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Don't know if hbo supernatural is something we're still talking about but hbo Dean uses tattoos and jewelry to make his body into a weapon. Sigils on his knuckles. An iron ring. Rosary around his neck that's been broken so many times and strung back together with increasingly fewer of the original beads but somehow it still works, so hey. A locket always filled to the brim with salt. His first tattoo was when he was fourteen, done with a sewing kit and a pen in a shitty motel bathroom, and he still kisses it for good luck sometimes.
"We spent a good couple of hours just sat there watching Jensen improv the most crazy, out-of-pocket lines to say, and I think maybe only 10% of those we managed to get through with a straight fucking face,” Perdomo said. “Excuse my French, but it was absolutely hilarious.” - Chance Perdomo- Variety
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Dean is the one that remembers to celebrate big events for the “kids”…
Every good weapon Claire has, from her favorite butterfly knife to the small revolver that’s never out of reach, came from Dean. Claire never tells anyone about the box of diner napkins and crumpled hotel stationary hidden under the front seat of her car. Each one covered in Dean’s neat handwriting, an assortment of owners manuals, hunting tips… and the occasional life advice.
Alex will get a gorgeous leather bag the day she graduates from nursing school. Buttery soft and hand stitched it sits waiting in Dean’s closet with a note already tucked inside…. “Proud of ya kid, never look back.”
Lisa was confused when a shaving kit was delivered 2 days before Ben’s 15th birthday. She never managed to figure out which of her friends had thought to include instructions on how the safety razor worked, but forgotten to sign the card before they mailed it.
And every year on the anniversary of her father’s death, Dean sends Chrissy a gift card to his favorite diner in a different no name town. Its nice to have something light to talk about the next time he calls to check in.
Please please please I know we all love Friends and Chandler was our favourite character and Matthew always put a smile on our faces and that’s all amazing but can we please please please talk about this:
“I've had a lot of ups and downs in my life. I'm still working through it personally, but the best thing about me is that if an alcoholic or drug addict comes up to me and says, 'Will you help me?' I will always say, 'Yes, I know how to do that. I will do that for you, even if I can't always do it for myself! So I do that, whenever I can. In groups, or one on one.
And I created the Perry House in Malibu, a sober-living facility for men. I also wrote my play The End of Longing, which is a personal message to the world, an exaggerated form of me as a drunk. I had something important to say to people like me, and to people who love people like me.
When I die, I know people will talk about Friends, Friends, Friends. And I'm glad of that, happy l've done some solid work as an actor, as well as given people multiple chances to make fun of my struggles on the world wide web...
but when I die, as far as my so-called accomplishments go, it would be nice if Friends were listed far behind the things I did to try to help other people.
every so often im struck by the memory of one of my college professors getting very angry with our class (art history of pompeii 250) because when she excitedly detailed the ingenious roman invention of heated floors in bathhouses via hearths in small crawlspaces, we asked who was tending the fires. she said "oh, slaves i suppose. but that isnt the point". and we said that it actually very much was the point. she had just told us that in roman society there were dozens of people, maybe hundreds, who spent every day of their enslaved lives crawling in cramped, hot, smoky tunnels to light fires to warm pools of water (which they were not allowed to swim in). how could that not be the point?
she wanted us to focus on the art, on the innovation of heated plumbing, on the tiles and decorations of the bathhouses, and all we wanted to do was learn more about the people under the floors. and she didn't know anything more about that. in fact, she said she thought we were focusing too much on superfluous details.
it feels almost hokey to put too fine a point on the idea im getting at here but i will anyway: There are a lot of people who are still under the floors. all these beautiful, convenient, brilliant innovations of modern society (think fast fashion, chatgpt, uber, doordash) are still powered by people working in inhumane, untenable conditions.
the people who run these systems want you to focus on the good - who doesnt love warm water? - but if anything is going to improve or change in our lifetimes, you need to examine these things with an attentive, critical, and empathetic eye. and for fucks sake stop ordering from amazon
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Summary: The last time we saw Vanessa, she was swooning over Dean’s lasting impression. Now, we fast-forward a year to see what she’s up to.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC Vanessa Martinelli, (eventual) Sam Winchester x OFC Emma Olsen
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, HBO RomCom bullshit
Author's notes: Follow-up to Plus One.
Joe's Barber Shop is a 55-year-old ship in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood.
Thanks, as always, to @stunudo and @brrose-apothecary for pre-reading and being my friends.
Black Tie Optional master list
PART ONE
As planned, Dean and Sam leave bright and early on Thursday morning. They make a stop in Lincoln to hit up a priest who was rumored to have intel on Amara. That priest sends them to a rabbi in Omaha, who sends them to a Lutheran pastor in Des Moines. Their last lead is a psychic in Davenport; she tries to stab Sam because she’s still mad about the demon blood thing, and they walk away no better than they were at 5 AM.
Around midnight, Dean pulls into the Naperville Motel 6. He cuts the engine and unfolds from the driver’s seat.
“Grab those burritos, would ya? I’ll get our suits.” He ducks into the back seat to retrieve his duffle and their hanging clothes for the weekend. When he looks up, Sam is giving him a look.
