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Jensen Ackles as Soldier Boy THE BOYS (2022) | 3.08 – “The Instant White-Hot Wild”

The first clip 😭🤣

CR: @ackleslut TikTok

Dean Winchester with a lil double chin. Dean Winchester with love handles. Dean Winchester with a tummy. Dean Winchester with stretch marks. Dean Winchester with a dad bod. Dean Winchester with a few extra pounds. Dean Winchester with a muffin top. Dean Winchester with some pudge. Dean Winchester-

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ˗ˏˋ 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟔𝟕.ᐟ ˎˊ˗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ───── SEASON ONE, ───── ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ───────── PART ONE ─────────

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summary. california is a long drive & different in many ways to how dean's small-town, southern life in kansas was. but if there's one thing that's the same, it's the crackling of the annual start-of-the-year bonfire.

ㅤword count ! ㅤㅤ 2.7k ㅤㅤ content warnings ! ㅤㅤ no warnings! maybe a lil angst if u squint? welcome to stanford! ㅤㅤ track the season !

stanford is a twenty-seven hour drive from lawrence. all twenty-seven hours on the road were spent with the music so loud that dean’s ears still rang. he didn’t want to think about how his dad didn’t even tell him bye, or how sam was at school, and wouldn't get to. 

dean was strong, built to be a soldier from the moment he could hold a gun, constantly rising from the ashes of the destruction that his dad made of him, but he was not strong enough to know his brother would come home to an empty house. there was no doubt that their father would have skipped town already, on an alleged case that was more than likely just drowning himself in a case of booze.

it was whatever. he’d convinced himself of that in the two days that it’d taken to get from the shitty town that was lawrence to campus. his whole senior year was stressful to get to where he was now. minimum wage jobs, killing himself at football practice so the stanford recruiters would be interested in him, so he stood a chance. plus, his academics were stellar. he worked his ass off — just to have to abandon sammy at home, and not even get an ounce of approval from his stubborn father.

in front of him, the main building on stanford university’s campus towers above him like the greatest of monsters. the glass doors are open, held in a way that was meant to be inviting but was actually a little intimidating. the maws of the creature visible through its snarling mouth. 

dean had faced demons that wore his family’s face, who called him every name that they could think of while they rotted in a devil’s trap. he’d felt the fangs of a vampire hovering over his jugular before he’d even hit double digits, after his father did the hunter equivalent of tossing him into the deep end of the pool without any hands to catch him. this, though, felt like the scariest of all of them, just because of how natural it felt to get away.

he had to go get a parking pass. had to get his room assignment. had to talk to the football coaches about his position and his scholarship. had to unpack. all of the shit he had to do was piled atop the shit that he wanted to do, burying it in the rubble.

clusters of students already walk together down the brickstoned paths, their voices echoing off of the arched walls. their versions of home were rooted in civilization and the comfort of others, whereas his was in solitude and being on his lonesome.

dean didn’t get intimidated. he didn’t worry. but his skin was starting to crawl with the realization that he was as much of an outsider as outsiders could get. he did not belong amongst these people, felt like a wolf waltzing in sheep's clothing, but the point was that he was trying to.

he flips his phone open, a habit he’s developed since leaving home, to check for missed calls. there wasn’t a thing he could do if sammy needed help, but he wanted him to call, anyways. wanted to hear his voice. wanted to say sorry for abruptly leaving. 

but there was nothing, still. at least the excuse now could have been that sam was in school, but he was getting anxious. didn’t want to know how the absence of john winchester’s favorite punching bag would translate onto the next in line. 

dean shoves open the residence building’s door, struck dumb for a second by how long the line was. it made sense, but it still caught him offguard him, a little, that he was here. 

he’d made it.

a trio of girls finish up at the front desk and brush past him as they leave, one of them immediately breaking into giggles when they stumble away from him. the other two steal glances backwards at him once they’re nearing the exit. one's eyes lingered, held his stare like even if he clearly was out of place, you were not afraid of what it meant to be in the line of fire.

yeah. he liked it here. he could get used to this. 

next is a guy with shaggy black hair and the broadest shoulders that dean had ever seen. dean was big for his age, yeah, he'd thrown himself into working out when he realized that football was working for him, but this was a guy, clearly, who operated because of his bruteness, not the other way around.

his eyes are downturned toward the stack of papers in his hands, books tucked into the crook of his elbow, a backpack that looked ridiculously small on his shoulder. his eyes lift to squint down the line of people, like he's looking for something, and dean realizes in a wave of surprised horror when they land on him, that it was him he was looking for.

