Love That Dean Winchester Is Trending🥹

two bad bitches at the same damn TIME !

"likes mean nothing on tumblr" you're sending me a little heart. that's not nothing it's your heart. look here's one for you <3

Just finished big sky and THATS IT!? THATS HOW IT ENDS??? wtf

How many Supernatural fans are there on Tumblr?

You are only allowed to reblog this ONCE. Any more than once and this is completely ruined. 

Reblog if you’re a Supernatural fan so we can see how many of us there are out there!

In the Fields We Lie: ii

Warnings: Physical altercation. Mentions of relationship abuse (physical and verbal), nothing extremely graphic. Angst? Longing?

Word count: 1.6k

—

England

18 December 1915

Saturday

It was early in the morning when Dean was woken up by someone knocking too aggressively on a neighbors door. The sun was already taking over almost every visible surface of his home, he grabbed his glasses and peered at his clock that was sitting on the dining table: 07:13. Dean groaned at what time it was and immediately slammed his head back onto his pillow, but with his luck, was met with arguing not long after he had closed his eyes. If the voices didn’t sound so close and so familiar, he wouldn’t be concerned; with Fran coming home last night in distress, Dean needed to make sure everything was okay. He bolted out of bed and pressed his ear to his door.

“Francine you don’t know what you saw, please listen to me–”

“My name, Richard, is Franny. And I know exactly what I saw.” She was enraged, “You were whispering to Myrna all night, you think I didn’t notice…”

“Of course I knew that you caught on to that,” Richard said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I was only being secretive while talking with her because I was asking her what type of ring you’d like...”

Dean knew that he was lying, Fran never has anything nice to say when it comes to Myrna, especially because–

“Really!? Really…you’re going to stand here and lie to me straight to my face? If you really knew me you’d actually listen when I tell you that she goes after every guy any of her friends are interested in! That’s why I didn’t want you talking to her!” Fran yells. Breathing heavily–her voice breaks when she says, “It makes me uncomfortable. We’re not friends. She wouldn’t know the first thing about me.”

“You’d be surprised at what she knows about you, Francine.” With every response Richard gives Franny, his self-righteousness comes out in bigger waves than the last.

“I bet she knows you exceptionally well then, considering your face was between her legs last ni–”

There was a brief pause before Dean heard quick footsteps and a thud. Then faintly heard, “Listen here you bitch.”

He was up and running before he knew it. The door to the flat was open when he reached his friend. Richard had her by the throat. Pinned up against the wall. It broke Dean’s heart to see Fran so frightened. She was pulling at Richard’s hand, unable to get a good breath in. Rage overtook Dean at the sight of what Richard was doing. No one had time to say a word before Dean ripped him off of Franny, and proceeded to do the same thing to him that he did to the woman before them. Giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Dean snarled quietly forcing Richard against the wall, “No. You listen to me, Dick. If you ever touch her again, I will kill you. If you even step foot near Fran again and I know about it–you will regret it. Get the fuck out.” With that, he throws Richard out of her flat by his throat and closes the door.

He turns to Fran, examines her throat, and asks her if she’s okay. Fran has tears that are threatening to escape her eyes but she only nods up and down. Dean knows not to ask any more questions. Instead he offers his time and his flat whenever she needs it. All she can do is nod, her throat is slowly closing up from holding in her anger, her fear. He gives her a squeeze on her shoulder and heads towards the door.

“Thank you, Dean.”

It’s the faintest he’s ever heard her voice.

He turns around and gives her a small, warm smile. “Of course.” I’d do anything for you.

—

England

23 December 1915

Thursday

Dean hasn’t seen or heard from her in almost a week and he can’t help but to worry. Richard hasn’t come by again, at least that Dean knows of. There’s been no commotion on their floor since the argument. Maybe she’s staying with family?

It’s been a quiet week at work as well. Mimi lost her grandson on the Western Front. She won’t talk about it. Won’t talk at all actually. She hasn’t been able to look Dean in the eye, which is understandable. Rena, who is happiest in the silence, finds it to be excruciating. The grief is palpable. Everyone has lost something at this point.

