Agent's Reblogs & Recs

Dean looks up instantly. “Oh. Her?”

Sam perks up. “You mean—”

“No,” Crowley snaps. “Absolutely not. We discussed this. My marriage is not a disciplinary tool.”

Dean already has his phone out. “Too late.”

Crowley lunges—but Bobby flicks a devil’s trap switch and slams him back into place.

“Boy,” Bobby mutters, dialing, “you’re actin’ like a jackass. Your wife deserves to know.”

The line connects.

The room temperature drops.

A woman’s voice answers—smooth, cold, amused.

“Robert Singer,” you say pleasantly. “What did my husband do.”

Crowley shuts his eyes. “Darling—”

Dean leans into the phone. “Hi. Huge fan. Love your work. Your husband is being—”

“An idiot,” you finish. “Again.”

Sam snorts.

You sigh on the other end, regal irritation woven with fond exhaustion. “Put me on speaker.”

Dean does.

The lights flicker.

Crowley sits up straighter like a demon caught in church.

“Yes, my queen?”

“Why,” you ask calmly, “are the Winchesters calling me instead of stabbing you.”

“Well—”

“And answer carefully,” you add. “Because I am in the middle of reorganizing the Fifth Circle and I don’t have the patience for excuses.”

Crowley grimaces. “I may have… antagonized them.”

Dean laughs. “He called us ‘emotionally stunted meat puppets.’”

You hum thoughtfully. “That is what I asked you not to do.”

“It was accurate!”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Crowley.”

He swallows. “Yes, love?”

“If you do not apologize to the nice boys who keep saving reality, I will demote you.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “You can do that?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say kindly, “I outrank Hell itself.”

Crowley mutters, “…I hate when you’re hot and terrifying.”

“Apologize.”

He exhales dramatically, sliding off the table. “Fine. I’m sorry for being antagonistic. And smug. And—”

“—existing,” Bobby adds.

Crowley glares. “…and existing.”

You pause. “Good.”

The lights steady. The pressure lifts.

Before hanging up, you add, “Boys?”

Dean hums. “Yeah?”

“Any time he starts acting like the King of Hell instead of my husband—call me.”

Crowley groans. “You are encouraging them.”

You smile—everyone can hear it. “Of course I am.”

The call ends.

Dean pockets the phone, grinning like Christmas came early.

“Well,” he says, “that was easier than holy water.”

Crowley sinks into a chair, rubbing his temples.

“I married a nightmare,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You married a solution.”

Bobby raises his flask. “Queen of Hell.”

Crowley sighs. “…She’s gonna make me sleep on the obsidian couch.”

Happy Anniversary Sammoose

"Happy anniversary, Sammoose," Gabriel grinned as his back hit a wall. His head tilted back, smiling as Sam lifted him higher, wrapping his legs quickly around the other's waist.

"Happy anniversary, Gabe," he said, a hand sliding through honey streaked locks. "Do I get to eat dessert now?" He questioned inches from Gabriel's lips.

The archangel groaned at the teasing tug on his hair feeling the press of Sam between his legs and hooking his legs tighter around him. His heels dug until his lower back grinding against him.

"Definitely," he groaned. "Well past time to eat me up," he groaned.

Sam smiled, swallowing the rest of the celestial's moan in a heated kiss. His fingers rushed to remove the dark collared shirt that Gabriel had worn to dinner, tongue eagerly pushing past Gabriel's lips.

Don't get him wrong he loved being wined and dined by the archangel, even after all these years Gabriel still found a way to surprise him. Spending a week on a cruise island hoping and taking in the sights had been wonderful and tonight had been perfect. A mixture of human dating and angelic wonder, it was perfectly imperfect and not one hunt to deal with throughout. But Gabriel had been insistent throughout the week, that holding off on fully enjoying each other until tonight would make it all the more meaningful. Sam hadn't disagreed but he also didn't remember the last time they went a week without Sam bending the mouthy archangel over something.

Gabriel groaned, his own hands pulling at Sam's shirt, the sound of buttons popping off onto their cabin floor bringing Sam back to the present. Sam groaned at the loss of his shirt, before doing the same to Gabriel's. The archangel smirked against his lips, hands pushing up under Sam's undershirt, a week of heavy petting and make out sessions adding just as much urgency to his touches as they did to Sam's.

Sam groaned, breaking the kiss to pull the tank top over his head as Gabriel did the same to his own. A curse left them as Sam pulled him closer, hand cupping his jaw and the back of his head. Gabriel didn't stop touching, hands moving mindlessly over each curve and spans of bare skin his fingertips could find. Sam groaned when Gabriel's fingers dipped lower pulling at his belt just as his tongue found its way into Gabriel's mouth again. His tongue twisted past his lips, grinding into Gabriel as the archangel fiddled with his belt.

"Too many clothes," Gabriel whined into the kiss head tilting as fingers snapped.

Sam released a low groan at the feeling of Gabriel hard and bare against him. His hands held tighter to him, grinding harder against him.

"Ah, much better," Gabriel groaned against his lips, taking advantage of their nakedness to dig his fingers into Sam's ass and pull him closer still.

Dean’s eyebrows rose, mock offense painted across his face. “Everyone thinks we’re… what? Nah, buddy, this is just… uh… friend-dancing.”

You snorted. Friend-dancing. That’s what you’d call it. The way Dean held you close, the way his hand rested lightly at your waist, the easy sway of your bodies together—it all screamed something way more intimate than friendship. But you both knew better.

Except everyone else didn’t.

Jack, hovering near the jukebox, cheered. “See! Told you you’d dance with him!”

“Hey!” Dean snapped, laughing, tugging you slightly closer. “It’s not like that!”

“Nope. Totally platonic,” you agreed, letting him spin you in the small space between tables.

Sam, watching from the corner with a beer in hand, muttered something about how inappropriate it looked. Both of you shot him a glare that could have burned holes in the wall.

--

A week later, the music was different, but the routine hadn’t changed. Dean had somehow convinced you to try swing dancing in the bunker.

“See, it’s easy,” he said, guiding your hand into his. “Just follow my lead. No sudden movements. No falling over.”

You laughed as he spun you, books toppling slightly from the shelves. “Dean, if we break something, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” he said, spinning you back to him with a flourish. “But admit it—this is way better than sitting around reading old lore.”

It was. You both knew it. In that small, warm room, with the light from the lamps casting shadows across the bookshelves, the world outside didn’t exist. Only the music, the laughter, and the way your hand felt in his.

Sam wandered in at one point. “You two… are you serious?”

“About what?” Dean asked innocently, though the gleam in his eye said otherwise.

“You know… each other,” Sam said, voice tight.

You and Dean exchanged a look—the back off look. In unison, you said: “Platonic! Totally. Absolutely. Friends.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

--

You didn’t even want to come, really. But Dean had dragged you along, insisting the event was more fun with a partner.

“Just come dance with me once,” he’d pleaded. “Then you can sulk in the corner all night.”

The band played a slow number, and Dean extended his hand without a word. You smiled, shaking your head. “You do realize everyone here thinks we’re dating, right?”

Dean smirked. “Let ‘em think. Makes the night more interesting.”

You took his hand anyway, letting him guide you across the floor. The way he moved, the easy rhythm, the gentle tilt of his head when he leaned close to whisper, “You’re a great dancer, Y/N,” made your stomach flutter in a way neither of you would ever admit aloud.

“Thanks,” you murmured, heart thudding. “You too.”

And that was it. Nothing more. Just a slow, steady dance, in public, while the world whispered that you belonged to each other—even though you were just… friends.