"dude!" the guy shouts — shouts! in the dead silence of the building! — his papers crinkling in his fists. he stomps up to dean and tosses his arms around him in a hug that dean had no choice but to awkwardly return, squashed arms patting at the guy's elbows.

dean didn't mind standing out, but this was another level. every eye in the room was on him when he was already certain that they were staring, and all he wanted to do was disappear. maybe this guy would crush him into pulp and solve those issues for him.

"you're my roommate," he says, scruffing a palm through dean's mop of blonde hair. "my roomie. ah, look, you're blushing."

dean's mortified. he shoves a hand into the guy's arm again, this time with the intent to push him away. "shut up." he nods at the crumpled paper's in his hands. "what the hell is your name, anyways?"

"taylor." taylor's eyes fall to his papers again, eyes narrowed as he scans across whatever he's reading. "dean. helluva name."

dean can't help but snort. "i mean. yeah. it's definitely... a name," he shoves his hands into his jeans' pockets, "football?"

stupid question, but he doesn't know what else to say to him. the guy's about to bust out of a letterman jacket, stretching the leather of the fabric with his broad frame. if he hugged dean one more time, it'd probably split down the back. "hell yeah," taylor says, and maybe the leather is used to this guy's antics, because when he lifts his arms in a flexing sort of pose, all it does is creak, "lineman for the last four years."

dean follows the slowly shrinking line, and to his dwindling horror, his roommate follows. yeah, he's a little much, but he's friendly, and dean really could use a friend in these times. "quarterback," dean answers a few seconds too late, then adds, "we're probably not gonna see the green at all this year, y'think?"

"speak for yourself," taylor snorts, adjusting the bag hanging off of him, "i'm gonna be a starter if it fuckin' kills me."

"yeah, alright," dean laughs, shaking his head. "good luck, man."

underclassmen usually didn't get anything but the bench, unless they were stupid good, and dean was stupid good for kansas standards; he was fully convinced for there to be a spot on the bench indented from his ass by the end of the season.

taylor had shrugged his backpack off in the few seconds that dean had zoned out, rifling through the front pocket for something. he tugs out a black sharpie and plucks the cap off with his teeth. "wisteria, gerhard casper quad, castaño building. room 12." his voice is muffled through the cap in his mouth.

"i don't know what any of that means, dude," dean says, blinking a couple of times in succession. taylor's already got his wrist in a death grip though, tugging it into his space, the cool tip of the permanent marker scribbling on his inner wrist.

"neighborhood, the buildin' complex, n' the buildin'," taylor lisps around the cap, tugging dean forward when the line moves again. "c'mon, keep up. we gotta get the fuck outta here, stake out the frat."

dean physically cringes.

"don't make that face." taylor spits the cap into his open palm, giving dean a bright grin. dean really can't handle this much energy when he's operating on three hours of sleep on a shoddy motel bed, after driving as long as he did. "it's phi kappa psi. they're like, the frat."

"oh."

taylor nods again to make dean move forward. one more person in line. "yeah, oh. gotta get our foot in the door, bud, 'fore some fuckin' losers take our spots."

dean is not interested in a frat whatsoever. if anyone tried to haze him, he's not confident in his ability to keep from snapping their jaw. his fight or flight had gone dormant since he'd pulled back from hunting, but it was still there, something that lingered constantly in the back of his mind.

"'sides, they're havin' a bonfire tonight, y'know?" dean did not know. but taylor likes how his voice sounds, it seems, and dean is very okay with just letting him talk. "for all the freshies. have it every year."

dean nods slowly, setting all of his things on the counter for the attendants. student id, driver's license, all of the works. in the trade, he's given his class schedule, his basics' books, parking pass, and his room assignment. he compares it to the unintelligible words on his wrist in black ink and — yeah, they could be the same.

"well, i'm gonna nap when we get to our room," dean says with a lopsided grin, "so if the bonfire's good, come 'n get me or somethin'."

"you're an idiot."

dean shrugs. "sure."