He walks into work in a fog. There’s been talk about a conscription being introduced too. There’s simply not enough men volunteering to keep the armies going, so they’re going to start forcing people into the war if they’re healthy. Dean fits the description, and so does his little brother.

Sammy.

Dean could not imagine losing him. Could barely stand being away from him now, but after their mother died a few years ago–John couldn’t cope with seeing Dean everyday and had kicked him out for simply resembling Mary. Sam manages to sneak away to see him every other week. He turns eighteen in six months and graduates soon after that. It’s been eating Dean alive. If he couldn’t protect him…

“You alright there, love?”

Rena had placed her hand on his shoulder and he barely felt it. He looked up at her, worry had replaced her usual scowl. This was the first time there was a maternal spark in the older woman's eyes. He nodded, giving Rena a pat on her hand that still rested on him. On a day like today, it was an unspoken rule, that if nothing was said, there would be no further questions.

The day was slow. Every minute felt like hours. Every thought blended together into an anxiety-ridden mess. What would happen next? Who would get pulled into war first, Sam or Dean? Would he have enough money saved up for Sam by the time he’s of age? What was it like on the fronts? Would he ever see Franny again if he was sent away?

Dean didn’t want to die for nothing. More importantly, he didn’t want to die with nothing.

—

England

25 December 1915

Saturday

The dress that he had been working on for Franny was almost complete. It’s been in the works for months and it’s a relief that all he had left to do was get the precise measurements for the bust, waist, and hips. He was about to put the dress in a nicely decorated box that Mimi gifted him, when there was a knock on his door.

His heart was pounding so fiercely against his ribcage, he thought they might actually break. The sudden adrenaline rush made him feel lightheaded. There was no time to conceal the garment before she walked through the door. Dean had gone still.

“Is that for one of your clients, Winchester?”

His words got stuck in his throat. There, on her neck, where Richard had choked her–were faint purple and yellow bruises. Her eyes drooped with defeat when she realized that Dean had seen the mess that was made.

If only he knew about everything else. Franny kept the thought to herself, she didn’t want anyone dying today.

“My god, Fran. I–I didn’t realize he had grabbed you that hard.”

They both walked slowly towards each other, stopping once their feet were only inches apart. Tears stained her flushed cheeks. Her under eyes, the color of the night sky. Her hair disheveled, and she tried to fix it while Dean was taking in her appearance. The insides of her palms had been scabbed over from where her nails had dung in. He had only seen this one other time, seen her like this one other time…

Has he hurt you before?

The question was clear in Dean's eyes.

Yes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I didn’t want you to go after him. He said that he wouldn’t do it again…”

He was past the point of boiling over with anger. It wouldn’t help anything. Wouldn’t help her. So Dean did what he could to calm her down. He took her hands in his, rotated them so her palms face upward, and planted tender kisses to each indentation. All while looking into her eyes.

This is what a man is supposed to do. This is how a man is supposed to touch you. Dean was pleading with his unwavering stare.

It may have worked. Franny slowly pulled her hands free and wrapped them around Dean’s waist. She breathed him in and rubbed his back in a soft circular motion.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my darling. Lets run you a bath, yeah?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Afterwards I’ll tailor your Christmas present.” He points towards the dress hanging on the mannequin that’s in the corner of the room.

He swears he saw the light brighten in her eyes. There's more purpose in her steps towards the tub like she wanted to get it over with already.

I can’t believe he made that for me.

—

The measurements were almost perfect. The bust was a tad too big for her but it fit like a dream.

“Were you secretly taking my dresses while I showered, Dean? It’s bloody accurate, this.” Gesturing to her new piece of clothing.

“You forget, I do this for a living. I’m good at guessing people's sizes.” Dean says with a needle between his teeth, winking cheekily at her.

Only a few more needles to place, and then she was free to take the dress off. But as Dean was feeding one through, it pricked Franny’s breast.

“Ow!”

“Shit, I’m sorry. You okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know, sweetheart? What can I do–“

Franny brushed a strand of Dean’s thick blonde hair out of his face. Shock had kicked in, his face going pale at her gentleness.

“Kiss it better, like you did my hands?”

“Fuck.”

