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Latest Posts by angels-silhouette - Page 5
bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements
I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things. The family business.
Supernatural Season One (September 13th 2005 - May 4th 2006) | template
Ten Years Gone {d.w.}
2. The Passenger
Warning: none
Word count: 2.1k
A/N: Any and all feedback is welcome! Please hit up my inbox, I love yapping! She’s a slow burn type of story, on purpose? Maybe. I have so many things I want to do with Dean and Novena. Happy reading :)
Novena was shivering as she was walking back to her house, she really wished that she could afford to fix her car after what Vince had done to it. The tires slashed, side mirrors broken, dents all over, and he had cut her brake line. Usually she’s good at reading people from the jump, but with Vince there was always something that seemed to cloud her judgement. And with her dad passing–paying for the funeral expenses put a hole in her wallet that’s been difficult to come back from.
The weight of the world was really crashing into her lately. The pain was unbearable at times, so much so that she was having nightmares that would leave her gasping for air. The only person left in her life who really knew who she was, what she was, is gone. Hot tears rolled down her face, the cold wind made sure to sting her cheeks; Novena didn’t bother wiping away her sadness.
She had another ten minutes of freezing her ass off before she was able to wrap herself in her thick comforter. There was a car coming up from behind her, and a sweet familiar purr radiated from it. That car was at the bar when she left, it could only be one of two people… While she wasn’t necessarily scared of the guy who tried to hit on her, it wouldn’t be pleasant interacting with him again. The person who was driving slowed to a stop and rolled down the window.
“You need a ride, stranger?” Dean shouted from across the road.
Novena’s shoulders eased their way down to a neutral position, grateful that she wouldn’t need to defend herself. Swiftly making her way over to the pristine jet black Impala, she leaned down to meet his gaze.
“I thought you were that asshat for a second.” Dabbing her nose between saying, “I’d love a ride home, it’s wicked numb out here.”
“That’s almost an insult, you thinking that he’d have a nice Baby like this.” Dean had a serious look on his face while he patted his steering wheel, but then it turned into this adorable grin, one that warmed Novena to her core. He has such a charming smile, nice straight teeth with pointy canines, and his smile actually seemed to reach his eyes this time. “You getting in or not, crazy girl?”
“Yes, yeah. Thank you!” A chuckle escaped from Dean’s mouth—it met her ears while she was running to the other side of the car. He reached over the passenger seat to open the door for her, and she quickly plopped herself onto the seat and shut the door.
“Where are we headed?”
“You’ll take this road all the way down pretty much. House number is 44, on the left. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”
“Sounds good.”
The pair sat in silence. The rumbling of the Impala and the way it smelled like gasoline and faintly of apple pie, was comforting. Instrumentals of an old rock song filled the air. Then, out of nowhere, she became extremely aware of her surroundings. Time seemed to stop.
When she moved her head to look at Dean, it felt like her neck was being weighed down by an invisible force. This sequence of events feels so vivid, so unmistakable from one of her dreams she had months ago. The way his hand was lightly cradling the wheel and how he slumped in the seat so casually, the song she wished she could remember, and the feeling of affinity for a man she doesn't know. Only she couldn’t see the man's face in her dream. Deja Vu.
With her illusions fading, she snaps back to reality. “You never told me why you were in town. What brings you here, Dean?”
His eyebrows twitched with sadness and careful consideration, his grip on the wheel tightened, and he readjusted himself in his seat. Dean didn’t know if he wanted to tell the truth to Novena or not, since it was so easy to unwind in her presence. He still can’t believe that that actually happened, it was so unnatural for him to act that way. To feel his emotions. In public. A white lie couldn’t hurt her, right?
“I’m here for work, just got in tonight actually.”
“And what do you do for work?”
Dean looks over to her wondering eyes and smirks, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She bites back, “Try me.”
“Alright, feisty pants. If you want to know so badly, I work for the government—if I say much else I might have to kill you.”
“Like the CIA or FBI or something?” She asks, squinting her eyes at his sarcasm.
“Yeah…or something.” He says, winking at Novena.
“Here, this house on the left.” She jerks her body towards her home as she points to it.
Good, she’s distracted. Dean lets out a silent sigh of relief.
They arrive at an older house, and it has to be more than sixty years old. It’s a huge Victorian style place with a sunroom patio that wraps around the whole extend. The paint was a worn out, pale yellow with chips everywhere. Dean bet that this house in its prime would have looked so inviting, so homey. The driveway that led along the side of the house was snowed in so he parked on the street. Her porch light wasn’t on and the street lamps sucked.
Dean thought to himself, Damn, she lives alone? Here? Everything about this place screams sketchy.
Maybe he’s reading too much into it, it’s dark and he’s exhausted, but not enough to offer to walk her to her door. He wanted to make sure that he watched her go inside safely. She insisted that she was fine to walk the short distance, but Dean didn’t take no for an answer.
“Novena, I’m walking you up there. C’mon.”
“You seem apprehensive, Dean. Like something is gunna come outta the woods behind my house and attack me…”
He cocked his head towards the porch, “You can never be too careful.”
Amusement escaped her mouth. He really was serious because the look that he gave her was so intense that she thought his eyes would cut right through her. His sharp glance softened then concern washed over him briefly before looking away, scoping out her yard. The smile slowly faded from her face at Dean’s change in behavior.
“Thank you, for walking me to my door like a gentleman. You really didn’t have to. Nothing bad ever happens in this town.” She pauses as a shiver runs through her. Rubbing her hands together, she assures, “I’m safe—if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Why would someone in my position be here if it was safe?” All of a sudden, her porch light flickers on. Weird. How did it—? That’s when he saw a glimpse of worry in her eyes, fuck. Purgatory had made him too hard, too blunt.
“Look, I didn’t mean to scare you. If you need anything,” he reached into his jacket pocket, “here’s my number. Feel free to call me anytime.”
“Uh, on your card it says detective R. Plant? Like, Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin…?” She stares into his eyes before confirming, “Are you the scary thing in the woods I should be frightened of?”
Shit. He totally forgot that those cards had one of his aliases on it. What an idiot.
If Sammy were here he’d have a perfectly good explanation to cover his ass. Dean laughs nervously, fidgeting with his ring not knowing what to say. “Yeah, uh, I’m supposed to be undercover and I gave you my real name at the bar... Trust me, I am not the big bad wolf.”
A strained smile found its way across Dean's face. Anxiety washes over him and before he knows it he blurts out, “If anything, I’m more of the little piggy that went to the market.”
Fuck! What was he saying? That doesn’t even make sense! He pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes and shook his head in embarrassment.
The sweetest giggle came from Novena. Again, she laid her hand on the side of his face. Her hand was so cold, yet so alluring. Like the air around them, time seemed to be frozen, and again, so was Dean. He yielded so effortlessly to her touch; his mouth slightly ajar, losing himself within her gaze.
Novena pulled away and bid him a good-night then walked into her house.
Her touch lingered on his skin. Dean wanted to chase after her. To knock on her door just to look at her before he left—there was this pull to her that he couldn’t describe even if he wanted to. He hasn’t been touched by a woman in so long that he almost forgot what it felt like. Almost forgot how gentle and loving someone could be…
A light came on somewhere in the front of the house, and a thunderous bark jolted Dean out of his trance. He definitely wasn’t sticking around for Novena to find out that he was still on her porch. And that dog sent a chill up his spine. The weight of the bark almost felt like it was meant for him. A warning.
You’re so pathetic. Get yourself together man, he thought to himself.
Dean made his way back to Baby, and headed for the 24 hour motel he saw when he entered town.
—
He didn’t sleep well on that poor excuse of a bed. Even when he had to sleep on the ground, that’d been more comfortable than that thing. The pounding in his head would not go away, no matter how many cups of coffee he had. Regretting the amount of liquor he had the night before.
There was a lead in the neighboring town concerning Kevin. Garth had called and said that there was demon activity, and people going missing from all over the state. Dean had already checked out the four other towns to see what information he could gather.
All victims had disappeared out of the blue. There wasn’t much to go off of, and it was looking like the beginning of a dead end. He forgot how draining it was to be doing all the work by himself. Driving everywhere, talking to everyone, doing research on his own. The time it took to work a job doubled. Hell, it felt like it tripled.
