congratulations on your faces as well as your other bits

Uh... Mrs. Winchester?

Dean imagine requested by anon! HEADS UP: There is self-inflicted bloodshed for a ritual mentioned early on in the imagine, but not for the sake of self-harm. The injuries are similar to those used to prove silver doesn’t hurt the boys or that one is not a Leviathan. This will not be an imagine glamourizing self-harm. This imagine has been edited for reposting, so I no longer have the original request, but the gist of it is as follows: “The procedure used to trap the goddess of love goes a bit off-kilter, binding Dean to the reader.” Hope you like it!

“The summoning ritual calls for rosemary, bones of a dove, rose petals, and the blood of two lovers. We’ve got everything… whenever you’re ready,” Sam sighed, lifting his face from the crumbling parchment, the paper crackling in his hands as he worked the ancient material into a tight roll. Sam stepped away from the motel’s kitchen table, heading off into the broom-cupboard of a bedroom to return the lore to its protective canister. Paper as old as the grocery list from Hell couldn’t be thrown into a bag without bulletproof armour. It wasn’t any help to hunters or historians if it was crushed to a fine powder from the jostling of your firearms. Dean was by your side, grinding the brittle bird bones with a mortar and pestle, his biceps flexing as he working the stones against each other, splintering the bird’s frame beneath his hand. His emerald eyes lifted to yours, his hardened jawline softening when he met your eyes, his lips parting to offer a gentle smile. You were nearly out of the woods with this hunt, thank God. You’d been searching for the lore necessary to kill the ever elusive goddess of love for weeks. If Sam hadn’t broken into that museum, you would’ve had to stand by as her pawns tore each other’s throats out with their teeth over petty love triangles better formed in the “Twilight” saga. Dean tipped his head, motioning for you to join him beside the gleaming silver bowl of wretched ingredients, dumping the crushed contents of his mortar atop the fragrant sprigs of rosemary. Dean brought a rose to his nose, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically before tearing the petals from the flower, desecrating his Valentine’s Day gift to you. In truth, the flowers had already begun to wilt, and were far past their prime, but the thought stung regardless. It broke your heart a little, your fingers plucking the soft, vibrant petals from the roses. Dean obviously went out of his way to present you with that coveted sliver of normalcy, and here you were throwing them to shit in a god-summoning ritual.

Stammering gusts of chilling air wafted into the suite from the various drafty windows, none of which were open but all of which produced enough breeze to ruffle the papers covering the table’s water-stained surface. Goose-flesh pimpled across your exposed arms, Dean’s palms smoothing over your skin, banishing the cold to be replaced by his delectable heat. He pressed a swift kiss to your cheek before shuffling over to the brim of the bowl, assessing the quantities with his eyes, his brow pinched in concentration, as his brother rejoined you, running an anxious hand through his hair. All members of the hunting party were eager to finish the job; you’d take the Impala’s upholstery over the questionably clean motel sheets without a second’s thought, and the evening was setting into the deep, rich darkness of night. The stars were pocketing what little clarity you could grasp of the sky, your eyes peering past the brilliant reach of the parking lot’s streetlamps. The hour was descending upon you, and you would all much rather have asphalt underfoot than spend a night nestled into a mattress reeking of some stranger’s body odor. Everything about your current predicament, despite the target of your hunt, was about as far from romantic as you cared to explore.

A metallic flick caught your attention, the parking lot’s lights reflecting off of the silver blade of Dean’s pocket knife. His eyes held yours, shouting apologies, fidgeting with the handle of his knife. He exhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders as he brought the blade to his palm, wincing at the shallow scrape he produced. He handed the knife to you, his eyes hardening as you grasped the hilt, his injured hand closed into a fist and held tight to his chest. His eyes were wary, cautious, concerned. He hated seeing you hurt, you knew that, but casting you in the vague, obscure ritual had his nerves frayed as severely as you’d ever seen them. You gave him a reassuring smile, twirling the knife until the point was aimed at your palm. You pricked your skin, blood blossoming in a small, crimson bubble. The pain was minimal. You weren’t about to sit through stitches just to summon a monster. You returned the knife to Dean, his eyes asking wordless questions about your pain, though you’d only pricked your skin. You could receive worse while sewing a quilt. Sam lit the two candles beside the bowl with a match, the smell of sparks and fire flooding the room, melding with the heady scent of roses and herbs, Greek words you couldn’t fathom the definitions of spilling from between his lips as if he’d grown up on the Mediterranean coast. On command, you shook your hand over the basin, a droplet of scarlet striking a rose petal, the pigments almost inseparable, Dean following suit. Dean held your gaze, most likely to convince himself that you were alright. His concern was unnecessary, but appreciated. Hopefully, this ritual would succeed in ensnaring Aphrodite, who had been systematically killing off heart-breakers, cheaters, prostitutes and those fallen out of love for weeks, among her petty games of the heart. You knew you couldn’t kill her, with so little information, but banishment for a good hundred years could be in the cards if you completed the ritual correctly. Anything to get you out of this motel would suffice.

Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper, another match striking above the flammable contents of the bowl, the wooden stick falling to the waiting bed of kindling. The herbs ignited, the flames licking at the ceiling producing a strange, off-putting (due to past experiences in summonings) yet inherently welcoming rosy light. Sam nodded his head in Dean’s direction, your boyfriend’s uninjured hand closing around your elbow, guiding you to the counter top. He ran your hand underneath the tap, patting over your insignificant little scratch with a wash towel before pressing a band-aid over your nick. Dean pressed a kiss to your palm, your eyes rolling at his exaggerated care, as he ran his own palm beneath the stream. The room began to shake, the crystalline rope of water running from the silvery tap trembling visibly before Dean turned the knobs and blocked the flow. He was in the process of tying a ripped shirtsleeve around his palm, securing it tightly with a knot, his arm winding around your waist, his silver-bladed pocketknife at the ready, though it would likely have no effect once the goddess showed her divine face to your motley crew. The floor shook you off-balance; if it hadn’t been for Dean, you would have stumbled to the floor (or worse, knocked the basin over as you struggled to catch yourself on something semi-stable), but his grip on your waist held you in a standing position. With a flash of blinding white light, she had appeared. When the glare had dissipated, you found yourselves staring at a scantily clad, voluptuous yet surprisingly baby-faced woman of about twenty five. She looked like a clean-cut Courtney Love, before plastic surgery. She wiped at an unseen tear with a perfectly manicured finger, swiping the invisible droplet of saltwater from her high cheekbones, her blonde ringlets bouncing lusciously. Her soft frame was hung with glowing linens, her rose-gold breastplate and shin guards shifting with the soft tinkling of jingle bells. She was straight out of legend, if your forgot the massacres. She was always rumoured to be the passive-aggressive goddess.

“Congratulations, darlings! Best wishes, eternal happiness, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Long lives to you, a stretch for hunters, but I wish you every joy nonetheless!” She droned, her silken tone disrupted as she murmured your occupation, her lips screwing into a disgusted snarl. She parted her hair, wisping stray strands of golden curls from her forehead.

“Excuse me, bitch?” Dean’s voice growled,his shoulder shifting in front of yours, subtly placing his body between yours and the goddess’. Aphrodite practically purred, her eyes locked on the protective gesture. “Seems a bit off for you to be congratulating us on capturing you. Someone drank too much nectar up on Cloud Nine,” Dean crooned, his jaw clenching as he goddess smirked. He was clearly unhappy to find her in such a state of bliss. Prisoners were not meant to enjoy their shackles.

“Yes, my… situation is no cause for celebration. Your marriage, on the other hand… well, there are very few unhappy newlyweds!“ She drawled, her eyes shifting between your face and Dean’s, devouring your unmoving features, your locked stances, watching as her words sank under your skin.

This ritual was not as it seemed.

“Sam…” you squeaked, your eyes wild, the goddess giggling to herself as she toyed with one of her many golden bracelets, her eyes flitting to your face in glee. You turned to face Dean, frantic, his smile fading as his eyes found yours, discovering the stress within your irises. Why would he be smiling in a time like this? You’d just signed yourself off the market with a blood pact, just to invite some Victoria’s Secret model to dinner. Sam raced into the bedroom, returning with the canister containing the scroll. He unscrewed the lid of the plastic container, shaking the parchment into his hand, frantically flipping the page over, his eyes raking over the script. His search came to an abrupt halt, his eyes bugging out of his head as he flipped the paper over to show you the faded sketch of a man and woman at the very bottom of the page, the woman’s hair covered by the faint outline of a veil. Your cheeks burnt, heat prickling over your skin. That was not merely a lover. That was a bride. “Oh God.” You breathed, your throat closing around your words, Dean’s hand slipping from around your center.

