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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
dean winchester x reader (f) ! pre-s1, fluff(??), alcohol consumption, a bit of angst (??), he’s kinda begging and acting like a cutie, but can u blame him? 2k ish words srry idk, NO use of y/n
dean frequently visits u at the bar u work at. (after days of not visiting u bc of hunting) he knows he has to make it up to u so he decides to take his favorite waitress out for a drink & maybe smth more… ᥫ᭡.
pls support if u enjoy this (also, can u tell what ldr song i was inspired by??? lol.)
“Hello? Hello?” you say into the phone, absentmindedly wrapping the curly cord around your free hand. Your back is against the countertop.
Your eyes dart toward the window, where a black Chevy Impala pulls into the parking lot.
You smile to yourself, hanging up the phone.
Slipping off your apron, you set it beneath the counter just as the front door opens, the little bell chiming above it.
“Hey, you.”
Dean slides onto one of the stools in front of the counter, looking up at you.
You can tell he’s been dying to come by—the way his hand rests on the counter, his eyes briefly wandering around your place before landing back on you.
You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “So… what’ll it be?”
Dean scratches the back of his neck, looking away for a second. “Uh… yeah. Just a beer.”
“I thought you weren’t gonna come back.”
You say it softly, wiping a clean glass before pouring him a beer. “It’s nice seeing you’re still alive.” That earns a chuckle from him.
He takes the glass from your hands and brings it to his lips, his eyes never quite leaving yours. “Let me buy you something,” he says, setting the glass back down. Leaning in slightly, he gives you that familiar puppy-eyed look.
“No—Dean, you know I can’t…”
“Please,” he says. “C’mon. A coffee, or whatever.” He shrugs. He stays quiet. “When does your shift end?”
“Why?”
“Because… I really want to buy you a drink.”
“I told you, I’m working.”
He keeps staring at you until you finally give in “Fine… in ten minutes.”
“I’ll wait, then.”
He leans back in his chair, watching you work. Every now and then he asks for another beer, just to have an excuse to keep you there. His eyes follow you as you move behind the counter, the way you turn around, absentmindedly wiping your hands on your shirt.
Resting his head against the table, he glances up at you, tilting his head with a small smile. “I’m just gonna go get my stuff,” you say, gesturing toward the back room. “I’ll be right back.”
He nods. “Mm-hm.”
He watches you disappear through the door, quietly humming to himself while he waits. The second you come back with your purse hanging off your shoulder, his face lights up.
“So…” you smile, stopping in front of him. “You wanna get a drink here, or—”
“No, no, no.”
He stands, gently placing his hands on your shoulders.
“I haven’t seen you in days.” He softens his voice. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
He was standing close enough to kiss you.
Too close, probably. He didn’t move.
Instead, he found himself looking at you for a second longer than he should’ve.
Dean liked seeing you like this. Comfortable. Smiling at him.
He’d never admit it, but he liked chasing after you too—showing up at your little bar every chance he got, pretending he was there for the beer when really, he just wanted to see you.
Although, judging by the look on your face, you might just slap him. He wouldn’t mind all that much.
“Y-you look…” He lets out a breath.
“Amazing.” He tilts his head.
“Dean, I’m wearing my uniform.”
“I know.” He shrugs.
“That’s why I’m telling you.”
“You’re so full of bull—”
“Just get in the car,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. He even has the decency to open the passenger door for you. Such a gentleman. A few moments later, he’s behind the wheel, the Impala rumbling to life. As he pulls onto the road, his eyes keep darting over to you.
“So…” He clears his throat. “What’ve you been up to?” He catches your smile and chuckles to himself.
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
He nods immediately. “Jesus, alright, woman…” His eyes snap back forward.
A minute later, while you’re looking out the window, he gently tugs at your sleeve. “Hey, check out that diner. We could stop there.” He glances at you. No answer. He pulls in anyway.
“If you don’t want to, we can just stay in the car. It’s cold out, we can—” The passenger door opens.
“Hey—”
He laughs under his breath before getting out after you.
“Would you wait a damn second?” he calls, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he follows you inside. He gently grabs your arm as you step into the diner.
“Are you, like… mad at me?”
“What?” You look back. “No. I’m just trying to get us a table.”
You both slide into a booth just as a waitress walks over.
“You guys ready to order?”
“I’ll just have a milkshake,” you say with a small shrug. “I’ll have some fries,” Dean mutters, sitting across from you.
The waitress nods and leaves.
“So…” you begin. “How’s your brother?”
Dean lets out a sigh.
“I don’t really wanna talk about him.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “He’s… busy.” The waitress returns with Dean’s fries and your milkshake. Without asking, Dean reaches over, grabs your milkshake, and takes a sip.
He looks up at you with a tiny grin. He definitely notices your staring. “…Sorry, ‘kay?” He slides it back across the table, sounding like a kicked puppy as he bites into a fry.
“I didn’t say anything.” You take another sip, watching your glass.
Dean follows your gaze without realizing it. Then he reaches across the table, putting his hand on your cheek.
“You haven’t changed a bit.” He tries not to smile.
“You always say that. It’s getting cheesy.”
“I thought you liked me cheesy.”
“Maybe.” You steal a fry from his plate. Dean watches you, grin tugging at his mouth.
“I’m gonna steal something else from you,” he murmurs. “What did you just say?”
“…Nothing.”
Silence.
“I was just thinking…” He clears his throat. “We could spend the rest of the night at the motel I’m staying in.”
“I have work tomorrow, Dean..” You take a sip of your milkshake. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says. “Or… we could just sit in the car for a while.”
“You’ll be miles away tomorrow.” You look down.
“Yeah.” His voice softens. “That’s exactly why I’m here tonight.”
“And it means a lot… it really does, but—”
“Hey.” You look up. “You’ll always be my favorite waitress, okay?” He tilts his head, giving you a small, lopsided smile.
“Shouldn’t you say I’m your favorite waitress?” you chuckle.
…
He’s leaning against the driver’s door of the Impala, you standing in front of him.
“I guess I should drive you home or something.”
His hands stay in his jacket pockets. “Yeah, you should.” You smile. “Like a total gentleman.” He lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades.
“I’ll be miles away… just like you said.” His tone shifts.
“And I…” He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s not easy, what I do.”
For the first time all night, he looks genuinely guilty. A quiet silence settles between you. Then, almost awkwardly, he opens his arms.
The hug is warm despite the cold night air.
Dean lets out a slow breath as his arms wrap around you, eyes closing for a second. He holds you a little tighter than he should.
When you finally pull back, neither of you goes far.
His nose brushes your ear. Then the tip of his nose grazes yours.
Everything stops.
Dean’s smile fades into something softer.
His eyes search yours—asking without words. Before you can think, he’s already sliding a hand to your face, gently pulling you closer.
And then he kisses you.
He even turns you around, pressing you gently against the cool metal of Baby. This is exactly how he pictured it.
The breeze wrapping around both of you, your hair falling across your face while he kissed you like it might be the last time.
You can hear him open the car door, guiding you carefully toward the back seat.
Then he pauses. Just for a second. Like he’s thinking. Like he’s trying not to ruin it. A soft breath leaves him before he continues. Carefully, he helps you into the back seat.
Good customers like him really should leave big tips, right?
sam winchester x reader ! TEXT MESSAGES, bf!sam (??), not in order.
plsss enjoy! since, in my opinion, the dean text messages went well im doing sam now. feed back is always welcome & appreciated!!!! I apologize if they come a it unaccurate lol
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
⋰˚☆ best friend!sam x reader (feat. dean) | fluff | 2.5k
⋰˚☆ where you'd been best friends since stanford, and now you were finding the courage to tell sam you were in love with his brother.
⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, you left stanford to join sam in hunting, reader has a huge crush on dean but has been good at hiding it, sam being reassuring
a/n: a dean part two possibly pending…
you were meant to be doing research.
sam sat on one of the beds with a few books, you sat at the table by the motel’s window.
the bed would’ve been more comfortable, but you could see dean outside from here. packing up the car, trying to fix whatever issue was stopping the impala from starting.
that was much more exciting than any research.
dean was never the kind of guy you thought you’d end up liking.
rough around the edges, always teasing sam, knew that he used to call him a nerd for going to stanford— just like you. he was into cars, old music, none of the things you thought you’d be focused on.
you imagined ending up with someone like sam. someone who always noticed little things about you, checked you were okay, enjoyed having deep conversations about lore with you.
things that weren’t completely dean.
so, once you figured it out, you kept it a secret. hid the fact that you’d fallen head over heels for your best friends brother.
you loved how much he cared for the impala, how he knew so many lyrics to his favourite songs, always singing along to the cassette tapes when you drove anywhere.
you enjoyed seeing how much he loved pie. mostly from any diner you could stop at. it could be anything, cherry pie, apple pie, chocolate silk pie— which you soon discovered was your favourite after dean let you share a slice with him.
as much as you were good at hiding it, it was getting harder.
you’d never want to hurt sam. he was the first person who talked to you when you joined stanford, helped you study, went to the library together, got to hang out in your dorm instead of going to loud college parties.
no one had ever been a better friend to you than he had, and you didn’t want to ruin that by admitting you liked his brother.
leaning on your hand, eyes on dean, the way he walked around his car so smoothly, how he knew exactly what he was looking for it was—
“you okay?” sam’s voice broke your daydream.
you turned to him, saw he was moving, shuffling to the edge of the bed to get up and walk over to where you were. to see what was so intriguing out the window.
“hm?” you ran a hand through your hair. “i’m fine, did you find something?”
he laughed almost silently, seeing you were confused right after. he sat down in the chair opposite you, looked out the window, saw dean still working on baby.
is that what you’d been looking at? he wondered.
he reached for you, took your hand in his, “i know you wanna get out of here, it’s rough being stuck in a cramped motel. but, i’m sure dean’ll have the car up and running again in no time.”
you forced a smile, nodding as if you agreed. you didn’t care about leaving, didn’t care that this room was smaller than normal.
all that you could think about was dean. how upset sam will be with you once you tell him the truth. because, you had to tell him. you couldn’t not tell your best friend that you literally dream about being with his brother.
“it’s not that,” sam read the expression on your face.
for once, he couldn’t work out what was wrong, what had you so distracted in your own mind. usually he would figure it out before you had a chance to say it out loud.
he stood, kept your hand enclosed in his as he pulled you up from your chair, dragging you gently over to the closest bed. you sat down with him, arm to arm, his moving to rest around your waist.
it was comforting when he did that, always had been. made you feel like you could spill your deepest secrets without him getting mad.
you were sure this time would be different though.
“hey,” sam whispered, leaning to tuck your hair behind your ears as he had done many times when you’d been worried about something. “you can talk to me, you know? about anything, whatever’s eating at you.”
“jus’ don’t want you to be mad at me,” you mumbled, looking into your lap.
sam chuckled, “when have i ever been mad at you, hon?” a sigh left you, knew he was right. he continued. “i’m not gonna force you to talk, but i’m sure it’ll help to get it off your chest.
just as you went to speak, as if on cue, dean walked back into the room. digging around in his packed bag for something. your eyes met his, a small smile, then he was gone again.
you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, waited until you saw dean definitely fully focused on the impala. not wanting him to walk in mid sentence.
“so, you remember when i used to make that joke about relationships,” you started. “back at stanford.”
sam hummed, “that you’d never want one because all the guys at school were assholes?” he asked. you nodded.
“i think i changed my mind.”
his brow furrowed, “you— what made you decide that?” he shuffled, looking at you. “especially now, while we’re always moving around. it’s not like you’ve had time to meet anyone.”
you took a breath, wondering how you were going to say this. that you were really about to do this.
you thought you could shove your feelings down until they disappeared. then you could just carry on like normal, best friends with sam, nothing awkward between you three.
maybe there was a different approach you could take. not so blunt about having feelings for dean. you could ease sam into it, let him figure it out.
“do you remember last month,” you glanced to sam. “dean and i went to talk to those victims, and we came back late because dean got distracted talking to me about his cassette tape collection.”
“how could i forget,” he shook his head, remembering how giddy dean was about it.
you paused for a moment, “then, a couple weeks ago, dean gave me his jacket when i was uncomfortable in that bar,” you continued. “after those guys kept heckling me, he put them in their place after too.”
now, sam started becoming more confused. these were all things he mostly knew about.
knew dean had given you a rundown about metallica, played you a few songs on the drive to the motel. knew you were bothered by guys at a bar after you told him, knew dean had helped and you walked though the door with his leather jacket around your shoulders.
he didn’t know what relevance this had to you changing your mind on relationships. especially now, randomly during a case.
“there was also that time that i convinced dean to come to the library for research with me rather than going alone,” you smiled thinking about it. “and he helped find the books i needed, even though he hated how quiet we had to be in there.”
sam looked away, outside to dean. your gaze landed on sam, saw his jaw clenching, confusion written all over his face.
he could usually get a read on you. know what you were talking about, understand how you were feeling without having to get you to explain.
this time, he didn’t understand. or maybe it’s just that he didn’t want to.
“sam,” you reached for him, hand resting over his.
he looked down at you, saw that small blush on your cheeks that you only got when dean felt like teasing you instead of him. and then… it started to make more sense.
you closed your eyes as your mouth opened, “i think i’m in love with dean.”
silence.
the room quiet. only the buzzing of the heater at the end of the space.
breath held, you opened your eyes. saw sam looking at you, a hint of disbelief. but, he wasn’t mad. he was far from it.
“love is a strong word,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking out at dean again. “you mean that dean? my brother dean?”
you pulled back from sam, moving to stand up. he grabbed your hand, standing with you, towering over you while you couldn’t bring your eyes to meet his.
“okay, hey,” his voice lowered, being serious. “you really like him?”
“yea,” a mumble. “i’m sorry, sammy.”
he tilted your chin up, “why are you saying sorry?”
“because you’re my best friend,” your eyes glazed over, tears welling up. “and he’s your brother. that’s the last thing you probably ever wanted to hear.”
it wasn’t unusual for you to get teary eyed. worried sam would be upset with you, worried he’d hate you for having feelings for dean. it was overwhelming, now that you’d admitted it out loud.
sam didn’t reply at first. focusing on wiping your tears away ever so gently with the pads of his thumbs. something he’d done many times after crazy hunts.
“sit back down for me, okay?” he gently rubbed your shoulder.
you moved slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed where sam guided you to. he didn’t sit, kneeling down in front of you instead, leaning his arms on your legs.
“take a breath,” he murmured. waiting for you to do so. “i’m not mad at you, alright? not gonna be mad about something you can’t control.”
“okay,” a whisper.
he waited a few more moments, making sure you weren’t upset, not worked up anymore. no more tears, just steady breaths a sam cradled your hands in between his palms.
“tell me about this little crush,” his thumbs moved back and forth. “when did it start?”
your eyes did meet sam’s this time, “few months,” you were honest. “i didn’t like how harsh he was during hunts at first, but— there’s a soft spot in there, only comes out every so often. that’s when i first felt it.”
sam nodded, full focus on you, listening.
“he’s funny too,” a smile grew on your lips. “how fast he is with those witty remarks, and sometimes i like it when he teases me for being smart— like you. it was annoying at the start but, i kinda like it now.”
he rolled his eyes a little at that. to sam, the teasing was still mostly annoying. very dean. but annoying. yet somehow, you had to try hard not to blush every time it happened.
“and he shares pie with me,” a giggle left your lips. eyes widening.
sam tried not to laugh, “did you just… giggle?”
you hit his shoulder lightly, “shut up.”
his hands raised in defence as he stood, moving to sit beside you. taking a beat, leaving the room to be quiet again for a minute.
“listen,” you sighed. “i didn’t expect this to happen, dean isn’t exactly the kinda person i ever thought i’d fall for.”
“who did you think you’d fall for?”
