#spn reader

You froze, heart sinking at the familiar gravel in Dean’s voice. Slowly, you turned to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his green eyes shadowed with suspicion—and something deeper you couldn’t quite place.

“Dean...” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor, the sound unnerving in the silence. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, nodding toward the duffel slung over your shoulder.

You tightened your grip on it instinctively, your stomach churning. “It’s nothing. I just need some air, that’s all.”

“That why you’ve got your car keys, too?” His jaw clenched, his gaze burning into yours.

You bit your lip, unable to meet his eyes. You’d spent weeks working up the nerve for this moment, convincing yourself it was for the best. But standing here, with Dean looking at you like that—like you were breaking something inside him—it was almost too much to bear.

“Dean, I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted, your voice cracking.

“What?” he breathed, as if the word itself was foreign.

“This life,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the bunker around you. “The hunting, the danger, the constant fear that one of us isn’t going to make it back.” You swallowed hard, tears pricking at your eyes. “I thought I could handle it, but I can’t.”

Dean stood there, frozen, like he’d just been punched in the gut. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “So, what? You’re just leaving? No warning, no... no goodbye?”

“It’s easier this way,” you whispered.

“Easier?” He took another step closer, his voice rising. “For who, huh? You? Because it sure as hell isn’t easier for me!”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Dean, please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You think I’m just gonna let you walk out that door? After everything? After...” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “After you made me believe I wasn’t alone in this?”

His words hit like a knife to the chest, and for a moment, you almost reconsidered. Almost.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “But I can’t stay and watch this life destroy you. Destroy us.”

Dean’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. He looked at you like he wanted to say something, anything, to make you stay. But all he could do was stare, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Without another word, you turned and walked toward the door, your footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

“Don’t go,” Dean finally said, his voice barely audible.

But you didn’t stop.

Reader has tits and a dick

"It's been a proper long while since I've had such a lovely guest in my home," Crowley practically purrs, looking you up and down, just as ravenous as the first time you met at the crossroads, all those years ago. In the afterlife; you find yourself young and beautiful again, the same age you were when you first made that deal.

"Guest is a very strong word," you say, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. "Generally, being a guest is temporary."

It's time to pay the piper, so to speak, and you've only got yourself to blame. Crowley held up his end of the deal, and now, years later, you find yourself paying back an owed debt. Your soul had seemed an easy trade at the time, but now, feeling his eyes roam over you, you aren't so sure.

"You know how the song goes, love. 'Check out any time you like, but you can never leave?'"

Hotel California sounds strange from his mouth, with that posh accent, but you swallow back a retort and force yourself to stand tall. Actions have consequences, and this one is yours. Even knowing what you know now, it was worth it. Being able to live as yourself — truly, authentically — is a luxury few people ever get.

"You know, you've got a gorgeous body under there. Why don't you shuck the baggy jumper and slip into something more comfortable?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Not really," he confirms, and snaps his fingers.Your sweater and jeans disappear, replaced by a flimsy, lace-covered nightgown. It hangs off of you by spaghetti straps, and his gaze grows darker as he follows the curve of your body.

"Much better."

You resist the urge to cover yourself, the cool air making your nipples firm and swell beneath the barely-there sheer fabric. You take the chance to take stock of your body. You look and feel exactly as you did that day, in your early twenties, with a few glaring differences.

"You left me the tits I got in the deal."

"You look better with them, princess."

Your cheeks flush, and you glance down, taking more stock in your body now that you're so exposed. You'd always liked your dick before. It was why you'd not wanted to get bottom surgery included in the deal. Still, a lot of partners had wanted, expected it, even. It's surprising that Crowley doesn't force that on you. He can obviously affect your appearance here in Hell, so why doesn't he?

He must read the question in your eyes, because he says: "Call me a pervert if you like, but I like the way it looks on you. Completes the package, if I may be so crude."

He's got a glass of dark wine in hand, and makes no illusion of his intentions. Somehow, it's not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but you refuse to dwell on it as you swallow hard.

"Wine?" Crowley asks, and you decide this is better tolerated with alcohol in your system. You approach and extend a hand, only for him to hold his glass out of reach, smirking.

"Ah, ah, ah! Nothing comes for free, pet. Kneel."

"On second thought," you say, your tone acidic; "I'll skip the wine."

"You'll kneel, regardless of whether you want wine or not," he croons, and makes a sweeping gesture with his finger. It's not quite a compulsion. You can resist, if you focus.

"Can we skip the foreplay and get right to the torture?" You ask, weary. Because that's what this is leading to, right? He's going to torture and break you, and make you to be like him. He's going to cause you unimaginable pain and humiliation, and it starts like this, by forcing you to kneel at his feet by your own free will. You refuse to bow, and his gaze turns cold; steely and unyielding.

"Since you're so insistent on paving your own way, I'll give you a choice, darling. Kneel at my feet like the pretty pet you are, or I'll break your ankles and make you crawl like an animal."

You kneel.

"That's my whore," he croons, and the sound of it pools within you like a hateful promise.

He offers you his glass of wine, lightly slapping your hand when you reach up to grab it. Instead, he tilts your head up, two fingers on your chin; and places the rim of the glass against your lips, finally letting you drink.

"Attagirl. Take what you want, darling."

You pull away when the wine is drained, and absently wonder if it's been drugged. You feel lighter than the usual tipsiness you'd get from a small glass of wine — borderline aroused, almost. You tell yourself it must be, because the alternative is worse. If this is all you, then you'll never be able to hold your head up high again.

"Now that I've whetted your appetite, can I interest you in the main course?"

You scowl, and raise an eyebrow. "I'm betting it's not fois gras and caviar on crackers."

"How terribly gauche," Crowley laughs, and blatantly, perversely; palms himself through his trousers. "No, but if you want meat, I have a nice, thick sausage for you."

"I only eat sliced sausage," you retort before you can stop yourself, and Crowley isn't crude enough to slap you — he just chuckles, low and promising, and runs a possessive hand through your hair.

"If that's your preference, I'll gladly hold you down and feed your own to you on a silver fucking platter."

Okay, bad idea, you tell yourself as your eyes widen. Very very bad idea. Don't give him those for free.

"I can see by your sheer terror that you aren't fond of the idea. If that's the case, I'll advise you to be a bit more polite with me from now on. I could have you thrown to the deepest, darkest pit of hell if I wanted — if you think I'm bad, you should see the demons down there."

