Found some courage from another user. Still learning how posting on here works. Please bear with me on this learning curve while I figure it all out.
Oh, profile pic is what Maria Winter looks like as an adult. Enjoy.
18+ I love to reblog things I enjoy here, so enjoy.
Image, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
4/6/26 update - I now have a Patreon. I'm just getting it up and running, so there's not much there as I add this little edit. I'm slowly getting my current stories over on there, but I will be adding bonus content that I don't have on here, eventually.
Writing Update: 4/12/26
I hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them and rereading them. Most are a work in progress, and I'll post them when I can.
Most of my fics are Dean x Reader/You. Can't help it. I'm a total Dean girl. lol I'm sure I'll expand to Sam x Reader/You, the brothers x Reader/You, Cas x Reader/You, and perhaps even Benny x Reader/You. It'll all depend on the story and how it ends up writing itself. They'll all be labeled.
Whenever I write, I always picture Maria Winter as the character in the story, even if it is Y/N or the reader. She's been with me through many stories that I've written over the past 30 years. I love that I get to share her with all of you.
I'm one who enjoys the reader to be something different than human. Somehow, writing those always brings a lot of unexpected things to the story. I haven't yet written where the reader or OC is human. There's always something hidden below the surface.
I think if I do any AUs, I will try out having the reader be human but with something utterly unique to the AU that's like 1 in a billion.
Many thanks to all my readers. Your comments, reblogs, hearts, and follows are what keep me writing and sharing them here. I love hearing from all of you.
All My Stories In One Place
One Shots Master List
Well, it finally happened. lol
Series Master List
This includes - soulmates, Other OC series, A/B/O, Show rewrites
I included the links here that are on the Series Master List, hoping it would make it easier for everyone to find what they're looking for.
Soulmate Master List
OC Female Master List
A/B/O Master List
Show Rewrite Master List
Touched Master List
OC Female Creature
This includes one-shots and series.
A/N: I have several for here, they just aren't ready to be posted yet.
A/N: Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I haven't even been on this platform a year yet as I set up this particular master list. I love all my readers and the other authors I've found on here. If any of you would like to see what my first Master List was like, here's a link.
My Favorite Stories List
Pond Dive Recap with Me and @spnfanficpond, if you missed it.
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Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 4693
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Pregnancy, Adjustments without words, Pack Fluff, Upcoming worries, A look into how the Winter pack does things and how unstructured Y/N had actually grown up due to her Touched genetics.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 71 ------- Chapter 73 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 72
The cabin was quiet in the way only late morning could be—when the world outside had already fully woken up, but inside still felt like it hadn’t decided what version of the day it wanted to be.
Flour dusted the counter in soft, uneven streaks.
The air carried warmth from the oven and something sweeter underneath it—vanilla, butter, sugar turning gold at the edges.
You moved through it on instinct more than thought, measuring without looking twice, hands steady in the way they always were when you needed them to be.
Not because you were calm.
Because doing something with your hands kept everything else from spilling over.
Behind you, Jess sat on the counter like she belonged there, one leg swinging slowly, watching you with that quiet attention she always had when she wasn’t trying to fix anything—just understand it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
You didn’t look up from the bowl. “What thing?”
“The ‘I have too much energy and nowhere to put it so I’m going to bake like it’s a coping strategy’ thing.”
A faint huff left you before you could stop it, more breath than laugh. You scraped the sides of the bowl, steady and repetitive, letting the motion carry you.
“Is it working?” she added, softer now.
A pause.
You considered lying.
Then shook your head once. “Not really.”
Jess nodded like that was a perfectly acceptable answer.
She reached for a stray piece of dough on the counter and rolled it between her fingers, absentminded. “Sam said he’s officially locked in with that internship, by the way.”
That got a flicker of something lighter through you. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hm. He looked way too proud of himself about it. Tried to act like it was no big deal, but it absolutely was a big deal.”
That earned a real sound from you this time—small, but honest. The tension in your shoulders eased just slightly without you telling it to.
The oven ticked softly.
Somewhere deeper in the cabin, a floorboard creaked as the structure settled.
Jess tilted her head. “Dean’s at work?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause, then Jess added, more casually than not, “He’s probably thinking about you anyway.”
That made your hands still for half a second. Just long enough for Jess to notice.
But she didn’t push.
She never did.
Instead, she swung her leg again and watched you resume mixing, slower now, like your body had to remember what rhythm felt like.
A few minutes passed like that.
Comfortable. Familiar. Almost normal.
Until it wasn’t.
You reached for the vanilla without thinking, poured it, and the scent hit the air a fraction too sharp—too immediate.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
It used to never matter.
But your stomach turned so quickly it caught you off guard, breath stuttering for half a second as you set the bottle down a little harder than intended.
Jess’s gaze sharpened instantly. Not alarmed—just aware.
“You okay?”
You blinked once, forcing your focus back to the bowl. “Yeah. Just—”
The smell lingered longer than it should’ve.
You swallowed. “Just strong today.”
Jess didn’t respond right away.
She just watched you a beat longer than usual, then nodded like she’d decided something internally but wasn’t going to say it out loud yet.
“Okay,” she said simply, and hopped down from the counter.
She moved to the fridge instead, pulling it open like nothing had changed at all. “Do we still have enough eggs, or did Dean eat them again like a raccoon with no self-control?”
That pulled a reluctant smile out of you—small, grateful, distracted.
“Sam bought more yesterday.”
“Of course he did,” she muttered, already rummaging.
You leaned back against the counter for a second, exhaling slowly through your nose.
The kitchen was still warm.
Still safe.
Still yours.
But somewhere underneath it all, something had begun to shift—not loudly, not dramatically.
Just enough that you noticed it when you paused long enough to feel it.
And you didn’t.
Not for long.
Because movement helped.
And thinking too hard about stillness had started to feel like a mistake you couldn’t quite name yet.
Evening settled over the cabin slowly, like it didn’t want to commit to being night just yet.
The light outside had softened into that muted gold that made everything feel quieter than it really was. Shadows stretched longer across the floorboards. The windows held the last of the sky like it was something fragile.
You’d stopped pretending to be busy a while ago.
The baking had been cleaned up without much memory of doing it. Jess had drifted out earlier—something about Sam calling, something about “I’ll be back later,” said lightly, like it didn’t matter if it was true or not.
Now it was just you and Dean.
And the silence that came with that was never really silence at all.
He was in the kitchen when you found him, leaning against the counter with a glass in hand he hadn’t touched. Not restless exactly—just present in that way he got when his thoughts had nowhere else to go.
His gaze lifted the moment you came into the room.
Softened immediately.
“You alright?” he asked, like he always did. Not because he expected something was wrong—but because he checked anyway.
You nodded before you fully reached him. “Yeah.”
But the word came out a little thinner than you meant it to.
You crossed the space between you without thinking too hard about it, like your body already knew the direction it wanted. By the time you stopped, you were close enough that the warmth of him felt like something you could lean into.
And you did.
Just slightly.
Not dramatic. Not falling.
Just… there.
Dean didn’t comment on it. Didn’t shift like he’d noticed anything unusual.
But his hand came up anyway, settling at your waist in a quiet, automatic hold—steadying without asking why.
His thumb brushed once, slow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he murmured.
You hesitated. That was the thing lately. There were too many answers, and none of them came out clean.
“It’s just…” you started, then stopped.
Dean waited. No pressure in it. Just patience.
You exhaled through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again. “I keep thinking about telling them.”
His grip didn’t tighten.
But something in him adjusted—subtle, like a shift in weight.
“The Winters?” he asked.
You nodded.
A pause settled between you, not uncomfortable. Just full. It wasn’t fear that lived in your chest when you thought about it. Not exactly.
It was structure.
Expectation.
The way your parents’ world had always been built—careful choices, measured words, consequences that didn’t always need anger to feel heavy, no matter how ‘freely’ you’d grown up.
“I know they’ll be… happy,” you added after a moment. Then corrected yourself softly, “They’ll care. They’ll want to be involved.”
Dean watched you carefully, like he was listening for what you weren’t saying more than what you were.
“But?” he prompted gently.
Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his side without realizing it. “But I don’t know how they’ll feel about how we’re doing this,” you admitted.
There it was.
Not the pregnancy.
The path.
Dean didn’t answer right away.
He just shifted you a little closer instead, like he could make space for the weight of it without trying to remove it.
His hand moved once at your back—slow, grounding.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You looked up.
His expression wasn’t tense. Not worried in the way you were expecting.
Just steady.
“Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t get to decide that part.”
Your breath caught slightly—not because it was shocking, but because it landed too cleanly against something tangled in you.
Dean continued, voice lower now. “That’s not on them. That’s on us. On you and me. On how we want to do this.”
You searched his face like there might be a second meaning hiding underneath.
There wasn’t.
Just certainty.
Not loud. Not forceful.
Certain.
His thumb brushed again at your side. “You’re gonna be a good mom. That’s already decided. Everything else?” A small shrug. “We figure it out as we go.”
A quiet sound left you—not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. Your shoulders loosened a fraction without you meaning them to.
Dean noticed anyway. “You tired,” he said suddenly, softer.
It wasn’t a question.
You blinked. “I’m fine.”
But even as you said it, your body betrayed you—leaning a little more fully into him, like the effort of holding yourself upright had shifted without permission.
Dean’s hand steadied you immediately, reflexive.
“You’re not,” he corrected gently. No frustration in it. Just observation.
You opened your mouth to argue again, but it never formed.
Because he was already moving.
Not rushing.
Just deciding.
“C’mere,” he murmured, and before you could respond, his arms slid under you with practiced ease.
You made a small sound of surprise as the ground disappeared, instinctively gripping his shoulder.
Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh as he adjusted your weight against him. “Relax. I got you.”
“I’m not—” you started, but it dissolved halfway through when he shifted you more securely against his chest.
His hold was warm. Familiar. Absolute without being heavy.
Your protest faded into something quieter.
Something easier.
He carried you through the cabin like it wasn’t a decision at all, like it had already been decided the moment you’d leaned into him.
Up the stairs.
Down the hall.
No urgency. Just inevitability.
And you didn’t fight it this time.
Not really.
Because his scent wrapped around you in a way that made your thoughts slow down, like they’d finally found somewhere safe to land.
By the time he set you down on the bed, it felt less like being placed somewhere and more like being returned.
Dean stayed close as you shifted, settling in without fully letting go.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said quietly.
“What thing?”
“Trying to carry everything in your head at once.”
A pause.
You didn’t deny it this time. Instead, you turned slightly toward him, watching as he sat beside you like he had nowhere else to be.
His hand found your hip again—gentle, familiar.
“Try not to,” he added softer. “Not tonight.”
You studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
Not because everything felt resolved.
But because for now, it didn’t need to be.
And Dean stayed right there as the room settled around you both—quiet, steady, and just warm enough to make the rest of the world feel a little farther away than it had been earlier.
Saturday arrived with a kind of stillness that didn’t belong to the cabin.
The morning had been quiet in a different way than usual—not peaceful, exactly, but contained. Like everyone had agreed, without saying it out loud, that today had edges that needed to be handled carefully. So much so, Jess hadn’t made a single teasing remark.
Dean drove.
He didn’t offer to take the truck. Didn’t suggest anything else. Just grabbed the keys and held them a second longer than necessary before opening the door for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The Impala felt different when it left the gravel road and hit pavement.
Like it understood where you were going.
You sat beside him, hands folded in your lap more out of instinct than intention. The road stretched out ahead in long, quiet lines, trees thinning slowly the closer you got to town.
Dean’s hand found your thigh once at a stoplight.
Not gripping.
Just there.
A reminder without words.
“You alright?” he asked after a while.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He glanced at you briefly—long enough to know you were answering honestly, even if it didn’t cover everything.
Then he just nodded once and focused back on the road.
No pressure.
No pushing.
Just presence.
The house came into view the same way memories always did—before you were ready for them.
Familiar roofline. Familiar windows. Familiar walkway that hadn’t changed even when everything else had.
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with history.
You didn’t realize you’d gone still until Dean’s voice cut in gently beside you.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he said.
You swallowed once.
Then opened your door.
Inside, the Winter home felt exactly as you remembered—and completely different all at once.
Not because it had changed.
Because you had.
The structure of it hit you first.
Not emotional warmth.
Not chaos.
Order.
Everything had its place. Everything carried intention. Even the air felt like it had been arranged rather than simply existed. Things you hadn’t noticed growing up, but now hit in an unfamiliar way.
You stepped inside, and for a moment, it felt like the house itself recognized you before anyone else did.
Then voices shifted.
Movement from deeper inside.
Your mother appeared first.
Her gaze landed on you, steady and assessing in the way only someone who had raised you could manage without saying a word. Her expression softened—not dramatically, but enough that the shift was clear if you knew how to read it.
Then your father followed behind her.
The change in him was subtler still.
But immediate.
He didn’t speak right away.
Not because he didn’t know what to say. Because he was measuring what you had brought into their home. And he already knew it mattered.
Dean stayed half a step behind you.
Not hidden.
Not forward.
Just… there.
A steady weight at your back that didn’t interfere with the room but grounded everything inside it.
Your mother’s eyes flicked briefly to him.
Then back to you.
“Come in,” she said at last.
Simple.
Controlled.
Inviting without losing structure.
You stepped further into the house.
Dean followed.
The sitting room had been rearranged slightly since the last time you’d been here—subtle differences in placement, newer books on the shelves, the same careful attention to symmetry that always made the space feel deliberate.
You sat.
Dean remained standing until your father gestured for him to sit as well.
He did.
But not before a brief pause—just long enough to acknowledge the formality without resisting it.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was loaded.
Your mother broke it first. “How have you been?”
A simple question. But in this room, nothing was ever simple.
You exhaled slowly. “I’ve been… good.”
A beat.
Then, softer, “We came because we needed to tell you something.”
That changed the air immediately.
Not alarm.
Not surprise.
Just focus.
Your father leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. Your mother’s hands folded in her lap.
Dean didn’t move. But you felt the shift in him anyway—subtle, attentive, ready without being intrusive.
You looked down briefly, then back up.
“I’m pregnant.”
No buildup.
No embellishment.
Just the truth, placed carefully into the center of the room like it belonged there, whether anyone was ready or not.
The reaction wasn’t dramatic. It never would be here. Somehow, you’d known that.
Your mother’s eyes softened again—but this time with something deeper underneath it. Awareness. Calculation. Care.
Your father’s gaze didn’t waver.
Not once.
Then he nodded slowly.
“I see,” he said.
Two words.
But they carried weight in a way that silence often couldn’t. Your mother’s attention shifted briefly toward Dean.
Then back to you.
“And you are certain?” she asked gently.
“Yes,” you said.
Dean’s hand moved slightly beside you—small enough that only you would notice it. A quiet grounding touch at the edge of your chair.
Not interrupting.
Just present.
Your father leaned back slightly, absorbing the information in a way that didn’t rush toward reaction.
“That changes things,” he said at last.
Not disapproval.
Not approval.
Just acknowledgment.
And in the Winter household, acknowledgment was never casual. It meant something had entered the structure of the family that would need to be accounted for.
Your mother nodded once. “It will require planning.”
Dean’s jaw tightened faintly at that.
Not defensive.
Just attentive.
You felt his presence shift subtly closer without him moving at all. A silent reminder that you weren’t alone in the structure of this room.
Your father’s eyes finally settled on Dean directly.
Measured him.
Not unkindly.
Not warmly.
Carefully.
“You will be involved in that planning,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Dean met his gaze evenly. “Yes, sir.”
Simple.
Certain.
No hesitation.
That seemed to satisfy something unspoken in the room, because your father gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Your mother exhaled gently, then looked back to you. “We will need time to adjust,” she said. “But we are listening.”
That landed differently than anything else.
Not approval.
Not resistance.
But something structured and steady enough to hold weight. Your shoulders eased slightly before you realized they’d been tense.
Beside you, Dean’s hand found yours again under the edge of your chair—quiet, grounding, steady.
Not pulling you out of the moment.
Just keeping you anchored inside it.
And for the first time since you’d walked in—
you didn’t feel like you were carrying this alone inside their house. Just carrying it inside a room that would, eventually, learn how to hold it too.
The room held steady for a moment too long after your mother’s last words.
Not empty.
Just… suspended.
Like everyone was waiting to see what shape the next thing would take.
Your mother was the first to move again. Not physically—just enough that her attention sharpened, recalibrated.
“Then we should be clear,” she said carefully. “If this is confirmed, there are expectations that come with a Winter child. Not rules in the harsh sense, but responsibilities. Structure. Awareness of lineage matters, especially with a first pup.”
Dean’s posture shifted instantly beside you.
Not dramatic.
But noticeable.
His jaw tightened, shoulders subtly squaring like something in him had just been asked to sit still under pressure it didn’t agree with.
You felt it immediately—his wolf pacing under the surface, restrained but very much there.
Your father continued, voice even. “The Winter line does not take these things lightly. You understand that. Especially since you’re both Touched.”
Your throat tightened.
“I do,” you said, before Dean could.
It came out steady, but softer than you intended. A fraction of hesitation slipped through anyway.
Dean’s hand pressed lightly against the edge of your chair again—grounding, not controlling.
Your mother watched you for a long moment, then asked, “And the environment the child will be raised in?”
There it was.
The real question underneath the question: Would you be moving back onto Winter land?
Dean let out a slow breath through his nose. You felt him hold himself back from speaking.
Just barely.
You answered instead.
“It will be safe,” you said. “And stable. It won’t be—” you paused, searching for the right words, “—unstructured. But it won’t be rigid either.” It still wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.
Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, but in assessment.
“That is not a framework,” he said.
Dean shifted again, sharper this time. You felt it in your bones before you saw it in him. The instinct to respond. To correct. To defend.
You tightened your fingers around his hand under the chair—once—a quiet signal.
Stay with me.
He exhaled slowly. Didn’t speak. But the tension stayed.
Your mother tilted her head slightly. “You are choosing a blended system, then.”
“Yes,” you said.
Simple. Honest.
Dean’s voice cut in then—controlled, but edged. “She’s not raising the pup alone,” he said.
The room went still.
Not hostile.
But recalibrated.
Your father’s gaze moved to him again.
Dean didn’t look away.
“I’m not a guest in this,” Dean continued, quieter now but firmer. “And I’m not standing on the outside of it either.”
A beat.
Then, softer—but with weight.
“That’s my pup too.”
Your mother studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once, like she had already accounted for that variable.
“We did not assume otherwise,” she said calmly. “But Winter structure requires clarity. Ambiguity creates instability.”
Dean huffed faintly under his breath at that—almost a laugh, but not amused enough to fully become one.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “We’ve got plenty of structure where I’m from too.”
You felt the shift in him after he said it—like he immediately reined himself back in.
Not disrespectful.
Just Dean.
Your father’s gaze lingered on him another second longer, then returned to you. “And your plan for disclosure?” he asked.
Your chest tightened.
You knew what he meant.
Not if you would tell them.
But when and how.
You stayed silent for a long moment, realizing just how much you’d changed in a year. Dean squeezed your hand once, reassurance that he was there for you, not them.
“I’m leaving that to you,” you said, voice far steadier than you felt. “Dean and I have talked it over. We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”
That part landed like a silent bomb.
Dean’s hand squeezed yours once—subtle approval.
Your father leaned back slightly, his jaw working like he was chewing on things he wouldn’t say.
“What about the blessing ceremony?” he asked, sounding far too calm for your liking.
Dean’s hand tightened in yours for a fraction of a second before he forced his fingers to relax.
You didn’t falter, not at this. “On the second night of the full moon, after our pup is born, we’ll be on Winter land for the blessing ceremony, but only so our pup is acknowledged as a member of the pack.”
Your mother nodded once, understanding flickering in her gaze, a small but soft smile slowly forming. “You’ve already thought about this,” her words were softer than you’d anticipated.
For the first time since entering your childhood home, your gaze fell to the table, your thoughts drifting to the little girl who’d practically claimed you as hers that first night on Winchester land nearly a year ago. Who knew you were carrying your own pup before you had.
“I understand the structure of the Winter pack,” you began, carefully finding words to articulate your thoughts. “But, I also understand the closeness of the Winchester pack, and that’s what I want for our pup.”
Dean’s thumb brushed once against your hand—small, unconscious comfort.
Your father’s expression didn’t change much, but something in it eased by a fraction. “Then we’ll respect the route you’ve chosen, as it’s always been your to choose.”
The sting of tears attempting to form hit your eyes without warning. You thought it would have been harder to make them understand. Or that they would argue that their way was the ‘right’ way.
“Give us a little time to adjust,” your mother murmured, her expression softer than it had been.
By the time the Impala rolled back onto the dirt road home, the tightness behind your ribs had settled into something dull and heavy.
Not pain.
Not regret.
Just the kind of exhaustion that only came after holding yourself together for too long.
The drive home had been mostly quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Dean had kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting against your thigh almost the entire way back, thumb brushing absently every now and then like he couldn’t quite stop checking that you were still there. Still mostly okay.
You hadn’t realized how much tension had been sitting in your body until the cabin finally came into view through the trees.
Home.
The porch light was already on, warm against the deepening blue of evening. Dean parked, but neither of you moved immediately. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
For a moment, all you could hear was the distant rustle of wind through the forest and the sound of your own breathing.
Then Dean turned toward you fully. His gaze moved slowly across your face—not searching for damage this time.
Just reading you.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The question hit differently now. Because you actually had to think about it.
Your shoulders loosened slowly as you exhaled. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… tired.”
Something in his expression softened immediately at that.
Not pity.
Understanding.
His hand slid from your thigh up along your side before settling warm against your back. “You did good,” he said.
Simple words.
But they hit harder than you expected.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly as the memory of the conversation tried to replay itself all over again—the careful words, the measured silences, the weight of sitting in your childhood home and saying:
“We’re raising our pup in the Winchester way.”
Dean must’ve felt the shift in you through the bond because his thumb brushed slowly against your side.
“No,” he corrected softly, voice rough with something proud and reverent all at once. “You did real good.”
Heat stung suddenly behind your eyes. You looked away before it could fully settle there.
Dean noticed anyway. “C’mere,” he murmured.
Before you could protest, he pulled you against him, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders.
The scent of him hit instantly—warm skin, leather, pine, smoke, wolf.
Home.
Your eyes closed briefly as your forehead rested against his shoulder. And for the first time since stepping into your parents’ house—
you finally let yourself sag a little.
Dean held you tighter immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You stood there and told ‘em exactly what you wanted for our pup,” he murmured into your hair. “That wasn’t easy.”
No.
It hadn’t been.
Not with your father watching every word.
Not with your mother weighing meaning into silence.
Not with generations of Winter structure sitting behind every sentence spoken in that room.
And somehow, saying it aloud now made the exhaustion settle deeper into your bones.
“I thought it would feel different,” you admitted quietly.
Dean leaned back just enough to look at you. “How?”
You swallowed once. “I don’t know. Lighter maybe.”
His expression softened even more.
“Baby,” he said gently, “you just stood up to your whole damn bloodline.”
Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escaped you.
Dean grinned faintly at the sound of it, clearly relieved to hear it at all. Then his gaze flicked toward the cabin.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside.”
The warmth hit immediately when Dean opened the door.
Coffee.
Woodsmoke.
Something sweet lingering faintly from what you and Jess had baked the day before.
And underneath all of it—
pack.
Sam looked up first from the couch, where he’d been half-sprawled with a book open in one hand. Jess sat cross-legged beside him, stealing bites from a bowl of popcorn balanced between them.
Both of them went still the second they saw you.
Not alarmed.
Attentive.
Jess opened her mouth first, concern already flickering across her face—
but Dean beat her to it.
His arm slid around your shoulders immediately as he guided you fully inside, pulling you instinctively against his side.
And he was beaming.
Not smug.
Not relieved.
Proud.
It practically radiated off him.
Sam’s brows lifted almost instantly at the sight of it. His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the emotional undercurrents with frightening accuracy.
“…How’d it go?” he asked carefully.
For half a second, the room held still.
Then Dean looked at you. And the expression that crossed his face nearly stole the air from your lungs all over again.
Pure admiration.
“My mate stood her ground,” he said.
The words landed warm and solid in the center of the room.
Not boastful.
Reverent.
Like he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed.
Jess’s entire expression softened immediately.
Sam let out a quiet breath, tension easing visibly from his shoulders.
And beside you, Dean’s arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders, pulling you closer against him without even thinking about it.
