ThatOneWriter15

The former soldier has been coming into the clinic for a few months now for sleep therapy sessions – always with a grin and always with a flirtatious glimmer in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve never taken his flirting seriously and always giggled off his advances with heat in your cheeks. But the past few weeks, he’s upped his ante and started bringing you experimental takeout food, asking you out more directly. You’ve always said no, though. And not even that – you usually don’t even take him seriously when he says stuff like that at all. 

Why? 

Because a guy as handsome and charming as Russell surely couldn’t be interested in someone as simple as you. You’re just a nurse who’s used to eating vending machine trail mix for dinner, drinking awful hospital coffee, and smelling like antiseptic. It’s not exactly what most people would call sexy or desirable.  

Tonight, it’s four minutes past eleven o’clock, which means Russell is fashionably late again. Probably because he stopped somewhere to bribe you with more food he either got from a gas station, a questionable food truck, or an obscure friend’s kitchen. 

Last week, it was candied jalapeños and a thermos of coffee so strong it could power a freight train. The week before, he brought a peach hand pie from a Mennonite market and something called ‘midnight curry burritos.’

Tonight? You’re bracing yourself.

“Evenin’, Nightingale,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a plate in hand, a smile on his face, and a soft glint in his eyes that never quite leaves.

“Russell,” you sigh – one part exasperation, two parts affection. “You’re late.”

“I was delayed by destiny.” He lifts the plate with a wink that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t sitting. “Beignets. Still warm.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bribing me with fried dough and powdered sugar?”

He grins broadly. “Tell me it doesn’t help.”

Damn it. It does. You hate how it does.

Still, you give him a flat look, trying not to show the little flicker in your chest that always sparks the moment he walks in.

He saunters closer and sets the plate on the counter in front of you. “I’m just tryin’ to spoil you a little.”

“Russell.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

He pretends to look wounded, which makes you want to roll your eyes. “I don’t flirt – I court.”

“You’ve asked me out eight times,” you point out and lead him straight to the examination room. 

“Nine,” he corrects with a smirk as he follows and closes the door behind him. It’s routine by now. “I asked you out on that sticky note I left in the breakroom, too. Remember that one?”

“Right,” you snort, shaking your head. "You drew a stick figure of yourself holding a flower.”

“With a heart. Don’t forget the heart.”

You roll your eyes for real this time, picking up the clipboard to start his check-in. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for harassment.”

“You’re lucky I don’t report you for theft,” he counters.

Your brows quirk. “I’m sorry – what?”

“You’ve been stealing my breath since day one,” he replies cleverly. Then his irresistible smile kicks in again, which is way too charming for his own good.

You let out a long, deep sigh. 

“I know that one was bad,” he quips. “But I promise I’ve got better material. Just say yes to dinner and you’ll hear it all.”

You turn away before he can see the color rising in your cheeks. “Shirt off.”

“Now we’re talking,” he mutters with a grin, tugging the black fabric up and over his head.

And just like that, you’re confronted with the ridiculous reality that Russell Shaw is unfairly built. Broad chest, warm golden skin dusted with freckles, scars like constellations across the canvas that is him. You try not to stare and ogle him like he’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, but you’ve got a stethoscope in your hand and barely any willpower left.

You place the bell against his sternum and inhale. 

Professional. Stay professional.

Truly, that’s been your mantra for months now. Surely, a guy like him only flirts because he can. It’s like second nature to him. But the beat beneath your fingertips is already quick.

lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub

His heart gallops like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. And God help you – it’s a fucking beautiful sound. It’s raw and real, like something primal is trying to claw out of his chest.

“You always listen longer than you need to,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than before.

You freeze imperceptibly for a half a second. Shit. Did he really notice that? 

“I’ve noticed,” he adds casually, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. 

“I–I’m just checking for arrhythmia–”

“No, you’re not.”

Well, damn. Now your own heart is beating like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. Then, he lifts his large hand and gently curls his fingers over your wrist.

And fuck, before you can process it, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

A kiss. Slow and damn deliberate. It’s not demanding. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that cradles you in softness, somehow still crumbles walls, and rearranges fucking stars into new constellations unknown yet to mankind.

Your heart jumps in your chest so hard the stethoscope nearly flies out of your hand.

He pulls back just enough to smile a little, watching your face closely as he guides your hand back to his chest – right over his pounding heart.

thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP

“See what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.

And it hits you – he’s not flirting anymore. He’s showing you. This isn’t a game to him. His heart tells the truth.

You close your eyes, your breath stuttering.

Then his fingers slip around the stethoscope, guiding it from his chest to yours. He slips the earpieces into his own and leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Now let me hear you.”

And he does. He listens – carefully and reverently.

And God, your heart is racing wildly and unapologetically, thundering against your ribs like it’s begging to be finally felt.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s the sound I want. God, listen to you. That all for me?”

You whimper – literally. Man, you’re going to die of embarrassment.

But before you can squirm away into the deepest, darkest hole in the floor, he leans in again, kissing down your neck now, murmuring between kisses, “You sit here every night listening to me. You think I wouldn’t notice how you breathe differently? How your cheeks get hot? Your hands always linger right here.” He presses his palm flat to your chest, right over the cool bell. “Like you never want to stop.”

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively before his eyes drop, gaze darkening.

Then, in a smooth, almost graceful motion, he lifts you, spins you, and sets you down on the edge of the exam table. You gasp, your scrubs shifting slightly, body adjusting to the new angle.

He kneels between your thighs, right on the linoleum, forest green eyes solely locked on you like you’re the only damn thing that matters in this world. “Still think I’m not serious?”

You open your mouth, but no fucking sound comes out.

Because his hands? His hands are already on your hips, slow and steady, drawing your scrubs and underwear down with one fluid movement. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And every inch of skin he reveals is worshipped.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You can barely breathe as his lips brush your knee, then the inside of your thigh. He’s still listening to your heartbeats like music in his ears. 

Kiss. 

Thump.

Another kiss. Higher. Slower. Warmer.

Thump-THUMP.

“Heart’s racing,” he says, grinning like the devil. “You like me down here, huh?”

You choke on a laugh that melts into a moan as his mouth finally meets the ache between your thighs. He starts slow, agonizingly so, tongue gentle and reverent all at once, each stroke on your clit a new promise.

Honestly, you might be experiencing a heart attack at this point. Luckily, you’re already in a hospital. 

Then he speaks again, breath hot against your core. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he murmurs wickedly, two fingers sliding inside your wet pussy without resistance while he still listens. “I’m gonna make you come to the sound of your own heartbeat. I want you to listen to yourself. To what I’m doing to you.”

And just like that, he swaps the stethoscope again, fits the earpieces back into your ears, and places the bell over your chest.

Your heartbeat explodes. It’s fucking deafening.

thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP

Every lick. Every breath. Every teasing pass of his tongue or flick of his fingers – your body, your heart responds like a symphony composed just for him.

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble like Mount Vesuvius before it took down Pompeii. 

“Let go for me,” he says, deep voice velvet-thick. “Let me feel it.”

And Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t need to be told twice. When you come and fall apart, it’s with his name on your lips and your own heart roaring in your ears like a drum of holy thunder.

THUMP–THUMP–THUMP–

He licks you clean, takes every drop of you like it’s the best thing he ever tasted – damn the experimental food he’s brought you for weeks on end. 

