Summary: Depressed!reader and Spencer on a snow day.
Wc: ~1.7k
Warnings: Depression (implied), cold weather, basically all fluff, one singular cuss word
A/n: Have a cute little draft I've had since December while I work on requests <3
Spencer has kept his expectations for snowfall low this year. Winters have gotten more blue with each year and just as cold. The joy it held when you were little, when he got to vicariously experience the season like a kid, is wearing down.
When he sees a thick white coating over the earth, time becomes irrelevant. It doesn't matter that bending down to scoop snow doesn't sit well with his knees anymore, or that you don't giggle the same way. You won't beg to go outside and shake with excitement while he adds layer after layer of warm clothing on you. He's learning make peace with that.
He knocks twice before he goes into your room, with a soft verbal warning. Your room is filled with a hue as blue as your mood. It's so sickeningly quiet that Spencer gets self conscious of his breathing. Contrary to how it seems, you're awake. If Spencer squints, he can see you blink.
"Hey, honey." There's a sweetness in his voice that's enough to make your heart feel like yours for a moment. A timeless sound.
He pulls the covers further away from your head. Not that it changes anything, you still don't move beyond necessity.
"There's nearly nine inches of snow outside," he says, sitting down by your side. "I was hoping maybe we could go build a snowman? Or just take a walk if you don't feel up for that."
No answer from you doesn't mean no. It also doesn't mean yes.
"We can start a fire after, drink something warm, maybe order food." The breath he inhales is held longer than usual, his cardigan's folds straighten out and revert when he finally lets it go. "I think it would be good for us to get some fresh air."
He sits there in the silence with you, accepting.
The dark coldness around you is so prominent it might as well be sentient. It's reached every corner of your room, consuming you in the process. It hasn't reached him yet. The very home-like warmth he's infused with doesn't cease. The darkness tries to get him, pours all of its energy into it. He doesn't lift a finger but you see it fall back in defeat. He's come too far in his life to let the darkness win now.
Spencer stands up. First, he opens a slit of your curtain so your eyes can wake up. Next, he walks over to your wardrobe, knowing exactly what he wants: The warmest jacket you have, a scarf that has seen better days, your most comfortable pants, and warm socks. All of it is set down on your bed.
Your dad catches you curiously watching him before you pretend not to.
"Where are your boots?" he asks, not expecting an answer, just wanting you to feel acknowledged.
"By the front door."
It takes him a second to absorb your words, pleasantly stumped by the sound of his favorite voice.
He nods with a pout. "Okay, I will go grab them. Be right back."
He fights to not smile too much when he returns and finds you sitting up, subtly stretching out your muscles. He loses. Even after pulling his lips into a line, their edges give him away. He feigns a cough to pull himself together.
"I'll leave you to get ready. Just shout if you need me." He taps his hands against his knees and strides to his own room.
Time has changed many things, but not his go-to jacket. Green corduroy with brown shoulders — his companion for over two decades of winters and this year is no different. Not the best one to protect him against the cold per se, he's going to wear it regardless.
A scarf and gloves — which he pockets until he has to touch snow — is his limit of protection. Hats aren't worth the irritation or messy hair to him, and he no longer has to model the utmost good behavior when it comes to dressing warmly.
In his peripheral vision, he spots you in his doorway. Only then does he realize how long it's been since the last time you were there. You hesitate to step farther inside, like you haven't spent countless hours in his room.
"Is it okay if we just walk?" you ask, guilt wallowing in your mouth. You feel like a thief, taking away traditions and habits that high-light his year.
"Yeah, of course it is," he says softly, adjusting his scarf. He's never felt robbed by you.
As soon as he takes a step closer to you, you flee to wait by the front door.
He catches up to you, grabbing his keys on the way out. You go down the stairs of the apartment building as fast as you can so Spencer won't be forced to go slowly.
The cold outside overwhelms you for only second before it becomes your comfort. Your teeth might begin to clatter soon but your brain can't reach the same level of overwhelm anymore.
Snow falls by your eyes, you get lost in every flake of it. It surrounds you — you let it.
While you take it in, Spencer slips on his gloves and starts walking, making sure you follow.
Walking next to him is such an instinctual process it needs no active thought.