--

Later that night, after everyone else had gone to bed, you found yourselves in the library again. No music this time. Just the soft hum of the bunker and the quiet presence of Dean.

“You ever think about how weird it is?” you asked quietly. “Everyone thinks we’re dating. And we’re… not.”

Dean chuckled softly, tugging you into a sway. “Yeah. It’s weird. But kinda fun too, don’t you think?”

“Fun is one word for it,” you said, smiling. “Exhausting is another.”

He laughed, pulling you closer. “Chuck forbid we ever tell each other how we really feel. Then everyone would be right, huh?”

You groaned, but your grin betrayed you. “Exactly.”

Dean shook his head, soft and warm, like the weight of the world could vanish for just a second. “Well… just friends. Right?”

“Right,” you said, letting the words settle. Safe, comforting. Familiar.

There are very few hours left in the night, and he means to make the most of it. He helps you onto your horse. 

“We should go west, to the nearest port,” he says. “We have enough money to afford passage aboard a ship to the southern islands.” 

You nod in agreement. “The warmer the better. But first—” 

You latch onto his wrist while he tries to make sure your saddle is strapped correctly. You earn his gaze. 

“We need to go into town,” you say. 

Dean’s brows furrow in confusion.

“For what earthly reason do you want to go into town?”

A heavy knock on his chamber door wakes Father Robert out of a deep and reverent communion with his pillow. He eventually gets up at the insistence, groggy and grumbling, and makes his way to the knocking. 

“I can appreciate being hungry,” he grouses, “but it’s too early for alms.” 

He yanks the door open, but is shocked to find a knight of the king and the princess herself, both covered by dark hoods. The latter offers him a familiar smile. 

“We are not beggars, sir,” you say.

“Not yet,” Dean adds wryly. “But we do need your help.”

“I, uh…wasn’t expecting so fine a visit,” the priest stammers. “Especially not on a night like this.”

A clap of thunder punctuates his point. 

“Will you marry us?” Dean asks. There’s a note of urgency in him that the priest doesn’t miss.

“You?” he asks in disbelief, with a pointed finger lobbied at Dean, and then you.

“Yes, please,” you implore. “And quickly. We’re in a bit of a rush.”

“A rush? You mean you’re mid-flight. You’re meant to marry the Prince of Hallstein—” 

“This morning,” you interrupt. “I will not be there.”

Father Robert’s brows gather together as he frowns. His eyes widen as he grasps the full gravity of your words. You mean to abandon your duty.

He strokes his beard, a nervous gesture, then levies a raised finger at you.

“The king—your father—will have my blasted head if I don’t report this!”

“Please. Will you help us?” Dean asks. 

The priest is beside himself. There’s a kind of desperation between you and the knight; your hand is tightly entwined with his. 

Father Robert sighs and focuses on you.

“Is this what you truly desire, Princess?”

Your smile brightens. “Eternally, yes.”

Dean’s lips tug upward, his hand reflexively squeezing yours. 

Father Robert sees the truth before his eyes. He smiles and shakes his head. 

Oh, to be young and incandescently foolish.

“Give me a minute. I’ll find a more official robe.”

The church is dark and empty, save for a few candles lit around the altar. Between the three of you, Father Robert is the finest dressed. His white and red robes are threaded with gold. Dean wears his armor, the clink of silver chainmail over green leather. You wear a plain gown with riding breeches underneath.

But what matters is the way Dean holds your hands in his while the priest performs the ceremony, reading in Latin first. Eventually he turns to Dean and instructs him to repeat his words.

“I pledge my love to you, to be given without restraint,” Dean echoes. He stares into your eyes. “What is mine is now yours. I'll care for you through illness and rejoice in your health. I lay my life in your keeping, and will do my utmost to protect yours. Should death ever separate us, I vow my love shall be undying.”

You try in vain to blink the sting out of your eyes, turning glassy with emotion.

You make the same promises and interlace your fingers with his. You want him to hear the sincerity in your voice, and see it in your eyes, as you did in his. 

Man and wife.

The pronouncement stands.

When Dean kisses you for the first time as your lawful husband, it truly feels like a vow for all the ages. 

After the intimate ceremony comes to a close, Father Robert writes the marriage certificate and notarizes it himself by melting some wax and pressing his garnet ring into the seal. He also offers you and Dean lodging for the night. You give Dean imploring eyes, but he reluctantly disappoints you.

“We can’t stay,” he says.

“A marriage should be properly…well, consummated, to be legally binding,” the priest reminds you.  

Dean doesn’t bother to correct him, that this marriage has already been very well consummated. You are blushing far too much to answer either. 

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Dean says, aiming a small, secret smirk your way. You tuck your cheek against his arm and let him lead you out of the church. 

Before you and Dean return to the horses, still tied to a post near the church, he spots a jewelry shop. The owner is stirring inside, not quite ready to open.

Dean takes the pouch that has his money, now mixed in with the coins you were able to take with you. He leads you over to the shop and speaks to the owner. Within minutes, you two come out wearing matching bands of silver. 

You smile at its shine on your left ring finger. It also fits fairly well. 

“Are you sure we couldn’t just hide here tonight and leave when night falls again tomorrow?” you ask.

“Tomorrow is today,” Dean says. “Dawn will be upon us within the hour, and tonight, the streets will be overrun with your father’s men. My men. It’s too great a risk.”

“Do you really think it safe to go west, then? Aren’t there knights standing guard at the port?”

“Yes, but it’s a less dangerous risk than going south by horse.”

You contemplate the idea while you and Dean approach the horses.

“What if we go east?” you suggest. “There are more remote villages farther inland.”

Dean frowns. “East? The Blackwood lies in between.”

“Exactly. They would never expect us to disappear into the forest.”

“We will disappear. We’ll become something’s meal,” he says. “I’d rather not lose my wife on my first day of marriage.”

You smile in amusement at his grumpiness, but the sentiment warms your heart. Dean’s mouth twitches. He brings your hand up to his lips.

“Princess! Is that you? I wasn’t sure before, but now I recognize you!”

The shopkeeper who sold you the rings left her store to follow you across the street. You startle at the suddenness, and Dean’s hand falls to the hilt of his sword. He seizes her up, but the woman seems only curious and excited that she just served and met the princess.

“No,” Dean says sharply. “Be on your way.”

But already her voice has alerted a knight riding by on the dawn patrol of the city. He looks over into the alley and is surprised by what he finds.

“Sir Dean?” he asks. “Why is the princess outside the castle walls? Is the wedding not today?”

He looks young, and Dean realizes that he knows him. 

“Well met, Jack. She just wanted to stretch her legs this morning, but we’re on our way back now,” he lies. 

Jack doesn’t look as if he believes that flimsy excuse. His brows knit together with some suspicion. It only grows when he notices the ring on your finger, before you bury your hand under your cloak. He notes the flash of silver, and how it matches the ring Dean now wears. 

“What’s going on here?” Jack says, more firmly. He draws his sword, forcing Dean to quickly help you onto your horse. 

“Go!” Dean tells you, mounting his own horse before he draws his sword. 

He engages Jack with a parry, forcing him back.

You’re reluctant to leave without Dean. Your worry for him overclouds your self-preservation.  

But the clash of metal on metal only draws more knights to the alley, even after Dean cuts the strap of Jack’s saddle and kicks the man tumbling out of his stirrups.

“Go!” Dean shouts at you again. He covers you as you prod your horse into a gallop, fleeing the alley, the church, and the city.

Rain begins to fall, then pour, muddying the roads as you and Dean are forced to ride east. Your clothes stick to your frame and drown cold into your bones, but at least the weather provides some cover in your escape. 

