The Arrangement Masterlist

(updated Oct 2024) I DON’T MAINTAIN TAGLISTS! SORRY, LOVES! All content here is Daryl, with exception of the Wicked Wednesday feature for Negan. Follow and turn notifications for the blog on if you want to make sure you don’t miss anything! :) IMPORTANT NOTE: Although I do not own the characters or specific events depicted in The Walking Dead, this blog contains transformative fan fiction protected under the Fair Use Act and I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION for it to be copied and pasted, posted on other platforms or accounts, shared through videos or audio or screenshots, etc. without the express written permission of myself. Sharing can be done with the ‘reblog’ button or sharing a direct link to my original work ONLY. Please ask permission to use any of my work as “inspiration” for your own fictional creations. I retain the right to refuse any requests and retain all rights to the work here under copyright 2025.  Requests are OPEN! Send them to my Ask box! Not all requests will be fulfilled. Commissions are OPEN! DM me for details to commission a fic. Price list here. You can also support me by buying me a coffee (or the dogs some kibble!)

Weiterlesen

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Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader / Billy Butcher x f!reader

Tropes: Fake Dating, Wedding Date, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Pining

Summary: When you first joined Butcher's team the last thing you expected was to develop a crush on him, but after two years of pining, you get a proposition from the last person you'd expect to care.

Warnings: Each chapter will have individual warnings. Honestly I feel like this one will be a whole lot of fluff and awkward situations.

A/N: I am just making this as a placeholder for now so I can keep track of the taglist. If you would like to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know! 😊

Chapter 1: The Proposal

Chapter 2 Teaser

Chapter 2: Rules Of Engagement (Coming Soon!)

Last Updated: 03/18/2025

Taglist For This Series:

@roseblue373 @livya99 @mrsjenniferwinchester @zepskies @waynes-multiverse

@jollyhunter @kr804573 @the-super-who-locked-wizard @suckitands33

@spnaquakindgdom @garlicbreaddd1 @moodyquesadilla @52ndstreeet @jmoonk

@maddie0101 @lov2liz @funkenniffler @beakaleak32 @elle-14-blog1

good idea — sirius black

Trying to get over your feelings for Sirius, you decide to bring a date to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party this year. But Sirius seems oddly angry about it… friends to lovers, jealous!sirius ♥

"You're bringing him? As a date?" 

To be honest, Sirius doesn't know why he's so irritated by this. Every year he gets invited, and every year he doesn't go to Slughorn's Christmas party because, frankly, it sounds boring as hell—a bunch of stuffed shirts bragging about themselves while stuffing their faces with party food—but now…now all of a sudden, he's feeling downright offended that you'd bring a date and not him.

It's stupid. But that doesn't change the fact that he's furious about it.

You look at him uncertainly, a little frown pulling your eyebrows together. Sirius kind of wants to smooth it out with his thumb, but that's probably not a good idea.

"Um...yeah?" you say, and your voice tilts up at the end like it's a question, and Sirius doesn't know if you're asking him or yourself, but he does not like it. "I mean, Slughorn said we could bring a plus-one, so... I'm bringing Ollie."

"Ollie," he repeats, derision dripping from the word like the name itself is rotten. Then, because he's bitter and a bit of an asshole, he adds, in the most disparaging tone he can muster, "Seriously? Ollie? The guy who once nearly exploded a classroom because he couldn't transfigure a knife and fork properly?"

Sirius didn't think your frown could get any deeper, but apparently it can, and now he feels kind of bad for putting it there. 

But then you scowl and cross your arms, and your lovely blue dress tugs at your lovely hips, which draws his eyes to your thighs and forces him to look away and think about Quidditch and essays on different varieties of unicorn blood and exploding potions.

"He wasn't going to explode anything," you snap. "The cauldron had a hairline crack. All he did was—you know what, I gotta go!"

You brush past him, and Sirius smells that delicious, honeyed fragrance you always wear, and he just…he just…

His hand snaps out and grabs your arm.

You stop, glancing back at him, and Sirius would normally never manhandle you like this, but now that he's doing it, he doesn't want to let go. You look so angry, though; your chest heaving with your quick breaths, your skin warm under his fingers, soft and plush.

But you've obviously had enough of whatever this is, because you raise your eyebrows and say flatly, "Let me go."

It feels like his hand doesn't want to obey him. "Sorry," he mutters, and it's sincere, but he doesn't release you. "I'm sorry. Just...what's so great about Ollie?"

"I like him."

"No you don't."

"What?"

Sirius blinks, trying to figure out what's coming out of his mouth. He just...he doesn't like this. The mere idea of you going out with Ollie makes his skin crawl. Not because he likes you or anything, no. You're pretty, yeah. And funny, and smart, and when he first met you, being your friend was the last thing on his mind, sure, but then he got to know you, and—fine. Maybe he does like you a little bit more than he probably should.

But you're way too good for him. You're certainly way too good for Ollie. 

"Ollie sucks," Sirius says. It's not an eloquent statement, but it's a true one. "He's boring. He's an asshole. You're..."

His words trail off as he stares at you. His eyes fall to your lips, lipstick-red and soft-looking and parted in surprise, and they're just right there, and maybe he could just…just once…

"I'm what?"

He kisses you. He can't help himself.

Sirius has kissed a lot of girls, but this...this is different.

One hand is still holding your arm, but the other comes up to touch your cheek, trace your jaw, skim down the side of your neck, feeling the way your pulse is pounding beneath your skin and under his fingertips as his mouth moves over yours. Your lips are soft, the little noise you make in the back of your throat even softer, and he wants to hear it again.

And again. And again.

Sirius breaks the kiss first.

You stare at him. Pupils blown wide. Lips red and glistening. "You kissed me."

Sirius brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I did."

"You...did?" Now you're sounding breathless. Like you can't quite catch your breath.

"I did." Sirius moves in closer, crowding you against the wall yet not quite touching you. "You didn't stop me."

For a moment, your gaze drops to his lips, and Sirius feels a surge of triumph. "What—what was that for?"

His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back. You smell like flowers. Like honey. Like something he wants to devour.

"Don't go to the party with Ollie."

It was, apparently, not the right thing to say.

You duck under his arm, and Sirius is so surprised, he doesn't manage to stop you from escaping.

"Don't kiss me just because you want to sabotage my date," you say, and boy, you sound angry. "Especially don't kiss me and then not tell me why."

"I wanted to kiss you."

"That's your excuse?"

"Is it not a good one?" 

Sirius is feeling slightly out of his depth here. He thought the kiss would be pretty self-explanatory. But apparently not. This hallway, with its tapestries and old portraits and suits of armor and half-dressed witches, is beginning to feel stifling.

He tries a different tactic. "I think about kissing you a lot."

"Stop."

"It's true."

If looks could kill, Sirius would be ashes on the ground right now.

"The first time I thought about it was after Potions," he says, pressing his advantage. You're listening, at least. And you haven't turned to leave yet. That has to mean something. "When you spilled that solution all over yourself and started laughing about it. You have the best laugh."

"Seriously—"

He steps closer. "And your mouth...fuck, it drives me crazy."

"Don't—"

He backs you up against the wall again. Now, he's touching you, one hand on your waist, feeling the way your body curves so nicely beneath his palm, the other splayed on the wall next to your head.

"Take Ollie to the party," he says. "See if I care. But you're going to spend the whole time thinking about this."

He leans in close, then pauses, mouth inches from yours, your breath mingling together. He feels you swallow, watches the way your pupils dilate.

Then, before he can change his mind, he dips his head and kisses you again. 

Harder this time. 

Less tentative. 

He wants to remember this kiss.

"Was that a good excuse?" he whispers when he pulls away.

Your mouth works soundlessly for a moment, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Sirius wants to hear you say something, but the words aren't coming, so he tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in.

"Are you thinking about it now?"

Your lips part, soft and silken, and you exhale a small puff of breath. "I hate you."

"You don't hate me," he says, his mouth still almost touching yours. You taste like honeyed tea. Like a cozy summer afternoon spent lounging on the grass. He could live in this feeling forever. He could die in it. "You're thinking about me. You're thinking about this. My hand on your waist."

He squeezes, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hip.

"My lips on your neck."

He kisses the skin under your ear, then drags his mouth down the side of your neck until he reaches the curve where your shoulder begins. 

You make a soft sound; a moan, a sigh. Sirius can't really tell. But, fuck, does he want to hear it again.

He pulls away and waits for you to look at him, to really look at him. Your eyes are so lovely. And your face...he wants to memorize it.

"Don't take Ollie to the party." Sirius slides his hand down your arm until his fingers lace with yours. "Take me."

Well...it certainly feels like a good idea.

---

The Craving

Summary: Everyone is moving forward, only Dean is standing still. Sam leaves the bunker first, but when he fears to lose you as well, he knows he finally has to do something. Because, after all, all he really craves is you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language and smut, post S15, major angst, hurt, cheating, Reader x OMC (established), severe pining, jealousy, drinking, humor, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fluff

Word Count: 13.7k

Song Inspiration: The Craving (Jenna's Version) – twenty one pilots. Listen here! 🎶

Posten on Patreon March 1, 2025

A/N: Yay, finally this monster of a fic is here! There will be parts that hurt a lot, parts where you'll snort, parts where you might catch fire, and parts where you'll feel as fluffy as cotton candy. Hang in there 😉

Happy reading! 🩵

Main Masterlist || Dean Winchester Masterlist || Tag List

Dean’s not the jealous type. At least, he thinks he isn’t, considering he’s never really had opportunity to feel jealous before.

But then came you.

He knew he wanted to be with you – as in the one one – the minute Sam led you down the round, metal staircase after running into you during a hunt. Yup, it was instant. One of those “love at first sight” kinds of crap.

For quite some time, you’d been hunting on your own, but soon enough, you began to call the bunker your home and the brothers your family. And Dean would cockily smirk at you and throw flirtatious jokes your way all day long as if all he ever wanted was to simply get you for a drunk roll on the motel mattress and nothing more. But you crave more than a night of fun, not knowing he craves the same thing, too.

And it is more – more than a simple craving to kiss you, to touch you, or to fuck you. The craving wants to love you, to hold you, and to be with you endlessly, including all that other mushy, sappy shit that comes with it. And Dean’s not even sure it’s just all of that, either. Because all the craving ever screams is you. Nothing else.

You, you, you, you, you… 

You.

That’s all there is. And the more he has of you, the happier the craving is. The less he has of you… well, one gets the gist.

The craving is a feeling greater and stronger than the bloodlust he’s experienced during the Mark of Cain – not that he’s ever told anyone that out of fear of being called crazy. It is crazy.

Fucking crazy. 

Nonetheless, it’s true. The craving for you only grows stronger and more relentless every day, causes him to lose both appetite and sleep, and never leaves him in peace.

But for years, Dean’s never entertained the craving for too long. He’s never listened to his head, heart, or gut when either of those things urged him to ask you out. After all, you deserved better than him, deserved more than the darkness he could offer, deserved a life where you got everything you ever wanted and more.

He is sure, though, you don’t want him.

But then, finally, there was a dim, miniature, barely visible light at the end of his super dark tunnel full of horrors. Chuck was squashed, monsters were scarce, and retirement was on the near horizon.

