Dean winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: suggestive content, Sam being the poor third wheel and getting stuck between you Dean's freakness, language

Summary: You like to leave Dean little trinkets when he goes on hunts, just little things to help keep you in his head when he's out on the road.

Authors note: I'm gonna tackle this man and get him PREGNANT !! (I also did NAWT proof read this sooo ye)

Dean wasn't a sentimental guy—not really. Not in the way people wrote sonnets about or cried over in movies. But there was something about you that rewired the whole system, made him soft in places he'd spent his whole life keeping armored.

It started with a polaroid.

The two of you at a diner somewhere in Missouri, your face squished against his shoulder, both of you grinning like idiots. He found it one morning tucked into the crease of Baby's dashboard, right between the speedometer and the gas gauge.

"Figured you'd miss my face," your neat hand writing read on the back.

He chuckled, thumb brushing over the image as he slid it into the glovebox. He would miss your face, hell, he already did.

From then on, it became a thing.

Every time Dean left for a hunt—wether it be with Sam or solo—there was always something left behind. A sticky note on the steering wheel that said "Drive safe, handsome. I'll be thinking about you." Sometimes, a folded square of paper that smelled just like you, perfume soaked into the fibers until it clung to the leather seats like memory.

Dean had never told you how much it meant. He didn't have to.

But then—somewhere along the line—it stopped being just sweet.

One week, he found a photograph.

And not the diner kind, either.

It was tasteful, if not exactly safe-for-work—your body clad in soft, black lacy lingerie, all curves and skin and confidence. Dean found it when he was rummaging for a cassette tape. Sam was two feet away, completely unaware.

Dean coughed—choked, really—and shoved it into his jacket pocket like it was a contraband. His ears were pink the entire drive to Minnesota.

The next time, it was a lipstick kiss on the rearview mirror. A perfectly formed pout of crimson that made his gut twist in all the right ways. He sat there for a moment, hand resting against the glass like he could somehow hold it.

Sam noticed that one.

"Oh my god," he'd muttered "Can you two not?"

Dean just smirked and peeled out of the parking lot.

But nothing—not one thing—compared to what he found this time.

He was loading up the impala, tossing a duffle into the trunk, shotgun shells rattling in his pocket. Sam was still inside. Grabbing coffee, grumbling something to himself about early mornings and the lore of the case they were working on.

Dean slide into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine—and froze.

There they were.

Hanging from the rearview mirror like the worlds most scandalous charm.

Baby blue lace panties.

Your panties.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Nope. Still there.

Delicate, floral patterns, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His name was stitched in tiny cursive into the inner waistband—Dean, in pale silver thread. His jaw clenched.

The fuck were you trying to do to him?

He practically snatched them off the mirror, glancing around like some cop was gonna pull up and arrest him for public indecency. His fingers brushed the lace. Soft. Still warm from wherever you'd hidden them. Maybe even your skin. His brain was officially out of commission.

You'd attached a note to them, of course.

"Thought you might like to keep a little peice of me with you."

Dean was gonna die.

Actually, no—Sam was gonna die. Because the second he saw these? it was over.

Dean shoved them into the glovebox like they were ticking explosives, slamming it shut just as Sam rounded the corner with two cups.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

Dean cleared his throat. "Nope."

"Your face is red."

"It's hot."

"It's forty degrees."

Dean started the car. "Shut up."

Sam blinked. "Why does it smell like her perfume in here again?"

Dean said nothing.

Sam groaned, leaning back in his seat, already regretting this entire trip. "You two are disgusting."

Dean just smirked, hand resting on the wheel.

But later, that night, when they checked into a ratty motel, Dean opened the glovebox again—just to see them. To touch the lace. Hold them against his chest, breathe you in.

And that night, when he slipped between the sheets. He tucked the panties beneath his pillow and fell asleep to the ghost of your perfume and the sound of your voice in his head.

Yeah.

Maybe he was sentimental, after all.

stopppp this was so cute 🥹

I’m literally praying for the day that Pedro Pascal gets online and starts cursing all of you parasocial fucking freaks out. With the way y’all are acting, it’s genuinely astounding that his stylist of all people gets death threats from his outfits on a momentary appearance for a movie that’s coming out next year. I mean, this is literally his year, this man has so many projects coming out literally nonstop so he’ll be doing press all throughout the summer. If a pair of fucking shark boots sends y’all in a goddamn tizzy, I can’t imagine how y’all would get if he did anything else y’all disagreed with. From harassing the people he’s close with and works with, to dissecting his sexuality, to now taking apart his appearance and blaming his stylist for clothing choices he agreed to…I won’t be surprised if he actually just disappears from the spotlight after this or says he fucking hates all of you people. The lot of you are weird and absolutely fucking deranged, please go do something with your miserable, pathetic lives instead of tying your existence to a 50 year old grown ass man you’ll never meet or see in real life, and chances are he probably wouldn’t want to see you either. Geez.

sorry… what?????? his stylist??? i literally just happen to see pics of him and im like “oh cool he looks happy.” its crazy that people even find out who his stylist is, let alone send them death threats???? what the fuck??? i barely even look at his outfits, just take note of aw he seems happy. whaaaaaat the fuuuuuuck

remember to always be an annoying feminist killjoy bitch. do not stop.

backshots this, backshots that, i would like to be taken out back and shot

Sam is like 30000% done with their messages.

