If I Could Suck Out All His Sadness Through His Cock I Would

The Photo Booth✰⋆

Summary: Dean confesses to you in a photo booth with the hope that you will reject him so he can move on... things don't go exactly as planned.

Warnings: mild cursing

A/N: I've never written for Dean before so please have mercy on me if this sucks

.........................................................................................................................

He can not believe he let you drag him into this stupid booth. It's not big enough for the two of you, so you're sitting cheek to cheek, and you're practically on his lap. Dean knows he's probably acting like an idiot because of the proximity. He keeps thinking about how easy it would be to just grab you by the chin and kiss you right here. But instead, he just smiles into the camera with you.

3...2...1...flash!

"Okay, now a silly one!" you say, returning his attention to the booth's camera. Dean uses his fingers to pull back his lips and expose his teeth while he crosses his eyes. You start laughing at him; god, he loves your laugh; he would make a million more stupid faces to get to hear it. He shivers to think how Sam would tease him for his usually stubborn attitude turning complacent just because it's you he's talking to.

3...2...1...flash!

It's not just the proximity that makes him think of you; even during long weeks apart, you are all he can think about. He tells himself he prefers it when you're apart because at least his chest doesn't ache with the weight of how much he cares for you. You put a hand behind his head and give him bunny ears.

3...2...1...flash!

Dean can't take this anymore. He's got to do something to help soothe the burning he feels.

3...

"I love you."

2...

You turn to him in shock, your eyes wide as you observe him. This is what Dean needs, rejection. He needs you to shoo him away and tell him to get lost so he can get over this stupid infatuation he has with you and get on with his life.

1...

"I love you too."

You gaze at each other for what feels like an eternity before closing the gap between you with a searing kiss. Dean feels incredibly grateful for the invention of the photo booth.

Flash!

A restaurant named You're Not Supposed To Be Here, where the whole point is that the vibes are unnerving. The lighting is weird, the whole place has a faint scent that's not a bad smell, but it's certainly not food smell and you can't quite identify what the hell it is. The music is weirdly janky and you can't quite tell what's wrong with it, the vocals aren't exactly garbled but sung in a language you swear you've never heard anywhere and couldn't name if you tried. Only hiring staff who have anxiety and they're 100% permitted to show how much your presence here stresses them out.

Ten Years Gone {d.w.}

I only have so many people who will actually see this BUT I’ve been working on an idea I’ve had for a little while now, it’s a Dean Winchester story. It’ll be a multiple part type deal. The story is written in third person and it’ll have a named female character. I am kind of worried about that because I’ve been seeing mainly !reader fics and I know a lot of people like to read like they’re a part of the story, but! how she got her name and what it means is cute imo!!

I’m working on some finishing touches and should post the first part in the next couple days!! Once it’s out, send feedback my way, positive or negative. Please critique my work! I haven’t written anything in years so having fresh eyes on it will help me out a lot. I will warn you now that punctuation isn’t always my strong suit so point that out especially!

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

I've been working on part 3 of Ten Years Gone I swear, I have this big exam coming up on tuesday that I've been studying for and if all goes well then I'll be back on my bullshit. BUT I'm revamping a previous harry styles fic that i began writing YEARS ago. I'm switching it to a Dean fic. I'm gunna try and edit it tonight and have it out by tomorrow!

In the Fields We Lie

Summary: World War I is at its climax. Dean is figuring out his life before his name gets drawn from the draft. Falling in love while he can. Will he get the life he always wanted? Or will the war destroy him? Word Count: 3k

Warnings: british!dean?? let's spice it up a little bit! I just know his deep voice with this accent would eat me alive if I could actually hear it! Also, world-building. No legit tw's.

Prologue

They say that in the midst of darkness and a time where nothing prospers, the mind tends to wonder. This is the time where inspiration strikes and masterpieces are made. There is, more than anything else we have in the world, is time. What we do in that allotted space is up to us to choose. What shall we occupy ourselves with? Where shall we let our minds wander off to? Distant lands or perhaps a reality that we dream of that is better than our present? Do you dream of being in your lover's arms? Or do you wish you could have taken back those harsh words you said to your mother recently? Others have to think quickly, in a fraction of a second, or else they will not live to see the light of day. 

In that darkness there is chaos and when everything turns quiet, is that moment of primal instinct to save your life or to accept that death will grab you and bring you to a hell that you have not seen yet. Anything to keep the mind busy in times of hardship is crucial. That is how we survive. The silence, especially in the time of war, is deadly. So deadly that it could turn anyone crazy.