—

A/N: If I need to fix my warnings at all, please message me. Keep in mind this is an au!dean, he's a sweet boy. He still has his humor and trauma from is dad, so some things are staying the same!

tags! @aylacavebear @daylighted (again, I hope it's okay that I tagged you guys <3)

"No... but there is a lot of things that Soldier Boy has said that weren't scripted." — Jensen Ackles | JIB 15

Not me absolutely fucking up my sleep schedule the last couple weeks cuz I’ve been trying to think of ways to make my little fics work

ok but dean just lying on top of reader completely, pressing her into the mattress as he buries his head in her neck while she plays with his hair and soothes him and he’s just so relaxed and calm and loved and CDDGFCYFYTVUGVGVCXERTDCYFYFFFG

SCREAMING BC YES !!!!! full body weight on her, entirely relaxed and mushy-brained bc he can finally be soft :(( like patting his head like a lil puppy and just basking in each other’s warmth and company ???? yes pls my turn when ???

i also hc that dean likes having ur full body weight on him too !!!! like that man is so clearly adhd and being compressed into the mattress under ur body? uh huh 🙂↕️

Ten Years Gone {d.w.}

2. The Passenger

Warning: none

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: Any and all feedback is welcome! Please hit up my inbox, I love yapping! She’s a slow burn type of story, on purpose? Maybe. I have so many things I want to do with Dean and Novena. Happy reading :)

Novena was shivering as she was walking back to her house, she really wished that she could afford to fix her car after what Vince had done to it. The tires slashed, side mirrors broken, dents all over, and he had cut her brake line. Usually she’s good at reading people from the jump, but with Vince there was always something that seemed to cloud her judgement. And with her dad passing–paying for the funeral expenses put a hole in her wallet that’s been difficult to come back from. 

The weight of the world was really crashing into her lately. The pain was unbearable at times, so much so that she was having nightmares that would leave her gasping for air. The only person left in her life who really knew who she was, what she was, is gone. Hot tears rolled down her face, the cold wind made sure to sting her cheeks; Novena didn’t bother wiping away her sadness. 

She had another ten minutes of freezing her ass off before she was able to wrap herself in her thick comforter. There was a car coming up from behind her, and a sweet familiar purr radiated from it. That car was at the bar when she left, it could only be one of two people… While she wasn’t necessarily scared of the guy who tried to hit on her, it wouldn’t be pleasant interacting with him again. The person who was driving slowed to a stop and rolled down the window.

“You need a ride, stranger?” Dean shouted from across the road.

Novena’s shoulders eased their way down to a neutral position, grateful that she wouldn’t need to defend herself. Swiftly making her way over to the pristine jet black Impala, she leaned down to meet his gaze. 

“I thought you were that asshat for a second.” Dabbing her nose between saying, “I’d love a ride home, it’s wicked numb out here.”

“That’s almost an insult, you thinking that he’d have a nice Baby like this.” Dean had a serious look on his face while he patted his steering wheel, but then it turned into this adorable grin, one that warmed Novena to her core. He has such a charming smile, nice straight teeth with pointy canines, and his smile actually seemed to reach his eyes this time. “You getting in or not, crazy girl?”

“Yes, yeah. Thank you!” A chuckle escaped from Dean’s mouth—it met her ears while she was running to the other side of the car. He reached over the passenger seat to open the door for her, and she quickly plopped herself onto the seat and shut the door. 

“Where are we headed?”

“You’ll take this road all the way down pretty much. House number is 44, on the left. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”

“Sounds good.”

The pair sat in silence. The rumbling of the Impala and the way it smelled like gasoline and faintly of apple pie, was comforting. Instrumentals of an old rock song filled the air. Then, out of nowhere, she became extremely aware of her surroundings. Time seemed to stop. 

When she moved her head to look at Dean, it felt like her neck was being weighed down by an invisible force. This sequence of events feels so vivid, so unmistakable from one of her dreams she had months ago. The way his hand was lightly cradling the wheel and how he slumped in the seat so casually, the song she wished she could remember, and the feeling of affinity for a man she doesn't know. Only she couldn’t see the man's face in her dream. Deja Vu. 

With her illusions fading, she snaps back to reality. “You never told me why you were in town. What brings you here, Dean?”