"free booze, sorority girls fallin' all over us..." taylor whistles under his breath before he promptly smacks dean over the head. "idiot."

his arms are heavy from his books. his eyes are heavy from the drive. he hasn't had real food that wasn't cooked and thrown into a brown paper bag in nearing forty-eight hours. but the thought of being at a bonfire that wasn't made with the intent to burn a body but just to have fun and meet people was nice. mundane. he wanted to be mundane so desperately.

dean shoves taylor back in the chest, a laugh falling from his grinning mouth. "yeah. yeah, alright, i'll go."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ────

the hot smell of burning firewood and spilt beer were the first two things to grace dean's nose upon walking onto the spacious front lawn of phi kappa psi's building.

guys in jerseys and backwards hats manned a white foldout table besides the asphalt porch steps, red cups in their free hands. girls in short skirts and guys in mussed up versions of their sunday best hovered around in clusters.

dean had left taylor at the drinks table, unwilling to listen to him dickride frat guys who were probably too off their asses to know what was being said to them. around the fire were foldout chairs, legs dug into the soft grass, and a huge tray of marshmallows and various other snacks to cook over the flame, parallel to where dean sat.

he was content, he realized. he could have no one in the world at this school, except maybe taylor, who might or might not drop him like a dime if he got accepted into the frat. so long as he could have fires that didn't smell like charred bodies and burning hair, and walk around a campus full of hundreds of people and not have to worry if any of them were something else beneath their skin.

his eyes flick up from watching the flames at the sight of legs approaching the tray. legs in form fitting jeans, legs that plant themselves there like their own piece of furniture. and when he trails up the length of the body a few feet in front of him, he realizes it's you. the girl who held his eyes back in the residency building, with more challenge in your gaze than there was schoolgirl giddiness, like your friends.

you're watching him too. but you don't look away when he meets your eyes, like you didn't then, earlier.

his head jerks to the side, a little quirk of a smile on his lips. a dare. you seemed like the type of girl who liked dares — and again, he was proven right, when you steal two marshmallows from the tray and walk over to him.

"kind of silly to come to a party and sit by yourself," you say, holding out one of the marshmallows to him.

dean takes it, weighing his options for a response in his buzzed mind. "kind of silly to walk up to the weird loner guy sitting by himself at a party."

you grab one of the sticks propped up on various chairs, impaling your marshmallow with it with a hum. "maybe." you lift your shoulders, stick tight in your grip as you hold the marshmallow over the flame. "but i thought the whole point of college was to be silly and exploratory."

dean lifts his chin in a mock thoughtful expression. "really? i thought it was about, i dunno, education, or something like that."

"what's ed-u-ca-tion?" you ask, sounding out each syllable of the word, your face twisting up into a pout that was too pretty for him to think rationally at the sight of. "never heard of it."

he laughs, though, because he just can't seem to help himself. you're cute, and that's dangerous. he was on scholarship, the educational equivalent of big brother over his shoulder, making sure he stayed in line.

“actually,” you continue, fidgeting with the stick in your fingers, “i probably know it a lot better than you do.”

dean’s lip quirk a little more, as he reaches to his left to grab another one of the sticks himself. “fine, i’ll bite. why’s that, sugar?” 

“ugh. sugar. that’s such a douchey nickname.” your pout only deepens, and it’s even more of a sight. puckered frowning lips, pinched eyebrows. he’ll be a goner by the time the night’s over, if you kept it up. “but to answer your question, i’m cheering this year, trying to rush sororities, and here for nursing, so…” 

dean pokes his stick through his own marshmallow, holding it over the fire with one hand. his other reaches into his coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes he kept on him, humming in slight impress. good distraction, he’d once called his cigarette habit. vice of all vices, he said now.

 “alright, well, give me a few minutes to pick a new name for you, yeah?” 

you pluck the marshmallow off of your stick, setting it aside with the hot side up, holding the golden stickiness between your fingertips. “well, so will i, then,” you say defiantly, biting into the charred marshmallow with a crunch. 

dean’s definitely a goner. 

his eyes rake over you, not completely in a flirtatious way, but he had to admit, that you were gorgeous. you’re wearing dark denim jeans, a pair of black boots, and the brightest red cableknit sweater he’d ever seen. 

“cherry,” he says softly, almost wistfully, as his eyes find yours again. 

you seem taken aback for a second, lips parting and closing a couple of times. it might be the golden light crackling from the fire, but your cheeks almost look more pink, too. deep pink, like the inside of a cherry. cherry was a good pick. 