Afterward, he eases you down gently, kissing his way up your shaking body slowly and goddamn thoroughly. He presses his lips to your collarbone, your throat, your cheek, and then finally to your mouth again.

This time, you kiss him back like you damn well mean it – because you fucking do. God, you do. Word by word. Nerve by nerve. 

“You gonna say yes to dinner this time?” he quips, grinning against your lips.

You exhale a breathless laugh. “I think I’d be an idiot not to.”

And Russell? He grins widely, proudly, and smugly in the way only he can.

“Told you. You gotta listen to your heart,” he says with a wink. And because he’s the worst, he adds, “Next time, we’re doing this at my place. With two stethoscopes.”

And your heart skips another beat. 

Thump.

Hope you guys enjoyed this heartfelt little one-shot 😉

We're returning to our regular witchy programming next Friday with another interlude of Glitch 🔮 to see what our boys have been up to! Here's a reminder of the schedule for the next few weeks:

Interlude II: Call Me, Beep Me – July 31

Chapter 7: Loose Lips Sink Ships – August 7

Chapter 8: Lost in the Memory – August 21

Chapter 9: Salt Air – September 4

Chapter 10: Wanting Was Enough – September 18

Main Masterlist

RS Masterlist

Tag List

Patreon

RS Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @samslvrgirl

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn

@spnaquakindgdom @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2

Russell Shaw

Russell felt the moment your head settled against his shoulder.

The two of you sat on the ratty motel couch, hours deep into surveillance footage for the latest case. You hadn't been sleeping well, and eventually exhaustion won.

Russell went still.

"You're supposed to warn a guy before you do that," he muttered under his breath.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair before forcing his attention back to the laptop.

The footage continued to play, faces and number plates blurring together, but he couldn't have told anyone what he was looking at.

All he could think about was the weight of your head resting against him. His heartbeat was louder than the audio coming from the laptop.

Carefully—slow enough that he wouldn't wake you—he shifted just enough to make sure your neck wasn't at an awkward angle.

Once he was satisfied you were comfortable, he settled again.

He didn't move after that.

Dean Winchester

Dean thought you'd done it on purpose when your head landed against his arm. For half a second, he figured you were messing with him.

Then he leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were closed. Your lips were slightly parted. Your breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of someone completely asleep.

He blinked. "Wait..." he whispered. "She's actually asleep?"

His eyes darted around the room as if he expected hidden cameras to appear. This had to be some kind of joke.

Except it wasn't.

You'd simply...fallen asleep on him. Dean glanced back at you, suddenly afraid that even breathing too hard might wake you.

It was strange.

People relied on him. Needed him. Counted on him to save the day.

But trusting him enough to fall asleep against him? That was different. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He didn't even think about shifting you off. He'd stay there as long as it took.

If it meant you got a little more sleep, the numb arm was worth it.

Beau Arlen

You hadn't had the heart to cancel movie night with Beau. Even though you were exhausted.

It had become a weekly tradition—curling up on the deck of the Airstream with snacks, Western movies, and whatever commentary Beau had to offer.

You'd promised yourself you'd stay awake. You didn't.

Beau noticed the moment your head found his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to apologize or shift away. Instead, he found you fast asleep.

He didn't mind. Not one bit.

Carefully, he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the loveseat and unfolded it with one hand.

The moment he settled it over you, you instinctively snuggled deeper into the warmth, letting out a quiet, contented sigh. Beau's smile only grew.

He turned the volume down until the movie became little more than background noise.

He spent the rest of it stealing the occasional glance at you instead.

Somehow, this had turned into the best part of movie night.

Soldier Boy

Of course you'd fallen asleep. And of course you'd picked him as a pillow.

He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening.

Seriously? Now he was stuck here. He couldn't move without waking you, and apparently waking you wasn't an option.

Wait. Since when?

This wasn't him.

He didn't do... whatever the hell this was. He glanced down. Your face was completely relaxed, your breathing slow and steady as you slept against his shoulder. He let out a quiet sigh through his nose. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

It would've been so easy to nudge you awake. Tell you to move. Complain that your head was getting heavy. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

Then the front door to the loft swung open.

Hughie and Billy wandered in, still arguing about Homelander.

"Hey!" Soldier Boy hissed far louder than he intended. Both men stopped. He pointed toward you with a glare. "Shut the fuck up. She's sleeping."

Hughie's eyes widened. He awkwardly grabbed the shopping bags and hurried into the kitchen without another word.

Billy lingered behind the sofa, one eyebrow slowly climbing as a knowing grin spread across his face.

"Don't." Billy's grin widened. "I said don't say a fuckin' word." Billy chuckled under his breath and walked away. Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. "Asshole."

Mark Meachum

He knew it was going to happen. He'd known since the start of the day.

He noticed the dark circles beneath your eyes. He noticed how often you rubbed at them when you thought no one was looking. He noticed the slight slump in your shoulders every time you walked to refill your coffee.

He noticed. It was his job to notice. That's what he told himself, anyway.

So, when he asked you to help sort through a mountain of case files, it wasn't because he couldn't manage them alone. It was because sitting on the couch for a few hours sounded a lot kinder than sending you back out into the field.

For a while, you managed. You highlighted reports, made notes, and quietly compared witness statements with him. Then he noticed your grip on the folder begin to loosen. Your blinking slowed. Your breathing became softer.

He looked up just as your head started to tip.

Without a word, he shifted closer. Not enough for you to notice. Just enough that, instead of your head falling awkwardly to the side, it came to rest against his shoulder.

Right where he'd intended.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "There you go," he murmured. Carefully, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face before returning his attention to the file in his lap.

Boaz Priestly

Priestly had brought over the world's worst horror movie for your usual Friday night after work.

Neither of you were really watching it. You'd demolished a couple of foot-longs, argued over which monster was the least convincing, and settled into opposite ends of the couch. Or at least, you had.

By the halfway point, exhaustion was catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavier. Your replies to his commentary became slower. You fought to stay awake. You lost.

The moment your head landed on his shoulder, Priestly completely melted. His heart practically stopped. For one glorious second, he thought you'd done it on purpose. Then he glanced down. Your eyes were closed. "...Oh." The biggest grin spread across his face.

He couldn't stop smiling if he tried. Unable to help himself, he rested his head lightly against yours for just a second.

This was nice.

Then another thought struck him. The movie. It was way too loud. He should turn it down.

Carefully—very carefully—he leaned forward without moving his shoulder.

The remote sat on the coffee table. Just... A little... Farther.

His fingertips brushed the edge of it. "Come on..." One more inch. Without thinking, he leaned just a fraction too far. His shoulder disappeared from beneath your head. With a soft whump, you slid sideways into the gap between him and the couch.

Your eyes flew open. "...What happened?"

Priestly froze, remote finally in his hand. "...I was trying to be romantic."

You blinked at him. "You pushed me off the couch."

"I know." He sighed dramatically, dropping his head into his free hand.

"I am spectacularly bad at this." Despite yourself, you laughed. Priestly looked up hopefully. "So... points for effort?"

