and turned into a supernatural thing

Kissing Who? - Jensen x Reader

Word Count: 701 (Is that a one-shot or a drabble? I’m gonna call it a one-shot…)

Warnings: Kind of panic attack, language, slight angst at the beginning, fluff ensues.

A/N This is for @straightasdeanwinchester 2000 follower challenge. My prompts are bolded, also… Congrats! You deserve it. Hope you enjoy.

You were standing off stage at your first panel of your first convention, and you were a nervous wreck. Ever since you had started on Supernatural you chose to learn about the fandom and how so many characters were hated by them and you hoped, you weren’t one of them. That was the most terrifying thing for you at that moment, then it didn’t help your boyfriend, Jensen Ackles was late to show up and dating him meant some people hated you.

You were rolling the microphone in between your hands when all of a sudden you could feel someone grab your shoulders, you turned around swiftly ready to hit them in the face with the mic for startling you.

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I know it really sucks when the guest you were going to see at a convention cancels. The same thing happened, like jeez, 12 years ago at Fangoria in Chicago with Jaren Padalecki and he had to cancel last minute after the convention already started. There was literally a room full of us (like 40-50 fans) that were solely there for him because it was one of his first conventions. Yeah, it sucked, but it was still great because I got to meet other Supernatural fans (it was only in its second season at that point) and the convention actually turned out to be really awesome. Also, as a token of his apology, Jared signed something like 500 portraits of him and Jensen and overnighted them to the convention so we at least walked away with something from him. So, really, y’all, it happens a lot and you should not blame the actors. It’s rarely, if ever, their fault or decision to cancel an appearance.

okay but how funny would it be if, after all this build up, Sam is the one to use the grenade launcher

Tiny, Rambly Rant

This can’t be said enough:

Eliminate mundane causes before turning to the supernatural.

And I can understand how that would seem counter-intuitive, but let me explain you a thing …

When one takes up the craft they often feel like a whole brand new world opens up to them. Everything changes, and nothing will ever be the same, and we sometimes take this new attitude and apply it to everything. Everything becomes magical and everything has an underlying magical aura.

This is something a decent craft teacher will stop with a newspaper to the nose. *smack*

When we flip the perception, and look at everything with mundane suspicion, we are actually less likely to miss the woo. By eliminating all of the mundane causes for a thing, you also eliminate that pesky doubt you keep hearing me grumble about. You are more sure about what you’re dealing with, and can act accordingly.

For example:

I wear hematite to help with my social anxiety. They’re really energy sensitive. It is said that when they’re overwhelmed they shatter.

They are also pretty fragile and if you smack it against everything, of course, it’ll shatter.

So, when a ring breaks off my hand and I know that I’ve just been literally running into shit for the last couple of weeks. I know that it’s because gravity plays favorites, and I’ve accidentally put too much force on it.

But when a necklace that has just been sitting on my bedside table, protecting the homestead goes kaboom without being knocked around, dropped or otherwise provoked, then I know something is up.

Saturating your world with a perceived magical-ness, weakens your senses. It desensitizes you to what is out there. I recommend picking up a deliberate, goal oriented practice as opposed to a wild, come-what-may, practice. Trust me, if you’re open, the fuckery will come to you, you don’t have to go looking for it.

No, really though. Go see a doctor if you feel physically weird. Go see a mental health professional if your brain feels off. Eliminate the non-magical causes, first, and then start to investigate the supernatural.

I hope that ramble makes sense.


ok so last night i had a dream that dean winchester was bitten by….

a wereduck.

yes, a wereduck. and it didn’t give him any kind of special powers or bloodlust or other murderous compulsions. he literally just remained the exact same dean because there really isn’t anything special about wereducks, apparently.


every month for a week he had to turn into a duck.

and like. when the duck bit him he had no idea it was wereduck. he just. turned into a duck for a full week. and sam was panicking and frantically looking for him until a week later this fuckin. duck. just waddles into the bunker. and sam is like, “how did a DUCK get in here?” and then right before his eyes the duck transforms back into dean. and dean is just like “dude, i got bitten by a wereduck.” and sam was like, “what. the. FUCK.” 

and then my dream ended.

Why is it that Sebastian Stan looks like he could be any number of humanoid supernatural creatures?

