|| dial drunk (2.2k words)

sam x reader, drunk confessions, fluff, eventual smut

The door of the motel room swung open too hard, the door slapping loudly against the wall. You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was; his mumbled “shit, sorry, sorry” made it obvious it was Sam.

You stood, rounding the corner of the bed to face him. He was clearly drunk, his eyes soft and fragile while he swayed on his feet, just staring at you. Not to mention the bottle of beer dangling from his hand.

You knew Sam well enough to know that he only drank when something was upsetting him. So, tentatively, like approaching a startled deer, you spoke: “Sam, where were you?”

He narrowed his eyes at you as if trying to look angry, but he only looked pouty. “Uh, a bar. Duh.”

You couldn’t help chuckling at his childish indignation, raising your hands in surrender. “Right. Dumb question. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his face immediately falling back to that defenseless, heartbroken look. “No, no, don’t apologize.” Sam leaned sideways to set the beer bottle down on a small, round table near the door. He leaned heavily against it for support in his drunken stupor, pressing his other forearm to his face. “M’ sorry. For showin’ up like this. I just… couldn’t think about this sober.”

“Think about what sober, Sammy?” you asked carefully, taking a small step towards him.

Sam dropped his arm back to his side, the limb swinging limply at his side as he stared at you with all the vulnerability and trust in the world. “I just…”

“I love you.”

You had to stop yourself from gawking at him. The room seemed to quiet for a long moment, time stalling as if to let you process what had just left the lips you had admired since the first time you saw them, the person you had cared for for months but were too afraid to fully open up to. Of all the times you’d dealt with Sam drunk (which was very few, since he hardly drank), this took the cake as the most outrageous thing he’d ever said. Yet despite yourself, your stomach did that stupid little flip. You tried to shake it off, remind yourself that he was drunk, that he didn’t know what he was saying, but his confession didn’t stop there.

He stepped towards you, swaying on his feet. “I-I mean, when I first met you I– I mean, you were so beautiful– are so beautiful, a-and I… you’re so smart, and strong too, a-and reliable and so, so amazing I couldn’t stop myself, I was screwed from the start,” he rambled, those puppy-dog eyes wide and staring into yours. “I mean, I-I thought I couldn’t for Jessica, a-and I still love her more than anything, but, you… with you, I feel like I could tell you anything, trust you with anything and… and you wouldn’t leave, y’know?” He let out an awkward chuckle, lifting his hands towards you, reaching out but too afraid to touch.

His rushed rant left you stunned. It took a minute for you to collect yourself enough to reply. “Sam, you don’t know what you’re saying,” you began, but he quickly waved his hands, shaking his head.

“No, no… please, I just–” he let out a frustrated sigh, pressing his curled fists to his temples. “I need you. Okay? I can’t go on anymore without… without knowing if you feel the same. Or if you feel anything at all.” He came closer, directly before you now, all six feet and four inches of him looming over you.

Your eyes softened, gazing into those deep, needy hazel pools. “Oh, Sammy,” you whispered, reaching out to gently cup his cheek. He let out a near-whine, leaning his cheek into your palm practically desperately. You felt yourself swallow, a lump of so many different emotions that you’d fought to keep down for months trying to crawl out.

You reached out and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Sam, lie down, alright?” you murmured, coaxing him towards the bed. He sat down with a solid thump, the springs squealing in protest.

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded, his voice quiet and meek as he brought your still-clasped hand to his forehead.

“I won’t,” you promised. “Lay down.”

Sam obeyed, reluctantly releasing your hand to lie on his side, facing you. You sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, bringing your hand to his arm to rub it comfortingly up and down. You watched his eyes, trained on you, slowly relax, then flutter in exhaustion, before closing completely.

Your gaze roamed his peaceful face, his lashes, soft lips, hair falling over his forehead. You gently brushed it back, a pained sigh leaving you as you stood up and walked to the other bed, lying down to sleep. You didn’t trust yourself to stay beside him.

