Rafe didn’t understand what everybody was always running their mouth about when they said shit like “you’ll meet a nice girl” “you’ll wanna settle down” because, in his experience, nice girls were atrociously boring and no one he ever wanted to be around. He was sure he’d shack up with some bitch and get married and pump out a couple kids because he had to, because that’s what he was supposed to do, but not because he loved someone so much he wanted to

That was, until he met you.

You, with your gentle beauty and the way your hair was always so close to perfect but never quite. The pleated skirts and the way you always smelled of cinnamon and, faintly, soil. Warm as a kitchen at dawn, quiet except for your laugh, which was loud enough to scare the birds out of the forest.

The thing about girls with rickety front porches and warm hands, though, is that you have to be on their best behavior around them—that’s what Barry said, at last: “Man, she’s not gonna want your coked-up ass. That typa chick wants a dude who builds a fuckin’ fence and shit. They don’t like rich dudes. Give it up.”

And unfortunately, Rafe was pretty sure he was right. You mostly kept your head down when you walked, and no matter how many things he leaned against, or how many times he casually smoked a cigarette near you, he just couldn’t get you to look his direction—and if you did, you didn’t grant a second glance to his crisp white shirts or his backwards hat.

His crowning last-stitch move was when he made a big show of helping his dear sister carry her bag when she was walking down the dock—it looked heavy, he wouldn’t want her hurting herself! She’s family, after all! Sarah had tried to wrestle the bag back and she flipped him off after he put it onto the boat for her, but it’d already had the desired effect… your eyes lingered on him for a moment. Family was important, after all. You were the kinda girl who cared about those things.

When the two of you started going out, he felt like his life was spinning out of control and simultaneously clicking into place. You had expectations for him, real ones. And a lot of the time when you said shit like “I’m making dinner tonight, don’t be late” or “wash your hands” Rafe wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself, because you weren’t his damn mother—except when he looked over at you and saw your face, that wide-eyed, imploring look you always gave him, the words died in his throat. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d do something nice for you and you’d nudge his arm. “What, you sweet on me or somethin’?” He’d wonder who even talks like that, it’s weird. Then he’d find himself grabbing your pretty face and kissing you so hard you think he might break your nose.

Rafe was so, so well behaved with you. He kept it together so nice, all his unstable shit wrapped up into a neat little package tied with ribbon. He acted as a guy who smiled semi-often, and said thank you sometimes, and maintained eye contact with you when he was fucking you—all things that were new and unfamiliar to him. When you told him what time dinner was, he came over in time. He kissed your forehead and he meant it. For you, he did it all. Barry had been right. You wanted a well-behaved guy, and Rafe wanted to watch the way your smile took over your face when you were happy and the ecstatic look on your face when you came, so he was well-behaved.

That was, until he wasn’t.

He was supposed to come over at nine. You would’ve just gotten out of the shower (or maybe you’d still be in, if he got lucky) and you’d put your cute little plaid PJs on, and you’d climb on top of him and put your weight on his chest while the two of you watched some 90’s movie. The movie would get boring in act three and he’d watch you ride him, and then he’d cum on your stomach like a gentleman, and the two of you would fall asleep wrapped up in eachother.

Instead of that carefully constructed, lovely, dreamy evening—Rafe showed up at nearly three in the morning, covered in blood.

He knew you’d be asleep, he’d have time to wash his face and toss his shirt in the trash can out back before climbing into your bed with you. He didn’t wanna go home. He wanted to press kisses to your throat and apologize for being late, swear that it would never happen again and then make it up to you in the morning by making you cum over and over in your crisp red plaid bedsheets.

Instead, he found you sitting on a stool in your living room, head leaned against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep. Waiting for him. Rafe froze like a deer in headlights and waited for the inevitable, for you to call him a psychopath and beat him off the property with a broom.

