suburban dad!jensen who watches football every saturday with you sat on his lap & practices his golf swings in your backyard while you bake inside and gives you a cute little wave when you catch his eyes through the open window & talks you up to all of his friends around the bonfire while the embers die down & parades you around the grocery stores every week when you’re shopping like he literally cannot STAND not getting to show you off & holds your hips while you ride him so he can feel every bit of movement you make while make those pretty little whimpers & lazily fucks you in the shower because it’s easier on his old and worn muscles and feels so damn good & puts his baseball caps on you when he’s inside you because it’s so hot to see his pretty pretty baby in his things while he shows you exactly who the only person allowed to do this to you is &

there's something in the roman air...

he’s so babygirl

open for a surprise! and by surprise i mean what i know mr. sub!dean winchester sounds like (everyone say thank you jensen!)

( mdni ! )

life is good

i need him. RIGHT NOW.

x p!link ۶ৎ ⋆ ˖ ࣪ [ cw: use of “daddy” in blurb ]

older!bf!dean who seats you on his lap after a long day. maybe you spent the day researching. maybe you just got back from a case. who knows?

the point is you’re finally together. and alone.

dean strips you down and grabs you by the hips, dragging you to sit on his lap. his semi-hard cock pokes into you, his length eager from eying down your bare body.

he brings his fingers to his mouth, moistening them, before letting them meet the wet folds between your legs. “shit, so wet for me already, baby. how long’ve you been needing daddy?” he purrs into your ear from behind, his hot breath brushing against your skin as his fingers tease your clit.

you whine, feeling your cheeks blush, and you mumble out a response, “too long.”

dean chuckles at that, and you feel his chest vibrating against your back. “that’s my girl.”

it doesn’t take long for dean to work you up into a whiny mess, your broken voice begging for him to give you more, your cunt weeping desperately onto his pruned fingers.

he pulls out your pretty pink vibrator and flicks it on, the sounds making your cunt drool and heart thud in anticipation.

dean brings it to your sensitive nerves, letting the vibrations kiss against you in the most heavenly way. you can’t help the gasps and mewls from flying out of your mouth as your hips start moving on their own, dancing with the friction against your swollen cunt.

“there we go. that’s it,” dean coos. “being a good girl for daddy. taking it so well, sweetheart.”

he presses it against you more, holding it right at that sweet spot that makes your head spin. a wave of hot pleasure finally crashes over you; your hips jerk around, and a chorus of pretty moans escapes your parted lips.

“atta girl. aaatta girl. just like that,” dean hums, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “being so good f’me.”

Lower back tattoo - Dean W

Dean Winchester x female!reader

You and Dean have always been best friends. Hunting partners. Beer buddies. The one person he can count on. But one glance—one goddamn glance—and suddenly everything changes.

Word count ; 2,345

Minors please do not interact!!!

i'd gladly let him nut inside me. we will not be wrapping it up.

dean winchester gets pussy drunk btw

all prev tags (thanks fig!) plus he’s looking up at you with those green eyes, calloused hands gripping on the meat of your thighs while devouring you between your legs, staring up at you like you hung the stars yourself. and the poor man’s trying to focus on you looking down at him with your face all scrunched up, gasping out praise, egging him on while your hand his in his hair— but he can’t. his eyes flutter shut as his ministrations continue, his lips covered in the slick of you but his mouth doesn’t leave you once. because you taste so good, and you’re grinding right into his mouth, and you’re so wet and warm— so his.

at some point you have to tug him by his hair. forcing him to lift his face away because he ain't stopping when you cum - he's barely aware of it - he's too lost in your taste. there are no signs of tension lines that are almost always on his forehead. his chin is literally dripping your essence and his eyes can't really be counted open with how hooded they are. his fingers want to but they can't grasp your thighs or bedsheets because his hands are so shaky. his brain is just static of you you you, it makes him whine and paw at your thighs because he wants to do more. he wants to be good.

lunch at the country club

you have a particularly attractive annoying customer who always requests you as his waitress...

18+ mdni !!! soldier boy x waitress!fem!reader, enemies to lovers, ben being ben (a bit of misogyny + being a cocky asshole), neither ben nor reader want to acknowledge feelings, smut (hate/angry sex, car sex, p in v, unprotected sex [wrap it up y'all], oral [f receiving], slight Dom/sub dynamics [dom!ben], hair pulling, praise, a bit of degradation, slight overstim), explicit language ~ 4.2k words

You heard the guffaw of laughter echo from the dining room of the club from all the way into the kitchen.