By the time you woke up in the morning, Sam was already hurling in the bathroom. You could hear him gagging and groaning in discomfort just out of view. With a weak moan, you sat up and stretched your arms over your head, your back arching slightly. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, carefully walking over to the bathroom door. You peeked inside, spotting Sam’s hunched body kneeling over the toilet.

“Too much to drink, huh?” you mused lightheartedly. He only moaned in reply.

You got him a bottle of water and a Tylenol for his headache. He took them, swallowing them down greedily. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice slightly raspy from the sting of vomit.

“Do you remember last night?” you asked him once he was able to pry himself from the toilet.

Sam shot you a wary look, his hands folding over his lap. “... yeah, I do.”

You sat down beside him, touching his arm. He flinched at the contact, those hazel eyes plagued with anxiety and doubt. “I’m real sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said those things. Please, just forget about it–”

“Was it true?”

The question slipped out on its own. Sam blinked at your voice, eyes widening in surprise. He swallowed, the ball of his throat bobbing up and down. “What would you do if it was?”

“I’d want to hear it from you sober,” you replied calmly.

Sam was dead silent for a while, just staring at you. His eyes flickered between each of yours, unusually timid.

Finally, he spoke. “I, uh… I love you,” he started. His hands folded together, forefinger and thumb pinching the thin skin between his fingers absently. “I have for… well, months now. I just… was scared of losing you, I guess. If you didn’t feel the same.”

You exhaled, an affectionate smile gracing your lips. His adorable vulnerability made your heart ache and your yearning strengthened nearly painfully. You reached out and took his hands in yours, your thumb brushing comfortingly over his knuckles. Kneeling face-to-face, your noses hardly an inch apart, you’d never felt so exposed in your life, yet an indescribable warmth flooded you when your eyes met his.“Oh, Sammy. I wish you had told me sooner,” you breathed. “Because I love you too.”

His eyes widened a fraction, his larger palms squeezing yours. Testing. Acknowledging that this was real, not a fantasy or a hallucination. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice wavering with months of emotions finally coming to light.

“Yes, Sam,” you reassured. One of your hands lifted to his face, cupping it just as you had the night before. And once again, he buried against it, tilting his head to brush his lips into your palm. A blush bloomed across your cheeks.

He breathed out your name, all tension and fear his body had held leaving with that breath. Like a long-held burden was finally gone from his shoulders. An almost disbelieving laugh left his lips, a smile slowly dawning on his face. Sam’s hand slowly lifted to your cheek, his thumb swiping over it in a tender arc. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice a barely audible whisper.

You laughed, a breathy chuckle that had you tipping your head forward. “Please wash your mouth first, you were just puking.”

“Oh-! Right, sorry,” Sam’s face reddened with an embarrassed flush. He quickly stood up and hurried to the sink, grabbing the toothbrush he had left there and brushing his teeth as fast as he could. You couldn’t help an amused smile from forming on your lips at his eagerness to kiss you. It was touching, too, to feel so desired. Especially by him.

He straightened up once he was done, hurrying back over to you. “Now?” he asked, and you nodded.

Both of his hands cupped your face this time, and he slowly leaned in, your lips coming together. The kiss was slow, warm, and everything you had ever hoped it would be. He kissed you with all the passion and devotion of a man who had been estranged from the one vice of his life. Sam’s hand left your jaw, sliding around your waist to haul you close to him, your bodies pressed together as the kiss deepened. He tilted his head just so, parting his lips in an invitation you happily welcomed, your tongues dragging together in a languid dance you never wanted to stop.