There’s no other way around it—you have to take the very roads that lead past the castle. Dean hopes that word of what you’ve done hasn’t yet reached its walls.

But as he rides over a sloping hill, he sees Sam riding toward him, along with Castiel, Knight Commander. At least they’ve come alone. Dean guides you and your horse behind him as Castiel approaches first, drawing his sword. 

“Castiel?” you ask warily.

“You must come home, Princess,” he says. He frowns at Dean, who stands in his way, firm and unyielding.

“It’s too late,” you say. You pull out the marriage certificate from under your arm, where you’ve been trying to keep it dry. “We’ve been married by a priest under the eyes of Heaven.”

For the first time that you’ve ever seen, Castiel’s eyes widen in shock. Sam wears a similar expression as he stares at his brother, but it’s a little less disbelief, and more worry, with a shake of his head. 

“Have you considered how this will affect your father?” Castiel asks you.

“He will be embarrassed and angry, as I’m sure the prince will be as well, but they’ll both survive it. Either way, my father will lose me,” you say. “At least this way, I will be free.”

“Will you?” Castiel counters. “After today, you both will be hunted all your lives.”

You share a look with Dean, tired, but resolute.

“So be it,” you say.

The rest of Castiel’s men are approaching. You can hear thundering hooves in the distance. Your horse shifts and whinnies, feeding off your nervous clenching.

“Please, Cas,” Dean says. He knows his friend doesn’t want to have to fight him, let alone kill him. Now, however, they both know that’s the only way you’ll be taken from him. 

Castiel’s jaw clenches, a huff of frustration escaping him. 

“Go,” he says sharply. “I will lead them in the wrong direction.”

His gaze turns to Sam briefly with a warning.

“Make your choice. Stay or go.”

Castiel then urges his horse forward, and soon into a gallop, to intercept his men. 

Sam draws closer to Dean on his horse. The brothers clasp arms meaningfully. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would happen like this,” Dean says. 

“I doubt there was a lot of thinking in it at all,” Sam says, with a note of exasperation. And yet, there’s understanding in his eyes. “One of us should stay behind for Mother.”

Dean frowns, hanging onto his arm tighter to prevent him from leaving.

“You don’t know what the king will do to you.”

“Castiel will vouch for me. We’ll tell Damian the truth,” he says, smiling at you a little. “The fair princess escaped my watch to elope with my brother. I was entirely unaware of their torrid affair.”

Dean rolls his eyes, fighting a smile.

“All that flowery talk. You should become a playwright,” he says.

“You mean when the king demotes me,” Sam retorts. But at his brother’s guilty frown, Sam urges him onward. “Go already. We’re wasting time out here in the open.”

“Sam,” Dean starts, though the rest of what he means to say fails him. 

Sam nods in understanding. “Go, brother.”

To you, Sam crosses a fist across his chest and bows his head in respect. “Be well, Princess.”

“And you, Sam. Thank you,” you reply. Guilt is buried deep in your heart as well, even as Dean turns to you with a brief touch of reassurance. 

“Let’s go,” he says.

You and Dean travel on paths away from the common road, meaning more difficult slopes and rocky terrain. He means to avoid the forest, but the only way around is to cross the common road. It’s a calculated risk. 

When you and Dean get closer to the road, Dean motions at you to slow down with him. Prince Alastair’s carriages are there, marked by the navy banners of Hallstein soaked black by the rain. Your hood only protects you a little from the droplets weighing on your lashes, getting in your eyes.

Dean wordlessly guides you to stay close to him. You two are downwind, at the base of a slope that may just hide you from view until the carriages pass by. He’s counting on it, because if you try to turn back now, you could be spotted.

The prince’s knights flank either side of the road. You hear them talking as they come to a stop; one of the carriages rode over a stubborn rock and became dislodged. A few of the men work together to fix the wheel.  

“Look at this shit,” one says, muttering in frustration. “What a god-damned waste of time this entire country has been.” 

“The prince will have to travel to the edge of the world if he wants to find a woman willing to marry him now,” says another. 

“And we’ll be forced to take him there.”

“Better he just put a ring on one of his whores and call her a lady.”

“I’ll appoint her myself.”

“You mean you’ll give her your great sword.”

“Hell, as many times as she can take it.”

The men laugh, disgusting you further. Clearly your betrothed is more of a dog than you knew, and his men aren’t much better. Dean gives you an apologetic look. You can tell by his face that he’d rather you not hear this. You merely shake your head. You’re too cold and tired and wet to care about bawdy talk. You just want to find a safe place to rest.  

“The princess’s discernment does her credit,” says another knight. He hasn’t spoken before. His voice is more somber than the rest. “The Princess Serene was a bright, gentle girl, God rest her soul. Do you remember how high she wore her collars, how long her sleeves?”

When the other men remain quiet, he speaks again.

“To cover a multitude of sins,” he says. “It’s no wonder the child did not survive.”

“Careful, Gadreel. You speak dangerous words.”

You cover your mouth with one hand, both stunned and appalled. You know they must be talking of Alastair’s first wife. Just as you know, now in this moment, that you narrowly escaped being delivered into the hands of a monster.

You share a wary look with Dean. His jaw is clenched tight with strain, as his thoughts mirror yours. Though he takes pains to soften for your sake, taking your hand in his. He gives you a look of reassurance. You nod back, albeit shakily. His thumb brushes the back of your hand.

The wind begins to pick up. It carries a strange whistling through the rain, almost like a whisper. 

Your horse whinnies nervously at the sound. You stroke his neck to calm him, but the damage is done. One of the knights stops and turns his head. 

Dean stiffens. His hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t move. He stares and waits, willing the man to lose interest and keep moving. 

Instead, the knight glances down. He brows furrow. He tilts his head and frowns at you in recognition, and at Dean in his armor. The other knight seems to recognize the colors of your kingdom in the dark green leather.  

“Hey!” he shouts. 

“Shit,” Dean mutters. He squeezes your shoulder. “Go! This way.”

“Who is that?”

“I think it’s the princess!”

“The one who’s missing?”

“Yes, you idiot. Come on! This trip could be saved after all!”

They give chase, leaving you and Dean no choice but to retreat the way you came. The only shelter is the forest ahead, with its immense stretch of trees. 

You and Dean dismount the horses right at the edge of those trees. He still looks at the forest ahead warily, but you venture in together, leading the animals in…

Until a flash of lightening overhead spooks one, triggering the other. You gasp when your horse breaks free of you. A stronger whisper calls to your ears, but you slip and fall into the mud before you can truly listen. Dean goes to you, his hand slipping from the reins. 

The horses run off while he helps you up.

“Damn it,” he mutters, watching them go. 

He hears the men cutting their way into the forest, hacking with their swords at tree limbs and any foliage in their path. You and Dean hurry further in to find shelter and a hiding place. It’s even darker here in the forest than the sky outside of it, making it hard to see the steps in front of you, especially with the rain pelting your faces.

Dean tripping on a raised tree root tumbles you as well. The two of you slide and roll off the path down a deep hill. You land painfully at the bottom, if at least on his chest. You both cough and pant for breath, though he holds you to him protectively. 

“You all right?” he asks. 

You nod, still trying to find your bearings. You help each other off the muddy ground. When you raise your head, you realize that there’s a shallow cave beneath the hill. It provides just enough cover for you and Dean to hide in and take a little shelter. 

That’s when you hear the screams of men carried on the wind. 

You gasp. Dean holds you tighter and draws his sword. 

Eventually though, all becomes quiet, except for the battering of the rain upon the earth. 

“What was that?” you whisper.