Reveals he’s actually some sort of vampire:  Yeah, I think we’ve all had our suspicions there at one point or another.

Every full moon he turns into a werewolf:  At the risk of sounding like a furry, but I best he’s probably a pretty damn hot werewolf and works the whole tortured soul thing.

A mermaid magically able to walk on dry land until he hits the waters he was born in (So, like, Romania):  Not surprised.  He is an ethereal being when bone-dry, wet can only intensify that.

A wizard/warlock:  Uh, pretty sure we all know he’s a magical kinda guy.

Literal angel from heaven:  We’ve been saying that for years!

Supernatural has used up ghosts, witches, wendigos, demons, angels, leviathans, made up creatures from another world, Eve herself, GOD himself, God’s SISTER, and various other Supernatural creatures so much that there is only one other thing to turn to.

The British

I wonder if Reigen knows sign language. It would be so cool to see him do it, because he already uses his hands a lot when he talks, but now he’s moving them with a purpose.

So, one day, they get a customer, and she doesn’t say anything, just holds up a wipe board telling them she’s Deaf, so if they would be patient while she wrote things out, she’d be grateful. Reigen just holds up a hand for a moment before he begins signing, and she just lights up and immediately responds.

Dimple and Mob just watch in astonishment, because neither knew Reigen knew how to sign, so they just watch the back and forth. It’s like Reigen was made for this, his expression changing to adjust the meaning and his fingers easily flying through the necessary movements. Plus, it’s pretty much silent unless Reigen feels the need to translate a few things for Mob and Dimple’s benefit.

Eventually, he figures out her problem (which doesn’t turn out to be supernatural, but he still fixes things for her), and as she’s leaving she just signs over and over how grateful she is and Reigen’s like, “It was no trouble at all.” To him, it wasn’t such a big deal, but from what I’ve seen it can mean a lot to Deaf for people to know sign language (though I myself only know the basics).

Just something that came to mind.

Also, afterward, Mob asks Reigen to teach him sign language too.

I got a drawing pad today, I really had to try it and practice a little, and this is basically the best example for what happens when I start doodling for practice xD

I need to improve though doodling with this thing is kinda hard

And last but not least, I decided to make my own version of Hot Guys Reading, so I brought glasses and my absolute favorite books, The Name of the Wind (in Jared’s hands), The Wise Man’s Fear (in Misha’s hands), and The Slow Regard of Silent Things (in Jensen’s hands) all by Patrick Rothfuss.

This turned out even better than I had hoped.  After an initial blank look of confusion as I handed them all books and glasses, I smiled and said, “I want to make my own version of hot guys reading.”  And they all nodded or made a sound like, “Gotcha.” and were good to go.

Feel free to edit/crop/whatever…just give me credit, please for the op. 

His Angel

“He said you’d never love me.”

Dean, still dim with post-orgasmic haze, lethargically turned to face the man (or rather, man-shaped entity) lying next to him.  It was the first thing Cas had said all evening, other than varying renditions of Dean’s name.  

“Wha?”  he said stupidly, still breathless and not really processing the remark. 

“Lucifer, I mean.  He said you’d never love me,” Cas repeated, tone and expression utterly unreadable, his usual poker face still fixedly in place.  “Not the way I wanted you to.”

At present, it was December, the coldest night they’d had in years, and the two had just made love for the first time.  

Their relationship had edged firmly away from “platonic” months prior, if it could ever have been described that way to begin with, not with some grandiose confession of love, but with shoulders smushed together in restaurant booths, gazes held too long, hands touching one another and not moving away. 

It began with Dean’s “friendly” suggestion that Cas start spending nights in his room, all for the innocent and magnanimous reason that he “must get lonely, just wanderin’ around the bunker all night.”  

Miraculously, however, they wouldn’t actually make love until weeks afterwards.  For once in his life, Dean seemed content to take things slow.

Now, Dean looked at his – boyfriend?  Lover?  Partner?  None of the terms seemed quite right – unsure of what to make of the statement or how to reply.  Consolation never had been Dean’s greatest asset. 

“When he was…inside of me,”  Cas continued.  “He’d sometimes visit me to pass the time.  Torment me.  He lived in my head for months, it was more than enough time for him to learn how I felt about you.”