His other hand left your cheek, both palms dragging down your sides and settling at the backs of your thighs. With a small crouch, he hooked his palms under your knees and hauled your legs around his waist. A faint gasp of surprise left your lips. Sam immediately separated from your lips, looking over your face for any hesitation. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded, sliding your arms around his neck as he carried you from the bathroom to the bed. “More than okay,” you breathed against his neck, nipping down on the skin of his throat and sucking a hickey into the pale flesh, earning a sigh from him. He gently laid you back onto the sheets, his fingers just barely ghosting beneath your shirt to touch your waist. You shivered at the contact, a warmth spreading in your lower stomach that you knew only he could satiate.

You reached for Sam’s wrist. He willingly let you guide his hand to your shorts, his fingers curling into the waistband. His eyes searched yours once more, one last check that this was okay, that the desire he felt so strongly for you was mutual. “C’mon, Sammy. Don’t leave a girl waiting,” you hummed. He needed no further convincing, dragging your shorts down your legs and tossing them away.

Sam’s eyes raked over your form, the loose sleep shirt that hung to your hips, half covering the lace panties you had on beneath, and your bare legs spread on either side of him. A strangled groan left his throat, and you could practically see him twitching in his pants, his cock straining against his jeans.

Sam leaned back over you, kissing your cheek as he slotted his hips to yours, a whine breathed against your skin as he ground your bodies together. “Shit… so beautiful…” he whispered against you. Your hands gripped the back of his shirt, feeling the flex of his muscles every time his hips rocked forward. The friction against your clit was heavenly, just this having you already seeing stars. God, how long had it been since you’d been with someone? Months, at least. Not since you started having feelings for Sam. Then, no man seemed worth the time to chat up, take back to a motel, leave before morning. No one matched up to him.

“Sam,” you crooned, your voice breaking on his name. You were already close. All just because of him.

He pressed his face into your shoulder, a broken moan escaping his mouth. “Oh, god… I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, beginning to rut against you quicker, hastey in his need. He groaned out your name, shuddering against you.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, your hand sliding from his back to fist his pretty hair, tugging weakly on the brunette locks. “Oh my god, Sam,” you choked out, locking your legs around his waist to bring him impossibly closer.

With a few more rough bucks against you, the tight spring in your stomach snapped, a wanton moan leaving your lips as you came. Sam wasn’t far behind, lightly biting your shoulder to muffle a pleasured cry as he finished.

You breathed together in the quiet of the motel, the only audible noise being your labored pants against each other. It was a few minutes before Sam slowly peeled his body off of yours, a red stained across his entire face, completely mortified at himself for coming just from dry humping against you. You felt a similar embarrassment, nibbling the tip of your finger and absently looking away. “I can’t believe I just–” he breathed, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hand.

“It’s okay, Sam. I mean, I did too,” you awkwardly chuckled. Your finger hooked under his chin, guiding his face towards yours. “But next time, let's try and make it all the way, okay?”

His eyes widened at the implication of your words. “Next time–? I-I mean, yeah, yes, of course. I’d love to,” he stammered, tripping over his words.

You could only grin, shaking your head. So stupidly in love with this man, and happy to know he felt just the same.

There is no way Dean would be the type to degrade his lover in bed. He loves and loves hard, and even the slightest thought of hurting you or making you uncomfortable would send him spiraling.

Sam had left the motel room about an hour ago to get some fresh air and gather information on the current case you were working on. Rarely did you get any time alone with your boyfriend, and Dean certainly didn’t want to waste it.

“Mm, that good for you baby?” Dean crooned against your cheek, his hips rocking with rhythmic, long drags, his cock sliding along your sensitive walls. His hands held your thighs around his waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the pliant flesh as you arched beneath him. “So gorgeous f’me… perfect,” he hummed.

“Dean,” a breathy whine left your lips. The way he was looking at you–reverent green eyes admiring every clench of your body, each twitch in your expression–had you feeling nearly self-conscious, except for the complete trust you had in your adoring lover. This man wouldn’t even dream of hurting you. He’d sooner hurt himself.

And you loved that about him, but your pussy was throbbing for release, and his gentle pace wouldn’t get you there. “Dean, please,” you whispered against his skin, his lips pressing against the top of your head.

