#and Dean's time was robbed from him

[castiel-left-his-mark-on-me]

I know a million people have already shared their opinions and thoughts on Jensen’s “brother” comment in regards to the confession, so this may be nothing new; but I can’t stop thinking about it so I wanted to write it down.

One of the main reasons I love (and kept watching) SPN over the years was because of Dean’s character-growth. He is just so human—and that is a testament to both Jensen’s acting, as well as Jensen’s age when he started playing Dean.

For fifteen years, we got to observe all those micro and macro changes within Dean’s character; much like a parent watching their child grow up. We noticed how Dean’s face changed, how his voice and confidence and openness morphed and grew … but we also got to see all the ways he stayed the same. We got to see his habits resurface again and again; and we got to see him make the same mistakes over and over. And even though it was frustrating to watch at times … it was also very, very human.  It was natural. It felt real … and I think that was both intentional and unintentional on Jensen’s part.

But just like how our growing child can’t see all these changes within themselves, I don’t think Jensen can see them all within Dean—not like how we can. He’s too close; but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t psychoanalyzed Dean Winchester.

I think it’s become obvious in the last couple of years just how much Jensen has thought about Dean’s thought process, both individually as well as in the SPN canon—and he thinks of Dean as a real person. His answer at VanCon proves that. Like @pray4jensen said: it’s clear that Jensen doesn’t know where he ends and Dean begins. And how could he know? He started playing/shaping Dean in his late twenties; and science has proven that most people’s brains are still malleable at that age. He then went on to grow with that character well into adulthood—through all the formidable and pivotal moments in his own life … marriage, fatherhood, life and death. Dean IS part of him. He wasn’t just an “act” to Jensen. So much of his own development couldn’t help but sneak into Dean’s mannerisms, which made Dean feel very, very real on screen.

Think of it this way … so many of us have had difficult/complicated pasts. We have had to code-switch all our lives. There’s a version of yourself that you have to display in certain company and in certain environments; and sometimes, that version pops up without warning—when triggered by something familiar or traumatic.

Now, I’m not saying that playing Dean was a “trauma” for Jensen (at least—I hope it wasn’t), I’m just saying that we’ve all had experience playing a role in our lives; and even though we know that it’s just a role, we still think of it as a version of ourselves. We still feel like we’re just a moment away from reverting back to that person.  But can you define all the qualities of that other version of you? Can you explain—in detail, just how and when and why that version pops up? No.

You can identify some things, sure, but not all. That’s why we seek out therapy. We need an outside perspective to help us find a way to bridge these versions of ourselves and make them whole again.

This is just human nature. It’s human psychology.

Dean Winchester is a version of Jensen. He is a real part of Jensen’s life. So, when Jensen answers on Dean’s behalf, he can’t help but put himself directly into that character’s boots—exactly where they stand, here and now.

And if we flash back to that confession—Jensen knows that Dean Winchester would not have been able to comprehend all the ways Castiel meant “I love you” because Jensen was Dean in that moment.  And after Cas was taken, Dean still wouldn’t have been able to understand, because all the love he has ever known in his life—all the true, dependable, reliable love, has come along with the fight.  Jensen knows—because he lived it all with Dean, that any love his character felt was a direct result of his battles to save the world. Sam, Benny, Mary, Charlie, Kevin, and on and on … all of them of course cared for Dean—Dean knew that, but since the constant fighting framed every one of those relationships, he couldn’t help but view them all the same way: as soldiers, fighters, products of war. They were family, yes ... but they were all still soldiers. Even those he tried to keep out of the war, Dean still knew the reality was … they had to fight in order to stay alive. That was just the way it was. That was the way of the love Dean felt. Any kind of love beyond that was impossible, because war would inevitably take it away too. That’s why he ended things with Cassie and Lisa. That’s why he only ever pursued shallow flings and one-night stands. And that’s why, when he saw hunters who actually maintained romantic relationships—he always stared at them in wide-eyed-wonder.

Out of all the impossible things Dean had witnessed in his life, that was the one that consistently shocked him.

Hunters … in love and happy.

It felt unreal, even though it was right there in front of his eyes.

He couldn’t understand it. So, even though it apparently was possible for others, he never believed it was possible for him. It had nothing to do with sex … sex wasn’t a part of love for Dean. Sex was just a physical movement, like fighting and eating. It kept his body alive and moving forward. This impossible love he saw others maintaining … it had everything to do with heart; and for nearly fifteen years, Dean believed his heart was worthless.

It wasn’t until an angel stood in front of him on the brink of death and said: Dean, you are not a weapon to be wielded. You are beautiful. You are a man full of love who deserves to be loved, and I love you, that Dean thought any different.

It wasn’t until he heard Castiel say Dean was more than just a soldier, that Dean actually started to believe it. But that realization was still a long way off from what Castiel was actually telling him.

And Castiel knew that Dean wouldn’t understand—he knew that Dean wouldn’t be able to fully grasp his words and take them to heart; but he hoped that if he at least said them out loud … if he said them to Dean’s face and saved the man’s life, that Dean would go on to live and grow; and then someday, he would see that someone did actually love him once. Cas truly loved him—not because Dean could protect him in a fight. Not because he was a good hunter or the savior of the world, but because Dean was Dean, and that was enough.

And you know, if Dean got to live to 100, he just might’ve realized that; but he didn’t. He died too soon. And so, he never got to truly grasp what his angel was saying, and I feel like that’s what Jensen understands about Dean the most.

He understands that Dean never got the chance to understand love.

Not in that way. Not in the way Castiel meant it.

Dean was still too naive, too broken, too jaded; so, he did what all humans do, he put the complex into terms he could understand, and that was that Castiel loved him the way that Sam loved him. The way that Benny and Charlie and Kevin loved him, the way that all his found-family love him; and after Cas was gone, he buried his face into his hands and wept because once again, he failed to protect his family. And even worse, he failed to at least let Castiel go knowing that Dean loved him too—in the only way he knows how to love, he was too broken to say even that.

He let Castiel down in every way possible, so he curled into himself and sobbed.

He should have said it back.

He should have held the angel close and said it back.

Dean realized it too late, and Jensen knows how much that hurt him.

It wasn’t about sex.

It wasn’t about romance.

It was about love and loss, and Dean was all too familiar with both—but only in the ways he had seen all his life.

The love of family and the loss of family.

He never had the chance for more.

He never got to see what else his own heart was capable of.

That’s what I feel Jensen meant with that answer, and that’s what I think he understands the most about Dean's character. We may be able to see the bigger picture because we're on the outside looking in; but Jensen was in Dean’s boots every day for fifteen years.

All he could ever see was what was right in front of him—and when Castiel made that confession, Jensen could only see it through Dean's eyes. He could only feel what Dean felt. He knows that when Castiel said those words to him, that was his best and truest friend in the world saying goodbye.

Another brother-in-arms was lost to him; but this time, it felt different. It hurt more, and if Dean just had a little more time—he would've been able to understand why.

#Jensen Ackles #Destiel #15x18 #vancon22 #Dean Winchester #Castiel #I hope that made sense #I have had so many thoughts about this #and the more I see Jensen responding about both 15x18 #and the rest of Dean's reactions #the more I realize that he just feels Dean is a part of him #and if he's being honest with himself #then he has to also be honest with Dean #and he knows he can't slingshot Dean into a more developed #and emotionally grounded character #that would take time #and Dean's time was robbed from him #Jensen seems just as pissed about that as we are #but to me #I don't see him as anti destiel or anti romantic love for Dean #he is just realistic about Dean as a person #it makes sense to me #and I appreciate the dedication to the slow progression of the character #anyway #take this as you will #they're just my thoughts

[femmedefandom]

I think the stupidest thing about the whole bracelet debacle in 2x15 is the fact that Jess doesn’t know. He has no idea that the bracelet Rory wore was a gift from Dean and that apparently being his girlfriend means she is contractually obligated to wear it at all times to prevent a meltdown of epic proportions. All he knew was it was her bracelet and it was left right beside him after their friendly lunch/quasi first date…and that she never brought up the fact that is was gone after meeting with him. Jess wasn’t some master plotter or anything in this situation, he didn’t expect to start a fight with Dean or to upset Rory at all. In fact, the moment he finds out about the bracelet, he makes sure the house is empty and puts it right back in Rory’s room. And then Lorelai in all her infinite biased wisdom assumed that he…stole it off her daughter’s wrist without Rory noticing? Snuck in at night and robbed her jewelry box? What did she think happened exactly? And then Jess, who has had maybe 30 minutes tops to process the bracelet and all it’s connotations, hits back with the hardest truth of all. The one that Rory and Lorelai seemed determined not to think too deeply about: if it’s the most precious thing she owns, why did it take Rory two weeks to even notice it being gone?

I love that he says that, partly because I can’t always keep track of time skips in the show but also because it meant that Rory didn’t take it off for two weeks, didn’t put it on in the morning to go to school, didn’t fidget with it while she was distracted, didn’t have it bend a paper or get mashed potatoes on it, didn’t have it roll under her sleeve….she cared so little about this “symbol of Dean” that she was perfectly happy until he blew up about it being gone.

#rory gilmore #gilmore girls #lorelai gilmore #jess mariano #lorelai’s unreasonable hatred of jess #anti dean forester #gilmore girls 2x15

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  TWO HEARTED

SUMMARY : playing pretend, doing risky things, improv, Valentine’s Day is more than “unattached drifter Christmas” now.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), tiny bit of trauma/PTSD thoughts, public sex, fingering, car sex, p in v, oral sex, cum play, breeding kink

WORD COUNT : 4.8k

A/N : i see stars song title. this fills the “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but goddamn look at you.” square for my @jacklesversebingo card. I really had fun with this one 😂 xxxxxx

Dean was on the hunt.

Not the typical monster hunt. 

It was Valentine's Day, “unattached drifter Christmas,” as he jokingly told Sam a few times in the past. His mission tonight: pleasing the ladies who were out looking for a fun night. Or just one special lady. Whoever caught his eye, whoever was the most interesting to talk to, the most fun to be around. Someone as lonely as him, someone single, someone who would let him in for just one night.

Sure, maybe the suit he was wearing gave false pretences to the women he’d approach or the women who approached him. He knew the consequences of doing that, he could get robbed by the girl he’s with while he’s asleep, or maybe they’ll turn out to be Amazonian women who questionably get themselves pregnant without him knowing, and send their daughters to kill him… He’d rather forget that and the phobias that that made him start to have. 

Still, he liked to have fun. And no one in the over-expensive bar knew how embarrassed he was to be so overdressed, but the scotch helped with making him feel a little more comfortable under the gaze of a few women who were instantly eyeing him, hoping he’d make a move.

The lights were white rather than yellow, somewhat bright, and the bartop where he’d ordered from was made of marble rather than wood. It was clean, there were no stains, no circular marks from the condensation of previous drinks left on the surface. 

There were perks to these expensive places.

And there was already someone he had his eye on. Because she was funny without having to say a single word. It seemed she had other admirers as well. They sent her drinks and they’d smirk suggestively at her, and the bartender pointed to the man that ordered it for her. Even the bartender was amused. Every time she got a drink, she’d walk around, and hand the drink to the first woman that made her laugh. Each time it was a different woman and Dean only watched with a smirk on his face from the table in the far corner as the events unfolded.

The bright lights above where she sat atop a bar stool made her look celestial. Her hair shimmering brightly, hanging loosely over her shoulders, framing her face gorgeously. Her lucious, kissable lips were as red as raspberries, and the colour of her almond-shaped nails matched both the silk dress with a slit going up to her thigh, and her heels. Her skin looked perfect to kiss, perfect to touch, to bite, and mark. Her smooth, mouthwatering legs were crossed. He’s never paid attention to a woman’s shoes, but either her blood red heels made her look hotter, or she made those red heels look sexier. 

Whichever was the case, Dean couldn’t stop picturing lifting her up, and having her legs wrapped around his waist while he fucked her. He couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like for her nails to scratch down his skin. Or what it would look like to have her red lips wrapped around his cock, leaving red kiss marks on his skin, her lipstick smeared across his lips. 

Dean finally stood up and made his way to her. She was talking to—and laughing with—the bartender and one of the women she’d handed her drink to. His stomach knotted up as he got closer, his heart pounded in his chest, something he didn’t often feel when he was approaching someone he wanted. 

She was way out of his league. 

He had the intention of getting her attention, by extending a small, flirtatious greeting, but his mouth opened up, and nothing came out. His throat clamped up as he eyed her elegant hand playing with a napkin that had her lip stains, and he whimpered instead. She turned around to look at him with a polite smile on her face. Dean only smiled bashfully at her, choosing to order rather than making a bigger fool of himself until he regained the courage to finally talk to her. 

“Uh, whiskey,” Dean smiled at the bartender when he came up to ask what he wanted. The mystery woman got along with the bartender because he was married, and the woman that she’d befriended so quickly was genuinely kind and funny. Dean was about to talk to her once more, but the bartender slid the glass of whiskey towards him, so he shut up once more. 

He felt too observed. Too tense and anxious to formulate words.

But after about fifteen minutes, the mystery-girl's friend went to go pee and the bartender went off to start making drinks for a group of women that just got there. Dean finally relaxed and then he turned to her, momentarily admiring the side of her gorgeous face. 

He didn’t know if it was just him or if there was actually some tension between them. She turned to look at him with a tiny smile, soft locks of her hair fell over her eyes, and Dean’s breath stopped. 

Dean had barely collected himself when he smiled at her and said, “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but goddamn… look at you.” Dean was beyond mortified, an intense, fiery blush matching the redness of her lips erupted up his neck like a flare from the Sun. 

She laughed softly as Dean stumbled for an excuse or an apology. “Does that usually work on women?” She asked, turning her body to face him, her eyes sparkling with joy and laughter. When she tilted her head, her hair moved with her, falling over shoulders breathtakingly. Dean was mesmerised, but her kindness made him feel at peace, if only a little.

Dean cleared his throat, willed himself to stop flailing by taking hold of his glass, his shoulders dropping humbly, “sorry, I’m a bit rusty.”

“Me too,” she admitted, biting her lip. White teeth sank into red and Dean gulped, trying to swallow down the anxiety that made his heart thunder. 

“Seems like you don’t really have to try,” he reassured her, turning his body to face her as she’d done so. She looked away thoughtfully, and placed her arms under her breasts, lifting them up slightly. Dean forced himself to look away from them, and raised the glass to his lips, tracing the tiny chain resting over her collarbones with a tiny charm hanging from the centre. 

“I’m too picky for my own good, I guess,” she sighed, playing with her lipstick-stained napkin. Dean inhaled, held his breath as he thought of what to say, then he exhaled a little laugh. 

“Can I order you a drink anyway?” He asked lamley, licking his lips slowly, seductively. She dropped her gaze down to his tongue and she smiled. 

“Sure,” she shrugged, sliding her arm out from beneath her breasts, much to Dean’s dismay. “Where were you sitting before?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder. Everything she did captivated Dean, but he forced his eyes away from her face, and followed her gaze.

“Table by the weird painting.” Dean pointed towards where he was sitting before joining her. 

She hummed softly, then faced him again. “Wanna sit back there with me?”

Dean struggled to respond to such a simple question, but he nodded at her instead of opening his mouth, and making a bigger fool of himself. Thankfully, the bartender returned when mystery-woman locked eyes with him from a distance. It was then that Dean remembered he didn’t know her name. 

The bartender smiled at her, then peered curiously at Dean. “Uh, I don’t know his name,” she laughs while looking into Dean’s daydreaming eyes, “but he’s gonna order me a drink.” It’s like the two of them have an inside joke, because the bartender snorts, and she’s grinning at him like she just caught the mouse she’d be toying with. 

“What’ll it be, then?” The bartender asked Dean, smiling mildly. Dean thought for a while, he gazed at her: the cherry colour of her lips that hadn’t faded despite the deep colour on the napkin, the pinkish blush on her cheeks, the sexy scarlet of her nails, the soft rose dress slipping over her body, and the matching red heels. 

“Raspberry martini.” The bartender nodded and turned away with his lips stretched into a gentle smile. “I’m Dean,” he told her to fill the silence. She moaned, low, and he knew she hadn’t meant it to be lewd, but that’s exactly how it felt with a jolt of arousal to his cock.

She gave him her name and the bartender returned with the raspberry martini, slowly sliding it to her with his eyes on Dean. Approval made the bartender step away with a smile, and Dean finally relaxed slightly, letting his gaze drift to her once more. She hummed softly at the drink, curled her fingers gracefully around the glass, and took a sip—enough to savour it properly. 

After letting it settle in her taste buds, she pulled the steel pick holding three raspberries. The sweet alcohol dripped down her pretty fingers and Dean’s mouth went dry, but when she wrapped her lips around the first berry, Dean’s mouth watered. He shifted his leg a little, trying to get rid of the tight feeling around his crotch, and realised how hard he was as his sensitive cock pressed against the thin material of his slacks. 

“Okay,” she said after chewing and returning the pin into the martini, “let’s go.” Dean blinked at her dumbly.

“Go?” He blushed, leaning forward a little. 

“To the table,” she chuckled, hopping down from the stool. Dean cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck out of embarrassment for how eager he sounded. She didn’t seem to mind as she cupped her drink again, glancing down shamelessly at the small tent in his dress pants. 

“Fuck,” Dean shuddered, drawing her gaze up to his. He observed her for a few seconds as he slid off the stool, staring down at her. Her nipples were pinched tight and poking through the thin cloth of her dress, her pupils dilated and pushed against the colour of her irises, she breathed unevenly, and was tightening her grip around the glass. 

Dean carefully took her waist and pulled her close, her gasp only made him hornier. Dean leaned down to her ear, his stomach fluttering when she leaned into him. He slid his hand down lower to squeeze her ass, then slid his hand back up the silky dress to hold her waist, and rubbed the silky material between his rough fingers, pulling away just to watch her. 

Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were a darker shade of rose. 

“Careful,” Dean murmured, pulling away to guide her towards the table that he’d sat in earlier. She nodded, carefully sipped on her drink, and he smiled when he gazed down at her. 

When they sat, she took the seat with the wall behind her, and he moved his chair to sit closer to her. He watched her closely, and she did the same to him, pushing the berries around inside the martini glass. 

“Hard limits?” He asked, gently bringing his fingertips to her knee—the one exposed by the long slit. He felt her move her leg closer to his hand, so he rested it flat on her soft, warm skin, slowly sliding up the inside. 

“Haven’t found any, yet,” she whispered, taking his wrist in her hand. Dean couldn’t help flinching, but he relaxed when she began to guide it up faster, higher between her legs. “At least none that apply to you,” she purred, allowing him to cup her pussy.

Dean could feel how warm and wet she was beneath the lace of her underwear and he moaned. She took the martini and took another sip, trying to act normal while he placed his hand inside her underwear, two fingers separating her drenched folds. He flicked her clit with his middle finger and played with the wetness that resided on her pussy. 

“Did you come here for a good time with the ladies or to go back home with a guy?” Dean asked gruffly, watching her try not to squirm with a smirk on his face. He wished he could touch himself, or get her to touch him, but for now, he pushed his finger into her warm, fluttering walls.

“Mostly the first thing,” she murmured, spreading her legs for his hand to fit, “but then I saw you and I changed my mind.” Dean laughed, pressing his palm against her clit, slowly starting to pump his finger in and out of her. 

“So, love at first sight it is,” he joked, moving his hand faster. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into her shoulder to hide her face from everyone else. She bit her lip and moaned softly, her cunt soaking his hand. 

“Love? Too early to tell,” she teased. She offered him her last raspberry and he let her feed it to him. His mouth watered chewing on the partially sour fruit and he stared at her as she drank the rest of the martini, licking away some of the remaining salt around the rim.

“All I can think about is how good you’re going to taste,” Dean purred seductively, grinding his palm against her swollen clit. She grinned mischievously. “Wanna see my car?” He asked, pulling his finger from her warmth to massage around her clit.

As soon as they exited the bar, Dean wrapped his arms around her from behind, chuckling against the skin of her neck. He kissed her softly, inhaling the expensive perfume on her skin, as he manoeuvred her across the parking lot to get to his car. 

She giggled and squirmed, moaning softly when he sucked at her pulse, and dragged his tongue upwards to her earlobe. His hands groped her body, grabbed her hips, squeezed her ample breasts, his fingers teasingly rubbing her nipples over the dress until they were pinched tight underneath. 

“Can you feel how hard I am for you?” Dean murmured, his cock twitching when she cursed softly under her breath. 

She turned around in his arms, teasingly bringing him down while walking backwards as carefully as she could. Dean held his breath, baited by her warm breath against his lips, only for her to move away, and lick his cheekbone. 

Dean laughed loudly, and his hands slipped down to squeeze her ass, grinding his hard cock against her stomach. “How far is your car?” She whined, sneaking her hand down between their bodies to stroke his cock over his pants. Dean gasped, his hips thrusting into her hand, and grunted softly when she squeezed. 

“Here,” he panted, pushing her up against cold, black metal. She turned back to admire the shiny car, the sleek, elegant lines of it while he trailed his mouth across her clavicle. He cupped her warm breasts in his bigger hands, ghosting his lips and scruffy chin along her cleavage until she shivered, and turned back to him. 

She took his jaw in her hands, and moved his face up to hers. Finally, red lips pressed against his and made him breathless. He stood at his normal height, forcing her to tilt her head back, his fingers digging into her sides. He licked into her mouth, tasting sweet, salty berries and alcohol with a moan. She met his warm tongue in a dirty frenzy of passion and her lipstick smeared across his pillowy lips. 

She lifted her leg up his thigh, and even over layers, it sent an erotic tingle along his leg that moved up to his swollen cock. His dick moved beneath his boxers for attention. He instantly took her soft thigh, sliding his hand up her hot skin and inside the slit, lifting her up until she stood on her toes to grind his aching cock against her core.

“Please, fuck me, Dean,” she whispered against his lips. With every word, her lips brushed against his, sending a spark of arousal across his entire body, making his muscles twitch and tingle. To his surprise, she crumpled the dress up to her waist, revealing red-lace panties. But she kept pulling it up, and his hands enchantedly followed the exposed warm skin until she got the dress off herself completely, standing bare before him in the parking lot. 

“God, you are so hot, baby,” he murmured, taking the dress from her. He unlocked the door clumsily, lowering his mouth to her exposed breasts, relishing in her moans when he sucked on her nipples. She began grinding against his thigh and he moaned in approval. One of her hands held the back of his neck, keeping his mouth close to her chest, and the other rubbed his throbbing cock. He pulled away from one nipple to wrap his warm mouth around the other one, leaving it as wet and hard as the other. 

Dean pulled her away from the door and opened it for her. She sighed shakily, shuddering in the cool air, and slipped inside wordlessly, facing him as he shoved his suit jacket off his shoulders. He ducked his head inside, and threw the keys, his jacket, and her dress into the front seat. 

“I like your car, it’s somehow… almost as hot as you are,” she breathed, watching him climb inside after her, loosening his red tie, and shut the door behind him. She scooted up, but he gripped her thighs with a deep chuckle that made her squeeze her legs together. 

“Thanks,” Dean murmured, “it looks better in here with you naked.” She smiled bashfully and laid back against the door silently, gazing at Dean who kissed her ankles, his warm lips moving up her calves. Her legs fell open as he moved higher, his eyes glued to her shimmering folds behind the red lace. Dean lunged forward, and pressed a kiss to her clit over her underwear, and teasingly traced the bottom of her underwear, tugging the ruined lace away from her soppy folds.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Dean groaned, his fingers grazing her warm slick, “I can’t wait to sink my cock into your pretty little pussy.” She moaned softly, cupping her breasts as she ground against his tantalising mouth. He pulled her underwear to the side and swirled his tongue around her entrance, moaning at the taste of her. His mouth watered instantly and he flattened his tongue up between her pussy lips to tease her clit.

“Holy fuck, Dean,” she gasped. She buried her fingers into his hair and wiggled her hips impatiently. Dean laughed against her and she whined when he pulled away.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers,” he ordered, then plunged a finger into her dripping hole. She gasped, her cheeks red, watching him undo his belt with his other hand. She folded, and did as he asked, moving forward to bring her swollen clit against his palm, holding onto the seat to lift herself up and down on his finger. He curled it against her walls just right, pulled his belt out of the loops, and burrowed a second finger into the warm wetness between her legs. 

