Getting So Many Notes On That Little Blurb Is Making My Heart Go🥺🥺🥺 Thank You All For Liking

@aylacavebear thank you for reading and leaving a comment! I’ll tag you :) <3 I’m gunna do my best to get it out by this weekend!

Ten Years Gone {d.w.}

1. Strangers in a Bar

Hi everyone!! This is my first Dean Winchester fic! Please let me know what you think of it, happy reading!

Summary: Dean hasn't been out of Purgatory for long and finds himself in a small town on the coast of Maine. He runs into a mysterious woman and she makes him question his retirement? Will Dean actually step away from the job? And what is this woman hiding from him? Warnings: slight aggression. +18 MDNI (even though there’s nothing R rated in this)

It’s late on a Tuesday night, the jukebox is humming in the corner of the bar playing slow country music. The air smells of liquor that’s dried on most surfaces of this place, a smell that’ll cling to your clothes until you wash them. It was the kind of late where only the restless or wrecked hung around, and tonight, Dean Winchester felt like both.

He sat at a table nursing a whiskey, tracing the edge of the glass with his middle finger. The bar was mostly empty, but Dean always made it a point to observe even when it’s not needed; the bartender wiping down the counter, two guys at a table loudly arguing about whether the Bruins are going to the playoffs or not, and a woman a few seats away from Dean, scribbling away in a notebook. He can’t tell if she comes here often or if she’s in the same boat he’s in, restless. Making sure to keep a watchful eye on her, especially since she’s the only woman in the building.

Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to think about the fact that he’s on the road by himself, again. It wasn’t the first time his brother needed a break from this life, and it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve been hunting nonstop for eight years, and after everything Sam has been through with the demons and Lucifer, the Leviathan’s and not knowing if Dean was dead or not for a year—he was bound to crack. The two of them fought over the fact that Sam didn’t hunt for a year, that Kevin was abducted and nothing was done about it. Sam was adamant about stepping away for a while, so he’s with his girl, while Dean is on the lookout for The Prophet. 

For some reason this time feels different. Dean’s gotten older, he’s not young and stupid anymore, and he sure as hell has been through the wringer more than he’d like to be. He has a hard time lying to himself that he’s fine on his own. He needs Sam. The feeling of crippling anxiety that won’t cease is new, and it’s a feeling that’s not easily quieted by liquor. His hand shakes while he downs the remainder of his whiskey. The job is his life but is his life worth the job? It’s a hard decision to make, almost impossible.

He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice that the woman had gotten up and started walking towards the bar. She distanced herself as far away from the other two men as she could then ordered, “A margarita with a salt rim and a double whiskey, please.” It didn’t take long for them to notice that she’d gone up there. Dean didn’t like the looks of them, they had a mischievous gleam in their eyes when looking at her. One of the Bruins fans stood up and advanced towards the bar.

“Hey there, pretty lady,” the man slurred, propping himself up against the counter. “What do ya say I buy your drinks for ya, sweetheart?”

Dean sighed, his grip tightening around his glass. He knows how these movies end, and they don’t end well. 

The woman didn’t so much as flinch, without turning to look at him, she said, “I can take care of it myself, thanks.”

Her voice was cold and sharp, the kind of tone that could cut through steel, but the drunkard didn’t take the hint. He leaned in closer. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see his eyes narrow in determination, and sense his bad intentions. 

“Aw, come on honey. Let me treat ya, then maybe we can head back to my place, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I said no. Walk. Away.” Her gaze finally snapping to him, one so chilling that it could turn a man to stone if she tried hard enough. 

Dean was not expecting her to be as harsh and as direct with the guy, he admired that. He knew that a guy like this wouldn’t take no for an answer, so he pushed out of his chair loudly and started to make his way towards them.

As she was turning to leave the counter, the guy grabs her by her bicep and pulls her into him, “You’re a good for nothing bitch, is what you are–”

Dean walks faster, boots thudding against the worn out floorboards. “Hey!” he barked. His voice low and dangerous as he got right in the drunk’s face. “When a lady says no, you listen. Now, let her go before this gets ugly.”