“Nothing good,” he replies. 

Dean feels you shaking, either from cold or fear. He rests his sword against the sodden wall of the cave and guides you to sit with him. He brushes the wet and the mud from your cheeks and looks at you with sadness.

“Maybe you should go back,” he says.

You look over at him incredulously. “So that my father can annul our marriage and force me to wed that vile bastard?”

Dean hardens. “Of course not. Damian would never allow you to marry him if he knew the truth. We would explain…”

The tears welling up in your eyes make him pause, and weaken. He strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Look at us. There’s no decent life with me, Princess,” he says.

“I’m no longer a princess,” you say, blinking rain and tears from your lashes. “I am your wife. Where you go, I will go. I just hope we can find a place that’s warmer…and drier.”

Dean sighs, finding a smile. If you can have courage, so can he. He takes your hand in both of his and brings it to his lips for a kiss, gentle and lingering.

“Okay. We’ll find it,” he says.

You rest your head against his chest, and he holds you until morning.

You wake to a gentle fluttering against your cheek. Your eyes slide open to sunlight through the branches of spring-green trees.

You find a white flower in your lap tinged with dusty pink. You would know its like anywhere. It’s an apple blossom, even though you see no orchard here. These trees are tall, intimidating oaks, with spindlier ones in between. 

You soon realize there is a trail of white petals on the ground, beginning by your feet, and leading out to the trees beyond. You gently wake Dean by stirring his shoulder. He flinches and hums, blinking slow at the morning light. He clears his throat and gives you a once over to check on you.

“Are you all right?” he asks anyway.

“Dean, look,” you say, pointing ahead. You get up with difficulty. Your clothes are damp, yet stiff with mud, your muscles aching from riding and sleeping in such a position.

Dean follows suit in getting to his feet. He held onto his sword all night. He only sheathes it after he checks that the area is clear and safe. For now.

You’re already following the trail of blossoms. A few of them lie every foot or so on the mossy grass. 

“Where are you going?” he asks. 

You take his hand when he catches up to you.

You two follow this path for nearly an hour, as new blossoms flutter on a gentle breeze and seem to fall in your path, leading you somewhere. It’s strange and wholly unnatural, but you feel in your spirit that it’s right. You explain to him that you’ve always believed the stories your mother told you, of true life in the trees. You learned to sing to them the way she did, caring for their roots and seedlings.

Dean is more wary and skeptical, but he can’t deny what his eyes are seeing. 

It’s nearly midday before the path stops. You and Dean are hungry, tired, and parched, but your eyes widen when you see it.

There’s a clearing beyond the trees, and you’re looking out to a vast lake where your horses are alive and well. They’re drinking their fill at the water bank, and your supplies are still attached to their saddles.

To the north, an apple orchard grows. Its petals fall on the breeze and tease your hair, your cheeks. Tears sting in your eyes; there are already apples growing there, which means there’s something to eat. 

You and Dean pick a few off the nearest tree. He hopes that lake is full of fish. He’ll have to make some kind of fishing pole, or a javelin. 

“You think the trees will let me break off a few old branches and make a fire?” he asks.

“Perhaps, if you ask nicely,” you tease. 

Dean chuckles. He lets out a deep breath as he takes in the clearing. He thinks the trees might’ve protected you both last night. It would be the perfect cover if you and Dean found a way to stay here. 

“This might just be a good place to build a home, don’t you think?” he says. 

You smile in agreement.

That day, a simple shelter of branches and cloaks becomes a hut. 

Dean has to risk going back into the city after those few days in hiding. You both need clothes, food, and more supplies. He’s able to reach the church under the cover of nightfall, and the priest is able to reach Sam with a missive.

Father Robert begins to send a messenger with provisions every other week to the edge of the forest. You and Dean are very grateful, especially when Sam braves the forest to find you both. He brings tools and seeds to cultivate a garden, something you take to as naturally as you did in the castle, and with more discipline than ever. Making sure you and your husband eat in the winter is an excellent motivator.

You don’t want to fail out here. Neither does Dean.

Neither of you speak of it, but it’s an ever-present, unspoken thread between you.

In a month, that hut becomes the beginnings of a cabin. The brothers work together on building it piece by piece. As long as you give back to the land with planted seeds and your voice, your neighbors don’t seem to mind you and Dean cutting a few limbs to build your home.

One season flows into the next, and the next, and another beside. 

By the time January comes, Dean is securing the door hinge and planning to build another support beam. He’s just finished shoveling snow from outside the door. You’re roasting the large fish he caught over the fire, but the man soon comes to distract you with his wandering hands, after he pulls off his gloves. 

You smile as he kisses your neck. You tilt your head to give him more room, sighing when his warm hand rubs the pregnant swell of your belly. 

“How’re you feeling, my love?” he asks. 

You hang onto his arm, your smile fading. “Concerned.”

His brows furrow. “Why?”

“I still wish one of my ladies could be here to help me when the child comes,” you confess.

You’ve had this conversation before. Dean sighs, stroking your belly.

“You don’t think I can handle it,” he says. You look at him over your shoulder in amusement.

“You aren’t exactly well-versed in delivering children,” you say, slightly teasing.

“What about my mother? She could help you,” he suggests.

You consider it, biting your lower lip. “Yes, I suppose that would be wiser. Although…”

“What?”

“Would that be a comfortable first meeting?” you say, a blush rising in your cheeks. “I have already cost you many things. I doubt she would want to venture into the Blackwood just to help me, even if it is to see you and her future grandchild.”

Dean frowns and gently turns you in his arms. “We’ve both made sacrifices.”

He squeezes your arms just enough to earn your gaze.

“And my mother isn’t as hard-hearted as you imagine,” he says. “The last time I spoke to her, she understood. Sam and I explained everything.”

You shake your head and smile a little. “And you believe that mends everything?”

You lay a hand on Dean’s chest. 

“You could get a message to Father Robert,” you say. “Tell him to reach Sam. He can send a letter to Castiel, who can speak to Lady Margaret. And then—”

“That’s an incredibly risky game,” Dean says. “First of all, I would have to leave you here and go into town again. Even just picking up the supplies Father Robert brings us is dangerous.”

“Yes, but I think it’s necessary. It’s likely been more than nine months since—” you begin to say, but the rest of your words are cut off by a sharp pain in your lower belly. Your hand flies to the wall of the cabin for support, but Dean holds you steady. He frowns in worry and helps you over to the bed, curtained off along the far wall.

He can’t help but think that if you were still attended in a castle, you would’ve been on bed rest and given every comfort, not slaving over a roasting fish.

“It’s happening,” you tell him. “I felt this pain earlier this morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It went away quickly, so I thought nothing of it. Dean,” you say, catching your breath. “I need help.”

He nods in agreement. “You should come with me. I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”

“You know I can’t ride, and I’ll be too slow by foot,” you say, shaking your head. “Just go quickly.”

Dean’s lips press together in worry, but he knows you’re right. “If I’m not back by morning—”

You pause his mouth with a press of your fingers over his lips. 

“You will come back to me. I have faith in you, my love,” you say. A smile graces your lips. “Just be quick about it.”

He smiles a little. Taking ahold of your wrist, he kisses your fingers.

“As you wish.”

Dean covers himself in a cloak and rides out of the forest, heading into town. It takes him hours to get there, and another still for his letter to reach Sam at the Winchester estate. It’s delicate work, and only a young messenger under the priest’s care is ever trusted with letters or deliveries. 

Dean has seen more than he thought he would of his brother since beginning a new life, but he was only able to see his mother once, within the safety of the church. He was able to reassure her that he was well. Then he apologized, seeing rare tears in her eyes.

