Request: Blessed

Request: Could you write a story where the reader is a maid at the motel and Sam and Dean are sleeping in (without a case, so they sleep in late) but hear a pretty voice singing classic rock next door (as reader sings while cleaning) and Sam convinces dean to at least go see who is singing and he's smitten. Thanks!!

Word Count: 1,213

<3

Dean is very much used to harsh awakenings. Blaring alarms, the cut of a knife, a bucket of cold water… there’s not much that’s foreign to him anymore. Late mornings, on the other hand, when the sun is far above the horizon and yet he’s still in bed, remain his favourites, because he’s able to wake on his own time, at his own pace, and maybe finally get out of bed not feeling completely exhausted.

So when he’s woken far before his usual post-case-lie-in time, for a few moments he’s mildly annoyed. That is, until he hears exactly what woke him up:

“There is a house in New Orleans They call the Rising Sun And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy And God, I know I'm one,”

He’s heard angels speaking. He’s heard them screaming, and smashing windows with it – so to say an angel’s voice was coming through the paper-thin motel wall couldn’t be further from the truth. This is the opposite – sweet and soothing, and even better, singing a song he’s loved since childhood.

Throughout the sing, the voice hits each and every note, somehow capturing the haunting rhythm of the song within a bright, airy, melodic tone. He’s completely entranced. All he can do is lie there, his hands locked behind his head, and let himself be relaxed by the soothing voice as it moves through a veritable playlist of absolute classics – the gap between songs leaves him waiting in suspense, hoping for another one to start up – and the voice always obliges, and the opening notes to whichever song it chooses sound even sweeter than ever.

“You’re not going to go and flirt with her?” Sam’s voice startles Dean out of his reverie, though the voice doesn’t leave his mind.

“She’s… I don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t want to disturb her.” He says quickly – there’s a part of him that enjoys the mystery, the not knowing, the building up the image of a woman in his mind: in his head, she’s beautiful, but not overtly so – and she’s funny, with a bright, mischievous smile. It’s all an illusion, of course, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a nice mirage to bask in the glow of, either way.

“Disturb her? What’s gotten into you?” Sam’s incredulity is clearly audible in his tone, and the elder brother peels open one eye to give his brother a look.

“Nothing. But she’s obviously busy.” As if on cue, the singing pauses for a moment and is replaced with the sound of furniture scraping across the floor before starting back up again.

“You’re nervous.” Sam grins as the realisation reaches him, “You’re actually nervous to speak to a girl. Why? You’ve talked to girls who like rock before.”

“I know, I just-“

“I’m sure she’s nice enough. I’m assuming she’s staff, judging by the cleaning cart just outside the door, so she’s basically contractually obligated to be nice to you,” When Dean doesn’t reply and still looks dubious, Sam sighs in resignation, “At least go and see who it is. What she’s like. And if you like her, we don’t have a case or anywhere to be, so staying another few days shouldn’t be a problem.”

Dean drags himself out of the bed after that, hurrying into his jeans with such haste that he manages to shove both legs into one trouser-leg and nearly end up flat on his face, to his younger brother’s infinite amusement.

However, for once Dean doesn’t bite back, and instead heads out of the room somehow feeling a thousand times more refreshed than usual despite not having even touched the coffee pot. He nearly hesitates outside the door, but after a short pep talk and a mental kick up his own ass, he shifts the cleaning trolley out of the way and knocks, two sharp raps on the open door.

The sound cuts your voice off instantly, and you turn from what you were doing – changing over the (frankly, disgusting) bedsheets. They drop into a crumpled heap of faded, stained linen at your feet as you flash him a bright, friendly smile and brush your hands off on the black tabard that’s draped over your jeans and black t-shirt, the design of which he can’t make out for the over-garment.

“Can I help you?” You ask him sweetly, and he’s taken aback by how kind your expression is, and how beautiful you are – even more so than the vision he’d cooked up in his head, despite his thinking that it couldn’t be possible.

“Hi, I- uh- no, I-“ Dean Winchester, flustered. If you knew him, you’d be a lot more impressed than you are amused, considering the laugh that escapes your lips. Part of him wants to muffle the sound with his own lips, the other wants to listen to it forever.

“Is it your room? I was coming there next, I promise, but the people in here last… I don’t know what they were doing. I don’t think I want to know.” You shudder, only partially in hyperbole. He huffs with laughter, suddenly remembering the various states of filth and chaos he’d left motel rooms in over the years and feeling a flash of guilt.

“No, it’s fine. We were lying in anyway. I woke up to your excellent serenade.” He smiles, hoping it comes across as flirtatious, despite it feeling more hysterical.

“Oh, I woke you?” The flush that spreads across your cheeks is nothing short of adorable, “I’m so sorry, I knew the walls were thin, but-“

“Not like that!” He quickly corrects you, “I was just curious. I had to see who was singing my kind of music so well.”

“Your kind of…” He watches as you put the pieces together in your mind, “Is that why you’re wearing an AC/DC shirt backwards?”

He looks down and, sure enough, there are tour dates emblazoned down his chest – it’s his turn to flush then, but you only laugh, going back to piling bedsheets into the laundry hamper you’ve set at the foot of the bed.

“I guess it is.” He smiles, leaning against the doorframe, “I’m Dean.”

“Y/N. Pleasure to meet you.” You look up at him and, again, smile with a face full of sunshine. It warms even the deepest darkest reaches of his soul, where no light dares venture anymore. But you do, and you don’t even know it.

“I absolutely assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” He grins, straightening up and taking a step towards you, “I know you’re working and everything, but when do you get off?”

“Noon.” You reply, “As long as I get everything done.”

“In that case, you wanna grab some lunch? My treat. My brother and I are in town for a while, and I need someone who knows where all the good pie is.”

“Your brother? He coming too?” You ask offhandedly, doing a great job of looking casual about it. Dean scoffs.

“Not a chance. He’s all… salad and sadness.” Dean rolls his eyes, which makes you laugh.

“I happen to know a pretty good place. I’ll meet you at your room at noon-thirty?”

“Noon-thirty it is.” He agrees, and you bless him with another grin.

“It’s a date, then.”  

Request: Sharp Objects

Request: HI I love your fics!! could you do a deanxreader where dean broke his right hand on a hunt and can't shave himself so the reader, with hidden feelings for dean, does it for him with lots of fluff please

Word Count: 1,270

Thank you<3

“Ouch! Jesus Christ, that’s a bitch.” The muffled cursing comes from behind the bathroom door, then followed by the clinking sound of something falling into the ceramic sink, and finally a, “Son of a bitch!”

Despite the laundry pile you’re carrying, you swerve across towards the door and knock a couple of times with your free hand, “Dean? Everything alright in there?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a short reply, “Fine.”

He’s obviously frustrated – a tone you’ve quickly become accustomed to hearing after dragging him home from the hospital a few days ago. He’d landed badly after being catapulted across the room by an overzealous ghost and broken a hand, whereas Sam had gotten off with a concussion and you’d somehow managed to slip away injury-free – which had inevitably resulted in you skivvying around to cater to their every whim.

While Sam had managed to get over himself somewhat and take it easy while the hellish egg on his head goes down, Dean has been trying to do everything as normal. He hates being laid up like this, and trying to get everything done for himself has just resulted in more hurt and hindrance than help.

You still linger outside the door for a few moments, “Can I help at all?”

He hesitates, and for a long moment you wonder if he’s actually going to accept, “I could use a clean towel.”

“Got one here. Mind opening the door?” You ask, after trying to get in and finding the door locked. Again, a hesitation, but then the door opens, Dean fumbling with his good hand for a few moments to get it undone.

You pride yourself on being able to keep a poker face. Sometimes giving the enemy no indication of your emotions could mean the difference between life and death – sometimes it’s imperative that a victim doesn’t know what you’re thinking. But this time, when it’s important that you don’t make a sound so Dean doesn’t slam the door in your face, you just can’t seem to freaking manage it.

“I know, alright?” He huffs as you sidle into the bathroom and begin draping the towels from the pile over the towel rack, trying desperately not to laugh. It’s not your fault – he’s covered in shaving cream – it’s smudged over his nose and there are even splatters in his eyebrows. It’s all white, apart from a trail of crimson blood slipping down the side of his face.

“You can’t shave left-handed?” You guess, taking note of the razor left in the sink and the cast immobilising his right hand. He sighs wearily, and then nods.

“Nope. I’ve never had to try before, and I was starting to look even more homeless than Sam.” He complains, taking a towel from you when you offer one to him.

“Dean, for crying out loud, you shattered your hand. I think you’re allowed to look homeless for a little while.” You reassure him, balancing the rest of the laundry – mostly jeans and a handful of flannels – on the countertop, “If you really want it sorted, I’ll do it for you.”

As soon as the offer has left your mouth, you regret it – the very idea of managing to get so close to him without blushing like a five year old, or completely losing your breath… impossible. And yet, he nods, smiling ruefully.

“Would you mind? I just… can’t.” He shrugs, and you smile back, nodding and shooing him off towards the closed toilet seat.

“Go on then, sit down.” You instruct, picking up the razor and running the warm tap to clear it off. You let the tap run for a little while, filling the basin, and then approach Dean carefully, “You have to promise to stay still. Usually when I’m so close to someone with something this sharp it doesn’t end very well for them.”

He laughs, leaning back with the force of it, “That’s not encouraging, Y/N.”

“I said I’d do it. I never said I’d do it well.” You remind him with a smile – humour: humour is how you get through this without making a complete idiot of yourself.

“Much appreciated, beautiful.” He winks, and it’s all you can do to force out a snort and place your fingers beneath his chin to tilt his head up a little.

“Mm, whatever you say,” Sometimes it’s difficult not to take his words too seriously, and you have to remind yourself that Dean Winchester can and will flirt with anything that moves – you’re not special to him beyond being good friends and hunting buddies.

“Well, the closer you get, the more I’m thinking it.” He mumbles, remaining still as stone as you skin the razor over his skin smoothly – you’re painstakingly careful, starting on the opposite side to the cut on his lower cheek. He chuckles when you lean back to dunk the razor in the sink, then move back over to him.

“I’ll stay well back, then.” You wink in response, but contradict your own statement by leaning close enough to him that his breath ghosts over your face. His eyes remain trained on your face, watching every movement as you press your lips together, squinting in concentration. You try your best to ignore it, being as careful and steady as your humanly can manage while you get to work.

His eyes don’t leave you until you’re finished, patting down his face with a towel and then handing it to him – only then does he force himself to look away, watching as you clear up and set everything back in its place.

When he finally manages to open his mouth, he’s expecting the words that come out to be ‘thanks, Y/N’ – instead, they’re, “When you’re concentrating, your nose does this funny little thing.”

You turn slowly, quirking an eyebrow in a manner he can only describe as adorable, “Excuse me?”

“It kinda… wrinkles. But just at the tip. Right here.” He taps his own nose, a small smile playing on his lips, “And you blink a lot. I just… never noticed before.” Dean confesses, giving a nonchalant shrug and trying to ask as if he isn’t mortified by the words.