Sam started bringing Eileen around more and going on dates and being all nauseously cute, while Dean watched Netflix, Disney+, Amazon Prime, and a whole lot of other subscription services Sam wasn’t happy about when he went through the household bills. The main takeaway, though, is: Dean was never bored.

Nope, not at all.

Besides, you were there, too. For some of it. At least for a while.

Not long after Sam’s “courting” began, his kid brother finally left the nest, and then only you and him remained.

“We’re kinda like full-on roommates now,” you’d said after Sam had grabbed his last box, and you had been entertaining Dean’s melancholic mood with whiskey in the kitchen.

Dean had only smiled into his glass. “We’ve been roommates for five years now.”

“Yeah, but we’re finally rid of Monica and Chandler. This is the Joey and Rachel era!” you announced with a slightly slurred speech and toasted to the occasion by drinking straight from the bottle.

Dean, of course, had found it fucking adorable and pressed his lips very hard against the rim of his glass upon his next sip, trying his best not to grab you and kiss you right then and there.

He’d already missed his fucking chance…

“Who’s Monica and who’s Chandler?” Dean had asked to distract himself from the craving.

“Duh, obviously Sam’s Monica. He’s a complete neat freak. And Eileen’s fucking funny,” you’d postulated. “This is what I mean, though! Both of us are sloths! We can finally let chaos reign!”

Welp, that hadn’t helped to lessen the craving at all. It had been downright whining then. His heart had only pounded louder, yearned more.

“What kinda mess were you thinking of, sweetheart?” Dean had flirtatiously and daringly asked – he still liked to test the water from time to time, although he knew the lake was frozen.

You had chided him with a partially amused look and then musingly sipped on the bottle. “Hmm, wanna throw wet paper towels against the wall?”

“Sure that’s a good idea? You know Sam’s coming by tomorrow morning to come pick up more boxes. I seriously think he’s taking the whole library with him,” Dean had joked.

“Even better! He’s gonna clean it up ‘cause he’s Monica!”

Drunk-you might have been evil in a mad but cute genius kind of way.

“No way!” Dean had scoffed it off, mostly to encourage you to carry on. He’d had feeling where this was heading.

“Oh, yeah? How much you wanna bet, Winchester?” You’d leaned forward with your elbows on the counter and a challenging look twinkling in your eyes.

And Dean had wanted nothing more than to bet a goddamn kiss. But he hadn’t been able to do that anymore, either. 

As Dean grinds his brain about all of this, he stares at the reason why from the dark corner booth of the bar. He watches you with a gigantic lump in his throat as you’re in someone else’s embrace, his grip white-knuckling around the tumbler of whiskey once more.

Dean’s greener than green eyes see it all. He sees the arms that tightly clasp your body from behind that aren’t his. He sees your laughs at jokes that he can’t hear. He sees the face nuzzling in your hair that he can’t feel. He sees the smiles you draw when kisses litter your neck, leaving fucking purple and blue permanent tattoos behind – and he can’t ink any of them.

Dean sees the fucking happiness shining in your eyes. He’s never seen you happier than this before. And not any of it is caused by him. Nope.

“Hey, you good?”

Sam slides back into the booth opposite him and draws Dean’s attention, finally steering the insatiable craving away from you. But Dean knows his little brother only asks because he’s worried about Dean’s declining state of mind, even though there is really no reason to. Sam’s exaggerating as per usual.

If Sam’s showing signs of concern, it’s only because he knows too damn well how catastrophically Dean has failed and ruined any future with you by not communicating his craving. And now all there’s left is sulking and regretting. Then some more sulking and regretting. And oh, uh, more sulking and regretting till he drops for good, which is hopefully soon, considering the slow pace his life is currently going right now – just an agonizing crawl to the goddamn finish line.

See? No need for worries. Dean’s absolutely and completely–

“Fine.” Dean scoffs the word into his drink, his eyes flickering back to you. You’re making out now. Great.

Your boyfriend’s hands drift to your asscheeks and palm them. Dean wants to drown in his whiskey.

But it’s good. It’s good you have someone. Someone who can give you everything. Everything you want. God knows Dean can’t give you that, can he? Not then. But now? Now he could, couldn’t he?

What’s he got going on right now that’s so dangerous?

The only things that can kill him these days are the greasy food, alcoholism, and sheer boredom. Cancer. ‘Cause that son of a bitch can get anyone. Maybe some freakish household accident – getting electrocuted by a faulty outlet, slipping in the shower, food poisoning, choking. Maybe even a fucking car runs him over when he’s simply crossing the street.

Well, now it just sounds like a list of things that angel-dick Gabriel would’ve done to him…

He’s already been through it all. What more could go wrong?

“Dean…” Sam’s giving him a pointed look that says, ‘I’ve known you all my life. Stop pretending and talk to me.’

But Dean doesn’t want to talk.

“‘M good,” he repeats and forces the tightest smile known to mankind. It not even closely reaches the soft crinkles around his green eyes.

“I just talked to Trey at the bar,” Sam says then and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dean wants to scoff at the name.

In fact, he’s tried his hardest to hate the guy, but it’s impossible. Trey’s charming and funny and kind. He’s also taller and broader and younger than the older Winchester, which only adds another painful thorn.

But the dude treats you with respect, holds open doors for you, and cares about your feelings and thoughts and dreams. He listens to you, consoles you when you’re sad, and comforts you when you’re lonely. He’s even tried to become friends with the brothers, knowing how much they mean to you. And most of all, he not only shows you how much he craves you, but he also tells you so every day.

Dean’s been there a few times when it happened. It was fucking sickening.

And sure, Dean could still worry that some civilian can’t take care of you and protect you the way he would, but the guy was a fucking Navy SEAL and a hunter of all things that go bump in the night. To top it all off, he’s now retired and owns a small carpentry in Michigan.

The dude’s fucking Jesus, and Dean knows he stands no chance. So, yeah, maybe he’s a little jealous of the guy.

He has everything Dean wants.

“There’s something you should know, Dean,” Sam continues when the older brother’s lost in his craving again and hasn’t said anything for a full minute.

“Hm, what?” Dean can tell by Sam’s tight expression and slightly furrowed brows that it’s not good. His heart is already constricting. It knows why.

It was almost a year ago, a few months after Chuck’s reign of playing Sims had ended, that Dean had finally gathered enough courage to ask you out (with a lot of pushing from Sam and Eileen). So, while you’d been out on a small, two-day-long ghost hunt on your own, Dean had prepared a whole speech in his head.

Hunts were not only rare these lonely days, but they were also kind of… meh. Mostly your friendly neighborhood Caspers. Since Sam had dipped out, Dean and you resorted to coin tosses, drawing straws and matches, and the occasional paper-rock-scissors.

Dean still sucks at it.

Which is why you went alone. And he wasn’t even worried, just grateful for some space to get his head straight. He’d surprise you with something… romantic when you got back. He wasn’t sure what yet.

But two days turned into three, four, five and six. You’d give him regular updates, assuring him you were safe, sane, and healthy. The hunt was done – you’d decided to take a quick vacation.

The scenery had been so inviting.

On day eight, he questioned if he should follow you. Maybe you’d been kidnapped and held against your will, and he’d been texting with your tormentor this whole time. He barely ever caught you on the phone, and if he did, it was only briefly and you were always out of breath.

Hiking. That had been your explanation.

Yes, Dean should’ve put two and two together at that point, but he just couldn’t see beyond his own craving. It left him blindsided, even though he knew damn well you hated walking through nature as much as he did.

On the evening of day eight, you then called and told him you were coming home. His heart had swelled in his chest at the word.

Dean was your home. That was all he had heard.

Late on day nine, you finally returned to the bunker. Dean had prepared a movie night in the cave – he’d picked your favorite, nothing fancy, just the way you like it. But by the end of it – when you’d lie snuggled against his side like you usually did with his arm wrapped around your middle – he’d tell you about the craving.

He’d tell you he was in love with you. That you were all he was ever thinking about. That he couldn’t get enough of you. That he craved you day and night. That he couldn’t stop.

“So, how was the hunt?” he’d asked as you both stood in the war room, and you’d placed your duffel bag down on the table. “And the vacation?”

Until then, Dean hadn’t really questioned it. He knows you like to catch a wave and ride it out. It’s one of the things he loves about you, always hoping you’ll drag him with you into the sunset at some point.

“I-, uh…” 

Dean had noted the subtle bite of your lower lip, the smile that was itching to break free underneath.

“I met someone,” you’d finally confessed.

Dean’s still sure those are the three most horrible words of the English language. Nothing has ever torn apart his heart more.

“Met someone, huh?” He had swallowed heavily but played it off with a teasing smile. “You’re not usually one for hook-ups…”

“I’m not,” you’d confirmed. The secretive smile that flashed across your lips almost killed him. “I-, uh, I think it might be more than that.”

“More, huh?”

“Yeah, more,” you’d said softly and bit your lip again. Your cheeks had been glowing. You’d been so fucking happy and yet tried to hide it from him to spare his feelings – not that you had a clue. You’d only known Dean hated change and strangers and abandonment.

“You, uh, wanna watch a movie with me?” he’d still tried. He’d been sure one night or one week with some stranger couldn’t trump what he had with you. If he said something now, maybe he could still turn it around.

“I’m honestly kinda beat. Raincheck?”

“Sure.” He’d nodded and forced a painful smile. Luckily, he knew how to hide his pain well. 

At first, Dean hoped the guy wouldn’t call you again. Sure, he’d hate to see you broken-hearted, but he’d be there to pick up the pieces. One by one. Dean could satiate your craving.

But perfect fucking Trey called you that same night. Asked if you got home safely. Oh, Dean wanted to be mad about it. How dare this fucker, right? But how?

‘Stop caring about the girl I pretended not to care about for fucking years?’ 

Yeah, no, there’s no excuse. Dean’s the fucker, really.

So, come next morning, Dean made sure all traces of his romantic plans were erased in the cave. You were none the wiser when you woke up.

Dean then resorted to waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And he figured if he waited long enough, your relationship with fucking Steve Rogers would run its natural course. Something would happen. It was long distance after all and not that threatening.

Yet.

It started with rare, brief visits. You’d stay in Michigan or a hotel in Kansas City for a weekend every once in a while, and Dean’s craving could deal with the temporary separation from you, although it was far from happy.

Yeah, alright, it was being a suicidal dickhead. He even preferred you staying in Michigan over the idea of you fucking your brains out in the hot tub of some fancy hotel.

Well, shit, like he said: The craving was being a complete dick about it and clearly not taking it so well.

The expensive whiskey you got him for his 42nd birthday, though, always quieted it enough to pass out till Sunday evening when you’d return.

But a weekend slowly turned into a full week and then into a whole goddamn month. Now, you weren’t just fucking your brains out anymore but playing house. Somehow, that was even fucking worse. The craving protested and screamed inside of him, urging him to keep you close.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You’d still call him every few days to check up on him, but hearing your voice only turned the craving more violent, more needy.

It was a whiny fucking bitch most days.

And now, well, you’re celebrating your first anniversary this fucking weekend. Your boyfriend has a whole goddamn romantic getaway planned. You’ve talked about it nonstop, looked forward to it for weeks.

Dean doesn’t know if he’s still waiting or if he’s given up. Feels a little like giving up.

His green eyes flick to you and Trey on the small dance floor of the dingy bar once again. Someone as breathtakingly beautiful as you is truly a juxtaposition in a place like this – in his life, really.