But in the end, she held a hand to his cheek and asked him…

“Dean, is this truly what you want?” 

He covers her hand where it rests. He looks down on her with glassy eyes.

“After Dad died, she was the only thing I ever wanted.”

Mary’s face slowly becomes one of understanding. She nods.

“Then you’ve made the right choice,” she says.

As Dean was told, King Damian was understandably outraged. The embarrassment before the Prince of Hallstein, of course, was immense. But more than that, Dean knows he broke the king’s trust in the worst way possible. 

Sam was only lucky that Castiel, Ben, and many of the other knights implored the king for leniency on his behalf. While the king didn’t have any evidence of Sam’s wrongdoing, he still felt he could no longer trust a Winchester. 

Sam was sent home, retired early of his knighthood. He’d long ago accepted Dean’s apologies, even if it did take him some time to find genuine forgiveness in his heart. By now, Sam has found his footing by helping their mother run the Winchester estate, becoming the head of the household. He’s even started courting the local baker’s daughter, Eileen. 

However, the contents of Dean’s latest letter would force him to leave his post once again. He rides for the castle and tells the guard at the gate that he has a message for the Knight Commander. An ordinary messenger, even one from the church, wouldn’t be permitted at the castle gate, but the guards know Sam. They’re willing to send for Castiel.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Castiel later says, when he comes out to the gate to greet Sam.

“I have a missive for you,” Sam says, and he impresses the importance of it with only his eyes. Castiel is perceptive enough to recognize it. He takes the letter from Sam and quickly scans it. Within that letter is a second one, and a third. Castiel opens those too. 

What he reads changes the nature of his face, making his suspicion fall into understanding. 

He glances up at Sam. “Wait here.”

Sam waits. 

Meanwhile, Castiel hurries back inside the castle to find another demoted soul—your lady-in-waiting, Margaret. Had you been wed to the prince, she would’ve traveled with you to Hallstein. Instead, she was displaced from her position and reallocated to assist the Chatelaine instead. 

Part of Margaret still holds a fair bit of resentment toward you, but that slowly begins to fade the more she reads your letter for her. Castiel stands with her in the hall outside the kitchens while she reads. What starts with your heartfelt apologies for the way you left, and how that may have caused her pain, ends with an earnest plea for her help. 

Her face slackens with sympathy. She sighs, looking up at Castiel.

“How far along is she?” Margaret asks. 

“Likely she will give birth soon,” Castiel says. “She’s already experiencing pains.”

“Contractions,” she corrects. She herself has helped deliver all four of her sister’s children. “Where is she?”

“Sam will take you,” The Knight Commander says grimly. “Let’s hope she can manage until then.”

That afternoon, Castiel breaks his oaths again. He calls for a horse and sees to it that Lady Margaret visits her “cousin.” She and Sam should reach the church where Dean waits before nightfall. From there, they will depart for the Blackwood.

Within the castle walls, all is quiet once the torches are lit. Castiel walks his final patrol before the night’s watch takes over. He ends his path in the garden, where King Damian sits on the bench beneath a wilting tree. He comes here often, and even takes his meals here. Once, Castiel had to gently remind him to retire to bed before he fell asleep here.

“My King,” Castiel says quietly, announcing his presence.

Damian startles slightly, but when he sees it’s only Castiel, he relaxes.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening, Sire,” Castiel replies. He glances up at the dying tree, following the path of the king’s gaze.

“No matter how many times the gardeners tend to it, it will not thrive,” Damian says dully. “It’s as if it’s lost its will to live.”

Castiel’s blue eyes hold thinly veiled sympathy, but he doesn’t know what to say. There’s very little he can offer.

“Perhaps this country didn’t need a god-damned armada,” Damian says. “Not at the cost of its heart.”

“Its heart isn’t gone, Your Majesty,” Castiel says.

Damian’s gaze becomes sharp, turning to the knight with suspicion. Castiel hands him the letter he read and resealed.

“This was left at the gate. We don’t know who sent it,” he lies. But the contents of the letter are the truth.

Damian frowns as he opens it, but his eyes blink wide with shock. He recognizes your handwriting, simple and elegant.

You are safe. You are happy. You are sorry, but also not sorry enough to regret your choice. You hope he’s well.

And he will soon have a grandchild.

That alone will keep his hunched form sitting in the garden like a living statue. He stays there for hours afterword, rereading your words over and over until his eyes glaze over.

An early sun begins to pry between the cracks in the cabin’s wooden beams, hitting you in the eyes. You shut them tight as you lay sweating, struggling in the bed, doing your best to breathe.

Your water broke a few hours after Dean left yesterday. Ever since then, the pain slowly began to mount in short bursts, sharp and nearly overwhelming. But the minutes seem to pass by quicker in between them now.  

Dean still hasn’t returned. You’re alone, and you’re scared to be alone.

“Where are you,” you whisper.

A wind rises outside, the trees groaning. Can they hear your struggle? Do they sympathize with your pain? 

Your bedside candle marks the hours, and another two and a quarter pass before you hear hoof falls in the distance. The cabin door creaks and swings open, and the smell of musk and horse and sweat greets you, along with your husband calling your name urgently.

He comes to you, takes your hand and kisses you, swiping your sweaty hair away from your forehead while you weep in relief.

But he’s not your only visitor. Sam guides not only Lady Margaret, but Mary Winchester into the cabin as well. You’re well and truly shocked to see all of them. 

Sam greets you with a smile, as does Mary. When Sam told her what was happening, she wasn’t content to wait at home. She rode to the church to meet her sons before they departed.

“Hello, Princess. At last, we meet,” she greets you with a respectful nod. You can only nod back shakily.

“Y-Yes, at last,” you reply. Your gaze falls from her blue eyes, the sting of guilt and embarrassment in yours. “Forgive me, I’m in a state…”

Mary is hesitant, but still gentle in the way she takes your free hand not intertwined with her son’s. Her face is kind.

“No forgiveness is needed,” she says, with a deeper meaning that doesn’t escape you. “You’re my daughter-in-law. My family.”

New tears sting hotly in your eyes, traveling down your cheeks. You manage to whisper your thanks.

Not to be outdone or forgotten, Margaret’s plump size nearly nudges Dean out of the way as she tearfully kisses your cheek. She rests a hand on your swollen belly.

“How much time passes between contractions?” she asks.

“Minutes. Not very long,” you say, just barely getting the words out before another spasm hits you deep inside. You cringe and grit your teeth as Mary encourages you to breathe through it. A sob escapes your lips at the intensity. Dean’s heart clenches at the sight of your pain, knowing he can do nothing. He presses his lips to your temple.

Margaret orders both Sam and Dean out of the room, but Dean is reluctant to leave your side.

“I’m staying,” he tells her, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

Margaret harrumphs. “It’s wholly improper for you to see her in such a state. It cannot be done!” 

“By now he has seen me in every improper way imaginable,” you snap. “It only makes sense for him to stay at my side, does it not?” 

Mary doesn’t quite hide a smile behind a curled hand.

Sam snorts, running a hand through his hair to disguise it. Dean purses his lips, but not even he can hold back his smile in the face of Margaret’s startled face. 

Sam does leave the cabin for your modesty’s sake, but your husband stays at your side. While Mary and Margaret guide you through the night, Dean holds your hand, murmuring encouragements and soothing things in your ear. Half of them you don’t hear, and the other half are unintelligible even to him, but it’s the timbre of his voice that washes over you, as it always does. Despite your lingering fear and pain, that rich baritone of gravel and hearth makes you feel safe.