Snow crunching as you walk never allows for complete silence. Your dad doesn't talk, he just watches you. The tip of his nose is already turning pink, he sniffles intermittently. He'll walk until you express exhaustion.
You don't realize you're reaching for his hand until his thumb is stroking the back of yours and the world gets warmer. You don't know where he's leading you, you follow him anyway.
An open field, strangely untouched, catches your attention. He doesn't specifically direct you there, there's no way of knowing if it was intentional for you to pass by it.
Spread over the grass are piles of snow that you can't deny would look really good shaped into spheres. Quiet, lonely, isolated. Like looking in a mirror.
"It's not too late to change your mind," Spencer notes, hoping he sounds persuasive rather than pressuring, he's unsure if he got it right.
"We didn't bring anything to make one with," you say, looking for an excuse for a reason you don't understand.
"We can improvise."
Spencer slowly moves closer to the field, his pace increasing until he's jogging lightly.
You lose sight of him in favor of the pale sky. Clouds block the blue, parts you can see are on the brink of being gray.
Bending down to collect snow, Spencer molds it into a ball. He checks the snow for rocks or otherwise harmful debris to the best of his ability before he throws it at you.
Imperfect aim and fear of hurting you means you barely feel its impact, physically. But it's a silly reminder that you're not as fragile to him as you tend to worry you've gotten.
He stands in wait for you to make your own snowball. You throw it with a little more force. It makes him stumble by a step or two. He hardly notices over the sound you let out — a laugh void of restriction. A sound he wants to hear it on repeat until his ear drums burst.
"If I compile our snow, will you get us six worthy rocks?" he asks after having enough air back to talk.
"What are worthy rocks?" You frown at him.
"The ones you like."
He starts rolling snow into three parts, talking the whole way through, only pausing to catch his breath. You pick out rocks as he asked. The darkest ones are for the snowman's chest. The roundest for eyes. And a smaller one to serve as a nose.
"Hey, did you hear that the record for the largest snowperson ever built was broken a few years ago for the first time since 2008? The old one was 122 feet and one inch tall and it was built by a group of residents in Bethel, Maine. The new one is located in Austria, standing at just under 126 feet." He lets out a longer puff of air after having the snowman's head complete.
"We could build a taller one."
Spencer chuckles. "Maybe next year."
You put your rocks down where you won't lose them, then you help to stack the snowman's body. Years of practice have made Spencer overly skillful at structuring them.
You recollect your rocks and get down to press some into the snowman's abdomen.
"Why don't we each pick out a stick for their arms?" Spencer dusts off snow from his gloves. He's starting to sniffle more frequently.
"Sounds like a plan." You secure the last rock, snow residue staying on your glove.
The sticks you two pick out are different shades of brown, different lengths.
"These are perfect," Spencer declares as he sticks them into the snowman's sides.
"He doesn't have a mouth," you point out, squinting your eyes because of the wind.
Spencer leans down and, removing one of his gloves, draws a line under the snowman's nose with his finger. The ends of the line don't curve up or down, it remains straight from beginning to end.
"Isn't he kinda sad looking?"
Pursing his lips, Spencer puts his glove back on. "I wouldn't say he's sad, he's, uh… neutral. Maybe he's a little lonely, there are no other snow people around."
You look at the figure from top to bottom. It doesn't have a hat, or colorful scarf like most did a couple years ago. There's no carrot for a nose.
But you built it, with Spencer, and it hasn't crumbled or fallen into pieces. It stays in place.
"Making him wasn't that hard." You glance up at your dad.
"No, it wasn't." Spencer's teeth peek out behind his lips. His smile retracts right after it forms, unsure of itself.
"If we make one more, can we go home right after and drink a shit ton of hot chocolate?"
A little cloud of air forms when he exhales with a hint of laughter. "I thought you'd never ask."