“someone more like you,” you admitted, glancing to sam. “someone who more easily shows that they care, someone who’s easier to talk to.”
sam was appreciative of that. glad you knew he always cared, ever since you both met. none of that would ever change.
“dean can be… complicated,” he wanted to be honest, maybe try to help out a little. “just be patient with him, and keep being there for him, even if he tries to push you away.”
first, you nodded. then, your eyebrows kitted together, staring at sam. he didn’t know what the look was for, laughing softly.
“are you giving me advice?”
he wouldn’t admit it, wanted you to feel like you’re doing it yourself, “i just want you to be happy,” he threw and arm around your shoulder. “even if it happens to be with my brother.”
you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, breathing softly. finally more calm than before, after finding out sam’s reaction wasn’t upset, but wanting you to keep doing whatever makes you happiest.
“i don’t know what im supposed to do,” your shoulders slouched. “not like i’ve had any experience in the relationship department.”
sam shook his head, “sure you have,” he nudged your leg with his. “i took you on that date for valentines, remember?”
your eyes rolled, “yea, cause you felt bad i didn’t have a real date.”
a pause, sam understanding your worry, your nerves. it’s always scary when you get to a certain age and have no real love experience. but, that shouldn’t change anything. didn’t matter when it happened, you still deserved it.
“you’ve gotta start somewhere, you know? doesn’t matter if you’ve had experience or not,” sam leaned his head atop yours. “whatever you decide to do, i’ll be here to help, to support you. like i always have been.”
“thank you, sammy,” you say just above a whisper. “love you.”
he smiled, “love you too, honey.”
at that moment, dean burst through the motel door. a little grease on his face, dirt on his hands, but a big smile plastered across his cheeks.
“guess who got the impala— fixed?” he hesitated. looked at sam, then to you. “what i miss?”
you sat up, looking towards sam who’s eyebrows were raised. an expression that said he wanted to help you, to say something. you subtly shook your head. one that said not now.
“nothing,” sam stood, grabbing his packed bag from beside the bed. “she’s just ready to get going.”
dean’s eyes landed on you, the teary eyes, rosey cheeks. sam saw the way his expression softened, a mix of worry, and— something else he couldn’t quite read.
without saying a word, dean grabbed your bag for you, “i’ll put this in the back for you,” he stood quiet for a moment, clearing his throat quietly. “ready to go when you are.”
he walked outside again, leaving the door open assuming sam would be following closely behind.
sam waited for you to stand up off the bed, joining him at his side. he heard the breath you let out. a nervous one, to do with dean.
“hey,” he got your attention. “thank you for telling me.”
“thank you for being understanding,” you replied, small smile.
then, sam ushered you out the door. heading over to the impala where you’d sit in the back, behind the front passenger seat, sam who would ride shotgun.
same as always, dean threw on a metallica cassette as the drive to the next town began. glancing back at you in the rear view mirror a few too many times.
which sam was all of a sudden more aware of.
he’d find time to talk to dean. not about your feelings, but maybe if he tried, he could pry a few things out of him from deep down. for your sake.
things would stay the same for now.
your feelings known to sam, a secret to dean.
but who knows, with the life you lead, things could change when you least expect it. and sam would be there to support you the whole way.
taglist: @filthgf @icpsammy @milkyhrtss @reginaphalangelobster @lollyybunny @biancalinkas @moosewithabackstory @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @rott3ndesire @spac3cowgir1 @scenteddimensiontrap @haylielovesfolklore @alasdecas @fuiabarcelos @spectralgalaxygauntlet @k4renp4ge @look-to-the-starsz @babygirlbandit | if you would like to join my sam winchester taglist, please comment here or see this post
summary.ᐟ you left your old life behind to hunt by dean's side, but your past isn't entirely dead. when a case brings you back to your hometown, your ex-boyfriend tracks you down at a local diner; he isn't about to let some arrogant ghost from your past make you uncomfortable. inspired by my way by olivia rodrigo as part of my you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love series
warnings.ᐟ lowercase intended, a few uses of y/n, an ex who doesn’t know when to quit, hints of jealous!dean, mild violence (very mild. nothing major)
the salt shaker was almost empty. it sat precisely three inches from the edge of the laminated menu, waiting for someone to notice.
dean watched the waitress refill the coffee pots, the steam blurring the view of the parking lot outside. he leaned back in the vinyl booth, his boots crossed at the ankles, feeling the familiar weight of the handgun tucked against the small of his back. beside him, the air felt lighter, warmer, because you was there. they had spent the last three hours debating the merits of local greasy spoons versus the diners in the next county over, a conversation that felt like a luxury after a week of sleeping in cars and tracking something that didn't want to be found.
"you're staring," you said, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
"just thinking about the pie," dean lied, though he didn't look away. he liked the way you looked in this light, away from the grit of the road and the shadow of whatever they were hunting. he reached over and gave your hand a quick, grounding squeeze, the kind of gesture that didn't need words. they were in your hometown for a job, but for a few hours, the job felt like a distant memory.
the chime above the door rang, admitting a gust of air and a man in a well-tailored wool coat. he didn't look like a hunter or a monster; he looked like a guy who had never had to worry about where his next meal was coming from. he paused, scanning the room with a confidence that bordered on presumption, until his eyes landed on their booth. he didn't hesitate. he walked straight toward them, his pace brisk and certain, as if the space between them was something he already owned.
"y/n?" the voice was smooth, practiced, and carried the kind of effortless entitlement that usually belonged to people who spent their twenties in corporate law or real estate. he didn’t wait for an answer before sliding into the booth, practically shoving dean to the edge of the vinyl seat to make room for himself. he didn’t look at dean; he looked at you, his expression a mixture of bewildered triumph and an assumption that he'd been waiting to find her.
dean felt the sudden shift in the atmosphere. he didn’t move, but his muscles tightened, his body instinctively shifting into a protective posture. he watched the man lean in, his arm draping across the back of the booth in a way that claimed the space. the guy started talking, a rapid-fire stream of questions about where you’d been and why you hadn’t answered his emails, his tone implying that your disappearance from his life had been a temporary lapse in judgment rather than a deliberate choice.
beside him, you had gone rigid. the warmth dean had felt just moments ago vanished, replaced by a tension that radiated off her in waves. you didn't look at the man with longing; you looked at him like he was a puzzle piece from a game you had stopped playing years ago. you started to speak, your voice cautious and strained, trying to maintain the politeness of a stranger, but the man just talked over you, his confidence acting like a vacuum, sucking the air out of the conversation.
dean didn't like the way the guy's hand lingered near your shoulder, or the way he spoke about you as if you were a piece of property he’d recently rediscovered in a storage unit. he felt a cold, sharp clarity settle over him. he knew this type—the kind of man who thought the world was a series of rooms designed specifically for his convenience. he also knew that you had worked hard to build a life far away from this particular brand of arrogance.
slowly, dean leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and interrupting the man with a low, measured tone. "excuse me, pal," dean said, his voice cutting through the monologue like a blade. he didn't shout, but there was a predatory stillness in his eyes that usually made demons hesitate. "we were actually in the middle of a conversation. and unless you've got a reservation for this booth, you're sitting in my space."
the man blinked, finally shifting his gaze from you to dean. he looked at dean’s flannel shirt and the rugged, worn edges of his leather jacket, his expression shifting from confusion to a flicker of disdain. he didn't pull his arm back from the booth; instead, he leaned further into the space, his posture radiating a curated kind of superiority.
"i'm sorry, and you are?" the man asked, his voice dropping into a tone that suggested he was indulging a particularly slow child.
dean didn't blink. he didn't need to play the game of social standing because he knew exactly where he stood. he felt the weight of the gun at his back and the weight of the years he'd spent staring down things that could rip a man's heart out with a fingernail. this guy was just a suit with a haircut. dean’s hand slid casually across the table, not to grab the man, but to slide the salt shaker a few inches closer to the edge, his eyes never leaving the stranger's.