“well, what’s your name?” you shoot back at him, nodding in his direction.

he knows how to cook things over a fire. has burned enough bodies and the evidence of his being there to know. the marshmallow on his stick is charred golden, and he brings it close to light the cigarette in his free hand before he blows the flame on the marshmallow out. 

then, he turns the cooking end of the stick to you in a wordless offering. “dean.” his eyebrows bounce at the same time as his lips tilt in a warm, amused smile. "no frat affiliation, no interest in nursing," he continues with a dramatic sigh, teasing your earlier tirade, "i am on the football team, though. number 67."

"okay," you meet his eyes with that same gleam that was destined to get him into trouble, "i'll call you number 67, then."

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"The revolution is about to be televised, you picked the right time but the wrong guy" - Kendrick Lamar, Half-time show 2025

the bond between a girl and their favorite fictional man is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object

Gunna be dropping another reader! one shot in the next couple days. I’m really liking how it’s turning out so far

do you ever look at a man and think i need you in the most disgusting, vile, pathetic, animalistic, disturbing, vulgar and morally questionable way possible

01. eyes full of stars

ᯓ★ story index abt, your winning streak has caught the attention of outlaw dean. but when he challenges you at your own game, you may have just met your match. warnings, bar scene, alcohol use, strong language, 18+ 2.6k words

The low hum of Tequila Cowboy’s neon blue sign buzzes over the murmur of voices and the clink of beer bottles. Smoke curls through the air, catching the dim light as it billows out of Dean’s lips. He’s leaning against the bar, one booted foot propped on the brass rail. His green eyes peek from under the brim of his worn-out Stetson, locked on the pool table in the corner, where a small crowd has gathered around you.

Your body folds over the table, a coy smile playing on your lips as you line up your shot. Dean didn’t need to watch to know the eight ball was going exactly where you wanted it. It isn’t the game that has his attention. It’s you—the way you work the room, charming the rich ranchers out of their wallets with every sway of your hip and winning flick of the cue stick.

The crowd erupts as you sink the shot, and Dean caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in your fox-like eyes before you straightened and collected your winnings with a dazzling smile. When your gaze finds his stare, it lingers for half a second too long.

A smirk plays at your lips as you lean against the pool table, “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to stare me down,” you called out, loud enough for the room to hear. Your voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it that cut through the bar.

Dean’s lips curled into a lazy smirk as he pushed off the bar and saunters toward you, his spurs clicking softly against the wooden floor. “Didn’t think you’d be bold enough to call me out.”

The crowd watches with rapt interest as the space between you closes. Dean stops a few feet away, his tan arms crossing as he gives you a slow once over. “Nice hustle,” he drawls, his voice low and rough like gravel warmed by the sun. “But I’m thinkin’ you haven’t played your best game yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until the toes of your boots nearly touch his. “And you think you’re the one to bring it out of me?”

Dean’s tongue swipes over his lips, jade green eyes boring into yours as you notice the dimples in his smile. “I know I am.”

The tension between you crackles, hot and electric, like a summer storm brewing on the horizon. The crowd has faded into background noise as you lean in, your voice dropping just enough to make it private.

“Careful, cowboy. Playin’ with fire gets you burned.”

Dean’s head tilts, eyes dancing with mischief. “Yeah,” he starts, his voice dripping with a boyish charm that hits all your sweet spots at once, “but what’s life without a little heat?”

You laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous, before stepping back and tossing him a cue stick. “Rack ‘em up, Sweetheart. Let’s see if you can back that silver tongue with a little skill.”

And just like that, the match was set. A game neither of you could afford to lose—one with stakes far higher than a few crumpled bills. Because you recognized something in him. The way he stalks around the table deliberate and unhurried, was the mark of someone who knew how to play the long game. But there was fire there, too—smoldering beneath his easy smirk and sharp green eyes, daring you to push him, to see how far he’d go before he broke.

And dammit, you wanted to know. You wanted to unravel him, see if the silver-tongued cowboy could handle being outmatched. 

This was a stand off with a lone wolf like yourself, someone who tricks and swindles their way through life. The rush of such a match was irresistible. It sent a thrill down your spine, sharper than the bite of whiskey and more intoxicating than the smoky haze filling the room. This man, watching you from the otherside of the pool table wasn’t just a charming outlaw; he was a mirror held up to your own reckless soul.

Dean bent over the table, lining up his shot. The room had quieted some, despite the growing crowd watching the close competition of the first few rounds. The air between you two remained charged. His gaze flickering up to meet yours with a spark of mischief.