A woman has been lost
Knowing the delirium and the dust
It's been lost, this beautiful madness
Her brief waist beneath me
It’s been lost, my way of loving
It’s been lost, my fingerprint in her sea
I see a light that vacillates
And promises to leave us in darkness
I see a dog barking at the moon beside another figure
That’s reminiscent of me
I see more, I see that she didn't find me
I see more, I see that she's lost
Cowardice is a matter
Of men, not of lovers
Cowardly loves never become
Love nor history, they just stay there
Not even memory can save them
Nor the finest orator conjugate them
An unnamable woman
Flees like a seagull
And I quickly dry my boots, blaspheme a note
And turn off the clock
Love better watch out for me,
For I just might sing its own song
A woman with a hat
Like a painting from the old man Chagall
Corrupting at the center of fear
And I, who am not a good man, began to cry
But back then, I cried for myself
Now I cry to see her die
But back then, I cried for myself
Now I cry to see her die
NOTES: if you're ever going to read something non-fanfic related from me, pls read this. THIS IS A TRANSLATION OF A SONG IN SPANISH, called "oleo de una mujer con sombrero" by Silvio Rodriguez. if you can, pls go give it a listen, it's one of the most heart-wreching songs i've ever heard.
i decided to do this because I'm planning on using the lyrics for a story im working on, and i just thought that this precious lyricism deserved to be more appreciated. many times song translations are done hastely and lazily, and therefore create this idea that spanish linguistics isn't half as profound and romantic as they actually are, so i took the time to try and encapsulate the beauty and poetic quality of the song.
probably no one is gonna see this, but if you do, welcome to the beauty of Latino lyricism.
PAINED: through gritted teeth, unaware of the sound because of the pain, head falling back, curling around the source of pain in an attempt to shield self
CELEBRATORY: jumping up and down, screeching with surprise then quickly covering mouth and laughing, grabbing hand of loved ones, grinning widely after
HORRIFIED: backing up, wide eyed, shaking, involuntary sound quickly muffled with a hand, followed by teary eyes
ANGRY: guttural, screaming until there is no air left, approaching the source of anger, turning red, eyes brimming with tears of rage
EXCITED: higher pitched, frantic, unable to contain noise, suffocating on the emotions
GRIEF: guttural and wordless, coming from deep in their chest, dropping to knees, doubling over, repeated sounds of agony
i have no doubt that the boys finale will be amazing from how much the actors having been hyping it up and how worried the writers clearly are, but it will not make up for how shitty this season is. i think kripke forgot that in the making of a good finale, it also has to have an amazing season.
like explain to me how constantly throwing away the momentum of cliffhangers, using soldier boy to promote vought rising before throwing him out with no character development (to obviously bring him back for the boys mexico), forgetting characters and their power buffs, the gross sex jokes, and the whole mess of ep seven makes a good season. a good finale can’t make me forget this unfortunately
i have no doubt that the boys finale will be amazing from how much the actors having been hyping it up and how worried the writers clearly are, but it will not make up for how shitty this season is. i think kripke forgot that in the making of a good finale, it also has to have an amazing season.
like explain to me how constantly throwing away the momentum of cliffhangers, using soldier boy to promote vought rising before throwing him out with no character development (to obviously bring him back for the boys mexico), forgetting characters and their power buffs, the gross sex jokes, and the whole mess of ep seven makes a good season. a good finale can’t make me forget this unfortunately
sleepy & thinking abouuut dean winchester with a partner who is just a little peculiar in the ways in which they express their love towards him.
you sniff at his neck and press your nose into the soft spikes of his hair as he sleeps, breathing him in with deep inhales, faded cologne and basalm and dark vanilla. he might stir, and doesn't speak at all, fingers finding your waist to pull you closer.
sometimes, you'll clamber over him in bed and stare down, blinking owlishly and quiet. he stares back, tips up into your palm as it smooths over his forehead. he likes it. likes you, likes how quiet you can be, likes how you stare and bump the tip of your nose to his.
you'll admit things, in the late evening, when it's only him and a gauzy breeze rolling in soft waves through the cracked window of a worn motel room. he cleans his machete, his pistol, and there's so much you've got to tell him.
"i look at your knuckles a lot," you murmur.
his knuckles. it's only a little weird, when he thinks about it and glances to where you sit on the edge of the mussed bed. the mattress creaks as you shift. you're so pretty. he loves that you think about his knuckles. it feels intimate in a caliber he hasn't allowed himself to experience.