Going to the vic’s parents house wasn’t any help either. The mom was a total mess, who couldn’t answer a single goddamn question. It was like talking to a brick wall, and it made Dean want to smash his face into one. Instead, he chose to take it out on Garth.
“Man, I got bupkis. Are you sure this has something to do with Kevin?”
“Dean, you gotta trust me. There’s definitely something goin’ on up there. Would daddy Garth steer you wrong?”
“First of all, don’t ever call yourself that again. Second, I think you’re wrong about this one. Doesn’t seem plausible enough to be Crowley. It’s only men—”
“I have’tuh jet, got a call on another line.”
“But—” Then the call dropped.
Even more frustrated than before, Dean slammed the car door shut. Immediately apologized to Baby for the aggression. He took a second to collect himself. To figure out a game plan. He wasn’t sure that it was the King of Hell’s minions at work.
—
He had combed through records for hours at the local library. He might have found something, but it definitely wasn’t demon related. Garth fucked up and Dean was going to make sure he knew about it.
The sun was setting behind the grey clouds, and there seemed to be no end to the snowfall. The library was warm and sleep consumed Dean. Light snoring filled the silence and drool was pooling on his jacket. He was so far gone, that he didn’t feel that someone was tapping on him to wake him up.
Then something slammed on the table with a loud thud.
Dean bolted up, pulling an arm up with his hand in a fist, while the other reached for his gun. Looking up at the son of a bitch who alarmed him.
Novena smiled down at him, “Fancy seeing you here, Flatlander.”
“Flat-wha–?” Dean looked down at his wet jacket sleeve, and quickly wiped his face with the arm that was close to punching her. “You shouldn’t scare a man like that. I could’ve…”
“Settle down. You wouldn’t hurt me, tough guy.” She picked her books up and shoved them in her purse. While tucking her hair behind her ear, she gave Dean puppy eyes and said, “Mind giving me a ride?”
He nods, “You’re lucky I’m tired sweetie, otherwise those needy eyes of yours would be useless.” He groans as he stands up, “Might have to start charging you for gas, I ain’t no Uber.”
“You’re such a liar.” You’d do anything for me. She thought.
“Don’t push me. Let’s go.”
—
tags! @ambiguous-avery @deans-spinster-witch @aylacavebear @jackles010378
If I forgot to tag anyone please come at me, I have a horrible memory. I hope this part is good, I've been going through it irl lol. And please come at me if this is absolute dog water <3
Finally found everything!! Still no internet, but who needs that anyway
Finally moved into my rental, and we don’t have internet…but we have a dvd player and I have the complete box set of spn. Physical copies for the win!!
To everyone who I told that I’d have the second part of Ten Years Gome out by this past weekend…I’m sorry! Some life stuff got in the way, don’t give up on me, I’m working on it!!
you ask dean, voice low, teasing, like you already know what he’s gonna say. “baby or me?”
his lips twitch, that half-smirk creeping up slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to wreck you. his hand slides over the impala’s hood, fingertips dragging like he can feel her heartbeat under the metal. he leans in, close enough that you catch the whiskey on his breath, the gun oil, the goddamn leather.
“how ‘bout you inside of baby? that an option?”
the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. he watches your throat work as you swallow, the way your breath stutters just a little. his grin widens, downright cocky now, because he can feel the shift in the air, the way heat pools thick between you two.
he moves even closer, pressing a hand flat to the car like he needs the grounding, like if he doesn’t keep himself in check, he might just take what he wants right then and there. his voice drops lower, rougher.
“you keep lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart, i might start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”
his fingers curl around your wrist, slow, like he’s testing, seeing if you’ll pull away. you don’t. a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, pleased, knowing.
“yeah,” he murmurs, like he’s already decided. “that’s what i thought.”
taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze
my girl nervous as hell, brought her journal on stage, hat fell off, put down her grammy and talked abt how badly her label fucked her over when they signed her as a minor and dropped her over covid instead of sucking up to the grammys I LOVE CHAPPELL ROAN ❤️🔥❤️🔥
i am too pretty to have to work full time big girl job. pls can i just be a pretty princess that gets paid to stay home and write my fucking book? is that not allowed?
thanks for liking my post haha. do you want to elope
Jk, I found everything I need BESIDES the cord that plugs the tv into the wall smh
Finally moved into my rental, and we don’t have internet…but we have a dvd player and I have the complete box set of spn. Physical copies for the win!!
Finally moved into my rental, and we don’t have internet…but we have a dvd player and I have the complete box set of spn. Physical copies for the win!!
@aylacavebear thank you for reading and leaving a comment! I’ll tag you :) <3 I’m gunna do my best to get it out by this weekend!
Ten Years Gone {d.w.}
1. Strangers in a Bar
Hi everyone!! This is my first Dean Winchester fic! Please let me know what you think of it, happy reading!
Summary: Dean hasn't been out of Purgatory for long and finds himself in a small town on the coast of Maine. He runs into a mysterious woman and she makes him question his retirement? Will Dean actually step away from the job? And what is this woman hiding from him? Warnings: slight aggression. +18 MDNI (even though there’s nothing R rated in this)
It’s late on a Tuesday night, the jukebox is humming in the corner of the bar playing slow country music. The air smells of liquor that’s dried on most surfaces of this place, a smell that’ll cling to your clothes until you wash them. It was the kind of late where only the restless or wrecked hung around, and tonight, Dean Winchester felt like both.
He sat at a table nursing a whiskey, tracing the edge of the glass with his middle finger. The bar was mostly empty, but Dean always made it a point to observe even when it’s not needed; the bartender wiping down the counter, two guys at a table loudly arguing about whether the Bruins are going to the playoffs or not, and a woman a few seats away from Dean, scribbling away in a notebook. He can’t tell if she comes here often or if she’s in the same boat he’s in, restless. Making sure to keep a watchful eye on her, especially since she’s the only woman in the building.
Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to think about the fact that he’s on the road by himself, again. It wasn’t the first time his brother needed a break from this life, and it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been hunting nonstop for eight years, and after everything Sam has been through with the demons and Lucifer, the Leviathan’s and not knowing if Dean was dead or not for a year—he was bound to crack. The two of them fought over the fact that Sam didn’t hunt for a year, that Kevin was abducted and nothing was done about it. Sam was adamant about stepping away for a while, so he’s with his girl, while Dean is on the lookout for The Prophet.
For some reason this time feels different. Dean’s gotten older, he’s not young and stupid anymore, and he sure as hell has been through the wringer more than he’d like to be. He has a hard time lying to himself that he’s fine on his own. He needs Sam. The feeling of crippling anxiety that won’t cease is new, and it’s a feeling that’s not easily quieted by liquor. His hand shakes while he downs the remainder of his whiskey. The job is his life but is his life worth the job? It’s a hard decision to make, almost impossible.
He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice that the woman had gotten up and started walking towards the bar. She distanced herself as far away from the other two men as she could then ordered, “A margarita with a salt rim and a double whiskey, please.” It didn’t take long for them to notice that she’d gone up there. Dean didn’t like the looks of them, they had a mischievous gleam in their eyes when looking at her. One of the Bruins fans stood up and advanced towards the bar.
“Hey there, pretty lady,” the man slurred, propping himself up against the counter. “What do ya say I buy your drinks for ya, sweetheart?”
Dean sighed, his grip tightening around his glass. He knows how these movies end, and they don’t end well.
The woman didn’t so much as flinch, without turning to look at him, she said, “I can take care of it myself, thanks.”
Her voice was cold and sharp, the kind of tone that could cut through steel, but the drunkard didn’t take the hint. He leaned in closer. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see his eyes narrow in determination, and sense his bad intentions.
“Aw, come on honey. Let me treat ya, then maybe we can head back to my place, if you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I said no. Walk. Away.” Her gaze finally snapping to him, one so chilling that it could turn a man to stone if she tried hard enough.
Dean was not expecting her to be as harsh and as direct with the guy, he admired that. He knew that a guy like this wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he pushed out of his chair loudly and started to make his way towards them.
As she was turning to leave the counter, the guy grabs her by her bicep and pulls her into him, “You’re a good for nothing bitch, is what you are–”
Dean walks faster, boots thudding against the worn out floorboards. “Hey!” he barked. His voice low and dangerous as he got right in the drunk’s face. “When a lady says no, you listen. Now, let her go before this gets ugly.”
