#dean imagine

supernatural-jackles:

Title: You Win

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 3,311

Warnings: ANGST, Dean’s a tiny bit of a dick,  Depression, Thoughts of Suicide, Anxiety, Panic Attack, Self- Esteem Issues, Self- Depreciation, Lots More Angst, Mentions of Torture, Minor Fluff

Summary: After being captured by a demon and tortured for a couple of weeks, you were having trouble healing from the aftermath. The physical wounds may have healed but it doesn’t mean the ones on the inside had. The ones telling you that you’re never going to be enough. That you’re better off gone. 

Square Filled: Hurt/ Comfort ( @spnfluffbingo)

A/N: For the haters and the ones who gave up on me. For the ones that made me feel like I wasn’t enough. For the ones who hurt me so bad that I wanted to disappear. For the ones who claimed to be my friend and proved themselves otherwise. This one is for you. 

  You stood in the kitchen, dipping your tea bag into your favourite mug that you had picked up from the gas n’ sip somewhere in Portland a few years ago. It was close to midnight when you last checked your phone. It was hard to tell these days since the bunker had no windows. No natural sunlight got in. You were clad in one of your favourite oversized sweaters and a pair of plaid shorts that barely covered your ass, and a pair of knee high socks. Your typical bed attire for the most part. When you were on the road it was a little different. At home, you were more comfortable. 

  Home. 

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“I can get used to this 1940′s version of you”

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: After witnessing a murder, Y/N becomes a protected witness to FBI Agent Dean Winchester, who needs her help to do more than just solve one man’s murder.

Word Count:3,971

Gif:

A/N:Brace yourself, friends. 

In case you’re squirmish, it gets a little bloody below. Just a warning. 

Wanna be tagged? Shoot @attractiverandomness a note and a “thank you” for being my tag master savior!

Night Falls Master List

Your jaw clenches as you hang up the phone. Crowley plucks it from your hand before his henchman grabs your wrists and ties them behind the back of the chair you had been thrown into when you arrived at the warehouse.

After you had made your decision, the same man who was tying your wrists just a little too tight for comfort appeared in your apartment and gripped your arm, forcing you to stand with a grunt. A gun was waiting in his hand, and he had pressed it into your stomach as he led you from your apartment to an awaiting limo outside. 

It was late, so there was no one around to see you as you got shoved into the car. From the tinted windows, you could see the unmarked car that was parked right across the street, and you could see the face of an unknown agent, his head resting against the window with his eyes closed. If you hadn’t known any better, he looked like some guy napping in his car.  Your stomach clenched as you had to fight down the urge to be sick.

Crowley’s henchman–who seemed to have no name–climbed into the car behind you before Crowley joined you, someone outside closing the door once he was settled. The man with you had pulled you onto the seat with him and kept the cold barrel of the gun pressed against you. 

The three of you drove in silence for about thirty minutes until you had pulled up to a row of warehouses along the river. You had never been to this part of town before, not that you had any reason to before now. It looked like some sort of shipping yard–and with not a single person in sight. 

You had been dragged inside and thrown into the chair you were currently tied down to before Crowley had handed you a cell phone and instructed you to call Dean. 

You hated yourself for the choice you had made, but Dean was smart. He would figure out at some point that this was a trap, wouldn’t he? Your fingers had hesitated over the phone screen, second guessing your choice before Crowley’s man backhanded you across your cheek. 

The sting had burned and you hissed as your neck snapped to one side. It had been a warning to cooperate. 

So you called Dean and said a prayer that the two of you would make it out of this alive. 

Crowley pulls up a chair across from you and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. He narrows his eyes at you, though an amused smirk is plastered on his round face.

“What?” You spit, your right cheek throbbing as your jaw clenches.

Crowley makes a face as if to say he has no idea what you’re talking about, his eyebrows raising and lips twitching just slightly. He’s enjoying this. 

“Oh, I’m just wondering what exactly Dean thinks he’s coming here to talk to you about.” Crowley says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sounded personal.” You can see him biting back a smile, though he doesn’t bother to hide the enjoyment in his tone. 

 Your teeth grind together as you stare him down, your nostrils flaring. 

You knew he knew. How? You weren’t sure. But just like that, he knew that Dean wasn’t just your agent, and you weren’t just his witness. 

“Tell me, love.” Crowley folds his hands. He pauses for a moment, his eyes roaming you up and down. “You think Dean sleeps with all his witnesses?” Crowley cocks his head as he bounces his eyebrows. “Or just you.” 

You turn your head away, tears welling in your eyes. 

You knew Crowley was goading you. Trying to find more ammo for his artillery. He was playing games and you wanted to throw your hands up and scream, “I quit!” But that wasn’t going to happen. You have to sit here and listen to every god damn word that will leave his mouth. And god damn it, you needed to show him he wasn’t going to get to you, even though your blood felt cold and that bright light at the end of the tunnel that had shone so brightly just hours ago, was snuffed out, and now all you could see was darkness.

“Did I strike a nerve?” Crowley asks with glee in his voice. He’s loving every god damn second of this.

If you were going to survive, you couldn’t let him get to you. You may be tied to a chair, but once Dean gets here, you were going to have to do anything you could to help him through this. 

You take a deep breath and roll your shoulders back, the ropes around your wrists twisting against your skin. You raise your chin as you turn back to look at Crowley, a new feeling settling in your stomach.

“You want to know what I think?” You say with an even voice. 

Crowley needed you alive, at least until Dean showed up. You had an awful inkling Crowley was going to dangle you like a piece of meat in front of Dean, so until he arrived, you had a free pass.

Crowley raises his eyebrow, holding out a hand, encouraging you to continue.

“I think Dean is going to get here, and I think he’s going to take you down.” You take a quick breath. “This empire that you’ve been building your whole life is going to come to a crashing burn. And maybe I won’t live through to see it, but I’m just glad I was the one who lit the match.”

You can’t stop the smirk that bubbles on your lips as Crowley’s face falls and his jaw clenches, the merriment in his brown eyes extinguished. But he quickly recomposes himself as he cocks his head and swallows. His eyes flash behind you, making a clear statement. You try to turn your head but before you can, a fist connects with your jaw, sending you toppling onto the concrete floor, your shoulder breaking the rest of your fall as you cry out as pain shoots through your body. Your eyes squeeze shut, grounding your teeth as your shoulder throbs and you taste the tell-tale twinge of iron on your tongue. 

“By all means, love, be cheeky.” You can hear Crowley’s voice, though it’s drowned out by the ringing in your ears. “It’s totally up to you how we spend these thirty minutes waiting for Dean to arrive.”

Every single breath you muster sends a shiver of pain through your body and your stomach twists in nausea. 

You hear Crowley sigh before he mutters, “get her up,” and you’re suddenly being lifted off the ground, too quickly for your still spinning head, and set upright, the room around you blurry as your eyes try to focus on anything. 

“Totally up to you, love.” Crowley comes back into focus with a sickening sweet smile on his face. “Be a good little girl, and as agreed, you’ll walk away from this just fine.” 

Your jaw clenches, a stabbing burn shooting across the outline of your face as you try to give him your hardest glare, but Crowley just laughs.

“Let’s try to play nice, shall we?” 

Dean takes a right-hand turn onto the road his GPS shows him, his brows furrowing as he pulls into an almost empty parking lot. There were a few older-looking cars scattered throughout the area, but not a single person outside. 

Dean narrows his eyes and scans the area. Something deep down is warning him that something isn’t right.

He leans forward in his seat and looks out the windshield at the building in front of him, the numbers 1876 stenciled onto the bricks. Dean just hopes his gut is still on edge from everything that’s happened today and this was going to be a really cool bar that Y/N had found. 

He shuts off the engine and steps out in the cool air. Spring may have arrived, but the nights still held a bite to them, especially standing next to the water, the wind whipping at his jacket. 

He takes a deep breath and looks around the parking lot again, something reallynot feeling right. He bites at the corner of his lip for a moment before pulling out his phone and opening a text message to Cas. 

May be paranoid, but meeting Y/N at some bar on 1876 n 10th st and got a weird feeling. Keep your ears on just in case. 

As soon as the message sends, a texting box pops up, Cas already responding. 

Are you sure that’s a good idea?

Dean purses his lips but ignores his friend and pockets his phone. He knew Cas had known something had gone down between the two of you, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have approved if he had found out exactly whathad happened between Dean and Y/N, but right now, he didn’t need a lecture. He needed to find Y/N and figure out what the hell the two of them were going to do now. 

Dean hurries across the parking lot while trying to keep his composure, not wanting to look like he had been rushing in to find you, but Dean is a mixture of nerves and excitement. It’s like he was fifteen again and taking Cathy Wilson to her senior prom. 

As he reaches the door, his phone vibrates in his pocket, but Dean ignores it as he steps inside. 

His brow furrows as he walks pass the threshold, seeing crates rather than bar patrons. The lights are off and not a single sound echoes through the vast building.

Either he was in the wrong spot….or–

He reaches into his jacket for his gun when the click of a safety unlocking rings in his ears. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Someone drawls behind him as the barrel of a gun presses against his neck.

Dean slowly raises his hands above his shoulders. He cocks his head slightly, just enough to make out the figure behind him. 

“You haven’t happened to seen a chick around here, have ya?” Dean smiles, his mind racing for a plan as he tries to stall. “I was suppose to meet someone here but I’ve got a feeling she’s standing me up.” Dean smirks, wondering if he spin quick enough to knock the gun from the man’s hand before the guy can get a shot off. 