“Please what, baby? M’ here, just tell me,” he murmured, leaning back just enough to admire you, hand sliding up between your warm bodies to cup your cheek.

“Need you… faster, Dean,” you mumbled, leaning up to ghost your lips over his, Dean’s breath catching at the intimate action.

“You’re sure?” he asked carefully, his eyes soft as they met yours. God, that look. Those eyes could be stone cold when facing down a threat, but they always seemed wide and uncertain yet needy when they landed on you.

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down close once more. His lips pressed fully against yours, swallowing your breathy moans as his hips pistoned into your pussy. “So good, sweetheart… fuck… love you so much,” he groaned against your mouth, “take me so good… you like that?”

You could only nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure as he fucked you with all the love and lust in the world.

By the end of it, he was tenderly cleaning you up with one of the motel towels, pressing gentle kisses over your cheeks, nose, lips. “Does it hurt? Wasn’t too rough, was I?” he asked, hand sliding up and down your hip as if soothing any potential aches there.

You couldn’t help chuckling, shaking your head. Your hand found his cheek, cupping it, feeling the warmth and the faint scrape of his stubble. “No, it was perfect.”

dean x reader, suggestive comments, fake dating

A string of missing persons in northern Ohio had drawn the Winchester boys and you to a small lakeshore town with a suspiciously extravagant hotel. Every other year, the hotel hosted a lavish gala. And every year it did, a couple in attendance vanished without a trace. So now you were shimmying into a too-tight dress in your hotel bathroom while Dean and Sam argued in the next room over who would be your “date” to the late-night party.

“Please, Sam, I have a hell of a lot more suave than you. And you don’t even know what we’re looking for,” Dean bickered loudly. You could imagine the frustrated yet cocky smirk he’d have on his face.

“Neither do you!” Sam rebutted, “And suave? Really? You were just complaining about wearing a tux getting in here!”

“Because they suck. What’s your point?”

“Dean!”

Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. The brothers were your closest friends, but their constant bickering got old fast. With a deep and resigned sigh, you unlocked and stepped out of the bathroom. “Can you two finish arguing so we can get going? The party starts in a few minutes,” you chimed in, the two men turning towards you.

Dean’s breath hitched. Being a hunter, you mostly dressed in casual and simple clothes that could be easily washed or replaced if a job got messy. Never had he seen you like this: completely dolled up, the dress hugging your form and accentuating your body in all the right places. He had already found you beautiful before, but this was a completely new level. “Well, now I really gotta be the one to go,” he whistled.

“Don’t be gross,” you sighed in exasperation, unconsciously running your fingers through your hair.

Sam rolled his eyes, shooting you an apologetic look, as he often had to on behalf of his brother. “Are you fine with him going?” he asked.

You nodded, smiling. “At the very least, he’ll be an entertaining date,” you mused, lightly elbowing Dean’s arm. He snorted, lightly nudging you back with his shoulder.

You bid Sam goodbye before the two of you headed down to the hotel’s lobby. Golden string lights hung over the venue, and high above them sat beautiful crystal chandeliers, emanating a warmth that made scarlet ribbons and carpeting stand out brilliantly against the tan wood floors and white walls. People in equally luxurious clothing chattered amongst each other, some by the hotel’s bar of complimentary drinks, others by a long table lined with fancy foods you couldn’t even begin to imagine the taste of. The walls were dotted with gothic paintings and old portraits of people likely long dead. You linked your arm with Dean’s as you descended downstairs. Without even looking at his face, you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Don’t be too clingy, sweetheart. We’re in public.”

“Dean, please,” you lightly nudged his side, earning a deep chuckle from him.

A man dressed in a doorman’s outfit waited at the bottom of the stairs and gave you a cheerful smile. “Hello, welcome to The Huron Hotel’s semi-annual gala! And you two are…?” he greeted charmingly, retrieving a notepad and pen from his coat.