Rather than make a comment, you give a smile, wiping your hands off and stepping back, “I suppose I’m not the kind of person people pay a whole lot of attention to.” It’s not meant to be self-deprecating, but Dean takes it that way nonetheless.

“You have got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and poking at the cast as if his hand would be magically healed, “Y/N, you turn heads everywhere you go.”

“Yeah, right, of course.”

“Hey, look at me,” He takes your wrist in his hand, turning you to face him properly, “You’re beautiful. Really, truly beautiful. And smart, and kind, and funny. And people notice that. I notice that.”

That’s when your heart really does skip a beat – his eyes are on yours, emeralds glinting in the harsh white light of the bunker’s main bathroom.

“Dean, I-“

“You don’t need to reply to that. Didn’t mean to back you into a corner. Sorry.” Dean smiles sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand – but you shake your head, stepping forward with all of the boldness you can muster.

“I want to.” You assure him, taking his good hand and squeezing it gently, “I don’t care about anyone else noticing. Just you.”

He hesitates, then glances sideways, at the door, “Can I kiss you?” He blurts, flushing red like an embarrassed teenager.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”  

Request: Shine

Part two to Storm! Honestly I really didn’t expect the response that the first one got, but I was so thrilled!! I started this about four times, trying to get it to a place I wanted it so I could get a satisfying end to the first one, so you’ll have to let me know what you think… maybe even a third part? Let me know!

Word Count: 1,304

It’s good to be home. Despite everything, despite being completely unsure about your future, it’s nice to sleep in the same bed for more than two nights in a row, and it’s nice to know when and where your next meal is going to come from. It’s nice to have Bobby there, someone who knows you inside and out and understands – what isn’t nice is constantly having him lie to Dean for you. You’ discussed it, and more than once it had ended in tears, with you deciding that you didn’t want to face him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

This limbo, it’s… easier than facing things. Whatever you do, whichever decision you make, it’s going to change your life forever. But while you’re here, admittedly hiding from everything, you’re safe from that change, sheltered from whatever havoc it’s likely to wreak on your life.

You sigh to yourself, rolling over and tugging the duvet up to your chin, enjoying the warmth – that’s another nice thing, not having to be up and out of bed at the crack of dawn every single morning. Bobby has been insisting on you getting proper sleep, and considering that it can take hours for you to fall asleep after tossing and turning constantly, you tend to make up the time in the mornings. You’re just about considering crawling from the bed and heading downstairs for a drink when you hear voices downstairs.

“We need something of hers. Will there be something in her room?”

“I- uh- it’s a mess, I’ll go up and-“

“It’s fine, Bobby, I know what she’s like. The sooner we’re out of here the sooner we can start tracking her properly.”

Dean. It’s him – he’s come for you. It’s been nearly two weeks – it would have come sooner or later. But you’d have appreciated some warning – some time to think about what you want to say.

Bobby doesn’t want to protest – it would give you away. You recognise that, and recognise that he’s giving you a chance to run; to hide, to get away from it all one more time. A substantial part of you wants to – to be able to live the lie you’d begun to persuade yourself of.

For once, you stand your ground, pushing yourself up and out of the bed, wrapping a robe around yourself – you’re not going to face him in just your pyjamas. By the time he makes it up the stairs, you’ve steeled yourself enough that you manage to stop your hands from shaking too much.

The door creaks open, and Dean steps into the room – he notices you instantly, His hands curl into fists and he freezes, just staring at you like you’re some kind of phantom in the night.

“Y/N,” He breathes, your name nothing short of a prayer on his lips. You want to be angry; be vindicated, but all you feel for him is sorrow. You take a half-step backwards, watching as the cogs whir in his brain, “How long have you been here?”

“The whole time.”

“You’ve been safe?” He whispers, words snagging on themselves and tangling like a loose thread. You nod minutely, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shakes his head.

“Very.” You reply, perhaps a little shortly. You find, however, that you have very little to say to him. All of the thoughts you’d had… they’re gone in the face of a real conversation.

“Y/N…” He presses his lips together, “I’m sorry.”

“You always are.” You swallow, taking another step back, “Don’t pretend to care if you don’t. Don’t do it for pity. I don’t want your pity, I don’t want your sympathy.”

“You don’t have it,” He snaps, perhaps a little too vehemently. It surprises you enough that it stops your mind in its tracks for a few moments, “I screwed up. Really, really screwed up.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Just like you don’t notice the tears threatening to brim over, blurring your view like a melted kaleidoscope, “I’m not mad, Dean. I know you think I am.”

“Then what are you?” He insists, raking his hands through his hair, “I know what I said was God-awful. I know I can never take it back. But I was terrified, and-“

“So was I!” You interrupt, staring at him with wide eyes as the tears begin to fall, “I was beyond terrified! You didn’t think that that was my absolute worst fear? For you to completely… do that?”

He can only look at you for a few moments, shaking his head, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” You realise, “Sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t take it back.”

The look of panic on his face is enough to break your heart – above it all, you love him. More than yourself, more than anything – but that doesn’t give him carte blanche to say what he wants and expect you to come running back the minute he realises his mistake.

“I know.” He admits, chest slowly deflating, “I know. And the second you say leave, I’ll go. No questions asked. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Neither would I.” You agree, slowly unfolding your arms and wiping at your face, before letting them fall to your sides, “But I’m not going to.”

“You’re not?”

“You’re an idiot. We agree on that.” You watch as he nods, taking the hit in the hope of a little redemption – which you can’t help but give him, “And I’m upset. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up. That’s not how this works. That’s never how this worked.”

He shakes his head, agreeing readily – only then do you notice the tears in his eyes – a change. You may as well have handed him a golden goose – he’d have been less thankful for that than anything else.

“Y/N, you don’t- you have no idea.” He says softly, swallowing hard, “You know I’ve always wanted a family. And then you came along and there was a chance, a real chance, of it happening. And now it is… now it might be…” Dean sighs again, “I screw you over. Because that’s what I do. Disappoint the people I love.”

“I’m not going to pity you because of your history of bad choices. That’s your cross to bear.” You inform him softly, but take a slow step forward, “I’m willing to forgive and forget and move on. I want to. What I don’t want is for you to feel coerced or forced into staying. Stay or go, but there’s no in between.”

He takes a deep breath, hesitating, and then shakes his head, “I’m staying. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m here.”

You can’t help but crack a smile, “So that’s that? We’re doing this?”

He nods, this time not hesitating, “Of course. In fact…” It’s the last thing you expect, but before you know it he’s taken both of your hands in his, “Marry me.”

“What?”

“I love you. I want to be with you forever, I want to make this official. Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?” He rambles, squeezing your hands and offering a tentative smile.

“I’m not marrying you just because I’m pregnant. This isn’t nineteen-thirty-four.” You chastise, and Dean groans, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not because you’re pregnant! Trust me, Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t completely sure of it. I love you. I want to do right by you, because you deserve it. Just let me be romantic and spontaneous, alright?” He insists, his eyes catching yours – and you grin, nodding.

“Yes, then. Yes, I’ll marry you.” You decide, and then he grins, surging forward and taking your face in his hands so he can kiss your lips – and there it is. Past, present, and future, all in one.

Questions Game

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

I was tagged by @ghoulishfigure It’s long, so I’ll drop it under a read more thingy.

Request: Storm

Request: Can you write one where the reader breaks down to Bobby because she is pregnant with Dean's baby. Thank you :)

Word Count: 1,069

<3

The rain has been coming down in buckets all night, and the wind whips at the sides of the house in such a way that every now and again, the foundations shake so severely that Bobby nearly ends up waiting out the storm in the panic room.

When he sees the flash of light outside the window followed by a rumble, he isn’t paying enough attention to think of it as anything but another facet of the storm. What he does pay attention to, however, is the frantic, loud knocking that reverberates well beyond the door.

The knocking doesn’t stop until he answers, pulling the door open to be bet with a harsh gust of wind.

“Y/N?” You’re soaked and dishevelled, and he isn’t sure which has smeared your makeup more – the rain, or the tears you’re trying and failing to hold back.

“Can- can I come in?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s the only thing your fuzzy, addled brain can come up with. Bobby doesn’t speak, but he nods, ushering you into the warmth of the house where you grew up and forcing the door closed against the wind.

“What the hell are you doing out in this?” Driving in this weather would be dangerous enough without you being in a complete state. You don’t reply, though, shivering in the hallway and wiping at your face in frustration. It scares him – you’re the closest thing he has to family: he’d raised you since you were six months old and your parents had been killed, leaving no-one to keep an eye on their demon-blood infected child. He’d taken you in, and found that he’d quickly become all too fond of you.

“Y/N, seriously. Where are Sam and Dean?” It must be something to do with them, because it elicits a sob from you, “I don’t want to play twenty questions with you.” He steps forward, resting his hands on your shoulders and pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead, “Give yourself some time, alright? Go get a shower, get changed. Everything’s fine. Nothing is going to hurt you while you’re here. I’ll make you a hot chocolate while you’re gone, just how you like it. How does that sound?”

To his eternal relief, that manages to get a nod and a weak smile from you, and he pulls you in for a gentle hug before letting you go. He doesn’t look away from you until you’re safely up the stairs, and then sighs to himself – he’s never seen you like this. But you need him, and he’ll be damned if you’re not going to have him to go to.

It’s nearly half an hour before he hears you coming down the stairs, but there’s nothing wrong with that – especially when he sees how much better you’re looking. Sure, your eyes are still red-rimmed and you’re still shaking with the effort it takes not to cry, but at least your clothes are warm and dry and your lips are no longer bluish with the cold.

You shuffle into the room and take a seat, swallowing hard before looking up at Bobby. He sets the hot chocolate – piled high with cream, chocolate shavings, and marshmallows – in front of you, and then takes the seat next to yours. The storm outside still batters the windows, but the kitchen is warm, and with the pair of you bathed in warm light, it’s almost cosy.

“Talk to me.” Bobby prompts softly, reaching over and resting his hand over the top of yours. He sees the way you flinch at the gesture, and for a moment he thinks the worst, “Is it Dean? Has he hurt you?” He hadn’t been overly happy when you’d begun dating the eldest Winchester two and a half years ago, but you’d been happy, and Dean had given him a heartfelt promise that his intentions were pure – but Bobby had promised in return that the moment Dean so much as breathed the wrong way at you, he’d find himself without the means to do so again.

“Y/N, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me if you want to fix this.”

“I can’t fix it.” You speak properly for the first time since you stepped into the house, “It’s broken. Very broken.”

“Still with the ambiguous, sweetheart.”

It takes you a few moments to muster up the courage to come out with it, but eventually, you do.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence, apart from the sounds of the storm outside, fills the room. For a long moment, he can’t find it in himself to speak – and then…

“Do not drink that.” He wraps his spare hand around the mug and slides it away from you, reminded suddenly of the copious amount of whiskey he just dropped into that, “Is it... it’s Dean’s?”