His wolf was still proud.
You could feel it flooding through the bond in steady waves—protective, devoted, deeply certain.
Not because you’d “won.”
Because you’d chosen.
Chosen your future.
Chosen your pack.
Chosen him.
And standing there in the warmth of the cabin, surrounded by the people who had become your home—
the heaviness in your chest finally loosened enough for you to breathe again.
Chapter 71 ------- Chapter 73 - coming soon
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[Keraunophilia: a sexual fascination with thunder and lightning]
A Supernatural Story
Dean Winchester x Reader
1047 Words
Post-Case Sex In The Impala.
SDoS Master List ~ Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist
The rain had only just begun to fall as they made their way back to the Impala. Aching but exhilarated from the battle, Y/N threw out her arms and spun around as giant droplets of cold rain splashed down upon her. It cooled her skin and washed the dust and ectoplasm from her face.
Dean laughed to himself as he watched her dancing in the rain like some carefree pixie dream girl in a ‘90s rom com. He blushed when she caught him staring; licked his lip as she reached out of him.
“Dance with me, Winchester!”
If they hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere, he would have protested, but only the trees and gray sky would see him act a fool. And anyway, for Y/N, he’d do just about anything.
The rain fell harder as he took her hand. It washed the grime away; soaked their clothes. The dry safety of the car was only a dozen yards away, but Y/N didn’t seem to care. She grabbed his hand and pulled him close, pecking his lips before spinning in his arms.
“Romantic,” he teased, slapping the water from his face. It was really coming down.
“Feels good though!” she replied, lifting her face to the dark sky.
He couldn’t argue. Besides, the way her shirt was clinging to her curves was a sight he would store away for a lonely night down the road.
A sudden flash lit the entire sky and Y/N stopped dancing. He noticed a shiver run through her and he tugged her close.
“Cold?”
Thunder followed the light and Y/N bit her lip as it rumbled through her. “N-nope.”
He looked down with a sweet smile and brushed the wet hair from her forehead. “You’re shivering.”
Her eyes lit up bright with another crack of lightning and zoned in on his lips. Without a word, she slipped her hand up and around the nape of his neck, pulling him down. She licked at his mouth, snagged the plump bottom lip between her teeth, and moaned when his hands slid around her body. She bucked her hips into him and Dean let out an interested hum.
“What’s gotten into you?”
She blinked up at him with a familiar, lustful gaze. Thunder rippled through the sky and he felt her body tighten up. She kissed him again, harder this time, and tugged on the collar of his jacket. “Race you to the car…”
Dean was a little stunned when she took off. His blood was signing, arousal pounding through his body. Lightning highlighted her form as she ran; thunder muffled her laughter.
He caught up to her easily; long bowed legs almost flying over the rain-softened earth. Y/N turned as he approached, and Dean lunged for her, pressing her back against the car with a kiss that made her moan and reach for his belt.
“Need you,” she whispered, fumbling with the buckle.
“Right here?” He stepped back and took over, undoing the metal clasp. His eyes widened as she tugged her soaked shirt off. The lightning lit her skin, every bump and bruise, every curve and scar he knew so well.
“Here,” she answered, almost breathless as she kicked off her shoes and yanked her jeans down. “Now.”
Thunder rattled the countryside and Dean tossed his jacket onto the Impala’s shining hood. His shirt fell to the mud, his boots sank in. The rain washed them clean and the backdoor opened with a comforting creak. Y/N crawled across the long bench seat and lay down, spreading her legs wide in invitation. She chewed her lip, barely able to contain her lust as Dean followed inside, pulling the door shut behind him. His naked body was dripping with rain, soft yet strong muscles tensing as he climbled over her.
Lightning split the night; rain pelted the metal roof like a symphonic beat to match their pants and moans. Y/N clung to him, fingers pressing into his shoulders as he kissed his way down her body, lips pausing over her pulse to scrape a faint mark. She dug her nails into his back when his hot mouth caught her left nipple and sucked it stiff; scratched hard across his shoulders when he slipped two fingers inside her aching cunt, stretching her open.
“Please, Dean- don’t tease me…”
Her whimper was nearly muted by a bowling thunder that shook the car. A slick smile pulled his lips and he grabbed the crook of her knee. He tugged her down, naked back sliding over the worn leather seat. She hooked her leg around his waist, heel digging gently into the cleft of his ass.
Another clash of lightning highlighted their kiss; a clap of thunder accentuated his slow thrust.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby…” Dean dropped his forehead to her shoulder as he bottomed out.
Every bolt through the sky made her body tense harder around him and Dean could barely contain himself. Y/N lifted her hips, meeting each of his pistoning thrusts with a hard clap of wet skin on skin.
He couldn’t if he wanted to. The bliss on her face, the way her tits bounced, the warm squeeze of her pussy- he was too far gone to even think. All that mattered was bringing her up as high as he could before he inevitably lost control.
She came hard with a roll of thunder that seemed to shake the sky for as long as she shook beneath him. Her thigh clamped around him and she shoved her tongue between his lips, damned near screaming into his mouth as the moment struck.
“Fuck…” He groaned and dropped his head once more into the crook of her neck as he let go, spilling hot and wet onto her inner thigh. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Y/N wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down. His body crushed her into the seat, but he breathed life back into her with a deep kiss.
She sighed and held him there, stroking his damp hair as they came down. The windows were steamy and waterfalls fell on the other side of the glass. Y/N smiled.
I just got broken up with:( He was really good to me, but I saw it coming for a while😔
Could you please write a comfort fic with Dean? Where he comforts her after the breakup?
Its hard even though we came to an understanding and ended it on good terms😣 could really do with a long hug from Dean right about now
oh I'm so sorry!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ I hope this is okay and a little pick me up!
Dean hasn't seen you for three days.
Normally that wouldn't bother him- you're a busy lady, he knows that! You have things to do, places to go, people to see! Except you'd promised him almost a week ago you'd help him with Baby's engine- and while he doesn't really need your help, he still wants your company while he tears her insides out. It'll certainly make the whole thing less painful.
He's yet to come to your room with his tail between his legs and ask you to come hang out, half because he doesn't want to feel like a lovesick teenager, and half because he knows if he bothers you when you're busy, there's a good chance you'll stab him.
But he's held out long enough, he's decided. And after an hour of restless tapping he finally decides he's going to break his own dignity and just go knock.
It takes until he's already tapping his knuckles to realize he isn't even sure you're in there. He fidgets awkwardly, feeling like a doofus.
"Just a minute!"
It feels nice to hear your voice, though it doesn't sound completely like you. You take just long enough that he's able to start considering the possibility of shapeshifters before the door opens, the real you standing on the other side.
You're trying to hold it together- a broken smile on your face, eyes puffy, eyelashes sticking together in clumps. You've been crying, and what's worse is he's clearly not supposed to know.
But he knows you- and he notices in an instant, sucking in a sharp breath, "Sweetheart, what's wrong-"
You don't say anything, just gesture awkwardly as another set of tears start to spill over.
He pulls you into a hug without thinking, resting his chin on your head. You hug him back, waiting for a moment before you go to pull back- he doesn't let you, keeping his arms wrapped around you tight.
He already knows what must've happened, "You want me to cut his dick off?"
You laugh, shaking your head with a small sniffle.
"Punch him?"
You shake your head again, pulling him in tighter.
"Blow his brains out?"
You laugh properly, face pressed against his chest, "Stop threatening violence."
He kisses the top of your head, voice soft, "Come on sweetheart, there must be something I can do."
cw: 18+ mdni, angsty smut w/ comfort, established relationship, degradation gone wrong, pinv, reader having a traumatic past implied but not expressed, pet names, rough sex, poor communication on both sides
a/n: a little drabble I thought up randomly. Poorly proofread as I’m super sleep deprived I’m thinking of doing one w/ Sam , too.
You had a stoplight system.
Green means you’re good.
His soft lips planting warm, open mouthed kisses down your throat. Occasionally raking his teeth across your sensitive skin. Pinching enough to send a pulse of electricity down your spine directly to your core.
When he got to your pussy?
You were green, green, green. As emerald green as his eyes. The ones that would watch you writhe beneath him while he lapped at your cunt like the fate of the universe depended on it.
Yellow means slow down.
When he finally buried himself into the hilt as your velvety walls struggled to accommodate him. Your palm would press firmly against his solid chest while your eyes fluttered shut.
“What's wrong, sweetheart?” He’d purr. His voice already sounding wrecked.
You’d babble as your throat tightened.
“c’mon, talk to me. what color?”
“yellow—I’m sorry, I just need a minute.”
And he’d give you a million. All while he’d kiss you slowly and deeply. Barely moving a millimeter. Rubbing your sides gently and brushing away any tears that crested your eyelids. His eyes wouldn’t leave your face as he waited for your brows to relax and your breathing return to normal.
Red meant stop. No questions asked. Not, ‘are you sure?’
Stop.
That’s a line Dean would never cross. And he never did. You finally had a healthy sex life with a partner you trusted completely. You even enjoyed trying new things.
Spanking? Loved it.
Restraints? Fuck yes.
Role play? Yes, officer.
The first time it slipped out completely by accident. You were on your knees in front of him. His hand was loosely knotted in your hair as he fed his thick cock down your throat. A mix of drool, tears, and precome was smeared across your chin and trailing down your throat. His knees threatened to buckle with how perfectly you swallowed around him.
“you’re my perfect girl—my fucking cum slut.”
He sucked in a quick breath as his eyes widened. He was watching you and waiting for you to react. Silently praying to Chuck and any god who would listen that he didn’t just cross a line. One he couldn’t come back from or redraw.
You didn’t react how either of you expected. Your cunt clenched tight around nothing, the soft walls pressing in on themselves. You hummed around him as your eyelids fluttered.
“you like that baby? You like being my little slut?”
To both of your surprise, your head nodded feverishly.
“what color?”
You pulled off of him with a wet pop.
“Green.”
Dean seemed happy. You were happy.
You were.
Something started to happen once you came down.
It felt like there was a chasm forming in your chest. A hollowness that light couldn’t reach. Masking your emotions was second nature. Forgetting yourself was easy. Especially when making him feel good was so addicting.
That was until the aching pit in your heart finally collapsed in on itself.
He had you on all fours, buried so deeply inside you it felt like he was splitting you open. Thrusting so hard that you could barely breathe. He gently fisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail to deepen the beautiful arch in your back. You were so close to coming and tears of raw pleasure were blotting your vision.
“you gonna come f’me? milk my cock like a dumb little slut.”
Your cheeks burned. The words landed like a hot blade. They used to be a perfect balance of shame and pleasure. Now the two had uncoiled and all that was left was shame. Red hot shame.
The angle he had your neck craned made the cry sound like a shriek. He’d never heard that sound come out of you, so he stilled his hips and gently untangled your hair. You immediately crumpled forward onto your knees and pressed your face tightly into your hands. Weeks worth of rolling sobs tore through you.
“Baby girl, what’s wrong? Does something hurt?” His arm curled loosely around your waist in an attempt to unfold you.
You just shook your head and tried biting your cheek. Fat tears that were born in pleasure fed the heartache.
“What, fuck—what color?” His voice was tight.
“Red.” You sniffled quietly.
Panic silently jolted him. He tucked himself back into his boxers and lowered the lights. The way you like them when you want to feel cozy and comfortable. He fumbled in the dark living room to find your favorite throw blanket from the back of the couch to wrap you in and settled next to you.
“Can I hold you?”
Your chin quivered as you draped yourself across his lap and stifled some hiccuping cries.
“I thought I was okay.” You finally choked out. He hummed and tucked your hair behind your ear. His big hand gently petted your side over the blanket.
“M’sorry, Dean. I really tried…”
“Honey.” He gently cut in to keep his chest from breaking in half. “I didn’t like it either.”
You pinched your brows together and looked up at him in a way that made his heart swell.
“I was just…tryin’ something out. I thought it made you happy.”
You couldn’t help but huff a sleepy laugh.
His hand gently tilted your face towards him. His thumb brushed back and forth along your jaw.
“You’re my perfect girl. Mine. And I never want you thinking you’re anything less than perfect.”
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Summary: Everyone has a doppelganger—someone out there living a life that mirrors your own. Y/N and Dean Winchester never met theirs, but they both loved them. Five years after losing their almost-spouses to monsters on the same day, they’ve each carved out a life in hunting fueled by grief and unfinished promises. When a case in a quiet September town pulls them into the same orbit, neither realizes they are walking toward the person who once loved a reflection of themselves. Familiarity lingers where it shouldn’t. Instinct pulls where logic resists. And some connections refuse to stay buried—even when they were never meant to exist in the first place.
Pairing: Dean x You/Reader, Dean x OCF, You/Reader x OCM
Word Count: 3451
Warnings: Grief - lots, Angst - lots, Unwanted Memories, Poor Sam in all of it, Doesn't follow the show timeline, Altering POV's.
A/N: Another one that just came to me that I've been working on for a while and finally finished. I wanted to have this one done before I even posted the first chapter. Super Angsty and full of Grief. Sorry guys. Does have a happyish ending.
Chapter 9 ----- Chapter 11 - coming soon
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Chapter 10
The road stretched out in long, quiet lines beneath the tires, pale morning light breaking through clouds in uneven patches that came and went like breathing.
In the Charger, the engine hummed low and steady—familiar, grounding—but everything else felt slightly out of place.
Cassette tape clicked once.
Then music spilled into the cabin.
Warm analog sound, slightly warped at the edges, filling the space in a way modern silence never did. You didn’t remember putting this tape in. Or maybe you did. Either way, the first few notes landed differently now—like they had been waiting for a version of you that no longer existed.
Your fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel.
Mark used to like this song.
The thought came automatically.
Then shifted.
Would Dean like it?
Now there was Dean too, existing somewhere in the back of your mind, whether you wanted him there or not. Not replacing anything. Not overwriting it. Just… sitting beside it in a way that made everything more complicated than it had any right to be.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept driving.
The Charger rolled forward through empty highway, dust trailing faintly behind you, music filling the space between thought and instinct.
A few car lengths ahead of you, the Impala moved like it had done a thousand times before.
Solid.
Unbothered.
Familiar in a way that almost felt like safety if you didn’t look too closely at what was sitting inside it.
Dean drove.
Both hands on the wheel for once, jaw set in that quiet focus he used when his thoughts were too loud to let out. The cassette deck clicked before music came alive through the speakers—older, scratchier than yours, but carrying the same kind of weight.
Sam glanced at the dashboard briefly before settling back into the passenger seat.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The road ahead was open enough that it didn’t demand conversation yet. Just movement. Just distance.
But silence in the Impala was never truly empty.
Dean’s eyes stayed forward, but his mind kept slipping sideways anyway.
Back to the motel parking lot.
Back to your voice.
Back to the way you’d said I would’ve done it last night like it wasn’t a risk to say something that honest.
Sam noticed the shift immediately.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Sam said eventually, tone mild but deliberate.
Dean let out something between a breath and a scoff. “Not thinking enough, apparently,” he muttered.
Sam didn’t push. Not yet. Just studied him for a moment like he was trying to decide where the fracture lines were this time.
“You okay?” Sam asked instead.
That question.
Dean’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Yeah,” he said too fast.
Sam’s brow lifted a fraction.
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“That didn’t sound like ‘yeah.’”
Dean exhaled through his nose, eyes still locked on the road.
For a second, it looked like he might shut it down completely.
Then his jaw flexed once.
“…She’s not her,” he said finally.
Sam didn’t respond right away.
Because that wasn’t the whole truth.
And they both knew it.
The Impala rolled forward through widening light, cassette humming low in the background like it was trying to fill in everything neither of them wanted to say out loud yet.
Ahead, behind them, the Charger kept moving too.
Same road.
Different silence.
Both carrying ghosts that were starting to feel dangerously aware of each other.
The road unspooled ahead in long, empty stretches, broken only by the occasional flicker of roadside trees and pale light shifting through thinning cloud cover.
The Impala led.
The Charger followed.
Neither of you had actually discussed a meeting point. Just a direction. Just trust, unspoken and fragile, that they weren’t leading you somewhere you shouldn’t go.
You kept a steady distance behind them. Close enough not to lose sight. Far enough that it didn’t feel like you were being pulled somewhere you didn’t choose.
Inside the Charger, the cassette hummed softly through worn speakers. Music filled the space again, but your mind wasn’t fully listening anymore.
He holds the wheel like that’s the only thing keeping him upright.
The thought slipped in uninvited. Your fingers tightened briefly.
Mark used to do that too. Not the same way. Softer. Easier. Like he wasn’t afraid of what was in his head.
Another beat of silence between notes.
Dean doesn’t look like that.
That realization shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. But it did anyway.
Your gaze flicked briefly toward the Impala ahead through the windshield.
Just a shape at first. Then details.
The way sunlight caught the metal. The slight sway of movement over uneven road. The fact that he didn’t relax even for a second behind the wheel.
You know what Mark’s laugh sounded like. You know how he stood when he was waiting for you to get ready. You know the way grief changes people.
Your stomach tightened faintly.
So why does your mind keep trying to compare anyway?
The thought sharpened. Then twisted.
Because now it wasn’t just comparison. It was curiosity.
About Dean.
About what stayed the same.What didn’t.What grief had shaped him into.
And the worst part—
You didn’t stop yourself quickly enough before it started to feel like questions you shouldn’t be asking at all.
Inside the Impala, the cassette tape clicked softly as the song changed.
Sam had been quiet for a while. Long enough that Dean had almost convinced himself it would stay that way.
It didn’t.
“I know she’s not Maria,” Sam said suddenly.
Dean’s jaw tightened almost immediately.
Sam kept his eyes forward. Not pushing. Not forcing it. Just letting the thought out like it had been sitting there too long.
“I just wonder what’s the same,” he continued quietly. “What’s similar. And what’s different.”
A pause.
“She seems nice.”
Dean shot him a quick side-eye before looking back at the road. His grip on the wheel tightened once.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
Just… loaded.
“She had a life, Sam,” Dean said after a beat.
His voice came out rougher than he intended. Like the words themselves hurt.
“She wasn’t even in the life before she lost him.”
Sam frowned slightly at that, processing it instead of reacting immediately. “That doesn’t mean she can’t handle it,” he said carefully.
Dean didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes flicked briefly to the side mirror.
The Charger was still there.
Still following.
Still real.
He exhaled slowly, something tight in his chest loosening by a fraction he didn’t want to name.
“…Yeah,” Dean said finally. “Maybe.”
Silence returned for a moment.
Then Sam shifted slightly in his seat.
“We should call Cas when we get back,” he said. “See if he knows anything.”
That changed the air immediately.
Dean didn’t look away from the road this time, but something in his posture sharpened again—focused, alert, shifting gears internally.
Sam leaned back slightly, watching the road ahead. “Five years,” he murmured. “Same engagement ring. Her looking like Maria, and Mark looking like you…”
Dean’s jaw flexed once.
“And the timing,” Sam added. “All of us ending up in the same place at the same time.”
The words hung there heavier now.
Less coincidence.
More pattern.
And somewhere behind them, both cars kept moving forward—without realizing yet that they were no longer just following a road.
They were following something that had been waiting for all of them to notice it.
Time disappeared between thoughts and whatever drifted through the speakers. The scenery shifted from open roads to small towns, then back to open roads. You barely paid it much attention until brake lights caught your eye.
Dean turned the Impala onto a side street you would have missed completely with how the trees kept it hidden. Sunlight danced through the canopy above as the wind whispered through the branches.
The road narrowed as it cut deeper into the trees.
Tall trunks lined the road like silent sentries, their branches arching overhead in places where the canopy thickened just enough to dim the daylight.
Farther in, the world began to feel quieter in a way that didn’t match distance alone. Like sound itself was being absorbed by the land. The trees grew denser, older somehow, their roots hidden beneath uneven stretches of earth and stone.
Then the hill came into view.
A large, weathered structure sat atop it—abandoned-looking, the kind of old utility station most people would pass without a second thought. Faded concrete. Rusting metal. Broken windows. Stillness that made it look long forgotten.
But the road didn’t turn toward it. It wound past it and what you suspected might be an old storm drain below it, just off the side of the road.
Further up, the road curved around, then dipped.
Downward.
Toward a stretch of land that looked almost forgotten—half reclaimed by grass and brush and trees, the kind of place most people would drive past without a second thought.
And then you saw it.
At first glance, it wasn’t a structure meant to be noticed at all.
A weathered, industrial-looking facade sat tucked into the side of the land itself—part hill, part limestone bluff, part something built and then deliberately forgotten. Heavy, rusted metal doors blended into the earth tones around them, half-obscured by overgrowth and dead brush clinging stubbornly to edges and seams.
It didn’t look like an entrance. It looked like a condemned utility station.
The kind marked with faded warning signs and rusted lettering that no longer mattered.
Danger. High Voltage.
Something people stopped seeing years ago.
The Impala slowed.
Then turned in.
You followed.
As you rolled closer, the illusion held—just long enough for your brain to register that this wasn’t just hidden.
It had been designed not to exist.
The Impala came to a stop near a concrete pillar off to the side. Dean stepped out first, moving toward it without ceremony. You watched from the Charger as he paused near what looked like nothing more than weather-beaten infrastructure.
Then he reached out.
Fingers finding a small brass keyhole hidden behind a sliding metal plate.
It didn’t belong in anything modern. That was the first real clue that whatever this place was, it wasn’t built in your lifetime.
Dean turned the key.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the sound came.
Not smooth.
Not electronic.
A deep, grinding mechanical groan echoed through the hidden structure as ancient chains engaged somewhere inside the earth. Pneumatic systems hissed awake with slow, deliberate force. Metal that seemed to still be learning how to move again, began to shift with heavy, reluctant weight.
The doors opened.
Slowly.
Like something massive waking up.
The opening revealed not a room, but a mouth carved into the land itself.
A downward-sloping tunnel stretched beyond the threshold, descending into darkness lined with reinforced concrete and steel. As the Impala rolled forward first, dim industrial lights flickered on in sequence overhead—one after another—casting pale yellow light down the passage like a path being revealed in real time.
The air changed immediately.
Cool outside wind cut off completely the moment you crossed the threshold.
Replaced by something even cooler.
Filtered.
Still.
Metallic in a way that felt ancient rather than industrial.
You followed.
The Charger descending into the tunnel behind them, tires shifting from asphalt to concrete with a softer, hollow sound that echoed slightly in the enclosed space.
And then the world behind you disappeared.
You caught it for only a second in your rearview mirror—the faint glow of daylight framed by massive doors beginning to close.
Replaced by steel.
By silence.
By something buried so far beneath the world, it felt like it belonged to a different one entirely.
When the doors finally sealed shut behind you, the sound wasn’t loud.
It was final.
A deep, resonant closure that left only the hum of underground systems and the low echo of engines in a vast hidden chamber waiting ahead.
And suddenly, Sam’s words didn’t sound like an understatement anymore.
They sounded like truth.
You leaned forward, peering through the windshield, up at the ceiling domed above. Exposed pipes ran the length of it.
“Wow…” the words left your lips in a breath before you settled back in your seat.
The Impala’s brake lights glowed against the stone walls. Again, Dean got out, used that same small key, and a large set of reinforced, double doors creaked open as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
“He wasn’t kidding,” you mumbled, easing the Charger forward to follow the Impala further underground.
And the moment you crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The tunnel opened up into a massive underground garage carved into stone and reinforced steel. Overhead lights illuminated the vast open space that stretched farther than your mind expected it to.
Concrete floors. Thick support beams. Rows of open space that felt like they belonged in something far bigger than a rural forest.
You eased the Charger into an empty spot among relics of the past.
And sat there for a second. Engine still running. Eyes fixed forward, but wandered to the other vehicles parked in what your mind could only conclude was an underground garage of sorts.
Because Sam had said safe place—
—and this was not what your mind had built.
This was something else entirely.
Something hidden.
Something old.
You finally killed the engine, slipping the keys into your pocket, still in awe. The sudden silence made your ears ring for half a second.
Then you stepped out.
Warmer underground air hit immediately, different from outside. Controlled. Still. The kind of air that had never been touched by weather in any meaningful way.
You turned slowly.
Once.
Then again.
Taking it all in without meaning to move so deliberately.
The scale of it didn’t fully register at first. It kept unfolding the longer you looked—hallways leading off in different directions, stairwells disappearing upward, doors built into stone like they had always been part of it.
Behind you, the Impala rolled into place.
