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gatheringdusk · 4 months

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I now believe every college town in those days had its own version of Ms. S, but you will not find this information in the history books.

You see, many of us girls still came from provincial towns where the morals and expectations of the late 19th century and first half of the 20th had pretty much carried over into the 1970s. Women like Ms. S played an invaluable stabilizing role for many of us during our college years as we were exposed to so many new ideas and possibilities.

The woman who played this role would usually be a private woman of taste and education, but also one with experience of the changing world, of its snares and the challenges we young women would face. Her appearance and manner and methodology no doubt varied widely by location. I can only speak of Ms. S---in outlook she was not reactionary; in fact, if we take her as an example of the type, then her ideas were rather progressive.

I think we can say with some certainty that all of these women would have understood the importance of moral clarity, self-discipline, courage, and consequences.

Like Ms. S, I imagine many of them lived in a small, well-tended house on a quiet lane within walking distance of the campus.

Her name and phone number would be quietly given out by the dean's secretary when a mother concerned about rumors of a daughter's behavior or her latest grades called to inquire. Once contacted, she would send the girl in question a note on her customary stationary (peach-colored, in Ms. S's case), the envelope small and of the same color or design, her script precise and flowing.

At our college, there wasn't one of us girls who didn't know what the peach-colored envelope meant when they saw another girl slide it out of her mailbox in the mailroom and quickly tuck it away in a book. It wasn't unusual for a certain overdramatic type to start crying when she received one, but most of us were better at hiding their butterflies, the cool blend of shame and fear running up the backs of their legs, the regret at their recent behavior suddenly strong.

Most girls who received such notes at their parent's instigation were no strangers to corporal punishment, mostly in the form of a mother's hairbrush. This instrument can be very thorough indeed when wielded with determination. But now they were young women, and knew that at their coming appointment they could expect a punishment of severity befitting their age. In fact, it was rare that more than one visit would be required to keep the young woman in question on the right path.

But you will want more detail about these matters. Here is my experience. The first time I walked up the path to the front door of Ms. S, I did so as if pulled against my will by many fine strings. I did not dream of disobeying the invitation. I had not been raised that way. But it is a curious sensation for a young woman on a warm autumn day to walk toward her punishment of her own free will. I still remember what I was wearing. A gray skirt of fine soft wool; penny loafers; a green cardigan sweater open over a black blouse. I knocked and was greeted at the door by Ms. S.

Hello, Lisa,” she said. “You are Lisa, aren’t you? Why don’t you come right in?”

I shook her offered hand. I’d pictured a more austere, lean, genteel, and older woman than the tall, even imposing thirty-something woman in a black dress who stood aside as I entered, studying me with a frankly assessing glance.

The house immediately gave me an impression of taste and care as I stood waiting while she shut the door and turned to me, again studied me for a moment, and said, “So Lisa, I understand you’ve gotten involved with a fast crowd that likes to smoke and drink, and that you stopped attending church here in town or even pretending to hide your superiority when you go home to visit. This is not how you were raised to behave, is it?”

Then, before I could say a word in my own defense, she had taken my arm, turned me a few degrees, and smacked me twice hard on the seat of my skirt.

Tears came to my eyes at this indignity. I had in some vague way expected to be treated as an "adult," whatever purpose I was there for. This was a blow to my ego. If I was actually to be punished by a woman I'd never met, there would surely be a quiet, difficult conversation first, a cup of tea, some connection formed, some kind of preliminaries at any rate. Not brisk bottom smacks in the front hallway like those given to a young child. Was there nothing unique about me, about my "case"?

Letting go of my arm, she watched me as I reached back in shock to rub the sting. The force of her smacks seemed to have set something in my entire pelvic region vibrating, and my breath felt a little shallow. She was a strong, handsome woman in a simple black dress, sheer stockings, and low heels, her black hair cut on a slant, with a remarkably clear gaze and beautiful eyes. She was stronger than the average woman, but she had the rare kind of athletic but feminine harmony of form and movement that is striking in person but doesn't come through in most photographs. Beside her, my slender frame felt small, vulnerable.

“I imagine you’re thinking we hardly know each other," she said. "But I’ve actually spoken at some length with your mother, who is very concerned that you may be losing your way. I assured her that I have met many another highly intelligent, pretty small town girl like yourself. She knows you well. I agreed with her surmise that this is a crucial moment in your maturation, and assured her that she could trust me to help you through it. In fact, I let her know that she could expect a call of apology from you later today."

She stopped and led me down the hall and into a small, simply appointed sitting room with windows onto the back garden. She closed the door, then crossed the room to a closet, opened it, and when she turned back to face me was holding a smooth, sturdy men's leather belt. Doubling it up and tapping it lightly against the side of her leg as it hung beside her, she said to me,

"Lisa, I think you know that you are here to be disciplined. I've found that it's generally best to get a girl's punishment out of the way first during an appointment. Then our talk afterwards about expectations will be more productive.”

“But I’m a grown woman,” I said, suddenly realizing how real the situation I'd gotten myself into really was. “I don't have to submit to a... a punishment.”

“Yes, but I believe you will, Lisa, because I can tell that in your heart you already know you’ve earned it. I never punish a girl who doesn’t appear capable of real remorse. There would be no point. I am certain that you are sorry for how you’ve behaved already, but too proud to admit it to yourself. This can become a lifelong habit if not stopped as soon as possible.”

I knew deep down that what she was saying was true. I didn’t even want to be doing the things I’d been doing any longer. But she was right. I was too proud to admit it.

“The best remedy I’ve yet found for such an attitude is this belt. You can start by taking off your skirt. And I think the sweater as well.”

I couldn’t quite believe I was obeying, unzipping my side zipper and stepping out of the skirt as she watched me. It was all happening so fast. My chest felt funny, the air thin, and I had a funny clenchy sensation in my bottom and, since we're being honest here, also between my legs in front.

But time was passing and I couldn’t stop it. When I had taken off my skirt and wore only my blouse, and below the waist just underwear and socks and shoes, I stood before her.

"What a graceful, lovely girl you are," said Ms. S. "It's a shame that you haven't behaved with such grace as you've been blessed with. Are you at all sorry, Lisa?"

I had to keep myself from crying all of a sudden. Yes, I was sorry. But my pride was strong, and I bit my lower lip and gave only a slight, begrudging nod.

"It must be a shock to find yourself standing here before me, Lisa. But I want you to know what I told your mother, who loves you very much: I am going to punish you no more than is necessary to make this a lasting lesson. The point where we will know this has been achieved is different for every girl, but together I think we will find it."

The longer Ms. S spoke to me, the more I felt like she knew me as I really am. As my fear and dread mounted at what was coming, so did my sense of trust that she had my best interests in mind. It was a very curious feeling. And I also had the clear impression that Ms. S was aware of my heightened state. She told me quietly to take off my shoes and then lie down on the couch, and I did so. She told me to take the pillow near my head and place it under my hips, and I did this too. I remember it was a small but plump red velvet pillow. I remember that she stepped forward and tugged my panties down to my knees in one swift motion and that I didn't resist, that my heart beat faster and something in me even thrilled at this intimacy, at the baring of the pert, pale, tender, neatly rounded bottom I sometimes admired in the mirror when alone.

Then she told me that I'd been a very naughty young lady, that she was going to give me a belt whipping that would be very difficult for me to bear and and even harder to accept with obedience, and that she believed I would do my very best no matter how long it went on. Then my lesson began, and I still remember it to this day.

#fantasy

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wearywinchester · 3 years

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Regrets

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When a fight leaves you both having some regrets, a little space brings some clarity.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: angsts, injury, mentions of death, guilt, comfort, fluff

The tension swirling around in the car was nearly unbearable, thick and heavy as you sat pressed to the passenger side door. You’d been doing it out of spite for the older Winchester, feeding off each other’s anger, each other’s huffs and puffs. He’d noticed just how far away you were sitting and it had him tensing his jaw because he knew exactly what you were doing and it was working.

It was working and he absolutely wouldn’t admit it.

The hunt had gone all kinds of wrong, couldn’t have gone worse apart from one of you dying. Actually, you almost did and that was the problem. That was every bit Dean’s problem and the very thought of it sent his anger from a simmer to a boil in the pit of his stomach every time it crossed his mind. To be more specific, it’s the only thing he’s been thinking about this whole time. But in true Dean Winchester fashion, the fear and concern eating away at him didn’t come out so clearly.

His vulnerability was mostly expressed through anger. Yelling and shutting down, mumbling strings of curses— it was anger in its truest form just to hide how scared he really is.

It was quiet, no radio no nothing save for the occasional clear of his throat or a heavy exhale coming from either one of you. It was quiet and you couldn’t wait to get out of that car, couldn’t wait to be back at the and take up residence in your room, maybe even one of the spares just to be farther from him. You have plenty of them to choose from. You felt like you’d scream if you spent even so much as another ten minutes with him.

You’d gotten hurt that day, gotten hurt and it wasn’t unlike other times. It wasn’t ideal how the hunt should have gone, ideally you wouldn’t have been a ghost’s kebab as she stuck her hand right through you and around your heart. Ideally you wouldn’t have been thrown against a wall without care for where you landed by Casper the unfriendly ghost. You almost sealed your fate that day all for the sake of getting the job done. All for the sake of saving lives.

That was his problem.

But, his problem wasn’t expressed in the best of ways. It was expressed in shouts and running his hand through his hair, in telling you he never wants you hunting again and a tightly clenched jaw. You argued back and forth for the better part of half the trip home, that lump still sitting heavy in your throat as you suppress your tears.

You were dying to be back home, in fact, you weren’t waiting another minute.

“Let me out,” you said, tone angry as you spoke.

His brows furrowed, looking at you for a moment. “What?”

“Pull over and let me out.”

“Not a chance, it’s ten at night and it’s about to freakin’ rain, Y/n. Who knows what’s out there,” he says, his voice raising.

“I know what’s out there, Dean, we hunt it for a living. Let me out. I’d rather walk than spend another minute listening to you huff and puff.”

“No.”

He pretended that it didn’t sting as much as it did, he pretended it didn’t make him swallow thickly and hid it with a little more tension in his jaw. They were just words. Just words spoken out of anger much like all of the things the two of you had spoken in the last half hour.

You could hear the frustration in his voice, in the single word, could see the tension in his jaw and just how tightly he gripped the wheel. That crease between his brows was deeper than ever and it showed each time a car passed you by.

“Dean.”

“Do you like throwing yourself in danger, Y/n? Is that what it is?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes, breathing out a huff that’s more than dramatic as the anger you feel only gets worse, both your anger is. You’re both feeding off of your own frustrations at this point and you can bear another second of it.

“Pull the damn car over or I’ll jump out myself,” you grit out, because if you talk any louder your voice just might fail you.

In a matter of seconds he veers off to pull over as you insisted, braking with a little more force than necessary as he stared ahead at the road. You were blind to the incoming storm, and Dean definitely wasn’t, couldn’t have been. But he pulled over anyway just like you wanted him to.

“You hate me so much, fine, you’re free to go.”

You pause for a moment, gaze narrowed at him before you grabbed your bag. “Yeah, well, maybe I do.”

Without another word from either of you, you got out, missing the way he looked at you as you did and the way he bit the inside of his cheek. And you missed the look on his face when you slammed the door shut, slinging your bag over your shoulder. After a beat of silence he pulls away, tires screeching against the pavement as he sped off down the road with the rev of his engine muffling the farther he gets.

You swallow thickly as you tighten your jacket around yourself, gaze narrowed as you watch the red of the tail lights disappear. Your anger still simmered as your heart raced, but that lump in your throat became near impossible to suppress as you walked along the gravelly side of the road by yourself. But that’s just it—you were by yourself. Those tears you fought so hard to hide glossed over your eyes now, spilling over your cheeks now. All of that built up frustration was seeping it’s way out.

You didn’t have to be so stubborn now that you were all alone, didn’t have to keep that front you put up for the sake of looking strong in front of green eyes.

Gravel and fallen leaves crunched under your feet as you walked along, the noises almost uncomfortably loud in contrast to your surroundings. You felt like an easy target for whatever is out there, felt like all eyes were on you despite the very real fact that you were all by yourself. But a part of you didn’t care at this point.

That adrenaline from the hunt still coursed through you, fueled by dwindling frustration that came and went in waves. It was seeping out in the form of tears, in the form of you kicking rocks in your path and throwing caution to the wind as you walked with heavier footsteps.

You weren’t that far from the bunker, not really. You had your knife tucked in your boot, you could handle yourself. You’re not as weak as you felt in that moment, and the emotions running wild through you was enough to have you putting up a good fight should you need to.

But you needed space. Needed space to keep any more words of regret from spilling past your lips. Needed space before you felt like your heart would burst right out of your chest.

You stuffed your hands in your pockets as you sniffed, tears running hot down cold cheeks as you watched the way your breath puffed out against the cold air. You tried to ignore the drizzle of the rain, tried to ignore it as you put your hood up, only for the wind to blow it right back down once more and after a few hasty battles with Mother Nature you decided to give it up. Decided to toss away your comfort as the icy droplets fell down on you heavier and heavier as the seconds passed.

You settle for picking up your pace as you walk down the road, the one that’s never been ideally lit for as long as you can remember. You weren’t that far, not really, you could make it back.

You tried not to think about your wavering anger, and the way it wavered more and more each time you thought about your conversation in the car. You tried not to think about how comforting one of his flannels would be, or the warmth of his arms. You shook it from your mind because you had yourself convinced you had to be angry at him.

What happened that day wasn’t just some run of the mill incident on a hunt. It wasn’t scraped knees or busted lips, it was sprained ankles or bloody noses. You almost bit the bullet and hunted your last hunt that day. You still felt that pain in your chest despite the threat of that ghost being long gone and put to rest. You still felt that jarring fear, that shake in your hands, and you still felt that urge to cry over it despite your overwhelming need to feel like you’ve got to be tough even when you don’t.

It was all still there, and now you’ve gone and had a screaming match with the older Winchester. Now you’ve both gone and spewed more than enough things you regret.

You didn’t know what was worse, the regretful anger sitting heavy in your stomach, or your overwhelming desire to get out of this awful weather so you could sulk in the warmth of the bunker. To get rid of that heavy sense of feeling vulnerable walking by yourself even though you’d insisted on doing so. You insisted and you got what you wanted.

But you picked up the pace once you reached that familiar stretch of road, once you spotted home tucked in that hillside. You picked up the pace despite the fatigue you felt telling you to slow it down.

You were cold, you were wet, you were miserable.

Meanwhile, Dean was back at the bunker stewing in his own regret unbeknownst to you. He’d debated a million and one times on turning back and going to get you. He could’ve handled you arguing with him, could’ve handled you hating him. Well, you’d gone and said that you did and he doesn’t know if he really could handle it as much as he’d like to act like it. But you were angry, you were angry and so was he and nothing good ever came out of arguing.

You snagged the key from where the three of you kept it hidden and sniffled once more before you pushed the door open, shutting out the terrible weather behind you in favor of the sheltered warmth of the bunker.

The place seemed empty despite the fact that you knew it wasn’t. Sam should be back after a hunt with Eileen, and surely Dean was around here somewhere. You knew he was judging by the fresh tire tracks in the gravel but you tried not to think about it. You tried to think about going unnoticed until you could get a change of clothes. He didn’t need to see how miserable you looked, how right he was about the rain, how right he was about how scared you truly were after that day.

If he knew that, then that tough guy act you put up after all this time would crumble to pieces in an instant.

You may have been able to snag a dry change of clothes without being seen, may have been able to sneak off to the bathroom without it either. But he knew you were here, and he knew you had to have been worse for wear and it had his guilt and regret simmering in a frenzy.

He saw the wet and slightly muddy footprints in the hall, he saw your rain soaking jacket on the coat rack, heavy with the accumulated rainfall. He saw the way those footprints first went to your shared room, tracked them all the way down the hall to a room that’s farthest from his own. And in there were more wet clothes, cold and heavy as he gathered them to toss in the hamper, in there were soaked leather boots with mud caked on the edges.

You were stubborn as hell and so was he.

But that anger was beginning to wash away with the cold as you cleaned yourself up, as you tried your hardest to have the day roll off your shoulders. But that pain in your chest was only a dreadful reminder of its events. You wanted to be angry, and a part of you still was, because being angry was better than facing Dean Winchester in that moment.

You swiped that dampened wash rag over your face once more, too tired to go so far as to take a shower. Too tired to do much more than sulk and stew in a heap of emotions as you changed your clothes into dryer, warmer ones. They only comforted you so much with the feelings you’ve got weighing you down.

You didn’t know how much time had passed since you exchanged some less than desirable words with him, didn’t know where he was as you walked down the hall and slipped into the room you’d claimed that night. You didn’t notice the pile of wet clothes that’d gone missing, but you saw the extra blanket on the bed. It could’ve been Sam, could’ve been, but deep down you knew it wasn’t.

There were plenty of things you would’ve noticed had you come home a little bit earlier. But you didn’t.

He cleaned up the books he’d swept off one of the tables in the library out of his own frustration. He’d righted the chair he kicked, cleaned up the mess of anger and frustration he’d made in his room. He picked up the pieces of his regret for letting you get out of that car at the dead of night.

You got in bed, you switched off the lights and climbed under the covers as you let out a sigh, one that was just as shaky as ever as your tears decided they were quite done with you. As you lay there on your side you fail to see the shadows of the boots on the other side of your door, standing there for a moment before they’d disappeared once more.

You were tired as ever, physically fatigued and emotionally exhausted as you lay there in a bed that’s worse for wear as the springs dig into your side. The room didn’t feel quite so welcoming, didn’t feel quite so comfortable as yours did because a certain green eyed hunter wasn’t on the other side of the wall. He wasn’t on the other side of the mattress.

That anger and that hurt still coursed through you, but it wasn’t scorching and hot, it wasn’t singing your actions like they had been a while ago. You tried to push it out of your mind, trying your hardest to convince yourself that a good night’s sleep would be the best answer to all of this, that it would keep you from saying anything else you surely would regret saying as soon as they’re spoken.

But you know you’re far past doing that.

You try anyway, try to tuck yourself further under the blankets and close your eyes. You were beyond tired, the day robbing you of any energy, stripping you of a good mood for a good long while. You tried your hardest to fall asleep and put the day behind you like you know you probably should. Things were said and done and there was no changing it, so the most you could do was sleep and restart the next day. But you couldn’t.

You tossed and turned on that mattress for a good half hour, riddled with discomfort and your mind plagued with just one thing, just one person. You knew he’d be awake, that was something you were certain of even if he pretends to be asleep like he sometimes does.

Indecision weighs you down as you sit on the edge of the bed, feet pressed to the cold concrete floor. It tugs you in every direction as you walk to the door with reluctance and ultimately step into the dimmed hallway. It was quiet as ever as you walked, footsteps much quieter than the squeak of your rain soaked boots.

It took some walking before you saw the light in the kitchen streaming into the hall, heard the clatter of a few dishes. You made it to the doorway, made it all the way there before you froze. You paused and waited, waited to work up the nerve. It could have been Sam, it very well could have been him but the thud of his boots answered that for you, a sound that drew closer and had you turning and walking away.

You didn’t get very far.

“Y/n?” You froze once more and paused, waiting a moment before you turned around. His gaze was on you as you looked up at him, your brows furrowing. “It’s raining, isn’t it?”

You sigh, shifting on your feet. “No, not really.”

“You’re wet, Y/n.”

“I took a shower,” you counter, too fast for your words to be true. It’s quiet as he nods, completely unconvinced by your words and he hears the edge to your tone.

His mouth opens and closes a few times with words he doesn’t even know are on the tip of his tongue. There’s too many things he wants to say at once, namely the bang up job you did at cleaning that scrape on your cheek. Or the way you look like you’re chilled to the bone. Or maybe a spew of words of how much he regrets listening to you, how he hates himself for listening and letting you go like that.

But he finds he doesn’t have the opportunity when you find yourself doing the same, only you do find words to say.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” you say, looking at him for a moment before turning away and walking back down the hall.

You don’t see the way his hand reaches out, or the way it drops back to his side because you’re too busy rushing back to that miserable spare bedroom with another regret to add the the hefty and ever growing pile. It grows heavier when you hear that door close down the hall. It grows more and more as the seconds pass, as the minutes pass in that less than comfortable stupid spare room.

It’s laughable for you to think you’d make it a night on your own in there, not with the way you’re wiping angry tears away. It didn’t feel good to be at odds with him, not when it’s fueled by nothing more than stupidity and stubbornness at this point. There was no good reason to avoid him, no good reason to leave him standing there like you did.

You couldn’t take another minute.

You were quiet as you slipped out of that room with the intention of never returning to it, quiet as you padded back down that dimly lit hall towards your true home, rather the one that resides in that room. You’re timid as you twist the knob and open the door, finding green eyes laying on his side of the bed, the lamp switched off.

You swallow thickly as you stand there timidly, your lip between your teeth in a nervous habit. You let the moments pass as you stand there unsure of yourself, waiting a moment more before you close the door behind you. You circle the bed and climb in quietly, under the blankets before you turn and lay on your side too, your back to him.

It’s tense at first, tense for a good long few minutes with nothing other than the sound of the two of you breathing and the sound of the blankets rustling when one of you moves. But that tense quiet is melted as you feel his arm draped over you, tugging you closer and closer until you’re pressed to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your skin, soft but enough for you to hear.

You can hear the regret in his hushed tone, can hear the guilt weighing the two words down. At first you’re quiet, staring ahead as your lip wobbles under your emotions. You don’t say anything but after a little while you turn around, face to face with the expression that matched the words.

You look at him for a moment, gaze bouncing over every inch of his face. You swallow as you look at him, quietly mulling everything over that you wish you hadn’t said that day. But there’s one thing that keeps coming back, one thing that weighs heavy.

“I could never hate you,” you murmur, soft and embarrassed.

You see the way he nods softly, see the way the corner of his mouth quirks upwards in a half smile as he reaches up and traces the tips of his fingers across your cheek, along the curve of your ear. He nods until he rests his forehead against yours, noses bumping.

“What do you say we take a break from hunting for a little while,” he says softly, eyes falling closed as his breath puffs warmly against your lips. “Just for a little while.”

He’s sick of the close calls, doesn’t want to think about that day for a while even though he knows he won’t ever stop dwelling on it. This was too much and he desperately wants to have a break from the fear of losing you for a little while.

You take a breath and nod, you nod and you kiss him softly and it settles the nerves rumbling around within him.

“Yeah, yeah I’d like that, De,” you whisper, kissing the tip of his nose down to his lips in a lingering kiss.

That tension of regret still hangs heavy in his shoulders, still hangs heavy in your heart no matter how many times the two of you apologize. He knows you’ll never blame him for pulling over like that, you insisted after all. He knows he’ll never let himself off the hook either. But he doesn’t want to bring it up, not now that you’re safe in his arms once more.

He doesn’t want to bring up just how much he wishes you wouldn’t play tough guy after hunts like these, just how much that day bothered him. And you feel like you could tell him a million times over just how much you love him but he knows, even if you’re beating yourself up for what you said in the heat of the moment he knows it’s just that.

You were home, he was your home. Past the arguments and huffs and puffs and words spoken out of anger. None of that mattered in that moment.

You could apologize all you want another time and surely you would, but you keep yourself in that moment.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @agalliasi @campingmonkey @deandaydreaming @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @taikawho @lyarr24 @happyt0exist

#dean winchester #dean winchester angst #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic

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x-ladyathena-x · 3 years

Text

Free

Dean Winchester x Reader

Multi-POV (mostly reader POV with some Dean POV mixed in for clarity and understanding of the situation)

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Fluffy Smut, Smutty Smut, idiots in love

Word count: 4k - Buckle in, it’s a long one! (that’s what she said?)

Summary: An evening at the bunker planning your next hunt takes a romantic & steamy turn as you and Dean confess your feelings for each other.

You’d just finished a hunt and made it back to the bunker. Tired and exhausted, you see Dean at his computer, probably researching the next job.

“Welcome back, Sunshine!” he yells across the massive room, eyes never leaving his computer screen.

You roll your eyes at the pet name, but laugh at the same time. “Smartass.” You mumble under your breath at him.

“Aww, you’re the sweetest, y/n” Dean smirks at you with his goofy fake cheesy grin.

After a little playful banter back and forth, you unload your gear and slump down into a chair at the table that Dean is sitting at with his laptop.

“whew! I’m beat.” You say, rubbing your eyes.

Dean Drains the last bit of the beer he’d been sipping on and gets up for another. He holds up his empty bottle, “want one?”

“yeah, grab me one too.” You say, thinking about the ice-cold deliciousness awaiting you.

Dean walked back to where you were seated. You’d pulled out your laptop by this point and had started running a map spread.

He walked up, opened your beer for you and presented it to you like a waiter in a fancy restaurant would present a bottle of Champaign. “Your beverage, ma’am.” Dean says with a slight bow.

You laugh and take the beer. While you throw your head back, savoring that first sip, you don’t notice Dean watching you with a little smile on his face from having made you laugh.

You set your beer down. “Ok, come look at this.” You say. You’ve got the map pulled up on your screen.

