#asks reply

@bejeweledinterludes2 also asked me about it (and answering your other question Faith), I thought reader would introduce Dean to bubble baths, he’d fuss about it, but then sneak around to have one when he realises he enjoys them. Potentially a five times type fic, or, a simple Dean is slightly injured and sexy times ensue in the bath 😁🤭

As for Dating Dean Winchester

Well, its a bit more than just a WIP, it’s a side blog that would post a short snippet of a story a day in “real time,” starting with the day you met Dean and progressing each day throughout the relationship.

And here's my personal take on it. (you may click away now, I won't judge you, I swear)

Alright, so. Realistically:

Honestly? I wouldn't even get to see them because I wouldn't open the door LMAO.

We just don't do that. You don't announce yourself before you come over? Nope, not even gonna bother to check the door. I'll hide in the corner of our bathroom pretending to be occupied. (Except it's that time when the mail man comes by. Then I have to.)

My dog on the other hand will very much like to open the door. Thankfully we have two doors, the second one's a heavy one so he can't open it. But I wouldn't be surprised if he'd figure it out somehow and Dean, Beau and Ben would be faced with a fully-grown White Shepherd on his zoomies.

Why do I feel like Dean and Beau would love my boy while Ben would just scowl at him for shoving his snout up his crotch? Yes, he does that. With strangers, strong enough to make them double over. (he just wants to play, I swear. No, really. He loves humans, a trait he clearly didn't get from me 😂 I must come across like a terrible person lmao. But despite all this I'm super kind and polite and sweet, pinky-promise.)

Alright then. Let's just go with this scenario for a moment. I'd scramble after my dog. And the moment I'd come face to face with them, I would probably freeze up first - then question my sanity (why's Jensen fuckin' Ackles at my door? Why's he three times at my door? And how does one get this high as a kite without ever touching a single coke? - not the drink one - the white stuff Ben likes to bury his nose in (and I wouldn't even know where to get from, right Beth? 😜)

Pretty sure Dean would give me his lopsided smile along a "Hey, sweetheart." which would already have my legs weak.

Beau would be crouched down, ruffling my dogs fur and wave up at me with a polite "Sorry to disturb ya, darlin'."

While Ben - well - his intense, narrowed hawk-eyes would just be my nail in the coffin.

And I'd just check out.

A little tmi; You know the timing of your ask is oddly perfect? Just a few days ago, my partner and I were talking about ‚what if‘ scenarios. Like - I think there was once that trend going around where couples would ask for a theoretical free card for some celeb? Yeah something like that.

And. Well. He knows I‘ve got a crush on Dean 😂 and he knows about my smut-writing and fuckin supports it (!! That man, seriously, I don't know how I deserve him). So, uh, back to the question and without getting into the spicy details, let’s just say I’d theoretically get the permission to bring one of the gents to our bed. 🤣

Who would I pick? I'd have to say Dean, always. <3

[my conscience holding me back from getting a bite of Dean, Ben and Beau all at the same time if I didn't have to pick]

The light filters in from the blinds covering her window and she struggles to open her eyes.

Her toddler is next to her, feels the hairs of his head tickling her arms, and the other one, using her as a body pillow. Head in boobs, arm wrapped around her stomach, leg over hers (if only it belonged to an adult male capable of cooking and cleaning). She squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

“Please don’t be six. Please don’t be six,” she whispers. Breathes deep and long. She’s hoping the sound wakes them both up enough to move. Prays they might decide to relocate to the lounge room on their own for once without her, so she can at the very least lie in her bed BY HERSELF and daydream just a little longer.

“It’s five-forty-five,” a voice says into her ear, and what the fuck! Her lids burst open.

The room is still grey. The light filtering in from the hallway tells her it’s early, but that’s not what she’s looking for. Who the fuck cares! She distinctly heard a voice.

She lies still. Muscles tense, almost trembling. Kid one makes a noise in their sleep and she’s glaring at them. How dare they! But whatever she heard doesn’t speak again, and she can’t see anything amiss. Yeah, she’s going crazy.

She shifts her left arm, wincing when kid one’s head thumps into the mattress. At least he didn’t hit the headboard today.

She shuffles her body to the side, letting the other body next to her still feel her comfort. Holds in the scowl when their head presses further into their cleavage. Theirs because it hasn’t been hers since they were born.

Her hand reaches for her phone, stretches it out to where she left it charging. Fingers grip the sides and she brings her top arm to disconnect it, but it slips and makes a bang. She’s wincing again. Damn things fallen to the ground.