"yeah?" he replies. "that's sweet, angel."
confessions spill out easy from your lips, and he comes to hear, crouching by your feet with big hands splayed atop your thighs. he taps with the pads of his fingers and listens and wants desperately to nuzzle his face in some warm place of you.
"your teeth are pretty," you blurt next. "i daydream about kissing them."
something foreign and fuzzy settles in the pit of his heart.
"i'd let you, baby. you want to?"
you nod. so he lets you. flushes a smooth, blushed velvet. you pull his pink lip up with a gentle thumb and kiss his canines just to kiss.
there are many little details about you, that he admires just the same. the faint hairs that trail in a tiny rivulet down your navel, the delicate swell of skin above the waist of your jeans, the curve of your ears. how you speak, and blink, and your puffed under eyes after waking.
"d'you think i'm weird?" you question, when his cheek is to your chest and his bones are warmed jelly. you pet his hair. he tries to shake his head against you, but doesn't move at all. the ball of his palm rubs circles into a small divot in your back.
summary: you're sleepy and sleepless when wandering through the bunker before finding your boyfriend, Sam. you immediately crawl on his lap before he starts to read to you, making you fall asleep. that sounds a lot like love.
The bunker is quiet in the way only late nights allow it to be, the kind of silence that settles deep into the walls and makes everything feel softer, slower, like time itself has decided to take a breath.
The lamps are dimmed low, casting warm pools of golden light across the library, and somewhere far down the hall, a pipe hums faintly like a lullaby. Sam sits curled into one of the worn leather chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him, a heavy lore book balanced in his hands. His brows are slightly furrowed, eyes scanning line after line with quiet focus, one finger absentmindedly tracing the margin as he reads.
He looks comfortable like this, settled into something familiar, the world narrowed down to ink and paper and the steady rhythm of turning pages. Like nothing a break that focus he decided to have, to keep to himself and make it at peace.
You’re supposed to be asleep: you had every intention of being asleep. You even tried—curling up under the blankets, nestling into the soft weight of pillows, listening to the faint echo of footsteps fade as the bunker settled for the night—but sleep never quite came. Instead, you drifted in that hazy space between wakefulness and dreams, thoughts slow and soft, until the quiet started to feel too big around you.
And so, half-awake and wrapped in that gentle drowsiness, you wander down the hall, socked feet silent against the floor, one of Sam’s oversized sweaters slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is still a mess from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded, movements unhurried and instinctive, like you’re being pulled by something warm and familiar rather than consciously deciding where to go. Everything from you is soft at that moment; quiet yawns leaving you, mumbling words that don’t totally make sense, warmth under your skin.
Sam doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too absorbed, too deep in whatever piece of lore he’s trying to untangle, lips moving faintly as he reads under his breath. It’s only when you reach him—when you pause beside the chair for a second, swaying slightly with sleepiness—that he finally glances up, startled just enough to blink in surprise. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice automatically lowering as if he’s afraid to disturb you further, though the bunker is already wrapped in silence. His gaze softens almost instantly when he takes you in properly—your sleepy expression, the way you’re practically leaning into the chair already, like gravity is pulling you toward him. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You don’t really answer, not with words. Instead, you make a small, quiet sound (something soft and noncommittal) and then, without asking, without hesitation, you climb onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
There’s no awkwardness to it, no pause of uncertainty. Just a gentle, sleepy insistence as you tuck yourself against him, knees folding over his thighs, arms slipping loosely around his middle. It’s instinctive, the way you settle there, like you’ve done it a hundred times before: because you have. Your cheek presses against his chest, right over his heart, and you let out the faintest sigh, like you’ve finally found what you were looking for. That safe place, that warmth, that love.
Sam exhales softly, the surprise melting into something all warm and fond like the sun in summer, something that lingers in the small curve of his smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs, adjusting his hold on the book so it doesn’t slip, one arm automatically wrapping around you to steady you. His hand comes to rest gently against your back, fingers splaying there in a quiet, protective gesture. “Okay. Hi to you too.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but it’s soft, careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile, sleepy bubble you’ve brought with you.