“You know,” he starts, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, “I’d hate to embarrass you in your own game. You sure you wanna keep going?”

You smirked, leaning on your cue stick with the confidence of someone who already knew how this was going to end. “Big talk for a guy who’s down by two shots.”

Dean grins and draws back the cue, the crack of the shot slicing through the tension. The striped ball rolls cleanly into the corner pocket. He straightens, flashing you a cocky wink. “Make that one shot.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re still losing.”

As the game went on, it became clear just how evenly matched you were. Every shot Dean made, you countered with one of your own. Every taunt he threw, you lobbed back, sharper and more daring.

“You always this good?” he asked as you circled the table, lining up a tricky bank shot.

“Maybe I’m just inspired,” you replied, flashing him a quick smile, holding his eye contact as you flick the cue stick forward, sending the ball careening off the cushion and into the pocket.

Dean let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You know, for a sweet little thing like yourself, you sure do play dirty.”

You laughed, stepping aside to let him take his turn. “Flattery’s not gonna save you, sugar. But nice try.”

Dean leans over the table again, his biceps flexing just enough to catch your eye. He took the shot with deliberate precision, sinking another ball with maddening ease. When he looked up at you, his smirk was back in full force. “That one was for you.”

You bit back a retort, focusing on the table instead of the way his voice seemed to wrap around you like warm honey. It was your last turn, the eight ball poised perfectly for the win.

Dean steps back, giving you space but watching you like a hawk. “No pressure, sweet thing.”

You arched a brow. “Don’t need luck.”

With a steady hand and a flick of your wrist, you sank the eight ball, the final pocket dropping with a satisfying thunk. The crowd quickly resounds around you, whistling and cheering as you retain your winning streak. But your attention can’t find a break from your opponent, eyes locked on him as he coolly joins in the applause.

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he straightened. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re somethin’ else.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you set the cue stick back on the rack. “Told you I’d win.”

Dean follows suit, close enough that you caught a whiff of leather and whiskey. His attention stays trained on you, his head having to tilt down to yours at this closeness. “Guess I owe you somethin’ for the show.”

Your lips quirked. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, before nodding toward the bar. “How ‘bout I buy you a drink? Least I can do for gettin’ my ass handed to me.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Well, I am thirsty… and you do look like the kind of guy who can afford my usual.”

Dean shakes his head, clearly amused, as he steps back to let you pass. “Lead the way, miss.”

With a smirk, you took his offer, knowing full well you’d be sparring with him long after the drinks were gone. For once, though, you don’t mind the company.

You settle into the seat across from Dean, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. Tequila Cowboy might be rowdy enough to make the walls shake, but the corner table you’d claimed offered a rare pocket of quiet.

“So,” you start, leaning back in your chair with an easy smirk, “what do they call you?”

“Dean.” He lifts his glass to his lips, his smirk curling against the rim. “Dean Winchester.”

You snort softly, shaking your head. “Ain’t no way that’s your God-given name. Winchester? Like the rifle?”

He hums, jade-green eyes glinting with amusement. His gaze holds an undeniable pull, the kind that could unravel most anyone if they weren’t careful. You’re trying your hardest not to fall into that quiet gravity. “Wouldn’t lie to you, little miss.”

“Oh, is that right?” 

“I swear it.” He crosses his index finger over his middle, pressing them to his lips before pointing them at you in a playful gesture. “And what about you? Got a name to match that sharp tongue?”

You lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. This was a question you heard often enough, and you’d learned long ago to keep your name—yourself—guarded from wolves in cowboy boots. “Whatever you want me to be, sugar.”

Dean chuckles, low and warm, a sound that doesn’t crumble under your carefully constructed allure. It piques your curiosity; clearly, he’s not like the others. The thought lingers, tempting you to learn more about the man with green eyes and a devil-may-care smile. “Holdin’ your cards close. I can respect that.”

“I haven’t seen you around these parts before,” you change the subject, tilting your head. It’s not uncommon for wanderers to pass through town. You only came here for the high stakes pool games, but never spent more than a few nights in this town. “You just passing through?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He sighs, leaning back, his knees knocking against your crossed legs under the table.  “I’ll be here a few days, then it’s back on the road. I don’t stay anywhere too long.”

A ghost of a laugh escapes your lips, “Yeah, you don’t look like the type to linger.”

