#spn reader insert

There it is.

Sam exhales through his nose. “What are you talking about?”

Dean isn’t even looking at him; his eyes are fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, I think I am. I guess. But maybe I’m not. Maybe I look… I dunno… standoffish.”

Sam blinks. “Standoffish.”

“I’m just saying, there’s a line, okay? Too friendly, and you look like some creepy guy offering free candy. Not friendly enough, and people think you’re gonna stab ‘em.”

Sam shuts off the blender, grabs his smoothie, and sits. Dean drops into the chair across from him, and he stares expectantly, eyebrows up.

“Dean, man... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, if you were a girl and saw me at a bar—”

“Great. Can’t imagine a better start,” Sam mutters.

“—would you think I was approachable? Like… someone you’d walk up to?”

Sam looks down into his glass, searching for the strength to keep going. Nothing. No strength. Just spinach.

“Dean… where is this coming from?” 

Dean Winchester, the man who has picked up so many women he's lost count. And yet here he is, acting like he needs a pep talk.

Finally, Sam sighs, giving his brother at least the courtesy of an honest answer. “You’re approachable. You’re… you. People like you.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t ease at the reassurance. If anything, he looks more frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth in a pout that he’d absolutely deny making. “Then what the hell was she talking about?”

“…What? Who?”

Sam’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh.

You.

He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Shakes his head. “Dean… dude. Just talk to her.”

“I talk to her,” his brother insists.

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re in here interrogating me about your ‘approachability,’ right?” Sam deadpans, leaning back with the weary authority of a brother who has lived through this many, many times.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, immediately hating where this is going. He pushes up from the table and heads for the coffee machine, chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to think a hole through it.

Two minutes later, you step into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge like you always do. And Sam sees it. God, he sees all of it. Front-row seats.

Dean cuts a glance at you from the corner of his eye, stands a little straighter, then his hand shoots up to flatten his hair. Sam just shakes his head. He swears he’s going to start avoiding the kitchen entirely when the two of you are in here together.

“Would you hand me a spoon, handsome?” you ask, completely unaware of what you just triggered.

Sam watches Dean freeze at the pet name. 

“Spoon. Yeah. We, uh… we have spoons,” he stammers, somehow producing one like it’s a rare artifact. He hands it to you with the confidence of a Victorian maiden having her first conversation with a man.

Then he retreats to the safety of the coffee machine.

Yogurt and spoon in hand, you head out of the kitchen. Dean’s eyes track you the whole way, drawn like a magnet. The instant you disappear down the hall, something in him lights up.

The man beams.

“Handsome,” he says to the empty air, chest puffing up. “She thinks I’m handsome.”

Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, riding the high.

Sam shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Two seconds later, Dean reappears, deflating the dramatic exit. “Forgot my coffee,” he says, grabbing the mug with forced nonchalance. He doesn’t make eye contact.

Sam just snorts. 

—

It’s been around two hours when you spot Sam in the library, typing away on his computer.

You sit down across from him and wait.

When his eyes finally lift from the screen, one eyebrow raised, you say, “Can I run something by you real quick?”

“Sure,” he replies, tone calm. “What’s up?”

You hesitate. Usually, maybe you wouldn’t even ask. But it’s Sam, and you trust him. “How would you… rate me, on a scale from one to ten?”

“What?”

“Like, hypothetically… let’s say you walk into a bar and I’m sitting there. What’s your first impression of me?”

Sam, who doesn’t even like bars, has already been dragged into two bar hypotheticals today, and it’s barely ten in the morning. He resists the urge to sigh. “Just… talk to Dean,” he says. “Trust me.”

“How did you know I—”

“Really good intuition,” he interrupts.

You stare down at the table, lips pouting. “It’s just… He flirts with everyone, literally everyone – even the old lady at the market. He just… never flirts with me. So I try to be casual. But this morning... it sort of got out before I could stop myself, and I called him handsome. And he, uh – I don’t think he liked that.”

Sam lets out a quiet snort. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mutters quickly, eyes darting back to the computer. “Just… maybe ask him to grab a coffee sometime. Keep it casual. Start small, you know?"

You hum thoughtfully, weighing the advice. “Yeah… maybe I could do that.”

Sam smiles faintly, satisfied, and goes back to typing. He can survive this, probably. 

—

Dean is sweet.

Okay, maybe he doesn’t flirt with you. Not the way he does with everyone else.

But if you’re being even a little logical, you know he cares. A lot.

He worries about you no matter what you’re dealing with: hunt injuries, a headache, a papercut, a sneeze. One fragile little “achoo” and he’s glancing over all concerned. 

And he pays attention.

You mention things offhand like your favorite snacks, a brand of tea you like, or that one candle scent you can never find... and the next time he comes back from the store, they’re sitting on the table like they magically appeared.

He never says it was him.

Probably thinks it’s nothing.

But it isn’t nothing. Not to you.

And sure, old Joanne at the market gets called “sweetheart,” and you don’t. But Dean has never bought her chocolate before.

…Wait. Has he?

Doesn’t matter.

Because the point is: you’re going to follow Sam’s advice and ask him out for coffee.

Even if he doesn’t like you back, Dean is sweet, and he deserves good coffee.

And you’re brave enough to offer it.

With this thought in mind, you walk into the kitchen the next morning.

Sam is already blending something green. You hover in the doorway until he finally shows mercy and switches it off because you really don’t want the sound of zucchini being pulverized to mark the beginning of whatever is about to happen.

Only then do you cross the room and sit down right across from Dean, who still hasn’t noticed you’re there.

He’s cradling his coffee, eyelids heavy, hair sticking up in five different directions. But the moment you enter his line of sight, he nearly jumps. His back goes straight, and he immediately smooths a hand over his hair, one stubborn piece still popping right back up.

God, he’s adorable.

“Mornin’,” he says softly, still half-asleep, voice rough like gravel, and your brain just… fries. Completely. 

Not a thought up there for a good minute.

You had a speech planned, had summoned enough courage for it, and now there's just… nothing. 

Soon enough, Dean’s hands are on the table, pushing him to his feet. “All right, I’mma—head to the store,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the door.

Sure. Go flirt with Joanne, you think. Bet she likes that a lot. 

But then he turns those big, hopeful eyes on you. “Wanna come?”

“What?" 

“Yesterday,” he adds quickly, “you said you wanted to go…”

Your chest melts a little. You only said that to Sam, and Dean… still paid attention.

You manage to smile. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Dean smiles back before he tries to cover it up with a half-suppressed nod. “Cool. Yeah. Uh—let’s go then.”

He nearly walks into the doorframe on the way out.

—

“Joanne, looking incredible this morning,” Dean practically whistles at the older lady at the counter the second you step through the door.

“Right back at you, gorgeous,” she beams.

Of course she’s beaming. You’d beam too if he said you looked incredible.

Then she leans in conspiratorially, glancing around like she’s sharing state secrets. “Placed an order for that pie you like. Should be here tomorrow.”

Dean grins. “Sweetheart, you sure you wanna keep your husband? Competition’s fierce… just sayin’.”

You glare at the mismatched floor tiles and make your way toward the fridge aisle, while Joanne giggles behind the counter. Again, who can blame her? 

Then they start talking in hushed tones, leaning in toward each other. You’re pretty sure they’re talking about you because of the way she keeps sneaking glances your way. You strain to hear while pretending to examine the products, but you’re too far away to catch a word. By the time you edge closer, the conversation cuts off, and Dean doesn’t even glance in your direction.

When you finally reach the till, Joanne leans in and whispers, “Darling, you gotta snatch that before it’s too late.”

She nods toward Dean, who’s hovering near the snack aisle. “I mean, look at him,” she adds, shaking her head with exaggerated approval. Your eyes follow hers, taking in everything from head to toe. “Seriously. If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t just stand there doing nothing.”

“The way he looks at me?” you echo, because apparently that’s the only sentence your brain can manage.

Joanne stares at you. “Sweetheart… are your eyes just for decoration?”

“What?" 

Before she can say anything else, Dean returns with a bag of chips and puts it down gently on the conveyor belt. “Got the ones you like,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

Aww, he's so cute. 

You glance at Dean.

Then at the chips.

Then back at Joanne, who lifts her eyebrows in a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of way.

Okay.

Yeah.

You do have to snatch that before it’s too late.

—

The way he looks at you.

You’ve been chewing on that the whole ride back, trying to decode what the hell Joanne meant.

Sure, Dean glances at you, checks if you’re okay, keeps track of you the way he keeps track of Sam, Cas, his car, everything he cares about. That’s just… Dean. Nothing special about it.

Right?

“What were you and Joanne talkin’ about?” he asks suddenly, low and careful. His eyes flick over to you, then right back to the road. “What’d she say?”

He sounds almost… worried. 

“Uh, nothing,” you lie, light as possible. “She might have a crush on you, though.”

That gets a small smile out of him, soft and relieved. Then he glances again. “That's all she said?”

“Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes fixed ahead. “Just… wonderin’.”

You do not bring up her actual comments, because dying from embarrassment in this car is not on your bucket list. “What about you?” you ask, as casual as possible. “What were you two whispering about?”