You shift slightly, nuzzling closer, your sweater bunching under his hand, and your fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his shirt. You don’t say anything else, just settle deeper against him, breathing slow and even, like you’re already halfway to sleep again. The steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear is grounding, comforting in a way that makes everything else feel distant and unimportant. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet rustle of pages as Sam carefully adjusts the book in his free hand, trying to find a position that won’t disturb you.
He glances down at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression softens further. There’s a tenderness there, something quiet and unspoken, the kind of affection that shows itself in small things; in the way his thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your back, in the way he shifts just slightly so you’re more comfortable, even if it means holding the book at a slightly awkward angle. “You’re warm,” he murmurs after a moment, almost to himself, voice barely above a whisper.
You hum softly in response, not quite forming words, your face pressing a little deeper into his chest before mumbling. “You’re so warm too.” Your legs relax fully now, draped over his, and your breathing evens out further, the rhythm slow and steady. You’re not asleep yet (not completely) but you’re close, hovering right at the edge and near the arms of Morpheus.
Sam hesitates for a moment, glancing between you and the book in his hands, like he’s trying to decide something. Then, softly, he speaks again. “You want me to read to you?” His voice is gentle, tentative in that careful way he has when he’s offering something that feels a little more personal than it probably should. “Might help you fall asleep.”
There’s a small pause, like your sleepy mind is processing the question. Then you nod, just barely, your movement slow and soft against him. “Mm,” you murmur, voice quiet and drowsy. “Yeah… please. I’d like you to.”
The word please is soft, almost slurred with sleep, but it does something to him anyway—something that makes his expression soften even more, if that’s possible. “Okay,” he says quietly, adjusting his grip on the book again, one arm still securely around you. “Okay, I can do that.” His fingers are warm against the fabric of the sweater but you swear you can feel the gentle touch of his digits against the skin of your back, then.
He clears his throat softly, just enough to settle into it, and then begins to read. His voice is low and steady, the words flowing in an even rhythm, each sentence carefully enunciated but softened at the edges. It’s not exactly light reading—lore rarely is—but the way he reads it, the cadence of his voice, turns it into something almost soothing, like a story meant to be heard rather than studied. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t skim, lets each word settle into the quiet space around you both.
You listen, at least at first. You follow the sound of his voice more than the meaning of the words, letting it wrap around you like a blanket. Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, then relax again, your body growing heavier against him as the last bits of wakefulness begin to slip away. His hand continues its slow, absent movement against your back, grounding you, anchoring you there.
Sam’s voice doesn’t just fill the room: it settles around you, soft and steady, like something you can lean into. He’s careful with it, instinctively lowering his tone, smoothing the edges of each word as if he knows you’re listening with more than just your ears.
“You comfy there, sweetheart?” he murmurs without breaking the rhythm of the reading, the nickname slipping out so naturally it barely registers to him anymore. You hum in response, a quiet, sleepy sound, and press closer like it’s answer enough. It always is with you because you don’t need many words, not with him. Sam’s mouth softens into the faintest smile, eyes flicking down to you for just a second before returning to the page, his voice resuming that low, even cadence meant just for you.
You’ve always done this; gravitated toward him without thinking, like your body knows before your mind does where it feels safest. Late nights, early mornings, moments in between hunts where exhaustion settles deep into your bones—you always find your way to him, curling up at his side, leaning into his shoulder, fitting yourself into the quiet spaces he leaves open without ever needing to ask.
And Sam, he’s learned you just as instinctively; the way your breathing changes when you’re about to fall asleep, the little sounds you make when you’re comfortable and the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you need something to hold onto, even in rest. His arm tightens just slightly around you now, a subtle adjustment, careful not to bother you. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs under his breath, more habit than thought, his voice soft enough that it blends into the rhythm of the story. “I’m here for you.”
Your body softens further, melting into him in that quiet, trusting way that still catches him off guard sometimes, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. Because you always trust him like this, without hesitation, without fear.
Every so often, he glances down at you, just to check. Each time, he finds you a little more relaxed, a little more distant from the waking world. Sam swallows softly, eyes lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary, something warm and almost disbelieving flickering in his chest. Your breathing deepens, your face softens completely, and eventually, your grip on his shirt loosens into something purely instinctive. You don’t respond anymore when he shifts slightly or turns a page; you’re gone, fully asleep, tucked safely against him.