Within the hour, your son is in your arms, wailing as he tests his voice in a new world. 

The bed is a bloody mess, as are your inner thighs. You’re covered in sweat, as is Dean, but your child is clean as he can be after Margaret has gently washed him. She and Mary begin to clean you as well with a wet rag and a bowl of warm water. 

Eventually you’re able to soothe the child, and he nurses at your breast for a while.

“Well done, my love,” Dean says quietly, his voice laden with emotion.

You smile back at him tearfully. It’s one of the few times in your life where you truly feel as if you’ve accomplished something worthwhile. The first was learning how to channel your embroidery talents into mending Dean’s clothes, as well as your own. Then, there was learning to skin and cook a rabbit, and how to debone a fish and not burn it on the fire after. Of course, there was planting seeds in your new garden—fruits and vegetables and herbs for the fall harvest. All were the hard-won efforts of helping Dean build your home, from the outside and the in. 

Now you know you can bring a life into the world. It’s a powerful feeling, yet also terrifying. You’re now wholly responsible for this life. But today more than ever, you know you won’t be alone in raising him.

After your son finishes his first meal, Margaret helps you regain some modesty with changing your clothes, the bedsheets, and a fresh blanket. Sam is finally welcomed back into the room. He lays a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder where he sits reclined beside you. Dean smiles, his eyes suspiciously shining. He grabs his brother’s arm in a companionable silence. 

“What will you name him?” Mary asks. 

You and Dean share a look, one of agreement. You’ve been deliberating over this for months. 

“Samuel,” you say, giving your brother-in-law a smile. “We want to name him for his uncle. Without his help, this little one might not have been born.”

Sam smiles in wonder. His eyes turn the shade of sea-washed glass. 

“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m honored.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t grow into it,” Dean teases. He gestures at his younger brother’s height, which nearly has him bumping his head on the cabin ceiling. 

You laugh, blinking slow as you fail to resist a yawn. “I’m sure he will.”

Dean kisses the side of your head. 

“But for now, sleep,” he says. 

Yes, you agree, letting him carefully take the baby from your arms. You think you deserve a short rest. 

And when you wake, the rest of life begins.

"This is true love. You think this happens every day?" ✨

AN: What do you think of Dean and reader's great escape (and their elopement)?

They've certainly made the most of going "into the woods" (*cue Sondheim*). But will it be far enough to stay hidden?

Next Time (for the last time):

Castiel greets Damian and bows his head in respect. The king sits on the bench. His robes are a royal blue, threaded with emerald and gold—the colors of his house. His crown similarly holds the weight of emeralds and opals. He feels the burden on his neck.

Still, he turns to Castiel with a question that has been weighing on his mind.

“What should happen if you actually found Dean Winchester?” Damian asks.

Castiel’s brows draw together slightly. “Sire?”

“Would you kill him, if I so ordered it?” Damian asks, raising a brow. “Would you relieve his very head from his shoulders for stealing away my daughter?”

It takes Castiel a moment, but he bows his head in respect.

“My sword is bound to your word, my King,” he says. And yet, he dares to meet Damian’s stare directly. “But how would your daughter look upon you afterward? Can you live with what you will see in her eyes?”

Damian’s jaw clenches. 

“Do you know anything of the child?” he asks. His grandchild.

“I’m afraid I do not,” Castiel says. “Only what was in her letter to you.”

Damian looks into Castiel’s eyes, and truly marvels. He wonders when the man learned to lie so well. 

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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Liz (xpurdyglambertx) - Q: What inspired your username(s)? I know recently you switched from justwhisperingfantasies to the name you have now!

A: Ooooh. Over the last year, I have really grown not just as a writer but as a person. When I started writing for me I just didn't feel like Whisper anymore. Though I do still love her. But I wear a lot of flannel, and I have a weird connection to the fairies. So one day it just came to me.

LilithPrimera - Q: What's one of your favorite fics that you've written that you feel doesn't get enough attention?

A: My fic for the last round of the Eldritch bang, In The End, All You Need Is Me, hands down, probably top three things of mine I have written, but it has a lot of Sam hell trauma, and it is very intense. So I understand why people are like, "Nope," lol

Copperboom82 - Q: How did you get into writing?

A: As long as I can remember, I have been a book junkie. It has been a lifelong dream to actually write one. So one day in Jr High, I started writing stories, some for OCs, some for characters of tv shows. And I just never stopped.

Liz - Q: Do you just write for SPN, or do you dabble in other fandoms too?

A: I dabble in a lot. I write for Spn, The Boys, Big Sky, Walker, 911, The Rookie, and some RPF.

Chevroletdean - Q: Which character/s is/are your favorite to write and why?

A: Well, there's Sam, ofc, but also J2 has infected my brain right now. And they have me in a chokehold. I love their dynamic and their sassy banter.

Trevelies - Q: I'm always curious about writers' fic and/or chapter planning/outlining process, if you don't mind sharing!

A: Honestly, my writing process is kind of chaotic. Most of the time, I get a spark from a scene or a line of dialogue, and we just kinda see where the wind takes us. A lot of bang fics I will outline. Usually, I outline in chapters, a lot of it is winging it lol

Autisticandroids - Q: Is there stuff you like to read that you don't like to write, or vice versa?

A: ANGST BABY!!! I try so hard, but I feel like my fingers are too fluffy for angst. But I LOVE reading it!

Chevroletdean - Q: Since you mentioned OCs, what's your creation process like? Any tips for fleshing out an original character?

A: You gotta have a good backstory. Though sometimes a throw in OC works for a one shot, but if you plan on writing them multiple times, you should have some what of backstory and their personalty mapped out, if that makes sense. Just like writing Dean or Sam, you have to stay true to the character, even if the one that lives in your head.

LilithPrimera - Q: What's a trope you enjoy reading but haven't written yet and want to?

A: Oh Geez, my mind is blanking... OH, time travel and alt universe jumping. Idk if those are really considered tropes, but I love a good time travel fic.

Chevroletdean - Q: What does your ideal writing session look like? Snacks, music, in a café vs at a desk, etc?

A: You gotta have snacks! I can't write without snacks. I use music a lot to get the words flowing. I have different playlists for different characters and/or ships lol. Sometimes at the kitchen table, when I am feeling lazy, I write lying in bed.

Trevelies - Q: Do you have any current WIPs or future fics you're planning at the moment?

A: I do. I have 2 wips left to finish for a Fluff and Stuff Valentine's Day writing event that I am in, and then I will have all 14. I am currently writing for a couple of bangs, but I am not allowed to talk about them. lol

Liz - Q: You're running your very first bang! Wanna tell us about it and drop a link?

A: Yes, that's right. Someone *cough* pushed me to start up the Sastiel bang again. We are almost halfway through. And I am so excited to see everyone's creations! The authors have been buzzing about their fics already.

Copperboom82 - Q: I know you love writing challenges, but do you have a favorite or least favorite type to participate in?

A: Oooof. Favorite would be any kinda of prompt challenges, and if there's a dialogue prompt in the 🫠 Bingos are really fun. I would have to say Bangs are probably my least favorite. Don't get me wrong, I love them, but they can be stressful at times.

Chevroletdean - Q: If you had to pick between enemies to lovers and friends to lovers, which one would you choose? (As someone who's also a fan of both, I know this is a mean question LOL)

A: AHHHHHH WHY???? If I have to pick, then friends-to-lovers, with some mutual pining thrown in. Just something so satisfying about it.

Liz - Q: Do you like AUs? If so, what kinds?

A: YES!! ANY lol. I know that's vague, but I love seeing any character, we can use the Winchesters, taken out of their normal environment, and how they would interact in a firehouse, or office space, or being a dragon.