You have your arms locked tightly around your boyfriend’s neck, his hands enclose your hips as you sway to the rhythm of the live music. You laugh wholeheartedly and throw your head back. He runs his face through your hair and surely whispers something dirty into your ear the way your grasp tightens on him, too.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice snaps him out of his trance once more.

“Hmm, what?” Dean blinks at his little brother and sees the heartbreak shimmering in his hazel eyes. He knows it’s unavoidable by now.

“Look, uhm, Trey told me he was planing to propose to her this weekend.” Sam gets it out in one breath but then pauses. He watches his older brother closely as if Dean would break down at any second.

But Dean’s seen it coming for a while now. It’s been undeniable.

“He-, uh, he asked for our blessing.” Sam chuckles a little at the unnecessary gesture and scratches the mop of hair, but Dean can tell a part of his little brother feels honored at the consideration.

“You said no, right?!” Dean snaps too harshly, no control over the wild furrowing of his brow. The craving is taking over. It wants to fight. It wants to defend what’s his.

“Dean...” Sam frowns with a look that says the older Winchester was being ridiculous. “It’s not my place to give. That’s what I told him, too.”

“Good.” Dean huffs bitterly into his whiskey and empties the glass.

“I still told him we’d be happy for them, though,” Sam adds with reluctance and caution.

“Sam, c’mon, man!” Exasperatedly, Dean shakes his head. His glare is biting. “Bad day to play middle man! How about you’re on my side for once, huh? Pick your fucking battles, dude!”

“Dean, I’m always on your side,” Sam assures with that puppy dog look of his.

Dean scoffs at it. “Could’ve fooled me…”

But he knows Sam would give his soul to make this situation better for him. It’s just the alcohol and sadness talking. He has to let it out somewhere. Sam knows that, too.

“Maybe you should tell her,” his little brother suggests then, and Dean’s not even sure he’s heard him right because it’s so fucking insane.

“What, are you nuts?!”

“Just think about it,” Sam urges, nearly insists even. “Look, I know you’re scared she won’t feel the same way and reject you–“

“Duh.” Dean scoffs, wishing his tumbler would magically refill for this conversation.

“But if she says yes–,” Sam continues, “–you’ll lose her anyway. You know she won’t stay with you forever, right? I don’t think they’ll move into the bunker with you.”

And thank fucking God for that. Dean would probably hang himself in his room after three days of watching and hearing you honeymoon like newlyweds. Any chances Hell would take him back?

“Sam–“

“What d’you have to lose at this point, Dean?” Sam reiterates. This time, more forcefully. “This might be your last chance, man. You seriously wanna live with that regret for the rest of your life?”

Well, Dean isn’t planing on sticking around for that much longer anyway. He’s sure a monster will get him one of these days on those solo hunts if he upped the recklessness enough and got a little more careless. But obviously, he doesn’t tell his little brother that. Sam would only unnecessarily worry again.

Dean shakes his head once more, and it pains him to do so. “I-, I can’t, Sam. Can’t do it.”

“Dean–“

“I don’t wanna mess with her head, alright?” he finally says. His gaze drifts back to you; tears blur his vision and threaten to spill. “Look at her, man. She’s fucking happy. I don’t wanna ruin that for her.”

Sam lets out a deep sigh, his gaze flickering from you back to Dean. Then, he licks his lips, and Dean can tell his little brother just thought of a new argument to put forth. He really would’ve made a good lawyer.

“Listen, if that really messes with her head, then maybe she would’ve never been as happy with him to begin with,” Sam counters.

Admittedly, it’s a good theory. Dean almost buys it.

“Nah, it’s too late,” Dean brushes the sliver of hope away. He pulls out his wallet and slaps enough cash on the table to close his tab as he slides out of the booth. “I should go home.”

“Hey, are you guys leaving already?”

Suddenly, there you are, with a smile sparkling so bright Dean could confuse it for diamonds in the sky. His eyes then torturously follow your arm, down to your intertwined fingers and the tall man in tow behind you.

“Yeah, uh, kinda exhausted,” Dean says as casually as possible. He hopes you can’t see the torment in his heart.

“Oh, alright.” You nod, and Dean imagines even a hint of disappointment in your voice. The craving probably plays pretend to guard his heart.

You give him a hug goodbye and kiss his cheek. But your lips on his skin are only a quick fix for the craving. It wants more. It’s a beast that’s always ravenous and never satiated.

Leaving the bar hasn’t stopped Dean from drinking, however. He’s determined to drown his sorrows and continues to pour whiskey after whiskey, finding solace in his haze as he sulks and regrets at the kitchen island in the dark, empty bunker. He supposes he has to get used to that feeling – loneliness.

His mind’s still reeling, his skull functioning as a bathtub for cheap booze. He should probably switch to something more bubbly…

He snorts at his own joke, the sound echoing through the emptiness. Great, now he’s the weirdo hermit who laughs to himself.

Maybe Sam’s got a point. Maybe this is his last chance. There’s still a spark of hope – or so the craving believes.

And then, after two in the morning, you finally stagger home and tumble into the kitchen with a goofily drunk smile on your face that causes Dean’s breath to halt. His heart almost shoots out of his chest, wanting to jump straight into your warm embrace.

“Hey, you’re still up,” you say with a small yawn and round the corner to the island, grabbing yourself a glass of water by the sink. “Can’t sleep again, huh?”

It’s not unusual for you to find Dean roaming the bunker in the middle of the night like the ghosts he hunts. Most of the time, your strongest bonds were forged by the late-night, deep-talks you’d shared in here. You keep them close to your heart.

“Nah, not really,” Dean says casually and sips on his drink as if it were just a fluke – a one-time occurrence. But you know better than that.

“Is it about Sam?” you ask almost knowingly and watch Dean’s brow raise with his gaze.

Oh, that. He has completely forgotten about that – the whole reason they’ve gone out to celebrate tonight in the first place.

“Yeah, uh, was a lot tonight, y’know?” Dean deflects. He figures it’s at least a good excuse.

A soft smile spreads on your lips. “You’re gonna be an uncle, though. That’s gotta be exciting, right?”

You’re trying so hard to help him find the silver lining, to give him comfort and drag him out of his misery. But Dean’s sure he’s stuck at rock bottom.

“Yeah, ‘m happy for him,” Dean replies but doesn’t say more. Doesn’t say that he’s envious of his little brother, doesn’t say he craves the same thing, too.

“Dean,” you sigh his name and clasp his hand on the counter. Your touch burns his skin. The craving boils his blood. “I know you hate change, but it’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m sure it will, sweetheart,” Dean says but doesn’t mean it. He knows it’s not true. It won’t be okay without you. So, he forces a wry smile. It’s almost bitter. “Still got you, though, right?”

“Yeah, you got me,” you say softly and send him a smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes, however. Dean knows why.

“Thought you were spending the night out,” Dean notes then and disturbs the silence that has consumed the kitchen.

“Uh, Trey’s got an early flight,” you explain. “I’ll see him on the weekend, though. I suppose I’ll survive.”

Dean’s not sure he will, though, and doesn’t laugh at your joke.

At least, you barely ever bring your boyfriend around the bunker. You mostly spend the nights at a hotel whenever he comes to visit. Dean’s not entirely sure why. It might be the vibe he’s giving off when he’s near you two. You’ve had several talks with him about his attitude.

“Be nicer. Try a little harder to get along with him. I really like this guy,” you’d said. 

And Dean tried for your sake, even though he didn’t really mean it. Moreover, he got the strange sense that Trey knew Dean was harboring feelings for you and was nice enough not to rub it in, keeping his distance. Like Dean stated earlier: It was fucking impossible to hate the guy.

The dude was not nice enough to back off and let you go, though. Dean supposes that also means Trey is smarter than him, too. Awesome.

“You know, uhm…” You chew on your lip. Your heart begins to sting. “Trey asked me to move in with him. In… in Michigan.”

Dean’s silent for a beat. His ears are ringing as if a doctor had just told him he’s got prostate cancer and only a few months left to live. Honestly, it sounds more pleasant than this.

“Hmm,” Dean hums and takes a bigger gulp of his whiskey.

He refills once more, the glass and bottle only blurry shapes in his vision at this point. He ponders if there’s something stronger to numb his pain. Maybe it’s time to pick up a heroin addiction – die cool like Morrison and Cobain.

“Dean…”

You see the devastation on his face. You don’t want to hurt him, but you know him well enough to know that you do. What are you supposed to do, though? Sacrifice your whole happiness and future for his? Never expect to get anything in return? You couldn’t keep living like this.

“You’re my best friend. You know I’m not gonna leave you, right?”

“So, you’re staying?” His look is hopeful, and it kills you.

You swallow lightly. “Sure, yeah,” you say with a weak smile and shrug. “I’m not moving out tomorrow.”

The hope deflates, his face drops, and his look turns crestfallen.

“I’ll stay as long as you need me, okay? It’s no problem, I promise,” you add comfortingly. You know he hates being alone. “I’m sure Trey and I can do long distance a little while longer. I mean, it worked fine so far. Don’t worry, alright?”

Dean hears you. He doesn’t want to drag you down, keep you from living your life. He supposes he has to set you free now.

“Look, I’ll be fine, alright?” he states and forces a cool, carefree, lazy smile with the utmost sincerity – as much as he can find at least. It might have been the worst lie he ever told, and he told a lot of lies over the decades. “If you wanna move out, you should. Don’t take my feelings into account.”

“Dean…”

Your heart stings. You can’t leave him like this. At the same time, you fight your own anger and push it down. If he really didn’t want you to leave, then why had he never done anything, said anything to make you stay? You’d waited years for him to see you, to take your hand, to love you and run toward the sunset with you. But he never did, not even when the big bads were all defeated and gone.

Instead, you watched him flirt with strange women in even stranger bars. You watched him lead them to his precious car with his hand on their backs (or their asses) and a wide, goofy, all-teeth grin on his punchable, freckled face. You watched him disappear for entire nights and return to the bunker, to the endless motels, in the mornings with his latest conquest’s marks on his skin.

A row of tattoos he’d gotten just for you that all read the same message: Fuck you.

And it fucking hurts every single time. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes, you thought you couldn’t take any more and would just grow numb to the pain. But you never did. It all mars your heart the same.

Some days, it felt like you were dying inside.

And then, after the hunting life slowed, you wanted to keep moving, explore what other wonders life had to offer aside from exterminating monsters and living underground. Sam felt the urge, too. So, you both set sail into the world – but Dean didn’t. He stood still at the docks.

“What’s going on with you?” You step closer, worry shimmering in your eyes. “I know it’s been hard on you since Sam’s moved out. But you’re the best guy I know. There’s great things out there for you, too. I just know it. Don’t give up hope now.”

Dean wants to scoff, cry, and laugh hysterically. He doesn’t look at you, just stares at the whiskey in his grasp.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words are out. Dean’s astonished they finally left his lips. He can’t quite believe it, even clasps his mouth with a hand and runs it across his face. It’s been his best guarded secret for so long. Someone should slap him. Where’s Sam when he needs him the most?

Dean downs the whiskey in his hand and looks up at you. He feels like he cursed you. You’re frozen in place, petrified by the spell he cast. But your lower lip and eyelids are quivering, so he supposes you’re still alive in there somewhere.

