adrians girl

just imagine soft mornings with dean. the scratchy sheets of whatever motel you guys found and decided on. dean’s calloused hand resting on your hip above your bottoms but under your shirt, twitching and tightening every once in a while. your cheek pressed against his bare chest as you feel it rise and fall with his breathing, his heartbeat keeping you lulled into sleep. his face looks calm, one of the only times, besides the little crease in his brow that’s permanent. it makes you want to rub it away - which you do sometimes - but more often than not that earns you a wave of his hand and a mumble. he acts like he hates it (he doesn’t).

the sound of the air conditioning unit slightly muffles the soft snoring that comes from dean’s mouth. if you weren’t this close you wouldn’t hear it. otherwise you would’ve him believed when he adamantly says he doesn’t snore. it’s never loud, it’s quiet and usually lulls you to sleep. he always feel asleep so easy, something you were jealous of. probably a skill he required early in his life due to the long days and nights of hunting, having to get what sleep he could fast. he has a hard time falling asleep without you there. he can, just takes a little while longer. he’s gotten used to the feeling of your weight on him and the smell of your shampoo in his nose. that’s why mornings on the road with you are so hard because you’ll wake him up, get up for a minute, and he’ll be back asleep when you get back.

eighteen plus material. ✶ minors do not interact.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. dean winchester × f!reader.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄. car sex. riding. cowgirl position. strong language. derogatory words ( slut ). praising. bobby & sam mentioned. impala sex. use of pet names ( sweetheart, mama, baby, darlin’ ). grinding. light possessiveness.

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘. this is a repost. but it’s been revamped (!). originally uploaded on deansbeer ( 04/18/2024 ). since i’m a perfectionist when it comes to things, it took me the ENTIRE week to finally feel satisfied with the layout for my fics. let’s all hold hands and pray i don’t overthink it.

you couldn’t believe this was happening. here you were, bouncing feverishly on dean winchester’s cock in the backseat of the impala, his hands gripping your hips as he moaned in pure ecstasy.

the case you were supposed to be working on with sam and bobby was the furthest thing from your mind right now. all that mattered was the delicious friction building between your bodies, the way dean’s thick, throbbing cock filled you up deliciously.

“that’s it, baby,” dean growled, voice gravelly with lust. “yeah, ride this dick. you’re such a good girl, mama, takin’ me so well.”

you whimpered, your nails digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders as you picked up the pace, your hips rolling and grinding against him in a desperate rhythm. the sounds of your bodies joining together echoed through the confines of the car, only spurring dean on further.

“fuck, you feel amazing,” he groaned, his blunt fingers tightening their grip on your hips. “my beautiful slut, ridin’ me. ‘n only me”

the praise sent a shiver of pleasure down your spine, and you felt the familiar coil of tension building deep within you. you were so close, teetering on the edge, and dean could tell.

“go ‘head, darlin’, just let go,” he demanded, his thumb pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves. “show me how much you love my dick.”

with a sharp cry, you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations, your body trembling as wave after wave of mind-blowing pleasure washed over you. dean followed you closely behind, his hips snapping up into you as hot spurts of his cum coat your walls deep inside you.

for a moment, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the occasional contented hum from him. then, finally, he pulled you down for a kiss, his hands caressing your flushed sweaty skin.

“damn, sweetheart, you’re just fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured, his lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “i could do this all day.”

you chuckled breathlessly, your fingers tracing the strong lines of his jaw and growing stubble. “as much as i’d love to, we should probably head back and help out sam and bobby,” you said, reluctantly lifting yourself off of him, his cock now soft and limp falls back against his stomach.

dean groaned in protest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips again. “do we have to?” he whined, his eyes pleading. “i’m not done with you yet.”

you laughed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “yes, we have to,” you said firmly, already starting to redress. “the sooner we can get this case wrapped up, the sooner we can come back here and pick up where we left off.”

dean pouts, but he knew better than to argue. with a resigned sigh, he began to clean himself up, already mentally planning all the ways he was going to devour you once this job was done.

summary. the hunt goes south fast and for a moment, dean can't feel a pulse on you.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 903 genre. angst

warnings. heavy angst, character injury, panic, fear of death, near-death experience, crying, emotional breakdown, post-hunt aftermath, soft ending

ᯓᡣ𐭩 read sam's version.

