𖦹 welcome to the grimoire.
a soft little library of my works
stories written under sleepy moons,
fueled by too much caffeine and the right amount of obsession.
𖦹 requests are currently open.
if you have a scene on your heart or a prompt buzzing in your head, feel free to send it my way. just be sure to read the guidelines and navigation first — they’re charmed for both your safety and mine.
most stories require age to unlock — enter with care
⛧ crafted for witches who’ve bled, loved, and lost.
young spellcasters (minors) are kindly asked to close this book until their moon has turned a few more times.
dividers by @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune
stories marked 𖤓 are my favorites, stories marked ✴︎ are yours!
happy reading 🕯️✨
GARRETT GRAHAM
⋆˚࿔ The Art of Breaking Garrett [smut, fluff, angst] - 1, 2 ✴︎
garrett graham x dilaurentis!fem!reader
summer is the time to let go, to explore, to get closer with the friends you just met. that’s why dean had decided to bring his hockey teammates to his lake house. the problem? his sister is staying there too and the little heathen just loves guys exactly like garrett graham. tall, charming, annoyingly hot. what a lovely time it’ll turn out to be for poor dean.
⋆˚࿔ Loser's Reward [smut] 𖤓
garrett graham x fem!reader
naked. frustrated. still under the shower spray. garrett graham’s team has just lost the last game when the football captain’s girl shows up to rub salt in the wound. should he just ignore her or show her who the real loser is?
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
DEAN DI LAURENTIS
⋆˚࿔ Bounce on It [smut] ✴︎
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
dean di laurentis is deep inside the only girl he's forbidden to touch. that should make it more exciting, right? except her dad is calling and he just has to pick up the phone. too bad she has no intention of stopping anytime soon.
⋆˚࿔ No Hockey Boys! [smut] ✴︎
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
only one rule: no hockey players. and you tried soooo hard to stick to it. but dean di laurentis has a way, a way that includes his tongue and fingers and a dreaded phone call.
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ The One I Run To [fluff, angst]
exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
JOHN LOGAN
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
DEAN WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Burn, Mark, Heal [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓 ✴︎
dad!tattooartist!dean x fem!ex-wife!reader, 13k+
Dean Winchester doesn’t hunt anymore. He inks scars now, on strangers, on himself, trying to bury the past one line at a time. His shop’s quiet, but his life isn’t. Not with a kid who worships him, an ex he can’t outrun, and a town that never forgets. Change isn’t clean. But he’s trying.
⋆˚࿔ Legs on Leather [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x brothersbestfriend!fem!reader, 3k
Sam told her not to do anything stupid with his brother. He really did. But when Dean Winchester shows up to Stanford in a leather jacket and a cigarette in his mouth, there's little she can do to resist him. Really, it's not her fault she's in the backseat of his car, mouth on him, his hands in her hair. It's on Sam this time, he should've never left those two alone.
⋆˚࿔ NSFW Alphabet [smut]
season3!dean winchester x demon!fem!reader, 6k+
A very detailed rendition of Dean Winchester's sex habits when it comes to his little demon. And, oh, he's going to Hell in a few months. That's bound to end well, right? Right?
⋆˚࿔ Sea of Love [fluff] 𖤓
dad!dean winchester (x mom!fem!reader), 719
Dean records a video for his son on a quiet summer beach. There’s too much sand in his beer, laughter in the wind, and a ring burning a hole in his pocket. He’s not sure he’ll get the words right when it counts. But maybe his son, one day, will tell him.
⋆˚࿔ Tied to Trouble [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
A witch’s curse leaves you and Dean magically bound together in the middle of a dark, empty barn. The only way to break it? Shared heat. Which, in Dean Winchester’s mind, is obviously just permission to pin you against him and make you ride his thigh until the magic snaps.
⋆˚࿔ Post Scriptum (drip for me) [smut]
fwb!dean winchester x fem!reader, 3.2k+
Dean Winchester is the worst. A week without touching you, and now he’s glued to his stupid case notes while you stand there naked and trembling. But if Dean’s going to ignore you, fine. You’ll make him pay for it. Except the only one paying is you, rutting helplessly against his thigh until you’re soaked through and begging for him to finally give you what you need.
⋆˚࿔ I'd Lie to You (Except I Can't) [smut]
dean winchester x fem!reader, 4.6k+
Dean Winchester gets cursed with the worst kind of magic: the truth. You put down the witch before she can bleed him dry, but the spell sticks. It claws at his throat, drags out every secret he’s spent a lifetime burying. And back in the motel, there’s no stopping it. You saved his life, and he’s hell-bent on showing you just how badly he’s been needing you. One truth at a time.