“Oh, yeah?” His brow quirks, eyes roaming over you with lazy interest. “What do I look like then?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” you admit, feeling a blush creep up your neck. The admission surprises you; you’re not one to get flustered, especially not when trading sweet talk with another smooth-talking cowboy.

Dean notices, his grin widening as he watches you try to mask the pink dusting your cheeks. His voice is as smooth as the bourbon he’s sipping. “Well, you let me know when you do.”

Shaking off your momentary slip, you smirk. “Oh, I will.”

A charged silence settles between you, comfortable yet crackling with something unspoken. Dean leans forward, breaking it with a question. “So, you always make your living hustlin’ rich ranchers outta their pocket change?”

“Depends,” you say, your voice playful but cautious. “Why? You looking to hire me?”

Dean’s smirk deepens as he sits up to lean over the table. The smell of cigarettes and dark liquor dances between the small space between you. His eyes meander around the people surrounding you as he lowers his voice, the warmth replaced by something sharper. “Word is, there’s a little stash of gold sittin’ in the hands of a real bastard.” His pupils have grown, eyes boring into yours with a dangerous glint of excitement as his voice quirks with sarcasm. “Seems like a damn shame for a guy like that to carry all that weight alone. Was thinkin’ I’d help lighten his load.”

Your brow arches, interest piqued. The thrill of his words settles over you like a second skin. “You asking for my help?”

“Maybe,” he drawls, his smile slow and deliberate. “Would you?”

“What’s my cut?” you quip, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Oh, sweet thing,” he rolls the pet name off his tongue like honey, the sound making you lean in closer, “you’ll be paid generously for your trouble.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a dangerous man, Dean Winchester.”

“And you don’t seem like the type to play it safe,” he shoots back, tipping his glass toward you.

He’s right, of course. This is the kind of thrill you can’t turn down, not with a man like him by your side. “When do we start?” 

Dean turns toward the window, where the faintest glow of pre-dawn light softens the edges of the night. Only his eyes flick back to you, a hint of teasing swirling in the green, “Sunrise ain’t for a few more hours.”

You finish the last sip of your drink and set the glass down, standing with a grin. “Lead the way, cowboy.”

He pushes back his chair, unfolding with the grace of someone who’s always ready to move as he slips on his leather jacket. “I reckon we’ll make a damn good team, me and you.”

@a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles <3 ily ily ily mwah

after a night out ࿓ best friend’s dad!jensen

intro to bsf!dad!jensen .ᐟ

summary: jensen catches you tipsy in his kitchen after a night out with your friends.

warnings: none tbh, yearning, teasing, soft touches, reader is tipsy, mention of kissing others (bsf!dad!jensen x reader)

✰ ༢ུ࿓

it had been a long night of drinking, dancing, kissing pretty boys against the sticky walls of the nightclub, and feeling absolutely nothing as their wandering hands groped and squeezed at your body.

a typical night out… to say the least.

your regular spot—the beanbag on the floor of your best friend’s room, accompanied by the various pillows and blankets—felt off. you were tossing and turning, overheating and dehydrated from all the alcohol, and overstimulated from your pyjamas twisting around your body and your unruly hair getting in your face.

you stood up with a quiet yet drunken huff of annoyance, rising to your feet in the darkness of the room, your best friend’s quiet snores filling the otherwise silent space. you closed your eyes for a moment, your head spinning a little as you found your bearings.

you managed to stumble out into the dim light of the hallway, your footfalls heavy on the wooden floor, highlighted by the silver moonlight peeking in from the windows. your feet led you down the familiar path to the kitchen. it was dark and silent, apart from the clock ticking on the wall.

you felt at ease just existing in the heavy silence of the night. your eyes squeezed shut in protest as you flicked on the overhead light, and a quiet groan escaped your throat, cutting through the quietude. you drunkenly rubbed your tired eyes, smearing the leftover mascara you’d failed to completely remove barely an hour ago.

after a moment, you stepped further onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor and swung open the cabinet filled with the drinking glasses, grabbing one.

“oh.”

you jumped at the sudden voice behind you, your body flinching. you turned around. jensen stood in the doorway with a lazy smile spread across his face, his hair tousled, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black shirt that clung to the muscled expanse of his shoulders and arms. goddamn, that sight was going to be burned into your brain until the end of time.