You scoff, “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Of course it is.” Sorrow and bitterness taint your tone in equal measure, and Bobby winces.

“Have you told him?” He tries, and you nod again.

“Yeah. That’s what the second problem is.” You sigh, pulling your hand away from his in order to run your hands over your face, skilfully masking a sob – but not enough. Bobby knows you inside and out, and picks up on it instantly.

“He reacted badly?”

“If saying I’d ruined everything and needed to get the hell out of his sight is reacting badly, then I’d say so, yeah.” You spit, but your voice breaks and before you know it, your head is on his shoulder and you’re sobbing openly into him, everything coming out. He holds onto you tightly, a silent promise that he’ll never let you go; that you always have him.

It’s nearly three hours later, by the time he’s managed to calm you down and get you asleep. You’re still asleep on the sofa when his phone rings. He answers, begrudgingly, when he realises who it is.

“Dean?”

“Bobby? Have you heard from Y/N? She’s gone and we’ve been trying to track her all night, but we haven’t found anything.” He rattles off, his voice frantic and shaking.

“Why? What happened?” Bobby asks, watching you sleeping form.

“We got in a fight. I said something stupid. God, Bobby, I’ll never forgive myself if she doesn’t…” He cuts himself off, and swallows hard, “Have you heard from her?”

He pauses, “Nope. Nothing. I’ll let you know if I do.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

Request: Baby Steps

Part Two to Quiet

Word Count: 2,519

(Warning again for teen pregnancy and age gaps – it’s in context and everything, if you’ve read the first one you’ll be fine, but if it runs the risk of upsetting you, steer clear! Much love<3)

When you wake, his arm is clasped tightly around your waist – you presume that he’s asleep; that he’s grabbed a hold of you in the middle of some dream as he occasionally does and pulled you close. However, when you edge your way around to face him, his eyes are very much open, and he’ watching you cautiously.

“Are you only holding so tight so that I can’t sneak off?” You raise an eyebrow, fixing him with a look. His face falters for a moment, before shrugging, and wrapping his other arm around your shoulders more comfortably.

“I don’t want you to think that you’re alone.” He says softly, careful not to wake Sam – he’s still sleeping, snoring softly on the other side of the room. You hesitate before meeting Dean’s eyes, memories from the night before hitting like a ton of bricks.

“Have you slept since we came back in?” You enquire, and he doesn’t have to reply for you to know that he hasn’t, “Dean. You have to sleep.”

“I was thinking.” He confesses, finding a lock of your hair and twirling it carefully around his finger, but keeping you close to him as if he thinks that letting you go will make you run again. Even you aren’t completely convinced at this point – if staying with him with the baby is going to cause him more pain than leaving will, you can’t hesitate.

“Nothing good ever comes of that.”

“I know, but…” He sighs, “Y/N, you know I love you. But there are problems with this.”

“There are problems with a lot of things. And I’m willing to bet that we can solve any one of them.” You want to believe in him, in you, in your ability to make things work. You don’t want to do this without him.

“Alright. Checkups. Getting to and from, making permanent plans when the only permanent thing we have is change.”

“There’s Cas. He always knows what’s up, he can drop in a few times and make sure everything’s okay.” You’d already thought of that, and know that the angel would do anything for any of you.

“Actual… birth?”

“Head to the nearest emergency room and sneak out before they start asking questions.” You shoot back, making him smile a little.

“That’s my girl. And afterwards, what are we going to do for… I don’t know. Childcare. I know what it’s like to be raised on the road, Y/N. It’s not… not for kids.”

“No. You know what it’s like to be raised on the road by John Winchester.” You correct him, “With all the love in the world, that was being raised into the life. We can raise this one alongside the life, and give them the choice when they’re old enough to understand.”  

“Jesus, it’s damp out there!” The voice comes from the hallway of Bobby’s house, accompanied by the slamming of the door and boots on the floor. Within a few moments, a figure appears in the doorway, dripping wet and with a scowl darker than the gathering thunderclouds outside.

Bobby looks between the pair of brothers on his left, and the teenager on his right – Dean is immediately struck by her. She’s young, sure, but carries herself with a grace he rarely sees in an adult, never mind people her age. She’s beautiful, too, despite being soaking wet and glaring as she peels off her jacket and hoodie.

“Sam, Dean, this is Y/N. She’s… a friend.”

“I’m camping on his couch until I can drive properly.” You grin rogueishly, “I’d be long-gone by now if I had any say in the matter.”

“There’s enough trying to do you in out there without you totalling a car, girly.” Bobby chides, watching as you cross the room and wring your hair out over the rug, “And you’re sixteen, you shouldn’t be out there alone. Not if you intend on hunting.”

“Damn right I do.”

You pause in front of the brothers, giving a bright, almost flirtatious smile, “And the infamous Sam and Dean. I thought it was your car I saw badly parked outside.”

“Says Little Miss Learner’s Permit.” Dean shoots back, and to his delight, you grin, resting your hands on your hips.

“No such thing when by all federal records you’ve been dead for six months.” You inform him flippantly, before taking a step back and giving them one more look over, “I’m gonna head upstairs and change before I catch hypothermia. You guys don’t have too much fun without me.” You wink, and then you’re gone in a whirlwind before Dean can even look at you again.

“Are we going to tell him?” You ask, picking absentmindedly at a piece of chicken with your fork before lifting it to your lips, “He’s going to figure it out soon either way.”

“I don’t know, Y/N. I know he doesn’t have a problem with it,” Dean casts a glance back towards the restroom door into which Sam had disappeared just moments ago, “I suspect he’s catching on. But…”

“You don’t want him to panic. I know. But we dealt with it.” You remind him softly, swallowing down the chicken and sighing at the sight of his cheese-laden burger – you’ve been trying to be good with your food choices, considering there’s a tiny human depending on you to make the right ones now, but it doesn’t mean you don’t get tempted every now and again.

“I know. I don’t know what’s putting me off.”

“You’re still ashamed. You have some sort of fixation with it. Dean, look at me.” You tell him as he looks away from you, unable to meet your eyes, “This is fine. Everything is fine. Sure, we’re running into a big life milestone head on with no idea what we’re going but that’s what we’ve always done and it’s always been fine before. And Sam’s good at this stuff, he likes kids, he’ll be excited. He’s known about us being together pretty much before we did.”

The elder Winchester hesitates for a few moments, before spying Sam coming out of the restroom. While he’s looking away, you swoop in and steal a fry from his plate, then sit back in your seat nonchalantly before he can notice.

You’d taken the couch in the motel, despite Dean’s protests – but you’d never hunted with the brothers before, and appreciated having at least one side of yourself protected while you slept, even if it was just by a shoddy old couch backrest. And despite everything, you’d slept soundly, exhausted from your day of singing at the top of your lungs to Dean’s cassettes and wandering from street to street, gathering rumours from the local youth.

That is, until the nightmares hit. They’re few and far between nowadays, as opposed to the nightly rigmaroles you’d become used to for the first seven months after what happened to your parents, but once you’d settled into a nice routine with Bobby they’d slowed down and let you get some rest. Not long after you’d turned seventeen, they let up for a whole month, and you’d dared – falsely – to hope that that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t. And though you try, with every shred of willpower left in your soul, to keep your breathing steady and remain calm, it’s quickly failing.

Under your breath, you force out five words – you’ve used them from day one, a personal creed that acts as a pedestal to keep you above fear and sorrow.

“I will not be afraid.”

“Doesn’t look much like it to me.” A voice comes from the other side of the room, and you startle yet again, up on your feet before you can even form a coherent thought.

“You’re Dean Winchester. You wouldn’t know what fear looked like if it took a wrecking ball to you.” You retort, your words little more than a breath – but you remain stood, folding your arms over your chest defensively.

“Oh sweetheart, I know fear when I see it.” He climbs from the bed, to your mild horror, and crosses over to you – you were expecting his witty taunts and playful banter, but instead there’s concern and affection engraved into his features, “I know what it feels like to be helpless.”

When you don’t have a reply, he goes on, “You get over it by not being helpless. You can fight, I’ve seen you do it.”

“Yeah.”

“So you fight. And you don’t stop fighting,” He takes a step closer to you and your breath hitches, much to your shame, “Until the day you drop. Whether it’s with a gun or a sword or your heart you have to fight. Because giving in means letting fear take over. And I’m willing to bet that you don’t want that to happen.

“Dean?!” You’re not one much for running these days, considering the great mass currently growing out of you and shifting your centre of gravity even further forward every day. But this, this is much more important.

He’s outside, speaking with Sam, Bobby, and another man you don’t know. You don’t pay them much attention, however, instead grabbing Dean’s hand and pulling him from the conversation.

“Y/N? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” He immediately takes you by the shoulders, checking you over and moving one hand to smooth your oversized jumper so he can feel the growing bump beneath it. You laugh, grinning up at him.

“Of course, everything’s fine. She’s moving, look.” You take his wrist, and guide it to where you’d felt movement just moments ago – and as if on cue, the baby kicks, and Dean’s face lights up – he’s only managed to feel it once or twice until now.

“A she now? You were saying he yesterday.” He comments, and you can only laugh, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Who knows? We could get Cas to tell us, or go see a doctor, but I kinda like the surprise.” You remind him – it’s the millionth time you’ve had the discussion, and you always seem to come to the same conclusion.

“Me too. Tell you what, just let me get finished up here and we can watch a movie or something, alright?” He suggests, glancing back at Sam, Bobby, and the unnamed stranger. All of them seem uneasy – like they don’t quite trust him. Nonetheless, you resolve to keep an eye, and allow Dean to lean down and press a soft kiss to your lips.

“Ah, Winchester,” The stranger speaks up, turning from the conversation to look at you, “This is the little piece of ass people have been talking about? I knew she was younger, but jeez. And I didn’t know you’d knocked her up – not that I blame you, she’s-“ The brash, crude tone and language you’d noticed in other hunters shines through blatantly here, but it’s quickly cut off when Dean’s fist connects with the man’s face and the other hand wraps tightly around his neck, compressing his windpipe.

“You never, ever speak about her like that again. You hear me? Never. If I catch wind of you telling anyone, of you talking about her to anyone, I swear to God you’ll find yourself without the means to speak or reproduce. You with me?” He growls, and you shoot Sam a helpless look – you’re not about to step in there, but Sam might – yet he doesn’t do anything. In fact, the expression he wears is more similar to Dean’s than yours, like the guy deserved it.

“Dean.” You finally speak up when the guy starts to turn purple, “C’mon, you promised me a movie. And it’s gonna be delayed if we have to get rid of a body first.”

Eventually, after a tense moment, he lets go, and takes a few steps back.

“Do yourself a favour and get out of my sight.”

“Y/N, Y/N, stop.” Dean has to force himself to push you back; hold you at arm’s length, despite every nerve in his body protesting the movement, “We can’t- I can’t-“

“Can’t what?” You raise an eyebrow, wiping a smudge of your lipstick from his chin with a small smile.

