean, you know she’s perfectly capable of holding her own.” Sam glanced at you over his shoulder before looking back at his brother. “But if it makes you feel better, you can run point on this.”

That seemed to settle you both for the moment.

Dean couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his gut. It gnawed at him for the rest of the drive, which continued in total silence. The anxiety grew more intense the closer you got to the dilapidated cabin in the woods. That was the location the creature was likely tied to.

He continued to glance over his shoulder at you while you both swept flashlight beams through the crumbling structure. Normally, he was laser-focused, cataloging every detail of his environment. That feeling of impending doom kept his attention divided.

Normally, he would have noticed the rotting floorboards in his path.

You did, though.

“Dean, wait!”

Sam was drawn toward the sickening crunch of old timber, followed by a loud thud.

Having only been a few paces from him, you were able to shove him out of the way before the small section of floor collapsed into the cellar.

You had taken the nine-foot plunge into total darkness on your own.

He tried calling your name while scanning the lower level, now visible through the gaping hole in the floorboards.

“Oh shit.”

His flashlight beam finally settled on you, just beginning to come to beneath a small pile of debris.

Sam quickly grabbed the back of Dean’s jacket before he could lower himself through the hole in the floor. That section of the floor wasn’t stable enough to put weight on anymore. They hurried toward a cellar door on the side of the house instead. Dean frantically tore at the greenery encasing the wooden doors while his heart pounded against his ribs.

He nearly ripped the cellar door off its rusted hinges, desperate to find you standing up and brushing dirt from your clothes. Waiting with some halfhearted insult about him being a dumbass. About how they could never have nice things.

There was none of that.

Just a heavy silence.

Then a weak groan.

Both men scrambled toward the sound, ducking beneath decaying wood and a century’s worth of cobwebs. You squinted when the bright beams from their flashlights landed on you.

Dean settled at your side, calling your name as your eyes finally opened enough to focus on him.

“Here, lemme help you.”

He started moving the debris off you to help you to your feet.

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice gave him pause.

His flashlight beam traced down to your midsection, and his blood turned to ice. A large splinter of wood was protruding from your abdomen. Dean cursed under his breath. You tried pushing yourself upright to see what they were staring at.

“Stay down, sweetheart. Don’t look.”

You looked anyway.

“Oh god—“

Naturally, you started to panic when you saw the extent of your injury, and shock began to set in.

“We gotta get her outta here, Sammy.”

Sam nodded and pulled himself out of his trance. He began clearing a path while Dean carefully scooped you up and held you to his chest. His heart ached at the agonized cries the movement tore from you as the splinter shifted inside the wound.

“I know, baby girl. I gotcha.” Dean murmured quietly with his heart in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Your nails clawed at his chest. Fingers twisted in his jacket while you whined and whimpered from the pain. 

The sounds tore Dean apart from the inside. All he could do was move as quickly and carefully as possible toward the car, which was at least a ten-minute walk away.

You started to shake. A combination of shock from blood loss and the cold, damp air in the forest pressing in on you.

“Here, wrap her in this.”

Sam shrugged off his Carhartt and gently draped it over you while doing his best to avoid jostling the splinter.

The thick fabric grazed the injury anyway, causing you to yelp and press your face tightly against Dean’s chest.

You went limp in his arms as you finally lost consciousness.  They shared a worried look before setting off towards the car at a breakneck speed. 

Dean let his brother drive while he carefully held you in the backseat. He brushed your hair out of your face and quietly pleaded with you to stay. He kept begging Sam to drive faster, desperate to escape the nightmare unfolding before him. Desperate to escape the possibility of losing you. Especially like this.

Because he had failed to protect someone he loved.

They made it to the nearest hospital, where you remained tethered to this world by a thread. 

Doctors and nurses moved quickly, hooking you up to monitors while stabilizing the impaled section of floorboard. It looked significantly worse beneath the bright lights of the trauma bay. 

Sam and Dean were forced out of the room while nurses drew a privacy curtain around the medical team.

“You’ll need to head to the waiting room. We’ll update you when we can.”

The nurse gave both men a sympathetic look before disappearing behind the privacy curtain.

Sam lowered himself into a stiff chair with a vacant look in his eyes and watched Dean pace like a caged animal.

The waiting room was silent aside from Dean’s rhythmic footfalls on the grimy linoleum. Both of them were wrought with fear and immense guilt. 

Meanwhile, you were rushed into surgery, where doctors extracted the foreign object and attempted to stop the internal bleeding while trying to prevent an nfection.

Sam had managed to find a position vaguely comfortable enough to stretch his legs and rest his head on his fist, letting himself drift in and out of sleep.

Dean allowed himself to sit on the edge of the chair closest to the door. The waiting was interminable.

He was on his feet, gently nudging Sam awake, when the doctor finally provided an update. His nails bit into his palms where his fists were clenched tightly at his sides while he prepared himself for the worst.

Lacerated liver. High risk of infection. Blood loss.

Alive.

That was the word that stuck.

“Can we see her?” Sam elbowed his brother, who had yet to say anything.

The doctor directed them toward your room in the ICU. You were still unconscious after surgery, but Sam intended to wait there until you woke up.

As soon as Dean caught sight of you through the doorway, he froze.

Noticing the lack of footsteps behind him, Sam turned.

“Are you coming?”

He squinted at him and tilted his head. Sam had never seen him like this before. Choked up. Rooted to the spot.

Dean swallowed hard and slowly shook his head.

“What the hell? Why not?”

“This is my fault. I never should’ve let her come. She could’ve died, Sammy.”

He paced a few steps before dragging a hand down his face, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

“Dean, that’s—” Sam stopped himself. It was pointless. Dean would blame himself regardless of what anyone said.

“So what are you gonna do?” Sam scoffed. “Just leave her here?”

Dean turned back toward him, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Sam felt a flash of anger at the thought of him abandoning you here. At the same time, he hated seeing his brother carrying this much guilt.

“Well, I’m not. Do what you want, Dean. But she needs to know somebody cares enough to stay.”

“It’s not like that, Sam. This is because I care.” Dean’s voice cracked slightly. “I care more than I realized.”

Sam huffed in frustration.

Denial—that was all this was.

He’d heard the soft words Dean whispered to soothe you. Seen the terror in his eyes at the thought of losing you. Watched him carry you through the woods like letting go would kill you faster than the injury ever could. Watched him cradle you in the backseat while he quietly begged you to stay alive. Those moments weren’t just for you—they were for Dean, too.

“She’s better off without me.”

Sam scoffed and shook his head.

“Whatever, man.”

With that, Dean watched his brother settle into the chair beside your bed, determined to be there when you woke up. Then he turned and walked away.

True to his word, Sam waited there until you woke up.

You were relieved to see a familiar face, but you couldn’t help noticing that Dean wasn’t there. Not wanting to seem unappreciative, you didn’t ask for him, but Sam caught the way your eyes kept drifting toward the door.

Dean hadn’t even stopped at the motel.

He stormed straight back into those woods to obliterate the banshee. And if that didn’t make him feel better, he’d torch the old house that had nearly killed you.

Even through his burning rage, he managed to remember the Celtic blood-trapping sigil Sam had been yapping about. He trapped the creature and drove a golden knife straight through its heart.

The banshee was dead.

But it was still Dean’s fault that you nearly died.

Killing every monster on the planet wouldn’t absolve him.

Neither would starting a forest fire.

He turned his back on the collapsing structure and let nature continue the slow work of reclaiming it.

The doctor informed you it would be a few more days before you could be safely discharged.

Sam’s expression never wavered. If anything, he settled into his spot at your bedside. He was fully prepared to stay with you until you were well enough to travel home.

You were hundreds of miles from anyone you knew.

That was why he looked so confused when you told him he could leave.

“Dean’s not coming back, is he?”

Sam sighed, his shoulders sagging.

His silence—and the guilty look on his face—told you everything you needed to know.

You felt embarrassed for assuming he would.

“Well, once they let me leave, I could help you guys finish this—”

Sam shook his head.

“No. I could never ask you to. Besides, you need to rest.”

Oh.

The reality settled over you like a lead blanket. This was it. Sam was only here because he felt responsible. Because he felt guilty.

“You don’t have to stay, Sam. This wasn’t your fault.”

He visibly deflated. Not because he felt absolved. Because he knew that wasn’t what this was really about.

“Really, I don’t mind—”

You knew he was too good a person to leave on his own.

“I want you to leave. Please. Just go.”

He looked like a kicked puppy, and it made it even harder to keep your chin from quivering. But this was the only way to make him go.

“Take care of yourself,” he said quietly as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You know how to get ahold of us if you change your mind.”

You watched him turn and walk out of the room, your arms folded loosely across your abdomen.

As soon as his footsteps faded down the hallway, the tears came. It felt like a floodgate had shattered. You dissolved into a sobbing mess.

Alone in a hospital bed in a city you didn’t know. In a state hundreds of miles from home.

All because of a pathetic crush on a man who would never love you the way you loved him.

Now, that man had locked eyes with you from across the bar. Your mouth felt like cotton, making it painful to swallow around the lump in your throat.

“We’re going.” You quietly hissed.

With a shaky hand, you pulled a bill from your wallet and laid it on the bar for you and your friend. She gave you a confused look before glancing over her shoulder toward the door.

Sam and Dean had stepped inside and let the door close behind them. Dean’s eyes were still locked on you while periodically glancing around the room.

“Dude, go.” Sam urged quietly while elbowing his side. Bar patrons had begun to notice the awkward standoff. Their imposing figures made them hard to ignore, even in a bar frequented by surly bikers.

“Is that the fucking guy?” your friend scream-whispered while drunkenly tugging on your sleeve.

You knew the bar owner well enough to slink out the back. You shot your friend a pleading look, begging her not to cause a scene.

This was an emotional wound that had scabbed over, but you knew it still festered beneath the surface.

Because you never let it heal properly.

Even after five years, the thought of seeing him again left the old injury feeling fresh.

Without a car or family nearby, you had essentially stayed where he left you five years ago. Too proud to call either of them—or anyone else—to come get you, you found work at a diner nearby. Eventually, your life began to take shape in the rundown northern town. You got a shitty apartment with a coworker who became your best friend. That same girl was now resisting you dragging her through the bar’s kitchen while trying to get a better look. She was just drunk enough to try and start a bar fight with two very large men.

As soon as you both disappeared behind the swinging door, Dean was hit with a wave of dread. He turned and pushed through the crowd to try and stop you from leaving. The cruel irony wasn’t lost on him, but it didn’t deter him. Unfortunately, it was too late. Before he could make it to the back alley behind the bar, you were already pulling away. Your intoxicated friend sat in the passenger seat flipping him off through the window while you tried to hide your face out of embarrassment.

His chest deflated as he watched your taillights disappear around the corner. Sam finally joined him outside.

He frowned at his brother when he saw the defeated expression on his face. Hope had appeared and died again in the span of only a few moments.

Sam had told Dean about his last encounter with you at the hospital a few days after it happened. Dean had been devastated to learn that you thought he’d abandoned you because he didn’t care. The opposite had been true. In fact, he realized that night that he’d been denying his feelings for you for years. And now, he knew the opportunity to fix things had just disappeared down the road in an old Honda hatchback.

𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

@youre-djoking @staley83 @winchesterfields67 @ferncloud0191

⤷ 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[winfieldsreads]

It’s here!!!!!!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

SUN BLEACHED FLIES CHAPTER 11: 2005-2006

CWs Explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, potentially getting caught, masturbation). A little bit of excessive drinking & hangovers Bad choices & communication. Tension. Forbidden/suppressed sexual and romantic feelings. 6.1k words

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It's only about two weeks until it feels like Sam has been there forever.

Eventually he can take his cast off, and you have to get used to him walking around the apartment at full height, not bent over from using his crutches. The time comes when he could go back to Stanford, take up his classes again, but he just winds up staying without any of you really talking about it. Eventually he talks to his advisor on the phone, and he says Sam could take the semester off, rather than quit completely, so Sam does that, asks if he can stay a little longer at your place. You see how happy it makes Dean and it makes you happy as well. 

Sam and Dean slip into something you can’t name. They move around each other as fluently and smoothly as they did when they were younger, but it seems even more strange because you expect that kind of behavior from children, but not from grown men. The way they talk sometimes makes you think they can read each other’s minds. You watch them, fascinated, almost jealous. 

But the longer Sam stays, the more you become a part of it too. The three of you go on a trip for a weekend, and while you could pay for a second room, you prefer to be frugal and don’t. You lie in bed, Dean hugging you from behind, and Sam in the bed across from you. He happens to be rolled towards you when at some point in the night, you’re both woken by something. Dean is still fast asleep, but you and Sam find each other’s eyes in the dark and smile. Then you both go back to sleep. 

The days on the road change how you behave once you’re back home. You always made sure to be out of your pajamas and fully dressed when you left the bedroom, and Sam always woke up early to do the same as well as put away his bedding, but for some reason, after that trip, you don’t do that anymore. On many mornings Sam and you have coffee together with him still lounging on the sofa, you in your sleeping clothes huddled close by. 

One day in early fall, Sam and Dean visit you for your lunch break at the occult shop. They bring you food, sandwiches Dean has made, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world. Dean leans over the counter the register is on and you stand up on tiptoes and kiss him while Sam looks around. 

“This place is amazing,” he says, expression excited. 

There’s a small park across the street with a few picnic tables and the three of you sit outside in the sun while you eat. The brothers are on the bench on one side and you almost sit on the opposite side, but then you realize it’s too far away, that you want to be closer. So you simply sit cross-legged on the table’s surface. You bite into your sandwich, look down the street, the last rays of the year warming your face, Sam and Dean’s voices pleasantly buzzing in your ears. 

Sam’s talking about how he wants to find a job so he can pitch in with the rent, and while you tell him he doesn’t have to, you also offer to ask your boss if they need anyone else at the shop. Sam grins. 

“That would be awesome,” he says, and Dean mutters: “Damn nerds,” under his breath. You bunch up your napkin and throw it at him. 

Sam gets the job, and a few times a week you end up working the same shift. Sam’s out front, with an apron that he makes you swear never to tell Dean about. You grin but the truth is, Sam looks absolutely adorable in it. You’ve started helping with the bookkeeping, and although there’s a small office in the back, on slower days you sit out front with Sam, work from there while the two of you talk about anything and everything. 

With three of you there to pitch in with the rent, you and Sam from your job in the shop, Dean from some hustling, you can quit your job at the bar. It gives you more time to spend with your boys. 

Halloween comes, and somehow the three of you get it in your head that you want to be ready in case you get trick-or-treaters, so you buy a ridiculous amount of candy. One kid comes by, dressed as Dracula, and you give him so much of it that he's set for life. The three of you laugh, joke about your severe misjudgment of the trick–or-treat situation in your neighborhood, then plop down on the sofa, watch horror movies and eat candy until you feel sick. 

You fall asleep at some point. You wake up, warm and comfortable, the soft light of the TV making the scene seem surreal, and Sam and Dean’s low voices making the air vibrate around you. Your head is on Dean’s lap, his splayed fingers resting gently on your arm, and your feet are on Sam’s, the weight of his wrist on your ankle, and you can only guess that they wanted you to be comfortable when you fell asleep. You think about getting up, but then you don’t. You simply close your eyes again and let the warmth take you. 

Another road trip. This time Sam and you get your way and you go on a hike. Dean trudges after you, complaining and moaning the entire time. Sam’s fit, and you don’t want to admit how winded you get on a steep incline. He stands on a little outcrop that overlooks the valley beyond.

“Come here,” he says, reaching his hand down and you take it, let him help you drag you up. You need to stand close to him, can feel the way his chest rises and falls against your side. Look at the way the clouds gather over the display of nature in front of you. 

You turn your head, look up at Sam. The way he watches is full, appreciative. It’s only when he looks down at you that you realize you’ve been staring. You quickly grin, turn to Dean who’s just then catching up with you.

You’re all exhausted when you get back to the motel, but there is something beautiful about it. Dean grabs beers for all of you, while Sam helps you take off your hiking boots. You groan and Sam chuckles before taking a bottle from Dean, who he switches places with for the second boot. He shrugs off his jacket, then reaches for his backpack. Blisters and bandaids, but an hour later, the three of you are getting drunk on the couch. Dean grabs a bottle of hard liquor from his bag, which you didn’t know he had. He shrugs when he pours glasses for all three of you.

“You guys get your hiking, I at least deserve a drink,” he says, making you laugh before you all cheers.

The next morning, you groan at your sore body and your pounding head when you wake up, and hear Sam’s chuckle from the other bed. 

“Yeah,” he only says. 

“Want me to distract you from the pain?” Dean quips next to you and you just have time to roll your eyes at him when his hand sneaks under your shirt, up your torso and to your breasts. 

“Dean!” you half squeal, half laugh. 

“I’m sure Sammy doesn’t mind,” Dean says, kissing your cheek, and Sam slaps his hands over his face, groans. 

You push Dean’s hand away and get up, go to the bathroom, the two brothers laughing behind you. While you’re washing your hands, you wonder what would have happened if you’d asked Dean to keep going. You have a sudden image of yourself on that motel bed, Dean’s hand traveling down your body until it’s nestled between your legs, his lips on your neck, Sam only a few feet away, watching. 

You clear your throat, turn off the water. You’re just wound up, you think, because you and Dean haven’t had a moment to yourself since you came on this trip. That’s it. 

Christmas comes, and while you think you’re not gonna make it a big deal the same way you have the last few years, Dean gets it in his head that he wants to make it a special occasion. He buys a turkey the size of a house, and you and Sam laugh at him, but he just throws you a look that says: you’ll see. 

Since Dean doesn’t want any help with cooking, you and Sam open a bottle of red wine. The food’s taking longer than expected, so you drink a little more. You walk up to Dean, wrap your arms around him and raise the glass up to his mouth. He drinks, makes a face, so you pour him a whiskey instead. 

The food is incredible, and you shake your head at Dean. 

“Where did you learn this?” you ask but Dean acts mysterious, wriggles his eyebrows. Maybe he’s a natural, or maybe it’s warming up all that canned food over the years, you don’t know, but Dean leans over, kisses you. 

“I’m just a helluva catch,” he says and you kiss him again with a grin. 

“You sure are,” you say. Dean runs his hand over your leg under the table, going high on your thigh, squeezing, and thick arousal explodes in you. You wish you could just drag him away now, fuck him fast and hard right there on the couch. You don’t think too much about where Sam would go in the meantime, what he would do, because you don’t think you should think about that. 

You finish eating, have more wine, even start on a bottle of eggnog you bought in a rush of Christmas spirit. You sing some Christmas songs that none of you really know the words to. You sound like cats getting skinned. 

It’s late when Sam finally stumbles to the couch and you and Dean go to bed. Dean grabs you, and the two of you barely manage to get enough of your clothes off to get at each other. 

Dean’s inside you what feels like a second later, your mouth wide open and high-pitched moans leaving you when he flips you over, gets on top of you. His hips piston against you and you are feeling that heady high, when you look over his shoulder and see that the bedroom door isn’t fully closed. 

“Dean,” you say but he misunderstands you, thinks you want him closer, so he leans down, kisses you, gently compared to how hard he is fucking you. 

“Fucking love you so much,” Dean grunts into your mouth and all thoughts of the door disappear in a barrage of love, arousal and drink. 

The next morning, you wake up, mouth dry and head pounding with the kind of hangover only red wine can give you. You groan, try to sit up. 

The bedroom door is closed. Distantly, you remember something about it, but you can’t quite put the pieces together. So you simply lie back down, wrap your arms and legs around Dean and go back to sleep. 

For Dean’s birthday, you and Sam bake him a cake. You put frosting on it, try to draw something but it turns out so damn ugly that when you stick in the candles, light them and finally present the cake to Dean, the two of you are laughing so hard you have tears running down your faces. 

The vibrations of goodness and happiness in you are so strong that you can hardly believe it. You look at Sam and Dean, watch them talk while Sam gets some plates, and something comes over you, something big and violent like a storm. It almost makes you dizzy. It’s love, you realize, the feeling of things being right. A family, and Dean already said it, but it feels stronger now. You pretend the tears on your face are still from laughter, and then Dean blows out the candles, all in one go and all three of you clap and cheer. 

It’s a Sunday afternoon when Sam asks you about your family.

Dean knows that it’s a painful topic, which is why it doesn’t really come up between you two. That and you haven’t seen any of them in years and years. You’re not sure if Sam is just less aware of the situation, or if he’s less afraid to touch the painful things.

Sam and you are reading, you sprawled across some pillows on the ground, while Sam is in the armchair you bought with your combined salaries when you decided you didn’t want to always all be sitting next to each other on the couch like you’re roosting. It’s Dean who’s on the couch now, spread out and napping. Sam lowers his book, and then you can feel his eyes on you, maybe because you’ve been watching him out of your periphery.

“Hey, did your dad ever keep a journal about his hunting?” he asks, like it’s the most casual question in the world. You raise your head, then sit up, look at him.

“Uhm, no,” you reply. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” Sam pulls the corners of his mouth down, shrugs.

“Just been wondering,” he says. “Our dad has one. I don’t know if it’s a common thing.” You drop your chin, raise your eyebrows.

“Your dad… journals?” you ask, voice unbelieving. A broad smile comes over Sam’s face before he looks down, grimaces.

“I don’t think it’s that kind of journaling,” he says. He seems deep in thought for a second, then looks at you again. “Is there anything you remember about him? Your father, I mean?”

It’s like someone unwrapping a bandage you’ve worn for two and a half decades and finding you still bleeding and open underneath.

“Uhm,” you say, surprised to feel your eyes misting up. You don’t even know when the last time you talked about your father was. “N–no. No, I was pretty young when he died. Kinda…” Your eyes shoot up to Sam. His expression is gentle.

“Kinda like you when your mother died,” you finish, eyes going to Dean. You know the way he tenses when you mention Mary, the way all the air seems to leave the room. But Dean’s snoring away, so you look back at Sam. He nods, slowly.

“Did your mother talk about him?” he asks. You press your lips together, then shake your head.

“You’d think it was immaculate conception,” you say, and Sam gives a surprised huff. 

“Was she…” he continues, then shifts around, like he’s trying to find the right words. “She was sick, right? I remember Dean mentioning something like that.” You pull one leg in, angle it against your body.

“She was,” you say. “And I left her.” Sam keeps watching you, raises his chin. You expect him to tell you not to blame yourself immediately, that you did what you had to do. It’s what Dean usually does, the very few times the topic has come up - you don’t point out that he would never say the same to his brother, although you can’t deny the similarity between the situations. But Sam doesn’t.

“Do you ever think about going back?” he asks. You blink, look down.

“I have this dream sometimes,” you answer instead, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m in the house we lived in, and I’m trying to find her. I look in every room, and then I do find her, lying in her bed. That’s where she was the last time I saw her. But the blankets are tucked over her. I can see the outlines of her face through it. Kinda ghostly.” You take a quick, sharp breath, let it out slowly.

“But when I pull back the covers, she’s gone. And in the dream I know she’s gone, not just out of the house. But really gone.” You look back at Sam, suddenly embarrassed about sharing this. His eyes are on the ground in front of you.

“Well,” he says, blinking a few times, “dream interpretation isn’t really considered a serious scientific field anymore. So, I wouldn’t read too much into it.” He looks at you again, face deadly serious. You open your mouth to reply, feeling confused.

A grin breaks over Sam’s face and a second later you need to laugh too. You shake your head, watching him as he looks away, obviously proud of the fact that he managed to pull your leg. Managed to make this painful situation light again. You look down, still chuckling, pick up your book again.

Ignore how fast Sam’s grin made your heart beat.

It's the closeness, you tell yourself. The fact that having Sam there, after all this time, feels in a way like bringing Dean even closer to you. It's your happiness at how well things are working. That's what it is.

The boys go out for a beer but you stay home, feigning tiredness. You lie in bed, your mind flying in a million directions. 

You close your eyes, hands slowly running along your own body. You imagine Dean - it might be sappy, but you mostly do. He’s almost exactly like he is in real life. A little easier to grasp. A little more settled. He’s over you, in the dream, kissing you deeply and you roll your hips, imagining it’s him driving into you. Your hand slips into your underwear, warm and familiar.

Dean’s fucking you slow and deep, like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Your legs are high up on his sides and one of his hands is clamped over your thigh, holding you open.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, looking down at you, eyes full of reverence. “My special, beautiful girl.” You moan, drag him down by the neck. In reality, you begin touching yourself. 

It’s only when Dean pushes himself up again, still driving into you, that you look to the side and see Sam is there as well.

His hair hangs into his face, covering his forehead. He’s naked, but you can’t see beyond his shoulders. They’re broad, the skin soft. There’s a beauty mark at the bottom of his neck that you want to kiss.

He leans in, and you don’t have to look at Dean to feel his approval. He moves to the side, just enough, and Sam bends down. His lips, soft and pink, ghost over yours and then he’s kissing you, one hand, fingers long and strong, going up to hold your chin.

As your pleasure rises, they’re both moving against you - the details of how that is possible are irrelevant to you. You just know that Dean is kissing your shoulder from behind, grabbing you hard, while Sam is in front of you, keeps kissing your mouth.

You come with a silent scream, neck stretched, grabbing the pillow under your head with your free hand. 

When, hours later, you wake from low sounds in the living room and then again from the mattress dipping next to you when Dean climbs into bed, slings his arm around you to give you a kiss, you grab his arm. Hold it. You’re more awake than you’re letting on when Dean follows your pull, brings his head close to yours.

His closeness makes you feel soft and warm. He’s the man you love, have loved, for as long as you can remember. You cannot let whatever is happening in your head get between you. 

So you open your eyes, look at him in the almost perfect dark of the room. Dean looks back, and when you don’t say anything for a few seconds, a frown builds on his face. You can see from the slight sway of how he’s holding himself up that he’s at least a little drunk. It should maybe stop you from saying what you want to say, but it doesn’t.

“We should get married,” you say. 

Dean doesn’t react, just blinks, and then he huffs. He lets himself drop down so that he’s lying against your side. Chuckles a little.

“Alright,” he says, laying his arm over you, patting your side with his hand. “Sure thing.”

Then he closes his eyes, and his breathing slows.

For a moment, you can’t believe that this was his reply, and then you can’t believe you said what you said.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, for long after Dean starts gently snoring. Sam’s soft movements in the next room.

You half hope Dean will forget what you said in the night. Instead what he does is ignore it. But from how he behaves, you can tell he definitely remembers.

He seems deep in thought whenever you look at him, like he’s far away. Burns the eggs in the morning, the room filling with smoke. You rip open the window, turn to see Dean shaking his head as he angrily stabs at the frying pan.

When you kiss him goodbye before you go to work, he stutters in the movement. You give him a long, lingering look, but he’s not meeting you.

It’s awkward. Obviously, you brought this up for all the wrong reasons. But also. Also, this shouldn’t be Dean’s reaction. Should it?

You take the bus to work, telling Dean that he doesn’t need to drive you. On a different day, he might insist, tell you that his girl’s not taking public transport while he’s got a perfectly good car. Put his hand on your thigh while he drives one-handed. You lean against the big window, watch the rainy day outside pass you by.

That fear starts creeping in again. If you can ever really have Dean. You do have him, the reasonable part of your brain tells you. But it’s never enough. It never feels like enough. You roll your eyes at yourself. Open up the shop, pour yourself a big cup of coffee that burns your tongue when you drink it too quickly.

Sam comes in for the afternoon shift. Walks through the door, the bell above it announcing his arrival. Not like he needs it - your eyes fly to him immediately. The way he keeps his head low, the way his gaze sucks you in. You turn back to the customer you were wrapping up a tarot set and some candles for. Sam moves behind the counter, stands close to you.

“Hey,” he says, quiet and breathless. You smile up at him, feeling heat shoot to your face at his closeness.

“Hey,” you say back. He squeezes your arm and moves away, and you wish he wouldn’t.

It’s over a week later that you confront Dean about what you said, about the weird tension between you two. He’s been sleeping rolled away from you. No kisses, or only quick, formal ones, no hands sneaking under your shirt every chance he gets. No hungry little looks that make you feel right and good and like you belong to him.

Sam’s in the shower, so you walk up to Dean, sling your arms around his neck. He tenses under your touch, but you don’t let that deter you.

“So,” you say, bending your voice into forced casualness. “About you asking me to marry you the other night…” Dean pulls his head back, deep frown, eyes wide.

“What?” shoots out of him, and you grin. “Me asking you?”

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” you continue. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Dean’s lips move while he tries to make sense of what you’re saying, but he gets it a second later, understands that, just like him, you have your ego to protect, and when he puts his hands on your hips, you could cry from happiness. You smile at him, rub your hand over his neck.

“Don’t know that I’m exactly husband material, darlin’,” he says. Now it’s your turn to frown.

“It’s not that,” you say, “not at all. It’s just that it’s not a topic that should be breached when you’ve partaken in some serious pain medication because you had a headache that made you want to blow your brains out.” Lies, all lies. But a small lie to fix something big. Because the truth is so much bigger. Too big for you even to repeat to yourself.

But it makes Dean chuckle. His fingers trace over your side.

“Besides,” he says, “if anything, a guy should be popping that question. That’s not your job.” You frown at him.

“How charmingly chauvinistic," you say. Dean shrugs.

“I’m a romantic, sweetheart,” he says. You bite your lip, move your face closer to his, and Dean, your Dean, moves closer too. Meeting you halfway, which is all you’ve ever wanted.

“I know you are,” you say, voice low, your chest now pressed against his. God, you’ve missed touching him. You’ve missed being touched. It’s like your skin has been screaming for it. “You’re the biggest romantic I know.” Dean chuckles again, but this time it sounds like he’s not sure if he should be offended or not. 

“The Impala,” you say, raising your chin and Dean’s gaze drops to your lips, “the leather jacket. Jethro Tull in a bar parking lot while you finger me.” Dean scoffs at the memory, then runs his hands over your back. 

“That’s romantic,” you say, nodding, “nostalgic even.” 

Dean shakes his head a little, then looks down at you. You can see his defenses break down. Part of you knows that you should talk about this more, but you don’t want to. You’re tired, anxious and you want nothing more than to bury yourself in Dean, fuck him until your head is beautifully and blissfully empty. You want to be reminded that you are loved.

“Besides,” you say, voice less flirty, and it gets his attention. “You would get bored out of your mind being married to me. A house and kids and all that, it sounds nice in theory. But it’s not what you want.” 

Dean clenches his jaw, and you’re sure he’s about to defend himself, deny what you’re saying. Because a man should want these things, right? 

“Well,” he says, then doesn’t continue. You look deep into his eyes, trying to make sure he hears you.

“I don’t want to wake up in ten years,” you say, voice clear and neutral so he can understand you even through his potentially bruised ego, “with three kids and a mortgage and have you resent me because we did what you thought I wanted.” 

Dean studies your face. You’re not sure if he’s buying what you’re selling - that you’ve come to your senses, that this was all just a little hiccup, not a symptom of something much bigger. That you now need to swing into the other extreme to protect your relationship, but more than that, yourself. So you push yourself up on your toes, bring your face closer to his, your body automatically pressing closer against his. 

“I want to live in sin,” you say, looking at his lips. “And I want you to be able to leave from one day to the next. Because that way I know you want to be here.” You look into his eyes again. 

“And now,” you say, just to drive the point home and show how very done you are with this conversation, your hands running over his arms and shoulders, “I want you to fuck me to show me how much you love me.” 

Dean hesitates, just for a second. He has a certain picture of himself. No matter how much he has done little to achieve it, that small house with the pretty wife is still the ideal that lives in his heart, you think, no matter how much he might pretend it’s not. Letting go of it is like letting his mother die all over, like letting that house burn down again. 

But you know what would happen if you ever tried to ask Dean to settle, really settle. You’d rather have half of him for a long time than all of him only for a little bit. Or that’s what you tell yourself. That’s what feels reasonable. 

Because you too think of that house, of little footsteps, birthday parties, summers in the garden. Or you have been since you talked about it with Sam when he first moved in, when you cut his hair and he told you you’d be a good mother. But you know you can’t keep Dean. Not like this. Because what if you turn out not to be the most important thing for him? 

Luckily, just then, he kisses you and you’re able to shove the thought away. Dean drags you close, makes your head empty, empty, empty, the way he always manages. You get to lose yourself in him, in the pure physicality, no need for thinking. 

No need for remembering the past, or imagining the future, which at the end of the day, is the same thing.

It’s a few weeks later that the three of you get stuck in the Impala in a rain storm. 

You’re supposed to go out to a bar. You left the city this morning, another road trip, but spring has been unkind, and the heavens opened like they have a score to settle. Rather than hightail it into the bar, you have been sitting here, while it feels like the world is ending around you. It’s strangely comfortable.

“Truth,” Dean says, turned around in the driver’s seat, the light of the street lamps outside shining through the rivulets of rain on the windows giving him a surreal look, “or dare?”

You press your lips together as you raise the flask Dean’s been passing around to pass the time. You take a sip, the metal cold against your lips despite the humid air in the car.

“I’ll do dares all day,” you say, putting on a self-satisfied look. Dean raises his eyebrows, then looks at his brother on the bench seat next to him.

“Hear that, Sammy?” he says. “The girl wants to fight.” You huff.

“Try me, Winchester,” you say and both brothers chuckle.

“Fine,” Dean says, looking at you again. “I dare you to kiss me.”

You roll your eyes and Sam gives a half laugh before he looks out the front of the car, out into the rain. You press yourself up, then lean forward over the bench. Dean meets you halfway with a one-sided grin on his face. You give him a sweet peck.

“Goddamn softy,” you mutter as you let yourself drop back against the leather bench. Dean gives you a wink heavy with double meaning, before looking at his brother.

“Your turn,” he says and Sam looks at him. He was still staring out into the night, but he quickly looks attentive. 

“Truth or dare?” you ask. Sam turns his head to look at you, his face remaining neutral.

“Uhm, truth,” he says, nodding slowly. You bring one hand to your chin, look up to think.

“Worst hangover you’ve ever had,” you say and Sam chuckles, while Dean throws you a frown.

“Boring,” he mutters as he reaches over the bench to take the flask from you, and you use the opportunity to slap his shoulder.

“Uhm, freshman year, for sure,” Sam answers, not letting his brother reaching over the bench again and pinching your leg distract him. You swat his hand away, then look at Sam, wanting to make sure he knows you’re listening. “Beer and vanilla flavored vodka.” You make a face, half disgust, half confession that you’ve been there yourself.

“That sounds rough,” you say, and Sam laughs. 

“It was,” he confirms, smiling at you and you smile back.

“Did you at least get laid?” Dean asks, just lowering the flask again. Sam gives an unbelieving expression, one where he is still kind of smiling but his eyebrows go low and his upper lip is pinched.

“I could barely stand, dude,” he replies and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“He just needs to stand a little,” he replies and Sam groans while you lean forward once more, snatching the flask from Dean.

“You’re cut off,” you say when he gives you a hurt look, “until you can come up with better jokes. It’s your turn anyway.” Dean rolls his eyes, then looks back at Sam.

“Truth or dare?” Sam says, leaning in, a touch of theatrics in his voice. It makes you smile around the rim of the flask when you drink. 

“Dare, baby,” Dean says, scooting around. “And make it something fun.”

“Get out,” Sam says, “and run around the car once.” Dean makes a face.

“Something fun, I said,” he complains. 

“I think you got your instructions,” you cut in, taking another sip before passing the flask to Sam. He takes it but doesn’t drink, a look of amusement on his face as he looks at Dean expectantly.

“Ugh, fine,” Dean groans. He throws open the car door and basically jumps out. You hear him yell and shout as he runs around the car, and both you and Sam laugh. He climbs back in, the shoulders of his leather jacket dark and wet.

“You two are goddamn kids,” he says as he closes the door again. “Okay, my turn. Uh…”

“I already told you,” you cut in. “Dare.” Dean looks your way.

“Okay,” he says with a cheeky little grin. “I dare you to kiss Sam.”

You feel your heart shoot into your throat. You need to clear it before you even look at Sam. He looks shocked, but then he looks at you, his head slightly turning. You look at his lips. Imagine yourself leaning over the bench, kissing him. Fingers tracing his soft skin, his beauty marks, while Dean tells you what to do next. Imagine yourself...

“Sure,” you say, and then you lean over, peck Sam on the cheek before he can even move, sit back again. Hoping to God and anyone else who will listen that you don’t look the way you feel - heated, breathless, fidgety. 

“Oh, boo!” Dean says, looking between you two, at least until Sam turns his head, looks out the window again, and Dean’s grin broadens. “Dude, are you blushing?”

“Shut up,” Sam says, turning back, and it’s hard to say in the dark of the car, but it does look like Sam has a slight redness to his cheeks. He raises the flask, drinks, long and deep, coughs a little when he lowers it again. Dean reaches forward, takes it from him.

Dean watches Sam as he squirms under his brother’s gaze, and for a second you can’t read his expression. The blink of an eye later, he catches himself, is all Dean again. Your heart is beating fast and hard. You should say something, break the moment. You know Dean is about to say something, something he can’t take back. You can almost see it coming.