"i'm the guy who's telling you that you're overstaying your welcome," dean replied. his voice was quiet, almost a whisper, which somehow made it more menacing. he could feel you shifting beside him, your breath hitching. you knew that tone. it was the one dean used right before he stopped being polite and started being effective.
the man let out a short, dry laugh, finally looking at you. "is this some kind of joke, y/n? who is this? some... road companion you picked up in your little phase?"
the phrase "little phase" hit dean like a physical blow, though not one that hurt. instead, it served as a catalyst, sharpening his focus. he didn't like the way the guy looked at you—like you were a rebellious teenager who had finally wandered back to the correct path—but he liked the way you were looking at the man even less. your eyes weren't filled with nostalgia; they were filled with a weary, crushing exhaustion.
dean shifted his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking. he didn't need to play the part of the bodyguard; he was more of a sentinel. he let a slow, dangerous smile pull at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile that usually preceded a very bad day for whoever was on the receiving end.
"phase, huh?" dean asked, his voice deceptively light. he didn't look at you, but he could feel the way you was leaning away from the man, your shoulder almost brushing against dean's chest. "that's an interesting word. most people use 'life' or 'career' or 'everything that actually matters,' but sure, let's go with 'phase.'"
the man sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience, and finally shifted his arm from the back of the booth. he didn't pull away entirely, but he reached for the water glass on the table, his movements calculated and poised. "look, whoever you are, you're clearly not the type of company y/n usually keeps. y/n honey, let's be realistic. whatever... adventure you're on, it's time to come back to reality. we have things to discuss. people are asking about you."
"the only person asking about her is you," dean interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. he didn't move his hand from the table, but his fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the laminate. "and from where i'm sitting, the 'reality' is that you're interrupting a meal and making my partner very uncomfortable. now, i'm going to give you one chance to stand up, walk back to the door, and find a different place to spend your afternoon."
the man didn’t stand. instead, he leaned in closer, his expensive wool coat brushing against the table. he looked at dean not as a threat, but as a nuisance. a smudge on a polished window that just needed to be wiped away. "you've got some nerve," he murmured, his gaze finally flicking to you with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "i don't know what kind of game you're playing, el, but this is embarrassing. truly. you’ve traded a future for… what? a guy who looks like he sleeps in a garage?"
your hand tightened on the table, your knuckles turning white. you didn't look at the man; you looked at dean, and for a second, the exhaustion in your eyes flickered into something sharper, something that mirrored dean’s own intensity. you weren't asking for rescue; you were capable of handling your own ghosts, but you were leaning into dean, trusting him to be the wall between you and the life you’d spent years scrubbing off your skin.
dean felt a surge of something hot and protective coil in his gut. he didn't care about the guy's bank account or his tailored suit; he cared about the way you was shrinking into the vinyl of the booth. he shifted his position, his shoulder squaring off, effectively cutting off the man’s access to you. the movement was subtle, but it changed the geometry of the booth. the man was no longer sliding in; he was being crowded out.
"you're not listening," dean said, his voice now a low, dangerous rumble. he didn't raise his volume, but the sheer weight of his presence seemed to expand, filling the small space until the air felt thick. "i'm not asking you to leave because of some social etiquette. i'm telling you to leave because you're currently occupying a space that doesn't belong to you, talking to a woman who clearly doesn't want to hear your voice."
the man opened his mouth to retort, his chest puffing out in a reflexive display of dominance, but dean’s timing was perfect. he reached out and gripped the man's wrist. not a punch, not a shove, but a firm, crushing hold that pinned the man's arm to the table. it wasn't violent, but it was absolute. dean’s grip was the grip of a man who had wrestled things that didn't have bones, and the sudden, jarring realization of the strength in dean's hand made the man's composure crack.
the man’s breath hitched, his polished exterior fracturing as he stared down at dean’s hand. for a moment, the only sound in the diner was the distant hiss of the grill and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. the man tried to pull back, a reflexive jerk of the arm, but dean didn't budge. he didn't squeeze hard enough to break skin, but he applied just enough pressure to let the other man know that his entire physical existence was currently subject to dean's whim.
"now," dean said, his voice as steady as a heartbeat. "the exit is that way. you can walk out with your dignity, or you can find out exactly how much space i'm willing to make for you."
the man’s gaze flickered to you, searching for a lifeline, a sign that you would intervene and save him from this uncouth encounter. but you weren't looking at him anymore. you were looking at dean, your expression softening from exhaustion into something like pride. you leaned back into the vinyl, your posture relaxing for the first time since marcus had walked through the door.
"go home, marcus," you said, your voice quiet but devoid of the hesitation you’d shown earlier. "stop pretending you care about who's asking about me. you're the only one who ever did, and you only did it to make sure i was still in your orbit."
the blow landed harder than any physical strike could have. marcus blinked, the shock of your bluntness momentarily overriding the panic of dean's grip. he looked at the two of them, the woman he thought he owned and the man who looked like he could dismantle him with a glance, and realized the power dynamic had shifted irrevocably. he wasn't the protagonist in this scene; he was a footnote.
dean didn’t let go immediately. he waited for the silence to settle, letting marcus feel the sudden, sharp vacuum where his confidence used to be. when he finally released the wrist, he did it with a slow, deliberate flick of his fingers, as if he were tossing away a piece of trash. marcus stared at his arm, the skin reddened where dean’s grip had been, and then looked back at you. he opened his mouth to offer one last parting shot, but the look in dean’s eyes—the cold, calculating stare of a man who had seen the bottom of the pit and climbed back out—shut him down.
marcus stood up, the legs of the booth scraping harshly against the linoleum floor. he smoothed the front of his wool coat, a reflexive attempt to reclaim a shred of the dignity he’d just surrendered. he didn’t look back as he walked toward the door, though he did pause briefly to glance over his shoulder, hoping for a sign of hesitation from you. he found none. the chime above the door rang again, a sharp, final punctuation mark as he stepped back out into the sunlight.
the silence that followed was different from the one before. the tension didn't vanish, but it shifted, transforming from a defensive wall into a shared exhale. dean didn't move for a few seconds, his gaze fixed on the door until the man’s car peeled away from the curb. then, he slowly slumped back into the vinyl, the predatory stillness evaporating and leaving behind the familiar, weary dean.
"you okay?" he asked, his voice returning to that low, gravelly warmth. he didn't look at you yet, instead focusing on the half-empty coffee pot.
you let out a long, shuddering breath, your shoulders dropping an inch. you turned toward him, and the look in your eyes wasn't just pride; it was a profound sense of relief. "i've spent three years imagining that conversation," you admitted, your voice still a bit shaky. "but in every version, i'm the one doing the talking, and i'm still not as effective as you were with one hand."
dean let out a short, huffing laugh, the kind that started in his chest and ended with a slight shake of his head. the intensity that had made marcus look like a deer in headlights vanished, replaced by a crooked, boyish grin. "please," he said, finally looking at you, his eyes dancing. "the guy was a walking brochure for a country club. i didn't even have to use the 'scary voice' for that one. i think he was intimidated by the flannel."
you didn't laugh, but you didn't look away either. you leaned closer, your shoulder pressing firmly against his, your gaze traveling from the rugged line of his jaw up to the spark of triumph in his eyes. "i don't know," you murmured, your voice dropping into a playful, low register. "the whole 'i'm the guy who's telling you to leave' bit? the wrist-grip? i think that was kind of sexy."
dean froze, his grin faltering as he processed the comment. he had faced the depths of purgatory and traded blows with archangels, but a compliment from you always managed to knock the wind out of him. a faint, rare flush crept up the back of his neck, creeping toward his ears. he cleared his throat, suddenly finding the salt shaker incredibly interesting. "sexy, huh?" he muttered, trying to regain his composure. "i'm a regular romantic lead."
"you're a dork," you corrected, though you were smiling now, the tension of your past completely dissolved. you reached over and squeezed his hand again, your touch lingering. "but you're my dork. and you're a very effective bodyguard."
"well," dean said, leaning back and stretching his arms out over the vinyl, feeling a surge of genuine contentment. "since i've officially cleared the perimeter of all corporate-law threats, i think i've earned that pie we talked about. and since you think i'm so 'sexy,' you're paying."
watching a scary movie with dean <3 (happy summerween!)