Dean rolls his eyes. “What?” He secures the bags and knees Baby’s backdoor shut.
Sam arches both brows as he shuts his own door. “You like this girl.”
“No, Sam, I’m blowing off my soul-sucking ‘soul mate,’” he pauses, juggling bags and keys to air-quote his point, “and hauled ass halfway across the country for bupkis.”
Dean rounds the trunk, and Sam stifles a snort. “I just can’t believe we’re dressing like this, and it isn’t for a job.”
Dean mutters something as he slots the key into the room lock. “Sam, we just got these suits cleaned-”
“Dude, you don’t need to make excuses.” Sam follows his brother inside the room.
“Plus,” Dean continues as he strides toward the small clothes rack, “we got an all-expenses paid weekend with two beautiful women waitin’ for us at a swank hotel.”
“I’m not complaining-”
“Good.” Dean hangs the garment bags on the bar and separates them before unzipping his bag. As he assesses the colors and reconsiders his shoes, he thinks of another reason. “Besides, we own this shit, might as well get our money’s worth off the clock.”
He swipes a hand down the front of his (brand-new) black button-up before turning to face his brother again, who doesn’t appear impressed.
“What?!”
Sam doesn’t stifle anything this time; he laughs out loud. “How are you the same brother of mine who thinks turning boxers inside out is the same as washing them?”
Dean cocks his jaw and glares at Sam. “First of all, that was a joke I made one time. Second...” His eyes start to glaze over with memories. “Vanessa is one of the Top 5 best nights of my life — like I still have a pair of her panties in my nightstand drawer-”
“OK,” Sam interrupts his brother with one word and a large open palm facing out. “I don’t need the details. I’m taking a shower.” He crosses the room to set his bag on one of the beds before zipping it open to retrieve his Dopp kit.
“I’m gonna text Vanessa.” Dean drops his duffle on the other bed and pulls out his phone.
“Fine, just get your sexting done before I’m out.” Sam firmly closes the bathroom door behind him.
“Pssh,” Dean brushes Sam off as he taps out a message to his wedding date.
How ya doin, kitten?
Looking forward to seeing you.
Me too... crashing in Naperville tonight, got a couple errands to run, probably get in around 3 tomorrow
Perfect. Em and I are in a double queen lakefront suite. We’ll get the adjoining king room tomorrow for you and me.
Lakefront suite, sounds fancy
It’s not The Peninsula, but it’s a cool old hotel.
We’re at Motel 6 right now and that’s nice compared to what we’re used to
Well, then, I’ll make sure you get the royal treatment
Nessa, honey, you could make a tent in the woods royal
Jesus, I can’t wait to get my hands on you
Same, kitten, fucking same
Sam peeks around the open bathroom door, letting wet heat spill out around him and foaming at the mouth with Crest. “You done?” he mumbles.
Dean winces at his brother’s indelicacy. “Like I’m gonna start something I only have three minutes to finish, please.”
...can’t wait to get other things on you as well
Believe me when I say that I would love to continue this conversation straight up until and including when I finally lay eyes on you, but Sammy’s outta the shower and being a little bitch, so I better go
😆😆😆
(Sorry about the little bitch comment)
Don’t apologize, he’s your brother, I’m sure you’ve called him worse
Dean doesn’t give that assumption any real recognition, but she’s right.
Goodnight, pretty girl. See you tomorrow afternoon.
Night, Dean 💋
Despite Sam’s grumpiness and the utter lack of even a whiff of Amara, Dean sleeps well. He wakes up Friday morning in plenty of time to shower and find a barber.
“A barber. Dean, when was the last time you went to a barber?”
“About two months ago, Sam. Look at yourself in the mirror and then look at me. Outta the two of us, I’m the one Most Likely To Visit A Barber.”
Sam smirks like he’s got something to smirk about. “You go to a barber for that haircut?”
“Keep it to yourself, Fabio. I’m goin’ for a shave and a haircut. You should consider the same. If they shave faces at the place you go for haircuts, I dunno.”
Sam rolls his eyes so hard Dean thinks he can hear it.
One hour later, Dean’s flipping through a magazine at Joe’s Barber Shop on Fullerton Avenue in Chicago. They don’t take appointments, but he’s heard enough about Joe’s that he doesn’t mind waiting.
Dean doesn’t usually like unfamiliar environments, but the vintage interiors, and family business, blue-collar vibe make him feel right at home. When his number’s called, he tosses the magazine to the table and walks right up to the barber.
“Welcome in, I’m Joe.”
The man’s neat beard, meticulous high and tight haircut, and detailed tattoo work give Dean a sense of confidence already.
“No way — thee Joe?”
The man chuckles as he spins the freshly cleaned chair in invitation.
“I’m Junior, my pops is Thee Joe. Take a seat.”
Dean settles into the old-fashioned barber chair in awe.
“What’re you in for today?”
“Well, I got a hot date this weekend. I could go for a real old school shave and one of those high and tights like you got goin’ on there.”