The man sneered then released her, muttering curses under his breath as he stumbled back to his friend. Dean turns to the bartender, his expression sharp. “And you–what kind of place are you running where this shit flies? Do better.”
He turns around to meet the woman, “You okay?”
She nods, her hardened features softening just a fraction at his kindness. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem, Miss..?”
“Novena.” She smiles up at Dean and reaches her hand out to shake his.
“I’m Dean.” He gave her a warm smile back and took her hand in his. Her handshake was firm, he’s even more impressed.
“I was actually getting you a drink, believe it or not.” Her voice was rid of any trace of bitterness that had been there before, “I saw you sitting by yourself and you looked upset. Thought I’d bring you another round.”
“Thank you, I definitely need it.” Dean takes the glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers. Novena tenses up and her gaze immediately meets his, but within a second her state of shock is gone. Dean notices but doesn’t think too much of it. He doesn’t mean to be cocky, but a lot of girls in the past have frozen up around him before. Usually from being a flirt but he’s made no effort tonight—maybe he still has the juice after all.
Novena gives him another smile, then makes her way back towards her seat. This was the first act of kindness anyone has shown him since he got back from purgatory, and it was refreshing. A total stranger noticed that he wasn’t doing alright. He had been standing in the same spot, staring into space long enough for the bartender to give him the look of, “dude, you good?” He wasn’t good, but maybe he could distract himself from his anxiety for a little while, she was mysterious and that intrigued Dean.
Making his way over to her slowly, he notices that she had been making a sketch of someone. “Mind if I sit with you?” She closes her book when she hears his voice, as if not to be caught with her doodle. “I know it’s late and I, I don’t wanna seem like that scumbag over there—“
“Sit. I can tell a tortured soul when I see one,” she gestures with her hand for him to take the chair opposite from her. Novena emphasizes, “Please.”
Also not what he was expecting, but her voice was calm. Demanding but gentle. He does as he’s told.
“Yes ma’am.” They stare at each other, scanning each other's features in a way that is more intimate than it should be. Dean finally speaks up, “So, if you’re a tortured soul like me, what’re you doing out so late on a Tuesday?”
Novena sighs and takes a sip of her drink, “There’s a lot going on but to keep it sweet and simple, my dad recently passed, my boyfriend, well…ex now, destroyed my car when I ended things,” with sad eyes, she looks down at her fingers, fiddling with one of the rings she has on. She clears her throat before asking, “What about you, Mr-New-In-Town? What brings you into The Salty Dog?”
Dean lets out a small chuckle at her enthusiasm when saying the name of the bar, but says seriously, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad, I am. It’s not easy losing a parent,” He takes a swig of his whiskey, thinking of Bobby especially. “I uh, lost my father figure not too long ago as well.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” Novena’s brows furrow and she places her hand over Dean’s so naturally, gently rubbing her thumb over the top of his knuckles.
He’s taken aback by this, he almost jumps at her touch. His eyes dart to hers and he’s met with empathy and compassion; there’s a lump in his throat that’s unbelievably painful with the grief that’s been hidden away. Not one soul has been able to break through Dean’s wall as easily as the woman before him. His eyes are jumping from their hands to the table, scoping out the rest of the bar to see if anyone is paying attention, which no one was, then back up to Novena. Tears were threatening to escape the corners of his eyes and once he saw that her mascara had run down her face, was when Dean let go. She removed her hand from his, leaned over the small table, cupped his face and wiped away the dampness on his skin.
It almost felt like Novena was taking away his pain with her touch, and it looked like it too. The eye contact hadn’t broke since he looked up at her. Dean was a mess and he couldn’t decipher if what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination or not—but it seemed like his struggle was held within her eyes? There was this humming noise that was coming from somewhere, the jukebox or the overhead lights maybe, that was soothing. Ultimately easing Dean to breathe slower and to quiet his racing thoughts.
“I, I don’t know what that was.” Dean whispers, “I’m sorry, that’s embarrassing. This never happens to me…” he gestures at himself.
Novena pulled away from him concerningly, “Showing human emotion never happens to you?”
“Wow—that’s not what I was expecting you to say. But, yeah. I usually don’t allow myself to show people how I’m feeling. To be frank, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Long day I suppose.”
She didn’t know how to respond to him. He’s different from other men she’s met, that’s a given. Dean almost immediately crumbled under her touch. It felt like he was begging to let someone in, wanting to be understood. If they hadn’t mentioned that they’ve both lost someone dear to them, then Dean probably wouldn’t have been easy to get a reading from. Novena liked that he related so much to her, that Dean felt so deeply that his emotions had transferred through their touch.
He was trying to brush off what had just happened. Novena could see it in his eyes, that he was questioning the intense moment they shared. Dean covered his face with both of his hands and sighed. This was the perfect moment to change subjects.
“I better get going, it’s getting late–I have to be up early for work. But I’ll see you around?”
—
A/N: Any and all feedback is appreciated! Feel free to send me asks or dm’s :)) I'm just making things up as I go, so be patient with me lol. This will be multiple parts as well as blurbs. I have a busy schedule but I’m going to try my best to write these chapters cuz I’m really obsessed with the idea I have!
tags! @ambiguous-avery
I know adverbs are controversial, but "said softly" means something different than "whispered" and this is the hill I will die on.
@jackles010378 AAHH THANK YOU!! Yes I’ll tag you in the next part!! I’m hoping to get it finished by the end of the week :)
Ten Years Gone {d.w.}
1. Strangers in a Bar
Hi everyone!! This is my first Dean Winchester fic! Please let me know what you think of it, happy reading!
Summary: Dean hasn't been out of Purgatory for long and finds himself in a small town on the coast of Maine. He runs into a mysterious woman and she makes him question his retirement? Will Dean actually step away from the job? And what is this woman hiding from him? Warnings: slight aggression. +18 MDNI (even though there’s nothing R rated in this)
It’s late on a Tuesday night, the jukebox is humming in the corner of the bar playing slow country music. The air smells of liquor that’s dried on most surfaces of this place, a smell that’ll cling to your clothes until you wash them. It was the kind of late where only the restless or wrecked hung around, and tonight, Dean Winchester felt like both.
He sat at a table nursing a whiskey, tracing the edge of the glass with his middle finger. The bar was mostly empty, but Dean always made it a point to observe even when it’s not needed; the bartender wiping down the counter, two guys at a table loudly arguing about whether the Bruins are going to the playoffs or not, and a woman a few seats away from Dean, scribbling away in a notebook. He can’t tell if she comes here often or if she’s in the same boat he’s in, restless. Making sure to keep a watchful eye on her, especially since she’s the only woman in the building.
Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to think about the fact that he’s on the road by himself, again. It wasn’t the first time his brother needed a break from this life, and it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been hunting nonstop for eight years, and after everything Sam has been through with the demons and Lucifer, the Leviathan’s and not knowing if Dean was dead or not for a year—he was bound to crack. The two of them fought over the fact that Sam didn’t hunt for a year, that Kevin was abducted and nothing was done about it. Sam was adamant about stepping away for a while, so he’s with his girl, while Dean is on the lookout for The Prophet.
For some reason this time feels different. Dean’s gotten older, he’s not young and stupid anymore, and he sure as hell has been through the wringer more than he’d like to be. He has a hard time lying to himself that he’s fine on his own. He needs Sam. The feeling of crippling anxiety that won’t cease is new, and it’s a feeling that’s not easily quieted by liquor. His hand shakes while he downs the remainder of his whiskey. The job is his life but is his life worth the job? It’s a hard decision to make, almost impossible.
He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice that the woman had gotten up and started walking towards the bar. She distanced herself as far away from the other two men as she could then ordered, “A margarita with a salt rim and a double whiskey, please.” It didn’t take long for them to notice that she’d gone up there. Dean didn’t like the looks of them, they had a mischievous gleam in their eyes when looking at her. One of the Bruins fans stood up and advanced towards the bar.
“Hey there, pretty lady,” the man slurred, propping himself up against the counter. “What do ya say I buy your drinks for ya, sweetheart?”
