Me: This Character Is Soft, Sweet, And Pure.

me trying to hold back the involuntary urge to say “i need him bad” whenever i see a photo of jensen or literally any character he’s ever played.

03. you're a cowboy like me

ᯓ★ story index abt, you wake up next to dean, trying really hard not to make rash decisions but he keeps looking at you like that and smiling like that and— fuck it. warnings, smut 18+ mdni!, cowboy hat rule, riiiide 'em cowgirl, struggle 2 face feelings, shared showers 2.9k words

The afternoon spills it’s golden warmth into the old house, dust sparkling in the rays cutting through the open windows. Slowly, you stir, finding yourself comfortably tangled up with Dean. Somewhere in your sleep, you ended up tucked between the faded grey cushions of the couch and him—his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, your hand and ear pressed right to the steady beat of his chest.

He’s still out cold, half sitting up with his legs sprawled across the length of the couch, one boot dangling precariously off the edge. His pink lips are just slightly parted, brows softer than you’ve ever seen them. His stetson sits low enough to shield his eyes from the sun, lashes barely visible beneath the brim.

You steal the moment, shamelessly drinking him in: the way his features seem gentler now, all the rough edges smoothed out by sleep. There’s something about seeing him like this that makes your chest ache, just a pinch.

Then his tongue sweeps lazily across his bottom lip, wetting it before they tug up into a smirk. “You keep starin’ at me like that, sweet thing,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low with sleep, “‘nd I’ll start thinkin’ you might be sweet on me.”

You jerk back slightly, caught red-handed, but you recover fast, flashing a coy grin. “Might? Don’t give yourself too much credit, cowboy.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your palm, and his arm tightens just slightly before he pulls away, stretching leisurely like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Sure, darlin’,” he teases, tipping his hat back enough to give you a lazy once-over, that boyish grin never leaving his sleepy face. “But if you wanted to cozy up to me all night, you just had to ask.”

Living on the road meant living by your own code—let ‘em chase, but never get caught. It’s become a rule you follow religiously, a line you never cross. 

But for the love of all things holy, this silver-tongued man is staring down at you with that deviant glint in his pretty green eyes, the kind that electrifies your skin, winds you up in the most invasive way. His chest, broad and steady beneath yours, feels like a challenge, and that damn stetson perched atop his dirty blonde, tousled hair only makes it worse—taunting you, daring you to just reach out and take it.

Your eyes lock with his, and for a split second, it feels like he’s peering past your irises and right into the swirl of wicked thoughts dancing in your mind. His gaze falters, dipping to your mouth just as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. 

Before he can catch on, you snag the hat from his head in one slow, deliberate motion. Settling it atop your own with a smug little tilt.

You meet his stare head-on, fluttering lashes feigning innocence. A slow, low laugh spills from his lips, rich and rough, igniting a flush on your skin.

His thumb brushes up to catch your chin, holding it gently but firm as he leans in, consuming nearly all of the space between. Hungry and honey-eyed, he’s fixed on trailing over your features with a deliberation that sets your pulse racing. “Careful, now.” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath skimming your skin awakens shivers cascading down your spine.

Your gaze flickers, restless and heated, between his open mouth and watchful eyes. “I’m done with careful,” you breathe—and before you can think twice about it—your lips close the gap. 

He leans into the kiss, rushed and messy, as his hand grasps the back of your neck to tug you closer. You climb on top, straddling his dirty blue jeans. A moan escapes you as he bites down on your bottom lip, matching his hasty kiss. Your nails dig into the back of his neck and he grumbles against your mouth.

His hands lose any sense of decency, sliding under your shirt, finger pads roughly digging into the skin of your waist. Deep enough to leave big red hand prints in their wake. Your hips twitch in his grasp, denim rocking against denim with enough pressure to make him groan against your lips. 

His hands shift, hooking under your thighs as he lifts you to maneuver himself to sit properly against the back of the couch. 

Your hands find the cool, silver buckle of his belt and tug, “Woah,” he rasps, mouth still pressed to yours with a breathy laugh, “easy, sweet thing.” His lips move to trail sloppy kisses down your neck, as his hands find the button of your jeans, swiftly popping them open.

He pulls back, his dilated pupils finding yours as one hand roughly grabs your jaw, “I wanna see how pretty you look,” he starts with a tantalizing smirk, eyes trained on yours while his other hand slips down into your heat. You're gasping before he can even finish his sentence, “when you cum.”

Two thick fingers plunge inside, stretching you out and curling just enough to make you whimper. The sound coming from your lips makes his grip on your jaw tighten as a lazy smile crosses his lips. He starts to pump, slow, too slow, and you buck your hips against his hand. 

“So pretty when you’re needy,” he hums as his thumb presses to your clit, circling and working you into a dizzy headed mess. His other hand slips down to your throat, holding you in place as he leans back slightly, just enough to watch your eyes flutter and brows knit while you ride his working hand. 

“Dean,” you whimper, as he works a brutal pace into you. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches. The pressure in your core builds as he sinks deeper, hitting your sweet spot in a merciless rhythm. You falter, your hands pressing into his chest for stability. 

“Stay just like that,” he mumbles, relaxed against the couch, undoing you with ease, hungry eyes shamelessly watching you lose any semblance of control of yourself. 

Your walls clench around his digits, breath hitching with every rough thrust. The sensation of it all drawing your eyes closed, reeling in the building knot of tension, “Nuh, uh. Look at me—” he demands, voice husky and warm.

“Dean—fuck,” you sigh, opening your eyes to find his, pupils eating the green of his irises as you’re reduced to a whimper wet mess in his hands. 

Your hips sputter and buck as you catch your breath, and he slowly pulls his hands from your jeans. You’re still coming back down when he’s picking you up at the waist, setting you on wobbly legs to tug your jeans loose from your legs. His hands glide over the skin of your thighs, squeezing your ass before pulling you back onto his lap. 

He moves with an eagerness that matches your own, securing your legs around him, his lips are back on yours as you both clumsily undo his belt and tug just enough for his cock to come out—slick and throbbing against your skin. 

He groans against your lips, taking himself in his hands. “Fuck,” he hisses, thrusting into your wetness. The sudden stretch makes you shudder, nails digging into his shoulders as you sink down onto his length, rocking your hips into his. 

His mouth goes to your neck, lapping and biting at the sensitive skin. His hands squeeze your hips, guiding your body up and down against his. 

It’s hot and sticky in the old house, making you feel damn near high as his tip slams against your sweet spot. His movement matches yours, messy—needy. His arms wrap around you as you lean against his chest. 

He steadies your hips with one hand, the other securely locked around your back. Thrusting up into you at a mind-numbing pace. His hand gets tangled in your hair—the pull making your vision go spotty. 

You give into his control, mind swirling with his lips desecrating any bit of your skin he can find, the sound of wet skin slapping against each other filling the room with your whimpering and his muffled groans. 

Your hand wraps around the muscles of his bicep, nails digging deep as the other clutches to the back of his neck. You feel yourself tighten around his cock, moans sputtering out of your lips as your thighs tighten against his hips. His hips sputter, cursing under his breath as the sensation of his cum shooting inside you pushes you over the edge.

Your bodies become a synchronized twitching mess—panting from the come down as you slowly loosen your grip on him. 

Blinking back into reality, you sit up, still too weak to remove yourself from his lap. Dean’s sleepy smile finds you, his hands coming up to brush the stray hairs from your face as he cups your cheeks. “See,” he huffs, managing to find his ammunition for teasing as he grounds himself back to earth, “told you I’d be a gentleman.” 

You roll your eyes, swatting his hands from your face with a tired laugh as you roll off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “That smart mouth of yours is making sense of all the trouble you talk about getting yourself into.” you retort, rising on weak legs to slip back into your clothes. 

“Mhm,” he hums, hardly listening to what you had said, “you sure you need to keep those on?” 

His hand catches your thigh just as you’re pulling the denim over them—interrupting you. He leans over, swollen lips leaving kisses on your skin as you’re swatting at him again. The reaction makes him look up at you with a teasing, dimpled smile. “Sorry—can’t help myself.” 

