Did You See That Phil’s Recording For The Talent Works Podcast Too? It’s On His Schedule For Vidcon

still the best video on the planet 🐶😂

hi.

me_irl

⊹౨ৎ ₊˚ i'm home,

summary. dean comes home after weeks away.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 1216

notes. slight smutty ; mdni!

The front door swings open with a heavy thud. The sound is sharp enough to make your breath hitch, but you know it’s him—there’s no hesitation, no fumbling with the lock. Just the unmistakable weight of Dean stepping into the house.

Your heart jumps. You weren’t expecting him. You never do. His job—whatever the hell he does in that mysterious, classified “military” role he claims—keeps him away for days, sometimes weeks. He doesn’t have a schedule, doesn’t give you warning. He just shows up, worn and bruised, carrying the weight of something you don’t fully understand.

And yet, the second you hear his duffel bag drop, you’re moving.

You rush toward the door, socked feet slipping slightly on the hardwood, your body already reaching for him before you can think. And then there he is.

A mess.

Blood stains his shirt in dark patches, dirt streaks his jawline, and sweat clings to his skin. He smells like engine grease, like gunpowder, like Dean. His knuckles are raw, split open in places, his lip swollen, a thin cut riding high on his cheekbone.

But he’s here. He’s whole. And the smile he gives you—crooked, exhausted, so full of warmth it makes your chest ache—tells you everything you need to know.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice like gravel, and suddenly you’re breathing again.

“Dean.” His name comes out as an exhale of relief, as you throw your arms around his neck, pressing yourself into him. He grunts at the force of it but doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, wrapping you up tight. His fingers splay across your back, holding you against the solid heat of his body, as if he needs the reassurance just as much as you do.

“Missed you,” you murmur against his neck, feeling the rough scrape of stubble against your lips.

Dean lets out a breath, his grip tightening. “Missed you more.”

You pull back just enough to take him in—his tired green eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the exhaustion he wears like a second skin.

“You look like hell,” you whisper, reaching up to brush your thumb over the cut on his cheek.

Dean huffs a laugh, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. “You should see the other guy.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know what battles he fights, what enemies he faces out there, but you know one thing—he always comes back. To you.

“You’re here,” you murmur.

“I’m here,” he echoes, voice low and sure.

His eyes flick down to your lips, and that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes against yours, swallowing the words you might have said. It’s desperate, aching, a kiss that feels like a promise and a prayer all at once. His hands roam over your back, up your sides, gripping, holding. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and he groans into your mouth.

You barely register the way he starts moving, guiding you backward until your back meets the bedroom door. He kicks it open, walking you inside without breaking the kiss, without letting you go.

His hands slip beneath your shirt, palms rough and warm against your skin, tracing the curve of your waist before tugging the fabric up and over your head. He drinks you in like he’s been starved, his eyes dark, pupils blown.

“God, you're so beautiful,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping and sucking in a way that has heat curling low in your belly.

You reach for his shirt, but he beats you to it, yanking it off and tossing it aside. The sight of him—battered, scarred, but so breathtakingly solid—makes your pulse stutter.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, tracing just under the wound on his upper arm that was poorly patched up. Messy stitches, made by his brother Sam—which you had yet to meet.

Dean catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your fingers. “I’m fine,” he assures you. “Better now.”

He backs you up toward the bed, lips meeting yours again, slower this time, more reverent. His hands work their way down, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings, pushing them past your hips. They fall to the floor, and then he’s lifting you, laying you down with careful hands.

He follows you down, settling between your legs, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way. His lips never leave yours, not even when he reaches for your panties, tugging them down and tossing them blindly—where they land somewhere near the dresser, forgotten.

His fingers trace along your thighs, slow and teasing, sending shivers up your spine.

“Dean,” you breathe, arching into him.

He groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “You have no idea how much I love hearing you say my name like that.”

He kisses his way down your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands roam your body, memorizing, relearning, making up for every second of lost time.

When his fingers dip between your thighs, you whimper, hips rolling up into his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, watching the way you fall apart for him. "You always this needy for me?"

You nod, breathless.

His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark, heavy with something raw. He leans in, voice dropping.

"Missed you so much," he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your stomach. "You have no idea."

Then he’s between your thighs, and all you can do is feel.

The heat of his mouth, the slow drag of his tongue, the way he groans like he’s the one being wrecked by it. He holds you down, grips your hips like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Could be minutes. Could be hours. But by the time he finally drags himself up your body again, you’re panting, dizzy, wrecked.

Dean smirks, kissing you slow, deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Then, just as slowly, he lines himself up and sinks into you.

You both gasp, foreheads pressing together as he stretches you open, fills you in a way that makes you feel whole.

His breath is ragged, his hands trembling where they grip your hips.

"You okay?" he rasps.

You nod, nails raking down his back. "Yeah."

Dean exhales sharply, then moves.

It’s slow, deep, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he wants to remember this. His hands roam your body, his lips press hot kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, voice breaking. "You know that, right?"

Your heart clenches. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

"Always," you whisper against his lips. "I'm all yours."

Dean groans, rolling his hips deeper, dragging another gasp from your lips.

The world melts away.

Hours later, you’re tangled together beneath the sheets, your body still humming, your limbs heavy and satisfied. Dean’s arm is slung over your waist, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against your hip.

You shift, turning to face him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You should sleep.”

He huffs a tired laugh, eyes barely open. “Not yet.”

Your lips curve. “Why not?”

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Because I’m home.”

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*sigh* Memories…

Cred to electric_drms on twt

Bleeeeugh om niom niomniom blereegh

Still I’m happy with it.