Dean sighed, his grip tightening around his glass. He knows how these movies end, and they don’t end well.
The woman didn’t so much as flinch, without turning to look at him, she said, “I can take care of it myself, thanks.”
Her voice was cold and sharp, the kind of tone that could cut through steel, but the drunkard didn’t take the hint. He leaned in closer. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see his eyes narrow in determination, and sense his bad intentions.
“Aw, come on honey. Let me treat ya, then maybe we can head back to my place, if you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I said no. Walk. Away.” Her gaze finally snapping to him, one so chilling that it could turn a man to stone if she tried hard enough.
Dean was not expecting her to be as harsh and as direct with the guy, he admired that. He knew that a guy like this wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he pushed out of his chair loudly and started to make his way towards them.
As she was turning to leave the counter, the guy grabs her by her bicep and pulls her into him, “You’re a good for nothing bitch, is what you are–”
Dean walks faster, boots thudding against the worn out floorboards. “Hey!” he barked. His voice low and dangerous as he got right in the drunk’s face. “When a lady says no, you listen. Now, let her go before this gets ugly.”
The man sneered then released her, muttering curses under his breath as he stumbled back to his friend. Dean turns to the bartender, his expression sharp. “And you–what kind of place are you running where this shit flies? Do better.”
He turns around to meet the woman, “You okay?”
She nods, her hardened features softening just a fraction at his kindness. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem, Miss..?”
“Novena.” She smiles up at Dean and reaches her hand out to shake his.
“I’m Dean.” He gave her a warm smile back and took her hand in his. Her handshake was firm, he’s even more impressed.
“I was actually getting you a drink, believe it or not.” Her voice was rid of any trace of bitterness that had been there before, “I saw you sitting by yourself and you looked upset. Thought I’d bring you another round.”
“Thank you, I definitely need it.” Dean takes the glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers. Novena tenses up and her gaze immediately meets his, but within a second her state of shock is gone. Dean notices but doesn’t think too much of it. He doesn’t mean to be cocky, but a lot of girls in the past have frozen up around him before. Usually from being a flirt but he’s made no effort tonight—maybe he still has the juice after all.
Novena gives him another smile, then makes her way back towards her seat. This was the first act of kindness anyone has shown him since he got back from purgatory, and it was refreshing. A total stranger noticed that he wasn’t doing alright. He had been standing in the same spot, staring into space long enough for the bartender to give him the look of, “dude, you good?” He wasn’t good, but maybe he could distract himself from his anxiety for a little while, she was mysterious and that intrigued Dean.
Making his way over to her slowly, he notices that she had been making a sketch of someone. “Mind if I sit with you?” She closes her book when she hears his voice, as if not to be caught with her doodle. “I know it’s late and I, I don’t wanna seem like that scumbag over there—“
“Sit. I can tell a tortured soul when I see one,” she gestures with her hand for him to take the chair opposite from her. Novena emphasizes, “Please.”
Also not what he was expecting, but her voice was calm. Demanding but gentle. He does as he’s told.
“Yes ma’am.” They stare at each other, scanning each other's features in a way that is more intimate than it should be. Dean finally speaks up, “So, if you’re a tortured soul like me, what’re you doing out so late on a Tuesday?”
Novena sighs and takes a sip of her drink, “There’s a lot going on but to keep it sweet and simple, my dad recently passed, my boyfriend, well…ex now, destroyed my car when I ended things,” with sad eyes, she looks down at her fingers, fiddling with one of the rings she has on. She clears her throat before asking, “What about you, Mr-New-In-Town? What brings you into The Salty Dog?”
Dean lets out a small chuckle at her enthusiasm when saying the name of the bar, but says seriously, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad, I am. It’s not easy losing a parent,” He takes a swig of his whiskey, thinking of Bobby especially. “I uh, lost my father figure not too long ago as well.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” Novena’s brows furrow and she places her hand over Dean’s so naturally, gently rubbing her thumb over the top of his knuckles.
He’s taken aback by this, he almost jumps at her touch. His eyes dart to hers and he’s met with empathy and compassion; there’s a lump in his throat that’s unbelievably painful with the grief that’s been hidden away. Not one soul has been able to break through Dean’s wall as easily as the woman before him. His eyes are jumping from their hands to the table, scoping out the rest of the bar to see if anyone is paying attention, which no one was, then back up to Novena. Tears were threatening to escape the corners of his eyes and once he saw that her mascara had run down her face, was when Dean let go. She removed her hand from his, leaned over the small table, cupped his face and wiped away the dampness on his skin.
It almost felt like Novena was taking away his pain with her touch, and it looked like it too. The eye contact hadn’t broke since he looked up at her. Dean was a mess and he couldn’t decipher if what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination or not—but it seemed like his struggle was held within her eyes? There was this humming noise that was coming from somewhere, the jukebox or the overhead lights maybe, that was soothing. Ultimately easing Dean to breathe slower and to quiet his racing thoughts.
“I, I don’t know what that was.” Dean whispers, “I’m sorry, that’s embarrassing. This never happens to me…” he gestures at himself.
Novena pulled away from him concerningly, “Showing human emotion never happens to you?”
“Wow—that’s not what I was expecting you to say. But, yeah. I usually don’t allow myself to show people how I’m feeling. To be frank, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Long day I suppose.”
She didn’t know how to respond to him. He’s different from other men she’s met, that’s a given. Dean almost immediately crumbled under her touch. It felt like he was begging to let someone in, wanting to be understood. If they hadn’t mentioned that they’ve both lost someone dear to them, then Dean probably wouldn’t have been easy to get a reading from. Novena liked that he related so much to her, that Dean felt so deeply that his emotions had transferred through their touch.
He was trying to brush off what had just happened. Novena could see it in his eyes, that he was questioning the intense moment they shared. Dean covered his face with both of his hands and sighed. This was the perfect moment to change subjects.
“I better get going, it’s getting late–I have to be up early for work. But I’ll see you around?”
—
A/N: Any and all feedback is appreciated! Feel free to send me asks or dm’s :)) I'm just making things up as I go, so be patient with me lol. This will be multiple parts as well as blurbs. I have a busy schedule but I’m going to try my best to write these chapters cuz I’m really obsessed with the idea I have!
tags! @ambiguous-avery
𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼? D.Winchester
you’re nursing a beer, your legs pulled up to sit cross-legged as you lean back on your palms. dean’s beside you, his own bottle dangling loosely in his fingers. his knee rests against yours, this simple, casual point of connection, but it’s enough to ground you. his shoulders are relaxed, his legs stretched out long, but there’s something... off. you can feel it in the way his gaze keeps drifting, how he’s not quite looking at you or anything in particular. he’s lost in his own head, and you’ve been with him long enough to know that’s rarely a good thing.
“you’ve been quiet tonight,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice is soft, not accusing, but the words seem to snap him out of whatever spiral he was falling into. he glances at you, his green eyes flickering in the dim light, and he huffs out a little laugh. it’s small, almost self-deprecating, and he looks away again, his jaw tightening.
“just thinkin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.
you tilt your head, watching him. “about what?”
he hesitates, running his free hand through his hair, and the gesture makes your stomach tighten. whatever it is, it’s big. he’s not usually this careful about his words—dean winchester isn’t careful about much, period—but right now, he looks like a man standing on the edge of something.
“can i ask you somethin’?” he says, finally, and his voice is quieter now, more raw.
“of course,” you reply immediately, setting your beer aside. you shift closer, your knee pressing more firmly against his, your hand resting on the cool metal of the car between you. “what’s on your mind?”
he exhales slowly, staring down at the bottle in his hands. for a second, you think he’s not going to say anything. then, all at once, the words come out.
“you ever think about havin’ kids?”
the question hits you like a punch to the gut—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s so unexpected. you blink at him, your lips parting, and he finally looks at you, his expression guarded. like he’s bracing for you to laugh at him, or worse, to shut him down completely.
“kids?” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.
“yeah,” he says, his voice gruff, like the word’s hard for him to get out. “like... not right now, obviously, but... someday. you ever think about it?”
your mouth opens, then closes. you glance at him, searching his face for any clues about where this is coming from. it’s not like dean’s ever been the white-picket-fence type. hell, you’re not even sure if you’re the white-picket-fence type, given the life you lead. but there’s something in his eyes, something vulnerable and almost... hopeful, that makes your chest ache.