MINI SERIES
⋆˚࿔ Ain't Supposed To (3/4) [fluff, suggestive]
18!dean winchester x 18!fem!singer!reader
it's not love, not exactly, not yet. but it's louder than it should be. they fall in the cracks between seasons: halloween kisses, winter birthdays, spring that comes too fast, summer that overstays. bobby’s daughter and the boy she was never supposed to touch. and maybe it ends the way all stories like this do, but for a while, it’s everything.
looked at me like i was summer
trick or treat and she chose me
the frosting melted, so did i
𖦹 Alternate Universe(s)
⋆˚࿔ Desire, Directed [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓
actor!dean x actress!reader, 20k+
She's pure chaos wrapped in heels and sunshine, he's a brooding mess with a clenched jaw and a bad reputation. Dean Winchester did not ask for this. Their fake relationship was supposed to fix both their careers. Staged desire before the World Premiere of their last movie. Except she makes him laugh for real and he kisses her like he means it. Looks like they forgot the first rule of pretending: don't believe your own lies.
⋆˚࿔ Best Served Bare [smut, angst]
bi!bestfriend!dean x fem!reader (x moc), 7k+
She didn’t plan on falling apart in her best friend's hands. Not tonight. Not in her boyfriends... ex's apartment. But heartbreak has sharp edges, and Dean’s always known how to bleed for her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of heat that feels suspiciously like salvation. It’s all about revenge, until it isn't. It’s just what happens when she's tired of being quiet, and Dean's the only one who ever saw her loud.
⋆˚࿔ High Tide [smut]
dbf!dean winchester x fem!reader, 704
You are a good girl, always have been, always will be. Your dad's best friend says so himself, even now, with your toes digging into the wet sand and his hips pressed tight to yours. The waves crash against your calves, the bonfire crackles twenty yards away, and he’s got one hand gripping your hip, the other low between your thighs, telling you what a good girl you are for taking him so well where anyone could see if they looked over.
SAM WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Varsity Crush [smut]
stanford!sam x cheerleader!fem!reader, 1.2k+
Tutoring sessions with Sam Winchester are supposed to be about psych notes and study guides. But you’re sooooo bored, and determined to break his calm, good-boy exterior.
⋆˚࿔ Red Handed, Full Thrusted [smut] ✴︎
sam winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
Sam is focused when he fucks, possessive, obsessive, hand-on-your-back, mouth-in-your-ear focused. You're face-down and loud and not even trying to be quiet. Everything's going great until Dean walks in. Mid-thrust. Mid-you. He freezes. You don’t. Sam definitely doesn’t.
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pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”
while making out with your boyfriend in the girls bathroom - you can’t help but get invested in Allie Hayes boyfriend drama.
a/n: I saw this idea on tiktok and couldn’t get it out of my head
The lock on the girls’ bathroom stall door was flimsy, but right now, you couldn't care less.
Dean Di Laurentis had you pressed firmly against the graffiti-covered wooden panel, his hands gripping your hips with an urgency that made you feel like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. He was giving you that devastating, laser-focused attention that usually made your brain completely short-circuit. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate heat, tasting like mint and pure trouble, and your fingers were tangled deep in the ridiculously soft, thick hair at the back of his neck.
You were completely, utterly lost in the moment—right up until the heavy exterior door of the bathroom swung open with a violent, echoing thud.
"I mean, seriously! Who does that? OMG! I'm dating a beige wall! A literal load-bearing pillar would have more personality!"
The voice was loud, sharp, and dripping with theatrical tragedy, bouncing off the porcelain tiles.
You froze, your lips instantly parting from Dean’s. You strained your ears, but there was no sound of a second person entering.
No rustle of a jacket, no responding hum.
Just pure, unfiltered, solo pacing.
Dean groaned against your mouth, a low, needy sound of protest, and tried to nudge his way back in. "Ignore her," he mumbled, his breath hot against your jaw as he trailed a line of kisses down to your neck, desperately trying to salvage the mood. "She's just... yelling at the mirror. Let her yell. People do it all the time."
"No, because it’s an actual crime against womanhood!" the voice continued outside, punctuated by the aggressive, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the paper towel dispenser.
Allie Hayes was fully, completely alone, pacing the length of the sinks and projecting her voice to the ceiling like she was playing to the back rows of the theater department.
"He didn't just forget our six-month anniversary. He suggested we celebrate it by going to a guest lecture on microeconomics. And this breakout? Oh my god, the breakout. My skin is violently protesting my life choices, and nobody is even here to witness my ultimate demise!"
Your eyes snapped open.
Wait.
Allie Hayes? Alone, spiraling about microeconomics, and destroying her skin?
"Babe," Dean whispered, his thumbs stroking the bare skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, trying everything in his power to reclaim your attention. He leaned back slightly to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with frustration.
But as he pulled back, you couldn't help but notice that your signature, highly pigmented red lipstick was smeared spectacularly all over his lips, his chin, and a little patch right near the tip of his nose. He looked like a gorgeous, extremely intense, deeply frustrated clown.
"Hold on," you whispered, gently but firmly pressing a hand against his chest.