“Uh… she, uh… has this niece she wanted me to meet.”

“Oh.” It falls out of you flat and tiny.

“Yeah,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thought I might be interested.”

“Really?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately, too immediately. “Interested, I mean. But Joanne kinda figured that out right away,” Dean finishes. “So it’s all good.”

The old lady wasn’t joking. Someone less insecure is going to snatch him up one of these days, and you’re going to regret all this waiting around doing nothing.

But the question is, how are you supposed to live in the bunker with him if you go all in on your feelings and he doesn’t feel the same? That’s just a recipe for disaster.

But then again… The way he looks at you. 

You make it your personal project to figure out just what the hell that means. 

Truthfully, it doesn't even take long to gather hints, one after the other. 

He does look at you, more than you’d realized. Not the teasing, smirking kind of glance he gives literally everyone else. Not even the playful, flirty looks. No, this is different. His eyes linger, soft, careful, like he’s making sure you’re okay, or memorizing something only he can see.

And maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe. But every time he flusters when you tease him, or he scratches the back of his neck when you hand him a simple compliment, your brain takes notes. You start keeping a mental tally, just to make sure you’re not imagining things.

You’re also pretty sure you’ve seen him blush around you a couple of times. Enough to make your heart skip.

Dean Winchester, master of casual charm and reckless confidence, gets… flustered. Around you. And it’s the smallest, most perfect kind of proof.

After weeks of quietly gathering evidence and comparing notes with Sam, Cas, and even Jack, your case feels airtight. And with it comes a little surge of courage.

And then, out of nowhere, you stumble onto the final piece.

The big one.

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bunker.

You were meant to be at Charlie’s for the weekend: movies, junk food, girl talk, a detox from the job, and the crises that come with it. But she comes down with a brutal flu and refuses to get you sick, so the whole plan gets pushed back.

You were going to text the boys and let them know you were still home, but you never got the chance. 

Because the second the front door slams, you hear Dean’s voice echo down the metal stairs: “That’s just stupid,” he grumbles. “I’m not doin’ that. I don’t even know if she likes me.”

You freeze mid-step.

Sam’s answer comes fast, like he’s run out of patience for the year. “Dean. Be serious. Are your eyes just for decoration?”

Sam and Joanne could be good friends, you think. They’re both full-time members of the Dean Appreciation Squad anyway.

Dean huffs loudly. “She lives here, Sam. What if you’re wrong? I don’t wanna make her uncomfortable.” His voice dips, softer, almost guilty. “God knows I probably already do.”

Your heart drops.

He actually thinks he might be making you uncomfortable.

Dean Winchester.

A man who apologizes when you bump into him.

A man who brings you your favorite snacks without a word.

A man who looks at you with care and devotion.

He thinks any of that is unwelcome.

You press back against the wall, breath catching in your throat, because the truth finally lands and it's undeniable. 

He likes you.

Really likes you.

And he’s holding himself back because he’s afraid his feelings might somehow upset you.

...Well.

You’re going to have to show him exactly how wrong he is.

—

You stroll into the garage one slow morning, no hunts, no plans – just a little time to make yourself feel… well, you. No flannel. No worn-out boots. Today, something that hugs your curves just right, a touch of makeup to bring out your best features. You even had time to make your hair cooperate.

Dean’s under the car, elbow-deep in something greasy, when you lean against the wall, arms crossed casually.

“Whatcha doin’, handsome?” you murmur, voice soft but teasing.

Metal clangs to the floor. “Son of a—” He scrambles out from under the car, rag in hand, eyes widening as they travel up and down you, and he almost freezes. “You… uh… you going out?”

“That depends,” you say, tilting your head. “Are you busy?”

“Huh? Me?” Dean stammers. “Why? You… you need a ride somewhere?”

"No, not really. Wanted to take you out.”

For a moment, he just blinks. The words don’t seem to register. “Take me out?”

“A date,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, though inside you’re practically combusting. 

“A date,” he repeats slowly. “You… and me?”

“Yeah. If you want to.”

A faint blush spreads across his cheeks, just enough to reveal his heart. "For real?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Do you want to?"

“God, yes,” he says, voice almost too fast. “I… uh… I’mma go change, real quick.”

Before you can even react, he’s already rushing to the garage door, as if he hesitates another second, you might change your mind. He pauses, hand on the handle, then spins back with a quick glance. “I don’t think I mentioned it, but you look... amazing. Just…” He shoots you an approving look, the kind that makes your chest tighten, before finally ducking out. 

—

Sam should really get out of the bunker more, maybe get an actual hobby that isn’t research or running laps before breakfast. Most importantly, he should probably spend less time around you and his brother before his last functioning brain cells decide to mutiny.

Actually… scratch that.

It might already be too late.

He did start looking at local classes: pottery, pilates, and even a book club. But he never registered for any of them. And now? Now he deeply regrets it.

Because the poor man walks into the kitchen, thinking only about making a smoothie, and instead walks into—

Yeah.

That.

There you are.

There Dean is.

And you’re kissing him like you’re both about to start something Sam definitely doesn’t want to picture.

Right in front of the blender.

And - oh no - your fingers slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and his breath itches. And then he's all like, “Oh baby, if you keep this up, I’m gonna put you right on this counter and—”

Sam slams his ears shut and salutes the blender for its bravery. Then he bolts from the room, muttering something about bleach and possibly moving to another state.

The next day, the blender is quietly relocated to the war room, where it can recover from trauma in peace, and Sam doesn't venture back into the kitchen for at least two weeks. 

And you… Well, you’ll owe Sam a proper thank-you someday... Once he can glance at the two of you without immediately questioning every decision that has brought him here.

And, yeah… maybe a new blender wouldn’t hurt.

---

Your knee pits hit the edge of the motel bed and buckle the same moment Dean follows, his weight toppling on top of yours as he buries you beneath his body. The mattress dips. The springs groan. The otherwise silent night fills with giggles and filthy talks. Sounds of open-mouthed kisses chasing each other, breaths hitching into something more promising.

Outside the window, the motel's neon lights flicker and shade the bedroom walls in a sweet cotton-candy pink, while the cheap room's smell is anything but.

None of it matters to neither of you, though. Because for the next two hours? You've got the room for yourself. And you'll make it count.

Dean sits back onto his hunches, bracketing your squirming shins, and begins to shrug off the green denim while your hands fumble with your own leather jacket.

When the bubblegum filter from the adjacent window lights up his face – you have to stop in your movements. Jacket discarded somewhere on the rug. Attention now fully on Dean. On the black streaks that litter his skin and shade his freckles with charcoal – to be precise.

"Oh God – you look like a soot-covered chimney sweep," you cackle. Dean flashes a crooked grin in response.

"Those are for good luck, right?"

"Sure."

You nudge your knee between his legs and he doubles over, face colliding with your stomach, with his arms still tangled behind his back in his denim. You grunt – then giggle at the sight of him fighting the damn thing like a deer caught in a fence.

"That's funny, huh?" he jokes and wiggles himself back to his knees as you free yourself from him and escape to the backrest. You flash a mischievous smile across the bed at him and that has Dean change his plans on the whim.

"Think'm gonna catch'n undress you first..."

He slips his denim back over his shoulders and next moment he's on you.

Dean pounces – you squeal – he pulls you down under him by your ankles.

"C'mere you little tease-"

Within seconds his body's above you, caging you in like a predator. Your back arches in response and he begins to crawl over you to reach your lips with his own, capturing them in a hungry kiss that tastes like smoke and bonfire. Your nose scrunches at the bitter taste but Dean's not letting you pull away just yet.

His hands sink into the bedding next to your chest, boxing you in as he drapes his weight across you like a heavy blanket. Hot and smelly – the stench of the salt 'n burn still stuck to his skin, just like his denim and the black muscle tee hugging his torso.

At last your lips part with a desperate gasp for air. Buzzing and smeared with charcoal.

Dean doesn't loose any time and moves in again – but you'd quickly grabbed him by his shoulders to keep him from drowning you in more sooty kisses.

"Dean – you really need a shower first," you remind him, but he just groans and rolls his eyes like he's heard the same jab for the past hour drive back to your motel room already.

Yes, he'd managed to slip on their escape from the cop patrolling the cemetery and yes, he'd tumbled face first into the damn pile of bones and ashes – not burning anymore, thank God – but did you have to remind him of that embarrassing moment for the rest of the night? He just knows you'll never let him hear the end of it.

"Well," he smacks his lips, expression annoyed despite the fact that a black smear's framing his eyes like a raccoon's, "so do you," he retorts. You snort.

No, in fact you don't. Because unlike Dean, you did not sli-

At the same time Dean reached up to push a hand into his dark blond, grimy hair. Then the bastard ruffles it right above your head for the grey flakes to rain down on you.

"Dean!" you scream and try to shield your face with your arm – but Dean quickly snatches your wrist with his other hand and pins it down above your head, laughing. "Nuh-uh – sharing is caring, honey."

You try to wiggle out of harm's way, shove him back by the shoulder with your free arm, but he's not budging. He has sat his weight down onto your lower half, straddling your hips and effectively keeping you pinned beneath him and at his mercy.