But then he just raises the flask, drinks too. Turns his head and looks out the front. It’s still coming down hard.

“We should probably find a motel,” he says, and you can’t see his face.

He closes the flask, drops it on the seat beside him. Turns the key.

All of you are quiet on the drive. There’s something in the air you can’t name. Sam’s avoiding your gaze like the plague.

The motel is all dark wood, log cabin decor. One room, and Dean tosses his bag down on the floor, looks around. You drop your bag too, standing too close to the door, and Sam needs to gently press past you. He turns his head, gives you a polite smile. 

You stand there, watch them. Whatever happened in the car, whatever made Dean look like that, has disappeared, the air clean and fresh again. You can’t tell if Sam is acting differently.

Dean collapses on the couch with a groan, arm going over the back while he turns on the TV with his other hand. He shifts around, then looks over at you. Motions you over with his head. You walk over to him, drop down next to him. His arm goes around you and he pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. He pulls back, then gives you two more, quick ones. You can’t help but chuckle. He looks at you for a second, like you’re the most special thing in the world. Like he’s never seen you before.

Then he turns back to the TV. Sam drops down next to you, holding his hand out. You look down. A mini bag of Skittles, crumpled from his bag. You take it with a smile at him, one that he returns.

You turn to the TV as well, slowly exhaling, both big, warm bodies pressed up close.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

“Hope we weren’t too loud last night, Sammy,” he says and you feel heat shoot to your face. You try to be quiet. Sometimes Sam blushes, shakes his head, but sometimes he only raises his eyebrows at his brother. You walk past him to the coffee machine.

“Dean,” you say, grabbing the pot and turning around. “Can you be, I don’t know, a little less of a weirdo?” But Dean grins at you, leans back in his chair, checking you out shamelessly. 

“I’m just saying,” he replies, “a man’s gotta be proud of the work he does.”

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

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Me when @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth posts a new chapter of Sun Bleached Files:

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[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

SUN BLEACHED FLIES CHAPTER 11: 2005-2006

CWs Explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, potentially getting caught, masturbation). A little bit of excessive drinking & hangovers Bad choices & communication. Tension. Forbidden/suppressed sexual and romantic feelings. 6.1k words

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It's only about two weeks until it feels like Sam has been there forever.

Eventually he can take his cast off, and you have to get used to him walking around the apartment at full height, not bent over from using his crutches. The time comes when he could go back to Stanford, take up his classes again, but he just winds up staying without any of you really talking about it. Eventually he talks to his advisor on the phone, and he says Sam could take the semester off, rather than quit completely, so Sam does that, asks if he can stay a little longer at your place. You see how happy it makes Dean and it makes you happy as well. 

Sam and Dean slip into something you can’t name. They move around each other as fluently and smoothly as they did when they were younger, but it seems even more strange because you expect that kind of behavior from children, but not from grown men. The way they talk sometimes makes you think they can read each other’s minds. You watch them, fascinated, almost jealous. 

But the longer Sam stays, the more you become a part of it too. The three of you go on a trip for a weekend, and while you could pay for a second room, you prefer to be frugal and don’t. You lie in bed, Dean hugging you from behind, and Sam in the bed across from you. He happens to be rolled towards you when at some point in the night, you’re both woken by something. Dean is still fast asleep, but you and Sam find each other’s eyes in the dark and smile. Then you both go back to sleep. 

The days on the road change how you behave once you’re back home. You always made sure to be out of your pajamas and fully dressed when you left the bedroom, and Sam always woke up early to do the same as well as put away his bedding, but for some reason, after that trip, you don’t do that anymore. On many mornings Sam and you have coffee together with him still lounging on the sofa, you in your sleeping clothes huddled close by. 

One day in early fall, Sam and Dean visit you for your lunch break at the occult shop. They bring you food, sandwiches Dean has made, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world. Dean leans over the counter the register is on and you stand up on tiptoes and kiss him while Sam looks around. 

“This place is amazing,” he says, expression excited. 

There’s a small park across the street with a few picnic tables and the three of you sit outside in the sun while you eat. The brothers are on the bench on one side and you almost sit on the opposite side, but then you realize it’s too far away, that you want to be closer. So you simply sit cross-legged on the table’s surface. You bite into your sandwich, look down the street, the last rays of the year warming your face, Sam and Dean’s voices pleasantly buzzing in your ears. 

Sam’s talking about how he wants to find a job so he can pitch in with the rent, and while you tell him he doesn’t have to, you also offer to ask your boss if they need anyone else at the shop. Sam grins. 

“That would be awesome,” he says, and Dean mutters: “Damn nerds,” under his breath. You bunch up your napkin and throw it at him. 

Sam gets the job, and a few times a week you end up working the same shift. Sam’s out front, with an apron that he makes you swear never to tell Dean about. You grin but the truth is, Sam looks absolutely adorable in it. You’ve started helping with the bookkeeping, and although there’s a small office in the back, on slower days you sit out front with Sam, work from there while the two of you talk about anything and everything. 

With three of you there to pitch in with the rent, you and Sam from your job in the shop, Dean from some hustling, you can quit your job at the bar. It gives you more time to spend with your boys. 

Halloween comes, and somehow the three of you get it in your head that you want to be ready in case you get trick-or-treaters, so you buy a ridiculous amount of candy. One kid comes by, dressed as Dracula, and you give him so much of it that he's set for life. The three of you laugh, joke about your severe misjudgment of the trick–or-treat situation in your neighborhood, then plop down on the sofa, watch horror movies and eat candy until you feel sick. 

You fall asleep at some point. You wake up, warm and comfortable, the soft light of the TV making the scene seem surreal, and Sam and Dean’s low voices making the air vibrate around you. Your head is on Dean’s lap, his splayed fingers resting gently on your arm, and your feet are on Sam’s, the weight of his wrist on your ankle, and you can only guess that they wanted you to be comfortable when you fell asleep. You think about getting up, but then you don’t. You simply close your eyes again and let the warmth take you. 

Another road trip. This time Sam and you get your way and you go on a hike. Dean trudges after you, complaining and moaning the entire time. Sam’s fit, and you don’t want to admit how winded you get on a steep incline. He stands on a little outcrop that overlooks the valley beyond.

“Come here,” he says, reaching his hand down and you take it, let him help you drag you up. You need to stand close to him, can feel the way his chest rises and falls against your side. Look at the way the clouds gather over the display of nature in front of you. 

You turn your head, look up at Sam. The way he watches is full, appreciative. It’s only when he looks down at you that you realize you’ve been staring. You quickly grin, turn to Dean who’s just then catching up with you.

You’re all exhausted when you get back to the motel, but there is something beautiful about it. Dean grabs beers for all of you, while Sam helps you take off your hiking boots. You groan and Sam chuckles before taking a bottle from Dean, who he switches places with for the second boot. He shrugs off his jacket, then reaches for his backpack. Blisters and bandaids, but an hour later, the three of you are getting drunk on the couch. Dean grabs a bottle of hard liquor from his bag, which you didn’t know he had. He shrugs when he pours glasses for all three of you.

“You guys get your hiking, I at least deserve a drink,” he says, making you laugh before you all cheers.

The next morning, you groan at your sore body and your pounding head when you wake up, and hear Sam’s chuckle from the other bed. 

“Yeah,” he only says. 

“Want me to distract you from the pain?” Dean quips next to you and you just have time to roll your eyes at him when his hand sneaks under your shirt, up your torso and to your breasts. 

“Dean!” you half squeal, half laugh. 

“I’m sure Sammy doesn’t mind,” Dean says, kissing your cheek, and Sam slaps his hands over his face, groans. 

You push Dean’s hand away and get up, go to the bathroom, the two brothers laughing behind you. While you’re washing your hands, you wonder what would have happened if you’d asked Dean to keep going. You have a sudden image of yourself on that motel bed, Dean’s hand traveling down your body until it’s nestled between your legs, his lips on your neck, Sam only a few feet away, watching. 

You clear your throat, turn off the water. You’re just wound up, you think, because you and Dean haven’t had a moment to yourself since you came on this trip. That’s it. 

Christmas comes, and while you think you’re not gonna make it a big deal the same way you have the last few years, Dean gets it in his head that he wants to make it a special occasion. He buys a turkey the size of a house, and you and Sam laugh at him, but he just throws you a look that says: you’ll see. 

Since Dean doesn’t want any help with cooking, you and Sam open a bottle of red wine. The food’s taking longer than expected, so you drink a little more. You walk up to Dean, wrap your arms around him and raise the glass up to his mouth. He drinks, makes a face, so you pour him a whiskey instead. 

The food is incredible, and you shake your head at Dean. 

“Where did you learn this?” you ask but Dean acts mysterious, wriggles his eyebrows. Maybe he’s a natural, or maybe it’s warming up all that canned food over the years, you don’t know, but Dean leans over, kisses you. 

“I’m just a helluva catch,” he says and you kiss him again with a grin. 

“You sure are,” you say. Dean runs his hand over your leg under the table, going high on your thigh, squeezing, and thick arousal explodes in you. You wish you could just drag him away now, fuck him fast and hard right there on the couch. You don’t think too much about where Sam would go in the meantime, what he would do, because you don’t think you should think about that. 

You finish eating, have more wine, even start on a bottle of eggnog you bought in a rush of Christmas spirit. You sing some Christmas songs that none of you really know the words to. You sound like cats getting skinned. 

It’s late when Sam finally stumbles to the couch and you and Dean go to bed. Dean grabs you, and the two of you barely manage to get enough of your clothes off to get at each other. 

Dean’s inside you what feels like a second later, your mouth wide open and high-pitched moans leaving you when he flips you over, gets on top of you. His hips piston against you and you are feeling that heady high, when you look over his shoulder and see that the bedroom door isn’t fully closed. 

“Dean,” you say but he misunderstands you, thinks you want him closer, so he leans down, kisses you, gently compared to how hard he is fucking you. 

“Fucking love you so much,” Dean grunts into your mouth and all thoughts of the door disappear in a barrage of love, arousal and drink. 

The next morning, you wake up, mouth dry and head pounding with the kind of hangover only red wine can give you. You groan, try to sit up. 

The bedroom door is closed. Distantly, you remember something about it, but you can’t quite put the pieces together. So you simply lie back down, wrap your arms and legs around Dean and go back to sleep. 

For Dean’s birthday, you and Sam bake him a cake. You put frosting on it, try to draw something but it turns out so damn ugly that when you stick in the candles, light them and finally present the cake to Dean, the two of you are laughing so hard you have tears running down your faces. 

The vibrations of goodness and happiness in you are so strong that you can hardly believe it. You look at Sam and Dean, watch them talk while Sam gets some plates, and something comes over you, something big and violent like a storm. It almost makes you dizzy. It’s love, you realize, the feeling of things being right. A family, and Dean already said it, but it feels stronger now. You pretend the tears on your face are still from laughter, and then Dean blows out the candles, all in one go and all three of you clap and cheer. 

It’s a Sunday afternoon when Sam asks you about your family.

Dean knows that it’s a painful topic, which is why it doesn’t really come up between you two. That and you haven’t seen any of them in years and years. You’re not sure if Sam is just less aware of the situation, or if he’s less afraid to touch the painful things.

Sam and you are reading, you sprawled across some pillows on the ground, while Sam is in the armchair you bought with your combined salaries when you decided you didn’t want to always all be sitting next to each other on the couch like you’re roosting. It’s Dean who’s on the couch now, spread out and napping. Sam lowers his book, and then you can feel his eyes on you, maybe because you’ve been watching him out of your periphery.

“Hey, did your dad ever keep a journal about his hunting?” he asks, like it’s the most casual question in the world. You raise your head, then sit up, look at him.

“Uhm, no,” you reply. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” Sam pulls the corners of his mouth down, shrugs.

“Just been wondering,” he says. “Our dad has one. I don’t know if it’s a common thing.” You drop your chin, raise your eyebrows.

“Your dad… journals?” you ask, voice unbelieving. A broad smile comes over Sam’s face before he looks down, grimaces.

“I don’t think it’s that kind of journaling,” he says. He seems deep in thought for a second, then looks at you again. “Is there anything you remember about him? Your father, I mean?”

It’s like someone unwrapping a bandage you’ve worn for two and a half decades and finding you still bleeding and open underneath.

“Uhm,” you say, surprised to feel your eyes misting up. You don’t even know when the last time you talked about your father was. “N–no. No, I was pretty young when he died. Kinda…” Your eyes shoot up to Sam. His expression is gentle.

“Kinda like you when your mother died,” you finish, eyes going to Dean. You know the way he tenses when you mention Mary, the way all the air seems to leave the room. But Dean’s snoring away, so you look back at Sam. He nods, slowly.

“Did your mother talk about him?” he asks. You press your lips together, then shake your head.

“You’d think it was immaculate conception,” you say, and Sam gives a surprised huff. 

“Was she…” he continues, then shifts around, like he’s trying to find the right words. “She was sick, right? I remember Dean mentioning something like that.” You pull one leg in, angle it against your body.

“She was,” you say. “And I left her.” Sam keeps watching you, raises his chin. You expect him to tell you not to blame yourself immediately, that you did what you had to do. It’s what Dean usually does, the very few times the topic has come up - you don’t point out that he would never say the same to his brother, although you can’t deny the similarity between the situations. But Sam doesn’t.

“Do you ever think about going back?” he asks. You blink, look down.

“I have this dream sometimes,” you answer instead, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m in the house we lived in, and I’m trying to find her. I look in every room, and then I do find her, lying in her bed. That’s where she was the last time I saw her. But the blankets are tucked over her. I can see the outlines of her face through it. Kinda ghostly.” You take a quick, sharp breath, let it out slowly.

“But when I pull back the covers, she’s gone. And in the dream I know she’s gone, not just out of the house. But really gone.” You look back at Sam, suddenly embarrassed about sharing this. His eyes are on the ground in front of you.

“Well,” he says, blinking a few times, “dream interpretation isn’t really considered a serious scientific field anymore. So, I wouldn’t read too much into it.” He looks at you again, face deadly serious. You open your mouth to reply, feeling confused.

A grin breaks over Sam’s face and a second later you need to laugh too. You shake your head, watching him as he looks away, obviously proud of the fact that he managed to pull your leg. Managed to make this painful situation light again. You look down, still chuckling, pick up your book again.

Ignore how fast Sam’s grin made your heart beat.

It's the closeness, you tell yourself. The fact that having Sam there, after all this time, feels in a way like bringing Dean even closer to you. It's your happiness at how well things are working. That's what it is.

The boys go out for a beer but you stay home, feigning tiredness. You lie in bed, your mind flying in a million directions. 

You close your eyes, hands slowly running along your own body. You imagine Dean - it might be sappy, but you mostly do. He’s almost exactly like he is in real life. A little easier to grasp. A little more settled. He’s over you, in the dream, kissing you deeply and you roll your hips, imagining it’s him driving into you. Your hand slips into your underwear, warm and familiar.

Dean’s fucking you slow and deep, like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Your legs are high up on his sides and one of his hands is clamped over your thigh, holding you open.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, looking down at you, eyes full of reverence. “My special, beautiful girl.” You moan, drag him down by the neck. In reality, you begin touching yourself. 

It’s only when Dean pushes himself up again, still driving into you, that you look to the side and see Sam is there as well.

His hair hangs into his face, covering his forehead. He’s naked, but you can’t see beyond his shoulders. They’re broad, the skin soft. There’s a beauty mark at the bottom of his neck that you want to kiss.

He leans in, and you don’t have to look at Dean to feel his approval. He moves to the side, just enough, and Sam bends down. His lips, soft and pink, ghost over yours and then he’s kissing you, one hand, fingers long and strong, going up to hold your chin.

As your pleasure rises, they’re both moving against you - the details of how that is possible are irrelevant to you. You just know that Dean is kissing your shoulder from behind, grabbing you hard, while Sam is in front of you, keeps kissing your mouth.

You come with a silent scream, neck stretched, grabbing the pillow under your head with your free hand. 

When, hours later, you wake from low sounds in the living room and then again from the mattress dipping next to you when Dean climbs into bed, slings his arm around you to give you a kiss, you grab his arm. Hold it. You’re more awake than you’re letting on when Dean follows your pull, brings his head close to yours.

His closeness makes you feel soft and warm. He’s the man you love, have loved, for as long as you can remember. You cannot let whatever is happening in your head get between you. 

So you open your eyes, look at him in the almost perfect dark of the room. Dean looks back, and when you don’t say anything for a few seconds, a frown builds on his face. You can see from the slight sway of how he’s holding himself up that he’s at least a little drunk. It should maybe stop you from saying what you want to say, but it doesn’t.

“We should get married,” you say. 

Dean doesn’t react, just blinks, and then he huffs. He lets himself drop down so that he’s lying against your side. Chuckles a little.

“Alright,” he says, laying his arm over you, patting your side with his hand. “Sure thing.”

Then he closes his eyes, and his breathing slows.

For a moment, you can’t believe that this was his reply, and then you can’t believe you said what you said.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, for long after Dean starts gently snoring. Sam’s soft movements in the next room.

You half hope Dean will forget what you said in the night. Instead what he does is ignore it. But from how he behaves, you can tell he definitely remembers.

He seems deep in thought whenever you look at him, like he’s far away. Burns the eggs in the morning, the room filling with smoke. You rip open the window, turn to see Dean shaking his head as he angrily stabs at the frying pan.

When you kiss him goodbye before you go to work, he stutters in the movement. You give him a long, lingering look, but he’s not meeting you.

It’s awkward. Obviously, you brought this up for all the wrong reasons. But also. Also, this shouldn’t be Dean’s reaction. Should it?

You take the bus to work, telling Dean that he doesn’t need to drive you. On a different day, he might insist, tell you that his girl’s not taking public transport while he’s got a perfectly good car. Put his hand on your thigh while he drives one-handed. You lean against the big window, watch the rainy day outside pass you by.

That fear starts creeping in again. If you can ever really have Dean. You do have him, the reasonable part of your brain tells you. But it’s never enough. It never feels like enough. You roll your eyes at yourself. Open up the shop, pour yourself a big cup of coffee that burns your tongue when you drink it too quickly.

Sam comes in for the afternoon shift. Walks through the door, the bell above it announcing his arrival. Not like he needs it - your eyes fly to him immediately. The way he keeps his head low, the way his gaze sucks you in. You turn back to the customer you were wrapping up a tarot set and some candles for. Sam moves behind the counter, stands close to you.

“Hey,” he says, quiet and breathless. You smile up at him, feeling heat shoot to your face at his closeness.

“Hey,” you say back. He squeezes your arm and moves away, and you wish he wouldn’t.

It’s over a week later that you confront Dean about what you said, about the weird tension between you two. He’s been sleeping rolled away from you. No kisses, or only quick, formal ones, no hands sneaking under your shirt every chance he gets. No hungry little looks that make you feel right and good and like you belong to him.

Sam’s in the shower, so you walk up to Dean, sling your arms around his neck. He tenses under your touch, but you don’t let that deter you.

“So,” you say, bending your voice into forced casualness. “About you asking me to marry you the other night…” Dean pulls his head back, deep frown, eyes wide.

“What?” shoots out of him, and you grin. “Me asking you?”

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” you continue. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Dean’s lips move while he tries to make sense of what you’re saying, but he gets it a second later, understands that, just like him, you have your ego to protect, and when he puts his hands on your hips, you could cry from happiness. You smile at him, rub your hand over his neck.

“Don’t know that I’m exactly husband material, darlin’,” he says. Now it’s your turn to frown.

“It’s not that,” you say, “not at all. It’s just that it’s not a topic that should be breached when you’ve partaken in some serious pain medication because you had a headache that made you want to blow your brains out.” Lies, all lies. But a small lie to fix something big. Because the truth is so much bigger. Too big for you even to repeat to yourself.

But it makes Dean chuckle. His fingers trace over your side.

“Besides,” he says, “if anything, a guy should be popping that question. That’s not your job.” You frown at him.

“How charmingly chauvinistic," you say. Dean shrugs.

“I’m a romantic, sweetheart,” he says. You bite your lip, move your face closer to his, and Dean, your Dean, moves closer too. Meeting you halfway, which is all you’ve ever wanted.

“I know you are,” you say, voice low, your chest now pressed against his. God, you’ve missed touching him. You’ve missed being touched. It’s like your skin has been screaming for it. “You’re the biggest romantic I know.” Dean chuckles again, but this time it sounds like he’s not sure if he should be offended or not. 

“The Impala,” you say, raising your chin and Dean’s gaze drops to your lips, “the leather jacket. Jethro Tull in a bar parking lot while you finger me.” Dean scoffs at the memory, then runs his hands over your back. 

“That’s romantic,” you say, nodding, “nostalgic even.” 

Dean shakes his head a little, then looks down at you. You can see his defenses break down. Part of you knows that you should talk about this more, but you don’t want to. You’re tired, anxious and you want nothing more than to bury yourself in Dean, fuck him until your head is beautifully and blissfully empty. You want to be reminded that you are loved.

“Besides,” you say, voice less flirty, and it gets his attention. “You would get bored out of your mind being married to me. A house and kids and all that, it sounds nice in theory. But it’s not what you want.” 

Dean clenches his jaw, and you’re sure he’s about to defend himself, deny what you’re saying. Because a man should want these things, right? 

“Well,” he says, then doesn’t continue. You look deep into his eyes, trying to make sure he hears you.

“I don’t want to wake up in ten years,” you say, voice clear and neutral so he can understand you even through his potentially bruised ego, “with three kids and a mortgage and have you resent me because we did what you thought I wanted.” 

Dean studies your face. You’re not sure if he’s buying what you’re selling - that you’ve come to your senses, that this was all just a little hiccup, not a symptom of something much bigger. That you now need to swing into the other extreme to protect your relationship, but more than that, yourself. So you push yourself up on your toes, bring your face closer to his, your body automatically pressing closer against his. 

“I want to live in sin,” you say, looking at his lips. “And I want you to be able to leave from one day to the next. Because that way I know you want to be here.” You look into his eyes again. 

“And now,” you say, just to drive the point home and show how very done you are with this conversation, your hands running over his arms and shoulders, “I want you to fuck me to show me how much you love me.” 

Dean hesitates, just for a second. He has a certain picture of himself. No matter how much he has done little to achieve it, that small house with the pretty wife is still the ideal that lives in his heart, you think, no matter how much he might pretend it’s not. Letting go of it is like letting his mother die all over, like letting that house burn down again. 

But you know what would happen if you ever tried to ask Dean to settle, really settle. You’d rather have half of him for a long time than all of him only for a little bit. Or that’s what you tell yourself. That’s what feels reasonable. 

Because you too think of that house, of little footsteps, birthday parties, summers in the garden. Or you have been since you talked about it with Sam when he first moved in, when you cut his hair and he told you you’d be a good mother. But you know you can’t keep Dean. Not like this. Because what if you turn out not to be the most important thing for him? 

Luckily, just then, he kisses you and you’re able to shove the thought away. Dean drags you close, makes your head empty, empty, empty, the way he always manages. You get to lose yourself in him, in the pure physicality, no need for thinking. 

No need for remembering the past, or imagining the future, which at the end of the day, is the same thing.

It’s a few weeks later that the three of you get stuck in the Impala in a rain storm. 

You’re supposed to go out to a bar. You left the city this morning, another road trip, but spring has been unkind, and the heavens opened like they have a score to settle. Rather than hightail it into the bar, you have been sitting here, while it feels like the world is ending around you. It’s strangely comfortable.

“Truth,” Dean says, turned around in the driver’s seat, the light of the street lamps outside shining through the rivulets of rain on the windows giving him a surreal look, “or dare?”

You press your lips together as you raise the flask Dean’s been passing around to pass the time. You take a sip, the metal cold against your lips despite the humid air in the car.

“I’ll do dares all day,” you say, putting on a self-satisfied look. Dean raises his eyebrows, then looks at his brother on the bench seat next to him.

“Hear that, Sammy?” he says. “The girl wants to fight.” You huff.

“Try me, Winchester,” you say and both brothers chuckle.

“Fine,” Dean says, looking at you again. “I dare you to kiss me.”

You roll your eyes and Sam gives a half laugh before he looks out the front of the car, out into the rain. You press yourself up, then lean forward over the bench. Dean meets you halfway with a one-sided grin on his face. You give him a sweet peck.

“Goddamn softy,” you mutter as you let yourself drop back against the leather bench. Dean gives you a wink heavy with double meaning, before looking at his brother.

“Your turn,” he says and Sam looks at him. He was still staring out into the night, but he quickly looks attentive. 

“Truth or dare?” you ask. Sam turns his head to look at you, his face remaining neutral.

“Uhm, truth,” he says, nodding slowly. You bring one hand to your chin, look up to think.

“Worst hangover you’ve ever had,” you say and Sam chuckles, while Dean throws you a frown.

“Boring,” he mutters as he reaches over the bench to take the flask from you, and you use the opportunity to slap his shoulder.

“Uhm, freshman year, for sure,” Sam answers, not letting his brother reaching over the bench again and pinching your leg distract him. You swat his hand away, then look at Sam, wanting to make sure he knows you’re listening. “Beer and vanilla flavored vodka.” You make a face, half disgust, half confession that you’ve been there yourself.

“That sounds rough,” you say, and Sam laughs. 

“It was,” he confirms, smiling at you and you smile back.

“Did you at least get laid?” Dean asks, just lowering the flask again. Sam gives an unbelieving expression, one where he is still kind of smiling but his eyebrows go low and his upper lip is pinched.

“I could barely stand, dude,” he replies and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“He just needs to stand a little,” he replies and Sam groans while you lean forward once more, snatching the flask from Dean.

“You’re cut off,” you say when he gives you a hurt look, “until you can come up with better jokes. It’s your turn anyway.” Dean rolls his eyes, then looks back at Sam.

“Truth or dare?” Sam says, leaning in, a touch of theatrics in his voice. It makes you smile around the rim of the flask when you drink. 

“Dare, baby,” Dean says, scooting around. “And make it something fun.”

“Get out,” Sam says, “and run around the car once.” Dean makes a face.

“Something fun, I said,” he complains. 

“I think you got your instructions,” you cut in, taking another sip before passing the flask to Sam. He takes it but doesn’t drink, a look of amusement on his face as he looks at Dean expectantly.

“Ugh, fine,” Dean groans. He throws open the car door and basically jumps out. You hear him yell and shout as he runs around the car, and both you and Sam laugh. He climbs back in, the shoulders of his leather jacket dark and wet.

“You two are goddamn kids,” he says as he closes the door again. “Okay, my turn. Uh…”

“I already told you,” you cut in. “Dare.” Dean looks your way.

“Okay,” he says with a cheeky little grin. “I dare you to kiss Sam.”

You feel your heart shoot into your throat. You need to clear it before you even look at Sam. He looks shocked, but then he looks at you, his head slightly turning. You look at his lips. Imagine yourself leaning over the bench, kissing him. Fingers tracing his soft skin, his beauty marks, while Dean tells you what to do next. Imagine yourself...

“Sure,” you say, and then you lean over, peck Sam on the cheek before he can even move, sit back again. Hoping to God and anyone else who will listen that you don’t look the way you feel - heated, breathless, fidgety. 

“Oh, boo!” Dean says, looking between you two, at least until Sam turns his head, looks out the window again, and Dean’s grin broadens. “Dude, are you blushing?”

“Shut up,” Sam says, turning back, and it’s hard to say in the dark of the car, but it does look like Sam has a slight redness to his cheeks. He raises the flask, drinks, long and deep, coughs a little when he lowers it again. Dean reaches forward, takes it from him.

Dean watches Sam as he squirms under his brother’s gaze, and for a second you can’t read his expression. The blink of an eye later, he catches himself, is all Dean again. Your heart is beating fast and hard. You should say something, break the moment. You know Dean is about to say something, something he can’t take back. You can almost see it coming.

But then he just raises the flask, drinks too. Turns his head and looks out the front. It’s still coming down hard.

“We should probably find a motel,” he says, and you can’t see his face.

He closes the flask, drops it on the seat beside him. Turns the key.

All of you are quiet on the drive. There’s something in the air you can’t name. Sam’s avoiding your gaze like the plague.

The motel is all dark wood, log cabin decor. One room, and Dean tosses his bag down on the floor, looks around. You drop your bag too, standing too close to the door, and Sam needs to gently press past you. He turns his head, gives you a polite smile. 

You stand there, watch them. Whatever happened in the car, whatever made Dean look like that, has disappeared, the air clean and fresh again. You can’t tell if Sam is acting differently.

Dean collapses on the couch with a groan, arm going over the back while he turns on the TV with his other hand. He shifts around, then looks over at you. Motions you over with his head. You walk over to him, drop down next to him. His arm goes around you and he pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. He pulls back, then gives you two more, quick ones. You can’t help but chuckle. He looks at you for a second, like you’re the most special thing in the world. Like he’s never seen you before.

Then he turns back to the TV. Sam drops down next to you, holding his hand out. You look down. A mini bag of Skittles, crumpled from his bag. You take it with a smile at him, one that he returns.

You turn to the TV as well, slowly exhaling, both big, warm bodies pressed up close.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

“Hope we weren’t too loud last night, Sammy,” he says and you feel heat shoot to your face. You try to be quiet. Sometimes Sam blushes, shakes his head, but sometimes he only raises his eyebrows at his brother. You walk past him to the coffee machine.

“Dean,” you say, grabbing the pot and turning around. “Can you be, I don’t know, a little less of a weirdo?” But Dean grins at you, leans back in his chair, checking you out shamelessly. 

“I’m just saying,” he replies, “a man’s gotta be proud of the work he does.”

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

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Me when @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth posts a new chapter of Sun Bleached Files:

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SUN BLEACHED FLIES CHAPTER 10: 2005

CWs Non-sexual intimacy. Memories of child abuse. Fluff. Found family. Super brief sexual content. 5.2k words

Masterlist | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Dean eventually visits Sam at college after you encourage him to, and the two of them start talking on the phone regularly. There is some tension between them still, you can tell, but at least they’re in contact. 

Sometimes Dean puts you on, or it’s you that answers the phone, and you don’t recognize Sam’s voice the first time you hear it. He sounds so different and you can’t help but grin. Little Sammy, all grown up. 

He likes Stanford, likes the classes, likes the learning. He has a girlfriend, tells you a little about her, shily. She seems nice, and you’re happy for him. 

You come home from work one day a couple of months after Dean has taken his duffel from his car into your apartment, open the door just as Dean is shrugging on his jacket. You kiss him, ask him where he’s going. 

“It’s Sam,” he says, and the way he does makes your stomach drop. Dean must see your expression change, shakes his head. 

“He’s okay,” he says quickly. “He had an accident, and he’s in the hospital, but he’s okay. I’m gonna go see him.” 

Dean reaches for his wallet where it's found its home in the bowl next to the door where you keep your keys. You want to go and see Sam as well, but your boss is out for the week, and you can’t leave the store. It tears you up, to know that Sam is hurt and you can’t go to him, can’t be with Dean to look after his little brother. Sam once promised he’d never let anyone hurt you, and it’s not something you’ve ever forgotten about. 

Dean leaves, but he calls you in the evening from the hospital. Sam broke his leg falling down the stairs in his dorm. He’s okay otherwise, mostly embarrassed. You ask if John is there and Dean says he isn’t, then goes quiet. 

“You think I could bring him?” Dean asks you after a few seconds. You’re confused for a moment. 

“You mean Sam?” you ask.

“Just until he’s better,” Dean quickly adds. “He’s got some friends hanging around to look after him, but I’m sure they’ve got their own stuff going on. I don’t want him to be on his own.”

“What about his girlfriend?” you ask, and Dean grumbles. You hear him switch the phone to the other ear, imagine him leaned against a white hospital wall.

“He hasn’t said anything,” Dean replies, “but she hasn’t shown up, so I guess she’s out of the picture. Better that I look after him.” 

Of course, you think, no one better in the world to look after Sam than his big brother. You smile to yourself. If this helps bring Sam and Dean closer again, you’re all for it. 

They arrive the next day. You’ve made up the couch for Sam, prepared dinner, and you open the apartment door when you hear their voices in the stairway. Dean is helping Sam shuffle up the stairs, and you grin as you watch them. Once the final stair has been crested, Sam looks up and you get your first good look at him. 

He’s grown up, is the first thing you notice. He’s tall, taller than Dean. He’s lanky as hell, offset by broad shoulders. His hair is still long, bangs hanging over his brows, his eyes just as dark, and the smile that spreads over his face when he sees you is just as brilliant. 

“Oh my God,” you say, shaking your head. Sam’s grin widens, even though you think there might be the slightest blush on his face. Probably from climbing the stairs. 

Dean helps him into the apartment and you hug him carefully, need to push up on your toes to do so. He balances on his crutches and unhurt leg to sling one arm around you, then you take a step back and survey him again. 

“I’m gonna get your bag,” Dean says, slapping his brother on the shoulder. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek and then he’s out the door again. You shake yourself out of your need to stare at Sam. 

“Come on, sit down,” you say. You lead him over to the kitchen table where he sits, leans his crutches against the table before he looks around. 

“I like your place,” he says in that soft low voice you've already gotten acquainted with over the phone. You bring him some water, chuckle a little. 

“Thank you,” you say as you fill his glass. “It’s not a lot, but I love it.” Sam nods, seemingly unsure what to say for a second. You push your fists into your sides. 

“Are you gonna be okay on the couch?” you ask and Sam turns as best he can, looks behind him. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I really appreciate you letting me stay here.” You wave his words away. 

“No problem,” you say, and you wonder why the hell you and Sam are talking to each other like you’ve never met before, like you’re exchanging pleasantries. Like you don’t have years and years of friendship to look back on together. 

You’re both quiet and it almost becomes awkward, but then Dean’s back. He drops Sam’s bag near the sofa and then sits down at the table as well, running his hand over your back as he passes you. 

“I’m hungry,” he says, clapping his hands together and you and Sam grin at each other, at your love for Dean. 

You mostly listen throughout dinner. It’s surreal, hearing Sam and Dean talk to each other again. So many years have passed since the last time you saw them together. They speak differently, not least of all because Sam seems to have lost most of his shyness, but some sentences they exchange sound like someone took their teenage voices, ran them through a machine to make them lower and older. Dean and you drink beer, and Sam soon joins in, although Dean makes it a joke to act shocked when he learns that his brother has been drinking at college, despite the fact he’s now twenty-two. 

“Can’t believe you’ve fallen to temptation, Sammy,” he says as he gets the three of you new bottles. He opens yours for you, passes it to you and winks at you as he does. You smile while you take a sip. 

“Actually,” Sam says, wise-assing, and you like this new sass on him, “you’re the one who gave me my first beer.” Dean impales the rest of the food on his plate on his fork, shoves it into his mouth. 

“Prove it,” he says while chewing. You turn to Sam. 

“Was that when we went shooting in the woods?” you ask. You expect Sam to need to think before remembering the exact circumstances. But he doesn’t. He nods immediately. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little bashful. “When we screamed at the trees.” 

The memory comes rushing back to you so strongly that it feels like you’re back there for a moment. You remember the buzz of the mosquitos, the sound of the bullets hitting the cans, and then the tree. Remember Sam standing beside you, grinning after he screamed, and Dean’s hand going on top of the revolver you were holding. 

You huff, look down at your bottle. 

After dinner, you sit around and talk until you’re all yawning, heads in your hands. Finally, you call it a day. You put out towels and some water for Sam, and Dean helps him hobble into the bathroom after you and Dean are done in there. 

“I’m not gonna have to help… clean you or anything?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely worried for a moment. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I think I can manage,” he says, and after you all say good night, you and Dean retire to the bedroom. 

He wraps his arms around you from behind while you’re taking off your jewelry, buries his face in your neck, takes a deep breath. 

“Missed you,” he says and you smile at the way his breath tickles you. He holds you, swaying a little and you lean your head back against his shoulder.

 “This is a good thing, right?” Dean suddenly asks out of nowhere. “Having Sam here.” You nod against him. 

“I mean,” Dean continues, “it’s nice, right?” You turn around in his hold. 

“It’s really nice,” you say, giving him a brief kiss. Dean looks at you for a second when you separate, then leans in and kisses you again. His hands run down your body, go over your ass, squeezing. You grin against his lips. 

“Maybe we don’t want to freak your brother out by having him hear us on his first night he spends here?” you whisper. Dean clicks his tongue. 

“You’re the loud one,” he teases and you playfully slap his shoulder, but of course you’re lost to his charm. 

You do try to be quiet, but at some point Dean makes you whimper and no matter how hard you press your face against his shoulder, you’re not sure how quiet you end up being in the end. 

The next morning, Sam’s already up when you slip into the living room. He’s folded the sheet and blankets you put on the sofa, laid them to the side so they’re out of the way for the day. He’s trying to make coffee when you walk out of the bedroom, but with how wobbly he is on his one leg it’s slow going. You take the satchel of coffee grounds from him. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly as he watches you spoon them into the filter. 