Dean parked with practiced ease, engine cutting off just as smoothly.
The silence deepened again.
Both brothers got out.
Sam moved first, stretching slightly after the drive, eyes already scanning the space like he was reacquainting himself with it.
Dean stayed a beat longer by the driver’s side door.
Watching you. Not hiding it. Not even trying.
Just taking in the way you stood in the middle of it, like your brain was still catching up to what your eyes were telling it. Your awe was much like hers when he’d brought her here all those years ago.
Then he walked to the back of the Impala and popped the trunk. But his attention kept drifting back to you.
The way your head tilted slightly as you looked upward.
The way you turned in a slow circle, trying to map something too big to process in one glance.
Metal echoed softly through the garage.
Sam stepped around to grab his duffel.
And then—
A soft sound slipped out of you. “Wow…”
Barely above a breath. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It landed anyway.
Dean’s grip on his bag tightened for half a second before he looked away, exhaling quietly through his nose like he was trying to steady something in himself he hadn’t expected to react.
Because it wasn’t fear in your voice.
Or suspicion.
It was awe.
Like you’d just stepped into something bigger than the story you’d been living inside.
You moved then, finally breaking your stillness.
Crossing back to your Charger.
Popping the trunk like muscle memory—smooth, efficient, automatic in a way that made it feel like you’d done this a hundred times before, even though you hadn’t done it even once here.
Dean’s breath caught slightly.
Just once.
Sam noticed.
He watched you for a second longer before letting out a small, easy chuckle—gentler than anything that had been said since the cabin.
“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the stairs. “Main rooms are upstairs.”
You adjusted the strap of your duffel higher onto your shoulder before following them toward the stairwell.
Your boots echoed softly against concrete.
The sound carried strangely down here—muted in some places, sharper in others, like the bunker itself decided what noises mattered enough to keep.
Sam led the way.
Dean followed a step behind him, though every so often his attention drifted backward toward you without meaning to.
You noticed everything.
The metal railings worn smooth with age and use. The old industrial lights casting warm amber glows instead of harsh fluorescent white. Pipes disappearing overhead into walls of concrete and stone. Small details hidden everywhere that made the place feel less like a bunker and more like a machine built directly into the earth itself.
Not abandoned.
Maintained.
Protected.
Alive.
The stairs curved upward gradually, leading toward another heavy door set into reinforced concrete. Dean reached it first this time, pulling it open with practiced familiarity.
And warm light spilled through immediately.
Not bright.
Golden.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected from a place buried underground.
You stepped through after them.
And the bunker unfolded around you.
Hallways stretched outward beneath arched ceilings lined with brick-pattered tiles and aged brass fixtures. The floors beneath your boots shifted from concrete to smooth tile worn faintly with time.
Your eyes moved constantly.
Doorways marked with numbers, or a letter and number, lining the hallways on either side, but offset. Never directly across.
The deeper you walked, the stranger it became.
Because nothing about this place matched what hunters usually lived like.
Hunters lived out of duffel bags.
Cheap motels.
Cars.
Safe houses that were typically nothing more than rundown structures off the beaten path.
Places easy to leave behind.
This—
This felt permanent.
Like something built by people who fully expected the world above them to collapse while they endured beneath it.
Your steps slowed slightly as another hallway opened up ahead.
Then another.
You caught glimpses into rooms as you passed—storage spaces stacked with old files and supplies, tables covered in scattered lore books, old lamps casting pools of warm light across surfaces polished by decades of use.
Every inch of the bunker carried age differently.
Not rotting age.
Preserved age.
Carefully kept history hidden beneath miles of earth and silence.
You barely realized you’d stopped walking until Sam glanced back at you.
A faint smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
“First time’s a little overwhelming,” he admitted.
“A little?” you echoed softly.
Your voice almost disappeared into the sheer scale surrounding you.
Dean’s mouth twitched faintly at that. Not quite a full smile. Close enough to hurt.
Because Maria had reacted almost the exact same way the first time he'd brought her here.
Your attention drifted upward again as you continued walking, taking in the curved ceilings and old architecture hidden beneath layers of reinforced engineering. The bunker didn’t just feel hidden, nor did it feel like a ‘bunker’.
It felt impossible.
Like stepping into a secret history no one alive was supposed to know existed, meant to house people like a massive underground home.
Then Sam pushed open another door.
And the main room revealed itself.
You stopped outright this time.
The space opened wide beneath towering ceilings carved from polished stone. A massive oval map table dominated the center of the room beneath warm overhead lighting, made of heavy metal and glass. The map of the world lit up beneath the thick glass, as if there was more of a purpose for it than just a map.
There was so much more. Tiny things your mind barely registered. A staircase leading to another level. More open hallways leading in different directions. Things that looked like they were from the fifties but still worked as if they’d just come off the assembly line.
Beyond it, up another few steps and through an open archway, wooden floors, library tables through the center of the room. On either side of them, lining the walls, were bookshelves filled with books.
Hundreds of books.
Maybe more.
Leather bindings.
Ancient pages.
Knowledge packed so densely into one space it almost changed the feeling of the air itself.
The room breathed history.
Quietly.
Reverently.
Soft lamp light reflected against brass fixtures and polished wood surfaces worn smooth with time.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Not from fear.
From sheer disbelief.
Because for the first time in five years, you’d stepped into a place that didn’t feel temporary.
And somewhere behind you, Dean watched realization slowly settle across your face—and understood with painful clarity that this place was already starting to feel different with you standing inside it.
Chapter 9 ----- Chapter 11 - coming soon
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Summary: Exhausted and broken, Dean's not doing great- the perfect time to get him to spill his secrets.
Warning: smut, unprotected sex
A/N: he's been happy for too damn long (one chapter)
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You wish you could dream of Dean. You never do. Some part of your brain won't let you- it's only ever fragments when you're waking, that liminal space that lets him envelop your mind, just for a moment.
You picture his hands, this time, fingers wrapped around something metal. They're covered in scars, rough callouses, oil stains under his nails. His fingerprints are worn down- you think about that often, how much he must use them for his whole identity to almost be scrubbed. Your mind fixates on the image for as long as you'll let it, before it starts to become clearer, sharpening as you focus. It takes you a second to really see it, to hold onto the idea long enough to make sense of what you're picturing. You realize he's holding a gun.
You wake with a jolt, your phone ringing on your bedside table. You wipe your hand over your face, pulling yourself into sitting. You can't have been asleep long, it's still nighttime, the room almost pitch black.
You reach for your phone, only hazily reading his name before you pick up, "Dean?" You croak out, your voice still catching up to your body.
"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.
"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"
He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"
You state the obvious, "You're already driving."
So does he, "I'm already driving."
"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"
"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."
You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"
"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.
Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.
You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.
The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.
You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.
You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.
Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"
He laughs, "Downstairs"
"I'll buzz you up."
You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.
You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"
He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.
After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.
You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.
"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.
He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."
You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.
Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.
You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"
He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."
Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.
He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.
He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.
Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.
Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"
He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."
These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.
You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."
"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"
You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.
It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?
Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.
You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.
You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."
He swallows hard, "I know."
"You need to stop."
"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.
"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.
He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."
"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.
"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."
You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"
"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."
"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."
He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."
You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"
"She's not that old-"
"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.
He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"
You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"
"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"
"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.
He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."
You laugh back, "That sounds good-"
He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"
You smile, "Who said you've got me?"
He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"
You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."
He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.
He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.
He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.
He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.
You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.
He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.
He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.
He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.
He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.
Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.
You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.
"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.
You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"
You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"
He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.
"Come fuck me-"
He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.
He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.
It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.
But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.
"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"
You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.
He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.
You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.
Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"
He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"
You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-"
He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.
But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"
You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.
He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"
He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"
He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.
"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.
"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.
"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.
You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."
"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.
You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.
"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.
He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.
He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.
"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.
"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.
"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"
He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.
He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"
Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.
He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.
You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.
He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.
You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.
"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"
He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.
You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.
You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.
He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.
You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.
"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."
Summary: When you return to the small town of Salida, Colorado after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.
AN: Welcome back! Reader and Dean have a long (drunken) heart-to-heart in this one…and maybe a lot more than that. (Whoops. 🫣)
Tags & Warnings: 18+ | Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, childhood friends, exes to lovers, angst, jealousy, cheating, smut (nipple play, f. receiving oral, doggy style) | Reader and Dean aren’t perfect.
ᝰ.Word Count: 5.6k || Posted on Patreon: July 24, 2026
♬ Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify
🌹Now Playing: “One Last Night” ⟢ Vaults
(Chapter title from "Edge of the Earth" by The Beaches)
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Part 2: Too Close to the Heat
Even a funeral reception is a lively affair at the Winchester Ranch. Tonight, it’s held in a patch of mostly even land between the main house and the barn, facing Mt. Antero.
Aspens sway gently behind the picnic tables as laughter rings out into the night sky. You marvel at the clusters of stars dotted there like freckles, while you sip a cold beer down at the end of the table.
The ranch hands tell stories about Bobby that you’ve never heard, like the time he got tossed out of the corral by a two-year-old colt he was trying to break. Or the time he damn near burned off his thumb because the guys wanted to do some fireworks last year for the 4th of July. A sparkler almost hit the barn and his cabin.
For you, all this is more bitter than sweet. These men clearly knew your father better than you.
John's famous barbecue pit spins the mouthwatering smells of smoked meats. The tables are lined up and filled with buttery cornbread, potatoes done three different ways (mashed, roasted, and casseroled), salads, slaw, carrots and corn, wild rice, homemade dinner rolls and garlic bread, and no less than five different flavors of pie. You spy Dean tucking into his third slice of cherry. Evidently, it’s still his favorite. A piece of pastry crust flecks from his lower lip as he jumps in with an old story.
“So I’m maybe…twelve, thirteen. Bobby’s trying to show me how to fix this patch of barbed wire fence. Because I’m young and stupid, I get it in my head to jump over it while the wire’s slack,” Dean starts.
Sam and couple of the cowboys, Benny and Cas, are already smirking, chuckling a little, shaking their heads. They’ve definitely heard this one before, and this time, you have too. A smile curves your lips behind the rim of your glass of whiskey and Coke.
“I make it over, but my leg gets caught in the slack, and I just go down hard, eating the damn dirt,” Dean says. He mimes the impact of his body hitting the ground, complete with admittedly impressive sound effects. “But now the wire’s tight. Rips through my jeans, my ankle, blood soaking through. But, uh, Bobby calms me down, you know. He takes out his tool belt, and he says, ‘It’s all right, son. That’s why God made pliers, for idjits like you.’”
Laughter ripples across the table. Even John smiles, shaking his head.
“Well, he cleaned me up best he could and helped me back up on my horse,” Dean says. His grin is warm, and his gaze spans far beyond his beer. “Dad didn’t even have to lecture me. You remember what you said?”
John nods in amusement. “‘Your own body’s gonna do the punishing for me, son.’”
“Right. My ankle was busted for three weeks. Couldn’t ride, couldn’t do shit,” Dean says with a chuckle. “And it was summer too.”
At least he didn’t have to go to school, but for a boy like Dean, being cooped up in the house was three weeks of misery. All he could do was watch from his bedroom window while you and Sam ran off to ride your bikes in town or go swimming in the river.
He looks down toward the end of the table, wanting to see if you remember those days like he does. What he finds is your empty seat. His eyes run a search—and eventually catch you making your way over to the barn. His brows furrow in confusion, but as the conversation spins and Benny takes over the reminiscing, Dean gets up from the table, ignoring the little warning tug in his gut.
“Gonna get another beer,” he says.
But Sam’s perceptive gaze follows him. While you venture into the barn, Sam sees his brother’s projected path all too clearly.
The smell of horse makes you gag a little, but after you enter the barn and switch on the light, yet another wave of nostalgia blasts you in the face. You recognize that tack and tool shelf on the right-hand corner, and the rack of shotguns and rifles on the far left. You know these stalls, and you greet each of the horses like old friends, even though most of them are new ones.
You stop at one of the middle stalls on the right, clicking your tongue at an older horse. His coat is a deep coffee brown, dappled with white on his hindquarters.
“Dakota! Look at you, handsome.” You smile brightly. “Remember me?”
He blinks at you with those dark eyes, and he meanders a bit closer to the half door. You offer a loosely closed fist for him to inspect. When he does, you think it’s with some familiarity as he sniffs your hand all over. Or maybe he’s just smelling the apple pie glaze you licked off your finger earlier.
You laugh lightly and take a chance on petting the side of his neck. He lets you do it, a kind older statesman. Before you left, you had helped your dad break this horse in.
“He remembers you.”
You turn your head toward the door, flinching slightly in surprise. You didn’t even hear Dean come into the barn. His scuffed boots cross the distance leading him to you. Dark wash jeans and a black buttoned-down shirt are probably the extent of his cleaning up for the occasion, but the ensemble does suit him better than a proper suit would.
“It all looks the same,” you say quietly.
“That’s because it is,” Dean replies. His lips pull at a smirk as he points to the tool shed. “Like that dusty back room where we used to make out.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your gaze draws to his calloused hands and long fingers. Your cheeks begin to prickle with warmth, but you refocus on his face, and unfortunately, that familiar grin. You’re sure that face has gotten him plenty of action since then.
“You do remember I have a fiancé,” you say.
Dean nods, holding up a placating hand. It slips into his pocket as he leans against a support beam. “Yeah, you never said where that guy was today.”
“Working,” you reply defensively. “We’re in the middle of a big project, and we can’t afford to drop the ball.”
“You two work together?”
“Yeah, for his father’s company.”
“Doing what?”
You hesitate. It seems like Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean yet about the offer either, but in this case, you’re grateful for it.
“Land development. His father is co-CEO and head of the Legal team. I help scope out properties and propose new projects,” you say.
Dean quirks a brow. “Land development, huh? Not what I would’ve imagined.”
His tone annoys you, making you slightly more tense, but you’ve already had this argument with Sam. You don’t have to explain yourself to this man.
“It’s not what I thought I’d end up in either, but if you think it’s hard to be a rancher, try being able to pay rent in California. We’re all just trying to survive, Dean,” you say.
At that, he actually nods more sincerely.
“Guess that’s fair. But it looks like you’re more than surviving now. You’ve got a friggin’ golf ball on your finger,” he says, gesturing at you, and more specifically your engagement ring.
You roll your eyes. “It’s not that big.”
The way he snorts earns a reluctant smile from you.
“How long you known the guy?” Dean asks.
You give him a shrewd look. He’s very curious about your personal life, but you can’t deny that you’ve been wondering what the past 12 years have made of him.
“About eight months,” you reply.
His brows raise almost as high as his hairline. “Eight months? When did he pop the question?”
“…A few weeks ago,” you say, albeit with some hesitation. “What?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, I guess. Whirlwind romance.”
“And what about you?” you counter, fighting a blush. “No girlfriend?”
Dean chuckles. “Oh, I have plenty of friends. Just no time for the whirlwind.”
“I’m sure,” you say wryly. “Things really don’t change much around here.”
It’s a touch snider than you mean it to be. You don’t actually want to pick another fight. Frankly, you don’t have the emotional energy.
But even though Dean gives you a certain look, to your surprise, he doesn’t want to snipe anymore either. He just sighs.
“All right, come on. There’s some of Bobby’s stuff that you might want to look through,” he says, ushering you to follow him.
You do so reluctantly, over to the Foreman’s cabin.
The Foreman wrangles the other ranch hands, and he’s the Ranch Manager’s second-in-command. Bobby held that position for 23 years, starting from back when John was managing all operations himself. You used to live in this cabin with your mom and dad, back when they were together.
Dean would later take your virginity when you turned 18—in the glorified closet that used to be your bedroom.
At least he doesn’t bring up that little anecdote as he leads you to the small, four-seater dining table. It has a few boxes stacked on top of it, probably what’s left of your father’s belongings. The rest has been cleared out except for a couch, an old wood coffee table, a TV on a stand, and some supplies in the kitchen. There are some signs of life here though, like a half-drunk beer on the coffee table, an empty box of pizza on the kitchen counter, and some crumpled napkins. Dean notices your observing gaze.
“I’ve been hanging out here the past few days. Cleaning the place up took a while, but uh, sometimes it’s nice to get away from the main house,” he says.
“I could see why. Thirty-two and still living with your daddy,” you teasingly remark.
Dean shoots you an amused brow raise, but he brings the first box to the living room coffee table and slides it toward you.
“Take whatever you want. He doesn’t have any other family, so I’m not sure what to do with the rest,” he says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.
Throwing it away feels wrong, or so his tone says. You nod in agreement and start looking through the box. The first thing you find is a large bottle of gold label scotch.
“Wow,” you say.
“That’s on brand,” Dean says, with a smirk. He eyes you. “We should probably crack it open, in Bobby’s honor, of course.”
Your lips tug at a smile. You hand it over, and Dean twists off the cap to take a swig. He offers it back to you, and you accept it dubiously after sitting beside him on the couch.
“You know we’re not teenagers anymore, right?” you say, but you still sip straight from the bottle just like he did, grimacing at the burn down your throat.
“We gotta lubricate this trip down memory lane somehow,” he replies.
You snort in response and dig back into the box for something else.
Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks and sees a text from Sam, asking if he’s with you.
Yeah, we’re going through Bobby’s stuff.
I can come help.
No need. It’s not that much.
…Dude. What’re you doing?
What? We’re good. Just catching up.
All of a sudden you two are civil?
I guess. It’s no big deal. We’ll be back in a few minutes.
Ok. Just…be smart about this.
Dean frowns, resenting what his brother is insinuating. He glances up at you.
You haven’t noticed his silent conflict. You’re just looking through old baseball cards and faded trucker hats, rusty tools and piles of weathered flannel.
By the time you get to the third box, over an hour has passed, the bottle of scotch is almost empty, and you’re laughing harder and freer at the stories about Bobby that Dean’s pulling out easier than the next object. You haven’t even noticed that his knee rests against your thigh, or that you occasionally grab his forearm when something he says makes you particularly giggly.
It’s kind of cute that you still do that, but he keeps that thought locked in deep. His smile starts to hurt the corners of his cheeks, though.
Eventually, what you find at the bottom of the last box hits you so hard behind the ribs that it steals your breath. It’s a picture of you and your mom when you were around seven years old: your first year in this cabin, on this ranch.
To you it had seemed like a fun adventure, and so much cooler than your little boring apartment in Salida. Here, there were horses and cows and Sunday barbecues hosted by John Winchester himself.
It was on one of those Sundays that you met Dean, with all those freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and the purest kind of happiness in his green eyes while he ate a slice of peach cobbler with a scoop of melting homemade ice cream. You remember him setting his own plate aside for a while though, just to comfort his six-year-old brother when his ice cream rolled off the side of his bowl into the dirt. Dean ended up slotting his own ice cream into Sammy’s bowl.
Bobby clocked what happened out of the corner of his eye. In the end, he was the one to slip you and Dean an extra scoop.
Your dad didn’t miss much, at least back then.
“I don’t get it, you know,” you say, somewhat shakily. “When we were kids, Dad was my safe place. Sure, he was gruff and curmudgeonly sometimes, but he was gentle too. He always looked out for me. I understand that shit didn’t work out between him and Mom, but I did try calling him. Years of five-minute conversations that never went anywhere, because he had to get back to the ranch.”
Your lips tremble and you try to blink past the sting, but the dam is already full to bursting, and your walls are failing all over again.
Dean watches you, and he actually listens as his heart grows heavier.
“I was a student. For a long time, I couldn’t afford to fly back to Salida,” you admit. “But he never once came out to visit. He didn’t even go to my college graduation. He showed up to Mom’s funeral. That’s it. I had to call the cemetery, the church, arrange the burial. I had to figure it all out by myself. And I get it, she left him. But he didn’t have to leave me too.”
You press your fingers over your mouth, as if that can stop the hurt from spilling out. You find sympathy in Dean’s eyes, but he doesn’t do what you expect. He rifles through the same collection of memories and pulls out a thin, white box.
Inside is a thin silver chain necklace with a small rose pendant. He lets the chain fall into your hand.
“He was going to give you this at your graduation,” Dean says. “I only know because he was hella fucking drunk one night, and he told me.”
You laugh a little through unshed tears. You marvel at the necklace; it’s simple, dainty even, but beautiful.
“Your mom told him not to go,” Dean says, earning your soft shock. “He hadn’t helped you pay for college, so in her mind, he didn’t have a right to see you. At least, that’s what he said happened.”
“What?” you frown, rubbing the small pendant between your fingers. “I…can’t believe she said that.”
You had a partial scholarship and a work study job, but you wouldn’t have gotten through college without your mom. Living in San Diego hadn’t been easy at first, financially, and your mother was a nurse. You still don’t know how she managed it, but she always came through for you when it was time to pay for the next semester, and even for your textbooks.
You understood that even a Foreman didn’t make a hefty salary. It was part of the reason your mom gave you for leaving your dad. She didn’t come from a ranching family, and she had never wanted to spend her life on a ranch either, let alone one that your parents didn’t own.
In her words, “It’s hard to build a life on someone else’s land.”
She told you that she wanted more for you, and more for herself. Bobby hadn’t been willing to leave Winchester Ranch.
“He was dedicated to it. In some ways it was admirable, but in others…” she’d said, with an edge of bitterness.
You never really understood it. You realize now that you hadn’t tried hard enough.
“I didn’t care about the fucking money or who paid for what. I just wanted him to be there,” you quietly confess. “But I know that’s a two-way street. I wasn’t there for him either.”
You look up at Dean, meeting his gaze.
“You were right,” you say, as emotion begins to choke you. “He had a goddamn heart attack, and I would’ve never known.”
Your shoulders shake as the first sob wracks through your body, but you soon find warmth and a familiar comfort in Dean’s arms.
“Okay, sweetheart. Come ‘ere,” he says, as he holds you close. There’s something different in his voice. Deep and a little coarse, but gentler. It’s the anchor you need right now, and you cling to it. You cling to him.
“It’s not your fault, okay? Seems like Bobby made his choices too,” Dean says.
He tucks your head under his chin and briefly closes his eyes as he strokes your back. He feels every hiccup and unsteady breath in you, feels your tears dampening his shirt. His lips press to the crown of your head. Your fingers tangle in the green flannel at his back.
As you begin to relax after crying yourself out, your curled fingers smooth out into warm hands that release his shirt, but ultimately don’t move far, laid flat against his chest. He brushes frizzy strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. You slowly look up to meet his eyes, with tears clinging to your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged, but you’re still a wonder to him.
It may just be the booze, but he remembers exactly how this used to feel. It cracks open something he’s been paving over, brick by brick. Year after year. He didn’t think this was what it would take to see you again.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re still so fucking beautiful. More, even.”
Your mouth parts with a hint of surprise, and a telling intake of breath. Your lashes lower as your gaze falls—to his lips.
What the hell is this?
You pull away from him, gently guiding his hand down.
He feels the sting of rejection, but also, his shame.
“’M sorry,” he says, looking away.
“…Yeah,” you say eloquently. You feel a prickle of guilt yourself as you wipe your cheeks.
You push yourself off the couch, but your body doesn’t cooperate well. Hard liquor hasn’t been your poison for a hot minute, whiskey least of all. Clearly, it’s remained a favorite of Dean’s.
But he’s far more than a memory you can shove to the back of your mind, especially when he gets up with you—to hold you and stop you from falling. He looks into your eyes, and the conflict in his makes you morbidly curious. What you would give to know what he’s thinking.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Does he treat you right?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
His brows raise in challenge. “Come on. Work is work, but how’s he not gonna at least show up here for you?”
It probably makes him some kind of hypocrite, and he fights the voice inside that tells him he’s an idiot. An asshole.
But all you give him is the soft bite of your words.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but like I told you, our jobs are demanding,” you reply, crossing your arms. “He can be very considerate.”
Dean quirks a wry smile. He glances down at that ring, oval-shaped and vintage, putting it mildly. It would look real nice on his Great Aunt Matilda.
“Yeah, with this, huh?” he says, grasping your left hand. “Tell me this is some kind of kooky family heirloom.”
You slip your hand out of his. “He found it at an estate sale.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Dean chuckles. He taps the humble pendant that now has a place above your heart, after he helped you figure out how to put on the necklace it belongs to. “That’s more your speed.”
“How would you know?” you retort, batting his finger off. “It’s been all this time, and you think you still know me?”