“Say something. Please... Anything,” he begs. He wants to drink more but fears you might think of him as a drunk, although he’s pretty sure you’re already aware. That train has left the station, so he might as well make its final destination his mouth.

On shaky legs, you grasp the edge of the counter for support. A “brace yourself, you might wanna sit down for this one” would’ve been greatly appreciated.

“I-, uh… I have to sit down,” you force the words out with a clear of your very dry fucking throat because you’re still rather speechless – and drunk.

Judging by the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, so is Dean, it seems.

Dean heroically jumps from his seat to offer it to you but watches you simply lower to the cool tiles of the floor instead. You’d love nothing more than to lie there and curl in the fetal position right now.

Slowly, Dean crouches down and joins you, careful not to touch you, ignoring the craving’s persistent screams to do exactly that. His hands are shaking from holding back.

Your lips part and shut, your eyes are lost, your brows tremble as you try to understand and think of something to say. But your mind is overflowing. Your gaze stays fixed on the ground and the cracks in the grout between the old tiles.

“If this is some prank, Dean…”

You don’t really think he’s this cruel or moronic. You can always hope, though.

“It’s-, it’s not,” he assures you and tries not be offended. He knows you’re still processing. Besides, he may have overdone it with the pranks a little since Sam is gone. He's put that extra energy into you. “I’ve felt this way for a long time… Knew you were special the second I saw you… Knew I-… I loved you when we watched Shawshank Redemption together your first week here. Remember that? You quoted the whole movie. I guess, I-… I’ve been craving you since then.”

A fond smile flashes on his lips at the memory, but his jade green eyes flicker with insecurity.

You gasp for air and find your voice. “Why did you never say anything?”

“I-… I tried. Not hard enough, I guess.” He chuckles self-consciously, scratching the nape of his neck. But you don’t share his humor. “Last time I tried was when you told me you met–“

He stops himself from saying the name. His mouth twitches with a bitter taste. He doesn’t want to say the name you scream when you cum.

Oof, he wonders which of the many whiskeys was the one that has finally crossed the threshold to pathetic.

“I actually wanted to watch Shawshank Redemption with you that night when you came home, tell you then,” he continues, his tongue swiping over his chapped lips. It’s just his luck, isn’t it? He truly found out how unlucky he was once Chuck was gone. To think the guy actually protected him from some of it almost makes him scoff out loud. “But, uh…”

“I went to bed early,” you finish his thought.

He cocks a brow at you. A drop of resentment sneaks into his voice. “Did you, though? Your room’s right next to mine, sweetheart. I knew you were on the phone with–… I could hear you.”

You scoff darkly and stare straight into his eyes, and for the first time, Dean can see the real hurt in yours. Was he responsible for this?

“Yeah, trust me. I’ve been there,” you reply cynically.

Oh, Dean knows he has messed up.

“Why the fuck now, Dean? What’s changed, huh?” You rise from the floor and begin to frantically pace the kitchen. Dean follows you. “Is it because I told you I was leaving? What, you just decided now’s a good time?!”

“Look, uhm, Sam doesn’t want me to tell you this, but there’s something you should know, alright? I think you should know,” he insists but rubs a hand over his mouth. He knows he’s being selfish. He fucking knows he shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t tell you.

But he fucking wants you a lot more, cost what it will. He’d sell his goddamn soul all over again for you. The craving is not backing down now.

You look at him like he’s kidding. He must be. How could there be more?

“Your boyfriend’s gonna propose to you this weekend,” Dean tells you and slaps you right across the face with the news.

You think he might as well be joking and playing a prank on you again. His face is deadly serious, however, his green eyes dark, stern and unwavering. You can tell he hates the thought of it, the mere suggestion you could be someone else’s, and he’s probably stirred in that hatred all night. So, that’s what truly motivated his ship to leave the harbor.

“But–“ Dean pauses, considering his next words carefully, but his eyes remain fixed on you, drill into you. “But if there’s a chance you don’t want that, just a sliver… I-… I need to know, alright? I need to know if it could be me. I can’t let you go without knowing… without trying.”

You think you’re close to fainting. You feel lightheaded, dizzy. It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much.

“Are you fucking serious right now?! Why the fuck are you doing this to me? Why didn’t you say it earlier?” The tears of desperation sting your eyes as you shove at his chest. “Why didn’t you fucking move sooner?!”

It’s not a question as much as it is an accusation. Dean grabs your hands that still press against his chest and holds them still on his heart. His gaze locks with yours.

And then, Dean recognizes the familiar anger in your eyes. He knows it’s the craving. Not his, but yours.

For him.

“Do you love me?” he dares to ask. He might as well, considering this is the end and he’s putting all his cards on the table tonight. He knows he’ll lose you, so why not do it with a bang? Winchesters are known to go down swinging.

You fight for words. Your heart twists. “It’s too late,” you whisper, tears rolling down your hot cheeks freely.

“It’s not a no,” Dean says softly, his heart swelling a tiny bit more in his chest. It’s almost cute, like a little kid arguing about bedtime, asking for one more glass of water before he has to go down for good.

“It’s not a yes, either,” you counter quite spitefully. You can’t reward this behavior, can you? The man just took a wrecking ball to your life, to your current relationship, to your future – something you’ve carefully crafted and cared for and grown for close to a year.

A year.

And he thinks of this now? When you have one foot out the door? That’s when he fucking realizes?!

You’re furious and want to yell at him till you’re blue in the face. Mostly, though, you’re furious with yourself. Maybe you should’ve known, should’ve suspected. After all, you know him well. You know his insecurities and his deepest, darkest fantasies. What Sam has now, what you’re about to have – the apple pie life.

“So, it’s a… maybe?”

You want to sigh and pray heavenward. Is anyone listening to this? Hello?!

“Do you love him?”

This time, you sigh out loud. “You know I do.”

Your words are sharp, and you can tell that they sting. He flinches when you say them. But something weird tugs at you when you do.

“You love me, too?”

You’re silent for a moment. You don’t know if the truth makes it worse or better.

“I do,” you admit through more painful tears that blur your already hazy vision. His piercingly green eyes find you, and you note the soft, upward curve of his lips.

“You love me more?”

“Dean!”

Yeah, he was pushing it…

Pensively, his tongue swipes slowly over his upper lip before he tucks the lower one between his teeth. Then, he clicks his tongue when he’s thought of something to say, something to give him an advantage, anything.

You love him. There’s a chance.

“Look, it’s not too late, okay? If you wanna get out, just say the word,” Dean says. There’s urgency in the deep timbres of his voice. This is his last shot. He can’t keep watching from the window looking in as everyone eats dinner without him. He has to move.

“So, what? So I can live here with you and watch you hook up with strangers for eternity?” Frustratedly, you wipe the tears from your cheeks and look at him. You can tell your little comment caused a paper cut.

Bobbing his head, Dean rubs his lips with his fingers. He knows he deserves that snide comment. Those distractions from the craving certainly haven’t done him any favors.

“I get it. I screwed up. I came a little late to the party,” Dean admits. Tears threaten to drown the green in his eyes, but he fights to keep them behind the dam. He needs to get this out first. “But I’m here now. I’m yours. All yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he vows, and you believe him with your breaking heart. “I swear to you, to anyone who will fucking listen… I won’t screw this up again. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. You wanna get married? Have kids? I’d do it right now with you. You wanna go see the world? Go skydiving? Then knock me out and drag me onto a plane. Just tell me. I’d give you everything I have, sweetheart.”

His voice chokes on the last few words, barely pushing them out. His heart roars; his lungs wring for air. Every muscle, every vein, every nerve feels like its being electrocuted. Tenses, twists, and constricts under the pressure of the craving.

You’re speechless, your mouth agape. You look at him, stare. You see the desperation, the pain, the fear, the need, the love, the craving. But you can’t think of anything to say. You don’t know what to do, except wait for an ice age to come and freeze you both in time, so you get more time to think.

“I-I-… I should go. I’ll stay at a motel,” you manage to say, your voice trembling like the rest of your body. You can’t feel your legs, your hands, or your head. Most of all, you can’t feel your heart.

You don’t have to say yes or no. You don’t have to make a decision right now – wasted and sleep-deprived. You do the smart thing, the wise thing, the right thing.

But why does it feel so wrong and stupid then?

“You’re leaving?” Dean’s disbelief seeps into every syllable. He can’t understand. He figured this would fix it.

“I’m sorry.” The sniffled apology is quiet as you try to push past him. His skin brushes yours. A wildfire inflames inside of you that vaporizes all tears and fears.

Dean feels it, too.

All rational thought dissipates from his mind then. He grabs hold of your arm and spins you flush against his warm and inviting body. His lips collide with yours – hungry, wild, and fervent.

The craving wins.

You don’t fight it. You melt into the kiss, into him, into feeling instead of thinking. You lick the whiskey from his tongue, drink till you’re drunk on him, and Dean savors the minty Mojitos he’s watched you sip all night.

Your hands don’t find a place, neither can his. There’s too much to discover, new territory you’re both unfamiliar with but always wanted to see, feel, explore. So, he roams your soft curves and you his taut muscles. Squeezing, scratching, trailing.

Your fingers card and tug at the soft hair in the nape of his neck, lock tightly around him as you push yourself closer. He groans and sends vibrations through you.

Dean’s grip on your hips is bruising as he molds you to his frame. He really tries to achieve the impossible here. He won’t let go now. This is it, and with that thought, he cages you between his body and the kitchen island.

The two of you never dare to break the kiss, knowing that if you gave yourselves enough time to think, you’d stop this madness and come to your senses. Neither of you wants that. Not really. Not now.

The craving silenced everything else. It takes what it needs. It needs you. It needs him.

You’ve wanted this for so long – him and you, exactly like this. And now, it’s all so wrong but so fucking right, too.

You whimper into his mouth, your core flooding with desperate need when you feel his growing dick strain against his jeans and press between your legs. Your fingers work on autopilot as they unbutton his flannel and slide it over his broad shoulders.

Dean tosses your top over your head, and your legs wrap around his middle. He hoists you into his arms, and you fling his shirt somewhere when he’s on the move. Your bra follows, landing in the hallway, a trail of clothes marking the path of sin through the bunker.

You’re not sure the two of you will make it to a room, any room, as Dean stops and bumps you against walls, only to ravage more parts of your skin. He bites, he marks, and he grips your flesh so roughly you’re sure you’ll be more than blue in the morning. You know he wants to leave his impression on every inch of you. You don’t stop him because, God have mercy, you want that, too.

You feel him everywhere and still crave fucking more.

And Dean somehow still seems to make it to room 11 because when your eyes blink open the next time, you suddenly find yourself there. Of course it’s there. He needs your impressions to haunt him, too – your noises inside his four walls, your indentations in his mattress, your scent on his pillow, your arousal soaking his sheets.

He wants to lower you to his bed, to the memory foam, but your legs unravel around his waist, bare feet landing on the floor.

You can’t remember when you kicked off your shoes, but Dean isn’t wearing his boots anymore either and only one sock, so you figure they’re somewhere in the bunker with the rest of your lost items.

Your lips leave his but not him. They lick, suck, and bite down the scruffy column of his throat, his solid and freckled chest, all the way down his softly defined abs as you fall to your knees in front of him like he’s an altar you’re about to worship at.