Every soul is trying to keep themselves safe and there is not an option otherwise, unless they have lost their way. Lost hope. Those are the people you have to take care of, to watch out for. Without community and camaraderie, there is no purpose. Without care for others is the destruction of oneself. Without the care for oneself is to rot. Those who only think of the betterment of themself are soulless. To be self-sufficient is another story. To have support behind you, next to you, in front of you–gives you strength. To know that others are experiencing life similar to yours is comforting because ultimately you’ll feel less alone.

—

England

17 December, 1915

Friday

Dean Winchester was young and eager to work. He had always put some money to the side but now, with no end in sight to this war, he's been saving every penny. Maybe he could afford to send his brother to university–to save Sam from being a pawn in someone else's game.

It was a particularly cold morning, grey clouds coated the sky as far as you could see. The freezing air hitting Dean in the face feels like a pound of bricks. He’s already slipped and landed on his ass twice this morning while walking to work. Dean got a respectable job as a high-end tailor three years ago–a trait he has been naturally good at, all thanks to his mom.

He’s okay with having a wet bum because he knows the ladies he works with are going to have a good time making fun of him. What he isn’t okay with is his inability to stop daydreaming about his neighbor, and that is exactly what he does walking two kilometers to work.

They are acquainted. Dean has helped her move furniture and tried to fix her shower pipes once but failed miserably. Leaving him no other option but to pay for maintenance and to allow her access to his washroom. She had occasionally made him food whenever he came home late, or she would purposely bump into him in the morning before work to put a smile on his face.

They enjoy each other's company so much that they go to the market together to buy groceries. Sometimes, Dean stargazes in the park right below their building. On the occasion, she sees him through her kitchen window–every time she joins him to make sense of the clouds and their shapes. They’d always lay in silence, enjoying the presence not only from one another but the vast universe above them.

In this particular moment all Dean can focus on is her being in his home, using his shower. Being the gentleman that he is, he respected her privacy when she was over to wash up, which was every night for a week. But he also couldn’t, and presently cannot help but imagine her beautiful figure underneath her clothes.

The sound of her humming to herself in the shower echoes through his mind as snow crunches under his feet. Her voice sounds like a goddess blessing all of creation, a thought that had crossed his mind yesterday. She slipped the very first time she had been over and fell pretty hard; she screeched but then laughed hysterically. It was something Dean could get used to. Her coming over made Dean feel whole–made his flat less lonely.

Another thing happened yesterday. She had forgotten a change of clothes, and it was then that Dean knew he was truly in love with her.

—

Dean was making some boiled chicken and pasta when he heard the shower handle squeak and a handful of choice words fall from his beautiful neighbor's mouth. He assumed that she was rushing too fast while getting her toiletries together that she had forgotten something vitally important...

She had a date who was waiting for her outside the building. Jealousy raged over him when she told him that a particular man was taking her out to dinner. Apparently, they’ve known each other since grade school, even dated in their early teen years, then reconnected at a mutual friend's wedding. The negative emotions he was feeling quickly dissipated when she said his name.

“Dean…”

She sounded worried. Why was she worried? Was she nervous?

“Fran, I know your nerves are getting the best of you, but I’m sure you look lovely…” He turned around to find her in just a towel. Eyes widened, jaw dropped, and heart racing at a million miles an hour. Too stunned to speak, Dean quickly spun on his heels so he wasn’t starring. “Shit, I- I’m, I-”

She’s now laughing at his embarrassment. All worry washed away from her voice, “I forgot my dress. I guess I was so excited to get ready that I forgot it. Can I borrow a blanket or shirt to cover up in?” 

After a few moments of silence she walked up to him and tapped his shoulder and spoke, “Dean, it’s okay. Turn around.”

He did as he was told, making sure that when he did, he only looked into her eyes. She was so beautiful–so confident in her body and in herself to let a man she wasn’t with, to look at her when she was indecent. A strand of curly hair fell into her eyes, before she could move it herself. Dean gently pushed the lock behind her ear, and both of their breaths caught in their throats. 

Dean managed to whisper, “I’ll um, go grab you a shirt.” He never walked so fast in his life. Making sure he picked out a nice shirt that smelled good was top priority. He ended up dabbing some cologne on the collar just in case.