Word Count: 1.1K
Content: Gender neutral reader, established relationship, soft Dean, domestic fluff
Note: Summerween was technically on the 22nd but the idea was too cute not to write about. Enjoy! :3
It’s a sweltering July, filled with cicadas and sweet morning sunshine. You make a trip to the nearest grocery store and pay for three small watermelons in cash, fashioning your hair beneath a baseball cap and covering your eyes with sunglasses—there is no such thing as being too careful this close to the bunker. When Sam sees you enter the kitchen to root around for knives, he looks up from his book and raises his eyebrows.
He’s been hooked on fiction, to your surprise. With no recent hunts to bury himself in, Sam seems content with romance novels.
“I think they sell those in larger sizes,” he says.
“They’re for carving.” You’re opening cabinet after cabinet, placing the smaller butter knives on the countertops and moving on to the next. It seems that there can never be enough of them in a house full of hunters.
“Like pumpkins?”
“It’s summerween.”
He blinks.
“Like Halloween, you know,” you explain. “But it's in July.”
Sam nods along. “No trick-or-treating?”
You smile. “I might be a little too old for that.”
“A little too old for what?” Dean asks. He strolls in from the hallway, making a turn around the countertop and pulling you into him.
Sam lets out an audible sigh and lifts the pages of his book up high enough to shield his eyes.
“Nothing,” you reply. “Sam just told me he doesn’t want to watch any scary movies tonight.”
“I did not say that,” Sam says immediately.
Dean grins. “You used to squeal like a girl whenever we watched Friday the 13th.”
You look up at Dean. “I haven’t seen it before,” you admit.
“What?" He seems entirely disgusted. Then again, he's made you do all kinds of classic movie marathons, The Godfather being the first. For the culture, Dean likes to say. He also likes to have you in his lap, but that's neither here nor there. "Then we’re watching the original. No ifs ands or buts."
You make Sam and Dean sit at the dinner table and set down a large cloth for the watermelon scraps. Dean scoots his chair next to you and places his chin on your shoulder, watching as you cut triangles out for eyes.
"You're supposed to be doing your own," you say lightly. His hand sneaks around your waist, thumbs sneaking below the hem of your shirt and settling on your skin.
"Doesn't this count?"
"No."
“Too bad, then."
Dean takes a discarded piece of watermelon and lifts it to your lips. You bite down, smiling as some of the juice drips down onto your chin. The pad of his thumb swipes it away for you, and he hums as he licks it off.
Sam scratches his head. “…Alright, then.”
Sam loves you like he would a sister, but God, you and Dean are disgusting. He hasn’t carved into his watermelon yet, instead cutting it into nice cubes and storing the pieces into Tupperware for later. Sam can already tell that Dean won’t be touching his own, so he stores the third in the fridge. Sam makes a quick exit afterward, muttering an excuse about wanting to read in silence.
Dean finds every way to distract you from making your watermelon look anything close to a Halloween pumpkin, including trying to eat it away from your fingertips. He’ll press kisses to your temple and your cheek, bump knees with yours under the table, and talk to you about nonsense—why are you cutting it that way, or, why don’t you just do it like this, and then he’ll try to write something obscene on your work. You’re certain he just wants to hear your voice chastising him. But the worst is the staring.
Dean can’t take his eyes off of you. He likes your delicate hands, your shoulders, your mouth, your eyes, your hair. Your insecurities got to you in the beginning, thinking that one day he’d tire of looking at the same thing over and over. But that’s never been the case, not with you.
When your watermelon is done, he takes it in both hands and turns it left and right. “Perfect.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“It’s our watermelon, what else would it be?”
“Ours?” You repeat.
“Well, yeah. I helped you.”
“Tell me exactly what you helped with.”
“This,” he says, placing the watermelon on the table and placing a hand on your knee that trails upward toward your thighs.
“You’re disgusting,” you sigh, but there’s a small smile on your face.
Sam politely rejects the idea of watching Friday the 13th, leaving you and Dean the space to share the sofa. You sit on the opposite side at first, wanting to set up your own side (truth be told, because Dean will eat your snacks). But Dean stares at you when you do.
“Why are you sitting over there?”
“I like it over here.”
“You mad at me or somethin’?”
“What? No, Dean.”
“Then c’mere.”
There’s a perfectly you-sized space right next to him, and he places his arm around you as you settle against his side. You nestle easily, resting your head on his chest while Dean pulls a warm, soft blanket over your bodies.
The movie is as kitschy as it gets—it feels like all the murder cliches in one package, with teens making out and getting chased and being complete idiots. You laugh at most of the scary scenes.
“Hey,” Dean says softly, “this used a big deal back in the day.”
And then you jump. It’s only once, for a scare you weren’t expecting. You turn your head into Dean’s neck, calming the beat of your heart.
Dean tightens his hold around you and lays a kiss to your head. There’s a stupid grin on his face. “Thought you said it was stupid.”
“Still is,” you say. “We’ve seen worse.”
“I’d protect you, y’know.”
You intertwine your fingers with his. “I know.”
You fall asleep in his arms near the end, right before the reveal about Jason’s mother and his return. It’s only the most important part of the story, but he’ll tell you when you wake. Dean carries you to his bed once the movie has ended, tucks you into his sheets, and climbs in for the night.
Because maybe you were right about Friday the 13th being ridiculous and overdone. That people really have no idea what’s going on in your world. Demons, ghosts, angels, Lucifer, the whole nine. But Dean is glad to have you in his world, where he can protect you and keep you safe. If it were his choice, none of those guys would ever come near, but you still look like a badass with a shotgun. His badass.
Dean listens to your slow breaths until he falls asleep, knowing that you’ll be there for him in the morning.
ꔫ dean's favourite thing is when both of you find the same girl hot. when you two are at a bar and he's scanning the room he also tries guessing who you find pretty (and often gets it right)
ꔫ would aaaaaalways try setting you up with girls you found pretty when working in cases together, sending you to a witness' place to interview her but also so you can flirt 😭
ꔫ he'd make some jokes but would be very careful to not offend you and would check if they were chill with you before telling them
ꔫ when both of you find the same girl hot he likes competing with you to see who will make her fall first but if the girl rejects you saying she's not into girls or something, he's like "you have no idea what you're missing" and winks at you 😭
ꔫ he loves hanging out with you and yap your ear off about everything and anything
ꔫ one time you call him a butch lesbian and he's so lost
ꔫ whenever dean would have any relationship issues or had made a girl upset with something, he'd ask you for advice since you understand girls better than he does
ꔫ dean would love to listen to the song girls girls girls by mötley crüe with you (thank you @wintrynightz for these 2 previous hcs <3 ily)
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ storms tend to make your pulse quicken and your senses go haywire, especially ones as severe as this, but don’t worry your best friend (or more?) is here to comfort you.
contents ٠࣪⭑ Sam Winchester x reader (f), unestablished relationship, bsf!sam, line between friendship and more is blurred, soft reader implied, fluffy, r is scared of lightning/storms (self indulgent tbh), a dash of angst, 1.7k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ wrote this in honor of the crazy storm that had me shaking in my boots the other day, if only Sam were real! Also I found zero storm related comfort fics for Sam or Dean so I wrote one myself lol
Thunder rolled loudly across the sky, rattling the motel room every so often, with lightning shooting across the sky and almost fooling you that it was day. You tried to ignore the rumbles outside, paying no mind to the raindrops pounding on the tin roof or the lights flickering on and off, that weren’t caused by the supernatural for once. And yet, it all made your stomach churn and your chest tight.
No matter how hard you focused on the book in your lap, no matter how much you tried to tough it out, your eyebrows furrowed and your hands ever so slightly started to shake.
It was tragic really. A professional killer who’s slain hundreds of monsters and spirits without batting an eye, is shaken up by weather. You knew it was silly and irrational, and you honestly love storms too, the rain made your soul feel cozy and the sounds were the perfect ambiance for reading and sipping cappuccinos. Still, the fear of being struck by lightning or getting caught up in horrible weather-related disasters prevailed, even when you tried to rationalize the situation.