Headcanon Tag List:

@hayah84 @jaes-last-words @nuoctis @globetrotter28 @ze1nab @themidnightwitch44 @kaivxdenny @StoneyGGirl2 @Spam-love @nancymcl @agentorange9595 @jensensswthrt @ladykitana90 @madelinessss @irrationalmischief @bowahdean @alexxavicry @cranberrysauce666 @coventina2001 @Ralida @anniewinchesterr @thewinchesterwench @ohtobeahobbitgal @biancalinkas @chevroletdean @kelseaackles @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @Ladysparkles78 @goldencelstialskies @itzpixiebabe @fatimadao28 @fatimadao28 @TheyCallMeMaybe @Palerogue1 @whimsylOs3r @evangeline-catawanee @nu1freakshow @star-yawnznn @americanvenom13 @Kay8907 @ablondehoe @butterphii @Dragonfly92 @punkackles @The-Fandoms-Georgie @impala67bitch @k-d--h

Also please comment or fill out the Tag List Form to be tagged with each new post. 🩵

Feel free to Ask Me Anything or Request

you give him space at first. you hate giving him space. space, with dean, is a dangerous thing. space turns into walls. walls turn into locked doors. locked doors turn into dean making decisions alone because he convinces himself that pain counts as protection.

but you try anyway.

sam disappears somewhere down the hall, probably to read until his eyes burn or call eileen with that terrible softness he tries not to show too much around dean. the bunker settles into its late-night hum, pipes ticking behind concrete, old lamps throwing tired yellow light over books and weapons and half-empty cups of coffee.

you stand in the doorway for a long time before dean speaks.

“you should go to bed.” his voice is low. flat.

you fold your arms. “is that what you’re doing?”

he does not look at you. “eventually.”

“dean.”

his jaw tightens. the warning sign. the little shift in his face that means your voice got too close to something sore. you step into the room anyway.

“don’t do that” he says.

you stop beside the table. “do what?”

“do the thing.”

“the thing where i care about you?”

he laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. only something bitter and worn thin. “yeah. that.”

your chest goes cold. “look at me.”

he doesn’t. you wait. you’re good at waiting when you need to be, even when every part of you wants to reach across the table and drag his face up with both hands.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, dean looks at you. he looks awful. something underneath him has come loose. there’s a crack in his expression you don’t know how to patch, and the worst part’s that he looks embarrassed by it. ashamed to be this shaken. ashamed to need anything after finding out need itself might have been written into him by a cruel little man with a god complex and a writer’s room in his head.

“what’s going on?” you ask, softer now.

dean looks away again. “nothing.”

“don’t insult me.”

his mouth hardens. “i’m not.”

“you are. you think i don’t know when you’re spiraling?”

that gets him, but not enough to make him talk. enough to make his fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.

you sit across from him. “say it.”

he shakes his head.

“dean.”

“what do you want me to say?” he snaps, sudden and sharp, and the sound of it cracks through the library. “that i’m having a bad night? that finding out every screwed-up thing in my life was some sick bastard’s entertainment doesn’t exactly make me feel great?”

“yes,” you say. “start there.”

he stares at you, breathing a little harder. “fine. i feel great. fantastic. i love knowing my mom burning on the ceiling was a plot point. love knowing sam’s pain was a season arc. love knowing every choice i fought for, every person i lost, every time i thought i was doing something right, chuck was sitting there getting off on it.”

his voice breaks on the last few words.

dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “and now i keep thinking about you.”

something inside you tightens. “what about me?”

“all of it.” he gives you a look then. wrecked. angry at himself before he even answers. “you showing up when you did. staying when anybody with half a brain would’ve run. loving me.” the word comes out rough, almost resentful. “how am i supposed to know that was real?”

the room seems to tilt. you hear the heater click somewhere in the walls. hear the tiny shift of paper under your elbow. hear your own breath come in too slowly, because if you breathe the way you want to, you’ll start shouting before he finishes digging the grave he apparently plans to throw both of you into.

dean’s eyes drop to the table. “maybe chuck wrote that too,” he says. “maybe he needed me happy for a minute so it’d hurt worse later. maybe he wrote you into this because it made better television. maybe you and me were just—”

“don’t you fucking dare—” the word leaves you quiet.

dean stops.

you stand so abruptly the chair legs scrape against the floor. “do not finish that sentence.”

his face tightens. “i’m just saying—”

“i know what you’re saying.” your hands curl at your sides, shaking now from the effort of not throwing something. “you’re saying he gets to have that too.”

dean blinks.

“you’re saying he gets your childhood. your mother. sam. every awful thing you survived. fine. he took enough. he wrote enough. he poisoned enough.” your voice rises despite the way you try to hold it steady. “but now you’re sitting here trying to hand him me.”

“how dare you,” you say, and it comes out less polished than you meant. too honest. almost ugly with hurt. “seriously, dean, how dare you look me in the face and tell me loving you might be something he made me do.”

his jaw works, but no words come out.

“i chose you when you were unbearable,” you say, stepping around the table because distance suddenly feels insulting. “i chose you when you shut me out. i chose you after hunts where you came back mean because you were scared and didn’t know how to say it. i chose you in motel rooms with bad water pressure and diner booths at three in the morning and in that stupid car when you sang too loud on purpose because you knew i had a headache.”

his eyes flicker.

you keep going, because if you stop now, you might cry, and you’re too angry to cry first.

“i chose you when it was inconvenient. when it hurt. when i had every reason to walk away and could have. don’t you dare make that small. don’t you dare make me into some line in a script because you’re scared there’s no other reason i’d stay.”

that lands. you see it hit him, see the flinch he tries to bury under his usual hard stare. except there’s nothing usual about him right now. he looks younger, almost. not softer, exactly. exposed. standing there in the wreckage of a thought he probably carried alone for hours before you ever came into the room.

“i don’t know how to trust anything,” he says finally.

the anger in you stumbles.

dean’s voice is quieter now, scraped raw at the edges. “i look at you, and i want to believe it’s mine. that this is ours. but then i think about him watching, moving pieces around, putting people in the right place so i’d break the right way, and i can’t—” he stops, swallowing hard. “i can’t tell where his story ends and my life starts.”

your throat tightens. you move closer, slowly this time, until you’re standing in front of him. dean doesn’t reach for you. his hands stay braced on the table, like touching you without certainty would be another kind of sin.

“i can’t prove it,” you hate the truth of that. hate it. there’s no neat answer, no holy stamp you can press onto your heart to make it undeniable. chuck has ruined that, too. certainty. memory. trust in the shape of your own choices.

his eyes lift to yours.

“i can’t prove he didn’t shove us into the same room the first time,” you say. “i can’t prove he didn’t make the road bend or the hunt go bad or whatever else he does when he wants to feel clever. but he didn’t make me sit with you afterward. he didn’t make me learn how you take your coffee. he didn’t make me stay up when you couldn’t sleep, or get pissed when you threw yourself in front of something dangerous again, or love that stupid face you make when you’re trying not to smile.”

dean’s mouth trembles faintly.

“he didn’t make me angry at you right now,” you add, voice breaking a little. “that’s all mine.”

dean looks down.

“and i am angry,” you say, quieter. “because i love you. because you’re scared and you decided the safest thing to do was doubt me before i could disappoint you.”

his eyes shut. the silence after that is heavier than anything either of you has said.

you reach for him, then stop before your fingers touch his sleeve. for once, you let him see the hesitation. let him see that this hurt you too. that love isn’t endless softness, not with him, not with anyone. sometimes love is standing in a cold library at night, furious and scared, trying to pull the truth out from under god’s dirty fingerprints.