Dean took her hip and brought her closer so he’s the one leaning against the door of his car. He worked her open with two thick fingers and she placed her hands on his chest, clutching his vest, spreading her legs wider for him. She moaned his name, and dropped her face into his neck, trembling as she lifted her hips up and down on his hand. 

“Good girl, keep going,” Dean praised, feeling more of her arousal against his fingers, dripping down his hand. He felt her tighten around his fingers and she got breathier, sucking a mark in his neck as she rolled her hip against his palm. Dean pulled his fingers out of her and she pulled away to narrow her eyes at him. 

“Why are you still dressed?” She panted, unbuttoning his vest to distract herself from the need to come. Dean stared at her lips hungrily, and forced his eyes up to hers to suck her juices from his fingers. “You got what you wanted, a taste of me,” she teased, then bit her lip, starting on the buttons of his white dress shirt as he slipped his fingers out of his mouth. “What do I get?”

“Did you know that every time your lips move, I picture them wrapped around my cock?” Dean trailed his fingers up her sides, and she halted, blinking at him with amusement. She sank her teeth in her plump lip, and giggled, finishing with the last button on his shirt. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got then, pretty boy,” she smirked flirtatiously, tugging his shirts out from under his pants. She dropped a quick kiss on his forehead, which made Dean pout, but she shoved the white t-shirt up his chest, and began to kiss his chest. 

She swirled her tongue around his nipples and Dean groaned, watching her swing her hair to the side as she kissed hard at his freckled skin. Her soft tongue lapped at his flesh, sucking marks on his twitching muscles, scraping her teeth down lower and lower.

Her red nails followed, sparking arousal as they brushed along his nipples, hooking onto his pants, popping the button out of the slit, zipping them down slowly. Dean bit his lip and lifted his hips up, allowing her to tug his slacks and boxers down his hips and thighs. Her hair tickled his skin and he shivered. She marked his hip bones with hickies, his pelvis, the v-mark leading to his cock. She stopped kissing him until his cock spring free, slapping against his stomach—red, leaking, and throbbing for release.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to feel you inside me,” she whispered. 

She wrapped her red lips around the head of his cock and sucked without warning. Dean moaned loudly and choked on a gasp, clutching the leather seat as she gently stroked the rest of his cock. Her tongue moved along his glans and Dean whined, a shudder of pleasure shaking his body. She took him deeper and sucked harder, and then she nearly swallowed his cock whole. Dean choked on a loud, lustful moan, his hips bucking upwards into her hot and wet mouth.

Her red lips slid up and down his cock, leaving him slick with warm saliva, and Dean thought he might just cum at the sight of her. She moaned around him, the sound vibrated through him, blood rushed all over his body, making him hot and desperate. 

He tangled his fingers in her hair and she reached in between his legs to fondle his balls. Dean nearly jammed his cock into her mouth and she whined, her jaw coming loose. Dean shoved her head all the way down anyway, and her nose pressed against the patch of thick, coarse hair. 

Dean’s balls drew in and his body became tense, he expected his climax to ripple through his body, but she slurped up his cock, spit and precum connecting the head of his dick to her pretty lips. “God, fuck!” Dean grunted, his orgasm slowly and painfully evaporating. 

“Dean,” she murmured, tugging his pants lower with his help. She straddled his legs, and leaned down to press tender kisses to his neck, biting at the stubble there, before tugging his ears with her teeth. 

“Do you like these?” He murmured, pulling her panties to the side to slide his swollen cock through her slick cunt. She released a breathy moan, and began to roll her hips against his throbbing dick, coating him with her slick while his precum rubbed through her a slit.

“Yes,” she pouted, then smirked when he groaned in irritation, his eyes rolling back. She moved away from him, and quickly discarded her panties, before inching closer to him. “You collect underwear?” She mocked, dangling her ruined, red lace intimates in front of him. 

Dean snatched them from her with a sarcastic laugh, then he turned serious. “No, but I can collect yours if we do this often,” he grinned mischievously, shoving her underwear into the pocket of his vest. 

She bit her lip and hovered over his cock, hooking her thumbs under the shirt to keep it up on his chest. She looked at Dean expectantly and he snorted. She didn't have to say a word. Dean lifted his hips, and in a sharp thrust, he entered her delightfully wet and warm walls. 

She let out a surprised cry of pleasure and ground down against him. He could feel her walls clench and unclench around him, then he lowered his hips, keeping her hovered so only the tip remained inside her, teasing his frenulum. Dean’s fingers dug into her hips and he slammed her over his throbbing erection, enjoying the sensation of her slick insides as he filled her up once more. 

Wet and obscene sounds filled the small space every time he pounded his hips up into her and she ground down on him to create friction on her clit. Dean had a thousand dirty things to say to drive her crazy, but as the car shook with their efforts, the words got jumbled up in his brain, spilling out like water in a glass during an earthquake. 

All he could do was moan with her, desperate, clinging to her so tightly all he could feel was her all around him. She lowered one leg to the floor of the car, opening herself more to him so that Dean’s cock slipped inside her fully, aching to touch every part deep inside her. He felt whole, warm, tingly, enraptured. 

“Please,” she panted, “come inside me, Dean. Fill me up.” With a long, deep groan of her name, Dean’s hot cum spilled inside her, and her vagina squeezed him tight, her own sticky release coating his throbbing cock. She gasped and dropped her forehead to his cheek bone, chanting his name quietly, riding each other through their orgasms, meeting his every thrust. 

Dean wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a warm embrace as the thrust of his hips came to a slow stop, with both of them heaving. She finally relaxed in his arms, but lifted her face to breath exotically against his lips, a smug smile on her red lips. 

“How was that, sweetheart?” Dean asked fondly, moving away stray strands of her hair before bringing her down for a kiss. She moaned softly against the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth, before lifting herself up so he slid out of her. Dean could faintly feel their release dripping over his cock and thighs, but the gentle scrape of her cherry-red nails down his chest took his mind off it.

“So goddamn good, baby,” she praised him softly when she pulled away. She gave him a short kiss and sat on his tummy, a mixture of their fluids spilled from inside her, and pooled over his navel. 

Dean reached down to play with the puddle of their release, then he thrusted his finger up into her—slick and all. Dean smirked when she groaned, but lowered his gaze to stare at her tits as she attempted to catch her breath. 

She moved away from him, ignoring his pout, and his shameless, salacious stare. She leaned over the front seat to pick her dress up from the front seat, giving Dean a full view of her glistening vulva and the mixture of their spendings dripping out of her. 

“What if I get you pregnant?” Dean bit his lip, struggling to pull his boxers over his wet cock—trousers bunched with underwear. She sat with her dress in her hands, her eyes glazing as she daydreamed. Dean remained quiet with her, focusing on getting his clothes back on in the tight space of his car. He pulled his pants up his legs, lifting his hips to zip them back up. “Funny story to tell the kids,” he grinned, but beneath his amusement, there was a little bit of hope and tenderness. “Here,” Dean pulled her underwear from the small pocket of his vest and handed them over to her.

“Thanks,” she smiled, watching him button his shirts up. She stood as best as she could without hitting her head on the roof of the car, turning around, and shaking her ass a little. Dean stared at her jiggling ass with a smile. His green eyes flickered up to hers when she turned to face him with a grin after pulling her soiled panties up legs, keeping their cum inside her. 

“This would be a funny story,” she agreed with a laugh, making Dean smile. She found her place back in his arms, resting her head on his chest. Dean rubbed her back soothingly and closed his eyes, humming softly when she began tracing random shapes on his chest. “I love you, so much,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his chest, inhaling the scent of him. 

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#dean’s 45th birthday celebration #jacklesversebingo23 #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean x female!reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction

[sodium-h]

SO.

I'm waiting a fic (supernatural) and to get more in touch with my characters personalities I like to write little funny dialogs, like incorrect quotes. You know, just to get a feeling on how they would react to some words and some of this are so funny that I just HAVE TO share them.

So now you get supernatural incorrect quotes

(Putting y/n 'cause it's less confusing)

_____________

Y/n, randomly at 3 A.M.: would you love me enough to hunt me as a ghost?

Dean, just wanting to go back to sleep: I died like two times already and came back to you, I think you already know the answer

Y/n: Okay, but would you?

_____________

Y/n: So... did Jesus actually exist?

Cas: I cannot confirm nor deny this statement

Y/n: that sounds suspicious

Cas, looking terrified, memories coming to him: I'm not making this mistake again

_____________

Cas: So, have you always been religious or did you just start after knowing the whole thing?

Y/n: I'm...I'm still not religious?

Cas: But you tend to say "whoever's up there" when you're in trouble?

Y/n: Oh I just like to keep my options open. Until I was 20 I used to say "little bitch from hell"

_____________

Y/n: alright, take your waterguns and meet me at my car

Sam, confused: we don't have water guns?

Y/n: wha-? You don't have waterguns filled with holy water? How tf are you still alive?!

_____________

Y/n: why don't you just say Christo to know if it's a demon instead of going around wetting people?

Dean: OMG I forgot about that

_____________

Y/n: *hugging Dean tightly*

Dean: you're robbing me

Y/n: of your heart?

Dean: I can feel your hand grabbing my wallet

_____________

Y/n's sister meeting Dean for the first time: So, you're just this?

Dean: What do you mean "just this" I'm alive, it's more that you could ask for from me

_____________

Y/n: Oh yeah, did I not tell you I was searched for arson?

Sam: Wtf?! No you didn't!

Y/n: Oh. Well it's fine I look way different than when I was twelve

Dean: YOU WERE TWELVE?!

_____________

Dean: It's really not that bad, I mean, how many times have you died

Y/n and their brother: zero?!

Sam, looking at Dean: I mean, that's a normal amount

Y/n: There should not be a normal amount?!

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #castiel novak #supernatural x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #castiel x reader #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural incorrect quotes

[marksbear]

MULTI FANDOM MALE READER SCENARIOS 

It’s been a while since I done one of these, but I think it’ll be good for me to practice more at writing different characters and such so enjoy!

The fact is I had more tags to share 😭

-Miguel O’Hara biting your neck harshly to get your attention when he feeling jealous. Or marking you as his.

-Izzy Hands always lightly taking your hand and helping you either up the steps or down the steps. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it most time. Everyone in the ship always notices it but doesn’t say anything.

^^Ofmd

-Bob taking off his glasses and putting them on you then starts to compliment you how good and cute you look.

^^Top gun!

-Matt Murdock tracing your face in morning when he thinks your still sleep. He also traces your face anytime your two are arguing because he wants to see your emotions.

^^Marvel

-You and The Corinthian driving around during late nights with his hand on your thigh as he drives you around.

^^DC

-Tony stark buying you whatever you want or even dream of. It can be jewelry all the way to new houses and cars.

^^Marvel

-Bruce Wayne and you being a power couple throughout Gotham. Lots of magazines and headline about you two.

^^DC

-Teaching Adam Warlock about feelings about like having a crush or being in love.

^^Marvel

-You and Doom head being an unstoppable duo anytime you two are paired up in a game.

^^Rob Zombie movie 31

-You and Richard Madden making fun of each other accents in interviews for the newest movie you two are in.

^^Actor

-You and Hobie Brown making out in a middle of Miguel’s rant.

^^Marvel

-Homelander wrapping his arms around you as you two makeout and he slowly rises from the ground bringing you in the air with him.

^^The Boys

-You we’re very close with Love to the point all lot of people thought you two were dating. Joe was furious so he started to stalk you planing to murder, but all that stalking for weeks slowly became to months and he slowly started to catch feelings.

^^YOU

-Benedict Bridgeton being so in love with you, but he so scared that his family would disown him as well as everyone around town.

^^Bridgeton

-You and Benedict sneaking off during ball’s and random events to be with each other alone.

^^Bridgeton

-Imagine sitting down in the bleachers waiting for Mark to be done with his track meet.

^^Author/ Me

-Playing with Dutch Van der linde hair during a camp meeting and he tries to stay focus but he can’t.

^^RD2

-You and Larry smoking as you two listen to Sal play the guitar.

^^Sally Face

-Ted feeling ashamed after he realized that he caugt feelings for you even though your a player.

^^Ted Lasso

-When Dean first met you y’all both were very young. You were reckless and carefree while Dean was taking care of Sam and brought him along while you two hanged out. And he caught feelings, but he was confused about why he had feelings for a man so he kept it to himself.

^^SPN

-Helping Mark walk without his leg brace or crutches.

^^Author/Me

-Stu Marcher giving you neck kisses in the middle of class. And most of the time teachers sees him and gives you both detention.

^^Slashers

-Hannibal Lecter leaving bite marks all over your neck and shoulders.

^^Slashers

-Roy Kent being soft spoken and quiet anytime he’s with you.

^^Ted Lasso

-Larry Trainor slowly warmed up to you being his boyfriend so he lets you touch his skin underneath the bandages.

^^DC

-Anytime before a fight Arthur asks you to hold his hands. He says it’s for a good luck, but he’s just really stressed and tense.

^^Peaky blinders

-Steven Grant still being so shy and quiet with you even though you two has been dating for years.

^^Marvel

-Bringing Namor gifts like flowers, jewelry and even little things like a picture of yourself or a padlock necklace. He cherishes all of them and keeps them safe.

^^Marvel

-Meeting Namor on the beach at night almost every night.

^^Marvel

-Bobby and Athena inviting you into their relationship. They both didn’t cheat on each other to find about their feelings for you they just kinda knew one day and talked it out and for a while and a lot of thought they asked would you be willing to date them.

^^9-1-1

-Being a rich man while Steven is your trophy husband.

^^Marvel

-Dying your hair with mark.

^^Author/Me

-Watching Mark stay up all night writing just for him to randomly stop to watch a movie.

^^Author/Me

-Lee and Maren catching you eating a person right in the middle of a dark and empty road.

^^Bones and All

-Being a different love interest for Elio and being heartbroken once he chose Oliver over you.

^^Call me by your name

-Imagine rejecting Derek Shepheard after finding out he has a wife.

^^Greys anatomy 

-Rue hugging and crying on you tight after she relapsed.And you being her favorite person ever since what happened with Jules and Elliot.

^^Euphoria

-Being a father figure to Rue.

^^Euphoria

-Imagine being Maddy Perez brother and finding out Nate pulled a gun on her so you pulled up to his house barged in and looked for him and beat the shit out of him.

^^Euphoria

-Billy Hargrove acting like he hates the nickname “Curls.” Or “Curly.” But when you say it he loves it.

^^Stranger things

THE END

#x male reader #male reader #marvel x male reader #steven grant x male reader #Ted lasso x male reader #Roy Kent x male reader #Robert Bob Floyd x male reader #Rue Bennett x male reader #Maddy Perez x male reader #euphoria x male!reader #Bones and all x male reader #Cmbyn x male reader #Tony stark x male reader #Bobby Nash x male reader #athena grant x male reader #Namor x male reader #miguel o'hara x m!reader #Arthur Shelby x male reader #nbc hannibal x male reader #Izzy hands x male reader #dutch van der linde x male reader #Benedict bridgeton x male reader #Bridgeton x male reader #Doom head x male reader #slashers x male reader #homelander x male reader #the corinthian x male reader #joe goldberg x male reader #Spn x male reader #the bear club

[mlmxreader]

Always | Dean Winchester x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "You're here." "You called. I'll always answer" with dean Winchester please ❞

: ̗̀➛ Dean is always there when you need him, he's just a call away - even though you know it's a stupid decision.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking, Mamma Mia references

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You weren’t sure why you did it in all honesty, as it seemed like a terrible idea before you had even pressed down, and now that it was done, you only felt like you had made an awful decision; you would only get hurt in the end and you were more than aware of that, but after staying up all night, maybe your judgement was just a bit more than clouded, and maybe making a stupidly awful decision was just part of that.

Just a small and insignificant part of that that made you feel utterly like shit.

You hoped that nothing would come of it in the end, but when the doorbell rang, you knew that you were fucked.

You gingerly answered, refusing to make eye contact as you ushered in your green eyed guest; he said nothing, trudging into the kitchen and allowing him to roll himself a cigarette before you even dared to follow him.

You didn’t expect him to say anything, not that you would even be able to hear it thanks to your heart beating so fucking loudly as if nothing else mattered; your hands and legs shaking, your stomach sunken beneath waves from which it would never return.

You swallowed thickly, shaking your head as you rolled yourself a cigarette and passed him your lighter; he looked at you, concern and worry evident in those beautiful green eyes, but he couldn’t think of the right words to say.

His Chevy Impala, his beloved car, was parked on the driveway and his keys were chucked on the shelf in the porch; it was as if he lived there, and he supposed, he very almost did. He spent enough time there, at least.

He scratched his jaw as he took a drag from his cigarette, sighing heavily and licking his lips; pretending that he didn’t care even though his eyes portrayed the actual truth. 

“You’re here.”

“You called. I’ll always answer,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his hair and humming softly. “I’m guessin’ this ain’t exactly a business call.”

You shook your head, sitting up on the counter next to him as you cleared your throat. “No.”

Dean nodded, refusing to say anything further as he picked up the sound he could hear so faintly; it was Meryl Streep singing on the television in the other room - it sounded like ABBA, but he couldn’t be completely sure.

He knew that film, he kept falling asleep every time it was on but only ever woke up when he heard you singing; he smiled a little thinking about it.

You liked bands like Slayer and Sabaton and Sodom and Slipknot, Rob Zombie and White Zombie, Lorna Shore - stuff even heavier than what he listened to; yet you would always sing along to that film, so happily and gleefully.

And of all things, it was fucking ABBA.

He nodded slowly along to the beat, thinking about all the times you had woken him up whilst you were singing it, and how he couldn’t help but to think that if he were constantly woken up by it, he would never have a bad morning again. 

He cleared his throat, hating the fact that it had come to such a thing. “Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong? I have never seen such sorrow in your eyes and the wedding is tomorrow. How I hate to see you like this, there is no way you can deny it. I can see that you're oh, so sad, so quiet, Chiquitita, tell me the truth - I'm a shoulder you can cry on, your best friend, I'm the one you must rely on…”

“Are you singing Mamma Mia to try and get me to talk?” You asked with a soft scoff, and when he nodded, looking rather bashful and embarrassed, you shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. Just a stupid decision to call you…” 

Dean swallowed thickly as he shrugged. “Maybe it was just as much a stupid decision to come, eh?”

“Probably,” you agreed. “I, erm, I got cash for the petrol if-”

“It’s fine,” he told you, shaking his head and holding his hand up. “I’ll stay.”

“Dean-”

“You called me,” he pointed out. “You begged for me to come here. I’ll stay, until tomorrow at least, I’ll stay.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that,” you said quietly. “You know I can’t.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not getting you to ask,” he huffed. “C’mon, I know you got that… I don’t even know if it’s a chick flick but I know you’re playing it so, erm, why don’t you go rewind it? We’ll watch it together.”

You nodded slowly, reaching for his hand and holding it tightly, your voice so quiet it was almost incoherent. “Thank you…”

“Anything for you,” he murmured. “I mean that. Anything for you, you, erm… you know, that guy in that ABBA thing? The one getting married?”

“Dean,” you huffed. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Oh, no!” He hastily replied, shaking his head and holding his hand up as the cigarette sat between his lips for a second. “No, no, no! I just… care about you a lot, y’know?”

“I get you,” you whispered, gulping and trying to ignore your breath giving you away. “I care, too, y’know, just don’t… don’t go sharing your devotion.”

He glared at you with a frown, knowing exactly where you got that from. “Shut up. What’ve I always said about chick flick moments?”

“Mamma Mia isn’t a chick flick, it’s a musical,” you pointed out with a slight smile. “There’s a difference.”

He smiled a little bit, huffing. “You’re lucky James Bond is in it.”

You finished your cigarette, tossing it in the ashtray and offering him your hand. “Come on, tough guy.”

He laced his fingers with yours, taking a quick look around before letting go and shaking his head. “I just gotta check some things. Salt the windows and doors, y’know. That’s all.”

“Please,” you frowned. “Be quick?”

“Always.”

#mlem writes #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x yn #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #supernatural x y/n #supernatural x yn #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural oneshot #supernatural one shot #supernatural #spn x reader #spn x you #spn x y/n #spn x yn #spn imagine #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic

[thsillystringbeanscribbler]

Bunny Slippers

Summary: While on the hunt for their dad the Winchester brothers are encouraged by Bobby to reach out to an old hunting buddy of John and Bobby. The trip leads to meeting not only a rugged hunter which is a missing puzzle piece to their dad's disappearance but also got to make the acquaintance of his lovely daughter.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with a sprinkle of possible violence or angst, maybe slow burn (i'm not too sure)

Word Count: 4,685 words

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction. I dont really know how to write y/n so oc is all you're getting. I recently discovered the world of Supernatural and I am in love. This story takes place during Season 1, it doesn't really follow the story line and there might be some lore in accuracies. Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy my little story.

image from Pinterest

With Bobby's wise counsel and the elusive hints scattered in John's journal, he implored the brothers to seek out Rob Blackburn, who could potentially steer them toward John. Rob, as Bobby explained, wasn't just an ally; he was a long-time comrade of both John Winchester and Bobby, often accompanying them on perilous hunts. Armed with this knowledge, Sam and Dean embarked on their journey to Boston in the trusty Impala. Dean took the wheel, immersing himself in the thumping beats of rock and roll, while Sam, map in hand, navigated the labyrinth of roads leading to Robert Blackburn's whereabouts. The pages of John's journal rustled in the background, revealing his own trek to Massachusetts, where he had joined forces with Rob to confront a formidable Wendigo.

In the early autumn morning, the Impala turned down the street of the Blackburn home, the epitome of historical charm found in Boston. The townhouse stands out with its red brick facade, large curved windows adorned with black shutters, and stately black entrance doors. Wrought iron railings line the stone steps leading up to the front doors, and mature trees along the sidewalk cast dappled shadows onto the cobblestone street. The vehicle comes to a halt in front of the winsome townhouse, with its elegance further accentuated by the cascading wisteria, lending a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting.

Dean cut the engine, his gaze shifting from the Blackburn residence to his brother. Sam, peering at Dean, broke the silence with his characteristic intensity. "So, think you're ready to face whatever's in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with both concern and determination.

Dean responded with his usual bravado, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready? Sam, I was born ready. Let's do this." His tone was confident, almost playful, yet underscored by the seriousness of their mission.

Moving in unison, the brothers climbed the steps to the Blackburn residence. A silent exchange of resolve passed between them as Dean turned to face the ominous black door. He pressed the doorbell, and for a moment, there was only silence. Impatient, Dean began to knock forcefully, intent on getting an answer.

Before he could knock again, hurried footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open to reveal a petite, dishevelled woman. Her light auburn curls were hastily tied atop her head, and her sleepy green eyes, magnified by tortoise-rimmed circle glasses, blinked at the unexpected visitors. Dean's gaze travelled over her, taking in the oversized Van Halen band t-shirt, the long flannel Batman pyjama pants tucked into mismatched white tube socks, and the pink bunny slippers, all indicating she had indeed just rolled out of bed.

The woman, stifling a yawn and crossing her arms defensively, addressed them with a groggy, gravelly voice. "Hello? Can I help you with something?" Her sleepy demeanour contrasted sharply with the urgency of their visit. 

The faintest hint of a smile played across Dean's face, a touch of warmth amidst the crisp Boston morning. The dishevelled stranger before him, a haphazardly charming vision in her comic book pyjamas and mismatched socks, sparked a flicker of amusement in his hunter's gaze. She couldn't be much older than Sam, he mused, who was barely past the threshold of twenty-two himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightened up a little, his eyes locking onto hers with an earnest steadiness. "Morning," he started, his voice carrying the signature gravel of a man used to long nights and the roar of a V8 engine. "Sorry to wake you, but we're looking for Rob Blackburn. The thing is," he paused, the weight of their search momentarily tightening his features, "our dad was working a case with him, and now... Dad's gone off the grid. We were hoping Rob might have some answers."

He watched her closely, not just for her response, but for any sign, any tell that might unravel the mystery of their father's whereabouts.