You didn’t know it yet, but Sam could sense your distress. He saw the way you flinched a little when the thunder roared, the almost inaudible gasp that left your lips when the room was lit up by lighting, and the way you’ve been reading the same page of your book for about twenty minutes.
After he decides he’s watched you suffer enough, he abandons his own reading material and makes his way over to where you were curled up in the middle of your shared bed, your knees tucked up and your shoulders scrunched all the way up to your ears.
“you okay?” Sam murmured in that gentle way of his, the tone he used when he wanted to address something but he didn’t want to embarrass anyone, you knew that tone very well.
Your eyes flicked up to him, your stress-induced trance being broken by the sound of his voice.
“huh?— oh, yeah totally…” you murmured, trying your hardest to sound convincing, and failing. “why wouldn’t I be?”
Sam eyes flickered down to your lap, where your hands wouldn’t stop fiddling with themselves against the pages of your book, the skin around your cuticle becoming victim to your masochistic nails. You followed his gaze, your hands separating far too quickly when you realized. You looked away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“is it the storm?” He asked, not condensing, not joking, not accusatory— just… curious, caring.
“I- pfft no, what? that’s silly—“ before you could continue your terrible attempt at lying to your best friend, the power shut off accompanied by a loud BOOM!
The little squeal of terror that you let out was embarrassing, to say the least. The darkness flooded the small motel room like a thick black goo, its chilling presence akin to the fear entering your bones. The rooms only luminance being the ominous cracks of lightning that flickered before disappearing and coming back again unannounced.
You closed your eyes and covered your ears, book flying off your lap and landing somewhere with a measly thud, but it was as if nothing had changed. You could still hear the thunder and the trees swaying fiercely in the wind, the lightning still glowing even behind your eyelids.
“hey— hey, it’s okay” Sam comforted, hands searching and finding you quickly even in the dark. He sat close next to you, his big hands holding your shoulders, speaking to you so closely that you could feel his breath fan over your nose.
He murmured your name, gently stealing your attention. You could barely see his face, only catching glimpses of the curves of his face with every strike running across the sky.
“you’re okay, I promise, the storm should pass soon enough…”
You didn’t nod, just stared pathetically at where you thought his face was.
“the power going out is normal, especially for some place like this, I mean I don’t really expect a motel that hasn't changed their bedding since the early nineties to have a backup generator installed”
That pulled a soft huff that resembled a laugh out of you, bringing a slight smile to Sam’s empathetic expression. His hands moved to rest atop your knees, which they immediately paled small in comparison to his palms.
“stay right here, I'm gonna get some lights and candles, alright?” his voice came out smooth and achingly tender, if it were any other situation your cheeks would take on a reddish hue. You just nodded before realizing he can't see you.
“okay” you breathed, missing the warmth of his proximity the second he moved away.
It didn’t take long for Sam’s face to light up behind a flame, he was typically the most organized of you three, so naturally he knew exactly where to look for flashlights and mismatched sized candles in his duffle even in the dark. Plus it helped that always carried a lighter in his pocket, just in case he needed it alongside his lock picking kit and array of hidden pocket knives, of course.
Sam set up little candles by you first, grouping them together on the nightstand and lighting them before putting more in the bathroom and some on the table by the door. He came back to sit next to you, the storm still going strong outside, but now his face was softly lit by candlelight, highlighting his features in a way that made you feel just a little warmer and a little safer.
He handed you your flashlight, yes the one from your duffle, with that goofy and achingly gentle smile on his lips.
“I didn’t know you were afraid of storms” he murmured, no mocking locution in his voice.
You shied away a little in embarrassment. Your shoulders sagging with a breathy sigh leaving past your lips.
“I know it’s stupid and irrational… and ironic… but I just get so freaked out— and my mind starts spinning and thinking about all the horrible things that could happen,”
“It’s not stupid—“ he lightly interrupted you, “not at all,”
You smiled a little, chin resting on your knees, “thanks…”
“I honestly love storms and the rain, but just from afar I guess, they’re just so…” you paused searching for the words.
“uncontrollable?”
“yes— exactly, they’re uncontrollable and unruly and terrifying because you can’t really do anything to prevent your house from being blown over or getting struck by lightning—“
“hey, hey,“ Sam interrupted again, trying to hide the small smile pulling at his lips because of your rambling.
“I won’t let you get struck by lightning”
You wanted to give him the stink eye, tell him how that’s literally impossible, but you also know that he knows that, and you can’t help but get a fuzzy feeling from his soft insistence.
“Big commitment there, Samuel”
“Well, I guess I’m feeling charitable” he shrugged, causing you to let out a breathy giggle and to gingerly kick (more like tap) his shoulder with your socked foot.
It didn’t take long for another loud crack to ring through the room, the walls trembling just as you were. Sam’s face softened at your sharp breath and the flinch of your body, the fear glazed over your face did something to him.
Before you could shake it off you felt him shift, sitting close enough that your hips touched. His arm made its way behind and around your shoulders, pulling you in.
You didn’t have it in you to react much, rather you just melted into him. Your eyes squeezing shut and head ducking into him, you could feel the softness of his shirt on your face, his signature Sam smell— a warm, musky smell mixed with cheap bar soap and whatever light yet decadently masculine cologne he wears— filling your senses. You unashamedly tucked yourself into his side, your hand clutching itself more into his shirt with every flash of light that burst through the window.
You both sat there in silence, your body clung to his, his hand rubbing up and down your arm in an attempt to console you while his other rested on your leg, warm and grounding.
“d’you think Dean’s alright?” You asked just above a whisper, your voice muffled against his chest from not having moved from your spot one inch.
“definitely… he’s probably still in a food coma from all the junk he ate earlier” Sam murmured, a little smirk on his lips as he recalled seeing Dean’s arms full of gas station junk food when he went to go get ice for you, Dean mumbling something about how he can eat whatever he wants because he’s got his own motel room, then of course deflecting by telling Sam “don’t have too much fun, lovebirds” with a mocking smirk and wiggling his eyebrows.
“yeah…” you agreed absentmindedly.
“he’d come over here if something was wrong, right?”
Sam frowned a little, giving a gentle squeeze to your arm and muting your name.
“Deans alright, we’re alright, everything’s okay— you’ve got nothing to worry about, not as long as I’m here” he all but whispered the last part.
You opened your eyes, lifting your head a little to look at him.
“you mean that?”
He looked back at you, squeezing your arm again before continuing to rub it, his eyes glued in your softly lit features and wondering how you look even prettier in candlelight.
“yeah, I really do…”
You smiled a little, grateful and flattered and shy all at once. Your heart did another pitter-patter in your chest. You tucked yourself back into him, forehead resting just below his clavicle.
“I feel safe with you, Sammy”
Your whispered words threw Sam for a loop, his whole body freezing like a deer in headlights. His heart skipped a beat and he’s pretty sure he almost choked on his own breath, but he played it off. Just held you closer, resting his cheek at the top of your head, eyes fluttering shut as he discreetly inhaled the wonderful smell of your girly shampoo.
He desperately and selfishly wished the storm wouldn’t pass anytime soon… just so he can hold you like this a little longer.
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
cuddle pile ❪ n. ❫ — 〔 /ˈkəd(ə)l pīl/ 〕 𝟏. refers to the grouping of three (3) or more persons close together in a ‘pile-like’ formation in a caring manner, usually for sleep.
“the cuddle pile gives sam and dean the physical touch they’ve been missing.”
IN YOUR ENTIRE TIME KNOWING THE WINCHESTER BROTHERS, you’ve found yourself in a cuddle pile with them two times.
they’ve been drastically different situations, and yet, not very different in terms of the ‘pile’ itself: you sandwiched between both sam and dean, their heads resting on you, their arms slung over some part of you. they’re both breathing deep, both relaxed as much as they could be. they’re still wound so tight somewhere you can’t reach, somewhere no one can seem to penetrate—but yet, they let their guard down around you. and you hold that fact close in your heart.
