“Dean, you need to calm down. You’re freakin’ everyone out here,” Sam grumbled, punching his brother’s shoulder. “It’s a plane, not the Titanic.”
“Planes can crash,” Dean countered. “The Titanic sunk, it’s possible that this metal thing could just blow up any second.”
A woman in front of Dean turned around, shooting him a glare as she tried to comfort her young son who was now about as freaked out as Dean. “Planes are built to fly. They always check them before they go up,” she stated matter-of-factly. The second she turned her back, Dean was mocking her. This time you punched his arm.
The plane hit a bit of turbulence in the air, and you grit your teeth when Dean’s nails sunk into your arm. “Release the death grip, my arm’s gonna fall off.” He sighed, unleashing your arm. “C’mon, let’s go see if we can get you some water.” You suggested, having had enough of Dean’s panic.
Characters: Y/N (reader), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Amara (mentioned), Charlie Bradbury (mentioned), Charlie (OMC), Castiel (mentioned)
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: fear of loss, abandonment, pregnancy - I don’t know SPNish stuff.
Word Count: 3000ish
A/N: This is 1 out of my 13 entries for @mamapeterson / @mrs-squirrel-chester’s Album Fanfiction Challenge where I chose the album “Smoke and Mirrors” by Imagine Dragons. The song prompt for this fic is: The Fall
Frozen. Everything around you was completely still, and you saw nothing but the man standing in the doorway to your bedroom. The world around you stopped. The smell of death and blood hanging in the air wasn’t apparent to you any longer. You didn’t feel the cold night air biting your skin. You barely heard the voice roaring through the room asking if you were okay, if you were all okay.
A sharp cry sounded through the house, and you snapped back to reality. You broke away from his gaze, sprinting through the room past the tall brown haired man in the doorway. Sam. The man that had been like a brother to you. The man you had confided everything in, everything except the thing that had mattered the most. You ran down the hallway with his voice ringing after you, insuring you your son was okay. You knew that Sam had checked on him before coming to see you. Of course you knew that, but you still had to see him with your own eyes. You had almost lost your heart tonight, what was left of it anyway. It was held by your son, Charles Dean Y/L/N. Charlie for short. Named after your late best friend and his father.
The man you had never thought you’d see again stood in the doorway when you turned around with your son in your arms. You knew he was coming, but seeing him stand merely feet away from you still made your heart leap out of your chest. You had no idea what to do or say. This was your decision, and now you were going to have to face the consequences of it. His eyes weren’t on you. They were fixated on the baby in your arms. This had not been the way it was suppose to happen. This was not the way you had wanted him to find out.
Request: HI I love your fics!! could you do a deanxreader where dean
broke his right hand on a hunt and can’t shave himself so the reader, with
hidden feelings for dean, does it for him with lots of fluff please
Word Count: 1,270
“Ouch! Jesus Christ, that’s a
bitch.” The muffled cursing comes from behind the bathroom door, then followed
by the clinking sound of something falling into the ceramic sink, and finally
a, “Son of a bitch!”
Despite the laundry pile you’re
carrying, you swerve across towards the door and knock a couple of times with
your free hand, “Dean? Everything alright in there?”
There’s a moment of silence, and
then a short reply, “Fine.”
He’s obviously frustrated – a tone
you’ve quickly become accustomed to hearing after dragging him home from the
hospital a few days ago. He’d landed badly after being catapulted across the
room by an overzealous ghost and broken a hand, whereas Sam had gotten off with
a concussion and you’d somehow managed to slip away injury-free – which had
inevitably resulted in you skivvying around to cater to their every whim.
While Sam had managed to get over
himself somewhat and take it easy while the hellish egg on his head goes down,
Dean has been trying to do everything as normal. He hates being laid up like
this, and trying to get everything done for himself has just resulted in more
hurt and hindrance than help.
You still linger outside the door
for a few moments, “Can I help at all?”
He hesitates, and for a long
moment you wonder if he’s actually going to accept, “I could use a clean
“Got one here. Mind opening the
door?” You ask, after trying to get in and finding the door locked. Again, a
hesitation, but then the door opens, Dean fumbling with his good hand for a few
moments to get it undone.
You pride yourself on being able
to keep a poker face. Sometimes giving the enemy no indication of your emotions
could mean the difference between life and death – sometimes it’s imperative that
a victim doesn’t know what you’re thinking. But this time, when it’s important
that you don’t make a sound so Dean doesn’t slam the door in your face, you
just can’t seem to freaking manage it.
“I know, alright?” He huffs as you
sidle into the bathroom and begin draping the towels from the pile over the
towel rack, trying desperately not to laugh. It’s not your fault – he’s covered
in shaving cream – it’s smudged over his nose and there are even splatters in
his eyebrows. It’s all white, apart from a trail of crimson blood slipping down
the side of his face.