But before Dean can make a move, the man responds by shoving him forward, putting too much space between him and Dean for Dean to make a move.

“Start walking.” The man orders and Dean keeps his hands raised as he walks further into the warehouse.

As they walk, Dean’s eye scan the room, seeing two possible exits in addition to the door he came through.

But if for some reason Dean wasn’t able to work his way out of this one, he had to hope Cas would somehow realize something’s not right. And if that was his only option, Dean just had to survive until then. 

The two men wander further until two people emerge into view, one dressed in a black peacoat, standing and holding a gun at the slumped figure in the chair next to him. 

Dean’s heart and feet stop all at once. He can’t see her face, Y/H/C hair obscuring her features, but he knows it’s you. 

The man gives Dean another shove, forcing him to keep moving until Dean stands in front of the man he’s been chasing since his mother’s murder twenty-four years ago.

“Ah, Dean, so nice of you to join us.” Crowley’s voice is much lighter than Dean expected and he smiles with ease, like he’s seeing an old friend.

At the mention of Dean’s name, you raise your head, your Y/E/C eyes meeting his–his heart shattering when he takes in the purple swell to your nose and cheeks and the slight trickle of blood on the corner of your mouth.

Dean’s jaw clenches and a fire explodes inside him. He takes a step towards you and Crowley, a deafening ring in his ears before something hard and sharp whips at the back of his head, sending him tumbling to his knees with a hiss as Y/N yells out, “Dean!” 

Dean presses a hand to the back of his head where the pain radiates from, feeling the sticky warmth of his own blood against his fingers. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Crowley huffs with a roll of his shoulders. “You didn’t take his gun?” Crowley points with his own weapon to where Dean’s jacket hangs open, revealing the gun hanging below his shoulder.

“Sorry boss,” the man behind Dean apologizes before Crowley stares down at Dean.

“Toss it,” Crowley motions to Dean with his own gun. 

Dean purses his lips, wondering if he has any feasible chance of getting a shot off on Crowley and his guard before getting shot himself.

Crowley sighes deep and frustrated before taking a step towards Y/N and placing the barrel of his gun against your head.

“Now, Dean.” Crowley instructs with a clenched jaw. Dean grounds his teeth at the sight of the weapon at your temple and with one hand, reaches into his jacket and slowly removes the gun from his holster before sliding it across the floor away from both Crowley and his man. 

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Crowley raises his eyebrows, a smile already back on his face as he steps away from Y/N and lowers his gun to his side. 

Crowley shifts from side to side, his demeanor relaxing as he looks down at Dean.

“I was wondering if we would ever have the pleasure to meet, Dean.” Crowley cocks his head. Dean’s jaw clenches, the same thought having passed through his mind since he was seven years old, though he never imagined it like this. 

“Glad we could finally make this happen.” Crowley smiles with open palms, as if he’s finally gotten some friends together for a dinner party. 

“Looks like you went through a lot of trouble to get me here,” Dean glares at Crowley, his eyes glancing to Y/N, your eyes wide and wet as you look down at him.

Crowley chuckles, snapping Dean’s attention back to him.

“Actually, it was no trouble at all.” Crowley quirks. “All I had to do was kill Zazel, and with him out of the way, I knew you would leave precious Y/N over here with no protection,” Crowley waves his gun towards Y/N. “You ‘special agents’ are so predictable, do you know that?” Crowley turns his head, glancing between Dean and Y/N. “Makes my job so much easier.”

Crowley takes a step forward to where Dean is still kneeling on the ground after the blow to his head, the pain still throbbing, but his attention on the Scottish son-of-a-bitch prancing in front of him like he’s putting on a performance. 

Crowley crouches down, his brown eyes matching Dean’s level.

“Tell me, Dean,”  Crowley takes a breath through his nose and glances behind Dean momentarily before finding Dean’s gaze and holding it. “How did it feel, finding the man who killed your mum, dead—and when you were so close to putting him away?” Crowley narrows his eyes and Dean refuses to look away. “When the one thing you’ve wanted most in this world, was once again, taken by me?” Crowley’s lips snarl into a smile, his head twisting to the side slightly. 

“Did it hurt? Burn maybe?” Crowley’s voice begins to rise. Remind you that no matter how hard you try that I will alwaysown you?” Crowley’s voice rings out through the warehouse, spit flying in Dean’s face, but he doesn’t flinch. 

Crowley takes a deep breath, his body heaving. 

“Because I do own you, Dean.” Crowley tips his head, his tone sharp and icy. “From the moment Zazel killed dear ‘ole mummy,”

“Dean,” Y/N’s warning voice cuts through Crowley, but the two men ignore you, having not heard, or not cared. Dean’s nostrils flare and his stomach twists as his hands ball into fists. Crowley can even hear the grinding of his teeth, Dean’s clenching his jaw so tight. 

“Your entire life has been revolving around me.” Crowley regains his composure. “And it’s going to end with me.” 

Dean snaps and his body lunges towards Crowley, but before he can make any contact a sharp pain radiates through his body as he topples onto the floor, Y/N’s voice emanating around the pain, but all he can focus on is the burn in his ribs. 

Crowley huffs and stands up, nodding to his guard before the man winds up and delivers another blow to Dean’s chest with the toe of his boot. Dean’s entire body lurches from the impact and his body rolls against the concrete. 

“Dean!” Y/N screams as Dean clutches his side, coughing despite the fact that he can’t find a morsel of air in his lungs. He pushes his hands under his chest, trying to find his strength, but a boot lands hard on his back, stomping him to the ground.

“Crowley, please stop!” Y/N scream. Crowley peers over his shoulder at you with his eyebrows raised. He looks you over with a curious gaze before licking his lips and fully facing you.

“What did you expect to happen when you called Dean here, hm?” Crowley clucks. “That the two of you would ride off into the sunset.” Y/N quickly turns away from Crowley’s gaze, knowing exactly what was going to happened the minute you dialed Dean’s number. But that was when this was all theoretical. Now Dean was in front of you, blood trickling from his lips and an angry panic in his eyes. 

Crowley’s body bounces with a laugh.

“But I suppose a deal’s a deal. Your life for Dean’s.” Crowley reaches into his pocket and steps behind your chair. You feel a tug on your wrists before that burning pain that had been plaguing your skin dissipates. You swing your arms around, instantly cupping your bleeding wrists, thankful to have an excuse not to look at Dean at the mention of your treachery. 

Crowley steps in front of you and you look up at him, your lips set in a hard line as Dean watches the two of you from the floor, hoping for any type of distraction that would give him even three seconds to turn this entire situation around. 

When you don’t move, Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

“In case you didn’t get the hint, love, you’re free to go,” Crowley smirks down at you. “Unless, of course, you’d like to stay and watch me murder your boyfriend.” Crowley tilts his head, keeping your gaze.

Dean peers over his shoulder, the guard’s gun still pointing down at him, but his attention on Y/N and Crowley. 

If he was gonna take any shot at escaping, this had to be it.

With a quick push, Dean spins his body across the floor, ignoring the burning of his bruised body as he kicks his leg out, knocking the guard’s gun from his hand and sending it sliding across the room. 

“What’s the–” before the guard can react, Dean’s already flinging himself from the ground and wrapping his arms around the man’s waist, driving his feet into the ground as he tackles the both of them to the floor, Dean falling on top of the two. 

Crowley and Y/N’s head snap to the commotion and watch as Dean raises his fist and lands a blow to the guard’s face, sending a wailing grunt through the warehouse. Dean winds up again, but the guard throws an elbow to Dean’s jaw, sending him flailing back as Dean grip’s the guard’s collar, bringing him with Dean before Dean manages to land a jab to the man’s nose, sending him off balance and falling away from Dean.

“For the love of all things holy,” Crowley huffs and raises his gun to Dean’s back.

Y/N’s eyes go wide as you watch Crowley cock back the hammer and steady his aim.

“No!” Y/N screams, lunging from your seat and throwing your body into Crowley, sending him stumbling as a shot rings out in your ears, blocking out all other sounds as you fall to your knees. 

Dean flinches at the shot, and turns his body, having heard your scream. You’re hunched on the ground, a hand pressed to your ear. 

“Y/N!” Dean makes a move towards you, but he’s suddenly tackled from behind, sending him flying to the ground as a blow to his skull sends him reeling.

The world swirls around you as a piercing ring echoes through your skull. You rub at your ear, trying to make is disappear, but despite the wailing in your ears, you still hear the heavy footsteps as they appear behind you.  

You try to crawl, knowing Crowley is close, but a foot stomps on your ankle, your scream the only sound you now hear as a sharp burn claws up your leg, the pain pounding against your skin, desperately trying to escape. You fold your leg into your chest, clutching at your ankle, hoping your fingers can somehow ease the nauseating pain that is scorching from within you.

Crowley steps into your line of view as warm tears stream down your face. He squats besides you, his jaw tight and nostrils flared, taking a moment before his brown eyes lock with yours. 

“I’ve had just about enough of you, love.” His spit flies in your face. “Consider our deal terminated.” 

Crowley raises his gun and presses the barrel between your eyes. 

You suck in a breath, and before you can even close your eyes, a shot rings out. Blood splatters across your face and Crowley’s expression goes blank before his body collapses onto the ground next to you. 