“i’m not asking you to be okay,” you say. “i’m not even asking you to believe me all at once. but don’t punish me for what he did.”

dean’s face crumples so briefly you almost miss it. then his hand catches yours. fast. desperate. rougher than he probably means. he holds onto your fingers without looking up, thumb pressed hard against your knuckles as if he needs the bones of you to argue with the thoughts in his head. “i’m sorry.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “i know…”

he nods once, still staring at your joined hands. “i didn’t mean—”

“i know.”

and you do. that’s the awful part. you know him well enough to understand the wound and still be hurt by where he pointed it.

dean’s grip loosens, giving you the chance to pull away. instead, you step closer until your knees bump his, until he has to tilt his head to look at you. his eyes are red but dry, jaw tight with the kind of restraint that’s ruined him more than once. you lift your free hand and touch his face, careful at first, two fingers against the rough edge of his cheek.

he leans into it.

“you’re not a puppet to me,” you whisper. “you’re not a character. you’re not some doomed thing i was assigned to love.”

dean’s breath shakes.

“you’re my dean,” you say, and it sounds too simple for what you mean. too small for the size of him in your chest. “and i’m here because i want to be.”

his hand rises to your waist then, hesitant, almost asking. the first touch is careful. then firmer. he draws you in by inches, giving you time to refuse even now, even after everything. when your body meets his, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and something in him finally gives. just the slow, heavy exhale of a man who’s been holding himself together with both hands and is too tired to keep pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the broken parts.

you thread your fingers through his hair.

dean’s voice comes muffled against your shirt. “i don’t want him to have this.”

“then don’t give it to him.”

his arms tighten around you. for a while, neither of you moves. the bunker keeps humming. somewhere far away, the world remains terrible and watched and written over in ways you don’t know how to undo. but dean’s warm against you, breathing unevenly into the fabric at your shoulder, and his hand is splayed over your back as if he’s trying to memorize something chuck can’t narrate properly.

he also smells something really good. familiar, but he can’t piece together who or what smells like that—making his brain all fuzzy that had nothing to do with his raging headache he’s experiencing. he doesn’t necessarily want to get up, but something… doesn’t feel right, despite the cloud of inebriation hanging over him.

first, this isn’t his bed, he realizes after a few moments, because if it was, he’d be getting a much different whiff of these sheets. instead of smelling like his deodorant and faintly of beer, the sheets smell like…

you.

he freezes, when the thoughts set in. he’s in your bed. on your sheets. and his face is in one of your pillows.

jesus. dean’s head pounds again, as he adjusts his body slightly—and his arm catches on something that seems to not be a pillow or your blanket. despite his protesting head, he knows that it is in fact, again, you.

dean has an overwhelming urge to run. to leap out of your bed and never see the inside of your room again. he doesn’t know how he got you to stay here with you, let alone sleep in your bed next to you—because he wasn’t that convincing. not sober, at least.

he blinks his eyes—adjusting to the little light in your room. the bunker had no windows, so it didn’t take long. from what he can tell, you’re still asleep.

next to him.

in your bed.

this is not how he imagined things would go between you. he could make a break for it now, he thinks. just slip out and leave—but he knew that you hadn’t been drinking last night like he had, so you’d remembered everything dean said and did.

oh, god, what did he say?

he can’t remember. dean tries to recall anything he said last night after sammy had been telling him for the millionth time to tell you how he felt about you, but he can’t remember. the one time he absolutely needs to remember, he can’t.

your voice breaks dean out of his spiraling thoughts. you’re looking at him when he focuses back on you, and you don’t look upset. that’s a good sign. you don’t want to kill him. usually he says stupid things when he gets drunk—and whatever he said to you wasn’t stupid enough to get him kicked out.

“hey,” dean rasps—then clears his throat, tries again—but it sounds the same. you smile at that, and he pretends to be annoyed with his throat being shot to hell. he must have slept with his mouth wide open.

you sit up more, reaching over to your nightstand, facing dean with a water in your hands. the gesture’s small, yet dean almost melts into your bed again. instead, however, he sits up, too, chugging the water down.

“uh—” dean starts after he sets the now empty water down, “did, i, uh, y’know— how bad did i mess this up?”

you tilt your head at him, scanning his face. sleep is still lingering over your expression, your eyes low and voice raspier. you look beautiful. you sound beautiful. “you don’t remember anything?” dean pauses, then shakes his head.

oh. you don’t know how to tell him what he said. it might make him spontaneously combust if you tell him just what he said to you last night. but you know, deep down, that you can’t keep this a secret. hell, you’ve wanted to tell him since he passed out next to you hours prior.

“you, uh… kinda said you… had feelings for me.” you start, eyes on your blanket. “i mean, you didn’t say that verbatim, but… you were saying how i like, know what you’re thinking. and that your heart does a weird thing when you look at me. so. i just, uh… assumed that’s what you were saying, too.”

well, dean wants to crawl into a hole and die. more so than usual—because not only did he spill his guts, he didn’t even remember it. he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. he wants to take it all back. he rasps your name again, but you cut him off when you continue.

“you said you couldn’t stop thinking about me. and…” you take a deep breath. “i said, i couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. and i said i care about you, more than anyone. and that’s the truth. ‘cause i… do.”

and dean knows you’re not lying. because you’re nervous, he realizes when you’re not meeting his gaze, probably more nervous than he is. so dean takes your hand that’s fidgeting with the hem of your blanket, holds it in his own.

“y’know i… y’know i care about you, too, right?” dean asks, searching your face. you nod, meeting his gaze.

“yeah. i know.”

so dean takes that. he might not be able to say what and how he really, truly feels yet—but he knows you know.

and that’s enough for him, for now.

📨 thank you to @beakaleak32 for giving me ideas for a part 2! <3 reminder that august is coming up, so i will not be as active soon! read more here :)

You spent the morning barefoot along the beach, collecting shells you both pretended were pointless, arguing over whether the seagulls were secretly demonic.

“They’re too organized,” Dean had muttered, squinting at a flock.

You had looked at him, completely unimpressed.

“They’re birds, Dean.”

“Exactly. That’s their cover.”

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the smooth conch shell in your hand. Dean watched you the whole time, eyes warm, like your laughter was the only sound worth listening to in the whole damn universe.

By the afternoon, the sun was high and the water was perfect.

Dean was already waist-deep when you waded in, the sun high and the waves gentle against your skin.

“What?” you asked, catching him staring.

“Nothin’.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Just appreciating the view.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting your own grin. “Smooth, Winchester.”

“Wasn’t even trying.” He shrugged. “Alright, yeah… maybe a little.”

You moved closer until the water lapped at your waist. Dean reached for you without urgency, just need. His arms slid around you, strong and sure, pulling you in until your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms circled his neck. You tucked your face into the warm curve of his shoulder, breathing him in—salt, sunscreen, and that familiar scent that always meant safety.

He held you like that, one hand splayed across your back, the other rising to cradle the back of your head. His fingers moved slowly through your hair, gentle strokes that said everything words didn’t need to. The waves rocked you both in a slow, effortless drift.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against your temple.

You nodded, melting deeper into him. “Very.”

“Good.”

No teasing. No walls. Just Dean—solid, steady, letting the ocean carry you while he kept you anchored. Every so often he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head, almost absentminded, like he couldn’t help it. The sun warmed your skin. The water cradled you. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your cheek.

Sleep tugged at you, heavy and sweet.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” he whispered, amusement threading through his voice.

“Maybe.”

“In the ocean?” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“You’re holding me,” you mumbled.