"You arse!"

"Language, sweetheart," he grins down at you like a boy who's just won a schoolyard brawl, "Y'know, I can get even dirtier." You huff but can't help a smile.

Others might call him childish, gross and immature in moments like this, but to you it's these moments of light-hearted playfulness you cherish the most.

But it's still gross as fuck and you'd strangle the bastard if you had both hands free.

Dean leans down – your one wrist still locked in place while your other hand hangs onto his tee – nudges your jaw up with his nose for his tongue to draw one, long, wet line up your throat. You gasp, then bite back a soft moan.

"Hmm," He pauses. Brows knotting together, green eyes on you while he lets his tongue swipe his lips, audibly tasting you. Then continues in a mock-serious tone. "Yup, now you're definitely dirty, too." This time you roll your eyes with a snort.

"What's next? You gonna smear your soot all over my face?" He holds your gaze. Green eyes glinting. His lips slowly tugging into a roguish smirk. Oh no.

Dean's lifted himself up and onto his hands and knees the next beat. You squeal and he laughs deeply as you both dive into a playful grapple. After a few seconds, he achieved to capture both of your wrists in one hand and pins them down again above your head.

"Ah yeah- Want to see ya painted black, baby~" he singsongs – the lyrics off key, but the deep timbre of his voice makes up for it as always and has the rumbling sound successfully tingling in your stomach.

"Don't – Don't you dare!!"

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he grins down at you victoriously while his free fingers go to grip your jaw before you can escape him. He hovers over you, his cheek smearing a charcoal streak of soot along your own cheek on his way to your ear to murmur into to it. Filthy and hot.

"Gonna make a damn mess of you" – you manage to slip one hand free of his grip and snake it down between your two bodies where you expertly zero-in on his crown jewels, meanwhile he continues – "Maybe I'll even taste you with my dirty lips and ha-aah-k-" his voice is strangled into a mixture of a surprised gasp and the yelp of a dog whose tail has been stepped on.

Dean, towering over you like a hungry wolf one moment, folds like an omelette the next.

You smirk. Your palm cupping his jewels through his jeans. Squeezing.

Dean's head drops to your shoulder, his grip on your wrist and jaw faltered, fingers dug into the sheets now, arms shaking as he tries to hold himself upright.

He groans a breathy "-fuuuck" next to your ear. You bite back a cheeky giggle.

"You trying to kill me?" he wheezes.

"Just a little payback."

"Payback? By trying to castrate me?" he rasps a weak attempt at a chuckle while he manages to lift his head enough to meet your eyes. That typical Dean-smirk on his lips again. Forced to keep it in place with every muscle twitching under his stubbles in protest.

But his features soften slightly when his words manage to elicit that sweet iconic smile of yours. He leans down, presses his coarse lips to your neck, where he continues against your skin. "If you don't wanna risk gettin' knocked up by me you could've just said it, y'know. No need for violence."

"Oh yeah?" you grin at the fact that his hips are still locked in place. He's trying his best to play it cool with every asset he's got to offer waist-up, but you're not one to be fooled by his charm or bravado. "Not enjoying my nutcracker grip?" You quip and mark your words with another, deliberate, squeeze of his misters.

Dean's reaction is instantaneous.

His breath hitches. Forehead drops to meet your shoulder once again… and then a whimpering sound escapes his lips – you still in the moment.

"You – you good?" you ask in concern. Maybe your nails did a little more through the fabrics of his Jersey's than just tease him?

He doesn't answer. And his silence only adds to your guilt. So you angle your shoulders as well as you can, with his head still burrowed in the crook of your neck, trying to catch a look at his face.

"De?" you probe once more. Your free hand goes up to gently rub his shoulder.

"Don't-" he begins and you almost loosen the grip around him when the same second he continues in a muffled, "Don't stop."

You blink down at him. Or, well, the back of his head and the messy, ash-matted hair that's partially brushing the underside of your jaw.

The room falls silent, save for his ragged breath and your heart picking up its pace.

After a beat, Dean wiggles his hips.

Barely.

Like he's testing whether you've heard his small, pathetic plea. And you have, so you do what you did before and wrap your fingers around him once more, applying some pressure to him. Never painful – just enough to draw another reaction from him.

And what a reaction it is.

Dean's jaw goes slack. His shaky exhale is underlined by a soft whine. His weight drops to his elbows – chest hovering only inches above yours. The bed wobbles beneath you. Next to your face, you feel his breathing growing heavier. Hot against your skin. His strong arms have sunken into the floral patterned sheets left and right of your head.

He'd crumbled – just at a simple touch of yours.

And now Dean is literally trembling.

Then it clicks. He likes it.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. Excitement taking over. Oh how the tables have turned.

Usually Dean is the one who has you wrapped around his finger – quite literally too, whenever he'd drag one, two, or three of them down your soft walls and have you whimper his name until he'd finally give in and hook them to that spot which made you roll your eyes back and soak his arm in your arousal.

His face pushes further into the slope of your neck. His hips move – just a fraction – testing the waters. He breaths another weak "Oh fuck-" when you tut at his attempts and tighten your grip in response.

You tip your temple against the side of his head where your lips find his ear to murmur into. "You like it when I've got you in my hands, Winchester? Hm?"

His jaw ticks. Then falls loose, mouth dropped open with a throaty, "Uh-...Uh-huh".

Damn.

"What was that?" you purr. He winces under his breath. You remember Uncle Ben's words "with great power comes great responsibility" and decide to let go of him.

... just to unbuckle his belt with a flick of your fingers and next thing slip your hand down his pants and beneath his boxers because you ain't Spiderman and you know Dean would've done the exact same thing.

As if on command, Dean groans softly. A visible shiver goes down his back. His eyes flutter shut, his chin resting on your shoulder. It's all the confirmation you need.

God – what a sight. How he unravels on top of you with just the slightest touch of yours to his most sensitive parts. How you both know that you could seriously harm him – yet both know that you never would. But the "If she wanted to, she could." is what makes this so much more exciting and arousing.

Your other hand circles the back of his neck, threads into his messy hair and tugs at him for your mouth to level with his ear again.

"Words, baby. I need words."

"Uhn…" he groans, unable to say anything else. You successfully robbed master-of-snarky-comments-Dean of his words. It has your heart flutter and your lips tug at a warm smile. To witness the way he tries so hard to not fully give in – to keep at least a shred of his composure – and to fail so beautifully as you begin to massage his crown jewels, it is truly the best thing ever.

"Please…" he suddenly manages to gasp out. His voice ragged and desperate. "Please don't stop, baby."

With the next shaky sigh that escapes his lips, his chest practically melts into yours. You feel him let go of his last bit of control. The tension of his muscles now solely focused on anticipating your next pleasurable move.

"That's it…" you hum pleased and your praising words has his weight press down on you even more.

Meanwhile his hips are twitching in the air, reacting to the smallest roll of your fingers around his delicate skin. You begin to explore him, your finger-pads playfully rubbing the spot in the back, where the stretchy skin connects with his groin.

The action has him buck his hips and utter a husky groan. His lips moving against the skin of your neck without producing any coherent words. His brain turned to mush.

"You're doing so well… just let go for me."

Skimming a nail of yours down his delicate skin – he whimpers your name. You feel his length hard and heavy - though never giving in to touch it. He fists the sheets with a death-grip – taut enough for you to feel the tension in the fabrics beneath your head.

Dean's completely at your command.

You lick your lips – grimace at the dusty taste of smoke – a gross reminder of that fact. Your fingers on the back of his head gently scratch his scalp to get his attention. A confident smirk spreading across your face.

"Don't you wanna say sorry for something?"

This time, though, Dean doesn't miss a beat – a spark of his cockiness flaring up – when he scoffs a raspy chuckle, the sound of it awfully close to a "Mmh - Nope."

The tone of it would've been haughty.

Would have.

If you wouldn't, coincidentally, have tugged him by the misters at the very same time and the words would've actually left his mouth instead of getting knocked back down his vocal chords by a sound between a gasp and a reverse sneeze.

"You wanna try that again?" you smirk.

You hear him struggle to find his voice – his mouth too dry to lick his lips when he audibly swallows.

He hesitates. You increase the smooth rolling movements, letting the balls glide along your tender fingers.

It's all it takes to break him.

What jumbles off his quivering lips is a shaky, drawn out "Ahh" followed by a row of suppressed whimpers, and finally, a muttered "...sorry."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Attaboy," you praise him. He lets out a sigh of relief but his body practically buzzes with need by now. You coax his head out of his burrow, shift a little beneath him so you can lock eyes.

Dean looks down at you, a little cross-eyed with those blown emerald eyes. Just like a puppy waiting for its treat – God, that look always manages to melt your heart.

You lean in to press your lips to his temple, smearing some of the soot with your wet lips. His head perks; The words he's been eagerly waiting for curling into his ear-shell.

"Now you're allowed to make a mess. And then we'll take a shower."