The man sneered then released her, muttering curses under his breath as he stumbled back to his friend. Dean turns to the bartender, his expression sharp. “And you–what kind of place are you running where this shit flies? Do better.”

He turns around to meet the woman, “You okay?”

She nods, her hardened features softening just a fraction at his kindness. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem, Miss..?”

“Novena.” She smiles up at Dean and reaches her hand out to shake his. 

“I’m Dean.” He gave her a warm smile back and took her hand in his. Her handshake was firm, he’s even more impressed.

“I was actually getting you a drink, believe it or not.” Her voice was rid of any trace of bitterness that had been there before, “I saw you sitting by yourself and you looked upset. Thought I’d bring you another round.”

“Thank you, I definitely need it.” Dean takes the glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers. Novena tenses up and her gaze immediately meets his, but within a second her state of shock is gone. Dean notices but doesn’t think too much of it. He doesn’t mean to be cocky, but a lot of girls in the past have frozen up around him before. Usually from being a flirt but he’s made no effort tonight—maybe he still has the juice after all.

Novena gives him another smile, then makes her way back towards her seat. This was the first act of kindness anyone has shown him since he got back from purgatory, and it was refreshing. A total stranger noticed that he wasn’t doing alright. He had been standing in the same spot, staring into space long enough for the bartender to give him the look of, “dude, you good?” He wasn’t good, but maybe he could distract himself from his anxiety for a little while, she was mysterious and that intrigued Dean. 

Making his way over to her slowly, he notices that she had been making a sketch of someone. “Mind if I sit with you?” She closes her book when she hears his voice, as if not to be caught with her doodle. “I know it’s late and I, I don’t wanna seem like that scumbag over there—“

“Sit. I can tell a tortured soul when I see one,” she gestures with her hand for him to take the chair opposite from her. Novena emphasizes, “Please.”

Also not what he was expecting, but her voice was calm. Demanding but gentle. He does as he’s told.

“Yes ma’am.” They stare at each other, scanning each other's features in a way that is more intimate than it should be. Dean finally speaks up, “So, if you’re a tortured soul like me, what’re you doing out so late on a Tuesday?”

Novena sighs and takes a sip of her drink, “There’s a lot going on but to keep it sweet and simple, my dad recently passed, my boyfriend, well…ex now, destroyed my car when I ended things,” with sad eyes, she looks down at her fingers, fiddling with one of the rings she has on. She clears her throat before asking, “What about you, Mr-New-In-Town? What brings you into The Salty Dog?”

Dean lets out a small chuckle at her enthusiasm when saying the name of the bar, but says seriously, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad, I am. It’s not easy losing a parent,” He takes a swig of his whiskey, thinking of Bobby especially. “I uh, lost my father figure not too long ago as well.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” Novena’s brows furrow and she places her hand over Dean’s so naturally, gently rubbing her thumb over the top of his knuckles. 

He’s taken aback by this, he almost jumps at her touch. His eyes dart to hers and he’s met with empathy and compassion; there’s a lump in his throat that’s unbelievably painful with the grief that’s been hidden away. Not one soul has been able to break through Dean’s wall as easily as the woman before him. His eyes are jumping from their hands to the table, scoping out the rest of the bar to see if anyone is paying attention, which no one was, then back up to Novena. Tears were threatening to escape the corners of his eyes and once he saw that her mascara had run down her face, was when Dean let go. She removed her hand from his, leaned over the small table, cupped his face and wiped away the dampness on his skin. 

It almost felt like Novena was taking away his pain with her touch, and it looked like it too. The eye contact hadn’t broke since he looked up at her. Dean was a mess and he couldn’t decipher if what he was seeing was a figment of his imagination or not—but it seemed like his struggle was held within her eyes? There was this humming noise that was coming from somewhere, the jukebox or the overhead lights maybe, that was soothing. Ultimately easing Dean to breathe slower and to quiet his racing thoughts. 