Joe Jr. nods and sets about gathering his tools. “You got it, my friend.”
xoxoxoxoxoxoxox
Dean raps three times on the hotel door before stepping back, squaring his hips and shoulders, and letting the smirk he knows she loves settle onto his lips. The door swings open to reveal Vanessa, barefoot in a bathrobe, face made up, and hair in massive pink hair rollers.
“Dean...” she breathes. Her wide, bright eyes rake over him. “God, you look- I look... ugh, sorry.”
Dean grins, reaching for her and closing the gap between them. “What’re you sorry about?”
He slips his free arm around her waist and dips in to kiss her where they stand in the doorway. Vanessa melts against him, one hand on his chest and the other sliding up to brush her fingertips over the freshly shaved sides of his head. Her hand dances around the warm velvet of his skull and down his nape, making Dean groan into her mouth.
He wants to drag her to a broom closet or bed. Instead, he breaks the kiss without pulling away.
“We need to do a lot more of that this weekend.” He grins down at her, attempting to kiss her again when a pretty blonde woman appears in their periphery.
“Hey.” She smiles and raises a hand in a half-wave, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her jade eyes.
“Oh, hey.” Vanessa wiggles out of Dean’s embrace, patting her rollers and sliding a hand into one of his. “Em, this Dean, and-” She pauses and peeks around Dean at the man standing in the hall. “Sam, I assume?”
Sam grins and mirrors Emma’s small wave. “That’s me. Thank you both for the invitation. Should be a really nice weekend.”
Emma’s smile floats up to her eyes this time. Dean remembers what Vanessa said about Emma’s ex-boyfriend and thinks the guy must be a real idiot. He doesn’t say that out loud, though.
“It’s gonna be a great weekend.” He winks at Emma before glancing back down at Vanessa. “You look beautiful.”
Vanessa blushes and bites her lip as she rises on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “So do you,” she whispers.
“Well, come on in, you guys.” Emma motions to the living area. “We’ll show you around.”
Vanessa pulls Dean inside, not that he resists, and Sam follows.
“There’s a kitchen and a little dining table, and we got the adjoining King room today, which Van’s already called dibs on.” She rounds the kitchen island and opens the small fridge. “Anybody want a beer?”
Vanessa and the brothers accept Emma’s offer, so she retrieves four bottles, quickly popping the caps off each as Dean and Sam drape their bags over the back of the couch. She joins them in the living area and hands a beer to each of them before raising her bottle in a toast.
“Thank you, Sam and Dean, for coming this weekend. I know Van told you about my ex-boyfriend,” she pauses and rolls her eyes, “so I appreciate you being such good sports about it as well.”
Vanessa, Dean, and Sam raise their bottles so the four of them can toast. After a long first sip, Dean speaks up. “Well, we needed a break, the pleasure’s all ours.”
Emma seems to appreciate that sentiment. She turns to Sam with a mischievous smile. “I know we don’t know each other at all, but you are very good-looking, and I already dig your vibe, so... whatever happens, happens. Cool?”
Sam laughs out loud and nods, toasting with Emma again as he turns toward her, practically shutting Dean and Vanessa out. But they don't even notice; .
Behind closed doors, Dean makes quick work of hanging his garment bag and dropping his duffle on the luggage rack.
“Any special requests for the weekend?”
When he turns from the closet, he finds Vanessa in the middle of the room — her hair is still in rollers, but the robe is long gone. She’s slipped into a pair of strappy black heels and nothing else.
“Requests?” she asks as she saunters toward him, bronzed and glowing.
Dean licks his bottom lip in between his teeth and bites down as he slides his hands into the pockets of his oxblood dress pants.
“Last time you wanted me to make a scene,” he says, recalling her succinct proposition.
“I’ll get you drunk and fed... and suck your cock. On one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“Give ‘em something to remember me by, and maybe I’ll never be asked back again.”
Vanessa thoughtfully halts when the toes of her Steve Maddens are touching Dean’s shiny, black dress shoes.
“Ohh, right!” She plays like she forgot. “How could I forget?”
Dean pokes his tongue inside his cheek and nods, narrowing his eyes. “And I seem to remember somethin’ about wantin’ to feel me for days afterward.”
“How many days?”
“Oh, I dunno... Six or seven?”
Vanessa reaches out to brush a hand across one shoulder of his black button-up and then down to hook her fingers in his waistband. “And you didn’t disappoint.”
Dean groans, reaching out to gently grip her hips. “C’mon, kitten, tell me what you want.”
She closes her eyes and lets him press his lips to her throat and collarbone. He slides his hands from her hips up the curve of her waist and grips her ribcage, teasing the soft underside of her breasts with his thumbs.
“Anything you want,” he whispers in her ear before scraping its shell between his teeth.
Vanessa releases a shaking exhale, and her throat convulses as she swallows the saliva pooling in her mouth.
“We’re supposed to be downstairs in 15 minutes...”
He hums and brushes his lips along her jaw and thumbs up and across her tight nipples.
“But... I only need five to finish my hair.”
“Mhmm.” Dean dips in to capture one nipple between his lips, then the other.
Vanessa cradles the back of his neck and hangs her head back. “What can you do in 10 minutes without getting all wrinkly?”