Dean comes up behind you. He places one arm on the back of your chair, the other balancing his weight on the table. You’re acutely aware of how close he is to you. Your body stills. The world around you slows, moving in slow motion. You can feel him hovering right over your shoulder and it feels like an electric charge coursing through your skin.

You swallow. “Right here.” You say, pointing to the screen. “we’ve got intel on vamp nests; here, here, there, and way over here. I think we should begin with this one.” You say pointing to the blue dot. “But I’m not sure when we should hit the others.”

Dean leans forward. He moves his hand from the back of the chair to your shoulder. His fingers graze the skin of your exposed neck. He points to the screen with the other hand. “Well green would definitely make sense to hit after blue. But, as for red and yellow? Shouldn’t make much of a difference which of those we hit after that.” His hand was still on your shoulder and he gave it a quick squeeze. “See? Easy as pie!”

He stopped, hesitating, and looked down at where his hand was. His eyes suddenly became hungry.

Dean slowly began trailing his fingers along the exposed skin on your neck. You leaned into his touch, his hands – his hands! You could feel the strength and power in them at their touch. Oh, that rough touch. It set every molecule in your body humming. When you let out a small groan of pleasure, you could have sworn you felt deans body waver for a moment.

Gently, he moves a wisp of hair that had fallen down the nape of your neck. Taking his time, he allowed his fingers to brush through your hair, making goosebumps appear on your skin.

You shudder and bring in a short gasp of breath at the light, deliberate touch. Gah… this man could bring you to your knees with one touch. Just melt you into a puddle.

Umm, wake up, y/n! you think to yourself. You’re a badass hunter. Humans and creature alike literally fear your name! And here you are melting at the touch of (of all people) Dean effin Winchester… Ugh, get it together, y/n!

You’d never told anyone but you actually really liked Dean. A lot. He’d been on your mind more than usual lately. Maybe it was all the time you two had been spending together? He was fun and funny. And Charming… Oh yea, charming. So charming he just loved charming his way into the pants of every girl he met. You felt your teeth clench at the thought.

Am I jealous? Is this jealousy? You think to yourself. Jealous… jealous of what? Nothing. Something? You didn’t know why you felt that way. Dean wasn’t yours, after all. You knew he only saw you as a friend. Someone to joke around with, hang out with on your days off. He’s made moves on other girls. If he were interested in you, he’d have tried to make a move already. But he hadn’t. Just a little light hearted flirting, but you knew that was his personality. So that’s that. But- but, this?

What was this? What was happening right now?

Dean leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of your neck, resting his forehead against your hair. A deep sigh and the soft flutter of eyelashes tells you that he closed his eyes as he breathes in your scent.

Was this it? Was he making his move? The feel of his face nuzzled in your neck lit a fire burning in your belly. Him. You wanted him. Needed him. And his body language suggested that he wanted you just as bad.

“Dean...” you say breathlessly.

“y/n, I- “

The sound of your name brings you back to your senses somehow.

Making his move. You think to yourself. On you? Who does he think you are?! Some tramp from the bar? How can this man both infuriate and arouse you all at the same time?! This was starting to feel like an emotional roller coaster that you wanted to get off of.

You clear your throat and decide to lay down the law. You needed to let him know that playing around wasn’t your thing. And, of all people, he should know that about you, ugh.

“I’m not one of your conquests. Another one-nighter. So, if that’s what you’re after, you can pump the breaks before you start any of your trusty old sweet talk like honey dripping from your lips.” Mmm… his lips… Snap back to earth, y/n!

He’s smooth, you give him that. And as bad as you’d love to throw him down right here and fuck his brains out, you gather your senses and realize that your self-respect and dignity are more important. But, oh… those lips. The high road sucks.

You take a deep breath, gather yourself, and continue, “I, unlike your long list of hit-em-and-quit-em’s, am a lot of hard work. I require dedication and respect.” You spat the last word out a little more icily than you meant to, but you were seething at the thought of his hands being on anyone else.

Did he just screw some rando less that twelve hours ago? You don’t know. Probably. You clench your fist at the thought.

Dean moves suddenly. Swiftly. Like the predator you know him to be out in the field while hunting. Taking you by surprise, he kneels beside you, grabbing both your hands, turning you sideways in the chair to face him. He looks up at you with deep sadness in his eyes.

“Y/n, I- I haven’t. N-not once. Not since I- I realized…”

-----

Dean couldn’t stand it anymore; he couldn’t bear to hear the heartbreak in y/n’s voice. And he did hear it. Even though she tried to cover it; lacing every word with venom. He could still hear it. And it broke him inside.

What makes him good enough to deserve someone like y/n? She was way better off without a messy relationship with him. A relationship that would inevitably end in heartbreak. Heartbreak for one of them. Because in this life, the life of a hunter, having your heart ripped to shreds by the loss of a loved one was part of the reality. He was so scared to allow himself something good.

Good? Why do I deserve good? He thought. Maybe death and loss are part of everyone’s reality. Maybe, just maybe he was making the pain worse by fighting this… Maybe she, like him, was also scared. Would she even feel the same if he told her? What would he say? That he’d been in love with her for, well, he wasn’t sure when it happened. They’d always playfully flirted with each other. Sometimes she stole his beer, took a few sips, and handed it back. He liked the idea of putting his lips where hers had been. Dean imagined about how she would taste. He- he needed to tell her. Tell her everything.

Why was he making himself so miserable? This had to end, he was being stupid. It was his own fault for not confessing sooner. Dean gathered his courage. In one fluid motion, taking y/n by surprise, he knelt beside her, took her hands in his, and turned her body to face him.

Dean looked up at y/n. There it was. A mixture of torment, sadness, and longing. All weakly camouflaged by an icy look in her eyes.

“Y/n, I-“ Dean froze. I, what? Come on, spit it out, man! You’ve got this. “I haven’t.” Haven’t what?! Words. What are words? “N- not once. Not since I- I realized…” shit. Dean froze again as y/n’s breath quickened. Her eyes wide, listening to him speak. Her nails unknowingly digging into his palms in nervous anticipation of what he was trying to say. Why couldn’t he just spit it out?!

-----

You feel your pulse racing. You’re hanging on to every word pouring from those perfect lips. Every. Word. As your gaze dances across painfully beautiful green eyes, your expression softens.

“Not since I realized I love you.” Dean finishes in a low, rough voice.

Your breath catches in your throat. Is this real? Are you breathing? Did Dean just say what you think you heard him say?

“Y/n, I love you. And I have for a long time now.”

You release a big breath that you didn’t even know you were holding. Gently you lift his rough hands up to your mouth, brushing your lips across his calloused knuckles.

Unable to speak, you keep your hands on his as he reaches up to your cheek to wipe away a single tear. Am I crying?! You think to yourself. Apparently. Yes. The rush of emotion and relief that you’re feeling, knowing that he feels the same way that you feel keeps you tongue tied.

Your reaction to his words was the catalyst Dean needed to keep going. He continued, “I love you. I haven’t been with anyone for a while now. Not since I realized that you were right in front of me the whole time. Exactly what I’ve been searching for.” Dean was on both knees by this point.

As if Dean were searching for the next words he wanted to say, his head dropped down against his hands (which were still holding yours in your lap) and he drew a shuddering breath.

You could feel his soft hair against your leg. Why does he have to be so damn sexy?! As he composes himself, you reach out and run your fingers through his hair. His head jolts up at your touch. You smile at him, “I love you too, Dean. I just never knew you felt the same. Why are you only telling me now? Why hide it for so long?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you. Or lose you.” He whispered as he looked up at you through his lashes.

“Hurt me? Uh, didn’t ya think this whole ‘apparent unrequited love’ thing was killing me too?” you say sarcastically with a smirk. But in truth, that wasn’t fair to Dean. Because he didn’t know how you felt either. You’d never told him. Sure, you always flirted with each other and you found him insanely attractive and hot. Especially when he got protective over you during a hunt, or some creep at the bar. How many nights did the two of you stay up laughing at each other’s stupid jokes and throwing back a few beers? You’d always enjoyed each other’s company.

You repeat yourself, but softer this time, with longing in your voice. “Why now, Dean? Please. Tell me.”

“Because I was tired of denying myself the one good thing that ever came into my life.” He said heatedly. “Because I can’t think when I’m around you. You drive me absolutely fucking crazy, y/n. I can’t sleep without thinking of you. I can’t eat, hell, I can’t even put a beer to my lips without wishing it was you that I had at my lips. I want. No. I need you in my life. By my side. I need to - taste you. Breathe you. Y/n, I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. I see it in your eyes, I see the way you look at me. And I’m scared shitless of how deep these feelings go. This-“ Dean gestured between the two of you, “Is something that I never even knew it was possible to feel.

Without skipping a beat, Dean put his hand behind your head and pulled you into his lips. It was a tender kiss. Gentle, soft. You could feel the fire growing inside you. He felt so good. Your hands found the stubble on either cheek as you kissed him back. His tongue slipped inside your mouth and found yours.

The kiss became more forceful, and full of need. You didn’t want it to stop. It couldn’t stop. If it did stop, that may be the end of the world as you know it.

Dean stood, pulling you up with him as he wrapped both arms tight around your waist. He began running his hands over every surface of your body he could reach. He pulled you flush with his body, never breaking apart your lips. You could feel the heat radiating off him. You ran your hands down his powerfully muscular back. This. This man. Him. Dean. Dean is what you want.

Dean broke the kiss apart. “I love you, y/n. I love you so damn much it hurts.” He said, his voice breaking.

“I love you too, Dean.” You say, smiling up at his face, tangling your fingers in his hair.

With a small grunt, Dean lifts you up by your ass and you instinctually wrap your legs around his hips. You feel a growing bulge in his jeans. You pull his face back in to yours. You can’t think straight, you want him so bad, you can taste it. Your core is aching with need. The need for him growing more intense. Only he can quench this fire burning you up.

Dean carries you clumsily down the hall to your room. Your arms still entwined around each other, holding each other together, holding the universe together.

Once inside Dean puts you down and you both stand there, staring at each other, breathing heavily. You both suddenly fly towards each other. Grabbing and pulling clothes, pulling each other’s lips down hard on your own. You unbutton Deans blue jeans and he unclasps your bra. Your t shirt and shorts long forgotten somewhere on the floor.

The feeding frenzy of ripping each other’s clothes off slows to a savory pace as you tug and pull off Deans pants, leaving nothing to hold down the massive tent in Dean’s boxers.

He pulls the straps of your bra from your shoulders, slowly. When the cold air hits your nipples, they perk instantly Dean lets out a sharp hiss. “Oh, y/n.” He teases the soft flesh. First with his thumb, then with his mouth. As you feel his tongue against your skin, you let out a sigh of pleasure. His eyes dart up to your face. He lifts his head and softly kisses you on the mouth. “I would love nothing more than to throw you onto this bed and fuck you senseless right now.” Dean said with a growl, but then his expression softened. “But if this is too much, we can stop. You’re in charge… as per usual.” Dean laughs at his own joke and you playfully smack him on the arm, grinning.

“Hey now!” you say laughing, “I’m not always in charge when we do hunts.”

Dean rolls his eyes and says sarcastically, “Yea, ok. Sure…”

You lean in and plant a kiss on his neck, “Well, I guess – since – I’m the one – in charge,” you say playfully between kisses. Trailing them down his chest and belly, stopping at his boxers. His erection obvious. “Then, I’ll accept nothing less than-“, you pull his boxers down revealing his full length. You flash your eyes up to his. He’s hungrily watching you, “-being fucked senseless.” You say as you take him into your mouth.

-----

She was so fucking beautiful. Perfect. The most perfect thing he’d ever seen. As y/n started bringing her kisses down his torso, Dean could feel his erection stiffen even harder. When she stopped to pull down his boxers, he could feel his shaft weeping with anticipation.

He was so worried that he had crossed a line earlier. It totally took him by surprise that y/n wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

“Well, I guess, since I’m the one in charge, I’ll accept nothing less than being fucked senseless.” Y/n said as she looked up at him with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Damn! She was so hot. Dean had never been this riled up by anyone before. Oh, if that’s what you want, Baby, then that’s what I’m gonna-

Dean wasn’t able to finish his thought stream. Y/n had taken his whole length into her mouth. “Oh FUCK!” Dean screamed out, grabbing y/n by the hair. He slowly began to guide her head at the pace he wanted. Her tongue, her mouth, her! She was about to make him come already. Dean pulled himself out of her mouth. “Bed. Now.” He commanded with a sly smile.

Y/n laughed, “whatever you say, Baby.” As she climbed onto the bed, she did a dramatically slow striptease style crawl that made Dean’s erection throb.

Dean crawled up her body, kissing every inch of her he could reach. Y/n made a little pleasurable whine as dean kissed her thighs while he pulled down her lacy black thong. Her center was absolutely dripping wet. Dean wanted to live between those perfect thighs. Spend years there, never come back to reality. Was time even moving at all? What day is it? What year is it? He didn’t care. None of those things mattered. None of it mattered because he had his y/n. His. Mine.

The only thing that existed was the two of them.

Dean dove his face between y/n’s thighs to her soft center. She tasted like Spring sunshine. Dean took his time, savoring every shudder that ran through her perfect body. Every gasp, scream, and moan that came out of her perfect mouth. She was getting close to coming.

-----

Your whole body is on the brink. Every move dean makes brings you closer to the edge. You need this release and you need Dean to give it to you. You feel yourself climbing, building, then suddenly – the earth shatters around you. You scream “Dean! Oh, DEAN!”

Dean keeps going while you ride out the high, he slowly brings you back down. You sigh, “Dean that- that was- I-“ you have no words. He seems to understand what you’re trying to say because he smiles.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Your heart and core flutter at his words.

He climbs between your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance. You place your hands on his hips and start to guide him in. With one smooth powerful thrust, he slides his whole length inside you, filling you up, stretching you in the most delicious way. You both gasp. He smiles and kisses your forehead.

His pumps start slow at first, then become more deliberate, more powerful. You love the protectively dominate power he radiates as he’s on top of you. Dean is a MAN. And he feels good. He feels so damn good. You start to feel yourself building again to what you knew would be another earth-shattering orgasm.

Dean found his rhythm and savored every movement, every stroke. He could stay here for ages.

As you feel yourself building, your need for him grows stronger. Dean... He was yours. And you were greedy for more of him. As his rhythm quickened, you dug your nails into his ass pulling his thrusting hips toward you with more force at each thrust. He catches the hint.

Without ever breaking the two of you apart, he flips you over onto all fours and doesn’t hold back. His urgency makes you cry out in pleasure. “Baby, yes! That’s it!”

“You want more? You want me to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before?”

“YES!” you scream, reaching around and slapping his thigh. That does it. He unleashes himself. You hear him roar with pleasure, holding onto you so tightly, pulling you against him so fast and hard. The sound of flesh slapping echoed around the room mixed with both your cries of pleasure.

“Baby, I’m about to come!” you pant.

“Come on. Come for me Baby.” Dean says breathlessly. “I want to know that I’m the one to make you come.”

-----

Dean was talking out of his mind in the throes of ecstasy. The thought of y/n coming… of him coming inside her, was throwing him over the edge. Just as he felt himself going over, he felt y/n tighten around him.

-----

Just as you feel Dean twitching inside you, you feel yourself tighten around him. The sheer power of your shared climax hit you both like a freight train.

When you felt him pull out, you felt empty with his warmth gone. Dean lays back on the pillows and pulls you into his arms. You settle yourself in the warmth and comfort of his body. Dean absent mindedly plays with your hair as you lay your head on his chest and you both breathe heavily while you float back down to reality.

“Dean?” you say softly.

“Mmm?”

“That was amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

Dean chuckles and kisses the top of your head. “Glad I could be of service.”

He’s such a smartass, you think to yourself laughing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more honest with you either.” You say, picking up your conversation from earlier. “I know I’m partly to blame for this dance we’ve been doing around each other for - who knows how long.”

“No, you were right. I should have just nutted up and told you how I felt. It just crushes me to think that I was causing you pain because you thought I was seeing other people.”

You absent mindedly draw circles on his chest with your finger. “I don’t know, I suppose we’re both to blame. I mean, look at this mind-blowing sex we could have been having all this time.”

This coaxes a real laugh out of Dean, and you feel his chest moving up and down from the laughter. But then he stops and you see a seriousness wash over his face. The same pain you saw in his eyes earlier, but maybe – perhaps you are imaging it – less pain, more - hope?

“I meant everything I said earlier.” Dean says in a husky, deep voice. “I am scared shitless to lose you, or to know that I’d be the source of your pain if you ever lost me. I mean, hell we’re hunters, we know how this ends eventually.” Still holding you tight, Dean continues, “I guess, If I’ve got one life to live, even if it’s a short one, I want you by my side. Always. I want you. All of you. The sassy you. The smartass you. The bossy you. The…” he paused to run his thumb across your lips, “The incredibly sexy you that I can’t keep my hands off of.” Dean smiles “I didn’t know that happiness like this, or these – feelings - were even possible to feel. And that’s just it. You made me feel. You pulled me out of a darkness that I didn’t even know I was in. You made me – free.”

#dean winchester #supernatural #SPN #spnfandom #dean winchester SPN #smut #angst #hunters #idiots in love #fluff #sad dean #sexy dean #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #y/n #dean winchester x reader

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mrslackles · 3 years

Note

what do you think are gg's biggest flaws?

Ooh, Anon! It’s like you’re in my head.

I’m busy making a video (that will probably never see the light of day) about this -- my distance from the show has really helped with some super objective clarity -- so I’ll use my notes from that to help me answer.

I’ll preface this by saying what I was most shocked by after putting down all the points was that Rio isn’t even mentioned until really far down??

Anyway, let's get into it.

These are Good Girls' greatest flaws in my opinion (and relative to season 1 -- while I think it had its flaws too, the list is far smaller and I think that's a separate post)

1. It didn't stick to its guns

What set this show apart from others in the 'Everyday person does crime (poorly)' genre was its comedic lightness, strong friendship element, relatability and emphasis on girl power.

a) By season 2, the lightness was already slowly disappearing to make way for season 3's darkness. (Quite literally; this show said sunlight scenes for WHO.) It also stopped being as fun. Remember how it genuinely used to be fun? I mean let's not forget The Best Scene Ever where Ruby shoots Big Mike by accident and we all laughed our asses off. (Compare and contrast to a similar-in-tone-and-context scene -- or even the whole episode -- like Boomer popping up behind them as Rio's package in season 3.) I think season 3 had some great lines and laughs, but in general, the fun element was completely missing for me.

b) As was the friendship. We already know Annie and Ruby basically became Beth's backup dancers in season 2, but at least then they still seemed to have some type of agency. In season 3, they rarely question Beth's (truly questionable) decisions, don't talk to her about shit like why she's still with her horrible husband and have very few true friendship moments as they did in season 1.

c) Which made it less relatable, but what also contributed was the major plot holes (it's less easy to relate when you're constantly having to remind yourself to suspend your disbelief). And, to be honest, their stupid actions. Just the most common-sense things weren't followed, like not taking your children to a crack den or not putting a hit out on a gang leader. It's frustrating watching a TV show -- where characters are supposed to learn things, have arcs and improve over time -- and feeling like you have more logical sense than all the main characters in every scene. (WHO would think a hitman was going to use a sniper rifle on people in broad daylight on the side of the road???)

d) You don't have to look any further than the title or the stans who shout "THE SHOW IS ABOUT THE GIRLS" -- or, hell, the first 10 seconds of the show where Sara is literally talking about the glass ceiling -- to know that the main characters being women is very important to the show. If not formally feminist, it was at least supposed to be empowering or feel like "girl power" (a term I hate, but we won't get into that now).

And I think it did it pretty well in season 1 -- it actually played on my favourite theme of the show, which is the world's perception of these women being what ultimately allows them to get away with so much. (Rife with opportunities for commentary about white privilege, but also a genius way to upend patriarchal beliefs.) But more and more it seemed like the show was asking you to accept empowerment as simply "these things are being done by women, yay".

And, well.

2. Its marketing

I'll keep this one short because I think we all know how messed up this situation is. Basically they're selling a show (every week!) that they're not making while ignoring all feedback on every social media platform. Which brings us to...

3. The marriage of Death

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times -- Beth's character development starts with getting rid of Dean. Her growth is stunted by him on multiple fronts and it's frustrating to viewers since she's constantly put forth as the main character. Not to mention how the audience, separately from Beth, was originally conditioned to see Dean as the scum of the earth (think of scenes like him crashing his car because he was perving on a woman jogging) so keeping them together is really... a choice. To actively root for this marriage (which seems like what the show wants, at least for the protracted moment) means either thinking Dean is a great person (which, as I said, we've only seen the opposite of) or believing he's all Beth deserves. Which leads me to...

4. Beth's (socio)path(y)

Is sociopath a 'good' word? Probably not. Have I seen dozens upon dozens of posts talking about whether Beth is one? Yes. And I see it from a huge variety of people -- from viewers who just binged the show last weekend to those who've been watching for years, the question keeps coming up. And I entirely blame the writing of the show that, by the way, I don't believe is deliberately creating Beth to get this reaction. I think she's written (and, to an extent, acted) in a way that is much too aloof and I'm not convinced it's meant to come off as cold and unfeeling as it does. Everything else leads me to believe that the audience is supposed to root for Beth, but it's just so difficult.

Beth does a lot of messed up shit that requires dialogue to sympathise with her and the inner workings of her mind, but in the later seasons Beth rarely gets to express herself verbally. And every time she does get to speak about her emotions, the dialogue is a pick-your-own-adventure between "She's in so much denial", "This person feels no emotions" and "I'll go find an analysis/fic later to explain this" (scenes like "Nothing" or "I was just bored"). Compare and contrast with some of the great scenes in season 1 where she emotes, like her paralysing shock after they first rob the store or admitting she enjoys crime, or (one of my favourites!) the one in the park where she's mimicking the other mothers beside her.

5. Brio

I said in the beginning that I was shocked Rio doesn't get mentioned until this point and that's because I've always felt like he was an integral part of the show. When people say the show is about the girls, they're truncating -- the show is about the girls getting into crime. That crime is represented by Rio over and over again -- they never bring in another criminal at his level (which is another one of its flaws, but that's also a different post); Rio is it.

And though I stand by Rio's importance, the truth is that Brio isn't as essential to the show, by which I mean that if all of the above were done well, it wouldn't be as sorely missed. In lieu of riveting plot, a fun friendship, character development and empowerment, most viewers have glommed onto Brio like a lifeboat (or ship, heh).

Unfortunately it's also what the show has most stubbornly refused to develop significantly.

It's honestly a toss-up for why I feel Brio is a flaw: is the flaw that they got together? That they never got together well enough? That the writing keeps bringing in these 'chemistry-filled' scenes that are ultimately filled with air?

I don't know. Maybe all of them; maybe just one, depending on the day.

6. Its criticism falls flat without intersectionality

This is a big one because Good Girls is *trying* to do something very clever. As mentioned previously, my favourite theme of the show is how the women's apparent innocence/vulnerability in the eyes of society is their biggest strength. The show plays with this and other interesting themes with varying levels of success, but ultimately they all fall a little flat when they don't feel intersectional.

When Ruby gets sidelined. When Turner, who sees and all but calls out by name Beth's privilege, is portrayed as the villain. When Rio is told he's gonna "pop a cap" in his young child's "ass". When the racist grandma becomes a sympathetic character whom we must later grieve. (And she really didn't have to be racist, now that I think about it? It was just that one line for laughs and that was it.) When, despite the real-world implications, Dean can loudly announce in a store that he's buying a gun to kill someone with and the show just glides past it. When Ruby has to grovel for forgiveness from Beth for trying to protect her husband and family from the system, with no acknowledgement from Beth about how their realities are different. When Rhea gets booted off the show as soon as she's done serving Beth's plot. When Rio gets treated like a prostitute for absolutely no reason. (Oh, and is accused of raping Beth and is literally spoken of as an animal and starts only existing in zero dim lighting as a one-dimensional stereotype... the list goes on.)

7. PR/The actors

I'll risk my life here to sprinkle this in because I do think it's a massive problem. The Manny/Christina of it all is just the tip of the iceberg (although wtf Good Girls? There's nothing you could do to get these two into an interview together??). The main actors do the bare minimum to promote the show and it's weird. I also think it's the height of unprofessionalism to keep characters on the show against the wishes of the majority of the audience just because you enjoy their actors (Boomer confirmed; Dean highly suspected). While, on the flip side of the coin, limiting a character's screentime because you aren't best buddies with them. Having less and less Rio when he's such a fan favourite is dumb; as is not including him in any series marketing material. It feels personal and that isn't how a TV show should be run.

8. The entire hair and wardrobe department needs a stern talking-to

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impala1967dwinchester · 3 years

Text

Dean Winchester: Don’t leave me.

*Not my gif*

Paring: Dean X Reader/ Y/n

Pov: Deans

Warning: Angst, maybe a fluff ending.

Summary: What happens when Dean keeps making the same mistakes and reader is trying to help Dean figure out his mistakes “Please, I’ll be better.” “Please I love you.” “What can I do... I do anything.” “Just don’t leave me!”