If he didn’t know already, Dean wisely decided not to add.  In retrospect, neither he nor Cas had been the subtlest tools in the shed.

“He said…he said you and I were like dog and master.  That you were my whole world, but I would only ever be a fraction of yours.  And he said you only kept me around because I was useful to you.” 

Dean swallowed.  He felt like he should say something, anything, but he didn’t have the faintest clue what to say.

Luckily, he didn’t need to pontificate much further on the matter, because Cas continued,  "When he got bored of that, he moved on to showing me memories of you.  Of things you said and did.  Things to demonstrate how little you cared for me.“

”…Like what?“  Dean hesitantly inquired, not sure he really wanted to know.  

"Harsh words, mostly:  your…critiques of my hunting skills.  Calling me a sissy, and a coward, and a baby in a trench coat.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Dean had suppress a chuckle at the bitterness behind the remark, and opened his mouth to point out that these brusque remarks were the kinds of things he said to everyone.  

“When you said…” Cas went on, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.  "…When you said nobody cared that I was broken.“

Dean’s mouth immediately fell shut, suddenly dry.  He hadn’t been sure Cas remembered that, and he’d been hesitant to remind him – the last thing he needed to do was remind Cas what a colossal dick he’d been back in those days.  

"For Lucifer, torment of all kinds is an artform,” Cas continued.  "And when he saw the distress these memories caused me, and he showed me them on repeat:  he showed me the day you made me leave the bunker, forced me to relive how utterly hollow that moment felt.  He showed me the day you told me we couldn’t work together, the day you accused me of soliciting the suicide bombers.  He showed me the day you…you beat me, under the Mark of Cain’s influence.  That moment when I felt sure you were going to kill me.“ 

Cas’s eyes closed, shuddering faintly at the unpleasant memory.  "On days when he was feeling particularly frustrated, he would take it out on me, by showing me those memories over and over.  Eventually, Dean, I…I started to truly believe the things he told me:  that I really was a dog, whose only purpose was to serve you.  That…”

Jerkily, he turned his head to look at Dean.  He wasn’t crying – Dean wasn’t entirely sure if angels could cry, or if that kind of emotional inexpressiveness was just another one of Cas’s aspergers-esque idiosyncrasies.  But his crystaline blue eyes were wide and sad, and unless Dean was completely mistaken, unusually damp.  

“…That you would never love me.”

Dean swallowed.  There was so much he wanted to say, to explain his actions, his reasoning, why for so long, he felt so inclined to push Cas away.

He wanted to explain the firmly-ingrained self-loathing, how he’d been raised during a time in which men who loved men were considered to be the lowest form of vermin the human race had to offer.  

He wanted to explain the first and only time John had ever caught him with a boy, how he had looked at Dean with such complete and utter disgust that it had taken months to get him to look at him like a human being again, much less his son.  

He wanted to explain the days when food was scarce and money was scarcer, when John was nowhere to be found and the art of hustling pool was a skill Dean had yet to master, when the only remaining option was to get on his knees behind the truckstop for whatever greasy lowlife was willing to pay him for it.  

He wanted to explain how filthy that had made him feel, how he’d spent hours gargling with mouthwash afterwards to try to get any remnants of the taste out of his mouth, and hours more scrubbing his skin raw in the shower in a fruitless effort to feel clean again.

He wanted to explain how that shame had carried into his adulthood, how hard he’d worked to suppress his attraction towards men (or anything that looked like one), how frustrated he’d been when this proved futile.  

He wanted to explain how easy it had been to blame – Cas, with his bluer-than-blue eyes and endless sea of stubble, whose full, chapped lips Dean couldn’t seem to stop imagining against his own – to push him away and force the feelings down, carefully hidden behind a thick layer of self-imposed manliness and misdirected anger.

He wanted to explain that he had always cared he was broken, and that he always would, but that he couldn’t admit that to himself.  Not then.  Because if he had, he would have also had to admit to himself that he was broken because of Dean.

He wanted to explain that Cas was the single most important thing in his world, albeit in a different way than Sammy:  Sam was Dean’s charge to protect, but Cas was his idol.  Something to be worshiped and adored, and prayed to in times of trouble.

He wanted to explain everything.  But the words caught in his throat, clogging in their stampede to get out.

So, he said the simplest thing he could think of:  

“I love you.”