Copperboom82 - Q: Do you have any tropes you don't like?

A: Not that I hate them, but a no-happy-ending is like awful for me. I like seeing all the babies happy at the end yk.

Trevelies - Q: Less writing-related, more show-related, what are your favorite seasons or "arcs" in the show?

A: Season 6 for reasons lol. I really like the story arc in 1-5, so great. Demon Dean, oh, though I wish we got to see more and meaner. Like I said, I like my angst. I really liked the Trials storyline.

Copperboom82 - Q: Do you have any characters or ships you haven't written but want to? Or you've only done a little and want to do more of?

A: Sam/Rowena, or just Rowena in general. She scares the crap outta me though lol. Also, I would like to do more for Crowley.

Liz - Q: Who are your favorite authors in the fandom?

A: Omg, there are so many. Liz, Andrea, Chevrolet Dean, Impala Dreamer, Sam Is My Safe Word, TallTalesandBedtimeStories. I got y'all on rotation lol.

MrsWhozeewhatsis - Q: Do you have a pre-reader, and how do they help you with your writing? (Alpha or beta reader, whatever.)

A: Yes! @copperboom82 prereads 98% of my stuff. She is my rock, and I would be lost without her. I am really bad at grammar lol. She helps with that and makes sure the flow stays steady. When you have a good connection, you feel comfortable telling someone, "Hey, this would be better," or, "How about this?" And it works out.

MrsWhozeewhatsis - Q: Do you prefer to WRITE long or short stories? And on the other end, do you prefer to READ long or short stories?

A: Oh, that's a good one. I like both, but if I had to pick one, long for writing and reading. I love details. The more the better.

Chevroletdean - Q: The graphics for your fics are always so cool, where/how do you edit them?

A: Canva, I do have the pro version, though. If you can swing it and use it as I do, I think it's worth it.

Trevelies - Q: Are there any specific "things" or feedback that you especially love to receive in comments on your fics? Like compliments about pacing or characterization, etc.?

A: Characterization is everything to me! If someone tells me I got the characters right, I will be grinning for a week.

Copperboom82 - Q: What do you get most excited to write?

A: Um, Character. Right now, it would have to be my OC Lexi. I love creating little timestamps throughout the show with her. Trope. I am a fluff monster. I love love. And when I get to smush my favorite characters together, it makes me so happy.

MrsWhozeewhatsis - Q: Is there anything you want to share about your writing or process or anything that we haven't asked about?

A: Um, I don't think so. I will say I have learned the hard way, you have to write what makes you happy and write for you no matter how scary (and I know it's scary) But at the end of the day, it will be such a happier process.

MrsWhozeewhatsis - Q: Tough question: What do you like about the fanfic community, and what do you wish you'd see more of?

A: Oooof, Michelle pulling out the big guns lol. What I love is the way y'all have made me feel welcome, not just online, but at cons, too. It's really awesome that you have a space where we can come and yap about something we love, and there are others who will yap right along with you. I have never felt unwelcome in a fandom space. What I wish I saw more of is letting go of the ship wars. You like what you like, and we should all be respectful of that, no matter if it's our thing or not.

Chevroletdean - Q: Have you ever done a challenge and come across a prompt that you struggled with immensely but still wanted to get done? If so, how did you tackle it?

A: I have, if it's like a multi-prompt challenge, I will skip that prompt and come back to it later. Honestly, I let my mind wander at work A LOT and have come up with the best ideas while doing mundane activities that I do every day

Liz - Q: Anything you want to plug as we close out?

A: My Fluff and Stuff fics are coming out now, Bang posting at the end of this month, another in May, and one more in June/July.

The next Pond Diving is not yet scheduled, so keep your eyes peeled for that announcement! (Or, you can watch the events calendar in our Discord server, or add our Google calendar to yours!) For more information about this new version of Pond Diving, click here!

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Leata - @leatafandom

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Supernatural Smut Master List

Gabriel/OG Tentacle Creature

Gabriel and His Lady, Rated Explicit, word count 1,780

Gabriel/Sam Winchester/Rowena MacLeod

We Tried to Call, Rated Explicit, 3,016 words

Gabriel/Dean Winchester - Debriel

Chef's Reward, Rated Explicit, word count 2,511

Under Your Tongue, Rated Explicit, word count 1,478

Gabriel/Sam Winchester - Sabriel 

A Con Artist Does Not A Murderer Make, Rated Explicit, 6,320 words

A Little Pick Me Up, Rated Explicit, 1,326 words

A Holy Hole, Rated Explicit, 2,537 words

A Sensual Sacrifice - Rated Explicit, 3,783 words

A Wonderfully Broad and Sturdy Desk, Rated Explicit, 1,701 words

Between the Stacks, Rated Explicit, 4,296 words

Bubblegum Lunch Date, Rated Explicit, 1,367 words

Cannibal Sam - Monster Eater Verse, Rated Explicit

Choke Me Like It Matters, Rated Explicit, word count 6,661

Cleaning Out the Closet, Rated Explicit, word count 2,942

Come to Bed, Rated Explicit, 3,574 words

Convince Me, Rated Explicit, 7,265 words

Cursed or Not, Rated Explicit, 3,579 words

Diplomatic Visits, Rated Explicit, 1,985 words

Easy Sunday Mornings, Rated Explicit, 1,623 words

Gabriel Loves His Man in Uniform, Rated Explicit, 1,789 words

I’ll Make a Mess Out of You, Rated Explicit, 4,155 words

I Love It When You're Pissed, Rated Explicit, 1,731 words

I Read it in a Fanfiction, Rated Explicit, 1,239 words

Jumpsuits and Candy, Rated Explicit, 113,233 words -on hiatus

Just Lay Here, Rated Explicit, 1,326 words

Let's be Clear, Rated Explicit, 2,134 words

Mirror, Mirror on the Bedroom Door - Rated Explicit, 5,442 words

My King - Rated Explicit, 2,379 words

No More Sacrificing - Rated Explicit, 973 words

Only Because It's Your Birthday, Rated Explicit, word count 4,046

Parking Lots and Sweet Revenge, Jumpsuits Verse, Rated Explicit, 4,283 words

Rainbow Fish in a Barrel - Rated Explicit, 3,056- words

Sam's Hand, Rated Explicit, 3,681 words

Say You're Sorry, Rated Explicit, word count 3k+

Special Delivery - Rated Explicit, 2,563 words

Shut Up! - Rated Explicit, 2,814 words

Teenage Thrills, Rated Explicit, 3,508 words

The Easiest Bet, Rated Explicit, 1,548 words

To Love a Hunter, Rated Explicit, word count 37,101

Until It Aches, Rated Explicit, word count 1,881

Welcome Home, Rated Explicit, 3,836 words

With a Lead Pipe in the Library, Rated Explicit, 3,713 words

Wincest - Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester

I'm Still Here, Rated Explicit, word count 3929

Your lover. Your boss.

The King of the Underworld — at least, the criminal version of it. Blood on his hands, empire at his feet. And now you were his captive.

His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Here’s how this is going to go," he said smoothly, removing his gloves one finger at a time, like he had all the time in the world. "I’m going to ask you a question. If you tell me the truth, I’ll ask another. But if you lie…"

He stepped forward. His eyes glinted with a blood red.

“I’ll start cutting off your fingers one by one.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You knew he wasn’t bluffing. You’d seen what he did to enemies. You’d kissed him afterward, sometimes.

But you weren’t just another traitor to him.

You hoped.

He crouched before you, a knife glinting faintly in his hand — not touching you yet, but close enough for the promise to linger.