You nod, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Yes sir," you correct, biting out the words that burn to say.

"Good girl," he says, eyes half-closing again as he frees his length from his trousers, giving it a good squeeze. "Now suck my cock."

You lean in, and he yanks you back by the hair, tsk'ing under his breath.

"What do you say, lovey?"

It is not hard to come up with an answer for that, and you grit your teeth before muttering a "thank you," under your breath.

"You can do better than that," he teases, smacking your cheek with his tip as he chuckles.

"Thank you, master," you growl out, half-sarcastic, and he laughs with genuine mirth.

"Oh that's my girl. You know how to make a man feel appreciated."

You ignore him and lean in, licking the tip of his cock with a hesitant lap of your tongue. He's uncut, something you're less familiar with as an American. Still, his foreskin and glans are clean, pubic hair meticulously trimmed. It could be worse, you think, as you take his tip into your mouth, sucking.

"There you go. I knew it was a good idea when I bought your soul."

His voice is warm honey, and the hairs on your neck stand up to hear it. It's definitely (probably?) the drugged wine. You slip into a rhythm as he croons filthy words, and find you aren't quite as immune as you'd like. You squeeze your thighs together under the nightgown, and pray he doesn't notice the beginning swell of an erection you can't explain away. It's stupid, it's demeaning, and you feel guilty for being turned on at all.

It's a fool's pipe-dream — you can tell by his smirk that he notices, and pulls back as he nudges your knees apart with the toe of his patent-leather shoe.

"Well, would you look at that? Perhaps your body knows, hm? You're right where you belong now. On your knees, sucking cock, a good little whore for me."

As much as you disagree, as much as you want to rail against the idea, your dick likes his deliberate, hedonistic words. He nudges your crotch with the sole of his shoe, and you flinch, half-afraid of pain. He ignores it, and rubs gently, coaxing your prick to peek out from under the waistline of the lace panties he put you in. It's humiliating, even more than being forced to suck him, and you can't help but shudder at the pressure. His touch grows heavier, almost painful; and you groan. He stops just before it becomes more pain than pleasure, and nudges his cock toward you again.

"If you do a good job, maybe I'll let you come. You can be good for me, can't you, slut?"

Eager to hear less of his taunting, you bob your head down to suck again. You go as deep as you can, and then pull back, hollowing your cheeks as you suck. Up and down, tongue pressed to the underside of his cock for friction, you pleasure him, growing harder in your lace panties as he smirks down at you.

"That's a good little whore. I remember how good you were with your tongue, but you've learned so much in your time on Earth. You're going to be a fine addition to my collection, princess."

Your cock throbs below you, and you shudder, whining around him.. You shouldn't be so turned on, but the dick wants what it wants, and he owns you; mind, body, and soul. It's oddly flattering that he likes you too. That's what you keep in mind as you suck him off, lips bumping the rings on his hand when you get as far down as you can.

"Be a dear and suck my balls while you're down there."

His tone is casual condescension, and you shudder, pulling off of him with a satisfying pop. You've never really played with a guy's balls before, and you tentatively press your mouth to one; licking, tasting the salt and musk of his skin. He's sparsely haired around his testicles, so you suck one into your mouth, tentatively. It's large — a little smaller than a boiled egg — and the skin is soft, wrinkled. It's a strange feeling, but you suck lightly, reaching up to roll the other lightly in your hand. The size and heft of them is different from your own, and you savor rolling your tongue around it.

Just as easily, you pop off of the left, and take the right into your mouth, sucking gently while he strokes himself above you. It's a moment that feels tight, as though the air itself is heavy with anticipation. You hope he isn't going to come on your hair. Even in Hell, that's probably hard to clean out.

"Hell's bells, princess," Crowley murmurs, pulling you off himself with a yank of your hair. "Stay still for me, would you?"

You don't have a choice, as he holds you in place with a fist in your hair, the other hand stroking himself at a quick pace.

"That's my pretty whore. Sit still for your master," he's panting, thick pre-cum dripping from his tip while he pleasures himself.

The first splash of cum takes you by surprise, and you grimace as it lands on your chest, coating your neck and collarbone, and dripping, sticky, over the top of your cleavage. He looks satisfied with himself, and leans down to press your tits together while you grimace — smiling at the way his spend is framed with the additional support.

"Oh come now, don't be so glum. I could have made you swallow it."

You roll your eyes, prompting a laugh from him.

"My, but you're a cheeky thing, aren't you?" He turns his back on you, and you're unbearably tempted to lunge at him, claw his eyes out, bite his throat... But Crowley's already reaching into a drawer and turning around. In his hand, there's a toy, a silicone dildo — not too thick or long. Honestly, it looks comfortable, and you're wondering where the catch is, before he pulls another, bigger one out of the same drawer.

You bite back a scathing remark about the normal dildos — you'd genuinely expected something more immediately painful, but you promised yourself: no more ideas for your torturer.

"I'm not playing pick-and-choose," you say instead, unable to resist at least a little pushback.

"Then it's good I never planned on it, darling."

He throws you the dildos, and you catch them, the movement reminding you of the cooling spend on your chest. Next he throws you a bottle of lubricant, and you raise your eyebrows.

"If you wanted me to sodomize you, Crowley, you only had to ask."

"The amazing silicone peckers are for you, sweetheart. You're going to fuck yourself on one, and then the other. Work your way up to the bigger one."

"Why?"

He looks at you with utter, undisguised disdain.

"So you can prep yourself for me, my brainless little fuck-toy."

For some reason, the demeaning talk makes you stir again, and he smirks — slow and lazy, like a cat.

"Get to it, princess. You don't get to move up the ladder 'til you've come."

You shudder. Part of the reason you'd kept a cock was because of how hard it was to get a prostate orgasm. It took work, and time, but you resigned yourself to it, anxious about what he'd do if you refused. The dildos have a simple suction-cup bottom that fits perfectly to the tile floor, making it possible for you to fuck yourself nicely.

You coat the toy liberally with lubricant, and ease down onto it, slowly, but with increasing confidence as you start to fuck yourself. It's far from the biggest you've ever had, and that's a bit of a comfort as you start to lose yourself in the slick drag of cock-over-prostate.

And then it starts vibrating.

It drags you out of your daydreaming, as intended, and you practically melt, unable to help it, as the vibrations, and the dirty-talk, and the fullness all come together to form an impenetrable wall of lust. The cool air tickles your nipples, beneath the sheer fabric of the night gown.

"That's my girl. You come apart so quickly when you get fucked, don't you?" Crowley murmurs. He's got another glass of wine, and he doesn't move, just leans against the kitchen table and watches.

Your knees tremble from the assault of pleasure, and you have no idea how you're going to keep going for the next toy. Without really thinking, you pick up the pace, enchanted by the throb of the vibrator against your prostate, slamming into it, again and again.

"Keep it up, slut. Fuck yourself for me. Show me that 'O' face, and maybe I'll show mercy."

He's going to make you come this way, give you a prostate orgasm without even touching you.

"Let me hear you, princess. Scream my name, darling."

"Crowley," you whisper, and the pleasure builds like a wave, like a tsunami. It overflows all in a rush, making you grind down on the toy as you come with your ass alone, dick still hard and twitching. It gets redder for every second you go without touching it. Subconsciously, you reach for yourself, but Crowley slaps your hands away, leaning down to drag you up by your hair.

"As lovely a show as that was, I need an encore from you, buttercup."

He guides you down onto the larger toy, and you wince at the stretch, head sagging. He didn't give you the time to lubricate it, just dragged you over and forced you down.

"F-fuck," you breathe, panting as sweat starts to bead along your exposed skin.

"That's the idea, baby. Now, snap snap. Get to it."

He literally snaps his fingers, and the vibrations start again. You have no idea how you can do it this time, and let your body decide for you. Grinding isn't satisfying enough, so your hips rock, practically on their own. You glance up at him, eyes pleasure dark as he looks at you.

"C-Crowley, can I do it manually? M-move it with my hand?"

He raises an eyebrow, perhaps impressed by your audacity. Finally, he nods, chuckling into his wine.

"Go ahead, darling. You asked ever so nicely. I don't really care, as long as you get fucked.

You slip off of the silicone cock, and carefully unstick it from the floor. It's slightly easier like this, on your side; you spread your legs, and brace a foot against the bed to have a better angle. The cock feels brilliant inside of you, still vibrating away. You can better control the variables this way; pressure, speed, depth — and the more you slam into your own prostate with the toy, the easier the glide. It no longer feels like it's pulling your guts out from within, no longer sand-paper on the walls of your ass. You can even pant in pleasure, letting out little sounds of enjoyment.

Crowley seems to like those, because he's set down his wine to walk over, and bat your hand away from the base of the toy.

"Allow me," he purrs, holding you by the back of the neck with one hand, grabbing the dildo with the other. His pace is more brutal than yours — fast and rough, and somehow, it's even better. You moan his name, you call him master, you beg for the most degrading, vile treatment. All it took was a vibrator and his hand, and he's reduced you to jelly, to putty or clay.

He is reshaping you into the form he wants, and you come with a shudder, hard cock still bobbing, though a delicate little pearl of pre-cum leaks from your tip and drips down the length. Your whole body is trembling, taut like a bowstring as the pleasure rushes through you like a dam breaking.

"Shh, princess," Crowley soothes you, rubbing your neck, petting your hair as you come down, boneless. "You did so well, and now you're going to take me like a champ, aren't you, darling?"

He brings over a damp cloth, and cleans your chest. You can't imagine why, but you soon get your answer. He lifts you to your feet, and shoves you face-down over the bed, bending you so that your body is on the mattress, and your ass is dangling off, towards him. It wasn't any concern for you, as much as for not getting jizz on his comforter.

Somehow, you thought it would be harder, pun not intended. He was right — the prostate orgasms loosened you right up, and he slips into you like he was made to be there.

"That's my whore," he murmurs, breath warm against the nape of your neck as he kisses you. "Gonna make a plug of my cock, make you keep it in all the time."

Despite yourself, your poor cock twitches, and when he reaches around to grasp it, the feeling is electric.

"Please," you whine, and buck into his hand. "Crowley— Master. Please— it fucking hurts, touch— touch my—"

"Shhh," he murmurs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger around your dick like a cockring. "You come when I say you do, sweetheart."

It's shockingly good.

He kisses and nips the back of your neck, your shoulders, your throat. He holds you down by the wrists and pistons into you like an industrial machine. It's an awful lot to take, coming down off of two prior orgasms, and the second he releases your cock, you come with a groan, and he catches it in a tissue, throws it aside.

You're so boneless from coming that you don't even mind he's still going.

"That's right... that's good, darling. Spasm just like that." His hand moves to the back of your neck, squeezing as he holds you down.

"Fuck, just a little more. Just... a little..."

He comes with a low grunt, bites down into your shoulder to muffle it. He grunts against you, snapping his hips to make the most of it as he rides out the orgasm. All you can do is lay there and take it, and before you know it, you've closed your eyes and drifted off, exhaustion claiming you.

The last thing you hear as you're hauled into bed is a low, gravelly laugh, and a promise.

"Oh darling. We're going to have so much fun together."

Actions

"It's been a proper long while since I've had such a lovely guest in my home," Crowley practically purrs, looking you up and down, just as ravenous as the first time you met at the crossroads, all those years ago. In the afterlife; you find yourself young and beautiful again, the same age you were when you first made that deal.

"Guest is a very strong word," you say, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. "Generally, being a guest is temporary."

It's time to pay the piper, so to speak, and you've only got yourself to blame. Crowley held up his end of the deal, and now, years later, you find yourself paying back an owed debt. Your soul had seemed an easy trade at the time, but now, feeling his eyes roam over you, you aren't so sure.

"You know how the song goes, love. 'Check out any time you like, but you can never leave?'"

Hotel California sounds strange from his mouth, with that posh accent, but you swallow back a retort and force yourself to stand tall. Actions have consequences, and this one is yours. Even knowing what you know now, it was worth it. Being able to live as yourself — truly, authentically — is a luxury few people ever get.

"You know, you've got a gorgeous body under there. Why don't you shuck the baggy jumper and slip into something more comfortable?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Not really," he confirms, and snaps his fingers.Your sweater and jeans disappear, replaced by a flimsy, lace-covered nightgown. It hangs off of you by spaghetti straps, and his gaze grows darker as he follows the curve of your body.

"Much better."

You resist the urge to cover yourself, the cool air making your nipples firm and swell beneath the barely-there sheer fabric. You take the chance to take stock of your body. You look and feel exactly as you did that day, in your early twenties, with a few glaring differences.