You really do walk away from him now, beelining toward the door…
Well, you would have. You will. But his audacity truly is monumental, and after how he treated you this morning, this really is too much for you to wrap your head around. It derails what would’ve been a highly justified storm-out, and compels you back to face him in frustration.
“What’re you trying to do, Dean, spin my head around?” you snap. “You’re the one who broke my heart first. You don’t even know how much you messed me up.”
The confession escapes you before you can cram it back in, shocking you as well as him.
But it’s true.
Years. It had taken you years to get over him, your best friend. Your first real love.
Dean’s amusement faded the more you spoke.
“I know,” he says. And the admission costs him. Under the layers of bravado, bitterness and hurt, there’s the truth. “I was a stupid kid back then, who didn’t know how to let you go.”
You shake your head in denial. Your heart hurts, probably because it never healed right the first time.
“That’s bullshit,” you say. “You didn’t have to let me go. That was your choice.”
“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, with a newfound certainty that dims the light from his eyes. “You had a life ahead of you, sweetheart. Mine was always gonna be on this ranch.”
For a moment, you’re stunned where you stand.
Until reason and doubt start to compete for new ground in your mind.
He’s still making excuses, you think. He could’ve come with you to college. You told him that then, and even if his father tried to nail his boots to the ground, Dean never even called you once after you left. Where was this apology when it would’ve mattered?
“Jesus Christ, Dean…”
You rub your forehead at the headache you already feel coming on. You’re probably drunk, in fairness.
“Why are you telling me all this now?” you ask.
He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes as well.
“Good question,” he chuckles slightly. He sobers when he meets your eyes again. “You told the truth today at the funeral. It’s only fair I give you the same courtesy.”
“Courtesy. Is that what this is?” you challenge.
“It’s an apology,” he says. “And uh, it’s goodbye, stranger, I guess.”
“Goodbye,” you echo. Though you’re unable to stop yourself from glancing down at his lips again. Then back to his eyes, despite the glassiness in yours. A hitch in your breath. “I guess it is.”
Dean sees it, another spark of your tears. He still hates it, both selfishly and unselfishly.
He can’t help but try to give you the stability you need. First, by his slow attempt to hold you, brushing his thumbs against your arms. Your mouth parts, but you don’t pull away.
He bows his head and follows the deep-seated need in his gut, urging him to press his lips to yours.
You breathe in sharply through your nose, but your fingers clench in his shirt again, near his collar. Your body melts willingly against his, like a muscle memory you thought you lost.
Then, the brush of his tongue short-circuits your brain. His hand moves down to the small of your back and presses you into him, eliciting tingles down your spine, and a blooming, pulsing heat between your legs.
You whimper into his mouth, and his hold tightens a fraction.
You pull back for a moment, panting for air. Your eyes meet his incredulously.
He steels himself, waiting for a slap, or at least a push.
You don’t have it in yourself to give him either one. Your heart clenches painfully, because despite the guilt and shame you already feel, something inside you, deeply vulnerable and frayed, needs this.
You tell yourself it’s just one more kiss.
He meets you halfway when you lean up to claim his lips. He claims you back, his hands once again molding to your waist, his arms caging you in, his hand sinking into your hair.
One more turns into him backing you up against the wall. You grab onto his shoulders for leverage, then his hair as his lips veer away from yours to blaze a hot, wet trail down your neck. Your moan is perfect in his ear, rattling down his spine and right to his cock.
You feel him heavy and thick through his jeans, pressing against you. His hand slips up your thigh, squeezing plush flesh as he goes. He bunches the skirt of your dress up to your hips.
“Unzip me,” you tell him, through hushed tones and heated breaths.
Dean nods, turning you around and brushing your hair out of the way so he can drag the zipper down in a slow, torturous tease. His eyes drink in every inch of your skin, but there’s nothing sexier to him than the way you brush down the sleeves and slip out of the dress the rest of the way. The fabric falls around your ankles, and you step out of them in your tall heels. Dean gets the full view of your lace panties, then the matching bra when you turn back around.
He catches your little intake of breath, like you’re guarding yourself before he sees you. He smiles and pulls you back in by your waist.
“Like I said, fucking beautiful,” he says, his gaze roaming your face.
Your lips tug at a smile as you meet his stare, but he finally renders you without a snappy word to say. He takes that win and revels in it as he kisses you.
You touch him more confidently than he remembers, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, sucking his tongue into your mouth, down to grabbing onto his belt and popping the buckle open. He follows your lead and helps you loosen his belt and jeans, but his boots and your heels are the first to form a haphazard pile on the way into the bigger bedroom, where his spare sheets and an old comforter line the bed.
He wasn’t lying to you when he said he’s been staying over here for the past few days. Not only so that he could clean up, but because he needed to clear his own head. Bobby’s death shook everyone, but it hit Dean in a way he hadn’t expected. He hasn’t told anyone this, but it was like losing a second father.
It reminded Dean of his regrets—his biggest one of all being you.
Despite how it looks, he knows it’s wrong to touch you. He knows it’s selfish to want you. But he hasn’t allowed himself to want anything in such a long time, and he thinks he might be able to right some old wrongs while he’s busy committing new ones.
After he lays you on the bed underneath him, Dean kisses his way along the column of your throat, down between your breasts. He slips a hand underneath you to unhook the pretty lace bra, and your back arches, giving him room.
You really have grown up beautifully, even your boobs. Good for you, and good for him. Dean recommits them to memory as his tongue lavishes one of your nipples, while his right hand rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh his name and slip your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails. But your fingers hook on his flannel next.
“Take this off,” you breathe. “Want to see you too.”
Dean hesitates, but concedes to taking off his outer flannel. His undershirt stays on, even though you tug on it next. He aims to distract you by moving further down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses down your ribs and stomach, and over your mound, after he slips off your panties. He glances up between your legs and shoots you a mischievous grin.
“I used to love the way you tasted,” he says. “Those little sounds you made, the way you’d buck against my chin and scream my name… Let’s see if we can rock another sequel, huh, sweetheart?”
“Dean,” you gasp, as his fingers slip between the folds of your pussy. They find slick arousal and heat.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet.”
He bites his lower lip as his thumb searches, then finds your clit. Your hips start to writhe as you moan, grinding against his hand. He smirks in satisfaction before he lowers down. He moves your left thigh over his shoulder, and he feasts.
Your mouth falls open in a near silent cry, and your hips nearly come off the bed as you feel his tongue replace his fingers on your clit. Those long digits slip inside your hot channel. Hunger pools in your lower belly as your inner walls clench on him, desperately needing friction. Your breaths deepen as your free hand goes to your breast, toying with a hard nipple while you savor the sensations Dean’s giving you with his mouth and skilled fingers.
He curls his fingers and strokes you deeply, searching, exploring, until he finds that most sensitive place within your inner walls that has your body shuddering like an accordion. You grab a fistful of his hair as you buck hard against his mouth, a choked scream falling from your lips.
After withdrawing his fingers and wiping his mouth and nose, he presses a kiss into your inner thigh as you still tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
He moves back up your body, and you take his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.
“What’s the verdict?” he teases afterward.
“You’ve gotten better,” you admit.
You sit up, intending to return the favor as your hands roam down his chest and underneath his shirt. He feels toned from long hours of hard labor and horse riding, but he stills your hands from grasping at the edge of his shirt. You’re confused, but he quickly guides you into turning over in the bed.
He kneels behind you as his steady hands continue to map every inch of your body. He caresses your sides, across your middle, and back up to your breasts while he kisses along your neck, then down your shoulder. There’s more calm confidence in his touch than he had at 20 years old, certainly more strength and more callouses, but it’s a delicious friction. And it’s a feeling that he absolutely has you enveloped in his arms, within his broad frame. You hang onto him on reflex.
Two of his fingers dip back into your pussy, circling your clit. You hang onto his arm as your body gives way to a moan. Arousal begins to pulse deep inside you again, but this time, you need his cock. You want to know if he’s improved there too. He seems to remember your body well enough.
“Dean…just fuck me,” you whisper coarsely. “Please…”
Before I lose my nerve.
“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice like old scotch and honey. Its depths make prickles of heat flash across your skin as fabric rustles. You assume he’s finally stripping off the rest of his clothes. You catch a glimpse over your shoulder of him tossing his shirt and boxers to the floor, but soon, the heat of his presence returns as he lines himself up at your entrance. His cock finally pushing inside you from behind makes your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into the mattress sheets.
“Dean,” you gasp. He stretches you so fucking good.
“You’ve got it, baby. Every damn inch, doing so good,” he says, breathing hard into your neck. His teeth graze your shoulder, making you shudder and push into him on reflex, sheathing him nice and snug inside. Already the walls of your cunt tremble around his cock.
Dean keeps his promise; it’s dewy skin against skin as holds you to him while he fucks you, slow, deep, and powerful, but never painful. Never too much.
He asks you what you want—faster or slower, rougher, or easier rhythm. You tell him you want him exactly how he is: fucking perfect.
And that night, it is fucking perfect.
Almost.
Both of you have left your cell phones on the kitchen table. They’ve buzzed almost half a dozen times, each with text messages and a handful of calls.
Your little black dress collects dust on the floor along with his jeans and flannel.
In the morning, long after he should, Dean wakes up nice and easy.
He just ends up waking alone.
AN: 🫣 Sorry loll. If you think those twists were fun, then get ready for a whole messy love triangle when Brady re-enters from Stage Left. 😬 (And are you curious about Dean and reader's past?)
Next Time:
What have I done?
Okay, you were drunk, but not that drunk.
You were in pain. Reckless. Selfish.
Shame invades your body and settles into your heart. All you can do is slowly, silently slip out of the bed without disturbing Dean. After reclaiming your clothes from the dusty floor and getting dressed, you hold back tears as you try to leave the tangle of desire and old memories, both beautiful and painful, behind you in that room. All you take with you is your phone and the silver necklace you already wear.
Although you wait to put on your heels until you get outside the cabin, that big stretch of hill up ahead to the main house is daunting.
“Mornin’.”
Your head turns sharply at the voice. You shouldn’t be surprised that someone’s already up this early, let alone one of the ranch hands. Benny. He’s tall and broad, like Dean, though with reddish brown hair and a thicker beard. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, drinking his coffee as he leans against the bunkhouse wall. You nod back at him with an awkward smile.
“How you plan to get up the hill in those pumps?” he asks.
You sigh. “I don’t.”
You’re about to execute the worst walk of shame you’ve ever done, but at least it’s only for an audience of one. You slip off the heels and let the ankle straps dangle from your fingers as you walk barefoot on wet, dewy earth, all the way back up to the house.
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Dean Winchester who would sooner trust a rusty wrench and a prayer than
let just anyone touch the Impala.
Dean Winchester who has rebuilt Baby more times than he can count, so when she dies on the side of the highway, he takes it as a personal insult.
Dean Winchester who spends nearly an hour under the hood before finally admitting—to himself, never Sam—that he has absolutely no clue what's wrong.
Dean Winchester who immediately shoots Sam down when he suggests calling a mechanic because, "Nobody knows my girl better than me."
Dean Winchester who is still grumbling when a pickup truck pulls onto the shoulder, already preparing to tell whoever it is to keep driving.
Dean Winchester who hears classic rock drifting from the truck before the driver even gets out and decides maybe he can be civil for thirty seconds.
Dean Winchester who completely forgets the sarcastic remark he'd prepared the second you climb out of the truck in grease-stained coveralls, messy hair, and steel-toe boots.
Dean Winchester who suddenly can't remember how to form a coherent sentence when you flash him a confident smile and ask, "Need some help?"
Dean Winchester who reluctantly steps aside when you ask to look at the engine, watching you like you're performing surgery on a family member.
Dean Winchester who hovers over your shoulder the entire time until you finally laugh and tell him he's making you nervous.
Dean Winchester who mutters that he's just making sure you don't hurt his car, even though it's becoming increasingly obvious he's watching you more than the engine.
Dean Winchester who has to clear his throat and very pointedly look at the sky when you lean further into the engine bay, silently cursing himself because he realizes that he can't stop staring at your ass.
Dean Winchester who decides right then and there that this might be the hottest thing he's ever seen.
Dean Winchester who watches your hands work under the hood with the same adoration he'd usually reserve for other activities.
Dean Winchester who looks genuinely impressed when Baby roars back to life on the first turn of the key, staring at you like you've just worked actual magic.
Dean Winchester who insists on paying you, then casually asks for your work number because, "You know... in case she acts up again."
Dean Winchester who is fully aware that's the weakest excuse he's ever come up with.
Dean Winchester who keeps finding reasons to prolong the conversation, asking questions he absolutely doesn't need answered just to hear you keep talking.
Dean Winchester who thinks he's being smooth until Sam quietly wanders off because watching him flirt this hard is honestly embarrassing.
Dean Winchester who feels his stomach sink when your work phone rings and your entire focus shifts back to the job.
Dean Winchester who watches you apologize, explain another car's just been towed into the shop, and climb back into your truck before he can think of another excuse to keep you there.
Dean Winchester who stands beside Baby watching your taillights disappear, feeling oddly disappointed that a twenty-minute roadside repair somehow wasn't long enough.
Dean Winchester who immediately tells Sam to shut up the moment he notices the grin spreading across his brother's face.
Dean Winchester who rolls his eyes when Sam says, "You looked at her like she rebuilt the Mona Lisa."
Dean Winchester who grumbles that she just knows her way around an engine.
Dean Winchester who conveniently leaves out the fact that he hasn't stopped thinking about the mechanic with the pickup truck, the smart mouth, and the grease-smudged smile for the rest of the drive.
★・・・・・・★
a/n: I'm tempted to turn this into an actual fic, what do you guys think?
I’m writing scenes which are good, and I don’t know where they are going to fit in the book. But it’s what I call ‘The Valley Filled With Clouds’ technique. You’re at the edge of the valley, and there is a church steeple, and there is a tree, and there is a rocky outcrop, but the rest of it is mist. But you know that because they exist, there must be ways of getting from one to the other that you cannot see. And so you start the journey. And when I write, I write a draft entirely for myself, just to walk the valley and find out what the book is going to be all about.
-- Terry Pratchett - A Slip Of The Keyboard: Collected Non-fiction
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Dean Winchester x fem!angel!Reader || ***SERIES COMPLETE***
Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it
⋆⁺₊⋆ Chasing Shadows ⋆₊⁺⋆
Dean Winchester x fem!Touched!Reader || ***SERIES COMPLETE***
She’s never been afraid of the dark, not really. She’s more concerned about getting lost in it. He’s haunted by every dark deed he’s ever done. It’s constantly nipping at his heels like a hell hound. He’s her light in the dark, and she’s the one bit of darkness he’s willing to embrace.
A series using @aylacavebear's Touched concept, used with permission, of course. Send her lots of love!
Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, eventual romance, eventual smut, fluff and angst, POV alternating (sometimes a little all over the place), slow burn (?), angst, hurt/comfort, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it.
ONESHOTS
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Character Analysis via Music - Exactly what the name implies
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Figure You Out - jealous!Dean, hurt/comfort
⋆ ☾ ⋆ When He Slides In… - SMUT 18+ MDNI
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Dean Birthday Prompt - Fluff, birthday drabble inspired by this
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Pick Your Poison - teen!Dean, mild angst, underaged drinking
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Pick Your Poison² - teen! and S1!Dean, angst, pining
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Pick Your Poison³ - SMUT 18+ MDNI, S1!Dean
⋆ ☾ ⋆ “You Know I Love You, Right? - SMUT 18+ MDNI
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Nowhere Else to Go - Request, angst, s4!Dean
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Blind Date - Destiel, based off this post, Modern AU
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Tooth Hurty - Dentist visit, detailed dental procedures described
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Seen and Heard - Hurt/comfort, fluff, feeling underappreciated, feat. Sam
⋆ ☾ ⋆ When It Refused To Rain - Dean’s POV, hurt/comfort
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Glitter and Ashes - No pairing, angel!reader
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Spice and Vice - SMUT 18+ MDNI
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Quiet Hours - Fluff, established relationship
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Sandcastle Kingdoms - Summer Snapshot Challenge 2025, fluff, Dean’s POV
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Say It Again - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Sub-ish!Dean, praise kink
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Stick Season (Dean's Ver.) - Angst, hurt no comfort
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Stick Season (Your Ver.) - Angst, hurt no comfort
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Blush and Burn - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Lingerie,
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Forget Him - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Rebound Sex
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Kiss It Better - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Make-Up Sex
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Wake-Up Call - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Fingering
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Full Service - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Competence Kink
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Heat Waves - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Phone Sex
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Hearthfire - Fluff-Fest Challenge, fluff, witch!reader
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Seven Inch Hero - Fluff-Fest Challenge, fluff, Squirrel!Dean
⋆ ☾ ⋆ With Love, Dean - Secret Santa Gift Exchange, fluff
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Season's Heat-ings - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Omegaverse
FEAT. SAM WINCHESTER
(Polyship, no wincest)
⋆⁺₊⋆ Three Hearts, One Flame ⋆₊⁺⋆
Dean Winchester x fem!Reader x Sam Winchester || ***SERIES COMPLETE***
A mini-series about Sam and Dean both falling for the same girl and thinking she should be with the other. Little do they know, she's got some feelings of her own for them. Both of them. No wincest
Universal tags for the series: SMUT 18+ MDNI, No use of Y/N, no wincest, pining, no beta we die like men
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Cake by the Ocean - Summer Snapshot Challenge 2025, fluff, established polyship
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Too Hot to Handle - Fluff, established polyship
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Cold Front - Fluff, established polyship
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Tease and Please - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Foreplay
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Sweet Surrender - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Sensory Deprivation
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Sin Wears A Suit and Tie - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Formal Wear
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Aphrodite's Whisper - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Sex Pollen
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Control and Chaos - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Sex Toys
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Catch Me If You Can - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Kinktober; Free Use
⋆ ☾ ⋆ Wild and Free - Fluff-Fest Challenge, platonic relationships
Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 7194
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Pregnancy, Adjustments without words, Pack Fluff, Upcoming worries, First Appointment, Dean at work.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 70 ------- Chapter 72
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Monday arrived whether either of you were ready for it or not.
The alarm went off at five-thirty. Dean hated it immediately.
Not because he was tired—though he absolutely was—but because the sound ripped through a moment he hadn’t wanted to leave. Warm blankets. Your body curled against his side. Your breath slow against his chest while dawn still sat gray-blue beyond the bedroom windows.
For one long second, he considered ignoring it.
Calling out.
Letting the world deal with itself for a day.
Then reality caught up.
Work.
Bills.
Life still moving forward whether his entire brain had short-circuited around the word pup or not.
Dean groaned quietly under his breath before reaching over to silence the alarm as fast as possible so it wouldn’t wake you.
Too late.
You shifted slightly beside him, still half asleep, forehead brushing lazily against his shoulder. Your wolf stirred beneath your skin at the contact before settling again.
Dean’s chest tightened so hard it almost physically hurt.
Jesus Christ. His pup.
The thought hit exactly as hard as it had every single time it surfaced over the weekend.
No less shocking.
No less overwhelming.
No less real.
Dean stared at the ceiling for a moment, one arm still wrapped carefully around you while his mind spiraled uselessly through the same thoughts it had been trapped in for two straight days.
There’s really a pup.You’re pregnant.There’s a tiny life in there already.
His hand moved before he consciously thought about it, settling low against your stomach beneath the blanket.
Still flat.
Still unchanged.
But not empty.
Something in him went completely soft at the realization all over again.
You made a sleepy sound against his chest. “Dean.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
You didn’t open your eyes, just smiled faintly into his shirt before mumbling, “Go to work, love-sick idiot.”
Dean snorted quietly under his breath. But he leaned down anyway, pressing a slow kiss into your hair before finally forcing himself out of bed.
The cabin felt colder without you immediately attached to him. That thought alone nearly made him crawl back under the blankets.
Instead, he dragged himself downstairs, made coffee on autopilot, and spent nearly three full minutes staring directly at the carton of eggs in the fridge without remembering why he’d opened it in the first place.
His thoughts refused to stay organized. Every single one circled back to the same place.
Pup.
It threaded through everything now.
When he poured coffee.
When he grabbed his keys.
When he pulled his boots on near the front door.
Pup.
By the time he stepped into the garage later that morning, Bobby only took one look at him before sighing heavily around his coffee mug.
“You look worse than when you first got mated.”
Dean frowned immediately. “I do not.”
“You’ve been starin’ at the same wrench for five minutes.”
Dean looked down.
Sure enough, he was still holding the wrong socket.
Again.
Across the garage, Garth absolutely failed to hide his grin.
“Aw, leave him alone,” he said brightly. “He’s emotionally compromised.”
Dean pointed at him. “I hate all of you.”
“Mmhm.” Bobby took another sip of coffee. “You torque that bolt yet, or you just thinkin’ about pups again?”
Dean opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then muttered, “Shut up.”
Which only made Garth laugh harder.
Dean tried to focus after that.
Really tried.
But the entire day felt… off-center.
Not bad.
Just wrong in the strange way life always felt after something huge happened and the rest of the world somehow kept moving anyway.
Engines still needed fixing.
Phones still rang.
People still came and went through the garage.
And through all of it, Dean’s attention kept drifting.
Toward his phone.
Toward the clock.
Toward thoughts he couldn’t shut off, no matter how hard he tried.
Was your appointment gonna be this week?Would Dr. Voss confirm everything immediately?Would they hear a heartbeat yet?Was there even a heartbeat yet?
That last thought alone distracted him badly enough that he nearly dropped a ratchet into the engine block he was working on.
“Dean.”
He looked up instantly.
Bobby stood across the garage watching him with the kind of exhausted patience usually reserved for idiots and concussed people.
“You wanna tell me what cylinder you’re workin’ on there?”
Dean looked down again.
Long pause.
“…shit.”
It wasn’t even the right truck.
Garth made a strangled noise somewhere behind him, trying not to laugh.
Dean flipped him off blindly.
Around noon, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Everything in him sharpened instantly.
His wolf surged awake beneath his skin before Dean even realized he’d moved, already pulling the phone free fast enough Bobby snorted into his coffee again.
Your name lit up the screen. And suddenly, the entire garage disappeared around him.
‘Appointment Friday 11:30. Dr. Voss had a cancellation.’
Dean read the message once.
Then again. Then a third time slower.
Friday.
Four more days.
His chest tightened unexpectedly hard.
Not panic.
Not dread.
Something stranger.
Like reality had just shifted shape again. Because now there was a date attached to it.
A real one.
Not abstract anymore.
A doctor’s office.
Confirmation.
Answers.
His pup.
Dean exhaled slowly through his nose before typing back.
‘I’ll be there.’
The response came almost immediately.
‘I know you will.’
That hit him right in the damn chest. Dean stared at the screen for another second longer than necessary before finally looking up again.
Bobby was already watching him knowingly from across the garage.
Dean lifted the phone slightly. “Friday. Eleven-thirty.”
Bobby nodded once like he’d already expected it. “Take the day.”
Dean blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Bobby waved one hand dismissively before turning back toward the truck nearest him. “Ain’t arguin’ with you about it.”
Something warm hit Dean low and sudden in his chest.
Pack.
Even here.
His throat tightened unexpectedly enough he had to clear it before muttering, “Thanks.”
Bobby grunted without looking back. “Don’t make me regret it by breakin’ your damn hand ‘cause you can’t focus on engines.”
Garth popped up immediately from the other side of the garage. “Should we get him one of those pup carriers now or wait a few months?”
Dean launched the rag at his head hard enough that Garth yelped and ducked behind a toolbox laughing.
Morning settled differently without Dean in the cabin.
Not wrong.
Just quieter in ways your body noticed now.
The mattress had cooled where he’d been hours ago, but his scent still clung to the sheets and pillows—pine, leather, coffee, motor oil that he never quite managed to wash away. It wrapped around you while you lay there staring at the ceiling long after the front door had shut behind him before dawn.
Pregnant.
The word still didn’t feel entirely real in your head, even after the full moon. Even after the test. Even after Dean’s joy had poured through the bond so fiercely it had nearly knocked the breath from you.
Because a test was one thing.
Confirmation was another.
Your hand drifted absently over your stomach beneath the blanket.
Nothing felt different physically. Not really. No obvious change. No dramatic shift. No early symptoms. Just the strange awareness that something might already be happening beneath your skin where you couldn’t see it yet.
A possibility becoming real cell by cell.
The thought made your chest tighten.