Word Count: 1,932

Masterlist

Tag list: @akshi8278

I had the same pattern ever since I was in high school. When something goes wrong, go and take it out on someone else. Contemplate, yell, scream, be an ass. But I don’t know what to do now. Now it’s different.

Now I have the light in my life, and she’s starting to dim. I’m doing that to her, she used to be so bright, so happy. And that is why I fell for her; all I do now is push her away. I’m too harsh, too cruel. And at the moment I don’t know what I’m doing until I have to beg my way back into Y/n’s heart.

Arguments, that turned into silence. I would look at her when she wasn’t paying attention. I’d try to start a conversation, but I could never get the words out. Something about telling her that I was wrong and she was right., I couldn’t shake it.

It was hard enough for me to talk to someone, but to be truthful and let them know that I wasn’t right was even worse. I had been harsh with Y/n after a particular hunt. She had been hurt trying to save Sam's and I ass.

The entire car ride was silent, and not to mention that there was time before this. Where I’d be quiet thinking about what had gone on many times before. She was hurt, it wasn’t bad or anything but I had told her to be my back-up not go in guns blazing and end up getting hurt. Sam sat quiet in the passenger seat, looking through his phone for yet another case.

Y/n lay in a tight ball, holding herself together. I could barely see her in the rear view mirror, but the slightest of movement and sounds that came from the back seat had my attention. Y/n and I had been dating, but it wasn’t something that had been going on for a while.

Now when I say this, I mean it, I fell for her the first day I saw her. Love at first sight like Sam likes to say. Sam teases me about how l fell for a girl, and everything seems to be going my way. The whole apple pie life I thought I wasn’t ever going to get.

It always taken me time to realize things, now if that’s good or bad. I don’t have those answers. I’m not blaming the way that I act on my shitty childhood, or horrible upbringing, but I’m saying that those probably had an effect on me and still have an effect on me now.

I’m forty-two years old and I still have no clue what I’m doing in life. What I should be doing is riding in my car, with my girl, and be happy. But instead, I'm upset with who I don’t know, I'm barely getting away from yet another hunt.

You'd think a 6’1-foot-tall man, wouldn’t fall short on talking with his family, and his partner. Being overall open with people. But again, I think it’s something I learned as a child. Stay mute even when you’re asked a question.

When we finally made it to the bunker it was still very quiet. Y/n had ended up falling asleep. Sam and I looked at her and then back at each other. “Dean, she’s your girlfriend. Get over yourself would you and help her.” He said getting out of the passenger side. I didn’t have any time to respond before he went into bunker, leaving me with Y/n.

So, I bucked up, leaving the driver seat, and climbing into the back seat to get Y/n. Her hand still tightly wrapped around her waist. “Y/n, honey I’m going to pick you up and take you to your room okay?” I spoke

So, that’s what I did I grabbed her gently, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. I shut the doors to the car, and I walked into the bunker. Again, it was silent as I walked around the halls of the bunker.

Y/n’s door was slightly ajar, meaning that I could push my booted foot between the open space. I walked around her room, and found her bed. Placing her down gently, I pulled her boots off, and her heavy jacket that was hardly blood stained from the hunt.

Because she was asleep, I had no energy to want to even start a fight. I left Y/n’s room quietly closing her bedroom door. And made my own way to my own room, when I finally sat down on my bed I started to think.

Thinking about how if Y/n was awake when we had arrived home it would have been a different story. How I would have yelled, screamed, have a fuss, and then drank the rest of the night away. I thought how Sam would look at me and instead see our father. I thought how Y/n would be quiet and walk away.

I’d decide now to rethink my relationship not saying that I’d ever break up with my sweet Y/n, but I needed to get better. I needed to be better for her, be better for Sam, and be better for myself. So, I made the choice as I walked to my bedroom. Tonight, I would first off get a good night's rest, wake up and start the day off good.

So that’s what I did, I fell asleep knowing that tomorrow morning would be a better day. When I woke up the next morning everything was okay. Walking around the bunker to find Sam in the library, and Y/n in the kitchen. So, I started with Sam he was an easier target.

“Sam, do you mind if we have a quick chat?” I asked. Sam titled his head, rising his eyebrows in a confusion, and then huffed a little before answering with a hesitation in his voice. “Sure, what do you want to chat about?” “I’d like to start off by saying I’m sorry for the way it was when we were kids. I’d also like to apologize for all the shit I put you through after we found dad. I’m sorry that I act like a douche bag, I’m sorry that I yell at you like dad used too. I’m sorry for actions and I know I don't say this enough but I love you.” I said before sitting down across from Sam.

He looked at me for a couple of seconds before getting up from his seat before and rounding the table. My brother had a growth support and somehow had gotten taller than me, I thought as I looked up at my younger brother, he looked as if he was hesitant, toying with whatever idea that had made him around the table.

Before Sam could get another word out, I quickly sat up and hugged him. Now this type of embrace was the one like when the world was ending and we were sacrificing ourselves. This type of hug was the type that meant “I love you too”. An action that meant more than the word they backed-up.

This embrace wasn’t long, it was known between the two of us that we’d hug and then let go of each other. That’s what happened, but knowing that there wasn’t anything after us, or we weren’t dying was a nice thought to hold onto.

“De, I love you too. Now you should probably go do the same with Y/n.” Sam said before patting my shoulder and rounding the table again to sit in his seat. Like nothing had happened, but then again that’s just how our relationship went, that’s how we grew up. Emotions and then act as if nothing happened, because emotions show weakness.

As I walked out of the library, I needed a few seconds to think so I took advantage of the two different ways to get to the kitchen, opting for the longer choice. As I walked, I thought how difficult our childhood had been, how now I could finally say that I was dealing with it all. I could smell the coffee, and hear Y/n putting out dishes and looking through cabinets trying to find breakfast for this morning.

As I walked in, Y/n didn’t even know I was in the room. The split second that she didn’t know was perfect. It was odd all that time I had spent with Lisa I’d never had a moment of clarity like this. In that moment it was like I was weightless. Nothing could hurt her or me, everything seemed normal. “Jesus Dean you can’t just come up behind people and not say anything. I could drop something!” Y/n said as held her hand over her heart.

I chuckled unfolding my arms and leaning off the side of the doorway. As I walked into the kitchen, she handed me a coffee cup. I hadn’t realized how much Y/n and I’s routine was synced. In the morning she’d be in the kitchen hand me my coffee cup, wait until I had a least a few sips before wanting to have a serious conversation. Then once I sat my cup down on the counter conversation was flowing, I grab plates as she cooked breakfast. My height giving me an advantage to be able to reach over Y/n’s head and grab a few other needed things.

Y/n would than take advantage of the fact that sometimes in the comfort of the bunker I wasn't paying attention. She’d poke my sides with the end of the spatula, Y/n would then look up at me and giggle before going back to cooking.

This was every morning thing between the two of us. When we did finally sit down, I could tell that Y/n was still upset with me. So, in a moment of rash decision I cleared mt throat catching her attention.

“I know that I’m an asshole most of the times. I also know that nobody wants to deal with that, so I’m doing this I’ve already thought of a thousand ways of saying this. A thousand ways of how this could play out. Most of them ending with you walking out of the door. I know that I’m not perfect, But I can do better, please known that I’ll be and get better.” I spoke. I was quiet for a moment not wanting to bombarded Y/n was too much at once. She nodded her head and motioned me to continue.

“I want you to know that I'll do anything... Anything you want me to do. I want you to know that this was hard for me to do, I hate the way I act, I hate not having control, but there’s something that I don’t hate and that’s loving you.” I spoke before looking down at my coffee cup. My knuckles going white from how hard I was trying to control my emotions.

“I love you too babe.” Y/n finally said before getting up from her seat and sitting next to me. As she sat down, I rested my head on her shoulder and mumbled “Just don’t leave me.” As I spoke, she wisped her hands through my hair. “Just don’t leave me like everyone else has, I love you Y/n.”

She lifted my head up from her shoulder her hands grasping my cheeks and made me look at her. “I’m not going anywhere. People have fights, they have arguments, but they make-up. They fix the issues. And I like making up with you Dean.” She said a smirk on her face and winked at me.

Completed on 02/12/2021

#dean winchester #dean x y/n #dean x reader #deangirl #dontletmego #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural x reader #supernaturalagnst #DeanAngst #maybeafluffending #dont leave please #dont leave me

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quwarichi · 3 years

Text

"The writers are-" not to blame, and here's why

Usually, I ignore these posts saying "the writers are so bad, blaming COVID or whatever for the finale", but today I saw a mutual reblogging one of those, and I just went "shit, I'm gonna have to say it aren't I?"

Let's settle this; the writers (sans BL) are good at their job. But that's very general, calling them the writers. Each episode of all the seasons so far has been composed by a different person, even if we do have the rotating cast of them. Season 15's writers are made of Andrew Dabb (executive producer and co-showrunner since season 12), Meredith Glynn (producer), Brad Buckner and Eugenie Ross-Leming (aka BL, executive producers), Bobo Berens (executive co-producer and story editor), Davy Perez (co-producer), Jeremy Adams, Meghan Fitzmartin, and Steve Yockey (producer).

Those are 8 writers for season 15, each in charge of 2-3 episodes or less (Meghan and Jeremy wrote one each) and that was that. I'd like to point out, though this might be just my personal opinion, that the show had made leaps and bounds in the growth of both characters and themes since Dabb took over, starting with season 12, I won't dive into that too much. Might make another post about that later.

So the process of writing a season for a show like supernatural, as far as I know as a person who doesn't work in the TV industry, goes a little something like this;

1. What is the season arc? A season arc, for those confused, is the drive of the story - the big problem they need to be solving, a threat looming over their heads constantly. There's one every season, usually paired with a deadline or a bad guy about to do bad guy things. For season 15, it was the fight for free will, at last, and the bad guy was Chuck.

2. Once they figure out the season arc, it's time to decide what they need to do to move the plot along, leaving a few key moments that must be inserted. There are also the character arcs to consider, which were especially important in the last season, to really wrap up their journey (I see you, Dabb, and your 15.10). The character arcs and the story arc usually intertwine at some point, to create motivations for the characters to act. We've seen it with season 10, season 11, season 12, and so forth.

3. And when the character and story arcs are done, the writers (8) divide and start crafting their episodes.

That's the writers, that's their jobs.

For anyone living under a rock, this season made destiel endgame part of the show's text, not the subtext. It was part of the plot, and it drove it. Two character arcs were relying on that plot, and it helped with the main story arc at the end. Bobo Berens, the mastermind behind 9.06 and so forth, wrote 15.03 (their breakup) 15.09 (their make up) 15.12 (their engagement), and finally 15.18 (the confession). Yes, Dean didn't get to say it back. Yes, killing Cas immediately after he said I love you is horrible and I hate it. Was it touching? Of course. Was it heartbreaking? Definitely. But was it Bobo's fault Dean wouldn't say I love you back? Absolutely not.

Bobo is an executive producer - an executive producer is usually the creator, writer, and showrunner of the show, meaning that he not only helps actively create the show, but he also helps write the script, and run the day-to-day production operations. He gets to do stuff most ordinary writers don't. But he answers to the network, like all other producers. And here comes the so-called villain, the one you've all been hating, but using the wrong name for:

The network.

The network producing SPN, the CW, is owned by WB, and those are a lot of acronyms, but they're important. You must realize that the writers, for the start of the season, told us exactly who's the villain. Here's an excellent article explaining why the meta-narrative is important for the show and how the TV Gods Are Watching. I'll be making a brief recounting of the article.

Chuck is the network, not the writers. He's the avatar embodying the network's push for the ending they believe would sell. The network's interested in money, not the fans. If the true ending might mean openly-queer characters and found-family of misfitted orphans, clustered together for the love they chose, not had to accept - it would mean that some people who watch the show, the demographic the network likes to think the show had most of, won't like it. Won't buy the DVD, won't watch the reruns. They also wouldn't be able to sell this to countries that are not okay with queer people, or that disapprove of the message the show would be trying to send.

Chuck is the network because he's pushing for an ending, a horrible ending, that he believes is what needs to happen next. Without the network's green light, nothing may air. The ending the writers wanted for this show, so evident in interviews and in the arc of the story, wasn't able to happen not because of lack of creativity or a big hard-on for fetishizing manpain. It was because it was the ending we wanted, and it couldn't do.

If you want more clarity, my advice is to go back to 15.04, visit the Becky and Chuck scenes - but imagine that instead of them, you're watching the network (Chuck) arguing with the writers (Becky).

The writers tried their best and crafted 18 beautiful, lovely episodes. Then another one that could've worked nicely if 20 went the original way. So don't go blaming the writers, throwing around "the writers this" and "the writers that". Blame the network. Scorn the CW, scorn WB, even. They're the ones who took our ending.

#i snapped #six months later and i'm still not over it #the writers did nothing wrong #(besides BL but we ignore that)#i just took a forty minute break of writing my fic to write this post because i am done #stop saying it was the writers they did nothing #they crafted 1518 #they did their best #spn #fuck the cw #spn writers #spn meta #chi's meta #spn season 15

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mydramatiiclife · 4 years

Text

Apart

Read part one here

Things continue the same for them the next following few weeks. Each night Cas seems to come home later and later. Dean eventually stops waiting up for him. Some nights he even allows himself to go out and have some fun with his brother and friends.

Tonight is one of those nights. He’s enjoying himself with his friends but all he wants is to go home to his husband. He does his best to drown out his feelings with alcohol but eventually the bars close and everyone heads home. While in the lyft headed home, all Dean’s heart is hoping for Cas to be there waiting on Dean for once.

Cas isn’t there when he enters the apartment. He checks every room but there’s no sign of him.

He calls him but after a few rings it goes to voicemail. He gets a text from Cas shortly after, ‘still at the office.’

Dean glances at the top of his phone for the time, 2:45 am.

He doesn’t believe him.

Dean goes to sleep alone with tear filled eyes.

He wakes up the next morning to Cas swearing at the coffee maker. Deans out of bed in an instant and hastily walks to the kitchen.

Everything happens in a bit of a blur. One moment he’s calmly confronting Cas about not coming home last night and the next he’s snatching Cas’ work from him and demanding attention. They're both shouting at the top of their lungs trying to get their points across.

“You knew how much my work meant to me before you married me!” Cas yells.

“Yeah I did. But I didn’t think it would always be like this. I didn’t think I would be competing with your job and Nick.” The last part slips out by accident. He didn’t want to play the jealous paranoid lover but now that it’s out there, he can finally get the truth.

“What does she have to do with anything?” Cas asks incredulously.

Dean’s completely caught off guard by the pronoun. “She?!”

“Yes, Dean, She.”

“I thought Nick was a dude. Ya know N-I-C-K,” Dean spells out the name for clarity.

“No Nic. As in Nicole. N-I-C-O-L-E.”

Dean feels like an idiot. For as long as he’s known Cas, Cas has never been interested in women. “Oh.”

“Is that what’s got you acting like a jealous child? If you would have just asked me instead of jumping to conclusions-”

“Not like you’re ever home for me to ask you anything.” Dean whispers under his breath.

“And even if she was a man, what the hell did you think I was doing, Dean?”

Now, isn’t that the million dollar question.

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “I just know you weren’t home. You’re never home.”

“Not this again,” Cas rolls his eyes. “I told you my work is important to me,” He says exasperated.

“Yeah, but I thought I was too.” Dean says softly.

“Dean, don't be a child.”

Dean’s never felt small.

He can’t do this anymore. He’ll never be first in Cas’ eyes and he’s tired of being second best.

“Okay,” he says defeatedly.

Dean walks quickly into their room and slams the door shut. Tears fall faster than he can wipe away. He’s never felt so alone, so unwanted, so broken.

The one person who can fix it, is the one who caused it. The tears continue to fall as he sits alone on their bed stupidly waiting for Cas to walk through the door and apologize, continue the argument, anything. But he never does.

Dean’s watched his marriage fall apart for the better part of a year. He can’t continue to feel like he’s the only one trying to keep it alive. He’s tired.

He quickly tosses a few things into his overnight bag, wipes his tears, and makes his way out the door.

“Where are you going?” Cas asks. Deans surprised he even noticed. For the short amount of time Dean was gone, Cas has already opened his laptop and started working again. Like their fight was just a small inconvenience to his day.

“To Sam’s.” He answers.

Cas nods absently.

Dean wishes he had an ultimatum to dish out to Cas. Wishes he had the energy to beg his husband to pay attention to him and the current state of their relationship. Wishes he could shake Cas and make him see that he’s about to lose Dean forever.

Dean’s father always said, ‘wishes are for fools.’

Dean’s the biggest fool there is.

*Part 2/3*

Read part three here

#Destiel #destiel fic #deancas #dean winchester #Cas #Castiel novak #dean x castiel #spn #supernatural #more angst #part two #10/31 #two of three

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occult-castiel · 4 years

Text

Takes place s15, night before they try and take Chuck down

It's quiet in the bunker, the night before it's all going to end.

Jack's waiting with Billy, and Sam decided to try and get some sleep sometime after dinner. Dean's been in pajamas just as long, but hasn't fallen asleep by the time Cas slips into his room.

Cas has a bottle of whiskey in hand, fifty-five years old and smoother than anything. It only takes ten minutes for Dean to get him to take his damn shoes off for once, and another thirty seconds to discard both his jackets and tie.

Then he pats the foot of the mattress, and they take turns doing pulls straight from the bottle while they talk.

Dean's propped against his headboard, mostly empty bottle of booze in hand, when it happens.

Dean wets his lips, and his eyes dart from the bottle to Cas and repeats. They settle on the whiskey when he speaks. "So. Got any regrets? Y'know. If we all die."

Cas lifts an eyebrow. "This isn’t the first time we've been at the end of the barrel, so to speak."

Dean's lips quirk up for a moment, somehow still happy at idioms and pop culture references when they come from Cas. It falls as fast as it's there.

Dean clears his throat, sits up straighter. "Yeah, but not like this man."

"That's true." He plucks the bottle up, takes one last swig.

The liquid burns. It shouldn't, like the room shouldn't feel cool, and his shoulder shouldn't ache. But the slow slip of his powers is one more thing going wrong. You have to draw the line in the sand somewhere. So he's already decided he doesn't care, as long as there's something for tomorrow.

"Never thought fratricide would be on my list of sins," he says as he caps the top, passes it back.

Dean's eyes search him, a sharp clarity cuts through any buzz, and he takes the time to examine.

"Yeah, but you lived a long time. Doubt that takes the cake."

He scrunches his nose. For an angel, killing God should top the list.

"It doesn't."

"So," he shifts closer, "what's the big one?"

It's obvious, and he isn't stupid. There's only one reason to ask this now. To press the issue.

His answer is short, to the point. "You."

Dean flinches, his head jerks away. Cas lifts his hand to grab his shoulder, but stalls. Leaves it stuck in the air between them from a moment.

"Dean, look at me."

He doesn't.

Carefully, Cas moves his fingers to Dean's cheek, directs Dean's gaze towards him with a barely-there press.

"You haven’t misread anything. I merely wish... circumstances were different."

Cas drops his hand, let's them both lay in his lap.

When Dean speaks. His voice is quiet. "Different how?"

He gives a humorless laugh. "I wish we didn’t meet in Hell, for starters."

Slowly, Cas looks back up. Dean sits the bottle of alcohol on the floor with a clank. Smooths his tshirt out.

When he talks, he tries to smile. It doesn't touch his face. "What, think we would've met in Heaven after I kicked the bucket?"

And then Cas laughs once, more genuine, but still too close to bitter. "Not at all. But I think you know that's not what I meant."

It's meant to be an offer, one last chance to back out.

Dean's younger darts out, west his mouth. "Then tell me."

It figures this would happen just in time for Cas to not be able to give it. Not fully. He twists the cuffs of his shirt between his fingers as he talks.

"I wish we met..." he sighs. "Somewhere normal. A place where you weren't forced to hunt, and I wasn't like this," he gives a vague motion to his body. The one he wasn't born in, the one he only has because Heaven and Hell wanted to ruin everything.

Dean looks him in the eye, listening. The bed makes no noise when Cas leans a little closer, propped on the ball of his hand next to Dean's knee.

"And then I'd wish we'd talk long enough to want to again. Have this… courtship process in the right order, without all the mistakes and lost time."

"Yeah?" Dean's voice is weak.

He nods. "I regret that we can't be normal, and have a proper first date. It isn't your usual method, but you care about what's expected when you think something is important. We'd have that, in another time."

And it's what he deserves. An average life in all it's forged beauty. Not a string of disasters.

It's almost funny, to imagine. Maybe in a far off reality, they'd get married, and Jack would be a normal kid they adopted. And Sam would've made an excellent lawyer.

Dean’s hand slips forward, gripes his wrist. The hold is loose but firm, and everywhere his skin touches burns. He's shifted enough so they're inches apart, breathing the same air.

"Y'know I— I would. I'd do it proper now, Cas. Still can, just one more fight. We can have it, if you want."

The words sting. He doesn't know.

"I just want everyone safe. But—"

Cas glances at their hands, maneuvers them just enough to tangle their fingers.

"But, to clarify, you take the cake. Not having you. I wish I spent the last handful of years living here, at the least."

"You say that like it's too late."

Because it is. It is too late, and the vocalization of it chokes his throat closed. He flicks his eyes to the wall, tries not to see Dean in his peripheral either.

There's a warrant above his head, just waiting for the right moment, and Dean doesn't know. He'll be confused, lost. More lost than Cas ever thought when he made the deal, and he's left their son the job of explaining it. Because it won't be eons. Every day is numbered.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until Dean grabs them.

"Cas?"

It takes a moment to work past the knot in his throat. "It feels that way."

"Hey," Dean lifts a hand and cups his face, firm. "It isn’t too late. Look at me Cas."

He doesn't, but he also doesn't fight it when Dean guides his gaze back.

There’s a pleading quality to his face. Intense, sharp. The one he gets when he thinks he can convince someone of anything as long as it's right.

It's the kind of look that can convince an angel to fall, in his experience.

So he looks at Dean's mouth instead, watches the way his lips wrap around the words when he speaks.

"It isn't, Cas."

Then Dean kisses him. Tentative, soft. Like Cas might break.

Every muscle Cas has freezes. It shouldn't be a surprise, but once you've thought about something enough times, the reality is always shocking.

And Cas can't move.

Dean's lips are plump, and the two of them slot perfectly together. But this isn't something they can do, not now, not with the Empty, not when they’ll need him in the fight tomorrow—

And then Dean tilts his head just so, and any thoughts of tomorrow, any reservation he should have, leaves.

That one movement is the freshest breath of air he's had in months. Longer, even.

Dean's hand moves to his waist, and he surges forward, haphazard and messy. Dean takes it with a grunt and a fleeting smile Cas can only feel.

It's Heavenly.

Their teeth clank, and the taste of whiskey in their saliva is the sweetest thing on the planet. The smell of Dean's cinnamon-scented shampoo is like a familiar blanket, and he's drowning in all of it.

Kissing Dean isn't like anyone else. It's like slipping headfirst into an endlessly deep bath. He'd only had one once, but it was soothing and warm, a nice simulation of the best embrace he could think of at the time. And this is so much better.

He barely notices it when Dean's hand guides him back into place, then slides it around his neck.

Decidedly, Cas flicks his tongue over Dean's lips. A soft, nearly broken noise catches itself in the back of Dean's throat. Cas pushed in further, weasels a hand to Dean's chest, makes him lay down properly. He climbs on Dean's lap without breaking them apart.

He buries his nose into Dean's cheek, presses their faces together. When Cas drags his teeth over Dean's bottom lip, he moans.

He shivers when Dean tugs his shirt up, the cool air a shock to his heated skin. Dean's hand travels under, paints up his back in a smooth, slow drag. Cas breaks the kiss just so he can breathe.

Their foreheads meld together, and their breaths run ragged. His heart thumps in his eardrums with each inhale. His skin is probably as red as Dean's, flushed deep, mouth puffed red and kiss stained.

After a moment, Cas falls limp, nested into Dean's side.

Dean accommodates him effortlessly. His hand is still a comforting weight on Cas' back, even if the rumbled dress shirt digs into his skin.

When the subtle shake of his hands doesn't fade in the less intense position, he buries it in Dean's shirt.

As subtle as possible, he breathes deep. Once. Twice. Three times.

How he's still alive is a mystery.

Maybe the Empty would think it'd be funnier if it waited until after the battle, or at least in it's best interest. Maybe it's okay, for the night.

His eyes drift up, and Dean's smiling at him, a soft, private thing.

"See?" He says, "Not too late."

Cas twists himself up, brushes their lips. It has an addictive quality to it, the act. Especially when Dean leans in, and slides his fingers through Cas' hair.

And he’s still alive.

When they part, Dean schools his face into neutrality, his body tenses. He runs his hand through his hair once more, trailing down until he holds Cas' face firm.

He opens his mouth. Screws it shut. Opens it again.

"I'm in love with you."

His heart misses a beat, but the rest of him relaxes a fraction more. Tense in a way he wasn’t aware.

