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fanfictionalraven · 1 month

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Faithfully

Title: Faithfully

Song Inspiration: Faithfully by Journey

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, other SPN characters

Word Count: 4, 904

Warnings: Pregnancy

Author's Note: This was an anonymous request. Such a beautiful song and so perfect for Dean. Thanks for the idea Anon!!

Highway run into the midnight sun,

Wheels go ‘round and ‘round, you’re on my mind,

Restless hearts, sleep alone tonight,

Sendin’ all my love along the wire.

“Another?” The bartender asks Dean, pointing to the beer he’d been nursing for a while.

“No thanks. Work tomorrow,” Dean tells him, tossing some cash onto the bar. He and Sam had rolled into town a little earlier in the day. Some case Sam had found; a witch or shifter or…something. Dean couldn’t remember.

“Leaving so soon?” A sultry voice asks. Dean looks over to find a gorgeous, young blonde sliding onto the booth beside him. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and leans forward to highlight her ample breasts. A hand reaches for his knee but Dean catches her wrist.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. Not happening,” he tells her, letting her go. She rolls her eyes and stands, moving to her next target. Dean laughs lightly, shaking his head.

A few years ago, that would have been all the invitation he’d have needed. They would have wandered out to the Impala, maybe made it back to her place for a night of meaningless sex, and he would have returned to Sam first thing in the morning, satisfied. But all that had changed almost a year ago.

As he heads out of the bar and into the cold, he pulls his phone out, smiling at the screen. The picture that greets him is one of his favorites. It’s from the small “vacation” the two of you had taken only a couple months ago. It was one of Bobby’s old safe houses he’d told Dean about; a beautiful little cabin out by a lake. Dean had snapped the picture of you sitting on the small dock, feet dangling off the edge. You’d teased him about pursuing a career in photography after seeing it.

He finds your name with ease and calls as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his car. It rings twice before you pick up.

“Hey,” you answer. Dean smiles immediately at your voice.

“Hey,” he replies. “Bad time?”

“For you? Never,” you laugh lightly. He smiles even wider at your laugh.

“Still in Utah?” The familiar sound of the Impala’s engine roaring to life comes through the phone.

“Yea. Found the nest though. Taking it out tonight,” you tell him, as you lean back against your car.

“On your own?” Dean asks, voice laced with concern.

“No, Dean,” you say, smiling to yourself. “I’m not stupid, ya know?”

“That’s not what I meant, Y/N,” he says. “Just…you know…”

“Awwww. You worried about me, Winchester?” You tease him, pushing off the car and walking to your trunk.

“Always,” he admits, almost too quietly for you to hear. Almost. Your smile softens as you open the trunk, glancing around at your weapons.

“You just calling to check up on me?” You ask, pulling a machete out to check the blade.

“No…just…missed you,” he confesses. You swing the machete around quickly to test it out. “Haven’t seen you since…”

“The cabin,” you finish. “I know. I miss you too.”

The two of you had been off and on for the majority of the time you’d known each other. It had mostly been a friends with benefits situation until last year. Suddenly, you were way more on than off. It was starting to feel like a real relationship. You hadn’t slept with anyone else and Dean said he hadn’t. You trusted him, of course.

“I’ve been thinking…” Dean starts, seemingly getting the subject away from…feelings.

“Haven’t hurt yourself, have ya?” You ask. You can practically hear Dean roll his eyes.

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to be serious here,” he tells you. You laugh and slam the trunk closed, machete in hand. Your cousin’s car pulls up, parking next to your own. You smile and wave at her.

“Serious. Right. Sorry. Go ahead,” you say.

“I was thinking you should come to the bunker,” he says. You smile and roll your eyes.

“I was planning to come by after this,” you tell him. He sighs and cuts the engine off, having reached the motel.

“No, Y/N. That’s not what I meant,” he says. You hold up a finger to your cousin, asking her to give you a minute when she gets out of the car. “You should move…into the bunker…with me.” You’re mid swing on the machete when he asks, causing you to freeze. The machete slips from your hand, landing near your cousin.

“Jesus, Y/N!!” She snaps. You wave a hand at her in apology as you walk away.

“What are you saying, Dean?” You asks. He lets out a chuckle.

“I’m saying that…I’ve really started to hate sleeping alone, sleeping without you. I hate waking up without you,” he starts. “Now, I don’t wanna tie you down or anything. Do your hunts, whatever you want. I just want the bunker to be…home.” You hold the phone away for a moment and breathe deeply. You were mere moments from clearing a vampire nest. You weren’t about to cry. Returning the phone to your ear, you can’t help but smile.

“Dean,” you say. “I’ll go anywhere you go. You’re already my home.” Dean smiles and closes his eyes for a second, thanking anyone who was listening.

They say that the road ain’t no place to start a family,

Right down the line, it’s been you and me,

And lovin’ a music man ain’t always what it’s supposed to be,

Oh, girl, you stand by me,

I’m forever yours,

Faithfully.

You walk into the kitchen of the bunker one morning, stretching. Sam’s already sitting at the table, his laptop open in front of him. You smile at him widely and walk over, kissing his cheek quickly.

“Morning, Sammy,” you tell him. He looks at you and laughs lightly.

“Good morning,” he says, watching as you walk over to the counter, humming. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, swaying to the music in your head. “You’re awful perky this morning.”

“Am I?” You ask, glancing back at him. He laughs and nods. You shrug, leaning against the counter.

“I guess you two had a good Valentine's Day?” He asks.

“We had a great Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.

“Well, I’m glad,” Sam tells you, looking back at his computer. Dean comes in, a smile to rival yours plastered on his face. He walks over and kisses you quickly before getting his own coffee. Sam looks at the two of you and starts to laugh. “Is that a hickey??” He asks. You and Dean exchange glances before Dean moves your hair from your shoulder, examining your neck briefly. He smirks.

“Looks like it,” he says. You laugh and shrug at Sam.

“I said it was great,” you tell him. Dean smiles and pulls you in for another kiss, your arms snaking around his neck.

“I found a case. If either of you care,” Sam announces. Dean sighs as he let you go and turns to his brother, taking a drink of his coffee. “Stacy Altman, 19 year old babysitter from Hudson, Ohio was murdered last night,” he says. Dean nods slightly.

“Oh, that blows. But if her name’s not Amara, how is that us?” He asks. You lean against Dean and he wraps his arm around your waist.

“Because her heart was ripped out,” Sam tells you both. You grimace and Dean nods.

“On Valentine’s Day? What is that, like an ironic werewolf? Alright, we’ll check it out. But first, I need bacon.” Dean gives your waist a squeeze then looks down at you. “You coming?”

“Think I’ll hang back, keep working this Amara thing,” you tell him, going to leave the kitchen. Dean smirks and gives your ass a quick smack. You let out a squeak of surprise and look back at him as you go into the hallway. You just hear Sam mutter something about the two of you being disgusting as you head back towards your bedroom.

Glancing over your shoulder, you close the door behind you before locking yourself in the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror, take a deep breath, then pick up the stick you had left on the counter earlier.

“Please be negative,” you mumble a quick prayer.

You and Dean had only been together for about a year. You were both hunters. God’s sister was currently on the loose and very much out to end the world. This had to be the absolute worst timing. The two of you hadn’t even discussed starting a family. It certainly wasn't on your radar and you couldn’t imagine it was on Dean’s either.

You’d bought the pregnancy test a few days ago when your period failed to make its monthly appearance. You hadn’t mentioned anything to Dean yet, didn’t want him freaking out over nothing. Cause that’s all this was, of course. Nothing.

The timer you had set on your phone goes off and you nearly jump out of your skin. You flip the test over and…

About a day later, Dean pulls the Impala into the garage of the bunker. He sighs as he cuts the car off and lays his head against the steering wheel. Sam looks at him and smiles a little.

“Dean, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s not like you cheated on her,” he says. Dean shakes his head slightly.

“Doesn’t feel different,” he says. “We just had this great day, things were going so well…”

“She won’t be upset, Dean. Come on,” he says, getting out of the car. Dean frowns then gets out as well. They both get their bags and then head to their respective bedrooms. Dean tosses his bag into the corner then sits on the edge of the bed, running his hands over his face.

You make your way down to the room nervously, wringing your hands. You’d been practicing your speech ever since you’d read the test. You had it all planned out and were absolutely prepared to tell Dean. That was until he’d told you they were headed home. The minute you’d received that text, your nerves had gotten the better of you. You had been running every possible bad scenario, each one worse than the last.

“Dean?” You ask, stepping into the bedroom. You frown when you see him so distraught. “What’s wrong??” You ask. He pats the spot next to him and you bite your lip as you walk over. He knows. He already knows and he’s breaking up with me. You sit down next to him and he turns to face you.

“This case…it was a witch, a curse…it was passed by kissing. I kissed the woman who had it and got it passed to me so she was safe,” he explains. You let out a breath and take his hands in your own.

“Dean, did you think I’d be upset about that?” You ask with a laugh. He sighs and shakes his head.

“I’m not finished,” he tells you. Your smile falls slightly and he looks at your hands. “The curse, it takes the form of your deepest, darkest desire and then that person or whatever kills you.”

“I’m…guessing that wasn’t me,” you say. He shakes his head. “Amara?” You already knew before he said anything else. From the moment she’d been freed from her cage, she had some weird connection to Dean. It had only been a few weeks since he told you that she’d kissed him and he couldn’t help but kiss her back. It stung, sure, but you knew it wasn’t Dean.

“I don’t want this, Y/N. I don’t want her. I just can’t shake this hold she has on me. Sitting here with you right now, I want nothing more than to kill her,” he starts quickly. “But when I’m around her, I can’t do anything.” You let his hands go and take his face gently, raising it up to meet yours. You press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips.

“I’m not mad at you, Dean. I know you love me. We’ll shake this Amara thing soon enough and get back to normal,” you assure him. “You and me. And…whoever else comes along.” He looks up at you, confused. You smile at him and stand, walking over to the desk. It isn’t until now that Dean notices the small gift bag sitting on it. “It’s a little late for Valentine’s now but…” You shrug and hand him the bag. He raises a skeptical eyebrow at you before pulling the pink and blue tissue paper out of it. He looks into the bag, then up at you quickly.

“Is this…” He stops before sliding the contents of the bag into his hand. His hands shake as he flips it around, trying to find the little screen for confirmation.

Pregnant.

“Oh my god,” he says, staring down at the test in his hand. “This is…”

A mistake. The worst possible timing. Not what I want at all. You brace yourself against the desk behind you, waiting for the death blow.

“This is…incredible,” Dean says finally, looking up at you. There are tears in his eyes threatening to spill over but his face changes the second his eyes meet yours. “Are you okay?” He asks, jumping up quickly. His hands come to rest on your shoulders as he looks you over. “Y/N, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Which…is really saying something for us.”

“You’re happy,” you say quietly, looking at him. His brow furrows in confusion as he takes in your state.

“What? Of course I’m happy!! I mean…” He stops and shrugs. “Timing could be better but…a baby!!” He lets out a laugh and lifts you into a tight hug, spinning you around the room. You squeal and laugh as well, tears of sheer joy and relief streaming down your cheeks. “I’m gonna be a dad!! Sammy!!” He calls out, setting you on your feet. He grabs your hand and pulls you down the hallway quickly.

Circus life under the big-top world,

We all need the clowns to make us smile,

Through space and time, always another show,

Wonderin’ where I am lost without you,

3…2…1…*beep, beep, beep*

You stare into the microwave as the light goes out. Popping the door open, you grab the bottle and test the milk on your wrist. Perfect temp. You turn to go feed your three month old son and accidentally send the stack of neglected and dirty dishes crashing to the floor.

“Dammit,” you curse, setting the bottle on the counter. Kneeling down, you start to pick up the pieces of the shattered dishes and old food.

“Y/N?” Mary asks, stepping into the room. “What happened?” She comes over quickly to help. You glance up at her and shake your head before hissing in pain. You’d managed to cut your hand on a shard of glass. “Oh, Y/N.” Falling back against the counter behind you, your emotions overwhelm you.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mary,” you cry.

Dean and Sam were missing. They had taken on Lucifer once again and this time he was possessing the president. That was almost two months ago. For two months you've been struggling to take care of your newborn son on your own. Sure, you had Cas and Mary but it wasn’t the same. D.J. needed his father.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I…what do you need me to do?” She asks, handing you a dish towel. Wrapping it around your cut hand, you glance back up at the bottle.

“Could you feed D.J. for me? I just…I need a minute,” you tell her.

“Of course,” she says. She gives your arm a quick, reassuring squeeze before leaving you alone in the kitchen.

You lay your head back against the counter and close your eyes, allowing the tears to fall once again as you contemplate life as a single mother. You knew this life was risky, of course. You knew there was always a chance one of you wouldn’t come back from a hunt. You just didn’t expect it to be two months into actually being parents.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Cas asks, when he sees you. You shake your head, eyes still squeezed closed as you cry.

Cas frowns as he walks over, taking in the disaster that is the kitchen. He hesitates for a moment before carefully sitting down next to you. You lay your head over on his shoulder as the sobs rake through your body. Cas shifts awkwardly and you feel his arm come around your shoulders, comfortingly. The pain alleviates in your hand and you pull it from the towel, perfectly healed.

“Thank you,” you mumble between sobs.

“I wish there was more I could do,” he says. You wipe at your cheeks and shake your head.

“Please stop blaming yourself. You followed the plan,” you tell him, laying your head back on his shoulder.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, you don’t know how long. Eventually, you sit up and find a clean part of the partially bloodied towel to wipe your face. You rise from the floor and look at the mess at your feet before taking in the rest of the kitchen. You’d really let things slide lately. You sigh and shake your head, going to get the trash can. Mary comes back into the kitchen.

“No,” she says. You stop and look at her.

“What?” You ask, confused.

“You need to go get some rest. Take a shower. Take a nap. Refresh and reset,” she tells you, taking the trash can from your hand.

“Mary, there’s too much to do,” you respond, looking around at the kitchen again. It wasn’t just the kitchen either. You knew the library, war room, and bedrooms needed your attention as well.

“Castiel and I will take care of it,” she says, sending a pointed look to the angel as he gets up from the floor. He nods, looking at you.

“Of course,” he says. Looking between the two, you realize there’s no point in arguing. You were absolutely exhausted, barely able to get any sleep the last two months. Mary smiles at you, reassuringly.

“Shower. Bed,” she tells you. You sigh and nod, reaching for the baby monitor but Mary snatches it up quickly. “I’ve got him too.”

“Okay,” you surrender, holding your hands up.

You head down the hall and steal a quick peek in at your son, sleeping soundly in his crib. Continuing down the hall, you go into yours and Dean’s bedroom, closing the door behind you. One hour-long, steaming hot shower later, you slip into one of Dean’s t-shirts then under the covers. You don’t expect sleep to overwhelm you as quickly as it does. Your last thoughts are the same as they’ve been for the last two months.

Where are you, Dean?

And being apart ain’t easy on this love affair,

Two strangers learn to fall in love again,

I get the joy of rediscovering you,

Oh, girl, you stand by me,

I’m forever yours,

Faithfully.

Dean smiles politely at the waitress, taking his order. She was clearly flirting with him even though he’d told her about you and D.J. She walks off to put his order in, dinner for him and Sam to go, and he pulls his phone out to call you. It rings three times before you pick up.

“Hey,” you say, smiling. You’re sitting in the library, having just gotten D.J. down for the night.

“I miss you,” he says with a sigh. “This waitress won’t leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry. Is Dean Winchester complaining about being hit on?” You laugh. He shakes his head as he glances around, his eyes landing on the mechanical bull.

“I told her I had someone back home and a kid. She’s still flirting,” he says, watching as someone gets thrown off. He lets out a chuckle. “I was better than that,” he mumbles.

“What?” You ask.

“There’s a…a mechanical bull,” he tells you. You throw your head back, laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“I would pay to see that,” you tease him.

“Hey. I was awesome,” he assures you.

“Man. I can’t believe I missed that,” you say, still laughing. He smiles and shakes his head before someone catches his attention.

“Babe, I gotta let you go. Think I just got a lead on our case,” he says, standing up quickly. Your smile slips slightly and you nod.

“Be careful,” you tell him before he hangs up. You sigh and lean back in the chair.

“Dean’s been hexed. He’s losing his memory.”