That silenced him. Because you trusted him completely, and Dean knew exactly how rare and precious that was. His arms tightened just a fraction, protective even in perfect peace.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You believed him. Your eyes slipped shut, the world narrowing to the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of his skin, and the constant, soothing sweep of his hand in your hair.

When you were fully out, Dean moved with the same careful reverence he reserved for the few good things in his life. He carried you back to shore without jostling you, your body limp and trusting against him. On the warm sand under the shade of the trees, he spread the towel and lowered you down gently. You barely stirred, only curling closer to where he’d been.

Dean watched you for a long moment, something tender and almost disbelieving in his expression. “Yeah,” he whispered to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

He stretched out beside you, lacing his fingers with yours. For once, he didn’t scan the treeline. Didn’t brace for the next nightmare. He simply closed his eyes and let the breeze move over him, the ocean murmuring nearby.

No monsters today.

No missions.

No goodbyes waiting around the corner.

Just you, breathing soft and steady beside him.

Just the two of you, drifting together in a rare, golden pocket of peace.

And the quiet promise that, for as long as he could, he would always be there to hold you.

A/N: Thank you so freakin’ much for 1k! When I first started posting a year ago, I never imagined my stories would reach anyone, let alone 1k of you. Thank you for every like, comment, and reblog. Seeing you all loving my work warms my heart. 🥹

tonight, however, the monster you all hunted did the beatings for dean before he himself got the chance. there were bruises and cuts littering his entire face, and you knew that the marks would look worse tomorrow as you glanced at dean’s side profile again.

you were sitting in the passenger seat—sam calling the backseat to “lay down”, but you knew it was because he knew dean was a ticking time bomb. the impala was in a stifling silence the entire way back to the bunker, and you could feel the tension radiating off of dean. it broke your heart—because you knew how much he was beating himself up more than the thing you rid the world of tonight ever could.

you don’t lay eyes on dean until about 4 hours after you get back. of course, you tried to build up the courage to say something to him, to try and make him feel better when you originally first got back to the bunker—but chickened out before you ever could. as much as you hated to see dean like this, a part of you was expecting that he’d take his stress out on you.

he’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking broody, as he does on nights like this. you weren’t expecting him to be sitting there, but really, where else would he be when a hunt went like it did today? it was a late hour, despite you being awake. you hadn’t really slept, per se—it was more like your brain couldn’t shut off all the way. like your body couldn’t rest, not when dean was close by and suffering in silence.

dean doesn’t look at you when you walk in—because he knows what yours and sam’s strides sound like. he doesn’t greet you, either—in fact, he almost looks shameful about the fact that you’ve now seen him, despite him quirking a corner of his mouth at you in recognition. you almost chicken out again and leave when he looks back down again, but something stops you.

the bottle and glass in front of him aren’t in use. the bottle’s still sealed, and the glass is still clean. and dean’s just staring at the glass, eyes glazed over. like he’s not really there. you’d like to bring him back, just for a little while. just until the sun comes up, maybe. so instead of going for your midnight snack like you originally planned, you find yourself going over to dean.

you know he’s in deep, when it takes him a second to even recognize the fact you’re closer to him now. his hand lets go of the glass he was fidgeting with, instead looking up at you next to him. he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you—not yet, at least.

you take in his features, now that you’re up close—and at least he had the sense to patch and clean himself up a little before staring at a bottle of whiskey for an eternity. you place a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. just a little. you tilt your head, concerned—but don’t comment on it. you just leave your hand there, testing.

dean, finally, leans into your arm—just enough for you to know that he’s not hating this. your thumb brushes on his shoulder once before you step just a little closer. it seems the less space that remains between you and dean the more you can feel the tension inside him. he’s still looking at you, but he’s not all the way there.

your hand slides down his shoulder, over his arm, until it reaches his own hand. you take it in yours, tug at him gently. dean hesitates, no doubt weighing his options. and yet, he stands up, leaves the unopened whiskey on the table, and lets you lead the way.

you don’t take him to his own room, which shocks dean—but not enough to actually say something about it. he’s tired, he realizes—more tired than he has been in a while. and not all of it is something that can be fixed with a good night’s rest.

both of you stop at the foot of your bed, hands still intertwined. you looked at him again, stepping closer. dean felt his heart jump when you did—and not because he didn’t want you close. quite the opposite, really. he swallows hard when you start taking off his flannel for him.

“don’chya gotta buy me dinner first, or somethin’…?” dean inquires, but it’s barely above a murmur and half-assed. the question almost dies in his throat—and you don’t entertain his habitual attempt at lightening this moment.

“lay down,” you murmur as you nod to your bed, not answering—and if dean was a little less tired and a lot less starved for your attention than he was now, he’d never would laid down—but he was, so he laid face down on your bed, immediately met with the scent of you filling his lungs.

dean’s not sure what he was expecting—but when you get onto your bed after him and start touching his shoulders and back, he realizes.

you’re trying to coax the tenseness out of him. trying to make him less stressed out. a strange feeling blooms in his chest upon this development. he wonders why he’s almost uncomfortable with the fact that you want to comfort him. he doesn’t want to think about it too hard—because he’ll spiral like he’s been doing all night.

maybe it’s because he’s spent his entire life not having any comfort, or maybe the fact that he’s so used to being the one giving out comfort, he doesn’t know what it feels like to receive it—but whatever it is, dean forces the looming thought to be shoved into a box for tonight.

your hands act as if they’re touching something holy. but it’s just him, who’s receiving your attention. your fingers work at the tightness of his shoulders, and it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. it feels… strangely good. it takes him a second, but he stops holding his breath in, lets out a soft sigh. you take it as a win.

dean is tense, obviously. almost unbelievably so. his shoulders, neck and back seem permanently wound up as you work at them with your hands. you weren’t sure if dean was comfortable having his undershirt off, so you just left it on—but your fingertips sneak just a little under the collar of his t-shirt, grazing his bare skin. dean lets out another sigh, adjusts his head deeper into the pillow.

he feels tired again now that he’s in a bed. if he was more awake, he’d be more jokey, more easygoing, cracking a joke about you trying to get in his pants. but not tonight. tonight, dean’s tired. so unbelievably tired. he’s slowly seeming to melt under your touch, despite his mind’s initial protests.

he feels an overwhelming urge to cry, all of a sudden. over the fact that you’re touching him solely to try and make him feel better, over the fact that you’re doing it for the only purpose of comforting him. the urge almost suffocates dean—but he chokes it down, lets his eyes shut instead.

dean doesn’t moan—but some sort of rumble leaves him when you knead at a specific tender spot on his back. you debate making a comment on it, then decide not to, focusing on your thumbs now working down dean’s spine.

you risk a peek at dean after you hear his breathing slow and even out—after whispering his name, he doesn’t stir, even a little. he fell asleep, knowing only your touch and scent, instead of pain and his own thoughts turning on him. he can’t recall the last time he felt so safe. so loved. it seemed like a good way to fall asleep, surrounded by softness and you.

so for once, dean let himself have this slice of warmth.

You rose to your feet and slipped your flip-flops back on, glancing down at your clothes. It wasn’t like you were dressed for company, but it was too late to worry about it now. You tried to see who was behind the wheel, but the sun glinting off the windshield made that impossible, so you shrugged and went down the steps to greet whoever was driving. When he climbed out of the car, your mouth dropped open, and you stopped in your tracks for a second.

