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Literature Text
You lick your lips slowly, glancing at the clock for what feels like the millionth time just this hour. The boredom is definitely setting in - no, it set in a long time ago, ultimately as soon as you walked into this godforsaken place at seven in the morning. You groan quietly when you language teacher says loudly, "C'mon guys, keep working. You've only got a half an hour left."
'Half an hour?' You think grumpily. 'I've been here for six and a half hours already. I haven't peed since six this morning. I only had time to eat half a sandwich in lunch. This is unjust… this is inhumane!' Still fuming, you begin scribbling on your desk, silently rebelling against your teacher's wishes to finish translating a passage about going to McDonalds. Your desk quickly fills up with purple ink flowers and band logos and little frowny faces; you even have time to squeeze in a pentagram before the final bell rings.
The next day goes by much the same as usual… until last block. You're casually fantasizing taking a lighter and blowing this popsicle stand (quite literally) until you glance down at your desk and notice a slightly smaller black-ink pentagram next to your original from yesterday. The rest of this class mainly consists of you taking a hand sanitizer out of your pencil case and sneakily scrubbing off your desk so you have room to draw another with a tiny "hello" written next to it.
The next day you're eager to see if your fellow artist has answered, but no luck. Class drags after that.
It's almost a full week until you draw on your desk again, but this time, you get a reply (of sorts) under your doodles. It says in sloppy handwriting, "Are you a hunter?" You pause a moment, wondering if that's supposed to be literal or some kind of dumb sexual innuendo; you simply write no, considering neither would apply to you.
Predictably, you get no reply to that, but unpredictably, after class, while you're collecting some dropped papers and everyone else rushes out of the room, a guy walks in and says, "Do you sit in that desk?" You look up, take in his short blonde hair, jacket, old jeans, green eyes, pause to take a moment and prepare for possible social interaction, and cleverly say, "Me?"
"Well, I'm not talking to [him/her]," he points out, glancing at the teacher. [he/she] continues artfully ignoring the presence of you and the newcomer.
"Okay… yes. All of my crap is here, after all."
"Fair enough."
"So what is this about?" you ask, finally getting the rest of your papers back in your binder.
"This, cupcake, is about your desk and the pentagrams you've been so tastefully drawing on it."
"That's not a sentence you hear every day. What about my pentagrams? And why'd you call me cupcake? And who are you, anyways?"
"All in good time, all in good time. For now, let's move to somewhere more… private. You know, so the teacher doesn't have to hear any more about your rude graffiti'ing habits."
"That's what they all say," you quip. "Seriously, who are you? I'm not letting some strange guy who could clearly overpower me lead me off to a 'private' spot like a sheep to slaughter."
"Wow there, your gruesome simile wounds me! I'm just a new kid, alright?"
"Is that supposed to comfort me?" you deadpan.
Your teacher jumps in then, confirming his claim. "[y/n], he's not lying. Just a slacker who happens to be in my class the block before you."
"Hmph, I see. I guess I'll come… cupcake."
Your teacher snickers a bit as you pick up your books and walk out with a swing in your step and mouths to the boy, "Careful with that one." He chuckles, jogging a bit to catch up with you where you wait for him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Name's Dean, by the way," he mentions as he follows you to your locker.
"[y/n]." You say nothing else as you stuff some notebooks and loose papers into your backpack. "Ready to bring me to whatever nice, secluded spot you've got planned, then?"
He nods, smirking, before leading you out of the building.
You end up in the local park, sitting on top of the monkey bars next to this "Dean" character.
"So," you ask, "What was up with the hunter question on our desk?"
He holds up a finger, closing those ridiculously pretty Disney princess eyes before saying, "First I need to ask you a question. Did you draw those pentagrams because you're a self-proclaimed Satanist, or do you actually know shit?"
"Well I have no clue what you mean by 'know shit', and I'm not one of those phony punks with the inverted crosses or whatever, but I have heard lore about pentagrams being able to trap demons."
"So you think there are demons in your school?" he exclaims.
"Your school too now, technically," you remind him before adding, "and are you serious? Demons?" He nods.
"Deadly."