That was the call you’d received from Sam earlier in the day. He thought it might be best if you were there to help. Thankfully, Mary had been in the neighborhood so she could keep D.J. for you. You’d peeled out of the garage, tires squealing as you headed for Arkansas, a 7 and a half hour drive. You make it in six.

You whip into the parking lot of the motel Sam had given you the address to and park next to the Impala. Grabbing your bag, you make for the door of the guys’ room and knock quickly. However, it isn’t Sam or Dean who answer the door but Rowena. Your shock gives way to anger almost immediately.

“Did you do this??” You snap, stepping up to her quickly. Her eyes widen in surprise before she smiles.

“Afraid not, dear,” she says. “But I am here to help.”

“Help? Are you kidding?” You ask, looking at Sam as he steps up behind Rowena.

“I know, I know. But...I didn’t know where else to go,” he explains. You sigh and glance around, spotting Dean sitting on one of the beds. He’s laughing at whatever he’s watching on the TV. He looks over and his eyes lock with yours before he smiles widely.

“Hi,” he says, standing. He remembered you. You smile as you walk over to him.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” You ask, your hands resting on his arms. He looks down at your hands then back at you.

“Much better now that you're here,” he says, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’m, ugh…I’m…”

“Dean,” Sam says, frowning.

“Yea. I’m Dean,” he says, introducing himself. Your smile fades as you take a step back. He didn’t remember you. It was worse than you’d thought. Sam’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder and you shake your head.

“I need some air,” you say quietly before leaving the room. Dean frowns as you go and Sam sighs, ushering him to the bathroom to talk. He explains the situation to him, reminding him of everything, everyone. Dean runs a hand over his face.

“So, after everything…that’s it. This is what nails me,” he says. Sam shakes his head quickly.

“No. No, no. Dean. I-it,” he stops and takes a deep breath. “It’s not gonna happen, all right?” Dean looks at him and Sam can see the fear in his eyes.

“Well, you just told me my whole life story. And I gotta be honest, man. I…I can feel it, slipping out of my head. I mean ganking monsters is one thing. But this…” He covers his face with his hands. “I forgot Y/N and my own son.”

“We’ll figure it out. We will,” Sam assures his older brother before standing up. He leaves the bathroom and finds you outside the door.

“Can I?” You ask, pointing to it. Sam nods and steps out of the way. You push the door open slightly and peek in. Dean is standing over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

“Okay. My name is Dean Winchester. Sam is my brother. Ugh, Mary Winchester is my mom. Cast - Cas is my best friend. Y/N is my wi…girlfr…” He stops and you sigh before stepping into the bathroom.

“Girlfriend,” you provide. He looks over at you then down, embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him, leaning back against the door. He walks over quickly and wraps you up in a tight hug as though clinging to your very memory for dear life.

“I don’t remember what he looks like,” he says quietly. You can hear the crack in his voice, the emotion choking him up. You’re fighting tears yourself now.

“Just like you. Your eyes and everything,” you say.

“What’s D.J. even stand for?” He asks, still clinging onto you.

“Dean Junior,” you tell him. He nods and looks down at you. “You didn’t really want to name him after you but I insisted. Cause I want him to be just like his father.” He smiles a little before leaning his forehead against yours. “We’re gonna fix you, Dean. I swear.” There’s a knock on the door and you glance back.

“Y/N, we need to go,” Sam says.

“I’m coming,” you call back to him. You look up at Dean once more and take his face in your hands. You stand up on your toes, closing the distance between the two of you, and kiss him. You had to tell yourself this wouldn’t be the last kiss the two of you would share. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he tells you. You can’t be sure if he actually means it or if he’s saying it back to spare your feelings at this point. Did he even remember how much you two loved each other? You smile at him before leaving the bathroom and following Sam out the door. Dean rushes out behind you to the desk inside the room. Rowena watches as he jots down a quick note and sticks it in his front pocket. He glances at her and she raises an eyebrow. “Just a reminder…”

The three of you get back to the bunker later the next day, Dean’s memories restored. Mary meets you all in the garage, D.J. in her arms. Dean practically bursts from the car and rushes over, taking his son. Mary smiles as she hands him over.

“Glad you’re better,” she says, patting his shoulder. Dean smiles at her before kissing D.J.’s forehead.

“Can’t believe I forgot him,” he says quietly. You smile as you walk past, heading towards the bedroom to put your bags away. Dean watches you go before looking at his mother. “I need your help.” She nods.

“Of course. With what?” She asks. He pulls a piece of paper from his front pocket.

“I don’t remember writing it but…it’s my handwriting. And I mean…” He trails off as he hands the paper to her. She reads it and her eyes widen before looking back up at him.

A few minutes later, Dean comes down to the bedroom and leans against the door frame, watching you. You’re busy taking the clothes from both of your go bags and putting them into the hamper to take care of later. You glance back and smile.

“I figured you’d still be spending time with D.J.”

“Wanted to spend time with you,” he says, walking in. He closes the door before walking over and wrapping his arms around you. You smile as you slip your arms around his neck. He leans in and kisses you gently, his hands sliding over your waist slowly. He pulls away too soon and you lean in again. He laughs lightly. “Hold on.”

“I don’t really want to,” you laugh.

“I wanna give you something,” he says. You raise an eyebrow at him as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls a folded piece of paper out and holds it up between the two of you. “I wrote this at some point during the whole…hexed thing.” You take it, giving him a skeptical look. He seems nervous and you can’t figure out why. You unfold the piece of paper slowly.

Dean. If you survive this, marry Y/N.

It was scratched onto the paper quickly and sloppily but it was for sure Dean’s handwriting. You can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips as you look back up at Dean. He’s watching you, trying to read your face, as he reaches into his pocket once again. This time he produces a ring.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I, ugh…I thought I was going to have to save up to buy a ring but,” he stops and shrugs. “Mom gave me hers. Didn’t even ask. Said she wanted you to have it.”

“Oh my god,” you say again, swallowing thickly.

“Marry me, Y/N?” He asks. You take a shaky breath as the tears finally start to fall.

“Yes,” you tell him. He smiles widely and pulls you in for another kiss. This time you pull away too soon, holding your left hand up. “I want my ring.” He laughs lightly as he looks at it.

“Dad had it inscribed. I didn’t know that. Mom just showed it to me,” he says. You take it and hold it up, trying to read the inside. You smile widely as you make out the two words. They couldn’t have been more true for the two for you. He takes the ring back and slides it onto your left hand before lifting you and tossing you onto the bed.

Forever yours.

****

Forever Tags: @roseblue373

#fanfic #fanfiction #supernatural #spn #reader insert #dean winchester #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #request #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #faithfully #journey

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uncouth-the-fifth · 10 months

Text

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain.

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside.

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him.

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already.

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to.

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound.

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you.

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness.

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him.

…And Sam had.

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

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casdeans-pie · 7 months

Text

Falling (In Love)

Destiel Fanfiction 2,065 words Rated G

Tags: Aftermath Of A Case (we don't see the case, but we see what Situation Dean and Cas have ended up in because of it), Castiel Is A Fallen Angel, Dean Sees Cas's Wings, Near Death Experience, First Kiss.

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures even if those measures are jumping out of the window on the seventieth floor with nothing but hope and mangled fallen angel wings to keep you in the air. Probably not the best time for a kiss... or is it?

------Read on AO3------

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In terms of ‘situations where escape seems impossible’ Dean would probably rank this at a solid two. He’s not entirely sure what keeps it from being number one, since there are currently a group of eight witches blocking the only doored exit to the room, and the only other way out would be through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him – seventy stories up from the ground. Dean lost his gun a few floors back, and Cas’s angel blade was stolen by the witches, so they’re also weapon-less. But he figures that while the spell book that he and Cas just stole is still in his hands the witches won’t risk damaging it, so at least they can stall for time while he thinks of some way to get them both out with the book. He’s escaped with impossible odds against him all the time.

It just feels a little more impossible than usual.

Dean glances over at Cas, hoping to see some kind of glint in his eyes that means he’s got a plan. But he’s not looking at Dean. His eyebrows are drawn together in indecision and worry and he’s staring straight ahead with a vacant expression that means he’s deep in his thoughts.

Hope flares in Dean’s chest.

He’s learned enough from Cas’s expressions over the years to know that he’s got something up his sleeve. Something risky, but hell, Dean’s not picky about that right now.

The witches all take a pace forwards as a unit and Cas tugs on Dean’s shirt sleeve to pull him back further towards the window, to keep their distance. Nothing but a desk separates them now.

The huge glass window is pressing cold and solid against their backs in a cruel reminder that freedom is a pane of glass away, but they’d never survive the fall.

“Just give us the book Winchester,” one of the witches snaps.

“Give us the book and we’ll let you both live,” another adds in a low, persuasive tone.

“Like hell you will,” Dean retorts with a snort, “you think I’m gonna trust a single damn thing that comes out of a witch’s mouth?”

A witch taller than the others takes another step closer to them both, her chin held high, and she examines her long, blood red nails as if bored by the whole situation. “Boys, boys, boys,” she says, with a shake of her head, “I grow tired of this. You’ve stolen my book, and I want it back. There is clearly nowhere for you to go, so I suggest that you hand it over, or I will regretfully have to kill you both and hope that my book survives.”

“This book contains angelic spells, and it belonged to the angels before it belonged to you. You’re the ones who stole it in the first place. You have no more claim to it than we do,” Cas says suddenly, his voice firm and full of defiance.

“Yeah, except Cas is an angel, so really, yknow, if it belongs to anyone it belongs to him,” Dean adds, tapping the front cover of the old book with his knuckles and scoping out the room again while he stalls for time, hoping to find any way out of this. Preferably without him and Cas becoming spell-practice for witches or bloody smears on the sidewalk below them.

The bold witch at the front laughs in a throaty cackle.

Dean smiles. “Wow, nice laugh you got there, Wicked Witch of the West, you about to tell me you’re gonna get me and my little dog too?”

“Mm, you are pretty I’ll give you that. But no, I’m just amused that you can call that an angel. I’ve been using those spells a long time, so I can see something of this… abomination’s true form, and trust me, Winchester, if you could see what I see you wouldn’t call it an angel.”

------Read the rest on AO3------

#this was fun to write all in one go !!#destiel #destiel fanfiction #winged castiel #deancas #spn fanfiction #pie's projects #castiel's angel powers #not my most polished fanfiction ever but it's a lot of fun not to put too much pressure on myself to make it 'perfect'#it's a looser more casual style that's fun to write and relax with #I may be tempted to write a part 2 ?? let me know if you'd want that!!#also let me know if you'd like to be included on a tag list for my fanfiction in general!

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seraphic-elysian · 4 months

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@foolondahill17 have my attempt at the prompt you put about Dean sprinting to Cas. It's not perfect and I ended it without a resolution as I wanna write this as a whole ass fic but I really wanted to share this with you since your idea inspired the hell out of me. ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ It happens in a moment. A heartbeat trapped between the milliseconds of time. Dean turns in the loose grip of his brother’s hands, green eyes trained on the golden crack of light that splits their world open to another, waiting for the sign of his angel. His heart is racing within his chest, adrenaline keeping him sharp and steady, as he waits with bated breath for his angel to emerge through the light. The image of Castiel stalking toward Lucifer as Sam pulls him to the portal is burned into his eyelids. He knows that it is almost a sickening parallel of the way that he had pulled Sam from his burning apartment all of those years ago but he can only pray that Castiel will not be killed. That he will not have to suffer the same agonizing heartbreak that Sam did when Jessica died. He refuses to entertain the thought of something happening to the angel, of him dying or being hurt while in the other world. That will not happen.

It cannot.

Dean steps close enough to the portal that he can hear the rushing of the wind and smell the heavy scent of gunpowder on the breeze. It pulls at his clothing in a tantalizing lure, a promise of taking him to where his angel is, but he refuses. He will not step back through the portal and waste the safety that Castiel had given him.

Sam’s voice is nothing but a gurgle of noises behind him but he does not need to hear him to understand what he is saying. Dean knows that he is too close to the portal for his brother to feel confident that he will not go through it to find Castiel. He knows that he becomes irrational and impulsive when his angel is in danger. That he has, in the past, openly let others be hurt and killed if it meant that those he cares about will be safe. Dean also knows that he has a history of suicidal tendencies, of throwing himself in front of others to take a hit or killing himself to trade someone else's life for his own, and that Sam has been witness to him doing that several times. And while he is aware that he would not hesitate to end his life if it meant that the angel would return safe and alive, he does not feel the need to do so. Not right now.

“Don’t be stupid, Dean! Cas is capable!” Sam nearly screams the words to him, voice only barely heard over the rushing noise in Dean’s ears.

And of course he is. Dean knows better than anyone what Castiel is capable of and how strong and intelligent the angel is. But even having the knowledge of that will not stop him from worrying about him. It will not stop him from desperately trying to keep the angel by his side where Dean is able to keep him safe.

After all, how can anyone act normal and as though the world is not on the verge of ending when the living personification of their heart is facing off against an archangel?

The portal flares a brilliant gold that burns his eyes and Dean’s breath leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale as Castiel appears in front of him. There is blood stained along his trench coat, his black curls are covered in dust, and his face is streaked with dirt but Dean has never seen anything more beautiful. Exhausted blue eyes meet his own and something that Castiel sees on his face makes the angel’s brows furrow and him to step closer to Dean. They are close enough that he can feel heat radiating off of the angel and the exhalation of his breath ghosting across his face and, for the first time, Dean does not step back or snap at the angel. No, he only sways forward as he is captured by Castiel’s orbit. He surrenders to the feelings that he has in his chest, this desire to put himself out there and show the other how he feels.

“D-”

Castiel cuts himself off as an angel blade pierces through the bottom of his chest with a sickening squelch. The shining metal is clean as it slides through the angel’s body without resistance before it is yanked out violently. Crimson stains his white dress shirt and Castiel’s grace flares brightly through the gaping wound. Dean is moving before he can think, arms gathering the angel against his chest as he sags, and pressing his hand against the bleeding wound on his back. He does not see where Lucifer goes as the angel saunters off but he knows that Sam will watch his back. Something heavy and soft curls over his arms and back, engulfing him in the scent of honeysuckles and wildflowers, but when he looks there is nothing there. The smell of Castiel’s grace slowly begins to turn acrid as his grace begins to burn and Dean collapses to his knees.

“Get away,” Castiel whines, weak hands pushing against Dean’s chest, “I can’t hold it back anymore. Get away!”

Dean shakes his head and tightens his grip on the angel, “No!”

A whine escapes Castiel’s throat as the light flares up brighter and hotter, escaping from his mouth and eyes. The invisible objects that he feels against him heat up rapidly, searing his skin even through his clothing, and the heat and light reaches its apex in a wave of agony before it shatters. A pained howl leaves his lips as fire scorches him, consuming him in a decimating blaze that he cannot escape. His eyes burn even through his closed lids and he turns his face away from the sharp explosion of light. It seems as though it takes forever before it clears, taking the scorching heat with it, and Dean weakly lays Castiel’s body down. He presses his forehead down against the soft cotton of his dress shirt as he processes the hell that he just went through.

Castiel is dead. There is no denying that, not after what he just experienced. The angel is gone in a shattering of holy light and the smell of scorched feathers. His shaking fingers come up and tangle in the rough wool of the trench coat as he raises his face, desperate to see confirmation that Lucifer has murdered Castiel. He needs to memorize the pattern of his beautiful wings that will be burned into the dirt of this little home. Sliding his eyes open slowly, he sees…nothing. An unending wall of bright white light fills his vision and does not leave no matter how much he blinks or shakes his head. He panics, sucking in a startled breath, body freezing in fear at the implications of what this means.

Turning his head toward where he remembers his brother standing, he asks, “Sam?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean!” Sam’s voice is rough with anger as he stomps up to where Dean is kneeling, “You know what happens when an angel dies. You’ve fucking seen that happen so many times! So, what the hell were you thinking being right at the center of that? Didn’t you think for a second about what that would do to you?”

“It’s Cas, Sammy,” his excuse sounds broken as it falls through his lips. He is in agony, arms and back still burning from the blaze that had licked across his skin, “I couldn’t just-”

“How many times has he died before and you’ve stayed back from it? How many times has he been killed like this and you’ve not put yourself at the center of his grace exploding?” Sam is yelling now, anger making him sound almost terrifyingly like John, and Dean feels far too vulnerable here on the ground, “I don’t even know how we’re going to heal that. Or if we even can. Fuck, Dean, we didn’t need this on top of everything else!”