Your lungs stop as you stare at Crowley’s defeated figure, blood pouring from his head, pooling around him and seeping into his jacket.

Your chest heaves at the sight and your stomach fists into knots.

“Oh god,” you breath out, rolling yourself away from the grisly sight. 

A hand lands on your shoulder and you gasp as you pivot to the side, your heart pounding against your chest as green eyes find yours.

“Hey, hey, hey,” your eyes go wild, searching behind Dean for Crowley’s man, confused as to how Dean can suddenly be by your side.

Dean’s hands wrap around your shoulders, the side of a gun in his left hand pressing against your sleeve. Your eyes glance down at the weapon, but Dean’s grip gives you a shake, forcing you to look at him.

“Are you okay?” His free hand brushes over your face and into your hair, pushing away the disheveled heap as his eyes scan your face. You glance over your shoulder at Crowley’s crumbled body, the blood flowing into tributaries around him. 

“Hey.” Dean’s hand gently glides your attention back to him. “Look at me,” Dean instructs, his green eyes somehow vibrant against his bloodied face. 

“Are you okay?” He says slowly this time, his eyes boring into yours. Your lips part, but all that leaves them is a gasp before you crumple against Dean’s chest, tears pouring from your eyes onto his shirt, the same shirt he had been wearing when you saw him in this morning.

His arms tighten around your shoulders as he holds you against him, his head resting on top of your as you sob.

“It’s okay,” he runs a hand down the back of your head. “It’s gonna be okay.” His voice is soft, his lips murmuring against your hair. “It’s all over.” 

His lips press against your temple.

“It’s all over.”

Author:@hogwartsismyhometoo

Word Count: 3,285

Read Part:  (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Dean

It was barely 5:30 a.m. almost a week later when Dean jerked awake to the sound of gagging and retching. Disoriented and uneasy on his feet from a sudden awakening, he stumbled to the bathroom where Y/N was hunched over the toilet again. He sighed, rubbing her back until she shakily reached for the flusher and lowered the lid.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. “Did I wake Mason up?”

“No, he’s still sleeping,” Dean murmured back, but his face was still set in a grim frown. He took her face in both of his hands and tilted her chin up so he could get a good look at her. She’d lost so much weight in the past couple weeks, though he couldn’t figure out why as she’d been eating normally and there wasn’t any added stress other than the baby. Her cheekbones stuck out more than usual on her hollow face, pajamas hanging more loosely on her body. Her skin and the whites of her eyes even had an aged paper sort of look, almost yellow-ish.

“I don’t want to get you sick,” she whispered, though he could tell it wasn’t just for the baby’s sake, but also from how weak she was.

“Y/N, I don’t think this is a stomach bug. This is the sixth day in a row you’ve thrown up. I think we should get you to the hospital, make sure everything’s okay.”

“I’m sure it’s just my body being out of whack after giving birth. My mom was sick for a little bit after I was born.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Sick like this?”

She bit her lip.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “We need to go, I don’t want this getting any worse.”

"But Mason—”

“Sam can watch Mason,” he said firmly before she could argue anymore. “We’ll be home soon, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Y/N didn’t say anything else, just nodded weakly and reached up for Dean’s help getting to her feet. He led her back over to the bed where she instantly curled up under the blankets, then scooped Mason into his arms, cradling him gently against his chest. The baby squirmed a little, letting out a soft fussing noise, but didn’t wake. He let out a breath of relief. At least he wasn’t crying on top of everything else.

Dean knocked as softly as he could on the door without waking up Mason, holding him close to himself and praying silently for Sam to answer. He’d never been as light of a sleeper as Dean was.

But thank God, the door opened a crack, enough space between the door and the doorframe that Dean could make out Sam’s face. His forehead was wrinkled, eyes squinted with sleepy confusion. Dean’s shoulders slumped forehead, breathing a little easier, and Sam opened the door all of the way.

“Dean?” Sam said, just loud enough that Dean made a shushing movement and gestured to Mason. Sam let out a little “oh” and lowered his voice. “What’s up? Why are you up so early?”

Dean opened his mouth, found that no sound came out, and closed it, shaking his head. He held Mason carefully out to him, and Sam took the child without question. Hoarsely, he whispered, “I have to take Y/N to the hospital. Can you watch him for a few hours?”

Sam’s eyes widened at the news. “The hospital? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, yeah, she—um—” Dean scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words in his foggy brain, but failing. The worry that sat in his stomach like lead crawled up to his chest, making his heart beat even faster, than his throat, which tightened up and made his eyes water. He could practically feel his skin paling to a sickly, ghostly color, and he knew there was no way he’d be able to hide anything from his little brother. His green eyes were bright, the very definition of “windows to the soul” as they showed everything he was feeling at this very moment. “Sam, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, I don’t know how long it’ll last, or if it can be fixed, or—I just don’t know anything. I can’t help, and she’s in so much pain—” He broke off again, covering his face with shaking hands in an attempt to shut all of this down. Just because he was burdened with this didn’t mean Sam had to be.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said, voice incredibly soft and soothing, and he shifted Mason in his arms so he had one free arm to wrap around his brother and pulling him in for a hug filled with safety and comfort. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about a thing, Y/N’s strong. She’ll fight it. And we’re all here for her andyou, whatever you guys need. Cas and I’ll step up, Charlie and Jody, too, I’m sure. You have a support system. It’ll all work out.”

Feeling slightly steadier, though the heavy, sick feel still hadn’t gone away, Dean nodded and pulled back. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump there and croaked out, “Thanks, Sammy,” before giving a smile that felt like a grimace. He rubbed his thumb across Mason’s wrist, taking another look at the peacefully sleeping baby, and left to go back to his room.

Y/N was full on shaking by the time Dean got back, but the blankets had been thrown aside, mostly lying on the floor now. She was drenched in sweat, eyes wide and even more yellowed, and watery. Her arms were wrapped tight around her stomach, and when she saw Dean come back in, a little whimper escaped her.

He felt something in him crack, the beginning of a fault line, trembling like a warning. He lifted her from the bed and held her much like he’d held Mason, her curled up against him, shudders coursing through her body so violently he felt it almost as if he were the one in pain. His own voice quivered as he whispered to her, carrying her from the Bunker and pressing a kiss against her sweaty forehead, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. We’ll be there soon.”

“D-Dean,” she stuttered, voice strained. Her bony, yellow hands reached out to him, finally grasping his as tightly as she could. It was a weak grip at best.

“What is it?” Dean asked as he settled her in the passenger seat of the Impala. He buckled her in and kept his hands resting on top of hers.

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again, and gave a small shake of her head, almost imperceptible. “Drive fast.”

And drive fast he did.

Y/N

The ride to the hospital was a blur, whether from the unbearable pain in my stomach or how fast Dean was driving, I couldn’t tell. What I could see through my tears was how worried he was, jaw clenched tight and eyes fixed on the road with a kind of fierce determination I’d only seen in him when he was hunting.

I blinked, and suddenly I was being whisked away on a stretcher, hair fanned out around me on a pillow that smelled strongly of cleaners. The sweat and tears made the pillowcase wet, but I was more focused on looking for Dean. He wasn’t anywhere to be found, just a couple of nurses who were pushing my stretcher. I struggled to sit up, propping myself on my elbow.

“Dean,” I choked out, panic rising in my voice. “Where is he? Where’s my husband?”

“Shh, honey, just lie back down,” said one of the nurses in an infuriatingly condescending tone that made me clench my fists with anger. I knew that she was just trying to be kind, but in my current state—scared, in pain—I wasn’t thinking clearly.

“I want my husband,” I repeated slowly and through gritted teeth. “Where is he?”

“In the waiting room, sweetie,” the same nurse said, gently but firmly trying to push me back down onto the stretcher. “The doctor’s going to take care of you and then get him in there right away. Don’t worry.”

But worry I did. I didn’t want to be alone, not now of all times, not here where the light was harsh and smell even more so. This place wasn’t unfamiliar, there’d been more than one occasion where a hunt had gone wrong and we needed to make a trip to fix a broken bone or concussion, but Dean had always been by my side now. This was different. I couldn’t place this pain, any of these symptoms, and now the only people standing next to me were a couple of nurses who wore too much perfume.

A few minutes later, I passed out.

I woke up soon after, pain still there, but not as strong. I was attached to several tubes, head foggy. They’d given me meds, that much I could tell. Just as I was sitting up in the bed, leaning against the pillows, the doctor came in.

He gave me one of those “don’t-worry-I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-everything-is-going-to-be-just-fine” smiles. “Mrs. Winchester?”

I nodded.

He held his hand out to me, and I shook it, though I was sure my grip wasn’t as firm as it usually was. “I’m Dr. Lattimer. I need to ask you a few questions so we can pinpoint what exactly this pain is that you’re having. Do you mind?”

“No,” I said, but my voice was so hoarse I had to clear my throat and say it again. “No, go ahead.”

So he asked me some questions, about the pain, the vomiting, how my diet had been these past few weeks, even the pregnancy. He was very thorough, we must’ve been talking for an hour before he stopped typing the notes into his laptop and “ran some tests,” whatever that meant. I barely registered anything he did until it was another couple hours later and he came back in the room to find me half asleep from the side effects of the pain medication they’d given me.

“Mrs. Winchester, I think it’s best if we call your husband in now.” He gave me a small smile, one very different from the first. This one didn’t meet his eyes.

I narrowed mine at him. “What’s wrong?”

He set his laptop down on the counter by the window, removing his glasses and wiping them on his shirt with a heavy sigh. He didn’t answer me until he’d replaced them, clearly stalling for time. “I just think you should both be in here when I give you the facts.”

I shook my head, balling up the sheets in my fists to keep my hands from shaking. “No, I want to know first.”

“Mrs. Win—”

“Please,” I said firmly, more a demand than a request. “I want to be the one to tell him.” Then, more gently this time, “Please.”

He studied me for a good few seconds, nodded, and said, “All right.” He pushed the chair over a little closer by my bed and sat carefully, as if it were made of something extremely fragile, or there were pins scattered across it and he was trying not to sit on any. When all he did was stare at his clasped hands, resting on his knees, I figured it was time I got the ball rolling.

“Just give it to me straight,” I said in as casual a voice as I could manage. Even though I was terrified of what he was about to tell me, I had to start acting strong now. For myself. For Dean. “Don’t sugarcoat anything, I can handle it.”

“Mrs. Winchester, I highly doubt this is something you’re prepared to hear …”

“Just tell me.”

So he did. Then I asked him to leave the room and wait five minutes before going to get Dean. Five minutes, that’s all I would allow myself. Five minutes would be enough time to cry.

Dean

“Y/N.”

Dean said her name in the way one would let out a sigh and say “thank god.” And that was pretty much what was going through his mind at the moment, too preoccupied with the sight of her awake and sitting up and even smiling at him to realize that the upward quirk of her lips was tight and forced. He collapsed by the side of her bed, knees banging painfully against the floor, but he didn’t notice or care. Gripping her hand in both of his, he gave a little squeeze. “How are you feeling? The doctor said you wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m feeling okay,” she said softly, voice slow and smooth as caramel. It was calm, gentle … too calm. Y/N didn’t talk like that, she was fierce and explosive. Even when she was totally relaxed her tone was emphatic, not like this. Dean pushed the worried thoughts away, dismissing it as a side effect of the meds they’d given her. “Hey, why don’t you take a seat?”

He shook his head, his once relieved smile slipping immediately. Something was definitely off. “No, I’m fine. I want to stay close to you.”

Dean could’ve sworn he heard her breath hitch on the inhale, but if it had, she straightened it out right after. She nodded and scooted to one side of the bed, carefully arranging the tubes in a way that kept them from getting tangled, and patted the empty space beside her. “Then get in here.”

He stood back up, wincing at the resistance of his sore knees where he’d bruised them, and got into bed next to her in a way that wouldn’t disturb her too much. His right arm went around her waist, holding her close to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, took a few breaths deep enough for him to feel, to hear. With each passing moment he felt his heart beat a little harder. This not knowing was killing him slowly. Not getting all the information right away when he was sure she knew everything could only mean one thing: this was not a good thing.

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered, rubbing her thumb across the lines in his palm.

“I know, Dr. Lattimer said you did.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

Dean inhaled sharply, held it. “Okay.”

Y/N took another deep breath, pulling her head from his shoulder as she did so, as if the effort were that of lifting a heavy weight. He could see the lump in her throat bob up and down as she swallowed hard, eyes flicking around his face. It was almost like she was trying to memorize it, but her gaze finally landed on his, blue eyes meeting green.

“Dean, I have liver cancer.”

The phrase “time stood still” crossed Dean’s mind. Nothing moved, neither of them breathed. This was a joke, it had to be a joke. A trick worthy of Gabriel or some other angel who had it out for them. Could this be a dream? Another nightmare?

“But—” He stammered, the rest of his words lodging in his throat.

“Dean,” she whispered again, sliding her hand up his arm, down again, resting on top of his. Their wedding rings glinted in the hospital light. “Say something.”

“But there’s treatments, right?” He croaked out. “Chemo, something … just—there’s got to be something.”

She bit her lip, then pressed them both together and gave one barely perceptible shake of her head. And he could tell the strength she fought to have for him, the kind of strength he’d fought to have for her and Sam and Cas and anyone he’d ever loved deeply enough to hide his own hurt for the sake of healing theirs, crumbled. The strongest person he’d ever known, falling apart before his eyes. “Dean, I’ve only got weeks.”

Dean Winchester had heard of heartbreak. It was in enough songs for him to know that it was real, but he’d always had a hard time believing it. A person could be stabbed, but their heart couldn’t break just from the sheer force of pain.

But now he understood. Now he could feel it, the fault line pulling apart into a chasm, bits of his heart and his soul landing in the pit of his stomach and rest there. Dead weight.

         Dean had died before, on multiple occasions. He’d felt the sharp, ragged intakes of his last breaths. He knew what it was like to watch the lights fade away and every sound turn to dust. the smell of his own blood, the feeling of the hard ground beneath him as cold as the grave he’d occupy just days later as he clung to the last person who’d ever hold him … none of that compared to this. Now.

He’d been silent too long. He hadn’t heard Y/N whisper his name until her pale, twig-like fingers found his shoulders and squeezed. “Dean, please don’t be sad. Please. You’ve had too much pain in your past to let this hurt you, too. It’s my own damn fault. All that binge drinking I did as a kid, well … it was hard on my liver. And I’m paying the price for it now.”

“Why didn’t I catch it sooner?” He said hoarsely, staring right through her. “The vomiting, the weight loss, your skin … if I’d said to come check it out—”

“I would’ve said no.” Y/N rested both of her hands on his shoulders. “Dean, none of this is on you. Okay? None of it. So don’t guilt trip yourself over something that can’t be undone. We need to focus on the time we have left, on Mason—” Her voice wobbled and cracked, but she regained her composure with surprising ease. “Can you do that? For me?”

Dean had to fight tooth and nail not to break down right then and there, but with an astronomical amount of effort, he nodded.

"Thank you,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. He pressed his nose into her neck, but her usual flowery scent was barely recognizable under the sweat and hospital chemical smell.

“Dean?” She whispered once more, shaking so slightly he might not have noticed it if it weren’t for the fact that every bit of his energy was going into staying steady for her. “I really believe you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Dean squeezed her even tighter against himself, knuckles bumping the tubes stuck in her. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Her voice strained and cracked, and she collapsed into great heaving sobs, soaking his shirt in seconds. It was clear she’d been trying so hard to hold it in, tried to stay brave. But she was so scared, and she had every right to be. Life had dealt her a shitty hand, and now all the cards were laid out in plain site.

He would stand by her through this. He would be her rock.

And he would build a dam to keep anything from leaking through. She didn’t deserve this kind of an ending. He would rewrite her a final chapter, a proper departure.

If death was going to steal her away from him too damn soon, he would hang on as tight as he could for as long as he could. For her.

He wouldn’t let her see him cry.

Imagine Stealing the Impala.

Word Count: 1,541

It was an easy job, after you swiped the keys, you were in and out of the parking lot in less than four minutes. The model was much older than your usual jack, but it was nice riding in a classic, especially a 67 Chevy Impala as nice as this one.

You were the best at what you did, and that’s why you could charge so much for your services and still have buyers lined up at the door. It was pricey, but you were a professional and you always got the job done.

Normally you didn’t do face-to-face. You’d wait for the first payment to pop up in your bank account in the Caymans, drop off the car in a predetermined location, and then wait for the second payment. If it didn’t come, you had a way of finding people.

That was the way you worked. It was efficient, it was professional, and most importantly, it was safe. This job was different though. They could have bought more than ten of these cars legally for the money they were paying you to jack it. Obviously, it was personal. It was also against your better judgement, but a paycheck this easy doesn’t come very often and you could use a little vacation.

So this was how you ended up in an aquarium parking lot inside the aforementioned stolen 67 Chevy impala, along with a very tall and very angry (and very attractive) man knocking on the side window with a very fake FBI badge pressed against the glass.

You cracked the window just enough so that sound would pass through and gave him a flirty smile. “What seems to be the problem, agent?”

“Your feet,” he growled, “on my dash.”

You tossed your magazine to the side and put your feet back on the floor of the car. He obviously wasn’t with the FBI, and neither was his partner who stood leaning against the side of a blue pick-up. Then who was he and why the hell would anyone pay this much for his car?

More importantly, how were they able to track you here? You disabled the GPS and swept the car for trackers. It was clean.

“Get out of the car. Now.” You ignored his demand.

“How’d you find me here?”

“Get out of my car before I shoot you,” he said slowly, face close to the glass.

You gave a mock pout and hummed. “Buy me dinner first, tiger. By the way, love the fake badges. Did you make them at the arts and crafts store?”

“You little-” but he was interrupted by the black Mazda that pulled up in front of the Impala. The buyer is here. Great.

He exited the car with a vaguely annoyed expression, but didn’t exactly seem surprised at your company. “Hello boys.”

“Crowley,” the fake agent greeted. His voice was gruff, and he stared down your employer with hard eyes. Good to know your suspicion was right. This was personal, very personal.

Crowley’s gaze flitted over to you. Even through the windshield you could feel the intensity of your eyes. “It seems your skills are not as refined as you advertised.” There was venom in his voice, but you matched it in your own.

“I thought I made it clear that I work under full disclosure. You weren’t telling me everything.”

He ignored you, turning back to the fake agents, and made a gesture with his hand so brief you hardly noticed it. The danger of the situation didn’t dawn on you until his driver exited the vehicle wielding curved blade. He was walking towards you.

This guy didn’t take disappointment very well.

You quickly turned the keys, firing up the engine and throwing it into reverse. The agent’s hands slapped the window before you floored it, spinning the car around and taking off out of the parking lot. Your motel room was the first place they’d look for you, but you couldn’t leave town until you had your stuff.

The identity you were using obviously wasn’t safe anymore, and you had a feeling your other fake names and IDs had been compromised as well. You’d need to get a whole new set just to be sure.

You threw your current cell phone out of the car window on the way to the motel, hopefully smashing it in the process. The key to your room got stuck in the lock and you jiggled it impatiently until you were inside.

It took about three minutes to throw everything into you bag (you packed light) and grab the cash you had stashed behind the impressionist painting on the far wall. You eyes scanned the parking lot before deciding on a car. It took another six minutes to break in and hot wire it. Normally this wasn’t your style. You were clean cut, a professional, but these were desperate times.

You had severely underestimated these men, but that wouldn’t happen again.

Little drops of red splatted into the sink and slid into the drain, leaving discolored trails on the porcelain.

Gas station bathrooms weren’t ideal for dying hair, especially not in one as small as this, but you didn’t have a lot of time and booking an appointment at the salon was out of the question. Besides, this wasn’t the first time you’d done this, and you were even becoming good at it.

It wouldn’t be long now before the dye was set, but you suspected it would take a while before your hair would be completely dry. You hoped it looked halfway decent when it was. Nothing like a bad hair-job to make you stand out from the crowd, and that’s exactly what you were trying to avoid.

Three solid bangs rattled from the opposite side of the door. You flinched at the sudden noise.

“Give me a minute,” you yelled, and then added, “Lady problems!”

You turned back to the mirror, red-stained fingers moving rapidly through your hair. There was one more bang as the door broke from it’s hinges and burst open.

It was a clean cut man, freshly shaved and dressed in black. He was bulky, towering over you in height as well and wore a smile that met his eyes, eyes that were a pool of black. His fist was tight around the same curved blade he held earlier. It was Crowley’s driver.

An invisible force sent you flying into the tile wall, you head throbbing on impact. Your fingers were clawing at your throat, painting the skin red with the dye on your hands. There was nothing you could do to stop whatever was constricting your windpipe. Your chest spasmed as it struggled for breath and your heart pounded rapidly in your ears.

The monster laughed, taking a few steps forward so that you could feel his breath on your face. He ran his fingers along a strand of damp hair, brushing against your cheek with the back of his hand.

“Mr. Crowley doesn’t take kindly to those who fail him.” His words were hot and vile as they fanned your face. Your heart was slowing and you vision grew dark at the edges.

He drew in a sharp breath, his face frozen in shock, eyes flickering between light and dark, until he slid off the blade that was shoved into his back and crumpled into a heap on the ground. His invisible hold on you released and your legs buckled. The tile floor felt cool against your cheek, like the air that you heaved in and out of your lungs.

The green-eyed fake FBI agent from before was kneeling in front of you, ignoring the dead body that lay next to him. His hands were running along your neck, searching for a wound that wasn’t there.

“She’s bleeding out,” he said.

“Hair dye,” you choked out. His shoulders sagged in relief but he didn’t drop the hand that held your cheek.

“Dean, we don’t have a lot of time,” his partner reminded him.

This so-called Dean snaked an arm around you and pulled you upright. You picked up your bag from under the sink and let him lead you out to his car. You had your hood pulled up over your head as to not draw attention to yourself, and you could feel the cool water running down your neck and back.

He shed his jacket and threw it over the backseat so you wouldn’t stain the upholstery and you climbed in, letting your weight sink into the seat. You were still struggling to catch your breath, but your heart had picked up speed and aside from your throbbing head, you didn’t think that man-meets-monster thing had inflicted much damage.

“What the hell was that?” you panted.

The two men exchanged a quick glance as the car pulled out onto the main road.

“We’ll explain later,” the long-haired one said.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe.”

Not much of a talker, I guess.

“It’s Dean, right?” you asked, still trying to calm your breathing. The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “For what it’s worth, you’ve got a nice ride.”

He laughed. It was short and bitter, but it was a laugh, and it was the last thing you remember before passing out.

Imagine marrying Dean.

Author:hogwartsismyhometoo

Word Count: 1,630

Read Part (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

Dean

Dean called everyone into the kitchen the next day, disguising his true intentions behind the promise of greasy, sizzling bacon and fried eggs with plump yolks. He tried to focus on the hot pan in front of him, but it was hard not to look at Y/N instead, her sneaking grins at him every few seconds and winking.

Sam, Cas, and Charlie all got there about the same time, taking their seats around the table. Sam ruffled Y/N’s hair before he sat down across from her, and Dean had to turn away to hide his wide smile. She was already part of the family, this would just make it official.

“What brought this on?” Sam asked as Dean set a full plate in front of him. He looked confused, but happily so, half-smiling up at Dean with furrowed eyebrows. “You haven’t cooked in weeks.

Dean shrugged nonchalantly, getting himself a plate once everyone else had been served. He sat down next to Y/N and reached for her hand under the table. Apparently she’d been thinking the same thing, because she found his immediately and squeezed, the diamond of her ring rubbing up against his callused skin.

“Just felt like an eggs and bacon kinda day,” he said. “But Y/N and I have something to tell you.”

The scraping of silverware on plates stopped, everyone looking up at them. Cas’ fork hung in the air between the table and his mouth, steaming egg drooping off the end of it.

“You want to say it?” Dean murmured to Y/N, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

She nodded, her lips pressed together the same way they always were when she tried to stop herself from beaming. She gave his hand another squeeze and gently pulled hers away from his, resting it on the table for the others to see. Here, under the bright spotlight of the kitchen, the diamond glittered like a thousand suns.

“We’re getting married.”

Charlie leaped from her chair with a squeal, knocking it over, and was at Y/N’s side in an instant. She threw her arms around her, saying, “I knew it! I knew it! I shipped you guys from the start!”

Dean laughed at the two of them until he felt Sam’s gaze too strongly to ignore. He looked hesitantly at his little brother, but though his smile was small, his eyes were bright and wet. “Congratulations,” he said quietly. “I can’t think of a better match than you two.”

“Thanks man.” Dean’s voice was suddenly tight and hoarse as he clapped Sam’s shoulder, his throat constricted.

He was getting married. He was getting married to the most beautiful woman in the world. She would be Mrs. Winchester. They would be the start of a whole new kind of family, something rich and magical. His mind filled with images of him flipping burgers on the grill in the backyard of a suburban house while Y/N chased a little boy or girl in the grass. Daydreams of her holding up a child to look outside at the starry sky in search of Rudolph as Dean stuffed the stockings. His imagination showed him years of watching their kid grow up in front of their eyes as they grew older together, sitting by the fire with a book and a blanket, the two of them together in a happy, peaceful silence.

He pulled himself out of it just as Y/N caught his eye and beamed at him for the first time that morning. Her eyes were full of enough life to power the earth, bright and twinkling and filling him with the spark of a match struck. Soon his insides were a blazing fire.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Cas spoke for the first time, carefully setting down his fork. “At human weddings, there is someone called an officiant, correct?”

“Yes, Cas,” Y/N said, one arm still around Charlie, who’d taken the seat next to her. “They’re the ones who make the marriage happen.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. And this person—they are a religious leader?”

“Usually, yeah.” Dean couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t stopped twisting the ring around her finger since Charlie had pulled away. It sent a surge of energy through him. “Most of the time they’re priests or ministers.”

He nodded again, staring intently at the table as he mulled this over, the wrinkled brow and slightly parted lips showing his confusion. “Then if I may, could I suggest myself as your … officiant? I do have a closer connection to God than any minister could ever have.”

Dean laughed. “Sure, Cas,” he said, smirking. “I’d be happy to have you as our officiant.”

“Well as long as we’re making wedding plans,” Y/N said, glancing at Dean before turning back to Charlie. “Charlie, would you be my maid of honor?”

Charlie squealed again and said something in such a high-pitched voice, Dean couldn’t make out what it was. She almost tackled Y/N in her rush to hug her. Dean shook his head a little at the two of them, giggling and speaking at the same time about the wedding. He looked back at Sam.

“Sam,” he started quietly. “Would you—”

“Yes,” Sam said, before Dean had even finished.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes,” he said again. “You don’t have to ask.”

Dean threw his hands up in the air and said, “Hey, I won’t argue you agreeing to be our indentured servant for the foreseeable future.”

Sam rolled his eyes, then said, “Dean, seriously, I’d be honored.”

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, his eyes prickling. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Y/N

The wedding was small. There weren’t many people Dean and I wanted to invite besides Sam, Cas, and Charlie—who were all already part of the wedding anyway—but Jody came with Alex. And Garth and his wife, and even Claire. Everyone looked stunning, sparkling and blood-free, genuine smiles on their faces. I couldn’t remember the last time everyone had looked so happy.

The whole time I was getting ready with Charlie’s help, walking down the aisle, standing barely a foot away from Dean dressed in a tux with his bright green eyes filled with tears, I was reminded of that quote from “Lilo and Stitch.” The one about family that Stitch says: “This is my family. I found it all on my own. It’s little and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good.” That was how I felt in that moment. That was how I’d felt all along.

The vows, the kiss—quickly followed by more squeals from Charlie and a wolf whistle from Garth—, walking away from the park bathed in sunshine and endless summer days, passed by in the blink of an eye. The others knew better then to write anything on the Impala, but they could resist putting up a sign in the back window that said, “Just Married!” and a few streamers off the back of the car.

When we drove back to the bunker—me beaming and rubbing my thumb across the back of his hand, Dean smiling softly—and got out of the car, Dean scooped me up. I squealed and clung to him so I wouldn’t fall, but his strong arms held me steady.

“What are you doing?” I giggled, voice trailing off at the end as I stared up at him, hand cupping his cheek. I traced my fingers along the side of his face, marvelling at just how much of the universe lived in his eyes. I saw a thousand stars in a thousand galaxies, bright and endless and waiting to be explored. His gaze locked onto me, freezing me in place.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Winchester,” he whispered.

“I’ve always been home,” I whispered back.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, pulling me closer against him. My fingers stopped their tracing, tangling in his hair instead. I could see him even with my eyes closed, the feel of him painting the perfect picture. A hint of stubble tickling my smooth skin, his breath mingling with mine, his arms wrapped around me and keeping me warm like a roaring fire at Christmastime.

When he pulled away, I felt like I was waking up from a wonderful dream, half-asleep in a golden haze at eleven a.m. with nothing but a day of lying in bed ahead of me. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared as he smiled.

“I’m glad you saved us that night,” he murmured.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.” I nuzzled my face against his neck as he carried me inside and down the steps.

“I’d have to be stupid to stand you up.”

I flushed and grinned against his skin at his words, remembering how he’d said almost those exact same words to me on the first day we met. It was like no time had passed at all, yet we’d spent eternity together all at once.

“I love you,” he said as he laid me down on the bed.

I smiled, feeling like pure sunshine was radiating from every cell in our bodies, and cupped his cheek. “I love you, too.”

Dean

It was three weeks after they’d gotten back from the honeymoon. Dean was sitting on their bed, checking his e-mail on his laptop. Y/N was in the bathroom, taking a little longer to get ready than usual. He’d been about to call out to her to make sure everything was okay when she opened the door.

Her eyes had been wide and shiny. Her mouth had been halfway open with unspoken words. Her hands had been shaking as she held the stick so he could see.

The strip had been pink.

Imagine listening to I Don’t Dance by Lee Brice with Dean.

Author:asharpisaflat

Requested By: smilekt02

Word Count: 923

Dean turned the knob on the Impala’s radio, desperately seeking a classic rock station or anything but country, stuck in the middle of the Western Pennsylvania woods. Giving up on the limited options, he left it on WLMI McKean and Elk Counties Home for Today’s Hot Country Hits.  Letting his wrist slip over the steering wheel he watched the tree line wobble in and out littered with roads to oil wells and dead ends, hoping for signs of the werewolves.

It was the piano that drew him away from his concentration, a steady bum bum bum that was as catchy as a cold. Smiling, he thought of when you played the piano, nothing impressive but intoxicating none the less.

“I’ll never settle down, that’s what I always thought. I was that kind of man, just ask anyone.” He turned it up a little more, feeling drawn in by a strange sense of familiarity. Dean listened intently, finally making his way back to the blemish of a small town that housed the no tell motel he shared with you and Sammy.

Once the song was over he turned the car off and grabbed the room key from the CD visor  you insisted on putting up. Slipping the plastic through the only piece of technology the place was equipped with he pushed the door open, ecstatic to find out you were the only occupant.

“Where’s Sam?” He asked.

“Went for a walk.” You didn’t look up from your laptop, just breathed a heavy sigh, blinked  a few times, and rested your head back on your hand.

Dean took a seat at the table with you while punching keys on his phone. “What are you looking up?”

“News articles, nothing super exciting. There was someone at the bar down the road that claimed a woman took the deceased outside about 20 minutes before they found the body.” You shrugged your shoulders,“None of it is reliable, especially since the dead man was left outside the emergency room in some sort of compassionate act, and not left next to the dumpster at Syzmanski’s Bar.”

Feeling his phone vibrate, Dean picked it up quickly and responded back to the text message.   “Who leaves a dead body at a hospital?”

“Someone who wants the mess cleaned up.” You looked over at Dean, his green eyes sparkling from the ugly wall lamps. It always amazed you how the rooms that the Winchester brothers chose were always so cosmetically unappealing.

“You want me to call for take out?” He interrupted. You could feel your cheeks grow flush praying to whoever was listening that he didn’t notice.

“If you can find a place that delivers that would be fantastic. I don’t know when Sammy will be back though.”

“Doesn’t matter, I can order for him and he can always reheat it.” You both looked at the dingy microwave in the corner and shrugged. You have all eaten from worse.

Within the half hour there was a knock on the door which Dean answered giving the man some cash and thanking him. “You going to take a break on all that research and eat or what?” He smirked.

“I’m done for now.” You joined him on one of the beds grabbing a pair of chopsticks and your package of pepper steak.

There was mindless chit chat and talk of theories, game plans, and past mistakes hunting werewolves.  Once you finished eating Dean sat down in front of your laptop while you put away the left overs in the minifridge.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Just browsing your Spotify.”

“The classics will be under the ‘Dean Approved’ playlist.” You grabbed two beers and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Dean approved?” He raised his eyebrows.

“In case we ever got in this situation. Sam and I have relatively the same taste in music, you on the other hand, you just aren’t hip enough for the new stuff.” You stuck your tongue out jokingly.

“I am hurt, [y/n/n], you don’t think I’m hip? You don’t think I like some new stuff?” He joked back.

“Name one song or better yet show me one song that is new that you like Winchester.”

Dean’s fingers flew across the keys and a steady bum bum bum came through the speakers. He got up and pulled you into his arms. “I heard it earlier, thought of you.” He smiled putting his hands in yours, like you were at senior prom.

You laughed looking at his hands only to be caught slightly off guard by the lyrics. “I don’t dance, but here I am, spinning you around and around in circles…”

Looking up into Dean’s eyes wasn’t planned, it was like a magnet, drawing you in and locking you in place.

“Love’s never come my way, I’ve never been this far. Cause you took these two left feet and waltzed away with my heart”

“Dean..” You began to say only to be caught with a twirl and smirk.

“It ain’t my style, but I don’t care, I’d do anything with you anywhere”

He pulled you closer and locked his eyes on yours again.

“Yes, you got me in the palm of your hand, girl…”

“[Y/N], I think I love you..” Dean whispered.

“I think I love you too Dean…”

“Cause I don’t dance…”

He kissed your lips softly bringing you to your tip toes in sheer ecstasy. “And you said I didn’t like any newer music.” He chuckled.

“Shut up and kiss me Winchester…”

Imagine Dean showing up at your door in the middle of the night, completely drunk.

Song:Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer

Word Count: 1,253

Read Part One

Anger, even a mild irritation, should have been your first response when there was pounding on your door well past midnight, but when you cracked open the door, you could only feel disappointment. All the rage had burnt out of you and left your body an empty shell, cracked around the edges and broken pieces trailing after you wherever you went.

Not that you left the house.

You clung to the door like a small child, your cheek resting against the side. Your eyes were almost empty as you took in the form standing on your porch, filled only with heavy misery. Perhaps it was more like mourning. The deep ache of exhaustion weighed you down and kept you from screaming all the words that had boiled in you for so long.

Before, when you were only doubting Dean’s fidelity, you were hurting too, sure, but that was a different kind of pain. It was fiery and passionate, lined with just a little bit of hope. This pain was a slammed door in your face, shocking and much more permanent. Empty. It felt empty.

Dean gazed at you, green eyes dull and glazed over, but filled with heavy guilt. He swayed as he stood there, wearing the same kind of speechless daze you surely mirrored. The shadow of a beard appeared darker over his jaw, but that could have been your sleepy imagination warping the glow of your porchlight across his face.

“Dean,” you said, your voice a cross between a sigh and a plead, “what are you doing here?”

“I thought you might want this back,” he said with a weak attempt at a smile, or maybe it was supposed to be a laugh. Either way, it flashed across his face, broken and lifeless.

An iron crowbar swung lightly between his fingers, casting a warped pendulum across the cement.  

You can’t bring yourself to do much besides stare at him, partly in awe. Once you wished he’d experience the same heartbreak he had caused you, but now, starring at his hollow eyes and pitiful drunkenness, you hoped only that he could manage to move on and let you do the same.

“Bad joke,” he mumbled, delicately leaning the crowbar against the outer wall.

Your mouth was dry, but one question burned in you like dying embers. Why now? Why did he choose to care about you now?

“Did Sam send you here?”

Another broken laugh rattled through his chest, but you could have mistaken it for a sigh.

“Sam won’t even talk to me.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wanted you to know – I needed you to know – I’m sorry. That doesn’t fix anything, I know, but I need you to hear me say it.”

Pain smoldered in your chest, in your throat, behind you eyes that were being to prickle. You said you wouldn’t cry in front of him again. You said you wouldn’t cry.

He said he would never leave you.

It seems these promised were fated to be broken as much as you, shattered.

“Call Sam,” you said, something wet leaking from the corner of your eye. Your voice was tight, too soft and too small. “He can drive you home.”

“If Sam finds out I came here he’ll kill me.”

“You can barely walk. If you get behind the wheel of that car you’ll kill yourself.”

There was a look in his eyes, screaming at you with their heavy misery that he simply didn’t care. It was then you cracked, another piece breaking off of you as you stepped to the side and opened the door all the way.

“Crash here tonight.”

The place seemed to be more familiar to Dean than you, for he navigated the little house with ease, sinking into your couch cushions. There was a new stabbing pain in your chest when you reached for a blanket from your linen closet. He had used it so often that you had gotten into the habit of calling it his.

You draped it over his long body, a rehearsed action, and stood over him a moment too long before you realized you were hovering. You curled up in your armchair, cradling yourself and trying to numb the deep ache in your chest and quiet the voice screaming in your head.

You should have know better than to fall in love with a hunter!

It was true, after all. This lifestyle warped people, made their love dysfunctional and dangerous. You were broken just as much as Dean was, and foolish to think you could fit your jagged pieces together. You weren’t meant to fall in love.

It was never your intention to get attached, but things has moved so unexpectedly. He moved so unexpectedly that you barely noticed that you had fallen for him until he caught you. It was bliss, a blind ignorance to this damned world you had never experienced before.

And now if was as if hell itself had dragged you into it’s clutches to begin it’s playful torment.

Dean’s breathing was heavy, peaceful enough to make you believe the alcohol had finally caught up with him and lulled him into a deep sleep, but his childlike voice cut through the hot summer air of your living room.

“I still love you, you know.”

Your cheeks were already tear stained, but now your bleeding heart was pouring from your eyes. Your chest rattled in suppressed, jagged breaths that you tried to quiet the shudders as best as you could. There was something so pitiful and ugly about crying and you simply couldn’t stand the act.

“I don’t know why I did it. I was just so afraid.”

You knew this. You knew the fear behind trusting someone with something as fragile as your heart. You knew how easy it was to be overcome with paranoia and panic, to run away at the first sign of trouble and feign love with different paramour in a different town. It was too easy to force yourself to move on rather than face the loneliness of being left behind.

It was no secret your relationship had been crumbling, ripping at the seams and losing bits and pieces of yourself along the way. You felt Dean being pried from your arms every night he slept closer and closer to his edge of the bed. You were falling out of something, whatever had once been between you. Maybe it was the kindled romance you swore you’d never find, or simply a spark, another flame. It didn’t matter anymore, because all that’s left is an icy cold gnawing at your insides.

There was nothing you could say, no words to bring either of you any comfort. There was no brightside and no hope for the future as far as you could tell. The bridge had been burnt back in that motel room and all you were left with was the ashes.

Even after Dean had fallen into a deep sleep, you still couldn’t get out of the armchair. There was a gravity keeping you here, with your legs tucked onto the seat and your eyes dropping with exhaustion. It was pointless and foolish, but you wanted to fall asleep next Dean one last time.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you still loved him too.

When you woke, Dean’s blanket was pulled over your shoulders and the couch was empty save for one thing: a crowbar.

Part 4 Coming Soon!

Imagine meeting Dean while working as a waitress in a small-town diner.

Author:hogwartsismyhometoo

Requested By: 13sjacobs

Song: Terrible Things by Mayday Parade

Word Count: 2,785

Dean turned off the TV and stretched his arms above his head, groaning. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, which had gone blurry from staring at the screen for so long, and glanced at the clock. It was almost one in the morning.

He climbed the stairs with heavy footfalls, dragging himself up the stairs with the little energy he had left. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in almost thirteen years. The house was quiet and still, causing every one of Dean’s movements to bounce and echo off the walls. Crickets chirped their soft melody off in the distance while the cicadas harmonized. The sounds were drowned out only by the occasional whir of a car driving by. Dean had gotten used to such suburban noises by now. He hardly noticed them anymore.

The rustle of blankets and long, low creak of box springs caused Dean to pause in the hallway. He used two fingers to push his son’s door open ever so slightly, leaning back to poke his head into the room.

The little boy—though Dean supposed he should stop thinking of Mason as “little” now that he was hitting puberty and shooting up like a weed—laid on his side, facing the window away from the door. This was a dead giveaway. Mason never slept on his side, and he never slept with his back to the door.

“Mason,” Dean whispered. “You awake?”

Mason gave a loud snore. He wasn’t fooling anybody.

Dean clicked the light on his nightstand on, shaking his head a little when Mason pretended to squint against the light as if he’d been sleeping for hours.

“Dad,” he fake-groaned. “What’re you doing? I don’t have school today.”

“Nice try,” Dean said dryly. “You’re a horrible actor. Why aren’t you asleep?”

Mason sat up and shrugged. “Not tired.”

“Is it those scary movies you’re watching before bed?” Dean asked, and when Mason’s eyes widened, he continued, “Yeah, I know how to work Netflix now. Did you know that the ‘recently watched’ queue updates itself every time you watch something on my account?”

“I—” Mason stuttered, but he didn’t have an answer for this.

Dean sighed, not wanting to argue right now. He supposed it was in Mason’s blood to seek out the scary and supernatural. “What’s up?”

Mason shrugged again, not meeting his father’s eyes. He pulled his knees against his chest and traced circles on the mattress.

“Come on, you can tell me. Is it school? Drama with your friends? Teacher troubles?”

“No,” Mason said. “It’s none of that.”

“Then what is it?”

Mason looked up. “Dad, will you tell me about Mom? And I don’t mean the non-answers you give me about having her eyes, I mean everything.”

Something in Mason’s eyes told Dean that he was already expecting a no. He asked his father every year to tell him the story of how they met, and every year Dean said something to the effect of, “It’s late and it’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Than he’d kiss the top of Mason’s head and say, “You have her eyes, you know.”

And he did. Dean dad never seen eyes so blue before meeting Y/N. Even Cas’s eyes seemed dull next to hers. Dean was convinced that if you looked hard enough, you could see tiny flecks of gold amidst the ocean blue. There were whole galaxies to explore, entire worlds to get lost in. Dean could’ve stared at those eyes forever and he would’ve been perfectly content.

Dean looked Mason up and down, chewed on his lip, and frowned. “I suppose thirteen is old enough to know the truth.”

Mason instantly straightened, grinning broadly. “Really?”

Dean nodded slowly. “I wasn’t lying, though. It is a long story.”

“I can stay awake.”

Dean pulled his legs up onto the bed and sat cross-legged across from his son. “Should I start with the good ol’ fashioned, 'once upon a time’?”

Y/N

“Y/N, can you cover for me?” My co-worker, Hadley, gestured to table three. Four little old ladies sat there, knitting and chatting in loud voices.

I sighed, cleaning up the rest of the milkshake my other lazy co-worker, Josh, had spilled. “Sure.”

Hadley beamed at me, already lighting up a cigarette even though she wasn’t outside yet. “You’re the best.”

“That’s me,” I muttered to myself. “Human doormat.”

I raced around the diner by myself, taking orders, bringing drinks, repeating the specials half a dozen times to a forgetful old man who could barely hear me. By the time it hit one o’clock, my bun was falling out and strands of hair hung around my face. Smudges of chocolate and mustard decorated my cheeks. The tips of my fingers were covered in pen marks.

The bell on the door jangled, barely heard over the hustle and bustle of the lunch rush, and two men in their twenties slid into a nearby booth.

“Hadley?” I called into the kitchen, but she didn’t answer. Her smoke break had lasted an hour and a half at this point, and I wasn’t planning on her coming back until a few minutes before her shift was over. How she hadn’t been fired by now was beyond me.

I made an annoyed huffing noise and grabbed my pad of paper.

“Welcome to Lucy’s Diner,” I said to the men in as chipper of a voice as I could manage. I relied on my tip money. It was the only way I could afford the rent. “Can I get y’all something to drink?”

The older of the two, a tall man with messy sandy-colored hair and bright green eyes, looked me up and down, smirking a little, though not unkindly. “Busy day?”

I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea.”

“I’ll just have a coffee,” the other man said. His knees touched the bottom of the table, he was so tall. His hair was thick and long, the color of chocolate. He had a kind face, the sort of face you automatically trusted.

“Okay,” I said, scribbling a note on my pad. “And for you?”

The scruffier man with the green eyes rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburgers, side of fries, vanilla milkshake, and apple pie.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Dessert already?”

“Yeah,” he said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. “You can bring it all out at once, too. If it makes it easier.”

“What would make it easier is if I had co-workers who weren’t idiots.”

The man with the long hair chuckled. “I get where you’re coming from.”

“You have co-workers that goof off, too?” I asked.

He gestured to the scruffy man. “Yeah, Dean here can, uh, get distracted pretty easily.”

“But I do step up when I need to,” Dean argued. “You’d think it’d be the other way around, me being the older brother. But Sam’s always been the responsible one.”

“So what do you two do?” I asked conversationally.”

Sam said, “FBI” just as Dean said, “Pest control.”

“Sorry,” I said, sensing some tension between the brothers. Sam glared at Dean, who cleared his throat and stared at a couple sticky spots on the table. “Didn’t mean to pry. I’ll be back with your food.”

Dean muttered a, “Yeah, thanks.” I thought I heard the two of them arguing in hushed tones as soon as I’d walked away.

I delivered their food as soon as it was ready, saying nothing except for, “Enjoy.” They said nothing back. I tried to keep up with all the tables on my own, wondering if maybe I could persuade my boss for a slight raise next time I see her.

I was wiping down the counters at the bar when someone slid into the stool across from me. I blinked up at Dean.

He grinned, green eyes wrinkling at the corners. He radiated pure sunshine. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I said cautiously. “Did I get your order wrong?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “The pie was delicious, by the way. Homemade?”

“Pre-made freezer packaging,” I said dryly. “I guess you don’t have very high standards when it comes to pie.”

He looked sincerely offended. “Pie isn’t a food, it’s a lifestyle. Believe me, I have high standards.”

“So what is it?” I set the soapy rag aside and leaned across the counter, propping my chin up on my hands. “Come to interrogate me? Or ask about our roach problem?”

Dean cleared his throat again and folded his hands together on top of the counter. He smiled, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “About that—”

“It’s really okay,” I insisted. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s fine. Here’s the thing, we’re not FBI or pest control. We’re kind of private investigators. We just didn’t want to blow our cover back there, with people listening in.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh. Makes sense, I guess. Is this investigation anything I should know about? You don’t have to give me specifics; I’d just like to know if I'm—safe. If I should worry.”

“Well, I’d recommend locking your doors at night, but other than that, you should be good.” He met my eyes, and his face softened. “Sammy and I’ll take care of it.”

“Can I help in any way? I might be able to give you information about whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Maybe.”

He turned to look over his shoulder, green eyes dancing as he scanned the room for anyone who might be listening in. When he turned back to me, our faces were inches apart.

“What do you know about Herman Glass?”

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. “Not much. He lived just down the street from me, but he was kind of a hermit. Didn’t he commit suicide a few days ago?”

It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when he was looking at me. All I could think was how a person shouldn’t be able to have eyes that green. It wasn’t fair.

“That’s what the police think,” he said, tilting his head a little and pressing his lips together into a thin line, like he was preventing himself from saying anything more. “But the police are often wrong about this stuff.”

“Oh, and you know better?” I taunted him, screwing up my face so I was wearing an expression of doubt.

Dean blinked at me and smirked. “As a matter of fact, I do. Why, you don’t believe me?”

I shrugged and grabbed the soapy rag so I’d have something to do with my hands. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about the mustard and chocolate spots on my face. “Just a little suspicious, I guess. I’ve never met a PI before, and you sure don’t look like the ones on TV, so …”

“Oh, so just 'cause we don’t like TV stars you think we’re not the real deal?” He sounded offended, but it was a teasing tone of voice. He crossed his arms, raised a single eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement.

I dropped the rag onto the counter from a few inches up so it landed with a splat. I mimicked his defensive stance. “I don’t know. Can you prove that you’re the real deal?”

“Would you like me to get my business cards from the car?”

“Business cards prove nothing,” I pointed out. “A fifteen-year-old could become a private investigator if that’s all it took.”

“Fine.” Dean threw his hands up in the air as if he surrendered. “How about I show you a little action later tonight, hmm? Sam and I are going by the police station sometime this evening to ask a few questions. Do you want to come along?”

I pretended to study him carefully, mulling his offer over, though inside I was yelling, yes, yes, yes!

“All right,” I finally said. “My shift ends at six. You can pick me up at my house at seven.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Seven it is.”

I scribbled my address on a napkin and slid it across the counter for him. “You’d better show up. Or else I’ll be forced to believe you were never real to begin with.”

“Me? Stand you up?” Dean made a pfftnoise. “I’d have to be stupid to do that.”

I tried to let my hair hide my face, which was burning hot, and pretended to continue to clean an already spotless counter. I felt his smile on me for a long time before he hopped off his stool and returned to the booth with Sam. When I chanced a glance up, I saw that they were whisper-fighting again, this time with wild gestures and glances my way. Either Sam didn’t approve of Dean blowing their cover by inviting me along, or there was something else going on that I didn’t know about.

Dean

“Sam, it’s fine,” Dean tried to reassure his brother, to no avail.

“It’s a girl,” Sam hissed, shooting him the dirtiest of looks. “You want to take her on a date, take her to dinner! Don’t bring her along on a case. God, Dean, she’s not even a hunter.”

“How do you know that?” Dean argued, lifting his chin a little with newfound confidence. “Huh? Did you ask her? For all you know, she could have salt and holy water in the trunk of her car.”

Sam’s face was totally and completely disbelieving, frowning sideways at him. “Dean, I saw her go to her car. All that’s in there are books and her cell phone. You think she has weapons in the trunk of her tiny, lime green, VW bug? Does she looklike a hunter to you?”

Dean glanced over at the girl—Y/N, according to her nametag—and sighed. Sam was right, she didn’t look like anything more than a frazzled waitress with more customers than she could handle by herself. But she didn’t just look like a normal girl, either. Here Dean was trying to be undercover, and this total stranger had cast some sort of spell on him. What was he thinking bringing a girl along on a case? Sam was right, he should’ve just taken her to dinner.

“Let me try and fix this,” he muttered, and walked back over to the bar, hands stuffed in his pockets.

She raised her eyebrows at him when he approached. “Back so soon?”

“I can’t take you with us,” Dean sighed. He avoided meeting her eyes again. That was how he’d fallen under her spell in the first place.

“How come?”

Dean mumbled something about secret PI stuff and Sam not approving. But Y/N would have none of it.

“Unh uh,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. Her face was defiant. She was not budging a single inch until he gave in. “You said you’d prove to me that you guys are the real deal. Now’s your chance. Are you chickening out 'cause you have something to hide?”

“No,” Dean said, probably a little too quickly. “It’s just—”

“Just what, exactly?”

Dean’s mouth open and closed silently for a few seconds as he struggled to find the right words to say. He finally blurted out, “Do you want to have dinner with me?” Then pressed his lips together before anything more could slip out.

The corners of her mouth twitched, ever so slightly. “Did you just invite me on a second date before even having gone on the first one?”

“What—no!” Dean sputtered nervously. He felt his face heating up, and judging from her triumphant smile, it showed. “No! The investigation is not a date.”

“You sure made it sound like one.”

Dean attempted a casual, slightly annoyed roll of his eyes, but it didn’t feel very convincing, even to him. “How did I make it sound like one?”

“Becausereal PIs don’t invite total strangers out on their investigations.”

“I am a real PI!” Dean insisted.

“Okay.” Y/N turned her back on him and grabbed a pitcher of icy water, condensation dripping off the bottom. “If you say so. We’re still on for seven, right?”

Dean thought Sam was going to hit him when he shuffled back to the booth, eyes on the floor.

“I didn’t mean in addition to!” He half-shouted. He rubbed his temples like he had a headache. “You know what, fine. We’ll let her see us questioning the police, we’ll be using code anyway, and then we’ll leave. She’ll drive home, then we can do the real stuff.”

“Uh, about the driving …” Dean trailed off and smiled nervously at Sam, who glared venomously.

supernatural-jackles:

Title: More Than a Fling: Stays in Vegas

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4,034

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, Alcohol Use, Fluff, Smut

Summary: After spending the summer in Lawrence for a so called “change of scenery”. Y/N has found herself in a healthy, loving relationship with Dean Winchester. Her rocky relationship with her father, Bobby Singer has just started to blossom. But leaving one life and starting to build another isn’t as easy as it seems. Everyone has a past and secrets they don’t want others to know.
One chapter ends. Another begins.

Summer Fling-More Than a Fling

A/N: This journey is just getting started!! If you would like to continue, please help ya girl out and tell her (me) what you think :) Feedback is my favourite!! 

This is purely based off of a research. I have never been to vegas so I know nothing about what it’s actually like there. 

x

 You woke up to a pounding sensation in your head. It had been a while since you had drank that much and even longer since you had felt a hangover. The hotel room filled with the morning light, irritating your eyes.

 You felt the bed shift next to you, earning a groan to escape out of your mouth. You thanked whatever higher power that made sure your hangover didn’t feel like you were going to throw up.

 “Mornin’ sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

 “Mhh, Dean,” you mumbled.

Keep reading

when i saw a new part it was the highlight of my day

supernatural-jackles:

Title: More Than a Fling: Fresh Start

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4,422

Warnings: Slight Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Abuse.

Summary:  After spending the summer in Lawrence for a so called “change of scenery”. Y/N has found herself in a healthy, loving relationship with Dean Winchester. Her rocky relationship with her father, Bobby Singer has just started to blossom. But leaving one life and starting to build another isn’t as easy as it seems. Everyone has a past and secrets they don’t want others to know.
One chapter ends. Another begins.

Summer Fling

A/N: Here is Part 1. I hope y’all will enjoy this sequel series that over 400 of you voted for! I think it’s safe to say I’m a little nervous about this. Feedback is greatly appreciate and what will keep this series going! 

Enjoy!

x

 A layer of sweat covered your body as you twitched in the sheets that rested over you. Your eyes flew open as a panicked feeling took over your body. Your heart was pounding in your chest, you felt shaky and like every nerve in your body was on edge. The room was dark and you took in a deep breath trying to get yourself under control when you realized where you were. You were home. Dean was sleeping right next to you. You were safe, you repeated to yourself. Dean wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. Dean wasn’t going to let Gordon hurt you if he had anything to say about it.

 You slipped out of the bed, your feet touching the carpet floor as you patted your way out of the bedroom. You didn’t want to bother Dean in the middle of the night, not about this. He just got you back after all. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week and you didn’t want to ruin another for him. You didn’t want him to worry about you, not more than he already was.

Keep reading

i know this has been out a while already but since life has calmed down for a couple seconds i’d like to come back and say i absolutely looooveeedd summer fling & im super excited to see where more than a fling will go!!! everybody go read this & send @supernatural-jackles lots & lots of love !!!!!!