Of course you did.

It’s the laugh of a brash, self-assured man who had no problem interrupting everyone else’s conversations in favour of his own enjoyment. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even find anything funny, and he simply wanted to announce his presence in the room.

Soldier Boy.

Or Ben, as he insisted you should call him.

You said you’d prefer not to address him at all.

That was the last time he came to the restaurant, and then you’d gotten a scolding from your manager because Soldier Boy spent the most money of any of the customers that came in.

It’s not that you didn’t like Soldier Boy. Well, you really didn’t, but it was more so the principle behind it. He shouldn’t be able to throw money at people and then get to treat them however he’d like. No, he should have to be polite and patient, just like everyone else.

But he wasn’t like everyone else, you guessed that was the point. He was Soldier Boy. America was up his ass like nobody’s business, and he had the money to back it up.

And, much to your most sincere annoyance, the good looks. He was the best looking motherfucker you’ve ever seen.

That only served to make you more pissed at him. Assholes shouldn’t get to be that handsome.

So, that left you where you were today. Smiling brightly. Trying not to scoff or scrunch up your face when he called you something like sweet thing or pretty girl. Pretending not to notice when his eyes lingered on your chest. Beating down the urge to yell at him when he barked out a demand for another beer.

The only praise you could sing for his attitude (if someone was holding you at gun point) was the fact that he did say please and thanks, but then it was always followed by a condescending nickname.

You were getting another beer from the kitchen, his fifth or sixth- you’d lost count- while ranting to the cook about him.

“…and he asks for me as his waitress every damn time he’s here!” You slam the door of the refrigerator closed with your hip, a dull pain forming under your skirt.

“Maybe he likes you,” the cook offers, though you can tell he’s grown bored of listening to your ranting.

“The fucker likes anything with boobs that moves,” you snap. “I think he just likes pissing me off.”

“So?” The cook questions, tiredly throwing you a glance. “He tips you well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but it’s about the princi-”

“Oh, not again with the principles!” The cook sighs. “You’re a country club waitress. Half your salary is tips from men who think they’ve got a shot. They’re all rich assholes! What’s the difference with this rich asshole?”

“He’s rude!” You exclaim.

“They’re all rude,” the cook deadpans.

You roll your eyes. “Not as rude as him!”

“I’ve heard him say please and thanks, that’s more than most of ‘em.”

“Whose side are you on?” You furrow your brow at the cook, crossing your arms.

“I’m just saying, you never get this worked up about any o’ the other unsavoury guys.”

“That’s because they’re not as irritating!” You huff, leaning back against the fridge door.

“And why do you think he just gets on your nerves so much?” The cook just about sings out.

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “He’s just annoying.”

“Come on! You’ve got a total hate boner for the guy.”

You snap your gaze away from your scuffed mary janes to direct your fury towards the cook. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” the cook grumbles. “Every time he comes in, you come in here and you rant about how much you hate him, but any other guy like him and you’re coming in here bragging about how much you got ‘em to tip ya!”

You fall silent for a moment, knowing he had a point. “I don’t like it when you call out my bullshit.”

“Keeping you humble.”

You sigh. “Well, I should probably get the beer back out to the king,” you state sarcastically, but it falls flat after the previous conversation.

“Listen, I say this as a concerned coworker,” the cook begins with a grin for the first time since you’d entered the kitchen. “Just fuck him in the bathroom.”

You flip him off before walking backwards out of the kitchen, pushing the door open with your back. Mentally coaching yourself into some semblance of sanity, you set back out into the dining room. The way the chandelier made up of hanging, teardrop shaped glass shards caught the light from the grand windows causes an obstruction to your vision.

For a minute, you don’t see Soldier Boy perched on his seat in the corner.

You nicknamed it his throne. He always sat at the same table in the corner. You think he purposefully chose it because it looks out over everyone. The whole dining room forced to at least acknowledge his presence once throughout their meal.

You think maybe he left until you walk out of the assault of the sun’s reflection, and he comes into view.

Of course, you’d never be that lucky. Whoever he was with, a man who you’d noted had looked angry and exasperated, had left, though. Soldier Boy was alone at the table.