His eyebrows twitched with sadness and careful consideration, his grip on the wheel tightened, and he readjusted himself in his seat. Dean didn’t know if he wanted to tell the truth to Novena or not, since it was so easy to unwind in her presence. He still can’t believe that that actually happened, it was so unnatural for him to act that way. To feel his emotions. In public. A white lie couldn’t hurt her, right?

“I’m here for work, just got in tonight actually.”

“And what do you do for work?”

Dean looks over to her wondering eyes and smirks, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She bites back, “Try me.”

“Alright, feisty pants. If you want to know so badly, I work for the government—if I say much else I might have to kill you.”

“Like the CIA or FBI or something?” She asks, squinting her eyes at his sarcasm.

“Yeah…or something.” He says, winking at Novena.

“Here, this house on the left.” She jerks her body towards her home as she points to it. 

Good, she’s distracted. Dean lets out a silent sigh of relief.

They arrive at an older house, and it has to be more than sixty years old. It’s a huge Victorian style place with a sunroom patio that wraps around the whole extend. The paint was a worn out, pale yellow with chips everywhere. Dean bet that this house in its prime would have looked so inviting, so homey. The driveway that led along the side of the house was snowed in so he parked on the street. Her porch light wasn’t on and the street lamps sucked. 

Dean thought to himself, Damn, she lives alone? Here? Everything about this place screams sketchy. 

Maybe he’s reading too much into it, it’s dark and he’s exhausted, but not enough to offer to walk her to her door. He wanted to make sure that he watched her go inside safely. She insisted that she was fine to walk the short distance, but Dean didn’t take no for an answer.

“Novena, I’m walking you up there. C’mon.”

“You seem apprehensive, Dean. Like something is gunna come outta the woods behind my house and attack me…”

He cocked his head towards the porch, “You can never be too careful.”

Amusement escaped her mouth. He really was serious because the look that he gave her was so intense that she thought his eyes would cut right through her. His sharp glance softened then concern washed over him briefly before looking away, scoping out her yard. The smile slowly faded from her face at Dean’s change in behavior. 

“Thank you, for walking me to my door like a gentleman. You really didn’t have to. Nothing bad ever happens in this town.” She pauses as a shiver runs through her. Rubbing her hands together, she assures, “I’m safe—if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“Why would someone in my position be here if it was safe?” All of a sudden, her porch light flickers on. Weird. How did it—? That’s when he saw a glimpse of worry in her eyes, fuck. Purgatory had made him too hard, too blunt. 

“Look, I didn’t mean to scare you. If you need anything,” he reached into his jacket pocket, “here’s my number. Feel free to call me anytime.”

“Uh, on your card it says detective R. Plant? Like, Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin…?” She stares into his eyes before confirming, “Are you the scary thing in the woods I should be frightened of?” 

Shit. He totally forgot that those cards had one of his aliases on it. What an idiot. 

If Sammy were here he’d have a perfectly good explanation to cover his ass. Dean laughs nervously, fidgeting with his ring not knowing what to say. “Yeah, uh, I’m supposed to be undercover and I gave you my real name at the bar... Trust me, I am not the big bad wolf.” 

A strained smile found its way across Dean's face. Anxiety washes over him and before he knows it he blurts out, “If anything, I’m more of the little piggy that went to the market.”

Fuck! What was he saying? That doesn’t even make sense! He pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes and shook his head in embarrassment.

The sweetest giggle came from Novena. Again, she laid her hand on the side of his face. Her hand was so cold, yet so alluring. Like the air around them, time seemed to be frozen, and again, so was Dean. He yielded so effortlessly to her touch; his mouth slightly ajar, losing himself within her gaze.

Novena pulled away and bid him a good-night then walked into her house. 

Her touch lingered on his skin. Dean wanted to chase after her. To knock on her door just to look at her before he left—there was this pull to her that he couldn’t describe even if he wanted to. He hasn’t been touched by a woman in so long that he almost forgot what it felt like. Almost forgot how gentle and loving someone could be…

A light came on somewhere in the front of the house, and a thunderous bark jolted Dean out of his trance. He definitely wasn’t sticking around for Novena to find out that he was still on her porch. And that dog sent a chill up his spine. The weight of the bark almost felt like it was meant for him. A warning.