“Gods, darling. There’s more than one of us. If it was just me, the world would be a much simpler place,” She flirted, her lips parting over perfect chicklet teeth, her eyelashes fluttering. "You can thank Aries for the Hell you call Earth. Everything else, you can pin on Zeus. Everyone does!” she mumbled, her focus now on the situation of her cuticles, her arched brows raised over rolling eyes. Dean’s fingers laced with yours, your uninjured hands pressed together as he pulled you in the direction of the door, parting from the goddess’ company without so much as a farewell to the woman who had overseen your unexpected matrimony.

“Sam, you take care of her,” He commanded, his voice gruff. There was an underlying tone of something deeper than aggravations… it was almost sad, broken. His emotions were detached from his form, his hand soft on yours despite his body’s rigid stance; he was determined to distance you from the woman who had all but forced you into a blind, but binding, relationship. The door swung open, Dean’s hand releasing yours as he stood aside, gesturing you out of the motel room, the entrance slamming in your wake, cutting off the angered Greek and tortured screams of your impromptu priest.

Dean’s hand found yours once again, pulling you into the center of the lot, your surroundings lit only by the street lamps above, your world thrown into harsh light and murky shadow. He spun you around, his hands holding your shoulders, your gaze locking on his eyes, on the discomfort and sadness you found there. His face was mere seconds from falling apart. His eyes burned holes into yours, hot with adoration, yet cooled by his sorrow. His palm, unbandaged, cradled your cheek, securing your gaze to his, his thumb rubbing over the plane of your cheekbone.

“Y/n, you need to tell me now whether or not you’re alright with this,“ he breathed, his voice low despite the privacy he had achieved in the vacant parking lot. His tone carried a sort of worried fervor to it, as if he wished you to say one thing, but dreaded the opposite answer. You froze, his hands dropping to your upper arms, holding you tightly, his hands kind against you, shaking you just so to realign your focus. You tried desperately to clear your head. Married. You’d just been married. To Dean. You were… God, you were married. Why wasn’t he freaking out? Him, of all people. Mr. Renegade himself was less than the firecracker you had assumed he would become. “Uh, Mrs. Winchester? I’m gonna need an answer here,” He prompted, chuckling nervously in an attempt to grasp your attention once more. You felt lightheaded.

"Dean, I don’t kn-” you started, your weak voice faltering.

“It’s okay, I get it. We’ll go sign some godly annulment, see if we can milk anything out of rom-com in there about cutting these chains off,” he rushed, his voice stable, but crumbling around the edges. He was as fragile as the parchment that had accidentally sealed your fate, but he was doing his damnedest not to show how wounded he was. He began walking back towards the motel room, clearing his throat to cover his breaking voice. You reached for him, tugging his arm, his body following suit.

“Dean, wait a second. I’m… I’m alright with it. This. I don’t mind the whole… marriage thing. Its actually kind of convenient, at least for me. I’m just a little overwhelmed,” You assured him, your breathing returning to normal as you voiced your concerns. “I just… you know, I thought this would go down a bit differently, but now that it’s over, I guess I can do without the diamond. It’s not like a have a list of possible bridesmaids at the ready either, so… I guess this is best,” Dean exhaled, his breath more laugh than anything, his face breaking into that of joy, happiness spilling from behind a steely facade. He pulled you to his chest, his hands tangling in your hair, his lips diving to your mouth. He smiled through his kiss, his tongue tracing the gentle swoop of your lower lip with spontaneous sincerity, his laughter filtering through the air with your every break from contact. His passion was tangible, his glee infectious. He spun you once, his hands on your waist as he threw your world off-balance, his hands drifting back to your face to return his lips to yours. When he pulled away, his teeth playfully hanging on to your lip longer than necessary, his eyes were glimmering with unadulterated joy.

“Thank God,” He grumbled, his smile growing wider as you pecked your lips to the corner of his mouth, giggling.

“Gods, darling.”