"Here’s To Forever" - Sam imagine (new material) in which the Winchester proposes, the happy couple celebrating their engagement in their motel room. Smut.

"Well, This Is Awkward" - Both brothers imagine edited/reposted. The brothers gang up on the reader, their sister, when they find a certain object beneath her motel bed, springing to action as overprotective parents. Fluff.

"Broken Bottles" - Dean imagine edited/reposted. The reader notices Dean’s been hiding his emotions behind bottles of alcoholic beverages, and begins to worry that his habit may eventually turn to a worse practice. She intervenes, opening the floodgates. Fluff.



After school tomorrow, I’ll be able to write some more for you all. Once I hear back from the most recent BFC winner, I’ll know what character and genre I’ll be writing, but I also have some new work planned for some Sam smut. I’ll try to focus mainly on Castiel tomorrow, with that smut coming as well, if I have time between schoolwork and sleeping. If I have time after posting two imagines, I’ll edit some Crowley for you all. I have plenty of brain time to plan out imagines in study hall tomorrow, so if you have any requests, don’t be hy! I’ll see you all tomorrow. Until then, over and out, my minions.

Dean imagine requested by puffthemajicdragon! This imagine has been edited for reposting, just to add details I’d skimped out on with my beginner’s writing. Hope you like it!

Your boyfriend Dean had never been one for talking about his feelings, that much was written over his features in permanent ink, his world-roughened composure speaking as much without uttering a single word. He usually just drank away his pain, draining his stresses and worries into a bottle within his brain, shoving a cork so far down the neck that he’d need to shatter the entirety of the glass to retrieve the spongy nub, a habit he admitted was far from healthy, but that he promised was effective nonetheless. More often than not, he was drinking, and that commonplace activity had escalated in the past week. He swapped his routine coffee for a bottle of whiskey, slugging the murky liquid back from the bottle, lips pursed at the bite of the alcohol, his eyes glassy long before the sun had risen to the center of the sky, though he somehow kept his thoughts in order. You’d found him passed out in a puddle of his own vomit more than once, though it was more common to find him asleep on the couch, aluminum beer cans littering his form beside the newspaper clippings he’d been dissecting. It was that bad. Something had to be done. You wouldn’t allow his indulgence to reach addiction heights. You’d force the trouble from him, even if it meant swinging his bottle of emotions against the motel wall.

When he returned home (“home” here meaning “rented room”) from pretending to be an officer of the law, you had your intervention planned out, words and phrases sorted into columns by his possible reactions. He shut the door behind him, suit crinkling as he strode to your side, kissing your cheek, his lips spreading a tingling of warmth to your skin. You opened your mouth to address him, but he had already turned, heading to the fridge to rummage through his vast assortment of beverages, his back to you as he sauntered away. You steeled yourself for conflict, readying lungfuls of agitated breathe, springing from the couch cushions, positioning yourself between him and the dented refrigerator, his brow instantly pinching in confusion. He stepped to the side, your shoulders turning to bar his passage to the metal cooler, your spine melting into the mysteriously battered door, hands protecting your tailbone as you clenched your jaw, watching his eyes glimmer with perplexity. Dean laughed, his chuckle short lived and breathy from lack of patience, shaking his head from side to side at what was, in his mind, an ill-timed joke, your refusal to move apparently an unwanted extension of your humour, his exhaustion hardening his gaze as his hand reached behind you, groping for the handle, his forearm attempting to move you out of his way, but you held your ground, shimmying to the side until his hand was forced to release its hold on the door’s opening. He held up his hands in irritated bewilderment, emerald eyes wide with aggravation.

“Dean, we need to talk.” You whispered, keeping your gentle voice somewhat stern, asserting yourself as an authoritative figure, your eyes locked on his. He nodded his head slower than usual, exaggerating his movements to display his annoyance, his eyes dropping to the door you had shielded with your body, his attention sapped from your form, his one-track mind already occupied with other thoughts.

“We can talk, sure, just let me grab a few beers,” he sighed, reaching for the door once more. You put your hands against his chest, spreading your fingers against his clothed muscles, applying a forceful, yet goodnatured, shove. his body rocking back on his heels, his balance thrown off by your timid little shove, his eyes refocusing on yours with potent clarity. He raised his hands, this time in mock surrender, stepping backwards from the refrigerator, trying to register your attack as you propped yourself up and away from the frigid vault. You laced your fingers through his, leading him to the couch by his hand, tugging him along behind you, plopping onto the sunken cushions to sit cross-legged, facing him as he lowered himself beside you. He turned his body, unwilling to cross his legs like a, and you quote, “Goddamn three year old,” lips pursed as he awaited your explanation, deep purplish circles bruising beneath his eyes presenting his state of sleep deprivation to the world. He looked irritated, but your words had to be said. You’d be damned if you didn’t try to protect him from becoming something he wasn’t over problems he could just as easily verbalize.