“Name’s Marty Parker, this is my wife, Jennifer. From out of town, just stayin’ for the weekend,” Dean said, flashing his usual charming grin and shaking the man’s hand. The doorman returned the grin in earnest, writing your names down. “What’s all that for?” Dean asked casually.

“Just to keep a record of everyone in attendance. Standard policy. Sorry for any inconvenience, sir,” he replied, giving a polite nod of his head.

“Not a problem,” Dean nodded in return as you stepped past. He gave your arm a small squeeze against him, bringing you close to whisper in your ear. You could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured, “‘Hotel policy’? You’ve got to be joking.”

“Clearly the staff are somehow connected to this,” you hummed in reply, the two of you squeezing past bodies mingling and talking to get to the other side of the room. “And your wife? Really?”

“What? We have to be a couple, right?” Dean quirked an eyebrow, looking incredibly offended. “Or are you saying I’m a bad husband?”

“Just focus, please,” you sighed. Your eyes scanned the room, noting anything that seemed slightly odd or suspicious: A couple looking distressed talking to a waiter, a creepy-looking server handing out appetizers on a tray, an older couple sitting at one of the dining tables eyeing you and Dean. You were so focused, in fact, that you didn’t even realize where Dean was dragging you until you turned forward and faced the bar.

You pinched his arm, earning an indignant hey! from your partner. “Dean. Seriously?”

“What? It's a party, and drinks are free,” he said, flashing you a wink before waving down the bartender.

“Bartender, a Bourbon over ice, please. And for the lady?” Dean turned towards you, an overly suave and smug grin on his stupidly handsome face. You resisted the urge to punch him there.

“A water is just fine,” you bit, trying to keep your voice level and resist giving in to Dean’s antagonizations. The bartender nodded and turned away. You took the chance to slide your hand around Dean’s tie, tugging him down so he was eye level to you. “Dean, focus on the case. We’re here for a reason,” you reminded him pointedly.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, unable to resist smiling. “Okay, okay, I get it, honey.” His arm slid behind you, rubbing your back in the same way a long-time lover would his partner. “Let me at least have a little fun.”

“Are you two from around here?” You and Dean turned, taken off guard by the elderly couple you had seen earlier.

“Oh, no, we’re from out of state, just visiting for the week,” you replied calmly. Your arm wound back around Dean’s, portraying a happy, charming young couple. “And you might be…?”

“I’m Thomas, and this is my wife Elen. We own this hotel,” the old man replied, a too-sweet smile on his face. “It’s always nice to see a bright young couple thriving. How long have you been married?”

“Thank you, sir. We’ve been together three years,” Dean grinned brightly, pressing a casual kiss to the top of your head. You fought the blush that wanted to spread across your face. He was clearly trying to sell the act. “And, if I may, this is a nice place you got here,” Dean hummed, looking around dramatically. “How long have you been running it?”

“Thirty years. We inherited it from my father, who inherited it from his father too,” the wife, Elen, spoke in a soft, shaky, old voice, a smile plastered on her face. She reached out and took your hand, clasping hers around it. “My, aren’t you beautiful. Oh, I remember being just as pretty at your age,” she crooned.

Dean’s smile faltered for a moment, his arm sliding around your waist and tugging you closer. “She is, isn’t she? I’m a lucky man,” he said through gritted teeth. Distrust practically radiated from him.

The woman released your hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean to overstep. My apologies,” she smiled at Dean.

“It’s alright, really. Sometimes my husband is too protective and he forgets that I can handle myself,” you smiled, shooting Dean a look. His lip quirked, fighting a smile.

“Oh, but sweetheart, I just hate to think of anything ever hurting you,” he cooed dramatically, his hand sliding from your back up your side.

“Oh, you two are just the cutest! I remember when Tom and I were just like that. Oh, that was so long ago,” Elen beamed, chuckling.