“it’s you,” he commented quietly, taking in your appearance at the late hour, letting his gaze fall down your body before meeting your eyes. “you look a mess, sweetheart.”

you couldn’t help your lips from tugging into a reluctant, yet amused smile, or the way your cheeks heated up at his playful jab—exacerbated by the alcohol still flowing through your system. the combination made your cheeks aglow, and you lowered your head in embarrassment, trying to save face under his fixated gaze.

“feel even better,” you muttered jokingly in return, your voice hoarse from pounding back straight liquor over the course of your night out. you turned back towards the sink to fill up your glass, still avoiding his eyes, though you could feel them piercing into your back.

a small sound of amusement came from low in jensen’s throat. he stepped towards you, watching as you shut off the water. “told you girls not to drink so much… but you never listen to me,” he chuckled softly, the sound gentle but laced with that teasing undertone you’d grown so used to.

you sipped your water as you turned to face him once again and took a moment to stare at him, trying to find a quick response in the depths of your tipsy brain. however, you realised you’d been silent probably a fraction too long as the room filled with an awkward and undeniable tension, the only sound tick tick tick from the clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

jensen shifted on his feet and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, basking in the discomfort radiating off of you. his green eyes bored into you, studying you with an almost calculated stare, waiting to see how you’d respond to his playful attempt at displaying his “authority” over you.

“didn’t drink too much,” you finally replied, leaning against the counter opposite him, trying to appear nonchalant, like your heart wasn’t racing from just his presence alone. you took another sip of your water, watching his smile quirk into a small smirk.

“oh, yeah?” he asked, his brows raising as he watched you. he tilted his head, the gesture challenging, yet filled with jest. 

his gaze shrunk you down, stripping you of all the defences you’d tried so hard to build up over the years since you first developed your stupid crush. you felt like he could see right through you, and you didn’t know why you weren’t completely mortified by that.

you shifted your weight on your feet and cleared your throat. “yeah,” you offered back with a shrug, trying to keep up your bravado of indifference.

“then what’s with the…“ jensen trailed off, raising a hand and gesturing to his face.

“what?” you scoffed out in a smile, now crossing your arms—a little in defence, and maybe a little in defiance.

“your eyes, little lady. y’got makeup all smudged under them, looks like you got punched in the eye. there’s no one i need to go out and knock on their ass for hitting my girl is there?” he smirked, this time not so subtly, letting his words linger in the air as that fucking expression shot straight down to your core. his girl. damn right.

your hands rubbed under your eyes after you’d placed your glass down, your heart thumping against your ribcage as you tried to wipe away the black smears. “no,” you huffed with a smile, “no fighting needed, jensen.”

“good,” he murmured, stepping towards you, “i’d be sad if someone was slinging fists your way, honey. y’too sweet to be gettin’ into fights.”

you blinked up at him, dropping your hands as he approached; your body language was open to him, welcoming his proximity as he neared closer.

“wouldn’t want to see you hurt. i’d hate that,” he continued, his voice still a soft murmur. he raised his hand, letting it linger just a centimetre from your skin, hesitating for a moment, before finally making contact. his thumb gently rubbed at the stubborn mascara under one of your eyes, his palm resting on your cheek. the feeling of his skin against yours was searing, setting the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. your breath caught in your throat for a moment; his touch felt good, like it belonged there.

your eyelids fluttered shut, silently submitting to his touch, and you felt his gaze deepen. it was intense and all-consuming, kind of like standing under a spotlight, but it was gentle at the same time, like it was one you’d been under a thousand times.

“mmm,” jensen hummed, “my messy girl.” his quietly spoken words made your heartbeat stutter. his. it’s like he knew exactly how to take you apart without even trying. the butterflies grew more rampant in your stomach, his words forcing goosebumps to grow on your skin. “at least this shows you had fun tonight though, right?”

your eyes flickered open, blinking up to meet his. your eyes locked, and his smile grew, making a warmth bloom in your chest. jensen’s thumb stilled under your eye, but he left his hand cupped against your cheek, the heat between your skin sending tingles down your spine, straight to your core. you had to fight off the urge to turn and place a kiss on his palm, or better yet, take his thumb into your mouth.

“yeah, had a lot of fun tonight…” you muttered with a soft smile, letting your eyes dance between his green irises, so deep and soulful you could just drown in them if he’d let you.

“yeah?” he asked, letting his hand slip down to grasp the side of your jaw. he rubbed his thumb along your cheek, his eyes sparkling with mirth, drinking you in, as you tried to not physically react to his touch. 