Your fingers hastily unbuckle belt and lower zipper, pushing jeans to his ankles. You don’t bother long with his boxers, still strapped around his knees when you free him and wrap a hand around his throbbing cock as if to shield it from the sudden chill that creeps along your own skin. You don’t even manage a full pump before your lips seal around his red and swollen head. You swallow him whole.

You don’t wait. You don’t think. You give yourself fully to the craving.

It’s a greedy bitch.

A “shit” escapes him when you welcome him into your hot mouth till he hits the back of your throat, the first word that cuts through the moans and heavy breathing since this cataclysmic gluttony began.

You don’t pull back. You stay, hold on. Your tongue massages the thick vein. Your moans vibrate around him and send shivers up his spine, tighten his balls. Your mouth fills with saliva till it threatens to drool out. Your hand can’t even fully grasp his thickness, thumb out of reach from your other fingertips. You haven’t even noticed how big he truly is till tears sting your eyes, and you feel the aches in your jaw from trying to accommodate all of him. Luckily, the burning alcohol numbs some of it.

You both still and know there’s no fucking way back now when your eyes meet. There’s only forward and more.

A massive hand reaches to cradle your head, brushes your hair from your face, massages your jaw, and caresses your chin. Fuck. You drool more and press your thighs together while your pussy whines around nothing.

You slowly pull back, suck with hollowed cheeks and swirl around his tip and dip into his slit. He leaks precum onto your tongue, a tang of salt and sweetness and Dean.

You’re sucking his cock. You’re sucking Dean's cock. You’re fucking sucking Dean Winchester’s fucking cock.

“Fuck, that mouth…” Dean’s hips buck in rhythm with your bobbing head. The fist in your hair tightens, tugs harder, deliciously stings your scalp.

You want him to spill down your throat. You want to taste and drink and swallow all of him.

But Dean’s got other ideas. He raises you back to your feet with a strong grip of your upper arms. You barely catch a breath before he claims your swollen and soaking lips, kisses you truly, madly, deeply. He licks the taste of him from your tongue, his dick standing spit-wet and aching by your belly.

“Dean,” you whimper against his lips, thighs rubbing together. You can feel your arousal dripping down. You need friction, you need to get rid of your goddamn jeans and underwear, you need him.

“‘M take care of you,” he mumbles and nods like agreeing to a decision he just made, and you know he doesn’t just mean your climax or your craving. He means he’ll take care of you forever. That’s the promise he’s just made.

His fingers toy with your waistband and pull down your zipper. He pushes you back and leads you till you lie back onto the mattress, feet dangling over the edge. He shimmies you out of your confining denim, and then he’s on you, hovering above, kneeling between your spread legs.

Dean leaves you with one blazing kiss on your lips, but, fuck, those tits. He’s had dreams about them, day and night – about groping and squeezing and burying his entire face in them. He can’t resist and bites and tongues and sucks, and by the time his hands get to them, pinch and roll and tweak your stiff nipples, his mouth descends down your tummy.

Plush lips passing below your belly button is the imaginary line when he decides to deliver your sinfully throbbing clit from its misery and slides a hand inside your panties.

Ugh, fucking God, his large hand covers your entire cunt.

He could make you come with his fucking pinky alone by the sheer size and girth of his digits, you’re sure. You’ve observed their length and thickness over the years often enough, mostly from the backseat of Baby when he drives, always careful not to get caught in your shameful leering, always wondering what they’d feel like curling inside of you. And God, the things he does with those ten weapons while they linger on the steering wheel drive you insane with wanton need during most trips. Even short ones to the grocery store have become a solid method of torture for you.

And you know they could reach that spongey, sensitive spot inside of you oh-so easily. But it’s his middle and pointer finger that glide through your drenched folds first.

Dean hums against your skin, right by your hip bone. Oh God, he fucking hums and groans – deep and rich and desperate. Desperate for you.

He steals a glance at your face, your beautifully contorted face of glowing pleasure, and he flashes you an appreciative smile of surprise, like he hadn’t fucking anticipated you being so wet for him – so ready.

All you manage is barely a nod before your eyes roll back into your head. You don’t have the energy to argue about his weird insecurities right now. And yes, they are weird, considering how the guy looks, but it’s more than just the mesmerizingly green eyes that cause you to feel lost among tall pines, the faint and golden freckles that dance on his skin, twinkling from the tip of his nose down to soft dips and dents of his chest, or the way his smile carries you home like the beam of a lighthouse without fail each time you’re lost.

No, it’s the things you can’t (and he can’t) see in a mirror that award him the title of the greatest man who ever lived. It’s the kindness, it’s the sweetness, it’s the caring. It’s his heart of gold, his courage, and his warmth.

So, how come Dean can’t ever see any of that? You always could because you’ve loved him since he laughed through your Shawshank quotes that very first week.

And now… Fuck.

Not even the inebriated double-vision makes up for the amount of hands and fingers and mouths and tongues you feel on you. How does he do that? Are there six of them or just the two you see?

Your head is spinning. You don’t know up from down anymore; it’s all one blurry swirl. Is it sideways?

But you know where you are and you can count again when his tongue dives into your channel and his lips seal around your bundle of nerves and fucking suck hard.

A taste of your own medicine, you’re sure.

You cry out at the intensity and almost come right there, especially with his delighted chuckles against your center, but you actually come when two of those long, thick, admirable fingers spreads your tight walls. He manages three or four pumps maximum before you fall apart at his mercy.

You scream his name as your frame shakes, and he kisses your pulsing center softly as if to soothe your aches. But as his heavy erection presses against the inside of your thigh, you know you want more.

The craving never stops.

Heaving chest meeting his, his glistening lips lower upon yours, and your tongue tastes what his did just seconds ago. He hovers above, his nose nudging your cheek forcing your eyes to open, encountering an insecure glint in his gaze.

“You sure about this?” His voice is so quiet, so raspy, the words are almost inaudible as if he doesn’t want to say them at all because he’s afraid of the answer.

Luckily, so are you.

In the darkest, most isolated depths of your mind, there’s still someone else. A guy you claim to love, and yet, you’ve tied his hands with ropes, muzzled him with duct tape, locked him in a dungeon, and somehow found your way into Dean’s bed. Your best friend and roommate Dean.

Yeah, no, there’s no excuse, no justification. But there’s no way back, either. What’s done is done. You’ve already done unspeakable things to each other – all of them rule-breaking. Sucking his cock? Fully your idea! God knows Dean surely didn’t fall dick-first into your mouth.

No, you want this. And moreover, you need to see it through.

Life isn’t just black and white, is it? It’s not a straight road. There’s sharp curves, and hunters are known to ignore the odd dangerous bend symbol.

So you kiss him deep and hard, because your answer would’ve been a shallow and soft uncertainty. You don’t know if it’s right, you assume it’s not, but you follow the craving and cave to its needs.

It needs Dean. Not anyone else. Dean. Not Dean Martin or James Dean, no. Dean Winchester.

Your hand snakes between heated and damp bodies and wraps around the forbidden fruit, lets his cockhead catch at your more-than-ready entrance.

Is it really all Eve’s fault? Probably. Now, though, it’s very much on Adam.

Dean pushes in.

Well, they call it a sin for a reason. The craving clearly doesn’t give a fuck, though.

When his tip taps your cervix, you gasp. Your pussy clenches around him, he groans into your neck, and you moan at that little jitter that runs through his body.

He kisses a path down to your tits as he slowly pulls out to his dickhead and thrusts back into you. Fuck. And well, from there on out, it all blends into a foggy whirl of limbs, bodily fluids, and an obscene soundtrack.

It all comes slowly back, however, when you wake in the morning. You feel the remnants of a wild night, the sheer soreness between your thighs, instantly.

You remember it started slow and tender when your eyes finally flutter open barely a few hours later, just at the break of dawn. It started with good, ol’ missionary – the ‘getting to know each other’ phase. You both learned what made the other tick, while his cock moved pleasantly inside of you like calm ocean waves, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

When you carefully slide out under his arm for a simple pee break, panic begins to creep in, recalling how you eventually rolled him onto his back and rode him like his goddamn name was Larry. Shit.

And Dean loved it. His freckled face and the huge grin, staring up at you in awe, is branded into your mind. There’s no way to unsee it now.

As you collect clothes strewn throughout the bunker like they are scavenger hunt items, you remember how things took a turn for the worse then – or for the better, depending one’s perspective on the subject, you suppose.

Eventually, you found your way onto all fours, Dean giving his goddamn everything behind you, pounding relentlessly into you with a bruising grip on your flesh.

Your fingers subconsciously touch your hips, your eyes follow and see bruises there. You hurry into the bathroom, glimpse at the mirror, and immediately see more. They’re everywhere – your throat, your collarbone, your tits, your waist, hips, arms, and thighs. Oh shit, even your ass got some.

There’s no way of hiding a sin this big.

You came five times. You fucking remember that. Never happened with anyone before, either.

Fucking asshole…

With a sobering (but heavily hungover) mind, your anger at your roommate returns. Why did he have to do it this way? Why put you in this awful position in the first place? Did he have to wait till you both were close to blackout drunk and an almost engagement to someone else?

No discussion of anything. No feelings. No future. No plans. No protection. No checking in. No responsibility. No sobriety. No brains.

Naturally, all of this was a decision made by two completely sane people. Why would you do any of that? Talking is overrated. No, this clusterfuck was obviously the best choice.

Shit, shit, shit…

Beating hearts in their purest form. That was there.

You remember how he looked at you, both spent, lying next to each other with your heads by the foot of the bed, feet resting where pillows go. No clue where they went.

His smile was so warm and happy, fingers still caressing skin and never losing touch. You gazed and smiled at each other like idiots till your eyes closed, knowing without words that this was forever now.

Dean still wakes up alone that morning.

Oh, his goddamn brain is buzzing. Without opening his eyes, Dean twists his face into the darkness of his mattress, hands searching for the pillow underneath his head.

Wait… Where is his fucking pillow?

His brow furrows slightly, his head pounding louder as if to try to rattle him awake and alert him to something. If he could only remember what that something is…

The only reason he’s somewhat awake is because his own snore woke him up after he almost choked on his damn spit. God, what a night. He probably should make a mental note to drink less. Those hangovers aren’t getting easier to handle with progressing age.

Little goosebumps spread on his skin when a soft, cool breeze hits the exposed parts of his body. Something is odd, though. Why is it so damn cold? And why is his blanket only barely covering his bottom half?

And why the fuck is he naked? He’s not usually a birthday suit sleeper. A purple nightgown, a shirt and boxers, maybe even a pair of sweats, sure, but he only ever sleeps naked when he’s had se–

Shit!

Dean jolts up in bed, pupils wide and head swirling. He stretches his heavy and tired eyes with strain, forcing them to stay open. Jesus, he feels like a truck ran over him, only realizing then that said truck carried your goddamn license plates.

Shaking his head vigorously, he tries to find his orientation. He almost thinks he’s in a different room before realizing he’s slept upside down in his own bed. He rolls onto his back and sits up, blinking his eyes awake a little further.

The whole night comes crashing back to him then, but he starts to doubt the realness of it all when he can’t find you next to him. There’s just an empty spot.

Looking for evidence, he scans the room. He only finds some of his own clothes strewn across the floor, but none of yours till he feels something tangled around his ankle. Are those his boxers?

Nope! That’s your underwear. How did it get– Never mind. There are more important things to figure out now. First and foremost, where the hell are you?