"You left me the tits I got in the deal."

"You look better with them, princess."

Your cheeks flush, and you glance down, taking more stock in your body now that you're so exposed. You'd always liked your dick before. It was why you'd not wanted to get bottom surgery included in the deal. Still, a lot of partners had wanted, expected it, even. It's surprising that Crowley doesn't force that on you. He can obviously affect your appearance here in Hell, so why doesn't he?

He must read the question in your eyes, because he says: "Call me a pervert if you like, but I like the way it looks on you. Completes the package, if I may be so crude."

He's got a glass of dark wine in hand, and makes no illusion of his intentions. Somehow, it's not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but you refuse to dwell on it as you swallow hard.

"Wine?" Crowley asks, and you decide this is better tolerated with alcohol in your system. You approach and extend a hand, only for him to hold his glass out of reach, smirking.

"Ah, ah, ah! Nothing comes for free, pet. Kneel."

"On second thought," you say, your tone acidic; "I'll skip the wine."

"You'll kneel, regardless of whether you want wine or not," he croons, and makes a sweeping gesture with his finger. It's not quite a compulsion. You can resist, if you focus.

"Can we skip the foreplay and get right to the torture?" You ask, weary. Because that's what this is leading to, right? He's going to torture and break you, and make you to be like him. He's going to cause you unimaginable pain and humiliation, and it starts like this, by forcing you to kneel at his feet by your own free will. You refuse to bow, and his gaze turns cold; steely and unyielding.

"Since you're so insistent on paving your own way, I'll give you a choice, darling. Kneel at my feet like the pretty pet you are, or I'll break your ankles and make you crawl like an animal."

You kneel.

"That's my whore," he croons, and the sound of it pools within you like a hateful promise.

He offers you his glass of wine, lightly slapping your hand when you reach up to grab it. Instead, he tilts your head up, two fingers on your chin; and places the rim of the glass against your lips, finally letting you drink.

"Attagirl. Take what you want, darling."

You pull away when the wine is drained, and absently wonder if it's been drugged. You feel lighter than the usual tipsiness you'd get from a small glass of wine — borderline aroused, almost. You tell yourself it must be, because the alternative is worse. If this is all you, then you'll never be able to hold your head up high again.

"Now that I've whetted your appetite, can I interest you in the main course?"

You scowl, and raise an eyebrow. "I'm betting it's not fois gras and caviar on crackers."

"How terribly gauche," Crowley laughs, and blatantly, perversely; palms himself through his trousers. "No, but if you want meat, I have a nice, thick sausage for you."

"I only eat sliced sausage," you retort before you can stop yourself, and Crowley isn't crude enough to slap you — he just chuckles, low and promising, and runs a possessive hand through your hair.

"If that's your preference, I'll gladly hold you down and feed your own to you on a silver fucking platter."

Okay, bad idea, you tell yourself as your eyes widen. Very very bad idea. Don't give him those for free.

"I can see by your sheer terror that you aren't fond of the idea. If that's the case, I'll advise you to be a bit more polite with me from now on. I could have you thrown to the deepest, darkest pit of hell if I wanted — if you think I'm bad, you should see the demons down there."

You nod, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Yes sir," you correct, biting out the words that burn to say.

"Good girl," he says, eyes half-closing again as he frees his length from his trousers, giving it a good squeeze. "Now suck my cock."

You lean in, and he yanks you back by the hair, tsk'ing under his breath.

"What do you say, lovey?"

It is not hard to come up with an answer for that, and you grit your teeth before muttering a "thank you," under your breath.

"You can do better than that," he teases, smacking your cheek with his tip as he chuckles.

"Thank you, master," you growl out, half-sarcastic, and he laughs with genuine mirth.

"Oh that's my girl. You know how to make a man feel appreciated."

You ignore him and lean in, licking the tip of his cock with a hesitant lap of your tongue. He's uncut, something you're less familiar with as an American. Still, his foreskin and glans are clean, pubic hair meticulously trimmed. It could be worse, you think, as you take his tip into your mouth, sucking.

"There you go. I knew it was a good idea when I bought your soul."

His voice is warm honey, and the hairs on your neck stand up to hear it. It's definitely (probably?) the drugged wine. You slip into a rhythm as he croons filthy words, and find you aren't quite as immune as you'd like. You squeeze your thighs together under the nightgown, and pray he doesn't notice the beginning swell of an erection you can't explain away. It's stupid, it's demeaning, and you feel guilty for being turned on at all.

It's a fool's pipe-dream — you can tell by his smirk that he notices, and pulls back as he nudges your knees apart with the toe of his patent-leather shoe.

"Well, would you look at that? Perhaps your body knows, hm? You're right where you belong now. On your knees, sucking cock, a good little whore for me."

As much as you disagree, as much as you want to rail against the idea, your dick likes his deliberate, hedonistic words. He nudges your crotch with the sole of his shoe, and you flinch, half-afraid of pain. He ignores it, and rubs gently, coaxing your prick to peek out from under the waistline of the lace panties he put you in. It's humiliating, even more than being forced to suck him, and you can't help but shudder at the pressure. His touch grows heavier, almost painful; and you groan. He stops just before it becomes more pain than pleasure, and nudges his cock toward you again.

"If you do a good job, maybe I'll let you come. You can be good for me, can't you, slut?"

Eager to hear less of his taunting, you bob your head down to suck again. You go as deep as you can, and then pull back, hollowing your cheeks as you suck. Up and down, tongue pressed to the underside of his cock for friction, you pleasure him, growing harder in your lace panties as he smirks down at you.

"That's a good little whore. I remember how good you were with your tongue, but you've learned so much in your time on Earth. You're going to be a fine addition to my collection, princess."

Your cock throbs below you, and you shudder, whining around him.. You shouldn't be so turned on, but the dick wants what it wants, and he owns you; mind, body, and soul. It's oddly flattering that he likes you too. That's what you keep in mind as you suck him off, lips bumping the rings on his hand when you get as far down as you can.

"Be a dear and suck my balls while you're down there."

His tone is casual condescension, and you shudder, pulling off of him with a satisfying pop. You've never really played with a guy's balls before, and you tentatively press your mouth to one; licking, tasting the salt and musk of his skin. He's sparsely haired around his testicles, so you suck one into your mouth, tentatively. It's large — a little smaller than a boiled egg — and the skin is soft, wrinkled. It's a strange feeling, but you suck lightly, reaching up to roll the other lightly in your hand. The size and heft of them is different from your own, and you savor rolling your tongue around it.