You bite back a laugh, refusing to encourage his mischief. You can feel his eyes on you as you jump into your jeans, bottoning them back up. Through the window, you can see the afternoon sun moving down onto the horizon. 

“We should probably go find your car,” you sigh, turning on your heel to face him as he finishes up notching his belt. 

“Probably,” he nods, eyes lazily casing the desert sky, “my backseat’s pretty spacious, too, y’know. In case—” 

Your hand goes up, cutting him off as you shake your head. You leave him to chuckle at himself in the living room. 

ᯓ★ 

The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the abandoned ranch as you and Dean prepare to leave. The silence between you is tangible, charged with everything you’ve done and nothing you’ve said.

The walk through the desert feels endless, the dusty trail crunching under your boots as the golden glow of the horizon stretches out before you. Dean leads the way, his pace steady, his shoulders broad against the fading light. You follow close behind, the heat of the day clinging to your skin, but the chill of the coming night creeping in.

“You ever think about settlin’ down?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

Dean glances back at you, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You mean, like a white picket fence and apple pie? Doesn’t really suit me.”

“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “I mean, somethin’... simpler. A place to call your own, where you don’t have to look over your shoulder every second.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the trail ahead. “It’s not in the cards,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough.

You let his words hang in the air, biting back the urge to press further. He’s not the type to linger on dreams he doesn’t think he can have. 

As the sky fades to deep blue and the first stars begin to peek through, you finally see it—Dean’s Impala, tucked away beneath a rocky overhang like a secret he couldn’t bear to lose.

“There she is,” he says, his tone softening as he picks up his pace.

You watch him approach the car, his hand brushing over the hood like he’s greeting an old friend. You can’t help but smile, the sight of him and that car feeling like something whole in a world that’s always breaking.

He opens the trunk, dumping the duffle bag and rummaging through for a blanket, he tosses it over to you. “Get comfortable. We’re better off to cover some miles tonight, get away from the town.”

You take the blanket and slide into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. The air between you feels lighter now, as if the journey through the desert burned away some of the weight you felt at his words from earlier.

The drive is quiet, the radio dialed low, filling the space with the sound of guitar-driven symphonies. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, but there’s a softness in his eyes when they flick to yours. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if he’s holding onto something he can’t bring himself to say.

The hum of the engine and the gentle sway of the Impala lull you into a light sleep, your head resting against the cool window. The sky bleeds from orange into black as you sleep. Dean tries to keep his focus on the road, but a pull he can’t quite make sense of keeps his head turning to you. Checking, every so often. As if you might disappear—be a figment of his imagination—if he doesn’t. 

You’re pulled from the haze by the softest nudge—Dean’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and rough in the quiet.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a small smile as you blink up at him. “Got us a room.”

You yawn, stretching as you step out of the car, the cool night air prickling against your skin. The dingy motel sign flickers overhead, casting faint neon light across Dean’s face. He unlocks the door, holding it open with a smirk as you step inside.

Your eyes land on the lone bed in the center of the room, the sheets pulled tight, and pillows stacked neatly. “One bed, huh?” you remark, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.” His grin turns playful, teasing. “‘M gonna shower, if you wanna join. Wouldn’t wanna waste all that hot water.”

You give him a slow, deliberate once-over, biting back a smile. “Well, aren’t you full of ideas,” you say, turning toward the bathroom.

Dean’s eyes follow you, his confidence faltering for just a second as you slip off your jacket and toss it onto the bed. One step, then another, you trail your fingers to the hem of your shirt and lift it over your head as you walk, letting it fall to the floor without looking back. Next, you wiggle out of your jeans and kick them to the side.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, scrambling to follow, his boots thudding softly on the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze sweeps over you like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Coming, cowboy?”

His jaw works, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m comin’.”

The bathroom fills with warm steam, and you’re giggling before you’ve even stepped under the water. Dean fumbles with the knobs, his grin boyish, his cheeks flushed. The messy, very much necessary moment back at the old ranch was one thing—standing in front of each other naked and tired from a night’s drive felt like something else entirely.