He notices the moment it happens. The exact second your body goes completely slack, your breathing settling into that deep, even rhythm. His voice falters just slightly, the words trailing off at the end of a sentence as he realizes you’re not listening anymore, not really. For a moment, he just looks at you, quiet and still, something soft and almost awed flickering across his face.
“…and that’s why the sigil has to be drawn in—” he stops, glancing down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “—blue chalk,” he finishes quietly, even though you’re already asleep.
He lets the silence settle for a second, then exhales softly, closing the book with careful hands so the sound doesn’t startle you. The room feels even quieter now, filled only with the soft rhythm of your breathing and the faint hum of the bunker around you.
“Guess it worked,” he murmurs under his breath, the words barely audible.
His hand moves up slightly, fingers brushing gently the hair at your forehead, smoothing it back in a soft, absent gesture. There’s something almost protective in the way he holds you, like he’s very aware of how small and soft you feel curled up against him, how easily you fit there. He shifts just enough to get more comfortable without waking you, one arm tightening slightly around your back to keep you steady.
He doesn’t move to put you back to bed. He probably should—he knows that—but the thought of waking you, of pulling you out of this soft, peaceful sleep, feels wrong somehow. So he stays exactly where he is, letting you rest against him, letting the moment stretch out quietly.
After a while, he leans his head back against the chair, eyes closing briefly, though he doesn’t fully fall asleep. He just rests there, listening to your breathing, feeling the steady weight of you against him. His thumb resumes its slow, absent circles against your back, a rhythm that matches the quiet calm of the room.
Time passes like that, unmeasured and gentle.
At some point, you shift slightly in your sleep, your hand curling more firmly into his shirt again, your face pressing closer into his chest like you want to make sure he is still there, still protecting you. Sam’s eyes open immediately, attention snapping back to you, but when he sees you’re still asleep, he just relaxes again, his hand moving instinctively to soothe the small movement.
“Hey,” he whispers, so soft it’s barely sound at all. “I’ve got you, baby.” You don’t hear him; or maybe you do, somewhere deep in that soft space of sleep, because your body relaxes again, settling back into him like you belong there.
And Sam, well, he stays. Holding you, steady and warm, in the quiet glow of the bunker’s dim lights, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
i’m getting really sick of soldier boy having the most screen time and doing nothing but mogging. like oh he’s growing attached to his son! wait no he’s just in love with a nazi. hey we’re going to learn more about his relationship to bombsight and how he acted in the past! … still talking about a nazi. hey he’s going to save the world from his son! oh just more nazi love
⟢ cas doesn't mind how quiet you are at all. while sam and dean occasionally worry for you, cas understands. he notices the way you listen and observe, you're more than content. he's still very attentive towards you, by your side often with a splayed hand on your back.
"i'll always listen to you," he'll say. "you won't be overlooked by me."
⟢ cas loves long car rides, because he gets to sit in the backseat with you. it's always a very soothing silence, watching as you hum along to the radio under your breath, the subtle expressions you make at whatever sam and dean are rambling about in the front.
he loves your soft, subtle smiles. the way let him take your hand into his to disrupt the idle picking of your nails. if he's super lucky, you'll rest your head against his shoulder as the sun begins to melt down the horizon, and the road seems to stretch forever.
forever sounds rather lovely, with you.
⟢ his heart swells and flutters all in one, whenever you press close to him. he loves being a safe place for you, someone comforting and capable of being just as quiet. you'll sweep against his side, or tuck a hand over the crook of his elbow, and he's got to remember that human vessels have to breathe. it can be difficult around you.
⟢ whenever you do want to talk, however often that may be, he really is ready to listen. he wants to. he loves your voice, a pretty dulcet in his ears that he'd like to hear repeating. he'll sit while you stand between his legs, a gentle hand on your waist, just to say that he's present.
⟢ but silence is just as perfect. he loves to sit with you, lay beside you, read with you, all in that comfortable quiet. hold your hand, petal his fingers over your knuckles, give you this soft affection that helps to ease your mind.
"i enjoy this more than you know," he tells. "you're wonderful."
“jesus. you could get pregnant with all the eye fucking” stan and homelander eye contact had NOTHING on destiel so this is basically jensen admitting he does know what he’s been doing with misha this whole time
ik mr. marathon and malchemical barely got like ten minutes of screen time but i am eagerly expecting some fics of them. they were hot as hell and lowkey good guys who just liked drugs, sex, and being lazy
𖦏 Young Adult!Dean Winchester x Sassy Fem!Reader | Flirty, mild angst, subby Dean, reader is very commanding (and Dean loves it!!), Dean is kind of a brat, use of nicknames (Dean): pretty boy, puppy. (Reader): Gorgeous, sweetheart
Suggestive(?) | 16+ Reccomended
Summary: Dean stops by to exchange ‘ghost stories’ with you at the local lake where you discover his background as a hunter.
࿐༉༉ᯓ★
Note: I’ve never written anything like this before and ngl I’m a bit scared about trying something new. I’m finally releasing it after a month in the drafts. >//<
He shows up to your home with earbuds in and a snickers bar hanging from his lips. A mound of hickeys from the night before scattered lovingly across his neck and chest, peeking from his v-necked undershirt. Cold air reddens his cheeks and knuckles that he tap tap taps on your front door.
“Hi gorgeous.” Dean manages to say between bites of his candy.
You sneer. “Hi pretty boy. Long day at work?”
“Yeah. Been doing some big boy stuff on the car engines. Nothin’ you need to worry about.” He crumples the wrapper and shoves it in his jumper pocket. While you slave away at college, your bimbo of a boyfriend works his 9-5 as a car mechanic.
“Hm,” You pluck an earbud out so he can hear you clearly. “I always worry when it’s with you.”
“Still up for ghost stories?” Dean steps up all too close for such a simple question. You grab his jaw and shake his face around, smiling smugly when he whines in protest. Dean’s a handsy guy, grabbing him first always feels like a one-up.
“Yeah I’m up for ghost stories. Hm..you smell like a gas pump, do You want a shower first?” You let his mouth go and he dives in to kiss your jawline.
“No. I wanna go to the lake. I’ll rinse off there.” He murmurs into your neck.
“That’s disgusting…” you huff, running your fingers through his greasy hair. Dean grunts in protest before retreating to his car, expecting you to follow him.
“Say hello!”
The light on the side of the camera flashes a bright red. It’s a wonder the camcorder works. It was a new toy you picked up at the thrift during one of Dean’s ‘band shirt hunting sessions’.
“That shitty thing, really?” Dean sasses. He kicks off his shoes to test the lake water.
“The Ghostfacers said ghosts get caught on camera all the time. They’re obviously gonna come if we tell ghost stories.”
“Honey, The Ghostfacers don’t know jack. It’s a web show that makes up shit for views.” Dean sheds his jumper, leaving him in his undershirt and shorts. You scoff, not believing him. He always wants to be right, and it’s irritating.
“They have three followers, so clearly I’m not the only one interested.”
“How many accounts do you have?”
You hesitate. “Three…”
“Mmmhnm.”
“Just shut the hell up and be pretty.”
You shove the camera into deans cocky face anyway, and he makes a silly expression before contorting into something serious. He reaches for the neck of his shirt and yanks it off, discarding it by tossing it on the camera. You hoot in disapproval.
“You wanna hear a real ghost story? Fine.” He whips around so the camera takes in his bare back. There’s markings all over him— scratches, burns, bruises…are those shotgun scars? Your face hardens to something mournful. How could you have not noticed this?
“Dean…what are those?”
“If we caught a ghost on camera it wouldn’t be fuckin’ Casper.”
“Excuse me?” Your piercing stare cleans his mouth in no time. Dean stutters over soft groans of embarrassment, trying to regain some semblance of power in a relationship where he honestly…wants none.
He runs his hands up and down his body, every inch marked up in some way, each new reveal something worse than the last. It explains why he undresses in the dark, and why he avoids daytime intimacy unless your eyes are closed or blindfolded. He’s casual about it, though there’s a haunted look buried beneath those princely eyes.