Just as easily, you pop off of the left, and take the right into your mouth, sucking gently while he strokes himself above you. It's a moment that feels tight, as though the air itself is heavy with anticipation. You hope he isn't going to come on your hair. Even in Hell, that's probably hard to clean out.

"Hell's bells, princess," Crowley murmurs, pulling you off himself with a yank of your hair. "Stay still for me, would you?"

You don't have a choice, as he holds you in place with a fist in your hair, the other hand stroking himself at a quick pace.

"That's my pretty whore. Sit still for your master," he's panting, thick pre-cum dripping from his tip while he pleasures himself.

The first splash of cum takes you by surprise, and you grimace as it lands on your chest, coating your neck and collarbone, and dripping, sticky, over the top of your cleavage. He looks satisfied with himself, and leans down to press your tits together while you grimace — smiling at the way his spend is framed with the additional support.

"Oh come now, don't be so glum. I could have made you swallow it."

You roll your eyes, prompting a laugh from him.

"My, but you're a cheeky thing, aren't you?" He turns his back on you, and you're unbearably tempted to lunge at him, claw his eyes out, bite his throat... But Crowley's already reaching into a drawer and turning around. In his hand, there's a toy, a silicone dildo — not too thick or long. Honestly, it looks comfortable, and you're wondering where the catch is, before he pulls another, bigger one out of the same drawer.

You bite back a scathing remark about the normal dildos — you'd genuinely expected something more immediately painful, but you promised yourself: no more ideas for your torturer.

"I'm not playing pick-and-choose," you say instead, unable to resist at least a little pushback.

"Then it's good I never planned on it, darling."

He throws you the dildos, and you catch them, the movement reminding you of the cooling spend on your chest. Next he throws you a bottle of lubricant, and you raise your eyebrows.

"If you wanted me to sodomize you, Crowley, you only had to ask."

"The amazing silicone peckers are for you, sweetheart. You're going to fuck yourself on one, and then the other. Work your way up to the bigger one."

"Why?"

He looks at you with utter, undisguised disdain.

"So you can prep yourself for me, my brainless little fuck-toy."

For some reason, the demeaning talk makes you stir again, and he smirks — slow and lazy, like a cat.

"Get to it, princess. You don't get to move up the ladder 'til you've come."

You shudder. Part of the reason you'd kept a cock was because of how hard it was to get a prostate orgasm. It took work, and time, but you resigned yourself to it, anxious about what he'd do if you refused. The dildos have a simple suction-cup bottom that fits perfectly to the tile floor, making it possible for you to fuck yourself nicely.

You coat the toy liberally with lubricant, and ease down onto it, slowly, but with increasing confidence as you start to fuck yourself. It's far from the biggest you've ever had, and that's a bit of a comfort as you start to lose yourself in the slick drag of cock-over-prostate.

And then it starts vibrating.

It drags you out of your daydreaming, as intended, and you practically melt, unable to help it, as the vibrations, and the dirty-talk, and the fullness all come together to form an impenetrable wall of lust. The cool air tickles your nipples, beneath the sheer fabric of the night gown.

"That's my girl. You come apart so quickly when you get fucked, don't you?" Crowley murmurs. He's got another glass of wine, and he doesn't move, just leans against the kitchen table and watches.

Your knees tremble from the assault of pleasure, and you have no idea how you're going to keep going for the next toy. Without really thinking, you pick up the pace, enchanted by the throb of the vibrator against your prostate, slamming into it, again and again.

"Keep it up, slut. Fuck yourself for me. Show me that 'O' face, and maybe I'll show mercy."

He's going to make you come this way, give you a prostate orgasm without even touching you.

"Let me hear you, princess. Scream my name, darling."

"Crowley," you whisper, and the pleasure builds like a wave, like a tsunami. It overflows all in a rush, making you grind down on the toy as you come with your ass alone, dick still hard and twitching. It gets redder for every second you go without touching it. Subconsciously, you reach for yourself, but Crowley slaps your hands away, leaning down to drag you up by your hair.

"As lovely a show as that was, I need an encore from you, buttercup."

He guides you down onto the larger toy, and you wince at the stretch, head sagging. He didn't give you the time to lubricate it, just dragged you over and forced you down.

"F-fuck," you breathe, panting as sweat starts to bead along your exposed skin.

"That's the idea, baby. Now, snap snap. Get to it."

He literally snaps his fingers, and the vibrations start again. You have no idea how you can do it this time, and let your body decide for you. Grinding isn't satisfying enough, so your hips rock, practically on their own. You glance up at him, eyes pleasure dark as he looks at you.

"C-Crowley, can I do it manually? M-move it with my hand?"

He raises an eyebrow, perhaps impressed by your audacity. Finally, he nods, chuckling into his wine.

"Go ahead, darling. You asked ever so nicely. I don't really care, as long as you get fucked.

You slip off of the silicone cock, and carefully unstick it from the floor. It's slightly easier like this, on your side; you spread your legs, and brace a foot against the bed to have a better angle. The cock feels brilliant inside of you, still vibrating away. You can better control the variables this way; pressure, speed, depth — and the more you slam into your own prostate with the toy, the easier the glide. It no longer feels like it's pulling your guts out from within, no longer sand-paper on the walls of your ass. You can even pant in pleasure, letting out little sounds of enjoyment.

Crowley seems to like those, because he's set down his wine to walk over, and bat your hand away from the base of the toy.

"Allow me," he purrs, holding you by the back of the neck with one hand, grabbing the dildo with the other. His pace is more brutal than yours — fast and rough, and somehow, it's even better. You moan his name, you call him master, you beg for the most degrading, vile treatment. All it took was a vibrator and his hand, and he's reduced you to jelly, to putty or clay.

He is reshaping you into the form he wants, and you come with a shudder, hard cock still bobbing, though a delicate little pearl of pre-cum leaks from your tip and drips down the length. Your whole body is trembling, taut like a bowstring as the pleasure rushes through you like a dam breaking.

"Shh, princess," Crowley soothes you, rubbing your neck, petting your hair as you come down, boneless. "You did so well, and now you're going to take me like a champ, aren't you, darling?"