Cas looked at him in disbelief, and it occurred to Dean that this was the first time he had said this out loud.  He’d wanted to say it years ago – once, he almost had, while Cas was still under Naomi’s influence, and Dean’s usual bravado failed to get through to him.  But for whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to get the words out, like some dick of a script adviser was preventing him from saying them.  

“I need you” had seemed like a healthy alternative, though in retrospect, it was a cheap substitute.

“I love you, Cas,” he repeated, relishing in the unexpected freedom of saying it out loud.  "I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you.  Since you pulled me out of hell and made me whole again.  Since the first time I heard your voice, even though it damn near blew out my eardrums,“ he added, with a short huff of laughter at their unfortunate first meeting.  Sobering slightly, he went on,  "I used to wonder if…y'know, when you were putting me back together again…you left a little bit of yourself inside.  Your grace, maybe.  'Cause back then, it was the only reason I could think of, for how I felt about you:  like you were a part of me.  And suddenly, I couldn’t remember what my life was like before I had you.”

Dean,”  Cas murmured, the name sounding like sacrament on his tongue.  Like that four-letter word was the single most precious thing in all of creation.  

And to Cas, maybe it was.  

The next thing Dean knew, he was peppering tiny kisses all across the stubbled jawline, straddling his angel once more.  His angel – Dean liked the sound of that.  Somehow, none of the other terms (lover, boyfriend, partner) seemed to work for what they had.  

“I love you,” Dean murmured, in between kisses.  "I love you, Cas.  God, I love you so much.“  Now that he’d started saying it, he could seem to stop.  

"Dean, is this…”  He felt Cas’s throat contract as he swallowed.  "…Is this a dream?“

Dean chuckled, smiling against the soft, prickly flesh of his angel’s neck.

"Well, I hope not, angel,”  he grinned, returning to his ministrations.  "‘Cause if it is, I’m just gonna have to say it all again as soon as I wake up.“

They met at a dog park.

Which is weird in and of itself because a) Dean hates driving dogs in his baby; b) it’s not even his dog; and c) He’s still pissed at Sam for skipping out on him and their dad only to come back with a dog sized golden retriever he named Bones of all things. Jesus, Sam, you’d think you’re have a little more imagination considering you hid from one of the best damn trackers for two weeks only to name a dog after something we see every day. 

Dean sighed to himself. All that and he still has somehow found himself on pooch duty in some dog park in the middle of Illinois of all things. 

“He is limping.” Dean turned to the sound of a gruff voice coming from right behind in. 

“Yeah well, he’s old.” His comeback was coming out before he got a good look at the guy he was talking to. 

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Isn’t it strange the way things can change
Life that you lead turned on its head
Suddenly someone means more than you felt for
House and its yard turns into home
Sorry but I meant to say many things along the way
Have I told you I ache, for you


Castiel Imagine

Imagine: Castiel telling you that you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen (ft. the Winchesters).

(not my GIF)

You watched Dean’s lower lip twitch in the faint light, envying his serene expression and easy slumber. It seemed he could turn the mess that was a bad hunt off like a light switch - the gore, the fear, the failure. You could hardly blink without picturing the bloody disaster.

Sam whistled under his breath, “Nice one!”

You rolled your head toward the younger Winchester, “Missed it.” Frowning, your gaze turned back to the sky. It was the peak of the annual Orionid meteor shower on a perfect fall night and you could hardly focus on an event that usually brought you joy.

Sam knowingly squeezed your knee, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

You rested your hand on his arm in acknowledgment. Sam understood the blame game - he played it almost as frequently as you.

Dean mumbled something mostly incoherent about clown noses and began to snore lightly.

You stared at Sam, biting your lip, catching an amused twinkle in his eyes, unable to stifle your laugh.

“It’s the big red shoes, what?” Dean bolted awake, uncrossing his arms, warily blinking at you and Sam, “Did I miss it?”

“The circus?” You arched an eyebrow askance.

Sam sniggered.

“What? No,” Dean’s lip curled up in confusion, “The shooting stars. What circus?”

Your ears perked up at the familiar flutter of angel wings.

“What are you doing on the roof?” Castiel searchingly glanced around before settling his gaze on the three of you huddled shoulder to shoulder against the wall.

“Getting a stiff neck,” Dean grimaced and stood up, stretching.

“Why?” Cas took a step forward, squinting in puzzlement.

“We’re watching the meteor shower,” you offered.

“Were watching,” Dean countered, “I’m going to hit the sheets.”

Cas’ head tilted in bewilderment, “Have they done something wrong?”

Dean held up a finger, mouth gaping and unable to form a reply.

“Good idea,” Sam hopped up, dusting off his jeans, “you good Y/N?”

“I will be, thanks guys,” you put on a smile to reassure them, “Goodnight.”

“Don’t you kids stay up too late,” Dean mockingly chided.

Sam punched his brother in the arm and pushed him through the door - knowing your secret affection for Cas, he gave you a parting wink.

Grateful for the dark, your cheeks flushed pink under the intense scrutiny of the angel.

“May I join you, Y/N?” Cas ceased staring at you and cast his eyes to the sky.

“Yeah,” you nodded and gave him a weak smile, “I’d rather not be alone, bad day.”

He sat beside you, taking a moment to gauge the appropriate social response before speaking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” your gaze returned back to the sky, observing the streak of a particularly splendid meteor, “just a lot of ugly in the world. Sometimes it’s hard to see the good.”

“I understand,” he said, voice low.

Even if he didn’t truly understand, the words and his presence were enough to bring you a small measure of peace. You sat in comfortable silence for some time before you sensed his overt contemplation of you. “Cas?” You quietly murmured, continuing to observe the sky, hoping to dispel the awkwardness, “What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” The air became so still you thought perhaps he’d flown off and turned to see if he was still beside you.

He regarded you, wide-eyed, as if caught by surprise.

“It must be hard to choose,” you nervously prattled, unsure of how to interpret his reaction, “you’ve seen so much, been so many places.”

“It’s not that,” he spoke sincerely, “the answer is simple. It’s you.”

You gaped at him, “What?”

“You,” he reiterated, “you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

You continued to glare at him, heart bounding in your chest, stupefied by his response.

He glanced away, abashed, brow furrowing.

“Me?” You finally managed to croak, still disbelieving.

“You said most beautiful,” he hesitated to meet your eyes again, “I can choose a different answer if you prefer. Perhaps the Atacama Desert, in bloom with pink mallow flowers after an 18-year drought.”

“No,” you shook your head, dropping your chin, “I mean, I.” Your mind raced. Your stifled feelings for the angel bubbling over, tongue stammering, unable to articulate a response, finally exhaling his name with a heavy sigh, “Castiel.”

His hand cupped your cheek, soothing you. Angling your face back to his, he tenderly traced his thumb over your lips, an unspoken question in his blue eyes as they flitted from yours to your mouth.

You found yourself leaning forward, lips delicately ghosting over his, the kiss naturally deepening as though you’d kissed a thousand times before.

Shouldn’t 11

Characters:  Dean, Reader, Cas, Sam

Summary:  Dean acted on his feeling for the reader even though he shouldn’t. Things get ugly. Now the reader has been locked in a coma. What happens next?

Warnings:  None

Word Count:  899

A/N:  Wow, this has been journey and taken quite a few twists and turns.Thanks for coming along for the ride. This is technically the last chapter, but stay tuned for the epilogue.

Tags are at the bottom.  

Shouldn’t 11

“Cas?” you gasp, feeling his hand in yours. Cas is here. His hand in yours feels solid and warm, grounding. You did it. You broke through the warding. The relief is immense and you choke back a sob.  

“(Y/N),” he says, pulling you to your feet, “I need you to focus. The warding that remains - it’s making it difficult for me to be here.”

“What?” you ask, trying to clear your head. “Oh,” you reply, dragging the back of your free hand across your cheeks, wiping away the tears. Taking a deep breath in, you try to reign in your emotions. “What do I have to do?”

Cas grips your hand tighter. “We need to find a door. Can you do that?”

“A door?” you repeat. You feel as if you’ve gone daft, parroting everything Cas says. The emotional roller coaster that you’ve been on has left you drained.

“Not a literal door,” he explains patiently. “We are deep in your subconscious, and we have to find a way out. You have to find a way out,” he amends. “I can help you along, but only you can find the path.”

Shakily, you gather your wits and steel your resolve. “What do I do?”