The world goes white for a second.

A blinding flash. A deafening crack. Then — silence.

When the ringing in his ears fades, Dean’s staring at you. On the ground. Not moving.

“(Y/N)!”

He’s running before the word’s even left his mouth, shotgun clattering from his hands. The thing that did it — a vamp, maybe? — it’s already gone. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not when you’re lying there like that.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no…” He slides across the concrete, knees hitting hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t care. His fingers shake as he reaches for you. “Sweetheart, come on.”

summary. so, sam has this rule: only dean can call him sammy. you do it once, testing the waters. receive a glare and a warning. then you do it again, because no man can tell you what to do. and there's a twitch in his lips. he likes it, you reckon.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f ) ft. dean

wordcount. 846 genre. silly fluff

warnings. light teasing, flirting, language, reader being a menace (and sam loving it), dean being an amused bystander

notes. i think i'd actually sob if sam told me not to call him sammy lmao

It starts as a dare. Well — not officially. But in your head? Absolutely.

Because somewhere between the salt rounds, the blood, and Dean’s god-awful choice in motel decor, you learn a fun little tidbit: only Dean is allowed to call Sam “Sammy.”

It’s practically carved into stone, a Winchester law older than half the lore books in the bunker.

So naturally, you want to break it.

sam sleeping like this, on his side with his arm and hand tucked underneath his pillow, is making me kinda insane bec wdum? literally wdum he would be PERFECT to cuddle with?

his head nestled gently against your chest, breath tickling your neck and collarbones. instead of the pillow, it's your body. the arm underneath the pillow is trapped underneath the warmth and weight of your body instead. sam knows his arm is going to be DEAD in the morning, but he doesn't care because he got to be wrapped around you last night. his other hand slipped underneath the shirt or whatever it is you wear to bed because he wants to feel you—the heat of you, the warmth of your skin, his thumb tracing idle patterns across your waist, down to your hips. the action paired with your fingers raking through his hair slowly lulling him to sleep. peaceful sleep—the kind he only ever finds in your arms.

and now you all may go insane with me. thank you. peace and love 🫶🏻

nothing.

pairing. sam winchester x f!reader with a pinch of bsf!dean

type. flufff, not requested

warnings. fem reader, mentions of being sick, one mention of gagging due to nausea, curse words

a/n. as someone who currently has the flu, i wish i could live this scenario thank you

SUMMARY: After a long night of research and a surprise flu attack on the boys. You take care of them the best way you know how, with a lot of food and a cozy autumn movie. 1.9k!

You're suspicious as soon as you see your boyfriend and his brother sprawled on the couch, both fully clothed, snoring like mammoths. You know their last case has been taxing for them, but still. It's a rare occurrence to see them in such a state. You tiptoe your way to the living room, looking for any visible wounds. You breathe a little easier when you can’t find any and realize that, apart from complete exhaustion, they seem to be fine. Deciding they deserve the unbothered rest, you bring over pillows and blankets to cover their shivering figures. You don’t even dare to give Sam a quick forehead kiss, too scared it might wake him up, and with one last fond look at the sleeping men, you retire to your bedroom for the night.

The next morning, you wake up to the same spectacle. Except Dean’s leg is propped up on his brother's, his back facing you, while his face is smushed into the pillow. Sam lightly snores with his mouth open. Always running hot, he took half his coat off during the night, so it was somewhat hard to find him in the heap of fabric. Biting back a laugh, you head for the kitchen, ready to prepare some food for the two ogres in your living room.

You're busy whipping up pancake batter, and you're about to start heating up the oven for some bacon when you hear a muffled conversation.

"Dean… Wake up. I think we fell asleep on the couch."

"Leave me aloooooone."

There are some more muffled curses, and the sound of a pillow hitting the ground before you hear the sounds of steps coming to the kitchen. A big shadow cast on the hardwood floor catches your attention. You look over your shoulder to see your very big and very sleepy boyfriend in the doorway.

"Morning sunshine," you whisper, not wanting to bother the man still sleeping on your couch.

"Morning," Sam grumbles back. "Whatcha doing?"

"I thought I'd make you guys breakfast. You seemed to be up late. You hungry?"

"Not really."

You stop in your tracks and slowly turn on your heels with a disbelieving expression. Sam is never not hungry in the morning, especially after a long night of research. You put down the bowl of pancake mix to actually look at him. Instead of his golden skin, his face is pale, almost a greenish color. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and he is leaning heavily on the doorframe. You step to him quickly, resting the back of your hand on his skin.

As you’re saying, "Oh my god, Sam, you’re burning up." He fully leans into your touch, "Mmmmhm, so cold."

You examine him with worried eyes. Sam is rarely sick, but when he is, his whole body tends to shut down. He doesn't take breaks very often, which means that whenever his body gets an opportunity to rest, it usually totally bails on him. "I think you caught something, honey."

"What? No, no, I'm fine. Just a little tired."

Your eyes roll back from his weak display of stubbornness. "Oh yeah? So you won't mind helping me run errands today and eat this big yummy breakfast I made for you guys?" Arms crossed on your chest, you dare him to say yes.

His brown eyes roam over the food accumulating on the counter, and you can see the moment he tries to hold back a gag. He looks like he's seconds away from keeling over.

"Okay, big, strong man. I'll have none of your 'can-do' attitude today. First order of business, you're taking a hot shower and getting in your laziest, comfiest clothes."

Without a complaint, he lets you drag him to the bathroom. That's when you know he's really not feeling well. Sam's like a zombie; he looks so out of it and confused, it's almost cute. You sit him down on the toilet, start the heater, and turn the water on.

"Stay here and take off your clothes," he barely nods as you head out of the quickly warming room to bring back clean clothes for him. When you come back, there's steam on the mirror, Sam's jeans are discarded on the floor, along with his plaid shirt. He sits on the small toilet, eyes closed, in his boxers, socks, and t-shirt.

"Got too tired to take off the rest?"

Sam looks at you with his signature pouty face. "Too cold."

You can't help but chuckle, "That's why I put the water at its warmest," before you help him take off his socks and shirt. Focused on your task, you barely allow yourself to look at his chiseled chest, no matter how much you want to; no time for this today. "Come on, big guy. I promise a warm shower will help. I put your clothes on the counter. Take as long as you need."

Just from running your fingers through his hair, you can feel how hot he is. In comparison with how cold he says he's feeling, you know this is some serious cold. Sam looks like a shadow of himself, and as much as you hate it and worry, a tiny part of you loves being allowed to see him in such a vulnerable state. You love that he trusts you and lets you take care of him. It wasn't always like this. It took time for him to lay down his guard with you. But now, you see just how much he's willing to put himself in your hands. Trust you with everything he is, even in those mundane moments. You quickly kiss his burning forehead. "Come on, I'll go and make sure Dean's still breathing."

He mumbles a 'thank you' before entering the warm shower with a groan.

You leave the cramped room only to find, as expected, Dean still sleeping, buried in the mountains of blankets on the couch. From the way he's hidden it's hard to tell whether he caught what Sam has. Deciding against waking the beast up, you're about to head back into the kitchen when you get interrupted by the loudest whine in the history of men. Dean moans as he stretches out. His eyes settle on you, looking at him warily. "What?" he groans. "What time is it? What's happening, and can someone turn the heater in this house, it's fucking freezing."