“Morning,” you say back with a chuckle. 

Sam and you have coffee while Dean sleeps in. You ask him about his classes, about which ones he likes and which ones he doesn’t. He tells you about his professors, his classmates. You love listening to him. The way he tells everything in such detail, the way he is so concentrated on what he is saying. 

He finishes a story about an ethics professor, and some of the things he learned in that class that really stuck with him. You’re leaning on your hand and you just watch him. Sam finishes talking and then stares down at his empty cup. 

“I’m not sure if I’m gonna go back,” he says. You frown. 

“To college, you mean?” you ask, and he nods. “Why not?” Sam takes a breath, runs his finger along the cup. 

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “But when I’m there I don’t… I don’t feel like I’m there, you know?” He looks up, maybe searching for understanding on your face. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Like, I’m always looking at the door,” Sam responds. And that makes perfect sense to you. You think of living with your mother. How it always felt like it wasn’t a home, but a train station, and you were just looking for the stop that would allow you to get off. 

“Well,” you say, scratching at a stain on your cup, “as far as I’m concerned, you can stay here as long as you want. To figure it out, I mean.” 

Sam looks at your face. His skin looks soft and he must have spent time in the sun. His hair is dark and full, and your eyes go over the beauty marks he has on his chin and next to his nose. 

“If you need time to figure it out,” you continue, quickly, unsure why you feel it’s necessary to add the qualifier. Sam smiles a little. 

“I really appreciate that,” he says, nods. “But I don’t want to impose.”

“Please,” you say with a sarcastic tone. “One or two Winchesters, can’t make that much of a difference.” 

As if on command, the bedroom door opens, and Dean comes trudging out. He’s yawning so hard that you can almost see daylight, and scratching his ass through his boxer shorts, immediately beelining for the bathroom. You turn back to Sam, chuckling a little, and he’s looking after his brother with a forlorn frown. 

“Really missed that,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm, and you laugh. 

Days pass, calm and quiet. On the next Wednesday you come back from work in the afternoon and hear clanging and low cussing from the bathroom. It’s Sam’s voice. 

You knock on the door, worried he’s fallen because of his cast, maybe can’t get up, long legs and arms all tangled. 

“Sam? You need any help?” you ask through the door. 

“No, I’m g— shit! I’m good!” you hear from the other side. You frown. 

“Not gonna lie,” you say, grimacing, “it doesn’t sound like it, Sam.” You hear him cuss again. 

“I just…” you hear, and he sounds upset. “I got water everywhere.” 

“I’m coming in, okay?” you say and when you hear Sam say yes, you open the door. 

It’s not as bad as he made it out to be. He’s standing in jeans and a white t-shirt, a few wet towels around. Sam is leaning against the sink, looking around. He sighs when you throw him a questioning look. 

“I can’t shower with the cast,” he admits, and there’s that sweet little blush again. “I tried washing my hair and I… well, this happened.” Wordlessly, you grab the already wet towels, begin mopping up the water on the floor. 

“Let me help,” Sam says and starts leaning forward, but you hold your hand up to stop him. 

“If you fall,” you say, voice authoritative, “I’m not gonna be able to help you get up. You’re too big and heavy. You’ll be on your ass until Dean’s back.” 

Dean’s gone for the day, drove to a car shop that’s a few hours away to look for some parts for the Impala he hasn’t been able to find elsewhere. You would have liked to go with him, make it a little roadtrip, but you both agreed that you can’t leave Sam alone in his current state, so you stayed. 

Sam watches, embarrassed, while you finish mopping up the water. 

“Stay here,” you say, and leave the room with the towels in your arms. You throw them in the laundry hamper, then grab one of the kitchen chairs. You hoist it back into the bathroom. 

“Let’s try this,” you say, and set the chair so that its back is facing the sink, then motion for Sam to sit. He just frowns at you. 

“You said you wanted to wash your hair,” you say, chuckling at his confusion. “You can’t get in the shower because of the cast, and the tub is too low for you to lean over. So, sink it is.” 

“How am I gonna reach…” Sam starts, then he shakes his head when he understands. “No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Good thing you’re not asking,” you say, and motion at the chair again. You see the battle of wills behind Sam’s eyes. He’s a cleanly guy, but accepting this level of help doesn’t come easy to him. He’s just like Dean that way. 

Finally he opens his mouth, closes it again, and then hobbles the one step over to the chair, sits down with a grunt. 

“You really don’t have to…” he says as you grab a new towel from the shelf. 

“Shut up, Sam,” you say kindly. 

“Okay,” he responds, but you see him press his lips together to hide his smile. You put the towel over his shoulders, then help him lean back. It looks uncomfortable, so you grab another towel, roll it up, put it under his neck. 

You start the water in the sink, let it warm up, and then you have to take a large step over Sam’s legs to get to the tub, grab your shampoo. 

“Are you terribly opposed to smelling like almonds and vanilla, or do you have your own shampoo?” you ask. Sam grins up at you, deep dimples showing on his cheeks. 

“Almonds and vanilla is fine,” he says. You put the bottle by the sink, test the water. You cup your hand when it has a good temperature, pour some of it over Sam’s hair.

 “Temperature okay?” you ask and he nods a little. 

“It’s good,” he says. You start cupping more water, running it into Sam’s hair, making sure it’s fully wet. It takes a while with how thick it is. Then you squeeze a good helping of the shampoo into your hands, and start massaging it in. 

It’s weirdly calming, working up the suds, feeling the resistance of Sam’s scalp against the softness of his hair. 

“This okay?” you ask, absentmindedly. 

“Mmh,” Sam replies, quietly. You look at his face. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and calm, face utterly relaxed. He’s all shampoo’d up, but you keep massaging, keep pressing your fingers into his skin. Sam makes another little noise, and then his eyes shoot open. He blinks, clears his throat. 

“Sorry.” Before you can ask what he’s sorry about, he says: “You’re really good at that. Do you do this for Dean?” 

It’s a strangely intimate question, but then again Sam and Dean have shared space and air for almost all of their lives. Maybe it’s not strange at all. 

“Sometimes,” you reply. “But I mostly practiced on myself.” Sam frowns and you have to laugh. You turn on the water again, wait for it to reach the right temperature, and start washing out Sam’s hair. 

“My mom wasn’t exactly affectionate,” you find yourself saying. “So when it was bath time and I had to wash my hair, I would take huge dollops of her really expensive shampoo and I would close my eyes and massage it into my hair for, like, hours.” You chuckle, run another handful of water over Sam’s hair, then brush your hand over his forehead to remove the shampoo there. 

“I would pretend someone else was doing it,” you continue, running your hand over Sam’s skin again to get the last remnants out. “And sometimes it made me cry, because my mother didn’t like to hug me, so no one was ever really touching me.” 

Your hand freezes. You need to swallow as you suddenly taste bile in your throat, suddenly remembering yourself lying in bed at your grandfather’s house, hearing it creak around you. The way the walls sometimes felt like they were shifting, coming closer. You’d wonder if they’d squeeze you to death. 

You haven’t thought about this for a long time. You lick your lips. 

“All done,” you say, voice sounding flat. Sam sits up, takes the towel he has around his shoulders and starts rubbing his hair. 

“You okay?” he asks carefully, looking up at you with large eyes. You nod. 

“Yeah,” you respond. “Just wasn’t as wholesome of a memory as I thought it was.” Sam nods slowly, still watching you. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. You’re sure he does. You’re both quiet for a minute, Sam dabbing at his hair while you stare into the sink. 

You look back at Sam, and some of his wet bangs are hanging into his eyes. Without thinking about it, you reach your hand out and brush them away. Sam doesn’t react, just keeps looking at you. 

“Want me to give you a trim?” you ask. Sam opens his mouth, seems unsure for a second. 

“I’ve done it before, I cut my own hair all the time,” you say, trying to reassure him. Sam nods. You reach into one of the bathroom shelves, take a comb and scissors out of a small basket. 

With Sam’s help, you shuffle him around so that you can reach the back of his head. You run your fingers through the still wet hair, then take some of it between your fingers, start cutting the ends. 

Both you and Sam are quiet for a while, but it’s not uncomfortable. Sam speaks up eventually. 

“Jess used to do that for me,” he says. You don’t take your eyes off his hair. 

“Who’s Jess?” you ask. Sam clears his throat. 

“The girl I dated in college,” he says, and he sounds a little embarrassed, even though you don’t understand why. 

“What was she like?” you ask, curious to know what kind of people Sam decided to spend his time with. Sam thinks, then sighs. 

“Really smart,” he answers, “pretty. Totally out of my league.” You chuckle, but the truth is, with how tall Sam’s grown, how lean, he looks handsome now. Very handsome, so you really doubt any girl he dated would have been out of his league. 

“Yeah, right,” you say, while you continue snipping away. “I’m sure you had a hundred girls after you in school.” Sam makes a sound that’s halfway between a huff and a snort, like he’s flattered but also doesn’t believe you. You’re both quiet again for a few seconds. 

“Why didn’t it work out?” you ask. You move to get to the side of Sam’s head, and you see his jaw move. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “should I not have asked?” 

“It’s fine,” he says, then smiles a little. “Just weird talking about my girlfriend with the girl I had the biggest crush on when I was younger.” You stop moving. 

Of course you knew Sam liked you when he was younger, but it still feels strange to hear him admit it now. You never got a chance to talk about it, what with not seeing each other, but still it’s strange. Not bad strange, not with Sam sitting in front of you now, a full-grown man. 

Just to tease him, because what else are you gonna do, you ask: “Had a crush on?” Sam seems unsure if you’re joking for a second, but then he laughs awkwardly. You can’t help but chuckle at him, at how fun it is to wind him up. How easy talking and joking with him is.

“So what did this Jess do?” you return to the topic. “She break your heart? Do I need to find her and make her life hell?” Sam shakes his head, and you put your hand on top of it, make him stop moving so you can keep cutting. 

“I kinda broke up with her,” he says. You nod, not expecting him to elaborate, but then he does. 

“I really liked her,” Sam continues, face now concentrated. “But it never felt like she really knew me, you know? Knew my life.” You nod. 

“The hunting, you mean?” you ask as you move to Sam’s other side. Lots of families move around, have violent dads and dead mothers and no consistency, no safety net. But the fact that Sam spent his evenings hunting ghosts and researching monsters couldn’t have been easy to lie about. 

“Not just that,” Sam says to your surprise. “It’s… Jess had this really good homelife, and loving parents, which was great, but when I told her about some of the stuff my dad did...”

Sam swallows, quiets. You’re not sure exactly how violent John was, outside of the instances of which you saw the consequences. Dean doesn’t talk about it, might mention something in passing, but never stops long enough to really reveal a lot. You’re not sure how Sam feels about this whole situation in general, with John cutting off contact to both his sons, if he and Dean have breached the topic at all, or simply brushed it under the rug the way the men of this family seem to be a little bit too good at doing.

“She didn’t really get it, you know?” Sam continues. “It made her uncomfortable to hear about it, and I get that, but it just made me feel even worse about it.” Sam squeezes his mouth shut. You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you finally say, because you are. Sam deserves nothing but goodness in his life. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

And because you don’t know what else to do, you say: “Families, right?” You say it in a tone that’s supposed to sound sarcastic, but it comes out a little sadder than you mean to. Still, Sam huffs at it, which encourages you. 

“If I ever have a family,” you say, swatting at some hair that has fallen on Sam’s shoulder, “I’d do it so differently.” Sam moves his head a little to look at you, and this time you let him because you’re done. 

“Do you want that?” he asks. “Kids and everything?” You shrug, run your hands through his hair to see if it turned out okay. 

“I don’t know,” you say. “I mean, yeah, I do, I just sometimes feel like… I don’t know.” 

“Like it’s too risky?” Sam says, smiling a little. 

“Yes, exactly,” you agree. “Like how can I not be a total fuck-up? There’s no way I’d do a good job.” You lean back, study Sam a little. He looks up at you, seems to struggle with what he’s planning to say for a moment. 

“I think you’d be a really good mom,” he finally says. 

To say what Sam is saying takes you aback is an understatement. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Sam fills the silence. 

“Like, it’s easy to feel safe around you and, and you’re caring, and…” he says, then sort of tapers off, and there’s that blush again, but this time he’s not looking away from you, he’s holding your gaze. 

It makes you feel strange, almost embarrassed but not quite. No one’s ever said something like that to you, and it’s like Sam has looked into a dusty, locked room inside of yourself, come out again carrying something in his hands, and, blowing the dust off it, said: Look what I found! 

“Thank you, Sam,” is all you can say. 

The truth is, you’ve long assumed you’ll never have kids, exactly because of what Sam said: it feels too risky. What if there is a version of your mother lying dormant in you that will awaken when you hear the patter of small feet? Will revolt at someone loving and needing you so fully? Adding to that, you’re pretty sure Dean has no interest in children. If he has, he has never mentioned it - yes, you’re young, but it feels like something that should have come up at this point.

And the real, horrible truth is, the one behind it that you’re unwilling to look at - you don’t know if Dean is the man you would want to have children with. If a family would make him stick around, or drive him away. Maybe you’re all cursed to repeat the sins of your parents.

You help Sam get up, then ask him to move to the living room while you clean up the bathroom, despite him insisting that he’ll do it. 

You sit him on the couch and then, because you feel like treating yourself, you get take-out from the Thai place down the street and then you and Sam watch TV and eat. 

You steal a spoonful of his curry, but it’s spicier than you eat it and a minute later your face is buried in the crook of your arm while you cuss to the high heavens. When you finally manage to look at Sam again, he’s chuckling while apologizing profusely, even though he didn’t do anything. 

The change in Dean with Sam being there is instantaneous. 

The two of you are lying in bed one afternoon a few days after you cut Sam’s hair. Dean’s head is leaned against your chest and you have your arms slung around him, while both of you are dozing. Dean feels more vulnerable, more open, leaned against you like that. He stirs and you move your head to look at him. 

He looks at you, green eyes startling, freckles making him look like a boy. You lift your hand, run your fingernails into the hair over his forehead, stretching along the scalp. Dean closes his eyes at that and you smile.

You lean in, kiss his forehead, then his cheek, your lips ghosting over his skin. Dean blinks his eyes open, looks at you again.

“You know,” he says, licking his lips, “it’s weird.” You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“What is?” you ask after a few seconds. Dean looks past you, face open. 

“I never thought I’d… I’d have this again,” he says, looking at you again. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he’s being shy.

“Have what?” you ask, your fingers stroking his shoulder where you’re holding him. 

Dean looks at you, and he looks so vulnerable in that moment. Wide-eyed, soft and open.

“A family,” he says.

It hits you like a truck. It lands on you like a feather. A family. The three of you. 

“I mean,” he says, shrugging, like he’s unsure what he’s trying to say. “You know?”

“I know,” you say, giving him a gentle smile. You bring your hand to his face, stroke your thumb over his cheek.

“Just, uh,” he says, “just don’t tell Sammy I said something sappy like that, okay?” You giggle and shake your head.

“I would never,” you reply. Dean nods, then leans in and kisses you. You let yourself feel it, all your love. All you have.

“Guys!” you hear Sam call from the living room. Dean disentangles himself with a groan and pushes himself up.

“If he wants me to help him put on his pants again…” he says, letting the sentence taper out. You roll onto your side, watch as Dean opens the door. He leaves it open, and you can look through to the living room.

Sam is standing by the kitchen counter, one crutch under one arm, a glass of red sauce in his hand. He offered to cook dinner tonight, as a thank you for letting him stay, but the culinary skills he picked up in college don’t seem to go beyond pasta with tomato sauce. It doesn’t matter. He could be preparing dry bread and you’d love it. 

Dean walks up to him, listens to him, then makes a face before he says something. Sam rolls his eyes, indicating his crutch. Whatever they’re saying doesn’t register with you. You’re too busy watching them. Your two boys.

You’re not climbing into dark basements together, fighting monsters. But your dream came true, you think. Having Sam and Dean at your side was one of the first things you really, really wished for in your life. 

And here they are.

Dean takes the glass from Sam, moving to open it with both hands, a smug expression on his face, which quickly disappears. He tries again, the lid not budging. Sam, who’s been watching his older brother intently, straightens, a cheeky grin building at the corners of his mouth. Meanwhile, Dean’s frowning, and when he tries again, he grimaces, his jaw clenched.

You get up too. Walk towards them, and they both turn your way. They might be the one with the capes, your heroes, but you’re the one who takes the glass, bangs the lid against the edge of the counter. When you unscrew it with a satisfying pop, it gets you a cheer from Sam, and a kiss from Dean.

Family. That’s what you are.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

“Want me to distract you from the pain?” Dean quips next to you and you just have time to roll your eyes at him when his hand sneaks under your shirt, up your torso and to your breasts. 

“Dean!” you half squeal, half laugh. 

“I’m sure Sammy doesn’t mind,” Dean says, kissing your cheek, and Sam slaps his hands over his face, groans.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[winfieldsreads]

SAMMY IS BACK! 🥺💘

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Sammy's back! Find out just how back in today's chapter, coming in 4 hours! 😏🤭

[winfieldsreads]

OMG GIRL 😭 What’s that lil smirk for? 😩 Two hours left?!?! Hell yeah, alarm is set! Let’s goooooo!!!!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

SUN BLEACHED FLIES CHAPTER 10: 2005

CWs Non-sexual intimacy. Memories of child abuse. Fluff. Found family. Super brief sexual content. 5.2k words

Masterlist | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Dean eventually visits Sam at college after you encourage him to, and the two of them start talking on the phone regularly. There is some tension between them still, you can tell, but at least they’re in contact. 

Sometimes Dean puts you on, or it’s you that answers the phone, and you don’t recognize Sam’s voice the first time you hear it. He sounds so different and you can’t help but grin. Little Sammy, all grown up. 

He likes Stanford, likes the classes, likes the learning. He has a girlfriend, tells you a little about her, shily. She seems nice, and you’re happy for him. 

You come home from work one day a couple of months after Dean has taken his duffel from his car into your apartment, open the door just as Dean is shrugging on his jacket. You kiss him, ask him where he’s going. 

“It’s Sam,” he says, and the way he does makes your stomach drop. Dean must see your expression change, shakes his head. 

“He’s okay,” he says quickly. “He had an accident, and he’s in the hospital, but he’s okay. I’m gonna go see him.” 

Dean reaches for his wallet where it's found its home in the bowl next to the door where you keep your keys. You want to go and see Sam as well, but your boss is out for the week, and you can’t leave the store. It tears you up, to know that Sam is hurt and you can’t go to him, can’t be with Dean to look after his little brother. Sam once promised he’d never let anyone hurt you, and it’s not something you’ve ever forgotten about. 

Dean leaves, but he calls you in the evening from the hospital. Sam broke his leg falling down the stairs in his dorm. He’s okay otherwise, mostly embarrassed. You ask if John is there and Dean says he isn’t, then goes quiet. 

“You think I could bring him?” Dean asks you after a few seconds. You’re confused for a moment. 

“You mean Sam?” you ask.

“Just until he’s better,” Dean quickly adds. “He’s got some friends hanging around to look after him, but I’m sure they’ve got their own stuff going on. I don’t want him to be on his own.”

“What about his girlfriend?” you ask, and Dean grumbles. You hear him switch the phone to the other ear, imagine him leaned against a white hospital wall.

“He hasn’t said anything,” Dean replies, “but she hasn’t shown up, so I guess she’s out of the picture. Better that I look after him.” 

Of course, you think, no one better in the world to look after Sam than his big brother. You smile to yourself. If this helps bring Sam and Dean closer again, you’re all for it. 

They arrive the next day. You’ve made up the couch for Sam, prepared dinner, and you open the apartment door when you hear their voices in the stairway. Dean is helping Sam shuffle up the stairs, and you grin as you watch them. Once the final stair has been crested, Sam looks up and you get your first good look at him. 

He’s grown up, is the first thing you notice. He’s tall, taller than Dean. He’s lanky as hell, offset by broad shoulders. His hair is still long, bangs hanging over his brows, his eyes just as dark, and the smile that spreads over his face when he sees you is just as brilliant. 

“Oh my God,” you say, shaking your head. Sam’s grin widens, even though you think there might be the slightest blush on his face. Probably from climbing the stairs. 

Dean helps him into the apartment and you hug him carefully, need to push up on your toes to do so. He balances on his crutches and unhurt leg to sling one arm around you, then you take a step back and survey him again. 

“I’m gonna get your bag,” Dean says, slapping his brother on the shoulder. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek and then he’s out the door again. You shake yourself out of your need to stare at Sam. 

“Come on, sit down,” you say. You lead him over to the kitchen table where he sits, leans his crutches against the table before he looks around. 

“I like your place,” he says in that soft low voice you've already gotten acquainted with over the phone. You bring him some water, chuckle a little. 

“Thank you,” you say as you fill his glass. “It’s not a lot, but I love it.” Sam nods, seemingly unsure what to say for a second. You push your fists into your sides. 

“Are you gonna be okay on the couch?” you ask and Sam turns as best he can, looks behind him. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I really appreciate you letting me stay here.” You wave his words away. 

“No problem,” you say, and you wonder why the hell you and Sam are talking to each other like you’ve never met before, like you’re exchanging pleasantries. Like you don’t have years and years of friendship to look back on together. 

You’re both quiet and it almost becomes awkward, but then Dean’s back. He drops Sam’s bag near the sofa and then sits down at the table as well, running his hand over your back as he passes you. 

“I’m hungry,” he says, clapping his hands together and you and Sam grin at each other, at your love for Dean. 

You mostly listen throughout dinner. It’s surreal, hearing Sam and Dean talk to each other again. So many years have passed since the last time you saw them together. They speak differently, not least of all because Sam seems to have lost most of his shyness, but some sentences they exchange sound like someone took their teenage voices, ran them through a machine to make them lower and older. Dean and you drink beer, and Sam soon joins in, although Dean makes it a joke to act shocked when he learns that his brother has been drinking at college, despite the fact he’s now twenty-two. 

“Can’t believe you’ve fallen to temptation, Sammy,” he says as he gets the three of you new bottles. He opens yours for you, passes it to you and winks at you as he does. You smile while you take a sip. 

“Actually,” Sam says, wise-assing, and you like this new sass on him, “you’re the one who gave me my first beer.” Dean impales the rest of the food on his plate on his fork, shoves it into his mouth. 

“Prove it,” he says while chewing. You turn to Sam. 

“Was that when we went shooting in the woods?” you ask. You expect Sam to need to think before remembering the exact circumstances. But he doesn’t. He nods immediately. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little bashful. “When we screamed at the trees.” 

The memory comes rushing back to you so strongly that it feels like you’re back there for a moment. You remember the buzz of the mosquitos, the sound of the bullets hitting the cans, and then the tree. Remember Sam standing beside you, grinning after he screamed, and Dean’s hand going on top of the revolver you were holding. 

You huff, look down at your bottle. 

After dinner, you sit around and talk until you’re all yawning, heads in your hands. Finally, you call it a day. You put out towels and some water for Sam, and Dean helps him hobble into the bathroom after you and Dean are done in there. 

“I’m not gonna have to help… clean you or anything?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely worried for a moment. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I think I can manage,” he says, and after you all say good night, you and Dean retire to the bedroom. 

He wraps his arms around you from behind while you’re taking off your jewelry, buries his face in your neck, takes a deep breath. 

“Missed you,” he says and you smile at the way his breath tickles you. He holds you, swaying a little and you lean your head back against his shoulder.

 “This is a good thing, right?” Dean suddenly asks out of nowhere. “Having Sam here.” You nod against him. 

“I mean,” Dean continues, “it’s nice, right?” You turn around in his hold. 

“It’s really nice,” you say, giving him a brief kiss. Dean looks at you for a second when you separate, then leans in and kisses you again. His hands run down your body, go over your ass, squeezing. You grin against his lips. 

“Maybe we don’t want to freak your brother out by having him hear us on his first night he spends here?” you whisper. Dean clicks his tongue. 

“You’re the loud one,” he teases and you playfully slap his shoulder, but of course you’re lost to his charm. 

You do try to be quiet, but at some point Dean makes you whimper and no matter how hard you press your face against his shoulder, you’re not sure how quiet you end up being in the end. 

The next morning, Sam’s already up when you slip into the living room. He’s folded the sheet and blankets you put on the sofa, laid them to the side so they’re out of the way for the day. He’s trying to make coffee when you walk out of the bedroom, but with how wobbly he is on his one leg it’s slow going. You take the satchel of coffee grounds from him. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly as he watches you spoon them into the filter. 

“Morning,” you say back with a chuckle. 

Sam and you have coffee while Dean sleeps in. You ask him about his classes, about which ones he likes and which ones he doesn’t. He tells you about his professors, his classmates. You love listening to him. The way he tells everything in such detail, the way he is so concentrated on what he is saying. 

He finishes a story about an ethics professor, and some of the things he learned in that class that really stuck with him. You’re leaning on your hand and you just watch him. Sam finishes talking and then stares down at his empty cup. 

“I’m not sure if I’m gonna go back,” he says. You frown. 

“To college, you mean?” you ask, and he nods. “Why not?” Sam takes a breath, runs his finger along the cup. 

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. “But when I’m there I don’t… I don’t feel like I’m there, you know?” He looks up, maybe searching for understanding on your face. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Like, I’m always looking at the door,” Sam responds. And that makes perfect sense to you. You think of living with your mother. How it always felt like it wasn’t a home, but a train station, and you were just looking for the stop that would allow you to get off. 

“Well,” you say, scratching at a stain on your cup, “as far as I’m concerned, you can stay here as long as you want. To figure it out, I mean.” 

Sam looks at your face. His skin looks soft and he must have spent time in the sun. His hair is dark and full, and your eyes go over the beauty marks he has on his chin and next to his nose. 

“If you need time to figure it out,” you continue, quickly, unsure why you feel it’s necessary to add the qualifier. Sam smiles a little. 

“I really appreciate that,” he says, nods. “But I don’t want to impose.”

“Please,” you say with a sarcastic tone. “One or two Winchesters, can’t make that much of a difference.” 

As if on command, the bedroom door opens, and Dean comes trudging out. He’s yawning so hard that you can almost see daylight, and scratching his ass through his boxer shorts, immediately beelining for the bathroom. You turn back to Sam, chuckling a little, and he’s looking after his brother with a forlorn frown. 

“Really missed that,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm, and you laugh. 

Days pass, calm and quiet. On the next Wednesday you come back from work in the afternoon and hear clanging and low cussing from the bathroom. It’s Sam’s voice. 

You knock on the door, worried he’s fallen because of his cast, maybe can’t get up, long legs and arms all tangled. 

“Sam? You need any help?” you ask through the door. 

“No, I’m g— shit! I’m good!” you hear from the other side. You frown. 

“Not gonna lie,” you say, grimacing, “it doesn’t sound like it, Sam.” You hear him cuss again. 

“I just…” you hear, and he sounds upset. “I got water everywhere.” 

“I’m coming in, okay?” you say and when you hear Sam say yes, you open the door. 

It’s not as bad as he made it out to be. He’s standing in jeans and a white t-shirt, a few wet towels around. Sam is leaning against the sink, looking around. He sighs when you throw him a questioning look. 

“I can’t shower with the cast,” he admits, and there’s that sweet little blush again. “I tried washing my hair and I… well, this happened.” Wordlessly, you grab the already wet towels, begin mopping up the water on the floor. 

“Let me help,” Sam says and starts leaning forward, but you hold your hand up to stop him. 

“If you fall,” you say, voice authoritative, “I’m not gonna be able to help you get up. You’re too big and heavy. You’ll be on your ass until Dean’s back.” 

Dean’s gone for the day, drove to a car shop that’s a few hours away to look for some parts for the Impala he hasn’t been able to find elsewhere. You would have liked to go with him, make it a little roadtrip, but you both agreed that you can’t leave Sam alone in his current state, so you stayed. 

Sam watches, embarrassed, while you finish mopping up the water. 

“Stay here,” you say, and leave the room with the towels in your arms. You throw them in the laundry hamper, then grab one of the kitchen chairs. You hoist it back into the bathroom. 

“Let’s try this,” you say, and set the chair so that its back is facing the sink, then motion for Sam to sit. He just frowns at you. 

“You said you wanted to wash your hair,” you say, chuckling at his confusion. “You can’t get in the shower because of the cast, and the tub is too low for you to lean over. So, sink it is.” 

“How am I gonna reach…” Sam starts, then he shakes his head when he understands. “No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Good thing you’re not asking,” you say, and motion at the chair again. You see the battle of wills behind Sam’s eyes. He’s a cleanly guy, but accepting this level of help doesn’t come easy to him. He’s just like Dean that way. 

Finally he opens his mouth, closes it again, and then hobbles the one step over to the chair, sits down with a grunt. 

“You really don’t have to…” he says as you grab a new towel from the shelf. 

“Shut up, Sam,” you say kindly. 

“Okay,” he responds, but you see him press his lips together to hide his smile. You put the towel over his shoulders, then help him lean back. It looks uncomfortable, so you grab another towel, roll it up, put it under his neck. 

You start the water in the sink, let it warm up, and then you have to take a large step over Sam’s legs to get to the tub, grab your shampoo. 

“Are you terribly opposed to smelling like almonds and vanilla, or do you have your own shampoo?” you ask. Sam grins up at you, deep dimples showing on his cheeks. 

“Almonds and vanilla is fine,” he says. You put the bottle by the sink, test the water. You cup your hand when it has a good temperature, pour some of it over Sam’s hair.

 “Temperature okay?” you ask and he nods a little. 

“It’s good,” he says. You start cupping more water, running it into Sam’s hair, making sure it’s fully wet. It takes a while with how thick it is. Then you squeeze a good helping of the shampoo into your hands, and start massaging it in. 

It’s weirdly calming, working up the suds, feeling the resistance of Sam’s scalp against the softness of his hair. 

“This okay?” you ask, absentmindedly. 

“Mmh,” Sam replies, quietly. You look at his face. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and calm, face utterly relaxed. He’s all shampoo’d up, but you keep massaging, keep pressing your fingers into his skin. Sam makes another little noise, and then his eyes shoot open. He blinks, clears his throat. 

“Sorry.” Before you can ask what he’s sorry about, he says: “You’re really good at that. Do you do this for Dean?” 

It’s a strangely intimate question, but then again Sam and Dean have shared space and air for almost all of their lives. Maybe it’s not strange at all. 

“Sometimes,” you reply. “But I mostly practiced on myself.” Sam frowns and you have to laugh. You turn on the water again, wait for it to reach the right temperature, and start washing out Sam’s hair. 

“My mom wasn’t exactly affectionate,” you find yourself saying. “So when it was bath time and I had to wash my hair, I would take huge dollops of her really expensive shampoo and I would close my eyes and massage it into my hair for, like, hours.” You chuckle, run another handful of water over Sam’s hair, then brush your hand over his forehead to remove the shampoo there. 

“I would pretend someone else was doing it,” you continue, running your hand over Sam’s skin again to get the last remnants out. “And sometimes it made me cry, because my mother didn’t like to hug me, so no one was ever really touching me.” 

Your hand freezes. You need to swallow as you suddenly taste bile in your throat, suddenly remembering yourself lying in bed at your grandfather’s house, hearing it creak around you. The way the walls sometimes felt like they were shifting, coming closer. You’d wonder if they’d squeeze you to death. 

You haven’t thought about this for a long time. You lick your lips. 

“All done,” you say, voice sounding flat. Sam sits up, takes the towel he has around his shoulders and starts rubbing his hair. 

“You okay?” he asks carefully, looking up at you with large eyes. You nod. 

“Yeah,” you respond. “Just wasn’t as wholesome of a memory as I thought it was.” Sam nods slowly, still watching you. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. You’re sure he does. You’re both quiet for a minute, Sam dabbing at his hair while you stare into the sink. 

You look back at Sam, and some of his wet bangs are hanging into his eyes. Without thinking about it, you reach your hand out and brush them away. Sam doesn’t react, just keeps looking at you. 

“Want me to give you a trim?” you ask. Sam opens his mouth, seems unsure for a second. 

“I’ve done it before, I cut my own hair all the time,” you say, trying to reassure him. Sam nods. You reach into one of the bathroom shelves, take a comb and scissors out of a small basket. 

With Sam’s help, you shuffle him around so that you can reach the back of his head. You run your fingers through the still wet hair, then take some of it between your fingers, start cutting the ends. 

Both you and Sam are quiet for a while, but it’s not uncomfortable. Sam speaks up eventually. 

“Jess used to do that for me,” he says. You don’t take your eyes off his hair. 

“Who’s Jess?” you ask. Sam clears his throat. 

“The girl I dated in college,” he says, and he sounds a little embarrassed, even though you don’t understand why. 

“What was she like?” you ask, curious to know what kind of people Sam decided to spend his time with. Sam thinks, then sighs. 

“Really smart,” he answers, “pretty. Totally out of my league.” You chuckle, but the truth is, with how tall Sam’s grown, how lean, he looks handsome now. Very handsome, so you really doubt any girl he dated would have been out of his league. 

“Yeah, right,” you say, while you continue snipping away. “I’m sure you had a hundred girls after you in school.” Sam makes a sound that’s halfway between a huff and a snort, like he’s flattered but also doesn’t believe you. You’re both quiet again for a few seconds. 

“Why didn’t it work out?” you ask. You move to get to the side of Sam’s head, and you see his jaw move. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “should I not have asked?” 

“It’s fine,” he says, then smiles a little. “Just weird talking about my girlfriend with the girl I had the biggest crush on when I was younger.” You stop moving. 

Of course you knew Sam liked you when he was younger, but it still feels strange to hear him admit it now. You never got a chance to talk about it, what with not seeing each other, but still it’s strange. Not bad strange, not with Sam sitting in front of you now, a full-grown man. 

Just to tease him, because what else are you gonna do, you ask: “Had a crush on?” Sam seems unsure if you’re joking for a second, but then he laughs awkwardly. You can’t help but chuckle at him, at how fun it is to wind him up. How easy talking and joking with him is.

“So what did this Jess do?” you return to the topic. “She break your heart? Do I need to find her and make her life hell?” Sam shakes his head, and you put your hand on top of it, make him stop moving so you can keep cutting. 

“I kinda broke up with her,” he says. You nod, not expecting him to elaborate, but then he does. 

“I really liked her,” Sam continues, face now concentrated. “But it never felt like she really knew me, you know? Knew my life.” You nod. 

“The hunting, you mean?” you ask as you move to Sam’s other side. Lots of families move around, have violent dads and dead mothers and no consistency, no safety net. But the fact that Sam spent his evenings hunting ghosts and researching monsters couldn’t have been easy to lie about. 

“Not just that,” Sam says to your surprise. “It’s… Jess had this really good homelife, and loving parents, which was great, but when I told her about some of the stuff my dad did...”

Sam swallows, quiets. You’re not sure exactly how violent John was, outside of the instances of which you saw the consequences. Dean doesn’t talk about it, might mention something in passing, but never stops long enough to really reveal a lot. You’re not sure how Sam feels about this whole situation in general, with John cutting off contact to both his sons, if he and Dean have breached the topic at all, or simply brushed it under the rug the way the men of this family seem to be a little bit too good at doing.

“She didn’t really get it, you know?” Sam continues. “It made her uncomfortable to hear about it, and I get that, but it just made me feel even worse about it.” Sam squeezes his mouth shut. You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you finally say, because you are. Sam deserves nothing but goodness in his life. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

And because you don’t know what else to do, you say: “Families, right?” You say it in a tone that’s supposed to sound sarcastic, but it comes out a little sadder than you mean to. Still, Sam huffs at it, which encourages you. 

“If I ever have a family,” you say, swatting at some hair that has fallen on Sam’s shoulder, “I’d do it so differently.” Sam moves his head a little to look at you, and this time you let him because you’re done. 

“Do you want that?” he asks. “Kids and everything?” You shrug, run your hands through his hair to see if it turned out okay. 

“I don’t know,” you say. “I mean, yeah, I do, I just sometimes feel like… I don’t know.” 

“Like it’s too risky?” Sam says, smiling a little. 

“Yes, exactly,” you agree. “Like how can I not be a total fuck-up? There’s no way I’d do a good job.” You lean back, study Sam a little. He looks up at you, seems to struggle with what he’s planning to say for a moment. 

“I think you’d be a really good mom,” he finally says. 

To say what Sam is saying takes you aback is an understatement. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Sam fills the silence. 

“Like, it’s easy to feel safe around you and, and you’re caring, and…” he says, then sort of tapers off, and there’s that blush again, but this time he’s not looking away from you, he’s holding your gaze. 

It makes you feel strange, almost embarrassed but not quite. No one’s ever said something like that to you, and it’s like Sam has looked into a dusty, locked room inside of yourself, come out again carrying something in his hands, and, blowing the dust off it, said: Look what I found! 

“Thank you, Sam,” is all you can say. 