Dean chuckles. “Honey, I can do a lot in 10 minutes. But, uhh,” he pauses and glances around the room. Then he grins. “C’mere.”
He leads her across the room, walking backward as his eyes roam every inch of bare, silky skin. When he reaches their destination, he pats her hip. “Hop up.”
She giggles, and he helps her to sit on the desk.
“Now, stay right there.” He leans in and kisses her mouth as he sinks into the desk chair. He cups her calves in his hands to tuck her knees and heeled feet at his sides.
Once he’s in position, he peeks at his watch. “Eight minutes,” he mutters, then kisses and nips his way down her body. He sighs at the apex of her thighs and barely suppresses a little groan before pressing a kiss to her glistening pussy lips.
Vanessa gasps at the sight and grips the top tuft of his hair. “I’m such a mess... all I could think about the last two days was this.” Her breath hitches.
“Me too,” Dean murmurs, wrapping an arm around her hips and bringing his other hand in to spread her lips open. He gently sucks her clit, blows it a kiss, and lightly massages it in a light circular motion.
“Nessa, honey, you taste so good.” He dips his tongue inside her and sucks her smooth lips. “So sweet and tangy.”
He slips his long middle finger inside her, then purposefully anchors it with her g-spot. He presses against it and rotates the position of the wide pad of his finger right there — no slide, just manipulation and gentle pressure.
“You look so hot, Dean…” She peers down at him, his mouth and hand shining with her slick juices and his spit.
Dean grins and licks her. He sucks the fleshiest parts of her between his lips as his thumb swipes across and back, hovering, barely kissing her clit, and she bucks against his face, twisting his hair in her hand.
“This fucking haircut… and your hands and mouth on me… I’m gonna come right now.”
Dean moans against her, thumbing the side of her clit as she starts to throb around his finger. As she catches her breath, he kisses the insides of her thighs until she tugs him up to stand.
“Inside, Dean, please.” She yanks at his belt and pants, and Dean wipes his mouth, letting her have her way.
“God, your dick is beautiful.” Vanessa wraps her hand around him as Dean tilts her head back to kiss her neck and breasts. He swears and plants a fist on the desk beside her hip when she gets him notched inside.
“Oh, fucking…” Vanessa braces her hands behind her and lifts her feet to position her heels on the edge of the desk. “Fuck me.”
Dean braces one hand on the mirror behind her and wraps a arm around her waist, grits his teeth, and does exactly as she requested.
xoxoxoxoxox
“Part of me’s disappointed you’re not in jeans and a henley,” Vanessa speculates as she puts the finishing touches on her hair.
Dean arches a brow at her in the mirror as he dries his face with a hand towel. “If I’d known that”-
“But,” she pauses, pointedly reapplying her lipstick. “This is even better. You and your brother are gonna be the hottest guys there.”
Dean smirks back at her. “Wait’ll you see me in a suit.”
Vanessa turns to face him, capping her lipstick. “Thank you again for coming.”
There’s something in her eyes that Dean can’t quite define, and it makes his heart skip. He holds her gaze as he offers her his elbow.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, kitten.”
Vanessa accepts his offer, and they exit the bedroom to join Emma and Sam before heading down to the rehearsal.
Part Two coming soon...
Tell me what you liked the best about this or ask me a question!
Dean Winchester Masterlist | SPN Masterlist | All Fic Masterlist
Dean doesn’t know what’s inside that bar, he doesn’t know if Benny is dead or alive. But instead of rushing in, he actually takes the time to pull out a cloth, wrap it around his hand, HOLD IT TO HER, and then hold her shoulder for a few seconds before he goes in. I just can’t get over this. He doesn’t just hand her the cloth and hurry in, he makes sure that she’s okay first. This right here is why I love Dean. He’s so so far beyond what people think of him, he’s not shallow, one sided, or boring, he’s a gentleman at his core and I just adore him. Sorry, unexpected Dean feels.
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Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given the choice to go to rehab for 28 days, or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.
Chapter characters: Dean Winchester, Nick (Iblis), Zeke Gadreel, Missouri Moseley, Jack Kline, Pamela Barnes, Gabriel, Crowley, Meg Masters, Rowena Macleod
Chapter tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY, references to sexual activity (everyone is 18), references to underage drug addiction and prostitution, Dean’s heading into withdrawal, he’s injured and unmedicated
Chapter WC: 3,200
Author’s notes: Sunrise Bay is the fictional soap opera in which Schitt’s Creek’s Moira Rose starred. I couldn’t resist giving it to Rowena.
I don't have ample words to thank @brrose-apothecary and @stusbunker for their continued support and readings, but I will thank them and declare my undying love.
Text divider by @talesmaniac89
CHAPTER TWO
Dean’s chest is tight with panic.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
John is furious, driving erratically, and hurling threats and accusations.
“Of course, it’s your fault, Dean — you’re a man. Men don’t get to play innocent.”
If John had learned about Dean’s mushroom-enhanced threesome with Jamie and Carmen any other way than from Jamie’s pissed-off mom, he’d be slapping him on the back and handing him a beer for earning another couple of notches on his belt.
But nobody likes to be told they’re a shitty parent, especially not John Winchester.