The woman's head tilted slightly, causing a few untamed curls to escape her hastily made morning bun. She squinted at Dean, her eyebrows knitting together in a puzzled frown. As her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, a hint of wariness crept into her expression. "Sorry," she murmured, her free hand sliding under her glasses to rub at a sleepy eye. "But who are you guys, exactly?" she asked, her lips pursed slightly, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Dean met her gaze squarely, his expression a blend of seriousness and charm. "Name's Dean and this towering figure here is my brother, Sam," he said with a hint of a smirk. "We're here looking for Rob. You might know him through our dad, John Winchester. They go way back, and it's kind of important we talk to him." His tone carried the urgency of their quest, yet remained respectful, acknowledging the oddity of their early morning visit.

Her eyebrows lifted from their puzzled frown as the name John Winchester sparked a flicker of recognition in her features. Hesitating for a moment, she leaned slightly forward, peering past Sam and Dean to scan the street. Her green eyes settled on the shiny black Chevy parked in front of the house. Dean, noticing her gaze, followed it to the Impala.

With his trademark flirtatious smile, Dean couldn't resist a playful comment. "Hey, if you're interested, I could show you what she's really capable of," he said, nodding towards the Impala. The woman's eyes snapped back to Dean, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Realizing how his words might have sounded, Dean quickly clarified with a cheeky grin, "The Impala, I mean. A ride in the car."

She nodded silently, her cheeks now a deeper shade of red. A bit flustered, she stuttered, "Uh–" but then, meeting Sam's hazel eyes, she paused, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. "I'll be right back," she said before gently closing the door.

Dean left staring at the black door, perked up his ears as he heard her voice escalate inside, calling out, "Dad! The Winchesters are here!" After a brief silence, her voice rose again, more insistent this time, "DAD!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of surprise at the volume of her shout. The response came in the form of a deep, muffled reply from within. The door creaked open again, and the woman offered an awkward smile. "He'll be down so–"

Before she could finish, a tall, muscular man in plaid flannel pyjama pants and a simple grey t-shirt descended the stairs. He stood imposingly behind her, his voice deep and gravelly. "Mornin'," he greeted, eyeing the brothers. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely John's boys," he observed as he extended his hand.

Dean grasped his hand firmly. "Dean," he introduced himself with a nod.

Sam followed suit, shaking Rob's hand. "Sam. It's good to meet you."

Rob's genuine smile broadened. "Rob. Nice to finally meet you boys. John's told me a lot about you two."

In the midst of the heartfelt introductions, Rob's daughter slipped out under her father's arm, who was now holding the door open. He quickly turned his head to call after her, "Jay, boil the water. We're gonna need some coffee."

Rob then stepped aside, inviting them in. "C'mon in," he said, glancing once more at the street as the brothers entered. "Damn, is that John's Impala?" he asked, intrigued.

Dean turned back to Rob, a hint of pride in his voice. "Actually, she's mine now. Dad left her to me. She's got more history and miles on her than most cars on the road. Runs like a dream, though." His words were laced with respect and a touch of nostalgia for both the car and his father.

The boys followed the barefoot Rob Blackburn into his living room. The space was a testament to a life well-lived and richly layered, a striking balance between the modern and the memorabilia of yesteryear. They stepped through the wooden archway, and Dean's gaze swept the room—a harmony of contemporary and eclectic tastes.

The living room was bathed in morning sunlight from a large, bay window framing the greenery and wisteria blossoms outside, its grandeur contrasted by the cozy array of furniture. A plush, dark green sofa accented with earth-toned pillows invited comfort and long conversations. Across the room, a pair of vintage armchairs stood guard, their fabric hinting at a past era. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, a ladder poised as if in mid-ascent, suggesting a world of knowledge and stories just out of reach. In the center, a stately wooden coffee table bore the weight of books and vases, while a Persian rug beneath whispered tales of ancient craftsmanship.

Above the mantel, a flat-screen TV was mounted, an anachronism amid the classical vibe. The mantle itself was a gallery of personal history, with frames marching across its length like milestones. Dean's eyes traced the journey of the dishevelled girl named Jay through frozen moments: school plays, graduations, and candid laughter.

One photograph, in particular, seized Dean's attention, squeezing his heart with the force of a long-forgotten song. There, captured in the stillness of time, was a young woman with auburn curls, her arm casually draped over a youthful Mary Winchester. Beside her, a younger Rob stood with an easy stance, and on the other side, John Winchester's smile reached out, as bright and as real as if he were standing in the room with them.

Dean found his voice, roughened by the swell of memory. "You've got quite the place here, Rob. Feels like a home that's seen a lot of good times," he said, his eyes not leaving the photograph.

Rob, following Dean's gaze, nodded with a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, it's been through a lot. Every piece has a story, especially those photos," he said, his voice softening. "That one there," he pointed to the photograph that held Dean's gaze, "was from a summer BBQ we had right after John got back from a tour. Good times indeed, Dean.”

With a comforting pat on Dean's shoulder, Rob motioned towards the dark green sofa. "Please, take a seat," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of a seasoned host. Sam was already lounging there, looking every bit the part of a man ready to delve into matters of gravity and ghosts. Rob's towering presence moved towards one of the vintage armchairs, his movements measured and graceful. He sank into the chair with the ease of a man in his own sanctuary.

Dean observed Rob, taking in the rugged features that spoke of a life lived much like their father's—on the road, but always returning home. The man sitting across from him had a face that bore the marks of laughter and squinting against the sun, a generous beard that was well kept but suggested it could tell stories of its own. His hair, though tousled from sleep, had the hint of waves, and the light caught the flecks of gray that ran through it like silver threads in a tapestry. There was a certain comfort in his ruggedness, an unspoken kinship that Dean recognized well.

Rob caught Dean's gaze and chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. "My apologies, if I'd known Johnny's boys would be showing up on my doorstep, I'd have made myself presentable," he said, his fingers raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it.

Their conversation was paused as Jay quietly made her entrance, her arms full with an offering of steaming mugs. Dean's eyes followed her every step, noting the careful balance as she placed the coffee on the table with precision. The small, satisfied smile that danced across her lips made Dean's own lips twitch in response. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of comical frustration.

Jay stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed, speaking through gritted teeth. "I was so proud of not spilling coffee, I forgot people might want milk and sugar too."

Dean leaned forward, picked up one of the mugs, and met her frustrated gaze with a reassuring smile. "Don't sweat it, Jay. I take my coffee black as midnight on a moonless night," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's the best way to kick-start the day, especially when there's work to be done." He took a sip, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee linger, a stark contrast to the gentle chaos of the morning.

Jay—no, Julia—looked momentarily taken aback, an unspoken question flickering in her eyes about Dean's use of her nickname. Before she could voice it, Rob intervened with a throaty chuckle that broke the brief silence. "Dean, Sam, if it wasn't already apparent, this spirited individual is my daughter Julia."

Julia's expression folded into a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment at her father's words. "Introductions must've slipped my mind earlier," Rob added, his eyes twinkling with paternal amusement.

With a graceful motion that seemed to betray her earlier fluster, Julia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Was a bit scattered, to be honest," she admitted as a soft hue painted her cheeks.

He offered her a warm, appreciative smile, and she, in turn, blushed a shade deeper, hastily picking up the one mug that held coffee lightened with milk. "Anyway, I'm—" she started, her voice trailing off as she backed away, thumbing in the direction of the staircase, "—going to get dressed."

With that, Julia turned, her retreat up the stairs as quick as it was quiet, leaving the conversation to hang in the warm, coffee-scented air of the living room.

The trio settled into an easy silence, the kind that speaks of understanding rather than discomfort. Eventually, Rob broke the stillness, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. "Not that I'm complaining about having John's boys over," he began, his voice even and curious, "but what brings you to my door?"

Sam, always the one to dive into the details, took the lead. "Well, Rob, from what we've pieced together with Bobby's input and clues from Dad's journal, it seems John was here in Boston not too long ago. He was helping you out with a wendigo situation," he explained. "You might have been one of the last people to see him. Now, Dean and I are crisscrossing the country, trying to track him down."

Dean, meanwhile, was only half-listening, his mind wandering as he sipped the robust black coffee. His thoughts were momentarily caught up with Julia—her surprising affinity for classic rock band shirts, her effortless command of the room, despite her earlier disarray. There was an allure there that Dean couldn't quite dismiss.

Realizing he needed to jump back into the conversation, he met Rob's gaze over the rim of his mug. "So, any chance Julia might know something that could help us out?" he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of hope. It was a thinly veiled attempt to weave Julia back into their narrative—perhaps more for another encounter than actual investigative purposes.

Rob leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he cradled his mug. "Julia? She wasn't really involved with the hunting side of things with John. She's the brains, does all the research," he began, but the strains of Led Zeppelin suddenly filled the room, filtering through the walls of Julia’s bedroom, in a muffled but unmistakable riff.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, and shook his head affectionately. "Yeah, she's a history major. She’s got her nose usually buried in old books. But she did dig into the Wendigo lore while John was around. Spent a few hours picking his brain, so it might be worth a shot to ask her," Rob conceded, acknowledging the potential value in speaking with his daughter once more.

As the sun arced higher in the sky outside the arch window, time seemed to fold in on itself within the Blackburn residence. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the brothers and Rob exchanging tales and theories about the elusive Wendigo. Engrossed in the retelling, they barely noticed the passage of time until the Led Zeppelin anthem that had been humming in the background abruptly ceased. A hush fell over the house, and Dean couldn't help but cast a puzzled look towards Rob, who appeared unfazed by the sudden silence, continuing his story with the ease of a man accustomed to the unpredictable soundtrack of a busy household.

Dean's attention was drawn towards the hallway as a flash of red caught his eye—a pair of Converse sneakers, the unmistakable hallmark of a casual yet deliberate style. As Julia came into view, his gaze instinctively followed the line of her high-waisted jeans up to her neatly tucked-in white shirt. Gone was the disarray of the morning; in its place stood Julia, transformed. Her light auburn curls, now tamed and flowing gracefully down her back, framed a face of calm composure.

She paused in the archway, and for a moment, there was a silent exchange as Dean's eyes met hers—no longer sleepy, but sharp and full of life.

Rob, seizing the opportunity, looked up at his daughter with a mix of pride and practicality. "Perfect timing, Jay. Do you recall any of the details from when John helped out with the Wendigo case? I'd take a stab at finding the research in the office, but I still can't make heads or tails of your organization system."

Julia's lips pursed lightly, a subtle indication she was preparing to delve into her mental archives, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Rob interjected with decisiveness. "Great, I'll go get changed, and you can show the boys what you've got."

Julia nodded, a silent agreement to take the lead, and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the way she navigated her father's expectations with grace. There was more to Julia than met the eye, and Dean was keen to uncover the depths of her knowledge—not just for the sake of their quest, but perhaps, for the simple pleasure of her company.

As Rob ascended the stairs, Julia began gathering the empty coffee mugs with an efficiency that spoke of routine. She gave Sam and Dean a quick, playful grin. "I'll just drop these off in the kitchen, then we can dive into the research. Hope you're ready for a bit of a deep dive," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of excitement about the task ahead. She turned on her heel, the cups clinking softly as she vanished down the hall.

Dean watched her go, an appreciative gleam in his eye. Sam, catching this all-too-familiar look, turned his entire body to face his brother, his expression a blend of warning and wisdom.

"Dean, I'm gonna say this once: tread carefully, man," Sam advised, leaning in slightly to emphasize his point.

Dean turned to his brother, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a knowing look, the kind that only a lifetime of brotherhood could perfect. "Julia. I see that look in your eyes," he cautioned, his voice serious but not unkind.

A roguish smirk danced across Dean's face, his thoughts lingering on the spark he'd felt during their brief interactions. "Can't help it if there's a mutual spark. And come on, Sam—she's smart, she's into Zeppelin, and she's got that whole natural beauty thing going on. It's not just me," Dean defended with a casual shrug, trying to brush off the gravity of Sam's warning with his characteristic nonchalance.

Julia reemerged with a swift grace, pausing at the doorway, her demeanor alight with the thrill of sharing her world. The excitement seemed to emanate from her, an infectious energy that promised revelations and secrets held within her scholarly trove. As Sam and Dean stood, ready to be led into her realm of research, Sam's encouragement was both genuine and anticipatory.

"Rob mentioned you're quite the expert. Can't wait to see the treasures you've been working on," he said, his kind smile acknowledging her expertise.

Julia's response was tinged with humility and appreciation. "That's really nice of you to say," she replied, leading the way up the stairs with a lightness in her step that suggested she was as eager to share as they were to learn.

Reaching the second-floor landing, they were greeted by the impressive sight of a bookshelf that seemed to serve both as a doorway and a guardian of knowledge. Passing through the archway, both Winchesters couldn't help but pause, struck by the beauty of the room that unfolded before them.

They were surrounded by the warmth of aged wood and the silent stories of countless tomes. A built-in window seat nestled against a bay window offered a view of the soft purple wisteria blossoms framing the glass. The room was steeped in the warmth of vintage charm and the whispered stories of countless books. The walls are lined with towering shelves, crafted from dark, polished wood that gleams under the soft golden hue of strategically placed lamps. Each shelf is a testament to a bibliophile's passion, densely packed with books of varying sizes, their spines creating a colourful mosaic that speaks to years of collection and care.

In one corner, a plush armchair sits invitingly, upholstered in a rich, patterned fabric that echoes the bygone era of Victorian elegance. Next to it, a small table holds a crystal decanter of amber liquid and matching glasses, alongside a pile of well-thumbed novels, suggesting a perfect nook for sipping and reading. The heavy curtains pulled back from a large window allow the gentle light to filter in, casting a serene glow over the scene.

Despite the room's orderly foundations, there's a deliberate messiness to it that adds character. Stacks of books and papers teeter precariously on every available surface, including the floor, where a worn Persian rug lays as a testament to the many hours spent lost in literature. The desk is a landscape of creative chaos, with open books, notes scribbled on loose papers, and a vintage typewriter pushed to one side to make room for a modern laptop, showing the blend of old and new.

Unique artifacts are nestled among the books: a vintage globe, a brass telescope, and curious trinkets like skulls and antique scissors, each with its own untold backstory. The space is a sanctuary of knowledge, history, and personal quirks, inviting you to explore its depths, both literary and personal.

As Julia completed a graceful pirouette, her arms outstretched to present the room, her eyes met theirs with a spark of shared understanding. "This is where the magic happens," she declared, her smile as genuine as the passion that clearly fueled her pursuit of knowledge. The invitation was clear, and the Winchesters stepped into her world, ready to be enchanted by the magic of her making.

The effervescent joy Julia exuded was infectious, and Dean found himself basking in a reflected glow of happiness as he watched her navigate the room. He leaned against the doorway, observing her as she gathered an armful of papers and books, her movements a dance of efficiency amid the charming chaos. With a deft hand, she rehomed the collected clutter atop another table already brimming with the weight of research.

"Here," she sang out, her voice carrying the lightness of a melody, as she flitted from one end of the room to the other, her presence transforming the space into something ethereal. She was like a sprite in her own domain, orchestrating the energy of the room with every sweep of her arm.

Sam and Dean approached the cleared chairs with a hint of hesitation, not wanting to disturb the artful disorder of her workspace. They settled into the seats, and Julia paused in her bustling, resting a hand on the back of Dean's chair. For a moment, she stood still, lost in thought, and Dean found himself enveloped in the subtle scent that clung to her—pistachio, perhaps, and something sweetly salted, like caramel. It was warm and inviting, and his heart thrummed a little faster in his chest as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Julia's contemplative silence broke, and she turned her gaze to meet Sam's, her expression earnest. "I have a lot of material on the Wendigo—notes, theories, patterns. John had me assist him with something else, too," she confided, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before I share anything, you have to promise not to tell my dad. He tends to be... overly protective about certain things."

Her eyes lingered on Sam, seeking an assurance of confidentiality, an unspoken pact between them. Dean felt a tug of curiosity, an eagerness to delve into the knowledge she held, and he nodded in silent agreement, keenly aware of the trust she was placing in their hands.

Sam met Julia's earnest gaze, understanding the gravity of her request. He nodded, a silent promise etched into the gesture. "You have our word, Julia. Whatever you share with us stays between us," Sam assured her, his tone underscored with the seriousness of a sworn oath.

Dean, who had been momentarily caught in the sensory spell of Julia's presence, now anchored himself in the moment, the importance of her trust not lost on him. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking with hers, reinforcing the vow. "We've kept secrets bigger than a bunker," he said, a soft, conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Your research is safe with us."

Julia, seemingly satisfied with their assurance, pulled a deep breath before she began, her eyes momentarily flitting to the ceiling as if gathering the threads of her thoughts. "Okay," she started, her voice now a hushed whisper, "John and I were looking into some lore—old, obscure stuff, not just your run-of-the-mill monster tales. It's about something much older, something he was tracking long before the Wendigo."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Julia spoke, the brothers leaning in, captivated by the prelude to secrets yet untold. The promise they had made bound them to this space, to the words that were about to unfold, weaving them into the fabric of Julia's clandestine work.

With the silence of one well-versed in the quietude of libraries, Julia drifted towards the bay window, her figure briefly silhouetted against the gentle light. She took a swift left into a nook, where a ceiling-high cupboard was nestled like a secret chamber within the room. Sam and Dean sat in anticipation, their ears tuned to the soft hum of her tune, punctuated by the rustle of papers as she rummaged within the cupboard's depths.

The cupboard doors clicked shut, and Julia returned to the table, her arms wrapped around a thick brown accordion folder that seemed to challenge her with its heft. With careful steps, she approached, placing the folder on the table before sliding into the last remaining chair—inevitably, the one next to Dean.

As she scooted her chair in, the proximity brought a subtle contact; her knee brushed against Dean's, a fleeting touch that sent a heightened awareness coursing through him. Julia opened the folder with a sense of ceremony, unleashing a cascade of notebooks and papers, each leaf carrying the weight of diligent inquiry.

Sam immediately delved into one of the notebooks, his eyes scanning the bubbly script and the stark sketches that accompanied the text. Dean, however, remained focused on Julia, his curiosity piqued not just by the research but by the researcher herself.

"So, what was it my dad had you digging into?" Dean inquired, his voice low and earnest, inviting confidence.

Julia's gaze lifted to meet his, a current of intensity passing between them. "A demon," she began, her voice barely above a murmur, as if the very word might invoke the creature's attention. Her eyes flicked to Sam's, ensuring she had both brothers' undivided attention, before she continued, "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

To be continued . . .

Chapter Two

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam and dean #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #spn #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #sam winchester #supernatural fic #supernatural season 1 #dean winchester imagine

[nevernonline]

✽ maybe this means something? ✽ | csc.

001: FALL

Choi Seungcheol used to be the bane of your existence, but through a year of seasonal rotations, something felt different.  It has to be overwhelming realizing you're falling for the person you always thought you hated. 

𐦍 paring: seungcheol x reader. (svt members mentioned)

𐦍 genre: frenemies (sort of), romance, a little angst, fluff.

𐦍 warnings: drinking,  brief mentions of illness, mary jane 🍃,  suggestiveness (sort of) 

𐦍 word count: 2.8k

𐦍 content: non-idol characters, food/drink, cursing, slightly- suggestive, pet names, fem! reader. bff! hao. 

𐦍 notes: every time I listen to Means something by Lizzy McAlpine it makes me think of cheol so I wanted to write a little something with it as inspo, but pls ignore any typos or weird phrasing I'm super rusty when it comes to writing long fics. pls enjoy and give feedback. xo.

intro - fall - winter - spring

Fall: Flashback. 

 Running out of your childhood home faster than ever onto the first day of college felt so exhilarating, the smell of the fall air and the wind pushing your hair back as you sprinted to your car door made you feel free. 

You had around two hours before your first class started, a new start was one of your favorite things. Fresh people, fresh clothes, a new haircut, the smell of new books. 

Pulling up to the curb and wailing on your horn to notify your friend you had arrived, made you giggle. This was such a mundane thing you’ve done for years, switching off weeks driving to school, gossiping about your day, but now it felt new again. 

Xu Minghao, the constant person in your circle, the one who always had your back and took the words out of your mouth. He understood you more than anyone in the world, even your own family, got you into parties, held your hair when you happen to drink too much, and most of all never judged you. 

A slam came from across the lawn in front of you, Minghao strutted down his home's cobblestone passageway like he was living his own Tyra Banks fantasy.

“Goodmorning, Gorgeous.” he says eleated as his long legs stretched into your vehicle. 

“Goodmorning, my love.” you responded, putting your car back into drive. “Coffee?” 

Minghao peered at you under the rim of his sunglasses. “For you, I’ll have orange juice and green tea.” 

A whistle escaped your lips, “Wow, robbing me for all I have I see?” 

“No, but I am trying to teach you healthy habits this year. Are you excited for our first class? I actually can't believe we managed to get nearly the same schedule.” 

“Yeah, well my dad insisted on calling the dean and told him that I had a learning disability so I had to be around you as much as I can.” You said cringing. “Luckily they just made him open his wallet and donate to the art department.” 

Minghao just giggled and rolled his eyes because he knew how your parents were and how much you didn’t want anyone to know. “Listen, maybe this year you should just lean into telling people about your family if they ask. I’m not saying you have to or anything, but pretending to be average when you’re anything but is below you.” 

All you could do was hum at his words. The reason you conceal yourself is because pretending you didn’t have an influential family made people respect all the things you’re able to do more, Hao knew that, but he also knew that you struggled keeping a secret all four years of highschool. 

You pulled your car into the local campus cafe and hopped out only to be met by a group of guys yelling for Minghao. 

“Who are they?” you questioned laughing at the group of excited looking puppies from across the lot. 

Hao mimicked your expression, waving his hands side to side, “Oh, wow. That is the group of guys I met abroad I told you about, they go here too.” He roped his arm through yours pulling you into the lion's den. “You’ll like them, they’re nice I promise.” 

Your feet felt like they couldn’t move staring at the four new faces in front of you, one more gorgeous than the next. There was Jun and Chan the dance majors, Wonwoo the literature major, and Seungcheol the business major. Three out of the four automatically welcomed you into their circle, the fourth Choi Seungcheol was icing you out, for a reason you may never understand. 

“What major are you again, Y/N?” Jun asked as you continued awkwardly sipping your coffee across from him. 

“Oh, I’m an art major same as Hao, mainly digital and my minor is tech and graphic.” You said smiling back thankful he broke the ice for you. 

“Wait cool, I think Cheol is also minoring in tech and graphics. Maybe you guys will share a class too.” 

A smirk came from the male to his right, Seungcheol. Something about him was bone chilling, the pale skin the raven hair, competitive by nature. 

“Don’t ask me to sit with you in class, I don’t do amateur hour.” He said flashing you a gingival smile. 

You just smirked back, “Fine with me, I don’t do asshole hour.” 

And that's where it all started, your ongoing competition with Choi Seungcheol. 

Present: 

It’s been a few weeks since your encounter with the bully himself, you just worked and worked behind your desk, with no chance to be out in the real world. You thought about texting your mom to come and visit for the weekend, but ultimately decided on calling Minghao. 

“Hello, my beautiful working girl. How are we?” you could almost feel his smile through the phone. 

“Love my life, hello. I’m alright, just so busy. I was just wondering what you’re doing all weekend, I desperately need to drink.” 

You laugh and he follows along. “Well, well, well. Finally coming to ask me to rescue you from corporate life, huh? I actually made plans to go watch Jun and Hoshi’s concert this weekend, if you wanted to come? There’s a cast party after and they asked about how you were anyway so you can definitely join.” 

“Wait, they’re in town? I had no idea.” You put Hao through the speaker phone and check your socials. “They literally messaged me two days ago asking if I was free. Maybe I should listen to you more.” 

“I have been trying to influence you for like nearly a decade, y/n. But, come please. It's tomorrow, so we can go shopping tonight, have a little sleep over, and drink for breakfast before we go on Saturday.” 

“Wow, yes. I could kiss you. It’s a date.” 

Hao hummed over the other end of the phone, “Meet me at my place at five, okay?” 

“Okay. I love you, I gotta go, bye.” 

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You nearly sprinted out of your desk as the boring work day you had sped past since your conversation with Hao. And you much like the clock speed as fast as you could to find your oasis at his home. 

“Honey, I’m home.” you yelled, removing your coat and shoes and dropping them in his entryway. 

“Well, hello baby.” A voice spoke, not Minghao, but Seungcheol resting in a large lounge chair watching the news. 

With an eye roll, you greeted him back. “What are you doing here?” 

“Hao told me to meet him here to go shopping for the show tomorrow, what are you doing here?” 