That’s because his is literally just This is Sam Winchester’s cellphone. Leave a message after the beep. (x)

Every time a woman makes a pink job or girl math or girl dinner or I'm just a girl joke I unfortunately have to kill a random man on the streets. And you may think this is cruel or unjust but in reality that's just the way the cookie crumbles

sooo obsessed w the idea of being dean's lil dollface best friend that maybe he gets too touchy with. and maybe his eyes get caught on the way your sleep shorts squeeze the plush ur hips n thighs and maybeee when you look up at him with pretty doe eyes n batting long lashes (you know what you're doing) the only thing his brain is good for is producing an image of you on your knees, looking up at him though your lashes so prettily while press a sweet kiss to the tip of his cock. maybe when you're stopped at a red light his eyes drift to the low cut of your tank, tits spilling out the top of your bra, god your nipples are poking through your—

a horn blares from behind and he hears you yell "dean!" shit, the lights green. maybe he should keep his eyes on the road.

I Never Want It To Be Enough

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship, smut (fingering, p in v sex), light fluff, humor.

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have a date night, and it ends exactly how you wanted it to.

Author's Note: Request from @redwinexsupernova! I love requests where I can just be horny and it's not weird.

Word Count: 2.5k

It’s rare, that you get to go out for a good reason. Most of the time it’s your losses being drowned, or a fight being ignored, or making yourself feel a little less after a hunt.

But this is just for fun. This is because Sam’s visiting Eileen, so you and Dean were left alone with orders not to burn anything down please. 

And you never get date nights. Real date nights. You sit on the roof of the Impala together, and eat at a diners with Sam back at the motel, and watch movies in the Dean Cave, but those don’t count. You love doing them, but they’re not date nights. Those are things you did with Dean before you started dating. The only change is that now you’re curled into Dean’s side on the roof, your knee is pressed against his in the diner, and you’re in his lap during the movie. 

And you wanted a date night. A real one.

i’m a puddle on the floor… 😵‍💫🤤

Summary: You were just supposed to act. But from the moment Jensen Ackles knocks on your door, the lines start to blur. The chemistry is real, the scenes are intense—and he's... well, he’s married.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 4178

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

this was so hot but i’m also so nervous to see where this goes 🫥 seriously, you write him soooo well!

i cannot for the life of me bring myself to watch season two of tlou 😭 me and my zoloft prescription are not ready to deal with those feelings yet

i decided before it came out that i’m not watching it because i can’t handle it either 🤧

JOEL MILLER COULDN’T SAVE HIS DAUGHTER SO HE PROTECTED EVERY TEENAGED GIRL UNTIL IT KILLED HIM

one good thing in contemporary tv series is that we don't get THAT feeling. you know THAT feeling you always have in 5+ season long tv shows where the first 1-2, sometimes even 3, seasons have some whimsy in them, a comic element that's ingrained in the whole vibe of the story. while seasons from the 3rd onwards are inevitably about doom&gloom, they get darker and darker and that "comic element" feels either out of place or it just gets lost.

there is perhaps something broader that should be said about this, like some sort of "sign of the times" that are changing or something. but i don't really subscribe to that vision cause I don't believe in commodified nostalgia, still: first 1-2, even 3, seasons of old-schoold tv series (aka tv series from the 90s to 2020) are almost always lighter in tone than the later ones. it's like there's still hope in the beginning and that's actually sad.

i wish you guys could read the amazing fic i haven't written and probably will never write, it's fire

touch starved.

OR dean winchester needs a damn hug! specifically from me, so of course i wrote about it! pretty much based off of my own headcanon that i wrote because this dean is canon— TO ME!

my masterlist

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dean winchester knew he had something called a touch problem.

1,000 notes already 🥹 i appreciate y’all more than words can say, so so so so grateful for this! thank you to every single one of you who has read, liked, commented, and reblogged!

part 2 coming soon hehe (as a token of my thanks) 🤭

AAAAHHHHH 😍😍😍😭😭😭

Don’t care + didn’t ask + boobs bounce when i walk