There’s a vehemence in the words, a truth that's a half step away from an accusation. He's had to have thought about it, combed the words over on his head until it was second nature.

Cas has known long enough it shouldn't be a surprise, but it still sends a little shock of thrill through him.

Cas takes in a shaky breath. Blinks a few times.

Dean's sea-glass green eyes are beautiful.

And he's surviving this conversation.

"I know."

Dean’s eyebrows pop before he grins, full-faced and toothy. "Are you seriously referencing Star Wars at me?"

Cas' lips curl up. "It’s possible."

Dean doesn’t say anything, just leans in, kisses the side of Cas’ hair, right above his ear.

Cas runs his fingers along Dean's torso. After a few strokes, Dean catches his hand. Slots their fingers together.

Cas speaks, "I—"

He closes his eyes as goosebumps creep along his back.

You are alive, he reminds himself. He's survived the rest of this without being whisked away. He licks his lips and starts again.

"I've loved you so fully in the time we've known each other, that whatever I was before may as well not exist."

And it's the truth. An existence of obedience, where any insolence was erased, wasn't much of an existence at all.

And yes, he loves Sam. And Jack is his son, their son, and he'd die for him. Die for any of them.

But in all his time, nothing has ever been like Dean.

Dean's laugh breezes through his hair. "Geez Cas, tell me how you really feel."

"Tired." He shakes his head, deflates a bit. "Or terrified. Hard to tell."

And then Dean pulls him in, hugs him for all his worth.

"Me too, but we're going to win this. And we're all gonna get out. You're going to, cause I—" his voice breaks off. He takes a deep breath, crushes Cas against him, slotted hard under his chin. "I won’t lose you again. I can't. So just trust me on that, okay?"

When Dean puts it like that, it sounds so simple. Of course they'll be fine. Everyone lives. Things work out, and they'll be tangled together on the couch watching Netflix next week. Of course.

It's simple, the image of contentedness. Dangerous. Clinging onto now is stupid enough.

But Cas doesn't miss a beat when he answers, the word quiet against his chest. "Always."

Dean's finger turns his face up, and his small smile splits into a sloppy grin. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and the beauty of him catches the air in his throat.

There's only so much time to appreciate it.

The hand on Cas' back moves up, and fingers thread through his hair with a gentle reverence. When he guides their mouth together, Cas sinks in easily.

He'd be a fool to feel settled, or safe, and he doesn't. Not truly.

But he can have this. And some part of him does think it could be okay.

He's never been in the business of underestimating the Winchesters, realized that mistake in the first apocalypse. So maybe it'd be a bit foolish to start now.

And if not, at least there's tonight.

#destiel #deancas #hey look at me actually writing #christmas miracle in july #honestly cant tell if im okay with this or not #its completely out of my area of writing #in tense and content #but anyway if youre still reading this #then all Im saying is by the end of s15 cas should be extremely frayed emotionally #poor boy isnt allowed to be happy or he dies #and hes on a murder dad mission #and heaven is on life support and he spent many years help that mess #at least dean loves him #and maybe he gets that now #ALSO im entirely open to critique if you want to point out things!#ok thank you for coming to my tag talk #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic

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loveyourselfcreatively · 4 years

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Supernatural Finale Rewrite

(Author’s Notes: Regarding the finale, that was a lot and there was a lot I would have done differently. Although this isn’t perfect by any means, it’s what I would have liked and most expected from the finale. Hope you all enjoy and are feeling alright!)

Dean’s eyes opened when the sound of his alarm clock stabbed through the veil of sleep he was enjoying. Mechanically, he turned it off and sat up against the headboard, taking a deep breath and stewing on the events of the day prior. For once, he didn’t feel a weight over his shoulders. He didn’t feel like he was playing to someone else’s narrative. This was his first day of free will in his entire life and he felt faintly content about that fact, smiling to himself before his attention was trained upon Miracle. He lifted her up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around the fluffy and recently groomed canine, calmly rocking with her clasped in his arms. Sam was surprised by his affection for the dog but she was important to Dean and he was happy to have her in his corner when he began life without God’s dictation.

After doing his morning routine smoothly, with Miracle by his side, he got to the kitchen, following the tell-tale smell of Sam’s breakfast. He watched his brother use the spatula to unstick the turkey bacon from the skillet, Eileen directly behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist affectionately. She stood on her toes and was able to kiss Sam’s cheek as he smiled similar to how he used to when Dean would tease him about having crushes on girls. They were lucky to have Eileen again. Dean remembered Sam’s attempts to be strong throughout their days of being alone on Earth, eyes on getting people back and having Eileen again. When everyone came back and Eileen showed up at the bunker door, Sam very nearly cried and Dean was just as happy as Sam was relieved.

Although it wasn’t explicitly stated as they drove to investigate the case in Ohio, it felt like one of the last rides. This scared Dean but he also forced himself to accept it. Sam was holding Eileen’s hand even though she was in the back seat and stared out the window at passing trees, fantasizing with a hopeful demeanor. It wasn’t dissimilar to when Sam was getting to be a teenager and looked out the window, secretly fantasizing about going to college but keeping that fact to himself given Dean and John at the time were not very supportive of that idea. Dean was ready to hear this time and with that thought in mind, he stopped looking towards him and focused back on the road, sharing a knowing glance with Eileen, who understood Sam now had his mind on bigger things, in the rearview.

After fighting the vampires and saving those boys, that air of finality was nearly impossible to shake. Dean would have died if Eileen wasn’t there to tag-team the larger vampire with him and he was grateful for her presence. Still, a close-call was a close-call and Sam and Dean realized in that moment that recklessness was a bad practice to have now that God wasn’t protecting them for the sake of a good narrative. Not long after, only weeks following actually, Sam stood in the doorway of Dean’s room following a nice dinner of his own making. He spent hours on it and stewed over it like the day was some kind of occasion, and it was.

Dean was laying on his stomach on the bed, flicking through news stories on his tablet with Miracle curled up by his side unbothered. He glanced up from the tablet and placed it down when he saw the look on Sam’s face. He was struggling with something, brows furrowed but also tilted up with his lips pressed in a thin straight line. Dean wouldn’t prompt him, the words that would soon leave Sam’s lips were his to share. With a shuddering breath, Sam finally said what he wanted.

“Eileen and I, we uh,” he clears his throat and looks away from Dean to the corner of the room. Dean smiled knowingly to himself but remained silent, looking down at the bed spread and scratching at Miracle’s ear as he waited. “We were wanting to go on our own trip, for a while.”

Sam expected a response from Dean, eyes softened with fearful expectation, but he got nothing. The silence wasn’t bad or uncomfortable so he clarified.

“You knew I couldn’t do this so seriously forever,” he chuckles weakly, “she and I will continue of course, can’t forget hunting, but we want to try to move on. Even though she and I… you and I, will never be normal, it’s always been something I’ve wanted to try and I couldn’t comfortably do that the last few times, when you were gone. So, I think now’s the time to…” he scoffs in realization of what he was about to say, squinting his eyes and looking down, “move on I guess?” he laughs out abortively.

Dean finally nods and looks up to his brother, waiting until Sam looked him in the eyes to speak. “I think that’s a good idea, Sammy.”

Sam stood dumbfounded for a moment, not wholly surprised by Dean’s reaction but expecting more.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted and there’s no one here that has as much power to convince you otherwise but yourself.”

A weak but heartfelt smile crossed Sam’s face. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll take up that question on the daily,” he mumbles thoughtfully, “and eventually I’ll figure it out.” Looking up at Sam, he was happy to see he accepted the answer with a nod.

Sam and Dean didn’t talk as much as either would have wanted in the months following Sam and Eileen taking their leave from the bunker. Eileen, as they were planning on passing through Kansas on a casual hunt that interrupted the domesticity they enjoyed prior, suggested they drop by briefly to see how Dean was doing. Sam was happy she suggested it as he wouldn’t have attempted to otherwise, even though he secretly wanted to. When they got there, Baby was nowhere to be seen but Sam disregarded that. He asked if Eileen wanted to join him but she insisted their reunion was to be had between one another and that she’d join him soon enough prompting Sam to enter the dark bunker.

His brows furrowed as he turned on the lights and looked around, finding his own barren room and eventually finding Dean’s, although, it didn’t look like Deans. None of his stuff was there any longer and it seemed as though the only remnants of anyone being there in the first place was the scratching on the table in the main room and the very faint, concerning smell of smoke that permeated throughout the bunker. Not long after scoping out the place, he called Dean’s main phone, making his way out as he did so. Eileen was confused and waited for Sam to fill her in on why Dean didn’t join him but relaxed when Sam’s demeanor relaxed as well; the call was picked up.

“Hiya, Sammy, how are you and Eileen?” he said with a smile in his tone.

“Are you on a hunt?” Sam asked even though he was aware Dean’s lack of belongings at

the bunker implied more than a simple hunt.

Dean picked at his fries and ate another, waving off a waitress politely before she could ask if he was enjoying his meal. He was sitting on the outside patio of a diner with Miracle by his side. “I’m not actually.”

Bated silence was all that could be heard on Sam’s end.

“I thought about what you said, about moving on, and I thought I’d give it a try. Still hunting but I’m doing what I want, I guess,” he chuckles, coming off as genuinely happy, “that’s all we can really do, huh? So I’m giving it a try.”

“You’re not hunting anymore?”

“Woah woah woah, of course I’m still hunting, I’m just not… well… it’s whatever comes to me.” Dean thought of his words and frowned, the part of his father in him reminding him he was selfish for not spending every waking hour hunting. “Does that make me selfish, Sam?” he asked in a moment of clarity.

Eileen watched Sam intently, garnering an understanding from their interactions based on Sam’s facial expressions and words. His eyes were wide but sparkly in happiness, mouth opened and twitching as though he wanted to say something. His brows raised up suddenly and she instantly recognized a powerful “no” leaving his lips. He was happy despite his admonishment, and so was she. Dean, likely, had left for good, and she was happy for what that meant for the both of them.

Sam had an air about him following that interaction. He was happy and spoke to Dean often. In his childhood and adulthood he always feared one of them would die too young to see the other grow old. If that didn’t happen, he was sure they would have a large fight and never make up, but they remained close despite those predictions. Dean was there for nearly every Christmas and Thanksgiving that followed the phone call, even though he said it was only for the food. Dean hadn’t been the only one to join Sam and Eileen during the holidays at their home, of course.

Jody, with Donna and the girls, joined often and teased the boys for their old age every year and Dean remained close with Claire following his absence from the bunker. Sam didn’t think to think too much about it but, more times than not, when Dean visited Sam casually, Claire was in tow, always eager to join him on hunts and growing into a capable young woman with a penchant for medicine. That fact reassured Sam that Dean was not likely to be lost with her beside him during hunts.

Miracle’s passing was followed up by Sam and Eileen having a baby girl. Sam and Dean’s makeshift family followed the latter journey every step of the way. Charlie had been excited to have her own as well so it wasn’t abnormal to see her drop by and ask Eileen how she's feeling and if she had any advice to give if Charlie wanted to have one of her own with her girlfriend by her side. Eileen was more than happy to oblige and answer those questions for her.

When she was born, the waiting room was flooded with over forty hunters from their universe and the apocalypse universe that no longer existed. Mary was calm and mild mannered like both of her parents. She would likely be just as smart as her parents and Dean never hesitated to let her know that when he visited them for the holidays following.

By the time Mary was seven, Charlie had a baby of her own and proudly showed him off to the group of hunters and friends that joined the Thanksgiving celebration that year. Mary, eager, asked her dad when Uncle Dean would be coming and Sam insisted she had to be patient, which she desperately attempted to do. All her suppression of excitement during the hours of waiting for her uncle resulted in an explosion of squeals when Dean entered and scooped her up playfully. Funnily enough, everyone predicting she would be calm and mild-mannered was negated by her favorite uncle’s brash nature.

“There’s my girl!” he spoke excitedly and groans as he tries to lift her up as high as he would have normally but he got about halfway before placing her down on the ground and smirking at her. “You’re getting to be just as tall as your daddy, huh?”

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes before they focused in on a larger box Dean had stuck into his bag with a pink bow. “What’s that, Dean?”

“Huh? Oh, this?” he whips out the box and smirks down at Mary, “I don’t know, Mary, what do YOU think this is?”

“It’s a Christmas present!”

“Yep, needed to get this to your daddy early, you still need to wait a month though.”

She groaned but accepted the situation before smiling and running off to dote over Aunt Charlie’s baby.

Dean walked up to Sam and handed him the gift, eyes bright as he looked over the individuals in the room. Sam spoke, still looking down at the box in his hands.

“This mean you won't be coming over for Christmas?”

Dean glanced back towards the gift thoughtfully before looking towards Sam. “You know I hate to miss Christmas, giving it to you early just in case. Have a few cases on the roster that I’m considering and if any of them bleed into Christmas, I wanted Mary to at least get a gift from me, you know?”

“Not working yourself silly?”

“Nah, just doing all the good I can manage. I’m human, after all,” Dean says with a smile.

Sam was happy for the words but frowned as he figured Dean would have had a wife by that point if he wasn’t actually working himself silly. Was Dean lying to him? It was something Sam had been concerned about since Mary turned three but opted to be more patient with Dean than anything. Patience was what he deserved.

Sam, sitting at the table with everyone in tow, happily reflected on the memory of his Dean witnessed years ago: sitting with another family during the holidays enjoying their food and the family life he couldn’t relate to at the time. This Thanksgiving wasn’t unlike any of the others and Sam reflected on that memory and the life he made for himself often. Dean and Sam met stares like they did every other Thanksgiving when they truly realized how lucky they were until it got to the end of the night when the kids were tired and the adults were respectfully tipsy.

As everyone chatted following dinner, Sam couldn’t help but notice his brother was missing from the festivities. Mary had been settled so it wouldn’t have been unsurprising for Dean to lose interest and find a chair to sleep on but Sam still couldn’t find him. Finally, he caught the image of his brother leaning over the fencing on the back porch, beer bottle in hand as he looked over the dark field ahead. The view provided nothing crazy aside from the decent sight of the stars up above.

Sam joined him and stared ahead, words, unspoken, behind his closed lips as he stewed in the silence. He glanced behind him towards the group of friends, partially obscured, and his gorgeous wife, and used that for fuel for the statement he’d been keeping to himself for a few years at that point. “You ever plan on settling down like this? Have a wife and kids? Is that on your mind at all?” Sam’s eyes were softened with concern towards his brother. He noted that Jody had been right about the years never ceasing to pass. While he himself had greying hairs on his temples, Dean’s hair now took on a dull brown look, fading rather than greying. His wrinkles were deepening as well but not in a way Sam disliked. His frown lines remained how they always were but his crows feet were extra defined. Despite Sam’s worries, Dean was a happy man.

Those crows feet only deepened when his question prompted a smile from Dean. He had been still during the silence but his hand flexed around the neck of the beer bottle as he looked down and thought up a viable answer for his worried brother. “May not be what you wanted for yourself but I like how things are for me right now. It’s not normal but it's humble and unpredictable without being dangerous. Best of what you and I wanted for me if I ever got this far,” he laughs out.

Sam let out his own abortive laugh with softened eyes. Dean was privy to visits and was with Claire a lot but surely he couldn’t be happy without a partner and children of his own, right? Almost as though Dean read his mind, he continued.

“I wouldn’t mind having a kid though, if I ever feel I’m ready for it but…” he sighs softly, eyes bright, “Claire is good.”

“You see Claire as your kid?” Sam spoke softly and acceptingly.

Dean nods, “yeah, I think I do,” he chuckles almost in disbelief, “she, uh…” he tried and failed to stifle a smile, “she called me dad on a phone a few months ago and uh… I don’t know, man, it just felt right.”

Sam noticed Dean’s eyes were wet with sentimentality and nodded, eyes growing calm as he remembered watching her grow following Cass taking her father’s vessel. Sam’s eyes softened as he thought about the angel but didn’t speak of him.

Dean swallowed down his emotions and continued despite his better judgement. Sam gave off an air of openness that Dean finally decided he was willing to adhere to.

“I never told you what happened before Cass died, did I?”

Sam’s eyes widened and looked towards Dean eagerly.

Dean recognized his eagerness and faintly felt bad that he kept Sam in the dark in all the years he spent coping. Some part of him had hoped he could have Cass himself explain. Clearing his throat and nodding to himself for hype, he explained.

“Cass sacrificed himself so the Empty could come take Death away, you know that but… Well.” Dean warily looked towards Sam.

Sam responded with a patient look and Dean regained his confidence.

“Cas made some kind of deal with the Empty at some point, don’t know when. He told me the deal was when he became happy, he’d be taken away.”

Sam’s brows furrowed, not understanding where this was going.

Dean cleared his throat again, now gripping the neck of his beer bottle and staring as deeply into the dark as he could, attempting to place himself as far away from the house as he could manage subconsciously. “He told me he loved me, Sammy.”

Sam’s mouth gaped.

“He,” Dean took a deep shuddering breath, unable to stand still as he dropped his thousand yard stare and hung his head, momentarily overwhelmed with the confession, “he told me loved me and that that was good enough. That he was happiest being honest with me about it, and then he…”

Sam now understood and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder as if he was telling him he didn’t have to explain what happened after.

“Sammy?” his voice was hoarse and surprisingly fearful but overwhelmingly vulnerable. Sam felt like Dean was a kid again but this was different because Dean never allowed Sam to console him, that was always Dean’s job.

“Yeah, Dean?”

Dean was now white knuckling the bottle as he shuddered. “Sammy, I think I loved him too,” he choked out painfully and raised his head, eyes wet as he looked up at the stars in hopes that the tears would cease. He placed the bottle on the raising so he could use his free hand to cover his eyes and rub the evidence of hurt from his face

Sam didn’t see much but he saw Dean’s face flush and mouth tense as he tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to spill from his mouth and gave in, using the hand on his shoulder to drag him into a powerful hug, silent because all Dean needed in that moment was comfort. Eventually, Dean gained the ability to speak in a way that was understandable, breaths evening.

“I tried so hard to get him back.”

Sam pulled away slightly to scrutinize him, willing to serve disappointment if Dean’s words meant he would have been willing to sacrifice himself again. Dean responded by nodding his head no.

“After you left, I spent those months looking for anything. I wouldn’t summon the Empty but I just wanted to know if he was there. I wanted to talk to him but nothing worked, Sam.”

Sam recalled the smell of smoke in the bunker when he got there to look for Dean after he left and he realized.

“I just wanted to know if he was there but it was like,” Dean froze in the middle of his sentence, remembering sitting on the dock with a line in front of him and Cass by his side. He squeezed his eyes shut to compose himself before going on, “it was like I was casting a line with bait that could only get the attention of one fish but hours would pass and days would pass and nothing ever bit. It was like Cass wasn’t there at all, Sam. And I was so…” he stops himself briefly but continues, “I wasn’t really okay with it until I thought that, even though Cas was gone for good, he would want me to use that free will I worked so hard for and he would want me to live for myself and do what I wanted.”

Sam was crying calmly, a tear streaking down his slightly aged face occasionally as Dean spoke.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to feel the way I realized I felt about Cass for someone else but I’m okay with that, Sam,” he speaks, looking into Sam’s eyes and cupping his cheek, “I’ll be okay.”

Sam scoffed out a laugh through his tears as he nodded and accepted the comfort.

“I’ll be okay because,” he looked down, gathering the words in his mind before speaking them out to the world, “happiness isn’t just in the having, it’s in the being and feeling.”

Sam couldn’t stop himself from thinking back to all the times he admonished Dean for his loyalty to Cass, for his anger directed at Cass that was mostly fueled by disappointment rooted in love, all the arguments they had that he involved himself in, and suddenly his jokes back then weren’t all jokes.

Dean begins genuinely crying and glances back towards the window and into the warm house. Eileen was peeking around the corner curiously but Dean feigned a smile for her before looking back at his brother. “You have something so good.”

Sam smiled and nodded, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so before once again meeting his big brother’s eyes.

“It’s something you built for yourself and I’m so damned proud of you, Sam,” he lovingly used the hand against his cheek to shake his head about playfully, “my baby brother.”

Sam lets out a wet laugh as he allows Dean to lead them into pressing their foreheads together. Both brother’s realized that was likely the last time Dean would tell Sam he was proud of him, not because he would be disappointed later, but because he achieved his ultimate happiness with Eileen and the family he and Dean built together.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

Bobby was shaken from his trance as he stared ahead at the world Jack built for them. He enjoyed having John, Mary, and his other friends nearby nearly as much as he enjoyed stewing in the calmness. Sitting on the porch and enjoying stillness was something he did on Earth and would continue to do throughout the afterlife.

“Hopefully not anytime soon.”

An awkward silence was the response and Bobby realized the man misinterpreted his words, “I meant anyone that’s not here already, you jackass,” he chuckles out affectionately, patting the chair and handing the man a beer when he joins him.

Cass scrutinized the bottle before tipping the liquid into his mouth and joining Bobby in the bliss of commonality despite not being fond of the taste. “Do you think they’ll like it here?”

“They’ll love it but they better not get here too soon.”

Cass looked towards Bobby with a warm, calm smile and nodded in agreement, looking back ahead at the gorgeous expanse before them.

#supernatural #supernatural finale #spn 15x21 #supernatural 15x21 #supernatural fix-it #supernatural fanfiction #destiel #saileen #dean x castiel #sam x eileen

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spnsmile · 4 years

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SPN CODA 15X13

“Hey, what’s going on?” Dean calls when he spots Cas and Jack preoccupied with the table.

“Oh.” the Nephilim flickers dull, soulless eyes over the hunters who just came back from a wild goose chase.

“Jack-” Castiel begins warily but too late.

“Cas was just telling me to eat his heart.”

Absolute silence reigns in the Bunker. A stillness too painful with hiking tension and pounding of hearts.

Jack couldn’t possibly understand it, but the way he saw how Dean had looked at Castiel scared him. Sam’s stare was pure bafflement, but Dean’s?

It was indescribable. The Nephilim couldn’t even put it into words. What was it that made him wary of Dean when he woke him up inside the cowboy room?

That feeling with a gun pointed on his head? It’s the same feeling except… Dean didn’t need his gun to have the same effect. The Nephilim couldn’t help glancing at the angel who tried to keep up with the hunter in a battle of eye contact, but he soon failed. And when Cas fails to have eye contact with Dean? There’s that one word that popped up his head and it spelled one thing.

Disaster.

It’s Sam. It’s always Sam who breaks the ice and for that, Jack will always be grateful.

“Cas, that’s not helping.”

Castiel diverts his eyes to Sam with tightness on his throat. “I know, I just…”

“He did tell me it’s only for the last resort.” Jack pipes up, trying to be helpful. He wondered if it was, but the way Dean’s eyes glints dangerously in his direction has him clamping his mouth. It’s like that gun again, heavy and… Much more. But Dean’s expression closes at once and he is turning away before anyone can speak again.

“Great. Uh, yeah you guys have some good talk. I’m gonna go take a shower.” he waves his hand and goes, leaving Sam sighing heavily while Castiel swallows hard.

Very hard. And then the angel just stands up too and trails after Dean’s footsteps. Jack exhales so loud and leans back on his chair with large eyes at the entrance to the corridor where Castiel’s back disappeared.

He turns to Sam with dry lips.

“That was… Scary.” he shifts on his chair while Sam slowly takes the space Castiel just left. By the looks of his face, Sam has plenty to say and Jack would rather have that than Dean’s whose silence can kill.

“Jack… Let’s talk.”

***

The footsteps in the corridor are heavy. The scurrying footsteps behind him are lighter and barely touching the floor with his pace.

“Dean-”

No answer.

“Dean!”

The hunter doesn’t bother as he turns to the next corridor till he’s in front of his room. He pulls on the doorknob when a hand slams it shut from his back.

Castiel finally catches up behind him.

Dean grits his teeth but he doesn’t turn. He closes his eyes patiently with a throbbing vein at the side of his head. He gotta cool it down.

“Cas, I want to enter my room.”

“Dean, I-” Castiel’s voice is all over the place the way it cracks and hesitates over his words.

That’s unfair. He shouldn’t be the one feeling broken. Dean hates the shaken tone. The way it sounded to him, Cas was certain wit what he wanted to happen.

“Your hand. Take it off, I want in.”

“Dean, you know I only said that as a last consent in case there’s no other choice. And I-”

“It’s okay. I get what you want to do.” Dean opens his eyes.

Clarity is there. Cas is doing, saying what he thinks must be done. And Cas has always been right about stuff, always looking far ahead unlike him who can only see as far as his shoes, only live in the moment and act at the moment.

If it’s being objective compare to being emotionally controlled, then it’s probably Cas who gets the right call.

Dean isn’t good when it comes to his priorities and he thinks he never will be, so he left the table before he could say anything horrible.

He’s done being horrible to Cas.

“Dean, let me at least explain. It’s not anything sacrificial or me throwing myself away-”

“Dean…”

“It’s alright, I just gotta sort stuff.” he can’t look Cas in the eyes. He chews his dried lips and at least gives a side glance to his best friend. “It’s fine, Cas… I’m not…”

“I still want to talk,” Cas says quickly, eagerly.