The truth is, you’ve long assumed you’ll never have kids, exactly because of what Sam said: it feels too risky. What if there is a version of your mother lying dormant in you that will awaken when you hear the patter of small feet? Will revolt at someone loving and needing you so fully? Adding to that, you’re pretty sure Dean has no interest in children. If he has, he has never mentioned it - yes, you’re young, but it feels like something that should have come up at this point.

And the real, horrible truth is, the one behind it that you’re unwilling to look at - you don’t know if Dean is the man you would want to have children with. If a family would make him stick around, or drive him away. Maybe you’re all cursed to repeat the sins of your parents.

You help Sam get up, then ask him to move to the living room while you clean up the bathroom, despite him insisting that he’ll do it. 

You sit him on the couch and then, because you feel like treating yourself, you get take-out from the Thai place down the street and then you and Sam watch TV and eat. 

You steal a spoonful of his curry, but it’s spicier than you eat it and a minute later your face is buried in the crook of your arm while you cuss to the high heavens. When you finally manage to look at Sam again, he’s chuckling while apologizing profusely, even though he didn’t do anything. 

The change in Dean with Sam being there is instantaneous. 

The two of you are lying in bed one afternoon a few days after you cut Sam’s hair. Dean’s head is leaned against your chest and you have your arms slung around him, while both of you are dozing. Dean feels more vulnerable, more open, leaned against you like that. He stirs and you move your head to look at him. 

He looks at you, green eyes startling, freckles making him look like a boy. You lift your hand, run your fingernails into the hair over his forehead, stretching along the scalp. Dean closes his eyes at that and you smile.

You lean in, kiss his forehead, then his cheek, your lips ghosting over his skin. Dean blinks his eyes open, looks at you again.

“You know,” he says, licking his lips, “it’s weird.” You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“What is?” you ask after a few seconds. Dean looks past you, face open. 

“I never thought I’d… I’d have this again,” he says, looking at you again. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he’s being shy.

“Have what?” you ask, your fingers stroking his shoulder where you’re holding him. 

Dean looks at you, and he looks so vulnerable in that moment. Wide-eyed, soft and open.

“A family,” he says.

It hits you like a truck. It lands on you like a feather. A family. The three of you. 

“I mean,” he says, shrugging, like he’s unsure what he’s trying to say. “You know?”

“I know,” you say, giving him a gentle smile. You bring your hand to his face, stroke your thumb over his cheek.

“Just, uh,” he says, “just don’t tell Sammy I said something sappy like that, okay?” You giggle and shake your head.

“I would never,” you reply. Dean nods, then leans in and kisses you. You let yourself feel it, all your love. All you have.

“Guys!” you hear Sam call from the living room. Dean disentangles himself with a groan and pushes himself up.

“If he wants me to help him put on his pants again…” he says, letting the sentence taper out. You roll onto your side, watch as Dean opens the door. He leaves it open, and you can look through to the living room.

Sam is standing by the kitchen counter, one crutch under one arm, a glass of red sauce in his hand. He offered to cook dinner tonight, as a thank you for letting him stay, but the culinary skills he picked up in college don’t seem to go beyond pasta with tomato sauce. It doesn’t matter. He could be preparing dry bread and you’d love it. 

Dean walks up to him, listens to him, then makes a face before he says something. Sam rolls his eyes, indicating his crutch. Whatever they’re saying doesn’t register with you. You’re too busy watching them. Your two boys.

You’re not climbing into dark basements together, fighting monsters. But your dream came true, you think. Having Sam and Dean at your side was one of the first things you really, really wished for in your life. 

And here they are.

Dean takes the glass from Sam, moving to open it with both hands, a smug expression on his face, which quickly disappears. He tries again, the lid not budging. Sam, who’s been watching his older brother intently, straightens, a cheeky grin building at the corners of his mouth. Meanwhile, Dean’s frowning, and when he tries again, he grimaces, his jaw clenched.

You get up too. Walk towards them, and they both turn your way. They might be the one with the capes, your heroes, but you’re the one who takes the glass, bangs the lid against the edge of the counter. When you unscrew it with a satisfying pop, it gets you a cheer from Sam, and a kiss from Dean.

Family. That’s what you are.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

“Want me to distract you from the pain?” Dean quips next to you and you just have time to roll your eyes at him when his hand sneaks under your shirt, up your torso and to your breasts. 

“Dean!” you half squeal, half laugh. 

“I’m sure Sammy doesn’t mind,” Dean says, kissing your cheek, and Sam slaps his hands over his face, groans.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[winfieldsreads]

SAMMY IS BACK! 🥺💘

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Cruel World: Chapter Twenty

Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.

All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader, Dean Winchester x OFC

WC: 5.9K

CW: 18+ MDNI, canon-type violence/injury, blood, wound care, mild angst/emotional tension, language, implied smut, mentioned character death, some sweet, tooth rotting fluff these idiots deserve <3

A/n: this one's a little longer as I'm finally wrapping up my first multi-part fic! I separated this chapter into two parts to bring two storylines together.

Thank you to everyone who's come along for the ride, and I hope you enjoy!

Cruel World masterlist

“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, I found another anyhow.” - Cruel World, Lana Del Rey

𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚

Dean had never been on that side of the line.

Waiting and wondering.

Pacing in front of the same row of motel rooms where she’d left him. Holding the empty coffee cup—her number scribbled across the cardboard sleeve in fading blue ink—in one hand and his phone in the other. He stared at the numbers like there was a punchline hidden somewhere among them.

He’d never been the one wondering how soon was too soon to call.

It had been two weeks since Rhi had pulled out of the parking lot in her old Bronco, glancing over her shoulder at him one last time.

He’d tried like hell to forget her.

It was pointless.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty, though that certainly wasn’t helping. She wasn’t the kind of woman Dean usually noticed first in a crowded bar. No impossible curves. No bright lipstick. No easy invitation.

Rhi made people earn her attention. And for some reason, he wanted it. She didn’t buy his “cowboy Casanova” act—as you’d once called it—which meant he didn’t feel the need to perform around her.

Without the act, he was just Dean. A guy who’d only ever been himself around a handful of people.

Leads about the wolves had dried up and Crowley was getting impatient. Maybe he could call her under the guise of chasing down leads. 

That might give her the impression that he’s using her. The thought made him shudder. 

Finally, he dialed her number with a shaky hand and continued to pace while he waited for her to deny his call. 

After three rings, he was ready to hang up. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice he’d been unable to forget.

“Hello?”

Silence. His mind went blank. He’d even forgotten her name. 

“Hey…Rhi.”

Nope. He’d forgotten his name. 

“Uh. It’s Dean—“

Nailed it, he thought. 

“Dean…”

His heart sank at the sound of her struggling to remember him. 

“Winchester.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

If he had died, he had just discovered a new circle of hell. One that Lucifer wouldn’t even visit. 

“Oh…I’m sorry—“

“Kidding! I was wondering if you’d ever call.”

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window outside of his motel room. He looked as flustered as Sam did when Dean brought him to a strip club for his eighteenth birthday. Ears tipped pink with an involuntary, nervous smile tugging at his cheeks. 

Rhi agreed to “assist” Dean on the case to track down the werewolves. Research only, he had insisted, to which she rolled her eyes. Her defiance frustrated the hell out of him. It prevented him from fulfilling his purpose in life—keeping people he cared about safe. 

“Haven’t you died a time or two, Dean? Why are you so worried about something happening to me?”

He couldn’t answer that. Not without spilling his guts, because he knew Rhi could see through his bullshit. He’d risk telling her that, even though he barely knew her, he didn’t want to lose her. 

“Shit shit shit shit—“

“Language, asshole.” Rhi laughed carefully before wincing. 

While the group was attempting to restrain the werewolves and bring them to Crowley, Rhi had let her guard down within striking distance. Of course, Dean was the only one remotely interested in her injury. He quickly guided her to the Impala. Shrugging off his flannel, he balled it up and pressed it hard against the bleeding wound near her hip.

Dean glared at her in the passenger seat, completely ignoring the blood that was staining the door and leather seat. He reached over her and pulled the fabric back enough to see if she was still bleeding, which resulted in fresh blood rising to the surface. 

“Son of a bitch—I’m takin’ you to the hospital.” 

“You’re not taking me to the hospital.” She winced through gritted teeth. “Just take me back to the motel.” 

His jaw ticked and his knuckles were pale from gripping the steering wheel. 

She was smart enough to know this wasn’t a wound she could stitch in a bathroom. She didn’t want to admit that she was terrified of hospitals. After the death of her parents, she associated the smell of antiseptic in a sterile environment with death. 

He could see the tiny dimples forming when her chin quivered. She pressed the shirt tighter against her hip and tried to cloak her fear with pain. 

Her face softened when she felt Dean grab her hand that was gripping the seat and tracing his thumb across her knuckles.

She was trying like hell to dislike the man. Trying to lessen the sting when he inevitably disappointed her. But doing things like that was making it difficult. He didn’t ask if she was scared. Didn’t patronize or crowd her. Just acknowledging that he saw her and didn’t think any less of her. 

Rhi was going to be down for at least a few weeks while she healed from the deep claw mark to her side. 

Dean stayed in the waiting room, dodging calls from the Campbells and Crowley. Eventually he was able to visit Rhi in her recovery room. 

“Just take me back to the motel and I’ll take it easy for a few days.”

Dean shook his head. 

“No. You don’t need to be staying in some shitty room trying to take care of yourself. Doc said you lost a lot of blood. You need to rest. And you need help keeping the wound clean.”

She folded her arms in front of her chest. 

“Why do you care, Dean?” Her voice was soft as she tried keeping it steady. “I’m basically a stranger to you.”

There was softness beneath the harshness in her expression.

“And what? Do you have some big fancy house with a white picket fence where I can put my feet up for a few weeks?”

“I mean… it doesn’t have a fence.”

The words were out before he could think them through. His stomach fluttered at the idea. He’d need to clear it with Sam and you first. But like you’d reminded him more than once, it was his home too.

Her eyes widened when she realized he wasn’t joking.

For some reason, that reaction stung more than he expected. He wasn’t offering because he felt obligated. He was offering because the thought of dropping her back into a smoke-stained motel room and driving away made his chest feel tight.

“Rhiannon, please—”

“This wasn’t your fault, Dean. You don’t owe me anything.”

She didn’t want him collecting guilt like spare change. Didn’t want to become another person he felt responsible for saving.

“You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. I never shoulda called you.”

He pushed himself out of the chair and paced a few steps away before she could see how much he meant it.

“If we’re being honest…” she said quietly. “I’m glad you called.”

Dean stopped and she felt nervous under his gaze.

“I dunno. You’ve kinda grown on me.”

His shoulders relaxed.

“In a fungus-y sort of way.”

There she is, he thought. He breathed a sharp laugh and his gaze dropped to his feet to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“So you’ll stay with me? No strings attached. Just a free bed and home cooked meals—“

“—please stop talking.” The entire ordeal, coupled with the blood loss she sustained, was brewing a massive headache. She was also trying to fight the  warmth blooming in her chest and spreading to her cheeks. 

Rhi agreed to accept his hospitality for a couple of days only. She made it clear that even though she could barely walk, she could still kick his ass. Or at least shave a few more years off of his life. 

𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙬𝙤

After checking to make sure Willa hadn’t woken up from Walker’s playful barking, you joined Sam downstairs with Castiel. You were incredibly frustrated by the timing of his arrival. All of your hormonal need had been converted directly into bitterness.

Settling onto the couch beside Sam, he rested a hand on your bare thigh and squeezed lightly, shooting you a quick smile meant only for you. You sighed and let your head fall against his shoulder while you collected yourself.

Walker plopped down at the angel’s feet, happily panting and looking up at him for more attention.

Sam’s eyes flicked between the dog and Castiel.

“Oh. Some animals are drawn to celestial beings like myself. Your dog appears to be one of them.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, fascinated by Walker’s immediate attachment to him.

“Anyway…” Sam sighed and began wringing his hands together nervously. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Glancing over his shoulder, he found you already looking at him. You were clearly exhausted and frustrated. But you were still there—at his side like always.

He wanted to minimize the situation. Make it sound smaller than it was. The reality was that his nightmares about Hell, the Cage, and his time without a soul were threatening the fragile peace the two of you had finally found. They were warning signs that the barrier Death had constructed around his memories was failing.

“We’re retired, Sam.”

Your quiet voice reminded him of the conversation you’d had in the car. That the two of you didn’t do solo missions anymore. Not now. Not when you had everything to lose.

Sam explained everything. From the first memories that had started bleeding through. The dreams that no longer felt like dreams. The nightmares of his soul trapped in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael.

The things he’d witnessed through the eyes of a stranger.

The things he’d done to you.

Castiel listened silently, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know what to do, Cas.” Sam rubbed a hand across his face. “I can’t afford to lose it completely. We can’t keep living like this.”

He looked at you again for reassurance. Your tired eyes were glossy as you listened to him recount the twisted reality of the last six months.

Sam’s return from Hell had really only marked the beginning of yours.

Even though you’d found peace, it had come at a cost.

“I can’t help but feel responsible,” Castiel admitted quietly.

You bit your tongue. Selfishly, irrationally, part of you still resented him. Sam had made his choice to stop the Apocalypse, but that didn’t mean you had forgiven everyone involved. You likely never would. 

Not when you hadn’t even fully forgiven Sam.

“Let me see what I can do.”

Castiel stood and stepped toward Sam. Before you realized what you were doing, you were already on your feet. Your arm moved protectively in front of Sam’s chest.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Your mistrust of him made you question every move he made.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Sam reached for your hand.

“I need to examine whatever remains of the barrier Death created around his soul,” Castiel explained. “I need to know whether it can be repaired.”

A tense silence settled between you.

“And how exactly are you supposed to do that?” you asked.

“It’s difficult to explain.” Castiel tilted his head slightly. “But it won’t be pleasant.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, Sam remembered exactly what that meant. He remembered Castiel discovering his missing soul, and Death forcing it back into place. He knew it was agonizing. But the cost of losing everything was worse.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

Sam’s resigned sigh earned matching looks from both of you.

The three of you moved to the basement—technically the root cellar of the old house—so as not to risk waking Willa.

“Whatever happens,” Sam said firmly, “do not stop him.”

Your face fell as you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself. Partially to fight the icy chill pressing in from the cellar, and partially because of the edge in his voice.

It was every bit as terrible to witness as you’d expected. Every instinct in you screamed to eliminate the threat. Instead, you paced nervously, staying close enough to intervene if you needed to.

Even with his belt clenched between his teeth, Sam’s body was screaming for relief. His skin flushed red, every vein standing out beneath the surface. His brows were drawn tightly together.

Eventually, his body relaxed against the chair as he inhaled deeply, not realizing how desperately his lungs had been starved for air.

“Just as I suspected,” Castiel said, almost to himself, as he stepped away from Sam.

Sam was still catching his breath.

“The problem isn’t the wall. The problem is you, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed on him, confusion written plainly across his face.

“There are cracks, so to speak. But they aren’t from age or poor construction.” Castiel tilted his head slightly. “They’re from your inability to let things go.”

The weight of the truth settled over Sam in the form of guilt.

“Using some of my grace, I can seal off the remaining memories. But you have to let them go, Sam.”

You immediately turned toward him, hopeful he was receiving the offer the way you had—as a gift. As a key to finally moving forward.

Instead, he still looked cautious and unconvinced.

Castiel sighed. As an angel, he possessed strong moral convictions—arguably stronger than Sam’s. But he wasn’t burdened by human emotion the way people were.

“Humans do not heal by knowing everything. That is not how you were designed.” Castiel watched as the words settled over him. “They heal by deciding what they can survive without knowing.”

He paused.

“You were given free will, Sam. Use it. I can give you the opportunity to move forward.” His voice finally softened. “Please take it.”

He seemed almost as determined to help Sam as you were. There was desperation in his words and something uniquely human—hope.

“Sam.” Your hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him. “Please.”

He nodded and swallowed around the knot in his throat. There may not have been anything he could have done to make it home to you the night he was locked in the Cage. But now, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep his family together.

It was nearly dawn by the time you both made it upstairs. You were exhausted, but neither of you closed your eyes when you crawled into bed together.

Maybe it was the relief of the whole ordeal finally being over.

Maybe it was a side effect of Castiel’s grace.

Whatever it was, you both felt ten years younger. A hundred pounds lighter.

Curled against his side with your legs tangled together, your cheek squished against his chest and his fingers loosely threaded through your hair, you felt like twenty-somethings again.

He still got butterflies when you glanced up at him through your lashes, squinting playfully and asking what he was staring at.

Without warning, he rolled you onto your back and settled between your legs, caging you beneath his broad frame.

Your fingertips traced the hard lines of muscle in his arms before slipping into his hair.

“You should rest, Sammy.”

Your voice and your body were giving him very different messages.

“I know. And I will.”

He punctuated each statement with a kiss trailing along your throat.

“After I take care of you.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and let your eyes flutter shut as Sam turned onto the gravel driveway, trying to stave off the next wave of pain throbbing behind your eyes.

It had been three weeks since Castiel had shown up in the middle of the night and given you your life back.

Three weeks since Sam had finally chosen to let go of the past in exchange for the possibility of a future. A future that apparently included themed birthday parties for toddlers.

“Fucking Valerie,” you muttered under your breath. “Fucking face paint. Fucking glitter. What the fuck.”

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Sam huffed a laugh as he checked the rearview mirror to make sure Willa was still asleep. “The mouth on you.”

“Sorry,” you groaned, eyes still squeezed shut. “My head is killing me and that… toddler mosh pit… didn’t help.”

He fought back a smile. The party—if you could even call it that—had been an hour of pure chaos.

Willa had consumed roughly a month’s worth of artificial sugar and crashed the second she’d been buckled into her car seat. The emotional fallout would arrive before bedtime. He’d stake money on it.

“Well, I’ll take care of getting her inside—”

He trailed off.

You opened your eyes and noticed the Impala sat in its usual spot. Next to it sat an old Ford Bronco that you didn’t recognize.

Your brows furrowed.

“Just wait here.”

Sam’s voice was low, but lacked any real concern. Dean would never bring anyone dangerous around you or Willa. Still, he didn’t take chances anymore.

The smell of bacon grease and the sound of quiet conversation drew him toward the kitchen.

“Dean?”

Rhi stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped backward. One hand moved to grip her side while the other braced against the table. Her eyes never left Sam.

“Hey—relax. Sit down.”

Sam stopped short, immediately noticing her reaction.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, tried calling you.”

After a few rushed introductions, the tension eased slightly—slightly being the operative word.

Curiosity pulled you inside. After letting the door click shut behind you, you were immediately greeted by the familiar sight of Dean in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms loosely crossed over his chest, framed perfectly in the doorway.

He didn’t notice you, though. His attention was fixed on someone else. Someone who made his features soften and those subtle crow’s-feet appear when he smiled.

Willa was asleep on your hip, her head resting on your shoulder. Your view was suddenly obstructed by Sam, who noticed you standing in the entryway. He gently gathered Willa into his arms without waking her.

“Who is that?”

“A friend of Dean’s. I think she’s staying with us for a few days.” He kept his voice low, but Willa stirred anyway. He shot you an apologetic look before carrying her upstairs.

You continued to observe a version of Dean you hadn’t seen in a long time. One of genuine happiness and comfort.

His earthy green eyes had a spark in them again, and there was a healthy glow about him you hadn’t realized had been missing.

Walker wandered into view and sat at Dean’s feet, clearly interested in whatever was on his plate. When Dean glanced around to see if he could get away with sneaking him a scrap of food, his eyes finally landed on you.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and you quickly pulled yourself together. He hadn’t seen you since you’d completely fallen apart in front of him. It had only been about a month, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Even though you felt like a train wreck standing there, he seemed to immediately recognize the dramatic improvement in your condition.

You finally willed yourself forward into the kitchen and were overwhelmed by the mixture of scents, making your nose wrinkle. Strong coffee, breakfast food, and the hunter special—gun oil and motel soap. All familiar, but overpowering with the migraine you’d been fighting all day.

“You okay?”

Dean’s familiar, steady voice centered you.

You hummed and nodded, offering a quick smile to compensate for what your body language was probably saying.

Dean introduced you to Rhi, who waved politely mid-chew. She certainly looked the part of a young hunter. Edgy, alert, and hyperaware of her surroundings.

But there was more to it than that. She was pretty in an effortless way. The kind that looked good in harsh motel lighting and after sleeping in her truck. The kind that didn’t seem to require any effort at all.

You glanced down at yourself. There was still glitter on your sleeve. Probably in your hair, too.

“Rhi, this is Y/N.”

You smiled politely while tugging your sweater over your hand and attempting to rub at the glitter stain. It only spread the irritating substance.

Dean briefly explained the situation while watching your expression for any sign of apprehension.

“Well, we’ve all been there.” You gestured toward the bandage peeking out beneath the hem of her shirt. “Everyone in this house has, anyway.”

She tilted her head curiously.

“You’re a hunter too?”

You let out a weak laugh.

“Once upon a time, yeah. We had the opportunity to retire and took it.”

Almost on cue, a tired cry echoed from upstairs, followed by a frustrated sigh and the familiar creak of old floorboards beneath Sam’s feet.

You used it as an excuse to end the increasingly uncomfortable interaction.

“I’ll set some towels and blankets upstairs for you. Stay as long as you need to.”

Dean was visibly relieved by your warm reception, but he still watched you walk away, searching your expression for signs that you were saying one thing and feeling another.

Rhi noticed the way his gaze lingered. The way he seemed to be looking for something beneath the words. There was no resentment in the observation. She simply filed it away the way hunters do.

After Sam got Willa settled again, he found you decompressing in bed. Hovering somewhere between sleep and relaxation. After grabbing you a glass of water and a couple migraine tablets, he sat beside you on the edge of the mattress.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“It’s just a migraine, Sam. I’ll live.”

He rested a hand on your leg and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

You finally cracked an eye open.

“What? Dean’s friend?”

He chuckled at your dismissive tone.

“You’re fine with her staying here?”

Frustrated, you pushed yourself upright and immediately winced when the pressure behind your eyes intensified.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just checkin’.” Sam shrugged awkwardly.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back downstairs to join his brother. Eager to hear about life on the road. Now more determined than ever to find Dean a way out of Crowley’s debt.

Sam couldn’t help but notice the chemistry between Dean and Rhi. And the way they both tried to ignore it. How they stared at each other when they talked before quickly looking away whenever the other noticed. 

She really was a female version of Dean. Less false bravado than him, but she still fought to maintain a hardened image of herself, even when cracks appeared and revealed her soft underbelly.

Guilt twisted in his gut when they described Rhi’s injury. The same way it did for Dean. Hunting was dangerous enough without the added risk of bringing live monsters back to Crowley.

“This has gotta stop, Dean. I never should have let you take this debt.”

He expected the usual cocky, dismissive retort.

“I’ve been doing some research.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in disbelief.

“Now who’s the nerd?” he huffed under his breath.

Rhi looked equally surprised, seeing as Dean had attempted to assign her to research duty.

“Alright, alright.” Dean gestured dismissively. “It’s hard to find something to hold over the King of Hell. But—”

Dean paused and pulled out a weathered lore book that Sam recognized immediately. He tried not to let himself fantasize about long nights poring over ancient texts and a glowing computer screen.

“—if we could find the bones of his vessel?”

Sam’s interest was piqued when he realized where Dean was heading. He was thoroughly impressed. Burning the bones of a demon’s vessel killed the demon within.

“Isn’t he, like, four hundred years old though? And Scottish? How the hell are we gonna find his bones?”

“Without going to Scotland?” Rhi asked, pressing her knee against the edge of the table. “I have no idea.”

Her eyes flicked between the brothers as they arrived at the same conclusion through a silent exchange.

“Maybe Cas?”

“Worth a shot.”

Dean shrugged and agreed to try summoning the angel who had been particularly difficult to reach lately. As usual, it would be a waiting game.

After a tense standoff, Dean convinced Rhi to take his bed while he slept on the couch. It had been years since she’d slept on anything better than a stiff motel mattress or a pull-out couch. Most nights she slept in the back of the Bronco at a state park or national forest. To her, it was more comfortable than a stuffy motel room and reminded her of camping with her parents when she was a kid.

The soft mattress and fresh-smelling comforter were a welcome change.

The first day was unnaturally quiet despite the addition of two more people to the house. Willa was cautious of the stranger at first, but she was also the first to break the ice. Once she let her guard down enough to smile and laugh around Rhi, life resumed as normal.

Rhi was impressed by how a gun-wielding, battle-worn man like Dean could soften enough to carry a toddler without breaking her. The same booming voice that could break up a bar fight could read the same board book twenty times in a row without complaint.

She did her best to stay out of the way and quietly observe the household dynamic.

You and Sam were clearly in love and shared parenting responsibilities equally. There was never any question about Willa’s parentage—she was a spitting image of her father with her hazel eyes and messy brown locks. But some of her mannerisms and expressions were a curious blend of yours and Dean’s.

Dean had given a vague explanation of the last two years. She knew Sam had essentially been dead for a year and then simply… come back. It would have been miraculous if he wasn’t a Winchester.

He never mentioned the way your relationship had changed after his loss, but it was obvious that it had.

It was obvious in the same way a smoking candle revealed that it had once burned brightly. Love had existed there once. It had burned hot and fierce. Now all that remained was a pleasant lingering scent—a reminder of a different time.

It showed in the way Dean dished up your plate at dinner while you got Willa settled. Or how he always brewed enough coffee so there would be a fresh cup waiting when you woke up.

His touch didn’t linger. Your breath didn’t hitch. But your lives were still uniquely intertwined. In the way only surviving tragedy together can be. 

A few days later, you offered to help Rhi change her bandage while Dean was running errands with Sam.

“It’s really no problem. I’ve patched those idiots up more times than I can count.”

You asked about her life. Trying not to be too invasive, even though she was standing shirtless in your bathroom save for a sports bra.

It had been so long since you’d talked to another woman that you found yourself opening up without even trying. For once, you didn't have to lie about how you met Sam. Or what you did after high school instead of going to college and chasing a dream job.

It was easy to see why Dean liked her so much, even if she was nothing like the women he usually went for. She was more than tolerable—you actually liked her. Even if you were slightly intimidated.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy.”

The words left your lips before you could catch them. You silently kicked yourself, hoping you hadn’t accidentally ruined something good for him.

Sensing your anxiety, Rhi gently nudged your shoulder.

“Girl. Chill.”

You let out a nervous sigh.

“Just try not to hurt him too badly.” You quipped, though there was a thread of sincerity beneath it. “He’s more sensitive than he looks.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The man cried watching a Disney movie. He should come with a handle with care sticker.”

“What movie?” Her voice was tight while she stifled a laugh.

You pressed your lips together, trying and failing to suppress your own laughter.

“The Brave Little Toaster.”

For a moment she just stared at you. Then both of you dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. 

At that moment, you weren’t a mom or a soon-to-be wife. You weren’t a former hunter. Or a survivor of tragedy. You were a woman laughing hysterically in a bathroom with another woman. Gossiping about a silly man. It was a tale as old as time.

You hadn’t heard the brothers when they came home. They just stood at the base of the stairs listening to the chorus of wheezing laughs. The thought passed between them silently that they hadn’t heard you laugh like that in years. 

“Guess I’m not as funny as I thought I was.” Sam shrugged at the idea. 

“Trust me, Sammy. Out of the two of us, I’m the funny one.” 

Eventually, Castiel did appear. Of course, it was at an inconvenient time and nearly gave everyone a heart attack. He agreed that the bones of Crowley’s vessel would make excellent leverage. If they could find them, Crowley would have little choice but to release Dean from any debt he believed Sam owed him.

Dean could finally move on and do whatever he wanted with his life. He didn’t want to leave hunting completely. It was too deeply ingrained in the fibers of his being. But he wanted the ability to choose it.

More than freedom, though, he wanted somewhere to belong. More importantly, he wanted someone to belong to. Whether or not that someone was Rhi, he wasn’t sure yet. But you had awakened something in him. A part of himself he’d buried beneath duty, guilt, and self-sacrifice.

You had shown him that he was worthy of belonging and being loved.

The rest happened surprisingly fast.

Once Castiel located the remains of Crowley’s vessel, you agreed to let Sam join his brother to handle the negotiations. The only condition was that Rhi went along to supervise.

Crowley complained loudly, threatened everyone equally, and eventually decided the arrangement was no longer worth the trouble.

Unlike that night more than a year and a half ago, Sam came home.

You both knew this would be the last time that you’d have to wonder. 

You were on him the second he set foot on the porch, nearly knocking him off his feet. Laughing, he caught you around the waist and helped you wrap your legs around him.

You buried your face in his shoulder while he held you effortlessly against his chest. Even after he set you down, you couldn’t bring yourself to let go.

“Why’re you crying?”

Sam tried pulling back when he felt your shoulders shaking.

“No.” You shook your head against him, laugh-sobbing into his shirt.

His hands rubbed slowly up and down your back.

“Baby… why?”

“I don’t know!” you cried through a nervous laugh. “I don’t know.”

Dean and Rhi were lost in their own world while they unloaded the Impala and casually debriefed in the driveway.

Neither of you noticed Castiel until he was standing a few feet away.

“Congratulations.”

Both of you jumped and you cursed under your breath. 

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam said automatically.

The angel simply stared while Sam’s smile slowly faded.

“Wait.” He frowned. “For what?”

You felt your stomach drop. Your eyes fluttered shut when the realization hit you.

Castiel was looking directly at you with the same puzzled expression he always wore when attempting to understand humans.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Is that not what humans say when they learn someone is expecting a child?”

The realization hadn’t reached Sam yet. You watched him trying to make sense of the words. Waiting for it to land. 

Finally his eyes widened and flicked towards you. He was puzzled by your lack of reaction.

“Did you know?”

You shrugged nervously, desperate to get a read on him.

“Know what?” Dean asked, stopping at the base of the porch steps.

Rhi’s eyes widened first. 

“Oh shit.” 

Dean looked between all of you.

“What am I missing here?”

The tension shattered when the weight of understanding finally crashed into Sam.

He laughed. A loud, disbelieving laugh that seemed to erupt from deep in his belly. The kind of laugh that only finds you safely on the other side of survival. 

“Really?”

His eyes were already shining.

You felt tears stinging your own again.

“I think so—”

You barely had time to squeak before he wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off the ground.

“Sam!”

His hands cradled your face when he finally set you down. His forehead pressed against yours. He wasn’t checking for injuries—physical or emotional. Not checking to see if you were falling apart at the seams. 

He wanted to confirm to himself that this was real. 

The smile that spread across his face was brighter than any you’d seen since before the Cage. There wasn’t a thread of panic there like the first time he held Willa.

After everything this world had thrown you two, there wasn't a shred of fear or hesitation anymore. 

Summer was boiling on the Kansas prairie. The only reprieve was in the evenings. The setting sun and gentle breeze made the heat more bearable. The rhythmic creaking of the porch swing punctuated the swelling chorus of cicadas. You and Sam were settled on the swing with Willa in his lap while you showed her the strip of ultrasound pictures. Trying to explain to her that the tiny black and white blob was her new sibling. 

Walker laid with his head between his paws on the porch. Releasing a deep sigh as he stared down the driveway bathed in golden light. Always on alert for intruders but letting his eyes gently shut while he baked in the glow.

The door creaking open behind him made him sit up. He slowly pushed himself up to watch Dean and Rhi step onto the porch, continuing a conversation they had started inside. 

“Ha, remember the last time you tried assigning me to research duty?” 

“Yeah! You put yourself in the hospital!” 

She stopped, her jaw fell slack in disbelief, while Dean continued down the steps with a cocky smirk. 

Walker’s head snapped back to the sound of Willa’s whimpering cry. She wiggled out of Sam’s lap to plod after Dean, gently nudging Walker out of her way. 

“Sorry kiddo.” He scooped her up and perched her on his bicep. “Gotta stay here.” 

He peppered her with kisses before handing her back to you. 

“We’ll be back in a few days.” 

“Be careful.” You said warmly while settling Willa on your lap. 

“Always am.” 

Dean smiled and scratched Walker between his ears. Walker watched as he joined Rhi at the bottom of the steps and they crossed the yard.

The familiar black car roared to life. He tilted his head as it disappeared down the gravel road and beyond the trees. For a moment, he continued staring after it and watched as the dust settled back onto the road.

The creak of the porch swing caught his attention. He watched as you stood up awkwardly and moved towards the front door to start dinner. 

He finally turned away from the empty driveway and walked back toward the porch swing. With a satisfied huff, he settled onto the warm boards and rested his head between his paws.

The familiar voices behind him blended into the evening chorus of cicadas. 

His family was home.

And this time, everyone who left would come back.

A/n: It's crazy that I started this fic when I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, and now I have an almost-three month old who's asleep on my shoulder right now.

It was so fun to learn and grow as a writer, and I hope you enjoyed! <3

My current taglist was made just for Cruel World. If you'd like to join my taglist for supernatural or other fandoms, fill out my form

𝙲𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝:

@ambiguous-avery , @insensiblelimerence , @samiwinchester444 , @staley83, @little-rose-universe , @ferncloud0191

𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝:

@mrs-cactus69 , @youre-djoking , @casanddeanswife , @winchesterfields67

[winfieldsreads]

As Winnie the Pooh once said, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

I can’t believe it! The final chapter of the fic that brought us together 🥺❤️ It might be over, but there’s no way you’re getting rid of me, bestie 🤪

I love your beautiful mind *kisses your forehead* Even though I might have heard from a very reliable source *wink wink* 😉 what you’re cooking up next, I still can’t wait to see what you have in store for us in the future. I know it’s going to be amazing 😘❤️

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 8: Wish I Could Erase It, Make Your Heart Believe

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!Reader, Reader POV

Summary: With a birthday printed on your wrist that happened over a hundred years ago, you always thought that you were cursed to never meet your soulmate. But when you finally meet the man that's supposed to be the other half of your soul, you wonder if the stars were wrong, and wonder how this man was meant for you. Reader is Hughie's sister, is not a supe, and is a Literature Professor that gets dragged into the middle of things. This fic takes place in an AU set loosely after Season 3 and does deviate from the plot of The Boys

Tropes: Soulmate AU, Little bit of Grumpy and Sunshine, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Forced Proximity, Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy, Jealous Ben/Soldier Boy,

Warnings: Self Deprecating Thoughts, ANGST, Sexism/Homophobia (It's Soldier Boy), References to Sex, Cursing, Sexual Thoughts, Sexual Inneundo, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy, Loneliness, Longing, Basically the reader just wants to be loved, Reader wears glasses?, Soldier Boy might be a little OOC.

Word Count: 6.2K

Song Inspiration For Chapter: Bad Liar by Imagine Dragons, title of chapter taken from this song!

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue Is in First Person And Is In Italics

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: Yes, the rare potato miraculously appears rearing her head to drop another steaming pile of angst.

Guide:

Reader's thoughts are in italics and in first person.

Ben's thoughts in italics, bold, and blue!

The tilted stacks of papers scattered across the red comforter of your California king look more intimidating in the morning light. Their pages flutter in the artificial breeze from the propeller sized fan spinning above the bed. The Times New Roman font looms across the stark white pages and each flourish of your pen brings a starling streak of red in it's wake.

Focusing on work was the only way that you were coping with this… any of this.

You let out a sigh, shifting a leg beneath yourself to get more comfortable, but the essay poised on your thigh does little to distract you from reality, neither did the small stack of paperbacks that Hughie had smuggled from your apartment.

Nothing could distract you from this.

You raise your head and give the room another cursory glance. It was similar to Ben's.

Startling view.

High lofted ceilings.

Dark wooden bedside tables.

But there was something missing.

It pulsed at the back of your mind, burned on the tip of your tongue, danced along in the shadows of your consciousness. You didn't know what, just that there was something wrong.

The same wrong you felt the minute you hugged your brother.

The same wrong that you felt the moment that Ben walked away from you a year ago.

Shit.

Closing your eyes for a moment to refocus on the essay perched in your lap takes an extreme amount of effort. Since Hughie and Butcher left three days ago, everything had.

Each time you found a moment of silence your thoughts shot back to the one person you were trying your best to avoid, the same person that every cell in your body screamed for you to seek out.

You hadn’t seen Ben in four days.

You readjust where your legs are crossed beneath you again and take in a deep breath, but it doesn't help.

Nothing did.

Sleep only deposited you into his memories.

Waking only left you feeling empty and wanting him.

Working only made you all the more frustrated with yourself for not trying to figure this out.

But what is there to figure out? Ben is Ben. He's-

A flash of him in the living room the moment you were along comes hurtling back. The look on his face when he turned away, the heavy emotion that came from him weighing on your shoulders, the final thought he had when he turned away a millstone around your neck-

Fuck.

It made you want to run to him, to pull him close to you tell him that everything was okay, that he was yours and none of it mattered.

It does though. It matters too much.

The rational part of your head had kept you firmly in place, but the piece inside that belonged to Ben screamed and raged in its iron cage. Even now it scuttled along, banging it's head against the bars, telling you that Ben was too far away, that you needed him here.