You could have sworn the temperature just rose another 20 degrees. This man was a whole other level of hot. Drool-inducing, panty-melting, fantasy-inspiring hot - tall, lean, bow-legged, broad-shouldered, and gorgeous. As you forced yourself to close your mouth, he swore, talking to the car.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Come on, Baby, we’re almost home.” The frown between his brows (even that was attractive) smoothed out a bit as he saw you approaching (once you recovered your ability to walk). “Hey, sorry about that. I guess this heat is too much even for my Baby today.”

“I can see that!”

He turned to raise the hood, steam surrounding him as he propped it in place, and you swore you could hear porn music playing in the background as you stared at his biceps. You stifled a groan at the play of muscle underneath his grey t-shirt, which was rapidly growing darker with sweat in the heat and clinging to his back. “I’d better let her cool off.”

“I can hook up the hose so you can put some water in the radiator after it sits for a bit.” You were sounding far less wilted than you had felt before he got out of that car, that was for sure.

He smiled, and your heart did a somersault in your chest. “That would be awesome, thanks.” He followed you around to the side of the house, and you shut off the water to your flowers, then reached to unscrew the sprinkler hose. It had apparently welded itself to the spigot – you couldn’t get it to budge. You bent over, struggling to force the stubborn coupling to loosen up, but it was hopeless. You turned, frustrated, and your unexpected visitor’s eyes traveled quickly back up to your face as his tongue swept over his lips. “I – uh… Here, let me give it a try.”

He stepped forward to deal with the stubborn fitting, and you blushed at your thoughts. Had he been staring at your ass? Speaking of… Your eyes were currently glued on his backside as he finally managed to unscrew the sprinkler hose. You shook your head to break the spell and rushed over to grab the regular hose from its storage on the side of the house, handing it to him without meeting his eyes. You had to calm your hormones before you made a total ass of yourself over this guy.

“I have some iced tea in the house – or would you rather have a beer?”

He straightened up after hooking up the hose, turning to grin at you and sending another flood of those pesky hormones flooding into your bloodstream. “A beer sounds great, thanks. And my name’s Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

You smiled back at him as you introduced yourself, then went up the steps and into the house to fetch a couple of cold beers from your fridge. Of course, you stood with your head inside of it for a couple of minutes first, thinking about the way you could feel his eyes following you as you had walked away from him. And you had thought this stay-at-home vacation was going to be boring.

You headed back outside, and Dean walked back towards you from where he had dragged the hose over near his car. You couldn’t stop staring at that bow-legged stride, the denim of his jeans hugging those strong thighs, and you dropped down to sit on the steps to mask your agitation. He plopped down beside you, gratefully taking the beer you offered. “Thanks - nothing like an ice cold beer when it’s hot as hell out,” he said grinning over at you. You agreed, watching as he tipped his bottle and took a long pull. You followed suit quickly, because otherwise you were going to moan out loud at the sight of his perfect lips on the rim of the bottle, the tip of his tongue touching the opening before he drank. There were several very filthy thoughts battling for space in your head, and you could feel your pulse beating between your thighs.

“Soooo,” you started, a little too loudly, but you quickly caught yourself and adjusted your volume. “I heard you say you were almost home – where are you from?”

“My brother and I live a couple miles south of Lebanon.”

“I guess we’re almost neighbors, then,” you said, inwardly cringing at your lack of small talk skills.

Dean gave you a crooked smile, nodding his head. “Yeah, I guess we are. So if I come knocking at your door to borrow a cup of sugar, you got me covered?”

You smiled. “Any time.”

He picked at the label on his bottle, shooting a sideways glance your way with a sly quirk of his lips. “As long as your boyfriend isn’t the jealous type.” You laughed softly, and he nudged your shoulder with his. “What, too subtle?”

“No boyfriend. Just an ex-husband, but that’s old news.” You met his green-eyed gaze, which had your breath catching in your chest for a moment. “How about you?”

“Nope, completely free.” A warm smile slowly spread across his face, making your stomach do a little flip. “So far.” He winked, so quickly that you weren’t completely sure you hadn’t imagined it, and then drained the rest of his beer and rose to his feet. “Let’s see if I can bring Baby back to life, huh?”

You went to the side of the house and waited for his shout, then turned on the water. You waited for him to call out again to shut it back off, then walked back around the house as he slid behind the wheel. You heard him turn the key with a ‘Come on, Baby!’ and then a ‘That’s my girl!’ when the engine roared to life. You were trying to stifle your smile when he shut the engine off and climbed back out, but he just grinned back at you before turning around to put the hood down.

He headed back your way, wiping his hands on the tail of his t-shirt. “If you’re not in a hurry, you could come inside and cool off before you head home, have another beer.” You shrugged as if it was no big deal, but you were holding your breath as you waited for his reply.

“Yeah, thanks. Lead the way.” You smiled and turned to go up the steps, Dean right behind you. You both let out a relieved sigh at the cool air in the house compared to the sauna-like atmosphere outside. “Damn, does that feel good,” he said as you kicked off your flip-flops. He bent to untie his boots, but you stopped him.

“You don’t have to do that, really.” He glanced up to see that you were sincere, gave a little nod in acknowledgment, and followed you into the kitchen.

You went to the fridge, grabbed a couple more beers, and handed him one, turning to lean against the island as you opened yours. Dean settled against the counter top across from you, flipping his lid into the trash with perfect aim, then tilting his head back to take several swallows as you lost yourself in the sight.

His t-shirt was stuck to his body, his nipples showing through the damp cotton of his shirt. You stared at his throat as he drank, watching with bated breath as a bead of sweat trickled from his hairline all the way down his neck. He licked his lips as he set his bottle down beside him, his eyes moving from your parted lips to your breasts as they rose and fell with your rapidly increasing breathing. Your heart was beginning to pound, and you took your bottom lip between your teeth for a second before you spoke, your voice breathless. “So, do you wanna…”

“Hell, yeah,” he growled out before you could finish, and then he was on you before you could blink. You reached back blindly, your beer thankfully settling in an upright position as he pinned you against the island and took your lips in a ravenous kiss, all tongues and teeth and hunger. He had both hands on your ass, kneading and squeezing as your fingers clawed at his back, and you could feel him rapidly growing hard as he pressed closer.

He finally broke the kiss, barely parting from you and still nibbling at your lips as he spoke. “I’ve got some condoms in my bag in the trunk.”

You shook your head, kissing him again and making him moan as you sucked the tip of his tongue. “Down the hall, nightstand, top drawer,” you managed before he flashed a grin, giving your left cheek one more squeeze before he rushed away to follow your directions.

Dean was back before you finished taking a swallow of your beer. He took the bottle from your hand, turning to set it next to his on the opposite counter top. “Might need some room,” he said as he moved close again, putting his hands on your waist and boosting you up to the top of the island. He slipped his fingers up under the hem of your shirt, looking into your eyes. “Can I?”

You nodded, holding his gaze as he slowly peeled your tank top up, then over your head. He tossed it behind him without taking his eyes from your breasts. “Your turn,” you said softly, giving his shirt a tug, and he pulled it off in one quick move, then moved in close. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him snug between your thighs as you ran your fingertips over his chest, tracing the pattern of his tattoo.

He put a hand on your knee, moving it up slowly until his fingers slipped under the frayed hem of your cutoffs. “I should tell you, these Daisy Dukes have been making me crazy,” he rumbled, making you shiver as he traced a line forward and along the crease of your thigh. He leaned down to kiss you as he worked your zipper open, and you moaned into his mouth as he shoved his hand into your panties, his strong fingers gliding through your slick folds as he hummed against your lips.

“Well, I should tell you I’ve been wet for you since you first climbed out of that car,” you said, your voice raspy with arousal. His lips curved into a sexy smirk, and you leaned back on your elbows to lift up a little as he pulled your shorts and panties down, letting them fall to the floor.

He pulled you back up against his chest, kissing you again as he slipped a finger up inside you, stroking, searching until you squirmed with a little whimper. You felt him smile against your lips, and then he added another finger, rubbing firm circles over your clit with his thumb as he brushed his fingertips repeatedly over your sweet spot.

Dean rested his forehead on yours as you raised you hips to chase his thrusts. It felt amazing, but at the moment there was only one thing you wanted. You clutched desperately at the waistband of his jeans, popping the button free and jerking the zipper down. He grunted as you gave his erection a squeeze, then tugged at his jeans until he pulled his fingers from you, a low chuckle in his throat. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he managed to say as you looked up at him with a coy smile, and he shoved his pants down, your eyes widening a little at the sight of him. He rolled the condom on and moved in close again, rubbing his sheathed cock through your slick pussy.

“Dean….” you whined softly at the friction on your swollen clit, and he leaned close, whispering in your ear.

“Shhhh, sweetheart, I got you.” He reached down, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing forward as you clutched at the back of his neck. You chased his lips, kissing him desperately as he worked his way inside you with short strokes until he was buried deep, your hips rising to meet him. Every sensitive nerve inside you was singing, your body trembling at being filled to the limit.

You were panting as you pulled back from the kiss, and Dean put a hand to your face, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead, his green eyes warm as he gazed into yours. “You doing ok?”

You leaned into his touch with a euphoric little smile, then nodded. “I’m good. Really good.” He flashed a quick grin before giving you a gentle kiss, letting his hand drift down to cup your breast. “Could be better,” you mumbled against his lips, giggling as he drew back and looked down at you with a cocked eyebrow, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah?”

You reached down to squeeze his ass – his very firm, pert ass – and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Fuck me, Dean.”

He didn’t make you wait. He braced one hand on your hip and wrapped an arm around you to hold you close as he began to rut into you, staying deep inside you at first, then pulling out farther and driving back into you faster and harder. Your thighs tightened around him, your hips bucking into his thrusts as your fingers dug into the muscle of his back, his skin slick with sweat. Moans of pleasure and grunts of effort filled the air as you began to clench and pulse around his cock, and you arched your back and cried out as you came undone.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean swore softly as he lost control, his cock throbbing inside you as your orgasm sent him over the edge with you. You strained against him, whimpering at the intensity of the sensations washing through you, finally slumping with your face against his chest, a shudder making you clench around his still-pulsing length. He leaned forward, slightly trembling, holding you tight with one arm as he braced a hand on the counter, his chest heaving beneath your cheek as he slowly came down from his high.

He rested his head on top of yours, his warm breath stirring your hair. “You’re fucking incredible,” he breathed, raising back up as you moved to look up at him.

“Pretty incredible yourself,” you responded with a languid smile. “I haven’t felt this good in – well, ever.” His eyes searched yours as he bent close to kiss you, sending a wave of warmth through you.

“You know, I could kiss you for hours. Possibly days.”

He laughed softly, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “Well, maybe we’ll work on that. But I should probably take care of…” He glanced down pointedly at where you were still joined, and you smiled.

“Oh – yeah – I guess so.” You held your breath as he pulled himself free, then put his hands on your waist and helped you down off the island. He smiled down at you, his eyes scanning over your body with a naughty smirk as he let out a soft ‘Mmm-mmm.’

“I’ll be back,” he said, hitching his pants up, and you stared as he walked away from you, heading to the bathroom. You collapsed back against the counter, blowing out a breath in aroused appreciation. You had just had sex with a complete stranger who was hot enough to fuel your fantasies for many, many years into the future – and you were pretty sure you weren’t finished with him yet. In fact, you were sure of it. So you stood up straight and headed for the bathroom, in all your naked glory, with a big smile on your face.

When he opened the door, you were standing there waiting. His eyes widened a little, his smile slowly growing as you peered up at him with a flirty expression. “I need a shower. And you’re welcome to join.” You pushed your way by him, letting your breasts brush against his arm on the way by, grinning to yourself as you heard him chuckle.

You reached in and turned on the water to let it warm up, and Dean watched you with appreciation, pulling his lip between his teeth. “I – uh – have some clean clothes out in the car. I’ll be right back.”

You shot him a sidelong glance with a smile as you stepped into the shower, sliding the glass door shut behind you. He let out a low whistle before he rushed to the front door, heading for the car to get his duffle bag and pulling out his phone to call his brother. “Sammy? Yeah, had a little car trouble, I won’t be home until tomorrow sometime. Nah, nothing serious. Yep, later.”

Sometime tomorrow. Next day at the latest. He smirked to himself as he closed the trunk, patting the Impala’s roof on the way by as he headed back to the house. “I owe you, Baby.”

Three weeks later:

You sat on the porch swing, a cold beer in hand as you relaxed after a long week of work. The weather had finally cooled off, and it was pleasant on the porch, a light breeze stirring your hair. You reached for your phone as it rang, smiling as you looked at the screen. “Hello,” you said, a smile in your voice.

“Hey, there – it’s me, your neighbor.”

“Hi, neighbor,” you laughed. “What’s up?”

“Well – as it turns out, I’m completely out of sugar.”

“Completely, huh?”

“Absolutely. Totally out. I could really, really use some sugar right now.” His voice was already sending vibrations through you that made you want to tell him to get in the car now. “And you know I’ve got a sweet tooth that just won’t quit. I need sugar, sweetheart.”

You laughed as you heard Sam’s voice in the background, threatening to throw up if Dean didn’t stop. “Well, you know you’re always welcome to come over for sugar if you need it, Dean.”

“I knew I could count on you. You’re the best neighbor ever. And we can fire up the grill, I’ll make my world-famous burgers, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds amazing. And I’ll handle dessert.”

He growled into his phone, making you laugh again. “Yeah, you will. Mmmmmm. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

You sighed happily as you hung up, swinging lazily with a smile on your face. Maybe you should put on those Daisy Dukes again.

Without panties, of course.

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967         @deanslittleangel2y5  @deanwinchesterswitch

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

"if you use that specific brand of glue, the whole thing is just going to peel off the moment it hits a humidity spike," the old man muttered, not looking up from his workbench.

he was leaning over a disassembled 1950s radio, his fingers stained with solder and graphite. the shop smelled of ozone and old dust, a cramped sanctuary where the walls were lined with shelves of vacuum tubes and orphaned gears. it was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower, measured not by a clock, but by the slow drip of oil and the rhythmic clicking of a handheld soldering iron. most people in town avoided the shop, fearing the owner’s reputation for being overly particular about who touched his equipment, but for those who knew how to handle a delicate circuit, it was the only place to find parts that didn't come from a plastic bin at a big-box store.