She was too busy admiring the books on his bookshelf to notice that he had come back, so he cleared his throat before speaking, “Fran, you better change quickly before your date thinks you’ve fallen in the toilet.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny Winchester. Gimme that.” Snatching the shirt like it was hers to begin with. She disappears behind the washroom door and reappears seconds later it seems like, but maybe that’s from the state of shock Dean’s still in. Fran has to ask him this twice to get his full attention, “Will you watch for any unwanted eyes as I walk to my flat?”

“Of course I will. Let me see your key so I can unlock your door.” 

Walking past her is painful, he can feel his excitement pushing against his trousers. It’s only just started but he needs to be free of Fran soon or else she’ll see his indecency. Moving quickly and lightly, making sure not to cause a ruckus and concern the nosey neighbors. He unlocks her door and sets her key on the small table that sits just to the right of the door. Making sure that no one is in sight he quietly calls out her name. She holds her dirty garments to her chest as she sleepwalks to him. Hopping almost. Bloody cute, this one, Dean thinks to himself. As soon as she’s in her doorway Dean stands in front of her with both arms outstretched, and hands grabbing the baseboards to make for a better cover for Fran.

They are extremely close again, both of their hearts are pounding so hard it’s a surprise they can’t hear each other's heartbeats. 

“You better have fun on your date. Hurry along then, you don’t want to miss him.”

“Oh, I will. Aaand… don’t tell me what to do.” Fran winked at him and then closed the door in his face. Dean smiled and walked back to his flat. He ended up burning his pasta on the stove. If this was any normal night, he would have lost his wits if he burned his food, but he made an exception for the gorgeous woman that stole his attention.

—

Ever since that incident, a very particular image of Fran has been taking over Dean’s mind. The shirt that Dean gave her was a pale pink shirt and he never realized, that without an undershirt underneath, that it was sheer. When Fran came out of the bathroom, her hair had gotten the fabric around her breasts wet. It was only for a brief moment that he looked, and Dean swears that she did it on purpose. She was perfect, everywhere. He thought he saw her smile when he gazed his eyes up and down her body, seeming almost satisfied with his actions. An angelic devil.

Too distracted by his thoughts, he barely realized that he was arriving at work. Taylor the Tailor: “Let Taylor, Tailor You!” was displayed above the building in bright red lettering. It was a quaint little shop that sparked Dean’s interest when he first moved to the city. Before he even asked for a position, he had to come in for a repair on a set of trousers. Long story short: while moving into his flat, he had slipped on some ice like he had been doing presently, and ripped them right down the bumline. Quite embarrassing, even more so, considering one of his neighbors came out of the building right as it was happening and laughed. It turned out to be Fran. She still teases him about it.

His mum taught him how to sew, crochet, and knit, so already having experience was attractive to the owner, Mr. Taylor. He was hired on the spot actually. He loves everyone he works with and that’s the reason why he’s stayed with the shop for almost two years. 

He welcomes Mimi and Rena as he walks through the main room and towards the back to set down his jacket. Dean can hear the two older ladies gossiping about who knows what but it makes him chuckle. They think they’re whispering but they’re both basically shouting at each other.

“Ladies, ladies,” Dean interrupted them, “No need to whisper about how gorgeous I am, when I’m right here!”

Rena rolled her eyes, while Mimi stood up and made her way to him. Mimi takes his blue bowtie from his hand and begins to put it on for him. A little tradition that they’ve made. Dean is fully capable of doing it himself but he lets her. They both gain from it. “Thank you, my darling,” He kisses her on the cheek when she’s finished. “And how are both of my girls today? Ready for the weekend?”

“Always ready for the weekend, Winchester. Two days out of the week where I am free of you.”

“I’m truly hurt by your words Rena. You know what that does to my ego. Everyone loves me, right Mimi?”

Mimi laughs, “You are very lovable Dean. Rena is just an old fart. You’d think after so many years she’d warm up to ya.” That is exactly how each day goes. Rena is the stern and conservative type but has her moments, Mimi is a freer spirit and can get along with both of her coworkers, and Dean is, well, Dean…

The day is long and cold, everyone is being careful not to let their fingers get too stiff. Their day has only gotten longer, because right before five o’clock, a woman comes in. She is in desperate need of fixing her husband's work attire that her children had shredded with scissors. Three shirts and four trousers. She was a fairly sweet woman and she would pay them extra to get it done for her by Monday morning. They all obliged.

To make things fun, Dean took on three garments that were badly damaged, and told the ladies he would finish all of them before they finished their two pieces. This didn’t amuse Rena, but she ended up finishing before him and she was greatly satisfied, giggled even. Getting out of the shop around half past nine was quite impressive and everyone patted themselves on the back for the hard work.