“Do this. Us. Y/N, you’re seventeen, I’m nearly thirty. It’s ridiculous.” He reminds you, earning a weary sigh as you lean forward, taking a side of his open shirt in each hand.

“What’s ridiculous is that you always seem to deny yourself the things you really want right when you’re on the brink of getting them.” You say softly, leaning a little closer to them, “Those are rules that apply to normal people. We’re not normal people. We’ve both been dead, Dean. I think we’re exempted from panicking about the morals of an age gap in a relationship.”

You’re right. He knows you’re right. You’re an adult in all of the ways that matter, and you have been since the day he met you. And he doesn’t think that there’s a single ID you own that lists you as being under twenty-one. Even his own fears about him manipulating you are dissuaded by your strong-willed nature, your refusal to ever be backed into a corner.

“You’re right.” He finally concedes.

“I know. Now kiss me, you noble idiot.”

“Y/N?” He’s at your side again, shaking your shoulder ever so gently, “Y/N, you need to get up, we have to go.”

When you force your eyes open, Dean is stood over you in the dark room. You sigh, closing your eyes for a few more precious moments of rest before sitting up.

“You can sleep in the car, but we only have five minutes before the night security shows up and we need to be long-gone by then. Come on.”

Your bag is already on his shoulder, apart from a pair of leggings and a comfortable jumper left on the foot of the bed. You change quickly and quietly, while Dean painstakingly moves the baby from the plastic crib to the car seat he has balanced on the floor.

“C’mon, sweetheart, if there was ever a moment to be quiet, this is it.” He breathes, and once she’s safely, quietly, sleeping in the seat you release a breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding.

He refuses to let you take bag or baby while you silently creep out of the hospital and to where Sam is waiting in the car. Once she’s secured into the back seat you get in beside her, tucking a blanket around yourself and watching over her with eagle eyes as Dean climbs into the passenger seat and you pull away, making a quick escape from the hospital parking lot.

And then… you’re gone. Completely alone with a brand new tiny life that you’re entirely responsible for. You watch her for a few more moments, tucking your feet up onto the seat and letting her tiny hand hold your finger.

“You ready for this?” Dean asks, turning to watch the pair of you. You catch his eye with a small smile.

“No. But we were never ready for anything, and it’s only brought good things so far.”  

Request: Quiet

Request: Could you write one with dean x reader and he gets the reader pregnant but she's not quite 18 yet?

Word Count: 1,504

I suppose teenage pregnancy is a warning? If it’s going to bother you, maybe steer clear. Much love<3

You were just a week past your tenth birthday when you killed your first vampire. You’ll never forget the moment as long as you live – you weren’t supposed to follow your parents into the woods, nor were you supposed to have a weapon on you. But curiosity got the best of you, and you ended up traipsing through the undergrowth with all the stealth of an elephant.

It popped out on you – before you even had time to scream, you’d been tackled to the ground, and yet you still managed to keep hold of your knife. It was the only thing you knew – like an iron grip on its handle could keep you tethered to the Earth, protected from the razor-like fangs scraping at your throat. Your blood was nothing but adrenaline, and your thoughts were more like impulses – next thing you knew, the vampire was slumped on top of you and your father was dragging you to your feet, yelling but grinning with pride.

It’s not the moment that has imprinted on your memory so much as the fear – since that day, you vowed never to be so afraid again. Not when your parents died, not when you just barely slipped beyond the threshold of life and death, not even when Lucifer himself was stood over you. Nothing has managed to surpass that moment – until now.

“Y/N? Everything alright in there?” Dean’s voice comes from outside the pokey little bathroom, of which you’re perched on the edge of the bath that’s more like an enlarged sink.

“Fine! Just washing my face, give me a minute.” You reply, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice as you force yourself to stand on shaking legs, and shove the tiny white stick into your pocket, well-hidden from the eyes of either bother, however observant.

Dean seems to be appeased by that, much to your relief, and after a moment you hear his footsteps creaking back across the rickety floorboards. You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and cling to the sink for balance, as you look at your grey-tinted face in the mirror, red-rimmed eyes laden with dark circles. You known something was up, and this was a last-ditch attempt to avoid calling for an angel.

Pregnant. It hadn’t been planned – that’s for sure. You and Dean… not a mistake. That’s not what it was, what it is. But he’s older, and you’re not even eighteen yet – despite having the maturity of an adult, thanks to the life you had growing up – and you just know that he’s going to completely freak when he finds out. If. When.

For the first time in a long time, you’re genuinely fearful of what the future holds.

It’s quiet in the motel room, the silence broken only by the breathing of the two brothers, slept in the beds beside you – you’d crept out of Dean’s hold just a few minutes ago, a short enough amount of time that the air is still chilled on your skin, despite the hoodie you’ve huddled yourself into.

This is the easiest, and the most painless – what Dean doesn’t know isn’t going to hurt him. What the rest of the world doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You’ve survived on your own before, and you can do it again, as much as the thought tears your heart in two.

You carefully tuck your jeans into the bag, your hand ghosting over the lump of plastic in the pocket: the one that sealed your fate; that made this decision for you. After a moment of hesitation, you zip the bag up, and pull it onto your shoulder – only for Dean to shift and groan, prising one eye open and looking up at you in the darkness.

“Y/N?” He rasps, frowning – his eyes catch the reflection of the sodium orange glow outside and meet yours. You flinch, unable to hold his gaze.

“Go back to sleep, Dean. Nothing to worry about.” You try to reassure him – if you can get him to go back to sleep before he wakes fully and realises what’s going on, you still stand a chance of getting out of here without any problems.

He obviously thinks about it, then sits up a little more, “Is that your bag?”

“I was just-“

“Y/N, are you leaving?” He hisses, sparing a glance to his brother, who sleeps as soundly as ever, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” You hiss, “Sleep, Dean, really.”

“You can’t lie to a liar, Y/N.” He’s up and out of the bed before you can think twice, looking you over – from your hoodie to your shoes, to the absence of everything you own from where it had been discarded around the room, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You try being authoritative, but he isn’t buying it, “I just needed some air.”

“With all your stuff?”

“Yes.” You don’t see any other way out of this, and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Alright then, we’ll go together.” He says, reaching out and taking your hand in his. After a few moments, you have to concede and admit defeat, giving a small nod and following him into the cold night air. It raises goosebumps on your skin, but you don’t let it show, remaining by Dean’s side for a few moments.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” He asks softly after a few moments, watching you closely, “You’ve barely spoken to me or Sam in a couple of days, you wouldn’t go out with us last night, and you’re acting like hunting is the last thing in the world you want to do.”

“It is.”

“Is it some kind of… identity crisis? You don’t want to hunt anymore? You’re young, Y/N, you can get out, there’s still time.” Immediately, he begins mentally running through possibilities, ways to keep you safe once you’re gone, “You know we’re with you, whatever you-“

“It’s not that.” You interrupt, rubbing your hands over your face impatiently, “It’s going to be you wanting rid of me soon, anyway. Stop acting like the saint in all of this.”

“You know I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You can tell he’s starting to get frustrated and anxious – you don’t blame him. You just wish you’d been able to get away before he’d managed to question it.

“You don’t need an idea. You just need to let me go.” You inform him, forcing yourself to turn and meet his eyes, “I’m fine, Dean. I will be. You just need to let me leave.”

“Not until I know what’s going on with you.”

“It’s none of your business.” Yes it is, yes it is, yes it is.

“I don’t care.” He reaches out, taking your hand in both of his, “Listen to me, Y/N. These last few months… they’ve been great. You’re great. And I know it’s less than conventional, but what is?”

“Stop talking.”

“Why?! You’re acting like something horrible is about to happen!” He insists, squeezing your hand, “Y/N, please, I’m begging you here. Stop freaking me out – whatever is it, we’ll muddle through together, just like always.”

“I’m pregnant.” No point sugarcoating it – might as well let him push you away and be done with it now. He pauses, frozen by your confession for a few moments.

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.” You deadpan, pulling your hand away from his and folding your arms over your chest, “See? I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

“It’s not that.” He shakes his head, “Y/N… you… you didn’t tell me. This is my business, for crying out loud. I’ve ruined your life.”

“Here you go again! Ever the martyr! It’s nothing to do with you if I say it is.” You snap, “Look, you haven’t ruined anything that wasn’t ruined anyway.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Why? You did.” You step back from him, “Look, Dean, if you have an issue, I’ll go. I’ll stay with Bobby until I can figure out something safe, and then… I don’t know. But I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” He growls, stepping closer, “You’re my problem, Y/N. You’re my business. I want you to be my business.” He reaches out, offering his hands to you, “Listen. Really listen. I get that this isn’t… normal. By any standard. And if you want to go, I’m not going to stop you.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you, or Sam.” You confess, the fear returning in a great wave, “I’m scared, Dean. It’s new and scary and big and I don’t want to do it on my own.”

“You don’t have to. You never have to.” He promises, watching as you place your hands in his so be can pull you closer and press an affectionate kiss to your brow, “We’ve been in this together. Right from day one, and until you say otherwise, alright? As much as it terrifies me, I love you, and this baby… it’s just another hurdle. A hurdle we can pass, because we’re together.”

Part two maybe?

Request: Sneak

Request: Could you write one where TFW takes a day off and goes to the pool meanwhile dean and the reader sneak off to the motel room and make out until Sam and Cas walk in and catch them? Thanks:)

Word Count: 1,086

<3

You’re flopped dramatically across the foot of one of the beds, your head dangling from one side and your toes just barely brushing the ground on the other. Your arms are spread-eagle, but the stupid position is for a good cause – trying to cool down in a motel room without air con, when the hottest day of the year is reaching its peak.

Just as your mouth opens to release another complaint about the inhumane heat, the motel room door swings a little further open – you’d left it ajar in the hopes of letting the air circulate, but all it’s doing is pulling the warmth of the day into your shaded sanctuary. You look over to see both brothers coming through the door, immediately taking note of your position but quickly recognising that you’re very much alive, just not willing to move.

“We brought ice-cream. Better get it eaten quick, though, unless you want to drink a puddle.” Dean tosses a box at you, and it lands smack-bang on your stomach, quickly sending icy chills through the thin fabric of your shirt. You sit up, tearing your way into the box like a rabid animal to get to the sweet coolness inside.

“I love you,” You tell him, once a red ice-lolly is stuffed into your mouth, numbing your lips and dripping sweet cherry juice onto your tongue. Dean drops onto the bed beside you, taking the box and digging through it to find a flavour he likes – even he has abandoned his layering ways in favour of a cooler t-shirt today, though he still insisted on jeans, citing his creed on avoiding shorts at all costs.

“Mm-hm, when I’m feeding you.” He grins, pulling out a cola flavoured one and then passing the box to Sam, who quickly selects a cloudy white lemonade flavoured lolly and sets the box in the beer cooler, which is the closest thing to a freezer you’ve managed to find.