This should be fun.

You approach with a blinding, forced, smile, fishing the bottle opener out of your apron and popping open his beer before setting it down in front of him. “There you are, sir. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Soldier Boy doesn’t waste any time slipping into his natural demeanour. A charming smile. A slight tilt of his head that made it seem like he was really looking at you, not through you, like many of the other patrons. A stature leaned back in his chair, communicating that he was completely at ease and in control of the interaction.

“Thank you very much. Actually, sweet thing, there’s one thing you could do for me.”

“Sure.” You take out your notepad, flipping it open. Your facial muscles strain from holding back a frown. “What else can I get for you?”

Soldier Boy nods at the seat across from him. “Wanted to talk to you for a second.”

You don’t frown, by some miracle of self-control, but your smile drops. You remind yourself to still be polite.

“Actually, sir, I have other tables to wait on. So, I am unable to do that, apologies.”

Soldier Boy chuckles. A sound that causes immediate irritation in you like the snap of a twig.

“Talked to your manager, pretty girl-” your jaw clenches at the nickname, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, “he said it was alright.”

You look over your shoulder towards the bar, where your manager is stood fucking watching. He gives you a gesture you assume means you should sit. You narrow your eyes, and he throws his hands out in a bigger motion, more exasperated.

You shake your head. This cannot be a fucking okay thing to ask of an employee-

“5 minutes, sweet thing,” Soldier Boy interrupts your inner scathing of your boss. “That’s all I want. Then you can get back to your job,” he says it mockingly. Like you didn’t actually work.

Oh, this motherfucker.

You pull out the chair with a bang. A few uptight, older ladies out for lunch give you disapproving looks, but you ignore them. You plop down onto the seat.

“5 minutes. And this better be fucking important,” you snap.

“Wow.” Soldier Boy whistles. “Your polite act drops pretty quickly, doesn’t it, sweet thing?”

“It’s called doing my job, but this isn’t apart of my job description, so you don’t get the cheery waitress. Any other questions about my job?” You use the same condescending tone on the word that he had.

“Come on, now, lighten up,” Soldier Boy flashes a grin at you that you think is meant to be charming, but only serves to fuel the agitation in your chest that raved whenever he was around, “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I know exactly what you meant by it.”

Soldier Boy tilts his chin up. His eyes trail over your face. Evaluating you. Studying something.

You hate how the stare almost makes you squirm. Makes the agitation against your ribcage almost feel like fluttering.

“You don’t like me,” Soldier Boy states as if he’d discovered some kind of secret of the universe.

“Congrats, how’d you work that one out?”

Soldier Boy scowls at you. “Oh, shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up. I’ll walk away,” you threaten.

You hope he doesn't realize it's an empty one.

Soldier Boy makes a show off rolling his eyes as he straightens up in his seat. “I won’t tell you to shut up if you stop being such a smartass.”

“You have 10 more seconds to get to the point.” You keep your expression neutral. Bored.

“Never mind,” Soldier Boy mutters. He takes a gulp of the beer. “Just go.”

You cross your arms, giving him an odd look. “Well, that’s not fair. Now I’m curious.”

“Forget it,” he bites out. “Go back to playing waitress-”

You cut him off with an index finger pointed at him. “My job, asshole. And no, you don’t get to talk my fucking manager into covering my tables to say never mind. Talk.”

Soldier Boy clenches his fist on the table. The fabric of the tablecloth swirls around his hand as he moves it. “Fine. I was going to ask you out. But you’re clearly a fucking lesbian, or something.”

“I’m a lesbian because I don’t want the great Soldier Boy, is that it?” You ask flatly.

“I told you to call me Ben. And, yes. Sweetheart, everyone fucking wants me.”

You rub your forehead with exasperation. “You mean people always trip over themselves to cater to your every will and whim. And-”

“Listen-”

“And,” you push on with force as he interrupts, “I told you to stop calling me pet names. I’ll call you Ben if you call me by my name, how about that? My name, and not some fucking demeaning bullshit.”

Ben frowns. His grip loosens on the tablecloth. “Fine.”

“Just like that?” You blink at him.

“Yeah, sweet-” he clears his throat, then slowly says your name. You don’t miss how he has to check the name tag attached to your chest to remember it. “That’s fair. You call me Ben, and I drop the pet names.”