He takes Sam’s anger without question or complaint. He knows that he messed up and that he injured himself right when they are about to be dealing with Lucifer. He knows that his vision being gone, however temporary this is, will make him a vulnerability and a liability. It is now completely up to Sam to be able to defend not only himself but Dean as well.

“I should be able to see again in a few days,” he responds once Sam pauses to take a breath, “We just have to lay low inside of the Bunker until then. I know I messed up, Sammy, okay?”

“You can’t see?” Sam is suddenly in his space, calloused hand gripping his chin tightly, and Dean stifles a flinch. His head is tilted back and forth and he feels his brother messing with his eyelids. It is incredibly uncomfortable to not be able to see what Sam is doing but he knows that he is in safe hands, “Is it just blurry or is it fully gone?”

“I can’t see anything,” he admits as Sam wipes something off of his cheek, “it’s nothing but white.”

Sam sucks in a startled breath, hands stilling against his face, before he moves and cleans off his other cheek. “Okay, I…I didn’t realize that you were blind.”

“Then what were you talking about?”

Sam does not answer right away and Dean huffs in frustration. He hates not being able to see his brother’s face and be able to read him. He has always relied on the fact that Sam is an open book to him, that he rarely hides what he is thinking and feeling, and now having that taken away from him makes him feel as though he is lost at sea without a life raft.

The trench coat is warm within the grasp of his fingers but he forces himself to release it, to smooth it back into place despite the shake in his hands. His palm presses against the flat expanse of Castiel’s chest and something inside of him burns at the fact that he cannot feel his heart beating or the rise and fall of his chest. That he can feel the heat dissipating from his body, leaving it cold and empty. There is something within the cavern of his chest that feels just as hollow as the body in front of him, something along his soul that screams at the idea of Castiel being gone, but he can do nothing about that. There is no cure or bandage that can heal a broken heart.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches away from it violently, “What the fuck, Sam?”

“You know how angel wings are burned into the ground when they die?” Sam asks gently, continuing when Dean nods in confusion, “Dean…Cas’s wings aren’t…they…they’re burned into your skin, dude. From the back of your hands, up your arms, and across your back to either side of your spine.”

“But I’m wearing clothes,” Dean argues weakly, “How could they have burned through that?”

His brother exhales shakily, “Couldn’t his wings phase through things like that?”

The fingers of his right hand skirt over to his left, drifting across the back of it, and a pained noise leaves his lips as his skin flares up in red hot pain at the touch. He shakes his head, refusing to accept what Sam is telling him. There is no way that he is carrying the shadow-burn of his angel’s wings on his body. He is not holy enough, not good enough, to carry the image of that burned onto his skin.

Castiel deserves to have something more than Dean Winchester acting as a living tombstone.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Sam's hands grip his elbows and pulls him to his feet, "Once we do that, we can get Cas and Kelly ready to be put to rest."

Dean grabs onto his brother tightly, resisting the guiding hand that is pulling him toward the house. He does not want to leave Castiel lying here, alone, on the dirt. There will need to be a pyre and Castiel's body will need to be prepped for that but he does not think he has the strength to leave him. Not anymore.

"I can't," His voice catches in his throat, "Sam, I can't leave him."

He can see the furrow of Sam's brow in his mind as his brother responds, "Why not?"

"I love him," it falls from his lips like water, easy and free-flowing, "I love him so much I don't know how the hell I'm able to breathe. I can't just..."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," Sam answers, "How long have you...?"

Dean tries to smile but it pulls at his face wrong, lips twisting into more of a grimace. He turns his face toward the ground and welcomes the white void that consumes his vision. It is much easier to be able to be this open with his brother when he is unable to see his facial expressions.

"Years," he exhales heavily, the word nothing more than a whisper on the breeze.

Sam does not answer him but he does help Dean back onto the ground by his angel's body. His hands are warm as they squeeze his elbows once before removing them.

"Let me go get the stuff to prepare his body, okay? You can do it here and I'll handle Kelly."

"What about Jack?"

Sam huffs, "I have no idea what we're going to do."

"We raise him. We give him the childhood we didn't have. He chose Cas as his father and I'm not going to abandon his child just because his sperm donor is Satan himself." Dean tells him, "We educate him, we tell him about the spooky shit and about the stuff that lurks in the dark. We make sure that he's able to handle himself if he ever winds up on a hunt."

"And we tell him about Cas."

He nods, hand reaching out until it lands on Castiel's arm, "Yeah, we tell him about Cas."

Sam leaves him then, footsteps trailing off toward the house. Dean is left in the dirt, surrounded by the sound of waves lapping at the shore of the lake and insects buzzing around him. It feels wrong, to experience this peaceful moment while he kneels at the side of his fallen person. Castiel should be here. He should be the one that teaches Jack about humanity and the world around them. He should be the one to choose what, if any, of the hunting world that Jack learns. He should teach him about bees and flowers and the names of the constellations in the sky.

He should be here, raising the child that he loves, instead of it falling to Dean.

But he is not. He is dead, killed because he ensured that everyone got to safety. And now it is up to Dean to raise Jack.

He spends the next hour gently cleaning Castiel's body with the warm water and cloths that Sam brought him. The dirt and blood is washed from his skin as best that Dean can while his vision is gone before Sam helps him wrap and secure his body in a soft fabric.

Together, they lift his body between them and Sam guides him to the pyre, leaving him to lay Castiel down inside of it alone. The angel is heavy in his arms and makes his wounds radiate agony as they are agitated but he does not care. There will be time for him to heal, for his wounds to be cleaned and bandaged. But not right now. Not when he is resting the love of his life inside of a tomb made of wood, waiting for him to be set ablaze.

The fire is hot on his face as he stares unseeingly in the direction of it. Jack and Sam are on the other side of the pyre, talking quietly to each other, and Dean wishes that he had the strength to go join them. To find comfort in knowing that they are mourning for the angel together. He could go to them, he knows that, but if he moves from this spot he is not sure that he will be able to keep himself from shattering. The reality of Castiel being gone has not fully hit yet and he knows that the moment the fire burns down, the moment that the only thing left of Castiel is the feathers burned into Dean's skin and the ashes on the wind, that he will he consumed by grief. That the only thing he will be able to feel is the hollow void in his chest that signifies that his angel is gone.

"Can I stay here with you?"

Dean flinches at the soft voice that speaks, turning his head in Jack's direction. He does not respond to him, too afraid that he will say something he does not mean or begin to cry if he does, so he nods his agreement. The kid steps closer to him and his hand slips into Dean's. He takes in a deep breath and squeezes that hand gently, leaving them clasped at his side.

"He loved you," Dean tells him hours later when the fire has died down to almost nothing. Sam had stepped away to handle something some time ago so it is only the two of them left by the angel's side, "You should have your parents here to raise you. You shouldn't have to grow up without them."

Jack is silent for a moment before he speaks, "I have you."

"Yeah, kid, you do."

"He loved you, too," Jack tells him, as though those words do not sends spiderweb cracks along the wall holding his emotions back.

He stays quiet, unable to respond even if he desired to, and they stand there together until Jack tells him that the fire is gone.

Today he will kneel in the ashes of his lover's pyre, gathering the remains of him with clumsy hands, as their child holds the glass jar steady for him to put the ashes in. He will seal up that jar and cling to it for the several hour long drive it will take for them to reach the Bunker.

And, when he is led to his room by his brother, letting him sit the jar down upon his nightstand, Dean will finally allow himself to break.

#destiel #dean winchester #castiel #fanfic #spn #ficlet #sam winchester #jack kline #angst #major character death #major character injury #tw blood #Castiel's Wings #shitty writing #I really need more than three hours of sleep #I wrote this after having an urge to go fist fight god #though I'm ready to fist fight tumblr too since it keeps messing with my posts

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artyandink · 2 months

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𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 | 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎!𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 | 𝟹

Summary: Ivonne Rainer hadn’t met Dean Winchester in 2006 after he was hit by a car. No, this time, this universe, they met in 2010, when the whole Apocalypse deal started and Dean was made leader of one of the only remaining survival camps in America. Little did he know, one random raid would change everything.

STATIC

I was sharpening a machete by a fire outside, sitting on a log alone while everyone else were in their tents, fast asleep, the lucky bastards. It had been about a week since my confrontation with Winchester, and I’d catch him glaring daggers at me every time I passed by or did so much as breathe the same air as him. Like I cared about what that jackass thought; he just had an overinflated sense of self-importance. I gripped the brimstone tight in my hand, sharply sliding it across the sides, then I lifted the blade to my finger and made the lightest incision with it, and with barely any pressure, I got a smooth cut. I nodded, holding it up to the light in satisfaction before chucking it into the pile of other meticulously sharpened machetes.

I stared into the fire for a moment, watching the flames swat the air like it had something against the thing keeping as alive. My jaw clenched a little, and then I rubbed my face, my eyes closing for a second-

Gunshots. Screams. His face as he stood above me, gun pointed at my forehead, finger on the trigger.

I immediately opened my eyes again, jerking and almost falling off my seat as I took my hand off my face. “My god, you should be used to this by now.” Tear pricked at my eyes, but I closed my eyes, shaking them off and the moisture clearing like it was never there as I cleared my throat. Then I heard the slightest of crunching leaves, and I raised my eyebrows, smirking. “If you wanna sneak up on me, you’re gonna have to try a thousand times harder.” I turned to see James there, a small smile playing over his lips. His hair was messed up slightly by the wind as he sat down, drinking from a bottle.

“I brought you a beer.” He held up one more bottle, holding it out to me. “To thank you for… saving my ass. And dragging yours across the coals.”

“Eh, it’s nothin’.” I smiled, taking it gladly and cracking it open with my thumb before taking a sip, then chuckled. “He’s a jackass.”

“Language.” He grinned, nudging me slightly. “But I’m curious, cause nobody’s talked to the boss like that before. And I mean nobody. You’ve got guts.”

“I don’t respond well to authority.” I shrugged, frowning a bit. “Being ordered around ain’t my strong suit. Never was.” I took a long sip, gulping down the liquid and exhaling as it soothed my jumpy nerves a little. “You’ve never spoken to him like that? Ever?”

”Well, being fair, I was a police officer, namely detective sergeant.” James vouched, taking a sip of his beer. “Responding to authority without question? Kinda my job.”

“Touché.” I paused, then turned to him. “So, where you from, Serge?”

“M’from Austin, but when I joined the force, I moved to Baltimore, then New York. Baltimore’s where I met the boss, after I arrested him on suspicion for the murder of one Karen Giles.” He grinned, swirling the contents of his beer, the fire illuminating his rugged features a little too well. “And you, Miss Mysterious?”

”I was born in Jersey, spent half of my life there before my family moved to Lebanon, though I had no idea why they’d choose there of all goddamn places.”

“And the immune business, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

I cast him an uneasy glance. People would not take kindly to this, but James, with his kind green eyes, seemed to be someone I could confide in. Yeah, he… did. “Well, I don’t know where it came from, exactly. It just appeared when I was nineteen and it’s been with me since. There was a brief period where Hell sent a demon that carved a rune in my arm to prevent me from usin’ it, but I got that off after a bit. And, uh, I don’t know, the one time I came close to understanding all that is when I was 26. There was this… fight to the death between all the psychics. I don’t know why I was there; I wasn’t 22 and I certainly didn’t have abilities quite like theirs, mine was more destructive. More developed, obviously. But I had to choose to protect one kid, and I chose a good one. His name was Sam, but he died that evenin’, I escaped and never heard of him since.”

“Damn.” Was all he could manage, then a thought seemed to cross his mind. “You know the hippie cabin?”

“The one I’ve been warned against when it’s 3 o’clock?”

“The very same. I think I know a guy who could help.”

…

“Huh.”

The next morning, I had my hands in my leather jacket’s pockets as I strolled up to the hippie cabin, where James was leaning against the wooden wall, his broad arms folded across his chest. He gave me a wink, pushing off the wall as he approached me casually. “Hey there, pretty lady.”

The statement made me laugh a little, and I looked him in the eye with a raised brow. “Pretty lady? Really?”

“Can’t fault a man for speaking facts.”

“Let flirting, more walkin’, sweet talker, I’ve got priorities.”

“Yes, ma’am.” James then led me inside the cabin, where I could see a dude with tousled black hair and a beard dressed in pyjamas and doing yoga on an over-embellished mat. Is this the guy?

If so, I don’t see the appeal.

Then the dude’s eyes opened, and he turned to me with a rather dreamy, stoned-looking expression. “James. I hope you’ve been feeling at peace with yourself.”

”Kind of hard to, Cas, but thank you.” So his name was… Cas.

“This is the guy?” I whispered to James, who nodded.

“Bear with him, he’s smarter than he lets on.”

“And you…” Cas pointed at me, standing up and walking over to me, and I looked up at him. Every man in this goddamn place seemed to be taller than me. Damn bein’ 5’ 7”. “I know you.”

“Do you, now?” I scoffed, folding my arms defensively, but I had the inkling he was right. There was something about this Cas dude that made my hands tingle weirdly, and I did not like it one bit.

“Uh… Ivy?” James muttered, nudging me.

“What?”

“Your eyes are glowing blue.” I glanced in a mirror, and indeed I saw my eyes glowing blue. I hadn’t seen them do that since this whole pandemic started, and especially not when I could completely control my powers.

“Yes, I know.” Cas pointed at me, a smile breaking out on his face. “Ivonne Hazel Rainer.”

“He knows your name.”

“I got that, James.” I hissed back. He knows my middle name. Only me and one other person knows my middle name. “Uh… how do you know me?”

”I can feel your power.” Cas continued airily, and put his finger on my forehead, making me jump back in shock. The hell-

“Hey, hey, easy on the contact!”

“You’ve grown stronger than I imagined.”

“Elaborate, please!”

“If we are going to have this conversation, I’d rather have it privately.” He shot a pointed glance at James, who nodded sheepishly and headed out, and I looked after him. Don’t leave me with this weirdo-

“So.” I gulped, looking him in the eye. ��I’ve had these powers since ‘99. That’s a whoppin’ eleven years, if you minus the one where they were taken away. You wanna tell me what the hell they are or will I have to force it out?” The threat made him quirk an eyebrow and laugh softly, which stumped me. People were usually either pissed off or scared outta their wits. This guy was way too stoned to be either.

“I never knew you’d be this… skilled… but I also never anticipated how feisty you are.”

“Who even uses feisty anymore?”

He seemed to ignore me, looking me in the eye. “I’d have thought you’d be able to hear the thoughts of everyone on this camp, but you seemed to have learnt to tune those thoughts out. Bravo. Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. My name is Castiel, and I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Angel of the Lord- is that a boy band?”

“I wish it was, it would be a rather popular band, if it did exist, but no. I’m an angel.”

An angel? Angel?

”You’re kiddin’ me.” I chuckled nervously, shaking my head. “You’re pulling my leg. An angel- how thick do you think I am, huh?” I then took a good look at him, and his expression told me he wasn’t lying. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “And I’m glad you decided to stay. And it seems like your good powers are amplified in my presence.”

“They feel like it.” I gulped, my body feeling tingly. An unfamiliar kind of tingly. “And why’s that?”

“Because those powers of yours were transferred to you by me.” Castiel admitted, taking a good look at me. “From your brother, just before his… you know.”

“You gave me these?”

“Yes. Your brother would have been corrupted, just like the other psychics like him. I saw that you would do a better job with your abilities, and use them for the greater good. I just wish I could have found you sooner, or if Dean had met you sooner. You were meant to play a bigger part in this than you realise, Ivonne.”

“W-What?” I stammered, frowning a bit as I held up my hand. “Slow down. Why am I important?”

“You are what us angels called the Saviour.” He admitted, holding up one hand with his palm flat and facing the ceiling. “But you are also, to demons, the Destroyer.” He did the same with the other hand. “To both, you are the Balance. A human, a singular human, whose actions have an equilibrium between good and bad consequences. You were meant to choose one, and fight the other side in the Apocalypse. But you didn’t make that choice. I have a feeling that all this could be prevented had you met Dean. He would need a level mind, but I sense that it’s no longer as stable.” He took a closer look, stepping forward. “You’re troubled.”

“Never mind that.” I snapped defensively, shrinking back a little. “Just tell me, is there any point in making the decision now?”

“Not anymore.” Cas shook his head solemnly. “Even if you did choose the Saviour, Lucifer is far too powerful to be stopped with your powers alone. And we may need your… evil… powers as well.” Then he stepped forward again. “Be prepared to use your powers. They will come in handy. And while you’re still here, the orgy is at three o’clock, if you wish to join-“

“And… we’re done here.” I coughed, now aware of what goes on at three in the afternoon. “Thanks for the help, really appreciate it-“

”Ivy.” Risa popped her head through the door, smiling slightly at Cas. “Dean’s calling you.”

“Right.” I groaned, stepping out of the tent and following her. “Please remind me to stay calm and not deck him.”

“Stay calm and don’t deck him.” She laughed. “Look, I know he gets under your skin, but just trust the guy. He’s kept us alive thus far.”

“Trust is a goddamn privilege, Risa.” I scoffed before reaching Winchester’s cabin. I knocked on the door, and heard a grunt from the other side.

I’ll take that as an invitation.

I walked in, hands in my pockets as I expected to see the bossman glaring at me, but no, he was smirking. I frowned a little; why’s he so happy to see me?

“There she is.” He chuckled lowly, his fingers tapping the table in an insistent rhythm. “Miss I-Don’t-Care.”

“Missed me, jackass?” I retorted, tilting my head slightly. His smirk was almost too smug, he had a glint in his eye and he was looking at me as if he was ready to see me pissed off. He’s up to something.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Winchester then took a good look at me, and I shifted on my spot, slightly uneasy. The hell is he thinking? “I did some digging. Went on the radio, fetched some contacts. Turns out you’re not quite the Miss Golden you play yourself out to be.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?”

He rubbed down his mouth in one stroke as he did, taking a sharp breath in through his nose. “There were seven years.” I froze; I knew what seven years he was talking about. “Seven years, from 1999 until 2006 where there were some pretty whacked up crime scenes left of monsters across the states. They were kept quiet, but other hunters knew what was happenin’. Vampires, werewolves, djinn, all found dead in abandoned lots and/or buildings, and the death was quick. Painless. Done before the hunters even got wind of the case. Now, they all fit one M.O., of one hunter called Michael Rainer, but there was a big problem with that- he was dead. Now, those guys knew that he had a daughter who he trained to be the best of us and my pops knew it too, so they chalked it up to pretty, little, lippy Ivonne Rainer.”

“That’s crap.” I retorted quietly, but it was far from. It was the truth. My hand balled into a fist, and he seemed to notice that, the satisfaction evident on his face at seeing me grow steadily more pissed.

“It’s reality.” He smirked, getting closer. “Now, why was Michael Rainer’s obedient little jellybean-“ My blood boiled when he used my father’s nickname for me, “throwin’ a seven year long temper tantrum? Huh? Oh, wait, you could put it down to the night her family were murdered in ‘99, ‘cept your younger sister, who died of cancer three months prior and dear ol’ daddy was found with his heart carved out.”

“Don’t talk about that.”

“Or what?” He challenged, and I felt like a bomb ready to explode on him. “Your pregnant mom and youngest sister were found with knives in their throats and Carter with two bullet holes in his chest, and you know what? I think after all that, you’re definitely whacked out of your gourd. I was thinkin’ it would take some time for you to go psycho, but you already have-“ I lunged forward, pinning him harshly to the wall using my forearm on his jugular. But then he twisted us around, now caging me against the wall with his hand on my throat, not squeezing but letting me know it was there in case he was driven to.

“You asshole!”

“Listen here, sweetheart.” He drawled, getting real close to my face, his jaw set. “You’re only in this camp because, quite literally, Bob’s your uncle, otherwise I’d have your smartass out back on those Croat-ridden streets.”

“That’s funny, cause I’m only here ‘cause of Bobby.” I spat, gritting my teeth as my hand reached up to grip his wrist as my eyes glowed red. “Where is he?”

“Oh, I’ve hit a nerve.”

“WHERE IS HE?!”

“GONE!” He yelled, and it was like everything shattered inside of me. My last remaining family. Dead. And this… this jackass, he…

No.

“You’re lying.” I refused, my eyes glowing a more intense red. “You’re lying, goddamnit! He’s not- he’s not gone!”

”He is, princess.” He growled. “I saw it happen.”

“Give me…” I seethed, my eyes pricking with tears that I desperately bit back. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tear you apart.”

“Go on.” Winchester challenged. “Do it. See how your new buddies would take to you then.”

I had half a mind to do it.

To let go, and to start peeling him apart, but a part of me told me no, that this isn’t what Bobby would have wanted. For his niece to go blind with rage and kill a man who he practically raised. I gritted my teeth, then pried his hand off my neck, my eyes returning back to grey. “No.” I whispered, then sized him up, which didn’t work since he had 6 inches on me, but I did it anyway. I didn’t care who he was, who anyone was. I knew that would kill me at some point, but it’s kept me alive thus far. “You’re not worth it.” Then I walked out, looking at a Jeep that just arrived with the latest scavenge team. I wanted to break down, cry, destroy something, tear something apart without even touching it, but I didn’t have it in me. Not when Bobby…

A choked cry tore at my throat just as a small buzz of static whirred at the back of my mind, my eyes involuntarily glowing blue as it got stronger and stronger as the men unloaded from the Jeep. They all exchanged beers as my head pounded, that relentless buzzing taking over my mind and clouding it. I clamped my hands over my ears, but that only made the pounding worse.

Risa jogged up to me, looking concerned as James tagged behind. James took my face in his hands, saying something that I didn’t hear, but my rusty lip reading skills told me he was saying ‘Look at me’, but I couldn’t, not when something was wrong. Really wrong.

My eyes focused on one man in the back of the just-arrived group, and the static got to its worst, taking in the details of the man. His blood-splattered face, his red-rimmed eyes, the tired look on his face, and the static banging against my brain and tiring it out. It was like it was amplified tenfold, but something registered in my head.

Without even thinking too much, I pulled out my gun, aiming at the man and pulling the trigger. The bullet whizzed through the air and got the man right in the temple, sending him collapsing to the floor as easily as I’d crush a piece of paper in my hand. I breathed heavily as I stared at the body, and the gun was instantly wrestled out of my hand.

My mind was silent. No more static.

Just… emptiness.

“Ivy?!” James exclaimed angrily, turning me to face him. “The hell was that?!”

#dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #spn #dean winchester x oc #spn masterlist #dean winchester x you #supernatural oc #endverse

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marvelmymarvel · 1 year

Text

Forced Confession

Guardian!Gabriel x Reader

Synopsis: Cas let Dean in on a little theory about who the trickster was, and the only way to test it was by putting you in danger.

The room was cold but the way he looked at you felt warm. Sam and Dean continued interrogating the trickster, but something felt off. Dean noticed the looks he was throwing your way and decided to test out the theory Cas told him before coming here. Turning, he grabbed your wrist before yanking you towards him. "Dean-" your words fell silent in your throat as Dean's switchblade pressed against your neck. Your eyes widened in fear, hands going to his wrist to try and pull him off of you.

The trickster's eyes widened and he started to step toward you both. "I wouldn't come closer if I was you. I'll slit her pretty little throat before you move an inch."

"Sam!" You screamed out, hand flying towards the younger Winchester, hoping he'd help. But he just stood there. "Now listen here you prick. I don't know why she's important to you but I don't care. Tell us who you are or she's dead"

"Dean please why are you doing this" you cried out, your fingernails raking deep welts into his skin as you tried to squirm away. The trickster didn't budge, but Dean saw the way his eye twitched at the sight of you. But it wasn't enough.

Dean made a note to apologize to you later before pressing the blade harder against your throat. You cried out in pain as it lightly cut into your skin, droplets of blood hitting the surface of the cold sharp metal. "TELL US WHO YOU ARE!"

"DEAN PLEASE" your choked cry and flailing body is what caused the man before you to snap.

"GABRIEL!"

You let out a breath as Dean lifted the knife off of your throat. "They call me Gabriel" you flew over to Sam, crashing into him and pushing yourself deeply into his side. Gabriel's eyes were trained on you, concern oozed from him. "And you're Y/N's guardian angel... The archangel Gabriel"

You almost missed Dean's statement, what with all the adrenaline and fear pumping through your veins. But once the words registered in your brain did you understand why Dean did what he did, and you promised to give him hell once you were on your way to the next motel.

"Yes. Man... Castiel cannot keep a secret can he..." Gabriel muttered, his eyes shifting back to Dean. His concern and worry soon being replaced with anger. "How dare you threaten her to get information out of me. Aren't you her friend?!"

"Oh I am. But we needed to know who the hell you were-"

"Couldn't you have told her beforehand!? Honestly, do you even know the amount of FEAR that ran through her? Could you FEEL IT? NO! No, you couldn't have because you aren't constantly tapped into her entire soul. I know her, have known her for her entire life and you dare threaten her well-being to get my name?!" Gabriel's anger grew and grew the more he went on. You looked over to Dean who, you could tell, was growing a tad embarrassed for using you like bait.

A hand touched your bicep, making you jump despite being glued to Sam's side. Cas stood beside you, trying to pull you away from what was happening. "Get her out of here Cas" Dean muttered. You opened your mouth to interject but Cas had zapped you away before you got the chance. You landed softly on edge of the bed in the motel room, sighing in exasperation as you rubbed your tired eyes.

"If I would have known Dean would have done this I wouldn't have told him my theory" Cas stated sheepishly. His hand rose to your throat and you watched him icily, not quite sure how to feel about all that just happened. Cas didn't press and instead laid his fingers against the cut itself. A bright light emitted from below his fingertips and warmth spread across your skin. You hissed slightly at the sting, never liking how it felt to be healed.

"Am I safe without him by me?" You whispered out into the room, fear now consuming you once more as you thought about all the things that could happen. "You have me I suppose-"

"You barely answer our prayers to being with Castiel...."

His eyes trailed down to where his fingers lay still on your neck, "Guardians don't physically have to be with you. They can save no matter where they are-"

"Then why did he seem scared? He didn't want to walk forward because Dean was threatening to slice my throat open but if what you say is true he didn't have to"

Cas sighed, he was regretting ever telling Dean about this in the first place. While Cas wasn't "tapped into your soul" like Gabriel was, he still could feel the anxiety rolling off of you like violent waves. "Gabriel's always been... On edge with you. He doesn't think things through sometimes but he'd do anything to keep you safe. I guess that's why he froze and didn't take a chance with plans B or C."

"What would those plans be?" You asked, both equally intrigued and frightened by this power. "You don't want to know. Trust me" you nodded at his words, accepting them as fact and moving on to the next topic. "Cas. Can you I ask you something?" Cas nodded silently up at you, hoping and praying that what you were going to ask wasn't going to be too complex.

"Is it bad to be attracted to your guardian angel?"

#supernatural imagines #supernatural imagine #gabriel imagines #gabriel imagine #gabriel supernatural #supernatural #castiel imagine #castiel imagines

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marchtothefuckingsea · 1 year

Text

A Demon’s Oath - Crowley

My Masterlist.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, injury and gore.

hurt/comfort, enemies to allies

Summary: "I'll give you five minutes to leave my sight. After that? Pray I never see you again."

I flipped the angel blade in my hand as another demon came at me, swinging around and sinking the blade into his chest. The blade came out with a sharp yank, and I was ready with it just in time for the other demon I had kicked in the gut. I shoved the empty meatsuit to the ground with a grimace, and continued deeper into the warehouse. All my senses were on alert.

I thought I heard a shuffle on the concrete floor, the sound of a shoe scraping the stone ever so slightly, and I whipped around. There stood the king of hell himself. Crowley. I narrowed my eyes at him, readying my blade.

"Calm down, darling. I'm sure we can be civil about this." He raised his hands in what was meant to be a non-threatening gesture.

"Like that's ever happened before." I spat.

He snorted. "Only because of you Winchesters." He argued. "I would be more than willing to have a calm discussion."

"Anywho," He clasped his hands together. "No need to stall. I know what you're here for."

"You don't know jack." I tried to hide my surprise.

"You're here to kill me, are you not? My wonderful mother wants me dead, and in return she'll decipher the Book of the Damned so you can rid our dearest Dean of the Mark of Cain." He paused. "Did I miss anything?"

I shifted into a fighting stance in response.

"Well, go on then. I'm giving you a head start." At the arrogant tone of his voice, I lost it. I lunged, but was immediately flung into a concrete pillar. The angel blade clattered to the ground.

While I was pinned by his demonic magic, he picked up my blade and examined it lazily. "I'm glad to see you came prepared, at least. I have to say, I respect you for that more than your brothers. You're not as stupid as you look."

"Thanks." I responded sarcastically, gritting my teeth. Crowley turned the blade over in his hand a few times, before dragging the tip of it over my stomach experimentally. I hissed in pain, struggling against my invisible bonds.

"Listen, I know why you're doing this. You're desperate. Otherwise, you wouldn't be working with that bitch mother of mine."

The demon king watched my blood run down the blade, down the handle, and over his knuckles. "I can't say I understand where you're coming from, but I guess I can't blame you."

He tucked the knife into his jacket, and his gaze hardened. The invisible force released me, and I fell to the floor with a groan, pressing an arm to my stomach. I staggered to my feet, leaning heavily on the pillar.

"I'm giving you five minutes to leave my sight." He said, meeting my glare.

"And after that?"

"Pray I never see you again." I watched him for a moment, realizing he was serious. He was going to let me walk away, just like that.

My pride would take quite the hit, but I didn't have any other tricks up my sleeve. He had taken my angel blade, and it would be pointless to fight him now. With one final distrustful glance, I forced my feet to carry me out of the warehouse. They dragged on the gravel as I approached my car, woozy from blood loss. I was seeing double as I drove back to the bunker, but I didn't care. We needed to cure Dean very, very soon. And without Rowena's help, as much as I hated to admit it, there was no way we could do it.

"I'm not telling you shit." I spat at the demon, wrenching against the rope that tied my wrists to the chair. She had managed to get the upper hand on me. She knocked me out and I had woken up only a few minutes ago with a punch to the jaw.

"You'll tell me where the witch is, or I'll kill you." She growled, slicing across my arm. I hissed in pain.

I glared up at her. "That wouldn't be very smart now, would it?"

"Then I guess you're not leaving 'till you give me what I want." The demon bent down to my level, her black eyes glittering.

"Good luck on that one, sister." I was cut off with a groan when she cut my other arm with the serrated blade, deeper this time than the other.

She paused, waiting for a response from me of any kind. When I didn't give her what she wanted, she plunged the blade into my shoulder. I let out an agonized sound, clenching my teeth. She pulled the blade out before licking my blood off of it. I glared at her in disgust.

"I could do this for hours, you know." She started. "Days. Weeks, even."

"Yeah, and so could I." I grit my teeth. "But something tells me you don't have that kind of time."

"I'll make it." She snapped. I could tell I hit a nerve.

I shifted in the chair, blood running down my chest. It was sticky and uncomfortable. But most of all, it was something that was not supposed to be outside of my body, and definitely not in these quantities.

"What if I did tell you where Rowena is?" I asked cautiously, working at a thin spot in my sleeve with a fingernail.

The demon shrugged, her back turned to me. "Then I'd let you go."

I gently wiggled my fingertips into the material, pulling out a razor blade. I began to work at my bindings. "That simple, huh?"

"That simple." She agreed. The rope came away from my wrist, and I carefully untied the other.

As soon as I rose from the chair, dizzy from blood loss, she turned on her heel to face me. "Oh please." She sighed in annoyance. With a flick of her hand, I was slammed into a brick wall. I groaned, black spots dotting my vision. I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.

"You're a Winchester, and I'm not stupid." She said, calmly twirling the knife in her hand. I watched, unable to do anything else. Her eyes were indecisive until she paused and eyed me over.

"Last time someone looked at me like that I-" I began to quip, but I ended it with a sharp gasp. The demon plunged the blade into my stomach. I didn't feel anything at first, just shock and numbness. It wasn't until I was dropped to the ground and the blade had been pulled out that I felt the white hot pain.

I twisted onto my side, but the demon was quicker. She grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. Everything spun for a second, but I wasn't sure if it was from the shock, or from teleporting. All I knew was when my eyes focused, we were in a dingy hallway. It was dimly lit by torches on the wall.

She yanked me alongside her, leaving me no choice but to follow. My heart pounded in my ears and my drooped head allowed me to watch the trail of my blood that was left behind us. We turned a corner, and then several more. I was barely conscious. By the time we made it to a set of doors, I hung limply from her grip. She all but dragged me through them.

I was shoved in front of her, where I managed to stay on my feet for a shocking three seconds before crumpling to the floor in a heap. I could barely make out my surroundings, or the voices discussing something. My whole body shivered and I felt like I was freezing; I knew it was shock.

"My lord." The demon said formally. "They know where the Winchesters are keeping Rowena."

"And?" I recognized the accented voice, but my brain was lagging.

"They will not give up the information."

"Isn't that supposed to be your job? You want me to do your job for you?" He snapped, raising his voice. I cringed when I realized it was Crowley. I twisted onto my side, gasping at the pain in my stomach.

"No, my lord." She stammered. "I was hoping you would have better luc-"

"Off with you." He sighed in annoyance, waving his hand. "I'll deal with them."

There was a tense silence before I heard her footsteps retreat. The doors snapped shut with an eerie finality. Fear took over, and I began to struggle onto my forearms.

He rose from his throne, and polished shoes came into view. My breath hitched in my throat when he stopped in front of me.

"I didn't come here by choice." I tried to defend myself. "I'll leave."

He said nothing, instead opting to kneel beside me.

"Get away from me." I broke off with a ragged cough, squeezing my eyes shut. Another bloody cough wracked my body. I fell back onto my side shaking and gasping for air.

I felt arms around me. Crowley pulled me against him. His arm across my back forced me to lie somewhat upright so I didn't drown in my own blood. I pressed a hand to my abdomen in a pathetic attempt of self preservation.

As soon as the coughs subsided, I barely waited to catch my breath. I began to struggle against him weakly. His grip on me tightened and I couldn't stop the whimper of fear that escaped my throat. "No-"

"Relax." He muttered. "I'm not going to harm you."

"Let me go." I coughed.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't even make it out of this room on your own in your condition, love." He shifted me in his arms, pushing me back down to the floor. My face screwed up in pain at the slight movement.

His hand moved to my shoulder, causing me to react out of instinct. I gripped his wrist weakly in defense. I knew it wouldn't stop him at all, but he paused, looking between my bloody face and my grip on his hand.

"I'm not going to harm you." He reminded me. I shook my head, trying to push his hand away.

This time he grabbed my hand, holding my wrist in a firm grip. I struggled, panic in my eyes and my breathing ragged. I flinched as he passed his hand over my shoulder, but there was no pain that I had been expecting. I felt a slight stinging sensation, and then nothing. Not even the pain that should have been prevalent because of my injury.

I moved my shoulder, and was surprised to find it was healed. My tired eyes flickered to Crowley in surprise.

"I told you I wasn't going to hurt you," He explained. "And I'm a man of my word."

"But you-" I hissed in pain when he passed his hand over the worst injury to my abdomen. It stung a hell of a lot more than the other, but I guessed it was because of the severity of it.

"Things change all the time, do they not?" He watched as I struggled to my feet, mirroring my actions. My head spun and I swayed.

"I'm not telling you where Rowena is." I muttered. He put his hands on my biceps, steadying me. I instinctively flinched at the contact, before I realized we were somewhere else entirely. It took my eyes several moments to focus, but I recognized the warehouse where I had tried to kill him.

"Those idiots are out of the loop." His voice was laced with annoyance.

"So what do you want from me?" I asked, meeting his gaze. He was closer than I expected, but I held my ground, afraid to admit that I wasn't sure if I would stay standing if he wasn't steadying me.

"A favour. In the near future." Crowley answered.

"I didn't ask for you to heal me or whatever it is you did." I argued, pulling away from him. I stumbled, but managed to stay on my feet.

"I promise I wouldn't ask something of you that you are incapable of doing. Or anything that would put you in harm's way." He muttered the last part. I gazed at him distrustfully.

"I sent a text to your brothers." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "They'll be here to pick you up shortly. And one more favour," His eyes seemed to soften.

"Be safe."

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petrichoravellichor · 8 months

Text

Title: Inner Demons Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester Rating: T Word Count: ~2.2k Summary: The so-called Drowley Summer of Love has officially come to an end, and Crowley is fine with it. Really. He is. (Spoiler alert: He is not.) Set during 10x02: Reichenbach. Warnings: Brief Instance of Self-Harm

Written for the 2023 Crowley Against Humanity Challenge, hosted by @crowleybigbang. Black card prompt: "Why can't I sleep at night?" x White card prompt: "My Inner Demons."

(Read on Ao3)

*****

If the depressingly dim and horrendously decorated Flamingo Lounge has a single redeeming quality, it’s that other than the wide-eyed bartender watching Crowley storm up to the bar, the place is mercifully, blessedly empty.

“Get out,” Crowley snaps at the man, shucking off his coat and sinking down onto a barstool. “Leave a bottle of whatever passes for decent Scotch, and get out.” He blinks; when his eyes re-open, they’re blood red. “Now.”

The bartender obliges, quickly setting the glass he’d been wiping down in front of Crowley, procuring a bottle that he places next to the glass, and all but running out of the bar.

“Smart man,” Crowley mutters to no one in particular. He snatches up the bottle and pours himself a glass of…Jameson? Really? “Dead man,” Crowley amends darkly, but making good on the threat would require going after said man, and Crowley has better—worse—more important things to do. He sets the bottle aside in disgust and knocks back his drink. It tastes like acetone, but it’ll have to do.

With a huff, Crowley reaches back to where his coat hangs and removes the First Blade—his “finder’s fee,” as he’d flippantly called it when talking to Sam. Judging by the positively murderous look in Dean’s eyes as Sam had driven away with his wayward brother handcuffed in the backseat of the Impala, Crowley himself would be paying a price if Dean ever got hold of him after this...

Well, then Crowley will just have to make sure Dean never gets hold of him after this, simple as that.

He turns the Blade over in his hands, taking in its…not craftsmanship, but rather, its underwhelming lack thereof. In the dingy fluorescent light of the bar, the Blade looks crude and unremarkable; it feels crude and unremarkable. Cut off from the power of the Mark and held by someone with no claim on it whatsoever, it’s no longer a powerful killing tool but simply a piece of old bone.

Crowley sets the Blade down on the counter in front of him and pours himself another shot of Jameson. For all his past scheming over the blasted thing, the act of actually possessing the Blade is decidedly anticlimactic. Honestly, the only reason he’d even taken the it at this point was because he could, so that Dean wouldn’t have it…

Dean stands over him, chuckling as Crowley glowers up from the floor—the bastard had pushed him. Crowley gets slowly to his feet, ignoring his still-stunned minions and ready to smack the smirk right off Dean’s face but managing to keep his anger in check…for now. “What…do you think you’re doing?”

Dean stares coolly back at him. “Oh, whatever I want.”

“Really?” Crowley counters. “Because I think you don’t know what you want. Tell me, Dean,” he sneers softly, “what are you? A demon? If so, why isn’t Lester’s wife dead? Did you feel sorry for her?” He feels a stab of satisfaction at the way Dean doesn’t meet his eye. “So maybe you’re human. Except you have those pretty black peepers, and you’re working alongside me. Why don’t you do us all a great big favor and PICK A BLOODY SIDE?!”

For a split second, he thinks Dean might strike him—good, Crowley thinks fiercely; he could do with throwing a few punches himself right about now—but instead, Dean just smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes and says, “Or what?”

There’s a veneer of calm to Dean’s voice as he speaks, but Crowley hears the underlying menace well enough. He hesitates, and Dean advances, his smile turning even more feral. “Hmm? Go ahead. Make a move. See how it ends.”

And Crowley…doesn’t make a move. Not so much because he knows perfectly well that Dean will gut him if he does, but because…because damn it, even though Crowley’s furious with Dean, and even though a large part of him would like nothing more than to lash out and make Dean feel at least a fraction of the betrayal Crowley himself is currently feeling, another, even larger part of him wants to lash out at himself for being stupid enough to think that this confrontation hadn’t been inevitable, that what he had with Dean Winchester, of all people, could ever last…

Dean huffs; then, in a low growl, he delivers his coup de grâce: “I ain’t your friggin’ bestie, and I ain’t taking orders from you. When I need to kill, I’ll call. Until then, stay out of my way.”

It’s as good a knife wound as any, even if it doesn’t actually pierce Crowley’s meatsuit. He feels himself on the precipice of a scream as hurt, anger, and an all-too-familiar sense of worthlessness coalesce into a writhing maelstrom of self-loathing and despair and foolish, feverish want—to strike Dean, to kiss him, to kill him, to just…have him in some way, or at the very least, to not lose him, not like this…

Open your eyes, Dean, he thinks furiously, desperately in Dean’s direction. See what I see, feel what I feel—

But Dean doesn’t hear him, doesn’t see, doesn’t feel. There’s nothing but hatred in the hollowed-out blacks of Dean’s eyes—hatred, and Crowley’s own pitiful, dejected reflection staring back at him, and…and fine. It’s fine. He's—

“Fine.” Crowley draws himself up, centuries of practice in play as he keeps his voice flat. “It’s over.” He feigns a shrug, addressing his minions. “What can I say? Crazy ones—well, they’re good for a fling, but they’re not relationship material.” He looks squarely back at Dean as he speaks the last bit, hoping it stings.

If it does, Dean doesn’t show it. “Are you done?” he demands, and this time, Crowley nearly does strike him, nearly does knock Dean to the floor and stand over him and shout until his voice goes hoarse and—

“We’re done,” he states levelly instead. It’s almost funny: even to Crowley’s ear, it actually sounds like he means it. He lets out a clipped, bitter laugh. “You know what, Dean? It’s not me. It’s you.” With that, he steps around Dean and makes for the door, his minions in tow. Dean doesn’t call after him, and Crowley tells himself he wouldn’t stop even if Dean did call out. The bar door slams shut with a heavy clang behind him, and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t—

Crowley snarls and hurls his glass at the wall behind the bar. He’d given Dean a chance at something extraordinary, at a life free from the burden of having to give a damn about—about anything, and this was the thanks he got? For risking his life and helping Dean get the Mark and the Blade and indulging each and every one of Dean’s puerile, hedonistic, dive bar-centric whims every day for the past six months? This was what Dean gave him in return? Hadn’t they been more than that, been...been friends, been—

“Think of it,” he says conspiratorially to Dean. “The King of Hell, Dean Winchester by his side. Together, we rule. Together, we create the perfect Hell. And all of this that’s bloomed between us never ends…”

Well, so much for that, Crowley seethes. He seizes the bottle of Jameson and takes one final swig before slinging it forward to shatter alongside the remnants of his glass. So much for him and Dean and Growley and Squirrel and the whole great, big, fat, bloody lot of it!

Did you honestly think he’d say yes? jeers a judging, contemptuous voice from one of the older, more deeply hated recesses of his mind. Crowley recognizes the voice all too well—it is, after all, his own. Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, on your side? Anyone, ever, on your side? You were all too keen to call out Dean’s indiscretion with Lester, but did it ever occur to you, pot, that you were calling the kettle black? What do you think you are, hmm?

Crowley’s eyes fall on the First Blade, and a moment later it’s in his grasp. He hesitates; then, slowly, he brings the Blade up and runs it down the palm of his other hand…

A ribbon of red blooms in the Blade’s wake. Crowley watches as for a moment, the blood continues to flow…then disappears when the cut vanishes entirely, which is…good. It’s good. Plus one for demonic healing, and all that…

What was it you said to Dean? interjects the voice in an odious purr. 'Why don’t you do us all a great big favor and pick a bloody—'

Sod off, Crowley bites back, clenching his teeth and forcing himself to sit up straighter on the barstool. He doesn’t need to—He knows perfectly well what he is, damn it: he’s an arsehole, a bastard, an irredeemable villain of the highest degree, and he doesn't need anyone, least of all Dean sodding Winchester, on his bloody side! He’d somehow forgotten that over the past year or so, lost his previously unfailing sense of demonic clarity and allowed himself to get swallowed up in…in feelings, but no more. From now on, he’d be strong, would go back to thinking strictly of himself and his own best interests without losing any proverbial sleep over it, and if Dean ever did sort himself out enough to decide to pick up the phone and call him up for old time’s sake, well, then Crowley simply wouldn’t answer.

To prove it to himself, he pulls his phone from his pocket and thumbs the power button, ready to pull up his contacts and block Dean’s number once and for all, and…and as his lock screen flares to life, he finds himself staring at a photo of him and Dean, taken months ago at some middle-of-nowhere dusty dive bar whose name Crowley can’t even remember, and yet—

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he grumbles to Dean as they step out of the Impala, the ridiculous cowboy hats Dean had found at the last petrol station and insisted on buying perched squarely on their heads. “When this is over, I expect you to honor our agreement. For the next week, I pick the music.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man. Just do what you can to avoid cramping my style, all right? Unlike you, I plan on getting laid tonight."

The next few hours pass in a haze of cheap beer, loud country music, and the constant clack of cue sticks against resin as Dean hustles three different sods at pool…and Crowley loves every minute of it. He can’t help but marvel at how wondrous it is to see Dean like this, free and uninhibited in his flirtation not just with women but also men, the part of him that Crowley had long suspected to be locked away now on vivid, unabashed display for whoever feels like looking…and Crowley finds that he does feel like looking. He watches as Dean bends low over the pool table and expertly sinks the final 8-ball into the designated corner pocket, much to the consternation of his latest victim, and he wonders…

A few minutes later, he and Dean are back at their table, laughing and toasting Dean’s victory with fresh mugs of beer that Crowley’s starting to think isn’t so bad after all, when one of the servers walks by, and Crowley, in a moment of inspiration, holds out his phone and asks her to take his and Dean’s picture.

“Admit it,” Dean says with a wink, sounding more than a little drunk as he leans in and flicks the brim of Crowley’s hat. “You’re startin’ to like it, aren’tcha.”

And maybe it’s the booze, or maybe it’s the company, or maybe it’s the fact that Crowley can’t remember a time in recent memory where he’s enjoyed himself as much as he has tonight, but he feels himself smile back. “Maybe I am,” he concedes, and Dean laughs and claps him on the shoulder just as the flash goes off…

“Sir?” calls a voice, ripping Crowley from his reverie and setting him squarely back in the present. “Uh, Your Evilness?”

Crowley blinks, vaguely aware that two of his minions have appeared behind him, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he unlocks his phone and goes to his photo album, flicking through the files until he finds the one of him and Dean he’d set as his lock screen.

“Sir?” says the same minion as before. “Sir, it’s time to move on.”

And it is, isn’t it? Time to move on. Time to forget about Dean Winchester once and for all, to cut out this…this weakness at its source. Time to go back to being what he truly is, what he always has been, what he always will be…

Crowley hesitates, his finger hovering over the delete icon.

“You know why I always defeat you?” he says to Sam and Dean what seems like a lifetime ago, in Bobby’s junkyard. “It’s your humanity. It’s a built-in handicap. You always put emotion ahead of good old-fashioned common sense…”

A second ticks by. Then another. Then another. Crowley stares at the image on the screen in front of him…and then he pockets his phone, allows one of his minions to help him with his coat, and leaves the bar without looking back.

#crowley #drowley #spn crowley #deancrowley #crowley macleod #crowley spn #supernatural #crowley against humanity #crowley big bang 2023 #spn #spn fanfic #inner demons #my writing

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perplexedflower · 2 years

Text

SPN Drabbles - 13/14: Nightmares From The Past

Fandom: Supernatural.

Category: F/M.

Relationship: Sam/Dean/John Winchester & Female Reader.

Type: Drabble.

Words: 550.

Chronology: Season 2.

Warning: Angst.

~~~~~~~~~~

"You think you have a choice, and that's sweet and all, but it's time you take the knife and do what you were made to do."

I feel Dad's hands on my shoulders and the longer they hold me, the longer I hesitate. I look down at the sharp knife set in front of me, next to a bowl and one of his incantation books.

I don't want to do this...

I intently stare at the knife and begin to feel tears coming up.

I should never have said anything... If I hadn't spoken to Dean, I wouldn't have to do this...

Yesterday, I told Dean I did not want to become a hunter, that I did not want to become like him, like Dad. That I want to be normal, make some friends, live an ordinary life. And Dean understood. He told me Sam feels the same way sometimes. But Dad overheard our conversation, and he got angry at me. He told me I have no right to turn my back on this life, and that I have to accept my destiny, to embrace the person I will become.

And I know that this is my punishment. Because of what I said, because I went against Dad's plans, I have to go through a rite of passage. Dad wants me to perform a spell, which he said would help him in the current case he is investigating. He told me this would mark my very first contribution to a hunt. But not a single part of me wants to do it. I keep on staring at the knife, as if hoping I can magically make it vanish into thin air. But it is still here. Dad is still here, still behind me, waiting for me to pick it up and slice the inside of my hand with it. I know there is only one way out of this for me: to follow his orders and do as I was asked.

I reach out for the knife and pick it up with a shaking hand. I look at my left hand, before opening it wide, revealing its palm. I shed a few more tears, which fall into the inside of my hand, before slowly turning my head to look to my left: not too far from me stand Sam and Dean, staring at me with eyes filled with fear and concern. I look into Dean's eyes, making him understand I am scared. But all he can do to help me is to look back at me with a sad look in his gaze, telling me I have no choice.

Turning my head back in front of me, I gulp as I clutch the knife stronger into my right hand. Still shaking, I put its blade against the palm of my left hand. Slowly, I begin pressing it into my skin, and I can feel the pain intensifying as it sinks deeper. I wince in pain as the blood begins flowing.

I suddenly opened my eyes and gasped for air as I promptly rose into a sitting position on my bed. I looked around the motel room and my eyes instinctively searched for Sam and Dean, sleeping safe and sound, unaware of the nightmare I had just had about our father.

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abbatoirablaze · 30 days

Text

Angels & Demons, Chapter 16

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: slight angst.

“Yeah...look, I’ve been there,” Dean admitted as he leaned against baby, “i’m a big expert on deadbeat dads...so yeah. I get it. I know how you feel.”

“I’m not upset about God!”

“Then what is it?”

“I should have never let Caitlyn out of my sight,” he admitted, his stomach turning at the thought, “I know that when it comes down to it, the angels would have saved you, and the demons, Sam...but Lucifer was the only one that knew about her being an alternative vessel for him...he capitalized on an argument that she and I were in the middle of after he told me that she was pregnant. I-I never thought that I could father anything. Angels aren’t supposed to be able to have spawns. It’s against the natural order. That’s why-I-I just have to find her, Dean!”

“I know what it’s like thinking about being a dad too,” he sighed as he tried to sympathize with the angel. Castiel frowned even more, and Dean fought the more base of his urges to punch the angel for knocking his kid sister up. But he held his emotions in check as he talked the angel through his own insecurities, “there was this girl, Lisa Braden...she was a wildcat who brought me to my knees...thought her son, Ben, was mine...but he wasn’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t think Caitlyn’s child is mine?” he growled, glaring at Dean, “because I was her first. Her only. I felt that, Dean. She loved me. And I-I love her! But I let my orders get in my head. I let my past experiences push her away, because I was scared.”

“Believe it or not, that’s a human response...”

“How do you manage it?” he asked curiously.

“On a good day, you get to kill a whore!” he frowned as he referenced how they needed to kill the whore of Babylon.

“And on a bad day?”

“We’ll find Caitlyn, Cas...and your kid...” he offered, “we’ll find them...and we’ll make sure that they are safe from Lucifer. We aren’t gonna let anything happen to our sister, Cas. I’m going to make damn sure of it.”

Castiel stood amongst the trees. He watched as the further he walked, the more he could see the beginnings of something he was all too familiar with.

The trees that seemingly were burnt to ash in a circle.

The mud, slowly caving in at the exact spot.

His heart sunk.

His stomach turned.

This wasn’t like Dean’s rising.

No.

But just as he went to reach for it, an angel attacked him, brandishing their blade. Cas pulled his, and the two shared blows, before Cas caught the blade of the angel sneaking up on him and killed the first angel with it.

Then his attention turned towards the other, and he slit his throat before impaling him on the blade as well.

He was quick to move back to the ground that had moved and was pulsating near his feet. And he was shocked when a hand reached out from the soft earth. Pulling him from the ground, the body flopped into the mud with a gasp. Castiels’ eyes widened when he saw who it was.

Throwing him over his shoulder, he grabbed the nineteen-year-old and wooshed back to Bobby’s place.

“Help!”

Bobby’s eyes widened at the man covered in mud, “BOYS!”

Sam and Dean ran towards them and were in shock as they saw who it was.

“Who is it?”

“That’s our brother!” Sam proclaimed as the two men watched the fully in-tact body of Adam laying on the couch, “that’s Caitlyn’s brother...the one that was killed by ghouls.”

Dean looked to Cas, before turning his gaze towards the young man, “he was supposed to have been ripped apart…th-the ghouls…they ate him.”

“Wait a minute, your brother...Adam?” Bobby asked.

“Cas, what the hell?”

Cas put down two angel blades to let the Winchester brothers know that Zachariah must have found out about Lucifer’s plan, or at the very least that Michael could use Adam, “angels.”

“Angels, why?”

“Lucifer has Caitlyn...because he knows that she is the younger of the two siblings,” he muttered, “they must have figured out about Adam, and brought him back. They’ve given up on using you two and moved on to your younger siblings.”

“What?”

“I’m not certain about everything, but I do know one thing,” Castiel explained, “we need to hide him. Now!”

He put his hand on the young man’s chest and started to carve the symbols on his ribs. Adam woke to the pain and shot up, panting.

“Where am I?”

“It’s okay,” Sam informed him, “just relax. You’re safe.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“You’re gonna find this a little-” Dean began, but instantly corrected himself, “a lot crazy, but we’re actually your brothers.”

“it’s the truth,” Sam confirmed, “you see we’re actually John Winchester’s kids too. See, I’m Sam-”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that’s Dean,” Adam growled, cutting Sam off. Bobby, Dean, and Sam all looked between each other, extremely confused, “I know who you are. “

“How?”

“They warned me about you.”

“Who?”

“The angels.” he began, “now where the hell is Zachariah? They told me that my sister is in trouble, and only they can help me!”

Sam stepped up from the panic room to see Castiel watching over Adam’s sleeping form. He turned as Bobby wheeled himself over, “how’s he doing?”

Sam just shook his head.

“How you doing?” Bobby tried.

“I don’t know anymore,” he admitted, “I-uh, I went to talk to him and all he could talk about was how the angels and Lucifer have moved on to Adam and Caitlyn. He knows that right now, he’s probably using her...that the kid won’t be able to face seeing his sister being worn by Satan...and that he has to be the one to fight him...because even if I somehow convince Lucifer to take me instead, he thinks that he has more of a chance...”

“Sam...I’m sure he didn’t mean it like-”

“He said that he had no faith in me!” Sam sighed, “said that he knows I’m going to eventually say yes to Lucifer and that Caitlyn will just be tossed aside.”

Tears lined Sam’s eyes and Cas walked downstairs to speak with Dean. But just outside of the panic room he heard glass shattering.

“Dean!” he asked as he started towards the room. He opened the hatch and looked into the room. The chair was knocked over and the lamp had been broken,“Dean?”

He opened the door and walked in, looking for where he could have been, but was surprised to see Dean had put a sigil on a locker. Slamming his palm to it, he banished Cas for the time being and started his ascent through the drain cellar entrance at the side.

He knew that he had to get to Michael before Adam got his shot.

Meanwhile, Adam was dreaming about one of his more peaceful memories.

One where he was seven, and Caitlyn was five.

He’d taken her to their favorite park, and was sitting on the bench, waiting for their mom while she played on the park fixtures.

“Come on, Adam!” his little sister begged from the top of the stairs as she giggled, oblivious to the real-world problems he’d been made aware of at a painfully young age, “come down the slide with me!”

“Waiting for mom!”

“Please,” she begged, pouting, “you’re my favoritest big brother and you never come play with me anymore!”

“Caitly-“

“Come on Adam!” she urged, waving him over, “please…”

He saw himself sigh, before he allowed himself to forget their family’s issues, running away from the bench, his own seven-year-old self began chasing after his little sister.

“I’m gonna get you, Caty!” he grinned.

She squealed in excitement and slid down the slide, before running around the playground, Adam happily chasing after her.

“Your mom’s not coming, you know!”

Adam sat up and looked at the angel to his right.

“Who are you?”

“This was you and your sister’s favorite park,” he proclaimed, gesturing towards the setup, “where your mom would take you on her days off, right? She’s not coming...not yet...neither is your sister. But she will...soon. And the three of you will be reunited. Just like the good old days.”

“You’re Zachariah, right?”

“I am,” he agreed, “you weren’t where you were supposed to be kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I’m having trouble zeroing in on you too,” he murmured, “so let me take a wild guess. You’re with Sam and Dean.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t we tell you about them?” he asked, “so you know you can’t trust them, right? You know that Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent on each other, right?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed nervously, “they said a few things about you.”

“Oh really?” he asked, “trust me kid when the heat gets hot, they’re not gonna give a flying crap about you. They didn’t care when Lucifer took your sister! Or when that angel they hang around with knocked her up?”

Adam’s head shot in the direction of the angel, “what?”

“Oh yeah,” he smiled, “Hell they’d rather save each other’s sweet bacon than save the planet. They’re not your family, you understand. They let your sister get taken by Lucifer. He wears her around town like nobody’s business. That’s why we got you. You can save your sister. You can save your mom. You want to be able to see them again, right?”

“Y-yeah...” he agreed.

“Good...now tell me where you are.”

“You pray too loud!” Castiel commented to the man who was trying to let the angels know that Dean wanted to be found. He touched the man’s shoulder, and he passed out, allowing Castiel to drag Dean into an alley.

He threw punch after punch at him, “I REBELLED FOR THIS!”

“Cas!”

“SO that you could surrender to them?” he growled, landing another punch, “so that you could just run away and give in to Michael? Do you know what he’ll do to Caitlyn? What he’ll do to my child when he finds them?”

“Cas, please!” Dean begged as the angel threw him against the other wall.

“You banished me so that you could run to him. So that you could let the angels take you and let him use you!” he growled, “he’ll kill Caitlyn and my child. He doesn’t give a damn about them.”

“And right now, Lucifer is wearing her to the prom!” he tried to argue.

“Right now, Lucifer is the only thing protecting her!” he hissed, “I gave everything to you, and this is what you give to me! You play hero for everyone but cower to the angels. He continued to beat Dean up, kicking him into a chain link fence.

“Do it!” Dean urged, “Just do it!”

“I promised your sister something,” he growled, letting his fists unfurl, “I promised it to her the night we first made love...the night that I shared my truest self with her. That I would always make sure that you and Sam never gave into Michael and Lucifer...and I’m going to live up to that promise.”

“But you let her!” Dean reminded him.

“And that’s my biggest regret…but know this Dean. I will find her. And my child. And I will protect them at all costs.”

And with that, he touched Dean’s shoulder so that he could knock him out and bring him back to Bobby’s.

Chapter 17

#supernatural #angels & demons #angels #demons #heaven #hell #sam winchester #dean winchester #castiel #zachariah #lucifer #archangel michael #adam milligan #bobby singer

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demonmary · 1 year

Text

a corruption cleared: a demon dean fic

link to a03 | tag list | summary | warnings

The first dose was shoved down his throat rather unceremoniously. He had just tried to kill his own brother with a hammer, so he thought that was, y’know, fair. In the grand scheme of it all, or whatever.

When Dean had woken up dead, he’d immediately known he was different. Not just physically but wholly. Every last cell of him, every thread of his soul and fibre of his being, had been transformed, forged in fire and flame, strengthened with a resolve he thought he’d lost in his youth.

A Knight of Hell, they called him.

Some knight he was now, in chains in his own basement. Locked up in the aimless corridors of the bunker like some captive minotaur, a monster kept from fulfilling his role.

read below or continue on a03

Everything was corrupted, had been, really, ever since he picked up that blade. He’d never expected his angel’s grace to join the ranks of the things he’d have to ruin, but here he was. Castiel’s grace had slid down his throat like ichor, despite his fighting, and despite his filth.

When Castiel had healed him in the past, it was from the outside in. His hands would come to rest on Dean’s injured flesh, his grace would pulse through them like electricity, and the connection would stop when Cas pulled away. But this - this was more refined. This wasn’t Castiel’s touch; this was Castiel. This was Castiel, healing him from the inside out.

When it was time for the second dose, Dean heard his captors as they paused in front of the door. Their footsteps stopped abruptly, like both Sam and Cas remembered who was waiting for them on the other side. What was waiting for them. After they braced themselves and opened the door, Dean felt an incredible rage bubbling inside him.

Dean fought just as hard against them this time as the first, thrashing about and gnashing his teeth and flitting his newly minted true-form about the devil’s trap bubble he was imprisoned within.

This second portion only strengthened the hold that the grace was gaining on his consciousness. He could feel it weaving through his insides, could sense the way it tugged at his humanity, stretching and kneading the remnants of life and soul into something more concrete.

Something must have changed because when it was time for the third dose, Cas came alone. Dean heard both sets of steps as far as the hallway, but only his angel approached, the vial of grace clutched between his fingers.

“Aw, am I human enough now that you can face me alone?” Dean’s voice came out sickly sweet, the kind of artificial sugar that came hand in hand with his lack of mortality. “Didja pretty-up my demon face? Spread some angel-gloss on my nine mouths?”

Dean puffed out his chest, as much a picture of confidence as could be managed while chained to a chair.

“Can you even see me? The real me?” Dean wasn’t sure what about his words did it, but Castiel flinched at that. When he looked back to Dean, his eyes flickered over the space around Dean first.

Cas took a deep breath before answering. “You mean if I can see the demon’s true face?”

“I’m the demon, Cas. That’s me.”

Castiel looked away again. “I can, yes. See you.”

“Well, then, how come I can’t see you? Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Makes a guy feel a li'l exposed.” Dean took stock of how he was sitting; legs spread wide, feet braced far apart, shoulders back, head lolled to the side. Dean knew how he looked. He poked his tongue out, pink and wet, and watched as Cas followed the movement with his eyes.

“You can’t see me?” Was that… Relief?

Dean shook his head no, and for fun, flitted through a few of his demonic faces, flashing his body’s eyes black for pure dramatics. The display seemed to make Cas uneasy, and something about the way he got shifty was enjoyable for Dean. It was reminiscent of the little cat-and-mouse games he would play with his and Crowley’s targets.

This was just a little last hoorah, a little bit of fun before it was all over. It didn’t have to be more than that.

Cas wasn’t paying attention anymore; he was circling Dean like he was prey, or more aptly - like Dean was a puzzle, something to be taken apart and put back together, solved and fixed, like he could pick out the wrong pieces and leave them out, burn them to ash and ignore the holes in the final picture.

“Could you see me before we started the treatment?”

“The treatment?” Dean laughed, the sound cruel and echoing. “That what we’re calling it? And how the fuck would I know? You didn’t exactly introduce yourself before you grabbed me from behind and threw me into a fuckin' devil’s trap. These things don’t feel great, y’know. They hurt, honestly.”

Castiel straightened up, squinting at Dean, squinting at the swirling forms around him. “Hm.”

Dean would love to have his hands free now, would love the chance to knock some fucking sense into his angel, feel the way the soft skin of his cheek yields to Dean’s hardened fist. Pay him back for the way his grace was constricting around the darkness that filled his chest, really make him see what Dean had become before he’s torn back out from the depths of it.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to Castiel’s grace again, the little glass vial that glowed with the essence of him. Dean wanted it as much as he didn’t. He’d be lying if he said the turmoil it was creating within him wasn’t compelling, wasn’t more interesting than chasing empty highs in the form of false-righteous kills. Grace was tangling with whatever smoke his soul had morphed into, and it felt as hellish as it did heavenly.

Cas stepped forward, his feet centimeters from the circumference of the prison he’d trapped Dean inside.

Toeing the line as always. That was his angel.

His. Dean was only allowed to have when he was a demon. Possession came with the territory, he guessed. As soon as he was cured, Castiel would return to the way he was, as unattainable and celestial as ever.

“Are you weakened by the trap? Is that why you can’t see me?”

Dean sighed, long-suffering and exaggerated. “Cas, c’mon man, how the fuck would I know. I’ve never been in one of these things. Haven’t run into an angel either. Guess they’ve been staying clear. Knight of Hell, and all.”

Cas stepped over the line, the vial of grace gleaming blue against the grime of the dungeon.

Dean didn’t fight while Cas fed him his grace. He was too busy searching for a glimpse of Castiel in the air around them.

Cas walked out without another word, leaving tendrils of his grace to take deeper root in Dean’s soul.

The pain was exquisite. Dean writhed and screamed and cried, the sound coming from deep within him and deeper within his true-form. He wailed from his nine mouths, he scratched with claws and nails and talons. He pounded on the barrier of the devil’s trap.

Dean knew the fight was useless, but when had that ever stopped him?

The pain distracted Dean from the sound of his captors’ fourth approach. Cas was halfway across the floor towards him before Dean noticed.

Castiel flinched when Dean looked up, decay-black meeting grace-blue. Dean tried to flash a few faces, snarl and howl and show his teeth, but the threads of grace were stronger than he had thought. He was tethered in place, the last semblance of control ripped from him.

In the silence stood the two creatures, both equally marred with humanity.

At least Dean saw it as the problem that it was. Castiel was in denial, saw his humanity as a strength. Dean knew better.

The demon fought hard and loud enough that Sam opened the door into the hallway, looking in with wide eyes. Dean only noticed when Cas turned and ordered him out, the flash of heaven’s wrath barely contained behind his vessel’s eyes.

There was no avoiding the invasion. With Castiel’s fingers hooked around Dean’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, the grace slides right in. Like it was meant to be there; like it had a home inside Dean.

Cas barely looked at him on the way out.

That time, the burn was less intense. If Dean closed his eyes and focused, he could picture the grace scraping the inside of his body, digging out his darkest and deepest parts and purifying them. It was a healing like no other, but it was just as much a destruction.

An hour later, Castiel came alone, the door left swinging on its hinges as if to show off this fact.

“Just you? No chaperone this time?” Dean spread his legs, stretching against the restraints at his ankles. He let his thighs fall apart, leaned back against the chair, felt his shirt ride up a bit at his hips. “Aren’t ya scared of the big bad wolf?”

Cas barely acknowledged him, opting instead to pull a chair out and take a seat. “Why would I be? You’re more human than demon now.”

Dean watched as the angel took out a small blade - watched as he took out an empty vial.

Dean watched as Castiel dragged the sharpened edge against his own flesh and drained his own essence into a vial for Dean to consume. Always ready to sacrifice, always happy to bleed.

The sight was mesmerizing, skin parted to allow a stream of light to escape, blood from the vessel’s veins tinging the whole scene a delicious red. Dean wanted to drink straight from the source.

Once Castiel was finished, he healed himself with a thought, flesh knitting together seamlessly, candy red blood evaporated into the air. What a waste.

Dean pouted.

When Castiel stepped forward, sixth dose in hand, Dean locked eyes with him. He knew the demon-black was faded now, and the effect was gone with it, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Dean let his eyelashes flutter shut, his mouth parting as he let his tongue loll out onto his bottom lip. He knew what he looked like.

Cas reached out to rest his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, a precaution in case the demon reared its heads and put up a fight. Instead, Dean leaned into the touch and opened his eyes to meet Castiel’s once again.

The wide-eyed look he was met with was more than reward enough. When Castiel tipped the vial, Dean breathed in.

Communion.

“Do all angels taste this good, or just mine?” Dean watched Castiel’s jaw clench. Whether it was at the words or the display Dean had put on - he couldn’t be sure.

Dean wasn’t lying, though. On this side of the halfway point, the pain was gone, leaving behind only Castiel. His grace was more him than Dean had ever been able to see, and now it was inside him. Now it was part of him. Now Castiel was branded on his shoulder, etched on his ribs, stitched through the very fibers of him.

And, sure, maybe taste wasn’t the right sense to be focused on, but again. Dean knew how he sounded. He knew how he looked.

And so did Castiel, based on the hitch of breath the question triggered.

Dean never got his answer; Castiel only left him alone. Dean pretended he didn’t feel the ghost of abandonment settle into his chest. Feelings that he hadn’t had use for as a demon were flooding back with each dose.

Castiel returned shortly before the hour was up and sat back in the chair just outside Dean’s devil’s trap. When he pulled out the knife again, vial close behind, Dean shook his head.

“C’mon, let’s skip that step, huh? Save the extra dish?”

Castiel’s head shot up, eyes squinted in question.

“Don’t make me beg, Cas. We’re already here, right? So I might as well lay down and take it. Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll bend over and arch my back real pretty for ya. I just want to taste.” The demon must still be hanging on tight if Dean had the words to ask for what he wanted. Despite the shock he felt at his own words, Dean only flashed a smirk.

Castiel’s confusion didn’t seem to clear. Dean bowed his head best he could, pulling his shoulders in tight. “No vial. Just. Come here, will you?” Dean hadn’t missed shame these last few weeks.

Dean didn’t dare look up, but slowly, Castiel stepped into sight, stopping once he’d reached the sigil line.

A beat.

And then a second.

Dean raised his eyes in time to watch Castiel flick the blade across his wrist. He dropped the knife, the clattering sound doing nothing to break the tension in the room.

Dean watched as Castiel took an unnecessary breath and crossed the line. Like a habit, Castiel’s uninjured hand came to rest on the bolt of Dean’s jaw, Castiel’s feet planted firmly behind Dean’s prison-chair. Dean could only see him if he craned his neck back and instead chose to press into Castiel’s hold, leaning his face into the impossibly soft touch he found there.

Dean let Castiel turn his head slightly and licked his lips as the cut moved into view. He wanted nothing more but to latch on, grab with both his hands and gorge himself until he’d had his fill, until Castiel was nothing but swirling essence inside him, grace and light and holiness and purity, until Dean could find a way to snub that out too.

Instead, he waited; waited as Castiel positioned his wrist in front of Dean’s lips, waited as Castiel’s blood dripped red and rusted down onto Dean’s chest, down over his stomach, down onto his lap. The grace waited at the surface, pooling in impossible little puddles of light on Cas’s skin.

It was close enough that Dean just needed to stick his tongue out for a taste. It was close enough that Dean could take and take and take and take.

It was close enough that waiting was a reward in itself.

Castiel closed the gap and pushed with one hand to connect Dean’s lips with the source of grace. Dean moaned at the contact, took a greedy inhale, parted his lips, pressed out his tongue, and drank. The blood was a familiar flavor, but the way it mixed with grace was anything but.

The taste was sunshine. It was bright white light and it was patience and it was purity and it was God, not g-o-d god, not fathergod, but God, something Dean hadn’t experienced before, not until now, not until he knew Castiel inside and out and Castiel knew him in return.

When Cas pulled back, Dean whined, low and thick in the back of his throat. He felt the blood coating his lips, felt the grace settling low in his belly. His eyes were hooded, lids heavy with his drink.

“I’ve never told you how goddamned good you feel. I’ve always thought it… but now that I can taste you? God, Cas.”

Cas was standing behind him, face obscured, body language entirely hidden. Dean tried again, leaning into it, letting himself feel drunk on Castiel’s grace.

“Really, sweetheart. You taste so fucking good. You were addicting enough before, but this is next level.”

Cas spoke up. “Before? You… You can’t….”

Regret twisted dark in Dean’s stomach, blotting out the light. “Yeah, you’re right. A monster like me, angel like you? Is human any better?”

Castiel took careful steps around him, staying within the circle as he moved to look Dean in the eye. “You’re not a monster.”

“Who are you reassuring?” Dean spit the words back, and Castiel blinked twice and left the room.

One more carefully orchestrated dance later, the ritual would be complete. Once more, Castiel would enter the room, once more, Dean would press his lips to Castiel’s skin. Once more, he would drink.

When he finished, Dean reveled in the effects, eyes sliding shut as he floated inside his mind, as the last strands of hell were drowned out with holy light. Knight of Hell gave way to daylight.

He barely noticed as Castiel untied his wrists and ankles, he barely noticed when Castiel dragged his blade through the barrier of the devil trap. He barely noticed as Castiel turned his back and left him there to sit in his own drunken shame.

Human once more.

another ao3 link on your way out! comments / kudos / reblogs appreciated ☺️

#dirtybackroad #zo.txt #destiel fanfic #spn fic #contentnatural #is there a fic tag i'm missing

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mlobsters · 7 months

Text

supernatural s10e14 the executioner's song (w. robert berens)

cain with the luxurious locks. i don't remember his hair in the previous episode but i think i'd recall if it looked like this

many thoughts. a) no judgement, dean-o, some of us have weird hobbies b) this view being so well lit gives me an idea of the leg room sam's working with (not terrible) c) i again laugh at the logistics of fic getting these large men to fuck fully contained inside this car. it's a big car but d) sam manspreading across the middle (as ever i wonder about their placement just being a logistical thing with the shot) e) i know about the true crime thing via fic lol unlike the current plot points

DEAN So what are we thinking? Some sort of a mass-murdering magician? SAM Yeah, Or a teleporting demon or a who knows what that can walk through Supermax walls. Could be in our wheelhouse. DEAN Yeah, your wheelhouse. "Hobby."

made me laugh. very cute

somebody get this guy a pantene contract

LOL cain's just going on the killingest of killing sprees i guess because why not. dean and sam are descendents of cain? i can't keep that dumb story straight. vessels and something something bloodline of cain and abel, did he need it for the mark? blergh

wtf is this music dear lord. it's like some of their regular light intrigue/tension music but mashed some... i don't know, over it. horns to evoke.... something. not a fan.

SAM Dean, wielding the Blade against Cain himself... Win or lose, you may never come back from that fight. DEAN I know.

literal sigh. And here I go again on my own / Going down the only road I've ever known. i don't know why this feels like the millionth retread of this. supernatural is a flat circle

DEAN Because you have as much reason to want Cain off the board as anyone. Cain has a kill list, and you're on it. What do you say, Crowley? You in?

LOL okay. everyone is trying to play crowley

ROWENA You honestly believe that they're your friends, that they care about you?!

he doesn't though, does he?

SAM So... If this works and we capture Cain, then what? DEAN We'll cross that bridge when we c... If we come to it. You know last week, when I said that I would go down swinging when the time came? I meant that I was at peace with that. I just didn't realize the time would come so soon, you know, like right now. I'm scared, Sam.

so, dean got me. and maybe it's because i have trauma around it but bringing up the whole i'm ready to die thing again, i'm already feeling that little flare of panic.. but to top it off admitting it's too soon and he's scared. that smashes a lot of painful buttons. and sam didn't even have the space/time to react, we're already on to the next scene and somehow sam doesn't have cptsd triggered by this kind of talking :p not like dean didn't already have a looming death he wasn't ready for and was too soon or anything. and have it happen. and be gone for months that was presumably actually forever. SIGH. at least give him a hug, sam, jesus.

so this cain / crowley / sam thing is fun. letting crowley do something new.

cute how he sidles up right next to sam. protect me, moose. starting to see how crowley/sam is a thing

DEAN I'd be too worried about what he could do to you… Or what I could. Plus, I need you three out here to take out whatever comes out of there. And I'm serious. I mean whatever comes out.

i know nothing of how this goes down. but can imagine it's killing sam to have to stay out of it

dean getting beaten up by cain, okay. cain pushing the sam button, i'm here for it, i'm feeling the feelings (despite the music). aaand dean slices his hand off to get out of the jam he's in. and there's some very bad vfx having it twitch a little on the side. whatever emotions they had set up, that surely wiped them away with a laugh

(god WTF is up with the music in this episode it's weirder than usual. now that dean has the blade back it's like.. harpsichord? something plucky)

CROWLEY You lied to me. DEAN It's not the first time today. Cain's list ... you weren't on it.

again, surely crowley can't be that surprised?

SAM Hey, hey, hey. You did it. Dean, you did it.

did he though? that was a very offscreen death. also the collapsing into sam's arms is reminiscent of sam after stopping the trials collapsing into dean

SAM Dean's in trouble.

all right. seems like dean's lying about something, but what, who knows. hiding something cain related, or health related, or almost-a-demon anger ball, or what. is this gonna be a thing the rest of the season? that's a lot of episodes.

random observation, when i put in the episode number in the tags, you know what's most likely to be listed and say most popular or whatever? episodes castiel is in :p shocker, eh

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn 10x14 #spn clip #spn music woes #spn musical score #robert berens #jay gruska #of course

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crashdevlin · 10 months

Text

Purgatorio

Author’s Note: This is part Thirty-three of The Best Laid Plans series

Summary: Y/n navigates the rough terrain of Purgatory.

Pairing: none

Word count: 4380

Story Warnings: angst...A/B/O dynamics, canon divergence, reader illness, a bit of a suicidal ideation

~~~

You felt like you’d been running for days, but you were sure it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. You killed half a dozen monsters in the time since you arrived in Purgatory, but they seemed like a never-ending tide. Running was exhausting, but it was better than fighting forever. You were on a mission, and that didn’t involve spending the rest of your life fighting monsters that had already been killed.

You could feel Dean, but it wasn’t strong enough to pinpoint his location. You just kept moving.

There was no sun, just a haze of foggy grey filtering through the trees. You didn’t seem to need food or water, but you stopped at a river out of habit and a lifetime of Bobby’s survival training. It was a poor choice, of course, as a werewolf jumped you from behind while you were analyzing the safety of the river for drinking. Claws dug into your right side as you tried to maneuver away from the attack and work through the pain. You grabbed blindly at the machete attached to your left hip and lashed out at the monster, but before the blade could make contact, a familiar sound met your ears.

You twisted to see the werewolf hit the riverbank mud, its eyes blown out with divine power. Standing behind it was the blue-eyed angel.

"Castiel? What are you doing here?" you gasped, adjusting your grip on the machete as you pressed a hand into the claw wounds on your side.

"I could ask the same of you." He stepped closer, and you moved away, fearing a trick.

"I'm here to save Dean. What else?" You shook your head. "John didn't even mention you. What the hell?"

"I can only assume John Winchester is hoping I have perished in the inhospitable landscape of Purgatory." The sullen way he spoke threw you off more than his words. “Let me heal you.”

You licked your lips and moved your hand, shifting to allow him access. “Why would John want you dead?”

“A lot transpired while you were absent, Y/n. I made several shameful, regretful decisions in the pursuit of victory in Heaven.”

“Wait, what?”

“Raphael wanted to bring Lucifer and Michael back, negate all of the sacrifices that marked that day in Stull Cemetery. I fought against it, but…the ends did not justify my means.” He reached forward and laid a hand on your side, healing your wound with a bit of burning divinity.

“What did you do?” you asked softly, pulling on every bit of omega comfort you could manage.

He looked away toward the horizon, looking for the river's end. “I betrayed Dean…and I hurt Sam.”

“How?”

“I broke the wall in Sam’s head. I made him remember. I drove him insane.” Your eyes went wide as the angel turned to you. “He remembers everything.”

“Everything?”

"Everything he endured in the Cage…but also, everything he did and said, everyone he harmed."

"I'm sure he had some tearful words with Dean and John over the things he did."

"From what I saw in my more lucid moments, the guilt seemed to better him." You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. A better Sam was still not worth your time. "How did you come to Purgatory, Y/n? John sent you? How?"

"John didn't send me; he found me and made me start remembering. I volunteered to come once I remembered Dean."

“And how did you come to be here?”

You looked down at the hole in your shirt and the blood on your hand. “Hades brought me. I’m supposed to find Dean and get him to the exit down south.”

“There is an exit?”

You nodded and looked back up. “Apparently, God wanted humans to be able to escape if necessary…which is a great thing considering that Hades can’t get me back home.”

“I’m surprised he was able to transport you to Purgatory; it is not usually the purview of the God of the Underworld.”

You shrugged again. “Hades has always been much more powerful than he’s given credit for.” You cleared your throat and looked down the river. “So, do you know where Dean is?”

“Only based on the movements of the monsters."

"And why haven't you found him?" you asked, adjusting your pack on your back.

"The Leviathans have been tracking me. It is best for me to stay away from him…and you.”

“Wait, you’re not going to leave me, are you?” you demanded, reaching out to grab the Angel’s coat. “Look, I’m a bit out of my depth here, okay? I’ve been running since I got here, and I’m exhausted. Please, don’t leave me.”

Castiel sighed and nodded. “Of course. I understand. But it will not be safer for you.”

“It’s better than running around alone.” You licked your lips and gave him a tight smile. “So, thank you for staying with me, Cas. I haven’t been back very long and just jumped into this rescue mission, kinda.”

“I understand, believe it or not. I was in a mental institute for many months before I was needed to send the Leviathans back to Purgatory,” Castiel said as he started walking away.

“You were crazy?” you asked, following him.

“Yes. When I broke the wall in Sam’s mind, he lost his sanity for a time. The only way I could heal his infirmity was to take it upon myself. It might have been better if I never came out of my catatonia.”

“But you said that they needed you because of the Leviathans…which are…what are Leviathans, by the way?”

“John didn’t explain?” You shook your head. “Of course, that does make a bit of sense. If he didn’t explain about me, then-”

“Well, I dreamed some stuff,” you interrupted. “So I know they were…pretty much about to eat the whole world.”

“You dreamed of the Winchesters?”

“Is that so weird? I used to be the Junction, remember?”

“Of course, I remember, Y/n. I remember everything.” He turned to you and tilted his head as he looked down at you. “But you were away from them. You didn’t remember your connection to Dean and John. It makes little sense that you would be dreaming of them.”

“Maybe I just missed them, and my soul reached out and made contact for me.”

“I suppose that is a possibility, of course. I find it strange that these dreams didn’t inspire you to contact the Winchesters.”

You shook your head. “There was a block. Every time I thought about contacting Sam or Dean, something made me change my mind. I suppose that was Death’s doing.” You cleared your throat and tried not to think about lost time. “So, how far away is Dean?”

“I estimate it will take us two days…and you will need to sleep soon. You are unwell.”

You didn’t feel like sleeping, but as soon as he said the words, you knew he was right. You couldn’t keep going much longer without rest. “Will you keep watch?” You followed him away from the river and into the woods.

“Of course.”

~~~

Sleep was hard-won with the environment and the pain in your ovaries, but you must have fallen into a deep one because you didn’t know a blade was tucked under your chin until you pulled yourself out of whatever dream you found yourself in that night.

“What the fuck are you?” the familiar gruff voice of Dean Winchester demanded. Overwhelmed tears filled your eyes before you even opened your lids to look up at him. He looked dirty, angry, almost feral, but it was Dean. “Shifter? Djinn? Siren? What are you?”

You blinked the tears out of your eyes and took a steady breath. The tears slipped down your face to disappear into your hairline. You made sure to catch his eyes and hold the contact as you tried to stay as still as possible. “Now, tell me what kind of monster could connect to your soul like I have, Winchester. Unless you wanna say that you don’t feel it.”

His bottom lip trembled as he glared down at you. “No, you…you can’t be her. She can’t be here. I’m not stupid, I-”

“If there was anyone other than your brother or father that could get here to try to get you out-”

“It’d be Y/n, but she’s gone. Death took her, and he didn’t bring her-”

“Of course, he didn’t bring me here. Hades did.” You took a chance and carefully reached up to pull the drachma necklace out of your shirt so that he could see it. “John said you were in trouble. Of course, I’d do whatever it took to help.”

Dean’s eyes fell to your necklace, then jumped back up to your eyes. “You gave up what Death gave-”

“Yes.”

It seemed to take a moment for the words to sink in, but he stumbled backward after they did and dropped the blade. You sat up and looked down at the weapon. It looked just as primitive and feral as he did. “I looked for you…for over a year,” he whispered. “I begged Death to tell me where you were. He said you were where you belonged and…” He took a deep breath that didn’t seem to do its job and blinked a few times to clear his eyes. “Dad found you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. John broke into my office and pulled a Bourne Identity on me.”

“Figures he finds you as soon as I’m out of the way,” he muttered, a bitterness to his words.

“It wasn’t like that, Dean. He only found me because-” The words stopped in your throat and refused to leave. You just found him. You weren’t going to ruin the reunion by dropping the news of your cancer. “Another hunter came across me, and let him know where I was.”

“Oh, so he was just lucky.”

“Right, and that leads to your luck, Dean.” You stood, picking up his primitive blade as you did. “I’m here to take you home. There’s an exit.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

Dean nodded and reached out his hand to take the blade back. “Somebody told me about it a couple months ago. We’ve been trying to find Cas so we can all get the hell outta here.”

You looked around for a sign of the Angel. “Wait, Cas was just here when I fell asleep. And, wait, who told you about the exit?”

“Well, if Cas was just here, then I’m sure we’re not too far behind. Grab your shit, and let’s see if we can find his trail.”

“Wait, who told you about the exit?”

He ran his free hand through his hair and chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before clearing his throat. “There’s this fang that’s been here a few years. He found out about it and wanted me to help him get out.”

“Monsters can’t get out. That defeats the purpose of the exit. It’s for humans only.”

“Yeah, well, Benny used to be a human, okay?” Dean argued. “And he’s had my back for months, and I think he deserves us at least trying to get his soul back home.”

You nodded, shocked at how fiercely he seemed to defend his new friend. “Okay. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve worked side by side with something we should be hunting, right?”

“Yeah. Right. Hey, Benny!” he called out, looking behind him.

A man with a beard walked out of the foliage and stepped beside Dean. “She’s actually her?” he asked an accent that you couldn’t quite place on his words.

“Yeah. She’s real. Y/n, this is Benny. Benny, Y/n.”

“Benny Lafitte. Pleasure to meet you, cher,” the vampire said, offering his hand.

“Cajun?” you asked, guessing at his accent as you took his hand.

Benny smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Dean hasn’t been able ta keep his mout’ shut ‘bout ‘chu.”

Dean rolled his eyes and looked away. “Come on, Benny.”

“All good t’ings, o’ course,” Benny clarified.

“Of course. Well…do you know where the exit is, Benny?” you asked.

“Yeah, but Dean won’ let me take us dare ‘til we fine Castiel.”

You turned your focus back to Dean and licked your lips. “Cas was just here. When I fell asleep, he was with me, but…” You took a deep breath and sighed it out. “He told me he felt it was better to stay away from us. The Leviathans are tracking him, apparently.”

“Well, I’m not leaving without Cas, all right, so we need to find his feathery ass.”

Your eyebrow raised. “You’d keep us stuck here just for Castiel, who refuses to be found?”

“Castiel deserves to-”

“Cas doesn’t agree,” you argued.

“Why does that matter?!”

“Keep your voice down, Dean,” you demanded.

He looked around and licked his lips. “Okay. Look.” He stepped closer to you and looked down into your eyes. “You just saw Cas. He said he doesn’t deserve to go home, but you and I know him, and we know that he deserves everything we do.”

“I don’t know him that well, but I know that we need to get out of here. He’s a goddamned Angel. If anybody could get out of here, it’s him, but he doesn’t want to go-”

“He can’t stay here, Y/n!”

You glared up at him. “Dean, you should understand better than anyone the feeling of being unworthy of salvation. But he actually did something worth feeling that way. He told me what he did to Sam. You’ve forgiven that?”

“He thought he was doing the right thing. I should doom him to this place for it?”

“No. He doomed himself, Dean, and I’m telling you, if anyone could make it out of here, it’s Castiel.”

“Then why is he still here?”

You sighed. “Come on. We just talked about this. He doesn’t think he deserves to go home.”

“Then we find him and force him to-”

“Dean, bruddah, we needa get movin’. I hear somethin’ comin’ our way,” Benny said, calling attention to himself quietly.

“We’re finding him.” Dean’s voice told you that he wasn’t arguing about it anymore, so you stopped saying your piece and followed the men further into the woods of Purgatory.

~~~

“Your dad found her just to get you back, and you gonna risk it all for the Angel? You gonna risk her for the Angel?”

You could barely hear the two talking in the clearing ahead of you. Dean was facing away from you, but Benny kept one of his eyes on you.

“Benny, she’s not at risk. She is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. I’m not joking. Dad went to her because he knew that she would do whatever it took to get me back, and that means she’s going to have to wait for me to find Cas and convince him to come home.”

“I think dat’s probably frustratin’ for her. She came all dis way an’ you won’t go wit’ her?”

“Look, I know you wanna get out of here, too, man, but I gotta try to get Cas-”

“This ain’t about me. I know you gonna get me out if you can, but look at her.” Dean looked over his shoulder at you, but you pretended you didn’t notice as you sharpened your machete. “You said you’ve been sick over her for years. She’s here. She came for you. Don’t you think she needs a little bit of an explanation?”

Dean ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and nodded, letting out a ‘yeah’ under his breath. He cleared his throat and walked over to you. “So, uh, you probably want an explanation, huh?”

You focused on your machete and the whetstone in your hand. “If you want.”

“Okay. Um.” He licked his lips and dropped down to sit on the log you were sitting on. “So, I pretty hard on Cas when everything went down. He hurt Sam, so I’m sure it’s not a shocker that I was pissed. But when we needed him, when everything was coming to a head, and the power and the Leviathans had thoroughly flown his cuckoo nest, I gave up on him. I thought the Cas I knew was gone, and the world was gonna end, and it was gonna be his fault. I was bitter and angry at him and angry at Death and…” Dean reached up and ran his hand through his hair. “Sam had faith. Even after what Cas did to him, Sam believed in him…and it worked. Cas came through, but it was too late. The Leviathans ripped him apart, or at least I thought they did. I thought he was dead. I thought he was gone forever and that he went out with me barely able to look him in the eye.”

The emotion in the tone of his voice made you turn to look at him. “That’s not your fault. Cas betrayed you. You had every right to think that he was irreparably changed. I mean, this is Castiel, the Angel that rebelled against Heaven for you.”

“Yeah. That’s pretty much what I was thinking, but…his heart was in the right place. He was tryin' to make sure that Sam throwing himself in the Cage and you and Dad and Bobby…”

“Yeah. He said that. There was so much sacrifice, and he didn’t want it to be for nothing.”

Dean nodded. “Right, and he just got so deep in trying to do the right thing that he ended up way far off the mark and buried so deep in Crowley’s bullshit that…Point is, I should never have given up on him, and I can’t give up on him now. Does that make sense to you?”

You took a deep breath and twisted to face him. “Of course, it makes sense, Dean. But you still have to figure out what you’ll do if you can’t convince Cas to come with us. Are you going to stay?”

“No, of course not. I got people waiting for me back home. Until a few hours ago…gettin’ back and finding you was on the top of my list.”

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” you whispered, leaning forward to put the whetstone back in your backpack.

“Did you know what Death was going to do? That he was going to…”

“Erase half of my life and put something completely different in its place so that I don’t go searching for my past and everything I walked away from?” you finished for him. “No. He just said he was going to take away my damage. I figured he was going to wall off or take away my memories of Hell, but Death didn’t think that was where my damage started; he thought it was a symptom of the damage that started when I got way too close to the Winchesters.”

“So, he took all of your memories of us?”

“Nope, not all of them, just everything after my eighteenth birthday. Everything went bad after John and I…”

Dean scoffed. “Wow. I thought things were bad with Sam not being able to remember the time between going into the ground and waking up in the Panic Room.”

“He replaced what he took with other memories. I never imagined that I was missing so much.”

“But you remember it all now?” You nodded. “Why did you leave?” You placed your bottom lip between your teeth and chewed on it for a moment, trying to figure out a way to explain what you were thinking when you took Death up on his offer. “I know you were angry about me taking Death’s ring and about me working so hard to save Sam, but-”

“It wasn’t fair that he got to forget,” you interrupted. You zipped your pack and stood. “He got to forget Hell and everything he did and said when he was soulless. He got to forget stalking me, treating me like a piece of meat, and trying to kill your dad, and all the other horrible shit. I had to remember. It wasn’t fair. I just didn’t want to remember. I wanted to…” You took a deep breath. “Death gave me a chance. He let me be what my father wanted me to be; a normal girl with a head for antiquities and a reliance on no one except myself.”

“What about Bobby? You weren’t there when-”

“No, I wasn’t, and I don’t think Bobby would have wanted me there. He wouldn’t have wanted me to see him lying in a coma from a gunshot wound. A gunshot!” you hissed. You looked away in disgust at the thought of it. “But Bobby would have been happy with who I became. The very last conversation I had with that man was him telling me that I should leave.”

“What?” Dean sounded shocked.

“He saw that you weren’t treating me well, putting everything and everyone else above me, and he told me to consider leaving. He told me to move on from you because you were never really going to be mine because you can’t allow that. He said that I could go pretend to be normal with someone else somewhere.”

“And Death stepped right up and made it happen. So, who was he?”

You rolled your eyes and picked up your backpack. “It’s so like you to pick up on the least important part of the story. There was no one. I thought I was a virgin, blissfully ignorant of all the times I was used or forced to use someone I didn’t want. I didn’t remember pining sickness or Winchester family drama. I was actually happy, but as soon as John found me, I knew I had to come to get you. So, here I am, with all my damage firmly in place, waiting for you to get your guilt over Cas assuaged so we can go home.”

“You were happy?” he asked quietly as you started walking away toward the river.

“Don’t worry; it’s been remedied.”

~~~

A few weeks later, you and Dean walked down a Louisiana backroad heading toward Benny’s grave. He’d been quiet since you made it home and you knew it was because Cas didn’t make it through the portal. Benny made it through, though, in Dean’s forearm. Souls were weird.

“Maybe you should go back,” Dean said suddenly, after hours of silence.

“To Purgatory? No, thank you.”

“No, I mean, back to the life Death made you.”

You scoffed. “What would be the point?”

“You were happy,” he insisted.

“I was blissfully ignorant. I’m not anymore. I can’t just go back and be that again.”

“You could find somebody to make you forget about…everything.”

You chuckled, thinking about the email you read as soon as the two of you made it to a motel. It was from your other-life doctor prompting you to call him to discuss the rest of your treatment and how important it was to find out how to deal with the prognosis, because if it was ovarian cancer, the survival stats were low. “I’m gonna be dead a few months, anyway, so there’s really no point.”

“What?”

“I’ve got cancer, Dean.” You kept your tone even, keeping a Hunter-appropriate amount of nonchalance in your stance.

He reached out and grabbed your elbow, effectively stopping you and turning you to face him in one motion. “You what?”

You looked up and saw fear in his emerald eyes, but you felt loss emanating from him. “I have cancer. I’ve been taking the strongest suppressants available since 2009. I’m probably going to be dead within the year if projections are right.” Dean looked a mix of lost and confused, so you reached up and patted his cheek. “But unlike last time, I’m going to Heaven and I’m gonna stay.”

“W-wait. If it’s just, just normal cancer, then why don’t you-There’s chemo and shit, ain’t there?”

“Spend my last few months without any hair, nauseated, and weak? Why would I do that?” you dismissed.

"You could live! You…or we could…we could find an angel or…why didn’t you have Cas fix you?”

“He was barely standing, Dean; I wasn’t going to have him waste his energy on me.”

“Why the hell not?!” He scoffed. “You can’t seriously want to die, can you?”

You scoffed right back. “You know, a week ago I was terrified of it. It was the worst thing I could imagine, but…now that I know everything I’ve been through, dying seems like a sweet fucking reprieve, ya know?”

“Look, I know that things haven’t been the best for you but…” Dean looked lost for words for a moment so you interrupted.

“Things have been worse than not the best.”

“I can’t lose you again, Y/n.”

“Yes, you can,” you disputed, trying to walk away. Dean stopped you.

“No, I can’t,” he insisted, getting in your way. “I’ve had you on my mind every day since Death took you and I cannot lose you again. Heaven, Hell, the Underworld, the other life, I can’t…” He took a deep breath and looked down into your eyes. “My soul hurts with you gone and I can’t…I can take any kind of pain the world throws at me, honey, but I can’t take that anymore.”

There it was; that honesty that completely disarmed you. “Dean…we don’t work. We never have.”

“Because we never let ourselves work. Between me pushing you towards Sam and putting him before you and letting everything get all messed up all the time, we never let it work, but I promise you, okay, I promise that if you go get healthy, I will never put Sam before you ever again.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You can’t promise that.”

“I am. I am promising that I will never allow my brother to come between us again, and I am promising that if you get this cancer shit dealt with, I will finally mark you and spend the rest of your life being the worst decision you’ve ever made. Understand me?”

Your eyes went wide as you searched his face for any sign that he was being insincere. You saw only love and fear. So you nodded. “Okay. I’ll call my doctor.”

#cassie writes stuff #spn fanfic #a/b/o dynamics #alpha!dean #omega!reader #angst #canon divergence

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