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES In celebration of the 20th anniversary of Supernatural (and because I'd like to start my week with a grin), I expect you all to add your favorite gif of Sam or Dean, if you reblog!! Them be the rules! 🙂‍↕️

(Yes, VC, you get a green card for the old man 😉)

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault @zepskies

@waynes-multiverse @youdontknowe @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom

@hobby27 @boobsbeesbongos @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @carliebear23

@alexxavicry @ladykitana90 @woaheasytig3r @velvetparkerx @cupidluvzz @pressedwater @lori1 @theelephantroom4 @tinysnacklefan @deans-baby-momma

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: You and Dean pretend to be a couple to investigate a case, but what happens when things start to get a bit too real?

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

Content: no Y/N, fake relationship, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, 10998 words

Chapters:

1 - My Bloody Valentine - 1011 words

2 - Just Married - 904 words

3 - Cold Feet - 1783 words

4 - Sweet Wine and Sour Grapes - 1254 words

5 - Bubbling Over - 1747 words

6 - Hot and Bothered - 3244 words smut

“Last time I wore a tux, you thought I was going to propose,“ said Dean, unbuttoning his jacket in front of the mirror.

“Last time you wore a tux you did,” you said from the bed, crossing your legs as your dress took up most of the bed. “You look quite good in one, Mr. Winchester.”

“Well thank you. Mrs. Winchester,” he said, glancing back at you with a big smile. He kicked off his dress shoes and walked over to the bed, careful of your dress before he lay next to you. You rolled onto your side and propped your head up on your elbow, smiling at him as he looked over at you. “You made my heart stop more than a few times today in that dress.”

“S’just a dress,” you said. “But I know what you mean.”

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you back,” you said, Dean smirking.

“Did you like the wedding? And the reception?” he asked. You hummed, shifting over closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“I got to kiss this really handsome guy today. A lot. It was awesome,” you said, Dean chuckling. “For someone who said he didn’t care about this, today meant more than you let on.”

“It’s just a day, like tomorrow’s just a day. But all of the rest of the days I’ll have, I’m with you,” he said. “I always knew you weren’t leaving me, no matter what happened to us. But now I’m just thinking, I really know you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Never was,” you said. Dean simply smiled at you, with that look he’d shown you all day.

A little part of him had healed that day. You gave him a smile right back before he leaned up to kiss him.

Hopefully with all those other days you had together, you could find some more ways to help heal the rest of him too.

It’s involuntary, unlike your being here. This party, this place, this costume. You’re only here to get back in the saddle, or on one, depending on which way you look at it. You’re just waiting for Dean to show.

Your choice of ankle boots, denim skirt and belt is for him. The pink hat, for you, flourished with glitter and rhinestones. It’s almost a shame you’re willing to have it all ripped off of you. But as long as it means you get yours, you’re willing to bob for apples, or the apple tree.

You see, you sent Dean some pictures; they were more than suggestive. You even pulled the best-friend card and told him all about your ex to win him over and get him here. 

Derek was a good guy until this point. He can go fuck himself now, for all you care. You’re glad he broke up with you, only seeing what he saw the minute you called Dean after it all went down. 

You’re close. Now you hope to be closer. While you search for the perfect place to wait for him, you double-check Derek and anyone else you might know aren’t here, too. 

But it’s hard to tell when you’ve got Freddie Krueger on your left in a mask, and Mercury on your right. 

Beetlejuice thrusts his hips towards the latter, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, who coincidentally has their tongue down the Mad Hatter’s throat.

Then there’s Alice beside them, screaming at the top of her lungs. It’s a wonder she hears herself think above the music droning on.

Like all the songs, it’s not Dean’s scene. Still, your gaze continues filtering through the costumes, forever hopeful he might be in or under one of them. 

He didn’t say yes to coming. He didn’t say no either. Instead, he sent you plenty of suggestive texts, too, including a photo that left your panties almost as wet as the floor.  

It’s sticky thanks to everyone else, drunk or drinking. Having a good time amidst the sweat, smoke, and softer Harley Quinn’s tears. 

She’s walking around somewhere, struck out with the astronaut, and his excessive body spray that lingers even in places he hasn’t been.

As much as it stinks, and isn’t a Dean kind of smell, you can’t help but watch him when he watches you. But if Dean knows who the Backstreet Boys are, and is singing along to them like this guy is, then you don’t know Dean like you should. 

He’s not the kind of guy to be in sync with the crowd. Neither is the one jackass who places his hand on your rear, apparently. While everyone else rocks their bodies to Backstreet’s Back, he whispers in your ear. 

“Nice costume,” he says, and you’re about ready to throttle him. Only the grin Dean wears when you turn around to face him has your heart rate spiralling faster than the baseline. Your jaw drops at his suit and tie. 

“Where’s yours?” you say. The least he could’ve done is changed into his regular flannel.

He reaches for your hat and puts it on his head. “Jesse James?” He bows. “Or you can call me Dollor.” 

“Dollor?”

“John Wayne’s horse.” He pulls back to catch your eye and winks. “Only tonight I’m yours.” He grabs your hand. 

“Come on, cowgirl. Let me buy you a drink.”

If there’s one thing Dean can find amongst this mix of craziness and terrible music, it’s the bar. He can smell the alcohol, or is that because Jack Sparrow spilt beer on the tail end of his jacket? Doesn’t matter. This suit was just the one he wore to the morgue and then the sheriff’s office earlier that day. 

It’s going straight back in Baby’s trunk as soon as he’s changed. Something he didn’t do to save on time. 

As it was, it took him longer to get to you because it meant going to the bathrooms to wipe the stickiness off his palms. He got rid of the road, too, but he’ll grumble about the captain because he doesn’t get the lizard on his shoulder. He hopes the son of a bitch is fake. 

He leads you well clear of where he last remembered him being. Through some cobwebs hanging low from the ceiling and a blown-up clown face as tall as he is. 

To think he could’ve stayed another night at the motel with Sammy and missed the opportunity of meeting you and this skirt you’re wearing.

Man, he loves Halloween. It’s like Valentine’s Day with no expectations. He gets all the candy he wants because all these costumes fuel the ambition of those too self-aware or inebriated, and tonight that includes you. 

Yeah, you broke up with that asshat, but it’s just sex if he continues to play his cards right. It doesn’t have to be more than that unless you want it, too, and he’s always okay with more sex.

You need a pick-me-up; he does too after the week he’s had. You’re just two adults hooking up and having a good time. If you’d said no to the drink—no—if you’d stopped talking to him after he’d sent that pic, neither of you would be here in this exact spot in the line. 

But you didn’t. And now you’re running your hand over his arm and pulling your lower lip through your teeth as you smile. 

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” you supply, but it’s clearly something, because you’re looking at him like you wanna save his soul even though plenty have tried.

So, he leaves it be. The bartender is nodding you forward, and he needs a drink to take the edge off.

He steps up to the bar. The neon blue strip beneath the counter lights up his nose when he leans into it. He turns to you, and that same hue is in your eyes.

He tips your hat to you, and they shine even brighter. “What’ll it be, partner?” He can’t help using that term.

“Tequila shots.” You order, holding up two fingers towards the icy taps in front of you. 

“Make that four—and a beer,” he adds on.

He raises his eyebrows at you, but you shake your head no, thankfully, because the price of shitty plastic borders on extortion. 

Still, again, he keeps his thoughts to himself and hands over the cash. You’re already reaching for your first shot and licking the back of your hand as you do. 

The little display you’re putting on is a sure thing to be sure. He swears that tongue of yours is swooping at an imaginary crown. With the way your cheeks hollow, it leaves him with no choice but to turn his hips as all his blood rushes south.

He grabs his own shot and slaps the plastic with yours, quick to bite the lime as you are to shake your head between your hands. 

The way your shirt moves with your body has him reaching for the remaining shots, handing one over, downing the other without the cheers, salt or citrus to balance himself. 

“Shall we?” He nods in the direction of what looks to be a quieter corner of the club. He grabs his beer and your hand in his other to take you there, but there’s resistance. You tug on his thumb.

“Let’s dance,” you say. 

You’ve got to be joking—but you’re not. Those eyes of yours are sincere, if not pleading, knowing how to get what you want. 

He darts his to the dance floor—it’s murder, suicide. The people who mosh together might be able to ignore the lack of personal space, but he wants to be close to you and you alone. 

You may as well hold him by his sack, though. Him just as stuck in your iron grip as his eyes are glued to the curve of your skirt. 

You’re too casual about this place. Too agile for a woman in heels to weave through the party the way you do. You’re adept at parting the people with your free hand like you’ve done this all before while Dean has no such luck. 

He gets a pitchfork to the face, and a tutu bites his skin even though the layers he’s wearing cover him much the same as his hunting gear would. 

You stop somewhere in the middle of the calamity, partygoers on all sides. He’s wishing you were anywhere else but here until you step in closer, hips rocking from side to side against his own.

He takes it all back. Let the rhythm you’re moving to move over him instead. No clothes, no gimmicks would be better. You can use your hands and hold him; he’ll follow your lead and bask in it all.

The more he moves, the better he feels. If he ignores the repetitive whine and lousy lyrics washing over him, the song’s not all that bad. The beat is strong, pounding in his chest; it cuts the rug out from under his legs, and he’s bolder.