You sit in silence for a little while, letting the ice-cool treats bring your temperature down, if only for a little while – hunting isn’t good in the heat. Even the monsters don’t like the warm, and so you declared the day an official vacation – neither brother protested. In fact, all three of you sent an invitation to Cas, though he hasn’t deigned to show his face just yet.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam speaks up from the table at the other side of the room, where he’s reading through a leaflet for the motel that was there when you arrived, and hasn’t even been picked up yet, “Did you know this place had a pool?”

“What?!” You immediately jump at the chance, though your boyfriend doesn’t look quite so enthusiastic, “Why did no-one tell me about this? We’re going.”

You lick the last of the red juice from your lips and toss the stick in the trash, already pulling your bag towards you to search for a long-neglected swimming costume, “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“What will be fun?”

The voice would surprise you if you weren’t so used to its sudden appearance. Instead, you retract your hands from the bag and flash Cas your most winning smile.

“The pool! Cas, have you ever been swimming before?”

He pauses, considering it, “Never for pleasure. But Jimmy Novak did, I’ve seen some of his memories.” He eventually remembers, which only makes you more excited.

“Not the same. C’mon, guys, it’ll be fun. And we can’t deprive our best friend here of an experience like this, can we?”

The brothers share a look – one which means that they clearly know they’re beaten – then nod in acquiescence.

The pool is so cold it’s almost uncomfortable – a welcome respite from the heat of the midday sun – and slightly grubby, but you’re the first to dive in. You spend a while splashing around and diving beneath the surface but eventually pause by the edge, watching Sam and Cas throwing a ball back and forth.

“Nice view?” Dean’s voice comes from behind you, and an arm wraps around your waist. You smirk, turning to him slowly and giving him a shameless once-over.

“Not going to complain.” You reply evenly, resting your hands on his shoulders, “Why? Jealous?”

“Of course not. If that’s my competition, I have nothing to worry about.” He grins, inching his face a little closer to yours, “Y’know, I guess they’ll be out here for a while. And it’s been a long time since we’ve managed to sneak a few minutes alone.”

“I like the way you think, Dean Winchester.”

The heat outside is nothing compared to the heat inside as his hands trace the curve of your hips; your waist, pulling you closer as his lips attack yours again and again, an unrelenting foe that you’re all too happy to submit to. He’s right – it’s been far too long since you’ve been able to slip away and spend some time together – even like this, fully-clothed (as much as you can be, still in damp swimming costumes) and far enough apart that no-one would be too scandalised by the sight of you.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t give in, giving and taking in equal, but extraordinary measures. He’s like nothing you’ve ever known before – every time, you’re shocked by how he sets every nerve in your body alight anew and turns your muscles to jelly. Nothing around you exists, nothing needs to exist, other than him and you – that is, until he pulls back.

You whine, protesting the loss, but quickly realise that he’s looking sharply in another direction, his eyes no longer on you. You follow his gaze, your face burning when you realise that Sam and Cas are stood in the doorway, wearing identical expressions of surprise.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise we were interrupting something.” Sam offers.

“You aren’t, don’t wo-“

“Just a little.” You and Dean speak at the same time, but you carefully move off of Dean nonetheless and stretch your legs out on the bed.

“Sorry. God loves a trier.” You grin sheepishly, manging to get a laugh from both brothers. Sam nods slowly, before tugging Cas’ arm.

“I just… we’re gonna go… I think I’m gonna teach Cas about the wonders of inflatable rings. You guys be safe.”

And with that he’s gone, closing the door behind them a little harder than necessary. Dean rolls his eyes, then pulls you back towards him, winking mischievously.

“Now that’s done with…” He smirks, shamelessly looking you up and down, “Where were we?”

Request: Last Words

Request: (i love your blog so much omg!!) imagine dean dying (in 9x23) and the reader is crying beside him and tells him he loves him (she is a good hunter friend of the winchesters and bobby and has been in love with dean for years, but never had the guts to tell him and she was afraid he doesn't return her feelings). could you write how he confronts her about her last words to dean as demon!dean and cured!dean? :) i'd love you forever!!

Word Count: 1,681

<3

He’s dead. Dead and gone, eyes as vacant as a burnt out shack and still as stone. You leave them alone for five damn minutes and this happens – you wish you could be angry. You wish you could cry. You wish you could feel anything other than this deep, dark numbness that has settled and made its home in every crack and crevice of your mind and soul.

Even now, in the earliest hours of the morning, sat in a room with the bloody, hollowed-out husk of your best friend since childhood; the love of your life, you feel nothing but cold inside. Even when you reach forward and take his hand in yours – he isn’t stiff to the touch, but he’s cold in an unnatural way that prickles its way down your own spine and rests as a deadweight in your stomach.

“I’m sorry.” You don’t realise that the words are there until they’re out of your mouth and in the open air, into the infinite distance between you, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I was never there.”

Logically speaking, it hadn’t been your fault – they’d left in the earliest hours of the morning with their GPS off and no way of tracking them. They’re excellent trackers, which makes them better hiders – you’d tried to get your hands on them, but there had been no point in it – when the Winchesters didn’t want you to find them, there was no hope of you achieving it. So you’d given up and hidden in the bunker, researching and cleaning and tidying files and the next time the door opened it was Sam, tears running clear channels through the blood on his face, relaying a tale that began the infection of apathy in your heart.

It’s not like you expected a response anyway, but you go on nonetheless, “I hate myself. I hate that I let this happen, I hate that I wasn’t there. Why couldn’t you just let me be there?” They’d been excluding you from the big leagues for a long time – you know it came from a place of love, so you’d rarely objected – and look where it had gotten all of you.

“Why couldn’t you just see it, Dean?” You don’t realise that wet, hot tears are sliding down your face until they drop down onto your chest, making you gasp shakily, “I loved you. Love you. More than anything in this damn world and you still went and died on me, you asshole. Again.

“You’d never let me protect you. Not even from the things I could protect you from. I hated you for that – or at least, I wanted to. But I could never hate you.”

You pull your hand out of his, instead rubbing your hands over your face and raking them through your hair, “God. I hate saying it. I never wanted to – I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same. I didn’t see why you ever would. But I loved you, and I don’t think that’s ever going to stop, whether I want it to or not.”

After that, you let silence take control of the room again, but remain there with him for a few minutes longer, until you can’t bear it anymore. Only then do you stand slowly, releasing his hand for the final time and stepping back.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

The scream echoes through the bunker, reverberating through your bones even through the pillow you’ve buried your face in. It’s completely inhuman; perverse and wrong in every way – but it’s still Dean, and his pain still makes you want to run to him and take it on for yourself. You’re sure Sam feels the same, but you haven’t even been able to look him in the eye for weeks, never mind start a discussion about his brother.

Eventually, you have to give in – it’s late, and as exhausted as you are, Sam must be more so. It’s not like you’re going to be able to sleep anyway, so you shuffle out of bed – despite only being in your pyjamas – and pull an oversized hoodie over your head so the cold of the bunker doesn’t freeze you through during your excursion.

As soon as Sam catches sight of you coming down the corridor, his eyes widen, but he stands up a little straighter.

“What are you doing?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and offer the most blasé smile you can muster.

“I’m coming to take guard for a while. You’re the one bleeding yourself dry for this. Go get yourself some rest, I’ll come and wake you when it’s time for the next dose.”

Sam hesitates before nodding, but eventually has to agree – he looks ten years older, the bags beneath his eyes more pronounced than ever and his face gaunt and pale – but before he goes, he clasps your shoulder carefully.

“Y/N, be careful. That thing… it’s not Dean in there. Not the Dean you know. He doesn’t mean what he’s saying. He just wants to hurt you.”

“I’ve dealt with demons before. Don’t worry, Sam, I’ve got this, I promise.”

He nods, not bothering to elaborate any further before he squeezes your shoulder, then walks past you, heading for his room with a slump to his shoulders that would bring a lump to your throat if it wasn’t already full.

You hang around outside, battling curiosity versus courage for a few moments before eventually pushing your way into the room. Dean’s attention snaps to you instantly, and he grins, feral and wild. You swallow, pushing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie and standing before him, feeling oddly exposed.

“Y/N. I’d bring you a cup of tea, but…” He tugs at the restraints on his arms, then sighs melodramatically, “I take it Sam needed a break?”

“I told him to go for one. I figured you could use my wonderful company for a while.” You shrug, slowly walking over to the table Sam had laid out the syringes and holy water on, then sit yourself down on top of it, letting your legs hang down with your bare feet just barely brushing the floor.

“Bless your heart. Always were such a martyr, weren’t you?”

“I think you preferred to take that title, don’t you?” You hit back, perhaps too quickly, because he grins, rolling his eyes and blinking, to turn his gaze to obsidian. You struggle not to flinch at the sight.

“Only because you were too weak to do anything real.” He smirks, going in where he knows it’ll upset you, “Too weak and too slow. Never as good as us.”

“I know.” You shrug, obscuring your hurt with nonchalance, “But you still kept me around for some reason.”

“I cared for you.” He spits, “God only knows why, but I liked you. Loved you, even. I liked having you here.”

“But not now?”

He shrugs, “It’s fun to watch your little mind screaming in there, but other than that you’re a bit of a good-for-nothing. You’d understand if you were me, Y/N: you’re pretty much worthless.”

You narrow your eyes at him, carefully standing from the table and taking a tentative step backwards, towards the door – you can keep watch from outside just as easily.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Sam wobbles out of the room, just barely able to support his brother – his human brother. Cas keeps watch too, just a pace behind them, whereas you’ve spent the last half-hour making sure that Dean’s room is just right. You’re not out of the woods yet, but… he’s human again. As long as he makes it through the night, you’ll be safe.

You volunteer yourself for first watch – you’d managed to evade his rampage by being out getting food at the time, so you feel like it’s only fair. You pull up a seat by his bed, and read while he sleeps, looking up every minute or so to make sure he’s still breathing.

He sleeps for a full twelve hours before even stirring, but when he does, he groans, turning onto his back and squinting against the dim lamplight the room is bathed in.

“Dean?”

“Y/N?” He peers at you, and immediately his face clouds with guilt and his eyes fill with tears, “God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that.” You assure him, reaching out and taking his hand in both of yours, “We’ve all done it, Dean. Said things we don’t mean while under the influence of something nasty.”

“It wasn’t true.” His voice is scratched and broken, and you nod, trying to get him to relax and be quiet.

“I know. I knew you didn’t mean it.” You promise him, offering a small smile, “Sleep, Dean, it’s fine. Get rested, and we can talk later.”

“I don’t want to sleep until you promise you’re fine.”

“I’m fine. I promise.”

A long pause hangs between you for a few moments, and then he finds your hand, twining your fingers with his, “I meant some of it.”

“Which part?”