He wraps himself even tighter in the blankets, visibly shivering. His face has the same ashen texture as his brother's. No doubt, he's sick too. Crossing your arms on your chest, dropping your weight on one hip, you look at him with challenge in your eyes. "What...?"

The kitchen smells like chicken noodle soup when Sam enters the cozy little space. He's been used to empty kitchens filled with old leftovers and pizza cartons. That all changed with you. You love food and enjoy cooking; the kitchen is always full of life. The smell of a warm meal being cooked or sweet treats baking in the oven is a constant in your small house. He marvels at the aura of coziness you bring to everything you touch. Even him, wearing the clothes you picked out: wool socks, a pair of plaid pajama pants, and a brown hoodie you bought him a while ago. He's feeling a bit better, his damp hair curling at his temples, and his cheeks colored a healthy pink from the warmth of the shower.

You jump a little when you feel big hands wrap around your waist, but immediately relax into his embrace, his chin resting on your head.

"Smells good," his voice reverberates through your back like a soothing purring.

"Oh yeah? You're getting a little hungry?"

"I'm getting there. How's Dean?"

"Well, he's definitely sick too, and next in line for the shower. He's going to spend the day. You both need the rest."

"Oh, I'm sure he loved that."

"Let's just say I didn't give him much of a choice," you respond with a forced smile. You lean back and scream at the grumpy man on your couch. "Dean, shower's free. It's your turn!" You hear mumbled protests. "I swear I will stuff your ass in there."

Silence and then, heavy steps to the bathroom.

Sam looks at you with awe, "You're a true magician."

"I just know how to handle you Winchesters," you respond with a wink.

Everything is ready by the time Dean gets out of the shower. Having no clothes at your place, Sam lent him some of his, and it's so funny to see him floating in his little brother's pants and t-shirt.

"Feeling better?" A grumble's your only answer. "Want some soup?"

At the mention of food, Dean immediately brightens up. "You made us soup?" Sam, safely tucked by your side, only nods with a small smile. His eyes say: 'Told you she was amazing'

"I also made fresh bread with butter. That's the only other thing you're allowed today. That and some medicine."

He eagerly takes a seat next to his brother, losing no time to sip on the fuming bowl sitting on the low table in front of him. While the boys slurp on the hot soup with delighted hums, you put on one of your autumn classics, Scooby-doo: Spooky Island.

"Really?" mutters Sam with an amused grin.

Contradicted by his brother's immediate, "Hell yeah!"

"Really," you grin while pressing play.

"You know there's like a 99% chance you'll catch what we have if you stay here with us?" Dean manages to say between two mouthfuls of the warm broth.

"I know. But someone has to take care of you two. And in any case... I trust you would do the same for me?"

Immediately, you are answered by one soft yes and a snorted no. To which Sam responds with a backhanded smack on Dean's head.

"Dude!! Watch the soup," is all he thinks to say, of course, until his brother's dark look brings out a mumbled form of agreement from his lips.

Satisfied, you curl up your cold feet under the blanket. The house is warm, there's a smell of fresh-baked bread and aromas of your chicken noodle soup in the air. A soft light illuminates the living room, bathing everything in warm hues of gold. The Mystery Incorporated gang is headed for a trip to a mystical island, Dean's eyes glued on the tv, a rowdy laugh escaping him every time Shaggy or Scooby comes on screen. Slowly, your eyes slide to Sam, elbows on his knees, his eyes already fixed on you. A spark in them that makes your stomach flutter. He puts his bowl down and reaches for you, tucking your body in his arms. "Thank you. We never had anything like this. Thanks for showing us it's possible."

His words render you speechless. This man who keeps surprising you every day with his kindness and thoughtfulness. You're about to answer with something equally lovey and gooey when you get interrupted by a very vocal, "No chick flick moment! I'm trying to watch Scooby-Doo."