His fingers dip into the gap your belt makes with your back. He feigns innocence as well as he pretends it’s just him and you in the safety of your bubble. He leans in to capture your mouth with a kiss. 

Your fingers wind through the hairs on the back of his neck, pulling him down for another, then another. It’s soft; you’re sensual. He pulls your pelvis up and into him and grunts against the sweet curve.

The movement, the kiss, the heat. If this continues the way it’s going, he’s going to pitch a tent. As it is, he’s halfway already, only no one bats an eye when your arm slips down between you to tease and touch him. 

“This where you had in mind when you messaged me?” he whispers into your ear.

“No.” You shake your head. Not exactly. Your arms wrap further ‘round his neck, bringing him in to hear you in return. “Thought I’d take you home first.”

“Then let’s go.” He grips your wrists to loosen your hold on him, but it’s not what you want. 

You’ve prepared for this, sure. You’re freshly shaved and buzzing in your panties, and it’s not on account of the short hairs catching on the fabric as you dance. You’ve been wet all day thinking about him, and you’re itching for him to scratch the itch now.

But the club is hectic. Security officers roam the expanse of the joint. 

There’s a cop over Dean’s shoulder, though you’re certain he’s as fake as the FBI badge in Dean’s pocket if his drinking is anything to go by. Beyond him, there’s the hall to the bathrooms. A row of eight or more stalls lying further beyond that with matching doors to hide behind. 

Your eyes flick in their direction. Your chin, suggestive in the way it tilts. 

Dean’s brow raises. He turns to check out whatever it is for himself, returning with a smidge of whimsy in his eye. “You sure about this?” 

More than ever. You nod and let him go enough to take his hand.

As if the DJ reads you from across the room, the song she’s mixing picks up into a climatic array, fluttering between the octaves, almost cantering like a beast. It fuels you across the dance floor, feet gliding on your heels over a path less sticky when you divert to the outer skirts of the herd.

Dean stays close—somehow even when he dumps his beer on a random surface. Your arm, bent through the music and his grip, keeps him tethered through the flashing strobes and breaks of darkness.

You take a sharp turn around Beetlejuice, who runs into you with a line about watching where you’re going. You’re able to dodge him and his drink with only Dean’s chest against your back as collateral as the main melody returns.

His hands move to your waist, squeezing your flesh and leaving you breathless. He has you walking back-to-chest the rest of the way, feeling his erection press into the crease of your ass as you do. 

You can almost sample the sensation of sex. Phantom penetrations, an illusion of thrusting. You clench at the thought of his fingers finding their way over you. You must look quite the mess. 

Sweaty from dancing, flushed cheeks, and lust-filled eyes. They scan Alice, still singing at the top of her lungs, as you scrape past her bouncy skirt and bows to enter the hall behind her. 

It’s black like the white rabbit’s hole, with scratches and chips from many a heel and glass. They glitter when the colourful lights swirl over them, forming beacons in the plaster that would guide the way, if only you didn’t know it already.   

You poke your head inside the women’s bathroom, coming face to face with scary Harley Quinn. Her makeup is as much of a shock to the senses as the tiles are on the walls. 

The music is quieter here, but it’s enough to rattle the fixtures. It makes you wonder if you can keep yourself quiet when stories of Dean’s sexcapades (as told by Sam) have left you curious.

Scary Harley glares at you for daring to intrude. You see double thanks to the long mirror extending the length of the room. Of course, you scowl back. It’s a public bathroom is what you want to say, but she walks out with a flick of her hair, so you pull Dean in. You beeline for the closest stall.

Is it risky? Sure. The whole act is. Being so near the entrance might have its disadvantages when everyone who comes in here is going to pass you. But beggars can’t be choosers when it’s also closest to the loudest room in the house.  

You enter, he locks. He fumbles; you shuffle forward until you’re bracing yourself over the porcelain seat. But there’s that bulge again, thick against your backside and nudging you further forward. Your fingers bend and tense in a desperate bid to stay upright, only that mouth of his is in your ear, breathing warm air into the drum.  

“You gotta plan, sweetheart?” he whispers. His fingers wander the path up your sides to pull you back against him. “Gonna ride me here?”

Your head rolls over his shoulder. You wink and yank your hat back off his head, spinning around to curtsy, with a dip of the brim.  

“At your service.” You pull a one-eighty on what he just said. 

“Oh yeah? You gonna suck me off a little first?” He draws you in by the jaw, eyes flicking to your lips, but he doesn’t taste. 

You’re left nodding your head yes when the main door opens behind him. Dropping to your knees as clacks of heels entering the stall next to yours sound.

Your hands grip his thighs for balance. The rustling of clothes being removed next to you has Dean considering the same for his slacks. 

To pull it out or pull them down and make his own percussion against the beat of the club? To really feel your skin on his as he fucks you would be a real treat.

But he unzips his fly and reaches into his clothes to free himself, palming the head in sync to you, sucking the part of him already in your mouth. 

He tugs his hand to the base and works himself over with a few slow pumps to the sight. 

“Got something bigger for you.” He thumbs the slit, but doesn’t dare say any more when more women filter in. 

Their cackles and hoots of laughter bounce around the bathroom, one owner mere inches from his back. The door rattles behind him as she allows her friends to pass. His nostrils flare as he pulls at the corner of your lips, opening you wider for him. He curses under his breath when your tongue darts out to taste. 

Your mouth takes him so well, tight-lipped and soft compared to the loose ones of the women still giggling behind him. His hand lifts your hat up so he can see your eyes below the brim, letting out a curse in time to the flushing beside you. 

“Just like that,” he says as his fingers brush your cheek. They hollow like they did around the salt. 

Tequila and a side of dick, he grins to himself, though thank fuck no one heard him. It’s hard not to say much more than what he has when the sounds surrounding you quieten back into simple pulses in the foundations. But doing so makes him harder, and “Take me deeper,” he says.

He leans into you, pushing himself further down your throat. Your eyes are lost to him behind the expanse of the hat, but at this moment, is it really them he wants to see?

Cowboys, cowgirls, it’s much of a muchness. You may not be rugged and you’re out of the outlawed life—now, but the wild side remains, case in point. It’s his every fantasy, the location, neither here nor there.

“There you go.” He grunts, squeezing his ass and pumping into you some more, holding himself in place when he hears you gulp. The constriction; the pressure, it’s heavenly. Your wetness and warmth, flush and all around when he pulls back and chases the feeling again.

The sounds you’re making are better than any of the actual music thumping through the cracks. It still reverberates in his ears and through him like a horse might gallop along his spine. 

You’re soft; you were glistening, waiting for him. The fingers you used for show when you snapped him a picture ain’t got nothing on him (or your shitty ex).

He met him once. He knows he can be the cocky one when it’s him gliding in and out of you right now.

Derek was a douche. A lousy hunter, and probably a lousy partner, too. 

Regardless of what you haven’t told Dean, his reputation as the guy who got thrown out of Harvelle’s for hitting on an underage Jo always made him wary. He never told you this, of course. It was never his business to know in the first place or to tell you even now that he’s no more. It was too late once he’d found out about him and you, plus he hardly knew you then. Now he knows you better. 

He leaves you empty after the next thrust. His hands under your arms pull you up to get a better look. He kisses you once before spinning you back around to face away from him. “You ready for that ride?” 

You’re ready alright. 

You’ve been ready since he stole your breath away with your hat, and even before. 

So what if Derek is right? It doesn’t matter now that you’ve sampled your first real taste of Dean. It’s now a case of been there, done that, and boy, have you enjoyed it so far.

Your thighs burn from all the clenching you’ve been doing. You lean against him, and press your ass against his slick cock. You might not get the pleasure, being too overdressed, but the memory of his musk remains in your mouth along with the saltiness lingering at the back of your throat.

He grabs your hands and places them on your breasts, so you’re cupping yourself as Dean smoothes down your waist, hips and thighs to the hem of your skirt. 

His fingers play with the frayed threads at first, redistributing the delicate touch he used when he brushed your lips with his thumb. For a hunter laced with many scars, he’s surprisingly gentle. He has been for most of the night, accepting your touch and advances, even on the dance floor; he wore your pink hat, bought your shots.

And though his goal is clearly your panties and what flutters behind them, he’s agonisingly slow. Another stall user comes and goes, and Dean is still hoisting the denim up over your rear while cupping your mound in between. 

“Did you touch yourself thinking of me?” he says, and you nod. “Should’ve called me. I was touching me, too.” He chuckles, pressing his finger into you then.

Over the fabric; he rubs with just enough pressure that it’s not actually enough, leaving you rolling your hips for more.

“Open up f’me.” His free hand trails back to your rear, tapping you lightly before pulling the fabric to the side.

Your fingers leave your tits to help him push them down, but his hand smacks them away. “Don’t,” he says, using the gusset to hook himself in place for support. 

You’d protest at the lack of thought or protection, but those suggestive texts were more than that. You know he’s clean; he knows what you’re wanting, and you push back as he pushes in. 

“Fuck.” He grunts into your ear. 