“Crowley, pick it up,” the same voice whispers close to her ear and her eyeballs have popped out of her head.

Crowley? Crowley? Like the King of Hell? Man. She’s been reading way too many fanfics. Time to put Tumblr down. But while she contemplates the mundane of her life, there’s a flicker over her shoulder. A whir of black and beige?

“You want her to have it so bad, you get it,” another voice speaks. It’s rough, sarcastic, it’s British? Not the point! Why does it sound so familiar?

“You’re the one that has wings, mate,” it continues, and that’s it! She’s sitting up.

Kid two falls out of bed at the sudden movement and there’s a “Mummy,” on the other side. Dammit, they’re awake, but fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

There on her lap are two little men, staring back at her. One happy and hopeful, one scowling, but there’s a smirk to his eyes.

The little trench coat is unmistakable, as is the black suit and vest. Blue eyes, more blue, and a little bit of stubble on each.

She has to be dead. There’s no other explanation, unless her mental health is worse than she thought. She opens her mouth to speak, but she’s getting the whining from both sides now. The little men continue to stare.

Breakfast and TV soon babysitting, kids quiet, no fighting, no drama except there is!

She’s back in her room, staring back at an angel and a demon, trying not to go bonkers, but failing miserably.

“You’re—”

“An angel,” Cas says. His face, regrettable. Apologetic.

“She recognises you, you dolt,” Crowley snaps, holding a lowball of booze.

“She does?” Cas twists his head in confusion. He looks like he did in the earlier seasons of the show when Dean complained about personal space, and oh god. No. Nope. The show isn’t real!

“I have to be dreaming,” she says.

“Well, you’re not.”

“No, no. You guys aren’t real. You’re—”

“We’re what?” Crowley takes a little sip of his little dram. “A figment of your imagination? No darling. We’re real, and we’re with you.”

His voice is sarcastic. She can read between the lines. He doesn’t want to be here just as much as she wants to check herself into the local hospital for testing. Maybe she bumped her head, not her kids?

“Why?” she blurts out. Because arguing is more important. She could just leave the room.

But this is the most excitement she’s had in a while, even if it is close to crazy-train, and her curiosity is getting her better of her.

If they’re real, are Sam and Dean real, too? Will she expect mini versions of J2 anytime soon because yes, please! Misha and Mark can go back to where they came from, as lovely as they are.

Yup. Nope. Hospital now.

She stands up and walks to the closet. Pulls out clothes, underwear, grabs her purse.

“Where are you going?” Little Cas is flying now. His flings flutter before her as he floats in midair.

Her eyes blink and she stomps down the hall to the bathroom. They’re not there. They’re definitely not there!

The problem is, the kids are at home. She can’t close or lock the door. Best she can do is close it so that a sliver is open to hear them, but that’s not the real problem.

“We should talk about this.” Cas pops back in front of her.

“Let the woman have some privacy, Castiel.” Crowley’s on her shoulder, eyes wagging, steps over to the edge and looks down, and she does too.

Her sleep shirt leaves little to the imagination. She can see right down it, which means so can he—until he’s flung to the wall behind her with a little thud, sliding to the ground behind her.

With an ice pack he whipped out of thin air, Crowley holding it, Castiel, trying not to laugh, the little angel and demon sit on her kitchen table before her.

“Who’re you talking to, mummy?” kid two asks, blissfully unaware.

“No one,” she says, and it’s enough for him. Never mind, mummy’s going crazy. It’s just another day.

“They can’t see us.” Cas says, staring at the TV. Mikey and JJ are building security measures in Minecraft, and that’s more interesting it seems. “Why does the turtle keep falling into the lava? He just has to choose the dirt over the diamonds, but he doesn’t every time.”

“It’s entertainment.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “They’re going to hell for that.” And then adds, “We tried the rugrats first,” as if he’s said neither things. Just continues to ice his head and sip the scotch she’s tempted to take. That much in the morning can’t hurt.

“So…” She’s trying to understand, thinks through the scenario. What does she ask? “Is this a dream or—”

“Did my kick feel like a dream?”

“Didn’t hurt,” she snides back, then blurts out, “Are they real, too?” Because, priorities.

The TV still holds Cas’ attention. He mutters something about turtles and laser beams, but Crowley’s onto it. He’s rolling his eyes again. Soon has a devilish look to match her thoughts.

“You gotta thing for the moose or the squirrel?” His brows raise. “Or do you prefer them together?”