You look at him with clear skepticism written on your face, but you tentatively hold out your hand.

He quirks a brow up at you.

“Shake on it.” You jerk your chin at your outstretched hand.

Ben scoffs. “This isn’t a fucking business transaction.”

You shove your hand out further.

Ben takes it with a roll of his eyes. His grip on you is firm, and his hand is so warm. It was an odd feeling of comfort from someone who gave off no indication that they would be comforting.

You smile for the first time since you sat down as you retract your hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Ben.”

“You know,” Ben smirks, “if you wanted to hold my hand you could’ve just asked.”

“And you ruined it.”

“Hey, come on!” Ben tilts his head at you with a slightly less obvious smirk, “it’s called flirting. I thought you’d be familiar.”

“I just didn’t think you’d flirt with a lesbian,” you deadpan.

Ben blinks at you. “Wait, are you-”

You let out a soft laugh. “No, I’m not a lesbian. There’s other people aside from lesbians who might not want to sleep with you, you know.”

“I haven’t fucking met any.” Ben shrugs.

“Yeah, I’m starting to think that’s the issue.”

“So, you really don’t feel any attraction?” Ben asks disbelievingly.

You hold him in a pensive stare for a few seconds. “No.”

“You had to think about that for a long time for a no.”

“Oh. Haha.” You narrow your eyes at him. “You want the truth?”

Ben smiles, not a smirk, a smile. He’s so sure you’re going to admit he’s attractive. “Sure. Go on, tell me the truth.”

“You’re handsome, yeah.” You try to come off as dismissive, but a waver slips into your voice when you throw in the compliment. “But, you’re a grade a prick.”

Ben shrugs. “So, you think I’m handsome?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I know you’d like to.” He winks.

He fucking winks.

God, he’s infuriating. He’s a fucking self-important asshole with stupid, pretty hair and stupid, pretty green eyes and a stupid, pretty smile-

“Are you thinking about it?” Ben leans over the table, lowering his voice. His tone is gruff, and the movement makes his perfect hair fall into his face and he looks up through his brow.

And fuck, now you’re thinking about what he would look like peering up from between your legs-

“I’m thinking about how much you piss me off,” you interrupt your own train of thought. It was a half-truth. It did piss you off. How good-looking he was. How clear it was that he’s a prick and yet you can’t help yourself.

Ben laughs. “Sure, you are.”

You glare at him. Staring at him as if maybe if you did so for long enough, you could will yourself out this burning hot stupid mashup of hatred and lust. You huff. You’re embarrassed that it only takes you a few seconds of debating before you make the worst decision you could possibly make.

“Do you have a car here?”

Ben’s expression drops, he suddenly looks stern, which almost makes you laugh. “What?”

“Do you have a car here? We’re not fucking in the bathroom,” you mumble the last part so none of the other ladies lunching would have to clutch their pearls.

“I wasn’t aware we were fucking at all-” Ben begins to mock you.

You cut him off. “Yes or no. Before I change my mind.”

Ben nods. “Yup. I got a-”

“Don’t care,” you interject quickly. You glance towards the grand clock above the fireplace. “I’m off in 20 minutes. Meet me?”

“Well, fuck.” Ben hums. “Can you say please, at least?”

You give him a blank look. “Please, Ben.”

“There you go. 20 minutes.” Ben flashes you a grin. A grin that says I told you so.

You leave the table quickly to stop yourself from jumping on him right there.

You spend half the rest of your shift mentally berating yourself, but you have to, right? Just get it out of your system, and then you can go to feeling just hate for him.

No lust.

The other half is spent actually doing work. Rushing out the food of your last few tables. Pretending to care about what the customers have planned for the rest of the day. You nearly throw a punch when one of them talks for too long and the hand on the clock goes to 1:01pm. You were off a minute ago, for fuck’s sake.

At 1:03, you grab your bag and rush out the club, scanning the lot for whatever idiotic, douche mobile you’re certain Ben is driving.

Sure enough, he waves you down from the back of the lot with a one of those sleek, fancy ones you don’t know the name of.

“You’re late,” Ben says sternly.

You scoff. “You’re lucky I came at all.”

“Hey!” Ben snaps, his eyes lighting up like the sun had favoured him. “You’re the one who wanted this, if you want to walk away, fine by me!”