“This one…” Dean points to a scar on his side. A healed gash that clearly suffered an infection at some point. It looks like it healed nothing short of painfully. “You gank a ghost with iron. Dad took me out to this farmhouse when I was 16 and I ran into one. I took the nearest piece of iron to me and swung. Bitch knocked the bar outta my hands and it cut me in the side…”
You’re silent, listening more intently. He’s never been this open before.
“…dad never took me or Sam to get any shots. But that day I had six to the ass so whatever was in the rust wouldn’t kill me.”
You glance down at the camera, peering at his healed wounds through the foggy lens.
“This one,” Dean continues, showing a clump of small divots on shoulder side with a smug grin. “Sammy thought he brought the salt gun and he fired at a spirit that was in front of me. First time I ever got by a loaded gun was by my own brother. But’cha can’t blame him. Kid was 14, he was a baby. He cried and cried when he shot me, thought he was gonna my murderer. But I’m still standing.”
“Where’s your brother now…?” You whisper.
Dean’s grin disappears. “Stanford. Doin’ law. It’s funny, he’s seen me drink all my life and he leaves the year it’s legal for me.” He steps into the water until his hips are submerged, dunking his head in to wet his hair. You keep the camera steady, wanting to catch every bit of him. “But enough’a that. How do I look?”
You watch your boyfriend flex his muscles, his full yet tight stomach and arms glistening under the light of the stars.
A laugh escapes your lips followed by a nod of approval. You know he doesn’t like talking about his past. “You look good. Hot.”
Dean smirks a crooked smile and turns around to flex his back. A shiver runs up your spine. You didn’t realize how pliable Dean really is…not that you’d take advantage of him….
“Stay like that Dean,” you tut.
He freezes, muscles still clenched for your viewing pleasure.
“I feel like a toy,” he fusses.
There’s that dumb puppy attitude again.
“Hmm, a well-loved toy, maybe. Turn around.”
Dean immediately whips around to face you, where he stares un-menacingly with those dewy eyes of his. He waits until you let him move to start rinsing off again. He splashes around for a while, making himself look attractive for the camera.
“I got one more ghost story for ya,” Dean yips. It’s hard to tell if he wants to divulge or if he really just wants your attention. Either way, you get closer to the edge of the lake and it seems to excite him— if he had a tail it would wag. He trudges through the water to close the distance between you two, waiting for a big kiss.
The camera takes in his dripping wet hair, his round eyes, and his needy looking baby face. You press a quick kiss to his pink lips, causing his eyes to flutter closed for just a second.
“Only if you want to, pretty boy.” It takes a mound of strength to push him off before he gets you soaked in lake water. He follows after you anyway in a desperate attempt for your attention.
“I- I do! I do!” He half-whimpers. “I got— I got one more.” The tone of his voice shifting from moody to whiny makes your stomach flutter with sick deliciousness. Dean stays ankle-deep in the lake, trying to scavenge for scraps of your attention.
“Okay,” you begin carelessly. It only makes him more needy. “Speak.”
“A- a ghost ran through me once. It felt…cold. Really damn cold. Felt it right here for just a second” He grabs his soft tummy. At the right angle the beginnings of some abs made themselves apparent. That’ll be all he can get anyway— he loves his food and you love him for it, including his stomach. You giggle a bit at his desperation, and how damn cute he is trying to impress you.
“And?”
“A-and I remember holdin’ my guts in my hands the next. Like a damn slasher movie. You…you like those right?”
Only a boy like Dean would pretty up his own horrific memory to appeal to you. You tilt your head to the side in curiosity, and it makes Dean’s heart flutter.
Dean continues: “I was with dad when it happened. He hauled me an’ all the trimmings into the car and got me sewed back up again in the hospital. Top ten worst days of my life.”
“What’re you saying?” You question.
“Wh-what I’m sayin’ is…well…” a tear drops down Dean’s face. “I’d go through it again if it means you keep lookin’ at me like that.” You watch his Adam’s Apple Bob up and down like he’s said too much. “I’d let you record it all too, if ya like...that sorta thing.”
“And if I said I did?”
He hesitates.
“…Do— D’ya like seeing me cry?”
“….”
“S’okay if you do. I like knowing you like it.” He pushes the camera to take in his face more clearly. “I’ll cry all night about scars if you want.”
You keep your hands steady on the new angle. It’s like he wants this more than you do.
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