"Okay, maybe something weird. I mean, I don't think it's exactly demon-level crap, more like ghost-level. You know, books randomly falling off of shelves, doors opening then slamming shut. Cliche ghost movie stuff."
Dean raises an eyebrow at you, incredulous. "Anything else?"
You sigh, looking up at the clouds as you say, "A girl was found in the bathroom with her throat slit and something written on the ceiling above her in blood. No weapon, no fingerprints… fuck… she was my best friend." You sniffle a bit, your eyes tearing, but Dean doesn't let you off the hook quite yet.
He inquires, albeit more gently, "What did the ceiling say?"
"Dunno," you reply, rubbing your eyes. "Cops wouldn't tell anyone."
"Awesome," he mutters dryly.
"Anyway, what was up with the whole 'hunter' thing? You never told me."
"Monster hunter. Gotta go." His answer is quick, and then he's jumping off the monkey bars, slipping his phone out of his pocket. He calls someone and when they evidently pick up, he simply says, "Sammy." He's walking away.
"Wait!" you shout. "What the fuck is going on?"
"Don't worry, I'm on it," he replies over his shoulder.
"Oh, you're on something alright. Moron."
'Half an hour?' You think grumpily. 'I've been here for six and a half hours already. I haven't peed since six this morning. I only had time to eat half a sandwich in lunch. This is unjust… this is inhumane!' Still fuming, you begin scribbling on your desk, silently rebelling against your teacher's wishes to finish translating a passage about going to McDonalds. Your desk quickly fills up with purple ink flowers and band logos and little frowny faces; you even have time to squeeze in a pentagram before the final bell rings.
The next day goes by much the same as usual… until last block. You're casually fantasizing taking a lighter and blowing this popsicle stand (quite literally) until you glance down at your desk and notice a slightly smaller black-ink pentagram next to your original from yesterday. The rest of this class mainly consists of you taking a hand sanitizer out of your pencil case and sneakily scrubbing off your desk so you have room to draw another with a tiny "hello" written next to it.
The next day you're eager to see if your fellow artist has answered, but no luck. Class drags after that.
It's almost a full week until you draw on your desk again, but this time, you get a reply (of sorts) under your doodles. It says in sloppy handwriting, "Are you a hunter?" You pause a moment, wondering if that's supposed to be literal or some kind of dumb sexual innuendo; you simply write no, considering neither would apply to you.
Predictably, you get no reply to that, but unpredictably, after class, while you're collecting some dropped papers and everyone else rushes out of the room, a guy walks in and says, "Do you sit in that desk?" You look up, take in his short blonde hair, jacket, old jeans, green eyes, pause to take a moment and prepare for possible social interaction, and cleverly say, "Me?"
"Well, I'm not talking to [him/her]," he points out, glancing at the teacher. [he/she] continues artfully ignoring the presence of you and the newcomer.
"Okay… yes. All of my crap is here, after all."
"Fair enough."
"So what is this about?" you ask, finally getting the rest of your papers back in your binder.
"This, cupcake, is about your desk and the pentagrams you've been so tastefully drawing on it."
"That's not a sentence you hear every day. What about my pentagrams? And why'd you call me cupcake? And who are you, anyways?"
"All in good time, all in good time. For now, let's move to somewhere more… private. You know, so the teacher doesn't have to hear any more about your rude graffiti'ing habits."
"That's what they all say," you quip. "Seriously, who are you? I'm not letting some strange guy who could clearly overpower me lead me off to a 'private' spot like a sheep to slaughter."
"Wow there, your gruesome simile wounds me! I'm just a new kid, alright?"
"Is that supposed to comfort me?" you deadpan.
Your teacher jumps in then, confirming his claim. "[y/n], he's not lying. Just a slacker who happens to be in my class the block before you."
"Hmph, I see. I guess I'll come… cupcake."
Your teacher snickers a bit as you pick up your books and walk out with a swing in your step and mouths to the boy, "Careful with that one." He chuckles, jogging a bit to catch up with you where you wait for him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Name's Dean, by the way," he mentions as he follows you to your locker.
"[y/n]." You say nothing else as you stuff some notebooks and loose papers into your backpack. "Ready to bring me to whatever nice, secluded spot you've got planned, then?"