“About liking having you around. About loving you.” His voice snags on the word, but he continues nonetheless, “I’m sorry I never told you. I just-“

“Shut up. Stop apologising.” You insist, moving from the chair to perch on the bed beside him, “Listen to me. There is nothing I’d like to do more than have this discussion – Dean… I like you too. Love you. Whatever. But it’s a complicated thing, and one I’m not willing to have until we’ve slept, showered, and had a greasy-ass BLT. How’s that for a plan?”

He smiles, albeit weakly, “That’s my girl.”

“Absolutely. Now sleep, Dean, you’re exhausted.”

He nods, not bothering to protest it, but shuffling back a bit on the bed and pulling the cover open.

“Stay with me?” He requests, and you don’t have the willpower to say no. You slip into the bed beside him, allowing him to wrap an arm around you protectively and nestle his face into the hollow between your neck and shoulder.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Request: Everything You’ve Ever Wanted

Request: Hi!!! Could you please do one of an oblivious reader going with a bar with tfw and then someone hitting on her and dean gets super jealous but he's scared to admit his feeling lazy etc etc you can choose how it ends but preferably dean and he reader gets together (duh) okay love you and your amazing writing xxxxx

Word count: 1,013

Love you too<3 Thank you:)

“Dean, you’ve gone the last three times. I’ve got this.” You reassure him, using his shoulder to push yourself to your feet and deftly picking up the three glasses on the table with a clink. The eldest Winchester narrows his eyes at you, but nods, his eyes following you as you weave through the group of people loitering near the bar to grab the bartender’s attention.

It isn’t a big bar, nor is it too popular, despite it being a Saturday evening, but Dean still doesn’t like the amount of people – men, in particular – hanging around the bar and leering at you as you pass them. He wouldn’t appreciate it even if he wasn’t completely, hopelessly, endlessly in love with you.

You don’t notice his eyes on you, skirting past one man in particular – tall and broad, probably edging towards Sam’s height and built twice as broad – and setting the glasses on the top of the bar. You rest your hands on the edge of it, waiting for the poor solo bartender to get to you – you’re not impatient. Quite the opposite, actually, as you examine your nails and pick a little spec of blood from beneath your thumbnail: try as you might, you can never get rid of it all.

“Hey,” A voice comes behind you – it’s low and velvety, but it doesn’t belong to either of the brothers. You turn slowly, looking up until you finally meet the face of the man you’d passed just moments ago.

“Hi.” You flash him a smile – polite, formal, but not uninviting. Despite his size, he doesn’t look too threatening – and you have the advantage of him not knowing about the gun and four knives currently concealed in your clothes.

“I didn’t want to interrupt, but I had to come over and say hello. It’s not often we get girls as pretty as you around here.” Bless his heart, he looks almost flustered – even you find yourself smiling a little, leaning back against the bar.

“That’s… very kind of you.”

“Not at all. Who are those guys you’re with?” He enquires, and you lift onto your tiptoes to catch sight of Sam and Dean over the shoulders of the people standing around.

“They’re… friends. Colleagues. Both.” You half-explain, “We’re in pest control, but we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.” He takes a sip from his drink, “I was worried that one of them was your boyfriend.”

The image of Dean immediately pops into your head, but you push it back in order to laugh and shake your head.

“Nah, nothing like that.”

“Good.” He smiles, holding out his spare hand, “I’m Josh. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet yo-“ You’re halfway through a sentence when someone steps right in between you, effectively cutting off the conversation. Before you can protest, you realise that it’s Dean, and he’s staring up at Josh with pure fire in his eyes.

“Don’t look at her like that.” He growls, pushing you further behind him with one hand. You bat him away, but don’t get the chance to protest as Josh puffs out his chest, glaring down at Dean.

“Don’t look at her like what?” He asks, raising an eyebrow as if in disbelief that some guy would interrupt his pulling.

“Like she’s a piece of meat, or some kind of conquest. It’s sickening.” Dean snaps, “You’re sickening.”

“Dean!” You protest, looking desperately to the table, which Sam has suspiciously disappeared from, “Stop it! Go away, everything’s fine.”

“Everything isn’t fine, Y/N. I know you want to see the best in people, but this guy is just-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a fist hits his jaw. A gasp echoes through the bar, followed by a pregnant silence – you seem to be the only one who isn’t frozen.

“That’s it, we’re done here. Come on, Dean.” You grab him by the elbow, and before he can go for a weapon, you drag him out of the bar, yanking his arm hard enough that it’s either walk with you or dislocate his shoulder.

Once he hits the cold air outside, he seems to come back to life, lifting a hand to his already bruised jaw and grimacing, “Damn, that guy knows how to hit. See how much danger you were in? You’re welcome.”

“Don’t be stupid. You were being a dick. You deserved it. And it’s not like anything was going to happen – one night, maybe, but-“ You cut yourself off when you realise that he’s turning away from you, looking pained – and somehow, you don’t think it has anything to do with the bruise.

“Dean, c’mon, don’t do this.” You reach over, touching his shoulder, “I’m sorry, alright? If you had a bad feeling about this, you’re probably right.”

“I’m not.” He mutters – you nearly don’t catch it, but he goes on before you can ask for a qualifier, “I had a good feeling about him. He seemed nice, and not too creepy. I was scared.”

“Scared of what? That I’d like him too much and I’d abandon you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t-“ He cuts himself off, rubbing his hands over his face, “I was scared that you’d like him too much and I’d have to watch you falling for him, watch you happy with him. I’m sorry – just go back in there, I need to go home anyway, I-“

“Why?” You ask – it’s more of a demand, but he still pauses before answering.

“Because I wish it was me. Because I’m selfish and awful. Don’t make this worse, Y/N, I’m already sorry, I’ll go in there and apologise if you want, I just can’t…” I wish it was me. Me.

And… that’s it. Like making a deal and sealing your fate, you lean in and, before he can drag himself into the mud anymore, press your lips to his. He takes a split second to respond, but once he does it’s like nothing you’ve ever known before. Like… everything you’ve ever wanted, whether you knew it or not.

Request: Helpless

Request: Could you do Deanxreader where the reader isn't a hunter and so she stays at the bunker while the boys do their case, but one day the reader feels unsafe by herself and asks Dean to teach her how to fight?

Word Count: 943

Reminder that requests are open (and quickly emptying) so if there’s an idea you’re feeling, come and let me know<3

Everything is dark and silent – the bunker had been wrapped in the silence for days now. It always is, when Sam and Dean leave to hunt, only broken by occasional visits from an angel and/or demon. You don’t mind it – in fact, nine times out of ten, you relish it.

That is, until you wake from a dream that you can’t quite place and the only thing you know is fear; the only sound is your heart in your ears and your own rapid breaths. You’re up and out of the bed – you’re not a hunter. Never have been, likely never will be. But you know what they are, what they do – hell, you’ve been dating one of their most prolific examples for nearly two years. You know the bunker should be secure. But once too many, you’ve been exposed to danger here, which is why the sound of the door creaking and clanking sets your heart racing even further.

You lean over, and check your phone – no text from Dean, or even Sam, like you’ve had every time before. They’d be in touch – so it can’t be them. Cas and Crowley don’t use the door, and anyone else wouldn’t just show up at… four-thirty-seven-AM.

There’s a gun stashed under the bed, and a knife in a hollowed out section of the headboard around the back. You grab both – despite having no idea how to wield either – and press your back to the wall by the door, trying to listen for voices.

When none come, you can only conclude that whoever – or whatever – it is must be alone. You set the knife to the side, and punch Dean’s number into your phone, pressing it to your ear with shaking hands.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Pick up, pick up, pick u-“

“This number is unavailable. Please-“

You hang up before whatever it is out there can hear the robotic voice on the other end of the phone.

There is barely time to get your thoughts together before the door pushes open, and a tall, broad figure is upon you – and you’re running at it, gun in one hand and phone in the other.

It has you disarmed in seconds. Less. It’s all so fast that before you know it, you’re weaponless, back pressed against an unknown chest and strong arms pinning your hands to your chest.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, stop, stop. It’s me, it’s Dean.” His voice is low and rough in your ear, but he speaks rapidly and urgently – it’s enough to calm you down, at least enough to understand that you’re not in danger. Even Sam watches with a look of wide-eyes surprise, despite the obvious tiredness in his features.

“D-Dean?” He slowly releases you once he knows that you’re not about to go on the offensive again, nodding slowly.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t call. Or text. Or anything. I didn’t think it was you, I didn’t know-“ You ramble, staring at him as the panic subsides. He gives a small smile, reaching out and squeezing your hands.

“My phone died, and Sam’s kind of got destroyed. I’d have sent Cas ahead, but he’s kinda AWOL. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He gives a rueful smile, before leaning forward to kiss your forehead gently. He only lets go then, glancing back, “You mind if I go grab a snack and a shower? I’ll be with you in ten minutes, tops.”

You have to hesitate, not particularly wanting to be alone, but you don’t have any option, really, but to nod. Dean gives his brother a small nod, then ushers you carefully back into the bedroom.

“I won’t be long. I promise.”

It’s just over five minutes later – literally – when you hear the door open, and the bed beside you dip somewhat as Dean climbs into it. You’re not asleep – far from it – but you’re pretty good at pretending to be, while you think.

“Alright, Y/N?” He asks softly, reaching out and resting his hand on your waist – asking for permission. You don’t have to hesitate, as ever, before rolling over and curling into him, but he always asks anyway.

“I want to be able to fight.” You blurt, not answering his question. His look of surprise is nearly enough to make you retract the statement, but instead, you qualify it further, “Not… not to hunt. But to be able to defend myself. I felt – and was – completely helpless tonight, we were lucky it was a false alarm. And you know I wouldn’t leave you for the world, but being with you and Sam is dangerous. It makes sense that I can fight.”

He can’t deny it, “But you definitely don’t want to hunt?” He asks – right from day one, he’s been desperate to keep you out and away from the life, even if he can’t get you away from himself.

“No. Not to hunt. I don’t think it’s my thing.” You assure him, lifting your head to peck his lips, “But you know what I mean, Dean. And who better to teach me than you?”

He mulls it over for a moment, then looks down at you, “I wouldn’t go easy on you. Don’t expect a straight ride.”

“I wouldn’t want one.” You promise him, eager and surprised that he’s agreed, “You’re definitely okay with this? Because if you think there’s a better option...”

“No. You’re right.” He says, a sudden smile gracing his features despite the darkness surrounding the pair of you, “I’m proud of you. My Y/N. We can start a fight club.”

That makes you laugh. “Absolutely. But right now…”

“Sleep?”

“You read my mind exactly.”  

Request: Loved

Request: May I request Mary (season 12 reference) coming to the bunker with dean and meeting the reader (she is a relationship with dean and told his mother about her)? :)

Word count: 1,130

<3

“Dean?” Your voice is barely a breath as you answer the phone, escaping as a transparent cloud on the cool spring air. It can’t be him – Amara and the bomb and Chuck and Rowena and… all of the jumbled, clouded images flit through your head at once and then disappear completely as he speaks again.