“yeah.”

“did you kiss any boys?”

you paused, your whole body tensing, completely thrown off by his question. you tried to not let the surprise show on your face, but jensen could see right through you.

“s’alright if you did, baby. you’re a pretty girl. lots of boys’d be lining up for a kiss, i’d imagine,” he purred out his words, and you felt like you could just melt right then and there.

your throat bobbed as you swallowed down the words you wanted to say. no boy would ever beat you, jensen. i want you first in line. every time.

instead, your smile grew sheepish, and your eyes darted away for a moment, fighting off the blush from staining your cheeks. an awkward chuckle bubbled up your throat, an attempt to diffuse the tension he’d built between you.

“umm,” you began, “yeah, i— i kissed a boy… or two.” your eyes met his once again, falling back into the trap of his unwavering stare. you searched his face, your heart beating as you waited for a response. you felt guilty. why did you feel guilty?

you caught the way the corner of his lip twitched, threatening to curl ever so subtly at your words, and the guilt intensified tenfold in your chest. why did you admit that to him? why didn’t you just lie?

“yeah?” he asked, letting his face fall back into a neutrally intrigued expression, guarded almost. “did you like it?”

your brows pinched together. 

“like what?” you asked, part of you hoping he’d just drop it. you didn’t think you could keep your face from flushing any longer; you didn’t want him to see you so flustered over a silly question.

“getting kissed?” he clarified, the words falling from his mouth like it was a totally normal thing to be asking you.

“i— it was—” you mumbled, trying to find the words. “yeah, it was… alright. i was drunk,” you finally concluded, hoping to cease any misinterpretations of your prior actions that night. they were just kisses; you were drunk.

“just alright?” jensen asked, tilting his head once again, still caressing your cheek. “you don’t need to lie to me, sweetheart. you can kiss all the boys you want and enjoy it if you like.”

“i know,” you said a little too quickly out of panic. you mentally smacked yourself when you saw his eyes narrow the slightest bit. fuck. that’s not what you meant to say. i don’t want to kiss anyone but you, jensen. only you.

“mm, doesn’t mean you should.”

the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock trickled out into the background, a new silence swallowing you whole. you stood staring up at him, your tipsy brain trying to scramble through the mess his words left in your head. doesn’t mean you should.

“i— it was just—” you sputtered out, suddenly feeling like a deer in headlights.

jensen shook his head and gently patted your cheek. “just be careful, sweetheart. want you looking after yourself f’me. don’t want a boy breaking that sweet little heart of yours. it’s too innocent, too good for this world. you deserve the best, you know that?”

your brain felt like it was seconds away from exploding and seeping out of your ears. you struggled to make sense of his words, trying to search between them as the silent seconds flew by.

but then suddenly

out of nowhere

he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. your eyes instantly fell closed, the breath from your lungs stilling for a moment as the world around you slowed down. this… this was new.

“you get to bed, baby. i’ll cook you girls a big breakfast tomorrow. the ackles’ hangover special,” he mumbled against your hair, his hand still holding your face.

you hummed; you didn’t trust yourself with words.

“sleep tight, sweet girl.” jensen finally pulled back and shot you a smile, the type of smile that makes your knees go weak. every. single. time.

all you could do was nod, your eyes grasping onto the micro-expressions on his face. god, he was so hard to read, so guarded when he wanted to be, so confusing.

jensen nodded in return. he took a moment to let the sight of you sink in, really sink in, before he turned on his heel and headed towards the door with a smile on his face.

your heart sunk to your stomach as the distance between you increased, missing the warmth of his hand against your cheek, his lips against your hair, his body cocooning yours against the counter, the smell of his cologne that you breathed in like it was fresh air.

a sigh escaped your lungs as he finally disappeared into the hallway. your legs felt like jelly, and that bloody aching sensation had grown between your thighs.

it was going to be a long night.

fig yaps: this felt… awfully restrained compared to my last post,, BUT i wanted to establish their dynamics before they go crazy sucking and fucking !!! anywhoooo thank u for the love on the og post !!! i feel like my inbox has been flooded, and all the kind (also kinda batshit) comments have made my week and made me so eager to write !!! love y’all freaks PLS keep sending me ideas i wanna start writing actual smut for this delicious man i just gotta plan it out omg

also thank u for 1.6k too !!!!!! 🤯

feedback and reblogs are welcome and encouraged as always! thank yaaaa <3

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