“I, I don’t know what that was.” Dean whispers, “I’m sorry, that’s embarrassing. This never happens to me…” he gestures at himself.

Novena pulled away from him concerningly, “Showing human emotion never happens to you?” 

“Wow—that’s not what I was expecting you to say. But, yeah. I usually don’t allow myself to show people how I’m feeling. To be frank, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Long day I suppose.”

She didn’t know how to respond to him. He’s different from other men she’s met, that’s a given. Dean almost immediately crumbled under her touch. It felt like he was begging to let someone in, wanting to be understood. If they hadn’t mentioned that they’ve both lost someone dear to them, then Dean probably wouldn’t have been easy to get a reading from. Novena liked that he related so much to her, that Dean felt so deeply that his emotions had transferred through their touch.

He was trying to brush off what had just happened. Novena could see it in his eyes, that he was questioning the intense moment they shared. Dean covered his face with both of his hands and sighed. This was the perfect moment to change subjects.

“I better get going, it’s getting late–I have to be up early for work. But I’ll see you around?”

—

A/N: Any and all feedback is appreciated! Feel free to send me asks or dm’s :)) I'm just making things up as I go, so be patient with me lol. This will be multiple parts as well as blurbs. I have a busy schedule but I’m going to try my best to write these chapters cuz I’m really obsessed with the idea I have!

tags! @ambiguous-avery

There is a special place in hell for Pam Bondi.

She shields rapists and sex predators, then lets women be harassed getting health check-ups.

A sexual abuser's best friend is Pam Bondi.

Not me putting on long ass nails and not realizing I can't type as fast on my keyboard. (currently typing with pens cuz it's faster)

The Taste of Us {d.w.}

A/N: This is me losing my smut virginity. Be gentle with me plz!!! Tell me if it’s any good or not.

Warning: semi-public sex?? oral: m & f receiving, pet names, teeth kink?? (if I missed something let me know!!) MDNI 18+ Word count: 1.8k

—

It’s a hot summer night in the Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee. The crickets are chirping, lightning bugs are illuminating the sparsely lit backroads, and the sweet gentle hum of a 1967 Chevy Impala is making its way to your ears. 

You're working the nightshift at a roadside diner that probably loses money staying open twenty-four hours a day, and definitely isn’t paying you enough. There’s only two more hours left of your shift before the next employee shows up. That’s when he comes in, a boy roughly around your age–and he’s unbelievably charming. Rare around these parts.

When the door to the diner closes, you can feel the thick, humid air push towards you. And almost immediately you feel the wind get knocked out of you by the sight of this stranger. Sandy hair, freshly shaven, eyes that could blend into the dense forest surrounding the restaurant; he wore an interesting frog-like necklace? You couldn’t really tell what it was–and what seems to be a wedding ring on one of his pointer fingers. 

He sat away from where you had propped yourself against the counter. You sauntered over there after minutes of painful silence. 

“Long night?”

Dean only lifted his eyes to look at you and gave a weak smile. Comparing his features to the forest is effortless to you. Eyes like the pines, dark circles would blend in with the dirt after it rains, every scar that litters his face resembles the places where lightning hits. His beauty is tragic and unfathomable. 

“Not anymore.” His voice was warmer than how he looked. Seduction covered his eyes like the clouds in the sky.

“Ah, yeah. I bet.” You roll your eyes sarcastically. Tapping your pen against your small notebook, “What can I get ya, darlin’?”

Dean can’t get enough of your accent, he really had to play this right in order not to walk out of here with a raging hard on. He couldn’t imagine waltzing in here again with that kind of embarrassment following him around.

“What’s your name?”

You’ve had more than enough men coming in here looking at you like you’re an object to them. Their smiles that lead to empty, crazy eyes that give you goose-pimples all over. Every. Single. Time. But him? His voice was as sweet as the tea you poured yourself earlier. Dean never breaks eye contact, making you blush. So you told him.

“Such a beautiful name, sweetheart.” He winks at you, then grins as he lowers his head to browse the menu. “Could I have…you?”