“They were trippin’ and half-naked when I got there, I didn’t-”
“Gimme a break, kid. You went there to get high and get your dick wet. I was 18 once, too, ya know.”
Dean’s mind races as John speeds through town. “What about Sammy?”
“What about him?! You gonna go home and tell him you got caught fuckin’ his English teacher’s daughter?! Ya think that’ll make him proud, somethin’ to live up to?!”
John is roaring loud as he pulls into a parking spot in front of the USMC recruitment center. He kills the engine and turns to Dean, but Dean can’t look his dad in the eye.
John scoffs. “Don’t worry about Sammy, I think I can handle it.”
Dean knows John can’t handle it. John doesn’t even know what time Sam’s school starts or how much money he needs for lunch. John barely even knows what day it is half the time.
Dean’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “They’ll send me to Afghanistan, Dad.”
He’s afraid — for his own life and to leave his little brother behind. He doesn’t want to go to war, and he doesn’t want Sam to have to navigate his teenage years, dodging bullets from John.
Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying until his tears drop to his hands in his lap.
“Oh, man-the-fuck-up, Dean,” John growls, wrenching the door of the Impala open. “Let’s go!”
Twenty-four hours after waking up in the hospital with multiple injuries and the acrid contempt of his little brother, Dean is informed he’s being transferred to a rehab facility.
He isn’t allowed any real pain medication, and he’s riding a class VI hangover, even with fluids being pumped into his body. His head, shoulder, ribcage, and hips are throbbing. He’s starving, too, but he knows there’s no way in Hell he’d be able to keep any food down.
In the early afternoon, he’s escorted to Discharge by hospital security. He wishes he’d showered because his skin is itchy, and he knows he looks like hammered shit. When the guards walk him outside, he sees Nick and Zeke, waiting for him in Zeke’s 4Runner.
“Fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath.
Sam undoubtedly hand-picked the Green Berets to transport Dean’s sorry ass to Kansas City. Not only do Nick and Zeke not give a single shit about other people’s drama, but they’re also brick fucking walls of defense.
The security guards disappear back inside the building, leaving Dean no other choice than to limp toward his former teammates. As he nears the vehicle, Nick climbs out of the passenger seat and opens the back door.
Dean floats an attempt at good humor, which promptly falls flat on its face.
“You two suck at Roshambo, or what?”
Nick’s silent, answering smirk is devoid of any trace of mirth.
Dean purses his lips and bobs his head before ducking to gingerly slide across the backseat next to his familiar duffle. He immediately pictures his Dopp kit inside the bag with his trusty bottle of pills.
With the combination of his injuries, this epic fucking hangover, and his escorts’ chilly reception, he could really use a Vicodin or two right now, but Sam’s no idiot. He chose Nick and Zeke for more than their lack of investment in bullshit or their multiple factors of intimidation; Dean can only assume that everything in that bag has been thoroughly searched and stripped.
“D’you pack my SpongeBob toothbrush? It’s my fave.” Dean asks from the back as Zeke wordlessly pulls away from the curb.
“Packed what was on the list and nothing that wasn’t, Chief,” Nick replies, confirming Dean’s suspicion.
Dean nods, slipping his phone from his pocket to thumb out texts to Gordon and Lydia, letting them know where he’s going. He tells them both that he’ll be in touch soon, each for different reasons. Then finally, he pulls up a video game and slumps into the seat for the longest 50 minutes he’s ever endured.
The facility looks like a high school in a John Hughes movie, but with a bunch of weird-ass people standing around outside, hugging and singing and chanting.
Dean rolls his eyes and hoists his bag onto his good shoulder with a wince. Every second of consciousness reminds him of broken bones, twisted ligaments, and fragments of self-loathing that thrive under his itching skin. The last thing he needs right now is a round of kumba-fucking-ya.
He peeks over his shoulder to see Nick hanging out the window with a savage grin. “Go on.” He waves Dean off like he’s shooing a fly. “Have fun, and make lots of friends.”
Dean scowls before turning back to face the entrance and trudging inside, careful not to move too fast. His hip is killing him even more than his slinged shoulder or his ribs, probably because he’s injured it twice before. Fidgeting in the backseat of Zeke’s ancient SUV for almost an hour didn’t exactly help.
Once the facility’s revolving door spits him inside the bright lobby, a warm, welcoming voice calls to him from the centered reception desk.
“Dean Winchester?”
The voice belongs to a pretty, middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s uniform, rounding the desk to greet him. He continues forward, eyeing her sideways.
“Yes, ma’am?” He doesn’t know what he expected from rehab admittance, but kindness was not it.
“Sam called. Wanted to make sure you got in OK. Nice boy.” She looks him up and down, and her brow furrows. “Let’s get you checked in so you can get settled and rest up.”
The warmth of her tone and gaze hug him like a thick, soft blanket.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean responds.
Her ID badge reads ‘Missouri’. Dean doesn’t know if that’s her name, or where she’s from, but it doesn’t matter much to him because she’s already soothed his senses more than anyone he’s spoken to in the last 36 hours.
“Come on, right in here,” she says, showing him to an open office space.