You found your way to Hao’s cloud of a couch and planted yourself on it.  

“Uh, he told me the same thing, we were supposed to just hangout and have some drinks tonight.” 

Your eyes met him again, something about them made you feel bad for being so cold towards him for years. 

“Oh, are you spending the night too?” 

“Yeah, did he ask you to stay as well?" 

Seungcheol gestured to the similar overnight bag resting on the floor adjacent to yours. 

“Yep. Should we fight to the death to see who gets the nicer guest room?” 

“I really don’t think I could kick your ass at anything other than Mario Kart.” 

“Then let’s play, the loser gets to buy all the alcohol and the winner gets the good guest room.” 

Seungcheol’s hand reached towards yours and you decided to take it, like making a deal with the devil. 

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About an hour after virtually driving the rainbow, the front door opened again to reveal Minghao in its threshold holding multiple bags of takeout. 

“Oh, hey you’re both here. I brought food."

You jumped up at the chance to break the closeness with Seungcheol you found and he followed suit behind you to greet your friend and to help him with the bags of food in hand. 

“You did not buy fire noodles again, you will literally be in the bathroom for hours.” 

Seungcheol giggled at you while unwrapping the rest of the food. 

“You know, Hao. I never realized Y/N’s strength really lay in gaming, she gave me a run for my money at Mario Kart.” 

“Shut up, Seungcheol you literally still kicked my ass, enjoy your beautiful guest room.” 

You sat sulking at the dining room table, slurping up your bowl of noodles. 

“No, you can have it. I actually live two floors up anyway, I was just fucking with you to see if you could take the heat.” 

“I see you guys had fun without me.” Hao chuckled. “Did I not tell you Cheol moved into my building recently?” 

“No clearly not, he kicked my ass in Mario Kart and now I have to buy you booze hounds alcohol.” 

Minghao clearly was loving the fact that the plan he had set out to get you to get closer was working. Cheol didn’t pick up on the fact that you knew what Hao was up to and continued eating in silence for a while before speaking back up. 

“You don’t really have to spend your money on us, Y/N.” 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ve been spending my allowance and paychecks on Hao since eighth grade.” 

“Hey! That is not true, our relationship has always been equal.” 

Seungcheol stirred, he always assumed you didn’t have much financially. He’d often wondered in college, how you became friends with Minghao who was definitely better than well off. Was he wrong about you using Hao, sure, but he always thought you benefited from the friendship more than him in other ways then the platonic relationship you shared. 

Too scared to ask without knowing what outcome he’d get from you he decided to excuse himself to the restroom and find out for himself. Cheol sat on the marble tile of Hao’s bathroom sink and searched your name, but no luck, only your professional profiles and instagram hit. 

He searched deeper, and deeper until he stumbled upon an article written in a High School newspaper. 

“Wait, her mom is Mina Lee?” he muttered now searching your first name with a newly founded surname following it.  

Dozens of articles popped up about your family, their finances, their homes, the illness. Stuff Seungcheol would have never expected, all this time he thought you were everything you weren’t, but this, this made more sense. 

He pretended to run the sink water as he bookmarked the article he found talking about the Lee’s hidden children, a gossip blog no less, but maybe it would give him more answers. 

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After hours of shopping, mainly to find Minghao a perfect outfit. You reached your destination, the liquor store. Whipping your card out to hand to Minghao for him and Cheol to spend whatever they wanted to make their night as good as possible, you decided to stay outside and watch the colorful leaves fall. 

Dialing your mom’s number on your phone and waiting for her to answer seemed like forever, but you were eventually met by her soft voice. 

“Y/N? Darling, are you alright?” Hearing a sweet pet name from your mother, no matter how long it's been since you’ve seen her always felt right. 

“Hi, Mom. Yes, I’m okay. I just wanted to check in on you. Is everything alright?” 

“Oh, well good. Your father is feeling better, but I’m not sure his chemo is working as well this time” Your mom just sighed, you could hear the pain through the phone. “Why don’t you come visit for Christmas, okay? We can make hot cocoa together and I’ll fill your stocking with Jelly Beans like we did when you were a kid.” 

“I will. I’ll book my flight when I get back to Hao’s later tonight. Kiss him for me?” 

“Aw, good. Tell Minghao to visit, we miss him too.” 

The sound of the bell on the door rings to alarm you Hao and Cheol were coming back to find you. 

“I’ll force him, I love you, okay?” 

“Alright, dear. We love you, goodnight.” 

As you hang up your phone, you fight back the tickling itch of tears forming in your eyes and fall into step with the two men. 

“We got you that weird sour beer you like, and-” Minghao pulls out a brown bag full of mini bottles of your favorite alcohol. 

“Wow, I see you really treated me and my money well. It’s an honor.” 

You pulled three small bottles out of the bag and handed them to Seungcheol and Hao, twisting off the top of yours. 

“If you guys walk back to Hao’s building with me, I’ll reward you further.” 

You smiled holding up your bottle for a cheers and they followed. 

“Deal.” 

They both smiled and tipped their heads back to get their night started. 

About two blocks from the apartment complex and a few mini bottles of liquor in, you stopped for Hao to run inside a mini mart to grab multiple snacks and a pack of cherry rolling papers you loved. 

“So, Y/N Lee? I was wrong about you wasn’t I?” 

Seungcheol spoke your full name like he was singing lyrics to a song, but it had you confused. 

“What? How did you know that?” 

“I will confess I got confused over dinner before, you guys were saying a lot of stuff and I felt bad asking what it was about so I looked for myself. I’m sorry.” 

Sorry. A word you’d never thought was in Seungcheol’s vocabulary, so you felt it was sincere. 

“It’s alright, it was stupid I lied about it for years anyway. Really, don’t sweat it.” 

“Yeah, that's actually really stupid.” 

That’s all he could respond with, but he did offer an olive branch by opening you a bottle of beer and offering it to you on the sidewalk. 

“Cheers, to getting to know the real you?” Cheol questioned. 

“Yes, cheers to getting to know the real me.”  

┄┄ ︰ ┄୨୧┄ ︰ ┄┄┄┄ ︰ ┄୨୧┄ ︰ ┄┄┄┄ ︰ ┄୨୧┄

After a change of clothes and more than a few drinks, you dipped out onto Hao’s balcony to roll yourself a joint only to find Seungcheol drink in hand typing on his phone fearlessly. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll go back inside.” 

“No, I’m finished, you can sit.” 

You nearly stumbled onto the balcony, the alcohol telling your body where to go.

“Isn’t it against your better judgment to send work emails while drunk?” 

He laughed, placing his phone back into his sweatshirt pocket.

“Well, isn’t it against your better judgment to roll a joint while drunk? That shit looks fucked.”  

You didn’t even ask before you were handing over your stash and papers to him. You watched his fingers and they perfectly packed and fixed your work for you. 

“Wow, what the fuck?” 

“I’ve had practice, if you need a teacher.” 

“I’m much better sober, I promise. Plus it’s cold and I can't feel my fingers.” 

Cheol scooted closer to you now holding a lighter up, begging you to spark his good work with his eyes. The flame burned against your lips as you inhaled a big pull from the scented paper. 

“Thanks.” 

You smiled at him as the smoke poured out of your mouth and you offered him your olive branch, a hit. 

He took it with ease and deeply breathed into his lungs to expand his chest. 

Your closeness was now inching dangerous territory. His fingers grazing yours with every pass of the small object burning between you. That’s what always been going on, burning between you, passion, former hatred, sparks. 

“Here, I’ll help you since it got smaller. Open your mouth.” Seungcheol whispering now, his breath hot on your cheeks. 

You just obliged, feeling a little insecure with your mouth open wide watching the smoke leave his lips, you inhaled. 

Maybe it was the high, the setting, or the alcohol finally setting in, but you needed his mouth on yours. 

“Will you kiss me?” 

Without a word from his lips, they came smashing onto yours and before you knew it you were kissing the enemy. 

The feeling of him on you left you with a high you’ve never felt before. He never let go before you were ready, his hands found their natural space on your hips. 

“Can I confess something, y/n?” 

Snuggling into his embrace you nod against his chest, as you fiddle with the ties of his sweatshirt 

“I was only mean to you in college because I had a crush on you. And if we were sober right now, I’d ask you to come back to my place, because I just love being around you.” 

Suddenly your hands stopped moving and he knew he had missed his chance at a confession once again. His arms scooped you up and carried you all the way into your blissful night of sleep in the good guest room. Little did he know you had been awake the whole time and didn’t sleep a minute.

Feeling the way he kissed you when you got too drunk had to mean something.

#❃ - duffytalks #❃ means something #seventeen fluff #seventeen headcanons #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #svt fic #svt reactions #svt texts #svt imagines #seungcheol x reader #seventeen imagines #svt fanfic #svtcreations #svt x reader #svt #svt fluff #svt scoups #svt scenarios #seventeen fic #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #choi seungcheol x reader #scoups imagines #scoups x you

[thesunhatesme]

The ghouls music taste - HC

I think Ozzy Osbourne, Kiss, Lana Del Rey and David Bowie is pack favorites, like that’s what they’re gonna play on full volume in the car

Rain

Rain is definitely an alternative rock girlie, he loves Muse and you can’t change my mind on that. His favorite Muse song is definitely micro cuts or spiral static. He just loves all their guitar sounding vocals, those old emo vibes songs and basically everything about them. His favorite album is probably Origin of symmetry and Showbiz. And he likes MCR and Suizid, cus like, he’s emo

Dew

He’s a Mike’s dead fan by heart, he knows every single word of every single song, like hell blast Bite down on full volume and scream the lyrics, it just makes him feel better. And he’s Aether’s Rob zombie friend (every Alice cooper fan needs a rob zombie fan and the other way around) And he’s a sabaton fan cus he’s a little nerdy about history.

Swiss

Swiss’s motto is: “the older, the better” and: “anything after 1999 sucks” He likes the old country rock like, Eagles. He also likes Santana, like c’mon, Santana is a guitar genius. There’s always some chill music coming from his room. Oh, and he listens to Paleface Swiss unironically (even though they are a new band)

Mountain

He’s a bit like Swiss but he’s not against new music (most of the time) but the song James Dean by Eagles always hits hard. He listens to the strokes and thin lizzy in the green house, but if he’s not with his plants he likes to listen to techno metal, or any type if metal, really, his favorite song is Undead by Hypnosaur.

Aether

Dad music. Alice Cooper, Iron Maiden, and his alltime favorite Meatloaf. He vibes with almost everything tho, hell vibe with Rains high pitched emo screaming, Dews angsty rap/rock but especially Rob zombie, Swiss’s old country rock, Mountains techno metal and chill oldies, and on like so. He doesn’t listen to music that much but if the others are playing music he won’t ask them to turn it down, he’ll vibe with them

Phantom

Phantom’s favorite song will always be Bat out of hell by Meatloaf. He also likes Muse, but not like Rain, he likes their new stuff better like Simulation theory and the 2:nd law, he’s emo but not that emo. He definitely likes Nickleback, Yungblud, Bring me the horizon and Bad religion. His favorite songs are Anesthesia by Bad religion and Fire escape by Call me karizma. He has a kinda love/hate relationship with Map of the problematique by Muse because he listened to it religiously when he was summoned and now he can’t help but cry when he hears it.

Cumulus

Elton John, Dire states and Greta van fleet. She loves crocodile rock by Elton John and it always makes her laugh when she watches him perform it on The muppet show. But like Aether she’ll vibe with pretty much anything

Cirrus

Cirrus likes the vibe of kinda dark doom metal/rock. She loves bands like The ocean and Soen and their song Hollowed. She’s a sabaton fan because they are super cool too and she’ll occasionally enjoy some good old Rammstein or The cure

Aurora

She likes a lot of different music, and if you put her playlist on shuffle, someone will end up with a whiplash injury. She’s a Louis Tomlinson fan, her favorite song is Angels fly and she loves five finger death punch. She’s Phantom’s Machine Gun Kelly friend (every Yungblud fan needs to have a MGK friend) chances are high that you’ll find her with Phantom jaming out to bodybag or acting like that by MGK and Yungblud

Copia

He is definitely a måneskin fan and his rats are named after them. I think he likes old bands like whitesnake and Lynyrd Skynyrd but his altime favorite song will forever be Brother Louie by Modern talking

#the band ghost #phantom ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #swiss ghoul #rain ghoul #mountain ghoul #aether ghoul #cirrus ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #copia #hc

[impala-dreamer]

Smokin' In The Green Room

A Short Story

~Settle in for a pre-show party as you relax with Jensen and Rob in the Green Room before a concert.~

Jensen Ackles x Reader. Rob Benedict x Reader, Cameos by Louden Swain

1,757 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Drug Use. Spit Roast. Smut. Comedy

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

The Green Room is quiet; the rest of the band has yet to come back from dinner, and everything is still.

Squashed on the couch between Rob and Jensen, you linger in a drifting haze of lust and drugs, inhaling hit after hit off of Jensen’s fancy joints. He’d rolled them himself; a fact that he announces every five minutes lest either of you forget how talented he is.

The drugs are strong.

The room alternates pulsing and spinning in your head and things seem fuzzier and funnier the longer you sit there.

“You know what’s ridiculous?” you say, laughing to yourself as Jensen passes the dutchie over your head.

“What’s that?” he asks, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he exhales.

The smoke swims around your face and you suck in a lingering wisp, coughing as it burns your lungs.

“Is that they didn’t have more sex. I mean- Dean- he used to have a lot of sex, ya know?” You turn to face him, concern tightening your features. “And then it just- stopped. Why’d it stop, Dean? Why?”

Jensen laughs, his head falling back against the sofa. “I wish I knew.”

Rob inhales deeply, joint pinched between two guitar-calloused fingers. “Chuck didn’t want to watch anymore. Too much porn.”

“So much porn!” you laugh. “Oh man- could you imagine you on HBO? Jesus fuck.”

“We wouldn’t have lasted.” Jensen says honestly.

“Are you kidding me?” Getting up and spinning around you sit on your knees on the couch. “Do you know what I’d give to have Dean Winchester buck naked fucking and- hell, saying fuck?”

Jensen bites back a smile and his hand lands on your knee. “You wanna see that?” he asks, tone losing all laughter and taking on an intoxicatingly delicious edge.

Your heart skips too many beats and your mouth waters. “I so do.”

Something in his face turns; his brows furrow, eyes narrow, face seems to drop into place. In an instant, he is Dean Winchester.

“You wanna see me fuck, Sweetheart?” he says, voice dark and graveled just like Dean’s.

Breathless, you stare at him, leaning in without realizing it. “I would watch that on repeat every fucking day all fucking day forever.”

His hand slides up your thigh. “And what if you couldn’t see it?”

A frown turns your lips. “Why not?”

“What if you were the one being fucked?”

Heart in your throat, your stomach flips. “Oh god. Yes. Fuck.”

Jensen’s fingers slide higher and his free hand reaches for you. You lean in and he cups the back of your head as his plump lips graze over yours. His kiss is deep and rich and made for television.

Pulling back, you laugh softly. “You kiss different than Dean,” you tease.

Jensen is back and he smiles. “Who’s better?”

Staring at his shining lips, you grab a fistful of his henley shirt. “Oh, you. For sure.”

Beside you, Rob squirms a bit, turning in his seat to see you head on. He clears his throat but your kiss doesn’t end, Jensen seemingly more enthused when he realizes you’re being watched.

“Uh, guys?”

Finally coming up for air, you turn to find Rob staring, cheeks flooded with a pink blush.

Ideas swim in your head.

“I’m sorry, Chuck. You feeling left out?”

He has no time to answer. Quickly, you lean to the side and peck his lips; Jensen’s hand on your back pushes you over, urging you on.

Rob’s beard tickles your cheeks and he sighs into your mouth, his tongue curious yet timid.

“Mmm you taste like honey,” you moan, nearly falling into his lap.

He blushes again and licks his lips. “I-I just had some tea.”

You smile and grab a handful of salt and pepper hair. “You’re cute.” A lick across his lips closes his eyes and Rob opens up for you, moaning softly as you nibble on his lips. “And so sexy…”

“Yeah?” He melts at your touch, blue eyes wide and watery.

“So much.” You readjust on the sofa, turning fully so that your Jensen has full view and access to your plump ass. “Wish you could just snap those fingers and whip off my clothes…” Rob exhales deeply against your nearing lips. “Slam me up against the wall…” Your hand slides firmly down his chest and he bucks his hips as it approaches. “Fuck me senseless…”

He swallows hard. “That’d be amazing.”

Jensen brings a hand down hard over your ass. “Yeah. It would.”

Your whimper pushes into Rob and he lifts a hand to your cheek, holding you softly as the kiss deepens. He’s more sure now, more excited and hums against your lips as your hand cups his growing dick.

“Fuck…” One hand slides back to tangle in your hair, the other reaches for your tits, plucking at each nipple while you rub him through his jeans. “This is- yeah. Wow.”

“Would be even better,” Jensen says; hand pressing up against your covered pussy. “If she wasn’t so… clothed.”

You lift your lips from Rob’s kiss and look back over your shoulder. “You tryin’ get me naked, Ackles?”

He grins. “You bet.”

“You can just ask,” you tease, leaving Rob and standing up from the couch. “I’ll always do whatever you ask…” Slowly, your shirt leaves your body and you toss it in Jensen’s laughing face. Your pants slide off easily and you step out of them, standing before the boys in your bra and panties.

Rob’s jaw drops and Jensen shimmies in his seat, stretching out his legs and rubbing a hand down his thick thigh.

“What about the rest?” he says, voice darkening as his desire grows.

“Oh, this?” you tease, fingers hooked in the straps of your bra. “You… want me to take it off?”

He bites his lip hard and nods. “Now.”

Two snaps later and your bra falls to the floor. Forearm baring your tits, you lick your lips and enjoy the sight of them both staring and hungry.

Rob moans and presses a hand down over his erection, trying to look cool and failing miserably.

“You boys like?”

He nods quickly, eyes like a vast ocean. “So much.”

Jensen smirks and nudges him in the arm. “You should see the rest. In fact-” Green eyes dig into yours with authority and pride. “Show him.”

Instantly, your arm falls and you peel away your panties, eyes locked on Jensen.

“Perfect…”

Rob sucks in a deep breath. “Wow.”

Your cheeks burn under their gaze. “Thank you.”

Jensen opens his arms and you rush to him, stumbling a bit over your jeans as you go. You fall into his lap and he wraps his hands around you as his tongue dips between your lips.

Locked in his kiss, you reach for Rob with your right hand, grabbing hold of his collar and dragging him over.

You leave Jensen for a split second, giving Rob a wet kiss to keep him occupied.

“Want you both,” you whisper, rolling your hips over Jensen while your fingers sneak down to tease Rob. “Want you both inside of me.”

Jensen cups your tits and pinches hard. “I think that can be arranged. What do you say, Robbie?”

Rob licks at your lips and then sits back, spreading his knees as he reaches for his belt. “Let’s go.”

His zipper slides down and you pounce, leaving Jensen’s lap and falling to your hands and knees. Immediately, you take Rob’s stout cock in your mouth, slowly dragging your tongue across the thick head.

He jerks his hips and moans, his hand landing softly on your head. He follows your rhythm with gentle pulses of his fingers against your scalp and you hum over him, lips vibrating and happy.

Behind you, Jensen makes himself ready. He knocks his jeans down to his ankles, catching them on his boots, and settles in on his knees, hands capturing your ass. He gives you a squeeze and you push back against him, gasping as the tip of his cock nudges your hole.

“Fuck, Jensen, please…”

Rob grunts and pushes your head down onto his cock again; all signs of shyness have permanently vanished. “Keep going,” he growls and you do, taking him in as deep as you can and swallowing hard. “Fuck yes.”

Jensen’s blunt nails dig into your hips as he lines up and scores, sinking his thick cock deep into your dripping cunt. He groans, tips his head back and closes his eyes, savoring the tight clamp of your muscles around him.

When you push back, he starts to move, thrusting hard. Each slam of his hips sends you further down Rob’s cock and your eyes roll back into blackness.

Jensen fits a hand around your waist and rubs hard circles on your clit. Your legs start to shake and you scream around Rob’s delicious shaft.

“Fuck yes. Fuck me hard, Jensen. Fuck.”

The drugs have taken away any care of time or space. Anyone could walk into the room right now and get the show of the century, but you can’t seem to care. Let them hear you gag as Rob spills a hot load down your throat and you scramble to drink it down. Let them see you shake and whimper as you cum on Jensen’s cock. Let them watch as he pulls out and paints your lower back and ass in creamy white.

Let them see.

The Green Room is quiet as the rest of the band returns from dinner. A thick cloud of smoke lingers in the air and Billy swats it away as he walks in.

“What the hell guys, you coulda waited for us.” He breathes deeply and coughs as he takes a seat in the armchair across from Rob.

Borja follows, blinking into the fog and sniffing the air. “Why… does it smell like sex in here?”

Stephen eyes you suspiciously and you shrug, hands up, feigning innocence.

“Jensen rolled the joints! He’s very talented. Everyone tell him how talented he is.” The group watches in amused shock as you bounce up from the sofa and rush to the door, paranoid and giddy. “Have a great show, guys. I’ll be watching. Uh… break all your legs or whatever!”

The seat you leave behind is far from empty and Mike reaches down, retrieving your bra from the cushion.

“Uh, Y/N? I think this is yours.”

Busted, you catch the tossed bit of lingerie and grin as you back away. “Oops? Have fun!”

Rob laughs. “Already did.”

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@aditimukul @agirlwithdemonblood @akshi8278 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @charred-angelwings @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @djs8891 @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @deansyahtzee @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @iamsapphine @idreamofdeanie @ilsawasanacrobat @impalaspixie @iprobablyshipit91 @jackles010378 @justcallmeasmodeus @kazsrm67 @kittenofdoomage @k-slla @leigh70 @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @maggiegirl17 @pandaxo79 @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @roseblue373 @sacriceria @samwellwinchesterthebrave @sexyvixen7 @spideysimpossiblegirl @spnexploration @stevekempscocktails @the-wounded-healer05  

#jensen ackles x reader #rob benedict x reader #one shot #spn fanfic #rpf

[itsmkjones]

Imagine: Sam forcing you to go to bed

Okay. So you'd gotten a little obsessive. And, sure, that tunnel vision drive had robbed you of a real night sleep for three days straight, resulting in unplanned naps at an hour intervals at most, adding up to two whole hours. But was it really fair that your body demanded sleep when Sam and Dean habitually did the same thing? And that's how you got to day four, hallucinating every time you looked at something too bright or too dark. 

"Y/n…?" Sam called out softly after coming into the room to see you staring blankly at your hand. "You alright?"

"Huh?" You could barely pay attention to him, much less summon the mental stamina to craft a proper response.

Sam hesitated. "I asked if you were alright…"

"Uh huh."

Sam glanced back, wondering if he should call for Dean, then decided to approach you first instead. "What's going on?"

"This spot on my wrist."

"Spot?" Sam blinked in surprise when you clumsily shoved your hand in his face. He gently took it wrist. "I see it. What about it?"

"It's a spider."

Sam's brows knitted. "What?"

"All spots are spiders."

"Uh…"

"Spider. Spider. Spider." You repeated, poking the visible moles on his skin. "It goes away when you touch it. Then reappears!"

"Are you high or something?"

"Let me take off your shirt." You didn't wait for permission, sliding your hands up his hard abs. You would have enjoyed it more if your brain didn't feel encased in cotton, but as a solid to your future self, you made sure to indulge in the experience.

"Why the hell are you taking off my shirt?" Sam's voice cracked as he startled back, hands wavering in the air, unsure of what to do.

"You have the cutest mole right… here." You caressed the curve of his neck.

Sam's breath hitched and his throat worked as he struggled to reply. "You didn't need to take my shirt off to see it- Y/n!"

You opportunistically slipped under his shirt, kissing the spot. "God, I've always wanted to do that."

"Have you been drinking?" Sam jumped back when your hand dipped under his jeans. "Jesus, Y/n! What the hell?"

You blinked at him, mind blanking. 

"Y/n?" Sam stepped forward cautiously when you didn't respond. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday maybe?" You felt yourself swaying, but it didn't feel dangerous even when Sam jerked forward to keep you upright.

"For how long?"

"I don't know math." You scowled indignantly. "How dare you, Winchester? -Like twenty minutes or something."

Sam sighed. "How long has it been since the last time you really slept?"

"Um…" You closed your eyes to think and the swaying got worse. "Anyways. Take off your pants."

"What? No." Sam frowned. "Try to concentrate for a second."

"How can I supposed to do that?" You whined shamelessly. "Real Y/n wants to see the goods!"

Sam flushed and it took clearing his throat twice to find his voice. "Real Y/n?"

You nodded. "Awake Y/n. Not sleepy Y/n." You grabbed his waistband. "There's a pot going on amongst hunters about how hung you are. I'll keep it a secret if you do, but shouldn't I know since we're friends? You can't keep secrets from your friends."

"Okay. Bedtime for you." Sam threw you over his shoulder when your fingers started to graze downward.

"I'm not sleepy." You pouted. "My brain is too awake."

"I'll give you warm milk or something. Just get into the bed and stop touching me." Sam's voice was hard. 

You stopped sliding your hands over the lines of his back muscles sulkily. "You're so bossy. Isn't it your fault that you're so damn fine? Take some responsibility! Coming out of the shower with nothing, but a towel on…"

"I didn't know you were there!"

"That doesn't make me not want to lick every damn drop of water off of you." You suddenly became cheerful. "Stay hydrated everyone."

"Please stop talking." Sam swallowed hard.

"I'll show you yours, if you show me mine." You offered.

"That's not-" Sam broke off with a sigh, then pushed open your bedroom door and set you down. "Get some sleep." He sighed again when you stared at him in blank confusion. "Sleep, Y/n. Please?"

"I forgot how the bed works." 

"You forgot…" Sam covered his eyes with his hands, scrubbing his face hard. "Go lay down."

You walked backwards until your legs hit the bed, then toppled inelegantly on the mattress. Sam's face fell. Begrudgingly, he scooped you up and laid you further back on the blankets. He rolled you up tightly in an impromptu swaddle before you could do anything else.

"I'm a burrito. Eat me."

"Go to sleep, Y/n."

"But you and Dean stay up all the time." Your face crumpled with a wave of sorrow.

Sam softened. "You aren't us." 

"But you won't want me anymore."

Sam's lips thinned with an empathetic smile. "We can talk about this later."

"You've got a cute mole by your nose too."

Sam turned off the light, but didn't leave. A moment later, you felt him sit next to you. "I never had anyone try to help me fall asleep, so I'm not really sure how to help you, but… I saw this in a movie once. A mom putting down her kid…"

You relaxed instantly as his fingers brushed back your hair in long, gentle strokes. Sam smiled at your satisfied hums.

"Good night, Y/n." Sam said softly when your breathing slowed.

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #sam #spn sam winchester #spn #spnfandom #supernatural sam winchester #supernatural series #supernatural fluff #sam fluff #sam winchester fanfiction #sam fanfiction #san fanfic #sam winchester fluff #sam imagines #sam winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #supernatural y/n #sam x you #Sam Winchester x you #sam x reader #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x reader

[stillwinchester]

“Okay, I need a shower, but later, we can watch TV,” says Dean, looking at Cas hesitantly. “If you don't have any other places you should be in right now, of course.”

“I don't.”

“Awesome!” Dean smiles and grabs a clean T-shirt from his bag. He disappears in the bathroom, and Cas was left alone in the room.

They stay in a crappy motel, the one with shitty lighting and not-that-fresh sheets. But Cas doesn't mind, it's not like he needs anything comfortable; besides he likes life on the road with Dean. Especially the 'with Dean' part.

Before they arrived here, they stopped in the small bar with burgers, but Cas remembers Dean loves eating during the movie too, even if he had a big dinner. That's why he decides to go outside and buy some stuff from the vending machine. He doesn't have his own money, he doesn't need it, so he grabs Dean's wallet (he knows exactly where Dean keeps it), and leaves the room.

The vending machine is right there, full of cans with soda, crisps, chocolate bars and some other things that Cas can't identify.

Cas takes the first coin and puts it in. Unfortunately, it comes back to him. He tries one more time. It doesn't work again. Cas tilts his head, confused. He's seen Dean doing it many times, it should be easy. He probably should punch it, it was Dean's way to fix many things.

He does what he thought, his fist lands on the machine and makes a hole in it. But somehow it still doesn't work.

“I see...” murmurs Cas to himself. “You don't want my money... We will do it in old-fashioned way, then.”

He puts his hand on the glass, and his eyes glow, after that, snacks start falling... All of them.

He's not sure how he's going to take all of this at once, but he will find a way. Dean will be gratful when he sees so many treats.

Eventually, he puts in his pocket as many sweets as he can, and he takes even more up both of his hands. He comes to the room, where Dean's waiting for him - clean, wearing his favourite hot dog sweatpants.

“Dude, did you just rob a whole vending machine?” asks Dean at the view.

Cas' face stays dead serious when he gives his short answer: “Yes.”

Dean laughs. The way he always does if Cas says something hilarious, with his head tilted back.

Cas doesn't understand what was so funny about the things he said or did, but he smiles too, just because he made Dean happy.

“Okay, come on, the movie will start for a moment,” says Dean, wiping away the tears from the corner of his eyes. “And don't forget taking off your shoes! I don't wanna it on my bed!”

They sit together, side by side (without the shoes) and stare at the small screen. The television made weird noises, but they don't care. Yes, Cas likes life on the road with Dean. Especially the 'with Dean' part.

#supernatural #spn #destiel #castiel #dean winchester #deancas #ficlet #destiel ficlet #destiel fic #spn fic #supernatural fic #my writing #mine

[uncouth-the-fifth]

baby i'll stay (heaven can wait) - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (vaguely s8). Tags/Warnings: not-too-graphic smut, hunting-typical violence, witches using glamors, soft, loving, childhood friends-to-lovers, glass injuries. Word Count: 14,729 (hence why it took so damn long lol) Notes: howdyyyy. sorry for the brief absence, i was packing up some end-of-the-year things at home, finals, etc. this is for my dear friend and ultimate supporter @lacilou, who requested something that was so up my alley that i just HAD to write it. here ya goooo! Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

You had never seen Dean grovel before.

It started with some gentle offers, and then his pride caved, and he really started to dig in. If you played bait for the witch the three of you were currently hunting, Dean would, (in order), clean your weapons himself for a month, buy you dinner from your favorite place, and let you do at least one donut with Baby in the nearest empty lot. You planned to say yes either way, seeing as people were dying here—and it’s not like the three of you had any other options. But the longer you held out the more Dean added. You stewed on it, until even Sam offered up the passenger’s seat for two weeks. Once you’d amassed a good collection of favors the night before your hunt—

“Fine. I’ll do it,” you crossed your arms.

“God,” Dean cursed, and slumped forward against the table of your motel room in mock-exhaustion. “Only took you two fuckin’ days.”

Sam, who was leaning against the counter of your kitchenette, cooly twisted off the cap of his bottle and smirked around it. “You’re just mad cause’ she played you. Donuts in the Impala? Really?”

“I think that’s fair,” you spoke up, “What’s our witch’s name again?”

“Hermes,” Sam and Dean said, rolling their eyes in unison.

“Well—I’m the one who’s gonna have to be touched by this creep. That’s worth wheelies in the Impala, if you ask me,” you argued. On the motel bed in front of you, you were sorting through the suitcase that carried your entire life in it. There was supposed to be a nice night-out dress in here somewhere, but it’d probably been ruined by monster blood a millennia ago.

“Don’t even joke,” Dean warned, but he hesitated, like he’d been considering the Impala doing wheelies and mentally measuring how cool it’d be. 

“You know…” Sam trailed off, and in the corner of your eye you watched him straighten up. “If this really bothers you, you don’t have to do it. We’ve found other outlets before—this one just so happens to be the easiest one. A harder solution never scared us off before.”

“Exactly,” you snapped the lid of your suitcase shut. “So I can handle an easy one, like you said. I’m complaining for the fun of it, I promise. A witch killing and robbing people is nothing new, and neither are creeps—so I’m not exactly intimidated.”

Stepping away from the bed, you presented your dress to the two. It was almost a little too plain, but you got out so little lately that anything, even willfully being seduced by a witch in a sleazy bar, sounded fun. Little things like that reminded you that the hunt was an adventure as much as it was a job. A pretty shitty adventure, maybe, but after the apocalypse optimism had become a need as much as it was a balm. You were stuck in another lousy motel room in another city you’d never seen. Yet, sometime in the next week you’d be terrifying Dean out of his skin doing donuts in his car, and Sam had been happy lately. You hoped it was your influence.

His concern for you, as usual, boosted your optimism well into next week. You were more of a realist by nature. But if your positive outlook was waking him up and following him to bed every night, yet again, you and Sam Winchester had established another unspoken cycle. You watched his back and he watched yours. Sam talked to you about how he felt and you talked to him, both out of fear of burdening Dean. He gushed about the books he liked and the science articles he read, you fell in love with him every time, and together you relied so heavily on the other that you doubted Sam could breathe if your lungs weren’t working. You saved him and he saved you until you owed each other eternally. It’d been that way since the first time your parents had dropped you off at Bobby Singer’s, when you’d befriended the only other hunter-kids you’d ever met.

A few years back, the horseman Death had called your relationship uniquely symbiotic. To this day, you still wondered what he’d really meant. Feeling Sam’s warm eyes catch yours over his drink almost gave you your answer. But like always, your train of thought chased the soft line of his bicep against his shirt sleeve or the dimple of his cheek instead. This time, Sam was comparing the neckline of the dress to your shirt, imagining you in it. Flushed, you folded it against your stomach and set it on top of your suitcase. You played with a hair tie on your wrist and reminded yourself that Sam wasn’t looking at you that way.

Dean whistled at the dress. “Man. Maybe we don’t even need the witch-killing spell,” he gave you an appreciative smile, “this guy’ll explode the minute he sees you.”

“That better be a compliment,” you glared at him, and for good measure, Sam swatted him on the back of the head. 

“You’ll look just fine,” Sam assured, sounding unenthused.

It was your God-given job to keep him on his toes, so you flicked the bottom of his beer as you passed him and warned with a smile, “That better be a compliment too, Winchester, or you’re both in trouble.”

“Mom, Dad,” Dean whined, “please don’t flirt in front of me.”

In an instant, Sam slipped his bottlecap off the counter and you rolled your hairtie off your wrist. Dean had just collapsed face-first into his bed when both projectiles whizzed off him, ricocheting onto the carpet. You hadn’t realized Sam had moved at the same time until his bottlecap had popped off Dean’s head, startling you into bubbly, shoulder-shaking laughter. Sam didn’t laugh—he rarely did, not since he was a kid—but he smiled, and for now that worked for you.

“Tomorrow, you’ll get some kind of DNA off of our witch at the bar, we’ll do our spell, and we’ll follow you in the car to make sure you’re safe,” Sam decided, softening his voice. He said this mostly to himself, and you indulged him even if you knew your game plan, just because you knew it was a comfort to him to list it out for himself. Years of staying home while Dean and John were off hunting had narrowed his life into lists—of school assignments, of tasks to handle while they were gone—and he’d never grown out of it. You imagined it was why he was so meticulous. “Then, we’re clear.”

“People saved, things hunted,” you drawled, listing each on one hand, “family business—”

“—done,” Dean finished, giving a thumbs up where he was faceplanted in his bed. With that, he rolled over, turned off the bedside lamp, and flushed your room into cool darkness. “Night’.”

You and Sam chorused your goodnights to him. Then, Sam turned toward the window over the kitchenette, adjusted the salt there with the back of his hand, and closed the curtains to cut off the last slivers of moonlight.

As a hunter, it was in the job description that you had some precautions about the dark. With Sam there, across from you, you forgot all notions about being afraid. You enjoyed looking at him even more than the next girl did, but with darkness came a new depth of intimacy. Without sight, you could only collect context from the low timbre of his voice or his presence next to you. It was about feeling instead of seeing. And Sam, with the sweet way he said things and the gentle way he navigated the dark, was nothing but feeling.

The moment was brief, but Sam found your shoulder and followed it up to your temple, which he kissed. Like the lists, it was a ritual he’d never grown out of. And you never wanted him to. You could feel the warmth of his breath, of his hand, flushing through your whole body like the sweet-tasting humidity before a healthy storm. 

“Goodnight, ____,” Sam murmured near your face. He was like you, so if the dark made you more honest then it made him more honest; Sam sounded like he loved you.

You leaned into the brief contact, squeezed his wrist, and resisted the surge of hope pressing up your throat. “Goodnight, Sam.”

_

It should’ve been sad, how happy you were to be out despite the circumstances, but you knew even the best covers had a sliver of truth to them—and tonight, you wanted to flirt, to feel pretty flirting, and to kill some damn witches. Being covered in monster grime didn’t make anybody feel beautiful, and suiting up in a skirt and wedges to masquerade as a fed didn’t count. The hunt rarely gave you an excuse for self-confidence. If this was one of those times, you weren’t about to let it pass by.

And truth be told, you’d been under fire for so long that one witch didn’t feel like much of a threat. You weren’t so stupid that you neglected to realize what Hermes was capable of. But after your five-hundredth witch in over fifteen years of hunting, the fear of danger was nothing more than a wisp of tension floating at your shoulder. If it bleeds, you can kill it, Dean always said. And witches definitely bled.

Knowing that Sam and Dean were watching your six, that wisp of anxiety disintegrated entirely. It was so natural to have them there, Sam on your right and Dean on your left, that you usually dreamt with each brother somewhere in your peripherals. Hazy flying dreams and late-to-school nightmares included. Well, the school nightmares were less strange—once upon a time, you’d really gone to school with Sam and Dean.

Your parents were hunters. That made you like any other sullen, directionless hunter kid in the business, desperate to follow in their parent’s footsteps but terrified of becoming anything like them. Most pure-bred hunters like you didn’t have the fortune of an Uncle Bobby, though. Looking back, you wished you’d had more time with your parents—but you were grateful for the days they dumped you on him. Around when you’d entered middle school, Bobby’s house had become something of a hunter daycare. He wasn’t big on the idea. Obviously. But Bobby melted like all grouchy old men inevitably did, and soon your days spent racing to get him books and spell ingredients overlapped with his days babysitting Sam and Dean.

Dean was two years your senior, and had usually been the bane of your existence. But you’d both existed in the strange place between a hunter and a liability for your parents, so together, you were eager to please, learn, and emulate. Dean had done this because he’d wanted to graduate to a full-on hunter, but you were content with bringing phones to Bobby and helping without being in the way. Sam was much of the same. He was… He was quiet and sweet and he’d cut out the gum Dean had put in your hair without wrecking it. He wrote school essays that were cool instead of boring, and made everything seem interesting and beautiful. Dean had embodied hunting to you, then, and Sam was the breathable living space between.

You loved Dean, and you’d learned a lot from him. But you lived and breathed Sam—and the new, exciting proposition of a home somewhere else—because of the ideas he represented. Being a hunter so young had gutted your faith, and Sam, somehow, had rerouted it all. He’d shown you that there were seams between hunts that you could use to find your footing. Bobby had taught you how to be smart, Dean had taught you how to be practical, and Sam had promised you that all of this wasn’t for nothing. You figured that was why all of the hunters you met were weapons more than people; Sam Winchester hadn’t cupped their face on Bobby Singer’s porch and kissed them like they were still human.

That’d been more than a decade ago, and you could still feel how the rain had made your hair cling to your face, how the shoulders of Sam’s sweater were damp from the weather. The kiss had been brief and childish and a little unmoored. And yet it’d carried you through everything, even the literal end of the world, Sam going in the cage… all of it. He’d been your living space.

That had been built on the rare weekends you happened to be at Bobby’s at the same time, so having a few months of school together bonded you for life. They purposefully forgot to mention that John was settling them in your town and your school, hoping to surprise you. In hindsight, it was a sweet gesture, but there was a bold line between your hunting life and your school life for a reason. High school was awful for you. Your parents’ deaths had left you as exposed as a bloody nerve. With no one else around, your foster family unaware of… the real world, and a valley between you and the life you used to know, hunting was all you’d had. You’d spiraled into it deeper than you ever had before. One misstep in the hallway had spilled all of your research books and spell ingredients out of your backpack, immediately casting you as your school’s new resident freak.

Neither of the boys knew about… the bullying. It was such a pathetic word. You never told them, probably because school was as much of a sore a subject for them as it was for you. So they’d turned up, gleaming with excitement, only for whatever image they had of you as some tough, unflinchable hunter to shatter.

You’d been eating lunch comfortably alone, fork in one hand and research book under the other. All at once your table was crowded with your grade’s most self-absorbed clique, all of them probing you, asking you questions, and giggling amongst each other even at your innocent answers. They stole your book and read it out loud to each other. They prodded at your backpack, searching for more joke material. It happened so often that you knew better than to lash out, as you’d done before—or react at all, as you’d done before—and resigned yourself to another ruined day.

Then, Dean’s hands had cooly landed on your shoulders. Hey, ____, Sam had greeted warmly from your right, and you remembered how he hadn’t bothered to hide his scowl. Are these jokers bothering you? 

It was such a movie moment, a book moment, that the only thing you could call it was wish fulfillment. There’d been plenty of times when you’d wished they’d been there, or wished you could tell them about something that’d happened to you. But actually having it happen—Dean swooping in with that suave grin, Sam refusing to let you carry your own backpack…

You felt like you owed them. It was a small, easy kindness for them to pay, but after months of loneliness and alienation and absolute, incomprehensible loss, it’d been a surge of heat in an ocean of ice. Sudden and unexpected and life-giving.

Since then, you couldn’t remember a single time you hadn’t been in that same position. Standing there, with Sam and Dean on either side of you. As the Impala pulled up to the bar your witch often skulked, you looked reflexively to your left, and there was Dean in the driver’s seat. For once, you were upfront with him—Sam needed room in the back to perform the witch-killing spell.

“And you’re sure you can… hook him in?” Dean asked, gesturing blandly with one hand.

You bolstered yourself, so the smile you gave Dean was a bit more confident than you felt. “Well, his past victims have all looked like me. And, no offense, but I’ve been swindling guys like this since I was sixteen. I’m not too worried about that part.”

Sam sighed so deeply that you and Dean twisted to look at him. Realizing he’d done that out loud, he bumbled awkwardly over his own reaction and coughed. “Uh, yeah. But, uh, I’ll have to do the ingredients in order, so it might take a second after we get his DNA for the spell to go through. You’ll have to… to distract him, until then.” Sam flashed you a tight smile. “I’ll be fast, I promise. You won’t be stuck with that guy for long.”

“Good,” you said. The eye contact you were sharing suddenly felt purposeful. You eased yourself away from his gaze, though it was more of a lurch than a very casual, not-at-all tension-filled turn.

There was a brief lapse in the conversation that made your skin prickle from your spine to your neck. You could feel Dean’s smug amusement from behind his binoculars, simmering, which didn’t help. The focussed silence that usually settled over the three of you on stake-outs never came, so you rushed to fill it.

“...So,” you opened, “if our witch uses a glamor to make himself appear more enticing to each of his victims, then how can I be sure it’s him?”

“He’s gonna be the best-looking guy in the place,” Sam explained. He’d reined in whatever had bothered him earlier, apparently, because his tone became halted and professional.

Dean sprung up, whistling. “That’s how—there ya go, he’s right there.”

You leaned around Dean, trying to get some idea of what you were hunting, but his big ass binoculars were in the way. The witch was only just across the street, yet Dean adjusted the focus on the lenses, apparently aiming for a microscopic look. You lowered them from his face so you could see past them, and behind the eyepieces he was so flushed his freckles had disappeared.

“I mean…” Dean cleared his throat, but his blush only spread further. “Wow. Just. Wow, that’s a good-looking dude.”

You were already opening your mouth to tease him, but everything you’d planned to say, along with any idea of what your name was, where you were, and what you were doing, drained from your grip like a fistful of sand.

Wow. That was the only word you could remember. It occurred to you that Dean was seeing a totally different man because of the witch’s magic, and christ, were you thankful for it. You’d never hear the end of it if they saw what you were… enjoying. The witch pulled up the curb in a glittering white muscle car—which definitely added to whatever Dean was going through. But for you, it wasn’t the vintage Challenger or the shiny loafers, or… or the, um… the white blazer… or the crisp button-up under, uh, underneath… Or the witch’s face. Which was Sam’s face. No little changes to support your preferences in men. No beautification, supernatural glow or… anything else. Just Sam. Sam as he was right now, sitting in your backseat. Sam with his, uh… his face clean and happy… with… w-with his hair styled all nice, like he always styles it when you dress up…

He emerged from the car, facing away from you. He waved a hand at the parking meter and it fizzed out. The broad shape of his back rolled under his suit, panther muscle moving under pelt, and he turned toward the bar with the same grace. His movements were vaguely not-Sam, if you squinted. It was all too sly, and he walked like he wasn’t as tall as he was. But something in the glamor kept you from pressing that idea in your head. Your mind wanted to indulge the parts of him that did look like Sam much more, so any bumps in his mirage smoothed themselves over, perfecting the look. It was clever. Clever… and… and, um… wow…

You had a thought. “The, um…” you tried, “we…”

“Y/N,” the real Sam chided.

The binoculars you’d pulled away from Dean fumbled out of your hand at the closeness of his voice, and you scrambled to catch it, and so did Dean, but neither of you took your eyes away from the street. You ended up weirdly clutching it together, like the two of you were going to wrestle for the right to see the witch through the binoculars. If you were any more focused, you might have.

“Guys,” Sam said, unimpressed. “It’s just a glamor. Pull it together, please?”

“...Sam,” you tested the name in your mouth, “um, witch glamors, how do they work?”

“They’re projections of power. They make each person who looks at them see their ideal partner. Didn’t I tell you this already?”

“I-I know. Just.” You swallowed. “Do they, like, pull from people the person’s already met, or do they, uh… make it up? To suit the person.”

“Both. But it’s easier magic to just use people the victim already loves.” He stressed victim as pointedly as he could, reminding you of the role you’d be playing.

Dean pried his eyes away from the street. They slid over to you, and you immediately did not like the suspicious gleam waiting for you there. “Why? You see somebody you know?” He bounced his eyebrows.

“What? You? Oh, please,” you laughed. You blurted out the first person you could come up with. “He’s ...Leo. In Titanic. Who do you see?”

“Another time,” Dean dodged. You usually would never let him get away with a blatant conversation shift like that, but he was grinning to himself like he could see you bullshitting too. It made you nervous. “Go on and get in there so we can gank this chump.”

“Good luck,” Sam wished you from the backseat, sounding blunter than usual. “And remember—underneath all that, he’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton murdering innocent women.”

“Got it. Reality check received,” you said. Taking the door’s handle, you shot the boys one last look to confirm they’d have your back, and ducked out of the Impala.

_

The bar was of a higher-end than you were used to, so it took some mental adjustment to prepare for your role. Usually, the barflies you tricked preferred rougher, meaner girls, and you got the feeling that wasn’t what fake-Sam—Hermes, you reminded yourself—was into. If he was going after married unfaithfuls, he probably enjoyed mature, deceptive women who talked a lot about all the money they had. It was weird to think of someone with Sam’s face being into that. 

The few pieces of gold jewelry you owned rattled on your wrists as you approached the bar. It was eight, prime drinking time, so everyone who’d had a long day at work or a date filled every inch of the place. Anyone who could afford the obscene prices, at least. A few minutes after you entered, you glimpsed Dean dissolving into the crowd. Hermes immediately took an isolated booth in the corner, where it would be easiest for him to scope out women at the bar. You only caught a glimpse of him. He lounged back, ankle on his knee, the low whiskey-hued light stroking one side of his face. It was… very Sam. He could’ve been on the couch at home, sunk into the cushions and reading a book by lamplight. You tried to reign in the confusing elixir of anxiety and attraction brewing in your stomach.

So far, he’d already begun to sort his targets. His honed-in look was unmistakable on Sam’s face. You made sure to pass in front of the women he was eyeing, and silently applauded yourself when his gaze was hooked on your figure. He trailed your slow saunter over to the bar with those intense, paletted eyes, lingering on the wedding band you wore. Knowing it was Sam—thinking it was Sam both helped and made things a million times worse. Your thoughts wandered like they never did on hunts, heart pounding.

Focus, you hissed to yourself. You needed to get him to drink something, so Sam, your Sam, could use the DNA on the glass in his spell. After setting up your act with a few coy glances, you suppressed the sickness rolling in your gut and summoned the bartender. “Two drinks—one for me, and another for the gentleman in the booth there.”

You almost ordered him Sam’s favorite beer, then felt supremely weird about it when deciding on a pricey whiskey instead. Man, was this place just begging for you to blow some cash. And this hunt… was really begging you to look some unspoken feelings in the face. As you waited for the drink to be delivered, it settled on you what Sam had said before—that this witch was wearing the body of your ideal partner. You weren’t stupid, you knew that’s what this was, but the confirmation from magic of all things…

It’s easier to just use people the victim already loves, Sam had explained.

You knew you loved him. You’d known since you were kids. But that was only ever something you told to yourself—now, the universe was shouting it back to you. It’s not like this witch reached into your mind and knew to choose Sam to get under your skin the most. The glamor was an automatic sort of magic, that you could tell. And if it was automatic… then it was all real. Your ideal partner really was Sam. Not even some dramatized, romantic version of him. The authentic article. It welled up inside you right there in that stupid-expensive bar on your stupid-expensive stool, a surging flood of emotion that seized you and tethered you to the floor.

Those feelings were always followed by the phantom pressure of Sam’s broad, gentle hands on your face. Your first kiss with him must’ve been more than a decade ago. He’d been so nervous that his hands shook, and he hadn’t taken up bow-hunting yet so the pads of his fingers were still soft. You’d held his wrists and trembled too, but you were relieved and excited and warm with wild summer liking, face tacky with dried tears. The last day had been spent weapon training. You’d shot a gun for the first time, and it’d stabbed the reality of your life right through your ribs. You were gonna kill things. It was going to be your job to kill things. Sam had sat with you while you’d sobbed on Bobby’s porch, squeezing you against him even though it was storming like hell. He’d sat there until your sides ached from laughing and you weren’t so worried about everything.

Sam promised you’d go through all this together, and he’d been right. Of course you were in love with him.

Okay. Hunt. Danger. Witch. Focus. He’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton, you reminded yourself.

But the hand brushing your bare shoulder was young, healthy, and familiar. Down to the bow-hunting callouses.

“Excuse me,” he greeted. His voice wasn’t purring with seduction or intent, as you’d imagined. It was just light, easy Sam. Like it’d been a bit since he’d seen you, and he’d just climbed out of the car to give you a secure hug and a kiss on the hair. The witch settled his glass on the bar between you, expression glittering with feigned curiosity. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it was kind of you to send over the drink. I wanted to say thank you.”

Maybe he was reaching into your mind to emulate Sam. Why would a thieving, money-hungry witch be so polite?

“Anytime,” you said, and found yourself responding like you were really talking to Sam. The witch’s smile broadened into his dimples; he wanted familiarity. “It’d be rude to leave such a cute guy without a drink on such a nice evening, don’t you think?”

“I think it’d be rude to leave a beautiful woman without company,” he agreed, eyes twinkling.

Unfortunately, your body wasn’t in hunting mode, as it should be. It was in act-normal-around-Sam mode, but “Sam” was actively flirting with you—so all of your nerves were going haywire. Your skin warmed in ways it never did for the men you won your dinner money from. Or any other man but one, period. An embarrassing, genuine giggle burst out of your chest. “I-I don’t mind,” you beamed.

“Hermes,” he said, offering you one giant hand to shake.

You gave it to him, and immediately he turned it over in his palm, lowered his face to your knuckles, and kissed them appreciatively.

“Y-Y/N,” you blurted, instead of your alias.

Dear god. Jesus Christ. What the fuck.

“Y/N. Really.” The witch repeated. Now he was turning up the sultriness. His voice was so nice and his hand was just like Sam’s and he—he even smelled like Sam.

“No. Uh. Y/N L/N, not Y/N Really,” you joked. Your full name. Out loud. Instead of your alias.

What the actual fuck.

“Forgive my asking,” and fake-Sam ran his thumb over your wedding band, his lips parted and his breath lingering on your hand. His voice was coated with want and humor. “But is there a Mr. Really?”

Fuck. Wait, yes. This was good. This was what you wanted.

You gathered yourself, but not too much, cause he seemed to like your clumsiness. Or maybe it gave him more incentive to kill you. “Yes,” you said, tip-toeing with your wording, “...does that bother you?”

Hermes just grinned and shook his head.

The witch gestured to the stool beside yours, and you nodded maybe a little too much. He claimed it, folding his legs uncomfortably because he was a bit too tall. It made you realize that the glamor worked even better (and harder) up close. All of the little details you loved about Sam—the slight crook of his left incisor where it’d almost been punched out a million times, the freckles under his collar and sleeves—loaded in. You swore they hadn’t been there before.

But, you still haven’t seen him drink from the cup. He wraps his hand loosely around the glass on the illuminated bartop, but otherwise doesn’t make a move, brushing his thigh against yours. You make up bland conversation about a long, arduous day at the wealthy company you work for. You complain a little bit about the doggy daycare your pure-bred Pomeranian goes to. When the bartender comes by, you tip him a good chunk of money right in front of Hermes. And if none of that is working, you bait him with the wedding ring and the cut of your dress.

It’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. But that’s kind of your life, so you’ve learned to accept the strangeness, and you enjoy the surface flirting with this millennia-year-old man who’s planning to kill you. While wearing the face of the love of your life.

You realize that you’ll probably never have this with the real Sam. Not the murder part, but the easy date night flirting—not without the cost of your friendship, or testing Sam’s feelings about relationships. 

When you’re satisfied that he’s hooked, as Dean put it, you raise your second round of drinks together and toast to them. You make something up about good company, and Hermes drinks. He lets his hand cover your bare knee, drawing circles that set every hair on your body on end. After what feels like hours, you brush your nails against the hair at the base of his neck, lean in, and whisper in his ear, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

And with that sly, clever Sam smile, he agrees. But— “My place is close. May I walk you?”

“You may,” you reply, even if it’s a complete deviation from his M.O. The witch always takes his victims back to their own homes, that’s how he robs them. What, was he genuinely attracted to you? Was this a real hookup thing? Or, did he recognize your real name and planned to kill you? Knowing your luck, you’d put money on murder.

Instead of offering you his arm, the witch is gentle and sweet as he gives you his hand. Just before you slip away from your seats, you put his whiskey on the stool, away from the well-meaning bartender who might clean it. The second you make it out the door with Hermes, Dean skulks out of the crowd and drops the empty glass in a plastic bag. Now you’re on the clock. Either the boys get Hermes first, or Hermes gets you. No pressure.

When you get outside, the Impala’s parked elsewhere. You’re both bothered and comforted by that, because while it may mean that the boys are out of sight, your spell is being performed where prying eyes can’t see. That’s good.

Hermes gives your hand a playful squeeze. While you’ve held Sam’s hand before, those moments were always too fleeting for you to take in much. You imagine your mind, or Hermes’ glamor, is filling in the blanks for you. His fingers are long and his hold is encompassing, swallowing almost the whole of yours. You talk for the two of you, since it’s a part of his act to give as little information about himself as possible. He pretends to enjoy your conversation. It’s your mind’s greatest impression of an interested Sam, his brow furrowed, his head ducked in thought, his focus honed in on only what you have to say. The witch leans in close when he does speak, murmuring into your ear. He loves to touch your bare skin, so his hands linger on your shoulders and the exposed portion of your back. It’s all a tactic to win over your suspicion, you know that, but it’s Sam’s hands. It’s his hands and his voice and his face.

“You know what?” Hermes surveys the street, and peaks into the alleyway nearest you, weighing your options like it’s not obvious where he’s going to drag you. Come on. “Let’s take this shortcut here.” He gives you a devouring look, “I don’t want us to wait any longer than we have to.”

“The suspicious, dark alleyway?” You joke. Just a few more minutes. Almost there. It’s gotta be.

Fake-Sam’s smile is fond, and with the same quiet resolution that Sam brings to everything, he parts from your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. He cups your side and brings you against him. His arm is the perfect shelter from the chilly night, bleeding with body heat and the homey scent of the man you love.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he purrs, and admittedly, that’s when you start to panic.

Not because he was edging you into a creepy alley—alleys, in the hunting life, were familiar territory. Or because you realized you were about to fight him. That was more than routine to hunting; it was hunting itself. What made you panic was your own willpower here. You could cut down a thousand evil witches a day, but nothing in this world could make you put that knife to Sam’s throat. Not death, not hell, not heaven. All of them had tried. Every one of them had failed.

This wasn’t Sam. You knew that. The difference was palpable. But it was close enough to make you hesitate, and you were dreading what that could mean.

“Alright, hero,” you flirted. “Lead the way.”

He teased your waist with a squeeze, then began the slow, intimate walk he imagined you were hoping for. The witch started to chat about how much he loved the city, how lively the people were. Bullshitting. Trying to settle your anxiety—so you were open to attack. Well. If he was so hellbent on cornering you now, all you could do was drag it out for as long as you could. You snuggled close to him, and pretended to admire the night sky between the towering downtown buildings.

The two of you passed the back end of a business’s warehouse. Its windows were thin-paned and close by, shimmering with neon light the closer you came to it. You made bubbly, flirty conversation, and calculated in your head when would be the perfect time to smash the glass and attack him with it.

He must’ve had the same idea.

You woke up two seconds later, glass in your hair, in your dress, and prickling painfully between you and the icy concrete floor. The warehouse ceiling floated overhead. Streams of moonlight poured through the uneven shape of the now-destroyed window. It took you but a breath to register this, then you were rolling onto your hands and snatching up the biggest shard that had survived your crash. In an instant you were heaving yourself to your feet and plotting: just a little more time, they just need a little more time, all you had to do was distract.

A long shadow fell over the glass debris. This was the part where your adrenaline would kick in, but a hot, ugly dose of fear joined it. That was Sam. You were fighting Sam. No, y-you—you weren’t—

“Well, isn’t this special,” Hermes cooed. He strolled toward you, the glass crunching under his loafers to the beat of his lazy walk. Everything but his smile was obscured by the dark. “The Winchester whore. I’ve heard of you. I have to say, I’m a little—”

“—disappointed? Let me guess: I’m shorter than you thought, prettier than expected, yadda yadda,” you filled in for him. “G-god, can’t any of you losers find different scripts?”

You knew the shard wouldn’t do much, but you’d hoped having it out in front of you would make you feel better. It didn’t. Hermes stepped into a shaft of light, illuminating Sam, with his hair in his eyes and a curious, calculating turn to his lip. It was straight out of any pink-hued day of your teenage years. Like he’d just found something fascinating in a book he was reading, and was beckoning you over to share it with you. And if it came down to it, you’d have to make him bleed if you wanted out of here.

“Fine. We’ll skip the pretense, then,” Hermes bargained, and with a wave of his hand you were slammed back-first into the nearest product shelves.

Pain exploded across your back, whiting out all else. You dropped a whole foot to the floor and collapsed there, pathetically gripping the closest table to find the courage to stand up. You couldn’t. Every deep breath you took seized your ribcage like a snapped trap. Shuddering in place there, you heard Hermes step across the glass, coming closer. Closer. Come on, Sam, you thought. For a moment, just a moment, you were truly afraid of him.

But this was Sam’s face. Out of all the faces you could see the moment before it all went dark, you’d be glad if it was his. The fear lightened. You lifted your face to meet his, snarling. Hermes waved his hand, and in one great cacophony, like a chandelier dragging itself across the floor, the broken glass fluttered up in a swirling cloud and hung in the air around you like stars. Deadly, jagged stars.

“One less thorn in my side,” he decided, and the hand—a copy of the love of your life’s hand, closed into a vicious fist. The shards whistled.

Hermes exploded into smoke.

The glass hung in the air for a moment more, then rained down on the floor again, shattering into powder. You flinched away and jerked to cover your head, and when all was quiet, and Hermes’ smoke was dissolved in the wind, you rolled onto your side and let out the breath you’d been holding.

People saved. Things hunted. Fuck, your back hurt.

You laid there for a moment longer, having fun pitying yourself, when a sharp cry of your name echoed down the alley outside. It took you a second to gather enough breath to holler back, “In here, Dean!”

Dean sprinted clear past the window, then backtracked so hard he almost tripped. “Y/N,” he sighed. Relief could’ve bowled him over at that moment.

As he charged through the broken window and swung his gun at the dark, you sat up, aiming to smile. You couldn’t really do it. “The witch is dead. Sam got him. High five?”

Dean hesitated, but after stashing his pistol in his waistband and taking stock of your injuries, he gave your raised hand a light smack and opened his arms. The gesture alone made all your injuries feel numbed. “Alright. Up and attem’. Let’s get you some Barbie bandaids and a big dinner, huh? You deserve it.”

“Hell yeah,” you breathed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Without hesitation, Dean scooped you onto your feet, brushed the hair stuck to your bloody forehead aside, and started to guide you toward your exit. After a long beat of you laying your head on him and soaking in everything that's happened, Dean murmured, “The witch didn’t look a thing like DiCaprio, did he?”

You watched your footing instead of Dean’s face. “No. No, he didn’t.”

_

After the bigger chunks of glass were taken out of your skin, you took a quick, wince-filled shower, and toweled your hair on the motel bed you shared with Sam. The glass was surprisingly the least annoying part of fighting the witch; what had really fucked you up were the bruises, which were blooming all along your back in shelf-shaped rectangles. Your injuries were pretty light for a witch hunt, though, so you contented yourself with being alive in a pair of snuggly pajamas.

It was well past eight by now, so the rooms adjacent to yours were quiet, and the road outside threw occasional beams of light across your bedspreads. You always loved the motels on the outskirts of town more than their inner-city counterparts. Though they were usually more run-down, the sounds of tires whisking on asphalt and frogs croaking in the weeds comforted you. Dean rarely let you keep the windows open, but he wasn’t about to snipe at his poor, injured best friend, so you arranged the salt on the sill in neat lines and soaked in the midnight breeze. In safer times, you and the boys might’ve had a bonfire at Bobby’s on a night like this.

Dean left the bathroom light on and propped it open enough to see by. He lapsed into his post-hunt ritual in the half-dark, chattering about your success, while Sam perched in a chair and didn’t speak.

He’d succumbed to an unnerved, unbroken silence once you promised him on the drive back that you’d live. A couple of throws and one window weren’t going to kill you. There was no chance in hell that he couldn’t sense that the witch was eating at you for different reasons, though. If he could tell the route a car had taken while blindfolded, then honing his sensitivities to the daily shifts in your mood was child’s play. But if you pushed him to let it go, he would, because he respected your limits—you just weren’t looking forward to having that conversation.

Dean chattered constantly, like he usually did when something was wrong in the air between the three of you. He’d even tried to hold a conversation with you through the bathroom door while you showered, for god’s sake. When you emerged, hissing at every pinch in your back tissue, Dean was waiting with clothes, a careful smile, and a medkit. His brother was still silent, though he’d jumped up from his seat.

“Sam?” You worked up the courage to say. “Could—would you mind, uh, helping me with my back? There’s… still a lot of pieces I couldn’t get.”

“Uh… Dean can.” Sam drilled his eyes through your room’s door, hunching into the collar of the jacket he hadn’t removed yet. “M’ gonna walk. I need to clear my head,” he sighed, snappishly, and poured all his willpower into not scrambling out the door as fast as he could. It whipped shut behind him too quickly for you to say anything back.

“...Okay. Well. Sucky job, huh?” Dean said. You heard him pop open the medkit and dip the mattress behind you, so you shuffled back a bit and carefully lifted the fabric of your shirt covering your back.

“Yeah,” you muttered. Sam’s shadow flew past your window and disappeared in long, curt steps towards the cicadas chirping by the roadside. You leaned further and further to chase his figure by the porch lights, but Dean gently reeled you back so he could start in on the tinier fragments.

“You helped a lot of people today,” Dean said, trying to goad you back to the conversation. You could hear in his pauses how worried he was about his brother, but you both knew that it was better to give Sam time to simmer, then return.

“Oh, just women willing to cheat on their husbands,” you rolled your eyes.

Dean braced his hand on your shoulder, and gave you a little warning squeeze every time he was going to pull one of the pieces out. The bloody glass tinking into the tin and your sharp winces soon formed a shaky rhythm. “Still people,” he pointed out. You didn’t reply, simmering in the thrum of his voice and the burn of your bruises.

When Dean started putting antibiotics on the cuts and loading them up with Barbie bandaids, as promised, you blurted out: “You think I upset Sam?”

You were hoping for a doubtful laugh or even some kind of scoff, like Dean found it hard that Sam could ever be mad at you, because that’s how his world worked. He needled the two of you all the time for how inseparable you were. You were you and Sam was Sam, mingled too closely for anyone else to squeeze in the middle. Usually, if you asked Dean something like that, he’d shrug. You’d know better than me, pal.

Instead, Dean released a deep breath from his nose. He did it like that so often now that you could recognize it, which unsettled you, since it was Dean’s withholding-sigh. You could usually pry just about anything out of him, but he had this wall that he hit sometimes with Sam. Brother confidentiality or whatever. You could respect that—when things didn’t involve you potentially upsetting Sam.

“Dean,” you tried again, “did I do something wrong? I feel like you’re not telling me everything here.”

He tore open another bandaid with his teeth and choose not to speak. It was enough to tell you that Dean knew he shouldn’t intervene, even if he wanted to.

You glanced over your shoulder to look at him. “Dean. C’mon. How many favors do you two knuckleheads owe me after today?”

Dean counted them in his head, closed his eyes, and cursed. “Don’t make me say it, Y/N. You’re a smart girl. You can’t be this blind.”

“Dean.”

“You don’t get it. Sam will be pissed with me.” He snapped the med-kit closed.

“If he gives you shit for it, you know I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell him that I coerced you and everything, that I cornered you,” you goaded. To make your argument even harder to ignore, you whipped down your shirt and rolled around to face him, your eyes big and bleeding with heart. “Sam is clearly upset. All I want to do is help him.”

Dean’s arms hung at his sides. His tells were small, but for a second there, you could’ve sworn you’d loosened his resolve enough. Instead, he shut you down with a short glare. “...Show me your shoulder.”

You held there for a moment, unmoving and stern, just to press how serious this was to you. If you’d done something to hurt Sam’s feelings, all three of you knew the lengths you’d go to make it up to him. And Dean keeping the reason why so close to his chest could only go two ways—either it was so light and petty that it wasn’t worth mentioning, or it was too terrible to voice. Only one of those ended with Sam nursing an infected wound for months. Few emotional appeals would reach Dean’s ears, but you thought he and his brother deserved someone who fought to right any grievances made against them.

With two fingers, you yanked your collar to one side. Sitting in the meat at the curve of your neck was a fat gauze bandage as wide as three fingers. Dean tested the edges with his thumb while you jabbed, “It’s fine. The stitches didn’t get messed up in the shower.”

“And the painkillers?” Dean checked.

“Working,” you answered. “Now, tell me what’s up. You can’t lie to me for shit.”

Again, you expected an awkward wince or a reluctant grimace from him. And again, Dean surprised you. He sighed deep into his shoulders, cupped the unmarred side of your neck, and shocked you into place with a burning, deathly serious look. “...Son of a bitch, fine! This is a big deal to me, okay? I’m breaking my brother’s trust here—but only because I think it’ll be better for the both of you, capiche?”

You nodded just as gravely. “What is it?”

“Sam…” Dean held you in place for a second more, then drifted out of your orbit, following his thoughts and hesitation in a circle around your hotel room. You let him think, a slow ugly sickness building in your throat. “Sam has feelings for you, okay? He’s—he’s had them for a while. So long that it’s insane to me that you haven’t noticed it yet—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laughed. “Dean, please, I’m really worried about him. I don’t have time to mess around right now.”

Dean’s flailing arms dropped to his sides. He just stood there looking helpless, waiting. Waiting more.

“...Dean.” The name tasted like oncoming tears. You straightened up and steeled yourself, pressing into every new, stinging wound at your posture’s disposal. “This is… now y-you’re just being mean. You know how I feel about this.”

“I’m…” his hand fumbled upwards, like he thought about calling upon a higher power for help here, then remembered how that’d turned out last time. “Y/N, I’m not messing with you here. Sam has been crazy about you since we were kids.”

You believed him. It took some pacing, some crazed muttering, and some hard, labored breaths, but eventually you broke out of your trance and realized you believed him.

Dean nudged his chin at you, waiting for a response.

Pathetically, you said: “W-why?”

“Pardon?”

You summoned your best glare. “Level with me here. Just. Why?”

“Why the hell would I know?” Dean sputtered. He shrugged up to his ears, smiling a bit, like this was as grand a mystery to him as it was to you. “All I know is that he’d burn this world to the ground for you. Everything today… with you playing bait, and everything… It freaks him out, your scrapes. I mean, it freaks me out too, but I know you can handle yourself. It’s… I dunno, he’s mushier. It’s more personal to him.”

You thunked down on the closest surface, which could've been a hot stove for all you cared; numbing tingles rolled all the way up your arms and legs. Usually, you had a good reign on your own feelings, but now they galloped free too fast for you to catch. Exhaustion’s sweeter cousin barrelled you over. Shock and relief and love and terror each took their own swing at you, until you sat there with your hands limp in your lap, feeling like you’d laid down on the sidewalk and all of your feelings had lined up to kick you around. For the first time in your life you sat down and cried at the drop of a hat. It was fucking awesome.

A bubbly laugh rolled out of you. “Me too. I-I do too. Holy shit, am I over-reacting or what?”

Dean’s warm hand rubbed a spot on your arm the glass hadn’t touched. “Uh, maybe a bit. But I guess you’ve both waited a long time, so Sam’ll probably think it’s… sweet, or some bullshit like that.”

Another laugh surprised its way out of you. “Shut the hell up. God, you were right—I’m so blind. Do you think… Should I…? Sam, he’s still mad.”

Dean paused, enjoying how panic and delight warred on your face. “Not mad. More like…” he searched for the word, beaming slyly, “...jealous.”

_

Sam returned to a buzzing, eager silence in the motel. The second he had inched the door shut behind him, sheepish and looking like it, Dean shoved on his driving boots. You noticed how Sam was careful to catch your eye just once, otherwise entertaining himself with the pattern of the carpet. He at least seemed a touch more clear-headed. Sam had always loved a good, breezy walk; one of a million of his quirks that you loved too much to forget.

“Alright,” Dean scooped up the Impala’s keys, flicking the lapels of his jacket. “I owe Y/N her favorite dinner, like I promised. You want anything while I’m out?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Her favorite place is at least an hour and a half from here,” he said, because of course he remembered that.

His brother shrugged. “I’m in the mood to drive. Cabin fever n’ all. See you nerds in,” he was not at all subtle when checking the clock in your room, or smiling about his results: “...three hours. Ciao.”

“It’ll be cold by—” Sam started, but Dean had already sauntered passed him, swinging his keyring in one hand. His whistling carried all the way out to the lot, and quietly you wondered how long he’d been wanting to tell you what he had.

Sam was forced to turn to you. His displeasure from before had slowly melted into embarrassment, but he wasn’t about to show it. He made a helpless gesture at the door like, welp, there goes that, and the elixir of liking in your chest shook loose a giggle. A real giggle. At least you could be embarrassed together.

Since sleeping on your back was off the table for the next week of your life, you’d gotten comfy on your stomach. With Sam gone, you had the room go completely diagonal on your shared bed, angling toward the dingy colored light of the TV. Dean had put on some random soap opera you weren’t a fan of, but tonight you thought of nothing but one thing. Sam has feelings for you, Dean had said. He’d burn this world to the ground for you, Dean had said.

Repeating them to yourself felt like writing the words down and holding up the paper by Sam’s face—weighing those images against the man you knew. You’d… guessed. Hoped is more accurate. But to see those words in action, moving and breathing in a person, totally blew you out of the water. Dean was right; you were dumb as hell for not seeing it before. Sam teetered on his heels in front of you. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, hiding behind his bangs and forcing himself to stand still. When you shied away to look at the TV, you could feel his gaze devouring you in every dose he could manage. Searching and memorizing. Every time you were occupied, Sam admired the soft curve of your back in your sleep shirt, your swept hair, your shorts, the exposed skin of your neck, your face.

Still, you’d hoped and only hoped for so long. You believed Dean. But you couldn’t bring yourself to understand that it was possible in the first place.

While you watched the television and panicked over what to say to him, Sam toed off his shoes and hung his jacket on the nearest chair. After a moment of hanging in the middle of your room, directionless, he followed his heart to your bedside.

“You feelin’ better?” He dipped the mattress just beside you, your side pressed against his night-chilled back.

You shuffled up onto your elbows, smiling at him with such vibrancy and realness that Sam flushed up to his ears. “I’m all good,” you promised, and it was the truth. “Happy to rid the world of another tie-wearing evil.”

That earned a dry smile. You carried through it, buoyed by everything except thought. “Only got three stitches this time,” you told him, sounding smug, and pulled down your collar to show him the bandage.

All your mind wanted to do was take a shovel out of the Impala and bury yourself off the edge of the highway, but the unbridled joy in your body didn’t care. It brimmed over everything else. The heady, healthy foam of it conquered every other feeling. Your nervousness, your terror, your anxiety. You couldn’t believe that you were just sitting here and talking about nothing. The truth was giddy in your ribcage, like good news you couldn’t keep from him any longer. Sam recieved it so rarely.

Sam just stared at you. You could only make out one side of his face in the dark, the cheek painted with the waltzing colors of the soap opera on the screen. Blues and peaches and warm grays. He was bent so close to you that you could keep your head comfortably sunk into your pillow, and you did, studying him as he studied you. The longer he took you in the more he seemed to relax. One of his hands flexed against the mattress, bringing him back to the world the two of you shared. Your exchange went on for so long that the hand on your open collar went slack, and so did Sam’s jaw. Dean was gone and the two of you were in the safe realm of the dark again—usually, Sam would reach out and brush his hand down your back, squeeze your arm, or kiss your forehead.

“If you’re good, then… good,” he said, distantly. “I’m beat. Let me help you move, huh?”

“Okay,” you hummed.

Even as Sam stood, his face chased yours, one side of a magnet seeking its counterpart. He hovered as you shuffled onto your calves, then pulled back the covers for you to worm under without disturbing your torn skin. You only had so much time to say something—and after so long, nothing could keep you from telling him. Not if you were sure he still felt the same way. You hesitated to lay down, and Sam, sensing your need to speak, paused too.

“Oh,” Sam realized. “I’d almost… forgot. Can I…?”

He waved to your forehead, and before he could retreat out of awkwardness, you convinced yourself to nod. Sam went as far as cupping your arm, then wavered. It was just cute, now. “You can,” you murmured between you, “go ahead.”

Sam dropped a brief kiss on the side of your face, then turned tail for the bathroom to get ready for bed. You had this whole fantasy in your mind of Sam letting his lips linger, burning the shape and feel of them into your soul like you wanted him to, but the two of you hadn’t breached this territory in years. Both of you were terrified of it. Before you could let that fear control you, you blurted out:

“He looked like you.”

Sam’s figure twisted toward you in the dark. “Huh?”

You cleared your throat, which burned front to back with need and apprehension. “The witch, Sam. He looked like you. To me.”

Sam couldn’t look at you dead-on without light, but he tried. Those hungry eyes, hungry for safety and closeness, scraped down your outline. Then again, testing the groves they’d dug. Sam was reminding himself of all the blood he’d seen before, driving back in the Impala and pulling glass out of your jacket with slippery, trembling hands. He deflated. He started toward you, then deflated again.

“He did that to you, with my face—” Sam bleeds.

Before he can start to spiral, you rope in his hand and squeeze it through his sleeve. It’s big and enveloping, just like Hermes’ was, but there’s so much more that the magic just couldn’t replicate. He has a mole on his wrist you’d forgotten about and these subtle veins that bump under your thumbs. His knuckles are strong and feel almost welded, but underneath all that you can feel how gentle he’s worked to be. How much he’s still scared of himself. His mind may be enclosed with good intentions, but Sam had always thought of his body as something that didn’t fully belong to him. Even if the witch didn’t possess him, to Sam, the used goods, the meat suit, it feels like it. And the last thing he’d want his possessed body to do is hurt you. Manipulate you.

“Shh,” you soothed. “No. You’re missing what I’m trying to say. The witch… his glamor made me see the most p-perfect—the best man my mind would come up with.”

Sam just stared. You squeezed his fingers, willing him to understand. His other hand, chilled by his walk, wound slowly over your shoulder. His two leading fingertips lingered over the square white bandage at the junction of your neck. Though he was repulsed by what he thought was his own handiwork, you pressed closer, chasing the rough pads of his bowhunting calluses no matter how much it stung.

“Sam,” you said, sternly.

He just shook his head, ripping his free hand back. Sam pressed: “When he hit you, he looked like me.”

You wound your tether to him ever closer, growing bolder, bringing his hand into the warmth of your chest, entwined against your collarbones. The tears surged into your lashes, but you resisted them with a shake of your head. “It made it easier,” you laughed without mirth. “When he was flirting with me, but at the end, too, yeah. Is that fucked up?”

Sam breathed short from his nose. “Yeah, a bit. But you know I’d never—”

“That’s not even a question. Of course you wouldn’t,” you swore to him. Since the humor was teasing into his voice again, you joined it with your own, pressing your face into his arm. “But, um. If you were jealous of him, well. You should know that there’s really no contest.”

Another long, draining silence haunted you from overhead for a moment, and Sam swayed in place, his hand dropping suddenly on your shoulder. For balance? Was he really… winded? Floored? The show on beside you faded to black, submerging you both in inky, sightless dark. You could feel it in his hands now—Sam was quivering with disbelief. His broad palm scoped up your neck. His hand parted from yours between you, palming across your shoulder. They joined seamlessly together on each of your cheeks, cupping your face just like they had before. You rose into the touch, following him up, until you were standing between his socks at your bedside with your face in his hands. They were still pretty cold; but warming up, and fast. Just like before, you softened all over and held steady to his wrists.

Sam swallowed. “Dean told you?” 

“Yeah,” you choked, afraid of what your voice was capable of. “Don’t be mad at him. Or jealous of some stupid witch. There’s… you have to know by now, that nobody even holds a candle to you, right?”

Sam laughed breathlessly. His long thumbs caressed your skin, your under-eyes, weighing the feel of you and your closeness like it’d be taken from him any minute. His left hand pressed even closer, and you met the scar there with your cheekbone. This is real, you promised him.

“Me too,” he gushed, and the sound poured right out of him just as yours did, overboiling with joy. “For you. Nobody, Y/N, this whole time, nobody compares.”

Real happiness was so new to you that the two of you hovered there, waiting for it to be ripped away. Your face ached, from smiling, from crying, from bruising, and it strained your chest a bit to laugh. You surged into Sam and let it all go anyway. Giggling uncomfortably rattled the injuries on your back, but any ache you felt was soothed by Sam's broad hand in your hair, stroking it away from your face. He was still chilly from his walk. There was a small building heat in the middle of his chest, so you squeezed even closer to meet it and found a leaching embrace instead. The pressure of him all around you could’ve put you in tears again. It hadn’t been long since you’d hugged him, but you could feel that love this time—the way Sam swayed with you in his arms, the way he kept pawing your neck to bring you closer and closer. Like the feeling of you laughing in tandem with him wasn’t enough. He needed to absorb you, be you, for you to be close enough to satisfy him.

He was careful to watch the injuries on your back, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to palm your bruised shoulder blades, to drag his nails down your glass-pocked spine, to squeeze you as close as possible no matter how much your material body hurt. A button on his shirt was digging into your cheek and his chin was poking your head. But it didn’t matter—he was the real deal, imperfections and all, just how you liked him. Loved him.

“Nobody?” You murmured, in disbelief.

Sam shook his head. “Nobody, Y/N. Not anyone.”

Nothing could pull you away from him then, so you didn’t bother to arrange yourself comfortably to kiss him. His face was so close to yours that you could breathe only him and the old books he smelled like. You knew that the second you kissed him that it’d be all over—forever marrying your visions of living to him, and giving your lifeblood a name. It was dangerous in this business to give your reason for living legs and a heart. But Sam’s sleepy eyes had closed and his pulsed swished under your hand, and you knew it was decades too late for that.

Your palms dropped to his chest, and Sam pinned them between you, ducking his head low enough to ache and searing you hard against him. It should’ve been awkward and cramped. You forgot that as you melted into the smell of him, a slab of chocolate in the sun. The kiss should’ve been cursed, since the angels swore he was, that you would be too. If it was, then cursed was warmth and love and closeness. Safe at last! Your body sobbed into the kiss. It all felt silly; like you could’ve done this ages ago.

Sam burst into snickers. You did too, against his mouth, and between peals of laughter you tried to scold him, “Shhh, you big idiot—” but Sam just shushed you back and kissed you again.

He dipped his head like actors in the movies did, intense-eyed and deeply fond, which made you flush and giggle harder. You both gave lose attempts at more sweet pecks, only to absolutely lose it when Sam almost knocked the lamp off the bedside table. Eventually, you were giggling too hard and stumbling too much to kiss properly at all. This didn’t intimidate Sam, who cleverly angled your cheek with his thumbs and kissed where you weren’t laughing. You squealed and wiggled for an escape that wasn’t actually alluring to you at all. Each time Sam caught you on the brow or the corner of your lip, you’d giggle and squirm away, only to float back into his orbit again. Parallelling the millions of games you’d played together as kids; tag, hide and seek, marco polo. Just another chase. Just another step in your infinite cycle.

“Really,” you said, eventually. An embarrassed heat prickled through your entire face. “Nobody compares to me. You really think that?”

“How many more times would you like me to say it?” Sam asked. He did this with both of your hands closed in one of his, his tone clever and sincere. “Not anyone.”

“You… you cheeseball,” you accused, and Sam’s mouth snapped closed to suppress another bubbly chuckle. It’d been ages since you’d gotten him to laugh so hard, so you were gluttonous off it and determined to steal more. “This whole time, you’ve been running around with this schoolyard crush on me… Man, this is quality blackmail material. Did you gush about me in your diary? Write Mr. Sam L/N in all of your notebooks?”

In the stark darkness, Sam again inclined his face over yours. “Did you?”

“No,” you blurted, a little too fast. “...It was Mrs. Y/N Winchester, obviously. It’s different.”

Sam just shook his head, charmed. You could feel him standing there across from you, admiring you in the silence, and it slammed on you like a ton of bricks that Sam must’ve done that before. A couple of times, at least. Just looked at you because he liked you so much. Any flirty confidence you’d built up was overpowered by a wave of shyness.

You rushed to fill the loving silence. “But. About the comparison thing… Good. I-I’m, I’m happy. I always wanted… I always wanted to be your… your first choice, I guess. Is that selfish?”

Sam hummed a no, and again his hand floated up to your face to warm your cheek. It filled you with so much want that your knees nearly buckled. Flustered out of your mind, you rambled: “I wasn’t a fan of Ruby, or, uh, that Becky girl from the convention, or the doctor chick in Iowa…”

He rumbled your name. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he murmured, amused, and kissed you once. When Sam parted from you, the silky lilt of his whisper in your ear flushed your belly with need. “I want to talk about you. And I definitely want to kiss you.”

“Sam…” you murmured. He dipped in for another warm, wet kiss, that instantly wiped your ability to create thought. You had to hold onto his shirt to steady yourself, and by then Sam had paused to not interrupt you. “I-I just…” you scrambled for anything to say, made honest by the dark, “I remember how you looked at them. I imagined how your hands must’ve felt on them… how theirs felt on you. I-I know I’m killing the moment here, but I need you to know—I was, I was out of my mind with jealousy, Sam. I—yeah.”

The hold on him grounded you, and again a second time when his hand settled over yours. Sam brought his arm around your waist, which made you realize how much he’d held you versus how much you’d held him. It was a disappointing ratio, so you welded him closer and snuggled your arms under his shoulders, letting your hands praise the unwinding slopes of his back.

A pleasant sigh seeped out of him, which broke into a careful chuckle. “I’m gonna be honest with you—pretty much nothing could ruin this for me right now,” Sam admitted. Which really meant something, because the chances of this being ruined by just about anything were 80-20. “I’ve wanted this since I was like, twelve. I guess you could say I wasn’t a fan of that waiter in Kansas, or your date to junior prom, or even Dean.”

You choked on your own laugh. “C’mon. You’ve got to be kidding me. Your brother, Sam? That man does not wash his underwear.”

Sam’s weighty shoulders shrugged against your cheek. You could feel his smile against your hair, that slight dimple in his cheek…“He always gets the girl. N’ the others… I don’t know.” Plainly and clearly, he turned into your embrace to speak face to face, “It’s you. It’s always been you. But I’ve never been brave enough to say it.”

You had no clue how to respond to that. A winning lottery ticket could be dropped in your lap, hell could close its gates forever, the angels could finally decide to leave you alone, and you’d know exactly what to say. Holy shit, maybe. Or even a tasteful, what the fuck. But what was good enough for Sam? What words could you say to make him happier than he just made you? You’d never been as sincere or as well-spoken as him, but he deserved that and more.

“I’m just glad we’re saying it now,” you murmured, your throat tight with building tears. Whatever channel was playing illuminated more of your face to him in a frame of white, and there Sam seemed to absorb everything you couldn’t put into words.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Since our first kiss,” you flushed. “So, uh, fifteen years?”

You could sense Sam’s smug grin coming from a mile away. He always glanced aside beforehand, like he knew he was about deliver a clever blow. “Sixteen,” he boasted. “When we almost shocked ourselves to death taking apart that old Ford in Bobby’s salvage yard—you taught me what an intercooler was, and I was so impressed I wanted you to be my girlfriend.”

“Sixteen whole years,” you scoffed. Just for emphasis, you gave Sam a little push, and he dropped down to sit on your mattress. Without question, he left room for you between his legs and you flushed down to your toes taking up that space. “You gotta beat me at everything, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I hear it’s gentlemanly to let your girlfriend win every once in a while,” Sam hummed.

That was an obvious challenge put down just for you. It was all too easy for you to rise to the bait and fluster all at once, since Sam knew how to engineer his bets just for you. The divide between your friendship before and your relationship now was a web more than it was a line, so dipping a knee in his lap on the bed was easier than you would’ve thought. Leaning in and smoothing your hands around his neck was not. Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, which you relished in. All these little reactions he always had—they were all because of you. His shyness, his cute hesitation, his miserable attempts at being neutral.

“Well, I,” you clarified, walking two of your fingers up his collar, “hear that it’s gentlemanly to ask her out first.”

Sam really was a dork, because just a little physical flirting had his hands flitting without direction around your middle. Every time your fingers took a further step up his neck, his breathing grew deeper, straining for composure he wouldn’t ever find. Not on your watch. When you finally stole the kiss you’d been itching to take, Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his hands scuttled to find a place on your waist, wracked with shyness. He really didn’t want to mess this up. It was a sweet notion, if it was even possible in the first place.

Eventually, they found their hold on your hips. You hovered in his space, soaking up the feel of him in the dark as his fingertips memorized you, cataloged you, admired you. Sam’s chin tilted up, silently asking for permission as his hands hovered at the edge of your shirt. Your kiss was all the answer he needed. Gently, his fingers slid under your shirt, where they stoked the sensitive skin of your belly just for the sake of feeling you.

“Would you be my girlfriend?” Sam whispered. He was nervous and everything, as if there was a universe where you would ever turn him down. 

The hands you’d braced on Sam’s shoulders pressed closer, taking in the texture of his shirt and the muscle underneath it, until one of your warm palms had snuck underneath his collar to press flat to his back. Sam released a low hissing breath. You met him with a deep, meaningful, possessive kiss, tickling your nails against the top of his spine. 

“I’m all yours,” you promised, and Sam’s whole body sunk in relief.

He made a desperate sort of gesture along the bottom of your back, avoiding your bandages but wanting you closer, deeper, nearer to him. Emboldened by his obvious yearning, you offered your knee over his thigh. Sam invited you closer. Anxiety swirled in your gut, but the touch of him was merciful and yielding; he’d do only what you wanted to do. This was Sam. You’d never felt safer, so you sunk comfortably into the bowl of his lap.

You kissed him in long pecks at first, the soft bulb of your nose pressing into his cheek. His lips were soft and plush and warm, and the deeper you tasted them the more they drove from you. Any rigid fear left in your chest dissolved at his touch. That’s what he must’ve been waiting for, because he put his arms around you only once you untensed, and with all the urgency of too-in-love teenagers, you embraced. Sam slotted your chests together. You cupped his neck and roamed his hair, crushing him closer until you could feel his firm middle flatten to yours. A low wanting sigh rattled out of him. It was so authentic and distinctly Sam that you felt foolish for ever seeing a thing in the witch’s glamor. This was Sam, with his gentleness, his fear of his strength, his hesitation to take what he wanted. You were proud of your choice of words: you were all his, because this Sam was definitely all yours. This was the Sam you knew.

It occurred to you just how much you’d dreamed of this before. Reality surpassed expectation with ease, purely because there was so much you hadn’t considered. Often, you’d dissolve into gooey daydreams of kissing him or making him happy, only to come out of them scolding yourself for feeding your feelings. Your unreciprocated feelings. But there were dreams you couldn’t control and times where you’d indulged yourself more than usual. Even then, though, you always kept Sam’s emotions out of the way. You’d dream of getting home late from work—in the “normal” world you’d never share—and crawling into his arms, sleepy, or vice versa. You’d dream of going for long drives with him and snuggling with him in the Impala. But you were always the one who said those three scary words to him, while he simply existed as he always did. If you puppeteered Sam into saying it, then you were taking a machete to any notion that your fantasies could be real—and making Sam lie in order to please you.

What you hadn’t considered was what would happen if Sam did say I love you, and, even better: if he meant it.

Sam murmurs it as you’re admiring him in the dark. His eyes had fallen closed and his head had tilted back, receptive to your touch. You loved to touch his face; you warmed his lap, cupped his cheeks, stroked the smooth back of your hand against his temple, and pushed the hair from his forehead in the cool motel darkness. Every once in a while the headlights of a car would give you a glimpse at him, and each time Sam’s gaze would almost be too much.

You whisper it back, thankful for the boldness the dark gives you, and feel something blaze hot inside you when his mouth drags down your cheek to your jaw. They’re deep and punctuating kisses. You’re reminded again of the sinking acceptance you’d felt when Hermes’ shadow had fallen over you. For a second, you’d thought that was gonna be it. Sam would’ve never known the truth, and would’ve ended up in that warehouse instead, picking the glass out of unresponsive skin. And though you’d survived today… Tomorrow, a reaper would have a million opportunities to take what had only just been sown.

You bunched your hands in Sam’s shirt, sounding urgent. “...Let me show you how much.”

Sam hung there for a moment, weighing the silence between your bodies. Weighing the space between them, and how much of it left there was. “You want that?” He asked. Sam made it sound like you were asking to stick your hand in a shark tank. “You’re… you’re sure?”

Your hand on Sam’s cheek turned over, so you were stroking your softer knuckles against his skin. You nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and pressed in to brush your noses together. Sam’s head tilted all the way back to meet yours when you prayed: “I’m sure. I… I waited a long time to be close to you, so… I’m not gonna waste a second more.”

A breath rasped out of him in understanding. Like everything else in your life, this could be taken from you. Sam’s fingers crept up the back of your shirt, sliding around for where the bandages began and ended. He confessed, “Me either.”

His kiss drew deeper, more lovesick, chasing each one to their full depth. Your hands shyly migrated to the buttons of his flannel and smoothed there. He nodded, flattening his hand to the small of your back, and after that you didn’t have to wonder once how Sam felt about you. It was outlined clearly for you in Sam’s handwriting. He showed it in the absorbing nature of each of his kisses; how he nosed every new inch of your skin, taking care to declothe you the right and patient way; how aware he was of your bruises and bites. When you’re clothesless, he runs both of his hands down your arms and just feels you in the dark. Sam gives you the same courtesy. When you help him out of his last layer, your hands smooth against his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, but the contact still isn’t enough—you need to be closer. You drag him into another gapless embrace, and Sam is already there, eager to pull you in. His hands knead you with purpose. Your hips, your waist, your stomach, are squeezed until every part of you feels raw and achy and alive. She’s real, Sam’s body sighs. Another surging, dizzying kiss has you dragging your nails down his back, tasting every puckered scar and raised laceration from his shoulders to his obliques. He’s plush and warm and firm and right, a missing piece finally filled.

With his arms around you, you kiss him breathless and thumb open the button of his jeans. Your spine tingles in delight the second your fingers are hooked in his belt loops. The butterflies in your belly are birds by the time his jeans are past his hips, and when you’re on your knees in front of him, Sam’s calloused palms exploring your neck and your hair, the bruises and cuts on your back are just a memory.

“You don’t have to—” Sam starts.

The smile on your face is a bit too clever. “I know.” You frame his waist in your hands, pressing both thumbs into the divots of his hips. Sliding downward to find his boxers, you can feel his legs trembling at your touch, the skin there prickling as it’s exposed inch by inch. You press a lingering kiss to his waistband that makes Sam’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just helping you out of these,” you smile innocently, plucking the edge of his boxers. “I’ll have my fun with you like this when your brother isn’t coming back in an hour.”

“O-okay,” Sam agrees, and even in the dark you can tell he’s grinning.

When he’s nude, Sam finds your hand in the dark and brings you to stand with him. Again, you’re slotted into place in his arms, skin tacky with building sweat and cooled by the open window. His face and neck are blazing with a blush. You push the back of your hand against it, feeling him, all of him, in the honesty of the dark. His face lowers to yours, and again you’re met with the impression that the moment he kisses you, you’re his—curse and angels and demons and all.

You accept it with nothing but bliss.

He guides your knees back to the bed again, this time supporting your thighs as you lift yourself up. Your whole body reacts like before, surging into him and purring deep in your throat. You loop your arms around his shoulders in a claiming sort of way, and where your skin meets it sticks and melts together. Dragging you in around the middle, Sam hoisted you into his lap and moaned into your kiss; you slot right onto him, knees tight to his thighs and your chest pressed to his. You have the slightest advantage over him like this, your shadow falling on him. Sam’s eyes flutter shut and he sucks down breath after breath, his hair in his eyes, illuminated in slivers by the television. Something about it just makes you wetter. When you push further into him, there’s a glide between your bodies that makes Sam groan.

“Sh, sh, be careful of your back,” he warns. “Could you—could you hand me my wallet?”

You pat his chest, forehead pressed to his, and answer with a laugh instead: “I’ve got the pill?”

A shift goes through Sam’s entire body, radiating up from his lap. He shuffles his hips, lips parted, and you can feel his excitement pounding in his chest. “Atta girl,” he decides, smirking. “That’s good too.”

Flushed from head-to-toe with heat, you cup Sam’s neck and meet him kiss for kiss. During, you find him between you and tilt in your hips, finally asking the silent question. Sam’s fingers scramble across your thighs, your sides, and around your back. He hangs there, trying to pin down how real this is. This is really happening, his heaving chest says. She’s right here in front of me. A wet, passionate kiss balms his worries. He gives you the littlest nod. That's all it takes for Sam to be met with new, plush territory. You pant into each other’s mouths, fingers digging into flesh, hips dying to sink further in, hanging on the precipice, and when Sam’s certain that you’re ready, that this is really what you want, he presses your thighs down.

A desperate sigh seeps from his mouth to yours, like there's no better place to be in the world than inside you. Something needy and high slips from your lips. For a long time, all either of you can do is bask in it, in each other, breathing hard and shivering. Sam hugs you—genuinely hugs you—against him. There’s a thought somewhere in your mind that you should be nervous at all the lines you’re crossing here, but… Any day of the week you could rub your cheek into Sam’s shoulder like this. It’s a new song, but familiar notes dance all the way through it. The motel room is silent but for the barely-there hum of the TV and the crickets outside, so Sam’s heart under your ear booms. You soak in the familiar sound of it.

“I love you,” you tell him, and Sam hushes it back so fast your voices overlap, then again, “so much—so, so much—” as he starts to move.

Your whole lower half rolls with him, a boat on a wave. An urgent, keening yes squeals out of you the second Sam encourages you down again. It's more than good, than perfect, and entwined so closely like this, you can hear every thought and whim swirling around his mind—can read him better than you ever could before. You feel foolish. How much earlier could you have had this, if you hadn’t been so afraid? There were a million times in your life where you could’ve told Sam. Before the cage, when the apocalypse started, when Dean died and you were stranded with only each other. You latch onto him as you find your rhythm, a hand in his hair, nails in his shoulders, seared as close to him as you can be. Sam gasps your name; happy.

I have him now, you remind yourself. And I’m more than happy with that.

_

tags: @lacilou

#sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #user uncouth

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  CLOSER THAN THIS

SUMMARY :  part IV of gimme half. something quick. something hot. in between busy tasks. when everyone else has not arrived.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), fluff, p in v, clothed sex, against the wall

WORD COUNT : 2.2k

A/N : jimin song title. this fills the quickie square of my @jacklesversebingo card. I don’t even know what I’m doing 😋 but these can be read as standalone fics 😌 XXX

Dean made cute faces all the time. 

It was hard to resist smiling when she was around him. His jokes made her laugh, his faces made her laugh, even his laugh made her laugh, and the way he playfully sang along to the music from his playlist, the faces he pulled in concentration or as he tasted what he cooked made her smile. 

He was the embodiment for endearment. Those adorable dimples of his only made him more charming. She swooned an embarrassing amount of times in all those moments. 

She was delighted when he called her some time after noon and asked her to come over if she wasn’t busy to help him out with dinner. He spent most of the afternoon cooking and baking for his friends. It was one of the best times she’d spent with him, getting to know him like this, seeing in person as he serves others rather than peeking through the windows of her house to get to know him. 

It sounds creepier than it actually was, at least she thought so. She was a nosy neighbour. Oh, God, that’s horrible. To be fair, she was only nosy when it came to Dean—they were enemies. Were.

That phase was over. 

Sometimes she woke up in his bed, other times he woke up in hers. And then they’d make each other breakfast. And now they went on dates. And now they babysat his nephew when Sam and Eileen went out on dates—that brought up a lot of thoughts she didn’t have before. Kids. 

Seeing Dean like that with his nephew… Using a cute voice and singing him to sleep, messy feeding and messier baths, bedtime stories and playing pretend, soothing him when he cried and teaching him new things. 

She wondered if Dean felt the same, if the thoughts of fatherhood haunted him the way they haunted her when he fell asleep in her bed. Or when she woke up with the sun, to Dean’s sleeping face. Or when they were alone at home, cooking, watching movies, sharing stories, drinking… when they went on rides with no destination in mind, on picnics, or even just grocery shopping. Sometimes he’d keep her company as she worked on hobbies and she’d do the same for him, watching him fix anything broken, or tune up his car. 

She was too afraid to bring up that conversation. They were retired hunters. It’s part of why she refused to admit that she did want children. It’s like the choice was robbed from her and it hurt for so long, but it got easier to accept when she focused on hunting or her job as a professor. 

Besides, she had her cat. Close enough. 

When she went over to his place, she focused on helping Dean with chopping up whatever vegetables he needed to use, she washed them for him before using them, she brought the spices and herbs he needed, or the condiments that could be used, and cleaned up the dirty dishes after he was done using them. 

Now that they were finished, they sat at the table waiting for everything to finish simmering while talking about things to do after. Watching a movie was the obvious answer, which one to watch was the harder part. 

She believed it was Jody, Donna, Claire, Kaia, Alex, and Patience that were coming over. She met them at Sam’s wedding, barely. The only one who could truly answer that question was Dean, but now he was pouty because he wasn’t sure what they’d want to watch, but maybe he could ask them when they came. 

He picked up some of the excess shredded carrots for the carrot cake he made for those who didn’t want pie, and dropped them into his mouth. He chewed, the carrots barely touched his taste buds, and he grimaced, but swallowed it anyway.

“Tastes better in the cake,” he grunted, getting up for a beer. She giggled and shook her head at him. “Want one?” He asked from the fridge, getting his open, but she shook her head, so he sat back down with her. 

“So… you’re just good at everything?” She asked, scooting closer when he put his hand on her thigh and squeezed. He chuckled, his cheeks reddening. He ahh-ed after taking a sip of the cool beer and thought for a while. 

“I’m not good at… designing clothes?” He offered bashfully, pushing the beer far away from him. She stared at it subtly then glanced up at him curiously. 

“No, not like that,” she smiled softly, “you fixed my electrical outlet…” she reminded him, leaning forward to tap his plump lip. His mouth dropped open slightly and he exhaled, rolling his eyes shyly. She dropped her hand onto the table and thoughtlessly traced patterns on the surface, watching him get embarrassed. 

“It was… nothing,” he sniffled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He leaned back in the chair and took the bottle of beer from the table again, playing with it to avoid her gaze. 

“You’re very… John Wick,” she sighed, stretching her arms upward. He hummed softly, leaning back forward with his arms on the table, staring at her with interest. “It’s hot,” she whispered quietly, her eyes holding affection and longing. 

“Yeah?” He murmured, staring at her like she was all that was there. It made her turn pink self-consciously, but she continued to gaze into his eyes. She saw his hand move and then it was over hers, warm and comforting. 

“Mmm, yes,” she replied quietly. 

Being around Dean was like being surrounded by a gas leak, and one kiss, one touch, one right word, acted like the spark that ignited everything. The fire robbed her of breath and stripped her skin away so she was bare and vulnerable to him. 

Dean leaned forward, practically lunging to meet her lips, but the timer he set earlier went off loudly at the centre of the table, and made them jump away. They both laughed awkwardly, she extended her hand to turn it off while Dean turned the stove off. 

“Wanna taste?” He asked, hummed softly as he took a tiny sip from the metal mixing spoon, and waited for her when she nodded. She stood before him, waiting and watching him blow air against the hot lentil soup in the spoon to cool it down. 

She bit her lip and smiled, then he cupped his hand two inches beneath the spoon so it wouldn’t drip onto the floor. She opened her mouth and took the delicious, warm soup into her mouth, savouring it with a pleased hum, her eyes full of surprise and satisfaction. Dean pulled back a little too early, causing some soup to dribble down from the corner of her lip due to the awkward position they were in. 

“Oh, my god,” she moaned, too distracted by the flavour. She only looked at Dean while he set the spoon down on the counter, indifferent about the puddle it created beneath. He grabbed her chin and dipped down to kiss the small trail of soup away, his warm tongue gently swiping up and down. Her breath hitched and her face burned hotter with embarrassment. 

The embarrassment didn’t last and was replaced by a flush of arousal across every inch of her skin. Dean seared her lips with a hard, demanding kiss that made her breathless and numbed her mind of any thoughts. 

He gently manoeuvred her across the kitchen, breaking apart from the kiss to breathe before returning to each other’s lips. She made quick work of the white apron around his waist, gasping at the unexpected bump of her back against the wall. 

Dean took the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth and trailed his hands slowly down her sides, his palms pressing against her curves firmly. He only removed his hands from the short baby-blue dress when she shoved the thick green flannel off his shoulders, watching him throw it over onto the nearest counter in the kitchen. 

Dean grabbed her hips to guide her into the hallway, digging his fingers into the tight dress to create dips into her flesh. She smoothed her hands down his chest and hooked her fingers over his leather belt, tugging him to her so she was pressed into the wall once more. 

Dean was short of breath, his cheeks and ears becoming scarlet red when she started to undo his belt, staring into his eyes daringly. He slid his hands down her thighs, and sneaked them up under the mini-dress. The soft cotton rode up with his hands, his fingers hooking against the sides of satin, beige panties, swiftly pulling down so they dropped down around her ankles. 

“Fuck, it’s like your horny all the time,” she whispered with a breathy laugh, wasting no time in tugging his jeans and boxers down. Her hand instantly circled around the base of his erect cock to squeeze tantalisingly.

“It’s not me being horny all the time, it’s that you’re always so fucking sexy, I can’t resist,” Dean quipped, dropping down to kiss her pushed up breast over the square neck of her dress. 

Dean bent his knees, and stretched his hands down to press his fingers against the back of her thighs, urging her silently to jump so he could lift her up. When she did, she freed his dick, and placed her arms over his shoulders, and her legs around his waist, kissing him once more. Dean ground his hips against her, his hard cock rubbing against her leaking pussy. 

“Please,” she whined, squirming when his cock brushed over her clit repeatedly. “They’re gonna be here in less than thirty minutes, Dean,” she reminded him. He chuckled huskily, but unhurriedly guided his cock to her needy, wet cunt, and pushed in at a tormenting pace.

He could feel her gushing around him, hot and wet. Dean moaned, reaching behind her arched back for the zipper of her dress, lowering it down halfway. He bounced her on his cock once with a smirk on his face, and lowered the straps of her dress off her shoulders, slid his fingers across the neck of it to tug downwards until her breasts spilled out from the tight material. 

Dean instantly began to fuck her into the wall, his thrusts harsh and desperate, wasting no time in building up her orgasm. His fingers scraped up her thighs to tighten around her hips, blunt nails digging into her delicate skin. 

Had the flowery drywall been cheap or damaged, she thought he’d break it down with the force of his thrust. He pounded into her, groaning out with pleasure into her ear before kissing and biting her throat, lovingly licking the red marks he left behind. 

Her clit throbbed with each slap of his pelvic bone against her, her cunt felt hot and full stuffed with his cock, and her muscles were somehow tense and mushy all at once. Lust overcome her will, drawing loud noises of pleasure from her lip, mewls and whimpers of his name that made him fuck her faster and harder.

“Say my name, baby… I love when you say it,” Dean panted against her lips, feeling her pussy clenched tightly around his throbbing cock. With a whine she brought him closer with both her legs and arms, the knot in her belly becoming tighter and tighter.

She could barely speak as every rough thrust stole the oxygen from her lungs. She managed a gasp of his name, brought her hands down between their connected bodies to ghost her fingers beneath his shirt. Her hands slipped upwards and curled around to his back, her manicured nails digging into muscular shoulders, causing him to moan. 

Every thrust drove Dean’s cock into the deepest depths of her vagina, brushing against sweet spots she forgot she had residing against the velvety, ridged walls of her pussy. She clenched around his pulsing cock, her nails scratching down the skin of his back, the knot becoming impossibly tight before she finally let go. Pleasure ran through her like electricity through a circuit, blinding her to the point of seeing an entire galaxy behind tightly shut eyes.

She screamed his name, the way he swore he’d make her scream the first night they were together. He slowed the thrust of his hips as he climaxed almost immediately after she reached hers, his cum spilling into her. Then he started up again, fucking her through her orgasm, until he softened inside her, his cum dripping around them. 

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve made you cum,” he laughed, his voice gravelly. She laughed with him, grateful for the slowness in the way he pulled himself from her, and lowered her weak legs to the wooden floors. 

“I need to pee,” she whispered, leaning against the wall with a smile while he fixed her dress, kissing and licking her nipples until they were tight before covering her back up, and zipping up the dress. 

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll get your underwear and meet you there,” he smiled softly and kissed her forehead lovingly before she left, pulling his jeans and boxers back up as he observed her very sexy behind.

She turned around with a knowing grin on her flushed face, sending a wink in his direction before she made a turn towards where the bathroom was. 

“I’m fucking you slower tonight!” He shouted after her. 

“Still rough, yeah!?” She called out teasingly, her voice echoing louder now that she was in the bathroom.

➥ my you

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#dean’s 45th birthday celebration #dean x female!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester fanfiction

[profoundbondfanfic]

The Sharp Edge of Earth

The Sharp Edge of Earth by dotfic Rating: Teen and up Word count: 29k

Having sold his soul to save Sam's life, Dean finds himself in Hell at the mercy of the demon Alastair, who is intent on breaking him. But all that Dean was and is, everyone who's had an impact on him, are still a part of Dean, and he won't break easily. As Dean takes refuge in his own mind to escape the torture, angels gather, ordered to undertake an unusual mission: rescue The Righteous Man from Hell. Castiel knows an invasion of Hell will be difficult, but he has no idea how much this mission will demand of him, how wrong the best-laid plans can go – and how much everything is about to change irrevocably. Meanwhile, Dean's defenses and his hope start to fail. He thinks no one is ever coming to save him. He's wrong.

The way I quickly became obsessed with this fic… It draws you in with the first scene, an exchange between a young Dean and Sam sitting together on the dock of a lake and eating hot dogs. It’s a simple scene, the kind we were robbed of on the show, just a moment in time between brothers. 

Until you realize that it isn’t. Until you realize that Dean’s actually in hell, and this is just a memory he uses to hide himself in, to shield him from the reality of his situation. 

That being said, mind the “Graphic Depictions of Violence" tag that is prominantly displayed at the top of the fic because Dean’s time in hell is… not pretty. At times during the fic, it becomes downright unpleasant so please make sure you’re taking care of yourself and keeping that in mind before you read this fic. 

It’s worth it though, to get to Cas’s POV as he goes from an angel who was only sent to Earth to observe, to being a part of multiple garrisons sent to hell to recover The Rightous Man. It’s an interesting take on how this could have happened in canon, and seeing Dean’s ultimate rescue through both their eyes could have easily been its own season. 

If you’re looking for a detailed, angsty 4.01 coda, make sure you check out this fic. 

#destiel #fic rec #4x01 celebration #10k to 30k #canon verse #teen and up #coda #canon typical violence #canon first meeting #torture #author: dotfic #The Sharp Edge of Earth

[slaymybreathaway]

WASTELAND, BABY! [chapter one]

Chapter List Prologue Masterlist

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: language, mentions of underage drinking and drug use

A/n: hopefully this isn't as shit as I think it is 😭

1st Sep 1994▪︎ King's Cross Station

___________________

Irish Slang Dictionary:

Eejit - idiot, fool

Nicked - stole, robbed

You 'right? - Are you alright?/ Are you ready to go?

To cop - to realise

-------------------

One of the best places in the world to people-watch is King's Cross Statiion on a weekday morning, because you're guaranteed to see something different each time.

For example, if someone were to take a look around the station at 10:45 this morning, they might see things like:

Two old men playing cards at one of the tables of Costa Coffee, a young busker performing a cover of Hotel California by The Eagles as people stop and throw their spare change into the empty guitar case infront of her, and two Irish teenagers, hurrying through the station, shouting at eachother.

"It's your bloody fault if train leaves without us!" Y/n accused, glaring over her shoulder at her brother.

"Eh, How is this my fault?!" Seamus asked. The boy was walking fast but struggling to keep up with his sister, as he had to push the luggage trolley that held both of their trunks.

This was the first year that the twins had to head off to school without their parents, since neither of them could get off work today and it seemed like everything that could've gone wrong, did.

"Seamus, you were the reason we had to go back to the house in the first place. What kind of eejit forgets their wand?" She rolls her eyes, quickening her pace even futher.

"An eejit who's sister nicked half his braincells in the womb," he replied under his breath as the pair finally arrived at the wall separating platform 9 and 10.

The twins stood infront of the wall and gave eachother a knowing look. They have gone forward and back through this passage nearly 20 times, but they still didn't trust that they wouldn't crash into hard bricks. "Rock, Paper, Scissors!" They both said in unison, turning towards eachother.

"Ugh fuck sake!" Seamus cried, after his rock lost to Y/n's paper. The boy took a deep breath, quickly blessed himself in the shape of the cross (a habit he had picked up from his muggle granny) and took a running start at the wall, pushing the luggage trolley infront of him.

Y/n watched as her brother disappeared just as he reached the brick wall and waited a few seconds. Then, she wiped her hands on the sides of her Levi's jeans and ran towards the wall, closing her eyes as she braced herself for the contact.

When she opened them again, she was met with the bustling crowd of platform 9¾. Some were parents, who stood waving to their kids as they boarded the Hogwarts Express. Others were students who ran straight to their friends that they haven't seen in three months, greeting them in a hug. She took in her surroundings for a moment before a voice brought her back to reality.

"You 'right?" Seamus asked, putting his hands on his hips impatiently. 'You were the one rushing, now you're not bloody moving at all' he thought.

"Yeah, let's go," y/n smiled, for the first time that day. As led the way to the train door, excitement took over her. She was finally going to see everyone she had been missing.

Y/n hopped in the train first, taking both of the trunks from her brother as he passed them up, along with the crate that held her cat, Lynott.

"See, I knew we wouldn't miss the train," Seamus smirked as he climbed into the train. He took great enjoyment in annoying his sister, it was what kept him from being bored all summer.

"Alright Zoltar, sure you did," Y/n rolled her eyes in response."You off to find Dean, then?"

"Yup, see you at dinner" Seamus bent down and picked up his trunk, before disappeared down the hallway of the train carriage.

Y/n stacked her cat crate on top of her trunk and carried them as she walked the opposite way down the train. After no sight of her friends what-so-ever for good ten minutes, her arms were starting to get numb. It felt like they were going to fall of if she didn't put her things down quickly.

The girl looked into the compartment on her left and saw a tall boy wearing a patterned sweater, putting his luggage onto the overhead shelves. He was listening to a walkman that was clipped into the waistband of his dark denim jeans. His dark, overgrowd hair covered the side of his face, so she couldn't tell who it was.

Y/n put down her trunk onto the seat opposite the boy. "Hey would you mind if I put left these here while I find my friends? They're way too heavy to carry," she admitted.

It was only when the boy turned around, did she realise who she was talking to.

"Neville!" The girl's eyes lit up at the sight of her friend and she jumped at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug.

As soon as Neville had heard the soft Irish accent of the girl he hadn't stopped thinking about, he turned around. What he wasn't expecting was for her to come flying towards him at top speeds.

"Woah," he stumbled backwards, he placed his hands on Y/n's waist to stabalise himself. His face burned red at the proximity and he akwardly wrapped his arms around her. The pair stood like that for a few seconds until Y/n pulled away.

"How was- you alright? You're a bit red," She asked, her hands still resting on his shoulders.

Neville nodded and cleared his throat before speaking. "Y-yeah, 'M fine,"

Y/n shrugged off his odd behaviour. She turned away to close the compartment door, trying to block out the sound of hundreds of conversations, before sitting down on the seat opposite Neville.

"To be honest, I didn't even cop that it was you for a minute," she admitted, opening Lynott's crate. "You look different... in a good way, like. You're taller than me now and your hair-"

"No, don't remind me about the hair," Neville interrupted, putting both hands ontop of his head to cover is hair. "I hate it,"

Y/n let out a laugh. "Well I don't. It makes you look like a rockstar,"

The boy smiled widely at the compliment, but y/n was too busy watching as her black-haired cat stretched on the chair beside her.

Her mother had bought the pet for her as a present at the start of first year (she didn't trust that Seamus would be able keep an animal alive so she bought him a new broomstick, instead). Y/n had named him Lynott after Phil Lynott, the front man of the Irish rock band 'Thin Lizzy'.

"Aw, I missed him," Neville admitted. He leaned forward in his chair to scratch behind the cat behind his ears. The feline closed his eyes and purred in comfort before hopping off the chair. The animal climbed onto Neville's lap and curled up into a ball. This was odd, seen as Lynott usually refused to leave Y/n's side.

"Looks like he missed you too," she smiled before admitting "We both did,"

Neville shyly smiled. His mind flooding with thoughts.

'She missed me.

She was thinking of me during the summer.

Obviously not as much as I thought of her, but still.

She missed me.'

○

A half an hour after the train departed, the door of Y/n and Neville's compartment was flung open by two tall, redheaded boys.

"Just the two people we were looking for!" Fred exclaimed walking in like the owned the place, before sitting down beside Y/n "Alright Finnegan," he asked, slinging an arm over the girl's shoulder.

The action wasn't unusual. Y/n spends a few weeks visiting Ginny at the Burrow every summer break, and during that time she had become very close friends with all of her brothers.

"Alright, Freddie. Heya Georgie," she greeted both of the boys.

"Alright Lucky," George responded with a cheeky smile. He had been calling her that nickname ever since they had met, in reference to 'the luck of the Irish'. He knew that it annoyed her too, which is why he says it all the time.

"I told you to stop calling me that," y/n rolled her eyes with a smile. "What're you guys doing here, causing trouble I assume?"

"Just sorting party stuff. Are you still good to DJ, y/n?" George asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Of course!" The girl replied, buzzzing with excitement.

The Hogwarts parties were a thing of legend. There were 2 big parties a year: Halloween night and the last night before everyone went home for summer. These parties were held in the Room of Requirement, and only 3rd years and above were invited.

Everyone that attended these parties, partied hard. Firewhiskey, sound system, strobe lights, the lot! Since most of the professors attended these parties when they were students, they turned a blind eye.

Smaller parties were thrown in the winning team's common room after a quiddich match. Students of all ages in that house could attend these parties because they were usually more tame.

For the bigger parties, the resident DJ was Dodgy Dan. Dan was a muggleborn Hufflepuff from Belfast who always worked at a record shop during his summer break, so he was always the first one to get his hands on the new muggle dance lps. The guy was a brilliant DJ, he always seemed to know exactly which tracks to fade into eachother, the problem was that he had a habit of not turning up (pronably due to the fact that he was always stoned). This is where he got the his nickname.

Last June, Dodgy Dan passed his N.E.W.T.S, after his second attempt, so the Weasley twins took it upon theirselves to find a suitable replacement for him over the summer. When they went to the Quiddich World Cup final a few weeks ago and heard the tunes blaring out of the Finnegan family's tent, they knew they had hit the jackpot.

"I have big shoes to fill," y/n let out a nervous chuckle. She had only been attending the parties since last year, so she still wasn't exactly sure how they worked.

Almost as if he sensed her worry, Fred pulled her in close to him. "Listen y/n/n, you're gonna be fine. As long as you turn up, you'll already be doing loads better than Dan,"

George glanced over at Neville, as he hadn't heard him speak the whole time that they were there, and saw him staring at Fred's hand placement around y/n's shoulders. 'Didn't know Longbottom liked Irish girls' he chuckled at the thought and made a mental note to tell Fred later.

"Speaking of Dan," Fred's head perked up, with a smile. "Since he's gone, we need to find a new way to access plants,"

"Which brings us to you," George crossed his arms with a smile. Both of the twins turned their attention towards Neville.

"M-me?" His gaze flitting between Fred and George, nervously. "What do you need me for?"

"Well, you're one of the only students that has a copy of the key to the greenhouses," George pointed out.

It was then that y/n realised what they meant by plants. "Lads, I really don't think that he's the right person to-"

"Well, the only plants I can get for you are the left over mandrakes from when that baskilisk was petrifiying people. Anything else and Professor Sprout will notice that it's missing," Neville explained, confused in their sudden interest in Herbology.

The twins looked at eachother in disappointment and were about to politely decline until he added. "Oh but make sure not to eat the root. It's a hallucinogenic,"

Y/n watched as Fred and George's faces lit up. "Yeah, of course not," Fred started, a grin etching itself onto his face.

"Wouldn't want any hallucinations now, would we?" George continued, patting Neville's shoulder with his hand.

A voice came from the outside of the compartment. "I wait in hope for the day that you two get your own friends and stop stealing mine," Ginny spoke, crossing her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"We, my dear sister, were just leaving," Fred responded, jumping up from where he was sitting and stuck his tongue out at Ginny, before exiting the compartment.

"See ya later," George smirked before following down the hallway.

Y/n hopped up and gave Ginny a hug, despite only seeing her a few weeks ago.

"We were wondering when you'd come to find us," she joked.

"Well, we were looking everywhere for you two," Ginny replied, pointing between herself and Luna, who seemed to have just materialised beside her.

"Heya Lu," y/n smiled, giving the blonde girl a hug.

"Hello y/n/n. Hello Neville," she said, looking over y/n's shoulder at the boy who was still sitting down, black cat still asleep on his lap. "Hello Lynott," Luna added, treating the animal as she would any human.

"I would hug you guys but I don't want to wake this guy up," Neville let out a light chuckle.

"It's alright, Nev. We still love ya," Ginny joked, ruffling the boy's hair before sitting down beside y/n, just as her brother had done a few minutes prior.

Neville, Luna and Ginny each talked about what they did over the summer break, but Y/n's mind was elsewhere.

She watched Neville, how his green eyes creased whenever his rosebud lips parted to reveal a cute, toothy smile. How his right hand carefully ran over the fur on Lynott's head, while the left one pushed stray hairs out of his eyes.

There was something different about him this year, and it wasn't just his height and his hair.

Next Chapter

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#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #ireland #neville longbottom x reader #neville longbottom #neville longbottom fic #neville longbottom fluff #neville x reader #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts #wizarding world #wizarding schools #harry potter and the goblet of fire #goblet of fire #triwizard tournament #ginny weasley #luna lovegood #fred and goerge weasley #weasley twins