You watched Dean reply, but his voice was suddenly fuzzy and distant to your ears. You carefully pressed your fingertips to your forehead, a soft groan leaving your lips. A wave of nausea was beginning to hit. Dean frowned, leaning over you in concern, his hands finding your shoulders to support you. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, closing your eyes in an attempt to stop the dull ache in the back of your head, but to no avail.

“Oh, darling, you should sit down,” the old woman cooed, touching your arm. Another pulse of nausea hit your stomach. “There’s a quiet room a little down the hall. You can take a rest away from all this noise.”

“Come along, now,” the old man waved his arm, leading the way. Even in your ailing state, you could tell this was clearly a setup. Dean knew it too, his eyes sharp and colder than before.

Dean’s hand slid down your arm, the other pressing against your forehead, his eyes roving over your face. “Are you gonna be alright?” he asked carefully, his voice hushed so the owners wouldn’t hear.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay, Dean,” you tried to reassure him, but another pulse pounded through your head. You moaned in discomfort, pressing your forehead against his chest.

“Damn it… here, let me–” he crouched, and before you knew it, he had hoisted you into his arms, a weak gasp leaving your lips. “Don’t move too much. I’ve got you,” he murmured, his arms braced under your knees and back as he carried you away through the crowd. “It’s gonna be alright.”

The dizziness was beginning to catch up to you, your eyelids heavy. “Dean… Dean, be careful,” you whispered hoarsely, the crowd around you breaking up as you entered the quiet hallway, the older couple a few yards ahead, waiting outside a doorway.

Dean smirked, cocky yet reassuring all at once. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’ll be just fine.”

And everything went black.

“... Dean?”

The name left your mouth before you were fully conscious, your eyes flitting open in a dimly lit room. Your head ached, but you didn’t feel sick anymore.

“Dean?”

You called out again, pushing yourself up to sit. You were on the floor. The room looked old, incredibly so. Dust covered nearly every surface. Or, it had. Old furniture was thrown about the room haphazardly, and the dust on the floor was disturbed in multiple places in an almost violent way.

Clearly, there had been a fight.

“Dean!” you yelled louder, rising to your feet. Dean was strong, yes, and an incredible hunter, but you couldn’t help worrying over him anyway. You didn’t even know what you were facing, and there were two of them. You dusted off your dress, which was somehow still clean save for a few stubborn smudges, and hurried to the exit.

You had barely reached the door when it swung open, Dean standing in all his glory, tux beat and torn up, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead and his nose. You gawked, automatically cupping his face, twisting it side to side to see his injuries. “Dean! What happened? I-I don’t remember anything, I must’ve–”

“Sweetheart, calm down. I’m fine,” he mused, grinning down at you. “They were wraiths. Nothing a little silver couldn’t fix.” He tilted his head, scanning you up and down. “You alright?”

“Me? You’re the one who’s bleeding everywhere!” you gawked, poking him hard in the stomach, earning a hurt grunt from Dean.

“Ouch. I liked when you were ‘worried about your husband’ wife,” he teased, smirking.

“Of course I was worried! Dean, if anything happened to you while I was–” you let out a long exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “Dean, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

His expression immediately softened, his palm coming up to cup your cheek. “I’m alright. Really. It ain’t your fault you passed out. Last I checked, people usually react like that when they get their lifeforce drained a little.” His thumb swiped over the apple of your cheek, a small smile gracing his lips, making him all the more ruggedly handsome. “Besides, I like takin’ care of my wife.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak laugh, touching his forearm. “You’re so annoying,” you murmured, but a warm flush was already climbing up your face. Why did this always happen around him? “Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry,” he grinned unapologetically.

He helped you to the hallway, guiding you to sit on a small bench. Once you were comfortable, he slumped down beside you, casually stretching his legs out. Police and hotel guests were walking up and down the hallway, and you were suddenly aware of the sirens outside. “So… what happened?” you asked.