Inside the room is a male orderly who helps Dean unload his bag before pulling it open and searching its contents.
“Not gonna find much more than Visine in there, buddy. Crocket and Tubbs already got to the good stuff.”
The orderly remains focused on his work, and Missouri focuses on Dean.
“You mind your manners, boy, and let him do his job,” she says.
Dean drops his eyes to the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”
As the orderly continues his examination of Dean’s belongings, Missouri rattles off some basic rules.
“There’s no fraternizin’ with other patients, no phone calls ‘cept once a week for 10 minutes at a time...”
Dean nods along as she speaks. He flicks his gaze up to watch the orderly drop his iPhone, its charger, and his AirPods into a plastic bin, and Dean shakes his head but remains silent. When the orderly finds the Swiss Army knife Emma bought him last year for Father’s Day, his heart clenches in his chest.
“You’ll get that back when you check out, Dean,” Missouri assures him, warmth seeping into her tone and eyes. “Now, just a quick pat down, and I’ll show ya to your room.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean nods. He’s relieved to realize that he likes Missouri. She’s a bright spot in this quagmire of misery he’s brought upon himself, and that’s a gift.
The orderly pats him down and checks his sling for anything else the place doesn't allow, and once he’s been stripped of all things sharp or shiny, Missouri leads him through the building, pointing out public sitting areas and restrooms. He’s fucking exhausted and beginning to suspect his hangover is actually withdrawal, which he’s been dreading since he woke up this morning.
Before long, Missouri pauses a few feet from a recreation room with several round table and chair sets, some mismatched lounge furniture, and finally, a single flat-screen TV on a low table.
“Folks, this’s Dean Winchester,” Missouri says.
Dean takes note of three people piled onto a small couch, another guy next to them in a side chair, and two petite women settled on pillows facing the screen. Some Marvel movie is paused on the screen, by the balding man in the chair.
“Pills,” he says with an accent, narrowing his gaze as the corner of his mouth twists upward.
Dean’s eyebrows and lips quirk.
“Hmm... sex and booze,” declares the tiny, familiar-looking redhead on the floor. She also has an accent, and Dean wonders where all these Brits are hiding in the middle of America.
“Sex and anything he can get his hands on,” says the bright-eyed brunette from the center of the couch. Her gaze sparkles and dances in a way that makes Dean instantly begin to calculate how to get around the no-fraternizing rule.
“You guys’re good,” he says.
The brunette rakes her appreciative gaze over Dean and licks her lips, as a goofy-looking blonde guy reaches across her to grab a large bowl full of popcorn from the lap of some floppy-haired kid.
“Well, kiddo, since your roommate’s here, I’ll take this off your hands. And, uhh, my money’s on coke,” says the blonde guy as he burrows back into his corner of the couch.
The kid brushes his hands along his thighs before standing and turning to face Dean and Missouri. As he approaches them, he holds up a single hand like he’s swearing to God.
“I’m Jack.”
Dean darts his eyes to Missouri, who’s smiling reassuringly at the boy.
Dean wants to ask, what kind of crack therapy team thought it’d be a good idea to pair a literal fucking child up with the likes of himself?
Instead, he waves back at the kid with a weak smile.
It’s awkward, and Dean is far too undermedicated and stressed to have to deal with a kid. The anxiety makes his heart race and his stomach roil.
“I can introduce him and show him to our room,” Jack offers with a blush.
Everything about this kid and this room and... everything is making Dean’s skin crawl.
“That’d be real helpful, Jack,” Missouri replies, then turns back to Dean. “This’s your roommate — Jack Kline.”
Dean glares at her before drawing a shallow breath. “Yes, ma’am. I gathered that.”
“I’ll head back to the desk, now,” Missouri says with a pointed look before walking away.
Jack motions toward the group and begins introducing everyone.
“That’s Pamela,” he says, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Mother of two and meth addict. Next to her is Gabe. He’s a compulsive liar and gambler.”
Gabe salutes as he cheerfully munches popcorn with his mouth full. Dean shakes his head, amazed that Pamela and Gabe seem perfectly comfortable with this little shit airing their dirty laundry all over the rec room.
“Crowley’s on the end, in the chair,” Jack continues. “He’s an alcoholic, and usually very cranky — probably because he killed one of his patients—”
“That was two years ago, you twat,” Crowley drones with an eye roll back to the screen in front of him as he presses play.
“It’s part of your story,” Jack adds matter-of-factly before gesturing to the two women sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch.
“Meg...” Jack says, and Meg waves. “...was a prostitute and heroin addict — like me.”
Dean’s heart jumps into his throat, and he thinks he might throw up right there. Jack can’t be a year older than Emma. He’s a fucking minor, for christ’s sake.
Meg throws Jack a wink before chiming in. “I second Pamela’s bet — sex… and anything else he can find.”
Meg holds Dean’s gaze for several beats, and Dean feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. The buzzing in his ears almost drowns out Jack’s last introduction until he hears something familiar.
“...a retired soap opera star and opioid addict—”
“Rowena Macleod,” Dean says with a small huffed laugh. “My, uhh...” He snaps a few times, shaking his head, trying to jog free fond memories from decades before. “My babysitter watched Sunrise Bay. You were amazing.”