⁰¹ AFTER A NIGHTMARE.
the first time, it’s from a place of sheer desperate need. dean comes into your room first, his chest heaving from another nightmare of the pit. he’s shaking when he approaches your bedside, like a leaf in the wind. you look up at him not with pity, but with every intention to just help him. to hold him. and that’s what makes him cave like a house of cards.
you don’t ask questions. you just hold him under your blankets, like you want to shield him from everything in the world. he’s grateful you don’t say anything. you’ve always been able to figure out exactly what dean needs, without him telling you a thing. it’s made him seek you out—because half the time, he doesn’t know what he needs.
dean ends up buried in your chest, holding onto you for dear life as he fights to keep from drowning. his breathing is just starting to even out against you when you hear a creak of the floorboard and see sam standing in your door. he, like dean, is also shaking. or a brief second, you wonder if they had the same nightmare. is that even a thing? but you sit up a little more, dean still in your arms. he’s tensed up completely again—and after seeing who’s there, every cell in his body is telling him to run. sam can’t see him like this: his big brother, curled up into you like a scared little kid. but he is.
sam ends up on the other side of you, not saying anything, either. it’s quiet, the only sounds the fan and dean and sam’s uneven breathing. dean’s arm is wrapped high on your torso, close to your diaphragm, his head on your shoulder. sam’s arm is wrapped more by your hips, his head resting on the side of your chest. your own arms are wrapped each of the brothers’ shoulders.
technically, sam and dean are facing each other as they lay on either side of you, but they’re not looking at each other—probably as to not psych themselves out. they’re aware of the other’s presence, but don’t necessarily acknowledge it. after all, they’re both seeking comfort from you, not each other. you can’t see much of them through their tufts of hair, but you don’t need to. you can feel them both relaxing into your body, their once unbelievably tense shoulders now just a tad tense. you’re sure something inside both of them will never let them fully relax, but you take this moment. you take this win.
⁰² AFTER A DAY OF SWIMMING.
it’s a sunny day at bobby’s—and for once, you and the boys have a day to yourselves. no case, no leads to chase down, no research to do. sam suggests going to the lake nearby bobby’s house, and you all agree. soon enough, you’re on the road in baby, cooler sitting next to you in the backseat.
dean, of course, cannonballs into the lake. you and sam are walking side by side on the dock, chairs that bobby digged out for you in hand—and a whoosh of air flows past you both as dean jumps in, the splash starting a ripple spreading through the entire lake. his head pops up after a few beats, grinning wide. you shake your head as dean goads you to come join him, but you hold off for now.
sam’s next to go in the water—well, dean may have triple dog dared him to—and you pretend to be annoyed that he splashed you upon jumping in. you think at this moment, they kind of remind you of dogs. their hair’s wet, and you can almost imagine a pair of floppy ears on sam.
you find the frisbee one of you packed, wiggle it at the boys wading in the water. you promise whoever gets the frisbee the most times gets first pick on the lunch you all brought. it’s not much of a prize at all—but sam and dean take it seriously. you’re not sure who wins, anyway. sam and dean push at each other every time you threw it, splashing at the other to deter them. they’re laughing—and you haven’t heard that sound in a while. a long while.
after the lunch is eaten and the sun is dipping into the horizon, you decide to head back. droplets make their way down, soaking into the soft fabric of your shirt as you sit in the backseat once more, looking at the sunburned necks of the winchester brothers. it’s silent, but not uncomfortable. it’s probably the most comfortable you’ve been in a while, you think.
after you showered, you realize your day the sun has taken most of your energy away. you lay down on the bed bobby brought into the living room for you, sighing once your head hits the pillow.
sam’s not sure why he lays down next to you after his own shower. his entire face hurts from the sunburn, and his back isn’t doing so hot, either. it’s cold in the room, but he doesn’t reach for the bigger blanket, just the sheet that’s covering you. he doesn’t reach for you or anything—he doesn’t know if he’s allowed—but you seem to find him in your sleep, regardless.
dean, still wincing from the shower’s stream hitting his own sunburned skin, also finds himself laying on the opposite side of you, the cold pillow a contrast to the red on his face, giving his freckles a chance in the spotlight again. you and sam are both asleep already—and dean falls under quickly too, his head resting close to the crook of your shoulder. sam’s slumped on your other side haphazardly—but still touching you. you’re all dead to the world as you lay there.
it’s strange, how these boys are just that: boys. even though they are well above 6 feet and could hunt and kill anyone and anything, they’re still boys. they’re still full of energy, like when they were young—although, it may be a little depleted now. but they had a good day today.
a good day in the sun.
📨 many a time have i discussed this concept with @aseafullofstars… now it has come to life. also still wishing we got a beach episode. guys let them play frisbee.
𐃘 part one ! ┆ caution ⸝⸝ heavy hurt / comfort ahead
📨 y’all really blew up the last one so here’s another (absolutely gutwrenching edition). everyone go thank @aseafullofstars for encouraging me to write cuddling two 6 foot grown men <3 thanks k i would be lost without you sir
SO, IT HAPPENED AGAIN. once more, you found yourself sandwiched between sam and dean winchester.
it all started going downhill the moment you took on this hunt. sam and dean had been on the outs with each other again, and you’re not sure why. they weren’t saying much to each other—or saying much at all, period. they seemed to be avoiding talking as much as possible. it didn’t help that the hunt seemed to last forever, and it certainly wasn’t getting any closer to being solved. it seemed like the universe was laughing at you.
dean, as he always seems to do, breaks first.
it was mostly because he’s been realizing that he can’t do anything right. he can’t take care of his brother, and he can’t take care of the people he’s trying to save. he’s not mad at his brother. that’s not why dean’s avoiding him. it’s because he feels like he failed his little brother. no matter how hard he tries to make things right, in any sense, he always fails. always. whether it’s with sam or anything else, he fails. it’s discouraging, and it eats away at what little is left of his psyche. so when one of the potential victims almost dies, the one he swore to protect—it’s over. he’s done, at least for tonight. he’ll get up tomorrow, pretend to be fine, but he knows the truth. he’s a failure of a man.
that’s why he has to get out of bed in the middle of the night, fighting the tears that have been buried deep inside him this whole damn hunt. this whole damn year. he loses the fight almost immediately, and he can’t drown alone. he’ll never live to see tomorrow if he does. so that’s what leads him to your room, connected to his and sam’s own.
you wake, not even having been really asleep, but you blink when you hear the door on the wall open. you weren’t sure who you were expecting through the adjourning door between your room and theirs, but the moment you see dean’s glassy eyes, you fight the urge to get out of bed and meet him halfway. he gets to you eventually after carefully shutting the door, then almost falling into your bed you’ve called home for the past week or so. he doesn’t make a sound, but you feel your shirt getting wet where his face is buried into you. a few sniffles leave him as he wraps his arms tight around your torso, holding on for dear life.
you’re not too sure how long you lay with dean curled up beside you. he’s wearing his jeans to bed again, you notice, and you make a note to scold him nicely for it when he’s not sobbing in your arms. but for now, you hold him tight, like you’re trying to squeeze the sadness out of him. it doesn’t seem to work as well as you want it to, but dean knows. he always does.
sam’s not boding too well, either. he’s been having nightmares again, always ending with him waking up in a cold sweat and no air in his lungs. it’s exhausting. he’s trying to prove to everyone that he’s fine, that he can handle everything, but he’s not. and he can’t. not now. not tonight. he’s long overdue for a breakdown, and it seems like tonight’s going to be the night it all blows up. dean’s gone when sam glances at the bed parallel to his own—and he doesn’t care anymore now. the tears start coming too fast to stop, and there’s only one person he can think of within a 5 square mile radius that can help him not suffocate on his own thoughts.
you.
it’s you.
he gets your door open, not knowing his older brother had opened it once already tonight. sam freezes in place when he realizes who is next to you, hand still on the door handle. you know dean heard sam walk in, judging by the way dean tenses up in your arms. you think he might run—and if the roles were reversed, you realize if sam came to you first, dean would’ve never gotten this far. he would have suffered alone.
