mentallyillwritings

But since your here, introducing: this blog!

General request stuff: I write for my own enjoyment, not others. I have the right to turn down any requests. I don't typically write oneshots for other people; however, I do headcanons, if anyone is interested in those. If you'd like me to write something, you can send it in, but again, I have the right to turn it down.

Characters I am willing to try and write oneshots for: Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel

Characters I am willing to write headcanons for: Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Damon Salvatore, Stefan Salvatore, Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Daryl Dixon, J. Daniel Atlas

Rules: This is a safe space for everyone, no matter your race or sexuality. Be kind to everyone here, including me and my writing.

Summary: Your book is apparently so much more interesting than your boyfriend.

Warning(s): Clingy!Dean. Fluff. Established relationship. 2nd person POV. Female!reader.

Dean Winchester was not a clingy boyfriend.

Nobody would catch him at his girlfriend's side 24/7. He wasn't going to be the guy who called and texted every time they were apart, or the guy who ditched going places just to be with his girl. That just wasn't him!

At least - not according to Dean. You knew better.

Dean was clingy. Very clingy, honestly, but not so much so that it was overbearing. It was never too much, and if you were to ever tell Dean you needed some space, he might be a bit disappointed, but he would understand. He was clingy, but he was also respectful.

Today, there was little that needed to be done. The bunker was clean for the most part, and there was no hunt that they had to rush to deal with. It was simply a day to relax, which was always a good thing, especially for people like you, who were constantly dealing with the stress of a difficult job.

So, you had decided to take the day to catch up with reading your book. You'd started it...well, you couldn't really remember when. A few weeks ago, maybe? You tried to read it before bed, just to relax before falling asleep, but you always ended up either too tired or tangled up in other matters (*cough* Dean *cough*).

You had read through almost two chapters before Dean had decided it was time to make an appearance.

Sitting in the bed, you barely glanced up when he walked in. You knew it would be him. He didn't knock, choosing instead to walk in unannounced given that it was his room as much as it was yours. Sam would have knocked, and Castiel - he would have just appeared.

Dean said nothing as he walked over to the bed. He flopped down unceremoniously, a small groan punching from his lips. He rolled closer to you, immediately slinging an arm over your lap. He propped himself up on his other arm, resting his head in his hand as he stared up at you.

Apparently, he had automatically assumed you would put down your book and pay attention to him, for when you didn't, he frowned.

He poked your side gently. "Hey," he said. "What'cha doin'?"

You hummed in response, flipping a page in the book and then moving to your boyfriend's head, scratching gently at his scalp. "Reading my book. I haven't been able to much recently."

Like a cat, Dean all but melted beneath the scratches. He smiled almost blissfully, his eyelids falling closed as he leaned into the touch. For a moment, he stayed quiet. Then, he opened his eyes again, looking up at you again.

"You should put it down and pay attention to me instead. I'm much more interesting than a book."

"I am paying attention to you."

"No, you're just scratching me like I'm a damn cat. You're attention's on that book."

You sighed, but you didn't move to put the book down. "Let me finish this chapter."

That should have been enough to calm Dean down. It should have been enough to hold him over for just a little while. You were a fast reader, after all.

It wasn't.

As you tried to read, Dean didn't make it easy. He kept moving around, whether it be nudging your hand to keep you scratching his scalp or shifting in the bed like he couldn't get comfortable. He'd sigh and huff, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to see if his efforts would get you to put down the book and be with him instead.

It felt like forever to Dean before you finally, finally put down the book. As soon as you put the bookmark between the pages and slid it onto the nightstand, his face practically lit up like a lamp. He didn't waste a second, grabbing you and pulling you close before you could protest.

Even if you had wanted to continue reading your book, you couldn't help but be amused by Dean's clinginess. You smiled as he pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around your middle and immediately pressing kisses along the back of your shoulder.

You reached behind yourself, finding Dean's head and trailing your fingers through his short hair. "You're hopeless, you know that?" you asked him simply.

"Nah. I just like my girlfriend's attention on me instead of a stupid book."

"Yeah. Like I said, hopeless. Five minutes without attention and you're basically dying."

"Well," Dean said, kissing along the side of your neck now as a hand slid up under your shirt to rest against the warm skin of your abdomen, "sue me. I love my girl. Can't live without ya."

You huff, your cheeks feeling just a little warmer. "Don't try and sweet-talk me, Dean."

"Wasn't tryin'," he lied. His lips curled against your skin in that familiar smirk of his.

You rolled over, shifting to face your boyfriend now. You tangled your legs together, throwing one leg over his hip to stay close.

His smirk only widened, and he raised an eyebrow at your actions. "Seems like you liked it, though, sweetheart."

"Sue me. I love my boyfriend," you said with a smirk, throwing his earlier words right back at him.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head a bit at your reply. Instead of responding verbally, he leaned in and closed the distance between your bodies, pressing his lips softly against yours.

Summary: After John Winchester goes missing, Dean recruits his little brother to help find their father. Only, Sam isn't the only one Dean has dragged into the mission.

Warning(s): Mentions of death. 3rd person, Sam's POV. She/her pronouns used, no "y/n."

Sam Winchester wasn't having a great night, to say the least.

It started when his older brother broke into his on-campus apartment, telling him that their father was, "on a hunting trip" and "hasn't been home in a few days." It ended when that same apartment had gone up in flames with his girlfriend, Jessica Moore, dead on the ceiling.

Now, he and Dean were driving down the road to...somewhere. Dean was, unfortunately, extremely stubborn, and he refused to say much about wherever they were going or why they were going there. All he had said was that he needed to, "pick something up."

So, nothing vague at all.

The night was dark as Sam stared out the window. Not even two hours had passed since Jessica had died, and yet, so much had changed. He'd left Stanford behind, and he'd told Dean he would agree to hunt again, if only to find their father. He may not like the man, but if John Winchester had gone missing in search of the demon that had killed Mary, and now Jessica, then maybe they could find the demon, too.

"Seriously, Dean," he tried again. "Just tell me where the hell you're taking me."

"Somewhere, Sammy, I told you," he said dismissively. His eyes scanned the road ahead, illuminated by the headlights of the '67 Impala. "I got something to-"

Sam scoffed, cutting him off. "Yeah, you got something to pick up. From where? And what are we picking up? From where I'm sitting, we have everything we need to find Dad and this demon."

"Exactly. From where you're sitting." Dean barely glanced at his little brother, but he caught the irritated look on Sam's face and the raised eyebrows. He sighed heavily, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Just...trust me on this one, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

For the rest of the drive, there wasn't much talking. Sam stared out the window, mulling over everything that had happened. Dean focused on the road, foot on the gas, driving wherever they were going with purpose. It wasn't until they pulled up outside a decent motel in Modesto about an hour and a half away from Palo Alto that the silence was finally broken by the sound of the Impala's engine dying.

"We're here," Dean announced with a heavy exhale.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking through the window up at the motel. "Yeah?" he said. "And what do you need to pick up from here?"

Dean didn't even look at Sam. "Her."

From the front of the motel walked a woman. She was pretty, sure, but she didn't really look like the kind of person who Dean Winchester, of all people, would know. She looked like she belonged in a library - not in the Impala, not on a hunt. Sam couldn't help but be skeptical.

The woman did seem confident, however. She walked up to the driver's side door, where Dean had already rolled down the window. She leaned down enough to look in. Her eyes landed on Sam first, and they narrowed slightly, flicking up and down his body in a way that made him want to shift in his seat. She looked like she was analyzing him, like she was trying to figure out who he was and why he was there.

She said nothing, however, and instead looked at Dean. "You realize I had five hours' notice? Five, Dean. It takes 45 minutes to get to the airport, then almost 3 and a half hours to fly here. That doesn't leave much time for me to pack and find a motel and tell my boss I'm taking yet another leave."

Okay. So, she spoke her mind.

That wasn't the surprising part to Sam. The surprising part was the way Dean had the audacity to look guilty. Actually guilty.

"Sorry, sweetheart. But we may need your expertise."

"May."

"Better safe than sorry."

The woman, whoever she was, gave him a flat stare in response. Her eyes flicked to Sam, then back to Dean. "I assume that's your brother?"

Dean nodded. Sam didn't appreciate being talked about like he wasn't there, but he didn't comment. Instead, he said, "And you would be...?"

Rather than letting the woman answer for herself, Dean introduced her with a big grin. "She's a lore professor. PhD and everything. I swear, she knows folklore better than Dad," he told Sam. "She's helped me on a few cases. Figures out what I'm hunting before I can."

Sam tried not to look as impressed as he felt. This woman knew folklore better than John Winchester? That was saying something, especially when Dean was the one to say it.

Dean turned back to the woman. "So, Doctor," he said in a teasing tone, glancing briefly at Sam as if smug about having a woman with a PhD on their side, "you gonna help us or not?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" She sighed, shaking her head a little like she couldn't believe she was agreeing. "Let me get in."

"Perfect. Get in the back. Sammy Boy's claimed your usual seat."

And so, just like that, two became three. Dean, Sam, and this woman with a doctorate that Dean somehow knew.