He nods, smirking, before leading you out of the building.
You end up in the local park, sitting on top of the monkey bars next to this "Dean" character.
"So," you ask, "What was up with the hunter question on our desk?"
He holds up a finger, closing those ridiculously pretty Disney princess eyes before saying, "First I need to ask you a question. Did you draw those pentagrams because you're a self-proclaimed Satanist, or do you actually know shit?"
"Well I have no clue what you mean by 'know shit', and I'm not one of those phony punks with the inverted crosses or whatever, but I have heard lore about pentagrams being able to trap demons."
"So you think there are demons in your school?" he exclaims.
"Your school too now, technically," you remind him before adding, "and are you serious? Demons?" He nods.
"Deadly."
"Okay, maybe something weird. I mean, I don't think it's exactly demon-level crap, more like ghost-level. You know, books randomly falling off of shelves, doors opening then slamming shut. Cliche ghost movie stuff."
Dean raises an eyebrow at you, incredulous. "Anything else?"
You sigh, looking up at the clouds as you say, "A girl was found in the bathroom with her throat slit and something written on the ceiling above her in blood. No weapon, no fingerprints… fuck… she was my best friend." You sniffle a bit, your eyes tearing, but Dean doesn't let you off the hook quite yet.
He inquires, albeit more gently, "What did the ceiling say?"
"Dunno," you reply, rubbing your eyes. "Cops wouldn't tell anyone."
"Awesome," he mutters dryly.
"Anyway, what was up with the whole 'hunter' thing? You never told me."
"Monster hunter. Gotta go." His answer is quick, and then he's jumping off the monkey bars, slipping his phone out of his pocket. He calls someone and when they evidently pick up, he simply says, "Sammy." He's walking away.
"Wait!" you shout. "What the fuck is going on?"
"Don't worry, I'm on it," he replies over his shoulder.
"Oh, you're on something alright. Moron."
Literature
Dean/Reader
This does have a fair amount of 'strong language' in it, but I don't know if it's enough to put a filter on. Just a warning.
“I don’t see what the big fucking deal is,” you said, furious with Dean. He had scared off the guy you were about to go home with, and he wouldn’t even give you a reason as to why he did it. Sam tried to relieve the tension in the quiet car ride home, but it didn’t seem to help. As soon as you stepped foot in the motel room, Sam left. He knew not to interfere too much.
“The big fucking deal is that you shouldn’t be sleeping around!”
Literature
Sam Winchester x Reader: Oh, Sammy -Part Two-
You were right; it was stressful taking care of the Winchesters, not to mention a grumpy ex-angel post-hangover. Dean was whining, Sam was in the fetal position on the couch, and Castiel was throwing up in the toilet.
"What do you mean we're outta painkillers?!" Dean yelled, rubbing his forehead.
"I mean, the painkillers we had were gone, and others, five decades expired!" You retorted, rubbing your own head, trying to sooth your approaching headache. "I'll go out and buy some; is that what you want?"
"No, stay here," Sam said, uncurling his body to lay on the couch. "What if something attacks you, and we can't help?"
You smiled slightly; Sam
Literature
Nightmares - Dean x Reader
Dean was a heavy sleeper, so when your nightmares came, it surprised you when he woke. Just lately your nightmares had been very similar; they all featured you losing Dean in some horrific way.
So when you felt Dean’s arms wrap tightly around your waist and pull you as close as possible to his chest, you instantly felt better. Dean would kiss your forehead and stroke your hair, whispering that he was here and he was never leaving, until you finally succumbed back to sleep; with Dean’s warmth keeping the monsters at bay, if only just for the rest of the night.
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This fanfiction is as long as it will get. Please do not ask me to continue it unless you plan on commissioning me for it (and even then I can still refuse if I just don't think the story should be continued). If you're still interested in this story being continued, my commission info is here: corporalcornbread.deviantart.c… Thank you.DISCLAIMER: I do not own Dean or the plot of Supernatural, all rights belong to their creator. I simply own the plot of this humble little fanfiction and the actions of the original character (simply known as y/n). Thank you.
© 2014 - 2024 32bees
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