If he didn’t look at you like you were the only star in the sky, you definitely would’ve said no. But holy hell, that twinkle in his eyes made you wetter than the spring brings rain. And his teeth. He could sink those canines right into your thighs…

You must’ve been staring too long. He raised his eyebrows and a curious yet defeated expression flooded his features. Mouthing a small “okay” then began to actually look at the menu. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I—I’m sorry. I’m used to old geezers hittin’ on me. Not a fine man like yourself.” Shyness takes over you. You start to tremble from how nervous you are, and the tips of your ears turn even redder.

“No need to be sorry, pretty girl.” He stands up from the stool, leaning so far forward that you can smell a faint hint of Irish Springs on his skin. Mere inches separate your face from his. Dean whispers seductively, “This place usually busy at night?” 

As soon as you shake your head no, he gently places his hand on your cheek, chuckling at how warm it is, then pulling you into the most intimate kiss that has ever touched your lips. It takes you a second to reciprocate before moving at the same tempo. 

God, it’s been forever since you’ve had human contact like this. The two of you synced up so well together, like you’ve done this before. He was too good. So. Good. A small moan escapes from your mouth. 

“Get on the counter fr’ me.”

You obey his command. You pulled yourself up and sat on your shins. The dress you had on rode upwards.

“Sit down and put your feet on the edge.” A light order as his hands trail up and down your exposed thighs.

“Would a please hurt ya, sweet cheeks?”

He teases you back and drawls out, “Pleeaase?”

Again, you do as he says. You just can’t help it, everything about him is alluring. Slowly making your way to the position he wants you at. The two of you don’t break eye contact. Not a fuck would be given by either of you if someone walked in.

He hikes your dress up, smiling at how wide-spread your legs are for him. A serious look washed over him right before he pulled your panties down. A sudden realization. 

“Is this okay?”

How much hotter can he get? You thought.

“What’s your name?”

“Huh? My name? It–it’s Dean…”

“Dean, honey–anything you do to me is more than okay.” You lean back onto your elbows, smirking.

He proceeds with his actions. Placing tender kisses down one thigh, stopping so–so close to your most sensitive area. Then skipping over it to kiss up the other thigh. As if he had read your mind from earlier–when he gets to a meatier part of your leg, Dean sinks his incisors into you and takes your skin between them. Delicately sucking, marking you as his. That’s when you finally begin to relax.

A couple love marks later, without warning, he slides his tongue in you. His warmth makes you jump and squeal–you’ve always been sensitive and ticklish down there, especially if it’s been a while. 

An animalistic grunt comes out of Dean's mouth, into your pussy. You can feel his grin widen against your pelvic bone while his tongue flicks inside you. When you look down at him he’s already staring–desperate for more of what he heard, he moves up to your clit. Massaging it in a side-to-side motion. He sees your eyes roll back and he immediately plunges two of his thick fingers into your slick entrance. Another gasp slips out of you. 

His “come-hither” was perfect—hitting your spot just right. His mouth already knew how to please you. But it was his eyes that made you come undone. Pulling your head back up, you find that Dean had never stopped looking at you.

“You’re so delicious, baby. Fuuck. Could do this all night.”

Tension was building within you. Every muscle was convulsing, one of your legs slipped off of the counter. Dean quickly placed it back up with his free hand.

“That’s it–cum for me.”

You’ve never experienced an orgasm quite like this one. Your swollen clit was throbbing, sending electricity throughout your body. Your walls pulsating around Dean’s fingers–your thick milky cum coated them as he pulled them out of you. He spread them apart and leisurely slipped his digits in his mouth. A delicious sound came from his throat, eyes closing as he savored your taste.

Where did this man come from? Who the fuck cares, you were grateful.

“C’mon, sugar. Your turn.” You pointed to the booth behind him. “Move that table to the side and take a seat.”

That drove him crazy–you taking over. Wanting to pleasure him. It wasn’t often that women told him what to do during sex, but he is more than willing to submit to you. 