With a groan, he swings his legs off the bed, bare feet landing on the cold ground. He runs a palm through his hair and rubs his face, even patting his own cheeks to wake up more. His head is fucking killing him. But it’s not the only thing aching.

Lifting the sheet slightly from his lap, he takes a quick peek. Oh, poor guy’s been certainly through a lot last night. Is that a bruise? How did that ha– Nope, never mind that, either. He’s surprised at his own stamina, though. A guy his age? Drunk? He mentally pats himself on the back for it, although he knows the craving did most of the work for him.

Nonetheless, his pride is quickly overshadowed by your absence.

His hand grabs his watch on the nightstand. Almost noon.

Well, your French leave makes a little more sense now. You probably had to pee. His own bladder feels goddamn full, the bottle of whiskey finally finding its exit again. His stomach is growling, too. Maybe you were hungry? Dean knows you practically wake up starving every morning and are unbearable till he stuffs that first stripe of bacon into your mouth.

However, he notices the eerie quiet of the bunker. There’s no smell of awaiting breakfast in the kitchen wafting down the long hallways. There are no sounds of clattering dishes, clinking cutlery, a running shower, or the flush of a toilet.

Silence.

And if you really got up for a bathroom and food break, why are your jeans gone? He knows he took them off in this room and not anywhere else. A perfectly fine and fresh flannel is hung over the chair by his small desk.

Not to complain, but wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just thrown that one on instead of forcing yourself back into something skin-tight?

Dean’s not a complete idiot, however. He knows those aren’t good signs, and his chest starts to constrict, squeezing the air from his lungs. His mind races, green and red eyes flickering around desperately for answers.

You wouldn’t leave like that, would you? Not after–

“I love you,” Dean whispered, his forehead resting against yours when he spilled into you, your walls still gripping him tight.

“I love you, too,” you replied and could barely finish your answer before his lips claimed yours again.    

No, you wouldn’t do that. It’s not the version of you he knows like the back of his hand. That’s not his best friend.

But then, his stomach overflows with guilt, the hows and whys of the night seeping into every corner of his mind and settling in his bones.

Fuck.

Oh, there had to have been another way, right? He shouldn’t have done what he did, shouldn’t have given into the craving so recklessly. He knew it was wrong. Everything was wrong. This was never supposed to happen this way.

It was supposed to be magical and memorable. The start of something great.

It still was for Dean, although your disappearance makes him unsure. Maybe it wasn’t all that magical for you.

Dean kissed you, which was a forgivable offense. And sure, you kissed him back. But was either of you in the right state of mind? Probably not.

And Dean knows he should’ve stopped it all there, should’ve slowed down, looked at you, and talked to you about it. About next steps, futures, plans. None of that happened.

Last night, after his confession, he could see you needed time to think, a night to sleep it over, gather your bearings with a sober mind. But Dean was scared of letting go. What would he have done if you hadn’t come back? But he didn’t listen to the warning.

The craving didn’t want to risk losing you and clearly didn’t give a damn about consequences.

But Dean does. He cares a fucking lot. And moreover, now he has to live with the damn consequences of its actions and not the stupid craving.

Right now, it’s achingly empty. Dean knows it means you’re not around.

Still, he rises from the bed and starts to pad down the hallways of the bunker in search of you. He needs to talk to you, find you, do whatever it takes to fix this mess. He wants to call you, but his phone is missing, too.

It happens sometimes. Usually, either you or Sam call him to find it, but no one’s here anymore. He’s all alone and realizes then that he’ll probably die this way – slipping pathetically in the bathroom with a disturbing alcohol level in his blood, his phone out of reach, lost somewhere between couch cushions. You or Sam will probably stumble upon his corpse weeks, maybe months later, and only find the flesh rotting from his bones.

Yup, he’s sure that’s it. Lovely end to a shitty life.

With a deep sigh stuck in his throat, Dean follows the path of destruction, a trail of lost clothing items leading him toward the kitchen before he picks up your bra from the floor.

He stops in his tracks when he hears the heavy thud of the garage door. His heart sings in relief. Food run! You probably went to fetch breakfast. Yeah, that must be it.

“Dean? Y/N?”

Sam.

Dean’s shoulders slump, the hopeful smile on his face faltering. He rubs his mouth with his fingers, his mind spinning. Not a minute later, Sam rounds the corner and meets him in front of the kitchen.

“Dean?” Sam then freezes and instantly squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head exasperatedly. “Dude! Why are you naked?!”

“Oh.” Dean blushes with a slight fluster, but his usual shameless grin is missing. He’s too fucking depressed for a witty response. “Hang on.”

Even Sam notices the tension and somber atmosphere when he hears Dean plodding back to his room, but he chalks it off to last night’s news. He slowly opens his hazel eyes and takes a quick scan of the kitchen.

Empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, flannel on the floor, boots in the hallway.

But wait… Is that one of your shoes?

Dean then comes back in a pair of gray sweats and a black henley, still carrying your bra in his hand as if it would help him find you like a dowsing rod.

“Rough night?” Sam quirks a brow at his older brother, a small smile of amusement on his face. It’s not the first time he found Dean like this, after all.

“Good night. Rough morning,” the older Winchester replies soberly.

“Dude, what happened? When did you have time to meet a hook-up after I drove you home last night?” Sam creases his brow, but the sinking feeling in his gut already confirms it. He knows those are your shoes, just like he knows that’s your bra in his brother’s hand. Sam’s been your laundry buddy for close to five years.

“I-I… I slept with her, Sam,” Dean confesses and claps his mouth like he’s done the last time he’s confessed something. He expects it to go about the same.

But Sam surprises him with calmness. “Yeah, I-I figured,” he admits, nodding, and takes another glimpse down the hall behind Dean. “Where is she? Still sleeping? Did she break up with Trey?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes. Leave it to Sam to dive right into the uncomfortableness. Solely mentioning the name burns a hole into his heart. What if you went back to him?

“No, uh, I don’t know where she is. I just woke up,” Dean says slowly and licks his chapped lips. “I-… I think she left. For good. I think she-… you know.”

Dean swallows the thick lump in his dry throat, while Sam sits with the information for a minute.

“Dean, why–“ Sam shakes his head, collecting his thoughts. “Why didn’t you guys just talk? I mean, what happened?”

“Oh, yeah, great idea, Sammy!” Dean scoffs with a voice full of bark. “You think I haven’t thought about that? Does anything about this look planned to you? I mean, hell! You’re the one who told me to use my last chance and tell her in the first place!”

“I didn’t mean this,” Sam counters, exasperated. “I meant, use your mouth, idiot, not your–“ He frowns when he notices the rising smirk on his older brother’s face. “Dude, don’t even say it.”

“Fine.” Dean rolls his eyes a little and sighs. “Look, I need to find her and talk to her. Can you call my cell? I lost it somewhere.”

“Dude, again?”

“Just-… Would you call?” Dean massages his aching temples.

“You know, my worst nightmare is finding you dead down here one day, just rotting away,” Sam mutters wryly as he makes the call.

“Yeah, you and me both,” is all Dean says.

His ears then pick up the faint buzzing noises of his phone, only growing louder as the brothers follow it all the way to the library. His cell rests neatly on the wooden table, but he knows he hasn’t put it there.

Besides, underneath it is a folded piece of yellow, legal-pad paper that smells like you.

Dean grabs both phone and letter, his eyes fixing on the only two words there. The corners of his mouth quirk to a faint smile, but it’s sad in nature. He’s only laughing to cope with the loss of you. His black soul is rejoicing – it’s been right all along. Hallelujah!

I’m sorry.

You’re sorry. But Dean doesn’t know for what exactly. For sleeping with him? For telling him you loved him? For leaving?

Or is it all of the above?

“What does it say?” Sam’s voice keeps him from jumping straight into a spiral of sorrow.

“That she left,” Dean replies and crumples the paper in his hand, tossing it on the floor.

He tries calling you, but there’s no answer. And even when Sam tries, you don’t pick up.

“Voicemail again,” Sam says after his third try and clears his throat with lacking subtleness. “She-, uh, she probably forgot to charge it again.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it…” Dean pats his little brother’s shoulder as he saunters past him.

“Dean, where are you going?”

“Look, I just wanna be alone right now,” Dean says, his voice laden with emotion he tries to hold back. “I’ve got a raging headache, I smell like a liquor store…”

“Yeah, uh, sure.” Sam nods with understanding. He knows Dean’s shutting down now. “Can I do anything?”

“Yeah, leave,” Dean huffs bitterly, the door to his room slamming shut soon after.

The bunker is cold and dark when you trudge down the metal steps.

There’s just blackness, not a light on except for a small table lamp in the library. Your gaze lands on the giant table, both phone and your note gone. You know he must’ve found it by now; you assumed he would’ve.

Still, your heart cracks at the thought.

You should’ve been clearer with your message. But there was no time, and your head had been spinning. Now, though, the craving’s gone.

There’s finally clarity.

It replaces the feverish longing. It tells you exactly what your heart needs – Dean. Not in a carnal, all-consuming way but in the purest form of love. He’s the air you breathe.

You find the door of his room ajar, but it’s dark inside, too – and empty. You’ve checked the garage, though, and saw Baby parked in her usual spot, so you know its green-eyed owner can’t be far.

And of all places he could’ve been – the shooting range to take his anger out, the kitchen to eat his feelings, or the cave to drown his sorrows – you find him in your room.

He sits on the freezing floor by the foot of your bed like a sad pile of forgotten laundry. When his gaze lifts to you in the doorframe, his brow furrows a tiny bit as if not sure he’s seeing a ghost.

“Hey,” you say softly, your voice close to a croak, but Dean averts his eyes as if seeing you pains him. And, well, that pains you.

“You-, uh, you forgot something?” He clears his throat to clear his feelings and seem casual. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling with that mask – again, sadly sitting on the floor in your room – but it sure ain’t you.

“Yeah, you,” you reply, a faint smile curving your lips. You step closer and kneel down in front of him, cupping his confused face in your palms as you brush your lips tentatively against his.

“I-… I don’t understand,” Dean says, the surprise still visible in the wrinkles of his brow when you pull back an inch. “Look, if you’ve changed your mind again–“

“No, Dean…” You shake your head and kiss the creases on his forehead. “I never changed my mind, okay? I meant what I said last night. I love you.”

His mouth is agape for a heartbeat, knitted brow ironing out with realization. “So, you’re staying?”

“Yeah. It's you. No contest.” You smile softly, the happiness in your veins almost forcing you to beam, but your other half doesn’t seem to be quite there yet.

“Then why did you leave?”

With a heavy sigh, you slump back against the footboard, taking a seat next to him. “I know. I’m sorry. I panicked when I woke up,” you explain. “I just-… I had to end it, you know?”

Dean’s brow raises with understanding. Oh.

“You broke up with him?”

You nod, swallowing. It hasn’t exactly been a fun day for you, either.

“I went to his hotel, but he’d already checked out. So, I went to the airport, but his flight was gone too,” you tell him. “I wanted to call you, but I forgot to charge my phone. My battery was dead.”

Dammit. Of course Sam was right.

“And, uhm, that’s when I bought a ticket and flew there.”

“You flew to Michigan?!”

Well, of all the scenarios that swirled around his head the past twenty-four hours, this hadn’t exactly been one of them. Sure, he’d buy you going after your boyfriend to be with him, but to break up with him?