"i'm not using the glue,"  you replied, carefully sliding a blank cassette tape across the scarred wooden counter. "i just need a high-quality recording head and a few clean swabs. the deck at home is eating my tapes, and i can't afford to lose what's already on here."

the man finally looked up, squinting through thick glasses. he eyed the cassette—a plain, unmarked piece of plastic—and then looked at  you. he didn't say anything for a moment, just grunted and pointed toward the back of the store where a bin of salvaged components sat. "aisle four. bottom shelf. don't touch the capacitors unless you want a shock that'll wake up your ancestors."

as you navigated the narrow aisle, your mind drifted away from the machinery. for the past few days, the house had felt different. the air was heavier, though not unpleasant; it was the feeling of something fragile occupying a space it didn't think it deserved. dean was there, physically present and warm to the touch, but he moved through the rooms like a ghost trying to remember how to be solid. he would catch you looking at him and immediately look away, his shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow, or perhaps just waiting for the moment the dream ended and he was pulled back into the dark.

you found the swabs and the recording head tucked between a heap of rusted vacuum tubes and a box of mismatched knobs. as you made your way back to the counter, you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in a polished chrome hubcap leaning against the wall. you looked tired, your eyes mirroring the frantic energy of the last seventy-two hours. you had spent every spare second scouring the local record store and digging through old shoeboxes of tapes, trying to find a melody that didn't feel like a lie. the problem wasn't a lack of music; it was that everything felt too small. a slow blues track felt too mourning, and the high-energy rock felt like it was trying too hard to mask the silence that always seemed to follow dean into a room.

returning home felt like stepping into a vacuum. dean was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee held in both hands, staring at a patch of peeling wallpaper as if it were a complex map. when he heard the door click shut, he jumped—just a fractional flinch, a tightening of the jaw—before he realized it was you. he forced a small, tentative smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his gaze flickering toward the small bag of parts from the repair shop.

"you were out a while," he said, his voice raspy and low. he didn't ask where you'd been, but the way he shifted his weight suggested he was counting the minutes, measuring the gaps in your presence. he looked smaller than he used to, stripped of the bravado that usually acted as his armor. every time he looked at you, there was a flicker of confusion in his expression, as if he were waiting for you to realize you were dating a broken machine and decide it wasn't worth the effort to fix.

you didn't say anything, instead heading straight for the living room to set up the deck. you spent the next hour in a state of focused frustration, meticulously cleaning the recording head and threading the blank tape. you tried a few songs you’d scribbled in your notebook—a soulful track that felt too much like a funeral and a pop song that sounded like a commercial for a brand of soap. every time you hit 'record' and then 'stop,' the silence that followed felt deafening. the music didn't fit; it didn't capture the way dean looked when he thought no one was watching, or the desperate, quiet way he held your hand in the dark.

by the third day, the notebook was a disaster of crossed-out lyrics and frantic scribbles. you had spent the afternoon pacing the hallway, clutching a stack of vinyl records, feeling a mounting sense of panic. how could a three-minute song possibly encapsulate the feeling of wanting to shield someone from their own memories? the more you searched for the "perfect" sound, the more you felt like you were failing a test you hadn't known you were taking. you felt a surge of genuine irritation at the music itself for being so limited, so unable to translate the sheer mass of your affection into something audible.

meanwhile, the tension in the house had shifted. dean had stopped asking where you were going and started watching you with a growing, quiet apprehension. he saw the secrecy—the hidden notebook, the closed doors, the way the you would start a sentence and then suddenly swallow it, your face flushing with frustration. to someone who had spent an eternity in a place where the only truth was pain, the sudden distance felt like a warning sign. he began to pull back, his movements becoming more guarded, convinced that you were simply gathering the courage to tell him that the version of him that came back from hell wasn't the version you had fallen in love with.

the notebook lay open on the coffee table, a chaotic graveyard of ink and desperation. you had just scratched out a lyric from a mid-tempo folk song for the fifth time, the pen nearly ripping through the paper. you were so engrossed in your frustration that you didn't hear the floorboard creak behind you.

"you've been acting weird."

the voice was barely a whisper, but it hit like a physical weight. you jumped, accidentally knocking the notebook onto the floor. dean was standing in the doorway to the living room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, though his knuckles were white. he wasn't angry; he looked terrified, his eyes scanning the your face with a desperate kind of intensity, searching for the exact moment the blow would land.

"i'm not—i'm not acting weird," you stammered, instinctively stepping in front of the cassette deck to hide the blank tape.

dean took a slow step forward, his boots heavy on the hardwood. he looked at the scattered records, the scribbled notes, and then back at you. the silence stretched, thick and heavy, until dean’s shoulders slumped. he looked away, his voice cracking slightly. "look, if you want out... if this is too much, or if i'm just... too broken to be what you want... just tell me. you don't have to sneak around the house for a week. i can handle it. just don't make me guess."

you felt a surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the sheer, unfair timing of it all. you had spent days agonizing over the perfect sonic translation of your heart, only for dean to misread the silence as a countdown to a breakup. the frustration of the music, the stress of the recording head, and the sight of dean looking so small in his own skin finally boiled over.

"i'm not trying to dump you!" you blurted out, the words colliding into one another.

in a sudden, clumsy motion, you reached for the cassette deck and snatched the blank tape, shoving the small plastic rectangle into dean’s chest with enough force to make him stumble back a half-step. your face was flushed, and your voice had jumped an octave, turning into a frantic ramble. "i was trying to make you a tape! i wanted to find a song—or ten songs—that actually sounded the way i feel about you, but everything is just... wrong! the rock stuff is too loud, the slow stuff is too sad, and the love songs all sound like they were written by someone who's never actually met a person!"

dean didn't move. he just stood there, clutching the blank tape in his large hand, his eyes wide and blinking. the silence that followed wasn't heavy this time; it was expectant, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

you realized you were still shaking, your chest heaving. you looked at the notebook on the floor—the scarred pages, the ink blots, the rejected lyrics—and then back at dean. "i just wanted it to be perfect," you whispered, your voice cracking. "but it’s impossible. i want you more than any stupid song could ever say, and i've been driving myself crazy trying to find a melody that wasn't a lie."

dean didn’t speak for a long moment. he looked down at the blank cassette in his palm—a small, insignificant piece of plastic that had apparently been the source of a week-long psychological war. slowly, the tension that had held his shoulders rigid for days began to dissolve. he looked back up at you, and the haunted, wide-eyed expression was gone, replaced by a look of profound, bewildered tenderness.

then, he started to laugh. it wasn't the loud, booming laugh he used to share with sam over a beer, but a soft, breathless sound that seemed to bubble up from his chest, shaking his whole frame. he leaned his forehead against your’s, his breath warm against your skin. "a mixtape," he murmured, the word sounding foreign and precious in his mouth. "you were stressing yourself into a panic attack for a damn mixtape."

the you let out a shaky sigh, the adrenaline finally receding to leave you feeling heavy and warm. "i just wanted you to know," you mumbled, your voice still thick with emotion. "i wanted to give you something that... that sounded like how much i love you. but the songs just sounded like noise."

dean pulled you in then, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing hug that felt like it was trying to fuse their two bodies into one. he held you with a desperate kind of strength, as if he were anchoring himself to the earth using the you as his tether. for a long time, neither of you moved. the silence in the living room was no longer a void or a warning; it was a sanctuary, filled only by the synchronized rhythm of your breathing and the distant ticking of a clock they had both forgotten to wind.

"i don't need a tracklist," dean whispered into the crook of your neck, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i don't need some singer in a studio trying to describe things he doesn't understand." he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze searching and raw. "hearing you scramble for words... seeing you get all worked up because you care that much... that's the best thing i've ever heard. it's better than any song."