“Ohh,” Rowena coos and Pamela chuckles as she nudges Rowena’s delicate shoulder with her toe.
“Seriously, so much of my childhood is wrapped up in those episodes.”
He remembers Spaghettios and hot dogs, animal crackers, and cherry Kool-aid. His babysitter used to paint his toenails, even though he’d make her take it off before John got home.
“Why thank you, darling,” Rowena preens. “‘Twas so long ago, I barely remember a thing anymore—”
“Might be the morphine,” Gabe mutters, and Pamela smacks the back of his head.
Rowena ignores them both in favor of reminding Jack to bring his “new friend” to dinner.
“Don’t forget, Jacky — four-thirty sharp.” She bats her eyelashes and fusses with her jewelry.
Dean gives her a warm smile even though he feels hollowed-out, heavy and hot. His skin’s tight and prickly, yet he feels like he’s falling apart. He knows what’s happening, and he fucking hates that he can’t do a damn thing about it but get through it.
“Do you want to go get settled and cleaned up first?” Jack asks, startling Dean to attention.
Jack’s eyes are so wide and so blue, Dean thinks he might fall in and drown. He wants to fall in and drown. Anything but this.
Instead, he nods in answer and follows Jack to the staircase.
It isn’t long before they arrive at their room.
“Curfew is at 8 PM, but I usually read until Lights-Out at 10.” Jack stops in front of their open door, and Dean peeks inside.
The bare bed closest to the door holds a stack of folded bedding and a single pillow. The nightstand is donned with a non-descript lamp and a pad and paper.
“That’s me.” Jack motions to the far bed, which is neatly made with what appears to be a furry dragon dead center of his pillow. On that nightstand is a short stack of comic books and a bag of Milky Way candy bars.
Dean is sure he’s being Punk’d at this point.
“Nice dragon. What’re you, four years old?” Dean asks, pushing inside the room and dropping his duffle to the floor beside what is now his bed.
Jack stands in the hall with his furrowed brow. “I’m 17. And that’s a gryphon; dragons don’t have fur, Dean.”
Dean huffs an ironic, pained laugh and shakes his head before dropping his chin to his chest and letting his heavy eyelids close.
“My bad,” he mutters, rubbing his burning eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his good hand.
Maybe if he goes to sleep, he’ll wake up, and this’ll all be over with. Maybe he can find someone somewhere in this place with something, anything, to put him to sleep so he can wake up without feeling like a bag full of broken glass.
“It’s OK,” Jack replies with a shrug as he wanders inside the room toward the toy in question. “Not a lot of people know what a gryphon is. They’re guardians of the divine. My mom bought it for me before I was born because she wanted me to always be safe. She died in childbirth, and I never knew my dad-”
“Kid,” Dean interrupts Jack’s monologue of fantastical tragedy. “Can we save the overshare for when I’ve had at least a few hours’ sleep and some food?”
Jack absently pets his stuffed guardian, curiously eyeing Dean. “Openness agitates you. I noticed downstairs that hearing everyone’s stories made you... uncomfortable.”
Dean scoffs. “Well... yeah. I don’t need to know everyone’s dirty little secrets — especially not on the first day.”
Jack shrugs, and Dean watches him carefully replace the plush toy atop his pillow.
“You’ll get used to it. Honesty is the first step.” Jack looks up as he rounds the foot of Dean’s bed on his way back to the door with a wide, satisfied grin.
Judging by his posture and careful pronunciation of the word, Dean has a feeling that learning the importance of honesty was a big lesson for Jack. Dean isn’t ready for any lessons right now.
“I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready. Just follow the signs. The dining hall isn’t far.”
Jack disappears out the door and around the corner, and Dean sighs with relief to finally be alone.
As he unpacks his clothes and puts them in the dresser, he tries to ignore his runny nose and full-body chills. He distracts himself by wondering how long the kid’s been in this place, which leads to speculating what landed him here, and then he’s chewing the inside of his mouth bloody thinking about the fucking pieces of shit who sell dope to kids, and — worse — the kind of sickos who pay to touch them.
He slams his dresser drawer hard enough to rattle the mirror on the wall beside it, closes his eyes again, then inhales in through his nose and exhales out his mouth.
Tessa, one of the nurse practitioners in the Medical division of the department, taught him breathing exercises. He went to see her under the pretense of managing work-related stress, but really he just wanted an in to meet the hot newbie. Turns out, Tessa isn’t just good-looking; she’s also great at her job because the stupid exercises work.
He and Tessa also talked about spirituality from time to time. She’s been trying to convince him for weeks that asking the universe for help doesn’t make him weak. He’s not so sure he agrees with her, but at this point, he’ll try anything to help him get through the next few weeks without losing his god damned mind.
“I feel... fucking ridiculous doing this,” he starts, quiet as a whisper. “But I’m fresh outta ideas.”
He breathes in deeply and out again, dismissing the sharp pain in his chest that every breath brings him, yet tears begin to flood his closed eyes.
“C’mon, Dean, you got through two tours in Afghanistan, for fuck’s sake!” he berates himself.