You’re so pathetic. Get yourself together man, he thought to himself.

Dean made his way back to Baby, and headed for the 24 hour motel he saw when he entered town.

—

He didn’t sleep well on that poor excuse of a bed. Even when he had to sleep on the ground, that’d been more comfortable than that thing. The pounding in his head would not go away, no matter how many cups of coffee he had. Regretting the amount of liquor he had the night before.

There was a lead in the neighboring town concerning Kevin. Garth had called and said that there was demon activity, and people going missing from all over the state. Dean had already checked out the four other towns to see what information he could gather. 

All victims had disappeared out of the blue. There wasn’t much to go off of, and it was looking like the beginning of a dead end. He forgot how draining it was to be doing all the work by himself. Driving everywhere, talking to everyone, doing research on his own. The time it took to work a job doubled. Hell, it felt like it tripled. 

Going to the vic’s parents house wasn’t any help either. The mom was a total mess, who couldn’t answer a single goddamn question. It was like talking to a brick wall, and it made Dean want to smash his face into one. Instead, he chose to take it out on Garth.

“Man, I got bupkis. Are you sure this has something to do with Kevin?”

“Dean, you gotta trust me. There’s definitely something goin’ on up there. Would daddy Garth steer you wrong?”

“First of all, don’t ever call yourself that again. Second, I think you’re wrong about this one. Doesn’t seem plausible enough to be Crowley. It’s only men—”

“I have’tuh jet, got a call on another line.”

“But—” Then the call dropped. 

Even more frustrated than before, Dean slammed the car door shut. Immediately apologized to Baby for the aggression. He took a second to collect himself. To figure out a game plan. He wasn’t sure that it was the King of Hell’s minions at work.

—

He had combed through records for hours at the local library. He might have found something, but it definitely wasn’t demon related. Garth fucked up and Dean was going to make sure he knew about it.

The sun was setting behind the grey clouds, and there seemed to be no end to the snowfall. The library was warm and sleep consumed Dean. Light snoring filled the silence and drool was pooling on his jacket. He was so far gone, that he didn’t feel that someone was tapping on him to wake him up.

Then something slammed on the table with a loud thud.

Dean bolted up, pulling an arm up with his hand in a fist, while the other reached for his gun. Looking up at the son of a bitch who alarmed him.

Novena smiled down at him, “Fancy seeing you here, Flatlander.”

“Flat-wha–?” Dean looked down at his wet jacket sleeve, and quickly wiped his face with the arm that was close to punching her. “You shouldn’t scare a man like that. I could’ve…”

“Settle down. You wouldn’t hurt me, tough guy.” She picked her books up and shoved them in her purse. While tucking her hair behind her ear, she gave Dean puppy eyes and said, “Mind giving me a ride?”

He nods, “You’re lucky I’m tired sweetie, otherwise those needy eyes of yours would be useless.” He groans as he stands up, “Might have to start charging you for gas, I ain’t no Uber.”

“You’re such a liar.” You’d do anything for me. She thought.

“Don’t push me. Let’s go.”

—

tags! @ambiguous-avery @deans-spinster-witch @aylacavebear @jackles010378

If I forgot to tag anyone please come at me, I have a horrible memory. I hope this part is good, I've been going through it irl lol. And please come at me if this is absolute dog water <3

02. takes one to know one

ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words

The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful. 

But you know better.

This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot. 

“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no. 

Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat. 

Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never. 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch. 

Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”

Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks. 

“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”

Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this. 

The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.

“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat. 

The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back. 

Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home. 

You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger. 

The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall. 

Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder. 

“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”

You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. 

This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate. 

Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.

“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.

Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.

“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”

Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”

“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”

You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.

The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.

You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.

Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.

A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?” 

Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”

Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way. 

You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”

He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer. 

Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting. 

Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control. 

“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”

Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”

You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”

“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.” 

You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years. 

“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.” 

There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”

Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion. 

You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note. 

“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out. 

A look you know better than to pry at. 

Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”

Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.

 A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun. 

Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”

You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”

“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house. 

 The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it. 

“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.” 

Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.

“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod. 

His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”

You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”

Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”

You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise. 

“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.

hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm

tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles