Dean x Reader One Shots

The Twinkie Taker (Fluff) (Dean with a broken leg)

Summary: Imagine dealing with Dean when he has a broken leg.

Word Count: 1,578

You couldn't sneak into the bunker when there was a guard dog perched on the couch just inside the front door, and you most certainly couldn't sneak when that guard dog was jacked up on a mixture of caffeine and nerves while you were gone on a hunt with his brother.

Sam was fine. You were fine. The two of you hunted and it went just fine.

Dean on the other hand? You were sure Madness had the poor man around the throat by now, especially since he was nearly homicidal after having spent the last few weeks couch bound, his ball-and-chain being a hard, plaster, full-leg cast that made it rough to sit up, let alone walk. No, his eyes were wide when you tried to walk into the bunker as silently as possible, only for your resolve to shatter when you saw him staring at the front door with his fingers on his good knee, bouncing around while he raised his eyebrows.

Dean cleared his throat as you made your way down the stairs, Sam close behind you.

"How were the vamps?"

"Vampy," your voice was low, the word hardly enunciated when you finally got to the bottom of the stairs and made your way over to Dean, planted a small kiss on his forehead. His hand was sweaty against your forearm when he reached for you while you leaned down to kiss him and you took that as a sign of his clear(er) nerves. A smile sliding across your cheeks, you pulled away from Dean's forehead and brought each of your hands to cup his cheeks, his fingers still wrapped around your forearms while he frowned at you. "But we're fine, kicked ass as a matter of fact. Not a single scratch on either of us."

Dean's eyes shot up to your forehead, lingered a moment, then made their way down your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose, to your lips, your chin, then finally back up to your eyes.

"Not my blood," you patted his cheek and leaned back, shaking his hands from your forearms as you backed away from him. You allowed a small nod in the direction of the bathroom before looking back at Dean with a smile, ignoring his still-present frown when you began walking toward it. "I'm going to clean up, I smell like bats."

"The vampire bat thing is a myth, you know," Dean's voice was a bit loud as he called over his shoulder and you smirked, shook your head even though you knew there was no one to see it.

Yes, you knew.

You sat by Dean after you showered, changed, even dragged the couch (with him on it) into the living area to watch some movies; that was all he could do, after all, so listening to him spew some film trivia was hardly anything to complain about. At least he wasn't asking to arm wrestle again, since the only muscles he could use without busting out of his cast were in his upper body.

Your arm was sore for like three days after the arm wrestling matches. You held your own, sure, even beat him once or twice, but no. Never again.

"Are you hungry?"

"I've been eating Twinkies all day," Dean chuckled to himself a moment, then you felt his arm lift off your shoulder to point toward the kitchen. "Great thing about these old bastards is they still knew the delicacies of Hostess."

You turned to look up at Dean—he was still laying on the couch while you sat on the ground in front of him, his arm now thrown over your shoulder to allow his hand to hang limply at your chest once again—and raised your eyebrows.

"Did it taste good?"

He shrugged, returned his attention back to the movie. "When they say those babies don't get old, they weren't lying. It tasted like heaven in a soft, perfectly baked dough, no lie."