Fuck indeed. Your top teeth are in your lower lip, and your lower lips are fluttering over him. You let out a breathy moan that stutters your tongue, thighs, and hips because the other voices in the room stop at that exact moment.

Why is it that Dean can say the filthiest things into your ear and no one seems to notice, coming or going, but you make nothing more than a relatively normal sound and the whole world stops?

As it is, the smug bastard gloats. “Best be quiet,” he even dares, pulling back and angling his hips so when he slides back into you, the head catches at the rim. 

Your hands reach up to grab what you can. His shoulders, his arms—you’re not entirely sure. His fingers are still pressing against your clit, but his free hand comes up to your mouth, pressing his palm into your lips.

His mouth brushes the lower cusp of your ear, dropping to nip at the sensitive skin beneath it. Licks, wet and chaste, a firmer suction, he’s going to mark you, and you’re fine with that, too. 

It’s just skin. He can pool blood beneath the surface above; just as he can fill your panties below. The idea of him filling you is what fueled this in the first place. An innocent text about what Derek said, leading to questions of the truth.

It turned flirtatious when Dean said he’d never say no to getting into your pants. He didn’t put it so eloquently, just dirty with a touch of the usual charm. 

He said he’d make you come and specifically told you where. Which led to birth control, and photos of where he might.

His cock thrusts up and hits that sweet spot, thanks to the way he’s got you bending over. The pull of your panties over him increases the sensations already screaming and pulling you tight inside.

“That’s it. Ride it,” he coos, and fuck, you’re gonna come.

You exhale hard against his skin, still gripping where you can. He’s pulling butterflies to your chest and head, while your stomach flips and turns. Your legs are threatening to buckle beneath the weight of it all, and that’s not good. 

Someone’s in the next stall again. The girls chattering on the other side are bound to hear you. Yet his name still bursts from your lips and through his fingers, a squeal as that edge peaks.

Your thighs shake; your core pulls tight. toes curl in your boots as he stills against you. And though the noise stills too, you’re too high on cloud nine to care. His breath in your ear beats any sound, here or elsewhere. 

Your panties are full; the party’s right here. You’re alive, satiated. Derek who? 

Dean’s got you, and he’s holding you close. His lips on your skin, leaving another mark for the world to see as you both come down from the rush. 

You settle against him. He chuckles in your ear. “You sure know how to dance, sweetheart,” he says.

And you know how to pick ‘em, too.

Your hum has his lips on your cheek. The returned chatter has you shaking through a silent fair of laughter. It’s hard to contain yourself enough to kiss him in return, but somehow you do, twisted and awkward. Not so when he pulls out and helps you straighten up. 

He turns you ‘round then and keeps you close. “So what now?” he says, dipping his forehead to yours.

“Now?”

His eyes flick to the door, but do you wait or do you stay there longer? Do you take him home and beg him for more?

He kept you waiting on the dance floor. He owes you something more substantial than a shot and a side of cream. 

“We take this elsewhere?” you say, dropping your hat back on his head. “You told me tonight, I’m yours.”

Well, it’s safe to say it’s been a while since I went clubbing 😅 Did you catch all the costumes and the references to a couple of songs?

I’ve had a bit of a love-hate relationship with this one. There’s a particular rhythm in the words I hear when I read it out aloud that I’m hoping comes through 🤞❤️

Dean Taglist 1:

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @zepskies @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch

@roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse @kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78 @stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15

@deansbbyx @kr804573 @lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics @31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @roseamie13

@krazykelly @my-stories-vault @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447 @hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories @middleearthlife @yeehawgiddyup13

@redwinexsupernova @artemys-ackles @kimxwinchester @bejeweledinterludes2 @impala67rollingthroughtown @idjit-central @youroldfashioned @rosemicheal12 @veesenya @lori19

If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

A/N: Pls don't overthink the sea and the apartment, this is part of a bigger fic that keeps running in my head at all times. In that fic, Dean and reader live in an apartment by the sea. So yeah. There's no more context. This is a comfort fic probably for my own self but many others who've gone through emotional neglect to the point they have started questioning if they're even lovable. Because you are.

Main Masterlist

The sea outside the apartment was restless that night.

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely.

Y/N stood near the dining table, pacing in slow circles like she did whenever she thought and talked at the same time.

They had already crossed the point of confession days ago. Angry words in a fight that ended up spilling their feelings. The word was out. The truth had been laid out between them. They were in love with each other. Okay. Nice. But.

But instead of moving forward, Y/N had started doing something else entirely.

She was building a case.

Against herself.

Dean had seen it coming. But he hadn’t stopped her yet. He was waiting to see where she was going.

Y/N stopped pacing and looked at him, arms folded.

“You considered you could maybe do better?"

Dean didn’t even blink.

“No.”

She rolled her eyes like he was being deliberately difficult, "I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She exhaled sharply and ran a hand through her hair, “You’re not listening.”

“Oh I’m listening,” he said calmly, “That’s the problem.”

She stared at him for a moment before turning away again, walking toward the balcony.

When she spoke again her voice was steadier, more analytical, "I have patterns.”

Dean pushed off the counter slightly, trying not to interrupt but failing, "Humor me."

“I get attached fast,” she continued. “I ask questions. I want to know what someone’s thinking, what they’re doing, how their day went.”

She glanced back at him, “You already noticed that one.”

Dean shrugged, “Yeah.”

She pointed at him immediately, “Exactly.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“To you maybe.”

“To anyone normal.”

She shook her head, "You're not normal. That’s not how people see it.”

Her tone shifted slightly.

Less argumentative.

More matter-of-fact.

“I need communication.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “What a monster.”

“Dean.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “I like hearing from the person I’m with. A text. A call. Something. Not once a week.”

Dean’s expression didn’t change, his tone remained mocking. He was upset that this was the conversation they were having after he laid bare his heart to her, “Hey, so, that’s called a relationship.”

She ignored the comment and kept going.

“I like reassurance sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I ask questions.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“And apparently,” she added dryly, “that counts as being desperate and unbearable.”

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly. Whoever put that thought in her head would not see the next sunrise if he ever got his hands on him.

He didn’t say anything.

She kept pacing.

“And I like… stupid things.”

Dean tilted his head.

“Such as?”

She gestured vaguely with one hand, “Dates.”

He blinked, “Wow.”

“Flowers.”

Dean rubbed his mouth with his hand, “Scandalous.”

She glared at him.

“You’re being annoying.”

“i’m being realistic.”

“Dean, listen to me.”

Her voice wasn’t angry anymore but it was firm, there was resignation in it, “I like being courted.”

The word hung in the air for a second.

“And that’s childish,” she added quietly.

Dean’s expression shifted slightly to a softer one. But she kept talking before he could say anything.

“I like enthusiasm,” she continued, “I like someone being excited to see me.”

She shrugged one shoulder, “And if they’re not, I notice.”

Dean finally spoke, softly this time, “Yeah. Most people would.”

She ignored that too, “And if someone disappears for days, I ask where they were.”

“That’s called concern.”

“And that gets labeled clingy.”

For the first time she stopped pacing.

She leaned back against the table, arms folded again.

“So,” she said like she's just finished a presentation and is professionally concluding, “you see the issue.”

Dean looked at her for a long moment. She was talking about her feelings like they were corporate bullet points. What even made her so dissociated? Then he pushed himself fully upright and walked toward the table.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He took her hand in his. His voice was quiet, “You done?”

“For now.”

He nodded once.

“Good.”

Then he moved again, leaned his hands on the table across from her, “Because that was the most ridiculous list of crimes I’ve ever heard.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue.

He cut her off immediately, his forehead creasing like it usually does when he raises his eyebrows to make a point.

“You want communication,” He held up a finger.

“That’s normal.”

Another finger, “You want reassurance.”

Another.

“You want someone to actually show up and act like they like you.”

Another.

“You want dates.”

Another.

“You want flowers.”

He leaned closer slightly, "Kid, that’s not high maintenance. That’s basic.”

She scoffed, “That’s not how people see it.”

Dean’s voice went flat, “No. You had one guy tell you that.”

She stiffened slightly.

He didn’t soften, “That doesn’t make it reality. He was a douche, I'm not.”

Y/N shook her head, “You don’t get it.”

“Oh I get it.” He straightened up again, “You’re trying to convince me you’re difficult.”

She crossed her arms, “I am difficult.”

Dean snorted quietly.

“You argue with me for fun.”

“That one's not a flaw.”

“No,” he agreed. “That part I actually like.”

Her expression faltered for half a second.

Dean noticed. He always noticed.

“You know what I heard just now?” he continued.

“A woman saying she wants someone to treat her like she matters. And believing that's too much to ask for.”

She looked away, “That’s not what people had heard before.”

Dean’s voice hardened, “Then those people were idiots.”

She laughed under her breath, “You don’t know what it’s like.”

He went still for a moment.

Then said with an amused expression. The kind he makes when he's trying to water down a hard blow, “Actually I do.”

That made her look up, realizing the ridiculousness of her statement.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re asking for too much just because you want someone to give a damn?" He chuckled.

The words landed harder than she expected, “I didn't mean-”

Dean shrugged one shoulder, “But here’s the thing.”

He leaned back against the table now, mirroring her posture.

“You’re not warning me about you.”

Her brows furrowed slightly.

“You’re repeating what someone else told you.”

The room went quiet.

Y/N stared at the floor for a second before muttering, “You deserve someone easier.”

Dean’s head tilted slightly, “Why?”

“Because people like me get exhausting.”

He studied her face.

Then said calmly, “That’s funny.”

She frowned.

“What is?”

“Because from where I’m standing,” he said quietly, “you’re the least exhausting person I know. You're not easy, and thank God for that. You deserve real effort."

She looked up at him again.

Confused. How could he see her like that?

He shrugged again.

“You know what actually sounds exhausting?”

“What?”

“Someone who thinks asking for the bare minimum is a character flaw.”

Silence fell between them again.

The ocean outside kept moving.

Y/N finally shook her head slightly, pushing away from the table.

“You have a way with words.”

Dean smirked faintly.

“But I just can't unlearn all of it just like that, Dean."

"I have time."

"It's not that easy."

"I am also a patient man."

She started walking toward the hallway, not wanting to argue and lose again.

Dean watched her go. Then added casually behind her, “By the way.”

She stopped but didn’t turn around, “Yeah?”

“Next time you make a list like that,” he said lightly, “maybe include the part where you’re loyal, stubborn, funny, and the only person I know who can argue with me for forty minutes straight without repeating herself.”

A small pause.

Then he added, “Try harder next time. This wasn't enough to make me stop loving you.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

But the corner of her mouth twitched before she disappeared down the hallway.

Characters/OCs info & aesthetic

0.00 Prologue✦

Season One ✦ (2005-2006)

Season Two ✦ (2006-2007)

Season Three ✦ (2007-2008)

Season Four ✦ (2008-2009)

Season Five ✦ (2009-2010)

Season Six ✦ (2010-2011)

Season Seven ✦ (2011-2012)

Season Eight ✦ (2012-2013)

Season Nine ✦ (2013-2014)

Season Ten ✦ (2014-2015)

Season Eleven ✦ (2015-2016)

Season Twelve ✦ (2016-2017)

Season Thirteen ✦ (2017-2018)

Season Fourteen ✦ (2018-2019)

Season Fifteen ✦ (2019-2020)

‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚. ‧₊˚.

You swallow hard and let out a sigh of relief. Your shoulders slump and the ball of anxiety in your stomach loosens for the first time all day.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

You end the call and look back up at the mirror. Your appearance is… suitable. The outfit you’d agonized over all morning is nice, but not too nice. Your hair is neat and your makeup is enough for a wedding, but not too much that it looks like you’re trying to find a date. Your goal for this afternoon is to blend in. 

Plopping yourself down on the couch, you attempt to distract yourself by scrolling until Sam arrives. You only succeed for a few minutes before you’re back up again, pacing the length of the hallway. When he texts that he’s downstairs, you grab your bag and hurry down to his car. 

He’s parked in a fire lane with his hazards on. You shout an apology at your nosy neighbor, just like you always do, and climb into the passenger seat. As soon as the door’s shut, Sam pulls out into traffic.

“You’re gonna get a ticket one of these days,” you laugh, catching Sam’s eye. “I swear, that man lives to call the cops on people. He’s always standing outside, just waiting for someone to mess up.”

He’s grinning. He’s combed his hair and it’s freshly cut. The ends brush the collar of his navy suit.

“I wasn’t sure what you were wearing,” Sam tells you. He stops at the intersection, the one at the end of your street that you swear has the longest red light in Wichita, and grabs something from the cupholder between you. “Which one?”

It’s three ties, all slightly crumpled in his fist. You take them and gingerly smooth them out in your lap. Miraculously, one of them is a perfect match. The others would have been perfect with your second and third choice outfits.

He really does know me too well.

You toss the extras onto the backseat before laying your choice over the center console. 

“Thanks again for doing this. I don’t know if I could face him all by myself. I mean, I could barely get out of bed this morning.” You cross your arms over your chest, feeling a little self-conscious at the admission. 

Sam glances over at you. He’s leaning back in his seat, his grip on the wheel relaxed as he navigates the tight city streets and weekend traffic.

“What are friends for?” he asks. “I wouldn’t make you face this on your own. He was a jerk to end things when he did, but then to invite you to his wedding less than a year later?” Sam scoffs. 

“He’s not a bad guy.”

The excuse falls flat, and you both know it.

“Thank you,” you say again. “I mean it.”

“Anytime.”

The rest of the drive is silent. At the third light, Sam puts on the tie, straightening it in the rearview mirror. You people watch out the window, occasionally pointing out interesting things to him, but for the most part, you try not to overthink.

It’s just a wedding, you tell yourself. People go to their ex’s weddings all the time. It’s perfectly normal.

Sam parks down the street from the church. He has to parallel park. You start to tell him it’s okay if you walk from the lot they’d mentioned on the invitation—the one that’s almost a mile away—but he’s backing into the spot with little hesitation before you can even get a word out. You have to admit, you’re impressed. After all these years, you wonder how you’ve never seen him parallel park, and you wonder further how he manages to be so effortlessly good at it.

After pulling the keys from the ignition, he climbs out of the driver’s seat without a word, then walks around the front of the car to open your door for you.

“What is this? Special treatment?” you tease as you climb out, and he laughs.

“For a special occasion.” He offers you his arm, which you take, and you walk together to the entrance. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah. I think so. I will be, at least, now that you’re here.”

He smiles a little and opens the door for you. You take one of the wedding programs, ignoring the whispers coming from a group of your Trevor’s extended family. You’d met them last year at a family reunion. Being the girlfriend of four years, you’d been included in the festivities. If you’d known that only a month later you’d be single again, you wouldn’t have gone.

Sam leads you into the church sanctuary and you sit in the second to last pew. The stained glass is beautiful in the afternoon light and while a string quartet at the front plays through Pachelbel’s greatest hits, you read through the program. 

“You didn’t tell me that she was his cousin,” Sam hisses in your ear.

You flinch and turn to look at him with wide eyes. “Keep it down!”

He’s staring at you with barely contained horror, and you grab his wrist. The jacket crumples under your grip and you pull him down, hunching over in the pew so you can whisper.

“I only just found out this morning, from Instagram,” you tell him, glancing around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “I think they’re like… third cousins. Once removed, or something like that. I googled it—technically in Kansas, it’s legal.”

Sam’s face screws up in disgust and he sits up as an usher guides in an older woman entirely clad in Pepto-Bismol pink. You try not to stare, instead forcing yourself to look back at the program.

You’re reading the back when the organ blasts out a chord so loud that you jump. Sam steadies you with a hand on your thigh, and you glance at him once before your attention is caught by Trevor’s grandparents walking down the aisle together. Another older couple follows them in time to the music. 

Sinking down in your seat, you have the sudden urge to run out one of the side doors of the church sanctuary. It’s only Sam’s hand on your leg that’s keeping you in place. You consider it again, however, when Trevor’s mom—the same woman who’d persistently brought up your lack of an engagement ring at the reunion—looks over and makes eye contact with you before she begins her walk to the front of the room. A few beats later, Trevor appears. He glances over at you, but his expression betrays nothing. You try not to feel disappointed, but your stomach still sinks and you bounce your leg in place. Your mind is already trying to pull you into another spiral as he takes his place near the altar.

What did I expect? For him to stop the wedding and tell me that he was wrong? That he shouldn’t have broken things off and that I should be marrying him today?

Sam’s hand finds yours. He laces your fingers together and you take a shaky breath, squeezing back when he squeezes once. His hand is warm. It’s a stark contrast to your own fingers, which have been freezing ever since your anxiety about coming to the wedding flared this morning.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, leaning closer so that only you can hear him. “I’ve got you.”

You nod and take another breath. You force your shoulders to relax and your leg to be still as the first bridesmaid and groomsmen enter the sanctuary. As the second pair enters, Sam’s thumb slowly rubs back and forth over yours, not quite in time with the march being played on the organ. You stare down at where your joined hands are resting on the faded blue cushion between you.

You’ve held hands plenty of times before. When you were kids, you held hands for games at recess and when you played after school. As you grew older, you held hands when you needed to navigate crowds together at baseball games and concerts. Sam would hold your hand at the airport too, making it easier to get to your gate for your trips home during college. A few times, he’d held your hand on the way to class or to your dorm, but that had been short-lived. You’d never asked why he’d started, and you never asked why he stopped. Now, it feels weird to hold his hand solely for comfort, but not in a bad way. You wonder why you’ve never done it before.

Sam stands and you quickly follow his lead, realizing that you’d zoned out. The bride enters in a dress that looks like it came straight off the runway. It suits her well, but you can’t help but wonder if your Trevor’s mom would have pushed you to choose a similar dress. Every single aspect of the wedding that you’ve seen so far is exactly how she’d described your potential wedding while at the reunion.

You sit when everyone else does, and you zone out again during the ceremony. It isn’t very long. By the time your thoughts have looped back around to, “I can’t believe he’s marrying his cousin,” the newlywed couple is walking back down the aisle. You’re certain that you imagine the triumphant look the bride sends you as she passes your pew.

“Bag,” Sam says. You blink and then he’s reaching over you to grab your purse from the seat. “You ready to go to the reception? Or did you want to use the bathroom first?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, but he raises an eyebrow at you. “What?”

“You’re anxious. You’ve been anxious all day. You always have to pee more when you’re anxious.”

It’s true, you do. If you’d actually stopped to think for a second before replying, you would’ve realized that you do, in fact, have to pee.

“Fine,” you relent, albeit reluctantly. You take your purse when he holds it out for you. “I’ll meet you out front?”

“I’ll wait for you at the doors.” Sam leads you out of the pew, then steps aside so you can exit the sanctuary first.

A handwritten sign attached to a gold stand points you in the direction of the bathrooms. You join the line, and after only a few minutes, you’re finished and washing up at the sinks. You pause to check your makeup, and it’s while you’re brushing away a stray eyelash that Trevor’s sister comes up beside you.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Her words drip with venom and disgust and you freeze for a moment before your self-preservation skills kick in.

“Fixing my makeup,” you coolly answer. You look back at your reflection and rub your thumb along the corner of your lip to make sure your lipstick hasn’t smudged.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she pushes. “Nobody wants you here.”

You smile at her, keeping it sweet. As much as you want to get the day over with, you can’t stand the idea of her talking down to you. Her brother had broken up with you, not vice versa.

“Trevor invited me, so clearly, somebody does.”

Her face turns an unnatural shade of red. “You’re lying.”

You’re not, but you don’t care enough to argue with her. “It was nice to see you again,” you say, and then you turn and leave the bathroom before she can reply. 

Sam is waiting for you by the doors, just like he’d promised. He takes your purse once you’re within arm’s reach, and with his free hand, he holds open the door.

“Very chivalrous,” you point out, and he laughs.

“My mom would have my head if she found out I wasn’t on my best behavior at a wedding.”

You laugh and take his hand as you walk, almost without even thinking about it. Almost. If you were being honest, you had to psych yourself up in the bathroom stall. Now that the idea of holding his hand for something other than practicality has crossed your mind, you can’t stop thinking about it.

“That she would. Mary Winchester doesn’t play around when it comes to manners.”

“No she doesn’t,” Sam laughs.

The car unlocks with a beep, and he opens the door for you. You’re a little surprised at how natural it seems for him. Not once has he faltered, nor has he seemed awkward about opening doors for you, holding your hand, and even holding your purse.

Why should it be awkward? He’s done plenty of other things for me, you think. You buckle your seatbelt, thinking of all the times Sam carried your books for you in high school and college, or your backpack when it got heavy. He’s brought you food and coffee too many times to count, and he’s carried groceries up the stairs to your apartment so you didn’t have to. When you were in a car accident last year, he dropped everything to come pick you up and deal with the tow truck and your insurance, then the mechanic, and then the rental car company.

The realization isn’t a sudden one, or a life-changing one. It feels like fitting the last piece into a puzzle and finally seeing the big picture. It feels like settling into bed at night and realizing that you’ve found the best, most comfortable position. It’s natural.

“Sam?” you ask, turning in your seat to look at him as he maneuvers the car out of the parallel spot and back onto the road. He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look at you.

“Are you being extra nice to me today because you know I’ve been anxious all day?”

“No.”

“Is it because we’re going to my ex’s wedding?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you being so nice to me? Why have you always been so nice to me?”

You can see a flush of pink climbing up his neck, but Sam laughs off your questions.

“What are you talking about? You’re my best friend, of course I’m nice to you.”

The light turns red and Sam stops behind a semi. He doesn’t look at you, though, so you chance it and reach over to grab his hand. You pull his fingers from the gear shift and lace them together with yours.

“Sam.”

This time, he meets your eyes, smiling. You know the smile, though, and it’s not his most genuine. He’s not telling you the whole truth.

“What, Y/N?”

“We’re friends. Best friends.”

“Yeah…”

“We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

He glances at the light. “Right.”

“So you’ll always tell me the truth? Even if it’s hard or awkward?”

He chuckles nervously, shifting his gaze between you and the stopped traffic. “Where are you going with this?”

“Do you like me?”

His ears are pink. So is his neck. “I don’t typically call people I don’t like my best friend, Y/N. What are you getting at?”

“You’re the lawyer, you tell me,” you say. You search his face, unsure if he’s purposefully avoiding the question or if he genuinely doesn’t understand. When his smile falters, you get your answer. “Sam…”

The semi starts to move and Sam looks forward again, slowly inching the car toward the intersection and then speeding up as traffic begins moving faster. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though. He settles them on the center console. His arm rests on his arm rest and thankfully, so does yours, but the angle is still a little uncomfortable. Neither of you is used to this.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” says Sam, after a few moments. He doesn’t look at you while he drives. His voice is quieter, almost like he’s confessing something. You don’t reply, giving him space to think and speak.

“You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that by pushing you into something more, especially if you’re not ready for it. Trevor… Trevor was a jerk, and after he broke up with you, I realized that I never want to put you in the same position he did. I never want you to feel like that again. I never want to make you feel like that ever again.”

“You won’t,” you assure him. You rub your thumb over his, just like he had during the ceremony. “You won’t, Sam.”

“How do you know that?” he asks.

“I just do. I trust you.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. He lets go of your hand before turning into the parking lot of the reception hall and parking the car in the third row from the door, up against the edge of the lot. A couple in the car beside yours climbs out. They’re arguing loud enough that you can hear them through the windows until they’re closer to the row of cars behind you.

“Sam…”

“We should go in, we don’t want to be late.”

Smiling wide, you take his hand again. “I love you. I think I have for a long time, even before Trevor broke up with me.”

He turns his head and you laugh a little, unable to control the giddiness that the revelation has brought you. Sam looks utterly bewildered, but the slow smile growing on his face makes you want to jump and dance and shout for joy.

“I love you, Sam. Did you hear me?” You squeeze his hand.

“I heard you,” he replies. “I’m just… processing. Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m positive. I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life. You’re my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without you. I want… I want more.”

“More?”

“Than just friends.”

He smiles then, and with his free hand, he unbuckles his seatbelt. You unbuckles yours, turning further in the passenger seat. Before you can say anything else, Sam’s hand is cupping your face. He pulls his other hand from yours to brush hair out of your eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod, staring at him. You’re still bursting with joy—the butterflies are swooping around in your stomach, flying in loops so wide that you’re not quite certain you’ll ever breathe right again—but the stillness of the moment makes you hold your breath.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” murmurs Sam, “if that’s okay with you.”

You nod again, and then you close your eyes when Sam’s lips press against yours. They’re warm and slightly chapped, but you want to memorize this moment. For a second, you’re still, but then you inhale through your nose and kiss him back, one hand clutching his sleeve and the other propping yourself up on the center console. The armrest digs into your abdomen but you don’t care, as long as Sam keeps kissing you.

His breath is hot against your mouth when he pulls away. You have the distinct thought that he’s going to have to clean lipstick off his face when you’re done, and then he’s kissing you again. 

It’s short and sweet the second time. When you separate, you let your hand drop from his arm.

“Sam…”

“I’m going to get carried away if we don’t stop,” he tells you, searching your face.

You nod, a little dumbstruck. Sam’s only had a few girlfriends, and none in recent years.

“You haven’t dated since college,” you say. He nods in response, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the strange statement. “How’d you get that good at kissing?”

For a moment, Sam stares at you, but then he smiles wide. His eyes light up and he laughs, snorting once before you join in.

“That’s not what I thought you’d say!”

You laugh and bring your hand up to rub at the lipstick bordering his chapped lips with your thumb. You don’t get any off. In fact, you only succeed in making it worse. Sam looks like he just spent a week in the Yukon without chapstick. His mouth is swollen and pink all around, and you can only imagine that you look even worse.

“Let’s go home,” you say, smiling wide.

“You sure? We could go in, grab some cake before we ditch.”

“I’m sure. The last thing I want to do right now is see my ex kiss his cousin again.”

The car is still running. Sam reaches across you and in one smooth motion, grabs your seatbelt and buckles you in. You sit back against the seat and watch him, grinning as he buckles his one seatbelt once more, glances in the rearview mirror, and reverses the car out of the spot. When you’re back on the road, Sam heads the direction of your apartment with ease. He’s a good navigator—he got the lay of the land pretty quickly after the two of you moved to Wichita after college—and even though it’s been years, you truly have no idea how to get back through the city to your place from the reception hall. He seems to know already, though, so you sit back and enjoy the ride.

Sam grabs your hand to hold, just like he had before. You people watch again, too. Every once in a while, you glance over at him. He’s smiling while he drives. Knowing that you’re the one who made him this happy makes you feel giddy and light inside.

“Should we stop and get cake on the way home?” Sam suddenly asks, and you start laughing all over again.

Your cheeks ache from smiling. “I knew there was a reason I liked you!” 

He holds your hand at the store, too. You can’t help but enjoy it.

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