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the good thing about viewing the occult in terms of the psychological and sociological effect of ritual and symbolism is that it works no matter how real or fake it turns out magic is, so you can practice the occult enthusiastically while remaining entirely agnostic on whether the supernatural is even real

It all began with a series of flirty anon messages in his inbox one day, which turned into something almost profound over time. A year after the first message was sent, Dean’s almost positive that he’s fallen hard for someone he’s never met, on Tumblr no less. He wants to tell this person how he feels, but there’s one problem. He’s been in love with his best friend Cas for years, and will need to get over him before he can truly move on.

But what happens when things aren’t what they seem, and Dean meets “Angel” in person?


There are three things in his life that Dean wants to keep a secret.

1. He watches Doctor Sexy on the regular and has never missed an episode.

2. He liked how he looked in Rhonda Hurley’s pink satin panties so much that he bought a pair of his own after they broke up.

3. He’s probably, possibly, okay, really in love with a guy who he met on Tumblr.

Dean knows how cliché it is. Fall for some guy you’ve never met in person? Who is he, a character in ‘You’ve Got Mail?’

But Dean can’t deny that he’s in love with angelcake67. How else can one describe the way his heart races in his chest when he sees the little ‘1’ hovering above his inbox, or the way a smile bursts across his face when a ‘ping!’ rings out from his computer speakers? And if that isn’t enough proof, Dean has a thousand other reasons written down on a piece of paper that’s tucked away under his mattress. He’s in love with the guy because besides Sam, he knows more about Dean’s true self than anyone else. To Angel (Dean’s not-so-clever codename for the man), he’s not Dean, the star baseball player for Lawrence University, or the nurturing older brother to Sam, or the cocky womanizer every girl on campus takes him for. No, for Angel he can stop putting on personas and just let everything be. Angel knows him for his Star Trek blog, his love of math, his dorky text posts that he thinks up while he should be studying in the library. He knows many of Dean’s deepest insecurities, like his fear of his father ever finding out about his bisexuality, of his guilt over not doing enough for Sammy, of if he’s being selfish by enrolling at Lawrence U at all.

And Dean knows a lot about Angel, also. He knows that Angel’s from a religious family who would clutch their pearls and faint if they ever found out he’s not only asexual, but biromantic too. He remembers Angel telling Dean that he hates PB&J sandwiches after an ex-girlfriend fed them to him all the time. And perhaps the most important thing of all is Dean knows that Angel’s loved him for a long while, maybe ever since the first time he went on anon and asked Dean if he liked pie.

On paper, everything looks perfect, and the next step should be easy. Meeting in person is a topic they’ve talked about many times, but Dean’s never gotten up the nerve to go through with it. He cites not being good enough as his excuse, but Dean knows the truth. There is one clear, obvious reason why he’s hesitant to meet Angel.

“Hello, Dean.”

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Title: Raspberry

Paring: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 988

Warning: smut!

Request by Anon: Ok so I read like a imagine kind of thing where they said imagine u and a guy friend r lying in bed and then u start having a tickle fight and he flips on top of you with ur hands above ur head and lifts ur shirt and gives u a raspberry on ur stomach and ur laughing and then the raspberry turns to kisses and he trails down to ur shorts and he stops and looks at u asking for permission and u nod and then u guys become more then friends! I was wondering if u could that with dean and the reader?

A/N: Anon I hope you are reading this and liking it!! Enjoy!!


“Ugh, dude move over!” Setting down the bowl of popcorn and licorice you shoved Dean to the side. “You’re always taking up too much space!”

“Hey! It’s not my fault you’re a tiny Oompa Loompa.”

Rolling your eye’s you sat down next to him, getting comfortable. “Seriously? You couldn’t think of anything better?” Dean pressed play on Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as he grabbed a licorice rope.

“Nope,” with a stupid grin he ripped off a piece and threw an arm around you. Dean was always sweet like that and let you use him as a human pillow. Circling your arms around his waist you nuzzled into him, taking a deep breath, savoring the moment.

Throughout the movie your thumb brushed up and down his side, slowly moving his shirt up. When your thumb grazed his skin you practically flew off the bed Dean spazzed so badly. “Damnit Y/N! Don’t do that!”

“Someone’s a little ticklish huh?”

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