It didn't need to tell you, you felt the loss as if missing a limb. You felt the acute ache within your soul that Ben wasn't with you that only grew stronger from the moment the two of you had met again at the housewarming party.

You wondered if Ben felt it too or if he would just call it "Soulmate bullshit" and continue on as if he was God's gift to the world.

But what if you're wrong?

The little voice inside asks, it's claw-like fingers curling into your shoulders and keeping you firmly trapped in the endless loop.

Ben had proven more than once in the time you'd known him that you were right. His rants about you being "his" and "belonging" to him only made you all the more disappointed in this chain of events, but somewhere in all of it was Stormfront.

Her eyes glittering black, her cruel smirk almost pitying when she told you the story of catching Ben staring at his wrist.

Maybe then it was different, but now it doesn't matter. I don’t need to figure this out again or solve this. All I need to do is hold it together until Hughie gets back.

You sigh to yourself again and turn back to the student's essay, which honestly looks as if it was copied and pasted from a AI version of Sparks Notes. You still couldn't fathom why someone taking an upperclassman class that they chose to take with you would still be using AI to write their essays.

Work was the only way that you were coping with this, the only distraction that worked enough to pull you out of your head.

Hughie had stopped by with a duffle bag, a few paperbacks, Heathcliff, and your work supplies, before giving you a rushed hug and leaving you in the almost crypt-like living room.

You didn't want pieces of home in a cramped bag, you wanted to be there.

You wanted to be at home with it's dirty coffee mugs, stacks of paperbacks taller than yourself, cozy reading chair, throw blankets- not locked up in Ben's apartment.

You chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

For the better part of four days you'd spent your time avoiding him.

Moving through the empty hallways when you didn't think he was nearby. Stealing snacks from the kitchen in the dead of night. Hoping that you wouldn't hear any more of his thoughts or feel any of his emotions- especially the ones that made you feel guilty for not being what Ben wanted, for not acting the way he expected you to.

You hated that you felt guilty. If anything you wanted him to feel that way, for it to spur something in his head or smack some sense into him that the way he is acting isn't okay. Or at least give him enough brain cells to realize that he is the way he is and why he scares you.

You didn't understand how someone who could see inside your head could be so stubborn, but judging from the many, many memories that migrated into your head, his stubbornness was not a new development.

I get a stubborn murderer as a soulmate, well I'm just the luckiest girl in New York. Forgive me for not clicking my heels.

You send yet another angry email in your head to fate and hope that she's listening. Given your current dilemma she'd probably sent you to spam.

Another sigh builds in your chest when you raise your eyes to look out into the blinding light. On the horizon the sun has slowly begun it's celestial trail across the sky bringing a golden hue to the clouds beyond.

The building was so high that you couldn't even see the people below, in fact, anything and anyone on the street seemed to vanish in their entirety leaving you with only the sky above.

It truly was one of the most beautiful places you'd ever been and if you'd had to pick anywhere to live it would be here. Of course there were constraints to that.

For example, your meager salary and your distaste for jewel robbery.

But despite the current situation, it was definitely a positive to wake up to the world like this.

You wondered why Ben moved here, if it was because he too was entranced by the ability to be so far above the world that nothing below seemed to matter? If he too felt on some level that up here he was free the same way you did? If this apartment was his own way of hiding from the rest of the world so he could finally just be?

You didn't think that Ben thought that deeply about anything, at least not the same way that you did. The emotion that you'd seen mainly from him had been anger-

Then what the hell was that the other day?

A flash of the way Ben seemed almost a little sad hits you like a freight train, when you'd told him that you wished things could be different and he turned his back to walk away from you the second time since you'd met him.

The emotions that bled through the air between the two of you had been anything but anger, it was an melancholic feeling that reminded you far too much of all the birthdays you celebrated sitting with a lit candle for the man you thought you'd never have.

You turn back to the paper in your hand and try in vain to focus on something other than your soulmate. Unfortunately the most you do is read the same sentence over and over again in your head so many times none of the words sound right or look like they're spelled correctly.

Shit. I don’t know how to fix this!

You scream in your head, squeezing your eyes so tightly that it hurts, because you didn't. You didn't know how to fix any of it and every moment you spent trying to figure it out only made you all the more frustrated.

"Brr."

Heathcliff's indignant purr from where he's curled on the end of the bed, breaks the uncomfortable silence. He flicks his tail once in annoyance, the dull thud a thunderclap in the sun lit room.

When Hughie had brought him, Heathcliff had shot out of the cat carrier like a rocket only to be scooped up by you and shuffled off the bedroom you'd decided to inhabit. Like hell you were going to give him free reign of the apartment.

For the remainder of the night he'd paced in front of the door and scratched his claws against the mahogany wood, until you lifted him and held him in air jail.

You had the claw marks on your arms to prove it.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you want me to do-" You say to him with a frown.

Heathcliff yawns showing all his teeth, the audible clack of his mouth coming back together echoes through the empty room. Before he sits up, stretches his spines, shakes out his thick black fur, and jumps off the bed to trot to the door.

He turns back, blinking yellow eyes filled with judgment.

You never understood how Heathcliff somehow looked at you with more disappointment than your mother, but he pulled it off.

He blinks.

"Heathcliff."

Blink.

"I said no."

You weren't exactly sure where Ben had been hiding. With an apartment that made Buckingham Palace look like a shoebox, it wasn't difficult to lose him.

But you still hadn't actually seen the apartment in it's entirety.

Sure, you'd picked the direction opposite of where Ben's room was and found carbon copy of his room, but other than that you hadn't tried to explore.

Not that you didn't want to.

Curiosity ate away in your subconscious, coaxing you towards the door and the possibilities that lay beyond. You wondered what you'd find if you were to walk along the sun streaked hallways trailing your fingers against white painted walls.

Pandora's box awaits.

A voice purred in your ear.

You shrug it off and make a note of something in the margins of a student's essay, but press too hard sending the tip of the pen through the paper and onto the plush comforter below.

Shit.

It wasn't the first time that it had happened, but it didn't make it any less annoying. The room that you were staying in didn't have a desk and leaving meant the possibility of running into-

Shit.

You groan to yourself, tapping the red pen against the paper.

Maybe it would be nice to find a desk at least.

A little voice whispered.

Being here made you long for your beautiful mid-century teak desk that you'd rescued from a curb two years ago. You'd practically nursed it back to health with orange oil and broken dreams, until the wood finally shone.

It was the one piece in your apartment that you were genuinely proud of. Something with a history older and greater than yourself, something that had survived hell and high water to end up smushed in the corner of your bedroom under the only window that actually let in light from the alley-way.

Carrie Bradshaw once said that with the right desk, writing would follow, a statement that you had written on your heart each time you sat and felt the sun warmed wood beneath your fingertips and stroked a finger along the ancient grains.

But here there was no inspiration.

And try as you may have the age old siren song of sleep won 9/10 times each time you told yourself you were going to "grade" in bed.

Beds were good for a number of things, but getting work done wasn't one of them. You were sure that Ben would say the same thing.

A notification on your phone lets you know that you have yet another text from Tate, who had been pestering you with questions the second you told him that you were sick and weren't sure when you'd be able to return to teach in person. Yes, he was sweet and telling you to feel better, but each time he texted you asking something that you knew you were going to have to lie about you could feel your stomach knotting together.

You hated lying, and especially hated lying to him. He wasn't just your TA, he was your friend.

Not to mention all it did was make you feel worse that your TA could understand you and care more than your soulmate did.

Heathcliff makes another indignant sound from the door of your bedroom to let you know he's still talking to you.

You blink at him. "I don't know what you want me to do. We aren't going out there."

Blink.

"I will not be pushed around by a cat."

You swear the end of his lips tilt upwards as if to say, Yes you will human.

"Fuck."

*3 Minutes Later*

"Slow down!" You hiss at Heathcliff's taunt behind as he trots ahead of you down the sun streaked hallways.

The roof above is lined with skylights, making the hallways impossibly bright and making you wish for sunglasses. The white paint is blinding in the morning sun and the caramel colored wood is warm and sanded silky smooth under your bare feet, each step a pleasant pad as you race after Heathcliff.

Predictably, he pays you no mind and continues to leisurely sashay.

Each patch of sunlight turns his coat a hazy gray and Heathcliff seems to dance from patch to patch, drunk on his new freedom.

The stack of paper rustles under your arm as you hurry after him, tightening your grip on the red pen still clasped in your hand.

Every few steps an ugly modern art piece rears it's head, random strokes of gray, black, and *gasp* white on a canvas that was bigger than you were tall. Each one looked identical to the last.

You didn’t understand why Ben's apartment looked like the home of an eccentric billionaire's wife who had nannies paid to keep her children occupied while she spent her days at Barney's and nights faking orgasms.

I gotta stop watching Real Housewives.

But you still couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to live in a place so sterile. It made you long for your books, your warm mismatched throw blankets, empty mugs, and ancient desk with it's worn edges and handlebar mustache crack along the top that you traced with a fingertip whenever you were bored.

You wondered if the apartment came like this or if Ben was the kind of person who hired an interior decorator to make his apartment more "homey."

They missed the mark. The whole thing is like a mausoleum.

You sigh to yourself when you pass another canvas.

Would it kill him to add some color somewhere that isn't black or gray? Or maybe a plant?

You were terrible with plants, practically killed them just by looking at them, but with this much sun maybe plants would bring some life into this lifeless apartment.

Few memories of the apartment Ben had before his time in Russia float to the surface.

A congealed mass of orange shag carpet, popcorn ceilings, and velvet that you couldn't help but smile at. It seemed so cliché that Ben had an apartment that looked like it came right out of a bad 70's tv show, but you figured that's the way the world was back then.

If you'd been talking to Ben you'd be peppering him with questions about what it was like to live through all the eras that you'd only read about in the well-worn paperbacks stacked in your apartment.

Before all of this you had fantasized about doing just that. Before when Ben was nothing more than a figment of your imagination the only way that you'd tried to be close to him was through literature. Reading authors whose work explored the years you believed your soulmate lived though, allowed yourself to walk the lonely streets beside him in your mind and experience what life had been like.

Unfortunately now in the after things were complicated.

Again.

You didn’t really understand why you were surprised when everything in your life often was like living Murphy's Law.

Ah yes, everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Heathcliff scratches at a door at the end of the hallway, his impatient meow ringing through the empty hallway with such startling sound that you glance behind you to see if Ben is standing there.

Supe hearing couldn't be fun. Especially not when you had a cat like Heathcliff who would make something akin to a T-Rex roaring at the smallest of inconveniences.

He scratches the dark wood once more, glaring at you.

"Oh I'm sorry did you want me to open the door?" You raise an eyebrow at him. "Here I thought you were just going on a stroll."

Heathcliff's eyes narrow slightly, sensing your sarcasm. He makes an outraged huffing noise and flicks his tail once to show you he means business.

It reminds you of the way Ben seems to be whenever he sets his mind on something.

"Is that you saying please?"

If looks could kill, Heathcliff would be dancing around the living room with your head on a spike. His shaggy dark fur fluffs out around him, yellow eyes glowing ominously.

"Okay, but only because you asked so nicely." You snort, opening the door of the room he's chosen.

The door creaks open depositing you inside.

Heathcliff's feet leave heart shaped prints in the thick layer of dust on the hardwood floors where he slinks ahead of you, weaving through the stacks of boxes higher than yourself. Musty light comes through the floor to ceiling windows at the back of the room, but barely enough to illuminate the space. Aged sheets are draped over several pieces of furniture shoved together in a mass of Tetris puzzle on the right wall, wooden legs scraping the ceiling.

You cough once to clear the dust from your throat and scratch your nose with the back of your hand.

Why does Ben have all this stuff in here?

You put down your papers on a small end table shoved behind the door to take a look in the box closest to you. It's less dusty than the others and the brown tape on top has been peeled away and redone.

The second you open the box the musty smell of lemon comes out in a fluid wave over your senses.

Your fingers find something soft within and you slowly pull out a bundle of fabric.

Why does Ben have a woman's dress?

It's beautiful.

Made of a soft pink floral silk material that shimmers in the musty light. It's tailored perfectly and still in astonishingly good condition. The movement causes another wave of the lemon scent to come floating into your nose.

You gasp at the memories that pull you under the second it does.

A little boy with Ben's mischievous green eyes and dark hair crying while a woman with a beautiful smile kisses a cut on his finger and wipes away his tears.

The same little boy holding on to the woman's skirts while an red-faced angry man with Ben's eyes and broad shoulders shouts so loud the room shakes.

The woman watching from a bench in a sunlit park with the breeze making her hair flutter around her angelic face while the little boy runs with a red kite soaring above the rest of the world. The dusting of cinnamon colored freckles seems lighter then, his eyes the color of fresh cut grass, his hair no longer the dark you knew, a burnished gold under the mid-day sun.

You glance into the box, catching the glimmer of a gilded frame. 

It's a family portrait, black and white, with the man you saw in the memories standing behind the same little boy. The boy's smile is gone and the space beside the man lies empty.

It doesn't take a genius to guess when the photo was taken.

You'd only seen a handful of Ben's childhood memories.

Enough to know that Ben's father shared more in common with your own parents than you were willing to admit. You'd seen the memories of the time after Ben's mother, the memories that brought an uncomfortable darkness and chill with them, when Ben's father said things to Ben that you'd heard echoed from your own parent's mouths.

Feeling like a disappointment followed you throughout your childhood hand in hand with the loneliness of the soulmate you desperately wanted who understood you.

Now seeing the way Ben was when his mother was alive made you want to time travel, kick his father's ass, and then scoop up the little boy who used to smile so brightly.

"What are you doing in here?!" An angry voice demands.

You let out a startled yelp, dropping the photograph in surprise. You hadn't heard Ben enter the room, hadn't felt the familiar surge of warmth that came whenever he was in your general proximity- but there he was shrouded in the darkness of the doorway.

The photograph lands in the box with a resounding crash, but you don't have time to worry about it, not with Ben standing so close to you.

Today the feeling that comes with his proximity burns through your entire body.

The brilliant light from the hallway makes your soulmate seem impossibly taller and broader than you remember. His green eyes are dark, frown firmly in place while he surveys where you stand. His arms are crossed tight over his muscular chest, the black t-shirt and jeans combo making him more intimidating.

"Um-well- I-" You stutter looking for an excuse. His mother's dress is still clasped in your hand and waves around with the motion of your floundering.

"So you can snoop through all my shit, but you can't bother to come downstairs for breakfast?"

"I wasn't snooping! I was looking for a desk to-"

"Didn't know they could fit into fucking boxes."

"My cat came in here and I-"

Heathcliff takes this moment to re-appear from the jumble of boxes behind you and begins to rub himself on Ben's right shin.

Ben drops his gaze to the fluffy creature at his feet, who purrs as if Ben is a giant tree of catnip.

Shit.

The thought of picking up Heathcliff and running back to your room crosses your mind. You knew the way that Ben was around other people and doubted that he was any different around animals.

Ben's eyes flick to yours, his temper flaring enough that you feel the spike of your own heartbeat.

"I told you that I wasn't going to hurt your fucking cat." He snaps, but then he leans forward, mouth pulling into a sinful smirk that makes your throat tight. "But I'd be more than happy to give your little pussy some attention."

Your cheeks flame red hot under his scrutiny, hating the triumphant smirk shining on your soulmate's face, and trying your best not to think about what that would entail.

The image of your soulmate coming out of the bathroom shirtless comes without warning. You remember the intricate trail of water down his muscular chest, the warm drag of his eyes over your body, and the low rumble of his voice like the distant rumble of a thunderstorm.

Heat trickles down from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes, warming you from the inside out, building and building until it feels like your entire body is on fire and the only thing that will sate you is reaching out to touch Ben.

Your fingers twitch to reach out and push back the dark strand that hangs forward into his eyes. Something within screams to close the distance between the two of you, the tension pulling so tight in your body you could snap at any minute. Electricity races down your limbs the longer you stare up into the emerald eyes of the man you thought would never exist.

Fuck.

Ben's smirk widens, the dark glimmer in his eyes making your knees weak. "You'd like that wouldn't you sweetheart?"

You take in a trembling breath to steel yourself, but it's full of him. Full of the smell that soaked through the apartment and set your soul on fire, because it was everything you always imagined.

Something masculine, heady, the smell of rain that clings to the world the moments before it falls.

"Ben-" You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Yes doll?"

He takes a step forward into your space so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your face.

The fear that usually comes with his proximity seems miles away from here and now, but it's still there, enough to keep you from reaching out for him and fill the void inside of you that belongs to Ben.

You didn’t understand how two pieces within yourself could be at war, that one piece shouted he’s too close and another screamed not close enough!

"Please, don't." Your voice comes out in a whisper, but it's enough to make Ben hesitate.

Not again with this shit.

He audibly huffs out a sigh, jaw clenching.

Does she have any idea what I could do to her?  I could ruin her, show her why she's lucky to be my soulmate! 

Maybe I just want you to feel lucky to be mine.

The thought comes without warning and you feel yourself cringe in embarrassment. You didn't expect Ben to care about that, not when he'd spent every waking moment trying to get you to understand what a catch he was and how happy you should be about the match instead of focusing on things like body counts and cold-blooded murder.

Nor did you think he considered it given how many memories you’d seen of him with other women. All you were to him was another in a million who was supposed to belong to him.

You believed that Ben didn't actually care about you, he cared about what you represented. It reminded you far too much about the dated views of women in the 30s, where they were nothing more than trophies, seen more as a pretty doll in the corner made to be seen and not heard. The Angel in the House Phenomenon floating it's way into the modern day.

Not once had you heard him think about how special you were or how much he was happy that it was you. All you’d heard was the macho shit and him thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread.

You hug your arms around yourself, dropping your gaze to your feet, because yet again you'd allowed Ben to see more than you wanted to. Something that should have been so special ruined by the fact that your soulmate was the way he was.

Shit.

Ben blinks for a moment all other thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. He hadn't heard you think something like that before, at least not in front of him. Sure he'd heard you say plenty about him, felt your fear whenever you walked into the room, seen the lonely memories through the bond, but this was… different.

He didn't like the feeling that stirred in his own chest when you thought that. It made him feel guilty all over again and made him want to do something really stupid like reach out and tilt your head up to trace his fingers over your frown, to draw you into him and apologize for things that he wasn't sure why he had to.

Fuck, he hated this more than anything he’d ever been through. He wanted you so badly he didn’t quite understand how to say it other than the way he had.

He thought it was enough.

You find your voice.

 "I wasn't snooping. I was trying to find a place to grade papers." You point to the stack of tilted essays on the dusty box behind the door. “I was trying to grade in bed and the pen keeps poking through the page and I can't get any work done."

Because that's what you're supposed to do in bed, fucking work? Shit if she wants to work that hard in the bedroom I've got a job I think she'd enjoy.

Your eyes widen at the thought, but Ben only lets out a tired chuckle.

"There's no office with a desk. The decorator asked, but when I told her I didn't do that type of work she decided to bring all this other shit in." He gestures to yet another brown chunky piece of undiscernible furniture shoved into the corner collecting dust.

"You didn't tell her what you liked?" You ask tentatively.

"I didn't think I needed to." Ben shrugged. "Never really had to worry about any of that shit before. Never really-" He clears his throat. "Spent that much time in an apartment before."

"Oh."

"I mean, before I was always shooting commercials or some other bullshit, but now-" He trails off.

I don’t really know what I'm doing. 

The feeling that comes through the bond between the two of you makes your heart ache. It was the first time that you felt like you were seeing the real Ben. It was as if he'd let his guard down for two seconds and you saw someone that didn't exist in the blood soaked memories you shared, it was someone like… you.

Ben winces slightly with the thought and just as soon as the walls had dropped they're back up again, lost in the hardened expression he usually wore.

You wait another moment, not sure what to say, the only sound in the room is the loud purring from Heathcliff who has continued to rub his head against Ben's shin.

Being at a loss for words was never the way you were, but being around Ben you didn't know what to say or to do. The entire situation was just so awkward and frustrating that it made you want to smash everything in your general vicinity. You wondered deep down if anyone else ever had this problem or if like the whole ridiculous "entwined thing" you and Ben were special.

"Would you mind showing me where the dining room is?" You say gesturing to the stack of papers billowing slightly in the air conditioning. "I really do need to get those graded by tomorrow."

"Sure."

Ben leads the way out of the room, down the hallways, and towards the spiral staircase without looking behind him. You wonder if that's because he's still weird about what he shared while the two of you were back in the storage room or if it's because he's still mad at you for not being open to being with him.

The later still made your heart squeeze into a vice in your chest.

You pass through the almost warehouse sized living room filled with uncomfortable white furniture and that looks down on the rest of the city below.

This view is incredible.

"It's why I bought the place." Ben says from in front of you, not bothering to turn around. "I like how quiet it is."

"Me too. It kinda feels like you're away from it all." You pause to look out, watching a cloud gently trail over the painted sky. "It would have been nice to live here when I was a kid."

You feel your cheeks warm with the statement. Everything with Ben felt like an overshare, like there was no point of telling him because he didn't actually care about any of it.

"Why?" He turns, green eyes curiously tracing over you face.

The sun is so bright that at this distance his eyes turn a lovely shade of olive, allowing the golden flecks to catch fire. It reminds you of the soft grass in your backyard as a child when you stretched out under the watchful oak trees above with a book on your lap and the wind your hair.

"I mean I- When I was a kid I kinda wanted to get away from it all and up here it feels like we are. That we're so far from everyone else that what they think and what they say don't matter."

You didn't understand why you were embarrassed to admit that, you'd said it to your brother multiple times, talked about it with Annie, even mentioned it to Butcher once. But with Ben things were more difficult.

"It feels-" the word on the tip of your tongue doesn't quite fit the situation, doesn't quite make sense because of who you're with, but you felt free.

"Free." Ben's voice comes through the brilliant living room in a rolling rumble that makes your fingers twitch to feel every vibration beneath your fingertips.

"Yeah." You breathe, eyes catching Ben's

The harshness of Ben's rugged good looks are softer in the sunlight, dripping through dark hair to turn it a chestnut brown and bring out the dusting of freckles across his cheeks. He looks more like the man you imagined, the gentle one that seemed to waltz right off the page of your favorite novels.

You don't know why your face heats with a blush, goosebumps rippling over your skin as you feel the trace of his eyes on you, and you drop your gaze to the stack of papers in your hands.

Sometimes it felt like Ben was staring through you, like he could see inside and yes technically he could, but whenever he was there just staring it was different. It felt intimate somehow in a way you couldn't describe.

He clears his throat and gestures with his head in the direction of the semi-truck sized doorway to break the silence. "The dining room's in here."

"Oh thanks."

When you breeze past him the motion sends a wave of his cologne surging upwards into your nose, something that makes your heart stutter and your knees weak.

You didn't understand how it was already familiar, something that seemed to soothe a part of you that was empty for so long. It makes a warmth bloom in your chest for a few seconds when you brush past, the warmth of his body bleeding through the space.

It's only millimeters, but it feels like miles.

Something within screams at you to reach out and touch him, to draw him closer, to throw yourself at him, to allow him to make you forget everything, but you ignore it. It feels like you're being torn in two when you calmly put the stack of papers on the dark wood dining room table big enough to comfortably seat twenty people.

Say something you fucking pussy!

Ben growls in his head.

Don't just stand there with your dick in your hand! She came out of her room, she came down here with you! Offer her a drink or a fucking smoke or-

You glance to where Ben is standing half-in-half-out of the room, looking much more awkward than you'd ever seen him in any of the memories you'd shared. It was different than the confident macho man who swaggered through your mind, the one that had a twinkle in his eye and a bravado that made women weak at the knees.

Ben makes a pained expression as if disgusted with himself when he remembers that you're able to hear him.

"I am a little hungry." You say tentatively to test the waters.

What are you doing? He's-

You stop the thought before it gets any farther. You weren't sure if it was the way that the light touched him, or if it was the warmth that seemed to ebb and flow between the two of you, but something felt… different.

Here Ben is different.

Ben blinks, eyes widening in surprise. "Really?"

You nod slowly. "Yeah, I mean I-" You clear your throat, glancing down at the papers you'd placed on the table. "Can't grade on an empty stomach. Whenever that happens I tend to be a little more tough, and I like to think that my students think I'm a cool teacher."

The end of his lips twitch up in a signature smirk. "I told you doll, if you were my teacher I'd be there every damn day. Probably would have given a shit about my grades if I got to look at you."

Instead of the usual feeling that comes when Ben says something like that, you feel a smile pull at the end of your lips and you roll your eyes.

But it's enough to make Ben's smirk widen.

Now we're getting somewhere.

You snort.

Give him an inch and he'll take a mile.

Sweetheart it's longer than an inch. I'd be happy to give you a preview.

He winks and you feel your entire body flush, cheeks heating to an inferno. Ben's inability to feel shame was yet another thing that you needed to get used to.

But despite it all there was a little voice inside that urged you to get used to it. The same voice that brought the sweep of goosebumps over your flesh with the thought of Ben touching you, the one that wasn't afraid of the man Ben was.

Ben's smile makes the warm feeling in your chest beat it's wings against your rib cage.

And you were staring to realize that the little voice you wrote off, was starting to sound surprisingly like your own.

A/N: Yes, a brief break from some of the heart wrenching angst, but we're not out of the woods yet! 😭

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know!

Taglist:

@reidtomewinchester @livya99 @pascal-rascal424 @xaviersgifted @zepskies

@bagpussjocken @bitchykittenconnoisseur @kamisobsessed @goldenmaknaes @ophennie

@infinityonhighhhhh @modiddys-blog @roseblue373 @tulipsvanilla

@annoyingrebelsoul @soldiergrimes @megara0224 @zpandaqueen @ladykitana90

@corruptedcruiser @podiumackles @criminalyetminimal

@deangirl96 @kr804573 @the-super-who-locked-wizard

@pamwritessometimes @roger-that-cap @my-obsession-spn

@52ndstreeet @mrsjenniferwinchester @impala67stellawinchester

@bookchik26 @anna6307

@moodyquesadilla @isla-finke-blog @green-which

@thoughtfullyfurryangel @winchester-stark

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@sweetiecelin @sarahmclean15 @multifandomgirl2018 @disappearintofanfiction @maddie0101

@waynes-multiverse @globetrotter98

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Taglist Part 2:

@lunaleah @glitterspark

@n-o-p-e-never @j2ash @xxmusic13luverxx

@happilygoldenvortex

@nommingonfood @deans-spinster-witch @kellyIs04 @goosy-goose @whitepearl

@coventina2001

@luckynibblz @andrianasinger

@soulessambs

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

SUN BLEACHED FLIES PART I MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 1: 1988

CHAPTER 2: 1992

CHAPTER 3: 1995-1996

CHAPTER 4: 1998, I 06/23/26

CHAPTER 5: 1998, II

CHAPTER 6: 1998, III

Suggested listening: ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• American Teenager ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• Crush ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• Family Tree (Intro) ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• House in Nebraska

Back to main masterlist

[winfieldsreads]

*Chef’s kiss* 😘🤌🏻

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Cruel World: Chapter Eighteen

Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.

All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!OC

WC: 3K

CW: 18+ MDNI, canon violence/weapons/firearms/injury, language, slow burn simmer, Dean being charmingly self deprecating, some implied DV themes, well-earned fluff

A/n: Big shoutout to @winchesterfields67 for work shopping this OFC with me!

Cruel World masterlist

“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, I found another anyhow ” - Cruel World, Lana Del Rey

Being on the road normally had a way of setting Dean’s mind straight. Hunting was second nature to him. This wasn’t hunting. These people weren’t Sam, or even Castiel.

Even a little rusty, Dean could still take down a few vampires or a vengeful spirit on his own. Capturing and transporting a living werewolf wasn’t just difficult—it was wrong. But he was doing it for you. Well, he was really doing it for Sam, so that he didn’t have to. Sam actually had something to lose.

How Sam had ever run with a crowd like this, soulless or not, was beyond him. Hunting in groups relied on trust, and he didn’t trust them. Even if they insisted they were family. Resurrected kin or not, they were strangers to him.

Crowley’s orders were simple—bring it back alive and try not to die.

The house was dark and quiet when Dean pulled in and parked behind the team’s van. They were already standing around waiting impatiently for him.

“About time,” Gwen purred.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Dean rolled his eyes and loaded a magazine of silver bullets into his 1911. He didn’t trust these people enough to believe they’d prioritize his life over capturing the werewolf. The silver bullets were for his own peace of mind.

The old house was the last known location of the recently turned monster. Dean and Samuel entered through the front while Gwen and Christian secured the perimeter.

“So,” Samuel began, his eyes carefully scanning the interior of the decrepit building, “have you heard from your brother?”

“Nope.” Dean answered quickly, drawing a humorless laugh from Samuel.

“That was a rhetorical question, son.”

Dean side-eyed him while keeping his weapon trained on the shadowed corners.

“The Sam you knew is long gone. That’s all you need to know.”

Before Samuel could continue, a commotion outside drew both men back toward the front of the property.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Dean’s eyes landed on Christian struggling to keep a young woman in a headlock, one arm locked tightly around her waist. She bit down hard on his forearm, drawing a pained growl from him. Christian dropped her immediately.

The woman stumbled back and drew a small blade from inside her boot, holding it in a steady, tactical grip despite the tremor in her hand.

Dean hollered in an attempt to break up the confrontation, but it was almost pointless.

“The crazy bitch bit me!”

Christian drew his sidearm and trained it on her.

She didn’t even flinch.

While she looked absolutely feral, Dean knew she wasn’t a monster. Any werewolf would be raging, trying to tear everyone limb from limb. Her anger was controlled. Directed.

“Everyone RELAX!” Dean boomed.

Christian reluctantly lowered his pistol, but his gaze remained fixed on the mystery woman. Dean slowly holstered his own weapon in an attempt to put her at ease. She didn’t loosen her grip on the knife, but she did lower it to her side.

For the first time, Dean actually looked at her.

She was young, but old enough to have experience. Clearly she knew how to defend herself. She dressed like a hunter—a worn leather jacket and faded jeans that complemented her figure while still being practical. Her dirty-blonde hair was tied back in a loose braid, with several strands escaping during the struggle.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who immediately caught your eye in a crowded bar. But once you noticed her, it was impossible to look away.

That was where Dean found himself now.

“What’s your name?”

Her eyes flicked toward him before continuing to scan the area.

“None of your fucking business.”

Dean visibly recoiled at the bite in her words.

Gwen stepped forward, saying something antagonistic that Dean didn’t quite catch before the woman took off.

Out of instinct, he followed her. Samuel stopped him briefly. “We’ve still got work to do—”

“I’m not just leavin’ her out here alone.” Dean brushed past him and continued after her.

For some reason, she reminded him of you. He hoped that if you were ever in her position, somebody would care enough to make sure you were safe. When he finally caught up, she had already picked the lock on the van. Instead of hot-wiring it and driving away, she stood frozen beside the open rear doors. Just staring.

Inside sat a heavy-duty cage, large enough to hold an adult. Horror washed across her face. She spun around, now armed with a pistol she had likely found inside the van.

Dean immediately raised his hands and stopped where he stood.

“Who the fuck are you people? What are you doing here?”

Dean huffed nervously and did his best to explain the strange situation without mentioning that he was currently working for the King of Hell.

“That’s just wrong.” She shook her head. “They need to be put down.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more.”

Her posture eased slightly, though she remained on guard.

“I’m Rhi, by the way.”

“Dean.”

She glanced toward the Impala, then back at him as the pieces clicked together.

“Winchester? As in one of the guys who kicked off the apocalypse?”

“And helped stop it…”

Dean glanced at his boots and laughed nervously. He still carried a lifetime’s worth of shame for what he did—and what he failed to do.

“You should really get out of here. It’s not safe.”

Rhi barked out a laugh at his attempt at chivalry.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious or not. But I gotta say, you don’t live up to the hype, Winchester.”

For a moment, she looked genuinely disappointed before turning and heading toward an old Ford Bronco.

Dean frowned as he watched her leave. As the Bronco rattled down the road, he spotted a small, faded peace-sign bumper sticker on the back. He squinted at it for a moment before scoffing.

“Fucking hippies.”

Shaking his head, he turned and headed back toward the group.

“You just let her go?” Christian shot daggers at Dean while cleaning the deep bite mark on his arm.

“What was I supposed to do? Kill her?” Dean regretted even asking.

“Not necessarily.” He shrugged casually. “She might have had valuable information. Your brother never would’ve just let her go like that.”

“That animal wasn’t my brother.”

“That’s enough.” Samuel had the decency to shield Dean from his brother’s behavior. He didn’t always agree with it, but he was effective. “Let’s call it a night and regroup tomorrow.”

Dean refused to bunk with the group. A creature of habit, he settled for a shabby motel next to a bar. As long as it had bourbon and a pool table, he was a happy man.

He pulled out his phone to send you a text.

Made it to the motel in one piece.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

He backed out and opted to send it to Sam instead. He’d probably tell you. And if he didn’t, you surely wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

Tossing his phone onto the empty bench beside him, he scanned the parking lot out of habit. His eyes settled on a familiar peace-sign bumper sticker on an old Ford Bronco.

His pulse quickened. He was relieved to see Rhi had made it out alright. The sting from her parting remark still irked him. What had she expected, and why didn’t he live up to it?

He contemplated grabbing a drink and settling on the opposite side of the bar, but her eyes landed on him the moment he stepped inside.

Rhi didn’t react the way he expected. She didn’t seem angry or freaked out. She just smirked into her drink as he took the stool beside her. At that point, it would’ve been weird not to.

He ordered a bourbon and tossed it back quickly before ordering a second. Dean stared into the amber liquid, trying to think of something clever to say.

“Awfully quiet over there, Winchester.”

She glanced at him and chuckled at the blush creeping up his neck.

“I didn’t follow you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Not off to a great start.”

He gaped at her for a moment before downing the rest of his drink and reaching for his wallet. He was tired and he’d been humiliated enough for one day.

“Next round’s on me.”

She signaled to the bartender before flashing him a playful smile.

Dean learned that Rhi was short for Rhiannon.

“Yes, like the song.”

“Lemme guess. Your parents were a couple of hippies?”

She was raised in a loving home by two parents in the Pacific Northwest. She was a unicorn in the hunting world.

Her parents had been killed by a wendigo during a wilderness retreat in the Cascades when Rhi was seventeen. The rangers ruled it a bear attack.

Dean noticed the way her expression tightened when she recalled the memory.

She’d been a fiery teenager—polar opposite to her pacifist upbringing—and she refused to accept the lazy explanation for her parents’ deaths.

“So that little bumper sticker on your truck?”

Rhi smiled to herself.

“Yeah. They always had one on their station wagon. I hated it growing up.” She swirled the whiskey in her glass. “It’s different now.”

Nobody became a hunter by choice and she was no exception.

She’d gotten the same lead about the small werewolf den as Dean and Samuel’s team. That was how their worlds collided.

“I don’t get it.” She leaned back in her chair. “Who’s got the big, bad Dean Winchester by the short and curlies? You guys went toe-to-toe with the Devil himself.”

Her smile faded when she noticed his body language. The proud, imposing posture she expected was gone. His shoulders looked heavy. His expression carried more regret than confidence.

“Family?”

Dean nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the dusty bottles lining the shelves behind the bar.

“Like I said. It’s complicated.”

“Trust me.” She snorted. “When it’s family, it’s usually not.”

She was right—he was doing it so Sam didn’t have to. 

So Sam could be there for you and Willa.

So Sam could live the life Dean had always wanted for him.

“Ma’am.”

The bartender placed another whiskey in front of Rhi.

“This is for you.”

He gestured toward a man sitting at the far end of the bar.

Dean watched the interaction and expected her to abandon their conversation.

Instead, she grabbed the glass, smiled politely at the man, leaned over the bar, and slowly poured the entire drink into the sink. Dean choked back a laugh as the smug look on the guy’s face dissolved into a glare.

His heart sank more than he cared to admit when she stood and shrugged on her jacket.

“This was nice.” She smirked. “Thanks for stalking me.”

Her words still had teeth.

Her expression didn’t.

Dean fumbled through a goodbye while she tossed some money onto the bar and flashed him one last smile.

His eyes lingered on the gentle sway of her hips as she walked away, though he noticed she never stopped scanning her surroundings. Every few steps she glanced over her shoulder, staying aware of every exit and every stranger in the room.

Hunter instincts—the same ones he lived by.

He waited a few minutes to finish his drink before finally looking around the bar.

The man who had bought Rhi the drink was gone, and somehow, that bothered him more than it should have.

He was relieved to see Rhi’s truck was still in the parking lot, meaning she’d gotten a room for the night, too.

Dropping his duffle bag on the bed, he kicked off his boots and collapsed onto the mattress. He checked his phone and saw a text from Sam.

Thanks for checking in.

Short and to the point.

Dean tossed his phone onto the nightstand and settled in to get a few hours of sleep.

He woke to muffled pounding and yelling.

His hand immediately reached for the pistol on the nightstand as he scrambled out of bed. Pulling on his boots, he stepped into the breezeway and scanned the row of motel rooms.

The guy from the bar was drunkenly kicking and ramming a door three rooms down with his shoulder.

He stumbled backward after each impact, hollering threats before throwing himself at the door again.

“Rhiannon, open the fuckin’ door—”

Wham.

“—don’t make m’hurt you—”

Wham.

Dean closed the distance quickly and fisted the front of the man’s shirt. The drunk’s hot breath hit him as he slammed him against the wall. He smelled like a sweaty brewery.

Without thinking, Dean’s fist connected with his jaw. Then again.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He didn’t give the guy a chance to answer before driving another punch into him. The familiar ache bloomed across his knuckles as bone met bone.

The door finally swung open. Rhi slipped outside, trying to intervene. Dean felt warm hands grab his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“DEAN.”

He stopped and turned toward her, still holding the man’s shirt balled up in his fist. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and horror.

“Let him go.” Her voice was weak and uncertain. It sounded unnatural coming from her.

Dean looked back at the bruised, bloodied man pinned against the wall and felt a jolt of clarity. He yanked him away from the wall and shoved him toward the parking lot. The man stumbled backward. Mumbling a slurred insult, he wiped blood from his face and retreated.

“What the hell was that?!”

Dean wasn’t entirely sure why he’d reacted so strongly, or how he expected her to react. But he was baffled. She looked frustrated, though he didn’t miss the slight tremor in her hands.

“Did you know that guy?”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at her bare feet against the cracked concrete. “We used to work together.”

Before Dean could ask anything else, she cut him off.

“I didn’t need you to do that, Dean.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” He shrugged. “But I did.”

He watched her shift uncomfortably. A blush crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. She was embarrassed. Not because she needed help. Because a complete stranger had stepped in to help her—again.

“Well… goodnight.”

Dean caught the quiet thank you she muttered under her breath before she started closing the door.

“Wait.” He stopped it with his hand.

She spun around immediately.

“You sure you’re okay?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can hang out here if you want. In case that guy comes back.”

She scoffed and stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he was joking.

“So I should invite a total stranger into my room to what? Protect me?”

“You could’ve just said no, y’know?”

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Just lock your fuckin’ door.”

He slammed his own door behind him, trying to punctuate the aggravating situation. Flopping back onto the bed, one arm folded beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was his throbbing fist. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get his eyes to stay shut. After a few minutes, he gave up and headed for the Impala.

Dean woke to a gentle tapping on the driver’s-side window. His eyes settled on Rhi standing outside with a smirk tugging at her lips and a coffee in her hand. Sleepily, he cranked the window down and squinted against the offensive sunlight.

He eyed the cup suspiciously when she handed it through the gap.

Bracing himself, he accepted it.

“It’s just coffee. Relax.” She laughed as he peeled back the lid to inspect it. “Just wanted to say thanks, I guess.”

Dean saw the warmth in her expression and the softness in her eyes.He was glad she didn’t ask why he’d spent the night in the car. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure himself. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Maybe it was the chance that she wasn’t. If something happened to her, it would be another layer of guilt he’d carry for the rest of his life.

“Ew, what the fuck—”

Dean nearly spit the drink back into the cup.

Rhi stared at him, completely dumbfounded.

“Tastes like I just tongue-fucked Tinker Bell.”

“Let me try.”

She took the coffee from him and sampled it herself, wondering how badly the teenage barista had managed to screw up a vanilla latte.

“That’s what you call sweet?” She frowned. “It’s still pretty bitter.”

“It tastes like a cup full of cavities.”

Rhi leaned away from the car and laughed. Really laughed. Dean noticed the way the corners of her eyes crinkled. The dimples that appeared when she smiled. The tiny freckles scattered across her nose now that sunlight kissed her face.

“Well, I’m sorry.” She grinned. “Next time I’ll get you black coffee and a Lucky Strike, grandpa.”

His heart fluttered at the idea of there being a next time.

She must’ve seen something shift in his expression because she straightened quickly and the smile faded.

“Next time?” His tone was teasing, but there was a glimmer of hope behind it.

Rhi huffed out a nervous laugh and shook her head. After a beat, she finally met his gaze.

“Yeah.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “If you manage to track me down again.”

With that, she grabbed her bag from the ground and slung it over her shoulder. She shot him one last glance before heading toward her truck.

Dean watched in the side mirror as she opened the door and tossed her bag inside. Before climbing in, she looked toward the Impala one last time. A mess of pride and guilt kept him rooted to his seat. He wanted to run after her. Give her his number to make sure there was a next time. Instead, he watched the Bronco rumble out of the parking lot and disappear down the highway.

Once he grabbed his duffle and tossed it in the trunk, he noticed the abandoned coffee cup sitting on top of the Impala.

“Aw, son of a bitch.” He groaned, already imagining the sticky stain underneath.

When he picked it up, his eyes caught the cardboard sleeve wrapped around the cup. Written in slightly smudged blue ink was a phone number. Still perfectly legible. Dean stared at it for a moment . Then, despite himself, he smiled.

A/n: I'm a big fan of our new OFC. Let me know what you think!

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist:

@ambiguous-avery , @insensiblelimerence , @mrs-cactus69 , @samiwinchester444 , @staley83, @little-rose-universe , @winchesterfields67 , @ferncloud0191 , @casanddeanswife

[winfieldsreads]

Omg, Rhi!!!!! I love her!!!! She's perfect!!! 😩😭💕

“This was nice.” She smirked. “Thanks for stalking me.”

I love that we got a chapter focused on Dean. It felt like a glimpse into his life without him pining for Y/N. I think Rhi is going to help pull him out of the depressing funk he's been in. This chapter was soooo good, and as always, it left me wanting more!!!!!😤❤️

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Cruel World: Chapter Seventeen

Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.

All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader, Dean Winchester x fem!reader

WC: 3.4K

CW: 18+ MDNI, description of injury, struggles with mental health (anxiety/trauma), misuse of medication, tension/repressed emotions, language, super soft smut, makeup sex?, Sam Winchester cries through sex, unprotected pinv, fingering (f receiving), creampie, mentions of past pregnancy

A/n: My posting schedule is pretty inconsistent right now as I’m taking care of a newborn, so I appreciate the patience ♥️

this was a doozy to write

Cruel World masterlist

"Because you're young, you're wild, you're free, you're dancing circles around me, you're fucking crazy.” - Cruel World | Lana Del Rey

The house was quiet—the chaotic clatter of toys and high-pitched toddler babble replaced by the static hum of the baby monitor now that Willa was napping. Sam had busied himself with the growing pile of dishes in the sink when his brother finally joined him in the kitchen. Dean settled against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

They hadn’t said a word to each other since the previous night. Not out loud, anyway. The brothers had the innate ability to speak volumes with a single glance.

Dean had found a few opportunities to check on you from a respectful distance in the doorway. He noticed the food and water sitting untouched on the nightstand.

“Has she eaten?” Dean’s voice cut through the oppressive silence like a knife.

Sam shook his head, his gaze still glued to the coffee mug he had now cleaned three times. “I can’t even get the dog to eat,” he huffed weakly.

“Walker’ll be fine,” Dean said, his voice sharper than he intended. “But she won’t.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the now-sterile coffee mug.

“Just gonna let her sleep?”

A frustrated sigh caged in Sam’s chest sounded more like a growl. “What am I supposed to do?” Beneath the bitterness and frustration was a thread of desperation.

“How’re ya sleeping, Sam?”

The question was rhetorical. Everyone in the house knew about his nightmares. Dean had only been back a few days and had already helped you wake him from one.

“‘Cause I don’t know if you noticed, but she’s running on fumes.”

Sam set the mug down in the sink before finally turning to face Dean.

“I know that…”

“I don’t think you do.”

Sam’s face hardened at the accusation, even if it was true.

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to tamp down the anger building in his chest. “Listen, I’m not an expert or anything.” He paused, watching Sam roll his eyes in response.

“But I’ve seen enough to know she’s been holding it together on her own since she lost you. Even when I wanted to run off and do something stupid…tryin’ to find you, she held everyone together.” His throat tightened as he remembered those first few months after Sam was locked in the Cage. “And then you came back…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Like that.”

Sam looked like a kicked puppy—a look he had perfected without even realizing it. It always softened Dean, not that he would ever admit it.

“I don’t think she dealt with any of it, Sam. Not the grief, the fear…not what you did to her when you were soulless. None of it.” He paused, giving Sam a chance to collect himself while trying not to think too hard about what you had confided in him. “She just kept moving because Willa needed her.”

Sam’s insecurity gnawed at him. He hated how selfish he felt. Part of him wanted to know what you had told Dean and why you couldn’t tell him instead. But he wouldn’t violate your trust like that.

“I didn’t know it was this bad…” Sam’s voice cracked at the end.

“That’s kind of the problem, Sammy.”

Silence settled around them like quicksand.

“I’ve never seen her like that.” Sam’s eyes turned glossy as he recalled the night before. “She was scared. She’s hurt, and she wouldn’t tell me. I-it was an accident.” He threaded his fingers through his hair as the pieces started clicking together.

You weren’t protecting yourself from him—you were protecting him from himself. From the truth about what he had done.

“She was having an anxiety attack or nervous…something.”

“It was a panic attack, Dean. I know that. Was it because of me? Did she think I was gonna…fuck—”

“Stop.” Dean watched him pace, trying to outrun the conclusion he was spiraling toward. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

Sam looked exhausted and terrified. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t wanna make it worse.”

“You need to stop punishing yourself long enough to be there for her.” Because I can’t be, in the way she needs, he thought bitterly. “She’s drowning in that room up there trying to carry all this by herself.” Dean shook his head. He blamed himself almost as much as he blamed Sam. “She doesn’t need you to fix everything. You don’t gotta be perfect…you just gotta be there.”

That finally seemed to land. Sam managed a shaky nod and tried swallowing the knot in his throat.

Dean pushed off the counter and patted Sam on the shoulder on his way out. He’d only be gone a few days, if everything went as expected, but it would feel like an eternity.

You weren’t his to protect and take care of. Not that you had ever let anyone take care of you.

Guilt and anger still churned low in his gut. I shoulda’s reverberated endlessly through his mind. With the Impala keys in hand, he hoped a few days of hunting would channel his anger into something useful.

When you finally woke long enough to form a coherent thought, the light outside was already fading. Your hip and shoulder throbbed painfully after lying on the same side for hours.

The sight of water on the nightstand reminded you how parched you were. Walker thumped his tail and lifted his head from his nest of blankets as you eagerly gulped down the room-temperature water. A few stray drops trailed down your neck, cooling your skin and sharpening your senses.

As you adjusted to your surroundings, panic shot through you when you registered the deafening silence of the house—and the fact that you hadn’t laid eyes on your daughter in nearly a day.

You were surprised by how weak your legs felt. Really, how weak all of you felt. The gnawing in your stomach reminded you how long it had been since your last proper meal. It wasn’t dinner the night before. You had made yourself a plate, but Willa needed help eating, and afterward she desperately needed a bath. Your meal had been forgotten on the table, just like it had so many times before.

Sam was alerted by the creaking floorboards and quickly moved to check on you. When he pushed the bedroom door open, you were digging through a pile of laundry for a clean shirt.

“Hey, you’re up—just take it easy.”

All you cared about was Willa.

“Relax, she’s still asleep. You need to eat. And drink. And not take anymore of these,” he said, holding up the bottle of very expired painkillers. They had been prescribed after Willa was born, but you’d barely touched them back then. Now they dulled the pain enough for you to carry her without raising suspicion about your injury.

“I couldn’t exactly go to a doctor,” you said softly, trying to soften the inevitable sting of your words.

The implication burned.

“You shouldn’t have had to in the first place. Please just…let me take care of you.” His eyes were pleading, like he needed it more than you did. For once, he wasn’t trying to dissect your pain—cutting it open, naming all the pieces, tracing them back to the source. He was simply acknowledging that it hurt.

“I don’t even know what that means.” You bit the inside of your cheek to steady yourself. “I think I just needed some sleep. I feel fine—”

“—no, you’re not. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”

Your shoulders visibly sagged as his words settled around you. In his defense, you hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten either.

Sam watched you fidget with the hem of the shirt you’d found—one of his, naturally. Relief softened his expression when you finally nodded gently, silently giving him permission to step in when you needed him most.

Sam drew you a bath while he made dinner. You insisted on taking a shower, but he didn’t trust your shaky legs.

When Willa woke up, you let him handle getting her out of her crib. He insisted that he’d do all of the lifting while you healed, including your growing toddler. Your heart ached to be close to her, but you agreed to finish an entire meal before joining them downstairs. You finished quickly—practically inhaling the pasta dish he brought you—not realizing how hungry you were.

Having your basic needs met left you feeling refreshed and restored. A nervous energy pulled you downstairs, following the tiny voice in the kitchen that promised to make you feel whole again.

Willa’s face lit up as soon as she saw you in the doorway. So did yours. Ignoring the red sauce staining her hands and face, you gently squished her tiny face and nearly smothered her with affection. Her tiny giggles and repeated mama’s made your heart swell.

She lifted her little arms silently asking to be picked up. Motherly instinct made you move without hesitation.

“I got her.”

Your cheeks flushed as Sam shot you a look before moving to pick her up instead.

Sam noticed the way your expression faltered and immediately regretted how abrupt he sounded.

Willa whined softly in protest and reached for you anyway, twisting in Sam’s arms.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, bouncing her lightly on his hip while his eyes flicked back to you. “Just let me help, okay?”

You hadn’t realized how much of your identity was wrapped up in taking care of everyone until your mind and body stopped cooperating with you. Even something as instinctive as picking up your own daughter suddenly felt complicated.

Your heart splintered at the sight of your child asking to be close to you and, for the first time in her life, being denied your comfort. That feeling was far more painful than the blow to your chest.

Walker began whining as Willa’s fussing continued, adding to your growing anxiety.

“Hey.” Sam nodded toward the couch.

You settled into the soft leather and listened to the rhythmic padding of tiny feet on wood floors. Willa quickly climbed into your lap and wrapped her little arms around your neck. You barely registered the pain—the corners of your eyes only tightening briefly—over the warmth and love of the tiny being in your arms. She pulled back slightly and her little hazel eyes scanned your face carefully. You didn’t notice the stray tear on your cheek until she clumsily wiped it away, using far more force than necessary and drawing an emotional laugh from you.

Normally, Willa loved to play or read her favorite books after dinner. Tonight, she just wanted to curl up in your lap and stare at you through heavy eyelids. Exactly the way she had when she was a newborn—studying your face intently, trying to memorize the expressions of the person she trusted most in the world.

By the time Sam finished cleaning up dinner, you were both asleep. Your shirt bore remnants of red sauce from Willa’s dinner. He admired that you had never fussed over spit-up stains when she was little—if anything, you wore them like badges of honor for surviving the trenches of early motherhood.

It pained him to lift Willa from your chest and she whined sleepily at the separation, immediately reaching for you again with limp little hands.

“I know,” he whispered softly while settling her against his shoulder. “Mama just needs some rest.”

Walker lifted his head from his bed and watched Sam carefully as he carried Willa toward the stairs. The old shepherd seemed reluctant to leave you alone, even for a second.

Sam paused halfway up the stairs and glanced back toward the couch.

You hadn’t moved. Curled on your side beneath the dim glow of the television, one arm still stretched across the empty space where Willa had been moments earlier. Even asleep, your body looked tense, like you were bracing for something terrible to happen.

The sight hollowed him out.

Dean’s words kept echoing in his head.

She’s drowning in that room up there, trying to carry all this by herself.

He finally understood what Dean meant—you weren’t just tired. You were exhausted in a way that had seeped into your bones. Worn thin from surviving one impossible thing after another without ever allowing yourself to stop and feel any of it.

And somehow, even now, your first instinct was still to take care of everyone else before yourself.

Willa had fallen asleep again by the time he laid her down in her crib. She stirred long enough to mumble a sleepy mama before settling against her blankets.

Sam lingered beside the crib for a moment, brushing her curls away from her face.

“I know,” he whispered. “I miss her too.”

The confession slipped out before he could stop it.

Because even downstairs on that couch, only a few rooms away, it already felt like he was losing you. 

He intercepted you as you were coming up the stairs. 

You were still half-asleep so he easily guided you towards the bedroom with a gentle hand on your back. Before you could land in the soft comfort of your bed, Sam curled his arm around your waist to stop you with almost no effort on his part. You hummed weakly in protest as he pulled you almost flush against him. 

“You should probably change.” His hand teased the hem of your shirt. 

You glanced down and huffed a tired laugh before awkwardly pulling your arms out of the sleeves. The only way the pain allowed for.

Sam’s palms landed on your hips to steady you. His gaze settled on your bare chest. You didn’t try to hide from him. He frowned and sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you close to him. His eyes flicked between the blue and purple nebula of a bruise on your chest and your sleepy eyes. 

“Did I do that?”

You sighed as deeply as you could and gently nodded. 

His eyes were glossy and he tightened his grip on your hips. 

Your hand cupped his face while the other threaded through his soft locks. “Look at me.” 

He tilted his head up while you applied some tension at his roots. You knew it was an accident. One that he couldn’t forgive himself for. Settling in his lap, you kissed him softly and he melted into your touch. You tasted salt and you weren’t sure if it was from your tears or his. His kiss turned more frantic and you tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head 

His long arms wrapped around you tightly—almost painfully. Being pressed against his warmth soothed every ache and pain in your body. He rolled over and laid you against the mattress. Every ounce of anxiety dissolved with each pass of his hands against your tight muscles. 

Your sweet, sleepy sounds made his head fuzzy and his throat tight. You could barely keep your eyes open, but your body still hummed with need.

“Please, Sam.” 

He groaned feeling your shaky thighs tighten around his waist. 

“Y’really need to rest, baby.”

“Need you.” 

That broke his resolve. His mouth trailed down your throat, soothing the bruises with his soft lips and a quick pass of his tongue. 

You whimpered when he pawed at your breast and he loosened his grip in response. He placed featherlight kisses in the space between your breasts and muttered a quiet apology. 

“I know, it’s okay, Sammy.” 

He huffed a warm sigh against your skin, now slick with a mixture of tears and saliva. “I love you so much, Y/N.” 

His husky voice against your belly vibrated into your core. 

“I need you—now.” 

He didn’t ask questions. He just wanted to give you what you needed. His hands were shaking with restraint while he gripped the elastic of your panties and slid them down your legs, tossing them aside. 

You whined from frustration and pulled at his waistband, desperately wanting to feel him. 

He stood up and smiled at the sight of you, looking up at him with heavy lids and flushed cheeks. He quickly kicked his jeans and boxers off and settled between your thighs again. The feeling of his leaking cock against your thigh made your heart race and mouth water .

You flinched when he pressed two fingers to your pussy and parted your lips. “It’s okay—s’just me.” He cooed while you nodded weakly. His soft bangs tickled your face while he pressed his forehead to yours. Watching your expression while he slowly scissored his fingers into your tight cunt, just enough to get you ready for him. 

You whined and dug your fingers into his biceps when he finally pressed his swollen tip past your puffy folds. He stilled his hips when he was fully seated, swallowing your pretty cries and moans. “You’re so pretty, baby—so perfect for me.” 

Your hips started to rock as you chased the more of the delicious friction and pressure. 

“What do you need, honey? I just wanna make you feel good—need to.” He was desperate and rambling, pressing hot open-mouth kisses on your neck. 

“Fuck me—please.” 

You yelped when he snapped his hips and your walls struggled to accommodate his girth. 

“Shhh, I’m sorry baby, m’so sorry.” His breath was warm on your neck, his words laden with emotion. 

Feeling the tension in your velvety walls, he slowed his thrusts and pulled back to watch your face while he bottomed out. Your face softened when he started petting your swollen clit. 

“There she is.” He purred lowly against the shell of your ear. “Come for me, baby.”

He groaned when your nails bit into his skin and your cunt spasmed around him. You felt his cock twitch as he buried himself to the hilt, filling you up with his spend. 

“Sam—“ you groaned painfully when he relaxed against you. 

He shifted his weight back, apologizing and peppering your chest and neck with kisses while you both came down. 

Your heart started to race when you remembered you didn’t have your IUD anymore. Sam was still on top of you, slowly going soft but keeping you full of him. 

He noticed a shift, a micro expression. The way your soft features tightened. “What’s wrong?” 

Your throat tightened while you wiggled out from under him. He didn’t do anything wrong. You just weren’t ready. Neither of you were ready. 

“Hey—“ he tried reaching for you but you shrugged him off. 

“I’ll be right back,” you muttered under your breath after pulling a shirt on and slipping out of the bedroom. 

This was exactly how it happened the first time, when you got pregnant with Willa. 

Realizing you forgot to wear a condom after getting caught up in the moment. Quickly rushing to the bathroom and taking a shower, knowing how pointless it was. 

Your chances were low—you only had the IUD removed a few days ago. It wasn’t the right time in your cycle. You opted to skip a shower, but still took time to clean yourself up. 

Walker had taken advantage of the door not latching to creep into the bedroom and hop into the foot of the bed. On your side, naturally, as there was more room for him. 

“Don’t get comfy, bud.” Sam leaned forward to scratch between Walker’s ears. 

You came back a few minutes later looking more relaxed. 

“If I catch one paw to the leg you’re outta here.” Walker stretched out even more, earning a laugh from both of you. 

“You alright?” Sam studied you nervously.

“Yeah, just…not ready.” You returned a nervous look gauging his reaction. Hoping he wouldn’t silently implode or take it as a rejection. 

“Definitely not”. He nodded, almost over confidently. Trying to compensate for the tightness in his voice. 

You slid under the sheets, curling up at his side with his arm draped around you. 

“I love you.” He said softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You echoed him before sleep quickly dragged you under. 

Sam watched you for a while, smiling at your quiet snoring. It was just one of the adorable quirks he’d become accustomed to over the years, that he struggled to fall asleep without. 

Once he was sure you were asleep and properly covered up, he slipped out of bed and walked carefully towards the door. He gazed back at you for a moment, looking to see if you stirred. Satisfied, he gently closed the door behind him, leaving you and Walker to rest.

A/n: Shoutout to @winchesterfields67 for always being my beloved sounding board <3. The next chapter is in the works!

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist:

@ambiguous-avery , @insensiblelimerence , @mrs-cactus69 , @samiwinchester444 , @staley83, @little-rose-universe , @winchesterfields67 , @ferncloud0191 , @casanddeanswife

[winfieldsreads]

Another fantastic chapter! Can’t wait for the next one 🙈

P.s It’s my honour 😘🫶🏻

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Hiiii so I’ve actually never requested before and maybe this is weird idk but I’ve been thinking real hard about a Dean fic where he just fully manhandles reader. Like pushing her against the wall, throwing her on the bed, putting her into whatever positions he wants. Super passionate, super slutty and yeah

𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, rough sex (manhandling, marking, hair pulling, etc.), edging, forced orgasm, overstimulation, dom!Dean, sub!reader, unprotected pinv (don't do that), creampie, cum eating, pet names, wow this went off the rails y'all

WC: 2K

A/n: I love this request and thought angsty season 4 Dean was perfect for this. Title is from Is This Happiness by LDR.

The motel door slamming shut made you jump. Your eyes shot up from your laptop and adjusted to the low light in the room, finally settling on Dean. Just Dean. Yanking open the refrigerator door and grabbing a beer before slamming it closed. Your eyes followed him as he paced, each footstep punctuated by a creak of his boots on cheap linoleum. 

“I’m gonna kill her…fuckin’ Ruby.” 

You released a slow breath through your nose. 

“That answers my question.” You muttered to yourself.

That was why he came back without Sam. The tension between them was unbearable. Sam had promised he was done with Ruby. Done using his ability to exorcise demons. 

Done drinking demon blood.

You slowly closed your laptop with a quiet thud before standing up and padding towards him.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees and his jaw clenched tight. 

You might as well have been invisible standing in front of him. His eyes didn’t waver from the amber colored bottle in his hands.

A nervous sigh escaped you as you removed the bottle from his hands and set it on the table before settling in his lap. His brow furrowed like you had grown a second head. 

“—the fuck?” 

He was stunned silent—almost. 

You laced your fingers loosely around his neck and did your best to meet his gaze. The man was intimidatingly pretty. Even when he was furious. His intensely green eyes were dark with rage and made you shiver.  

His rough hands landed on the plush of your hips, and you weren’t sure if he was about to throw you off or pull you closer. You could see the battle raging in his mind.

You’d stopped expecting anything from Sam as he got sicker. It made the disappointment sting less when he let you down. But Dean wouldn’t give up on him and it was easier for him to blame Ruby—as if she had the ability to change. 

“I’m not good for you right now, sweetheart,” he drawled, still not making any attempt to push you away. If anything, the pads of his fingers pressed harder, holding you tighter. 

“I know,” you answered softly. Dean was always gentle with you, afraid of taking more than he deserved. Treating you like you were breakable, which is why he didn’t let you hunt with him. You were always on research duty. Stuck at whatever shitty motel or small down library he left you at. 

His fingers trailed down your thighs, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. You didn’t flinch, even though he felt anger simmering beneath his skin. He was surprised that you didn’t recoil from the heat that was surely radiating off of him. 

“Last chance to stop me. I won’t be mad.” 

Your hips rolled slightly, enough for him to clock it. You pulled him towards you, fingers applying pressure at his roots, enough to draw a pained hiss from him. Your kiss was molten—full of desire and devotion. Telling him exactly what he needed to know.

If you were breakable, you wanted him to be the one to break you.

His hands squeezed your soft thighs and he stood up with you wrapped tightly around him. You gasped when your back hit the old wood paneling on the wall. His mouth abandoned yours and trailed under your jaw where his teeth pinched and dragged against your skin.  Your neck was surely a mess of spit and small bite marks, but feeling him lose control was worth it. 

Bringing one hand between you, he shoved it past the waistband of your shorts and pressed his fingers against the damp cotton of your panties. His breath came in hot puffs against your neck while he pulled the fabric aside and ran his fingers through your slick. 

“Fuck baby—you’re so wet f’me.” He groaned while his thick fingers teased your tight entrance. 

You bit your lip trying to muffle a cry when he plunged two curled fingers into your spasming cunt. He felt you start to clench after a few rough thrusts, his fingers hit your g-spot perfectly, in a way yours never could.

He pressed you harder against the wall so he could brace himself and finger fuck you harder. The way his palm nudged your sensitive clit was bringing you towards the edge. He withdrew his hand making you whine and pulse around nothing. 

“Dean..” you cried and let your head loll back against the wall. 

Your cheeks flushed when you saw him suck your wetness off his thick fingers. He gave you a cocky smile and wink. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.  

“Sorry sweetheart—you gotta wait.” 

Before you could protest his cruelty, his mouth was on you again. His tongue lapping up the precious little moans he loved so much. 

You yelped when he pulled you away from the wall and dropped you on the mattress. He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the sight of you sprawled out in front of him. Nothing but love in your eyes. All for him. 

Your eyes were glued to him as you watched him shed his layers, drinking in every beautiful ridge and valley, the way he almost seemed to glow in the yellow lamplight. Your cami joined the growing pile on the floor. Just as you were undoing the clasp on your bra, he roughly peeled your shorts and panties off in one pull, dragging you closer to him in the process.

“You were taking too long,” he said before stuffing his thick digits inside you again. His warm mouth latched onto one of your nipples, already hardened by the cool air in the room. You were closer than you thought after your robbed climax and Dean knew it. His tongue worked your sensitive peak with expert precision, his teeth providing enough pressure for you to arch your back off the mattress.

“Please don’t stop.” 

His eyes flicked up towards you. The normally beautiful green was almost completely dark with lust. He released your nipple with a wet pop.

“Not yet.” 

You were wondering what you had gotten yourself into. Normally, Dean would make you come as many times as he could before sinking his cock into you. 

He gripped your hips tightly and flipped you onto your belly and pulled your hips back. He took a moment to admire the view of your perfect ass. Your adorable little dimples. The smooth curve of your waist. Your wetness glistening on your thighs. He gripped the base of his cock and gave it a few slow pumps, drawing a bead of precome out of the tip and working it down his length. 

He finally notched himself at your tight entrance and you whimpered. He felt so thick and heavy against you.

Running a rough hand down your spine, he pressed your face and chest deeper into the mattress. 

When he finally sank into you, the stretch was almost blinding. Your body tried to shift forward, but his grip on your waist kept you firmly in place. Exactly where he needed you. 

The mattress absorbed most of your noises, and Dean wasn’t having it. He gripped a handful of your hair and pulled—not enough to hurt. Just enough for him to hear your little whining mewls.

“Perfect little pussy. Squeezin’ me like a vice.” He growled as he bottomed out, feeling your walls flutter to accommodate him. He pulled out slowly, watching your pink ring clinging to him, before ramming back into you and forcing the air out of your chest.

Between the sound of skin slapping, made obscenely wet from your arousal, and your pornographic noises, there were going to be complaints made to motel management. 

His hand slid underneath you, between your trembling thighs, and petted your clit in time with his thrusts. Your walls started to flutter and he felt you getting wetter. He knew your body well enough to know you were about to fall apart. 

“Getting close?” 

You could hear a smirk in his voice. All you could manage to do was hum. There was definitely a small puddle of drool forming on the fabric below you. 

“I wanna feel you come, sweetheart.”

That was all you needed for your vision to go white and waves of pure euphoria to course through your body. He groaned while your velvety walls pulsed around him. It took every shred of his willpower not to join you—but he wasn’t done with you yet. 

You must have blacked out. Somehow he managed to turn you over and cage you underneath him. Hooking your legs over his arms, he folded you in half into a mating press.

“You’re taking me so well.” He purred as he admired how absolutely ruined you were underneath him. His palms pushed your thighs even wider to allow him impossibly deeper. 

 “m’so fucking full, oh my god.” You couldn’t think straight with the way he stretched your cunt. 

You felt every curve and vein. Every time his swollen head kissed your cervix. The slight curve that pressed on that special spot inside you, more sensitive from your first orgasm, driving you towards your second.

You were so sensitive, clit still swollen, when his calloused pad returned to the sensitive bud. You whimpered and tried uselessly to wiggle away from the overstimulation.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re gonna give me another. Just a little bit more.” His voice was warm and smooth like butter, melting you from the inside.

He was right, and he just kept fucking you through it. He knew your body better than you did. 

Seeing the pretty white ring at the base of his cock, wetness glistening on your thighs, made his thrusts stutter.

“So perfect f’me…my perfect girl…mine” 

He groaned as he bottomed out one last time, painting your womb with thick ropes of his spend before resting his forehead against yours. 

His expression was softer now as he searched for any sign of discomfort—worried that he might have gone too far. You were, in his mind, something else he needed to protect. Something breakable. 

He was relieved to see you meeting his gaze. No pain or fear in your eyes because he had let himself lose control. Still, he slowly eased your legs down, allowing you to take a full breath that you didn’t realize you needed.

You relaxed into his touch while the same hands that had folded you in half were gently massaging your aching hips. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles where his grip had been bruising. 

Once he started to soften inside of you, he watched as he slowly withdrew from you, groaning as his release started to leak. He watched you clench at the loss, causing more to seep out. With two fingers, he quickly pressed it back into you with a cocky grin, seeing how sensitive you were now. 

“fffuck—DEAN!” Your back arched as he curled his fingers slightly. 

“Shit, honey. I wanna feel you again.” He withdrew his fingers, now coated in your combined juices, and rubbed your puffy bud mercilessly. He tightened his grip around your thigh and pulled you closer, angling your hips upward on his lap to keep your cunt full of him. 

Your legs trembled with every pass over your clit while his lubed fingers tickled your g-spot perfectly. You were so fucked out that his name was the only word left in your vocabulary. 

When you came again he was gentler, slowing his fingers to guide you down without overstimulating you. This was all about you now.

Your eyelids were leaden. Nerves overwrought. Body loose and heavy like you could melt into the mattress. 

“Hey—look at me.” 

You managed to open your sleepy eyes a crack and smile weakly, humming in response.

“Was that too much?” He rubbed his neck nervously wondering if he had pushed you too hard.

“Hell yeah it was.”

 His stomach dropped. 

“…but in the best kind of way.” 

He huffed a nervous laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

Hope you enjoyed! ♥️

[winfieldsreads]

“If you were breakable, you wanted him to be the one to break you.”

A tear just rolled down my leg 💧🥵🚒

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

There's Sam girls and Dean girls

(Sam Winchester x female reader x Dean Winchester)

Summary A case leads you to a Supernatural convention. You can't help but tease Sam and Dean about their notoriety, but then it turns out you are in the books, too. And there's some stuff in there you don't want the brothers to know about. CWs Sexy thoughts but no sexy actions. Supernatural book series. Conventions. Awkwardness. Cheesy book covers. Secret crushes. Rated Teen. 3.7k words. AN There's a spiritual, more explicit sequel, Horror is one thing, but being forced to live bad smut? Enjoy! Or cringe. Either is fine. 😄

Sam x reader x Dean masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

“It’s so… lifelike,” you say, moving your head a little so you can see better through the reflection of the glass.

“Very funny,” Sam says, and his voice tells you that he doesn’t think it’s funny in the slightest.

“I mean the hair, the shoulders, the ripped jeans, blood-dripping axe, the…”

You narrow your eyes, trying to see. “Is that a harmonica?” you ask. Sam leans over you, so close you can smell his aftershave.

“I think it’s supposed to be a knife?” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure.

“I think it’s a harmonica,” you say, turning around and he leans back, while he looks at the glass case behind you with pain in his eyes. “I mean you’re famous for your mouth organ skills,” you conclude, grinning proudly at making that sound as dirty as it does.

Sam doesn’t appreciate the joke, his face full of horror while he does the cutest little pout.

“I hate this,” he says, still looking at the book in the case behind you. Supernatural, by Carver Edlund. Whichever volume this is, it has Sam and Dean on the cover in worrying and completely impractical states of undress, fighting hordes of what are meant to be demons but look more like gremlins.

It has been your utmost pleasure in the last fifteen minutes to torture Sam with how he is portrayed on these covers. They’re ludicrous and over-the-top but if anyone could pull off the no shirt, ripped jeans, harmonica playing look it would be Sam. Or Dean.

Speaking of, he walks up in just that moment. “I hate this,” he says, echoing his brother. You don’t. You actually love this.

Sam looks at Dean. “Anything?” he asks. Dean shakes his head.

“I guess Chuck isn’t here so he can’t help us,” the older Winchester replies, and then asks immediately, voice annoyed: “How in the world is this happening again? The second time people are getting attacked by ghosts at a Supernatural convention? How?”

Sam nods, then scans the crowd moving around you in the lobby-turned-fan-shop of the hotel you’re in.

“At least Becky’s not here this time,” he mutters.

“Guys, guys, guys,” you say, raising your hands, “you are looking at this completely the wrong way.”

Both brothers look at you, Sam still like he is about to panic, Dean like he is about to punch someone in the face.

“You guys are legends here,” you tell them. “Rockstars. WWE champions.” The last one you direct at Dean, but the angry look doesn’t leave his face.

“Except nobody knows that we are real,” Sam says, “and no one can know.” You shrug.

“But still,” you say, “don’t you think it’s kind of cool? That all the people here adore you?” Another shrug, and then you add: “At least in theory.”

Sam gives a deep sigh and Dean looks at the book on display behind you.

“Alright,” he says finally, slapping his hands together. “I say we go with journalists. We’re here to cover the convention for a local paper.” Sam nods.

“Sounds good, let’s get going,” he says and starts walking.

Dean hangs back just a second, turns to you. He points at the book cover.

“My hair doesn’t look like this, does it?” he asks, voice lowered. You suppress a grin.

“No, of course not,” you say, giving an assuring nod as you pat him on the shoulder. Dean doesn’t look convinced and then you follow Sam.

Several guests in the hotel have reported sighting of people in their rooms at night, some saying they were flickering, like on an old TV. There’s been cold spots and things moving, but no one’s gotten hurt yet, except for one guy who got freaked out and fell down a few stairs, spraining his ankle.

The only reason you’re even checking it out is because you were just a few towns over, finishing up a case.

When you pulled into the hotel parking lot and saw the banners, Dean nearly turned the Impala around on the spot. It was only after you told him that innocent people might be getting hurt that he begrudgingly parked the car. Sam meanwhile had gone quiet and a little pale.

So often, they’re so similar but so often they’re not.

“It’s easy for you, you know,” Dean is saying to you while you are walking through the lobby, “it’s not like your every thought and private life is just put on display, for everyone to read.”

“Hey!” you say, sounding a little offended. “I must be in there somewhere, right? I’m your trusty sidekick, I don’t at least get a mention?” Sam chuckles a little.

“Probably,” he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Would be weird if you weren’t.” You nod.

“Damn right it would be,” you reply. “It would be downright—”

“Oh my God, you guys look great!” you hear a voice close behind you. All three of you turn around.

There’s a couple standing behind you. He’s got his arm around her shoulder and she has a hand on his chest and is grinning at you, eyes wide. They’re not in costume like the majority of the other convention goers are, but they are merched the hell out. His t-shirt has one of the book covers on it and hers the words Winchester Family Business. It’s actually kind of nice.

“Thanks,” you say instinctively, although you’re not sure why. The guy points at Sam, and goes: “Let me guess, you’re Sam, right?”

You think duh before you understand what he means. He thinks he’s cosplaying as Sam.

Sam takes a second to get it as well. “Uh yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

“Makes sense because of the height,” the girlfriend says, “but I think you’d be a better Castiel, looks-wise.”

You look at Sam just to see an entire identity crisis go over his face.

“And you,” she says, looking at Dean now. “You look great!” Her boyfriend nods. “Real strong on the whole Dean vibe.”

Dean actually looks flattered and you make sure you remember to tease him about that later.

“But,” the girlfriend says, and then her eyes land on you and you panic for a second. She shakes her head appreciatively. “You know a lot of people don’t manage to pull it off, but you’re rocking it.”

“Rocking…it?” you ask, feeling your mouth go dry.

“Yeah!” she says, her face excited and she says your name. When she sees that you’re not picking up what she’s putting down, she waves her hand, gesticulating towards you. “I mean you got her down perfectly. The hair, the outfit, the devil-may-care attitude while still being a little cutie.”

And yeah, okay, it is flattering, so you can’t really blame Dean, especially not when the guy says: “Like Faith and Buffy had a kick-ass baby! Basically the perfect woman!”

His girlfriend pokes her finger into his side, but she’s laughing. You shrug, the comparison definitely getting to you.

“I’ve often thought so,” you say. The girlfriend squeals. “That’s totally something she would say!” Looks like your character work is on point.

Of course Sam has to ruin the rainfall of compliments. “We’re actually here from a local paper,” he’s saying, and if there was a subtle way to throw him an annoyed look you would do it. “Anything… unusual happen since you guys have gotten here?” The couple look at each other.

“Not really,” she says, “but we only got here this morning. We couldn’t get time off work earlier.” So they probably can’t tell you anything regarding the sightings.

“Thanks anyway,” Dean says, and you’re about to turn away, when the woman says: “It’s a fun idea, by the way, going as the love triangle. Just makes sense.”

You freeze and you’re pretty sure so do Sam and Dean.

“The love what now?” you say after a second.

“Love triangle?” she confirms, looking at you. When she sees the clueless look on your face, she puts her hand over her mouth.

“Oh crap,” she says, “are you not that far in the books?” Then she’s motioning towards her boyfriend’s shirt. He pulls the strap of his bag away so that you can see better as you take a step closer to him.

Like you already saw earlier it’s one of the book covers, the number telling you it’s a recent one. It has Sam and Dean on it, again, half-naked, looking like they work for Rent-a-Highlander. But there’s a third figure on the cover. You step even closer to see.

It’s a woman. She’s wearing a red, skin-tight dress that’s flayed in places and has a sword in her hand. She’s also leaning her back against one of the guys, the one who’s supposed to be Sam, long hair blowing in the wind, his hand on her hip and his sculpted chest pressed against her back, while the other guy, who’s supposed to be Dean, ripped shirt barely covering anything, is facing her, cupping her chin.

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. My. God.”  

“Oh my God,” you say, again.

You can’t stop saying it, as the three of you weave your way through the crowd, Sam leading since he can see best where you’re going.

You say it again because what you just saw isn’t sinking in.

“What’s the matter?” Dean says behind you, snarkiness in his voice. “Isn't it nice to be adored?”

You whip around to throw him an angry look and promptly walk into Sam’s back, since he’s stopped. You almost jump back. Any kind of physical contact seems loaded right now.

“Let’s go over here,” Sam says, pointing to a seating group in a quiet corner. When you reach it, you plop down in one of the chairs. You’re tempted to say oh my God again but luckily Sam starts talking first. “Okay, we gotta find some people who have encountered the ghosts, assuming it is ghosts.”

He’s purposefully not looking at you, instead scanning the room. “Maybe we should split up, meet up again in an hour and see what we found.”

Okay, so he is just completely ignoring this. Very Sam. Dean, on the other hand, is not.

“That dress would just be so unpractical,” he says, apropos of nothing. “But damn, it was ripped in all the right places.” You look at him, eyes wide as saucers.

“Seriously?” you hiss at him.

“What?” he says, raising his hands. “You’ve been making fun of us from the moment we got here. I can’t do the same?”

You’re lost for words because as uncomfortable as it is, he’s not totally wrong. You’re kind of reaping what you sowed. You make a secret vow to yourself to never, ever do any sowing again.

“Guys!” Sam says, making you and Dean look at him. “Focus?” You shake your head. “Yes, you’re right. Ghosts. Hauntings. Work.” Then you take a deep breath.

You can’t get that cover out of your head. It’s so cheesy, over the top. Silly. But damn it if the idea of being between Sam and Dean like that isn’t making you feel some things. Clearing your throat, you bring yourself back to reality.

“Maybe splitting up is a good idea. And like you said, we meet back here in an hour and compare notes,” you say. Sam nods.

“Okay,” he says and then he is walking away. No see you later, no good luck. He is just walking off. What the hell?

You look back at Dean and you are about 99% sure you catch him looking at your boobs.

“I really hope you’re not imagining that dress on me, Dean Winchester,” you say, and Dean makes a face that tells you that is exactly what he was doing.

You huff, then get up and walk away too.

Love triangle is ridiculous.

For a love triangle to happen, there would need to be flirting. Maybe kissing. There hasn’t been.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Flirting with Dean is easy and you slip into it all the time. Sometimes it’s just teasing, but other times…

Other times it takes on a different quality. Dean looks into your eyes a second longer than he needs to, until you feel your breathing getting a little heavier. He checks you out and compliments you but some of his compliments are so specific, so genuine that it flusters you.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t flirt with you at all, but then you don’t know what it would look like for Sam to flirt. Instead, he does small things he doesn’t need to do, pays attention to things that would escape anyone else's notice. He helps you take off your jacket when you’re hurt and can’t move your arms or shoulders so well, his fingers grazing your skin lightly, making it feel like they’re shooting off electricity. He stands close to you, closer than he needs to, so that you brush up against him when you move.

But love triangle? you think, as you’re talking to the third group of people that hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Love triangle is just ridiculous.

The group you’re talking to is two young women and a guy. They’re nice and are happy to talk to you, but no ghost sightings.

Ironically, one of them is dressed as a ghost. “Old Halloween costume,” she grins when you complimented her on it.

You’re chatting about the convention and that everyone’s waiting for a new book to come out, while you hold a little pad and a pen in your hands, to look all journalist-y. They’re talking passionately amongst themselves about where the story is going. You can’t help yourself – you have to ask.

“So what do you guys think about the love triangle?” you ask, trying to act as unaffected as possibly.

“I know some people don’t like it,” the girl dressed as a ghost says, “but I love it.”

The guy, dark hair and glasses, nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I think she’s a great addition to the story. I mean, no offense, I like the old books too, but geez, I think we all had enough of that sausage fest.”

The second girl, short bob and freckles, laughs. “There’s only so many scenes you can have with the brothers miscommunicating while they are in emotional turmoil. These books need some sex!”

You all laugh. The books aren’t the only ones, you think.

“Plus,” ghost girl says, pointedly looking at you, “she is super hot. Have you seen those covers?”

You remember the cover, of course, remember the way Sam was grabbing your hip and Dean tilting up your face. Well, not your face, not your hip.

Whatever. This is confusing.

“But isn’t it awkward?” you ask, still not able to stop yourself. “I mean someone’s bound to get hurt, right?”

Freckles shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, “I just hope she ends up with Sam. I mean, Jesus, he’s so controlled and then there’s that scene where he thinks about what he wants to do to her? How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his?”

You swallow, just as Freckles makes a head-exploding-sound. “Too hot.”

“I don’t know,” Glasses says. “I like her with Dean.”

“Dean’s too much of a playboy,” Freckles interrupts him. “He’ll never settle down.”

“That’s what makes it so romantic,” Glasses responds, leaning forward. “He’s never been in love and then he meets her and he can’t have her? Duuude.”

He sighs, then grins, before he adds: “Plus you know he must be a beast in bed.”

Laughs all around again while you pretend that you are totally fine and not turning into molten lava. To distract, you turn to ghost girl.

“Who do you think she should end up with?” you ask. Ghost girl shrugs.

“Why pick one?” she says. “She should just take both. She fantasizes about it, after all.”

You just have enough time to think holy crap, your spank bank material is in these books, when you hear Dean behind you: “Who fantasizes about what?”

You whip around, and Sam and Dean are standing right behind you.

“Nothing,” you say immediately. You turn back to the group.

“Thank you,” you say, raising your note pad that you have written absolutely nothing into. “I appreciate you talking to me.” The wave at you and then you get up.

“Anything?” you ask Sam and Dean in a low voice, hoping they won’t ask what you were talking about.

“I think I got something,” Sam says. He fills you both in: the people who have notices the cold spots are all on the same floor. So that’s where you go.

The hallways of the hotel are abandoned since everyone is downstairs at the convention. There’s no sign of any ghostly activity, at least not until you walk ahead, scanning the hallway in front of you, and suddenly Sam says your name and you feel his hand wrap around your arm.

He pulls you back and you just see a presence appear in the exact spot where you were standing a second ago. It shrieks and then disappears.

It would be scary but you are very much distracted by the fact that when Sam pulled you back he pulled you towards the wall and you are now between it and him, his heaving chest at the surprise right in front of you.

How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his.

You need to take a deep breath. Sam looks down at you, his big hand still around your arm.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Mmh hmm,” you reply, since words are hard.

“That wasn’t a ghost,” Dean says, stepping closer to you two. Sam turns to him and lets go of your arm.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Death echo,” you just manage to mutter. They both look at you.

“It was quick but I think I saw a gunshot wound,” you add, sort of proud of how steady your voice sounds now that you're saying more than two syllables. “If it was a ghost it would have attacked me. I mean, I basically walked through it.” Sam nods, thinking.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Dean nods as well, looks at you. “Smart. That’s our girl.”

He must be a beast in bed.

And yeah, your voice probably wouldn’t be so steady after he says that, so you decide to just smile and nod.

“Death echoes are harmless, right?” Dean asks, turning to Sam. His little brother nods. “They are. They can be reminded that they’re dead, but it usually just works if someone they have a connection to does it.” You swallow to steady yourself.

“I think I might have an idea,” you say.

It's a minor spell that you learned years ago. The ingredients are basic and easy to get, and Sam says the incantation while Dean draws the pentagram on the wallpaper in the hallway.

“They’ll just think it was some fans,” he shrugs at you.

The death echo makes another appearance and the spell helps to remind it of its death. The spirit passes on, the cold spots disappear and it’s another day of work well done.

You’re almost sad to leave because the people you were talking to were nicer than the folk you run into on your normal cases.

But you’re also glad to be getting out of there. You don’t need anymore reminders of how hopeless and complicated your crushes on the two brothers are, and you certainly don’t need any more sexy ideas put in your head.

You climb into the back of the Impala, sitting in the middle, while Sam and Dean get into the front. A big sigh leaves you involuntarily.

You gotta put this behind you. Nothing good lies that way.

You notice then that Dean hasn’t started the car, so you look up, and you see both of them looking back at you.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

“Look,” Sam says, sounding a little uncomfortable, “do we need to talk?” At your wide eyed stare, he adds: “About the love triangle thing?”

Oh God, you cannot even express how much you do not want to talk about that. So you decide to just lie.

“It’s just part of the book,” you say, doing your best to sound convincing. “I mean I know Chuck’s a prophet and all, but come on, he must have made some stuff up, you know? Besides, sex sells! Everyone knows that.”

Sam nods, but Dean doesn’t drop it.

“Right,” he says, and then sort of looks down, you don’t know at what, “so you’ve never dreamed of two pairs of strong, calloused hands running over your body, exploring every inch of you, making you feel small and desired?”

Your eyes go even wider, if such a thing is possible, because, yes, absolutely you have, but how in the world does Dean know that?

“Or,” Sam adds, suddenly not so awkward-looking anymore. He reaches his hand and Dean hands him whatever he’s been holding. Sam brings it up over the seat where you can see it, and it’s an edition of the book that has the three of you on the cover.

Sam reads from it, eyebrows raised. “Or lying between two big, solid bodies while their practiced mouths make you shudder in ecstacy, screaming your lust to the heavens as their manhoods undo you again and again?”

Dean guffaws.

“Damn,” he says, “you have a dirty mind.”

He turns and starts the engine, music blaring from the stereo.

You slip lower in your seat, your hands going over your face, hoping the earth will simply open up and swallow you down as the car starts moving.

“This can’t be happening,” you mutter.

You peek between your fingers and Dean is drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam grins at you.

“Pretty hot,” he says, and then turns forward as well.

You can’t help but grin a little.   

[cheriecokezero]

.⋆♱ i look to you, and i see nothing — dean winchester !

❤︎︎ summary. you love dean, but he’s too old for you and he’ll never feel the same.

❤︎ contents. f!reader, sfw, unrequited love, alcohol, drunken confessions, age gap (reader is 24 + dean is late 40s/early 50s), angst, hurt/no comfort, jealousy, pet names (sweetheart, kid), slightly misogynistic thoughts from reader bc she’s jealous lol, canon divergence — 5.1k words

❤︎ notes. inspired by this ask. it was just gonna be a short fic but it got a little out of control haha.

You hate that Dean flirts with other women right in front of you. 

It’s probably not on purpose. He doesn’t think about your feelings enough for him to be that calculated. He’s not searching the bar for the perfect victim, trying to choose a woman that will make you seethe with jealousy and question your own self-worth. 

You doubt he’s thinking about you at all. 

The smile Dean shares with them is always different than the one he gives you. It’s not as warm, not as familiar, but there’s something secretive about it, lust curling the corners of his lips into a grin as his eyes darken a shade. He always leans forward, whispering words to them that’ll make them feel special, even though they’re just one more notch on his belt, another set of heartstrings he’s got wrapped his finger. 

Dean never looks at you like that, and it kills you because you can’t understand why. 

He’s not exactly selective with the women he sleeps with, doesn’t have an obvious type that you don’t fit into, and while you wouldn’t say you’re anything special, you’re close to him, and that should count for something. You think you understand him, and you hang off his every word, just like the rest of the women he wants. All it takes them is a smile and he’ll bend over backwards to keep their attention, because he likes to be desired. 

Dean’s got all of you, all of your attention, and he doesn’t even want it. 

Sam knows—he must know, if his sideways glances of pity are anything to go by. You, on the other hand, just drown yourself in another drink and try to ignore the grievous stabbing sensation that fires over and over in your chest as Dean inches his hand closer to the woman he’s flirting with.  

“I think you should slow down,” Sam says lightly, placing his palm on your shoulder as you stumble out of your chair, coming to a crooked standing position. 

Without saying a word, you shrug him off and drag yourself over to the bar, ordering another drink. 

It’s quieted down a bit since you first got there. You’re not sure what time it is, but it’s late enough that the barstools are mostly empty, and there’s only a few couples dancing in the middle of the establishment. The only other person at the bar is an older woman, her skin wrinkled and hanging off her bones in a way that’s indicative of one too many cigarettes. She’s attempting to seduce the bartender, but he’s merely indulging her and is grateful when you saunter up to the bar and flag him down. 

Your misery must be evident on your features because he’s instantly frowning, eyeing you skeptically as you slur out some sort of greeting. 

“You okay, honey?” He asks with a deep southern drawl, grimacing as you practically fall onto the counter, giving him a glimpse down your shirt that he pointedly ignores. 

“I’m fine.” You make an attempt to straighten yourself before reminding him of your drink order. “One more, please.” 

For a moment, you’re certain he’s going to deny your request, but he spares a glance back at Sam, who seems responsible enough, and then to you, who he deems innocent, and shrugs. 

As he’s making your drink, you turn your attention back to Dean, your eyes narrowing as he places his hand between the shoulder-blades of a tall brunette. She’s pretty, but in a plain sort of way. Her clothing is conservative, her hair un-styled and pulled halfway back, and the only makeup she’s wearing is a layer of mascara and a hint of blush. 

You guess she’s somewhere in her late thirties, which is older than you, but still a decade younger than Dean. She’s probably got a middle-schooler at home and one divorce under her belt, an ex-husband that’s obsessed with her because he can’t find anyone else.

Despite the flaws you can note, Dean’s interested, and it turns your mouth sour. Predictably, he leans in to whisper something in her ear and she giggles, pushes him away coyly without letting him stray too far. Neither of them notice you watching, but the bartender does. 

He slides the glass over the counter to you, gives Dean a quick look and then smiles sympathetically back at you. You can tell he wants to ask about the nature of your relationship, but he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, so he says nothing at all. 

You don’t even thank him as you stumble across the room, back to the table with Sam. Jealousy turns you into a monster of a person, but you’re too drunk to care about niceties.

Sam tries to talk to you as you drown yourself in the alcohol, no longer registering the burn—the pain in your chest hurts more than the liquor, anyway. 

For a while longer, you ignore him, forgetting all about the job you’re supposed to be on, the people around you, the apocalyptic danger that the Winchesters have gotten themselves into. If you make an embarrassment of yourself, it won’t matter. You’ll be out of this city by next week, and no one will remember you, anyway. They’ll just remember Dean. 

You tip the glass back, realize it’s empty, and make to stand once more. This time, you slip, and when you try to catch yourself, your hand misses the table. You’re expecting to find yourself on the floor, bleeding from somewhere on your face as your head smacks the hard tiles, but the impact never comes. 

Instead, Sam catches you, his hands curled around your biceps as a concerned look flashes through his eyes. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, hoisting you to a standing position. “I’ll take you back to your room.” 

You fight against him, muttering a few no’s as Sam exchanges an awkward look with the people beside him. He smiles stiffly, apparently interpreting their expressions as judgement, because he releases you, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“I don’t wanna go,” you groan, slurring the words altogether. “You can’t make me.” 

“Well, you can’t keep drinking.” Sam frowns, the lines in his face deepening. “You’ll make yourself sick.” 

You glare, but the muscles in your face feel out of your control—you’re not sure how mean you manage to turn your expression. “I don’t care,” you say, attempting to push past him again. Sam holds you more loosely this time, but he doesn’t let you pass, sighing like an overworked father. “Let me go, Sam.” 

“Please.” The couple is looking back at you again, wondering if they should be concerned, but Sam ignores them, trying to block your path to the bar as he pleads with you. “You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.” 

“I’ll be fine.” You nearly fall on your face again, tripping over your own feet as Sam steadies you by the shoulders. 

He starts to say something else condescending, something you’re certain you don’t want to hear, but he doesn’t get the words out before Dean’s approaching, his weary posture built up with exasperation.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks, lips pinched together. He ignores you completely, the question directed towards Sam, but you can’t bring yourself to care about the dismissal. The brunette has been abandoned; she’s still with her friends halfway across the bar, not paying you any mind. 

It gives you some sort of thrill to know that Dean is prioritizing you, that he’s come to check on you when he could be stealing the car, whisking his prize back to the motel instead. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, but the words must come back all jumbled because Sam and Dean exchange a look. “Go away.” 

“Not a chance.” Dean says, amused, giving you a once-over. “You’re always such a sweet-talker when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you say, just to be a contrarian. “I’m fine.”

He does laugh, then, rolling his eyes. “Come on, kid. I’m gonna take you back.” 

The word makes your stomach twist with a desire that disgusts you, because you don’t care that he’s lived a life much longer than yours, that he thinks of you as a liability, you still want him in a way that drives you crazy.

You know how Dean sees you—a stupid, naive, young woman that fancies herself a hunter, who’s just going to put herself in danger if someone doesn’t watch out for her. He thinks you don’t know shit about shit, which couldn’t be further from the truth. You grew up in the life, just like the Winchesters, and you know enough to keep yourself alive. 

Sometimes, you want to hate him. You would’ve been spared a lot of heartbreak had Dean Winchester never come into your life. Your parents died helping him a few years back, and now he’s got your heart in his hands, squeezing the life out of it day by day.

You’d leave, but you don’t really want to, and Dean, with his endless survivor’s guilt and self-loathing, feels semi-responsible for making sure you don’t die. 

“You sure, Dean? What about…” Sam trails off, looking over Dean’s shoulder, back to the startlingly plain woman. The three of you have caught her attention now, and you can see her withdrawing already, sharing a few words with her friends. She’s not the type of person to take a risk on someone like Dean, who has too much baggage and an air of danger. 

That placates you, if only a bit. 

“Changed my mind,” Dean says, and the two brothers exchange another look, one that when you’re siblings, conveys an entire conversation. 

Sam licks his lips, then releases you, stepping away so that the smell of his cologne is no longer suffocating. “You want me to come?” 

“Nah.” Dean throws an arm over your shoulder, turning your cheeks hot. “Finish your beer. I’ll be right back.” He flashes you a smile, and shamefully, you melt, feeling special now that you’ve got his full attention. “Come on, sweetheart.” 

Your stomach twists, and if the feeling hadn’t lasted for so long, you would’ve thought it was nothing more than the nerves that came with being in Dean’s orbit. Only a few seconds later, once you’re out the door, you realize that it’s nausea too. 

You don’t feel the sickness rising up in your throat, but Dean interprets the look on your face easily and pushes you into the bushes, holding your hair back just as you vomit all over the grass. It’s only once, but it makes you feel better instantly, even though your mouth tastes bitter and acidic. 

For just a moment, he rubs the space between your shoulders, a soothing gesture that makes you want to vomit all over again. Instead, you stand taller, wipe your mouth and glue your eyes to the ground timidly.

“Sorry,” you say quietly, your entire body hot with shame. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve lost control of your stomach—you’ve never been good at holding your liquor—but you’re normally not one wrong move away from throwing up all over Dean. 

He’s unfazed, doesn’t bat an eye at the mess you’ve left behind. “Feel better?” 

You nod, your voice hushed and uncertain. Still, you can’t be too upset when your stomach feels lighter and the dizziness is fading. The world still seems off-kilter, but you’re closer to sobriety. “Yeah. I’m okay now.” 

Dean smiles, and though there’s affection there, care of some sort, there’s not a fire hidden behind that emotion, no waves of lust in the shades of his green irises. He’s fond of you, you know that, but you also know he doesn’t love you, that if he ranked everyone that’s ever been important to him, you wouldn’t even make the top ten.

The two of you walk back to the Impala, and though he still stays close, hovers his hand over your back in case you fall, he doesn’t touch you again. He seems considerably aware of your thoughts, and stupidly, you blurt out, “Can you read my mind?” 

Dean pinches his eyebrow together, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “You mean like, guess what you’re thinking?”

“No,” you frown, completely serious. “I mean, can you read my mind? Do you know what I’m thinking?” You lean closer to him, just brushing his elbow with your own. “You knew I was gonna throw up.” 

His lips part as he considers the question, only briefly, before realizing how ridiculous it is. A soft laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, confused. “Just get in the car.”

You’re a little offended he won’t answer the question, but for whatever reason, it makes him laugh, and that’s enough. There’s nothing like seeing a spark of joy spread through Dean’s features, and though you’re not often the one to put it there, it’s like staring back at the sun. It feels like a small miracle, the act of something otherworldly, to be able to bring something so light and carefree out of a man that has suffered so much. 

Dean helps you into the passenger seat, your heart aching with an undying love for him. “Don’t you dare throw up in my car,” he says, rolling down the window once he’s seated beside you. 

You roll your eyes and place your head on your forearm, your face partially exposed to the late spring air. 

Dean spares you a gentle smile before pulling out of the parking lot, drumming his fingers against the top of the steering wheel. Quietly, the local radio station plays in the background, the host concluding his spiel before segueing into another old 80s song. A few minutes of it play before Dean turns it down, exhaling heavily.

“Are you okay?” 

For a moment, you don’t register his words, too busy relishing in the feeling of the cool breeze against your face. It brings you marginally back to life, and you shift in the seat, tilting your head to look at Dean. “Hm?”

He gives you a quick look, keeping his eyes on the road as his jaw flexes. “I asked if you were okay. You seem upset.” 

You blink, a slow movement, cat-like and lazy. It’s bold of him to ask you to share your secrets when he is such a closed book. 

Fleetingly, you meet eyes, but you look away from him just as quickly, fixing your gaze on the dashboard. “I’m fine,” you say, swallowing back the sharp sting of pain that comes with your devotion to him. 

Dean purses his lips and sighs, uncertain if he wants to get into a debate with you. He’s stubborn, irritatingly so, but you are just as obstinate, and you’re too drunk to care about being immature. 

In the end, his curiosity wins out. 

“Obviously you’re not fine. You’re normally not so…” His words die on the edge of his tongue, and he waves his hand around like you’re a disaster he doesn’t know how to manage. Maybe you are. 

“I’m having fun, Dean.” You lean back into the seat, crossing your arms. It feels like you’re being lectured by a parent, and that’s the last thing you want. With a huff, you stick your head back out the window. “You’re just boring.” 

He seems surprised by that, like the concept of Dean Winchester being boring is unfathomable. A low sound erupts from the back of his throat. “Right. Well, you don’t look like you’re having fun. You look miserable.” 

Your brain is too muddled to think of a good comeback, especially since what he’s saying is true. “You’re being annoying,” you say childishly, brushing the hair out of your face as the wind blows it into your mouth. “Stop talking.” 

The car comes to a standstill as Dean slows at the red light. It casts fluorescent shadows across his face, his features even more beautiful in the softness of night. “Sure. Next time I’ll just leave you in a pile of your own vomit, how about that?”

“Fine.” 

You close your eyes, feeling dizzy from all of the turning. The drive isn’t too far, but it feels like it with the crushing weight of Dean’s presence beside you. It hurts how close he is—near enough to touch but so emotionally distant there might as well have been a wall between you. 

He stays quiet for a while, and you are grateful for that. There’s nowhere for you to run, and you don’t have enough control over your tongue to keep yourself from saying something you’ll regret. 

The silence lasts until you get back to the motel. 

Dean’s weighing something, and when he pulls into a parking spot, he lets the last few seconds of the song play before he shuts off the radio. He doesn’t turn off the engine, merely waits, contemplative, as you struggle to take off your seatbelt. 

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he says, “You gotta stop doing that.” 

Your movements stop, hands stilling as you fall against the seat. “Sorry.” The word is stretched out, the syllables lasting for longer than necessary. “Am I breaking it?”

“What?” Dean looks over, his features pinched before he realizes what you mean. “Oh. No, you’re not—” He doesn’t finish his sentence, opting to reach over and pop the button for you instead. His palm brushes your knuckles softly as the seatbelt loosens, a warm shock jolting up your arm from the touch. It makes you sick with affection, makes you want to melt against him and never leave his side. 

Dean sits up straight, putting more space between you. “I mean you can’t keep drinking like this.” 

Whatever spell was on you breaks, and your head bobs forward, heartache bursting your lovesick bubble. “I can do whatever I want,” you say, sulking. 

“Well…” Dean purses his lips, and he knows that he’s stupid for trying to reason with the worst version of you, but he pushes on anyway. You’re a horrible drunk—anything more than a couple glasses of wine brings out all the miserable feelings you try to bury deep in your heart. Dean knows that about you, though, and he’s still here. “Well, you shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

You could leave if you wanted, but the thought is on your mind for less than a second. Stupidly, you stay planted in the Impala, reveling in the moment alone with him. 

Dean shifts, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, his eyes darting across your face as he searches for some sort of understanding. “Because it’s becoming a pattern.” He looks ahead then, through the windshield, to the door of the motel room you’re staying in. “And I know why you’re doing it.” 

“And why’s that?”

He huffs dramatically as you blink back at him with wide, curious eyes, your weight held up only by the seat. “You’re going to make me say it?” Dean asks, his expression unyielding. 

You shrug. 

The engine hums as the two of you stare at each other, reaching a standoff. He taps the car door a few times, as if itching for an escape. 

You wait patiently for him to continue, and when Dean realizes you aren’t going to break the silence, he sighs, glances briefly up at the roof of the Impala, and then twists his body towards you. 

“Alright, look,” he begins, serious, but gentle, and you know then and there that he’s going to break your heart. His eyes have a softness you’ve never seen before, lips curled into a grim frown that foreshadows rejection. “I know you’ve got a little crush on me or whatever, and it’s real cute. You’re sweet, but you’re just too young.” 

Even though you knew it was coming, time comes to a standstill as your heart rattles in the cage Dean built around it. Your lip trembles as you stare back at him, blinking rapidly to still your tears. The anguish rises steadily, and you try your best to quell it, but the alcohol is making you irrational and overreactive. 

If you were sober, you would’ve faked a smile, pretended you didn’t know what he was talking about and gone off to bed. You don’t do any of those things.

“I’m not a little girl, Dean,” you say quietly, dropping your hands in your lap. You think they’re shaking, but it could just be because your vision is blurry from alcohol and tears. “I’m twenty-four.” 

“And I’m twice that.” He leans forward, playing with your emotions even now as he squeezes your hand gently. The touch brings a few tears to your lashes, but you don’t let them fall, focusing on calming the racing pulse that jumps in your neck. “You’re too good to be throwing yourself at people like me, kid.”

You want to drag your hand away, but you can’t break the contact. He’s so gentle with you, so caring, and sometimes he smiles at you like you’re the only thing in the world. Still, he doesn’t love you. 

“I don’t understand,” you say, your voice quiet with melancholy.

Dean takes pity on you, squeezes your hand one more time, then releases you. He runs his fingers through his hair, the strands becoming messy and unkempt. It’s gotten longer in the past few months, and though he complains about it all the time, you’re glad he hasn’t cut it.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and he really does sound genuine. It’s not often that you get an apology from him. “I’m not trying to hurt you, but—”

He’s trying not to hurt you, but it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt before, like the air is being squeezed from your throat, your veins cut one by one until your heart is no longer able to pump blood through them. 

“Am I not pretty enough?” you ask, thinking of all the women that he’s brought to bed, the ones that don’t feel half an ounce of affection for him as you do. “Is that why?” 

Dean’s face screws up in irritation, like he can’t believe that’s the conclusion you’ve come to. “Jesus. Don’t start that shit. You know that’s got nothing to do with it.” 

You can’t seem to come up with another reason for why he doesn’t want you. The two of you get along well, he enjoys your company, your lives are similar and you’ll never beg him to settle down. You’re pretty, you’d let him do anything he wanted to you, and your love for him comes easier to you than breathing. 

“Then why?” you say, hearing your voice crack. “You never care otherwise. You’ve slept with women barely older than me.” You shake your head, the weight of the rejection beginning to hit you entirely as your emotions start to spiral. “I’m pretty, but just not pretty enough for you to want to fuck me?” 

“It’s not about how you look.” Dean looks up and scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “I shouldn’t have started this right now. You’re wasted.”

You sit there, sniffing back tears, trying to decide what you want to say. Maybe you can convince him that your age doesn’t matter, that maybe if he just gave you a chance, he’d decide he loves you just as much as you love him, that your devotion matters more than his guilt, or whatever else keeps him from eyeing you lustfully. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” Dean smiles again, and you wish he wouldn’t. You want him to feel as horrible about this as you do. “You can find someone who’ll love you like you want.” 

“I don’t want anyone else,” you say, your voice breaking as you lean over, invading his personal space. He doesn’t move, but he does keep you at a distance, prepared to push you away if necessary. “You think I’ll just find someone normal, someone who’s not like you, and I’ll fall in love with them? I’m just as fucked up as you, Dean, and I don’t want to find someone better.” 

“Trust me, you’re not.” Dean laughs but he’s not amused, he’s dead serious, forcing you back into your seat. “I promise this is just a phase. You’ll get over it soon enough.” 

You know you won’t, and Dean doesn’t seem to understand that. You’ve never been in love before, not really, but you know that’s what you feel for Dean. Sometimes, he’s the only reason you want to get up in the morning, the reason you keep going, even when you’ve lost everything. 

“If I was older, would you want me?” 

Dean blinks, surprised that you asked that. He weighs the question for a moment. “Sweetheart, I’m trying to let you down easy.” 

Even in your drunken state, you know what that means. Your throat burns with the need to release all the horrid emotions from your chest, and you let a few tears free, ones that turn into distasteful, intoxicated sobs that you can’t seem to stop. 

“Hey,” Dean says, so gently that it makes it worse, because you just want him to bring you closer and he’s only pushing you further away. “Don’t cry.” 

“Why won’t you be mean?” Furiously, you wipe at your eyes. “It’d be easier. I wouldn’t be so sad.”

“Would it?” His voice is rough, skeptical. “If I was mean, would it make you hate me?” 

Your pinch your eyebrows together, but Dean already knows the answer. He’s got a way of bringing loyalty out of people—perhaps it is because his own is so steadfast. Now that he’s got you, there’s not much he can do to get rid of you.  

When you don’t answer, Dean sighs again, finally turning off the car. He clenches his jaw and then runs a tongue over his bottom lip to relax it, unsure what to do while you’re crying right next to him. Comfort is something he’s never been good at, and now that he’s put this barrier between you, he has no idea how to breach it. 

For a few more minutes, he lets you get all your emotions out, before he leaves the car and comes to the other side, opening the door for you. 

“Alright, come on.” 

You shake your head stubbornly, but Dean is persistent and much stronger. He wrangles you out of the Impala easily, and though you want to fight him, you’re too drunk, too weak. You go pliant in his arms, confused by how your heart leaps from his touch, even when he’s broken your heart.

“This is why I told you to stop drinking so much.” Dean huffs, practically carrying you into the motel room. 

You mumble a reply under your breath, and though you don’t think you’ll throw up again, you want to. Your stomach aches like it’s been punctured. 

You nearly trip again, but Dean catches you, his arm around your waist, breath ghosting your ear. This is the closest you’ve ever been, and it's only after he’s told you he doesn’t want you.

Dean leads you to one of the beds; it’s the one he’s been sleeping on, unmade with his clothes still draped on the end of it. You fall onto it, exhausted and full of sorrow, slurring words together that he can’t understand. 

“Where’s your key?” Dean asks as you sink into the mattress. “I’ll sleep in your room, you can stay in here with Sam. Someone’s gotta make sure you live to see the morning.” 

You shrug, your face sticky with tears and makeup. It’s probably in your bag, which is either still at the bar with Sam or in Dean’s car—you can’t remember.

Dean takes a long breath and looks at the ceiling. “Alright, I’ll find it.” He crosses the room for a brief moment, grabs an unopened water bottle from his bag and hands it to you. 

You don’t take it, so Dean opens it for you, setting it on the nightstand in the hopes that you’ll eventually take a sip. 

“You gonna be okay while I go get Sammy?” he asks, giving you one more look, his eyes so soft that you have to close your own. 

At some point, you’d laid down, your cheek smashed into the pillow. You try to nod, but the position restricts your movements, so you just make a sound of agreement instead.

Dean blinks at you, uncertain if he should leave you alone, but you’ve gotten most of the alcohol up and out of your system. You don't seem like you're going to be sick again.

“Alright. I’ll be right back.” He starts to leave, and miserably, you reach out for him, not able to grab him, but your fingertips graze his wrist and it’s enough to get his attention.

“Dean,” you say, softly, looking up at him from under your lashes. You’ll be embarrassed in the morning, but it might be the only time you get to say these words. “I do love you. I think I’ve loved you since I met you.”

You hope that a smile will appear, that he’ll soften, squeeze your hand and say he loves you right back. Instead, he looks like he’s been hit. He backs away, his expression grim as your hand falls down on the bed as he leaves.

For a moment, Dean lingers by the door, one hand on the knob with his keys in the other, and as you relish in the lingering feeling of his touch, you think he might turn around, change his mind, and say how much he loves you too. 

It’s a stupid thought.

Dean doesn’t turn around; he spares you nothing more than a passing glimpse before he’s opening the door, stepping outside. A gust of wind rushes past him, hitting you in the face, as if the universe’s attempt to snap you back into reality.

“Get some rest,” he says pointedly, like a guardian, like he’s too old for you and he needs you to know that. The loyalty he feels for you is platonic, familial, and it won’t be anything else. “You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Dean shuts the door after that, and it’s loud, echoing through the room with finality. You know neither of you will speak of this ever again, but he’ll treat you differently, and you won’t want to be near him, knowing that he knows how deeply you care for him. 

The room feels darker now that Dean is gone. Already, you’re mourning the past, knowing that you’ve ruined whatever delicate bond was tying you together. You'll have to watch Dean flirt with people that aren't you, and it'll be worse, now that you know you never stood a chance. You'll feel the sting of rejection every time you look at him, every time Sam eyes you with pity because Dean doesn't want you.

Left alone with nothing but an aching heart, you try to sleep.

thank you for reading! ❤︎ comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💋

[winfieldsreads]

Soooo good!!!! I crave more Dean Winchester angsty unrequited love fics (that possibly end up with them together… maybe? 👀)

[cheriecokezero]

.⋆♱ i'm the one you want (i'm not the one you need) — dean winchester !

❤︎︎ summary. dean's married—he's been married for years. you want to let him go, you wish you could let him go, but something always has you crawling right back into his arms.

❤︎ contents. f!reader, complicated/toxic relationship, infidelity, canon divergence, secret affair, exes, reader is a hunter, dean & reader are both in their 30s, angst, hurt/comfort, pet names, references to depression & addiction, dean/lisa are married, smoking, emotional manipulation (kinda) — 6.0k words

❤︎ notes. crossposted from ao3. just for some quick context, this takes place a few years post-s5 finale in an au. bobby & cas are dead and sam is still in the cage. dean & the reader are both hunters that met in their early 20s, but they split after sam died. dean has been married to lisa for two years.

The worst thing about change was that beautiful things never lasted.

Nothing lasted, really. Time would make a victim of every living thing, and eventually, the Earth would purge itself of the rot humankind had caused, erasing the evidence that you’d ever existed at all.

Time was, perhaps, the most consistent of all elements. Change came steadily, regardless of whether one sought it out or not. It was unavoidable, even in the smallest of ways. A song that you loved could be soiled in a moment, ruined by the careless words of another. A film with critical acclaim could turn sour, when the culture changed and the lines within no longer fit the social scene.

Things would be forgotten, lost to the grip of eternity. Memories, even those that were promised to remain forever, would eventually be lost.

That was just the way it was.

It seemed, though, that while change was inevitable, it was the bad habits that time decided not to touch. A smoker could go their entire life and never stop smoking. An alcoholic would become reliant on the drink, and no matter how much they begged themselves to quit, many never could.

You were the same way with Dean Winchester. He was a bad habit—the worst kind, really—and one you just kept relapsing on.

The ceiling, as you stared up at it, began to feel like it was falling, the room around you growing smaller as you laid there, still coming down from your high.

And there was no better high than the one Dean gave you, the feeling of his hands on your skin, followed by words etched there with a breath softer than his fingertips. Being with Dean had always felt like Heaven, even in your worst moments.

Dean rolled over beside you, still smelling of sweat, sex and cologne. His breathing was heavy but becoming even as he reached a hand out, tracing the delicate skin of your wrist.

You didn’t look at him—you refused to look at him, though his presence was still so casual, so comfortable, a routine of years past that you hadn’t forgotten. There was nothing about this situation that should've given you anxiety.

You let it in, anyway.

It began like a cool blanket, growing steadily until your skin was zapped with tiny pinpricks, dancing along your spine, down your arms, your legs. Heat followed, flooding your cheeks, the back of your neck, as a pounding sensation crawled up your skull, settling deep into the depths of your brain.

Dean sat up straighter, noting the tension in your shoulders, the way you’d set your jaw. His eyes swept over you, searching for the root of your distress.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asked, eyebrows pinched together. The words were soft but otherwise unbothered, only a hint of concern resting in the air between the syllables.

And why would he worry? He’d seen you at your worst, and though he hadn’t stayed, he’d come back. He kept coming back. A small, shaky exhale was nothing compared to the years of insurmountable grief that you’d faced together.

“Fine.”

Dean didn’t quite believe you, but he plopped his head back on the pillow anyway.

It took you a few moments to gather yourself enough to speak again. He waited patiently, still stroking your wrist until you yanked it away, holding it to your chest to calm your breathing.

You could feel his eyes on your face, could feel him searching for answers there, for a sign of what went wrong. At one point in time, he used to be able to dig out an explanation from a subtle blink, a purse of your lips, near imperceptible tells that no one else could see.

You weren’t sure if he could do that anymore. Maybe the only things he saw when he scoured your features were all the ways you looked older, more tired.

God, you were tired. A person could only play this game for so long without getting tired of it.

His hands moved to your hips, wordless but persistent, as he tried to tug you into him.

Normally, you’d relent. You’d slide right up against him, bury your face in his chest and savor the final moments of your rendezvous, commit them to memory until you saw him again in a few months. You’d let him whisper promises that he’d never keep, let him hold you tight and spill his heart out, let him tell you all the things he’d never been able to tell his wife.

Dean got away with a lot of things with you. Perhaps you loved him too much, because you’d never known how to say no to him. This affection you felt for him was a sickness, something rotten inside of you that you could never scrape out.

You'd known for a long time that there’d never be another man like Dean, not for you. You’d never feel this way for anyone else.

This time, though, as the bliss of your climax faded and your feelings were not muddled by your lust, you knew something had to change. The decay inside of you was becoming external—you felt a shadow of yourself, a corpse, despite the last vestiges of youth still clinging to you.

You had so much time, and yet, you didn’t want it. You hadn’t wanted it for years.

When Dean reached for you, an expected attempt to pull you close, you resisted. Your eyes bore into the nothingness of the motel room, body weighing heavily on the mattress by the force of your will.

Memories poured over you, and suddenly, this felt like nothing more than a ritual of humiliation. The nondescript motel was just like all the others in a long list of nondescript motels—cracks in the peeling wallpaper, the trash overflowing with empty beer cans, a television that only played the local news station with bedsheets that were stained by God only knew what.

Your skin burned with the weight of these mistakes, of the reality that the two of you were grown adults trying to relive a time when you were younger, with far less responsibility. A time when you’d been naive and happy, too in love to consider your actions might have consequences.

They sure did, now.

“Hey.” When you refused to move, Dean rolled over once more, his voice sharper, as if trying to snap you out of a trance. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

The endearments made you sick, knowing they did not belong to just you anymore. They brought you out of your catatonic misery, and you shoved Dean away, crawling to a seated position.

He watched with wide eyes, curious, even as you kept your attention away. You couldn’t look at him, too scared that you’d melt into the pools of warm green, that the words you’d been gearing up to say, for years, would get lost along with you.

Swallowing, you stared ahead, seeing a fuzzy outline of your body in the reflection of the television screen. You fixated on that point, and Dean’s touch faltered as you did so, something close to fear beginning to sober him completely.

He tried to say your name again, but you ignored him, plowing through your confession.

“Dean,” you said, flat and unemotional, haunted by the gentleness of his worry. “We have to stop doing this.”

It was far too quiet in the room after that. Neither of you moved.

Then, as if a gut reaction, Dean began to laugh. It was cracked and hollow, a last effort at clinging to the humor of the situation.

You didn’t return his amusement.

“Stop what?” Dean asked stupidly, with nothing but the brashness of a man who knew he was doing wrong, but would never admit it. The question was goading you into a confession, shoving you into a corner where he’d poke at you until you put all the blame on yourself.

Most of the time, that’s what you were afraid of. That you’d still love him with everything you had and he’d react with laughter, toss you aside when he was finished. You were scared this was just a way for him to pass the time while you let yourself get played over and over again, just wanting to hold onto as little of him as you could. 

You’d never been able to admit that you were the second choice, that you were the other woman, that there was someone with a ring on her finger and it wasn’t you. It made you sick, insane with jealousy and regret, nostalgic for a time you’d never get back.

But you could admit it, now. Those were the feelings of a girl, and sometime in the past few years, you’d grown into a woman.

“Don’t be an idiot. You know what.”

You let the reply settle, let him ruminate on the statement as it floated between you, dancing in the oxygen of a suspended moment. Without saying anything else, you leaned over the side of the bed, pulling a pack of cigarettes out from your jacket pocket. 

Another bad habit, one you’d only picked it up after Sam died. Now, it’d just be another one you’d never break.

“Why now?” Dean asked, watching you click on the lighter, one you’d stolen from him the last time you’d been together. 

That was the big question, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t you brought this up in all the months he’d been cheating on Lisa? What had changed in the past few moments to make you want to end it all?

You didn’t know the answer.

“This has gone on for way too long, Dean.” Smoke clouded your head as you exhaled. “You have a wife and a kid. I’m ruining someone’s life.”

“Jesus.” Dean said your name, incredulously, like he thought you were destined to live in a loop of misery and he couldn’t believe you’d broken out of it. Maybe he’d just never expected you to be the bigger person, had always figured it’d be him that broke it off.

Dean was the tough one, the unemotional one, while you had irrational outbursts and wanted him even when he didn’t want you.

“I’m serious. This has to end.”

It was as much of a lie as it was the truth. The reality was, neither of you were good at handling your feelings. That much became clear when cold air rinsed you clean of delusions, and Dean replied, “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

You jerked your head back towards him, but he’d already pulled away, settling into the bed with steel abandon. You’d expected something semi-intelligent, a counter-argument, maybe, but he’d given you nothing and wanted to plead innocence without an alibi. 

“Asshole,” you said, turning away, letting your legs hang off the side of the bed as you stared at a different wall, this time. “You never want to talk about it. The giant elephant in the middle of the goddamn room.” You rolled your eyes, huffing. “I hate you.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d spewed awful things at him, but the words didn’t feel right. They never had. You couldn't hate him, even when you wanted to.

“Right. You wanna talk about it, but you can’t even look at me,” Dean scoffed. “That’s what you usually do, isn’t it? Avoid and avoid and avoid.”

“You don’t do any different, Dean.” You laughed loudly, sarcastically. “The whole reason we’re here now is because we don’t talk about a damn thing. You just let everything fester until it can’t anymore, until you lash out and come running to me because Lisa can’t handle your shit. Give me a break.”

Dean kept quiet for a moment, not moving, hardly even breathing. “Fine,” he finally said. "If you wanna talk about it, let’s talk about it. But I’m not talking about it with the back of your head.”

You stiffened, not wanting to face him, too afraid that he’d try and manipulate the situation, convince you of something that you weren’t sure you even believed yourself. But you couldn’t avoid looking into his eyes forever.

With a sharp sigh, you dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and turned, the mattress squeaking with your movements.

Dean was only a few inches away, blinking back at you with an expression you couldn’t interpret. There were too many emotions there for you to whittle down into an explanation, too much hurt that would take years to unpack.

To your dismay, under all of it, there was still deep affection written in the lines of his face. You knew what Dean’s love looked like, and, after all this time, it had never changed shades, never disappeared completely, and it still belonged to you.

“Well,” he said, gesturing back at you. “Go on.”

You licked your lips, narrowing your eyes as your entire face scrunched together. “I’m done, Dean. I’m not doing this anymore. We can’t. We never should’ve, to begin with.”

“You care that much about Lisa?” Dean asked with disbelief.

You threw your hands up in irritation. “I don’t give a fuck about Lisa,” you said, and right as the words left you, you knew they were true. It was something you should’ve felt bad about, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to really care that you were fucking her husband, sneaking behind her back, doing all the things you’d promised you’d never do to another woman. “You’re the one that wanted to be free of hunting, Dean. You wanted to be done with it, wanted a perfect life, a family, a nice little house in a neighborhood. Now you have that, and you’re going to ruin it.” Your eyes burned hot into him, hoping he’d understand. You’d make him understand. “I mean, there’s a kid involved, Dean. You really wanna be as shitty as your own dad?”

It was a low-blow, and Dean flinched as if he’d been stung. His face grew hard, eyes icy, while you remained as impassive as ever. As much as you hated to see him in pain, a part of you was relieved you could still hit him where it hurt.

“You’re a real piece of work, aren't you? Always bringing up my family because your own didn’t want you anymore.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. This was a familiar game—if one of you went low, the other went lower. Maybe it wasn’t a normal way to love, a healthy way, but neither of you knew how to do it properly. You hated it as much as you missed it when he wasn’t around.

“Oh, is that so? Remind me, whose family is dead because God decided his favorite toys were the Winchesters? How many people lost their lives because of you, Dean?” You spat the words at him cruelly, watching as he flinched at the accusations. “Enough to make me wish I was one of them.” 

He gritted his teeth, prepared to dig in deeper, until he processed the last part of your admission. In the span of a few moments, Dean’s face fell.

You hadn’t meant to let that last part slip.

“Shit. I didn’t—just forget it, okay?” you said, shrugging off the confession, feeling sick for using your weakness as a weapon. “I didn’t—I mean I’m not—this isn’t—Fuck.” You stared at the wall for another few moments, before your anger hit a head and tears began to stream down your face. Ugly, heavy tears that you couldn’t control, ones you didn’t even know the root of.

“Hey—”

Dean reached for you, but you scrambled out of bed, trying desperately to get away from him.

“No, Dean. Please. I can’t play this game anymore.” Ferociously, you wiped your eyes, but the tears kept coming, wouldn’t subside, and you turned away, hating how monstrous your emotions made you. “It’s not fucking fair. It’s not fair. Why do you get everything and I’m left with nothing?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. It didn’t matter though—you couldn’t stop yourself.

“And it’s not even that. It’s not even that, because I want, so badly, for you to be happy.” You buried your face in your hands, trying to calm yourself down, to stop feeling so much at one time. “I’m selfish. I’m so selfish, I’ve always been selfish, and I’m taking you away from the life you’ve always wanted. I mean, what sort of person am I for fucking someone’s husband, someone’s father?” You laughed, maniacally, rubbing at your face until it burned.

Dean came over to you, reaching for your hands, but you yanked them away, battling him roughly until he gave up completely.

“You’re not selfish,” he said quietly, scrambling to calm you down. “I chose to be here. I made the decision all on my own.”

All at once, the fight drained out of you, and you deflated, feeling awfully like a balloon. Whatever had been blown up inside of you slowly fizzled away, and you were left empty and hollow, a large chasm opening where your anger had once been.

“That’s the problem.” You looked back at him, at the bewilderment on his face, a mix of confusion and helplessness, having no idea what he could say to fix what had broken between you.

“I don’t—” Dean began, but you didn’t let him speak.

“You’re the only one that wins here. I don’t want this. I never wanted to be the woman you sneak off to, the cheap whore that gets the days you’re feeling like shit. I’ve been through a hell of a lot with you, Dean. I’m—”

“I know—I know you’re not, and you deserve better than this.” Dean swallowed, his throat bobbing as he scanned your features, eyes still holding the softness of the young man you once knew. “I miss you.”

Dean reached for you again, but you slapped him away, ignoring the saccharine words.

“Is that it?” you said, stony, spitting the reply like shards through a block of ice. “Do you miss me? Or do you just miss Sam?”

“Sam?” He looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head, and began shaking his own, diffusing his feelings with mockery. “You’re really something. This isn’t about Sam.”

“It’s all about Sam. It's always been about Sam. I remind you of life before. You can sneak off with me in these shitty motel rooms and pretend we’re still twenty-five and Sam’s off at school, and you’re keeping me a secret from your dad.” You blinked away the last of your tears. “I’m tired of being a secret, Dean.”

“You’re not a secret, you’re—” He took a breath, gearing up to refute your statement, bravado plastered on his face. Then, as if realizing whatever he said would be a lie, Dean caved in on himself.  “Maybe you’re right.”

There it was. The confession you'd been waiting for. 

It didn't make you feel any better.

Everything had been too much when Sam died. The three of you had spent too much time with one another, had woven your lives together so intricately that it was impossible to separate one from the other. There was hardly a facet of your lives that Sam hadn’t touched, save for before.

Nothing between you and Dean worked unless you were something to be hidden, unless he could pretend that his brother wasn’t really dead, he just didn’t want to talk to him.

He could go back to Lisa, a woman from before, a woman that was nothing like you, a sweet woman with a child that resembled Dean. She had never been a hunter, didn’t even know much about hunting, and she certainly didn’t know enough about Sam to have a black hole in her chest that mirrored the one in Dean’s soul.

It was foolish of you to think that things would ever end in any other way.

Or maybe you’d known all along.

After you’d split, you’d given him time, space, but eventually, you couldn’t help yourself from searching for him. You'd found cases that were close to the city he lived in with Lisa, and, with a rope around your heart that was tied to Dean's hand, you’d been hopeful that you’d find your way back to each other.

Of course, it could have been a string of coincidences. Maybe you’d never really searched for him, maybe you'd just stumbled upon him by accident. Back then, you hadn’t been in your right mind. Those two years were a blur fueled by grief, alcohol, and a distinct yearning for a time before.

But it was undoubtably no coincidence when you spotted a familiar car on an evening so like the one when you’d first met, and decided to pull into the spot next to it. You'd pretended to ignore the car, just as you'd pretended to ignore the distinct leather jacket, the cologne that, even with his stable life, was still one you’d picked out for him on a twenty-three year old’s salary.

You'd ignored the rush of your heartbeat when you sat three seats down from him and ordered a drink you hadn’t had since you’d been together.

You'd been certain you were half-delusional when he slid into the barstool next to you, whispering your name like it broke his heart.

And you definitely hadn't been sober when you glanced down, saw a wedding ring, and still agreed to fuck him.

God, you never learned. You’d always been a damn fool for Dean Winchester, and you always would be.

“There’s no maybe about it, Dean. You only want me when no one else knows about it.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Right. If this is about the beginning of our relationship, I remember it in a very different way.”

“And what way is that?” You scowled.

“I remember my dad giving me shit about getting sloppy, about losing my head. I remember him suspecting that I had a girl on my mind, and he wasn't happy about it.” Dean frowned. “I didn’t tell him about you because I knew he’d convince me you weren’t worth it, and I didn’t want that.”

You swallowed, pinching your eyebrows together as a burst of emotion ripped through you. Suddenly, you were a young woman again, wanting so hard for John Winchester to accept you because Dean idolized him, and he was the only person he had, save for his semi-estranged brother.

You’d won John over eventually, but it was with begrudging acceptance. Every reason he gave Dean to leave you only drove him closer, only made him want you more. What were John’s commands in the face of Dean’s indescribable, all-consuming love for you?

You shook your head, ignoring the pain that flared from the memories of your twenties. You’d faced so many things back then—hard things, things that you’d live through again, just for the chance to kiss a smug smile off a version of Dean that hadn't lost everything.

“I wasn’t worth it,” you snorted out a laugh. “You still chose Lisa.”

“That doesn’t mean I wanna hear you wish you were dead.” He scrubbed a hand over his face as you sat back down, stiff and awkward on the bed, the two of you, perhaps, the most quiet you’d ever been with one another.

You felt too old for something like this, felt too old to be sneaking around like teenagers, worried that someone might find out what you were up to.

Or, perhaps, you felt too young. You still had so much life to live, plenty of time to find love again without resigning yourself to being a married man’s mistress and wishing it all away.

Although now, sitting across from Dean, still listening to him talk even when you wanted to leave, you wondered if this was the only destiny for you. Maybe God really did have his favorite toys, and he'd decided long ago that you'd end up the whore instead of the Madonna.

You certainly were weak enough to accept that fate. The minute Dean flashed you the same smile you’d fallen in love with nearly a decade ago, you knew it wouldn't matter what happened in this room, five years down the road, or on your deathbed.

You’d love him all the same.

“You’re one to talk, Dean,” you said softly, trying to muster up something of a painted smile, enough to kill the conversation. “The amount of times you’ve almost died—actually died.” You ignored the sting of memories. For some reason, you just kept letting yourself feel the pain of losing him, over and over again. “What would you know about how I feel?”

That was enough to silence him. A few years of self-sabotaging was nothing to Dean's lifetime of it. You sighed.

“Well,” you said, beginning to climb out of the bed once more. “If that’s all—”

“I didn’t choose Lisa.”

You stopped, peering over your shoulder as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be a dick. I’m pretty sure that ring wasn’t from our wedding.” Huffing, you threw the sheets off. 

Dean grabbed your hand, his eyes gentle, trying to soften you up. It was almost working. “Will you just listen to me? I made a mistake—a mistake I’ve regretted every day since I made it.”

You shook your head, not wanting to listen to him mope about shit he couldn’t change. This had gone on for too long already. If you were going to free yourself of this bad habit, it needed to be now. “I don’t care anymore.”

“Please.” He said your name with the reverence of a thousand saints. That, of course, was enough to stop you in your tracks. There was something about the rawness in every syllable, the desperation, that gave you pause.  “It wasn’t because of you.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Dean.”

He continued anyway, ignoring your protests.

“Sam mentioned it one time—a couple of times, actually.” Dean exhaled, loosening his grip. Still, he held your hand, afraid that you might bolt. “He knew you never wanted a traditional life—never wanted the white picket fence and kids and all of that. I knew it too, and it hadn’t made a difference. I loved—love—you. But the more I thought about it…”

You licked your lips, skin tingling like you’d been slapped. Dean had never expressed any desire to drop everything and have kids, not when the two of you had been together, nor had he ever told you that it had been something to fester the cracks in your relationships.

You supposed he was older now—people’s priorities changed. You probably should’ve been grateful he didn’t try to change your mind on the matter.

“I get it. You wanted kids and I didn’t. No big deal.” You tried to leave again. Still, he held you close. “Dean,” you huffed, growing angry now. “Let me go.”

“Wait, I just—” He pushed his tongue to his cheek, watching the conflict on your face as you narrowed your eyes. "That’s not it—I didn't mean it like that. That wasn’t what I wanted. It’s not what I want.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, trying to process the confession. He’d been married to Lisa for nearly two years, had been with her for a year and half before that, and it was only now that he’d decided none of it was worth it.

You pulled away, disgusted. “You can’t just decide that. You got married, you made a commitment. One you never wanted with me, might I remind you,” you said coldly, trying your best to ignore the excruciating pain that came with that realization. There was a time when you’d wanted, so badly, to marry Dean Winchester. He’d always said the timing wasn’t right, but it'd never be right. Life had made certain of that. “I can’t believe I—”

“I know. I know I’m real fucking stupid. I know, okay?” There was too much emotion in his glossy eyes, ones that were too raw and open to run away from. “I’m a goddamn idiot for listening to Sam, but I felt like I owed it to him. He wanted me to live a regular life, said I’d never be happy with you if you wanted something I didn’t. But I was. I was. I’ve never been as happy as those years with you.”

The words fell between you like a brick dropping through the floor boards. In the back of your mind, you heard the shattering of your own heart.

“Dean,” you said, your face falling. As much as you wanted to remain unbothered, you felt your lips purse, your hands shake. You’d been happy then, too. The happiest you’ve ever been. “Please don’t tell me all this.”

“Sam convinced me to seek that life out, even if it wasn’t with you. I only—I only went to Lisa because I didn’t want to fail my brother.”

“Your brother is dead, Dean,” you said, coldly, sniffing back your tears. “He’s gone. You failed him either way."

This time, you did get out of bed. You ignored him, could feel him following you as you hastily got dressed, letting the ache in your chest be filled with hate instead.

"I’m the one still here. I’m the one that was there when your dad died, when Sam died, and I’m still here because I love you. But I can't compete with a fantasy.”

Dean spun you around as you slipped a t-shirt—his t-shirt—over your head. His hands held your face softly, touch so gentle that your breath caught in your throat. Your heart leaped out of its cage, but you locked it back up, determined not to fall back into his orbit.

“Get off of me.”

“Sweetheart—”

"Don't, Dean." Your face twisted up into a scowl, the meanest one you could muster.

It was enough to give Dean pause, even as he wanted to reach for you, though it only lasted a few moments. Your resolved crumbled, and you were left a shaking, half-clothed mess in the dingy motel room. 

“I can’t do this anymore," you whispered, "I’m so tired.”

You put your face in your hands, and though everything ached, though you didn’t want him to hold you, you let him do it anyway. Dean pulled you into his embrace, trapping your trembling, cold body in his arms.

“I want to move on. I want to be happy for you, but I can’t. I lost everything, Dean. Everything, and I thought I’d be okay because I still had you, but—”

Suddenly, you burst into tears, uncontrollable sobs that you’d been holding back for years ripping out of your chest. You hadn’t let yourself cry over Dean—or anything, really—in a long, long time.

He held you tightly, kissed your forehead, your tear-stand cheeks, over and over as you cried into his chest, missing the warm and familiar embrace desperately. No one had held you like this in years—no one had cared enough to listen to you, to let you air out all your grievances. Even as you despised him, Dean still cared for you in the only way he knew how.

“I'm sorry,” Dean said, his own voice wracked with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Words you longed to hear, and yet they hurt more than anything. He still loved you, he still wanted you, but it had still come to this.

You felt the sobs rip from the bottom of your stomach, burning through your throat. The pain of losing everything all at once overwhelmed you, and though you wished to claw yourself through his skin, to find yourself a part of Dean’s own heart, you couldn’t get any closer than you already were.

For a while, all you could do was cry, until there were no more tears left to be shed. Slowly, they subsided, your face puffy and raw, throat scratchy as Dean rubbed soothing circles up your spine.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made a sound, but you’d ended back on the bed, somehow. Your head was tucked just under his jaw, chin fitting perfectly in the curve of his collarbone.

You wondered if he’d been crafted that way on purpose, just for you, or if Lisa fit into his embrace as easily as you did. You weren't sure if you believed in soulmates, didn't think something so pure could exist in such a vile world, but you knew Dean Winchester was yours. There was nothing else that could explain the sort of need you had for him, the ache that existed in every depth of your soul. 

It was evil that Dean should be tied so fiercely to your soul, when you doubted your name was etched on his bones. Still, after everything you'd been through, you shouldn't have been surprised. Angels were hardly benevolent, and God was even worse. 

Only a cruel, tragic joke of this nature could serve as a finale to God's Winchester saga. You were just collateral damage, a character to further the plot of Dean's life, to keep it interesting.

Swallowing, you inhaled sharply. “Dean?”

He kissed the top of your head again—he must have been doing it the entire time, and you just hadn’t noticed.

“Hm?”

“Are you happy?”

He smiled, sadly, against your forehead. His fingers curled into your lower back. “Right now?”

“No,” you said as you closed your eyes, soaking up these last few moments. You clung to him, desperately. With time, you could learn to play the role you were given, be happy you got him at all. You'd let him go, even though you didn't want to. Lisa's love was sweet, warm, and it didn't feel like a noose around his neck. He deserved that much. “In general.”

Dean took a moment to reply. “I don’t know.”

The response settled between you. You weren't sure how long it was before you posed your next question, though you already knew what his answer would be. 

“Would you leave her if I asked?” you said, in a small voice. “Would you stay with me?”

This time, he was quiet for much longer. You felt his chest rise and fall, his throat bob, as he considered. Then, finally, “I don’t know.”

That was all you needed to hear. He wouldn’t leave Lisa—not now, not anymore. It didn’t matter if he loved you too—he couldn’t be around you all of the time. You were as much a poison to him as he was to you. Dean looked at you and he saw a reminder of the people he’d lost. You looked at him and saw a future you never got to have.

Lisa, at least, was a balm that didn’t remind him of endless days on the road. He cared about her enough to ease the aches in his heart, even if it wasn’t enough to make his soul burn.

That was all Dean really wanted, anyway—not to hurt.

“This is the last time, Dean,” you said, your words croaky from all the tears. “We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to ruin your marriage.”

“I know.”

“Delete my number."

“I will.”

You knew he wouldn’t, just like you knew this wouldn’t be the last time, just like you knew he didn’t really care if his marriage failed or not.

“You promise?”

“I promise, baby.” Dean laced your fingers with his own, bringing them to his mouth. He kissed the bare spot on your fourth finger, where a ring would never be, because the only person you’d ever want to marry couldn’t stomach an eternity with you.

You closed your eyes, trying to fall back asleep. You could block his number. You could move across the country. You could burn every picture you had of him, could throw away the endless tapes you’d made of every song that reminded you of him.

Wishful thinking, really. You’d never do any of those things.

“You know sometimes, I wish I’d never met you,” Dean said, so quietly you were certain you weren’t supposed to hear him. “I don’t know how to live without you, but every second I’m with you, it hurts.”

You supposed that, at least, was something you agreed on. 

thank you for reading! ❤︎ comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💋

[winfieldsreads]

*Crying so hard I feel sick* Fuck me this hurt!😭😭😭

[livfastdieyoung69]

Dean winchester and his girl best friend that hates men <3

Dean loves her. He knows it. Not always — there was a time before her, long ago. Dean can’t remember exactly when, but it was when Sammy was still shorter than him and had a little height on her. But since then, he’s loved her.

He’s glad to have met her so early in their lives; he’s glad to have had the chance to cling onto her for so long that she doesn’t have any other options but staying at his side, now. Now, Dean doesn’t think she’d even give him a glance.

Not because it’s him, or anything, but because he’s a dude. Probably, also because of him, honestly. She puts up with a lot of his gross man stuff because he’s Dean. At least, that’s always her excuse. She’ll complain about some guy, and scoff under her breath about ‘men’, and Dean will look a little offended, so she’ll pat on his arm and say, “No offense, you don’t count, De.”

He used to actually get kind of upset because he is a man. He’s very manly, and very much a guy. Now, he just pretends to be so he can ask, “Then what the hell am I?”, so he can hear her say, “You’re my Dean.”

She doesn’t really willingly talk to guys that aren’t Dean or Sam. Ever. Every bar, she rolls her eyes at free drinks, but takes them anyways, and turns back to finish her conversation with Dean about what famous cowboys they would be. He’s Clint Eastwood, unless she’s there in this universe, then he has to be the Wild Bill Hickok to her Calamity Jane, obviousy. Having a smoke outside, she refuses a guys lighter and looks to Dean by her side instead, and continues talking about how she would join the Dark Side, but only if Darth Maul asked, or Dean had already joined. Dean, who doesn’t smoke, but carries the lighter he took from Bobby’s for her.

Never once has Dean seen her enjoy a conversation with a man outside of himself, Sammy, or Bobby. She always looks to him for saving, too. He loves when she does that. Loves that she knows he’s always there for her to do that, even if it’s just throwing an arm around her shoulder to give some guy a hint. He loves getting to throw an arm around her shoulder.

He does it a lot, too. Not just for that, either. They sit in the same booth at every diner Dean pulls the Impala into, whether Sam’s there to take up the other side or not. They share beds, definitely just because it’s cheaper, and maybe even cuddle sometimes, when Dean somehow magically pulls her over to replace the pillow he usually holds. They watch cable screenings of movies together, on shitty leather couches, and always end up toppled over eachother with the comfy blanket she brings on every hunt. He likes when she folds first, and crawls onto his chest and in between his legs, but he’ll never complain about resting his head on her chest.

They touch a lot. They giggle and shove, and rub backs, and squeeze arms, and twirl hair, and grab waists, and maybe even hold pinkies and interlock legs under tables. And he’s allowed to have all of that with her cause he’s her Dean. Even all Sammy gets is a side hug and a high five here and there.

She doesn’t have much family left, and she doesn’t talk to whoever is. Her neighbor, though, some old lady with a husband she hates and an oddly large amount of grandchildren, loves her.

She’s never home much with hunting, but when she is, her and her neighbor will smoke a cigarette on the porch together with a cup of coffee. The first time Dean met this lady was interesting. When he pulled into her driveway the sun was barely up, but it was already glistening against the skin of her legs, and the rest of what was peaking out from under her silky robe.

She grinned, and took a drag, smoke pooling from her lips while he walked over.

“Look at this handsome man,” Her old neighbor chimed, waving a finger. “Thought you didn’t have no boyfriend.”

“I don’t,” She laughed right back. He’d been close enough to touch then, so she gave his forearm a little squeeze. “Hi, De.”

“Hey, Sweetheart.” He grinned back down at her, eyes rimmed red and sleepy from the long car ride, but still just happy to take in the sight of her.

“Sounds like boyfriend talk to me, there, honey.” The old lady sipped on her coffee, eyeing him.

“Nah,” Her hand moved up further, giving his bicep a pat. “This right here is why is don’t need one. Not that I ever really wanted one in the first place.”

He thinks about that a lot. And about afterwards, when she called him baby, and stood from her patio furniture to lead him inside. How her hand was warm on his bicep, and rubbed his back to sleep while she read a cheap novel until he woke back up.

She makes loving her easy, but Dean would still do it if it was hard. She never asks for much, but he always knows what she needs. When they get back to the motel room after a long day, and she flops on the bed on her tummy, Dean knows she won’t want to eat anything but pretzels or crackers, sometimes toast, for a while until her stomach will feel better. He’ll tell her he’s going for a drive and show back up five minutes later with a Ginger Ale.

When she scrolls through the TV channel guide before pouting and tossing the remote in his lap, he can tell there aren’t any Dr. Sexy reruns on, so now it’s up to Dean to find an acceptable movie. When a hunt goes bad, and her eyes go all spacey, Dean knows it’s time to go lay in bed. Not necessarily go to bed, just be in bed. With Dean. To lay together, under her huge, comfy blanket. She likes watching cartoons, then, or just talking. The two of them, they can talk about anything for hours.

Sometimes, she likes to lay on his chest. Dean will already be in bed, channel surfing, when she strolls from the bathroom in his old hoodie and soft pj shorts. She’ll crawl into the bed, and curl up with her head on his abs, facing the TV.

Once, halfway through an episode of Scooby-Doo, she shuffled around to face him.

“Do you think it’s weird I never try to get with guys?”

It threw him off pretty bad. Never once, has he ever really thought about it. She just…didn’t do that, and that was that. End of story.

“No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” She shrugged. “Just…when we went to the Roadhouse awhile ago and I was hanging out with Jo, she wanted to talk about boys and stuff. I told her you’re the only guy I tolerate — besides Sam, obviously, but — she kinda made fun of me a little. She was just joking, y’know, but I guess it just made me think.”

“What did?” His eyebrows were crinkled, and his pretty green eyes showed just how truly lost he was.

“I just never realized that it wasn’t normal for that to not be appealing. The whole…sleeping with a random guy thing. That’s probably why i’ve never had sex.” She said it like it means nothing, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“…You’re a virgin?” His eyebrows moved all the way up, and his mouth didn’t gape, but it was still open when he finished. The prettiest, smartest, most hilarious woman he’s ever known — is a virgin.

“Well, yeah,” She shrugged again. “Why would I wanna have sex with some random dude who won’t even get me off? I’d rather just do it myself. Besides, I’d want it to be someone I trust, and I only really trust you that much.” Then, after staring him in the eyes and spilling the one thing he didn’t know about her in the most casual tone possible, and saying, out of anyone in the world, she’d only want to have sex with him, she turns back around and watches the rest of the Scooby episode until she falls asleep. Her head is still on his tummy, moving up and down with his breath, and her hand lays in front of it, a little too close to his waistband.

They’ve been different after that. Not much, but enough for Sam to notice. Jo, Ellen, and even Bobby, notice, too when they’re around.

All their soft, small touches that could’ve maybe passed off as just something sweet between good friends now linger. They fully hold hands, all the time. No more pinkies linked under tables, but now, swinging hand in hand everywhere they go. Kisses on the cheek are mandatory when one is leaving for more than five minutes without the other, whether it’s to a different state or the next room over. Hugs are constant and never ending. She receives a minimum of four Dean Winchester given piggybacks on a weekly basis. Playful pushes turn into tickles and giggling and careful tackles onto beds and big bear hugs. Basically, they’re just fucking insufferable.

They say I love you, like they’ve been doing it for centuries. To Dean, it feels like they have. Everything is just so easy with her, that there’s no way he can’t say it back. It’s not like he’s lying, either way. It kinda scares the shit out of Sammy, though, the first time he catches it.

Dean and Sam were just going to the library, she was staying back in the room with an upset stomach because Dean wouldn’t let her go. He’d had gotten her Goldfish and a Ginger Ale already, had her propped up in bed with the best pillows in the room and Cake Boss ready to shine (Dr.Sexy wasn’t on).

Sam had already been waiting by the door, annoyed and impatient when it happened. He was about to start sighing and grumbling for Dean to hurry up when the older brother leaned back into her side, after just finally being convinced to leave it, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Call me if it gets worse or somethin’, alright? We’ll be back in a minute.” Her hand curled up, into his hair, basically petting him.

“I know, De,” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Nothin’ to thank me for.” He got all bashful, grinning like he was on top of the world.

“Alright, get out of here,” She laughed, and gave him a push. “Stop making Sam wait.” He moved away, finally, and just as the two were about to shut the door behind them, she shouts for Dean. “Love ya!”

He sticks his head back in, grinning so fucking sickly sweet it almost made Sam’s stomach start to hurt too. “Yeah, love ya, girl,” He closes the door, turning back to Sam. “Hurry up, Sammy, we’re running late.”

Yet, both of them will still claim they’re ’just best friends’. What absolute bullshit.

(part 2) (part 3)

[winfieldsreads]

Ugh love this 😫 could read a whole Dean x Reader Fic where it’s obviously to them that they’re basically in a relationship/have feelings for each other. Plus I love a Man Hater 😌✋

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Cruel World Masterlist

Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.

All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader, Dean Winchester x fem!reader, Soulless!Sam x fem!reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, TW!, smut, angst, grief & loss, descriptions of canon-type injuries, language, main character death, language, sexual tension/slow burn

I don’t want to give too much away, but I will provide CW for each chapter 💕

“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, cause you’re so far past me now” -Cruel World | Lana Del Rey

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four - TW!

Chapter Five- TW!

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine - TW!

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen - TW!

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen - coming soon!

[winfieldsreads]

Go read Cruel World NOW!!!!! @spectralgalaxygauntlet is the queen of angst!!! This fic will have you on the edge of your seat, screaming for more!!!! If you like fics that actually mean something and make you FEEL!!!! Read Cruel World 😤❤️

NOW!!!!