“i don’t know,” you say honestly. “i guess i haven’t thought about it much, with everything going on. it’s not exactly easy to picture that kind of future, you know?”
he nods, like he was expecting that answer, but there’s still this shadow of disappointment in his expression. “yeah. yeah, i get that,” he mutters, tipping back his beer for another sip.
you watch him for a moment, your mind racing. he doesn’t bring up stuff like this lightly—hell, he barely even talks about his feelings unless you pry them out of him. but this? this is something he’s been holding onto, turning over in his mind, and now he’s laid it at your feet like some kind of fragile offering.
“why are you asking?” you ask gently, leaning closer. “is this something you’ve been thinking about?”
he lets out a low laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah,” he admits, running a hand down his face. “i don’t know, it’s stupid. just... sometimes i think about what it’d be like. teachin’ a kid how to throw a football. takin’ ‘em for a drive in baby when they’re old enough. tryin’ to be the kind of dad mine never was.”
the confession is raw, almost painful, and you feel it settle heavy in your chest. dean’s voice drops lower, like he’s afraid of saying it out loud. “i mean, i know it’s a pipe dream, with the way we live. but... if it ever happened, you know? with you... i think i’d want that.”
his words hang in the air between you, and your heart stutters. with you. the way he says it, so quiet, so certain, makes something twist inside you. you reach out, your fingers brushing his arm. he looks up at you, his expression cautious, like he’s waiting for you to tell him he’s crazy.
“dean,” you say softly, “you’d be an incredible dad.”
he snorts, shaking his head, but you tighten your grip on his arm, making him look at you. “i mean it,” you insist. “you’re already so good with sam, and jack... hell, you take care of everyone around you, whether you realize it or not. you’ve got more love in you than you give yourself credit for.”
his jaw clenches, and he looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of emotion in his eyes. “you really think that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“i know it,” you say firmly, leaning in closer. “and if that’s something you want... someday... then yeah. i think i’d want that too. with you.”
his head snaps toward you, his eyes wide, and for a second, he just stares at you. then, without warning, he leans in, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as his lips crash against yours.
the kiss is desperate, messy, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break. his fingers thread through your hair, holding you close as his mouth moves against yours, hot and demanding. you gasp into him, your hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him like you need air.
his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him, letting him in. he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and it’s like a switch flips. suddenly, you’re climbing into his lap, straddling him as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. the heat of him, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the sheer wantpouring off of him—it’s overwhelming in the best way.
he breaks away for a second, his forehead pressing against yours as you both catch your breath. his hands are still on your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “you have no idea how much i love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine.
“i think i have a pretty good idea,” you tease, your lips brushing against his as you speak. he laughs softly, the sound muffled as he kisses you again, slower this time, but just as consuming.
the future might be uncertain, but right now, with dean’s arms wrapped around you, his lips on yours, you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something worth holding onto.
if you think dean winchester DOESN'T eat pussy then you need to see a therapist
02
parings: married!deanwinchester x married!reader
synopsis: life married to dean
warnings: no smut
the nights always ended the same way, no matter how long he’d been gone. his hands, calloused from gripping the wheel of the Impala, always found their way to the curve of your waist, pulling you close, grounding himself in your warmth. it was like he was making sure you were still there, flesh and blood and not some fleeting dream he could lose again.
when dean came home, it was like the house breathed with him. the soft creak of the door, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden floors, the rustling as he shrugged off his jacket. it was all the noise of a man who fought his way back to you, every damn time. sometimes it was days, sometimes weeks, but every return felt like the first, like he’d fought a hundred battles just to hold you again.
“you up?” his voice broke the stillness, low and familiar, a sound you’d missed more than you could admit. you stepped out of the kitchen, where you’d been waiting, and met him halfway, your arms wrapping around his neck as his settled on your waist.
“i’m always up when you’re coming home,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. he held you tighter, a sigh of relief escaping him as he buried his face in your neck, just breathing you in.
sam’s footsteps echoed lightly behind him, and you glanced over dean’s shoulder. “sam, you know where everything is. get some rest.”
“thanks,” sam replied, offering you a small smile before disappearing into the guest bedroom.
the door clicked shut, leaving you and dean alone in the quiet house. his hands slid down to your hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt. “missed you,” he whispered.
“missed you too.” your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, noting the rough stubble that had grown since you last saw him. “come on, you look beat.”
he didn’t argue, letting you lead him to the bedroom. the familiar sights of your shared space surrounded you—the nightstand with his gun and knife, the salt lines carefully laid at every entry point. it was a fortress, one you both had built together, knowing the dangers that lurked just outside those walls.
he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his knees. his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but there was something else there too—a quiet gratitude, a sense of peace. “the road was rough,” he admitted softly. “but this… being here with you… makes it worth it.”
you cupped his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones. “you’re home now. that’s all that matters.”
he nodded, pulling you down into his lap, holding you close. the weight of him, the steady beat of his heart under your palm, it all felt like home. three times a week, if you were lucky, he’d be here, his presence filling the space, his warmth seeping into you. and in those moments, the worry and the fear melted away, leaving just the two of you.
sometimes, you wished he would stay longer. that the job wouldn’t pull him away so often. that there’d be more mornings where you could wake up to the sight of him, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his lips curved into a lazy smile that was just for you. mornings where his hands would roam, slow and deliberate, exploring every inch of you as if he had all the time in the world. mornings where he’d whisper your name like a prayer, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.
“we’ll have more mornings,” he said softly, as if reading your mind. his lips brushed against your temple, his voice a comforting rumble. “i promise.”
it wasn’t just about the sex, though God, when dean touched you, it was like the world stopped spinning. his fingers, rough and sure, knew exactly how to unravel you, to make you shudder and cling to him in the dark. but it was the way he looked at you after, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world, that made your chest ache with something fierce and unrelenting.
you were his home. his sanctuary. and even though you wished he could be there more, you never doubted for a second that he was yours, fully and completely. every kiss, every touch, every whispered word in the dead of night was a promise—a promise that no matter how far he wandered, he’d always find his way back to you.
taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis
The Photo Booth✰⋆
Summary: Dean confesses to you in a photo booth with the hope that you will reject him so he can move on... things don't go exactly as planned.
Warnings: mild cursing
A/N: I've never written for Dean before so please have mercy on me if this sucks
.........................................................................................................................
He can not believe he let you drag him into this stupid booth. It's not big enough for the two of you, so you're sitting cheek to cheek, and you're practically on his lap. Dean knows he's probably acting like an idiot because of the proximity. He keeps thinking about how easy it would be to just grab you by the chin and kiss you right here. But instead, he just smiles into the camera with you.
3...2...1...flash!
"Okay, now a silly one!" you say, returning his attention to the booth's camera. Dean uses his fingers to pull back his lips and expose his teeth while he crosses his eyes. You start laughing at him; god, he loves your laugh; he would make a million more stupid faces to get to hear it. He shivers to think how Sam would tease him for his usually stubborn attitude turning complacent just because it's you he's talking to.
3...2...1...flash!
It's not just the proximity that makes him think of you; even during long weeks apart, you are all he can think about. He tells himself he prefers it when you're apart because at least his chest doesn't ache with the weight of how much he cares for you. You put a hand behind his head and give him bunny ears.
3...2...1...flash!
Dean can't take this anymore. He's got to do something to help soothe the burning he feels.
3...
"I love you."
2...
You turn to him in shock, your eyes wide as you observe him. This is what Dean needs, rejection. He needs you to shoo him away and tell him to get lost so he can get over this stupid infatuation he has with you and get on with his life.
1...
"I love you too."
You gaze at each other for what feels like an eternity before closing the gap between you with a searing kiss. Dean feels incredibly grateful for the invention of the photo booth.
Flash!
real writers don’t have writer’s block because they never start writing in the first place.
More Dean x younger!reader who he really cannot stand.
Destiny | 25 | Leo
Just a desert girl with a little hobby
Masterlist | About Me | Ten Years Gone | In the Fields We Lie
My asks are open for yapping!! <3
Ten Years Gone Masterlist
18+ MDNI
Summary: Dean hasn't been out of Purgatory for long, he finds himself in a small town on the coast of Maine, where he runs into a mysterious woman; she makes him question his own retirement. Will they fall in love or will they fall apart? Will Dean actually step away from the job? And what is this woman hiding from him?
1. Strangers in a Bar 2. The Passenger 3. Invited In
i love saying “i’m being normal about it” bc i’m actually a filthy fucking liar and i’ve never been normal about anything a single day in my life
03. you're a cowboy like me
ᯓ★ story index abt, you wake up next to dean, trying really hard not to make rash decisions but he keeps looking at you like that and smiling like that and— fuck it. warnings, smut 18+ mdni!, cowboy hat rule, riiiide 'em cowgirl, struggle 2 face feelings, shared showers 2.9k words
The afternoon spills it’s golden warmth into the old house, dust sparkling in the rays cutting through the open windows. Slowly, you stir, finding yourself comfortably tangled up with Dean. Somewhere in your sleep, you ended up tucked between the faded grey cushions of the couch and him—his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, your hand and ear pressed right to the steady beat of his chest.
He’s still out cold, half sitting up with his legs sprawled across the length of the couch, one boot dangling precariously off the edge. His pink lips are just slightly parted, brows softer than you’ve ever seen them. His stetson sits low enough to shield his eyes from the sun, lashes barely visible beneath the brim.
You steal the moment, shamelessly drinking him in: the way his features seem gentler now, all the rough edges smoothed out by sleep. There’s something about seeing him like this that makes your chest ache, just a pinch.
Then his tongue sweeps lazily across his bottom lip, wetting it before they tug up into a smirk. “You keep starin’ at me like that, sweet thing,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low with sleep, “‘nd I’ll start thinkin’ you might be sweet on me.”
You jerk back slightly, caught red-handed, but you recover fast, flashing a coy grin. “Might? Don’t give yourself too much credit, cowboy.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your palm, and his arm tightens just slightly before he pulls away, stretching leisurely like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Sure, darlin’,” he teases, tipping his hat back enough to give you a lazy once-over, that boyish grin never leaving his sleepy face. “But if you wanted to cozy up to me all night, you just had to ask.”
Living on the road meant living by your own code—let ‘em chase, but never get caught. It’s become a rule you follow religiously, a line you never cross.
But for the love of all things holy, this silver-tongued man is staring down at you with that deviant glint in his pretty green eyes, the kind that electrifies your skin, winds you up in the most invasive way. His chest, broad and steady beneath yours, feels like a challenge, and that damn stetson perched atop his dirty blonde, tousled hair only makes it worse—taunting you, daring you to just reach out and take it.
Your eyes lock with his, and for a split second, it feels like he’s peering past your irises and right into the swirl of wicked thoughts dancing in your mind. His gaze falters, dipping to your mouth just as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth.
Before he can catch on, you snag the hat from his head in one slow, deliberate motion. Settling it atop your own with a smug little tilt.
You meet his stare head-on, fluttering lashes feigning innocence. A slow, low laugh spills from his lips, rich and rough, igniting a flush on your skin.
His thumb brushes up to catch your chin, holding it gently but firm as he leans in, consuming nearly all of the space between. Hungry and honey-eyed, he’s fixed on trailing over your features with a deliberation that sets your pulse racing. “Careful, now.” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath skimming your skin awakens shivers cascading down your spine.
Your gaze flickers, restless and heated, between his open mouth and watchful eyes. “I’m done with careful,” you breathe—and before you can think twice about it—your lips close the gap.
He leans into the kiss, rushed and messy, as his hand grasps the back of your neck to tug you closer. You climb on top, straddling his dirty blue jeans. A moan escapes you as he bites down on your bottom lip, matching his hasty kiss. Your nails dig into the back of his neck and he grumbles against your mouth.
His hands lose any sense of decency, sliding under your shirt, finger pads roughly digging into the skin of your waist. Deep enough to leave big red hand prints in their wake. Your hips twitch in his grasp, denim rocking against denim with enough pressure to make him groan against your lips.
His hands shift, hooking under your thighs as he lifts you to maneuver himself to sit properly against the back of the couch.
Your hands find the cool, silver buckle of his belt and tug, “Woah,” he rasps, mouth still pressed to yours with a breathy laugh, “easy, sweet thing.” His lips move to trail sloppy kisses down your neck, as his hands find the button of your jeans, swiftly popping them open.
He pulls back, his dilated pupils finding yours as one hand roughly grabs your jaw, “I wanna see how pretty you look,” he starts with a tantalizing smirk, eyes trained on yours while his other hand slips down into your heat. You're gasping before he can even finish his sentence, “when you cum.”
Two thick fingers plunge inside, stretching you out and curling just enough to make you whimper. The sound coming from your lips makes his grip on your jaw tighten as a lazy smile crosses his lips. He starts to pump, slow, too slow, and you buck your hips against his hand.
“So pretty when you’re needy,” he hums as his thumb presses to your clit, circling and working you into a dizzy headed mess. His other hand slips down to your throat, holding you in place as he leans back slightly, just enough to watch your eyes flutter and brows knit while you ride his working hand.
“Dean,” you whimper, as he works a brutal pace into you. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. The pressure in your core builds as he sinks deeper, hitting your sweet spot in a merciless rhythm. You falter, your hands pressing into his chest for stability.
“Stay just like that,” he mumbles, relaxed against the couch, undoing you with ease, hungry eyes shamelessly watching you lose any semblance of control of yourself.
Your walls clench around his digits, breath hitching with every rough thrust. The sensation of it all drawing your eyes closed, reeling in the building knot of tension, “Nuh, uh. Look at me—” he demands, voice husky and warm.
“Dean—fuck,” you sigh, opening your eyes to find his, pupils eating the green of his irises as you’re reduced to a whimper wet mess in his hands.
Your hips sputter and buck as you catch your breath, and he slowly pulls his hands from your jeans. You’re still coming back down when he’s picking you up at the waist, setting you on wobbly legs to tug your jeans loose from your legs. His hands glide over the skin of your thighs, squeezing your ass before pulling you back onto his lap.
He moves with an eagerness that matches your own, securing your legs around him, his lips are back on yours as you both clumsily undo his belt and tug just enough for his cock to come out—slick and throbbing against your skin.
He groans against your lips, taking himself in his hands. “Fuck,” he hisses, thrusting into your wetness. The sudden stretch makes you shudder, nails digging into his shoulders as you sink down onto his length, rocking your hips into his.
His mouth goes to your neck, lapping and biting at the sensitive skin. His hands squeeze your hips, guiding your body up and down against his.
It’s hot and sticky in the old house, making you feel damn near high as his tip slams against your sweet spot. His movement matches yours, messy—needy. His arms wrap around you as you lean against his chest.
He steadies your hips with one hand, the other securely locked around your back. Thrusting up into you at a mind-numbing pace. His hand gets tangled in your hair—the pull making your vision go spotty.
You give into his control, mind swirling with his lips desecrating any bit of your skin he can find, the sound of wet skin slapping against each other filling the room with your whimpering and his muffled groans.
Your hand wraps around the muscles of his bicep, nails digging deep as the other clutches to the back of his neck. You feel yourself tighten around his cock, moans sputtering out of your lips as your thighs tighten against his hips. His hips sputter, cursing under his breath as the sensation of his cum shooting inside you pushes you over the edge.
Your bodies become a synchronized twitching mess—panting from the come down as you slowly loosen your grip on him.
Blinking back into reality, you sit up, still too weak to remove yourself from his lap. Dean’s sleepy smile finds you, his hands coming up to brush the stray hairs from your face as he cups your cheeks. “See,” he huffs, managing to find his ammunition for teasing as he grounds himself back to earth, “told you I’d be a gentleman.”
You roll your eyes, swatting his hands from your face with a tired laugh as you roll off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “That smart mouth of yours is making sense of all the trouble you talk about getting yourself into.” you retort, rising on weak legs to slip back into your clothes.
“Mhm,” he hums, hardly listening to what you had said, “you sure you need to keep those on?”
His hand catches your thigh just as you’re pulling the denim over them—interrupting you. He leans over, swollen lips leaving kisses on your skin as you’re swatting at him again. The reaction makes him look up at you with a teasing, dimpled smile. “Sorry—can’t help myself.”