He brings over a damp cloth, and cleans your chest. You can't imagine why, but you soon get your answer. He lifts you to your feet, and shoves you face-down over the bed, bending you so that your body is on the mattress, and your ass is dangling off, towards him. It wasn't any concern for you, as much as for not getting jizz on his comforter.

Somehow, you thought it would be harder, pun not intended. He was right — the prostate orgasms loosened you right up, and he slips into you like he was made to be there.

"That's my whore," he murmurs, breath warm against the nape of your neck as he kisses you. "Gonna make a plug of my cock, make you keep it in all the time."

Despite yourself, your poor cock twitches, and when he reaches around to grasp it, the feeling is electric.

"Please," you whine, and buck into his hand. "Crowley— Master. Please— it fucking hurts, touch— touch my—"

"Shhh," he murmurs, and wraps his thumb and forefinger around your dick like a cockring. "You come when I say you do, sweetheart."

It's shockingly good.

He kisses and nips the back of your neck, your shoulders, your throat. He holds you down by the wrists and pistons into you like an industrial machine. It's an awful lot to take, coming down off of two prior orgasms, and the second he releases your cock, you come with a groan, and he catches it in a tissue, throws it aside.

You're so boneless from coming that you don't even mind he's still going.

"That's right... that's good, darling. Spasm just like that." His hand moves to the back of your neck, squeezing as he holds you down.

"Fuck, just a little more. Just... a little..."

He comes with a low grunt, bites down into your shoulder to muffle it. He grunts against you, snapping his hips to make the most of it as he rides out the orgasm. All you can do is lay there and take it, and before you know it, you've closed your eyes and drifted off, exhaustion claiming you.

The last thing you hear as you're hauled into bed is a low, gravelly laugh, and a promise.

"Oh darling. We're going to have so much fun together."

Read it on AO3

MAKE NOTE!

Before I introduce you to your character, which will appear in a separate post, there are some things that I wish to make known in regard to my particular take on a reader insert and how updates will go.

Firstly, this rewrite will solely be presented on this tumblr blog, under The Marked Hunter / plaidandantlers as well as on Wattpad, under plaidandantlers. I have run into my stories being stolen in the past, and therefore, if you see the contents of my writing anywhere else without my notice or explicit permission, it is not mine, and I’d appreciate it if you'd let me know about it.

Secondly, fanfiction and the reader insert community has grown and changed so much since I initially started writing, and a big thing that I’ve personally noticed is word count. Personally, I have never really taken part in that. I will say that I have been known to expand, and over detail as some would say, in my old run. I tried to make each rewritten episode about five parts each if possible, with no telling if I were to add extra parts on the side or in between episodes. The parts themselves would be quite extensive! I can’t say that that is going to change this time around.

If this is not your preference, no worries. I know that tumblr isn’t the easiest platform to write upon, especially when it comes to reading fics, but regardless, we are so lucky there are so many talented writers here! There are so many to choose from. This is why this story is also available upon Wattpad, as I feel keeping the story altogether and not by separate post may be a bit easier upon. Have you seen my masterlist? Yikes.

Third, I welcome ideas, questions, and suggestions! My ask box will always be open. As for the first episode, I am regaining my footing and have plotted it out thoroughly. I perhaps won’t start taking requests for episodes until Wendigo at the earliest, but by all means, do not let that stop you if you have an idea for the Woman in White! I try to incorporate as much as I can, but sadly, please also note that not everything can be added into the story. I will either place them in separate series or one shot, or highly encourage you to attempt to write your own! Even if you don’t share it, these are so fun to make.

Fourth, and most importantly, I am not ashamed to admit that this reader insert originally derived from an original character concept into this wonderful fandom. This character means a lot to me, but in order to share my writing, it was most comfortable for me to convert it into a reader insert. There may be slip ups in regard to posting content. I dislike writing in the first person, and second point of view makes me feel that I’m tearing out chunks of information. I tend to write from a third point of view and edit it later, so be prepared to see some slip ups in regard to seeing OC names or third person pronouns. If you notice an error, please be kind in pointing it out to me so I can correct it.

This also being said, as the insert is based off of an original character, this particular series is intended for female audiences. In my old run, I had a lot of confusion as to whether it was gender neutral or if I could make a different version to fit a specific gender. While I would love to do that, I barely keep up with my project as is, and that would be a lot of extra work for me. I am absolutely not against it, but given my limited free time, I would like to present it as close to my original vision as possible. I have no intention to disappoint or offend anyone, therefore, if you would like to create your own version, or would like to take my writing and submit it under new pronouns, etc. I would be happy to see your vision come to life!

This reboot also features a face claim for the reader but is not necessary to use at all. I enjoy making edits from time to time and find that quite difficult to do when using an anonymous face. The original character’s face claim is Jenna Louise Coleman, and I will continue to be using her for various creations outside of the writing. There are even a couple that have already been posted in regard to her face claim being used in various episodes upon my page. Never fear, descriptions of your appearance will be made in multiple segments to make it individualized as much as possible. Examples such as (eye color), (hair color), etc. Therefore, if you see any mistakes in editing, such as described above, please be polite in correcting my errors!

This also being said, I welcome seeing edits and descriptions of your own fancasts as well. Genuinely, I will beg for it. I enjoy seeing how people envision themselves when reading or whatever face claim they cast as themselves when reading.

Lastly, it needs to be said. I claim nothing of the following project as my own except for the creation of (Y/N) Summers and the surrounding plotlines. Any other characters, settings, and plots belong to Supernatural and all other rightful owners! This is only meant for the intent of entertainment, and I shall never claim any of it as my own.

FAQ

Why is this referred to as The Marked Hunter and Tribus?

I guess you’ll just have to find out! There’s a reason for it, but of course, I don’t wish to disclose all my secrets right away. I wish to present this like a book as much as possible, and therefore some things need to be revealed in their own time.

Why is the first season titled ‘Enigma’?

This part I can easily share. An enigma is a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand. I feel this particular word fits the reader and their plot for this season swimmingly. The reader is known for being after similar things the brothers are, but of course, is an individualized person, and will find things about themself along the way they have yet to grasp.

Will your series have the reader end up with Sam or Dean? Will they end up with (So and So)?