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a hint of southern twang. 

The table made a loud shriek as Dean pushed it, making you look behind your shoulder–expecting someone to come from the back of the diner with concern. No one came. You looked out of the window to make sure the parking lot and road were empty. Nothing was out there. Shifting your focus back to Dean, you notice sweat glistening on his forehead. Eyes tracking your every movement. You walk up to him and climb onto his lap, sitting on his hardened length.

“That fucking smile of yours is gunna be the death of me.” You murmur against his ear, and can see the hair on his neck stand up.

His cock wavering in his jeans, trying to find a way to your cunt as you rock your hips and suckle on small areas of his neck. One of his arms wraps around your waist, pulling you in closer while the other wraps around your throat and guides your face towards his. Lips connecting, mouths opening–the taste of your cum still lingers on his tongue. The hand he had on the small of your back reaches for the button on his jeans, but you had other plans.

Jerking away from him, wagging your finger no, then sliding off him to sit on your knees. Glancing up at this devilish man before you, with sex in your eyes. Undoing his jeans for him, he lifts up his lower half to make it easier for you to take them off. His cock springs up. Pre-cum covering his enlarged tip. Your hand making its way to him, spreading his arousal down his shaft in steady, unhurried movements. Dean placed his large palms right under your ears, tugging you towards him. 

“Ask for me, if you want my mouth so badly.”

“Please, sweetheart.”

“What do you want, pretty boy?” You asked, resting your chin on your hand, lightly brushing your lips on his sensitive head.

“Want yr’ mouth around me. Please?” 

The desperation leaking out of him was ecstasy for you. Giving in, you wrap your mouth around his girth. He’s so big. Plunging his dick so far down your throat that you gag on it. Spit dripping down his balls and your chin. In your peripheral vision you see his mouth ajar. It was almost undetectable, but he let out a tiny gasp. 

Removing him from your mouth you beg, “Lemme hear you, Dean…”

Then he lets out the most beautiful moan, making your pussy drip all over again. He grabs the back of your neck and his cock at the same time–ushering himself into you. Desire radiating from him as you lock eyes. Continuing to suck and hum against him, working your hand in circular motions in stride with your mouth. Faster and faster as he begins to buck his hips. 

“Oh fuck, I’m–I’m cumming, baby. Take me out…”

Refusing to listen to him, you don’t stop using the mouth God gave you. The guttural roar that filled the room was your only indicator that he wasn’t in control anymore. His cum shooting to the back of your throat. Dean grabbed the edges of the booth so tightly from you overstimulating him, then he finally took in a sharp breath. Removing his cock from you, you get up and straddle him again. Leaning in to kiss him but he withdraws. A questioning look that reads, did you swallow?

You only nod, then stick your tongue out.

“Good girl.”

Giving you a sensual kiss, slipping his tongue over yours.

“I taste so good in your mouth.”

—

tags! @aylacavebear @daylighted @ambiguous-avery @deans-spinster-witch (if you want to be untagged, there's no judgment!)

“WRITE IT BADLY. Write it badly, write it badly, write it badly, write it badly. Stop what you’re doing, open a Word document, put a pencil on some paper, just get the idea out of your head. Let it be good later. Write it down now. Otherwise it will die in there.”

— Brandon Sanderson on overcoming writer’s block to create a first draft as a professional author (via almost-always-eventually-right)

chat reminder to just write whatever the fuck you want. write that overused trope. write that obscure shit that no one will have heard of. just. do it. your writing is yours stop depriving it of that.

02

parings: married!deanwinchester x married!reader

synopsis: life married to dean

warnings: no smut

the nights always ended the same way, no matter how long he’d been gone. his hands, calloused from gripping the wheel of the Impala, always found their way to the curve of your waist, pulling you close, grounding himself in your warmth. it was like he was making sure you were still there, flesh and blood and not some fleeting dream he could lose again.

when dean came home, it was like the house breathed with him. the soft creak of the door, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden floors, the rustling as he shrugged off his jacket. it was all the noise of a man who fought his way back to you, every damn time. sometimes it was days, sometimes weeks, but every return felt like the first, like he’d fought a hundred battles just to hold you again.