You bite back a laugh, refusing to encourage his mischief. You can feel his eyes on you as you jump into your jeans, bottoning them back up. Through the window, you can see the afternoon sun moving down onto the horizon.
“We should probably go find your car,” you sigh, turning on your heel to face him as he finishes up notching his belt.
“Probably,” he nods, eyes lazily casing the desert sky, “my backseat’s pretty spacious, too, y’know. In case—”
Your hand goes up, cutting him off as you shake your head. You leave him to chuckle at himself in the living room.
ᯓ★
The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the abandoned ranch as you and Dean prepare to leave. The silence between you is tangible, charged with everything you’ve done and nothing you’ve said.
The walk through the desert feels endless, the dusty trail crunching under your boots as the golden glow of the horizon stretches out before you. Dean leads the way, his pace steady, his shoulders broad against the fading light. You follow close behind, the heat of the day clinging to your skin, but the chill of the coming night creeping in.
“You ever think about settlin’ down?” you ask, breaking the quiet.
Dean glances back at you, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You mean, like a white picket fence and apple pie? Doesn’t really suit me.”
“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “I mean, somethin’... simpler. A place to call your own, where you don’t have to look over your shoulder every second.”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the trail ahead. “It’s not in the cards,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough.
You let his words hang in the air, biting back the urge to press further. He’s not the type to linger on dreams he doesn’t think he can have.
As the sky fades to deep blue and the first stars begin to peek through, you finally see it—Dean’s Impala, tucked away beneath a rocky overhang like a secret he couldn’t bear to lose.
“There she is,” he says, his tone softening as he picks up his pace.
You watch him approach the car, his hand brushing over the hood like he’s greeting an old friend. You can’t help but smile, the sight of him and that car feeling like something whole in a world that’s always breaking.
He opens the trunk, dumping the duffle bag and rummaging through for a blanket, he tosses it over to you. “Get comfortable. We’re better off to cover some miles tonight, get away from the town.”
You take the blanket and slide into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. The air between you feels lighter now, as if the journey through the desert burned away some of the weight you felt at his words from earlier.
The drive is quiet, the radio dialed low, filling the space with the sound of guitar-driven symphonies. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, but there’s a softness in his eyes when they flick to yours. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if he’s holding onto something he can’t bring himself to say.
The hum of the engine and the gentle sway of the Impala lull you into a light sleep, your head resting against the cool window. The sky bleeds from orange into black as you sleep. Dean tries to keep his focus on the road, but a pull he can’t quite make sense of keeps his head turning to you. Checking, every so often. As if you might disappear—be a figment of his imagination—if he doesn’t.
You’re pulled from the haze by the softest nudge—Dean’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and rough in the quiet.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a small smile as you blink up at him. “Got us a room.”
You yawn, stretching as you step out of the car, the cool night air prickling against your skin. The dingy motel sign flickers overhead, casting faint neon light across Dean’s face. He unlocks the door, holding it open with a smirk as you step inside.
Your eyes land on the lone bed in the center of the room, the sheets pulled tight, and pillows stacked neatly. “One bed, huh?” you remark, raising an eyebrow.
Dean shrugs, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.” His grin turns playful, teasing. “‘M gonna shower, if you wanna join. Wouldn’t wanna waste all that hot water.”
You give him a slow, deliberate once-over, biting back a smile. “Well, aren’t you full of ideas,” you say, turning toward the bathroom.
Dean’s eyes follow you, his confidence faltering for just a second as you slip off your jacket and toss it onto the bed. One step, then another, you trail your fingers to the hem of your shirt and lift it over your head as you walk, letting it fall to the floor without looking back. Next, you wiggle out of your jeans and kick them to the side.
“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrambling to follow, his boots thudding softly on the floor.
You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze sweeps over you like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Coming, cowboy?”
His jaw works, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m comin’.”
The bathroom fills with warm steam, and you’re giggling before you’ve even stepped under the water. Dean fumbles with the knobs, his grin boyish, his cheeks flushed. The messy, very much necessary moment back at the old ranch was one thing—standing in front of each other naked and tired from a night’s drive felt like something else entirely.
The awkward air gives way to jokes almost immediately—him teasing you about how you’re hogging the water, you laughing at his terrible singing as he rinses his hair.
It’s easy, light, like the world doesn’t exist beyond the tiled walls and the sound of your laughter.
Afterward, you both dry off, Dean tossing you a shirt he grabbed from his duffel. It hangs loosely on you, the scent of him clinging to the fabric. He watches as you climb into bed, his expression softening before he joins you, sliding in beside you like he belongs there.
For a moment, it’s quiet. The lamp casts a faint glow, the sound of distant crickets filtering through the open window. Dean shifts closer, his arm draping over your waist, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck.
“You make me feel… okay, like I don’t gotta worry so much.” he murmurs, the words almost too soft to hear. “I’d started to forget what that felt like.”
Your chest tightens, but you don’t reply, not with words. Instead, you cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together.
The steady rhythm of his breathing slows as you drift off, his warmth wrapped around you, his presence a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved.
Sleep comes slowly, your mind swirling with memories of his touch, his warmth, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. You think about asking him—what happens now?—but the steady rhythm of his breathing tells you he’s already asleep.
Or so you think.
Dean lies awake long after your breathing evens out, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Outside, the Impala sits ready, the desert wind whispering against its sleek frame.
And as the stars blink down on the quiet motel, Dean makes his decision.
erm sorry if that scene sucked. i. tried. </3 i felt like the rushed needy give it 2 me now vibe made sense idk !! and i just rly think this version of dean is a freak that likes to watch ok ily bye
tags <3 @stanzie @the-fandoms-onceler @floralscented @titsout4jackles
02. takes one to know one
ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words
The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful.
But you know better.
This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot.
“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no.
Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat.
Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never.
“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch.
Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”
Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks.
“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”
Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this.
The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.
“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat.
The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back.
Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home.
You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger.
The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall.
Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder.
“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.”
You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.
“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.
Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”
You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear.
This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate.
Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”
Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.
“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.
Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.
“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”
Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”
“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”
You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.
You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.
The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.
You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.
Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.
A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?”
Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”
Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way.
You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”
He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer.
Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting.
Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control.
“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”
Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”
You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”
“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.”
You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years.
“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.”
There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”
Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion.
You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note.
“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out.
A look you know better than to pry at.
Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”
Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.
A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun.
Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”
You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”
“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.”
With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house.
The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it.
“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.”
Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.
“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod.
His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”
You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”
Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”
You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise.
“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”
“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.
hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm
tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles
01. eyes full of stars
ᯓ★ story index abt, your winning streak has caught the attention of outlaw dean. but when he challenges you at your own game, you may have just met your match. warnings, bar scene, alcohol use, strong language, 18+ 2.6k words
The low hum of Tequila Cowboy’s neon blue sign buzzes over the murmur of voices and the clink of beer bottles. Smoke curls through the air, catching the dim light as it billows out of Dean’s lips. He’s leaning against the bar, one booted foot propped on the brass rail. His green eyes peek from under the brim of his worn-out Stetson, locked on the pool table in the corner, where a small crowd has gathered around you.
Your body folds over the table, a coy smile playing on your lips as you line up your shot. Dean didn’t need to watch to know the eight ball was going exactly where you wanted it. It isn’t the game that has his attention. It’s you—the way you work the room, charming the rich ranchers out of their wallets with every sway of your hip and winning flick of the cue stick.
The crowd erupts as you sink the shot, and Dean caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in your fox-like eyes before you straightened and collected your winnings with a dazzling smile. When your gaze finds his stare, it lingers for half a second too long.
A smirk plays at your lips as you lean against the pool table, “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to stare me down,” you called out, loud enough for the room to hear. Your voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it that cut through the bar.
Dean’s lips curled into a lazy smirk as he pushed off the bar and saunters toward you, his spurs clicking softly against the wooden floor. “Didn’t think you’d be bold enough to call me out.”
The crowd watches with rapt interest as the space between you closes. Dean stops a few feet away, his tan arms crossing as he gives you a slow once over. “Nice hustle,” he drawls, his voice low and rough like gravel warmed by the sun. “But I’m thinkin’ you haven’t played your best game yet.”
You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until the toes of your boots nearly touch his. “And you think you’re the one to bring it out of me?”