“Yeah, it’s me. Y/N, where the hell are you? Were you with Sam?” He cuts to the chase, and you quickly pick up on the panic in his voice – you’d know it anywhere on Earth.

“No.” There’s more shame in the word than you’d like him to hear – it wasn’t that you’d abandoned them. It wasn’t at all. It was more that the goodbye with Dean had been too much for you to bear, and you needed a few hours to be alone with your thoughts. The world may have been saved, but yours had been irreparably shattered, “And I’m about a mile away from the bunker. Probably less.”

“Good. Sam’s gone, there’s blood, and- and-“ His voice sputters and dies, “I can explain when you get here. Can you just…?”

You don’t have to pause, “Give me a minute. Maybe five.” You tell him, and then he’s ended the call – and that’s how you know it’s him, not some sick perversion like it was last time or a cheap imitation: there’s no goodbye, no ‘see you soon’. That’s it, it’s a given that you’ll be there.

“Dean?” The door creaks and clanks as you haul it open, gun in one hand. You creep down the stairs, not quite knowing what threat to expect, if any. However, by the time he’s taken three steps out of the war room, you’re on him, throwing your arms around his neck as the gun clatters to the floor and his arms wrap you up, strong and safe, lifting your feet clean off the ground. Dean buries his face into your shoulder, vaguely reminiscent of the hug you’d last shared – except this one is joy and relief, where the other had been sorrow and fear.

“God, Y/N.” His breath is warm and face scratchy and he’s alive. The last thing in the universe that you want to do is pull away, but when you finally open your eyes and look over his shoulder, you’re startled into pulling back.

A blonde woman stands behind him, watching you both with a mixture of intense confusion and affectionate amusement. You look from her, to Dean, and then back to her – for one, she’s wearing your shirt, and for another, she looks familiar in a way you can’t place.

“Y/N,” His arm remains tight around your waist, although he does let you back down onto the floor, “Meet my mom, Mary. Mom, this is Y/N.”

She quirks an eyebrow, and for a split second you realise that the mannerism belongs to Dean – many of her features do, in fact. It’s only then do you recognise her as the woman from the photographs Dean never has out of arm’s reach.

“This is Y/N?” She asks, and Dean nods in confirmation, smiling proudly – like this is a moment he’d always wished for; to introduce his girlfriend to his mother. Mary takes a slow step forward, looking you up and down – not scrutinising, but examining. Wanting to familiarise herself with you.

“You mentioned me?” You glance up at Dean, but his mother cuts in before he can even think of an answer.

“Oh, you’re all he mentioned. I was starting to think I’d had another child I didn’t remember until he specified that you were his girlfriend,” She smiles, and you can’t help but laugh a little at that, “Oh, Y/N, you’ll love Y/N. She’s so beautiful and smart and funny and…”

“Mom!” Dean interrupts indignantly, his face flushed red. Both you and Mary manage a laugh at that, despite the situation at hand – but the confusion and anxiety soon cloud her features again, and you look between the two of them for a few moments.

“Dean, babe, have you tried calling Cas? He came back here with Sam, and if that’s an angel-banishing sigil I see over there, he definitely was here.” You offer, lifting up to kiss his cheek before withdrawing, “Mary, I feel like you could use a cup of tea… milk and extra honey?”

For just a moment, she hesitates, looking between the two of you – and then she nods, relief flooding her features – an excuse to avoid the stressful situation for a little while, and to get her out of Dean’s high expectations so she can take a few breaths. You couldn’t be happier for him, but you know as well as anyone that he can be a bit of an overexcited puppy every now and again.

“So… you’ve done this before?” She asks, heaping more honey into the tea. You nod, giving a small smile and sipping your drink slowly.

“Once or twice. Sam and Dean have too, but we all lost count a few times ago.” At the look of horror on her face, you reach over and rest your hand over hers – the idea of her sons dying and coming back must be awful to her. Especially when her own experience of it seems to be going less than smoothly for her, “They always seem to come back. Dean always used to say it’s because angels were watching over them.”

Mary’s eyes widen slightly at her own words being echoed back from the mouth of an outsider, but she doesn’t seem to have the words of her own.

“There isn’t a day goes by when he doesn’t think about you.” You tell her softly, giving a small smile, “Don’t take that as pressure. But take it to know that you’re loved here, and always have been. I get it, fitting back in can be awkward. But I’m here, and so are Sam and Dean. And if you need to be stupid and quiet and go and get our nails done or do something menial, I’m always up for a girls’ day out.”

Again, she only seems to stare at you, and you fear that you’ve overstepped the mark – after all, you’re practically a stranger to her. But, instead, after a few moments, a wide, warm smile spreads over her face and her eyes wrinkle in exactly the same way that Dean’s do.

“I get it.” She says softly, her eyes twinkling, “I understand completely… what he sees in you. Why he loves you so much. Why you love him.”

All of those thoughts you’d had, growing up, about meeting your boyfriend’s parents and trying to impress them… this couldn’t be further from that if it tried. But you wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

Request: Blood or Not

Request: Can I get an imagine where Dean and Sam are on a hunt with their friend, who's like a sister to them, and Castiel's soulmate? She goes to fight something that went after a baby and destroys it because when she was younger she lost her baby sister?

Word Count: 1,013

“Y/N, you need to be rational about this.” Dean attempts, watching as you stuff yet another gun into your trusty knapsack. You only glare at him in response, eyes boring holds of pure heat into him – and not in a good way. He’s never seen you like this – it’s frightening. For someone who usually provides so much joy and light, you’re terrifying when you’re on a mission.

“Rational? Rational?” You flip the flap over and haul it onto your back, “Rational went out of the window the second we established that a baby was a target here. A baby, Dean! How are you still sat on your ass?!”

Sam, who is intelligently sat on the bed in the corner, visibly flinches. Good. Let him flinch – let him be afraid. Let them both see how deadly serious you are about this, because any form of play disappeared from the chess game a long time ago. Too long – it could already be too late, for all you know.

“Y/N, sit down. This… thing, it’s been going after people for a long time. It’s good at it. We need a plan before we go charging in there.” A special cult of vampires, travelling from town to town, prizing the blood of the young and innocent over any other. They don’t get a look-in most of the time, but here… it’s a given. They’ve wormed their way into the social care system, and it’s only a matter of time.

“I don’t give a shit!” You explode, having to resist going for the gun at your side, “We’ve taken out bigger and badder things with less planning. We don’t have the time, Dean. Sam, you have to agree with me.”

Sam lifts his head, but only to give you an apologetic shake of the head. If you’d been even slightly less human than you are, you’d have growled.

 “I can’t believe- you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Call me when the two of you have managed to grow a pair.” You turn on your heel, and make it all of three steps towards the door before bouncing straight off something as hard and steady as stone.

“Y/N? What is the problem? I could feel your distress.” He says softly, hands coming to rest of your shoulders. Despite the calm he always offers, you can still feel your heart racing and stomach twisting – you’d accepted the bond between the two of you just a few months ago, meaning that him being there and so close combined with all of the emotion and turmoil of the situation…

Of all the stupid, annoying, embarrassing things, your stupid human brain doesn’t know how to do anything but burst into tears. Completely overwhelmed by everything, you crumple into his chest, tears already building up and flooding over in protest of it all.

Before you know it, you’re bundled into his arms, the warm glow of his protection quickly enfolding you in comfort – both of you know how dangerous and volatile the bond can be, and you’re slowly adjusting, but with every hardship you learn that it’s worth it. Even when he does get… grumpy, whenever you’re less than smiling.

“What did you say to her?” Cas snarls, still holding you close. Dean holds fast, though seeing one of his best friends as terrifying as that… to his credit, he waits until Cas’ gaze moves back to you before he flinches.

“We… realised that the cult’s victims are children; that the random killings were just to throw us off.” Sam says softly, ever the diffuser, “Y/N… wanted to go straight away. We thought that we needed a plan.”

Something sparks in Cas’ eyes. Both brothers see it – and you feel it, through something deeper and more innate. Before you can lift your head to comment, the motel room has fallen away from beneath your feet and you’re… in a brightly lit park. Children play, parents talk idly, but none of them so much as look at the pair of you.

Cas pulls back then, wiping away the tears from your face and searching your eyes for a few moments, “This is about your sister.”

You nod.

“Sam and Dean don’t know about her.”

A shake. You hadn’t wanted to tell them – not when they had their own sibling-related issues, and certainly not when you didn’t feel like you could talk about it without falling into a thousand pieces, yourself, even all these years later.

“Y/N, you don’t have to hide it. You did nothing wrong,” His voice is low and soothing, like the soft warmth of a blanket by a fire after a snowstorm, “You have nothing to be ashamed of. We all bear our scars – Sam and Dean are family. They aren’t going to judge you.”

“I know.” You wipe at your eyes, unable to meet his azure gaze, “But… I just didn’t want to talk about it. She should be here, she should be alive. But she isn’t. And this is the least I can do to make up for that.”

Cas pauses, then nods, reaching down and taking one of your hands in both of his, soft and steady, “Alright. You and I, we’ll go together. How is that?”

There isn’t another option but to nod: you can’t take the hunt alone, and you certainly aren’t going to go with Sam and Dean now. Plus, what better than time spent with your soulmate? Even hunting time is better than no time.

The hunt went smoothly – even when you slip back into the motel room, hidden under Cas’ celestial cloak of silence, and slide into bed, the panic and flood of emotions has ebbed away. You’re exhausted, and by the time Cas has draped his coat over you and taken a seat next to you in order to watch over you – a position he’s taken up most nights, over the past few months – you’re knocked out.

Even so, he watches over you – and the boys. Because you’re family. And family, blood or not, doesn’t give up on each other.

Request: My Whole World

Request: Can you write one where the reader is being really petty towards dean for something he did and he gets fed up in a cute and fluffy way please.

Request: Could you write one where the reader is taking a nap and she's pregnant and wakes up to dean talking to her stomach and it's just all fluffy and cute

Word Count: 1,673

Thank you! I hope it’s what you were hoping for. Lots of love<3

“So anyway,” You continue, dipping the spoon back into the ice-cream carton and digging out another generous mouthful, “I get into the kitchen and he’s sat there, just munching on the last cookie. I’m not even kidding. I’d been craving them for weeks and I’d finally managed to convince his protective, overbearing ass to take me out to pick up the ingredients and he eats the last bloody one.”

Sam eyes the carton, balanced precariously atop your growing bump, and smiles a little, “He can be rude sometimes.”

“I know, right? And he acts like it’s nothing, like I haven’t been dragging his spawn around inside me for… what, seven and a half months?” You sigh dramatically, “All I wanted was a cookie and now all I have is…”

“Ice-cream?” Sam quirks an eyebrow with an amused smile, but you just shoot him a sardonic glare.

“It isn’t what I want. And you and Dean are so close, this might as well be your spawn too, so watch what you’re saying.” You manage to get the spoonful of ice-cream into your mouth just in time to point the spoon at him accusatorially, but he only laughs at you – it’s been like this for nearly three days now, considering that you’re not exactly on speaking terms with Dean unless it involves backrubs or food.

“I’m sure he feels awful.” Sam attempts, picking up another plate and setting it in the warm, soapy water of the sink – baby-proofing efforts are fully underway in the bunker, which, according to Sam, means turning the place into a clean, half-decent child-rearing environment. The brothers are so concerned with making it completely perfect and safe that you’ve barely had anything to do with it, which you’re perfectly fine with at this point.

“No, he doesn’t. He feels bad that I’m grumpy with him. But he enjoyed that cookie, and I know it.” You narrow your eyes, “They were damn good cookies.”

Sam turns to you after a moment, “Y/N, can I say something without you… spontaneously bursting into tears or throwing your ice-cream at me?”

“Probably not, but go on.” You nod, scraping out the bottom of the carton and giving him a roguish grin. He offers a small, though hesitant, smile, drying his hands off on the towel draped over the oven door handle.

“I think you’re scared. About Dean, about the baby, about everything.” He watches warily as your eyes narrow, and you sit forward slowly, a protective hand moving over your stomach as if his words could somehow hurt the tiny, helpless infant inside, “And I can’t help but wonder if you’re finding excuses to keep him at arm’s length so that if something does go wrong, he doesn’t blame himself. So he isn’t so hurt by losing one or both of you.”

“Sam-“ You try, but he has a way of reading you that not even Dean has managed to grasp – he really is your best friend, your brother in all but blood – in the least weird way, considering you’ve been with his biological brother for years.

“You’re going to be fine, Y/N. All three of you.”

“All four of us.” You correct, and he gives a conceding nod.

“All four of us. We have heaven and hell on our side, Y/N. Trust me on this one, alright?” He moves half a step closer to you, the smile on his face reminding you that he’s as excited as you are for this, and has mulled over every single one of the same possibilities, “We’ve gotten through everything else. This is just another adventure.”

You let the silence hang between you for a few moments, before hauling yourself to your feet and fixing him with a look that lets him know that he’s absolutely right, but that you’re less than impressed about it.

“One of these days, Sam Winchester, you’re going to tell someone a home truth that they really hate and you’re going to get punched.” You tell him, though the smile on your face instantly negates any kind of seriousness in your statement, “And fair warning, I am going to laugh.”

“Fair point.” He smiles, stepping forward to take your shoulders in his hands and press an affectionate kiss to your brow, “Go on, Y/N, get some rest. I’m almost done here.”

He can tell how obnoxiously tired you are, and even how hard you’re trying to hide it. It’s been a difficult transition, and one you’re still struggling with, going from reckless, active hunter, to careful, nurturing mother – though it’s one you’re more than willing to make.

“Alright, Sammy. I’m going for a nap.”

Naps have recently – even over the last three or four weeks – have become your primary source of sustenance. Depending on the hours that Winchester junior decides to make your bladder/ribs/kidneys into his or her personal trampoline, you’re not getting as much sleep as night as you perhaps should be, which means that the couch is your new favourite spot – these days, if either brother or anyone else needs to get a hold of you, that’s usually where you can be found.

When you find that the something pulling you from the warmth and comfort of sleep is Dean’s voice, you’re less than surprised – for a man who pretty much makes a living out of being sneaky and stealthy, he doesn’t half know how to make a racket (and then some) when he wants to. What you are more surprised to find is that, from where his voice is, he’s sat on the floor in front of you with his face up close to your shirt – more specifically, to your stomach.

“… And she’s stubborn; don’t ever try to get in her way. I’ve known her forever, and I’ve only actively disagreed with her once or twice. She’s clever, too. Probably too much for her own good. And beautiful – hopefully you’ll look a lot like her, but not too much, because then you’ll be charming the living shit out of everything in a five mile radius from the minute you’re born and none of us will stand a chance.”

He’s speaking in a low, soft tone that is difficult for even you to pick up at this point, but what you do feel is his hand lightly ghosting over your stomach – at first, you thought it was a bit odd, the way he’d like to randomly feel you up, but it eventually became more endearing than anything else.

“Another thing you’ve gotta watch out for with your mom is that she’s funny. Too funny, sometimes, like when we’re in a life or death situation and she comes out with a comment and man, does it piss off whoever – or whatever – we’re hunting and it distracts us all but it just makes the whole thing more bearable. But you’ll never know any of that, anyway, if we get our way. You deserve better, and I’ll be damned if that’s not what you’re going to get. Then again, I’m probably damned anyway.”  

He sighs softly, and after a moment, you feel his nose up against your skin.

“God, kid, I hope I don’t screw you up. I hope you get the childhood I couldn’t. I’d never be able to live with myself if you were scared for one minute of it.” He’s choked up, you realise, your heart skipping a beat and stomach lurching, “Kid, you are so, so loved. Whether your mom is pissed off at me or not; whether you know it or not, you two are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I promise you, you’re not going to forget that. And neither am I.”

There’s a long moment, and he takes a deep breath, obviously trying to collect himself – you’ve heard him speaking to the bump before, of course. He’s played music to it, cranking the volume up in the Impala as soon as he’d read in one of those books that the baby had hearing organs (‘Have to get their tastes refined early, Y/N. I refuse to have a child who can’t appreciate a bit of rock.’) and belting out lyrics even when it was just the two of you – but never like this. Never with that… vulnerability; never with that kind of feeling.

You prise one eye open, watching him for a few moments, “You really just can’t let me be mad at you for more than three and a half minutes, can you?”

His head snaps up and his eyes widen as he realises that you’re awake, and have been the whole time – his eyes are still shining and slightly glazed, but he plays it off by clearing his throat and giving you a small smile.

“So you’re not mad at me anymore? I can’t keep up.” He says softly, searching for your hand, and, once he finds it, he twines his fingers with yours sweetly.

“I was never mad at you. Well… not once the damage had been done.” You concede with a smile, slowly pushing yourself into a sitting position so he can come and sit beside you, one arm around your shoulders and the other hand still laced with yours.

“I’m sorry about the cookie. I’ll go and find more, Sam and I were thinking about-“

“It’s not about the damn cookie, Dean. Not even a little.” You interrupt, pulling your hand from his to hold his palm to your stomach, “I… was being dumb. And stupid. And rude. And it was uncalled for, whether I was being funny and petty over a cookie or not.”

“Is that an apology?” His eyes widen, but a grin spreads over his face as the baby kicks against his hand. You quirk an eyebrow.

“Don’t push your luck. And whether I’m mad or not, you owe me cookies.”

He doesn’t hesitate to nod, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “Anything you want. Everything you want. I don’t care, Y/N. You – both of you – you’re my world now.”

Request: Unfazed

Request: Can you write one where the reader and dean have been texting a lot lately and Sam is curious as to who he's been texting so he snatches his phone.

Word Count: 816

So… I’m trying. Again. But this short thing is further than I’ve gotten in a while – I’ve gone back to the second person perspective, and I’m taking it back to basics (aka fluffy, chessy rubbish), but I really love doing this and really want to get back at it. Let’s just see how it goes – but for now, it feels nice to be back! J

“So she had nothing; I honestly don’t think she saw anything. Maybe it wiped her memory, or she just- are you still on that thing?” Sam’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight – his brother, elbow against the open window and head cradled in his hand as he looks down at his phone, tapping in characters with his spare hand. Before this last week, the phone was barely used – looked like it was straight out of the box. And just days ago, something changed, and Sam can barely remember the last time he saw his brother without the damn thing in his hand.

“What? No. I mean, yeah, but no.” Dean shakes his head, locking the phone and watching as his younger brother drops into the passenger seat – however, promptly, the phone lights up and buzzes, “What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Literally. Seriously, Dean, who are you talking to?” He raises an eyebrow in challenge, watching as Dean is unable to resist checking what it says, despite the fact that he simultaneously sits up and revs the engine to pull away from the police station.

“No-one. Even if it was, it would be none of your business.” There’s something snappy in his tone – something that Sam can’t help but react to; be antagonised by it: so he does the only thing the petty little brother inside of him knows how to do. In one quick, snappy movement he reaches over and snatches the phone from Dean’s hand.

Dean damn near rolls the car off of the road in his lurch to retrieve it: horns blare and brakes screech around him, but he barely notices.

“Dammit Sam, give that back!”

Despite his back being pressed flush to the car door, and the phone is clutched to his chest, Sam just grins, opening the phone back up and reading through the open page of messages – specifically, the name at the top.

“Y/N? Who’s Y/N?” He raises an eyebrow, looking up at his brother, who finally seems to have gained the wherewithal to keep to his lane. Dean sighs, holding out his hand for the phone – a clear bargain; the phone for information. Sam hands it over, albeit begrudgingly.

“Y/N from the last case.” Dean tells him, “Her next-door neighbour got flattened. Pretty thing, makes great pie. She’s funny, and smart – she’d make a great hunter, but I’d never-“

“Oh, Dean. You’re in love.” Sam snorts, despite trying not to: it’s a long time since he’s seen Dean like this, and he deserves it. Really.

“I’m not. It’s not… it’s not like that. Not yet.” He shakes his head – by all other counts, Sam would assume that he was… nervous? Flustered? Either way, it’s nearly comical in how messed up he is by you.

“Yet? Then what are we doing in this place? Dean, for crying out loud, just go and-“

“I’m meeting her at the weekend. If you read the messages, there were plans – we’re going for dinner. She already knows the main… deal, with us, but depending on how it goes I was thinking about telling her more. Maybe even-“

“The bunker?” Sam raises an eyebrow – of all things, he hadn’t expected that, although it’s in a positive way. After the mention, he remembers you – your bright smile and kind attitude. They’d walked into your apartment building armed to the teeth and yet you’d still invited them in for coffee and a sandwich, because you could tell they were starving and tired. The exact kind of person Dean could use in his life – unfazed by even the most surprising of situations, but not desensitised. Not cold or callous or calculating.

“I was going to ask you first. Make an excuse to get us all together, and- and- I don’t know, but-“

“Dean.” Sam interrupts, catching his brother’s eye and letting his lips quirk into a smile, “It’s fine. Let her into the bunker. As much as it pains me, I trust your judgement.”

Dean’s eyes widen, “Really?”

“Yeah. And realistically, what’s the worst that can happen?” Sam smiles warmly, leaning over to clasp his brother’s shoulder affectionately, “We have guns. A lot of them. And an angel or two, and maybe a demon, depending on if he hates us right now or not, and-“

“I get it,” Dean smiles, obviously enthused by the idea of bringing you to the bunker – of course, it’s not a done deal. You might not even want to leave your home or friends – especially not for him. But it’s a step, a possibility, a little spark of hope in the span of a few weeks that have seemed bleaker than things have in a long time.

After a few moments of silence between the two of them, Dean’s phone buzzes and lights up once more.

Y/N I’d love to see you – Saturday at seven is great. Don’t be late : P x