“You can’t shave left-handed?” You
guess, taking note of the razor left in the sink and the cast immobilising his
right hand. He sighs wearily, and then nods.
“Nope. I’ve never had to try
before, and I was starting to look even more homeless than Sam.” He complains,
taking a towel from you when you offer one to him.
“Dean, for crying out loud, you
shattered your hand. I think you’re allowed to look homeless for a little
while.” You reassure him, balancing the rest of the laundry – mostly jeans and
a handful of flannels – on the countertop, “If you really want it sorted, I’ll
do it for you.”
As soon as the offer has left your
mouth, you regret it – the very idea of managing to get so close to him without
blushing like a five year old, or completely losing your breath… impossible.
And yet, he nods, smiling ruefully.
“Would you mind? I just… can’t.”
He shrugs, and you smile back, nodding and shooing him off towards the closed
“Go on then, sit down.” You
instruct, picking up the razor and running the warm tap to clear it off. You
let the tap run for a little while, filling the basin, and then approach Dean
carefully, “You have to promise to stay still. Usually when I’m so close to
someone with something this sharp it doesn’t end very well for them.”
He laughs, leaning back with the
force of it, “That’s not encouraging, Y/N.”
“I said I’d do it. I never said
I’d do it well.” You remind him with a smile – humour: humour is how you get
through this without making a complete idiot of yourself.
“Much appreciated, beautiful.” He
winks, and it’s all you can do to force out a snort and place your fingers
beneath his chin to tilt his head up a little.
“Mm, whatever you say,” Sometimes
it’s difficult not to take his words too seriously, and you have to remind
yourself that Dean Winchester can and will flirt with anything that moves –
you’re not special to him beyond being good friends and hunting buddies.
“Well, the closer you get, the
more I’m thinking it.” He mumbles, remaining still as stone as you skin the
razor over his skin smoothly – you’re painstakingly careful, starting on the
opposite side to the cut on his lower cheek. He chuckles when you lean back to
dunk the razor in the sink, then move back over to him.
“I’ll stay well back, then.” You
wink in response, but contradict your own statement by leaning close enough to
him that his breath ghosts over your face. His eyes remain trained on your
face, watching every movement as you press your lips together, squinting in
concentration. You try your best to ignore it, being as careful and steady as
your humanly can manage while you get to work.
His eyes don’t leave you until
you’re finished, patting down his face with a towel and then handing it to him
– only then does he force himself to look away, watching as you clear up and set
everything back in its place.
When he finally manages to open
his mouth, he’s expecting the words that come out to be ‘thanks, Y/N’ –
instead, they’re, “When you’re concentrating, your nose does this funny little
You turn slowly, quirking an
eyebrow in a manner he can only describe as adorable, “Excuse me?”
“It kinda… wrinkles. But just at
the tip. Right here.” He taps his own nose, a small smile playing on his lips,
“And you blink a lot. I just… never noticed before.” Dean confesses, giving a
nonchalant shrug and trying to ask as if he isn’t mortified by the words.
Rather than make a comment, you
give a smile, wiping your hands off and stepping back, “I suppose I’m not the
kind of person people pay a whole lot of attention to.” It’s not meant to be
self-deprecating, but Dean takes it that way nonetheless.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes, standing up and poking at
the cast as if his hand would be magically healed, “Y/N, you turn heads
everywhere you go.”
“Yeah, right, of course.”
“Hey, look at me,” He takes your
wrist in his hand, turning you to face him properly, “You’re beautiful. Really,
truly beautiful. And smart, and kind, and funny. And people notice that. I notice that.”
That’s when your heart really does skip a beat – his eyes are on
yours, emeralds glinting in the harsh white light of the bunker’s main
“You don’t need to reply to that.
Didn’t mean to back you into a corner. Sorry.” Dean smiles sheepishly,
scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand – but you shake your
head, stepping forward with all of the boldness you can muster.
“I want to.” You assure him,
taking his good hand and squeezing it gently, “I don’t care about anyone else
noticing. Just you.”
He hesitates, then glances
sideways, at the door, “Can I kiss you?” He blurts, flushing red like an
The Girl’s Room Ghost The ghost of Heather Chandler, she is said to haunt the girls bathrooms of the school. She is known to appear in mirrors and turn the tap water into drain cleaner.
The Bullying Ghosts Believed to be the ghosts Ghosts of Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney. They are known to roam the halls and the cafeteria, knocking things out of student’s hands. Never been seen
The Smoking Ghost Believed to be the ghost of Jason Dean, he appears in the on the Football Pitch (believed to be where an explosion happened) as a smoky figure. if you look at him, you have a splitting head ache (described as “like brain freeze”)
The Singing Boiler Room The ghost of an unknown person, it is said to say and sing certain words. Common words are: 17, Veronica and Our love is god. A former student, Veronica Sawyer was asked if she knew anything, but she refused to answer