Maybe the universe is punishing him for going overboard. Maybe if he promises to reel it in, he can do this without his usual vices to lean on and places to hide.
“Listen, I swear to dial it back when I get out. No more all-night parties, no more mixing- just, please. Gimme somethin’.”
He sniffs and wipes his eyes, still shivering, cramping, and swallowing back bile, but at least he has a plan.
“OK, you can do this,” he tells himself, grabbing his Dopp kit and heading to the bathroom for a hot shower.
As the steam from the shower fills the stall and he stands under the hot spray of water, he continues to tell himself that he can get through the next 28 days without imploding.
Chapter 3 (coming Wednesday, February 15)
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Masterful! I am on the edge of my freaking seat for more information, so many intros and teasers that left me excited to learn their stories and how they would interact with Deans story / personality.
This is so far from the filth you requested a couple of weeks ago I sincerely apologize but I absolutely cannot get this image out of my head, had to share if! if you want to ignore this please do!! I 100% recognize I am NOT sticking to the assignment.
Dean Winchester settled in between someone’s legs on the bed. Like his back to their chest, their legs wrapped around him, heels keeping his thighs open while they jerk him off, explicit but soft vibes.
Something about me will never stop wanting Dean Winchester to receive love and comfort 💕
Please never apologize for loving Dean Winchester xox
Characters/pairing: Dean Winchester x GN reader
Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY
Words: 800
“Dean, just let me make you feel good.”
He hesitates with a sideways glance and a crooked brow. “You do, babe.”
He says it like he’s trying to subdue you, and it’s almost patronizing. But you can’t remember the last time — or even the first time — he let you take care of him, which is worse than condescension if you’re being honest.
“Stop.”
Dean immediately halts his downward path to undoubtedly bury his face between your legs, then flicks his eyes up to meet your gaze. “What is it?”
“Come up here,” you say, wiggling toward the headboard until it’s flush with your back and your ass is burrowed into the mountain of pillows.
Dean twists his lips and glares at you playfully, gliding his hands up from your knees and along your thighs. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes as he kneels between your open legs.
“Turn around and put that juicy peach right here.” You pat the bedding where it meets the pillows you’re sitting on with a smirk.
Dean grumbles a little before rolling his eyes and neck in unison, then does what you’ve asked. It’s all very performative and clearly, intentionally unsexy, yet he somehow manages to turn you on even more than you were already.
You chuckle. “Good boy.”
He mutters something slightly derogatory in tone as he turns his back to you, but you ignore it in favor of encouraging him as close to your body as possible. Since he’s being a bit of a brat, you have to slide forward the final inch or so you need to give you the advantage.
“I love your shoulders,” you say, lightly tracing your fingertips across the expanse and watching his muscles jerk and tense. You dip in and press a kiss to one scapula, then the other, and he releases a shaking breath.
“Relax.”
You want to worship him the way he worships you. You want to show him the kind affection that he so readily gives everyone you know. You want him to know how precious he is.
“Do you know how much you turn me on?” you ask.
Dean huffs a nervous laugh and hangs his head just as he shakes it.
“You are so gorgeous, Dean — from the tips of your hair to your fingers and toes — you’re an exquisite masterpiece of a man.”
“Babe...” he groans and starts to shift away from you.
You worry that he might bolt, so you lift and drape your legs over his thighs and slip your feet underneath. “Please let me show you what you mean to me,” you whisper in his ear, sending goosebumps over his smooth, freckled skin.
You are suddenly ravenous for him. You hook your arms under his and splay your hands flat over his torso, running in random patterns, feeling him shake and try to catch his breath.
Dean drops his head back onto your shoulder and grips the fluffy bedding in his fists on either side of your pretzeled bodies. His chest rises and falls, somewhat erratically, and you want to soothe him.
“I love touching you,” you continue. “You’re so strong and brave, and filled with passion. You inspire the best in everyone around you.”
Your hands drop further down to find him straining hot and tight between his thighs.
“You have a fucking beautiful cock,” you murmur, wrapping one hand around his length and sliding the other down to massage his sack. “Can you feel what you do to me?”
You roll your hips to give him a better idea of what you’re talking about, and Dean whimpers.
“When you’re inside me,” you whisper, licking and scraping your teeth up the length of his exposed throat, “I feel so blessed.”
You start to gently twist and pump him, reaching for the lube he’d used on you earlier. You get his dick, and your hand, nice and slick to squeeze him harder and pump him faster.
“You’re so thick and hard, baby, part of me wishes you were inside me right now, but I love this. Thank you.”
“Fuck.” Dean bucks his hips up against your fist, then lifts his head to look down at what you’re doing.
You drag your free hand up his torso to circle and pinch his nipples. He grits his teeth and reaches one hand up behind your head to guide you to his mouth for a hot, breathless kiss.
“I’m gonna come so hard,” he whispers, twisting your hair with his rough fingers and yanking you back enough to meet your gaze as you squeeze and twist him harder, and he throbs in your hand. “And then I’m gonna get you back.”
You grin and duck back into the kiss, knowing that he’ll make good on his promise, just as he shouts your name into your mouth and comes hot and wet over your fist.
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