Only time will tell! I understand there are many Sam-Girls and Dean-Girls, trust me, but I want to keep a few surprises in store for all of you. You may end up with one, both, or even neither. Nothing is set in stone just yet. I will state that while there may be little implications here and there for your reading pleasure, a majority of the first season will feature no romance. Given this is the beginning of the show and my story, there is so much that can and needs to be introduced to use canonically as well as with your character, and I’d rather focus on the build up of friendships and plots before anything gets too deep and heavy.

Will you have a word count?

Briefly stated above, I do not have a word count and that is a personal preference. I often feel too pressured to hit a certain amount of words, or in different settings, feel I have written too much or too little. I want this to be a fun project, and I wish to present my writing and my ideas to the best of my abilities, regardless of how long or short a full rounded idea may come to be.

My initial plan is to make each episode about five parts each. I feel this breaks up the episodes nicely, and seeing as the length of each part is unknown, even more so. We’ll just have to wait and see! Please also note that I will also be making extra parts, backstories, original series, and imagines on the side. While having a basic outline, anything can happen. Little details don’t tend to speak to me until the time comes. Let’s see where this goes.

I have an idea for this episode, may I submit it? I have a headcanon for the reader’s backstory, may I share it? I have an edit I’d like to share with you, would you like to see?

Yes, yes, yes! Despite my basic outline and twists and turns along the way, the main concept is that this is made for you, and I’d love to see how people interpret my writing and their character. I value ideas, feedback, and anything else you wish to share with me. My ask box is always open. I have always loved interacting with my readers and answering their questions, it’s a majority of the reason why I keep coming back. Sadly, I may not be able to incorporate every idea I receive, but I most certainly will try my best!

Do you write anywhere else?

I only write on this tumblr blog and on Wattpad, under plaidandantlers. If you feel this story has been copied in any way without my knowledge of explicit permission, please let me know so I can handle it.

When will you start?

My goal is sometime within October. I am currently working on an outline of the first season as well as a rough draft of the first couple episodes being written out. September is a busy month for me, as well as the first few weeks of October, but I want to get this going as soon as possible. I appreciate and value your time and patience.

Will you have consistent updates? When will you post?

Undetermined at this time. I used to post every day and queue up some parts and pieces, but I felt my writing lacked when I tried to hold myself to a daily deadline. I am not going to hold myself to a deadline this time, but just hope and work hard on progressing in general. Updates may be every day, every couple days, every week, etc. but I am bound and determined to keep up with this project this time around.

I have a question not listed here!

I plan to make a FAQ page eventually, and as the series is ongoing, will obviously update it as necessary. Please submit any questions you ask and refer to the page often.

“Family is family. Whether it's the one you start out with, the one you end up with, or the family you gain along the way.” 

Those words echo in your head as you stare at the empty Impala, sitting quietly in the nearly empty motel parking lot. Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest as you realize the next decision you’d make would be one that would forever impact your life. Your eyes trace the lines of the sleek vehicle you’d spent the better part of the last three years in. 

Three years in which you had risked your life multiple times, been through hell, literally, and seen the potential end of the world. Yet, you wouldn’t take any of it back. You wouldn’t give up any of the moments of the past three years for a chance at that apple pie, white picket fence, 2.5 kids life. Hell, you wouldn’t give up a second, even if it meant that the decision you faced now would be non-existent. 

The decision to stick it out, to continue to watch the man you secretly love find momentary comfort in the arms of any woman who happened to look his way, to sit idly by as he drowned his sorrows with a bottle of whiskey, and to constantly have to bit your tongue to keep from saying the words you so desperately want to. Or the decision to run, to leave it all behind; the pain, the heartache, the desperate need to hear him whisper the three words that consumed your entire waking thoughts when you were around him. Your entire life hung in the balance, suspended in a pendulum between the choice to run and the choice to stay. 

The glow of the flickering fluorescent bulbs reflects onto the shiny black hood of the Impala, pulling you in and drawing your eye to the driver’s wheel. You could almost picture him behind the wheel, one hand casually resting against it as he leans back into the leather seat, the sounds of Led Zeppelin blasting out of the speakers. 

The warm air whips in through the open windows, hitting your cheeks and grabbing at your hair. A beam of sunlight shines through the window, sending a pleasant feeling of warmth racing through you as you lean back into the heated leather of the passenger seat. You tilt your head just enough to look over at Dean, your heart squeezing in your chest at the pure freedom on Dean’s face. That satisfied smile rests easily on his lips, his hand settled comfortably on the wheel. The sleeves of his worn flannel are pushed up, revealing his muscular, tanned forearms. 

Dean reaches forward, turning down the sounds of “Rambling Man” filling the car. “Sweetheart, I can feel you staring at me. If you want something, all you have to do is ask.” He says smugly, giving you a side-eye before returning his attention to the road.

“I was just looking at that spider on your shoulder.” You answer nonchalantly. “It’s a big one.” 

Dean shivers dramatically, a hand shooting out wildly to run over his shoulder. You can’t help but laugh at his sudden reaction and he gives you a dirty look. 

“Jeez sweetheart, that’s a bit low.” His tone is sarcastic, a bit biting, but his eyes twinkle. His hand snakes out, grabbing your side and tickling it as best he can while still keeping the vehicle moving forward in something of a straight line. 

You let out a loud laugh as you fight off his hand. “Dean,” You say breathlessly, his fingers relentless in their pursuit. He gives you a suave smile, accompanied by a wink, before withdrawing his hand, his gaze returning fully to the road ahead of him. 

You lean back in the seat, savoring the moment. Quiet moments, where everything in the world was right and normal, didn’t happen often in this life. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d actually seen Dean smile in pure, honest happiness and that alone had you wishing that you could freeze time and stay here forever in this moment with Dean. 

A soft smile spreads across your face at the memory. That had been a good day, one where the troubles of the supernatural, of hunting and saving the world, hadn’t hung over you like a dark cloud. The heavy creak of a door pulls you out of your thoughts, your attention flying to the row of rooms behind you. 

A broad, unmistakable figure stands in the doorway, outlined by the dim light of the room behind him, his features partially hidden in the shadows. You don’t say anything, watching as he slowly closes the distance separating the two of you. His eyes land on your duffle, which you had discarded at your feet while you’d been trying to decide what to do next. 

“Where you going Y/N?” He asks in a rare instance in which he used your real name and not some nickname he’d concocted for you. You give a half-hearted shrug in response, unable to answer as your mind floats between the two decisions in front of you.