“Wouldn’t a text done it?”

“Dean!” Gasping, you slap his arm scoldingly. “I know you don’t mean that. Look, I had to, okay? The guy wanted to propose to me, the least I could do is be honest and face him. I didn’t want to start something… new without ending it first, you know? Not that any of this was good, to begin with…”

Dean lifts a brow, pursing his lips. “So, last night wasn’t… good?”

You fix him with a glare. “Not the point, dude!” You shake your head at him. “Look, last night was–… You were–… It was–“

“Magical?” Dean offers with a small, puckish smile.

“Sure,” you relent, smiling internally at his childishness. Or is it cute? “I just meant it wasn’t ideal.”

“Yeah, uhm, I know. I’m sorry. Really. I am,” Dean says and meets your eyes. “So, did you tell him? About… you know?”

You exhale a long sigh. “Well, I didn’t want to. Not because I’m a coward and didn’t want to face the consequences, I just figured I was already cutting a wound. No need to pour salt into it, right?”

“Makes sense,” Dean agrees quietly.

“Yeah, well, that plan kinda went out the window thanks to your artwork on my neck,” you mutter a bit reproachfully, but a small smile still flashes on your lips. You know damn well he made it a point last night to mark you.

“Right, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, too,” he says and clears his throat, but it’s the apology he doesn’t really mean. He’s not even a little bit sorry about that. The only thing he feels sorry for is making you go through all of that.

“Please, like you mean that.” You snort, giggling. Dean clicks his tongue, his cheeks reddening guiltily. “Anyways, that whole thing then led to a five-hour break-up talk.”

“Five hours?!” Dean wildly furrows his brow. “What’s taking so long? I mean, you tell them you don’t love them, and you leave.”

You frown slightly and deadpan, “Right, forgot you’re the relationship expert. Have you ever actually broken up with someone?”

Well… Cassie broke it off with him. Lisa, too. But to be fair, both of those break-ups combined didn’t last more than ten minutes – tops.

“Thought so.” You smirk winningly.

“Alright, congrats. You’re a saint,” Dean huffs jokingly.

“Hardly,” you scoff and find his gaze. “Dean, I still cheated. That’s not a good thing.”

“No, I know. But–“

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, right?”

Stumped, Dean arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course not. Wait, is that something you’re actually worried about? That I would think that?”

You meekly shrug your shoulders, playing with your fingers in your lap. “Well, yeah…”

Dean wets his lips for a brief moment of contemplation before his palm cups the back of your head and pulls you to him for a searing kiss. It’s deep and soft and hungry all the same. Most of all, it’s pure. It feels like the first kiss that isn’t controlled by the craving.

It’s just love now.

“I love you,” Dean says breathlessly as soon as he draws back from your lips, offering you one of his charming smiles full of mischief. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I know, alright? Don’t you worry about that.”

You nod and claim his lips again.

“So, uh, what d’you say? Wanna hit Vegas tomorrow? Stop by a chapel?” Dean suggests, causing your brow to raise significantly.

“Oh, you were actually serious about that?”

Dean chuckles. Yeah, he wouldn’t have necessarily believed him either, but it’s still true. He’s not even a little bit afraid of the commitment. In fact, he craves it.

“Yeah, I was. Meant every word I said,” he confirms with a big grin. “You wanna get married? We’ll do it. Hell, anything you want, just tell me, and I make it happen, sweetheart.”

“Huh… Anything?” A tiny smirk curves your lips.

Dean sighs playfully and rolls his eyes. “Jesus, stepped right into that one, didn’t I? So, you wanna get married? What is it? Atlantic City? You know that place is a shithole, right? Even Jersey thinks so…”

“No, Dean, nothing like that.” You laugh, shaking your head with pink cheeks. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure I wanna get married.”

Dean nods, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “Okay, just figured you’d-, you know, since…”

“No, I mean, I would’ve said yes.”

“Huh.” Dean scratches the back of his head a little too anxiously. “Gotta say, kinda hard not to take it the wrong way here.”

You stifle a chuckle. “I promise it’s not that. I’d marry you in a heartbeat, okay? I’m just telling you it’s not a priority. You wanna get married tomorrow, we’ll get married. What d’you want? Elvis? You know they do weddings without him there too, right? I heard they even have a drive-through chapel. We could get married in the Impala.”

Dean blinks at you for a minute before he shakes his head clear. “Okay, first of all, love that idea. Second… you know, maybe you’re right. Let’s slow down a little. I don’t wanna go on a first date with my wife.”

You laugh, nodding. “Kinda my point.”

“Alright, what d’you wanna do, huh? We could look for a place topside, like Sammy and Eileen,” Dean proposes, but you wrinkle your nose.

“I don’t wanna leave the bunker,” you state. “Do you know how much rent we’d pay for a place this size topside?”

Dean chuckles a little. “We could downsize, you know? I mean, it’s just the two of us.”

“Yeah, but where would we play hall ball? Do I need to remind you this place has a bowling alley and a shooting range? I can’t downsize. I’m used to luxury now.”

A deep laugh rumbles through Dean’s chest at that, remembering only more reasons why he loves you – why you’re the one. “Alright, we’ll stay, princess.”

“Look, all I want is to be with you and have fun adventures. We’re pretty good at that, you know?” you tell him with a teasing smile, seeing Dean nod in agreement. “So… how serious were you about me knocking you out and dragging you on a plane?”

Groaning, Dean throws his head back, pounding it softly against the wooden bed frame. “Oh, c’mon! You sure I can’t just knock you up? We do have enough rooms for a couple of ‘em…”

You snort a laugh at his theatrical reaction. “A, I’m sure. And B, how’s that slowing down, huh? Besides, I already booked the tickets. Our plane leaves tomorrow at eight. Pack your bathing suit ‘cause we’re going to Hawaii.”

Slinging your arms around his shoulders, you peck his scruffy cheek, while Dean rubs a palm across his face, but he can hardly hide the smile underneath it, although his heart is fluttering quite nervously.

“Okay, let’s do it, I guess. Better call Sam for a strong spell to knock me out, though.” Dean laughs a little.

“How about we just go to the pharmacy before we pull out the hex bags, huh?” you suggest gently, smiling in amusement. Only a Winchester would propose such a ridiculous thing. “And you also have me by your side, okay? I think it’s about time Dean Winchester joins the mile high club, don’t you?”

Dean purses his lips but can’t stop the smirk from splitting his cheeks. “Well, speaking of–“ He cradles your head and leans closer, gently pushing you down till your back touches the floor and your giggles fill the room. “You left a hickey on my dick. How about I repay the favor?”

Without another word, his lips find yours, and you cave to craving once more. Dean hopes he can satiate it for the rest of his life.

Quite a ride, but we got to our HEA 😜💕 Let me know all your precious thoughts. Feedback is very appreciated!

I've already written a follow-up one-shot for these two and may have been thinking of a Hawaii-themed miniseries (after all, the Winchesters never hunted in that state, so there surely might be something supernatural there 😉)

🚀 Join Patreon for more stories & read ahead on current series

Tag List Pt. 1:

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

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

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Imagine...Catching Dean Off Guard

Pairing: Dean x reader

________________

Weiterlesen

---

You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Pairing: Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Tropes: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Song Inspiration For The Series: You Call It Madness But I Call It Love By Russ Columbo

Series Playlist (Spotify)🥀

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters fluctuate between past and present, beginning in 1934. SPOILERS FOR THE BOYS S3

Chapter 1: You Shouldn't Have Answered the Door

Chapter 2: Late Night Visitor

Chapter 3: Summer Has to End Someday

Chapter 4: It's My Party and I'll Eat Cake If I Want To

Chapter 5: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Chapter 6: Batter Up

Chapter 7: Are We Old Friends Or Old Enemies?

Chapter 8: Jealousy Doesn't Look Good On Anybody Except...

Chapter 9: Wedding Bells or Gong of Destruction?

Chapter 10: How Did It End Up Like This?

Chapter 11: I Can't Think With You Yelling At Me!

Chapter 12: My Heart Is Beating For You Constantly

Chapter 13: You Made A Plaything Out of Romance

Chapter 14: You're All I'm Dreaming Of

Chapter 15: What Do You Know About Love?

Chapter 16: Please Come Back To Me

Chapter 17: How Could I Ever Forget?

Chapter 18: First Impressions Are Often Correct

Chapter 19: I Know Who You Are

Chapter 20: You Were There

Chapter 21: Try To Understand

Chapter 22: I May Be Right Or I May Be Crazy

Chapter 23: Extreme Makeover Backyard Edition

Chapter 24: What The Past Held

Chapter 25: Are Family Reunions Always This Awkward?

Chapter 26: I Hate You, I Love You

Chapter 27: Take Me Back To The Beginning

Epilogue: True Love Is Hard To Find

Last Updated: 10/08/2024 (Series Complete)

One Shots:

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?: All you wanted was for Ben to have a nice Thanksgiving, but when your daughter brings her new boyfriend over, all hell brakes loose!

[Extras]

Chapter 7.5: The Only Escape (Unused)

Happy Halloween! (Takes Place After Main Series)

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303

@deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

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@xxannyxx

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@everlove @dangerousgardenchild

(Photos on mood board from Pinterest)

iprobablyshipit91 Fic Recs

So this started as me keeping links of all my favourite Dean Winchester fics that I finally decided to share so others could hopefully find some great stories and the authors would know how much I love their work. It’s kind of grown to a very, very huge list, but I love everyone of these works, they’re amazing and deserve so much love. I hope you find something you love on here 💕

There’s a mix of fluff, angst, smut, au etc. Please make sure you read the warnings for each story on it’s own page.