"What? No, don't hold on, keep doing exactly what we were doing," Dean pleaded, shifting his weight to crowd you back into the corner of the stall. "She's literally talking to nobody. Do not engage crazy, babe. She doesn't need you. I need you."
Allie Hayes did infact need someone to prove she wasn’t crazy.
That someone became you the second she walked into the bathroom needing emotional support.
"The skin barrier is a delicate, fragile ecosystem!" Allie’s voice wailed from the sink area, followed by the dramatic sound of her slapping both palms against the marble counter. "If I use one more harsh acne wash, my entire face is going to slide off into the drain!"
That did it.
You were a girls' girl first, and a girlfriend second. You absolutely could not sit by and let a sister commit cosmetic suicide in an empty bathroom.
You shoved Dean back with a surprising amount of force. He blinked, stunned and breathless, as you slid the deadbolt open and stepped right out of the stall, smoothing down your shirt.
"Okay, first of all," you said, stepping up to the sinks and instantly startling Allie halfway out of her skin. "Stop using whatever acne wash you're currently using immediately."
Allie spun around, clutching a crumpled paper towel to her chest, her eyes wide with shock. She looked incredibly stressed, a tiny, barely visible spot on her chin being the apparent source of her absolute agony. "Oh! Oh, thank god, a real person. I thought I was going to have to start debating the tiles."
"I was in the stall, and I couldn't sit by and let you destroy your moisture barrier," you said, completely shifting into best-friend-therapist mode, leaning your hip against the counter. "What's the boyfriend's name again? The microeconomics guy?"
"Sean," Allie groaned, instantly accepting you as her savior. She gestured wildly to her outfit—a stunning, perfectly styled vintage leather jacket over a sleek, dark top and tailored pants that made her look like she belonged on a chic European film set. "Like, look at this outfit! I put this together last week, felt amazing, and he genuinely asked if I was wearing it because I ran out of laundry detergent for my regular jeans. He has zero appreciation for personal style. None! The man thinks khakis are a personality trait."
"Grounds for immediate execution," you declared, shaking your head in solidarity.
"Right?! And it gets so much worse," Allie continued, fully on a roll now that she had an actual audience. "He’s already mapping out his post-grad life and just assumes I'm moving to Vermont with him. Vermont! I don't want to live in the middle of a maple syrup forest! And when I remind him that I have auditions in New York and a theater degree to finish, he literally patted my head. He patted my head, you guys, and called drama my 'fun little phase.' A phase! It's the career I am actively pursuing!"
"Oh, absolutely not," you said, crossing your arms, completely invested in the drama. "The disrespect to your craft is wild. And let me guess... that total lack of passion carries over into other departments?"
Allie let out a miserable, soul-crushing laugh, throwing her hands in the air. "Oh, you have no idea. The sex is so vanilla it makes actual vanilla seem exotic. It is completely, devastatingly dull. It’s like he’s following a maintenance manual from 1950. No spice, no spontaneity, just... scheduled, mechanical maintenance. I have to mentally check my grocery list just to get through it."
You couldn't help but wince in pure, deep sympathy. You glanced back toward the stall, where Dean was now standing in the doorway, looking thoroughly disgruntled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hair was a messy nest from your fingers, and his lips were entirely painted in your bright red lipstick.
In that moment, you felt a massive wave of gratitude for your current situation. Say what you want about Dean Di Laurentis being a dramatic, attention-seeking hockey player, but the boy was a literal god in bed. He was creative, completely attentive, and absolutely feral for you.
He didn't do vanilla; he did breathless, back-arching, lose-your-mind intensity. The idea of having to mentally check a grocery list while someone was touching you made you want to shudder.
Allie deserved so much better.
"Oof. Yeah, you need to run," you told Allie, shaking your head. "Life is way too short for boring sex and a guy who treats your passion like a high school hobby."
Dean stepped up next to you, attempting to plug himself back into the equation. He leaned down, trying to catch your eye, his voice dropping into that smooth, gravelly register he usually used to get exactly what he wanted. "Hey. Come on. I have great taste in outfits. I support the arts. And I definitely don't do vanilla. You can check out my complete lack of a grocery list back at my place." He gave you a slow, heavy wink.
It was totally ruined by the giant smudge of red lipstick right on the bridge of his nose.
"Dean, babe, shush, the women are talking," you said, waving a hand dismissively at him without even breaking eye contact with Allie. "Allie, listen to me. You need to ice that breakout tonight. No picking, no harsh scrubs. And as for Sean, you need to give him the 'it's not me, it's definitely you' text. You’re way too vibrant to be hidden away on a beige wall in Vermont."
"You are so right," Allie said, her eyes beaming as she looked at you like you had just handed her the secrets to the universe. "Wow, having an actual conversation is so much better than talking to the mirror. Hey, I’m actually heading over to the diner right now to grab a mountain of fries and continue this rant with carbs. Do you want to come? You can tell me more about this skin stuff and help me draft the breakup text."