“Get home safe my loves, I will see you later. Rena, you better think of me!” He yells at them when they’re about to round the corner of the street. It makes Rena furious.

The weather changed within the last two hours, snow is falling fast. He usually doesn’t mind walking through it, but he’s afraid that he’ll fall like he did earlier. His tailbone was still throbbing. As if summoning the inevitable, he slips and one of his legs extends too far out in front of him. Almost ripping his pants, again! Thank goodness for having hands to catch you. It was a close call—the amount of stretch he felt was worrisome. 

As he approaches his building, he notices an all too familiar Rolls-Royce that belongs to someone who is the epitome of rubbish. Someone who is used to getting his way. Maybe it’s the money he has or possibly the fact that he has not struggled a day in his life–is why Dean hates him so much. There’s definitely another reason that has nothing to do with those things though. Dean is reluctant to go inside the entryway but likes to make this man suffer.

“Hello, Dick! It’s awful seeing you here,” Dean coldly welcomes him, “Where will you be taking Fran tonight?”

“For the last time, it’s Richard. And it should be none of your business, but I know she’ll tell you anyhow. We are going to my brother’s engagement party, and before you say anything–”

“Speaking of engagement, when will you ever ask Fran to go steady with you? Oh wait, that’s right, you were too busy getting your dic-” By the look on the other man's face, Dean knew Fran was walking up to them, “Dick! So lovely to see you mate!” He then turns around, smiles at his beautiful neighbor. As he walks up to her, he whispers for her to be safe, and heads up to his flat. In the stairwell Dean could hear Dick tell her how much he annoys him, and that is always his goal.

“Such a nosey neighbor…”

“I think he’s perfectly fine, Richard. Leave him be…” Her voice is so soft. She wouldn’t be talking so tenderly to him if she knew that he was seeing other women besides her. It infuriates Dean to his core, but he can’t tell her because she would rip him a new one and he does not need anything else being torn apart. Second, Fran would be so devastated and Dean doesn’t want to deliver that news to her. She will find out sooner or later, and Dean prays that he gets front row seats to Dick getting his balls kicked in.

—

The storm only got worse throughout the night. The power went out shortly after Dean got home. Currently at the kitchen table reading a book but failing horribly from sore eyes, waiting for Fran to be dropped off. At this point it could be likely that she had to stay with Dick and his family, which is revolting. It’s none of Dean’s business where she is, who’s she with, and he shouldn’t be waiting up for her but something isn’t sitting right. Looking back on it now, it seemed too late for an engagement party. Maybe it was a surprise and maybe the couple went out to dinner while everyone set up? He needs to go to bed and stop worrying, Fran is a grown woman and she’s more than ready to stick up for herself. She’s fine.

Looking out of his window one last time, to make sure he doesn’t miss her, is when he sees headlights crawling towards the building. Assuming it’s Fran, Dean sighs in relief and heads to his washroom to get ready for bed. As he gets done brushing his teeth is when he hears her walking up the stairs and decides to meet her in the hallway. Knowing she can barely see up the stairs from the power outage, he brings out a candle to give her when she gets home.

“How was your night out Miss Fran?” He questions as genuinely as he can, as she reaches the last step. She’s too quiet. He walks closer to her once she reaches her door and leans against the wall. She looks sad. Her eyes and nose are red. Dean can make out where the tears streamed down her face. His stomach flips and he feels nauseated instantly. 

What happened to her? He wants to ask but knows it’s not the time.

Her voice is hoarse, “You know, you don’t need to wait up for me—it’s sweet but a little strange.” She half heartedly jokes. “My night was fine, thank you. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. Here, take this…” He straightens up, taking a few steps to get closer to her, and he smells the alcohol coming from her breath. It must’ve been a rough night because she hardly drinks. 

Handing her the candle and keeping eye contact he whispers, “So you can see where you’re going. I’ll come get you tomorrow.” 

Dean wipes away a fallen tear from her face with his thumb and kisses her cheek in that same spot.

So softly she murmurs, “Goodnight Dean.”

“Goodnight Fran.” He says with equal gentleness. With even more longing.

—

A/N: Please let me know what you think!! I edited this on four hours of sleep lol.

tags! @aylacavebear @daylighted (idk if yall wanted to be tagged but hopefully it's okay!)

dean should have ended up with cassie

she made him look 10x hotter

i said what i said

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

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

may the fourth be with you or whatever they say