Dean’s tongue swipes over his lips, jade green eyes boring into yours as you notice the dimples in his smile. “I know I am.”
The tension between you crackles, hot and electric, like a summer storm brewing on the horizon. The crowd has faded into background noise as you lean in, your voice dropping just enough to make it private.
“Careful, cowboy. Playin’ with fire gets you burned.”
Dean’s head tilts, eyes dancing with mischief. “Yeah,” he starts, his voice dripping with a boyish charm that hits all your sweet spots at once, “but what’s life without a little heat?”
You laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous, before stepping back and tossing him a cue stick. “Rack ‘em up, Sweetheart. Let’s see if you can back that silver tongue with a little skill.”
And just like that, the match was set. A game neither of you could afford to lose—one with stakes far higher than a few crumpled bills. Because you recognized something in him. The way he stalks around the table deliberate and unhurried, was the mark of someone who knew how to play the long game. But there was fire there, too—smoldering beneath his easy smirk and sharp green eyes, daring you to push him, to see how far he’d go before he broke.
And dammit, you wanted to know. You wanted to unravel him, see if the silver-tongued cowboy could handle being outmatched.
This was a stand off with a lone wolf like yourself, someone who tricks and swindles their way through life. The rush of such a match was irresistible. It sent a thrill down your spine, sharper than the bite of whiskey and more intoxicating than the smoky haze filling the room. This man, watching you from the otherside of the pool table wasn’t just a charming outlaw; he was a mirror held up to your own reckless soul.
Dean bent over the table, lining up his shot. The room had quieted some, despite the growing crowd watching the close competition of the first few rounds. The air between you two remained charged. His gaze flickering up to meet yours with a spark of mischief.
“You know,” he starts, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, “I’d hate to embarrass you in your own game. You sure you wanna keep going?”
You smirked, leaning on your cue stick with the confidence of someone who already knew how this was going to end. “Big talk for a guy who’s down by two shots.”
Dean grins and draws back the cue, the crack of the shot slicing through the tension. The striped ball rolls cleanly into the corner pocket. He straightens, flashing you a cocky wink. “Make that one shot.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re still losing.”
As the game went on, it became clear just how evenly matched you were. Every shot Dean made, you countered with one of your own. Every taunt he threw, you lobbed back, sharper and more daring.
“You always this good?” he asked as you circled the table, lining up a tricky bank shot.
“Maybe I’m just inspired,” you replied, flashing him a quick smile, holding his eye contact as you flick the cue stick forward, sending the ball careening off the cushion and into the pocket.
Dean let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You know, for a sweet little thing like yourself, you sure do play dirty.”
You laughed, stepping aside to let him take his turn. “Flattery’s not gonna save you, sugar. But nice try.”
Dean leans over the table again, his biceps flexing just enough to catch your eye. He took the shot with deliberate precision, sinking another ball with maddening ease. When he looked up at you, his smirk was back in full force. “That one was for you.”
You bit back a retort, focusing on the table instead of the way his voice seemed to wrap around you like warm honey. It was your last turn, the eight ball poised perfectly for the win.
Dean steps back, giving you space but watching you like a hawk. “No pressure, sweet thing.”
You arched a brow. “Don’t need luck.”
With a steady hand and a flick of your wrist, you sank the eight ball, the final pocket dropping with a satisfying thunk. The crowd quickly resounds around you, whistling and cheering as you retain your winning streak. But your attention can’t find a break from your opponent, eyes locked on him as he coolly joins in the applause.
Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he straightened. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re somethin’ else.”
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you set the cue stick back on the rack. “Told you I’d win.”
Dean follows suit, close enough that you caught a whiff of leather and whiskey. His attention stays trained on you, his head having to tilt down to yours at this closeness. “Guess I owe you somethin’ for the show.”
Your lips quirked. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the bar. “How ‘bout I buy you a drink? Least I can do for gettin’ my ass handed to me.”
You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Well, I am thirsty… and you do look like the kind of guy who can afford my usual.”
Dean shakes his head, clearly amused, as he steps back to let you pass. “Lead the way, miss.”
With a smirk, you took his offer, knowing full well you’d be sparring with him long after the drinks were gone. For once, though, you don’t mind the company.
You settle into the seat across from Dean, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. Tequila Cowboy might be rowdy enough to make the walls shake, but the corner table you’d claimed offered a rare pocket of quiet.
“So,” you start, leaning back in your chair with an easy smirk, “what do they call you?”
“Dean.” He lifts his glass to his lips, his smirk curling against the rim. “Dean Winchester.”
You snort softly, shaking your head. “Ain’t no way that’s your God-given name. Winchester? Like the rifle?”
He hums, jade-green eyes glinting with amusement. His gaze holds an undeniable pull, the kind that could unravel most anyone if they weren’t careful. You’re trying your hardest not to fall into that quiet gravity. “Wouldn’t lie to you, little miss.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“I swear it.” He crosses his index finger over his middle, pressing them to his lips before pointing them at you in a playful gesture. “And what about you? Got a name to match that sharp tongue?”
You lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. This was a question you heard often enough, and you’d learned long ago to keep your name—yourself—guarded from wolves in cowboy boots. “Whatever you want me to be, sugar.”
Dean chuckles, low and warm, a sound that doesn’t crumble under your carefully constructed allure. It piques your curiosity; clearly, he’s not like the others. The thought lingers, tempting you to learn more about the man with green eyes and a devil-may-care smile. “Holdin’ your cards close. I can respect that.”
“I haven’t seen you around these parts before,” you change the subject, tilting your head. It’s not uncommon for wanderers to pass through town. You only came here for the high stakes pool games, but never spent more than a few nights in this town. “You just passing through?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He sighs, leaning back, his knees knocking against your crossed legs under the table. “I’ll be here a few days, then it’s back on the road. I don’t stay anywhere too long.”
A ghost of a laugh escapes your lips, “Yeah, you don’t look like the type to linger.”
“Oh, yeah?” His brow quirks, eyes roaming over you with lazy interest. “What do I look like then?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” you admit, feeling a blush creep up your neck. The admission surprises you; you’re not one to get flustered, especially not when trading sweet talk with another smooth-talking cowboy.
Dean notices, his grin widening as he watches you try to mask the pink dusting your cheeks. His voice is as smooth as the bourbon he’s sipping. “Well, you let me know when you do.”
Shaking off your momentary slip, you smirk. “Oh, I will.”
A charged silence settles between you, comfortable yet crackling with something unspoken. Dean leans forward, breaking it with a question. “So, you always make your living hustlin’ rich ranchers outta their pocket change?”
“Depends,” you say, your voice playful but cautious. “Why? You looking to hire me?”
Dean’s smirk deepens as he sits up to lean over the table. The smell of cigarettes and dark liquor dances between the small space between you. His eyes meander around the people surrounding you as he lowers his voice, the warmth replaced by something sharper. “Word is, there’s a little stash of gold sittin’ in the hands of a real bastard.” His pupils have grown, eyes boring into yours with a dangerous glint of excitement as his voice quirks with sarcasm. “Seems like a damn shame for a guy like that to carry all that weight alone. Was thinkin’ I’d help lighten his load.”
Your brow arches, interest piqued. The thrill of his words settles over you like a second skin. “You asking for my help?”
“Maybe,” he drawls, his smile slow and deliberate. “Would you?”
“What’s my cut?” you quip, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Oh, sweet thing,” he rolls the pet name off his tongue like honey, the sound making you lean in closer, “you’ll be paid generously for your trouble.”
You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a dangerous man, Dean Winchester.”
“And you don’t seem like the type to play it safe,” he shoots back, tipping his glass toward you.
He’s right, of course. This is the kind of thrill you can’t turn down, not with a man like him by your side. “When do we start?”
Dean turns toward the window, where the faintest glow of pre-dawn light softens the edges of the night. Only his eyes flick back to you, a hint of teasing swirling in the green, “Sunrise ain’t for a few more hours.”
You finish the last sip of your drink and set the glass down, standing with a grin. “Lead the way, cowboy.”
He pushes back his chair, unfolding with the grace of someone who’s always ready to move as he slips on his leather jacket. “I reckon we’ll make a damn good team, me and you.”
@a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles <3 ily ily ily mwah