The awkward air gives way to jokes almost immediately—him teasing you about how you’re hogging the water, you laughing at his terrible singing as he rinses his hair.

It’s easy, light, like the world doesn’t exist beyond the tiled walls and the sound of your laughter.

Afterward, you both dry off, Dean tossing you a shirt he grabbed from his duffel. It hangs loosely on you, the scent of him clinging to the fabric. He watches as you climb into bed, his expression softening before he joins you, sliding in beside you like he belongs there.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The lamp casts a faint glow, the sound of distant crickets filtering through the open window. Dean shifts closer, his arm draping over your waist, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck.

“You make me feel… okay, like I don’t gotta worry so much.” he murmurs, the words almost too soft to hear. “I’d started to forget what that felt like.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t reply, not with words. Instead, you cover his hand with yours, threading your fingers together.

The steady rhythm of his breathing slows as you drift off, his warmth wrapped around you, his presence a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved.

Sleep comes slowly, your mind swirling with memories of his touch, his warmth, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. You think about asking him—what happens now?—but the steady rhythm of his breathing tells you he’s already asleep.

Or so you think.

Dean lies awake long after your breathing evens out, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. Outside, the Impala sits ready, the desert wind whispering against its sleek frame.

And as the stars blink down on the quiet motel, Dean makes his decision.

erm sorry if that scene sucked. i. tried. </3 i felt like the rushed needy give it 2 me now vibe made sense idk !! and i just rly think this version of dean is a freak that likes to watch ok ily bye

tags <3 @stanzie @the-fandoms-onceler @floralscented @titsout4jackles

Being a writer is basically emotionally bonding with fictional people and then ruining their lives for fun.

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

Me, after realizing I’m a writer who doesn’t write, a reader who hates picking up a book, and a storyteller who can never come up with a plot:

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!

The thing about Jensen and Misha is I don’t actually want them to have sex. Full penetration would fix them and I don’t want them to be better. That would be massively counterproductive

01. eyes full of stars

ᯓ★ story index abt, your winning streak has caught the attention of outlaw dean. but when he challenges you at your own game, you may have just met your match. warnings, bar scene, alcohol use, strong language, 18+ 2.6k words

The low hum of Tequila Cowboy’s neon blue sign buzzes over the murmur of voices and the clink of beer bottles. Smoke curls through the air, catching the dim light as it billows out of Dean’s lips. He’s leaning against the bar, one booted foot propped on the brass rail. His green eyes peek from under the brim of his worn-out Stetson, locked on the pool table in the corner, where a small crowd has gathered around you.

Your body folds over the table, a coy smile playing on your lips as you line up your shot. Dean didn’t need to watch to know the eight ball was going exactly where you wanted it. It isn’t the game that has his attention. It’s you—the way you work the room, charming the rich ranchers out of their wallets with every sway of your hip and winning flick of the cue stick.

The crowd erupts as you sink the shot, and Dean caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in your fox-like eyes before you straightened and collected your winnings with a dazzling smile. When your gaze finds his stare, it lingers for half a second too long.

A smirk plays at your lips as you lean against the pool table, “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to stare me down,” you called out, loud enough for the room to hear. Your voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it that cut through the bar.

Dean’s lips curled into a lazy smirk as he pushed off the bar and saunters toward you, his spurs clicking softly against the wooden floor. “Didn’t think you’d be bold enough to call me out.”

The crowd watches with rapt interest as the space between you closes. Dean stops a few feet away, his tan arms crossing as he gives you a slow once over. “Nice hustle,” he drawls, his voice low and rough like gravel warmed by the sun. “But I’m thinkin’ you haven’t played your best game yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until the toes of your boots nearly touch his. “And you think you’re the one to bring it out of me?”

Dean’s tongue swipes over his lips, jade green eyes boring into yours as you notice the dimples in his smile. “I know I am.”

The tension between you crackles, hot and electric, like a summer storm brewing on the horizon. The crowd has faded into background noise as you lean in, your voice dropping just enough to make it private.