“Hm. Long story short, the wraiths were feeding on a young couple every other year to stay strong,” he smiled at you, watching your reaction. “And get this: the staff weren’t in on it. They just went along with their weird ass policies. Crazy, huh?”

You shook your head, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I feel exhausted,” you admitted.

Dean frowned. “Woah, are you still sick? Do you need to lie down?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No, Dean. Well, maybe. I don’t know. It’s been a long night.” Your hand found his in his lap. Dean’s eyes widened slightly, staring at your hand, then drifting up to your face. His fingers tentatively closed around yours.

“Hey, y'know, you’d make a good husband,” you murmured absentmindedly, feeling the exhaustion of the evening creeping up on you. He stiffened slightly against you, though you were too tired to notice.

“You mean that?” he murmured. But you were already gone.

Dean stared down at your sleeping form against his side. He let out a harsh breath, shaking his head, warmth crawling up the back of his neck and face. “Damn it.”

dean x reader, one bed trope, fluff

“Room 9, very end,” the lady manning the front desk of the motel rasped, a wrinkled hand carelessly planting the small room key on the desk in front of Dean. He gave one last charming grin, scooping it up and retreating to where you and Sam waited by the doorway.

Dean shook his head, mustering an awkward chuckle and shooting the two of you a wide-eyed thank-god-that-conversation-is-over look before leading the way outside. It was already late, the three of you having arrived at the motel around eleven at night, just before it was about to close, and with a few sly words and flirting that only sounded pathetic to older ears, Dean had scored a room from a clearly irritated and tired old woman. Sam had pinpointed a potential hunt in the small backwater town the motel resided in, and it was too late to go out for your usual course of interrogations and break-ins to crime scenes. So, here you were: a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere.

The air outside was crisp, the chill of the fall season just beginning to creep into the midwestern nights. Eerie woodland surrounded the aged motel, and its looming parking lot sign flickered with lights that were barely hanging on to the ending threads of their lives. For all the horrors and gore you’d seen in your lifetime, there was something uniquely off-putting about the darkness of the night and what may lie within it.

Dean’s rugged voice cut through the silence, clearing his throat outside one of the dull green doors, the number nine crudely painted onto it. “Well, I guess we’ve stayed worse places,” he mused, shooting Sam a look as he slid the key in and swung the door open. The room was about as welcoming as one would expect from the outside–peeling wallpaper, stained and torn-up carpeting, a barely-tidied bed, and a grimy-looking couch. You didn’t even want to think about how awful the bathroom could be.

Sam gave an unimpressed frown, patting Dean on the shoulder. “Yeah, but not much worse than this,” he cringed, “I’ll take the couch.”

“It’s all yours,” Dean snorted, shouldering Sam. “I don’t even want to know what half of those stains are.”

“I don’t want to imagine the kinds of bugs that are living in that mattress,” Sam countered, stepping inside and tossing his coat onto the couch cushion as a makeshift comforter.

“Touché,” Dean muttered, turning towards you. The motel was unlike anywhere you had stayed before, even in your time with Sam and Dean. The sight of it was sickening, but the uncanny view outside willed you in. “You fine sharing the bed, doll? I don’t mind sleeping on the floor if I gotta,” Dean offered, his eyes softening in that way they always did when they drifted to your face.

“No, it’s alright. I would feel terrible kicking you onto… that,” your eyes drifted to a particularly gross patch of carpet beside the bed. Something dark bloomed across the wiry fabric. You couldn’t even tell if it was a stain or straight up mold, and you weren’t too interested in investigating.

Dean followed your gaze, his lips thinning into a grimace. “How generous of you.” You watched him saunter to the edge of the mattress before slumping down onto his back, a long, deep groan leaving his throat. You swallowed slightly at the sound, walking over to the other side of the bed and lying down. The mattress was as comfortable as you imagined, the springs poking your back through the thin fabric. Not to mention the smell of the sheets and the pillows flattened to practically useless pancakes.

“Real luxury, huh?” Dean piped beside you as if reading your thoughts.