Beautiful Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Dean Winchester x Reader

Should I Stay or Should I Go by @daisythekitty

Sweet Dreams by @deanssweetheart23

Slip Up by @deanwritings

Bad Moon Rising by @hintsofhoney

Not the Planned Delivery by @lazydoodlesandfanfic

Unnamed by @lostdreamr-blog1

I’ve Got You by @spnexploration

Broken Ribs Against Fingertips by @the--blackdahlia

Motel Diablo by @waynes-multiverse

Sharing is Caring by @zepskies

Mini Date by @avanatural

The Talk by @avanatural

And Baby Makes Four by @carryonmywaywardone-shots

Nows the Time by @crashdevlin

Down on Dean by @deanwanddamons

The Prettiest One by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

Always You and Me by @deanwinchesterswitch

Bullets and Bands by @deanwinchesterswitch

Capeesh? By @deanwritings

I Ship It by @deanwritings

It’s Okay by @deanwritings

Safe Now by @deanwritings

What We Lost by @deanwritings

Tell Me About… by @impala-dreamer

Glances by @kasimagines

It’s Okay, I Love You by @kasimagines

Poison by @kasimagines

Obeying Temptation by @kittenofdoomage

Sweet Satisfaction by @kittenofdoomage

Nannas Love Sammy by @littlegreenplasticsoldier

Something New by @princessmisery666

Date Night by @princessmisery666

I Would Never Hurt You by @procrastinatorimagines

Frayed Ends by @scuttling

Must be Love on the Brain by @sleepywinchester

Below Freezing by @soaringeag1e

Promises by @supersleepygoat

Friendzoned by @talesmaniac89

Stupid Cupid by @talesmaniac89

Crazy on You by @thoughtslikeaminefield

Different by @watermelonlipstick

Labyrinth by @waynes-multiverse

Love on the Brain by @waynes-multiverse

Gesundheit by @waynes-multiverse

Dark Waters by @wearywinchester

Above Ground by @wearywinchester

I Won’t Say (I’m in Love) by @zepppie

The Wrong Winchester by @cherry3point14

Good Things by @crashdevlin

Baby Spoon by @deanwanddamons

Rumours by @deanwinchesterswitch

Blind Love by @jawritter

Faded by @kasimagines

Sacrifice by @kasimagines

The Last Call by @kasimagines

To Know You by @littlegreenplasticsoldier

Watch and Learn by @littlegreenplasticsoldier

Can’t Fight This Feeling by @pink-sparkly-witch

Mischief Managed (2) by @sinfulsoulx

A Few Moments of Madness | Last Time? by @smellingofpoetry

Familiar by @spnhunter4life

Dream On by @talesmaniac89

Well, Hello There Stranger by @talesmaniac89

If You Want it to Be by @zepskies

Midnight Espresso | Devour Me by @zepskies

Clear the Area by Alisha Ashton

Many of Horror by Alisha Ashton

Closing Walls and Ticking Clocks by Alisha Ashton

In the Dark by Alisha Ashton

Comfort by @fangirlingfromdownunder

Baby, We’ve got a Problem by @deanwritings

Night Falls by @deanwritings

Captives of the Court by @impala-dreamer

Carry On by @jawritter

My Saviour by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes

Heart of a Hunter by @muchamusedaboutnothing

The Widow by @pink-sparkly-witch

The One That Got Away by @pink-sparkly-witch

Hold On I’m Coming by @ravengirl94

The Arrangement by @ravengirl94

Long Way Home by @supersleepygoat

Cross my Heart by @smol-and-grumpy

Home to You by @smol-and-grumpy

Collared by @spnexploration

Pack by @spnexploration

Limelight by @talesmaniac89

Charity Heist by @talesmaniac89

The Man in Apartment 43 by @talesmaniac89

Practically Magic by @thelibrarylesstrektraveled

Supernatural Series Rewrite: Season 1 by @waywardaardvark79

Supernatural Series Rewrite: Season 2 by @waywardaardvark79

Miscommunication by @winchest09

Don’t Say a Word by @winchester-girl67

Never Say Goodbye by @zepskies

the vhs tape is worn from overuse. lines flicker through the screen, static catching in places where it's been paused too long, rewound too many times. the colors are a little off, the film grain thick, but it doesn’t matter. dean knows every inch of it. the castle set, the way the cheap fabric of the princess’s dress pools around her, the high, breathy way she speaks—somewhere between innocence and temptation, so sugary sweet it sticks to his brain like candy.

it’s embarrassing, really. a grown man, obsessed with a shitty porno from the ‘80s. he can’t even remember when he first found it, only that it’s been with him for years, a quiet little vice, something to keep tucked away when he’s alone. the princess, all doe-eyed and demure, looking up through her lashes while she spreads herself open, letting her “knight” claim her.

but now he’s got you. a real, living, breathing girl who’s already his, his girlfriend. and that changes everything.

the idea starts gnawing at him one night when he’s watching it again, long after you’ve gone to sleep. he tries to hold it back at first. it’s too much to ask. too weird. but the thought gets its claws in him, deep, sinking past the shame and right into his need:

you could be her. you’d be absolutely better.

so he waits. waits until he’s worked up the nerve, until he can bring it up without stammering over his words like a desperate idiot. it’s late when he finally does it. you’re curled up next to him, half watching something on tv, and he clears his throat.

“hey, uh,” he starts, shifting a little. his palms are sweaty. fuck. “i been thinkin’ about something.”

you glance up at him, waiting. he rubs the back of his neck, hesitating.

“it’s—fuck, okay, just hear me out, alright?” he sighs, then barrels through before he can lose his nerve. “there’s this tape i got. old one. been watchin’ it for years. it’s, uh… it’s a porno. but not just any porno, it’s—jesus, this is fuckin’ embarrassing—it’s this princess thing. real corny. and i just—i kept thinkin’, since you’re already my girl, since you already look so goddamn good all the time…” he trails off, meeting your eyes, and then finally just says it. “would you dress up for me? let me record you, playin’ along?”

he braces himself for laughter, for teasing, but you don’t do either. you just tip your head, thoughtful, lips pursed like you’re actually considering it. then, after a beat, you smirk.

“so you want me to be your little princess?”

his cock twitches. he swallows hard. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

it takes a few days to get everything together. the dress is easy—a cheap costume from some thrift store, layers of satiny fabric and lace. the rest is just details. a little gold circlet for your head, a sheer white slip underneath.

when you step out wearing it, dean has to sit down. hard.

“holy,” he breathes.

you do a slow turn, the skirt fanning out around you. “you like it?”

his grip tightens on the camera. “yeah, sweetheart. i fuckin’ love it.” he hits record. the red light glows. you give him a coy little smile, slipping into character with ease.

“oh, brave knight,” you sigh, pressing a hand to your chest. “i’m ever so lonely in my tower. won’t you come keep me company?”

his throat goes dry. “Jesus Christ.”

you giggle. you fucking giggle, and it’s exactly right, that breathy, sweet little sound. you step closer, letting your fingers trail down the bodice of your dress.

“or perhaps,” you murmur, eyes big and wide, “you’d like me to show you how grateful i am for your protection?”

dean groans. shifts in his seat, adjusting the camera. “you keep talkin’ like that, baby, ‘m not gonna be able to hold this thing steady.”

you pout, tilting your head. “but i want to be good for you.”

his cock throbs. “yeah? then why don’t you show me, princess?”

your hands move to the laces of your dress. you start slow, pulling them loose with delicate fingers, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. his breathing gets heavier. the camera stays trained on you, capturing every second.

the dress slips down, revealing the thin white slip underneath. your nipples are already hard, visible through the sheer fabric. you drag your hands down your own body, fingers grazing over them, and dean has to bite back a groan.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you’re perfect.”

you smile, coy and teasing. “you’re staring, my knight.”

“‘course i am,” he says. “this is all for me, ain’t it?”

you nod. your fingers dip lower, skimming over your stomach, then down between your legs. you let out the softest little sigh, barely touching yourself yet.

dean adjusts the camera, making sure he can see everything. “that’s it, sweetheart. keep goin’.”

you drag your fingers down the filmy slip, teasing yourself just the way you know he likes. slow, delicate, like you’re too shy to be doing this, like you’re some blushing, untouched princess in a candlelit chamber, desperate for her knight’s attention but too innocent to ask for it properly.

dean knows better. he knows you, knows how filthy you can be when you want to be, but fuck if you aren’t selling this performance so well it’s making his head spin.

he adjusts the camera in his grip, making sure the frame catches everything. your body, half-shrouded in the thin white slip, the golden circlet in your hair catching the light, your mouth parting in soft little sighs as your fingers trace over your own skin.

"that’s it, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rough with need. "real slow, just like that. let me see how bad you want it."

you whimper, breath hitching as you let your fingers brush between your thighs, not slipping under the fabric just yet, just teasing, a soft little gasp escaping your lips like you're surprised by your own need.

"oh," you whisper, blinking up at him, lashes fluttering. "sir knight, i—i shouldn't—"

"yeah, you should," he says, voice tight. "go on, princess. show me."

your lips tremble like you’re hesitant, like you need him to guide you, but when your fingers slip under the slip, pressing lightly over your soaked panties, the sound you make is pure sin. dean nearly drops the fucking camera.

"fuck," he breathes, adjusting the focus to capture the way your hips tilt into your own touch, the soft, helpless little movements. "you know what you're doin', don't you?"

your breath hitches. "no," you lie, shaking your head. "i just—i feel so warm, sir knight, and i don’t understand—"

"bullshit," he mutters, shifting in his seat, his jeans unbearably tight now. "you’re fuckin’ drippin' for me, princess, don’t play dumb."

your cheeks flush deeper, the perfect picture of feigned innocence, but your fingers press harder between your thighs, rubbing yourself through the damp lace of your panties.

"does it please you?" you ask, voice breathy and sweet, a perfect princess desperate for her protector's approval.

dean groans, his grip on the camera tightening. "you got no fuckin’ idea."

your other hand skims up your body, tracing over your collarbone before slipping one strap of the slip down, baring your shoulder. you sigh, tilting your head as if you're reveling in your own touch.

"i feel strange," you murmur, rubbing slow, teasing circles over yourself, keeping your eyes locked on his. "like i need something…but i don’t know what."

"yeah, you do," he mutters. "you know exactly what you need, sweetheart."

you let out the softest whimper, eyes glassy, lips parted, fingers moving a little faster.

"i wish you would help me," you whisper, voice trembling with need.

dean curses under his breath, shifting again, barely keeping the camera steady. "fuck, baby, you’re killin’ me."

"am i?" you blink at him, the tiniest pout forming on your lips. "but i just want to be good for you. i want to make you proud."

his jaw clenches. "you already are, princess. Jesus Christ, you already are."

you moan, a quiet, desperate sound as you slip your fingers under the lace of your panties, rubbing yourself properly now, gasping at the sensation.

dean’s breath shudders. "fuck, sweetheart. keep goin’. don't stop."

you whimper again, fingers moving slick and slow, hips rocking subtly as you keep your gaze locked on his.

"do you like watching me, sir knight?"

his grip on the camera is white-knuckle tight. "best fuckin’ thing i ever seen, baby."

you sigh, biting your lip, pleasure building as your fingers work yourself open. "i wish it was you touching me," you admit, voice barely more than a whimper.

dean groans, shifting in his seat, his own restraint unraveling by the second. "soon, sweetheart," he promises. "but right now, i wanna see you cum for me."

your breath catches, your fingers pressing deeper, your body arching—so close, so desperate—and dean captures every second of it, the tape rolling, the moment burned into film forever.

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah

title: vhs recording

Masterlist

* = implied smut or sexual tension

**= 18+/smut/spice

Taglist -> Click here to add

Original stories:

Buckle Bunny Blues

Jensen Ackles

Click here for Jensen Ackles Fanfiction

Supernatural

Click here for Dean Winchester Fanfiction

Sam winchester Tides of Temptation **

Heat of the moment ** Curves

Castiel Forest Green eyes Series -> Complete Basic Instinct ** Misha Collins A new beginning **

The boys

Click here for Soldier Boy Fanfiction

Billy Butcher A light in the darkness Part 1 ** A light in the darkness Part 2 **

Big Sky

Beau Arlen Stormy nights ** Sheriff's Bargain - NEW Series

Blind date**

Ten Inch Hero

Boaz Priestly Coral and Clover Priestly serie: Spikes pt 1 The beach city reunion pt2 Taking it slow pt3

Tracker

Russell

The plan The plan part 2

Kiss and make up

Walker

Only you **

Dawsons Creek

Guiding Light  **

Jack Dufry

Family Business *

ACOTAR

The shadowsinger - Serie - Complete Warrior Heart ** Warrior Heart part 2 **

Solstice gift ** Solstice gift - part 2**

Healing waters - Serie - NEW

Lose Control ** Lose Control Pt 2 ** Lose Control pt 3 **

Shadows and songs 1/3 Shadows and songs 2/3 Shadows and songs 3/3 **