“you up?” his voice broke the stillness, low and familiar, a sound you’d missed more than you could admit. you stepped out of the kitchen, where you’d been waiting, and met him halfway, your arms wrapping around his neck as his settled on your waist.

“i’m always up when you’re coming home,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. he held you tighter, a sigh of relief escaping him as he buried his face in your neck, just breathing you in.

sam’s footsteps echoed lightly behind him, and you glanced over dean’s shoulder. “sam, you know where everything is. get some rest.”

“thanks,” sam replied, offering you a small smile before disappearing into the guest bedroom.

the door clicked shut, leaving you and dean alone in the quiet house. his hands slid down to your hips, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt. “missed you,” he whispered.

“missed you too.” your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, noting the rough stubble that had grown since you last saw him. “come on, you look beat.”

he didn’t argue, letting you lead him to the bedroom. the familiar sights of your shared space surrounded you—the nightstand with his gun and knife, the salt lines carefully laid at every entry point. it was a fortress, one you both had built together, knowing the dangers that lurked just outside those walls.

he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his knees. his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but there was something else there too—a quiet gratitude, a sense of peace. “the road was rough,” he admitted softly. “but this… being here with you… makes it worth it.”

you cupped his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones. “you’re home now. that’s all that matters.”

he nodded, pulling you down into his lap, holding you close. the weight of him, the steady beat of his heart under your palm, it all felt like home. three times a week, if you were lucky, he’d be here, his presence filling the space, his warmth seeping into you. and in those moments, the worry and the fear melted away, leaving just the two of you.

sometimes, you wished he would stay longer. that the job wouldn’t pull him away so often. that there’d be more mornings where you could wake up to the sight of him, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his lips curved into a lazy smile that was just for you. mornings where his hands would roam, slow and deliberate, exploring every inch of you as if he had all the time in the world. mornings where he’d whisper your name like a prayer, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.

“we’ll have more mornings,” he said softly, as if reading your mind. his lips brushed against your temple, his voice a comforting rumble. “i promise.”

it wasn’t just about the sex, though God, when dean touched you, it was like the world stopped spinning. his fingers, rough and sure, knew exactly how to unravel you, to make you shudder and cling to him in the dark. but it was the way he looked at you after, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world, that made your chest ache with something fierce and unrelenting.

you were his home. his sanctuary. and even though you wished he could be there more, you never doubted for a second that he was yours, fully and completely. every kiss, every touch, every whispered word in the dead of night was a promise—a promise that no matter how far he wandered, he’d always find his way back to you.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis

you ask dean, voice low, teasing, like you already know what he’s gonna say. “baby or me?”

his lips twitch, that half-smirk creeping up slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to wreck you. his hand slides over the impala’s hood, fingertips dragging like he can feel her heartbeat under the metal. he leans in, close enough that you catch the whiskey on his breath, the gun oil, the goddamn leather.

“how ‘bout you inside of baby? that an option?”

the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. he watches your throat work as you swallow, the way your breath stutters just a little. his grin widens, downright cocky now, because he can feel the shift in the air, the way heat pools thick between you two.

he moves even closer, pressing a hand flat to the car like he needs the grounding, like if he doesn’t keep himself in check, he might just take what he wants right then and there. his voice drops lower, rougher.

“you keep lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart, i might start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”

his fingers curl around your wrist, slow, like he’s testing, seeing if you’ll pull away. you don’t. a low chuckle rumbles from his chest, pleased, knowing.

“yeah,” he murmurs, like he’s already decided. “that’s what i thought.”

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze

MAGA know they are inferior.

Anyone who has to negate black achievement is a loser. Complicit white people are bigger losers.

Charles Rogers represents all America. 🇺🇸

MAGA must disrespect black people. The racism feeds the myth of white superiority.

End the racism and the myth disappears.

only Kendrick could get tumblr talking about the super bowl