“Fine. Talk."

Cas seems ready for the crossfire. He never did back down from the hunter.

"Dean, you're angry about the "heart but it isn't what you think it is."

"Oh sure. Because there's a metaphor for offering their hearts to get eaten! Jack said it clear! How else am I supposed to interpret that, Cas!?" Dean bites down his bottom lip tight. The pain doesn't even register, he could make it bleed and it wouldn't make a difference.

What bothers him is the angel still acting like it's no big deal.

"This heart thing isn't a coincidence. Just how many angels do you think are still out there?" Cas doesn't even know any pedal breaks and Dean's just itching to tackle him but at that closed space?

"Yeah, noticed that huh? Good. Spot on."

Castiel frowns while he clasps his hands together.

"I think we would be blinding ourselves at the possibility. But, it's as Jack said... it's a last resort if needed be, Dean and I... I am just as much willing to bet my life on Jack if that's what it takes to win."

A win. Dean hung his head as he remembers. This isn't just about them anymore.

"I know." he just nods again, throat burning like he's just taken the strongest whiskey. A win they needed badly where sacrifices will happen. How could he forget? "I know," he repeats more firmly with heart sinking.

"If you know..." Cas tilts his head, voice gravelly. "Then why are you still angry?"

"I'm not. I mean... What do you want me to say?" he flickers a lookup, the force in the meeting of their eyes are full static this time, silent with intensity and meaning but its the quiver of resignation in his deep voice that gets Cas leaning forward with all intent to invade space.

"At least don't leave me behind. Stop walking away from me while we're both here." Castiel says behind his ears and the shiver that runs on his spine jolting a reaction over his pants. "I'm trying here, Dean."

Try harder." Dean's voice is rough as he wills calm, summon it with all his heart for his body to stop aching for touch.

"Dean..." Cas's voice now turns resigned and it's unfair. Dean turns his head from the front seat and locks eyes with the angel and just lets him see everything. It's futile to pretend a wall still exists between them. Not with the pooling heat inside his jeans.

Not that he needed Cas to know...

"I'm not angry that you think you have to make that call... Hell, every year I make one single wish you and Sam would kill me."

"Dean-" Cas just looks hurt so Dean finally gives in and raises his body from his chair, feet stepping carefully on the front sear before hooking it on the other side.

Castiel watches him dive on the next empty seat at the far end with his bowlegs making it easier to land. After a few more shifting of legs and ass, Dean sits up beside the angel and sighs.

"S' matter with me saying it? How this ends, its gonna be ugly, you just gave a very good example of one. There's no happy ending here, Cas, and there's no point pretending. We know what's waiting for us there. There's no saving the day without all of us kicking god's bucket list, but..."

But...

He looks up with as much determination enough to gey Cas attention when he adds-

"You will not lose yourself to Jack. Don't make it horrible for him, man. I've been there...me wanting you guys to kill me, I just want it to end." Dean peers at the blue round eyes, initiating the end of distance this time when he slides closer to the angel. Dean nods at the angel seriously.

"Jack may be soulless now, and he got a mission. But you don't let yourself die on his hands because at the end of the day? That blood? It's what will make Jack. You make him promise to do the horrible and he will do just equal horrible to everything. That's what you need to see. You get to die... and you get to destroy Jack at the same time. D'you really want that to happen, Cas?"

Castiel stares at him. Just looks and this time, the blue eyes don't look as confident. Dean blames himself for doing that so he gives him an apologetic look.

At least Cas looks like he will listen now. That's enough for the rocks grinding down Dean's stomach to disappears much to his relief.

He can convince Cas. He can convince his angel to take it all back. Convince Cas there's still a way other than him being another sacrifice. Dean can do all that part later on, but at least, he wants Cas safe. Wants him okay. Just... Wants him.

He wants Cas.

Cas looks soft and lost the way his eyes fall down his hands, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he takes in Dean's words. Out of instinct, Dean caresses his smooth cheeks without thinking. Cas looks broken and maybe Dean feels the same way too because that's how it's always been. They damn broken people together, repairing the other.

His touch lights life back in the blue eyes. Before he knows it, Cas grabs a fistful of his collar but stays an arms-length away, leaving Dean with heart up his throat and butterflies flapping inside his guts.

"Cas-”

"I don't want to... I can't leave Jack..."

"Yeah, sure." Dean feels a tinge of jealousy, but he cannot be selfish now. Cas has found another reason, another being to be faithful to, to be loyal to and Dean's not cutting it with him being at the center of all death and destruction.

He gotta let go of his angel too.

"Stay with Jack. He'll need you when all of this is over. He's already lost his mom and I don't think we need to look up my hand for palm reading, we know I won't make it there,"

Cas grip on his collar tightens.

"I told you to stop saying that," he growls, pulling Dean even closer enough to leave the hunter crosseyed. "I'm not going to lose you, Dean."

"It's okay. I'll get there in the end anyway."

"I don't want to lose you." Castiel falls silent for a moment.

"You won't." Dean wished he could believe that himself. "It's you I'm worried about."

"Why?" Cas wraps an arm across Dean's chest, head comfortably on top of the man's chest.

"Cas, you basically just told Jack to go all "The Ripper on you. And you know who's the big bad wolf behind my back... Let's not make promises here."

"Dean." Castiel pulls Dean so they're facing each other again. I don't want to lose you."

Dean just kisses his lips in answer. Sweet and very much in need, he lets Cas lead this time until he is breaking away.

"Tell me," Cas says gruffly, letting Dean up a little so their eyes meet again.

"What."

"Tell me to stop wanting to take you away." he confesses, "To bring you somewhere safer where nothing like this can hurt you... Can take you away... Please, Dean."

Dean opens his eyes. He could feel Cas's body tensing. Could feel Castiel's forlorn soul in need of consolation. Half of him wants to tell the angel he can't. Half of him wants to tell Cas there's no escaping their fate this time. No resurrection, no reruns of the show but just...fucking cold-

"Dean..."

It was said with urgency and need that has the hunter reacting on instinct. Dean slinks his hands around the angel's chest He grazes his forehead past the wet lips and damp cheeks. Cas had been crying.

Pained, Dean reaches and cups Castiel's face like its everything he needs on his hands. The angel looks at him, eyes wet from tears and how could Dean not say it? How could he even doubt it?

"Then we win."

Cas blinks. "What?"

Dean grits his teeth. "We win..we don't let that bastard win. Cause as much as you want to take me away, I wanna do the same thing. But... Our feet wouldn't take us far. Running away will only give us grace time, but it won't solve anything..."

He wipes the tears away, hating the way Castiel is breaking to pieces about something that hasn't passed. Dean decides he doesn't want that. He embraces Cas again.

"We're gonna win this with us both living... All of us... We're gonna win this to live, not to die, you hear me, Cas? Let's not think of dying while living, hear me?"

Castiel nods, burying his face on Dean's neck with fingers holding the man's arm tight and at that moment, Dean's heart swells. He remembers everything he has been fighting for since the beginning. At that moment, he felt like he can protect everything. Protect Cas and his family and they'll be damned if anyone tries and stops him.

The nip on his neck reminds him of another thing. He pulls back to look the angel in the eyes, Castiel who follows his neck with lust dancing in those blue eyes, eager and wanting. In love.

Protect Cas he will. ✨

Aw! I found the keep reading hehe. Also full form on A03 but that's EXPLICIT tag so... ❤ anyways :)

#Castiel x dean winchester #destiel fic #ao3 #lockdownfest #deancas #Casdesn #castiel loves dean #15x13 coda #supernatural

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snowbellewells · 5 years

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The Lawman, the Thief, and the Outlaw

by: @snowbellewells

(Here we are, at long last!! I am so excited to present the Rio Bravo AU I have been thinking about and wanting to write for so long. As we are now just a little under three weeks away from Netflix’s “Heartstrings” and seeing Colin as a cowboy, I had to get going on this and channel that excitement. If you have ever seen the old John Wayne/Dean Martin/Ricky Nelson/Walter Brennan Western “Rio Bravo”, then this will follow a lot of the basic plot points, though I will take some of my own twists and turns as well. I definitely have to give it some inspirational credit, as well as @theonceoverthinker for her help with a few plot issues I was trying to wrangle, and for the lovely ladies on the Discord chat: @kmomof4 @profdanglaisstuff @ultraluckycatnd @darkcolinodonorgasm @teamhook @wellhellotragic for helping me with title suggestions.

Please enjoy, and I’d love to hear what you think of this opening!!)

Summary: Sheriff Killian Jones has done his best to leave behind a troubled past and bring law and order to the town of Blanchard Ridge. However, when he upholds his duty in the face of the most feared and dangerous outlaw gang in the area, allies are few and he dreads trapping them in the same situation he finds himself. The small Western town is about to become a powder keg, and one lawman, his deputies, and a resourceful woman too stubborn for her own good are all that stand in the way of bloodshed and lawlessness...

Chapter One

Sun beat down brutal and unyielding from the hot August afternoon sky onto the packed dirt of Main Street in Blanchard Ridge while the town was sleepy and still; not even the bark of a dog or the clop of hooves from a passing rider disturbed the dusty hours before the evening meal. The stage was due in at four, but as far as Killian Jones’ sharp gaze could reach from where he sat, chair tilted back on the wooden slats of the porch, appearing relaxed and lazy, nothing moved in the time of the ‘siesta’ as their neighbors just a few hours south in Pioche would call it.

Though all appeared normal - more still than normal, even - in the sleepy little town he was meant to watch after, Jones was not about to drop his guard; he had learned long ago that calm could turn to chaos on a dime, and he aimed to be ready when the storm came. Idly, he flicked his pocket knife along the grain of the whittling stick he worked as he sat surveying the nearly deserted street, hoping to convey boredom despite every sense being keenly attuned, nerves jangling in a way that warned him something was coming - even if he didn’t yet know what it might be. He hadn’t survived as long as he had, nor gained the reputation he possessed, by growing careless, and he trusted his instincts. He slowly let his hand slide down casually, almost without notice, making certain his favorite Colt Single Action was in its holster, before going back to the soft humming and carving he’d employed since he took up his seat just past the noonday meal, upon his return from lunch at the Nolans’, and since his deputy, Scarlet, had taken off for the afternoon.

Reflecting for a moment as he watched heat shimmer in waves before his eyes, Jones knew that he was far from the typical lawman, even in these rough territories, and the irony of his ending up here wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t give himself leave to think much on the twists and turns his life had taken, and he tried not to waste much time debating whether or not he deserved the opportunity and trust he had been granted, seeing as how neither did anyone a lick of good. But on long, lonesome afternoons such as this one, when the parched brown earth and flat, monotonous chaparral stretched before him as far as the eye could see - such a contrast from the verdant rolling hills and cool breezes of Ireland, from whence he’d immigrated with his father and brother more years ago than he could rightly count - he did sometimes wonder how he had wound up here in the desert. He was a haunted man, and he didn’t like to leave the gate open to thoughts of the past any longer than he could help it, so he slammed it closed before they could go much further. Suffice to say, he’d been offered a second chance on the right side of the law, to be part of something that wouldn’t lead to jail, lynching, or death in some back alley from a knife in the back, and he had taken it.

There was only one inmate in the jail behind him, but it was one more than usual in the peaceful settlement where folks generally got along and abided by the few simple laws there were. It had him on edge, this Felix Nightshade in their cells, and it was why he had sent Will out for a few hours when he had, so they would both be around once night fell. They’d bunk in the jail, just to be cautious. Nightshade himself might only be a bank and stagecoach robber, interchangeable with any other, but word had it that he was the lieutenant to Pan Malcolm himself, the feared and bloodthirsty outlaw who had lead the notorious Lost Boys gang terrorizing the state for some years. Killian expected a rescue attempt to come before the Federal Marshals came to fetch Nightshade and take him into custody, and if so, he reckoned they would strike under cover of darkness. It was what he would do himself.

He was standing to stretch his long legs and lean frame from the stiffness of sitting in one position for too long when the ground beneath his feet began to tremble and there was a rumbling sound like distant thunder suddenly drawing near. A cloud of dust kicked up on the horizon and drew ever closer, until Killian began to think that he had been wrong to surmise his adversary would wait for nightfall, when he recognized what was coming. His stance eased and his hand once more slid away from his six shooter as ‘yips’ and ‘haws’ rang out with the sound of hooves and the lowing of cattle. A train was driving their herd into town.

From under the awning, the sheriff waited to see if he knew any of the riders, but it was the distinctive brand on the cows themselves as they jostled into view taking up the whole street in a lumbering river, that let him know whose livestock had arrived. The ornate “O” interlocked with a “Q” told him the whole lot of them were a former compadre of his, Robin Sherwood’s, and coming from his ranch out on the Rio Bravo river, a prime bit of real estate that had been in his second wife’s family for generations. Another former immigrant, and once ne’er-do-well like Killian himself, Rob had found love, married a powerful heiress and become one of the most prominent cattle ranchers around, going respectable with impressive style and giving his spread the name Outlaw’s Queen. Jones didn’t know Rob’s wife all that well, didn’t even see his friend that often, as the ride out to their land was long and he didn’t often give himself days off, but she was rumored to be quite the lady. Robin truly did treat her as royalty… and was happy to do so.

Chuckling, Killian moved forward as the herd cleared through, driven into the holding pens down by the livery kept for such wagon trains passing through, then came down the steps to meet Sherwood as he swung from the saddle, smiling widely and already calling out a greeting. The rest of his riders, including the young orphan he had taken under his wing upon hiring him as a ranch hand back in the spring, moved the cattle on, slowing them as they neared the large corral and began to guide them through the gate.

Killian had started down the weathered plank steps of the boardwalk to the packed dirt of the street, and already had his hand out to shake Rob’s, even as his old friend moved forward in a similar fashion, when the loud crack of a gunshot ran clearly in the afternoon air. Even over the lowing and stamping of the herd, the sound was unmistakable, ricocheting off the buildings and startling everyone nearby, who ducked instinctively. Unfortunately, the bullet had already found a target. Whether its intended one or not, the damage was the same, and Robin Sherwood listed to the side horribly, crashing to his knees at the foot of the steps, his hand going almost dazedly to where blood was already seeping through his shirts at the ribs.

“Rob!” Killian called out an alarmed warning too late to do the other man any good. Even as Killian hurried the last few steps to where his friend was slumped in the street, still breathing, though painfully labored, but unable to right himself from his knees where he had crumpled. “Mate, hang on,” Jones added fervently, as he knelt to survey the damage. Where the bullet had entered, if it had exited cleanly or was still inside, played a huge part in what could be done for the rancher. And even as he looked, Killian was also remaining in a crouch himself, hoping to make as small a target as possible for the unseen gunman, and keep an eye on their surroundings in case more shots were yet to come.

Chaos had erupted around them at the crack of the gunshot; the straggling cows not yet in the corral threatened to stampede in fright, and the rest of Sherwood’s riders darted here and there, whooping and hollering to keep their animals in line. All except one of them -

Killian swallowed back an unwanted lump of emotion trying to burn its way up his throat at the sound of young Henry’s cracked voice crying out an anguished “No!” over the melee, his horse thundering up to the hitching post near them and his gangly legs swinging into Killian’s view as he dismounted and slid to his knees beside them, looking to the sheriff for some sort of reassurance. Killian honestly didn’t know if it was the living hope still alight in the youth’s wide brown eyes - not yet having lived long enough in the crooked old world to have lost faith in things turning out alright - or if it was the vivid flash of horrific memory, bringing his brother’s pained face, as he last remembered seeing it, swimming with ghastly clarity before his eyes too quickly for him to fully shutter it away. Jones didn’t have time for sentiment; the shooter needed to be found. He also needed to be certain no other citizens were hurt, and see to Rob’s wounds once the dust settled. It looked as though the injury had been a clean through-and-through shot, and if he could get Sherwood to Nolan’s without his losing too much blood, he thought David’s pretty, fresh-faced wife: cook, seamstress, and pretty much anything else a person could call for, could stitch him up while they got Doc Hopper to make sure no infection set in.

The melee around them seemed to be settling down; the riders herding the rest of the cattle into the pen safely and no further shots coming from wherever the assailant’s hiding place had been. The thought that the bullet in Rob’s side had quite probably had his own name on it, was another thing Killian Jones had no time to ruminate on. Clearly the shooter had turned tail when they’d botched the job of taking the Sheriff out of commission, and ridden back for further instructions rather than risking discovery. From what Jones had heard of Malcolm and the precision with which he expected his orders to be followed, the law man reckoned that bloke had every bit as unpleasant a few hours in front of him as Robin did with people poking and prodding at his side.

Pushing all his numerous worries and concerns back for the moment, Killian met the eyes of the lanky young man before him, “Henry, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded, not saying anything, but acknowledging the sheriff’s words with a determined furrow of his brow, trying manfully to hold in his obvious fear and worry for his adopted father. Killian was grateful for the youth’s gumption, even if he hated asking more yet. He knew well how much Sherwood must mean to the lad. When Henry had arrived in town back in the spring, by far the oldest child on the Orphan Train that had driven through seeking homes to take their charges in, it had been clear that a boy of nearly fourteen was not the age most childless families were hoping to start out with. Robin, however, having lost a first wife and young son who would have been about Henry’s age to the influenza years prior, hadn’t hesitated for a second when Killian had mentioned the boy’s plight to him. It did some good to even Jones’ toughened and grizzled outlook on the world to see that the arrangement had worked out better than he could have hoped. Aiming to put some semblance of encouragement in his tone he added, “I think he’ll recover if we can stop the bleeding and get him sewn up,” he offered.

Moving to brace Robin on one side, and gesturing Henry to do the same under his arm on the right, between the two of them they got Sherwood to his feet, thought unsteadily and leaning on their combined strength. In a shuffling walk they had soon guided him across the way to the inn and restaurant, finding its proprietor, David Nolan, already at the door and coming to help usher them in to safety, his petite, dark-headed wife Mary right behind.

In a better moment, Killian might have shaken his head and laughed at the pair of them, never far from one another and both with hearts as wide as the Rio Grande itself, always trying to do what they could for anyone in need who came to their door. He’d had Mary’s cool, soft hands fluttering over him more than once after some on-the-job injury in the line of duty, and so he knew the woman must already be itching to get her hands on Rob and do what she could to ease his pain.

To speak his mind plainly, Killian would have been forced to admit that he’d often wondered how two people as fine as the Nolans, whose very nature and bearing spoke of class and manners unheard of this far West, had ended up in this rugged New Mexican outpost. They both were too kind, too open and trusting for their own good, and Killian spent more time than he would admit to hoping they weren’t robbed or taken advantage of by whatever rough characters might come riding through. Yet beneath the surface, where he sensed there may once have been a sheltered, easy life that would never have been enough for either one of them, he had long since decided the pair must have a wealth of strength he hadn’t at first been able to see. They’d come to Blanchard Ridge and opened the inn not long after Killian had pinned on the Sheriff’s badge, and neither one seemed to have a thought in their heads towards leaving.

Once they got Rob laid out on a bed in the closest possible empty room, Mary began preparing hot water, clean washcloths, and other materials she needed, while her husband set out with the young ranchhand to fetch the Doctor. Sherwood had clung to his senses as long as possible, but he seemed to be drifting away from awareness, now that he was settled and had reached relative safety. Killian made sure the lady had no need of his assistance, to which she shooed him away to go watch for the others’ return.

Striding out in the main dining area, Jones set up watch at the door, not as much for the doctor, Nolan, and Henry as to see what was happening in the main street. Gunfire was as unusual as he could possibly make it in the center of their small outpost, and so after the ruckus of the last hour the dirt thoroughfare was deserted, people having no wish to be caught in the crossfire - whatever was going on.

His first instinct, the gunfighter’s fire within that had pushed him along until settling there and seeking out a modicum of peace, even if he had to keep it himself, had him edgy, chomping at the bit to get out after the culprit firing on himself or his townspeople in broad daylight. But the lawman he had become had to allow his temper to subside; he couldn’t lash out with the need for vengeance and retaliation. And, if the shot hadn’t been meant to kill him outright, then it had no doubt been meant to send him chasing after shadows rather than staying on guard with his prisoner awaiting the Federal Marshall.

The only thing that was stirring as he continued to stare out at the street before him was the cloud of dust drawing closer and signalling the arrival of the four o’clock stagecoach. They pulled up down the way by the post office, before heading on to the livery, for those horses to be watered, brushed down, and a new team hitched up before the stage headed on to the next settlement. One rider jumped down from up top to run the mail pouch in to the postmaster. The whole routine carried on exactly as usual, until a dainty booted foot stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk from inside the stage. A deep green traveling dress, accented in places with an overlay of black lace, drew his eye up to a stunning, pale feminine face, a strong chin and pert little nose, though the rest of the unknown woman’s visage was hidden by an artfully tilted hat with wide brim to shade her face. Now that was unusual; visitors to the Ridge were exceedingly rare.

He tried to move on from the arrestingly lovely sight, as the woman surveyed her surroundings and then began walking in his direction towards the inn, an enticing sway in her step. No call to be gawping at her like some untried greenhorn, no matter how long it had been since -- No, no time for those thoughts either. He was standing lookout over the main way in and out of town, the jail, and his friend; that was more than enough to focus on.

However, as the lady neared the entrance, Killian did open the door for her, touching the brim of his hat slightly, with an easy dip of his chin and a simple, “Afternoon, Ma’am.”

She raised her head enough for beguiling green eyes to be seen from beneath her own chapeau. They twinkled with some bit of mischief and humor, as she replied, “Why thank you, Sheriff,” with a pointed glance to his badge. “Good afternoon to you.” She then brushed by him so closely that he felt her warmth, making the small hairs on his arm stand on end, and caught the inviting scent of apple blossom, and the cold mix of leather and cinnamon along with it.

Was it only an hour or so ago that the town had appeared sleepily uneventful? Sheriff Killian Jones sensed now that his trouble was just starting, and in more ways than one.

Tagging some who may enjoy: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @linda8084 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @effulgentcolors @thisonesatellite @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @shireness-says @spartanguard @winterbaby89

#cs au mc #cs western au #rio bravo au #chapter one #sheriff!Killian

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waywardaardvark79 · 5 years

Text

Come Back to Me: Part 7

Summary: Y/N, a WW2 army nurse spends her days caring for and patching up injured soldiers. The last thing she ever expected was that one of the soldiers that she saved would steal her heart. A story of two people and the insurmountable obstacles they overcome to always come back to each other.

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Benny x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: language, character injury

Word Count: 4,702

A/N: Updates should be at least once a week. No set schedule. Memories in italics.

Dean could hear voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He was too far away. It was almost as if he was underwater, everything distorted, nothing clear. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt so heavy, and after multiple attempts he had to stop, no longer able to devote what little strength he had left to the seemingly impossible task.

So, Dean laid there, dipping in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out where he was at when he was alert and dreaming of you when he wasn't. He was desperately trying to piece together what happened, trying to figure out what events occurred to land him where he was, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't remember.

The voices were fading. They were now nothing more than an incoherent mumble, and Dean knew that he wouldn't be conscious much longer, the blissful allure of sleep too much for him to resist because at least when he was asleep you were there with him.

Something told him to turn around and as much as he didn't want to do it, fearing that seeing you standing there, especially with him knowing how badly you didn't want him to go, would stop him from going all together. He was afraid that if he looked at you again he would never leave, his mission be damned, and despite the fact that every part of him was screaming for him to keep going, he stopped.

Dean took a deep breath before he turned around, trying to prepare himself to see you upset, his heart aching that he was the cause. He honestly wasn't prepared for what he did see when he looked at you. He was fully expecting to see tears and heartbreak, and was shocked when he saw relief on your face. It was almost as if the moment he looked at you a weight lifted from your shoulders, and even though he knew it was an impossible thing to see, he could swear that he did.

He would always remember how relieved and happy you looked just to be looking at him again, and he couldn't help the smile that formed on his face as he focused on you. He was smiling so big that his cheeks hurt, but he couldn't stop, not when you were looking at him like that, like he hung the moon.

He heard Benny clear his throat and he had to force himself to turn away from you, willing the way you looked at him to stay fresh in his memory, hoping that it would be enough to get him through until he could see you again.

Suddenly he was in a different place, no longer with you. He was jumping and he could feel himself falling. He felt a sudden tugging feeling in his thighs and back and his descent began to slow. Then, it came to him, the plane, the attack, and the mad dash to escape the aircraft before it could explode or crash.

He remembered thinking that everything would be okay until he felt himself violently pulled back, his body crashing against a tree, seeming to hit every branch on the way down, pain and the feeling of hard earth beneath him was one of the last clear things he could remember. Everything after that was a bit of a blur, coming only in flashes.

"Dean...Dean." he heard someone say, and he recognized the voice instantly, but no, it couldn't be you. You weren't there with him. "Open your eyes, Soldier." he heard you say.

"Y/N." Dean breathed out, so shocked to see you standing there that he momentarily forgot about his injuries until he tried to move, crying out in pain afterward.

"Shh...easy, Soldier." you said, kneeling down by his side. "Everything is going to be all right. I'm going to make sure we get you home."

"I'm...sorry." he panted out, so desperate to feel your touch, fearing as though he may die without it.