“Maybe I will!” You take a step closer to him. Your chest heaving. The air thick and hot.

“Good!” Ben matches your step, looking down at you. His shoulders move with each breath.

“Yeah, it is good,” you bite out. You place a hand on his chest.

Ben narrows his eyes.

His hands grasp at your hips and you’re spun around, your ass pressed into the car.

“Someone ought to teach you some goddamn manners,” Ben leans in, whispering in your ear with a husky voice.

“And Mr. barks out orders is gonna be the one to teach me?” You grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. “As fucking if.”

“God, I fucking hate you.” Ben pulls back. His eyes look crazed- lustful and angry.

“I fucking hate you more.”

You break. You’re using your grip as leverage to pull him in. Your lips meet. You’re not sure if it’s the animosity being exchanged through you like engines being sparked, but fuck.

It’s the best fucking kiss you’ve had. Your tongues are fighting for control over the kiss. His fingers dig into your hip, a bruising grip that falters your focus just enough for Ben to take control. You pull a bit on his hair, and you gain control.

One of Ben’s legs slots between yours. He pushes up a bit. Just a bit of friction.

Your head falls back, desperately trying to catch your breath.

“Oh, pretty girl, what’s wrong? Can’t handle my leg? Is my leg getting you turned on? Fucking pathetic. Imagine how you’d be on my cock,” he mocks, pushing up harder between your legs.

You can’t bring yourself to care that he’d called you pretty girl.

Your fingers grasp weakly at his hair. “You’re such an asshole,” you choke out.

“Oh, pretty girl.” Ben’s hand is on your chin, tilting your head forward. “Be quiet now. Or I’ll make you wait.”

You’re sure your eyes are already half-lidded. Ben is slightly out of focus. His leg pulling all your attention down to your core. The building heat in your lower stomach. The lust wins out over the hatred.

“Ben, please. Car?”

“There we go. No more of this attitude nonsense, pretty girl.” Ben doesn’t make a move to get in the car yet though. His breath ghosts over your ear. He places teasing kisses down the side of your neck.

“Ben, please,” you whine.

Ben steps back. The space between your legs now empty, the grip on your hip and chin disappeared. You nearly stumble forwards.

He fishes his keys out his pocket. The locks click.

“Get in.”

You climb into the backseat. Ben slides in next to you, and you waste no time. You latch onto his neck before he even turns around. Your hands claw at his button up, fumbling with the top few before Ben starts to help.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters as he pushes your hands away, unbuttoning his shirt himself and pushing it off his shoulder. He groans softly as you suck right below his ear.

Ben’s hands are quickly back on you, pushing your shirt off over your head and forcing you off his neck. It’s only then you fully take in his torso. His abs, his shoulders, his chest…

“Pretty girl likes what she sees?” The smirk is audible in Ben’s voice.

You nod quickly, your hand going to his waistband, but Ben grabs your wrist.

“No.”

“But-”

“No. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, pretty girl. I know exactly how this is going to go.” Ben unsnaps your bra. You hadn’t even noticed his hand had snaked around your back, you were too focused on the outline of his cock you could see straining in his pants.

You meet his gaze, feeling cockdrunk already. “How is it going to go?”

“Shhhh,” Ben hushes you. A single index finger trails over your breasts, swirling down your stomach, to your skirt. His hands land on the edge, and he rolls the fabric to sit up at your hips.

“Ben-”

“No talking.” He gives you a firm glare. “You want this?”

“Yes, please, Ben,” you say breathlessly.

“Then don’t fucking talk unless you’re screaming out my name. I don’t want any of your smartass comments.”

“You wish-”

He retracts his hands fully, crossing his arms. His biceps are on full display as he does so.

You bite your lip. "No, please, sorry. I'll be quiet."

“Good girl.”

Your stomach flutters at the praise. Ben’s hand finds itself right at your center. He strokes you through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Pretty girl, this wet already? Fuck.” Ben lets out a heavy exhale as his fingers push the fabric aside. His touches are light and teasing. You writhe against him, trying to search for any find of friction. He suddenly pulls his hand out.

You whine at the sudden loss of sensation. Ben smirks, pushing you down onto the car bench. He slides your panties down your legs slowly, leaving them at your ankles. When you look up again, Ben has settled himself right at your entrance.

Fuck

“Ben-” you whimper.