Downstairs, cabinet doors opened softly. Coffee brewed. Jess and Sam were awake already, the low murmur of their voices occasionally drifting up through the floorboards before fading again. Familiar. Grounding.
You stayed where you were another minute anyway—trying to breathe through the strange tension sitting just beneath your ribs.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
But the awareness that once Dr. Voss confirmed it—really confirmed it—everything would shift into something concrete. Timelines. Due dates. Medical information. Reality settling into place in ways neither you nor your wolf would be able to pretend were distant anymore.
Your wolf stirred softly beneath your skin at the thought.
Not distressed.
Waiting.
Eventually, you pushed yourself upright and padded downstairs in one of Dean’s shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, hair still mussed from sleep. The cabin smelled like toast, coffee, and bacon by the time you reached the kitchen.
Jess glanced up first from where she sat at the table, mug cradled between both hands. “There she is.”
Sam looked over from the stove with an easy smile. “Morning.”
“Morning,” you murmured back, voice still rough with sleep.
Your eyes immediately caught on the folded piece of paper sitting beside Jess’s mug.
A phone number.
Dr. Voss’s office.
Your stomach tightened again before you could stop it.
Jess noticed instantly. Her expression softened, not pitying—just understanding. “You don’t have to call the second you wake up,” she said gently.
“I know.”
But the thing was—you also knew if you waited too long, you’d think yourself in circles about it.
So instead of sitting down, you moved toward the coffee pot first. Habit. Comfort. Routine.
Sam snorted quietly when he caught the motion. “You better drink it before Dean somehow senses it through the bond.”
Jess barked out a laugh into her mug. “He’ll come crashing through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man.”
Despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth.
“Coffee is still allowed,” you informed them flatly while pouring a cup.
“We know,” Sam said easily.
Jess grinned. “So does Dean, doesn’t stop him from fussing.”
Warmth spread through your chest at that. Affection. Exasperation. Something soft enough to ease the tightness under your ribs for half a second.
You wrapped both hands around the mug and leaned against the counter. Then your eyes slid back to the folded paper.
The number waiting there.
The reality waiting behind it.
Jess watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “You want one of us to do it with you?”
You shook your head after a beat. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “I think… I need to.”
Because this mattered.
Because hearing the appointment date would make it real in an entirely different way.
Because part of you was still terrified that if you looked directly at this too quickly, it would disappear.
The kitchen fell quiet around you—not awkward. Just gentle.
Sam focused back on breakfast.
Jess didn’t push.
And after another long sip of coffee, you finally crossed the kitchen, picked up the paper, and stared at the number for a few seconds before reaching for the phone mounted on the wall.
By the time Dean got home that evening, the entire cabin smelled like garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread.
Normal.
Domestic.
Dangerously convincing in a way that almost let life feel ordinary for half a second.
Almost.
The front door had barely shut behind him before his wolf reached instinctively for you through the bond, searching with the same reflex it had been trapped in all day.
There.
Safe.
Upstairs.
The tension sitting between his shoulder blades loosened immediately. Dean exhaled hard through his nose before kicking off his boots near the door.
“You’re gettin’ worse,” Sam called from the kitchen.
Dean frowned automatically while shrugging out of his jacket. “About what?”
“The tracking thing.”
Jess snorted softly from somewhere near the stove. “He practically checked the bond before he checked if the cabin was on fire.”
Dean pointed toward both of them accusingly while already moving for the stairs. “I hate livin’ with witnesses.”
“You love us,” Sam called after him.
Dean muttered something deeply unflattering under his breath that made Jess laugh outright. But he still took the stairs two at a time.
Because his wolf had spent the entire day restless.
And now that he was home, every instinct in him needed visual confirmation that you were okay, even if the bond already said you were.
He found you upstairs, sitting cross-legged near the headboard with Mary’s pregnancy book open in your lap.
Or—more accurately—
his pregnancy book.
At least according to how often he’d apparently been reading it.
You looked up the second he stepped into the room, something soft immediately easing across your expression at the sight of him.
That alone nearly unraveled him. Dean crossed the room without hesitation, leaning down to kiss you before he even spoke. Slow. Familiar. Grounding.
“You eat?” he asked against your mouth.
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “I’m pregnant. Not fragile.”
“Didn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Okay.”
Satisfied instantly.
You stared at him for a second. “You’re impossible.”
“Mmhm.”
His attention dropped immediately toward the book in your lap before he climbed onto the bed beside you.
Page one hundred thirty-two.
The common first-trimester symptom of heightened smell sensitivity, known as hyperosmia.
Again.
His gaze went back to yours, “You feeling any of those?”
The concern in his voice pulled at something in your chest, eyes falling back to the words you’d read three times already today. “No. Just… not sure I’m ready for ‘em.”
The arm he’d slipped around your shoulders tightened just a fraction more as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Well, we’ll figure it out, whatever symptoms you get. Even if that means I’m not allowed near you till I shower after work.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Dean visibly relaxed hearing it.
The shift was tiny, but there.
Like your laughter settled something restless under his skin.
Downstairs, Jess yelled up the staircase, “Dean, if you memorize that entire book before the appointment, I’m legally allowed to throw it at your head.”
Dean didn’t even move before he yelled back, “You can’t legally do anything.”
“We’ll see.”
Sam’s laughter carried up immediately afterward.
You shook your head softly, smiling despite yourself, before your fingers slipped unconsciously toward the edge of the book.
“Friday feels far away,” you admitted quietly.
That got Dean’s full attention instantly.
Not panicked.
Focused.
He shifted closer without even thinking about it, his other hand settling automatically against your thigh.
“You okay?”
You nodded after a second. “Yes.” Honest. Mostly. “It just feels strange knowing there’s a date now.”
A date.
A time.
A sticky note currently sitting downstairs, stuck to the fridge.
Friday.11:30.
Confirmation.
The room quieted around both of you for a moment. Dean’s thumb moved slowly once against your leg.
“You wanna know somethin’ messed up?” he murmured after a beat.
You looked over at him.
“I keep forgettin’ there’s, like…” He gestured vaguely toward your stomach. “An actual tiny thing already there.”
Warmth flickered low in your chest at the awe threaded through his voice.
Not fear.
Not uncertainty.
Wonder.
Dean huffed quietly, almost laughing at himself. “Like, logically I know how this works, but my brain keeps catchin’ up every couple hours and goin’ holy shit.”
That finally pulled a real laugh from you again.
Soft.
Breathless.
And deeply needed.
Dean smiled instantly at the sound, helplessly fond.
Downstairs, something clattered loudly in the kitchen before Jess’s voice rang out:
“Sam Winchester, if you broke my favorite spatula, I swear to God—”
“I didn’t break it!”
“It’s in two pieces!”
Dean snorted under his breath before looking back at you.
The warmth lingering in the room softened some of the tension that had been hanging beneath your skin since morning. Not gone. Just… easier to carry.
Because this was becoming real now in practical ways too.
Appointments.
Schedules.
Planning around days and work and time.
Life reshaping itself around something neither of you could see yet.
And somehow, sitting there beside Dean while chaos unfolded downstairs and the pregnancy book rested open between you both, it felt a little less frightening than it had that morning.
The week settled into a strange sort of rhythm after that.
Not normal.
Nothing about this felt normal anymore.
But quieter.
Contained.
Dean still had a hard time focusing at work, and the boys found plenty of ways to get him moving again. Jess spent a lot of her time with you. Not only anchoring you in the now, but also finding little ways of making sure you didn’t spiral. Sam made a trip into town at one point, bringing back two full bags of books from the bookstore and ‘casually’ leaving them around the cabin.
Wednesday evening found the cabin wrapped in rain.
Not a storm. Just a slow, steady drizzle that whispered against the roof and turned the windows silver in the fading light outside. Sam and Jess had disappeared into town an hour earlier for groceries, leaving the cabin unusually quiet.
You sat curled into the corner of the couch beneath a blanket with one of the books from Sam open in your lap, though you’d read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
Your thoughts wouldn’t stay still long enough.
Friday.
The word had started living in the back of your mind now.
Not loud.
Just constant.
Two more days.
You could feel it sometimes—that strange suspended sensation sitting beneath your ribs. Like your entire life had paused on the edge of something irreversible.
The test had changed everything already.
But confirmation…
Confirmation would make it real in a way neither you nor your wolf could walk back from.
A soft creak pulled your attention from the page.
Dean stood in the kitchen doorway holding Mary’s pregnancy book in one hand and a beer in the other.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then his eyes flicked slowly down toward the book in his own hand like he’d only just realized he’d carried it in there with him.
“…you brought it after your shower,” you said flatly.
Dean looked mildly offended. “I was readin’.”
“You walked into the kitchen with it.”
“So?”
“So,” you repeated, trying very hard not to laugh, “you’re carrying around What to Expect When Expecting like it’s sacred text.”
Dean snorted softly under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway as he wandered toward the couch.
“You’re judgy for somebody who highlighted three sections already.”
“I highlighted important parts.”
“Uh huh.”
He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your legs naturally tangled together beneath the blanket. Warm. Familiar. Easy.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
The cabin smelled like coffee, old paper, and cedar from the damp woods outside.
Dean set his beer down before opening the book somewhere near the middle, brow furrowing almost immediately in concentration.
You watched him for a moment over the top of your own book.
The focus on his face.
The slight crease between his brows.
The way his thumb rested between the pages to hold his place.
Completely absorbed.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Because this was Dean.
Dean Winchester.
Who hated research unless it involved cars, pie, or finding the fastest route to food. And now he was voluntarily reading about prenatal development on a Wednesday night.
Your wolf stirred softly beneath your skin at the sight.
Dean must’ve felt your attention lingering because he glanced over after a moment. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nah.” His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious already. “That was a look.”
You smiled faintly into your cup of juice. “You’re reading the chapter about fetal development.”
Dean immediately looked back down at the page. “Well, yeah.”
“You’ve already read that chapter.”
“Maybe I forgot somethin’.”
“You absolutely did not.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him before the sound faded into something softer. His gaze drifted downward then.
Toward you.
Toward the blanket pooled over your lap.
Toward the place beneath it neither of you could see yet.
The room quieted around both of you after that.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just full.
Dean’s expression changed slowly while he looked at you. Wonder creeping in again beneath the surface of everything else. Awe. Disbelief that still hadn’t fully settled into something manageable.
Your throat tightened slightly at the sight of it.
“Friday’s gonna come fast,” you murmured eventually.
Dean looked back up immediately. For a second, neither of you spoke. The rain filled the silence instead.
Soft.
Steady.
Breathing against the roof.
Then Dean reached over without a word and set his hand over yours beneath the blanket.
Warm.
Certain.
Grounding.
Not trying to fix the tension humming quietly beneath your skin.
Not trying to talk you out of your thoughts.
Just there.
With you.
And somehow, sitting in the quiet glow of the cabin with rain tapping at the windows and both your books forgotten for the moment, it felt exactly like what it was:
The last calm breath before everything became real.
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, old books, and antiseptic beneath it all. Not harsh. Not clinical in the way hospitals always seemed to be. Softer. Warmer. Like someone had tried very hard to make the space feel less intimidating for the people who sat inside it holding fragile things close to their chests.
The overhead fluorescent lights still hummed quietly, though. That part never changed.
You sat curled into the corner of the couch-like chair, one leg tucked beneath you while the other bounced faintly despite your efforts to stop it. Across from you, a low coffee table held neatly stacked magazines no one ever actually read, a bowl of wrapped peppermint candies, and a small vase with dried wildflowers.
Dean sat beside you.
Too close to be accidental.
Not close enough for his wolf.
His knee bounced relentlessly, the movement sharp enough that the cushions shifted beneath both of you in tiny repetitive tremors. One hand gripped the edge of the pregnancy book hard enough the spine had started to bend slightly beneath his fingers. The other rested against his thigh, flexing every few seconds like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
You reached over quietly, laying your hand against his bouncing knee.
It stopped instantly.
For all of three seconds.
Then started again.
Your lips twitched despite yourself.
Dean exhaled hard through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face before glancing toward the receptionist desk for what had to be the tenth time in the last two minutes.
“They know we’re here, right?”
You stared at him. “Dean.”
“What?” His eyes flicked back to you immediately. “I’m just saying—”
“You checked me in.”
“I know I checked you in.”
“And she said Dr. Voss was finishing with another patient.”
“I know.”
His fingers tightened around the book again. “But what if—”
“Dean.”
This time it came softer.
Gentler.
Because beneath all the restless energy and twitching instincts and inability to sit still, you could feel it through the bond. The excitement. The fear. The desperate, overwhelming hope that kept crashing through him in waves so strong it almost made your own chest ache.
Your wolf pressed close beneath your skin, equally alert. Equally restless.
Not afraid.
Just… waiting.
Waiting for someone else to say it officially.
Waiting for certainty to become real.
Dean finally looked at you fully then, green eyes bright with too many emotions trying to exist in the same space at once. His gaze dropped briefly toward your stomach before snapping guiltily back up like he thought you might somehow catch him doing it.
You had.
Your throat tightened a little.
Because he’d been doing that a lot.
Little glances.
Little moments where his entire expression softened without warning before he caught himself.
Like he still couldn’t believe there might actually be a tiny life growing inside you.
His pup.
The thought alone made something twist warmly beneath your ribs.
And terrifyingly.
Your hand slipped from his knee to his wrist instead, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over the pulse there. Dean immediately turned his hand beneath yours, lacing your fingers together hard enough to ground himself.
The bond eased slightly.
Not calm.
Never calm.
But steadier.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows in uneven patterns, summer clouds rolling through in one of those brief storms that never seemed to last long. Somewhere deeper in the office, muted voices drifted down the hallway, followed by the faint squeak of shoes against polished flooring.
Dean’s knee finally stopped bouncing.
Only because he leaned forward instead, elbows braced on his thighs while your joined hands hung between you.
“I keep thinking about what if the test was wrong,” he admitted quietly.
You blinked at him.
His jaw tightened immediately after the words left him, like he regretted saying them out loud.
“Not— not wrong wrong,” he corrected quickly. “I mean…” He swallowed. “I know the test wasn’t wrong. I just…” His voice lowered further. “I think my brain’s still tryin’ to catch up.”
Your chest pulled tight with sudden understanding.
Because yours was too.
The cabin.
The test.
Jess holding you.
Dean looking at the counter and going still.
It had all happened so fast that your thoughts still hadn’t fully settled around the shape of it.
Pregnant.
The word still felt enormous.
Your wolf stirred faintly beneath your skin at the thought, pressing warm and protective through the bond toward Dean’s wolf.
His response came instantly.
Mine.
Not possessive.
Not controlling.
Just reverent. Overwhelmed. Full of so much love it nearly unraveled you where you sat.
Dean squeezed your hand once before lifting it instinctively, brushing his knuckles lightly beneath your jaw.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The question wasn’t casual.
Not anymore.
You could feel how much weight he put behind it now every single time he asked.
You nodded slowly. “I think so.”
Not certainty.
Just honesty.
Dean’s expression softened immediately like that answer mattered more to him than anything else in the room.
Then the hallway door opened.
Both of your heads snapped up at once.
And when Dr. Voss appeared around the corner with a warm smile already forming across her face, your heart kicked hard enough against your ribs that your breath caught entirely.
“Ready?” she asked gently.
The hallway felt quieter on the way back.
Not silent—never silent, not with Dean beside you—but softer somehow. Muted beneath the weight pressing against both your ribs. Dr. Voss moved at an easy pace ahead of you, clipboard tucked against her side, her dark curls swaying lightly with each step. Familiar. Grounding. She didn’t rush either of you, didn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Dean stayed close enough that the back of his hand brushed yours every few steps, like his body couldn’t quite tolerate distance anymore.
When she reached one of the rooms near the end of the hall, she nudged the door open with her shoulder and stepped aside to let the two of you in first.
“Same room as last time,” she said warmly. “Figured familiarity might help.”
It did.
At least a little.
The room didn’t feel clinical in the way most doctors’ offices did. The overhead lights were softer here, warmer. One lamp glowed from the corner beside a bookshelf crowded with medical texts and dog-eared paperbacks. A woven blanket had been folded neatly over the back of the small loveseat beneath the window. Even the examination table looked less intimidating with the quilted cover over the paper lining.
The room smelled faintly of cedar, tea, and antiseptic beneath it all.
Dean’s hand settled against your lower back as the door clicked shut behind you. Not pushing. Just there.
Dr. Voss set the clipboard down on the counter before turning toward you both fully, her expression gentle but attentive in that way doctors perfected after years of watching people try to hold themselves together.
“Well,” she said softly, folding her arms loosely. “You two look like you haven’t taken a full breath in days.”
Dean barked out a quiet laugh under his breath before dragging a hand over his mouth. “That obvious, huh?”
“Dean,” she replied dryly, amused warmth flickering in her eyes, “your leg was bouncing hard enough in the waiting room that I thought you might launch yourself through the floor.”
You felt the corner of your mouth twitch despite yourself.
Dean muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Could happen.”
Dr. Voss smiled, then her gaze shifted back to you.
“And you?” she asked more gently.
Your throat tightened a little at the question. Not because you didn’t know the answer. Because you knew too many of them.
Nervous.
Hopeful.
Terrified.
Excited.
You swallowed once. “I think my thoughts haven’t stopped since Friday.”
Understanding softened her features immediately.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “That sounds about right.”
Dean’s fingers flexed once against your back.
Dr. Voss gestured toward the loveseat instead of the exam table. “Sit wherever you’re comfortable first. We’ll go through everything together before we do anything official.”
That alone loosened something in your chest.
Not rushed.
Not clinical.
Together.
You sat first, Dean immediately dropping beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed firmly against yours. His knee bounced once before he caught himself. Then again, three seconds later.
You reached over without thinking and rested your hand on his leg. It didn’t stop the bouncing completely.
But it slowed.
Dr. Voss noticed. You could tell she noticed. But she only leaned back lightly against the counter and picked up your chart.
“So,” she said gently, flipping it open. “Tell me everything from the beginning.”
“There’s not much to tell,” you admitted quietly, fingers still resting against Dean’s knee. “I took a test a week ago, and it came up positive. My heat had only ended two weeks before that.” Your throat tightened slightly around the next words. “We just need to know for sure.”
Dr. Voss nodded once, calm and steady like none of this surprised her in the slightest.
“Alright,” she said gently.
She crossed toward one of the cabinets, opening it with practiced ease before pulling out a small plastic sample jar with a pale blue lid. Then filled out the label in neat handwriting.
“Then let’s get another test done to be certain.” She held it out toward you. “Bathroom’s just around the corner to the right.”
You took the jar carefully, fingers brushing the cool plastic.
Dean’s hand slipped reluctantly from your back when you stood. Reluctantly being the important part.
You felt his gaze on you immediately as you moved toward the door. Heavy. Focused. Like some instinctive part of him hated letting you out of arm’s reach even for thirty seconds.
The door clicked softly behind you. And the second it did, Dean exhaled hard through his nose.
Dr. Voss didn’t miss it.
She leaned lightly back against the counter again, arms folding loosely as she studied him with the kind of knowing expression only someone who’d seen this dozens of times could wear.
“The first time is always a little chaotic,” she said after a moment.
Dean looked over immediately.
Even sitting still, there was tension wound through him. Nervous energy pressing against his skin too tightly to stay contained for long.
Dr. Voss’s smile softened faintly.
“Different for alphas than it is for omegas,” she continued, “but chaotic all the same.”
That got his full attention.
Completely.
Dean leaned forward slightly, forearms braced against his knees without even realizing he’d moved. “Different how?”
A quiet huff of amusement left her.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she answered first, voice warm but pointed enough that he actually looked mildly called out. “That’s probably the best advice I can give you right now.”
Dean blinked once.
Dr. Voss continued before he could spiral too far ahead of the conversation.
“Be in the moments with her,” she said gently. “Not six months from now. Not a year from now. Right now. It’ll help lessen her stress if you stay grounded with her instead of trying to anticipate every possible thing that could happen.”
Something in Dean eased at that. Not fully. Never fully. But enough that his shoulders loosened a fraction.
Then Dr. Voss added casually, “And don’t tell her she can’t have something she’s craving.”
Dean immediately looked guilty.
Actually guilty.
His eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to her. “...is coffee really okay?”
Her smile turned openly fond at that.
“Yes, Dean,” she said patiently. “Two cups is perfectly fine. Especially if she’s been drinking coffee regularly for years. Stopping suddenly could honestly make her feel worse, which creates more stress on the body than the caffeine itself.”
Dean absorbed that with visible seriousness, like she’d just handed him critical survival information.
The door opened before he could ask anything else.
You stepped back into the room with the jar clasped carefully in your hand, the lid secured tightly. Your eyes immediately found Dean first. Instinctive.
Dr. Voss pushed away from the counter and crossed toward you, taking the sample gently from your hands.
“Perfect,” she said softly. “I’ll be back in about five minutes.”
Then she paused at the doorway, glancing once between the two of you.
“And breathe,” she added knowingly before slipping out into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind her. Silence settled immediately after.
Not empty.
Dense.
Dean looked at you for half a second before standing outright, unable to stay seated anymore. Two steps carried him across the room, and then his hands were on you again—one settling carefully at your waist, the other sliding up along your arm like he needed the reassurance of contact more than air itself.
Neither of you spoke.
Neither of you really needed to.
Because now there was nothing left to do except wait.
The clock on the wall didn’t change.
That was the problem.
It kept ticking in steady, indifferent seconds like nothing important was happening at all, like there wasn’t something sitting in the next room that could tilt both of your lives into something completely irreversible.
Five minutes.
That’s what Dr. Voss had said.
Five minutes to process something that already felt like it had been building for days—weeks, really—if either of you were honest about the way time had started folding in on itself since your heat had ended.
Dean didn’t sit back down.
He tried.
You felt it before you saw it—the shift of his weight, the intention behind it—like he was attempting to force himself into stillness. But it lasted maybe half a second before he was up again, pacing once toward the counter, then back toward you, then stopping like he’d forgotten where his body was supposed to go.
His hand stayed on you the entire time.
Not tight.
Not restraining.
Just there.
Like if he let go, something might slip out of reach.
You stood near the edge of the exam table instead of sitting, mostly because your body couldn’t decide what it wanted either. Every so often, your fingers flexed against your own palm without meaning to, like you were checking that you were still anchored inside yourself.
Your wolf was quieter than you’d ever felt her.
Not absent.
Just… focused inward. Listening to something you couldn’t quite hear yet.
Dean exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled, then scrubbed a hand down his face.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no real frustration in it—just pressure with nowhere to go.
You glanced at him.
A faint smile tried to form, didn’t quite make it. “It’s five minutes.”
“That’s not the point.”
Of course it wasn’t.
He stopped pacing again and turned toward you fully, like gravity had finally won out over whatever restless energy had been driving him.
His eyes tracked over your face first—checking, always checking—then dropped briefly to your stomach before snapping back up again like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look there for too long yet.
Your hand found his without thinking. That seemed to help him more than anything else. His fingers tightened around yours immediately, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Not fidgeting now. Just holding on.
The quiet stretched.
It wasn’t peaceful.
Not exactly.
It was full. Pressurized. Like the room itself was holding its breath with you.
Somewhere in the hall, a distant sound—paper shifting, a chair rolling softly, footsteps that didn’t belong to either of you.
Dean’s head turned instantly.
You felt it in him before he moved: that split-second instinct to follow, to intercept, to get answers sooner than they were ready to be given.
But he didn’t.
He stayed. Because you were still here.
The footsteps faded again.
The ticking returned.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Dean squeezed your hand once, almost imperceptibly, then let out a low breath like he was trying to steady something that wasn’t entirely under his control.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
It was such a Dean question.
Not are you scared.
Not how are you feeling.
Just… are you okay, like that was the simplest way he knew how to say I don’t know how to hold this gently enough yet, but I’m trying.
You nodded.
A beat later, honesty caught up to you anyway. “I don’t know what I am.”
That earned a small huff from him—something almost like agreement. His thumb brushed your knuckles again, slower this time.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”
And there it was. The truth sitting between you without either of you trying to dress it up.
Another second passed.
Then another.
The kind of silence that makes you hyperaware of everything—the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint scent of antiseptic, the way your own heartbeat sounded louder than it had any right to.
Dean shifted closer again without thinking, shoulder brushing yours. Not crowding. Just… closer.
Like instinct was rewriting the rules of personal space in real time. You leaned into him slightly before you realized you were doing it. His arm came around you immediately after.
Not dramatic.
Just certain.
The hallway outside stayed quiet.
The clock kept ticking.
And somewhere beyond that door, five minutes was slowly becoming something neither of you were ready to name out loud yet.
The door opened without warning.
No knock that you registered. No build-up your nerves could brace for.
Just the soft click of the handle—and then Dr. Voss stepped back into the room, a small stack of papers in one hand, a white bottle in the other, and something steadier than either of your hearts in her expression.
Both your heads lifted at the same time. Like the air itself had changed pressure.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Even Dean.
Even your wolf.
Dr. Voss closed the door gently behind her and let the silence hold for half a heartbeat longer than necessary—long enough for the anticipation to stretch thin and bright.
Then she smiled.
Warm. Certain.
“Congratulations,” she said softly. “Looks like you two are gonna have a pup.”
The words didn’t land all at once.
They settled.
Slowly. Irreversibly.
Something in your chest broke open so fast you didn’t even have time to understand it before it spilled out of you—hot, immediate tears rising without permission, vision blurring at the edges as your breath caught on something too big to swallow.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Just… too much feeling trying to exist in one body.
Your hand flew to your mouth, but it didn’t stop anything. It just muffled the sound that came out of you—small, broken, disbelieving.
Dean moved before you did.
Always first.
Always there.
His arm was around you in an instant, pulling you into him like instinct had finally stopped asking permission. You barely registered leaving the floor before you were in his chest, your face pressed against him, his hold tight and grounding in a way that made the room feel like it stopped spinning.
His breath hitched once.
Then he buried his face into your hair.
Like he needed to make sure this was real by feeling it.
“We’re really having a pup,” he said.
Quiet.
Awe-struck.
Like the words themselves were something holy he didn’t want to break.
His hand slid up your back, firm, steadying—anchoring you while you shook with everything you couldn’t say out loud.
Dr. Voss didn’t interrupt.
She just stepped back to the counter, giving you space the way someone who understood exactly what kind of moment this was would.
A minute passed like that.
Maybe less.
Maybe more.
Time didn’t behave properly anymore.
Eventually, she cleared her throat gently. “Alright, Y/N,” she said, voice returning to professional calm without losing its warmth. “Up on the table.”
Dean didn’t let go.
Not really.
He just adjusted with you—helping you settle down carefully, like even gravity had become something he didn’t fully trust yet.
His hand stayed in yours immediately after, fingers threading through yours like a promise he wasn’t done making.
Dr. Voss began her exam with quiet efficiency, her hands warm and practiced as she checked what needed checking. You could feel Dean beside you the entire time—watching everything, barely blinking, his attention split between her hands and your face like both mattered equally.
“You’re early enough that everything looks exactly where it should be,” Dr. Voss said calmly. “We’ll have you back once a month until your sixth month, unless anything changes. Bloodwork each visit so we can track hormone levels. We’ll monitor your weight, your overall health…”
Dean’s grip tightened slightly at that.
“…and next month,” she continued, “we should be able to hear the pup’s heartbeat.”
That got him.
You felt it before you saw it—the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders locked for half a second like his body had forgotten how to process what it had just been told.
Heartbeat.
Real. Measurable. There.
Your own breath caught in response, like your body was trying to mirror his shock just to keep up.
Dr. Voss finished her exam and stepped back, jotting a few notes down before turning toward you fully again.
When she spoke next, it was gentler. “Due date is February nineteenth.”
Dean visibly stopped functioning for a second.
Not dramatically.
Just… paused.
Like every internal system had hit a wall at the same time.
You almost laughed through the tears because it was either that or collapse completely into the weight of it all.
February nineteenth.
A date.
Something real enough to mark on a calendar.
The day you’d hold your pup in your arms for the first time.
Dr. Voss set the papers on the counter, along with the bottle, beside you. “These are for you—what to expect over the first month and through the first trimester. Every pregnancy is different. You may not experience all the typical symptoms, or you may only have a few. Sometimes all of them show up. There’s no single pattern. Prenatal vitamins to get you started.”
Then her gaze shifted to Dean.
Softened just slightly in a way that made it clear she understood exactly who she was speaking to.
“And Dean,” she added, handing him a second stack, “there’s information in there for you too. Ways to keep yourself from getting ahead of things.”
That earned the faintest flicker of something like awareness from him—still overwhelmed, still reeling, but present enough to accept the papers without looking away from you for long.
Because even now, even mid-collapse of reality—
his hand didn’t let go of yours.
Chapter 70 ------- Chapter 72
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Images, Video, and Dividers made by Plant People Heal LLC
You can also find me on Patreon
Permanent Tag List: @roseblue373 @flamencodiva @reignsboy19 @stillhere197 @foxyjwls007
Summary: Being undercover on a case with Dean makes you want more than what life on the road can offer.
Content: Established relationship, a little bit of angst, fluff, comfort, implied female reader, mentions of pregnancy and engagements (reader is not pregnant), Dean loves kids
Word Count: 841
Note: Title from "Someone New" by Hozier <3 Thank you everyone for over 2K notes in my first two weeks; that's absolutely insane! (Requests and asks are open on my profile, feel free to send some through)
Despite needing to find ways to swipe silver on everyone here, the Atlanta suburbs are charming. You stand in the middle of a neighborhood potluck, surrounded by sweet mothers and their doting husbands, watching their younger children play tag near the swingset. Dean is close by, easily carrying a conversation about current college football rankings for the upcoming season. Al and Christina were completely charmed by your fiancé, and by extension, warmed to you.
The false engagement on your finger weighs heavier than any lie you’ll spin to Christina tonight.
Christina bumps her newborn Weston on her hip, nudging your side as Dean and Al talk old-school rivalries. “How far along are you, dear?”
“What?”
“Oh, hon,” she laughs, “I’d know that look anywhere. You can tell me.”
“Well, Dean and I, we aren’t—“
You trail off, looking at Christina with a crease between your brows.
We aren’t pregnant. We’re hunters, you want to say, as you’d always wished you could.
“You haven’t told him yet?” she whispers. “Oh my God, how exciting!”
And you’re in danger, but don’t freak out, because I’m at least fifty-percent certain that we have this handled.
“I, ah—”
“Your secret is safe with me. I was the same way with Al.” Christina glances at her husband, then back to you, starting to pass Weston into your arms. “Look, why don’t you take Wes for a minute?”
Your frightened expression does nothing to deter her, and there is hardly time to deny her plan. Weston is already reaching for the collar of your dress, babbling in his cotton, sky-blue onesie.
“Are you sure?” you utter, adjusting Weston in your arms. He smells like powder and formula.
“Go! See how Dean is with the kids.” Christina winks. “I need to bring out the desserts, anyway.”
Christina leaves you to approach Al, tapping on the back of his shoulder and whispering in his ear. Al nods, patting Dean on the arm before the pair make their way to the back door of their home. Dean makes his way over to you, hands deep in his pockets, an eyebrow raised at Weston.
“We’ll be back in a minute!” Christina yells from the door before disappearing into her home.
Dean takes your elbow, pulling you away from the crowd. You’re tucked behind foldable tables with fruit displays on top and a white cooler full of beer. “What was that all about?”
“Christina thinks we’re pregnant,” you hiss.
“We? More like you.”
“I’m going to murder you.”
Weston wriggles in your arms, starting to fuss as he reaches toward Dean, already forgetting his interest in grabbing your dress and necklace into his fists.
“Hey, little guy,” Dean says softly. He takes Weston from you, resting the baby’s head against his chest and putting a large hand to his back. He pats there gently, swaying slowly back and forth as he hums a tune from the Eagles. Weston smiles, his eyes drooping. “There we go, bud. Must be tired.”
Your mouth opens and then closes.
“What?” Dean asks. “Kids are easy.”
Weston is falling asleep, his chin now on Dean’s shoulder. Dean whispers nonsensical things to him, even laughing at some of his own words.
You’ve seen those same hands wielding a gun, changing tires, and loading salt rounds. The same hands that safely hold Weston, a single finger tapping a rhythm onto his back.
“I kind of want this for us,” you blurt.
Dean pauses, a pair of shining, green eyes now on you. “Couple of gremlins running around?”
“Not now, but yeah, maybe.”
“A little mini-me,” Dean muses, looking off into the yard. A girl in overalls is yelling at her brother to hurry up and go down the slide already. “You’re serious?”
There’s an ache that’s settled into your bones.
“I’m tired, Dean,” you admit. You breathe in, the summer breeze thick in the air, wondering how the hunt ever got this far. “Me, you, Sam. We can’t keep doing this until we’re fifty.”
At fifty, Christina and Al will likely be worried about their retirement. Today, it’s the desserts in the kitchen. Maybe they argue about the dishes in the sink or the laundry being switched over to the dryer on the wrong setting.
“Sammy would be an uncle,” Dean says with a smile.
“He’d like that, no?”
“I think he would.” Dean runs his hand up and down Weston’s back. “I don’t even know if we could buy a house, given that I’m dead and all.”
“Bobby will fix it.”
“But we’re keeping Baby,” he adds.
“Of course.”
“And we need a grill in the backyard.”
“Of course.”
“What about those neighborhood best-lawn contests?”
“Okay, that’s enough, now.”
Dean’s gaze is soft. “One step at a time.”
There’s a world where Dean proposed to you properly instead of pushing a ring across the table at the motel.
I’m sorry, Sam had said to you after Dean made a quick exit, claiming that he needed fresh air. Dean wanted it to be different.
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 5674
Warning: Dean being Dean, Fluff, Pack dynamics, Something's changed.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 55 ------- Chapter 57
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Chapter 56
Time stopped making sense sometime after that first morning.
It didn’t disappear all at once—didn’t just slip through your fingers in a single moment—but unraveled slowly, thread by thread, until the difference between day and night blurred into something softer. The light through the windows shifted, dimmed, returned again, but it all felt distant. Secondary.
What mattered was closer.
Heat came in waves.
Not constant, not unrelenting—but cyclical. Building low and warm beneath your skin before rising, cresting, pulling you under until there was nothing but sensation and instinct and the steady, grounding presence of him.
Dean anchored you through every one of them.
Sometimes it was firm hands and quiet words, guiding you back down when the intensity crested too high. Sometimes it was nothing more than his presence—his body wrapped around yours, his scent surrounding you, steady and unyielding in a way your wolf trusted without question.
You lost track of how many times he’d knotted you.
Didn’t try to count.
Didn’t care to.
There were only moments.
Fragments.
Pieces that stood out against the rest.
The bathroom had filled with steam long before either of you thought to open the door.
Water ran in a steady stream from the showerhead, hot enough to fog the mirror and soften the edges of everything it touched. The air was thick with it—heat layered over heat—until the world outside the glass felt distant and unimportant.
You stood beneath the spray with your eyes closed, your head tipped forward slightly as the water ran down the length of your body. It soaked through your hair, traced over your shoulders, followed the curve of your spine in slow, steady paths that made your skin feel almost too sensitive to track each one.
Dean stood behind you.
Close enough that you could feel the heat of him even through the cascade of water between you, his hands resting lightly at your hips at first—steady, grounding—before one of them slid upward, slow and deliberate, until his palm settled flat against your stomach.
The touch wasn’t accidental.
Nothing about it had been, not since this started.
You leaned back into him without thinking, your body finding his in the same instinctive way it had all week. The movement was slow, almost heavy, but certain. Trusting.
His other hand moved then, gentler this time as it brushed your hair back from your face, fingers combing through the damp strands to keep them from clinging where they didn’t belong. The motion was careful in a way that didn’t match the rough edges he carried everywhere else, the kind of quiet attention that came out strongest during moments like this.
“Easy,” he murmured, more habit than instruction.
Your breath hitched softly as his fingers traced along your scalp, the simple touch sending a ripple of warmth down your spine that had nothing to do with the water. Even now—after days of this—your body answered him without hesitation.
But this wasn’t one of the sharp waves.
This was something softer.
The in-between.
Your hand lifted, slower than it normally would have, finding his wrist where it rested against your stomach. Your fingers curled there, not to move him—just to feel him. To anchor yourself the same way he had been anchoring you.
Dean stilled slightly at the contact.
Not pulling away.
Just… noticing.
Your thumb brushed once over the back of his hand, a small, absent motion that carried more awareness than it should have in your haze. Even now, even like this, you gave back what you could.
His head dipped, his breath warm where it brushed against the side of your neck as he let it rest there for a moment.
“Still with me?” he asked quietly.
You huffed the faintest breath of a laugh, your head tilting just enough to brush back against him.
“Mm,” you managed, voice soft, a little rough around the edges. “Think so.”
That was enough.
Dean’s hand tightened just slightly against your stomach—not possessive, not demanding. Just there.
Grounding.
And for a while, that’s all either of you needed.
The wave had passed.
Not completely—never completely—but enough that the sharp edge of it had dulled into something warm and lingering, your body still humming softly beneath your skin instead of pulling tight with need.
You lay curled into Dean’s chest, your back pressed along the length of him, his arm wrapped securely around you. One of his hands rested where it always seemed to end up now—spread wide over your stomach, fingers warm and steady against your skin like they belonged there.
Your breathing had slowed.
So had his.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
There was only the quiet aftermath—the kind that settled deep into your bones. The sheets were twisted around your legs, the room dimmer now, the light outside softer than it had been earlier. Time had slipped again somewhere in the last few hours, but it didn’t feel important enough to chase.
What you did notice…
Was that he hadn’t moved.
A small shift of your hips earned a quiet reaction from him behind you, the faint tightening of his arm, the subtle hitch in his breath that didn’t quite turn into anything more.
You huffed softly, the sound barely more than air as your head tipped back just enough to glance at him.
“Dean…”
“Yeah?” His voice was low, roughened slightly, but calm.
You shifted again, slower this time, more aware of the lingering connection between you. Your brow furrowed faintly, not discomfort—just… noticing.
“…how long does it usually take?” you murmured.
There was a pause behind you.
Then you felt it—the way his chest moved with a quiet breath, the subtle shift as his head dipped closer, his nose brushing lightly into the crook of your neck.
A smirk you couldn’t see but knew was there.
“Depends,” he said, voice low against your skin.
Your lips twitched faintly.
“On what?”
His arm tightened just slightly around you, not enough to hold you in place—just enough to remind you exactly where you were. With him. Always with him.
“On how much I like the girl,” he murmured.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh at that, your hand drifting back to rest over his forearm where it lay across your stomach. Your fingers traced absent patterns there, slow and absentminded.
“That so?” you teased, voice still edged with sleep.
“Yeah,” he said easily.
There was a beat.
Then, softer—just enough to brush warm against your skin—
“Gotta make sure it takes.”
The words settled differently.
Not heavy.
Not overwhelming.
Just… there.
Your breath caught for half a second before evening out again, your body instinctively curling a little closer into him without thinking about it. Your hand tightened faintly over his arm, your thumb brushing once against his skin.
Neither of you pushed it further than that.
Didn’t need to.
The moment held in that quiet space between teasing and truth, between instinct and choice.
Dean pressed a slow, absent nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm as it fanned across your skin before he let his head settle back against the pillow.
His hand never left your stomach.
And after a while, with the heat simmering low and steady instead of sharp and consuming, your body softened again—resting, not from exhaustion this time, but from something quieter.
Content.
For now.
At some point, you must have dozed again.
Not the heavy, all-consuming sleep from before—just something softer, lighter. The kind that came when your body finally found a lull between waves and took what rest it could get.
You woke to the faint shift of the mattress.
Not alarmed.
Not even fully aware at first.
Your eyes stayed closed for a moment longer as your senses caught up, the lingering warmth in your body still there—low, steady, not demanding yet. The sheets were different this time, pulled higher around you, tucked loosely where they hadn’t been before.
And Dean—
Gone again.
Your brow furrowed faintly, your body instinctively seeking the space he’d left behind, but before anything sharper could form, your next breath pulled him back in.
Coffee. Food. Him.
The tension eased before it could take hold.
Your eyes opened slowly, blinking against the softer light in the room. It had shifted again—later now. Afternoon, maybe. Or perhaps early evening. The edges of everything felt warmer, quieter.
And then—
Footsteps.
The soft creak of the stairs.
Your head turned just slightly toward the doorway as Dean stepped back into the room, one shoulder nudging the door open as he balanced a plate in one hand and a mug in the other.
Still naked.
Still completely unbothered.
Your lips twitched before you could stop them.
“Y’know,” your voice came out rough with sleep, but lighter than before, “you’re gonna have to start wearing clothes again at some point.”
Dean snorted softly, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot before making his way toward the bed.
“Yeah?” he shot back, one eyebrow lifting as he crossed the room. “Says who?”
“Me,” you muttered, pushing yourself up just enough to lean back against the headboard. The movement was slower this time, your body still carrying that lingering sensitivity, but it didn’t fight you the way it had earlier.
“Sam and Jess are coming back,” you added, glancing pointedly at him—and then, deliberately, not looking away. “Pretty sure they don’t need that visual first thing in the morning.”
Dean huffed out a quiet laugh at that, setting the plate carefully on the nightstand before handing you the mug.
“Think they’ll survive,” he said, though there was a smirk tugging at his mouth as he watched you take it.
Your fingers curled around the warmth automatically, the heat of the coffee seeping into your hands as you brought it closer. The first sip made something in your chest loosen, your body responding almost immediately to it.
Dean noticed that too.
“Eat,” he said, a little softer this time, nodding toward the plate.
You shot him a look over the rim of the mug.
“I am,” you murmured, taking another sip just to prove a point.
“Coffee doesn’t count.”
“Disagree.”
That earned you a quiet, amused shake of his head as he moved around the bed, settling onto the edge beside you. Close enough that his thigh brushed yours, the contact grounding in that familiar, easy way.
He reached for the plate, holding it steady as you finally set the mug down and picked up your fork.
“Stubborn,” he muttered under his breath.
“Mm,” you hummed, not denying it this time.
The first bite hit your system fast.
Faster than you expected.
Your body responded to it in a way that felt almost instinctive, the lingering tension in your muscles easing just slightly as warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with your heat. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were until that moment.
Dean watched the shift happen.
Quiet.
Attentive.
His hand came to rest against your thigh without thinking, thumb brushing once, absent and grounding as you took another bite.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded, already reaching for more.
“Much.”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth at that, something softer than the teasing from earlier settling into his expression.
For a while, you ate like that—slow at first, then with more focus, your body taking what it needed while the room stayed quiet around you. The open window let in a soft breeze, stirring the curtains just enough to carry fresh air through the space.
Dean didn’t rush you.
Didn’t hover.
But he stayed close.
Always close.
His hand never strayed far, shifting from your thigh to your hip, to your side—small, grounding touches that seemed as much for him as they were for you.
The heat hadn’t spiked again yet.
But it lingered.
Low.
Patient.
Waiting.
And both of you felt it.
Neither of you said anything about it.
Didn’t need to.
The first stirrings of the morning were slow, delicate—like the world itself had taken a deep breath before exhaling. Your body felt… different. Not empty. Not depleted. Just… tender. Muscles carrying the memory of the last few days, every long night, every careful, reverent touch Dean had given you.
Even now, lying curled into the warmth of the bed, there was an ache in your thighs, in your lower back, subtle enough that it whispered rather than shouted, a reminder of everything you had shared.
Dean’s steady breathing came from behind you, soft and even. He hadn’t moved since you’d fallen asleep hours ago. His arm rested across the pillow, the familiar weight of him pressing gently against the small of your back, grounding.
For a moment, you stayed still, letting your fingers drift along the sheets, following the faint impressions of where you’d pressed against him in sleep.
The thought of getting up made your chest tighten slightly—not with urgency, but with that quiet indecision that came after anything so intense. Coffee? A shower? Both? The smell of the cabin, faintly warm from the sun climbing higher, and the faint lingering scent of him—Dean’s sweat, the musk of him—wrapped around you. The pull of your wolf was gentle now, contented, fully relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. You could almost hear her sigh.
After a few slow breaths, you decided. Shower first. Relief and anticipation mingled as you eased out of bed, careful not to disturb him. The mattress creaked faintly, and you froze for a heartbeat, just to watch him sleep. His chest rose and fell in even rhythm, and his lips curved slightly in a way that made your stomach tug, even now.
The bathroom was warm when you turned the water on, the droplets glistening as they cascaded over your skin. You stepped in slowly, letting the heat envelop you like a soft cloak, letting every inch of your body sink into it.
The water ran over you in a slow, steady stream, and you pressed your hands to your skin, rinsing away the night, rinsing away the tension, rinsing away the reminders of every tangled sheet and every lingering touch. You could feel the subtle ache in your muscles as you scrubbed gently, each motion deliberate, tender, careful not to jolt your still-sensitive skin.
When the water hit your shoulders and back, your wolf purred softly inside you, a deep, calm satisfaction threading through every nerve. There was nothing to want. Nothing to chase. Nothing to need. Just this: warmth, water, the quiet knowledge that your mate slept just beyond the closed door, your bond still taut but soothed, your heat finished and sated.
You lingered a moment longer under the spray, letting it carry away even the faintest traces of sleep, of him, of yourself tangled into him. When you finally stepped out, you wrapped yourself in a towel, feeling the soft fabric press against your damp skin, warm from the steam. You brushed out your hair slowly, letting it fall loose over your shoulders, letting the strands glint in the early light that filtered through the window.
From the closet, you pulled a pair of soft, worn pants, letting the fabric hug your legs. Then, your fingers found one of Dean’s flannels—the one you both knew smelled faintly of him but not overwhelmingly—and you slipped it over your shoulders, letting the sleeves hang loose, long over your hands. Comfort. Warmth. Familiarity.
You paused in the bedroom doorway, just for a moment, glancing back at the bed. Dean’s form was still there, curled into the pillow, the steady rise and fall of his chest just as you remembered. Your lips quirked in a small, private smile, and you gave him a soft nod—silent, fleeting—before letting yourself slip away, down the stairs into the kitchen.
The smell of sunlight hitting the countertops greeted you, and for a second, it felt like the cabin itself was welcoming you back from the edges of that fevered, heat-filled week.
You moved quietly through the cabin, pulling the sleeves above your elbows, the flannel brushing against your back with every shift of your muscles. The warmth of the fabric was comforting against the lingering tenderness in your body, a subtle reminder of the last few days. The first thing you did was get the coffee pot going, the rich, deep scent curling through the kitchen as the machine hissed and steamed.
While the coffee brewed, you moved through the kitchen like a small, deliberate storm, gathering the dishes from the counters, the sink, the stove. The past four days had left their mark—plates with crumbs, bowls with remnants of scrambled eggs or toast, mugs with the faint trace of forgotten coffee.
Your fingers worked over them, scrubbing, stacking, rinsing, the warm water a gentle caress against your skin, steadying, grounding. Even now, your wolf seemed content, calm, a quiet purr threading through you as she relaxed fully for the first time in nearly a week.
Once the dishes were done, you turned to breakfast. Simple, hearty, nothing extravagant—scrambled eggs with a little cheese, lightly toasted bread, and thick slices of bacon crisping in the pan. The smell filled the kitchen quickly, rich and inviting, and you hummed softly under your breath, a little tune that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with the ease of the moment.
Back upstairs, Dean shifted in the bed. The scent—faint smoke of bacon, the warm, yeasty pull of toast, coffee—drifted up the staircase, teasing the edges of his consciousness. His eyes remained closed, but a content smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He let himself stay there, letting the memory of the past few days drift through him, rolling over each moment like sunlight across the cabin floor.
The warmth of the bed beneath him, the slight weight of the sheets, the quiet hum of the morning, and now the smell of breakfast—real, alive, comforting—pulled him further awake. His hand absently twitched, brushing against the pillow where you had lain, a small, satisfied sound leaving his lips.
For a moment, he simply breathed it in. The cabin. The quiet. The faint scent of you in the air, carried lightly on the smells of food. It was grounding. Familiar. Perfect.
And somewhere downstairs, he knew, you were moving. Preparing. Taking care of the world you shared without even needing him to ask.
Dean lingered in bed a few minutes longer after waking.
Not because he needed the sleep—but because moving meant leaving the warmth that still held the shape of the last few days. The sheets were twisted around his legs, faintly cool now where your body had been, but the scent of you still clung to everything. It settled low in his chest, quiet and satisfied, his wolf stretched out beneath his ribs in a way that felt… complete.
Not restless.
Not searching.
Just there.
He dragged a hand over his face slowly, exhaling through his nose as the last of sleep worked its way out of his system. His muscles carried their own reminders—subtle pulls through his shoulders, his back—but nothing sharp. Nothing urgent.
The quiet was different now.
The heat had burned through.
What was left was something steadier.
Dean pushed himself upright, the mattress dipping beneath his weight before settling again. For a second, his gaze drifted toward the empty side of the bed, following the faint impressions left behind in the sheets, the pillow still carrying the shape of where you’d been.
He didn’t need to call out.
Didn’t need to check.
He could already smell you.
Coffee.
Food.
You.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he stood, stretching once—slow, deliberate—before heading toward the bathroom.
The water heated up quickly from your earlier shower.
Dean stepped under it without hesitation, letting it hit the back of his neck and shoulders first, his head tipping forward as he braced one hand against the tile. The heat soaked into his muscles, loosening the last of the tension that lingered there, and for a moment, he just stood still, letting it work through him.
His mind didn’t race.
Didn’t pick apart the last few days.
It drifted instead—slow, unhurried—through flashes of warmth and quiet moments. The way you’d curled into him. The soft sounds you’d made when you were half-asleep. The steady rhythm of your breathing when the waves had passed.
The way you’d stayed close.
A low breath left him as he scrubbed a hand through his hair, water streaming down over his face, over his chest. The scent of you lingered faintly on his skin even now, softened by time and heat, but still there.
It settled something in him deeper than thought.
By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over again, the room thick with steam. He dragged a towel over his skin in quick, efficient motions, not bothering to be thorough. It wasn’t about that. Just enough to take the edge off the water before he reached for a pair of boxers and pulled them on.
That was it.
Nothing more.
The cabin was warm enough.
And something in him—something quiet and instinctive—was already pulling him back toward you.
The smell hit him halfway down the stairs.
Stronger now.
Bacon, toast, eggs—simple, solid, real. The kind of breakfast that settled into your bones. It curled through the air, warm and grounding, layered with the faint, familiar scent of coffee that had long since finished brewing.
Dean slowed slightly as he reached the bottom step.
Not stopping.
Just… taking it in.
The kitchen opened out in front of him, sunlight spilling across the counters in wide, golden stretches. The windows let in the soft movement of the trees outside, shadows shifting lazily across the floor.
And there you were.
At the stove.
Humming.
It wasn’t loud—barely more than a thread of sound—but it carried easily through the space, soft and steady in a way that made the whole cabin feel… whole. Lived in.
Yours.
Dean didn’t say anything right away.
He leaned his hip lightly against the railing near the base of the stairs, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he watched you for a moment. The flannel hung just right on you, the sleeves still a little too long, the fabric moving with you as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Your hair fell loose down your back, still slightly damp.
Your movements were easy.
Unhurried.
There was no tension in you now. No edge of the heat. Just a quiet, grounded presence that pulled at something low in his chest in a way he didn’t feel the need to question.
This—right here—was what it all settled into.
Not the intensity.
Not the instinct.
This.
A slow breath filled his lungs before he pushed off the railing, the floorboards creaking faintly under his weight as he stepped fully into the kitchen.
“Smells good,” he said, voice still rough with sleep, but lighter now.
There was something else under it, too.
Something content.
Something steady.
And entirely yours.
Breakfast settled between you in an easy, unspoken rhythm.
By the time Dean joined you at the table, the food was already plated, steam still rising in soft curls from the eggs and bacon. The coffee had deepened in the pot, richer now, filling the space between you with that familiar, grounding scent. He didn’t comment on it—didn’t make a big show of the fact that you’d taken over the kitchen—but the look he gave you as he sat down said enough.
It was quieter than the last time you’d sat here together.
Not empty.
Just… content.
The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling.
You ate slowly, not with the sharp hunger from earlier in the week, but with something steadier. Your body took what it needed without urgency now, easing back into itself with every bite. Across from you, Dean did much the same, his movements unhurried, his attention drifting between his plate and you in those small, absent ways that had become second nature.
At one point, his foot nudged yours lightly beneath the table.
Not enough to distract.
Just enough to remind. To touch. To ground both of you in a way that had become more than routine.
You didn’t pull away.
When the plates were cleared, you gathered them without much thought, stacking them carefully as you moved back toward the sink. The routine felt different now—not because it had changed, but because you had. Your body moved with a quiet awareness of itself, every stretch and reach carrying the faintest echo of the last few days.
Dean watched you for a second before pushing his chair back.
“I’ve got the laundry,” he said, already moving toward the staircase before you could argue.
You glanced over your shoulder, one brow lifting faintly.
“The laundry?”
“Yeah,” he shot back easily, already halfway there, a smirk playing on his lips. “Figured the sheets could use it.”
That earned a soft huff from you, something caught between amusement and agreement as you turned back to the sink. Warm water ran over your hands as you rinsed the dishes, the steady motion grounding in a way that felt almost meditative. Behind you, you could hear the faint sounds of Dean moving through the cabin—the opening of the laundry room door, the rustle of fabric, the low thud of the washer starting up.
Normal.
The thought settled quietly in your chest.
Not the kind of normal that erased what had happened—but the kind that held it gently, folding it into the rhythm of your life instead of letting it stand apart.
By the time you finished in the kitchen, the cabin had shifted again.
Cleaner.
Quieter.
Reset.
Dean reappeared just as you dried your hands, a faint trace of detergent clinging to him now beneath the lingering warmth of his scent. His hair was still damp at the ends, and there was something about the sight of him—simple, familiar—that made your chest ease without you realizing it had been tight.
“All set,” he said, like it was nothing.
You nodded, brushing your hands down the front of the flannel before glancing toward the living room.
“Movie?” you offered, voice softer now, the edge of the last few days worn down into something gentler.
Dean didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
He moved ahead of you this time, grabbing the remote from the coffee table as he dropped onto the couch with an ease that came from knowing the space was his. Yours. Shared. The cushions shifted under his weight as he leaned back, one arm draped along the backrest without thinking.
By the time you joined him, the screen had already flickered to life.
The title screen flickered on one of your favorite movies. He glanced at you just in time to see the faint smile on your lips, resting his heels on the coffee table.
You didn’t comment on it as you settled beside him, the familiarity of the choice speaking for itself. The couch dipped slightly as you leaned into him, your body fitting against his side like it had been made to, your head finding its place against his shoulder without effort.
Dean’s arm came around you automatically.
Not tight.
Not holding.
Just there.
Your wolves curling together in a contentment that moved through both of you.
His hand rested lightly against your arm, thumb brushing once in a slow, absent motion before going still again. The television filled the room with soft sound and shifting light, colors flickering across the walls and over the two of you as the morning stretched quietly into something slower.
For a while, you both just watched.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like.
Because beneath the surface of it—beneath the warmth of his body beside yours, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet comfort of the space you shared—your thoughts had already started to drift.
Not away.
Just… deeper.
And beside you, Dean had gone just as quiet.
The movie played on.
Soft light flickered across the room, shifting over the walls, over the floor, over the two of you where you sat curled into each other on the couch. The dialogue blurred into background noise, familiar enough that neither of you needed to follow it closely.
Your eyes stayed on the screen.
But your mind didn’t.
It drifted.
Slowly at first, carried along the quiet lull of the morning, the steady warmth of Dean beside you, the soft rhythm of his breathing beneath your cheek. Your body was relaxed, your wolf quiet and content, everything settled into a calm that felt earned.
And in that calm—
Your thoughts slipped.
Your hand twitched faintly in your lap, fingers curling against the fabric of the flannel before stilling again. You forced it to stay there, resisting the instinctive pull to let it drift, to rest over your abdomen like it had so many times after the move.
You didn’t need to touch to feel it.
The thought had already taken shape.
Small. Fragile. Hopeful.
Your breath slowed, your gaze softening as the images came easier than they should have.
A life.
Growing.
His.
Yours.
You could see it—feel it—in a way that made your chest tighten quietly. The first flutter of movement beneath your skin, soft and impossible at first, until it wasn’t. The steady, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat echoing through a quiet room, stronger than anything you’d ever known.
Dean’s hands on your stomach.
Not like before.
Different.
Reverent.
Careful in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with awe.
Your lips curved faintly at the thought, your head shifting just slightly against his shoulder as something warm spread through your chest.
Sam and Jess would be there.
Jess’s quiet excitement, the way she’d hover just enough to be close without overwhelming you. Sam’s steady presence, the quiet reassurance he always seemed to bring with him, grounding everything around him without even trying.
And Dean—
Your breath caught softly.
You could see that too.
The way he’d look the first time he held your pup, like the world had shifted under his feet in the best possible way. The way something in him would settle even deeper than it already had, that fierce, protective edge softening into something fuller.
Something complete.
You swallowed gently, your fingers tightening just slightly in your lap as the warmth in your chest deepened, spreading outward until it felt almost too big to hold all at once.
And still—
Your thoughts stayed there.
Only there.
You didn’t picture the weight of it.
Didn’t let your mind wander to the strain, the exhaustion, the quiet discomforts that would come with it. The swelling, the aches, the long nights where sleep didn’t come easy. The sharp, relentless pull of labor, or the slow, careful healing that would follow.
You didn’t go there.
Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
Right now, your mind held onto the softer edges of it. The beginning. The possibility. The love that would come with it.
And beside you—
Dean had gone just as still.
His arm remained wrapped loosely around you, his hand resting where it had settled against your arm, thumb unmoving now. To anyone looking, he was watching the movie. Relaxed. Present.
But his thoughts had drifted just as far.
Further, maybe.
The question had been there for a while now.
Lingering.
Quiet.
He didn’t need to put words to it to feel the weight of it sitting at the back of his mind.
How long?
How long before they’d know?
His jaw shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen without really seeing it as the thought pressed forward again. It would be easy enough to ask. Simple. A quiet question slipped into the space between the two of you like any other.
But he didn’t.
Wouldn’t.
He knew you.
Knew the way your mind worked, the way it could take something small and turn it over and over until it became something heavier than it needed to be. The way you carried things—sometimes longer than you should have to.
The last thing he wanted was to put that weight on you now.
Not today.
Not when your body was still coming down from everything it had just been through. Not when you were finally settling back into yourself, finding your footing again after days of intensity and instinct.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers shifting just slightly where they rested against your arm, grounding himself in the feel of you instead of the pull of his thoughts.
It wasn’t that he didn’t wonder.
He did.
More than he’d admit out loud.
The idea had taken hold somewhere along the way, settling into him just as quietly as it had into you. The possibility of it. The weight of it. The… rightness of it, in a way he didn’t feel the need to question too closely.
But wanting it—
And asking for it—
Were two different things.
So he stayed quiet.
Let the question sit where it was, unspoken, where it couldn’t reach you.
Beside him, you shifted slightly, your shoulder pressing a little closer into his side as the movie carried on without either of you really following it.
Neither of you said anything.
Because somewhere beneath the quiet, beneath the warmth and the steady rhythm of the morning, the same thought had taken root in both of you.
And without realizing it—
Without speaking it aloud—
You both came to the same conclusion.
Later.
You’d figure it out later.
On your own.
A quiet search. A private answer. Something to hold onto before it ever had to be spoken out loud.
For now—
This was enough.
The warmth of the couch.
The steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
The soft flicker of the screen.
And the fragile, unspoken hope resting quietly between you.
Chapter 55 ------- Chapter 57
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Just noticed you've changed your graphics! When did this happen?
That aside, can I tell you once again how much you just let us breathe this story in with them?? I don't even know if that makes sense, but that's what I'm vibing with my lovely ❤️ These two are adorable!
I went up to my sister's, back in March, and I commissioned her to do some art for me. She also made me things for my Patreon, which she's slowly working on converting to a format that I can use here on Tumblr. I have her website linked on my pinned post. I'm going back up to hang out with her this coming week while my brother stays home taking care of the animals. Her and I are gonna sit down and do some more stuff too.
Thank you. I love things that breathe, where you feel like you're sitting RIGHT there, getting to experience everything. Yes. It makes complete sense, and I'm happy that it comes across. And, mild spoiler, since I don't want any of this story rushed, I now have over 90 chapters. LOL New ones are still coming out every single Sunday at 3am my time. :)
summary ⌗ after a hunt leaves you hurt and overwhelmed, dean finds you trying to be brave and refuses to let you fall apart alone.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( fem )
wordcount ⌗ 770 genre ⌗ fluffy fluff
warnings ⌗ post-hunt injury, pain, crying, soft caretaking, dean being protective, gentle physical comfort
notes ⌗ read at your own risk ⚠️ soft dean below ⚠️
⠀︶⠀⠀support me on ko-fi⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂
you make it all the way back to the motel before you cry.
which feels impressive, honestly. heroic, even. you get through the drive with your teeth pressed together and your arms folded tight over your middle, staring out the passenger window while the streetlights smear gold across the glass. you get through sam asking if you’re okay. you get through dean glancing at you every few seconds in the rearview mirror, jaw set hard enough to crack something.
you get through the door. then you sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing your bloody jeans and one boot, and realize you have absolutely nothing left.
everything hurts. your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply. your shoulder burns where the thing slammed you into a wall. there’s dirt under your nails and dried blood on your sleeve and your head feels too full, too loud, too mean. you tell yourself to suck it up because that’s what hunters do. you’ve had worse. everyone’s had worse.
the bathroom door opens, and dean steps out with the first-aid kit in one hand.
his face changes the second he sees you. “hey,” he says, softer now. “what’s going on?”
you shake your head too fast. “nothing.”
“that’s not nothing.”
“dean, i’m fine.”
your voice breaks on fine. stupid. so stupid.
his expression folds, just a little, and that’s what ruins you. not the pain. not the blood. not even the hunt. it’s dean looking at you as if he sees exactly how hard you’re trying, and how badly it’s not working.
your face crumples.
“oh, sweetheart...” he murmurs.
you press both hands over your eyes, embarrassed by the sound that comes out of you. “i’m sorry. i don’t know why i’m—i’m being ridiculous.”
“nope.” dean crosses the room fast and sets the kit down. “none of that.”
“it hurts,” you whisper, and it sounds so small you hate it. “it really hurts, and i’m tired, and i didn’t want to make it a thing.”
dean sits beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress. “look at me.”
you don’t.
“baby, come on.”
you lower your hands, cheeks wet and hot, and dean’s face softens in a way that makes you want to cry harder.
he reaches slowly, wiping beneath your eye with his thumb. “you don’t gotta be tough with me.”
your mouth trembles. “i kind of do.”
“no, you don’t.” his voice goes rough. “not with me.”
you try to answer, but another sob catches, sharp and humiliating, and dean just pulls you into him. not too hard. not careless. he guides you until you’re half in his lap, your knees tucked against his thigh, your good shoulder pressed to his chest. one arm wraps around your back while the other cradles the side of your head, fingers smoothing over your hair.
“there you go,” he murmurs against your temple. “i’ve got you.”
you cry into his shirt. ugly and quiet. he doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t tease. doesn’t ask you to explain while your ribs are screaming and your pride’s already in pieces. he just holds you, kissing your temple once, then again, slow and warm, as if each one is meant to pin you gently back inside your body.
“hurts so bad,” you mumble.
“i know.” his hand moves carefully up and down your back. “we’re gonna clean you up, get some ice on that shoulder, maybe some painkillers if sam didn’t hoard ’em all in his giant first-aid nerd bag.”
a wet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
dean smiles against your hair. “there’s my girl.”
“shut up.”
“nope. you’re in my lap now. legally, i get to be annoying.”
you sniff hard, fingers curling weakly into his shirt. “i hate that this helps.”
his arms tighten just enough to make you feel held without making the pain worse. “yeah, well. i’m very helpful.”
the room stays quiet after that, except for your uneven breathing and dean opening the kit one-handed while refusing to let you move off him. he cleans the cut on your cheek with a gentleness that almost hurts worse than the antiseptic, and every time you wince, his thumb brushes your skin as if apology can be a touch.
you’re still aching. still a little embarrassed. but dean keeps you close, mouth resting near your forehead, and for once you let yourself be small because he’s holding you as if small things deserve protecting too.
“stay,” you whisper, barely meaning to say it out loud.
dean kisses your temple again. “yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m not going anywhere.”
@fishfishcaterpillar requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂 reader who got hurt during a hunt and is trying to suck it up but yknow, it hurts like hell and everything sucks, so when dean checks up on her she bursts out crying and he tries his best to help
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary ⌗ after a hunt leaves you hurt and overwhelmed, dean finds you trying to be brave and refuses to let you fall apart alone.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( fem )
wordcount ⌗ 770 genre ⌗ fluffy fluff
warnings ⌗ post-hunt injury, pain, crying, soft caretaking, dean being protective, gentle physical comfort
notes ⌗ read at your own risk ⚠️ soft dean below ⚠️
⠀︶⠀⠀support me on ko-fi⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂
you make it all the way back to the motel before you cry.
which feels impressive, honestly. heroic, even. you get through the drive with your teeth pressed together and your arms folded tight over your middle, staring out the passenger window while the streetlights smear gold across the glass. you get through sam asking if you’re okay. you get through dean glancing at you every few seconds in the rearview mirror, jaw set hard enough to crack something.
you get through the door. then you sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing your bloody jeans and one boot, and realize you have absolutely nothing left.
everything hurts. your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply. your shoulder burns where the thing slammed you into a wall. there’s dirt under your nails and dried blood on your sleeve and your head feels too full, too loud, too mean. you tell yourself to suck it up because that’s what hunters do. you’ve had worse. everyone’s had worse.
the bathroom door opens, and dean steps out with the first-aid kit in one hand.
his face changes the second he sees you. “hey,” he says, softer now. “what’s going on?”
you shake your head too fast. “nothing.”
“that’s not nothing.”
“dean, i’m fine.”
your voice breaks on fine. stupid. so stupid.
his expression folds, just a little, and that’s what ruins you. not the pain. not the blood. not even the hunt. it’s dean looking at you as if he sees exactly how hard you’re trying, and how badly it’s not working.
your face crumples.
“oh, sweetheart...” he murmurs.
you press both hands over your eyes, embarrassed by the sound that comes out of you. “i’m sorry. i don’t know why i’m—i’m being ridiculous.”
“nope.” dean crosses the room fast and sets the kit down. “none of that.”
“it hurts,” you whisper, and it sounds so small you hate it. “it really hurts, and i’m tired, and i didn’t want to make it a thing.”
dean sits beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress. “look at me.”
you don’t.
“baby, come on.”
you lower your hands, cheeks wet and hot, and dean’s face softens in a way that makes you want to cry harder.
he reaches slowly, wiping beneath your eye with his thumb. “you don’t gotta be tough with me.”
your mouth trembles. “i kind of do.”
“no, you don’t.” his voice goes rough. “not with me.”
you try to answer, but another sob catches, sharp and humiliating, and dean just pulls you into him. not too hard. not careless. he guides you until you’re half in his lap, your knees tucked against his thigh, your good shoulder pressed to his chest. one arm wraps around your back while the other cradles the side of your head, fingers smoothing over your hair.
“there you go,” he murmurs against your temple. “i’ve got you.”
you cry into his shirt. ugly and quiet. he doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t tease. doesn’t ask you to explain while your ribs are screaming and your pride’s already in pieces. he just holds you, kissing your temple once, then again, slow and warm, as if each one is meant to pin you gently back inside your body.
“hurts so bad,” you mumble.
“i know.” his hand moves carefully up and down your back. “we’re gonna clean you up, get some ice on that shoulder, maybe some painkillers if sam didn’t hoard ’em all in his giant first-aid nerd bag.”
a wet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
dean smiles against your hair. “there’s my girl.”
“shut up.”
“nope. you’re in my lap now. legally, i get to be annoying.”
you sniff hard, fingers curling weakly into his shirt. “i hate that this helps.”
his arms tighten just enough to make you feel held without making the pain worse. “yeah, well. i’m very helpful.”
the room stays quiet after that, except for your uneven breathing and dean opening the kit one-handed while refusing to let you move off him. he cleans the cut on your cheek with a gentleness that almost hurts worse than the antiseptic, and every time you wince, his thumb brushes your skin as if apology can be a touch.
you’re still aching. still a little embarrassed. but dean keeps you close, mouth resting near your forehead, and for once you let yourself be small because he’s holding you as if small things deserve protecting too.
“stay,” you whisper, barely meaning to say it out loud.
dean kisses your temple again. “yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m not going anywhere.”
@fishfishcaterpillar requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂 reader who got hurt during a hunt and is trying to suck it up but yknow, it hurts like hell and everything sucks, so when dean checks up on her she bursts out crying and he tries his best to help
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
tw/warnings: smut, MINORS DNI, fem!reader, friends to lovers, desperate!Dean, unprotected p in v, face riding, oral sex (f receiving), cum eating, fingers in mouth (both), slight dirty talk.
You’d known Dean Winchester for what felt like forever.
Long before the hunting, before the endless motel rooms and sleepless nights on the road became your normal, there had been scraped knees, stolen snacks from gas stations, and summers spent trying to keep Sam and Dean out of trouble.
Growing up alongside the Winchester brothers meant learning early that Dean carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, even when he was just a kid pretending everything was fine.
And maybe that was why you’d offered him a back massage in the first place.
The hunt had been rough. Dean had spent most of the drive back hunched over the steering wheel of the Impala, insisting he was “fine” despite the stiffness in his movements and the occasional wince he thought nobody noticed. You noticed, of course. You always did.
What you hadn’t expected was just how much he needed it.
Seated on the edge of the motel bed, Dean let out a long breath as your hands worked at the knots buried deep in his shoulders. Years of fighting monsters, carrying weapons, and refusing to take care of himself had left his muscles impossibly tense.
The second you found a particularly stubborn knot near his shoulder blade, his head tipped back and a sound escaped him before he could stop it
“Ah, shit…” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah, that’s the spot. Mm….”
You paused for half a second, trying, and failing, not to laugh.
You sat here, kneading his shoulders as he groaned and moaned and squirmed. You chuckled, looking at the back of his head.
„stop making those sounds.” You chuckled.„somebody will think you’re getting the best head of your life.” you said, kneading his muscles.
Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fought a grin. He didn’t open his eyes, couldn’t risk breaking this moment.
“Oh, please,” he drawled, voice low and lazy from relief, „like I’d make noises that embarrassing for anything less than a damn miracle.”
He shifted slightly under your hands, not pulling away, just leaning into the pressure like a cat begging for scratches. Another knot gave way with a sharp pop and Dean exhaled through his nose like he’d been punched in the gut by pleasure.
“You’re evil,” he muttered, “doing this on purpose.”
Because you were right, those sounds? Pathetic. But you also knew exactly where every ache lived in him after years of hunting side by side. No one else touched him like this.
You couldn’t help it. Dean Winchester, the toughest son of a bitch you knew, melting under your fingers like warm butter? Pure gold.
Your thumbs pressed harder into the base of his neck, the spot that always made him tense up when he was stressed. And oh yeah, he definitely tensed.
Not from pain this time, but because it felt too good and he hated how obvious it was.
“Oh my god,” you cooed, “you’re purring.”
He wasn’t making any noise now, just breathing deep and slow like a man who’d finally stopped running for five seconds, but your teasing lit him up anyway.
Leaning down slightly so your hair fell over one shoulder, you blew gently on the back of his neck where sweat had started to glisten. Dean’s entire body jerked, like he’d been shocked by a live wire.
„Jesus!” he barked, head snapping forward as his hands flew up to swat blindly behind him like you were an attack spider. But there was no real anger, just flustered, wide-eyed panic.
He whipped around fast enough to glare at you over his shoulder, and wow. There you sat. Smirking like the devil itself with those big eyes full of mischief and victory.
“You’re insane,” he accused, voice cracking slightly. „Who does that?!”
The flush crawling up his neck betrayed him completely, the tips of ears turning red under messy dark hair.
You were absolutely, shamelessly enjoying yourself. That little gasp he’d made? The way his shoulders hitched like a startled animal?
Priceless.
Still smirking, you reached out and flicked the tip of his ear, just once, before leaning back with your arms crossed, looking far too pleased with yourself.
“You’re all tense,” you said innocently, “needed to cool you down.”
Like that made any sense. Like blowing on someone’s neck was a legitimate massage technique. You weren’t even trying to be believable, and that only made it funnier.
Dean’s ear stung, more from embarrassment than the flick, and he rubbed it instinctively, glaring at you like you had just committed a war crime.