You didn’t. You didn’t speak, just led him to the bathroom and wiped the blood from his face, carded your fingers through his hair. Threw his clothes into the rattling washing machine with a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide, and then let him crawl into bed with you anyway. The two of you were silent, and he slung an arm over you. You settled into the crook of his armpit and fell asleep with your face smushed against his bicep, and he felt something horrible and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

You could never leave him, he decided. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t survive that.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader didn’t ask to be human, but here she is. One second, she was a warm, golden-crusted masterpiece in a tin. The next, she was standing in Dean Winchester’s kitchen, barefoot, confused, and craving sugar like her life depended on it.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader exists because of magic, but not a curse. The apples in her recipe came from a supernatural orchard—tied to emotions, longing, and home. Dean’s deep, unspoken need for comfort and something permanent gave her life. She is not a monster, not a trick—just… her.

🥧˚｡⋆ She's not a curse but a gift—though Dean would argue that waking up to a woman in his kitchen wearing his flannel and smelling like pie is very confusing.

🥧˚｡⋆ She is always warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable—just cozy. Like she just stepped out of the oven, radiating the kind of warmth that makes people unconsciously lean in closer. Dean tries not to notice. He fails.

🥧˚｡⋆ She smells like cinnamon, sugar, and baked apples. Sam claims it’s distracting. Dean definitely doesn’t have a problem with it—except for the fact that it makes his heart do something stupid whenever she’s near.

🥧˚｡⋆ She has memories—but they’re strange. They're not real memories; She just, kind of, remembers every time Dean ever craved an apple pie. The times he was happy, the times he was miserable, and just wanted comfort food. She remembers being wanted—but not like this. Not as a person.

🥧˚｡⋆ She craves sugar like oxygen. Not just because she used to be a pie, but because sugar is energy, warmth, safety. She’ll stare at a cupcake like it holds the answers to the universe. Eve really, really, likes candies and sweet things.

🥧˚｡⋆ Dean catches her watching him. A lot. And every time, her expression is unreadable, like she’s trying to figure something out. Trying to understand him.

🥧˚｡⋆ She doesn’t like sharp objects. Instinct kicks in whenever someone picks up a knife near her, and she moves. Dean once tried to hand her a fork, and she flinched. ("Do I even want to know why?" "…Nope.")

🥧˚｡⋆ She can’t explain why she’s so drawn to Dean, but it’s there. Maybe it’s because he was the one who ate that first bite, the one who made the unintentional wish that gave her life. Or maybe it’s something deeper.

🥧˚｡⋆ She feels safest near him. When things get overwhelming—when the world feels too big, too loud, too human—she always finds herself next to Dean. Like a subconscious instinct. Like home.

🥧˚｡⋆ Apple Pie!Reader doesn’t have a name at first. Dean calls her “Sugar,” “Honey,” “Cupcake,” or sometimes "Sweetheart" anything but a real name. Eventually, she picks one herself—but Dean still calls her "Sugar" when no one else is around.

🥧˚｡⋆ Sam is both fascinated and horrified. "Dean, you’re telling me your apple pie turned into a woman?" "Dude, I don’t know how to explain it either." "And you’re keeping her here?" "What am I supposed to do, Sam? Send her back to the bakery?"

🥧˚｡⋆ She can’t read. She recognizes certain words—especially ones related to food and definitely anything Dean says a lot—but books are still a mystery. She likes when Dean reads to her, even if he grumbles about it.

🥧˚｡⋆ She gets jealous of other desserts. Dean doesn’t notice at first, but when he orders a different kind of pie at a diner and she goes silent for the rest of the night, it clicks. ("You’re mad because I ate a cherry pie?" "…No.")

🥧˚｡⋆ She starts picking up human habits—some on purpose, some by accident. Wearing Dean’s flannel when she’s cold, humming classic rock under her breath, curling up on the couch with a blanket like she’s always been there.

🥧˚｡⋆ She’s not just an apple pie that became a woman. She’s a woman learning how to be. Learning how to live, to want, to feel. And maybe, just maybe—she’s figuring out what it means to love, too.

library .ᐟ.ᐟ

∿ get to know her personality

linas notes: yayy a new object!reader!! and again, ofc, this is totally inspired by @daylighted and baby!reader !! pls check this amazing universe of object!reader, and all the others creatives readers!!

yapps! I'm a little in love with eve??? I think she's going to be sooo fun to write I'm really excited! (and again, hopping that I actually continue with this… lol)