“Careful, cowboy. Playin’ with fire gets you burned.”

Dean’s head tilts, eyes dancing with mischief. “Yeah,” he starts, his voice dripping with a boyish charm that hits all your sweet spots at once, “but what’s life without a little heat?”

You laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous, before stepping back and tossing him a cue stick. “Rack ‘em up, Sweetheart. Let’s see if you can back that silver tongue with a little skill.”

And just like that, the match was set. A game neither of you could afford to lose—one with stakes far higher than a few crumpled bills. Because you recognized something in him. The way he stalks around the table deliberate and unhurried, was the mark of someone who knew how to play the long game. But there was fire there, too—smoldering beneath his easy smirk and sharp green eyes, daring you to push him, to see how far he’d go before he broke.

And dammit, you wanted to know. You wanted to unravel him, see if the silver-tongued cowboy could handle being outmatched. 

This was a stand off with a lone wolf like yourself, someone who tricks and swindles their way through life. The rush of such a match was irresistible. It sent a thrill down your spine, sharper than the bite of whiskey and more intoxicating than the smoky haze filling the room. This man, watching you from the otherside of the pool table wasn’t just a charming outlaw; he was a mirror held up to your own reckless soul.

Dean bent over the table, lining up his shot. The room had quieted some, despite the growing crowd watching the close competition of the first few rounds. The air between you two remained charged. His gaze flickering up to meet yours with a spark of mischief.

“You know,” he starts, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, “I’d hate to embarrass you in your own game. You sure you wanna keep going?”

You smirked, leaning on your cue stick with the confidence of someone who already knew how this was going to end. “Big talk for a guy who’s down by two shots.”

Dean grins and draws back the cue, the crack of the shot slicing through the tension. The striped ball rolls cleanly into the corner pocket. He straightens, flashing you a cocky wink. “Make that one shot.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re still losing.”

As the game went on, it became clear just how evenly matched you were. Every shot Dean made, you countered with one of your own. Every taunt he threw, you lobbed back, sharper and more daring.

“You always this good?” he asked as you circled the table, lining up a tricky bank shot.

“Maybe I’m just inspired,” you replied, flashing him a quick smile, holding his eye contact as you flick the cue stick forward, sending the ball careening off the cushion and into the pocket.

Dean let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You know, for a sweet little thing like yourself, you sure do play dirty.”

You laughed, stepping aside to let him take his turn. “Flattery’s not gonna save you, sugar. But nice try.”

Dean leans over the table again, his biceps flexing just enough to catch your eye. He took the shot with deliberate precision, sinking another ball with maddening ease. When he looked up at you, his smirk was back in full force. “That one was for you.”

You bit back a retort, focusing on the table instead of the way his voice seemed to wrap around you like warm honey. It was your last turn, the eight ball poised perfectly for the win.

Dean steps back, giving you space but watching you like a hawk. “No pressure, sweet thing.”

You arched a brow. “Don’t need luck.”

With a steady hand and a flick of your wrist, you sank the eight ball, the final pocket dropping with a satisfying thunk. The crowd quickly resounds around you, whistling and cheering as you retain your winning streak. But your attention can’t find a break from your opponent, eyes locked on him as he coolly joins in the applause.

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he straightened. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re somethin’ else.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you set the cue stick back on the rack. “Told you I’d win.”

Dean follows suit, close enough that you caught a whiff of leather and whiskey. His attention stays trained on you, his head having to tilt down to yours at this closeness. “Guess I owe you somethin’ for the show.”

Your lips quirked. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the bar. “How ‘bout I buy you a drink? Least I can do for gettin’ my ass handed to me.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Well, I am thirsty… and you do look like the kind of guy who can afford my usual.”

Dean shakes his head, clearly amused, as he steps back to let you pass. “Lead the way, miss.”

With a smirk, you took his offer, knowing full well you’d be sparring with him long after the drinks were gone. For once, though, you don’t mind the company.