“Cool me down?” he repeated, voice rising an octave. “You blew on my neck like I’m a damn bowl of soup!”
He opened his mouth to retort, maybe throw a pillow at you, but you were still sitting there looking so smug, arms crossed like some queen who’d just won the throne through pure teasing cruelty.
A beat passed. Then another.
And despite himself… despite everything… Dean felt the corner of his lips twitch again. And oh, you were relentless.
The way Dean’s face twisted, half outrage, half helpless amusement, sent you straight into victory mode. You leaned forward again, propping your elbows on your knees.
“Aw,” you cooed, “are you blushing? Oh my god. You’re totally blushing.”
You didn’t wait for a denial, because you knew there’d be one coming in three… two…
“No I’m not!” Dean snapped instantly, “It’s hot in here! The AC broken!”
Without missing a beat, you reached out and booped his nose with one finger. And that broke it, absolutely and utterly broke it. One second you were smug. The next you were airborne.
Dean moved fast, faster than anyone who’d just been melting like a stress ball had any right to. In one fluid motion, he twisted and lunged, catching you off-guard as his arms wrapped around your waist.
“You’re dead,” he growled playfully before tackling you backward onto the motel bed with a soft thud.
The springs creaked under you as you tumbled across the saggy mattress, blankets flying everywhere. Dean wasn’t trying to hurt you, and in seconds he had both of your wrists trapped above your heads with one large hand while the other hovered near your ribs like a threat.
His face hovered over yours, dark eyes glinting with mischief and revenge-laced glee.
You let out a squeal, actual, undignified, high-pitched, and immediately started squirming like a trapped squirrel.
“Dean! No! No!” you shrieked between breathless giggles, “I take it back—I take everything back!”
But your protest was utterly useless. The second his fingers brushed your side with the lightest tickle, just one feathery poke near your ribs, your entire body convulsed in laughter.
Your legs kicked. Your head thrashed against the pillow. Tears pricked at the corners of those big eyes as you laughed harder than you had in months.
And Dean?
Oh, he saw this for exactly what it was. Payback served cold and fast. So he did it again. And again.
Dean grinned like a wolf who’d just cornered the last rabbit in the woods, wide, wicked, and utterly delighted.
Every giggle you let out fueled him. Every flail of your legs? Music. The way your face scrunched up with laughter, tears actually forming at the corners of you eyes?
“Ohhh no,” he teased, voice low and mocking, “you don’t get to take it back now.”
He attacked again, fingers darting rapidly over both sides of your stomach this time, not rough but relentless, a quick three-tap combo right where he knew you were the weakest from years of teasing each other as kids.
The world spun as Dean kept tickling you, his weight shifting naturally between your legs to keep himself balanced on the narrow motel bed. The mattress dipped under him, and suddenly he was… there.
You didn’t notice at first, not through the haze of laughter that had stolen all coherent thoughts. Your body was too busy convulsing with joy, stomach aching from laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.
But then, A shift. Warmth pressed against your thighs.
His jeans brushed against soft fabric of your pants and something about it sent a jolt through the chaos in your brain. Your giggles faltered for half a second.
The laughter didn’t stop entirely, just hiccuped, stuttering like a broken record. For that split second, your breath stopped. The warmth between your legs wasn’t just Dean’s weight, it was Dean. Close.
Your hands were still pinned above your head by one of his large ones, but now… you could feel it, the heat of him through both layers of clothes, the faint pressure as he pressed further between your legs.
oh.
You hadn't planned this. Hadn't thought about him being over you, like this, not even when they'd been teasing each other all night. And suddenly? The room felt smaller. The air thicker.
Dean was still grinning, his breath coming a little faster than usual.
He looked down at you for the first time since tackling you onto the bed. The laughter had died in your eyes, replaced by that quiet intensity you got when you were thinking too hard about nothing.
His voice dropped without meaning to, softer now, almost tender beneath its usual gruffness.
“Hey,” he murmured, “you okay?”
The teasing edge was gone. Just Dean. Concerned and suddenly aware of how close you were, your faces just inches apart, your bodies aligned in a way that wasn’t funny anymore.
Your breath caught as you finally registered the hard press between your thighs. Not aggressive, not demanding… just there. Unavoidable.
Dean had always been broad-shouldered and built like a tank, but right now? The evidence of his body’s reaction was undeniable beneath the worn denim of his jeans. A slow heat crawled up your neck, not embarrassment exactly. Something warmer. Sharper.
You swallowed hard, heart suddenly hammering in a way that had nothing to do with laughter anymore. Then a smirk tugged at one corner of your mouth.
“Well,” you said softly, voice lower than usual, „someone’s definitely happy.”
The words were teasing, but careful this time. Testing. Dean froze. No dramatic gasp or sudden stiffening. Just… a quiet stillness, like the world had hit pause.
His cheeks darkened instantly but this time it wasn’t just flustered anger. This was embarrassment. The kind that comes when you’re caught red-handed and there’s no joking your way out of it.
He didn’t let go of your wrists right away. Couldn’t decide if he should pull back completely or… not.
“Shut up,” he muttered, but there was zero bite to it. His voice came out rougher than usual, low and thick with something unspoken.
You could see the exact moment his brain short-circuited, the way his green eyes flickered, the slight parting of his lips like he was about to say something but forgot how words worked.
Your smirk widened. Just a little. Not cruel but undeniably pleased with yourself for flustering him this badly.
“Dean,” you said again, slower this time, „are you… blushing?”
The question hung in the air between them, light and playful but loaded as hell. You shifted slightly beneath him, adjusting just enough that your thigh brushed against where he was already painfully hard.
His breath hitched and you felt it. Against your leg. Through the layers of fabric.
Dean Winchester, master hunter, fearless monster killer, unshakable force of nature… currently short-circuiting because a girl was looking at him like that, and teasing him about something he couldn’t exactly control right now.
“No,” he lied instantly, “I’m not blushing.”
He said it fast and immediately regretted how defensive it sounded. His ears were burning though, there was no hiding that. The tips were bright red.
The brush of your thigh against him, accidental or not, he didn’t care, sent a jolt straight through his nerves like static shock. Dean’s jaw clenched. Just slightly. A reflex to keep from doing something stupid. Like kissing you.
He still hadn't let go of your wrists, but his grip had loosened without him realizing it. The tension in his hand gone slack with distraction as all the blood in his body seemed to rush southward.
His eyes dropped for half a second, to your lips and then snapped back up like they’d betrayed him.
You watched him, every flicker of his expression, every tiny shift in his body, and your heart thumped harder with each second. This was Dean. The guy who never backed down from a fight, who smirked through blood and bruises like it was nothing.
And right now? He looked nervous.
The realization hit you like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, he actually cared what you thought. Right now. In this moment.
A slow warmth bloomed in your chest, not just attraction, but something softer underneath it all. Affection so deep it scared you sometimes.
“You’re really bad at hiding things,” You whispered, “you know that?”
Still smiling slightly, you tilted your head just a little, offering him an opening without words.
Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry, and then, suddenly, he wasn’t nervous anymore. He was Dean Winchester again, old, direct, no-nonsense.
He leaned down just a fraction closer, close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips and narrowed his eyes slightly. Not angry. Challenging.
“You’re the one who started this,” he said quietly, “with all your stupid teasing and booping my nose like I’m some damn puppy.”
A beat passed. His voice dropped lower.
“And now you’re looking at me like that. Smiling all sweet… giving me that little head tilt…”
His free hand, the one not still loosely holding your wrist, lifted slowly toward your face.
The second his rough, calloused fingertips brushed your cheek, so gently it barely registered, your breath stopped.
Dean wasn’t graceful. He wasn’t poetic. But the way he touched you? Like you were something fragile and precious? It undid everything.
His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, before sliding into the soft hair near your temple.
The other hand finally released your wrist completely, freeing both of yours, but he didn’t pull away.
Instead, Dean leaned in even closer… so close now that their noses almost touched… and paused there. A silent question hung between them.
Your breath was shallow, your heart pounding so loud she swore he could hear it. The space between you crackled, charged with everything unsaid for years.
And then you spoke.
“Dean,” you murmured, voice low and sultry, laced with a confidence that surprised even yourself. “You’ve been looking at my mouth since I teased you.”
A pause. Your blue eyes flicked down to his lips, deliberately, and back up again.
“Kiss me.” Not a request. A command.
The second those words hit his ears, low, sure, and dripping with that kind of boldness he’d never heard from you before, Dean’s control snapped. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
In one fluid motion, he closed the gap between you and crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was hungry. His lips moved against yours hard but not rough, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your stomach flip at the same time.
One hand slid into your hair while the other cupped your jaw, tilting your head just right so he could deepen it further.
The kiss turned electric, messy, desperate, and perfect. Dean’s lips were warm and demanding against yours, his stubble grazing your skin just enough to send sparks down your spine.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, no hesitation now. Your fingers tangled in his hair instantly, soft strands slipping between them as you pulled him closer like you couldn’t get enough.
A quiet moan escaped you when he bit gently at your bottom lip and the sound made Dean growl low in his throat.
He shifted over you on the bed, his weight pressing down more deliberately now, not crushing but claiming space, one knee sliding between your legs.
The growl that rumbled from Dean’s chest was primal, raw, unfiltered, and it vibrated through your lips where they were still locked together.
He loved that sound you made. Loved it. And now he wanted to hear more. His knee pressed between your legs as his body settled fully over you, caging you in without pressure but leaving zero space for escape, not that you’d want any.
The heat of him surrounded you completely, broad shoulders blocking out the dim motel light, hard chest rising and falling fast against yours.
Your breath came in short, warm puffs against his lips between kisses, each one deeper than the last. And then you did something bold.
“God, Dean…” You whispered right before crashing your mouth back onto his, but this time with teeth and tongue and a hunger that surprised even you.
Then you shifted under him, grinding down slowly against his thigh where it pressed between your legs, a deliberate roll of your hips that sent fire straight through both of you.
The friction was electric through layers of fabric, soft cotton pants over denim jeans. Not enough contact to be satisfying, but just enough to make everything ache for more.
A low moan slipped out as you did it again, and again, and again.
„Mmm… you feel so good.”
Dean broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips down your jaw, rough stubble scraping deliciously against soft skin, before growling right into your ear.
“You’ve been driving me insane all night,” his voice was low, gravelly with desire, „teasing me… touching me… and now you’re grinding on my leg like that?”
He bit gently at your earlobe before whispering.
“Fuck. You wanna know how bad I want you? How long I’ve thought about doing this?”
His hand slid down further, gripping your hip hard as he ground back against the motion. A slow, deliberate rock of his thigh up between you.
The friction sent a jolt through you, electric, intoxicating, and Dean wasn’t done talking. Not even close.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he muttered against your neck, voice thick with lust, “all this blonde hair… those eyes… and you kiss me like you own me.”
He sucked lightly on the sensitive spot just below your ear before adding in that same rough whisper,
“I’ve fantasized about this. About holding you down and kissing every inch of your skin until you scream my name.”
His teeth grazed over your collarbone as his hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, warm palm sliding up along your bare stomach.
Your breath came faster now, uneven, hot, as Dean’s hand slid higher under your shirt. The touch burned through you like wildfire.
“God,” You gasped, arching into his palm, “your hands feel so good… I’ve wanted you to touch me like this for years.”
You tilted your head back, baring more of your throat to him as you whispered, low and sultry.
“Kissing me? Yeah… but what else do you wanna do? Huh?”
“I bet you think about fucking me all the time.” you smiled.
Dean’s entire body went rigid for a split second, like someone had flipped a switch and turned him into pure instinct.
Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Dirty. Direct. No games, no teasing, just raw honesty that made his blood boil in the best way.
A growl rumbled deep in his chest as he dragged his mouth back up to yours, kissing you hard again, hungrier this time, messier.
Then he broke away just enough to glare down at you with dark eyes full of heat and hunger before muttering.
“You have no idea.”
His hand kept climbing under your shirt while the other gripped tight at your waist, and then suddenly, he rolled them both over so you were straddling him instead.
The sudden shift in position sent your heart leaping, now you were on top, straddling Dean’s hips while he lay beneath you, eyes blazing up at yours.
He looked good. So good. All that messy dark hair fanned out on the pillow, lips swollen from kissing, chest rising fast under his tight black t-shirt.
And the way he was looking at you? Like she was dessert and he’d been starving for weeks.
You leaned down and kissed him again, slow this time but deep and searing. Your tongue slid against his, your hands ripping his shirt off of him over his head.
„i need you.” You breathed, pressing your hips onto his crotch.
The second your lips crashed back onto his, Dean let out a low groan as you tore his shirt off. The cool motel air hit his skin for just a second before your body pressed down on him again.
Your weight over him was perfect, warm and soft where it mattered, firm in all the right places. And when you ground against him? Jesus Christ.
His hands flew to your hips instantly, big palms gripping tight as he kissed back with everything he had. No teasing now. Just raw need.
He arched up into the kiss like he couldn’t get close enough, one hand sliding around to pull at the hem of your shirt this time, pulling it off.
„i’ve been thinking about this for way too long.” He breathed against your heated skin, his hands sliding up your ribcage.
You smiled, running your hands through his short hair as you could feel his cock twitching beneath you as he spoke, his hips pushing up.
„Yeah? How long?” You said quietly.
He breathed heavily, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra slowly, letting the lace fabric slide down you arms and onto his lap.
„Since you were nineteen.” He whispered, grabbing one of your breasts and slightly squeezing. „when i saw you… on your nineteenth birthday in that… damn pink dress.”
He swallowed, kissing your skin before his palms grabbed your waist, pushing you more onto his lap and keeping you grinding on him.
„…and all i could thing about in my awful, dirty, perverted head was pulling it up and burying myself so, so, so deep inside of you.” He panted, slightly reaching down to undo his pants.
You chuckled breathlessly, looking down at him and grabbing his hair, forcing his head back a bit.
„you’re a pervert.” You smiled, lifting yourself up so he could push his pants down easily. You looked down, and there he was. Big and beautiful, with a pink head and pre cum pearl dribbling at the slit.
He breathed heavily, looking up at you, before pushing you onto your back, crawling on top with his cock hanging between you two. The heat was almost radiating off of his body at this point.
„I am. I thought we knew that already.” He smiled, kissing down your chest and stomach. „i’m your pervert.”
His hands slid down your soft skin as he kissed down, rough fingers sliding on the warm silk of your flesh. A squeeze there, a caress there.
His fingers slid into the sides of your shorts and tugged them down harshly, before parting your legs with his palms.
He groaned at the very sight. This was all of his teenage fantasies before of his eyes, your puffy, pink pussy dripping wet right in front of his face.
„I imagined you a lot.” He smiled, pushing your legs open even wider. „I wanted to taste this sweet pussy for years.” He breathed, kissing your thighs, squeezing the plush.
You smiled, looking down at him and adjusting your hips slowly, feeling his warm, wet lips against your thighs.
„I want you to ride my face. Please?” He asked, looking up at you. His shoulders square and wide as his biceps wrapped around your calves, keeping you open.
Your heart almost skipped a beat or two. Riding his face? Good lord, this man was so hot it was unfair.
„Lay back.” You murmured.
And there was the overeager puppy again. He stumbled to his feet, shrugging his pants off entirely and now remaining blissfully naked like the day he was born.
He laid down on his back comfortably, hoisting you up to straddle his chest, before gently coaxing you forward, letting your thighs settle around his head.
„ohhh, fuck yes.” He groaned, immediately grabbing your hips and slamming you back down, his nose pressed against your clit as his mouth sucked your whole pussy into his mouth.
Your eyes shot open immediately and his tongue dragged a loud, strangled moan from your throat. You fell forward a bit, catching yourself on a wall.
You looked down, seeing his eyes closed as he worked his mouth between your legs. His hands held your thighs to keep them from closing on his face.
„you taste so good, fuck—„ he breathed between licks, his hands sliding to your hips, forcing you to move back and forth. „come on, don’t be shy now.”
His voice alone made your jaw go slack and open. Your eyes closed as your hips moved slowly, relishing the sounds of his moans and whimpers as he ate you out.
That’s an enthusiast, for sure.
And he knew what he was doing. The sounds he made, slurpy and disgusting, filled the room in seconds, followed by your moans and squirms.
„ah ah, don’t squirm away from me, pretty lady.” He smiled against you, rubbing his flat tongue on your clit, before sucking it into his mouth.
You liked it, fuck, you loved how he had his mouth full of work and still talked. He was always fucking talking.
„there we go… good girl, good girl…” He panted, squeezing your ass and pulling it open, his tongue working faster and more smoothly.
You actively started to forget how to form sentences. Your head was thrown back, hips rocking back and forth on his face. Then you heard slick sounds through all of the haze.
You slowly looked over your shoulder, keeping the motions of your hips steady, seeing his big hand wrapped around his cock, his pointer finger lifted as he stroked.
You smiled, then looked back down at his face.
„you can’t keep yourself back, huh?” You smiled, leaning back a bit.
„I can’t.” He breathed, his eyes heavy lidded as he continued feasting between your legs. „you’re a goddess.” He said, dragging you back onto his face.
You chuckled and moaned, your back tensing and bowing slightly, and you forced yourself out of his grip, sliding off of his face and sitting on his thighs.
„Oh, come on.” He groaned, looking up at you. He looked pathetic, his cheeks flushed, hair messy and lips wet and sticky. His own saliva coated his chin and dripped down his neck.
You smiled, watching him sit back against the headboard of the cheap motel bed, his hands on your hips coaxing you with him.
„what? Disappointed?” You smiled, replacing his hand on his cock with your own, squeezing the firm flesh.
He groaned, his eyes fluttered closed. His jaw was set tight as they opened once again, focusing on your pretty face so close to his own. He loved this game too much.
„Very.” He said, his hands squeezing whatever he could. „wanted to make you cum so bad.”
You smiled, pressing your lips to his in a slow, steady kiss before pulling back a breath just to speak.
„i’d rather cum on your cock.” You murmured, looking down and then at his face, watching as his jaw clicked into place. Out of pure desperation.
His eyes were full of fire. You had never seen Dean in this state before, so unguarded and sensitive to everything. But god, you loved it more than you probably should have.
„I don’t have condoms on me.” He whispered, looking at you. You just tilted your head to the side.
„i don’t believe you.” You whispered. Your eyes slowly dragged down his body, looking at his glistening skin and tensed muscles.
„I’m serious.”
„…then we will go without one.” You shrugged, already gently guiding him to your slick entrance, rubbing his thick head against it.
He choked out a throaty moan, his eyes squeezed shut. He was shaking, his fingers digging into the plush of your waist hard enough to leave marks tomorrow.
„I—„ He swallowed, blinking slowly to calm down. „i’ll knock you up.” He whispered, not even trying to hide how desperate he was to finish inside.
You looked at his eyes, seeing that he was insanely serious about this. A grin bloomed on your face, his desperation amusing to you.
„You’ll pull out.” You said.
His hands stopped you entirely from pushing yourself down onto him. No matter how much he ached to bury himself in that delicious, wet heat he had been dreaming about since he was twenty, he knew how this would end.
„no.” He whispered, looking down at your lips the whole time. „i won’t.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line, then parted as you licked them. He looked so fucking hot like this — so desperate and serious.
„You don’t understand.” He whispered, lifting him slightly and making his hard cock tilting slightly towards his stomach. „when i get inside, i’ll fuck until i can’t breathe. I’m serious.” He said.
You looked at him in silence for a moment, before grinning like a shitface.
„i’m playing with you. I’m on pills.” You smiled, pressing your lips to his in a messy, desperate kiss.
„Cum how much you wa—„ you tried to say, but he slammed himself inside and cut you off halfway through your sentence.
It made both of you groan in satisfaction. He was buried balls deep in your tight heat, and he felt like he was on top of the whole world.
„Feels good? Does my cock satisfy?” He whispered into your ear, rubbing your back slowly, his hips slightly, barely, pushing up.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You just nodded, fingers digging into his biceps as your hips started moving on their own, dragging back and forth.
He smiled, delivering a soft smack to one of your ass cheeks, encouraging.
„That’s it.” He breathed, keeping you close with one arm and helping you move with the other one.
His cock had that delicious stretch to it, the one that kept you feeling full but not overwhelmed. He was big, really, and definitely had an idea what he was doing.
He met your hip rolls with small circles of his hips, his fingers running down your arms almost like feathers.
„Look at you… i always knew you’d be such a good cowgirl.”
The words made your heart leap in your chest. You sat back and looked at him as he laid against the headboard, your lips close.
„Am I a good cowgirl?” You smiled.
„The best one.”
The rythm changed as he started to slowly push up with each thrust, the motel bed cracking beneath every move they made.
Your hand slid to the side of his face, her thumb brushed his bottom lip, coaxing his beautiful, plump lips open.
Your thumb slowly slipped into his warm mouth. He sucked softly, his tongue wrapped around it gently. He smiled around it with it between his perfect teeth.
The sight turned you on even more, and you were certain you were dripping down his balls right now. The speed increased slightly, but barely.
„you’re so beautiful.” You breathed, sliding your thumb out and replacing it with two fingers, sliding them deep into his mouth, almost making him gag.
But he sucked, eager and happy to even be inside of you right now. One of his hands held your wrist as the second helped your body move on his lap.
Your eyes zeroed on his lips wrapped around your fingers, before you slipped them out and reached down to slowly, methodically circle your clit.
He smiled, following the path of your fingers down between your legs. He breathed out, laying his head back and just watching you bounce.
„What a pretty angel.”
You smiled, looking down and continuing to touch yourself as you fucked yourself dumb on his dick. It was a damn sight, that’s for sure.
The heat was getting hotter and hotter with every bounce. He was already close, and so were you. You both already drove each other close before this, but fucking never could even touch anything before that.
„I’m close.” He groaned first, but you knew you were just as close. The movements sped up a bit, your hands on his shoulders, holding for dear life.
Your head threw back uncontrollably as the first wave of your orgasm hit. His fingers slipped between your legs and rubbed your clit, making it impossible not to shake even more.
The orgasm hit, and before you could even whine you felt the warmth and stickiness of him spill deep inside of you. It made you both tense and finish mutually, making you both slump back slightly.
You panted for a while, struggling to catch your breath. But before you could fully recover, you got thrown onto your back.
„Oh, now you can’t run.” He smiled, throwing your legs over his shoulders, your ankles right at his shoulders. He sealed his mouth with yours.
Then his hips moved.
It punched a moan from you. He was literally folding you in half, his hands holding your legs at the knees, keeping you open and nice for him.
„you’re so tight after you come.” He whispered into your ear, pushing in as deep as he could, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix.
It made starts blow behind your eyes every time he bullied himself as deep as he could. Your hands clutched at his back, every thrust dragging a whine out of you.
„Dean—„ you gasped, back arching, already feeling close again. His hand slipped between you and circled your clit.
„oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—„ you whined, a groan sliding out of your mouth as he found every spot inside that made you squirm. And his fingers on your clit? Game over.
„I know, baby, I know, shh…” He whispered, his hand rubbing your head as he pressed his cheek to your temple, pushing himself as deep inside as he could.
He was using all of his strength, his muscles bulged and throat raw from groaning. His biceps bracketed your head, hips punching punishingly, but slowly.
„I- ca-n’t—„ You whined, actually feeling as if your nails were starting to draw blood on his back. And they were. A small droplet of blood dripped down his tanned skin.
He groaned in pain and pleasure, delivering some short, hollow thrusts before a couple of final ones, dragging all the way out before pushing all the way in, making you come again.
„There we go.” He smiled, slowly pulling your legs off of his shoulders, letting them drop down. He slowly pulled back, watching his cock slip out of you. He was half hard, slowly getting softer.
He rubbed your belly gently, pressing on it slightly and watching his cum drip down out of you. He smiled and gathered it with his fingers slowly, before bringing it to your lips.
„come on, open.” he whispered.
Your lips parted on command, and he shoved his fingers into your mouth. The salt and sweetness exploded on your tongue, tasting yourself and him mixed together.
„Good?” He asked, slowly rubbing your clit, prolonging the orgasm.
You breathed, your hips running away from his hand.
„yeah.” You smiled, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. „we’re definitely doing this again.”
He smiled and grabbed your waist, slightly adjusting himself, kissing you deeper.
„Yes, please.” He whispered
I kinda need him to put me in that damn mating press and fold me in half btw.
Also! Thanks for the activity on my page! almost 1k likes on that Clark Kent one! Insane!❤️❤️
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