You turned your head to meet his gaze. He had that lazy grin he always wore around you, like speaking to you was the simplest pleasure in the world. “Yeah. I feel like if I move too roughly, a spring is going to impale me,” you hummed, squirming just slightly in an attempt to get at least a little more comfortable, but to no avail. Dean grunted in agreement beside you, tucking his hands behind his head.

The room fell into silence. You stared up at the ceiling, the paint wrinkled and stained with poorly hidden water damage. Somewhere across the room, you thought you heard the skitter of something across the wooden baseboard. An uncomfortable shiver rolled up your spine. Really, you would’ve felt more comfortable sleeping out in the car. At least Baby was clean and secure (Dean would behead anyone who got her even slightly messy). Your head turned to the side again. Dean had rolled over, his broad back facing you. The flannel he wore stretched tight across his back, looking cruelly cozy compared to your own clothing. One arm was curled beneath his head, and you could just faintly see the meat of his bicep. It would be so much more comforting, you thought, to be in those arms, to be held by a warm body, not stuck alone on an uncomfortable mattress.

You reluctantly rolled over, a quiet exhale leaving your lips as you closed your eyes, attempting to sleep.

Sleep never came. For the hundredth time in what felt like an eternity, your eyes fluttered open. Still in a dark motel room. Still uncomfortable. You could hear Sam across the room, mumbling in his sleep and shifting around on the couch every so often. Meanwhile, Dean hadn’t moved an inch where he lay on the other side of the bed. The only thing telling you he was even still alive was the rhythmic shift of his body every time he breathed.

Against better judgment, you rolled over to face him. His back was still to you. “Dean?” you called softly.

Immediately, his head turned, his eyes meeting yours over his shoulder, the moonlight painting his face in a faded palette of greys. Clearly, he hadn’t been able to sleep either. “Mm? What’s up?” he murmured, his voice slightly rugged and deep from disuse.

A sudden shyness washed over you. What were you meant to say? Dean, I want to be wrapped in your big, strong arms so I can actually get a good night’s rest? You’d die of embarrassment. You settled for a quiet “I can’t sleep.”

Dean rolled onto his back, his head tilting to the side so he could look at you properly. His eyes roved over your face, noting the crease between your brows, the frown stuck on your lips, down to your body, the clear tension in every muscle from the ridged springs poking into you to the arm tucked beneath your cheek. He hummed, reaching above his head to grab the pillow on his side and offer it to you. “Try putting this under you. Might help with the mattress,” he suggested. You took it with reluctance, sliding it beneath your hip and using the one on your side to comfort the upper half of your torso. It helped, but very little.

“I can’t sleep like this,” you sighed, twisting in place in a pathetic attempt to find some position you had even a small chance of dozing off in. He watches in silence, mouth resting in a frown as he takes in your obvious discomfort. “Dean, I–”

A small gasp slipped from your lips, cutting off your words as two arms slipped around your waist and hauled you forward, splaying half your body over Dean, held with one arm around your middle. “Here, is this better?” he asked, watching your face for any sign of discomfort or disgust, his green eyes soft like a puppy expecting rejection.

Like you’d ever consider pushing him away.

You adjusted yourself in his hold, resting a hand against his shoulder, your head falling to rest on the other one. “Much better,” you murmured, a smile playing on your lips.

Dean relaxed immediately under you, his usual playful ego rejuvenated. “Mhm, whatever you need, doll, I’ve gotcha,” he hummed, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. You felt a warm flush crawl up your neck. You’ve never been this close: close enough to feel the muscles moving beneath his skin, smell the scent of him around you, see every small crease on his face. And he admired you right back, eyes slowly tracing every inch of your expression.

He cleared his throat nervously, touching the back of your neck with one careful hand. “Get some sleep,” he murmured, laying his head back as yours rested fully on his chest. You hummed in acknowledgement, your eyes drifting shut. Finally, you could rest.