You settle into the seat across from Dean, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. Tequila Cowboy might be rowdy enough to make the walls shake, but the corner table you’d claimed offered a rare pocket of quiet.

“So,” you start, leaning back in your chair with an easy smirk, “what do they call you?”

“Dean.” He lifts his glass to his lips, his smirk curling against the rim. “Dean Winchester.”

You snort softly, shaking your head. “Ain’t no way that’s your God-given name. Winchester? Like the rifle?”

He hums, jade-green eyes glinting with amusement. His gaze holds an undeniable pull, the kind that could unravel most anyone if they weren’t careful. You’re trying your hardest not to fall into that quiet gravity. “Wouldn’t lie to you, little miss.”

“Oh, is that right?” 

“I swear it.” He crosses his index finger over his middle, pressing them to his lips before pointing them at you in a playful gesture. “And what about you? Got a name to match that sharp tongue?”

You lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. This was a question you heard often enough, and you’d learned long ago to keep your name—yourself—guarded from wolves in cowboy boots. “Whatever you want me to be, sugar.”

Dean chuckles, low and warm, a sound that doesn’t crumble under your carefully constructed allure. It piques your curiosity; clearly, he’s not like the others. The thought lingers, tempting you to learn more about the man with green eyes and a devil-may-care smile. “Holdin’ your cards close. I can respect that.”

“I haven’t seen you around these parts before,” you change the subject, tilting your head. It’s not uncommon for wanderers to pass through town. You only came here for the high stakes pool games, but never spent more than a few nights in this town. “You just passing through?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He sighs, leaning back, his knees knocking against your crossed legs under the table.  “I’ll be here a few days, then it’s back on the road. I don’t stay anywhere too long.”

A ghost of a laugh escapes your lips, “Yeah, you don’t look like the type to linger.”

“Oh, yeah?” His brow quirks, eyes roaming over you with lazy interest. “What do I look like then?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” you admit, feeling a blush creep up your neck. The admission surprises you; you’re not one to get flustered, especially not when trading sweet talk with another smooth-talking cowboy.

Dean notices, his grin widening as he watches you try to mask the pink dusting your cheeks. His voice is as smooth as the bourbon he’s sipping. “Well, you let me know when you do.”

Shaking off your momentary slip, you smirk. “Oh, I will.”

A charged silence settles between you, comfortable yet crackling with something unspoken. Dean leans forward, breaking it with a question. “So, you always make your living hustlin’ rich ranchers outta their pocket change?”

“Depends,” you say, your voice playful but cautious. “Why? You looking to hire me?”

Dean’s smirk deepens as he sits up to lean over the table. The smell of cigarettes and dark liquor dances between the small space between you. His eyes meander around the people surrounding you as he lowers his voice, the warmth replaced by something sharper. “Word is, there’s a little stash of gold sittin’ in the hands of a real bastard.” His pupils have grown, eyes boring into yours with a dangerous glint of excitement as his voice quirks with sarcasm. “Seems like a damn shame for a guy like that to carry all that weight alone. Was thinkin’ I’d help lighten his load.”

Your brow arches, interest piqued. The thrill of his words settles over you like a second skin. “You asking for my help?”

“Maybe,” he drawls, his smile slow and deliberate. “Would you?”

“What’s my cut?” you quip, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” he rolls the pet name off his tongue like honey, the sound making you lean in closer, “you’ll be paid generously for your trouble.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a dangerous man, Dean Winchester.”

“And you don’t seem like the type to play it safe,” he shoots back, tipping his glass toward you.

He’s right, of course. This is the kind of thrill you can’t turn down, not with a man like him by your side. “When do we start?” 

Dean turns toward the window, where the faintest glow of pre-dawn light softens the edges of the night. Only his eyes flick back to you, a hint of teasing swirling in the green, “Sunrise ain’t for a few more hours.”

You finish the last sip of your drink and set the glass down, standing with a grin. “Lead the way, cowboy.”

He pushes back his chair, unfolding with the grace of someone who’s always ready to move as he slips on his leather jacket. “I reckon we’ll make a damn good team, me and you.”

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how to successfully kidnap me