Ben’s tongue pushes into you with no warning. You’re already shuddering around him. He’s practiced, that much is obvious. Ben trades between brutal, sheer force and teasing little laps. He takes a reprieve to suck on your clit and then he does it all over again. You bite your lip hard to stifle all the lewd noises you’d be making otherwise. But the coil in your stomach feels like it’s wound so tight and then-

Ben sucks on your clit with force. Two of his fingers plunge inside you, crooking up at just the right spot, the right angle.

One of your hands grips the car seat as you come undone on his fingers and face. Ben doesn’t let up through your orgasm. You throw out loud curses throughout the feeling, your pussy clamping around his fingers. Once your left quiet with your eyes closed, Ben sits up. He sucks you off his fingers.

“Aw,” he mocks. “You already look so worn out, pretty girl. And you haven’t even taken my cock yet, but I know you’ll be a good girl for me and take it, right?”

You feel blissed out and sensitive, but god, the thought of his cock makes you wet again already. The bulge straining over his pants still fresh in your mind.

“Yes, please. Need it-” You swallow as you see Ben undoing his pants, throwing his boxers on the floor of the car along with them.

His cock is already fulling erect. The tip red and leaking precum. He pumps himself a couple times.

You push your skirt up higher. It’s a glorified belt now wrapped around your lower stomach, but you’re only focused on one thing. You spread your legs as wide as the constrictions of the car seat allows. An invitation.

“Don’t need to ask me twice, pretty girl.” The awkward angle of the car forces him on top of you. He braces himself with one hand on the seat and the other on the door behind you. He lines up, and fills you completely with one thrust.

He somehow hits that spongy spot inside you on the first try, and he groans. “Fuck, you’re so tight. So perfect.”

You gasp as he thrusts in again, and again. Each time filling you more. Each time coming closer to a second climax. Your hand finds his hair again, gently pulling on the strands to have something to ground yourself with. “Ben-” you whine. “Close.”

His cock twitches as your little whines. “Just a bit more,” he commands. “Wait until I tell you.”

You nod with determination. Each wave of pleasure building up only for you to deny yourself slipping over the edge. Ben’s face is grunting and closing his eyes. Your pussy clamps down around him.

“Close, pretty girl. Cum with me, now,” Ben says firmly.

You finally allow yourself to come over the edge with a whimper. This climax somehow feeling even bigger than the last. Your hand comes up to his shoulder, digging your nails in as you come down from your high.

Ben is right behind you.

“Fuck!” Ben yells, continuing to thrust into you through his climax. “Fuck, good girl, good girl,” he repeats. His eyes screwed shut as the waves of pleasure finally subside. Ben collapses on top of you. He presses kisses into your shoulder and around your collarbone.

And as the clarity hits, all you can think about is how much you fucked up. Because you’ve gotten something out of your system, but it wasn’t the lust. You don’t hate Ben anymore, and that’s going to be the cause of a whole new set of problems.

elle is yapping: the way this is the longest thing I've written in a HOT MINUTE LMAOOOOO. tbh I don't love how it turned out but I legit spent so long on this I'm refusing to let it go to my graveyard, so, idk. make of this what you will

tyty for reading!!

tags ↓

everything <3: @wchswift @bejeweledinterludes @losers-clvb @rositaslabyrinth @samslovebug @fuckedupfate @starzify @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @bluemerakis @tinas111 @pieandflannel

the jackles obsessed: @figthoughts

soldier boy's army: @deansbbyx

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sparkle divider by @/anitalenia

Suffer with me.

📸: HD Photography

look at his little smile!!! bring him back to me!!!

he's a mess!!! he's a freak!!! he means everything to me!!!

dean’s shy gf headcanons. d.w. ᝰ.ᐟ

dean winchester x fem! reader

warnings; fluffy, teasing, very mildly suggestive content, protective! dean, emotional moments, pre-established relationship, sweeter than sugar, major cuteness overload.

notes; had sm fun writing this! hope you enjoy these soft moments as much as I enjoyed writing them! let me know what you think, and feel free to request more if you want to see more! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

words; 1205

DEAN TALKS FOR YOU WHEN YOU’RE TOO SHY.. Ordering food? Asking for directions? You just quietly nudge him, and he immediately understands. But if he sees you trying to be brave, he won’t jump in— just stands next to you, hand resting on your back, whispering “You got this, baby.”