You looked at Allie, then looked at Dean, who was currently staring at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes, silently begging you to remember that he was a desirable man who had been promised a make-out session.
"You know what? I would love to. Let's go get fries," you said, hooking your arm firmly through Allie's.
"Excellent," Allie said, matching your stride. She glanced back at Dean one last time, biting her lip to hide a laugh. "Uh, Di Laurentis? You might want to hit the mirror before you go outside. You look like you got into a fight with a Sephora counter and lost miserably."
"I did lose," Dean muttered, thoroughly defeated. He slumped against the marble sink, watching in absolute disbelief as you and Allie began walking toward the exit, completely locked in conversation about the merits of hyaluronic acid.
"Bye, baby! Text you later!" you called out cheerfully over your shoulder just as the heavy bathroom door swung shut.
The door clicked into place, leaving Dean entirely alone in the fluorescent light. He turned slowly, staring at his own reflection, rubbed a hand over his berry-red lips, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"I hate microeconomics," he whispered to the empty room.
summary: in which beau walks in on his younger sister tangled up in dean’s lap moments before thanksgiving dinner, forcing the entire hockey house to endure one painfully awkward meal filled with knowing looks, relentless chirping, and dean very seriously considering transferring schools.
pairing: dean di laurentis x maxwell!reader
note: hello! i hope you're all well. i've got a few exciting things planned so make sure you stay tuned! i hope you enjoy!! <3
ꪆৎ
the late afternoon sunlight filters softly through the thin blinds of dean's bedroom, casting warm golden stripes across it.
dean appreciated the moments he spent over thanksgiving with his friends more than anything. there were times however, when all he wanted was to spend time alone, in the presence of just you.
now, was one of those times.
dean's hand slides slowly along your waist as he shifts closer toward you on the bed, guiding you naturally into his lap without breaking the kiss.
you swiftly reposition yourself so that you're straddling him, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his hands remain on either sides of your waist, keeping you steady.
“dean,” you laugh quietly against his mouth.
“hm?”
“everyone’s downstairs.”
“guess we'll just have to be quiet then.”
you pull back slightly, your cheeks turning a crimson red from his words.
“tucker will literally come looking for us.”
dean's lips find your collarbone, lingering at a spot he had learned was your weakness, smiling faintly to himself when he feels you react beneath him.
“tucker’s got bigger priorities right now, most of them involving food.”
you laugh softly again before his face moves closer towards yours, closing the very minimal distance that had been separating the two of you. he cups your cheek before planting a soft, chaste kiss to your lips.
his lips were warm and soft, familiar in a way that made your chest loosen instantly. your lips parted slightly as you smiled into the kiss, and he took the opening to deepen it for a brief moment before gently pulling back. his hand stayed cradling your cheek, thumb lingering there as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
"still think it's an issue that everyone's home?" he questions teasingly, watching as you shake your head in response.
the room feels warmer now.
smaller somehow.
your fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck and dean lets out the softest exhale against your lips, the sound nearly making your brain stop functioning entirely.
“you have no idea what you do to me, y/n” he murmurs quietly.
your cheeks flush instantly.
“dean.”
“what?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth ruins the act completely.
you shake your head, trying to hide your smile while he watches you with obvious amusement.
god, he loved flustering you.
his hands pause briefly at the hem of your top, his gaze flicking up toward yours.
“is this okay?”
there’s something almost unfair about how gentle he sounds when he says it. you nod immediately, fingers curling lightly into the front of his sweater.
“yeah.”
his expression softens slightly at your answer before he slowly lifts your top upwards, careful not to rush you.
the cool air hits your skin instantly once the fabric disappears over your head, leaving you suddenly far more aware of the way dean is looking at you now.
like you’ve completely stolen every coherent thought from his brain.
his eyes drift slowly over you before he exhales quietly through his nose, almost like he forgot how to breathe properly for a second.
“you're beautiful, baby” he murmurs softly.
your cheeks warm immediately.
“stop it,” you laugh quietly, suddenly embarrassed beneath the intensity of his attention.
“what?” he asks innocently, though the awe in his voice is impossible to miss.
“just appreciating my girlfriend.”
his hands settle carefully against your waist again, thumbs brushing lightly against your skin while he leans forward to kiss you once more.
the kiss turns deeper almost instantly.
slower.
warmer.
dean’s fingers slide gently along your back before stopping against the clasp of your bra.
you feel him hesitate slightly.
not nervous exactly.
just careful.
like he always was with you.
“this still okay?” he asks quietly against your lips.
you nod softly, your forehead resting briefly against his.
“yes.”
his lips curve upwards faintly before he presses another soft kiss against your mouth, one hand still resting securely at your waist while the other awkwardly attempts to undo the clasp behind your back.
you feel his fingers fumble slightly before he exhales dramatically.
“who invented these things?” he mutters under his breath.
you laugh softly against his lips.
“struggling there?”
“i’m being set up for failure.”
his fingers brush clumsily against your skin again before he narrows his eyes in concentration.
“seriously,” he mumbles.
"i spend six days a week throwing around hundreds of pounds in the gym, and a tiny clasp is what humbles me."
you grin, shifting slightly to help him.
“maybe because you’re rushing.”
his cheeks flush immediately while a crooked smile appears across his face.
“can you blame me?”
your stomach flips embarrassingly fast at the tone in his voice.
a second later there’s finally a soft click as dean succeeds.
“holy shit,” he breathes quietly, sounding genuinely relieved.
you laugh harder this time as he shakes his head once in disbelief at himself.
“don’t laugh at me,” he says, though he’s smiling too.
his hands slide carefully along your sides afterwards, touch soft and warm as he presses a trail of kisses beneath your jaw again.
“i love you,” he murmurs quietly against your skin.
your heart melts instantly. dean was always like this with you, sweet and gentle in all the ways that mattered most. beneath the confidence, the teasing grin, and the easy charm he showed everyone else, there was this softer side reserved just for you.
your fingers drift beneath the hem of his sweater, tracing lightly along the defined muscles of his stomach and dean exhales quietly at the feeling.
his forehead rests briefly against yours afterwards, cheeks flushed, hair messy beneath your hands. he was completely gone for you.
“you’re staring again,” you whisper teasingly.
“can you blame me?”
his words linger between you before he leans in again, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, quietly savouring the feeling.
“you’re trouble, di laurentis.”
“yeah", he responds easily, lips brushing your skin again, “but you love me for it.”
before you can respond, the bedroom door suddenly swings open and everything freezes instantly.
“yo tucker said-”
beau stops mid sentence, his jaw falling agape.
silence.
absolute silence.
your eyes widen immediately as you turn toward the doorway while dean goes completely still beneath you. beau stands there holding his phone in one hand, his expression blank with horror.
pure horror.
his eyes flick between you sitting in dean’s lap, dean’s hands still very obviously around your waist, and the fact that neither of you had moved fast enough to make the situation look any better.
your discarded top is somewhere on the other side of the room, leaving you painfully aware that you're still only wearing your bra.
before you can even think of what to say, dean's arm tightens around you, pulling you closer against his chest. one hand slides up between your shoulder blades as he angles his body in front of yours, shielding you from beau's line of sight.
the movement is instinctive.
“oh my god,” beau says flatly.
dean immediately drops his forehead against your shoulder, keeping you tucked against him.
“please leave," dean murmurs, his voice coming out slightly muffled.
"i just watched my best friend practically inhale my sister."
you let out a horrified noise while dean groans louder, his grip on your waist tightening
"beau-" dean says into your shoulder, sounding like he's reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
“jesus christ, no-”
beau cuts him off instantly, physically pointing at both of you now.
“absolutely not. don’t talk to me right now.”
you feel your face burning with embarrassment while beau physically turns his head toward the hallway ceiling like he’s asking god for strength.
“i’m actually sick. this is why i don't come over here often” he mutters, more to himself and under his breath than to the both of you.
“you knocked for half a second!” dean argues weakly.
beau looks offended. “because i didn't expect to walk into this!"
"that sounds like a personal mistake" dean taunts.
you bury your face in your hands immediately, unable to face your brother who is still stood in the doorway of your boyfriends room.
dean leans back against the bedhead, dragging a hand down his face dramatically.
“i’m transferring schools.”
“good,” beau replies immediately. “do that.”
despite the awkwardness of the situation, a laugh slips out.
beau looks personally betrayed.
“y/n.”
“i’m sorry!”
“no you’re not.”
beau shakes his head once before backing toward the hallway again.
“dinner’s ready in ten,” he says flatly. “and if either of you make this weird downstairs, i’m telling tucker exactly what i walked in on.”
dean’s eyes widen slightly.
“you wouldn’t.”
beau stares at him.
“watch me.”
then he disappears back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. silence settles over the room again and dean drops his head back against the wall with a groan.
“we’re never recovering from that.”
you burst into laughter immediately, the awkwardness and humour of the situation finally setting in.
dean points at you accusingly. “this isn’t funny.”
“him saying you inhaled me absolutely was.”
he narrows his eyes before suddenly pulling you closer towards him. you laugh softly as his hands settle back against your waist, familiar and warm.
“still worth it,” he murmurs quietly.
your heart melts embarrassingly fast.
“you’re ridiculous.”
a giddy grin slowly spreads across dean’s face before he shakes his head once.
“your brother is a goddamn cockblock.”
you gasp softly in mock offence before playfully slapping his chest, causing a quiet laugh to fall from his lips.
“dean!”
“what?” he grins. “am i wrong?”
you attempt to slide off his lap again, already knowing if you stayed there any longer you’d never actually make it downstairs, but dean’s hands tighten immediately around your hips, keeping you firmly where you are.
your eyebrows raise slightly at him in confusion before you suddenly feel him shift beneath you.
your breath catches instantly.
dean’s cheeks flush almost immediately as your mouth falls open slightly in realisation.
“dean heyward-di laurentis,” you whisper, horrified and amused all at once. his eyes squeeze shut briefly as he lets out another groan.
“don’t say my full name like that,” he mutters miserably.
“makes me sound guilty.”
“you are guilty.”
“yeah,” he sighs dramatically, glancing up at you again.
“but in my defence, look at you.”
your face warms instantly at the sincerity hidden beneath his teasing tone but before you can respond, a loud voice echoes up from downstairs.
“if you idiots don't get down here right now i'm starting dinner without you.”
tucker.
immediately, your eyes widen.
“shit.”
dean drops his forehead against your shoulder dramatically. “ignore him.”
“dean.”
“five more minutes.”
“absolutely not.”
he sends you the most painfully pleading look imaginable, his hands still secure against your waist like he thinks physically holding onto you will somehow convince you to stay.
when it very unfortunately almost works, dean notices instantly. his lips twitch upwards slightly, excitement taking over his features.
“baby,” he says softly, voice lower now, “c’mon.”
you narrow your eyes at him immediately. “don’t baby me right now.”
“that sounded way meaner than i think you intended.”
you laugh quietly and dean realises immediately that you aren’t giving in. he places both hands over his face before tilting his head back against his bed dramatically, letting out the most exaggerated groan imaginable.
you laugh harder at the sight in front of you.
“i’m glad one of us finds this funny,” he mutters, though there’s obvious amusement hidden beneath his embarrassment. he stands up slowly, still holding onto your waist as he pulls you up with him.
your hands naturally slide around the back of his neck while dean rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“i’ll tell them you’re in the bathroom and coming down in a few minutes,” you hum softly before leaning up to place a quick kiss against his cheek.
dean exhales quietly at the feeling before narrowing his eyes slightly.
“you’re so gonna pay for this one day, y/n.”
you smirk immediately. “is that a threat?”
“a promise.”
you laugh softly before turning toward the bedroom door. you barely make it two steps before dean’s hand lands sharply against your ass.
you gasp audibly, spinning around immediately.
“di laurentis!”
he shrugs innocently despite the smirk painted all over his face.
“sorry. couldn’t help myself.”
you roll your eyes, trying and failing not to smile.
“don’t be too long or tucker will rip into you,” you warn teasingly before slipping out into the hallway.
the noise downstairs grows louder the second you descend the staircase. thanksgiving at the hockey house was always chaos in the best possible way.
the kitchen smells overwhelmingly like garlic, rosemary and whatever tucker accidentally burned earlier, despite promising he was following his mother's recipe book, step by step. music plays faintly somewhere near the living room while everyone talks over each other.
logan notices you first, which is unfortunate.
he’s leaning back in one of the dining chairs beside grace when his eyes flick toward you coming down the stairs. immediately, his eyebrows lift knowingly.
oh no.
you suddenly become very aware of the fact that you hadn’t checked yourself in the mirror before leaving dean’s room. you feel your cheeks warm instantly as you quickly move toward the table, silently praying dean hadn’t left any visible marks on your neck.
logan watches you the entire way down, very amused.
you slide into your seat beside hannah while trying your hardest to look normal. logan leans back slightly in his chair across from you, arms folded casually.
“where’s dean?” he asks, feigning innocence.
your eyes narrow immediately.
he knows something...or at least suspects something.
“bathroom,” you answer casually, reaching for your water glass. “he’ll be down in a minute.”
“hm,” logan hums thoughtfully, clearly entertained. beside him, garrett glances between the two of you with immediate suspicion.
“why are you both acting weird?”
“we’re not,” you answer far too quickly.
logan snorts. grace lowers her drink slowly, eyes widening slightly as realisation dawns across her face.
“oh my god.”
your heart drops.
“what?” hannah asks immediately, now invested in the conversation before her.
before he can answer, beau walks back into the kitchen holding a drink. the second his eyes land on you sitting at the table, he physically pauses before narrowing his eyes.
oh, absolutely not.
logan catches it instantly.
“why do you look traumatised?” he asks him.
beau grabs a roll off the table aggressively.
“don’t worry about it.”
his response of course only makes everyone more interested.
tucker emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray dramatically. “why does it feel like i missed gossip?”
you hear a laugh from across the table, and garrett points directly at you, “that sounded guilty.”
beau lets out a humourless laugh from across the table. “you have no idea.” before anyone can interrogate him further, dean finally appears at the top of the stairs.
slightly flushed.
sweater sleeves pushed up messily.
hair completely ruined.
logan notices instantly and nearly chokes on his drink.
“holy shit,” he laughs.
dean stops halfway down the stairs. “what?”
“you look insane.”
dean flips him off automatically continuing downstairs. the second he reaches the table, beau looks at him in complete disbelief.
“you came down looking like that voluntarily?”
dean freezes briefly, too briefly.
everyone notices.
tucker’s eyes widen dramatically. “wait.”
“don’t,” dean warns immediately.
“wait,” tucker repeats louder, pointing between the both of you now.
“oh my god.”
“tucker,” you say quickly, your cheeks beginning to flush a deep shade of crimson red.
“no wonder you two disappeared.”
dean drags a hand down his face while logan loses his mind laughing beside grace.
“i hate this house,” dean mutters
“you should,” beau replies immediately. “after what i witnessed.”
silence
then-
hannah gasps loudly and garrett chokes on his drink.
grace physically grabs allie’s arm and tucker slams both hands dramatically against the table.
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𖦹 welcome to the grimoire.
a soft little library of my works
stories written under sleepy moons,
fueled by too much caffeine and the right amount of obsession.
𖦹 requests are currently open.
if you have a scene on your heart or a prompt buzzing in your head, feel free to send it my way. just be sure to read the guidelines and navigation first — they’re charmed for both your safety and mine.
most stories require age to unlock — enter with care
⛧ crafted for witches who’ve bled, loved, and lost.
young spellcasters (minors) are kindly asked to close this book until their moon has turned a few more times.
dividers by @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune
stories marked 𖤓 are my favorites, stories marked ✴︎ are yours!
happy reading 🕯️✨
GARRETT GRAHAM
⋆˚࿔ The Art of Breaking Garrett [smut, fluff, angst] - 1, 2 ✴︎
garrett graham x dilaurentis!fem!reader
summer is the time to let go, to explore, to get closer with the friends you just met. that’s why dean had decided to bring his hockey teammates to his lake house. the problem? his sister is staying there too and the little heathen just loves guys exactly like garrett graham. tall, charming, annoyingly hot. what a lovely time it’ll turn out to be for poor dean.
⋆˚࿔ Loser's Reward [smut] 𖤓
garrett graham x fem!reader
naked. frustrated. still under the shower spray. garrett graham’s team has just lost the last game when the football captain’s girl shows up to rub salt in the wound. should he just ignore her or show her who the real loser is?
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
DEAN DI LAURENTIS
⋆˚࿔ Bounce on It [smut] ✴︎
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
dean di laurentis is deep inside the only girl he's forbidden to touch. that should make it more exciting, right? except her dad is calling and he just has to pick up the phone. too bad she has no intention of stopping anytime soon.
⋆˚࿔ No Hockey Boys! [smut]
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
only one rule: no hockey players. and you tried soooo hard to stick to it. but dean di laurentis has a way, a way that includes his tongue and fingers and a dreaded phone call.
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ The One I Run To [fluff, angst]
exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
JOHN LOGAN
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
DEAN WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Burn, Mark, Heal [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓 ✴︎
dad!tattooartist!dean x fem!ex-wife!reader, 13k+
Dean Winchester doesn’t hunt anymore. He inks scars now, on strangers, on himself, trying to bury the past one line at a time. His shop’s quiet, but his life isn’t. Not with a kid who worships him, an ex he can’t outrun, and a town that never forgets. Change isn’t clean. But he’s trying.
⋆˚࿔ Legs on Leather [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x brothersbestfriend!fem!reader, 3k
Sam told her not to do anything stupid with his brother. He really did. But when Dean Winchester shows up to Stanford in a leather jacket and a cigarette in his mouth, there's little she can do to resist him. Really, it's not her fault she's in the backseat of his car, mouth on him, his hands in her hair. It's on Sam this time, he should've never left those two alone.
⋆˚࿔ NSFW Alphabet [smut]
season3!dean winchester x demon!fem!reader, 6k+
A very detailed rendition of Dean Winchester's sex habits when it comes to his little demon. And, oh, he's going to Hell in a few months. That's bound to end well, right? Right?
⋆˚࿔ Sea of Love [fluff] 𖤓
dad!dean winchester (x mom!fem!reader), 719
Dean records a video for his son on a quiet summer beach. There’s too much sand in his beer, laughter in the wind, and a ring burning a hole in his pocket. He’s not sure he’ll get the words right when it counts. But maybe his son, one day, will tell him.
⋆˚࿔ Tied to Trouble [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
A witch’s curse leaves you and Dean magically bound together in the middle of a dark, empty barn. The only way to break it? Shared heat. Which, in Dean Winchester’s mind, is obviously just permission to pin you against him and make you ride his thigh until the magic snaps.
⋆˚࿔ Post Scriptum (drip for me) [smut]
fwb!dean winchester x fem!reader, 3.2k+
Dean Winchester is the worst. A week without touching you, and now he’s glued to his stupid case notes while you stand there naked and trembling. But if Dean’s going to ignore you, fine. You’ll make him pay for it. Except the only one paying is you, rutting helplessly against his thigh until you’re soaked through and begging for him to finally give you what you need.
⋆˚࿔ I'd Lie to You (Except I Can't) [smut]
dean winchester x fem!reader, 4.6k+
Dean Winchester gets cursed with the worst kind of magic: the truth. You put down the witch before she can bleed him dry, but the spell sticks. It claws at his throat, drags out every secret he’s spent a lifetime burying. And back in the motel, there’s no stopping it. You saved his life, and he’s hell-bent on showing you just how badly he’s been needing you. One truth at a time.
MINI SERIES
⋆˚࿔ Ain't Supposed To (3/4) [fluff, suggestive]
18!dean winchester x 18!fem!singer!reader
it's not love, not exactly, not yet. but it's louder than it should be. they fall in the cracks between seasons: halloween kisses, winter birthdays, spring that comes too fast, summer that overstays. bobby’s daughter and the boy she was never supposed to touch. and maybe it ends the way all stories like this do, but for a while, it’s everything.
looked at me like i was summer
trick or treat and she chose me
the frosting melted, so did i
𖦹 Alternate Universe(s)
⋆˚࿔ Desire, Directed [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓
actor!dean x actress!reader, 20k+
She's pure chaos wrapped in heels and sunshine, he's a brooding mess with a clenched jaw and a bad reputation. Dean Winchester did not ask for this. Their fake relationship was supposed to fix both their careers. Staged desire before the World Premiere of their last movie. Except she makes him laugh for real and he kisses her like he means it. Looks like they forgot the first rule of pretending: don't believe your own lies.
⋆˚࿔ Best Served Bare [smut, angst]
bi!bestfriend!dean x fem!reader (x moc), 7k+
She didn’t plan on falling apart in her best friend's hands. Not tonight. Not in her boyfriends... ex's apartment. But heartbreak has sharp edges, and Dean’s always known how to bleed for her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of heat that feels suspiciously like salvation. It’s all about revenge, until it isn't. It’s just what happens when she's tired of being quiet, and Dean's the only one who ever saw her loud.
⋆˚࿔ High Tide [smut]
dbf!dean winchester x fem!reader, 704
You are a good girl, always have been, always will be. Your dad's best friend says so himself, even now, with your toes digging into the wet sand and his hips pressed tight to yours. The waves crash against your calves, the bonfire crackles twenty yards away, and he’s got one hand gripping your hip, the other low between your thighs, telling you what a good girl you are for taking him so well where anyone could see if they looked over.
SAM WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Varsity Crush [smut]
stanford!sam x cheerleader!fem!reader, 1.2k+
Tutoring sessions with Sam Winchester are supposed to be about psych notes and study guides. But you’re sooooo bored, and determined to break his calm, good-boy exterior.
⋆˚࿔ Red Handed, Full Thrusted [smut] ✴︎
sam winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
Sam is focused when he fucks, possessive, obsessive, hand-on-your-back, mouth-in-your-ear focused. You're face-down and loud and not even trying to be quiet. Everything's going great until Dean walks in. Mid-thrust. Mid-you. He freezes. You don’t. Sam definitely doesn’t.
pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”
pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one he's about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”
pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one he's about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”
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pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one he's about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”
pairing: exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
synopsis: when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one he's about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
words: 4k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: fluff and angst, yearner!dean, suggestive at points, divorce talks, co-parenting. no use of y/n or physical descriptions, the images used are just for aesthetic. not proofread! this is suitable to all ages.
chye's corner: my first non-smut piece on off campus. kinda scared about how this came out, but this is based on this ask by anon. thank you for trusting me with your idea and let me know, if you wish, if you liked this! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.
The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.
Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.
You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.
Then it just… died.
The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.
“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”
You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.
Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.
It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.
You dialed his number.
The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”
You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”
Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”
“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”
There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”
“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.
He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”
You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”
You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.
Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.
“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.
Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.
You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.
The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.
Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.
A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.
You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.
You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”
He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”
You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.
Dean froze.
The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.
“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.
The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”
You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”
Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”
He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.
You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.
Dean noticed at the same time.
“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.
“Dean… wait…”
Too late.
He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.
Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”
Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.
Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.
“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”
You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”
Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”
He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.
Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.
Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.
“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.
He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.
As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.
“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”
You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”
Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”
He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”
You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”
He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”
“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.
You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.
“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”
You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.
After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”
Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”
The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.
“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”
You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”
You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”
The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.
He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”
You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”
“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”
The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.
You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.
When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.
“Wear that dress for me tomorrow night,” he said, voice low and rough with quiet desperation. “Let me take you out. A real date. Just us. No crypto losers. No broken-down cars. Just you in that green dress… and me trying like hell not to screw it up this time.”