“Dean, your drinking’s been getting kind of hefty.” You started, your voice dropping into a steady whisper. Dean’s eyes immediately rolled, his head shaking in frustration, scoffing at your comment, mumbling something about overreactions beneath his breath, voice gravelly with his exasperation. He began to stand, but you wrapped your hand around his wrist, pulling him back down to your level, his body collapsing on the couch, his eyes focused on the ceiling, his jawline flexing as he ground his teeth.

“Y/n, I don’t want to ta-“

“You’re gonna have to!” You said sternly, your voice raising an octave as you cut his sentence short. His eyes bored down into yours, all agony and hidden terror and unadulterated frustration, the hardening of his gemstone eyes taking a whack at your confidence. For the first time since the beginning of your relationship, you caught a glimpse of the fury the monsters saw in the man’s eyes… and it frightened you something terrible.

“I’m not going to talk about it.” Dean countered, his voice a bitter grumble, tainting the smoke-sloshed motel air with a different kind of tangible discomfort, his lips tight in a menacing sneer, every inch of his composure daring you to continue, which of course you did.

“Then I suppose this is the last conversation we have.” You said sadly, your statement both persuasion as well as fact. You didn’t want to spend your relationship locked out of his mind, playing second-fiddle to a bottle of whiskey, but you hoped your threat of desertion would bait him into unraveling. Dean’s eyes softened, shock painting his features as you rose from the couch, his jaw snapping closed with a faint shudder as his teeth met. He licked his lips, face turning to the ceiling, eyes stagnant on a vein-like fragment in the plaster as he bobbed his head. He wiped his hand over his stubble… and you noticed he was trying not to cry, his plump lower lip trembling despite the efforts he put in to keep his form rigid. Well, you managed to open the can of worms, that’s for damn sure, but now you weren’t so sure it had been the smartest idea. Perhaps a minor crack in the bottle would have sufficed? Your second-guessing came too little, too late as his emotion-void features crumbled. His face was fragile, the standard mask people put on when they need to keep it together showing fissures as he ducked his face, continuing to hide his features. He subtly transformed a ragged inhale into an aggressive clearing of his throat, his hands clutched in his lap. You reached your hand out to touch his quivering shoulder, your contact somehow unlocking the overflowing floodgates. Dean broke down, tears free falling to the floor, bending over his thighs as he wept. His breaths came quicker, his face struggling to find it’s usual steely facade only to fail, your palm smoothing over his back. You scootched closer to him, inviting him into your arms. So often, this position was reversed, but now Dean had his face buried in your shoulder, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. You rubbed soothing shapes over his suited spine, and suddenly your arms were strong enough to crush the harshness of the world from his feeble form. If only you could.

“I just can’t stop wondering when it’s gonna happen, Y/n.” He whimpered, his deep voice unbalanced and wavering. “When you’re gonna be killed. Everyone I love ends up six feet under or smoking on a pyre. I can’t do anything to stop it… and you’re innocent, like my mom was, but she…” he trailed off, pulling out of your embrace, wiping at his face and shaking his head, his face shifting back beneath the mask as his calloused hands stroked over his prickly stubble, stretching his skin. “There are so many ways they can get to me. They’ll do to you what they did to my mother. They’ll do it to break me, but I just can’t stand losing you like I lost her. Coming home and seeing you on the ceiling is in every single one of my nightmares, Y/n. I don’t think you understand the fear when I open a door. So I’m sorry for the drinking, but it’s the only way I know how to handle things. I didn’t realize it was-” You silenced him with a kiss, his lips tasting of salt water and misery.

“Dean, they can’t touch us. What happened to your mom… it won’t play out like that. I promise. But you can’t just drown yourself and expect me to magically be immune to evil. If we want to be safe, Dean, we have to work through it all together.” You breathed, his forehead rocking forward to meet yours. He nodded, his movement running through you, biting his lip to keep from crying again. You smiled at him, holding his hand in yours and planting a second kiss on his sharp cheek. He grinned at you through watery eyes, the shattered fragments of glass dissolving within his chest.

Anonymous Asked
QuestionHi! Are you taking requests at the moment? Answer


Right, minions, so I’m going back and forth between homework and editing and planning the rest of my night, so my radio-silence has an excuse. I’m just going to finish the handful of assignments before I get back online. Over and out.

A both brothers imagine requested by anon! This imagine has been edited for reposting to ham up the details I left out in my beginner’s writing. Hope you like it!

Your brothers were dragging you from the normalcy of your life to haul you on yet another road trip, your body sliding effortlessly into the backseat of their unmistakable Chevrolet Impala, the scents of world-worn leather upholstery (not to say it was in poor condition. Dean would never let his Baby fall into disrepair, that much was fact) and their combined cologne wafting over your every sense as they turned to greet you, whisking you away from your tedious lifestyle. Knights in shining armour often came galloping along in classic cars, their gleaming breastplates swapped out for patterned flannel and leather jackets, their swords replaced by the clunking arsenal of firearms they kept hidden in their steed’s rear. At least, this was how your fairy tale was playing out, and you’d take their civilian clothes and backseat nap time over the over-dramatic romance of a castle rescue any day. Though you loathed the skeevy motels (run down hotels, if you were lucky enough to find one of the side of the ribbons of highway) with an ardent passion, though the slippery excuses of food made your organs heave in disgust, you always anticipated the unplanned arrival of your brothers with a heightened excitement unmatched by any other aspect of your life. They were your idiot brothers, as far from classy as was humanly possible, but you’d sacrifice a warm shower lasting longer than three minutes to spend time with them in a heartbeat. You hardly ever saw them, not even on Christmas, so whenever they whistled, you ran to them like a lost puppy, leaping gladly into their gleaming obsidian chariot, abandoning your day-to-day grind for the unexpected journey ahead. You didn’t even have to notify anyone of your absence, as the boys had you set up in a home alone, as they wouldn’t trust your life with anyone but themselves. Thus, your plans were always fluid enough to allow for an impromptu escapade with your brothers.

You found yourself in their cheerful company once more, the second day of your sporadic vacation with the brothers coming to a close, sprawling yourself onto the sheet-metal motel mattress, springs prodding from all angles as the wires spiked into your back, leaving you struggling for comfort you knew you would never find. You weren’t staying at the Four Seasons, you had expected the sleeping conditions to be less than satisfactory. You shifted about stiffly, trying to call as little attention to your discomfort as you could, while Sam and Dean carried cardboard take-out boxes your way, steam lifting from the packaging, the aroma of grease-slick meat infiltrating the otherwise stagnant air, twining with the unmistakable odor of sweat and burnt-out cigars left behind by the generous occupant before your family. You sat up, springs boosting you from your attempt at relaxation, extending your hands for another limp salad from Sam, setting the obviously scorching tray on the comforter beside you, fumbling with the stack of plastic utensils he had stacked atop his own dinner. As he struggled to pass you your fork, the mock-silverware fell from his grasp, tumbling beneath your bed with a meek clamour. You bent to retrieve your cutlery, Dean waving his hand at you, his cheeks bulging with his ambitious intake of food.

“I got it,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of greasy meat, his lips carrying the lights above along the oil smeared across his mouth, dropping to his knees and sliding underneath your bed, his hand slapping around as he reached blindly below your mattress. You could see the muscles in his back stretching as searched, Sam setting himself a makeshift table on the twin mattress beside your own, peeling the lid from his take—out box, intensifying the strong scent of meat upon meat upon glorified meat, licking the gravy from his fingertips as he balanced his meal on his lap. All of a sudden, Dean back went rigid beneath the bed, something crinkling as he began to move once more. He slowly slid out from under the bed, his face frozen in an angered mask, his jaw hardened, his lips pursed, fork in one hand, wrinkling foil candy wrapper in the other. His eyes glared daggers in your direction, accusing you without words, causing your brow to furrow in confusion. It was a candy wrapper, for Christ’s sake, not a grenade. He raised the little foil wrapper higher than the fork, the metallic scrap held between his index and middle fingers, his voice shaky. “What is this?” He asked, his low voice barely scraping along a whisper. Sam stopped chewing beside you, his head flashing to you, his eyes wide. Clearly, you were missing some crucial detail the hunters had picked up on. You opened your mouth to reply that it was just a wrapper, to chide them for looking at you like a criminal when you hadn’t even indulged in the candy, that it was just as likely for it to be the former occupant’s garbage than your own when you noticed the writing on the wrapper. Trojan. Oh God, it was a condom wrapper. 

“You think that’s mine?” You choked out, your face flushing crimson under their furious gazes. Sam walked over, his face a gentler version of Dean’s, yet shocked nonetheless, his hands perched on his hips, looking very much the authoritative figure building up the nerve to fire a colleague.

“No,” Dean growled, “I think it’s a guy’s, but what I want to know is why it’s under your bed, Y/n.” He growled, crumpling the evidence in his palm, storming towards the corner of the bedroom, mumbling under his breath. “We leave you alone for one afternoon. Unbelievable.” You looked to Sam for help, desperate for him to see your innocence, but your brother merely shook his head, his mouth ajar with disbelief.

“Its not mine, I swear!” You cried, neither brother acknowledging your plea. Sam lowered himself down on the mattress adjacent to yours, his face in his hands, fingers rubbing at his temples, his sigh as frustrated as you felt.

“Y/n, you shouldn’t even know what that is, let alone use it. Just because we’re not around doesn’t mean you can be reckless. You’re way too young to be using those.” He said, voice weary as he rubbed at his eyelids, attempting to clear his mind of your predicament. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re using protection, but as your brother, I’d rather you didn’t use anything and just…” He sighed, lifting his eyes to yours, hands falling to his lap, shoulders raising.

“Uh…” Dean mumbled from across the room, his face warped in confusion, voice quiet, lacking the anger it had possessed only moments before. You turned to him, your repeated explanation cut short by his mumble, Sam directing his attention to his brother as well. Dean was flattening the crumpled foil, eyebrows raised as he read the label of the wrapper. He flashed you a closed-lip smile, tucking the wrapper into one of his jean pockets, nodding his head slowly, as if embarrassed. “Yeah, this is mine.” He said quietly, your jaw dropping as you scoffed at his eagerness to accuse, all over his own untidy disposal of his wrapper. “Sorry, Y/n.” He mumbled, quickly leaving the room, ducking into the motel’s kitchen to avoid the piercing glares both you and Sam were throwing his way. Sam sighed, relieved.

Wait. Dean found the wrapper underneath your bed. Your bed. That meant… You flung yourself away from the covers, knocking your dinner over the floor, your urgency disregarding your meal.

“Dean, you had sex on MY BED?” You cried, disgust tainting your scream. Dean’s head appeared from behind the doorway, his eyes rolling, lips pursed in irritation.

“It’s closest to the door!” He explained, returning to the privacy of the kitchen. Sam winced jokingly, patting his bedspread for you to join him. You plopped down next to your brother, your lips downturned.

“We left him alone for one afternoon…” Sam mumbled, chuckling, your own disgruntled giggled joining his. “You can sleep here with me tonight.” He whispered. “And… sorry about before. It’s just, you’re our little sister. We get… overprotective.” He said, pulling you into a warm hug, his arms squeezing you tighter to his chest, forgetting your need to breathe. You’s let the minor discomfort slide, burying your face in his chest, wrapping your arms underneath his, clinging to his body like a life preserver.

“Its fine.” You said into his chest, content despite the drama, glad to be spending time with your brothers, no matter the wild accusations. “How did he even manage…?” you mumbled, Sam shrugging his answer, his chest shaking with his contained laughter. At least he found the situation humorous. The brothers could be unrealistic, untidy, and it had been proved that they could reach the overprotective air of pastor parents, but you loved them nonetheless.


Just wondering, by a show of hands (i.e. answering this post below, sending in an ask or fanmail) how many of you would prefer Dean, Crowley, or Castiel next in the lineup? Let me know, minions, while I work on editing this next Sam imagine. Feel free to drop a genre in there along with your preferred character, whether it be smut or fluff, and I’ll take it into consideration while selecting an imagine to edit.

Still collecting your input, minions. Send in your ideas!

Just wondering, by a show of hands (i.e. answering this post below, sending in an ask or fanmail) how many of you would prefer Dean, Crowley, or Castiel next in the lineup? Let me know, minions, while I work on editing this next Sam imagine. Feel free to drop a genre in there along with your preferred character, whether it be smut or fluff, and I’ll take it into consideration while selecting an imagine to edit.

Sam smut requested by anon! "Sam’s overjoyed that the reader accepted his proposal so her takes her to the bedroom to commemorate this happy moment in his life. Is this okay? It’s not to vague is it?" Perfect request, minion, even if it is short. Your intentions were clear, I give you an A+. I may have gotten a bit carried away from the romance you were probably expecting, but I hope you like it nonetheless!

WARNING- SMUT (begins third paragraph)

The roar of the Impala’s engine cut off with one final snarl as Sam pulled into your current motel’s parking lot, the subtle scent of car exhaust and sun-warmed gravel filtering through the open window to tickle your nose, Sam’s hands falling slack from the steering wheel to slap against his denim-clad thighs. His breath rushed from his lungs, organs deflating as he sighed, his fingers jumping around atop his jeans, his jaw clenching before he turned his face to yours, his eyes lacking their so common glow of excited confidence, trading their signature glimmer for a hardened anxiety you’d yet to see in the man. His gaze locked on yours, his breathing shallow as he inhaled, air hissing through his nose, before his hands darted to his pocket, palm covering the fabric, clearly hesitant. Your eyebrows pinched in confusion, your hand ghosting to the handle of your door, the hunter perking up immediately, his hand shooting to your arm, fingers trembling against your skin as his hand squeezed your wrist lightly, drawing your attention back to his face.

"No, Y/n, I… I just need you in here for a second, I… uh…" he stammered, clearing his throat with a gravelly conviction, his hand pulsing around you. You slid your fingers away from the door, awaiting an explanation. Perhaps he’d fallen ill? There was no chance of injury, as the hunt had been completed by a coworker, per say, before you had arrived, watching the man stumble out of the ramshackle factory, his machete slick with blood, nodding in your direction with an exhausted grin before telling you to head on home, as he’d taken care of the nest. Sam stored his breath, his hand falling from you, ducking into his pocket, his body lacking the fluidity he usually possessed as he extracted… a velvet ring box from it’s hiding place, your heart leaping into your throat. Sam raised his eyes, a nervous smile spreading across his face at your reaction, all wide eyes and dropped jaw, his fingers twiddling with the edges of the cube. "So, Y/n," he began, his eyes sparkling as he spoke your name, tilting his head to the side, dropping his gaze to the dull sheen of the material coating what you hoped was hidden beneath the lid. "Well, I wasn’t exactly planning this to play out this way, but… since we seem to have a lot of time on our hands, I thought, you know, might as well give it a shot." He breathed deeply, pinching the lid as he pulled the box open, revealing a silver banded engagement ring, the diamond sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, shattering spectrums of bright colour around the cabin of the classic Chevy. Your hand fluttered upward, not quite reaching your mouth, hovering just above your heart, motionless in the air. Sam chuckled, taking the bauble between his index finger and thumb, prying the ring from it’s velveteen cushion, his hands steadier as his nerves evaporated. He placed the now empty box on the dashboard, holding the ring between the two of you, his glossy eyes reflecting the shimmering diamond, his lips pressed together. "You’ve stuck with me for this long. Will you marry me?" he whispered, his voice floating in the stagnant air. Your lips spread into a wide smile, a shocked giggle slipping through your teeth as you beamed at the hunter, holding your hand out for him to take, his chest expanding as you nodded, your world shaking at the fervent motion.

"Yes," you spluttered, your eyes surprisingly clear of tears, a feat you didn’t think you’d be able to accomplish at such an emotional level, Sam sliding the band onto your left hand, the circlet fitting snugly against your skin, his palm warming yours. His lips ducked to yours, his hand moving to tilt your face to better agree with his embrace, his fingers tangling in your hair as his tongue traced over your lower lip. His breath blew over your face as he separated himself from you, his forehead angling down to rest against yours, his hand leaving your body to unbuckle his seat belt, finger jamming down onto your release as well before his hands returned to your cheeks, cradling your face as his mouth crashed back against yours, his intensity building with each soft, suction sound. His fingers gripped your hair, your pulse hammering against your rib cage, your heart straining to be free of it’s bone prison. Your hand ghosted to his thigh, an instinctual action, your fingertips tracing over the stitching on his jeans, his hips rutting up to meet the pads of your fingers as they trailed closer to his crotch, a low, breathy grunt grumbling from his throat at the contact. Your breathing was exaggerated as the hunter pulled away, his hand on the door, eyes darkening with lust.

"Okay, get out of the car," he hissed, pressing his weight against the driver’s side door, jogging around the front of the car to your door, increasing your efforts to open your own door, his fingers lacing with yours, tugging you in the direction of the motel. He shoved the key into the door, throwing the plank of wood back against the interior walls, dragging you inside, the door slamming shut by the force of the back of his foot, his hand dropping yours to grip your waist, backing you into the wall, his lips on your again, urgently pulling you closer to his body, his hardness pressing into your thigh. He nipped at your lips, tugging you to him, his hands squeezing along your waist as they ravaged your hips, your body buzzing, ring glinting in the low lighting of the cheap room when your eyes fluttered open. Sam’s lips ducked to your neck, his hips grinding into yours with a practiced patience, your core tingling, delighted by the decadent friction. The hunter’s hands tugged at the hem of your shirt, his nose nuzzling into the hollow behind your ear as he worked the fabric over your head, his hands coming into contact with your bare skin, fingers eagerly unclasping your bra, the material falling limply to the floor, your hands mirroring his movements as you removed his own flannel, fingers lazily unbuttoning down to his hips, proceeding to take a step forward by unbuttoning his jeans as well, tugging the zipper downward, your hand slipping into his pants, his head tipping back as he unraveled, hissing as you stroked along the bulge hardening beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. His head dove forward, lips sucking soon to be bruises into the skin at your neck, his hips bucking into your hand on their own accord, his member twitching at your touch. His own hands worked their way to your pants, reluctantly easing away from your touch to pull your trousers from your legs, his lips finding their way to your waist as you stepped free from the garment, his hands closing around your waist as his lips trailed lower and lower. He reached the elastic of your panties, staring up at you with mischievous eyes, his grin sending ripples of heat through your core. "May I, Mrs. Winchester?" he smirked, your heat stammering at your new name, your head bobbing as you silently gave your permission, his body situated between your legs, lowering his mouth to your heat.

His tongue traced over your folds through the thin cotton of your underwear, your legs clenching around him subconsciously, his hands winding around your thighs to keep them spread as he licked along your center., his fingers moving up along your legs to inch beneath your undergarment, slowly working the piece of fabric to your ankles, guiding your feet from the holes (as your motor controls were otherwise scattered by the sensation of his tongue running over your sensitivity), his lips pressing kisses to your sex between his strokes, a muffled moan piercing the air as he worked himself over you, moving to stand when your fingers clutched at his hair, lifting you to wrap your legs around his torso, carrying you towards the bed, your lips pressing kisses to the thick bands of muscle on his shoulders the whole way. He lowered you to the mattress, his hands massaging your breasts as he moved over you, your hands shimmying his jeans from his body, eyes darting between you to note the throbbing tent in his boxers, his form moving to stand as he removed both garments entirely, his erection slapping against his stomach, the muscles in his abdomen rippling as he lowered himself over you once more, lips connecting to yours, his hands propping his body up on either side of your shoulders. You wrapped your legs around him, your ankles crossing behind his back, as he thrust himself into you, his jaw flexing at the contact, defining a patient pace as his lips molded to yours, your hands twining at the nape of his neck, your bodies shifting with each roll of his hips, your mind fuzzing over with pleasure

Sam’s name worked it’s way from your lips, his breathy reply mingling with his occasional groan, his hand moving between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, your neck arching as his breath rushed over your collarbones, pressing sloppy, damp kisses to your chest, his hips meeting yours with every thrust. He moaned your name into your skin, as if his words could tattoo his passion onto your body, his pace increasing as he drew nearer to his release, the intensity of his movements hauling you along with him, your muscles clenching around him as you dangled from the edge. Sam pulled you by your hips to him, working himself back into a kneeling position, lowering you onto his length, his face buried in your neck as you clung to his body, your legs shivering as the new angle pushed you from the precipice, black splotches barring your vision of the hunter’s eyes squeezing shut, his hips snapping up to meet yours once last time before a new warmth spread within you, his claw-like hands relaxing on your waist. You circled your hips once, elongating your high pleasures, Sam letting out a desperate moan at his sensitivity before bringing his lips back to yours, his forehead glistening with sweat. Your hands settled against his cheekbones, the chilling metal of your engagement ring reminding you that this would be your forever, wrapped in the arms of your lover.

Right, you know the drill. The next post will contain NSFW content, which I will tag with “supernatural smut” were you to wish to ignore the topic at hand. If you’re fine with this kind of writing, stay tuned. I’m about halfway done (I know it took me a while, but I had writer’s block) so expect the imagine to be posted in a little under an hour. Feel free to skim past it if smut makes you uncomfortable. Coming at you soon, minions. Over and out.

Anonymous Asked
QuestionOkay your writing is freaking fantastic and I was wondering if you could do a Henry Winchester imagine? It's fine if you can't. You're just such a good writer and sorry I'm fangirling you so hard. Answer

THANK YOU! I’d love to write for Henry! If you have any ideas, send them in!