but he’s not.
and neither is sam.
while dean lay next to you, sam rounds the other corner of the bed, climbing in carefully, like he’s scared you’ll turn him away. you wouldn’t—never in a million lifetimes would you turn away either of these men. you hold them both now: sam’s arms fill the gaps where dean’s aren’t, their heads resting close to your own, faces buried into you to hide their wet eyes. you kiss each of the tops of their heads, the smell of dean’s hair reminding you of fresh-cut grass, sam’s resembling something like old paper. the only sound in the room is their muffled sobs when they feel the need to let the sound out and the occasional sniff from them.
your shirt is soaked now from the brother’s tears, the fabric sticking to your skin, but you don’t care. you’d jump into a pool fully clothed if you had to for them. and you know that they know that tidbit—it’s why they both came to you.
you hold them close to you until their sobs quiet into just soft sniffs and intakes of breath—and then until their breathing slows down to when you know they’re asleep. it is only then that you allow yourself to succumb to sleep, making sure to keep an arm around each of the brothers as you do. you don’t want them waking up without feeling you there.
maybe you didn’t fix all their problems, and you most certainly didn’t do much talking to them at all—but you know you can’t fix all their problems, all their issues that are cemented into their souls. you also know, however, that dean and sam didn’t go through this alone tonight. they never have to, not with you around. after so many years of suffering, they have you to hold them together now. you can’t heal them. you know that, too.
— “i’m sensing.. you're in love with me.” part one
..shawn spencer x reader headcanons because the psych fandom can and will be fed if i have anything to say about it.
gn! reader, childhood friends to lovers, age varies for reader, no size, race, or gender mentioned for reader, no use of y/n.
: ̗̀➛ you first met shawn and gus when you were still in diapers. your moms were friends and got pregnant around the same time.
: ̗̀➛ you went to the same elementary school, middle school, and high school.
: ̗̀➛ yeah, your parents really pushed you into being friends. something about how ‘every good cop has connections’, but your friendship wasn't based on that. it was based on all the other stuff that made friends worth having.
: ̗̀➛ it was based on walking home together after school, staying up too late on the phone, inside jokes, and a weird dash of the 'person next door’ trope.
: ̗̀➛ when shawn was about ten, he had a conversation with gus where he said he had quote unquote ‘dibs’ on you should it come to that.
: ̗̀➛ but when you were getting ready to go to college, he told you he wasn't going.
: ̗̀➛ you and gus tried to change his mind, telling him how smart he was and that he shouldn't waste his talents on dead end gigs.
•••
“shawn, come on.” you pleaded. gus had long since gone to bed, needing his 'beauty sleep’ to go visit Pomona with his family. you were leaving tomorrow, bags packed and at the door. but even then, you still refused to drop it after everything. “you got a 100 on the DET like three years ago, you know how hard that is? go to detective school and do something with it.” you were practically pleading by now. you couldn't let him throw his life away like that. and for what? lack of commitment? shawn was better than that, you knew it and he knew it too.
“i dunno, bug.” he twirls around to face you, infuriatingly calm. you barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. ‘bug’ is a nickname he's called you for many, many years. you were annoyed by it at first, but eventually got used to it when he never relented. he continued. “i’m just not the geeky college type, i’ll leave that to you and gustopher.”
you realize he's no closer to giving in than he was two hours ago and start to feel your resolve weakening. “please. if not for yourself, do it for me.”
“never thought i’d hear you begging for me, yeesh. or i guess, not like this.” he snorted. he crossed his arms and shook his head. “look, it's not like i’m not going anywhere. i've got a gig lined up, i'll be fine—”
“and where's that gonna go?” you demanded, closing the distance between the two of you. “and the one after that? and the one after that? shawn, you know they're going nowhere!” you had begun to shout, eyes locked onto him. you took a deep breath and lowered your voice. “you know this is the last you'll see of me? i’ll be at the airport tomorrow before you wake up.”
“i know.” he agreed, voice more serious than you'd heard it in awhile. “im gonna miss you, buggy.” you stared at him for a few seconds before sighing softly. you were tired, it was nearly three in the morning and you had to be at the airport in just a few hours. you went for the door, but lingered in the entrance.
“see you around, shawn.”
•••
: ̗̀➛ and then you were off, and out of his life.
: ̗̀➛ and then gus left.
: ̗̀➛ and then it was just him.
: ̗̀➛ he tried to fill the void with women he didn't care for, but none of them were ever you. even so, he convinced himself that he was over you.
: ̗̀➛ then, when he found out gus was working as a pharmaceutical rep in santa barbara, he started his ‘lying to police about being a psychic and opening a psychic detective agency’ gig. —he's working on the name.
: ̗̀➛ he was sure that he would be found out eventually, but he had made it this far, and it would be fun while it lasted at least. plus, he had quite a few cases under his belt by then and had made a fairly impressive name for himself.
: ̗̀➛ he was walking through the precinct, mind half occupied with a case and half occupied with whatever he and gus were talking about. he was just reaching the main area when—
: ̗̀➛ oh.
: ̗̀➛ suddenly, you of all people were standing right in front of him in the SBPD bullpen.
: ̗̀➛ okay, maybe not right in front of him, you were getting water a few feet away.
: ̗̀➛ but just like that, all the feelings he thought he buried years ago were back with a vengeance.
: ̗̀➛ the first thing he thought of was how good you still looked, standing there after so many years.
: ̗̀➛ you were so familiar and yet so different, years of college and apparently police school would do that to a person. but you wore it incredibly well. you were still drop dead gorgeous.
: ̗̀➛ the second thing he thought of was that you knew. you knew he wasn't a psychic, and more importantly, you knew him. you wouldn't buy it if he tried to lie to you.
: ̗̀➛ but then again, he had no idea how long you'd been here, and he would've gotten fired before he even got inside if you'd told anyone. plus, even if you'd somehow managed to avoid hearing about him when you'd gotten back to santa barbara, there was no way someone hadn't told you about him by now.
: ̗̀➛ so, you knew and you hadn't said anything. why?
•••
“hey, bug.” he says casually, as though it hasn't been nearly a decade since you've seen each other. he gets himself a mug of coffee, pretending like he didn't burn his tongue when he immediately took a sip.
you turned around, surprised. “well, hello, psychic.” you replied, trying to seem annoyed, but you can't quite hide how happy you are to see him again.
he winces at the obvious disbelief in your voice, but doesn't miss a beat in his reply. “you didn't tell me you were back in santa barbara.”
“didn't think i needed to. i thought you were still doing that ‘traveling the world’ thing.”
he shrugs, grinning through the taste of the battery acid coffee in the station. “oh, i was. did all the usual, fought zombies, bought the mona lisa, found the cure to cancer, you know. i guess you could say im settling in.” he checks his nails like he just got them done.
“exciting.” you deadpan, entirely uninterested in his so called escapades. “i didn't know there was such a thing as a psychic detective.”
“head psychic detective.” he corrects you. you want to punch him in the face. well, you always kind of want to punch shawn in the face. but that's besides the point. he's clearly dodging the question. at the same time, you understand why he's doing it. you're in the middle of a police department, a police department he works for. saying anything about his non-clairvoyance puts him at risk of losing his job. you shake your head, never quite sure how he's managed to pull another one of his antics off. “say, bug, it's been a while. how about we catch up?” and just like that, shawn spencer had wormed his way back into your life.
•••
: ̗̀➛ okay, maybe he didn't get the answers he wants just yet, but he has a plan.
: ̗̀➛ he'll rope you into whatever case he's on, get you laughing just like old times, see your pretty smile, loosen you up so you'll be willing to talk more.
: ̗̀➛ and maybe, just maybe, you'll keep his secret.
────୨ৎ────
a/n: first psych post!!!! i know im a little heavy handed on the supernatural side of my writings, but psych does and always will have a special place in my heart. anyway, i lovelovelove shawn spencer, and i can't wait to write part two of this!! i hope you like the change in format, it lets me expand on the stuff i want to with having to write a whole one shot. love you! gummi out
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