"Remember your promise, Dean. You have to come back home." you said, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder before starting to gently shake him. "Dean! Dean, come on brother, I need you to wake up. Dean!" you pleaded, but it was no longer your voice he was hearing. It was Benny, everything quickly fading to black before he could make sense of it.

The voices were growing louder again, and even though he still couldn't understand them, the clarity was there. They were no longer a mumbled mess and it was almost as if he was starting to breach the surface of the water he felt like he had been under.

Even though his eyes were still closed, he could tell that there was a bright light shining on him, the back of his eyelids seeming to glow. Dean tried once again to open his eyes, but his body still wouldn't cooperate, the small task still seeming to be an impossible feat.

The thought that maybe he had died back there on the cold, hard ground after the jump entered his mind. He thought that it would explain why he couldn't seem to do anything that he wanted to do, why his body was betraying him, and maybe this was what happened after life. Maybe it was just an all consuming darkness where you relived moments from your life.

Dean had almost convinced himself that this was the case, well, until the pain hit. It was a pain so intense that it felt like molten lead was running through his veins, his whole body alight with agony. He found himself struggling to even draw a single breath, the intense pain the only thing his brain could seem to focus on.

A sickening crunch sounded through the room, Dean's agonizing scream soon drowning out the sound as he bolted upright, his body finally responding to something he told it to do. He could feel himself being weighed down, almost as if he was being pulled backward. He forced his eyes open , determined to escape the agony, the bright lights of the room nearly blinding him.

Dean looked around in complete panic as he was forced back down on the table. Men, strange men that he had never seen before, were holding him down while another man did something to his leg, the same pain from earlier coursing through him and what little he had in his stomach was threatening to make its way back up.

The men were speaking, all of them seeming to bark orders at him, orders that he couldn't understand. If finally dawned on him, a little late in his disoriented state, that they were speaking German, and that's why he couldn't understand what they were saying to him. He was able to make out the words unten bleiben, and he knew that it meant stay down.

He thought about defying what little bit of the order he could understand. The only thing he kept thinking was that if they wanted him to stay down that would be the last thing he would do. He tried desperately to raise up, but he was no match for the men that were holding him down. His body only allowing him to make miniscule movements.

He did manage to raise his head. He needed to know, to see what they were doing to him. Dean had heard horror stories about soldiers that had been captured by the enemy. The things that were done to them were worse than any nightmare he could conjure.

Every story he had ever heard was playing over in his mind in a big jumble, a constant stream of horrible acts, as he tried to prepare himself for his new found fate. He had been captured. He had become a prisoner of war, and part of him wished that he had just died back there after the jump. He was sure it would have been a kinder fate, but just as he thought that dying would have been better, your face popped into his mind, and he knew that he couldn't give up. He had a promise to keep.

So, instead of thinking about dying, or of all of the atrocities that were sure to befall him, he focused on the man at the end of the table. He was prepared to see the man wielding instruments of torture not stitching him up after he reset the bone in his leg.

The man noticed Dean looking and in very broken English said, "Bone." raising his hands, keeping one level as he held it out in front of him while his other hand made an upward thrusting motion. "Skin." he added, Dean assuming that the broken bone in his leg had pierced though his skin, and this man was attempting to fix it.

Dean nodded his head before glancing around the room, trying to get a read on where he was. The only thing he could come up with was that he was in a German doctor's surgery.

He laid his head back down, deciding that the man meant him no harm at the moment, and even if he did there wasn't much Dean could do about it in the state he was in.

After the doctor finished with his leg he put it in a makeshift splint before moving on to his arm. The break in his arm was not anywhere near as complex as the one in his leg. This allowed the doctor to set it pretty easily, the pain nowhere near what he felt when the doctor was working on his leg. The doctor put his arm into a splint before moving on to the wound Dean had on his head.

Dean tried to stay still as he cleaned the would, flinching only a little when he started the stitches. Apparently, any form of pain relief was out of the question and Dean was thankful that he was almost finished. He didn't know how much more he could take.

Dean let out a slow breath when the doctor finished the stitches and wrapped a bandage around his head. He watched as the doctor stepped away from the table, speaking to the other two men that were surrounding him before turning back to Dean and nodding as one of the men he was speaking with left the room.

The door to the surgery opened a few moments later, four armed men walking in with the man who left. The doctor started to speak with them, his attention drifting over to Dean periodically. As soon as the doctor finished speaking the armed men approached the table Dean was on, and his fight or flight response kicked in and since flight was out of the question, the only option he had was to fight, even though he knew that it would end poorly.

The doctor seemed to understand what Dean was thinking, "Be ok." he said, Dean still unsure of whether or not he could trust this man, but then again, he didn't really have much of a choice.

The four armed men transferred Dean to a German hospital where his arm and leg were put into plaster casts. He stayed there for two days before he was transferred by train to a holding camp, still no sight of Benny or his other men.

Once Dean arrived at the holding camp he was placed in solitary confinement. The cell he was in was windowless, and damp. Of course, the Germans didn't heat the cells, and since it was the middle of winter, the temperature definitely wasn't kind to him.

Dean spent most of his time in the solitary cell huddled in the corner, the dampness of the cell had caused both of his casts to become damp themselves, and the damp combined with the frigid temperature didn't allow him to ever reach any level of comfort. In fact, the chill was so deep in his bones that he doubted he would ever feel warm again.

Dean couldn't say how long he was held in solitary, the constant darkness made time irrelevant, the days and nights melting into each other in an indiscernible haze. The only thing keeping him sane was thinking of you.

He tried to recall of every detail about you, imagining that you were right there with him, your words giving him the will to keep fighting. He thought about your smile, and he hoped that if he thought about it long enough that maybe he would be able to feel the warmth of it. He always thought you had a smile that could warm a man to the bone.

He tried focusing on the warmth you always radiated towards him, hoping that somehow it would warm his cold and aching body, and even though it never worked, he still found himself comforted by it somehow. So, that's what he did to pass the time. He thought of you. He imagined your arms around him, the things you would say to keep him calm, and of course, he thought of your song.

Dean closed his eyes, and imagined that you were right there with him, singing the words. He could hear your voice clear as day, the squeaking of his cell door opening pulled him from his thoughts and just like that, you were gone, two armed guards taking your place. The men roughly jerked Dean to his feet and practically dragged him to a small room with a single chair waiting ominously in the middle. It was the only furnishing in the room. The guards dropped him into the chair and left the room without uttering a word.

Dean knew what this was. He had been preparing himself for this moment ever since he had been tossed into the solitary cell. This was the interrogation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the voice in his head now replaced with yours as you told him what to do.

Every man in Dean's company, well, every man in the service really, had been told exactly what to do in a situation like this. They were told constantly during every briefing that if they were ever captured the only thing they could tell the interrogator was their name and rank. This one rule had been drilled into his head since he joined the service and he was bound and determined to follow it. He was only going to give the German interrogator his name and rank, nothing else.

The interrogator walked into the room, dragging a chair behind him, "Seems like you've had some bad luck." he said in perfect English, nodding his head towards Dean's casts.

Dean chose not to reply, fixing the man with a cold stare instead as he positioned the chair he was dragging in front of Dean, placing it about two feet away from him before sitting down.

"I'm First Sergeant Dean Winchester, and that's all I know." Dean said, remaining calm and composed in the face of the enemy.

"Well, now...First Sergeant Winchester, I'm sure you know more than that." the interrogator said, Dean clenching his jaw instead of replying.

The interrogation lasted for hours. The interrogator was persistent, trying everything he could think of to get Dean to talk, violence seeming to be his favorite. Dean was panting, blood running down his face when the interrogator finally took a step back.

"You know, if you tell me what you know I'll tell you about the men you were captured with. They are your men, right?" the interrogator asked.

Dean didn't respond. He simply spit the blood that was pooling in his mouth on the floor at the man's feet. He couldn't say that he wasn't tempted, his men had been on his mind since he had been there, especially Benny.

Dean raised his head to look at the man, one of his eyes swollen shut, "Like I told you before, Sir." Dean said, raising his uninjured arm so that he could point to his temple, "I can't seem to remember anything else. It must have been the hit I took." Dean said.

The interrogator finally left the room, beyond frustrated that he couldn't get anything out of Dean. The two armed men that brought Dean there from his cell walked back in and roughly pulled him to his feet, giving him the same treatment they did when they brought him to the room.

The dragged him back to his cell and tossed him inside before slamming the door behind him. Dean waited until he could hear their retreating footsteps before hobbling over to the wall, his back pressed against it as he slid to the floor.

Every part of him hurt, and he couldn't even see the damage the man had done. One of his eyes was completely swollen shut, the other he was only able to see out of a little, the swelling in that one not as profound. He was pretty sure that his nose was broken, he knew that his lip was split, and the inside of his cheeks were cut to pieces. He could feel blood dripping down the side of his mouth, but he didn't have the strength to wipe it away. So, he did the only thing he could do. He waited, knowing that the man who interrogated him was far from finished, and he prayed that he would have the strength to survive.

He had finally managed to fall asleep when the sound of his cell opening woke him. His body jerked upright, the sudden movement causing pain to radiate throughout his body. He felt himself being hauled up from the floor, and he didn't resist as he was dragged back to the room he was in the day before. He was placed into the same chair, and left alone, neither man saying anything to him.

Dean couldn't really see the man when he walked in the room, but he knew it was the same one. He had listened to that voice for hours, and he wouldn't soon forget it. The interrogation played out almost exactly as the one the day before had. The interrogator did lay off on beating him, figuring that he couldn't do much more without seriously harming him.

Dean stuck to his story that the blow he had received to his head had rendered him unable to remember anything, and the interrogator soon grew tired of talking to him. The man got up and left the room abruptly, the two men that brought him there returned and dragged him back to his cell. Again, Dean waited for them to leave before sliding back down into the corner, the horrible realization that this was going to be his life set in, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold out.

The next day, or at least Dean assumed it was since he had no way to really track the time that passed, a different man walked into his cell, three more men following after him. They pulled Dean to his feet, one of them passing him the single crutch he was given in the German hospital, and ushered him from the room.

Dean was hauled outside and loaded into a cattle truck with about forty other men, none of them his own, despair slowly starting to sink in over the fact that Benny must not have made it. Dean didn't speak the entire ride to the camp, his spirit broken, his focus on the dirty cast on his leg.

He finally looked up when the truck came to an abrupt stop, armed men appearing soon after and herding them like cattle through the open gates of the camp. After all of the men were through the gates Dean watched as one of the guards pulled the gates shut and wrapped a chain around where they met before placing a lock on the chain.

"For you the war is over." the man said before walking away.

Guards from inside of the gates divided the men into small groups, Dean amongst the last group which was the smallest. The guards started to lead each individual group to their lodgings. Dean's group, consisting of himself and four other men, was last, the building they were led to was nothing more than a poorly constructed shack.

They were shoved through the door before it was closed behind them, and Dean took a few labored steps into the room, the single crutch he had to walk with not doing much to help him.

The room had ten double bunks, a small stove in one corner of the room and a basin and Elsan style toilet, which was basically a toilet seat on a bucket, in the opposite corner.

There was already four other men in the room when Dean's group was brought in, all of them huddled around the stove in the corner. Dean hung back as the other men from his group selected their bunks, all of the bunks closest to the stove were obviously taken.

Dean hobbled to the last open bunk, which was right by the door, and eased himself down, thankful that it was the bottom bunk and not the top. He laid down and pulled the thread bare blanket up over his head, trying to make himself as small as possible as he body shivered with the frigid temperature.

Dean was almost asleep when someone gently shook his shoulder. Dean didn't even bother to remove the blanket from his head, "What? I made sure the bunk was empty before I took it and I ain't tradin'." he said.

"Look, man, I don't want your bed. I was just gonna give you something to eat. I bet you could use it." the man said.

Dean ripped the blanket from his head, thinking that he recognized the voice. He was almost scared to look up to see if it was really him.

"Benny." he said, looking up at him in shock, still unsure whether he could believe it, after all he could hardly see.

"Dean." Benny said, dropping the bowl in his hand before he practically ripped him out of bed, hugging him so tightly the Dean feared he would crack a rib. "When I woke up and you weren't there...I...I thought you died, brother." Benny said, finally releasing him.

"I kinda thought I had died there for a minute myself." Dean said. "Where did they have you?" he asked, Benny helping him back into bed.

Benny sat down on the edge of Dean's bunk, "I, uh, I blacked out after your fall. I made it to your side, but I think one of the bastards must have hit me over the head. I woke up in a cell." Benny said, pausing a moment. "I'm not sure how long I was there. They tried to interrogate me a couple times before movin' me here. I've been here for almost a week."

Dean nodded his head, "I woke up and this doctor was stitching me up, then I was transferred to a hospital for the casts." Dean said, holding up his arm. "I got tossed into solitary too, and well, obviously you can see how that went. So, what about...have you seen any of the others?" Dean asked.

Benny nodded, "Miller and Morgan are here. I see them sometimes when they do roll call. We all have to go outside for that. Far as I can tell, they're okay, but I...I don't think anyone else made it. I haven't seen anyone else." Benny said.

"So, hit me with it. How bad is it here?" Dean asked.

Benny shrugged his shoulders, "It could be worse. They'll do roll call, like I said. They usually do it twice a day and then they toss the bunks while we're outside. I heard they had a couple of guys escape a couple of months ago, and now they always look for contraband. I hear we get food rations once a week, but a lot of the guys that have been here for awhile say that it usually never happens, so when we do get something we have to make it last. So far I haven't really had any problems with anybody, but I've kept my head down, and most of my time has been spent trying not to freeze my ass off." Benny said.

"You said they had a couple of guys escape?" Dean asked.

Benny chuckled, "I should have know that would be the only thing you would take away from that." he said.

"You can't tell me that it hasn't crossed your mind. How'd they do it?" Dean asked, the wheels in his head turning.

"Of course it has, but that's a suicide mission, brother. I heard there was a group of ten of them that tried. Only two guys made it out. The rest were shot." Benny said.

"But it can be done." Dean said.

Benny shook his head, "No, it can't. Trust me. They have got guards patrolling constantly. They search for contraband twice daily, sometimes more than that, and they take anything that could even remotely be used for an escape attempt. Also, in case you haven't noticed, it's the dead of winter. Nobody would get far in this weather, and I can't even tell you exactly where we are." Benny said, trying to talk Dean out of even trying.

"I ain't sayin' it's gonna be easy, but I'm findin' a way to get us out of here. I have to get out of here." Dean said, thinking of you.

"I feel the same way. This is the last place I want to be Dean, but the last guy that even touched the fence was shot." Benny said.

"So, you're just gonna give up?" Dean asked.

"I'm not giving up. There's talk that the Germans may surrender soon, and then the camps would be liberated." Benny said

"Oh, come on, Benny. You can't hold onto that bullshit. We don't know when that will be. It could be tomorrow or six months from now." Dean said.

"Yeah, I know that, but I don't think we have a choice." Benny said.

"We always have a choice, and I choose to get the fuck out of here. I...I can't stay here. I have to get back." Dean said.

"Now that I found you I'm not gonna let you run off on some half cocked mission. All you'll do is get yourself killed. I know who you're thinking about when you say you have to get back, but I need you to know...that I have my own promise to keep to her. I told her I would watch out for you, and I can't let you do this." Benny said.

Dean nodded his head, thinking over everything that Benny had said before speaking, "Trust me, I've heard everything you said, and I know that you're probably right, but I'm doing this with or without you. I'm getting out of here." Dean said.

"Yeah, well, let's just say that you do manage to get out of the fence. You gonna hop your way back?" Benny asked, nodding towards his leg.

"I'll do whatever I have to do." Dean said.

"You're as stubborn as a damn mule." Benny said.

"That shouldn't be news to you. Now, like I said, I'm doing this with or without you, Benny." Dean said.

"You ain't doing anything without me, but you ain't callin' all the shots either. I have a few conditions of my own." Benny said.

"Ok." Dean said.

"We ain't going anywhere until those casts come off. I figure that gives us about two months to plan everything out, and I want every thing planned out, every detail. Now, I know how bad you want to do this, but if we're gonna do it, we're gonna be smart about it." Benny said.

"Two months." Dean said, nodding his head, "Two months and we're breathin' free air." he added, his fighting spirit renewed.

Benny shook his head, "You know that this is a stupid idea, right?" he asked, Dean nodding his head, "Well, just as long as you know...so...where do we start?"

Tags: @miraclesoflove @22sarah08 @flamencodiva @divadinag @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @superflurry @familybusinesswritingbro @briagallen

#supernatural au #soldier dean #dean winchester #dean x reader #reader insert #supernatural fic #supernatural reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #dean x you #dean #benny lafitte #spn fic #spn

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softambrollins · 4 years

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used to this (dean/seth) - christmas fic - fluff, reunions, presents, getting together, love confessions, mutual pining, domestic fluff (ao3 link)

MERRY CHRISTMAS, GUYS!! 🎄🎁 ❤️

After Seth texts him on his birthday, they stay in touch. Seth's been kind of careful about it before, he thought maybe Dean needed his space, to do his own thing, and he needed to focus on his own career, his own goals. Maybe they both needed to move on, put the past behind them for now. Or maybe they just needed some time apart to realise that that's not really what they want at all. At least now Seth thinks it's not what he wants. Or maybe he knew that all along and he's only now willing to admit it to himself.

After RAW on Christmas week, he finally calls his number for the first time since he left.

"Hey, how's it going, man?" he asks, tone deliberately light and casual, when he picks up.

"Oh, hey." Dean sounds a bit surprised, and he can't exactly blame him. Seth's been keeping his distance intentionally for months, but maybe just reestablishing the slightest bit of contact, their random, sporadic messages over the last couple weeks, was enough to open the floodgates again.

"I'm good, man," he says after a moment. "What about you? You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's fine," he says, probably too quickly. "I just —" He cuts himself off now to take a breath, bites his lip, trying to steel himself before he can actually voice the question he called him to ask.

"I know this probably sounds crazy, but I was thinking, and — Would you mind if I maybe come spend a couple days with you?" he says all in a rush before he just chickens out and hangs up again and forgets this ever happened at all.

Seth squeezes his eyes shut for a second after the words come out, in almost a wince, waiting for Dean to tell him he's completely nuts and he definitely does not want to see him. The last time Seth stayed at Dean's house was for New Year's two years ago while he was out with his injury, but that feels like a long time ago now and a lot has happened between them since. It's almost like they're totally different people than they were back then.

"Oh," is all Dean says, and Seth can't really discern what his feelings are about it yet. Maybe he's not entirely sure how to feel about it himself.

"I mean, it's fine if you have plans or something — of course you probably do — Or if you just don't want to —" he says, instantly starting to backtrack, sure he just made the dumbest mistake ever.

"No," Dean interrupts, his voice clear and firm now. "It's okay. I was just gonna use the holidays to chill, rest up, recuperate — be by myself, you know? It's been a busy year, you know, and the next one's probably gonna be just as rough. Could use all the time I can get."

Seth definitely understands that, probably too well.

"So…you're sure I'm not gonna be imposing or anything?" he asks hesitantly.

"No, it's all good, man," Dean reassures him, sounding like he really means it, sounding the same way he did before they parted in April. Like nothing's changed at all. "I'm just gonna be lying on the couch, drinking and watching bad movies. Maybe I could use the company."

Seth lets out a fond, almost relieved laugh.

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you soon then."

Seth shows up at Dean's place a day later with pretty much every unhealthy indulgence on the planet that they're definitely not supposed to consume in tow. But fuck it, it's Christmas, and he hasn't seen Dean in months and maybe they both need a break from reality and all its restrictions.

Dean opens the door to find him struggling with his luggage plus his abundance of purchases.

He looks like he's about to burst out laughing at him for half a moment before Seth just pouts at him and lets out a desperate, "Help."

Dean grabs the bags from his arms to relieve him and he lets out a heavy sigh before following him inside and setting down his suitcase just inside the door.

He turns his gaze back to Dean and he's dropped all the bags on the floor of the entranceway, which in hindsight he should've expected, and then before he realises it, he's right in his space, crowding his body against Seth's, and slowly putting his arms around him in a tight but gentle embrace.

He's hit with a sudden onslaught of sensations and emotions. Dean still feels and smells the same way he always has, and it's like being surrounded by a haze of nostalgia, he's taken back to so many other moments from months and years ago. Dean's arms around him, Dean's hands in his hair, his fingertips grazing against his own, his mouth pressed to the crown of his head.

His hoodie's soft against his cheek, his hands are warm and solid where they're resting on the small of his back. Seth tucks his face closer into his neck, taking in his earthy scent, the way he always smells like the outdoors, like something wild and free that can't be tamed, feeling the brush of his thick beard against his bare skin. Dean's body is soft and firm and comforting against his own and he knows Seth as well as Seth knows him, fitting together seamlessly and naturally like they always do. It's easy to get lost in this moment, like a million other moments before. It's hard to even tell where those ended and this one begins.

Somehow it feels like he's been holding his breath since April and now he can finally breathe again. Seth's been dancing on the edge for a long time with nothing to tether him and now he has Dean's sure, familiar grip to pull him back to safety.

He lets out a long exhale and then wraps his arms around Dean tighter, pillowing his cheek on his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, eyes falling shut. And they just stay there for a while, not moving or saying anything at all. Like maybe this is what they've both been needing this whole time.

They haul about a dozen shopping bags into the kitchen and set them down on the counters.

"I brought wine. And eggnog. And cookies. And lots of chocolate. Like, so much chocolate. And more wine."

"God, Rollins, is that what you came here to do? Fatten me up so I can't wrestle anymore and I'm not competition?" Dean teases.

"Shut up," Seth says, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling at him too. "If anything, I'm also sabotaging myself. But whatever, man, I think we deserve it."

"Thanks," Dean says offhandedly.

"It's nothing. I'm probably gonna suck down most of it anyway, fair warning —"

"No, I don't mean that," Dean says, voice low, shaking his head. "I meant, for coming here. I think maybe this is just what I need."

Dean just meets his eyes, his gaze steady and intent, and Seth feels something unexpectedly bright and warm flood through his entire body, from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes. It feels like all the air has suddenly left his lungs.

He has to physically tear his gaze away from Dean, blinking a few times to shake the feeling off, before turning to open a bottle.

"Want a drink?" he asks, knowing his voice still sounds weak.

"Yeah, sure," Dean says, and he's totally imagining the tinge of disappointment, almost, in Dean's voice. He has to be.

Dean insists that he makes them dinner, all by himself, and outrightly refuses Seth's help when he offers it. He can be a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

Seth just sits there amused, with a drink in his hand, trying to keep his commentary to himself as much as possible. He watches him as he works, fascinated by the movements of his fingers, the way the muscles in his hands tense and release, the calluses on his palms; his idiosyncrasies coming out as he concentrates and seems to forget he's being watched, forehead creased, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, all the microexpressions flitting across his face when he's trying to figure something out. Seth likes seeing him like this. Dean's usually completely laid back and relaxed, but when he gets intense and focused on something, it's like he becomes another creature altogether. Someone it's impossible to look away from. Seth's been the subject of that intensity before and it was almost too overwhelming to handle. He thinks maybe he won't mind it so much anymore now.

Dean finally gets dinner on the table — some complicated chicken thing, stuffed with bacon and cheese and fries on the side because it's Dean — and it's actually edible and honestly pretty good, even if he'd never actually admit that until his dying day.

Seth doesn't stop making fun of him though.

"Shut up," Dean says dismissively. "I'm a master chef extraordinaire and you know it."

"More like a master show-off extraordinaire," Seth says, deadpan.

"Please," Dean says scornfully. "Admit it. You love it."

Seth just makes a vague, noncommittal sound in response.

Dean just gently nudges his foot under the table with his own and smiles a stupidly endearing smile at him and Seth can't help smiling back until his plate is clean.

When they're done, Dean gets up and goes to grab his plate, but he reaches up to stop him, his fingers encircling his wrist. Seth slowly gets to his feet without releasing his hand, and looks at him, eye-to-eye, close enough to hear his breathing. He can feel his heartbeat speed up a little from where his thumb's resting on his pulse point.

"You okay?" Dean asks quietly, eyes narrowed at him.

Seth nods at him, the barest hint of a smile on his lips as he seems to suddenly, all at once, realise something. "Yeah, I'm good," he tells him honestly. "It's all good now."

And then he kisses him. It's soft and chaste and only for a second but it feels like everything he's needed for a long time. A moment of perfect stillness and clarity. Contentment. Belonging. It's just an acknowledgment. It's like a Thank you or I missed you or This is all I've ever wanted.

Dean blinks at him a few times when he pulls away but doesn't let him get too far, wrapping one arm firmly around his waist, the other tangling in his hair to pull him back into another deep, breathless kiss.

"We're so stupid," Dean says when they're curled up together in front of the TV but not really watching it, Seth's body pressed up against his side, his head resting on his shoulder, Dean's arm loosely slung around him.

Seth frowns up at him. "I mean, I'm not denying that, but —"

"We could've had this a long time ago. Why did it take us so long?" he asks, almost sounding frustrated now. At himself more than anything.

"Because we're dumb," Seth says bluntly. "And stubborn. And we don't know what we want."

It feels like they've both walked away from each other a million times but it never lasts. They always end up right back here. Maybe they should've figured out where this was headed a long time ago.

"Why'd you text me?" Dean asks a few seconds later, voice small and unsure now.

"Because it was your birthday. And I actually remembered this year. Needed to make up for that last time," he says, only half-joking. They both know that's not the only reason.

"No, really," Dean prompts him.

Seth lets out a heavy exhale. "I don't know. I think I was just tired of it feeling like there was this...strain or whatever between us. Even if there wasn't. It just felt like you were so far away. And I hated that."

"Yeah," Dean says soberly. "Me too."

"I thought I'd be okay without you, you know. I tried for a long time. But it just felt wrong. Like, I was wrong. Like I didn't know how to be me without you." He didn't know how to explain it before, this feeling that something just wasn't right for the last eight months, but it's only now with Dean here that he can put it into words.

Seth swallows hard, takes in a deep breath. He reaches out and laces his fingers together with Dean's in his lap like he needs his touch to find the courage to go on.

"I didn't think I deserved this for so long. And then you were right there and I'd look at you and I'd think...Maybe. Maybe I could have this. Maybe I could be that person that was worthy of your trust. And now these last few months, I've been feeling like maybe I'm turning back into that person from before again. With no one to pull me back from the fire."

Dean just gently squeezes Seth's hand in his own in response.

"I thought everything would be good now, that I'd be happy, finally," Dean confesses, like he's been holding this in for a long time too. "And maybe I am, but there's — something missing too. I got so used to being alone that I thought I forgot what it was like to be lonely, you know. But I feel it now sometimes. Like an ache that doesn't go away. Like there's a hole somewhere deep down inside of me that I can't fill on my own. No matter what I do. No matter how many fights or drinks or how far away I go. It's still there."

Seth tucks his face against Dean's collarbone, presses a kiss to the side of his neck. "I'm right here," he tells him, hushed. "You're not alone anymore. Neither of us are."

"I missed you so fucking much," Dean tells him, like the words are being wrenched out of him, pulling Seth's body closer to him. "It's like I couldn't fucking breathe when I thought about you. So I tried not to for so long. But it never worked."

"I know," Seth says soothingly, giving him a rueful smile. "Guess we're both just hopeless, pathetic suckers."

Dean laughs softly at that. He wraps both arms around Seth's shoulders, strokes his fingers over his hair, then leans down and brushes a kiss over his forehead.

Seth looks up at him, right into his eyes, before he says the next words. "I love you," he tells him, finally, completely sure and content that this is exactly where he should be for the first time in years. Maybe in his entire life.

Dean kisses him then, slow and easy, and Seth sighs against his mouth, his chest feeling so light and full that he thinks he could float away on this feeling.

"I think I could get used to this," Seth tells him when they pull apart, but just barely, foreheads still grazing against each other. He feels like a heady, dreamlike trance has suddenly fallen over him, like there's nothing else but this, him and Dean, this moment.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, voice raspy.

"Yeah," Seth says before Dean kisses him again, his fingers splayed warm and tender on his cheek.

Dean eventually takes him upstairs and they slowly take each other's clothes off in the dark and learn each other's bodies even better, every crease and nook and scar and pleasure point. Seth tasting every inch of his skin, Dean's hands all over him, taking him apart bit by bit, finding places he didn't know existed and making him feel things he once thought impossible.

There's no forgetting any of this and he never wants to, he's going to remember this until the day he dies.

Seth wakes up to Dean sleeping next to him, and he just lies there for a while, feeling his body solid and warm inches away from him, eyes slowly tracing over his soft features, listening to his steady breathing, and it's the most at peace he can remember ever being.

They go for a walk on Christmas morning. Dean knows all the best trails and it's quiet and deserted and it feels like they're all alone, everyone in their houses still fast asleep or opening presents or starting their baking early. Seth would almost miss the cold and the snow back home if Dean wasn't right here with him. A white Christmas isn't really worth much if you don't have someone to spend it with.

Seth reaches out and takes his hand as they start walking back to the house.

"Remember the last Christmas I was here?" Seth says, interrupting the comfortable silence.

It was the Christmas before Seth broke The Shield, and they've never really talked about it before.

Dean nods now, slightly stiffly. "Yeah, we spent all night bar-hopping and got fucking hammered and I can't really remember anything else about it."

"I don't know why I came," he admits. "I think I was just lonely and fucked-up and looking for something. An excuse. A reason to stay."

"And I didn't give you one?" Dean asks, his voice sounding taut and tense.

"No, no, that wasn't it," Seth tells him, squeezing his hand for a second, looking across at him reassuringly. "I wanted to. I wanted to so bad. But I wouldn't let myself have it."

He wonders if Dean remembers the exact moment. In a dark, empty parking lot. Dean's body pressed up heavy and boneless against him, whispering incoherent nothings in his ear. His breath hot and smelling of whiskey right on his skin. His hand curling around his own, their fingertips barely touching. All that longing and desperation and heat that had built up between them for years finally reaching its boiling point — and Seth pulling away at the very last second before they did something they couldn't go back from. Not being able to look at Dean's face after that, so afraid of the hurt and betrayal he might find there. Then getting on a plane the next morning like it never happened at all. Seth has a lifetime of regrets, of almosts and maybes, but that one still stings when he lets himself think about it. Like an open wound. Maybe that was the moment, the moment that could've changed everything. He didn't think he'd ever have another chance. But here he is now, Dean's hand real and warm in his own, his tender gaze lingering on the side of his face, and he's never letting go of this again. Not for anything.

Seth makes breakfast to make up for the night before. Dean doesn't protest this time, just sits down and sneaks a few cookies when he thinks Seth isn't watching which just makes him shake his head in amusement.

When they're almost finished, he suddenly remembers something.

"Oh, I got you something. For your birthday. But now it can be a Christmas gift, I guess."

Dean's too busy mopping up leftover syrup off his plate with his last forkful of pancakes to react to that.

Seth goes upstairs and retrieves it from the pocket of his carry-on.

He comes back down and brandishes the gift bag at him. "Here."

Dean carefully opens the bag and pulls out what's inside, before holding it up by the edges in front of him so it can come unfurled.

It's a sweater, light blue to match his eyes, with a smiling pitbull on it.

"It reminded me of you," Seth explains, a small smile on his face. "Rough around the edges but a total softie underneath."

"You're such a sentimental sap, Rollins," Dean tells him, but the fond look in his eyes says something else.

He folds the sweater back up, rests it on the table.

"I got you something too," Dean tells him out of nowhere, and that genuinely surprises him.

"Really?" he says, eyes narrowed skeptically.

Dean disappears for a minute and comes back into the kitchen with both hands holding something behind his back.

Seth just stares at him, expectant and a little scared, as he reveals the gift and shoves it into Seth's hands.

"What the hell is this?" he says, eyes wide, as he looks down at the stuffed toy — it's a strange, brown, ugly, hairy creature with huge feet.

"A baby Sasquatch," Dean says like that makes all the sense in the world. "Keep it with you. It'll be like I'm still there. Even though I had to return to the wild." He looks off dramatically into the distance with a long sigh.

Seth just shakes his head in disbelief over somehow ending up here. And not wanting to change any part of it for anything in the world. "You're such an idiot," he tells him seriously.

"You love me," Dean says with a smirk and he can't exactly deny that.

Dean has dinner delivered so they won't have to do any work, it's from a fancy hotel or something because apparently that's a Vegas thing or maybe it's one of those incomprehensible Dean Ambrose things. Seth's not gonna complain either way though. And when they're too stuffed to move, they settle down in front of the TV.

"I can't believe the year's almost over," Seth muses, already feeling like he wants to pass out. Maybe he's just getting old or maybe it's the exhaustion from this entire year, physical and emotional, finally taking a toll on him.

"Yeah, it's been a wild fucking ride, huh?" Dean says, almost appreciatively.

"No thanks to you," Seth points out.

Dean just laughs and shrugs. He's always been the purveyor of chaos and unpredictability. No one can tie him down or tell him what to do. It honestly shouldn't even be a surprise that he keeps shaking up the entire wrestling world with whatever he does. It's just what he does. He's been turning Seth's world upside down constantly since the day they met. He hopes that never changes.

"I'm glad you're happy, though," Seth tells him earnestly. "I hope you keep being happy. Whatever you do."

Dean nods. "And I hope you learn to let yourself be happy," he tells him significantly. "You deserve it. Even when you don't think you do."

Seth sighs. It's been hard, especially without Dean, to find the good things in life and keep them. To just let himself be satisfied and fulfilled. It was never enough, there was always something else to do, he could always be better. But he knows where that road leads. To misery and loneliness and desolation. And he doesn't want anything to do with it again. He just wants this — this feeling, having Dean near, knowing that he can have this now, that this belongs to him. It's enough for him. He's enough.

"I'll try," Seth promises. "Even when it's hard. I'll just think about you. That's all I need."

"I'm happy you came," Dean tells him, sounding almost wistful now. "I wish it could always be like this."

"It's been a crazy year. For both of us," Seth acknowledges. "But I'm glad I could spend the end of it with you."

"And if the next one's just as crazy?" Dean asks, looking across at him.

"Then we'll deal with it. Like we always do. Together," Seth says simply.

Seth nods off on the couch in the middle of Die Hard and Dean gently wakes him up when the movie's over and leads him by the hand upstairs.

They get into bed and Dean pulls the blankets into a cocoon around them. Seth keeps his arms tightly locked around Dean's waist, face buried in his chest, clinging to him like if he lets go he might break the gravitational pull and fall into nothingness again. Absorbing the feel and smell and warmth of him like he's filling up his reserves for when he's not there next to him anymore. Like he already knows they're going to be separated again soon and Dean's the only thing he has to hold on to. For as long as he can.

Dean cradles his body against him, presses his lips to his hair.

"Merry Christmas, babe," he tells him before Seth falls asleep in his arms.

They have breakfast together the next morning before Seth has to leave to catch his flight. Dean's wearing the sweater he got for him but even that's not enough to fix his gloomy mood.

"I wish you didn't have to leave," Dean says, finally breaking the long stretch of silence, voicing both of their thoughts.

"Me too," Seth says, looking down at his scarcely-touched bacon and eggs, trying not to sound as wretched as he feels inside. "But I have to get back to the school, the coffee shop. Real life."

"Sucks that I can't be a part of your real life anymore," Dean says, almost bitterly.

Seth's gaze snaps back up to Dean's face. "Hey, come on. You know you are. You're the most important part of my life. I'm sorry it took so long to realise that."

Dean just reaches across the table and takes his hand.

"I'm sorry too," Dean says quietly, regretfully. "I should've called you a long time ago. I kept wanting to and then wimping out."

"Really?" Seth asks, mouth parted slightly in surprise, in wonder, almost.

"Yeah, I almost called you before my surgery but I thought maybe you wouldn't want to hear from me." He sounds so sad and helpless that it makes Seth's heart twist in his chest. God, they've both been such tragically stubborn idiots.

"What did you want to say?" he asks gently, before he actually starts crying like the completely sentimental sap Dean already knows he is.

Dean looks him straight in the eyes as he tells him the words he's somehow always been dying to hear but never, ever imagined he would. Not like this. Not in any of his wildest fantasies. "That I miss you. That I love you. That no matter what, you're always gonna be it for me."

Seth just stares at him for a moment, absorbing that, struggling to find the right words to respond. Wondering, for the millionth time, if maybe all of this has just been some elaborate dream.

"So, you didn't just forget about me?" is what eventually comes out, one corner of his lips quirking into a faint smile despite himself. It's probably stupid after everything that's happened, but thinking about Dean leaving him behind and moving on for good was the most devastating part of the last year. And now all that lingering anguish and fear that has been tearing him up inside has just been lifted all at once, finally.

"Shut up. I could never forget about you. Ever," Dean tells him firmly.

"That a promise?" Seth says, because as sure as all of this has felt these past few days being here with Dean, after everything they've been through, all the unnecessary heartache they've inflicted on themselves and each other, he needs to hear the words. Needs something to keep with him, close to his heart, when Dean's not there to hold him and tell him that he loves him. And not just the silly Sasquatch toy that he'd tucked into a pocket of his carry-on with all his other valuables and has to admit now is actually kind of cute.

"I promise. It doesn't matter where we are, what we're doing. We're always going to come back to each other. Because this — you— this is my home. It's always been. And it always will be." He says it like it's just a fact. Like it's always been true. Even when they didn't know it. Even when they tried so hard to find a way to live without each other.

"So, it's official then?" Seth says with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, totally fucking official," Dean says with a huge grin. "The most official shit you've ever seen in your life."

Seth laughs brightly. "I'm happy," he says, and he can't remember the last time he said that and meant it so completely.

"Yeah?" Dean says, holding his gaze.

"So happy," Seth reaffirms. "More happy than I've ever been, probably."

"Good," Dean tells him, squeezing his hand for a second then leaning across the table to kiss him, sweet and familiar and oddly domestic, like they've been doing this for years. "Me too."

Dean hugs him goodbye at the airport and he's as soft and warm as ever. Seth closes his eyes and breathes him in deeply, hands clutching at his sweater, their cheeks pressed together, Dean's fingers resting gently at the nape of his neck.

"Come back to me soon," he says right against his ear before he pulls away.

"I will," Seth says, taking one more long look at him, before turning and walking away. Feeling like he can finally be himself again. He can face anything that comes his way, in the coming year or the next or the next. As long as he has this waiting right here for him.

#ambrollins #ambrollins fic #dean ambrose #seth rollins #wwe #my fic

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alleiradayne · 5 years

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Talk Dirty To Me

Summary: Jo and Dean celebrate twenty years together, but things go a little sideways when Jo unintentionally insults him. Rating: Explicit Square Filled: Breeding Tropes: Breeding and Dirty Talk Warnings/Tags: Lots of dirty talk, daddy kink, breeding kink, Dom!Dean, sub!Jo, oral, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, actual talk of having a baby, sweet fluffy ending. Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester/Jo Harvelle Word Count: 5,543 Author: @alleiradayne Artist: @mere-mortifer A/N: For @spnkinkbingo this fills the Breeding square, and for @supernaturaltropecelebration, this fills the tropes Breeding Kink and Dirty Talk kink. Song: Talk Dirty To Me by Poison

Rare were the moments Dean breathed easy. But tonight, he had. For the first time in decades, he had nothing to worry about.

As he dried the last of their dinner plates, Dean hummed along to the steady rock beat of Nothing but a Good Time as it played on the record player. Beside him, Jo bobbed her head and swayed her hips as she wiped down the sink and hummed with him. Together they had prepared a dinner fit for kings, and they had eaten like the royalty they had always said they were. Most hunters weren't so lucky to find a love like theirs. Even when they did, it rarely lasted, and for predictably unfortunate reasons.

But Dean and Jo? They'd cheated death, fate, God, destiny, the whole gamut more times than you could shake a stick at. No, the years had not been kind to them. And yet they'd made it through twenty of them together. So, on the eve of their anniversary, they had decided to celebrate.

They owed it to themselves. Not that they hated hunting. But back when Dean turned forty, talks of retirement had started. Jo had tried her damnedest to get him to hang it up a few years earlier, but it had taken another narrow miss on Sam's behalf—a wendigo had pinned him dead to rights if it hadn't been for Eileen’s quick thinking—for Dean to call it quitting time.

Hunters never truly retired. With Sam and Eileen only a few minutes into town, the four of them worked small cases nearby, run of the mill salt n' burns, the occasional werewolf. Nothing more than a few hours’ drive away. Angels, demons, and Chuck had, at long last, decided it was high time they stop fucking with the Winchesters and their family. With four averted apocalypses, the near extinction of angels, and an empty throne in Hell blocked by Sam, those cosmic beings finally figured out it was time to give it a god damn rest once and for all.

The bright clinking of crystal snatched Dean's attention as he finished drying the last plate. Over his shoulder he found Jo pouring out the end of a twenty-one-year scotch, plenty to keep them both warm and toasty on that chilly fall night. Jo hefted her glass, crystal on her pale pink lips, and Dean watched, mesmerized by the bob of her throat. She hadn't aged a day if he had anything to say about it. Still the brave, boundless soul he had met all those years ago, Jo Harvelle had wrapped him around her little finger the day they’d met. After she had punched him in the nose, that was.

“I'm a little sad,” she mused as she held her glass up to the light. The warm amber liquor flickered as she peered through the crystal. “Was a particularly good bottle of Dal.”

With the plate put away, Dean crossed the kitchen and took his glass from her. “We’ll find another,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her, hand resting at the small of her back. A sip from his glass extracted a pleased hum through his nose. “Damn, that is good. You sure know how to pick 'em.”

Jo grinned. “Comes with the territory. And you outdid yourself tonight. A cowboy that knows how to cook pheasant. Color me surprised.”

A swell of pride warmed his cheeks. Or maybe it was the whiskey. “I'll have to keep that recipe. You enjoyed it?”

“Enjoyed it?” she scoffed. “Was like eating candy,” she continued as she sat at the kitchen table.

A moment of silence lingered between them, and for once, it settled not with anxiety, but peace and serenity. Dean allowed himself the space to drift there a little longer, but when he regarded Jo, he found her smile had faded and the excited glow in her eye dimmed.

With sudden clarity, she met his gaze and said, “I got lucky with you, you know?”

Dean sat beside her around the corner of the table, his hand around hers as it cupped her glass. “How so?”

She thought a moment, big hazel eyes searching the room for the words. “You’re kind. Kindest man I’ve ever met. You've always been sweet to me no matter what.” Her smile contorted, sardonic. “I don't know what I ever did to deserve you.”

If she thought she was lucky then what did that make him? Any luckier and he’d get struck by lightning. “You were you,” Dean started as he took her hand in his. “Simple as that. You didn't have to do anything but be yourself, sweetheart.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one by one.

“Stop,” she whined with her half-hearted protest and rosy cheeks. “I'm serious, Dean. You were so sweet to me. Even at nineteen, I’d met my fair share of men, and not a single one of them came close to treating me with any kind of the respect or dignity you did. Hell, even in bed, you were more courteous and caring than most people are in public. You still are!”

Courteous? Caring, sure, but courteous? “Am I really that boring to sleep with?”

She laughed her obnoxious cackle at that, with a hand to her stomach as she leaned back, and her shoulders shook. “Oh, honey, don't worry, you’re a damn good lay.”

His nose scrunched as he thought for a moment. “Damn good lay? Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

Jo stood then and drained her glass before she spoke. “Gimme a break. You know you’re very respectful and courteous in bed. I don't think I've ever even heard you say anything remotely dirty during sex.”

Ever? Not once had he so much as mumbled a, “fuck me, Jo,” or, “ride my cock”? Impossible. There was no way.

Except the look in her eye said otherwise. Impulse gripped him in a thoughtless vice, and Dean snatched her wrist as she stepped towards the sink. Jo stumbled to a halt with an indignant squawk and glared at him. From his chair, he stared into her eyes without raising his head, his brow cocked and a subtle purse to his lips. When she remained still, Dean said, “I can change that.”

A beat of bated breath lingered between them, Dean holding her enraptured gaze. He leaned into her, inched closer as he coaxed her to him with a delicate pull of her wrist, and in that a moment, Dean thought he had convinced her. That was, until she broke, her barking laughter ringing through the entire house. A patronizing hand smoothed his hair as she kissed the top of his head and sighed.

When she attempted to pull from his grasp Dean held her firm. Jo struggled against his grip and her laughter ended abruptly. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

Dean stood, rising to his feet with a slow and steady straightening of his back. His shoulders rolled as he jerked her flush to his chest, and Jo protested with a feeble repeat of her question. “Dean? What's going on?”

The idea of treating her with anything less than every ounce of his respect stayed his hand. But if all she asked for was some dirty talk, he could do that. At least, he wanted to. He wanted to give her whatever she wished. The longer he thought on it, the more he understood. And the more he understood, the harder his cock strained against his pants.

Before he pushed himself any further, Dean placed a tender kiss to her lips as he cupped her cheek. Tension oozed from her shoulders as she melted into him, her free hand smoothing over his arm as she set her glass on the table. With great care, he timed his move and grabbed her hand, then spun her back to him. Her protest clipped short when he pinned her hips to the edge of the table, his entire body flush to hers and bearing over her shoulder. With his lips to her ear, he whispered, “I want to fuck you.”

Jo bucked her hips into his groin a she hummed her approval through her nose, but Dean held her hard and fast against the table. Damn her and her writhing body. In new territory, he wanted to take his time, but he worried he might not get the chance. But if she wanted him in that way, then it would have to be under his conditions, his control.

“You'll do as I say?” he asked.

Another lewd sigh fell from her parted lips. “Yes, Daddy.”

The shudder that rolled along his spine weakened his knees. If she joined in on the dirty talk, their foray might not last very long. “Then only I get to talk,” he whispered into her ear. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she mewled.

Dean grunted under the strain of control, far too eager to feel her wrapped around him again. Deep breaths steadied his hands as he reached beneath her arms and unbuttoned her jeans. “I want to fuck you, sweetheart. I want to fuck you and come inside you.”

Another shudder rolled through her body and echoed in his as she moaned a long high cry. God, but her voice alone was enough to unravel him to bare threads. In a fit of frustration, he grasped the hem of her shirt and tore it over her head. Long blonde waves cascaded down her back and Dean buried his face in the crook of her neck as he grasped her breasts. Between the nips and licks and kisses, Dean spoke through his labored breaths. “Fuck, sweetheart, I love your tits.”

Her restrained whimper caught in her throat, more of a grunt than a sigh. That she struggled against her instinctive reactions aroused Dean further, a blurry haze clouding his thoughts. He wanted proof of what his words had done to her, and so, he slipped his hand down her stomach towards her pants. Palpable tension heaved her chest as he smoothed her skin with the flat of his hand until it slipped beneath the fabric and Dean found what he so desperately sought.

“So wet for me already. You really do enjoy this,” he continued as his fingers slipped inside her. “God, I can't wait to fuck you,” he started, “Can't wait to pound your pretty little cunt with my cock until I come inside you and put a baby in your belly.”

If Dean hadn’t felt it, he wouldn't have believed it, but Jo's entire body convulsed, and her pussy clenched around his fingers. Nonsense fell from her lips as she attempted to remain quiet like he had demanded. At least she couldn’t string more than three words together otherwise he might have come in his pants. “Good girl,” Dean whispered in her ear. “I like it when you follow orders. But I like it when you beg me for it, too,” he teased as his fingers pumped her flesh.

“Oh, fuck, Dean, I’m so close, please,” she cried. “I’m gonna come, please, harder, keep going!”

Christ, was that all it took? A couple fingers and a few salacious words? What exactly had he said that had shoved her so violently into delirium? He wrapped his arms tighter around her as he rolled the hard shaft of his cock against her ass through their clothes, determined to find out. “Do you like it when I tell you how much I want to fuck you?”

Jo merely nodded as she turned into his lips for a quick kiss. While pleasing, he had hoped for a different answer. “What about coming inside you? Do you like that? Do you like the idea of my cum pouring out of your pussy?”

Another depraved moan burst from her lips, but again, she said nothing of note. It occurred to him then that, after years of endless hunting and instability, something else he had said might be closer to the truth than he ever expected.

A grin widened his smile as he whispered in her ear. “You want a baby.”

As if the world had come to a screeching halt, Jo froze. Her entire body seized, completely still but for the hard thumping of her heart. “How did you know?”

Dean released her breast as he laughed a wicked laugh through his nose. “Because the idea of me knocking you up has you wetter than I've ever felt,” he stated a he withdrew his fingers from her sex. In the kitchen light, her arousal glistened on his middle and ring finger as strings of her fluid stretched between them. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

Jo did as he said, lips parted and tongue reaching as he slipped his fingers into her mouth. Sealed, she sucked him clean, and Dean braced himself against her hips as he withdrew his fingers with a pathetic moan. Damn that woman and her sinful mouth. If he wasted anymore time toying with her, she’d ruin his shorts without even trying. And he couldn't have that. They were just getting started.

“So,” he started as he wrapped his arms around her once more, hands smoothing her stomach. “Do you want me to put a baby in your belly?”

“I just want you to fuck me, Dean,” she growled as she pried at her pants.

Dean snatched up her wrists, gathered in one hand and pinned them to the small of her back. “Oh, slow down, honey. We’ll get there,” he teased as his free hand slipped her jeans over her ass. “Lord knows I want to bury my cock in your sopping cunt right now and pound into you until I fill you with my seed. But where's the fun in that?” He nipped at the shell of her ear and Jo writhed as if to escape him. “Yeah, you love this, don't you? Never heard me talk to you like this, like you’re my little plaything to fuck and fill and breed whenever I want. You’re my mare and I'm your stallion.”

All manner of divine whimpers and moans sounded on her breathless lips at his words. But the end was in sight. He wished to string her out longer—maybe she would come if he kept talking that way—but if he kept at it, he'd never make good on any of his promises. So Dean slipped his fingers into the hip of her underwear and tugged them to her ankles where Jo flung them aside with a swift flick of her ankle.