He knew without looking, what you were thinking about, it was written all over your face. And yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to say the words he’d been burying underneath the surface for the last year. He couldn’t say the words because he knew that the moment he did, you’d be drug down with him, caught in that endless battle between the good and the evil. Or even worse, that something would use you to get to him, turn you into that evil being he felt he himself had become.

“I can’t do this anymore.” You finally speak, something unexplainable pushing you towards a decision, one that would tear you apart, but would take you out of that vicious cycle you’d fallen into. “I think I’m going to go. I’ve been crashing on your guys’ thing for way too long. It’s time you got back to really doing the family business.” 

“This is family Y/N.” He says roughly, pointing back towards the half-open door of the motel room. “We’re family.” His hand falls back listlessly to his side as his kaleidoscopic eyes fall on you, boring into your eyes as he looks for some sign that you understand the implication of his words; some sign that you heard what he couldn’t bring himself to actually say. 

“I know Dean.” You whisper, that broken, hopeless feeling settling back in your chest as his eyes read the emotions you can’t hide. “But this-” you gesture wildly between the two of you, “This, us, isn’t going to happen. You’ve made that perfectly clear.” 

“Y/N, wait.” His voice is thick, his hand reaching out, grabbing your hand, effectively stopping your movement. He falls silent as the air between the two of you cracks with an unnamable charge. You find yourself leaning forward, the distance between the two of you dissipating. His eyes drift to your lips, lingering there before he slowly drags them back up to yours. His head tilts forward, coming even closer to yours. Your breath mingles with his, your lips only a breath away from his own. Your heart begins to beat faster in your chest, the anticipation of finally feeling his lips against yours seizing your body. Dean hesitates there a moment and you can almost taste his lips on yours before he pulls back.

He doesn’t say anything but you can see it written in his face, the fear and guilt shining like light through the cracks of his mask. You wait, hoping that you were seeing something that wasn’t there, but he remains silent. 

You pick your duffle up off the scuffed, strangely stained sidewalk, hauling it up and over your shoulder before making your way towards the nearly vacant main street. He doesn’t stop you, he can’t knowing full well what a life with him would mean for you. Instead, he lets you go, watching as you walk away, his heart ripping away from his chest as you, unknowingly, take it with you.

This makes the elder brother blink his eyes at his sibling, “You can’t be serious, there’s an actual experience for that crap.” Sam sent a hard glare in Dean’s direction, “It means a lot to Alexa and I wanted to make sure we make this her best Christmas ever.” “Is that before or after she heads back to where she came from?” Dean points out, knowing Alexa came from a world where he and Sam were some made-up characters. Sam stayed quiet, his eyes cast down. He’d gotten so close to her since she’d arrived, Sam didn’t want Alexa to go anywhere. Sam wanted her to stay, maybe give him the white picket fence life he’d wanted at one time. Heck, even if she didn’t want to have that kind of life, maybe they’d keep hunting together? “So,” Cas says, clearing his throat, in an attempt to clear the tension in the room between both brothers. “Is there anything special about this trip we need to plan and let Alexa know about?” Sam nodded, “Yes. you all need to dress up in your pajamas and we all meet at the train station to board and get our tickets, and then each of us will get the ‘First Gift of Christmas’, which is a silver bell on a red ribbon.” “Oh for crying out loud, you honestly expect me to do this?” Dean says, arms crossed in front of his chest. Letting out a breath, Sam says the one thing he knows will convince his brother to go, even if it scars him for life, “You can wear your purple dressing gown if that makes you happy.” This clearly changed Dean’s mood, “Aw, heck yes!” Before Sam and Cas could blink, Dean was off to his room to get changed. Alexa made her way into the kitchen, blinking confused as she looked over at the two men in the room. “Why do I feel I just missed something, Dean’s overly happy for it being this early in the morning.” Sam shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it Alexa, all you need to know is we’re headed out this afternoon, and you need to stay just as you are.” “In my pajamas?” Sam gives a confirming nod, “We have to head out later tonight for it, but I think it’ll be fun to have a pajama day don’t you?”

Moments he would check to see if he still held your attention; a blooming of elation in his chest when he did; a deflation of disappointment when he did not.

It was the ones he didn’t mean for you to see – the longing as you walked away; the hunger after a hunt when you were just as sweaty and dirty as he was and alive.

Those were the ones that terrified you.

Then more and more it was just the two of you. Pouring over research in the library, staking out houses and office buildings, and eating crap fast food at three in the morning because neither of you could sleep.

You could feel him when he was close, the hairs along your arms rising like sunflowers to the sun.

When he finally kissed you, he was so tender. Lips soft, pliant; hands cupping you gentle as if you were precious.

And you felt precious.

You were a warrior, a fighter, a hunter through and through.

But, in Dean’s arms you were treasure, completely worshiped and adored.

He nurtured something delicate within you no one had ever touched before.

Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.

-

“So what did you do?” Jody’s voice, sharp and judging had you groaning into your folded arms. “You drove six hours away to hide.”

“Five and a half.”

“How old are you again?”

“Okay!” You lifted your head and grudgingly accepted the goblet of wine from Jody. “I ran. I’m scared!”

Jody sat across the table from you, propping her head in her hand. Her stare was both belittling and amused. She was rubbing in your cowardice and enjoying your misery.

“What are you scared of? Dean?”

“No!” The denial was too quick, too loud. You wondered at that then distracted yourself by desperately gulping your wine.

Jody waited, fingers tapping along her cheek before moving to drink as well.

“I’m scared it could be real. And that I’ll fuck it up like I do everything else in my life. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of flings-”

“Oh good, I was hoping that would come up.”

You stared across at her.

You came to Jody because she was the closest you had to a friend outside of the Winchesters. You needed someone to talk to. And Jody was going to strike through all the bullshit to get to the truth.

“I’m going to want more.” You confessed, eyes falling to the table. “If I didn’t run away tonight, I was only going to fall deeper and want more from him than he could ever give.”

“What do you want?”

“All of him.”

Simple. Honest.

But the truth was rarely so easy. Because he was Dean Winchester, he didn’t belong to any one person. He never could. He was a hunter, a hero and Sam’s protector.

Going further with him would be settling for fourth or fifth place in his heart.

“Maybe you should tell him that. Let him have a say.”

“It’s my heart.” You argued. You knew that if you were to ever lose him, there would be a painful void in your chest – a black hole where your heart should be.

But Jody only stared back; all amusement gone from her face.