“I'm gonna let you go, sweetheart,” he whispered, “and I want you to stay right where you are. Do you understand?”

Jo nodded with a vigorous shake of her head as she leaned against the kitchen table. Dean, however, was unsatisfied with that response. “Say it. Tell me you understand.”

Ever the seductress, Jo shot him a coy smirk over her shoulder. “I understand, Daddy. I won't move an inch,” she said in her best simpering tone.

“Good girl,” Dean groaned through gritted teeth as he released her hands. A step back separated them and he stripped himself of shirt and pants. Jo continued to watch over her shoulder, and when he stood in only his briefs, she spoke.

“I could help with those.”

A sharp slap rang through kitchen as Dean's hand connected with her bare ass, and Jo shrieked in shock. “You'll do as I say,” he stated as he returned to her, the bulge of his cock nestled between her cheeks. “I'll fuck you when I'm good and ready,” he continued as he dragged a finger between her sopping lips. “God damn, I love how wet you are. Spread those legs for me, sweetheart, I wanna see it.”

Jo did as he ordered, feet parted and hips rolled. “Oh, yeah, that's it,” he sighed, “Do you like presenting yourself to me? Offering up your dripping pussy for me to fuck? Is that your way of asking me to breed you?”

“Yes!” Jo cried, “Dammit, Dean, just do it already!”

Her thighs quivered beneath his touch as Dean grasped the meat of her ass and spread her. “Oh you are ready for me,” he cooed. “Ready for me to put a baby in you. God, I can't wait to see your belly grow,” he teased as he smoothed her flat stomach. “And I'll remind you how it happened.” One hand slipped into her hair and wrenched her head back, her ear to his lips once more. “I'll remind you how I put that baby there, how I fucked you like the dirty little girl you are and filled your cunt with my seed and impregnated you.”

By then, Jo could hardly stand on her own two feet. She had all but melted against the table, Dean supporting her grasping hands with one arm. Despite her weak legs and heaving shoulders, Jo spoke. “Yes, Dean, please, I want it. Put a baby in my belly. Fuck me like I'm your little slut.”

If he hadn't strung himself out so thoroughly, Dean might have punished her for that. But after all his talk and the way her body had responded, the ache in his balls and the engorged length of his cock demanded release. He barely bothered with his briefs beyond shoving them to his thighs and his cock fell free to land squarely between her cheeks. The convulsion of Jo’s entire body rattled Dean to his very core with a grunt.

He grasped the base of his cock and angled the tip to her cunt, dragged in her ample arousal. “You ready, darlin’?”

Jo nearly wept with want. “Yes, Daddy, please, fuck me,” she mewled as she leaned over the table, chest flush to its dark oak surface. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

A snarl escaped his gritted teeth as Dean forced himself to maintain control. He wanted nothing more than to slam his cock into her, bottom out and hear her scream his name, beg for more until she incoherently babbled. “You will, my dirty little girl,” he sighed as he continued to tease her pussy. “But I'm not done having fun with you yet.”

The first sign of her frustration rattled the table as Jo hammered her fist on the heavy wood. Dean found her bottom lip pinched between her teeth when he looked up to her, face pink and hair matted to her forehead with sweat. He dug deep for the stamina to hold out a little longer as he dropped to his knees, grasped her ass, and spread her wide for his tongue.

The smooth, bitter sluice of her arousal filled his mouth as Dean sealed his lips on hers and sucked her clean. With each lap, Jo writhed as she moaned, as she clawed at the table and begged for more. Fuck, he wanted her in the worst way, but he knew the longer he held out, the sweeter their end would be. “I love the way you taste, sweetheart. So fucking good,” he mumbled into her ass. “Can’t wait to taste my cum as it drips from your cunt. Do you want that? Want me to eat your pussy after I come in it?”

The howl that rent from Jo’s bitten lips startled them both. “God dammit, Dean, will you just fuck me?!” Her fist landed on the table again. “Shut up and put that baby in my belly already!”

He buried his face between her cheeks, tongue shoved as far as he could reach into her pussy. Another high cry of arousal rang from her open mouth as Jo reached back and grabbed a fistful of his hair. In earnest, Dean sucked her flesh, lips and tongue driving her arousal to its completion. When he felt her fingers reach for her clit, he grasped her wrist and wrenched it behind her back, much to her frustration. But the pure wanton whimper he extracted from her as his thumb circled that little bundle of nerves was worth every bit of her ire.

Within seconds of his attention, Jo unraveled in a mess of moans, curses, and shivering convulsions. Shocks of her orgasm flexed her cunt and Dean sighed his own heightened arousal into her. In the wake of her release, the desperation for his own flailed wildly out of control, driving him to his feet. “Was that what you wanted?” he asked as he angled his cock, so painful with engorgement, to her dripping cunt again. “You wanted to come on my face, huh?”

Through her heaving breaths, Jo spoke. “Yeah, but,” she paused with a thick swallow, “I want that big fat cock of yours in my pussy, now,” she finished with a wild buck of her hips.

So perfectly primed for him, Jo glided onto his cock so fast, the smack of their bodies as they met rang like a struck bell. Together they moaned, Jo sated at long last and Dean digging deep for restraint. Damn her and her perfect cunt. “Fuck me, sweetheart, you feel so damn good after all that.” He sighed. “How does that feel for you?”

“Amazing,” she breathed as she rolled her hips. “But you know what would feel better?”

Dean withdrew from her and nearly collapsed. He grasped her hips, nails biting into the meat of her flesh, and hunched over her back. “Damn, I wanna fuck you so bad, but I need a minute.” He sighed, frustrated. “I'm… God, I could come right now.”

Jo’s pleased hum damn near undid him then and there. “Take your time, babe, I'll… try to be patient,” she said with a little laugh. “Gonna cost you though.”

Slow strokes eased him up to a steady pace with smooth rolls of his hips. Before Jo, Dean had found sex to be relaxing, a relief from the terrifying reality he lived every day. And while he often mixed work and play, he only ever viewed that time away from the job as just that: a break. But then he had met her, and sex took on an entirely different meaning, gained a drastically different purpose for him. And no, it wasn’t some ridiculous notion of love. That he had in spades from her regardless of sex. But for once in his life he could be so brutally vulnerable with someone and not give a single shit about it. That had changed him in ways he had never fathomed possible.

“You’re thinking so loud, I can hear the gears working in your head,” Jo said with a buck of her hips.

Dean grunted as she bottomed out against his thighs. “Sorry,” he said under his breath and squeezed her hips. “I needed a minute. Didn't want this to end… prematurely,” he jested.

Another roll of her hips stroked his cock. “I dunno, Dean, I'm ready for whatever you've got left in the tank.”

“Really?” Dean groaned as he slipped into her, pelvis to ass. “A car reference?”

She shimmied her hips as she looked over her shoulder, coquettish enough for an old magazine he might have owned once upon a time. “You are though. Big, tough, dependable. Like a big ol' pickup. You sure know how to haul my ass around.”

Dean took a moment to admire her backside, that supple curve of her ass. He followed its smooth line to his cock wrapped in her pussy and coated in her creamy arousal. “I do, don't I?” he mused. With a snap of his hips, he buried himself in her, and Jo cried out a heavenly moan. “I've had a lot of practice the last few years,” he continued as he withdrew. “Been fucking this pussy for over a decade,” he said as he slammed into her again, and she choked back her moan. “Then again, you've been riding my dick for just as long. I think you might know me better,” he paused. “Like how you knew I'd find all this kinky, dirty talk so easy.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jo started with a whimper, “I know my Daddy very well.”

His pace picked up as he continued to thrust. “Christ, sweetheart, you keep calling me that and I might have to do something about it,” he growled as he smoothed a hand up her spine.

Beats of his hips against her backside marked her moan as Jo arched her back at his touch. “Yeah, Daddy? What are you gonna do to me?”

He thrust harder, their bodies slapping against one another and he felt the subtle flex of her cunt around his cock. “Teach you a lesson,” he growled as his hand slipped into her hair at the nape of her neck. With a rough jerk, he hauled her up to his chest and wrapped his other arm over her hip. “Fuck you silly and empty my load in you.”

Her hands mirrored his, one in his hair and the other grasping the back of his arm. “Fuck me, Daddy,” she mewled. “Fuck my pussy raw and gimme that baby.”

An almighty roar burst from his chest as Dean wrapped his fingers around her throat and pounded his cock into her. After such relentless teasing, he could pump into her flesh for hours, and a part of him wanted to, wanted to rail against her ass for a long as she would let him. He had half a mind to do it. But when Jo gasped and her breath caught in her throat, he knew what followed.

The first subtle sensation quivered in her thighs, the signs of her release hot on its heels. Relentlessly, Dean thrust into her, harder and faster as she found her voice, the long keening moan sung through his grasp of her throat. “Yeah, Jo, come for me. Come all over my cock, I want to feel you come on me,” he urged. “C'mon, honey, be Daddy's dirty little girl and come for me.”

“Yes, fuck, Dean, harder, fuck my pussy!” Jo begged. “Make me come, Daddy!”

Between her thighs, Dean plunged his hand, fingertips searching for and finding her clit. Furious circles rubbed as he thrust as fast as he could, delirious with his impending release. He split at the seams, unraveled as she had earlier, and his climax slammed into him harder than a speeding train.

No preamble, no hint, no warning could have prepared them. Jo cried out a strangled moan, short and incomplete as she clenched around him with the sudden onslaught of his own release. “Shit, Jo, I'm gonna come,” he growled, “I'm gonna come inside you and fill you up and breed you.”

“Yes, give it to me, Dean,” she whined in time with the smack of his hips against her ass. “Fuck my pussy, I wanna feel you come.”

There was no resisting her demands. Even if he had wanted to, Dean couldn't hold back any longer. Each flex of her cunt echoed in a hard throb of his cock, the heat between his thighs spreading like wildfire through his entire body as his orgasm surged. That first long, hard twitch filled her with a load the likes of which he hadn’t felt in decades.

His thrusts stuttered wildly with each throb that followed, encouraged by the aftershocks of Jo's climax. The pale mixture of his seed and her cum spread to her thighs as she writhed against him in the wake of their climax, riding out that euphoric wave until she slumped in his arms.

Dean released her throat and withdrew his hand from her core. With his free hand, he stripped his underwear to the floor, then kicked them up for him to catch. “Here,” he said as he handed them to Jo, and she took them without question.

“Thanks,” she whispered, voice hoarse and dry. She shoved the bundle of fabric between her thighs, ready and waiting.

A steady breath steeled himself before he withdrew from her, half-flaccid cock falling free and dripping with their fluids. In a moment of panic, he searched the floor for his undershirt, found it, and snatched it up to clean himself. Once satisfied, he discarded the ruined cloth on the floor, then turned to Jo and scooped her up in his arms.

She laughed a soft hum through her nose, all sorts of delight dancing across her face. “That was kinda fun,” she teased.

Dean headed for the stairs and laughed his deep baritone. “I wouldn't get too used to it,” he said as he ascended the first steps. “I think I need about an hour in the tub with you after that.”

Deft fingers carded through his hair at the back of his head as Jo grinned. “That sounds wonderful,” she sighed. “I could use a long soak after that workout.”

“Good,” Dean said, her smile mirrored on his lips as he topped the stairs and turned for their bedroom. There he carried Jo into their bathroom, a wide space with a tub big enough for the both of them. He set her on her feet, then started the water.

Jo sat on the tiled ledge of the tub as she grabbed the bag of Epsom salt and poured a handful into it. “I'm kinda surprised where your mind went with all that vulgarity,” she mused.

Dean's cheeks stung as he wrapped his arms around her. “I know, I… I just used whatever came to me in the moment, I’m sorry,” he explained as he squeezed her closer. “I feel a little dirty. Kinda gross. That’s why…” he trailed off once more as he pointed at the bath.

Bless her heart. Jo eased his worries with nothing but her soft smile. “I loved it,” she said. “Everything you said was perfect. It was hot and sexy and dirty all at once.”

“Yeah but…” his voice broke, trailed off into the distance. Dean frowned as he search for the right words. “I wanna treat you the best way I can, be the best man for you. And that… something about it doesn’t feel right.”

A delicate step carried Jo into the tub where she sat, the water barely covering her ankles. “You know what, that’s fine. You don’t have to like it. And we never have to do it again. But I appreciate that you tried it once for me.”

Relief washed over him, tension seeping from his shoulders. “You’re awesome, you know that?” he said as he stepped into the tub beside her. As it filled, he slid beside her and wrapped her in his arms once more. “Like, the best woman I’ve ever met.” He thought a moment before remembering with stark clarity some of the things he had said earlier. “Ugh, I called you a ‘little girl’. How did I let myself say that?”

“That surprised me,” she said with a bright laugh. “Didn’t really know how you’d feel about all that 'Daddy’ kinkiness.”

Despite his concerns, Dean laughed with her. “I may have enjoyed that too much. Ugh, still, 'little girl’ skeeves me out.”

“That’s what this is for,” Jo said with a shimmy of her hips. “Aftercare is important. And there’s nothing better than an honest conversation after a bunch of vulgarity, debasement, and depravity,” she said with a giggle.

While eased by the sentiment, Dean’s mind wandered. So many other things he said had crawled under his skin, words he never thought he’d hear on his lips. And though he had not meant any of them, he couldn't help but wonder if they came from a place of truth, buried deep within his heart.

“You’re thinking really loudly again,” Jo teased.

The words slipped from his mouth before he thought to say them. “I want to have a kid.”

Time stood still as though balanced on the head of a pin, precarious but for the hand holding it. Dean's gaze drifted to the blue water as it swirled about his knees, content for Jo to ignore him in his moment of weakness.

He had never felt hands more delicate than hers. No, delicate did her no justice. Jo knew him. Knew him better than just about anyone aside from Sam and Castiel. Her touch revitalized him and soothed him, made him feel twenty-seven all over again. She turned his head down to hers where he found her sweet smile, and she spoke.

“You'd make an excellent father.”

Father. That word, that title weighed heaviest of them all on his weary shoulders. And yet the appeal remained. “I’d know all the things not to do at least,” he started with a laugh of his own. “And I’ve got you. You’d kick it in the ass, Jo. Mom or dad, you’d put 'em all to shame.”

“Think so?” she asked.

Dean cupped her cheek as he placed his lips on hers for long, lazy kiss. His worry abated and his fear quelled with her touch, her lips and tongue and breath all working together for that ephemeral moment of peace. When she parted from him, her eyes rolled open to stare into his and compelled him to speak.

“Without a doubt in my heart.”

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katehuntington · 5 years

Text

How You & I Will Be - part five (finale)

Fandom: Supernatural Main characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Bobby Singer (mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Serie summary: When a hellhound case in the mountains goes sideways, Dean and Y/N find themselves trapped in a small cabin, miles from civilization. A serious injury forces the two hunters to come to terms with their true feelings for each other. Rescue is on its way, but will it be in time? Part 5 warnings: angst, severe anxiety, nightmares, hallucinations, swearing, alcohol, description of blood and injury, possible character death. Some fluff. Music: ‘Lullabye’ by Billy Joel Word Count: 2154 words Author’s note: This is it, folks. The end of my mini series, and what a pleasure it was. Thank you @idreamofhazel and @littlegreenplasticsoldier for helping we work on this, you both are wonderful betas. Fair warning when you proceed: I managed to move them both to tears. @littlegreenplasticsoldier even made clear that I will have to hire someone to do my obit at my funeral, because I will have no friends left after this.

Find the ‘How You & I Will Be’ masterlist here!

It turns out Y/N has a little more time on her side than they initially thought. Not that she will be able to remember much, since she laid in Dean’s arms unconscious most of the time, but somehow the huntress has made it till sunrise. Despite her brave attempt, her condition deteriorates with every minute that passes. During the hallucinations, Dean pulled her into his lap, holding the girl he loves with everything he’s got, like he would comfort an infant. The acid trip-like dreams had her in confusion and all he could do to sooth her, cradling her gently, whispering sweet words and promises.

The nightmares seem to have passed now, setting in a new stage that is just as ominous. She has been unresponsive for quite a while, as if she has drifted off into a coma. It feels as if she’s slipping through his fingers like desert sand and there’s nothing he can do about it. Sometimes it takes over twenty seconds for her to breathe in again, which is only a weak gasp for air. Between those inhales Dean keeps her close to his chest, begging silently for her to take another breath, to stay a little longer.

Red ashes have turned into grey charcoal overnight, causing the temperature in the cabin to drop. Now Dean’s leather jacket is the only item that can provide her some warmth; even if there were wood left, he wouldn’t let her go to restart the fire. The storm has passed quickly and it wouldn’t surprise Dean if it was the work of that witch that owed Bobby. The rescue-team was supposed to start their climb at the break of dawn; they are probably well on their way, now that the first rays of sun peek over the ridge, watercoloring the sky with pink and purple. The mountaintop of Glacier Peak is outlined with gold that glows ever brighter as the sun comes up. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Dean enjoys intently, aware that these will be the final moments he’ll have with his girl.

When the sunshine spreads a warmth in the cabin, illuminating the fibers of dust that float in the air surrounding them, Y/N opens her eyes slightly without Dean noticing it. The scenery outside captivates her. The view looks more like a painting from Leonid Afremov than it would seem like reality, and for a second she wonders if she’s hallucinating again. But when she observes Dean, who admires the spectacular scenery as well, she guesses it’s nature’s way of saying goodbye.

“Well…” she rustles, words coming out raspy. “If that isn’t the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen….”

Stunned, Dean looks down at her. He honestly didn’t expect her to ever open her eyes again, but here she is. A moment of clarity. God, it’s nice to hear the sound of her voice again, despite it not being more than a weak whisper. “Hey, you,” he returns, smiling down. She smiles back, glad to be able to gaze up into those depthless green eyes once more. He lovingly strokes some wayward hair from her forehead, and places a tender kiss on her skin. Embracing the moment, she closes her eyes and sighs as her grin reaches wider. When he pulls back and witnesses the satisfied expression on her face, he suddenly notices the difference; she’s made peace with her fate. It scares him deeply, he isn’t anywhere close to prepared for her coming death. “You wouldn’t be able to squeeze out a few more hours by any chance?” he pleads. “The rescue workers are on their way.” For a moment she opens her eyes again, clearly worn out by the fight for life. She swallows with difficulty and lets the air escape from her lips, finding it harder to inhale every time she does so. “I’m so tired, Dean….” Her voice fails, but he heard her. The hunter nods slowly, accepting the true message behind her words. The fight is over. She’s lowered her weapons. With difficulty, he gulps, trying to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. After all, he has to be strong for her.

But she’s no fool; she can see right through it. Y/N knows how hurt he is, how he’s trying so hard to prevent himself from caving. She might be okay with the fact that her hour has struck, he can’t say the same. The thought of letting her go causes the tears to pool in his eyes. “Hey… It’s alright,” she tries to comfort him. He scoffs, amazed by her urge to care for him, even now. He manages a quivering breath. “I should be telling you that.” “I’m not the one who’s about to be left behind, am I?” she reminds him.

It’s a solid point. Who knows where she might drift off to. Heaven, the light, whatever one would want to believe. Dean will remain right here, on this spot of land without her. “What do you think is gonna happen next?” he wonders out loud. “Lights out and that’s it?” “Hell, no,” she chuckles, having found a little more spirit to strengthen her words. “It’s gonna be either Vegas or Hawaii. I haven’t decided yet.” Dean scoffs through the tears, imagining it for a moment. He hopes she’s right, it makes the idea of dying a little less terrifying. “Maybe my heaven will be driving down the road towards the sunset in the Impala, backseat to myself…” she continues on a serious note. “Maybe it’s this, this moment right here with you. This view.”

Dean follows her thousand-yard stare through the window that portrays the colorful picture outside. As the sun rises further, it casts an golden light over the snowy mountains, and Y/N takes a moment to count her blessings. Sure, she wishes she would’ve had more time, but it isn’t the worse way to go. The man she gave her heart to is holding her close and they got the chance to spend their final moments together. The man who told her: I love you. The man she told: I love you, too. It’s not that bad, actually. “Promise me something?” He turns to face her again, waiting for a follow up. Trying to speak, her voice hitches in her throat as breathing becomes more difficult. Her fragile state indicates it won’t take long now. “Promise you’ll let your friends and family help you. Promise you’ll talk to Sam. Don’t bottle it up this time, okay?” The pressure on Dean’s chest becomes so heavy that his airway constricts. He is able to keep a hold of her questioning gaze, though. “I promise,” he assures, choking up. “And no deals,” she continues. “I know you’ve been thinking it.” “Y/N -” But she won’t have it and interrupts his attempt to object instantly. “No, Dean. I don’t want you to get torn up by those hounds. If you make a deal, you’ll go to hell,” she pauses to catch her breath. “And where I’m going… It’s not a bad place.” Dean sighs after a moment’s consideration, trying to blink away his tears as he admits to her conditions with a nod. “Alright.”

She smiles slightly, glad to have his word and relieved that she got the message across. It remains quiet for a couple of minutes as her respiration slows down even further, taking down her pulse as well. Scared, Dean holds his love, watching her subside, further and further away from him. “Dean?” His name is barely audible, it’s more of a breath than her voice. “Yeah?” She forces her eyes open, taking in the hunter above her. For the first time since last night, tears stain her beautiful eyes. Dean knows exactly what she’s trying to capture, because he’s trying to accomplish the same. He takes her in, every feature, every perfect flaw. A few lost birthmarks that decorate her face and neck. That scar on her chin that she always tries to cover up with a scarf or the collar of her jacket. The slight frizz in the lock of hair that she cusses about whenever it’s rainy or windy. And damn, those eyes, those gorgeous eyes. “I-I think it’s time….” she stammers weak.

She’s might be okay with dying, that doesn’t mean that she isn’t scared of what lays ahead. Of course she’s terrified, who wouldn’t be scared of the unknown? Vampires, ghosts, demons; she faced them all. But with every single monster she came across, she knew a way to defeat them. Never, ever, did she show up for a fight unprepared. At the verge of battle she was armed with a weapon of choice, if it was silver, salt, dead man’s blood or the Colt. She knew her opponent, she did her research, she read the lore. But she can fantasize about casinos or white sandy beaches all she wants, the truth is that nothing can prepare anyone for what awaits on the other side. “It’s alright, Y/N. I’ve got you,” Dean comforts, pulling her even closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’m right here. I won’t leave your side, I promise.” She cries against his chest silently, wheezing every time she tries to inhale. Dean’s heart is beating out of his chest as hers will stop any moment now. “Y-you know what my mom’s favorite song was… to sing to me?” she whispers, referring to their talk days ago, about music and songs sang by their mothers. “It was Lullabye... Billy Joel… She always sang Lullabye.” “It’s a good song,” Dean gets out with difficulty. “It is,” you smile into his shirt, before she softly whispers the first lines.

Goodnight, my angel Time to close your eyes And save these questions for another day

Dean joins in with her, cradling his dying girl to the rhythm of the song. The melody somehow makes it easier to pronounce the words.

I think I know what you've been asking me I think you know what I've been trying to say I promised I would never leave you, and you should always know Wherever you may go, no matter where you are I never will be far away

She lets Dean take over the vocals completely, listening to his emotional yet clear voice. It hushes her into a deep sleep from which she will never wake again. Slowly Y/N sinks further into the depths of unconsciousness. But she can still hear him, she can still hear Dean. Scientists have proved that the sense of hearing is the last one to perish when a person dies. Seems like they are right.

Goodnight, my angel Now it's time to sleep And still so many things I want to say Remember all the songs you sang for me When we went…

He stops mid-sentence, waiting for some kind of response from Y/N. A flinch, her chest rising, anything. But nothing happens. There’s no cloud of humid air coming from her lips, even the drum in her chest has stopped playing. When he lifts his chin off her head and loosens his grip on the woman in his arms slightly, he is able to behold the blank expression on her pretty face, eyes slightly opened, but her soul is gone.

“Y/N…?”

Shocked he stares at her as a lump obstructs his throat. A hole in his stomach grows larger when the harsh reality replaces his denial. Dean can’t prevent the tears from building up in his eyes and so he looks up, hoping that they won’t fall down, but they fall anyway. Unable to cope with the avalanche of sorrow that hits him like a freight train, his bottom lip starts to quiver and slowly he begins to move back and forth, mourning, as he presses her lifeless body against his.

He lost her. For a few moments she was his and now he’s lost her. He whispers her name in her hair, tells her he loves her once more and then again. God, he would give anything to see her react to those words, by throwing him that amazing smile. Softly he continues to sing the song. The earth turns and the sun shines its light on the both of them. His voice is shaking so badly that he has trouble getting anything out at all. Being able to hold and cradle her helps, and so he sets off again where her death caused him to pauze.

Remember all the songs you sang for me When we went sailing on an emerald bay And like a boat out on the ocean I'm rocking you to sleep The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart You'll always be a part of me

Someday we'll all be gone But lullabies go on and on They never die That's how you and I will be

The end, people. Thank you so much for reading my story. I appreciate every single one of you. If you would like to talk about this or if you need a grief-counselor, let me know. Feedback is very much appreciated.

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