"Why, sweetheart?" he asked, too softly. "Why the hell would you go to the Winchesters?"

You swallowed hard. “Because you were going to kill them.”

"I kill a lot of people. Doesn’t mean you get to betray me for it."

“They’re not just anyone!” you hissed, voice cracking. “You were going to level an entire safehouse, Crowley — there were kids there. Family. Innocent people, Crowley!”

His jaw ticked. You saw the rage flare behind his eyes, but it was contained — always contained, until it wasn’t.

"You lied to my face," he growled, leaning in closer. "Slept in my bed, whispered pretty things in the dark, while feeding those forsaken Winchester brats every damn move I made."

You blinked hard, the tears coming now, not from fear, but from grief. You hadn’t just betrayed a kingpin. You’d betrayed the man you—

“You said you wanted out,” you whispered. “But you were never going to leave it behind, were you? Just more blood. More wars.”

His silence was louder than his rage.

Then, his voice turned ice-cold. “Beg for your life.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What?”

"You heard me. If you’re not lying, if you’re not a spy sent from the beginning… if there’s still a trace of you that gives a damn—beg."

You stared at him. Your lip trembled, but your voice stayed strong. “I’m not begging.”

He stood suddenly, the chair behind him clattering to the floor, echoing around you like a haunt gone wrong. “Do I look like I’m joking to you?”

The roar echoed through the warehouse. Your breath hitched.

But then—something shifted. You didn’t know if it was the defiance in your eyes or the pain in his. He ran a hand down his face, like he was trying to scrape the rage off.

“You were mine,” he said, voice hoarse now. “Mine. I gave you everything. And you gave it all away for them.”

You looked up at him, breathing uneven. “No, Crowley. I gave it away because I still have a soul.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then the knife clattered to the floor.

Crowley turned away from you, fists clenched, back rising and falling. He was shaking. You weren’t sure if it was with fury or grief.

“I should kill you,” he said.

“I know.”

"But I won’t. Because I hate myself just enough to still love you."

You blinked, stunned as he strode toward the shadows. He paused at the door and called back to a guard, “Cut her loose.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Were you trying to make me breakfast?”

He scowled, clearly offended. “Trying? Please. I succeeded with the tea, didn’t I?”

You arched a brow, amused. “So the toast’s just a bonus disaster?”

Crowley smirked, stepping into the room and setting the mug on your nightstand like it was a priceless treasure. “I could’ve conjured breakfast, of course. But you humans get so weird about it when I use magic.”

“Because the last time you conjured breakfast, the eggs tried to bite me.”

“They were ambitious,” he said dryly. “I respect that.”

You giggled, pulling the covers around your shoulders as you accepted the mug. The tea was perfect, naturally. Crowley didn’t do anything halfway—not for you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, studying you with that complicated expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t looking. Equal parts adoration and exasperation, like he was still trying to figure out how he ended up here—willing to burn toast and wear aprons for a mortal.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, warmed more by his effort than the drink. “You’re the King of Hell. Pretty sure making breakfast in bed is below your pay grade.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Do you have any idea what the demons would say if they saw me like this? Apron and all.”

You gave him a sly smile. “Probably that it brings out your eyes.”

He scoffed, but a faint blush dusted his cheeks, barely visible beneath his usual smug exterior.

After a moment, he reached out, brushing his fingers down your arm—gentle, almost reverent.

“I may be the King of Hell,” he said softly, “but you’re the only one who makes me want to rule a little less cruelly. Just for you.”

Your chest ached, but in the good way—the way love hurts when it’s big enough to feel real.

You set the mug down and leaned into him, arms wrapping around his waist. He hesitated for half a second before sinking into the embrace, his nose buried in your hair.

“I love you, you know,” you whispered.

Dean’s jaw clenches. You can practically hear the thoughts racing through his mind—lies, manipulation, bullshit.

But you mean it.

You glance around the abandoned warehouse, the flickering light overhead casting long shadows. You’ve been running for months, hunted by both Hell and Heaven, caught in a war you want no part of.

“I walked away,” you say, voice steady. “From all of it.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t change. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s the truth.”

A beat of silence.

The barrel of the gun doesn’t lower.

You take a slow breath. “Put the gun down, Dean. You don’t want to do this.”

Dean lets out a humorless chuckle, but there’s something in his eyes—something that wavers for just a second.

“Don’t I?” he mutters.

You could fight back. You could run. But you don’t. Because the truth is, if Dean Winchester decides you die tonight, you won’t stop him. You just hope he sees you before he pulls the trigger.

“I don’t want to be a demon,” you say quietly. “I don’t want to be anything that crawls out of Hell.” You swallow hard. “I just want a chance to be something else.”

Dean doesn’t speak. But the gun—finally—lowers. And for the first time in forever, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

--

Dean’s Impala rumbles down the road, the night air thick with an unspoken tension. The silence between you two is nearly suffocating, but you don’t mind it.

It’s better than the alternative.

The gun still sits in the holster at his side, but now it feels more like a warning than an imminent threat.

Dean Winchester doesn’t trust you. You can see it in the way he keeps glancing at you, every muscle in his body coiled and ready for anything.

You don’t blame him.

Hell, you’d be terrified if the roles were reversed.

When the truck finally pulls into the bunker’s driveway, you can’t help but feel a little... relieved.

There’s something about the place—something about its strange, quiet warmth—that makes you want to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be the end of the run. The start of something new.

But you know better.

Dean doesn’t trust you. Not yet.

“Stay close,” Dean mutters, voice low as he gets out of the truck and walks to the door. You follow, not out of fear, but out of necessity.

When you step inside, you’re hit with the familiar scent of coffee and old books. It’s strange, this place—so full of life, despite the death that surrounds it.

Dean steps past you, keeping his eyes on the back of your head as you follow him down the winding halls of the bunker.

Sam’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Dean? Who—?”

He stops when he sees you.

You don’t blame him for the wariness in his eyes, for the way his hand instinctively hovers near the gun at his waist.

“Sam,” Dean grunts, his tone hard but not hostile. “This is a demon who... walked away from the life of Hell.”

You meet Sam’s gaze, offering him a small, apologetic nod. You’ve been through enough of this in the last few months—humanity’s suspicion, the fear, the distrust.

“Her?” Sam’s eyebrow lifts in disbelief. “Dean, you brought her here?”

Dean’s hand clenches into a fist, but he doesn’t shout. Doesn’t snap. “She’s not a threat. Not anymore.”

You can’t help but flinch at the word anymore.

Dean’s eyes soften just for a moment, and you know he regrets it. But it’s the truth. You were a threat, back when Hell had its claws in you, but that part of you is gone.

Sam stares at you for a beat longer, then nods slowly. “Alright.”

Dean moves toward the kitchen, but his eyes don’t leave you for a second. “Make yourself comfortable.” His voice is clipped, but not unkind.

You glance around, taking in the surroundings. It’s clean, orderly—everything in its place.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, sitting down at the table.

Dean doesn’t sit across from you, though. Instead, he leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

The air between you is thick—guarded, full of questions neither of you want to ask.

“Why’d you walk away?” Sam’s voice breaks the silence as he pulls a chair out, sitting next to you.

You look at him, meeting his steady gaze. “Because I didn’t want to be a weapon anymore.”

Dean’s head jerks up at the answer, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t want to keep killing. I didn’t want to keep hurting people.” You swallow hard, the weight of your past pressing down on your chest. “I wanted to be something else.”

Sam nods thoughtfully, but Dean doesn’t move. He’s still watching you like you might explode at any second.

You don’t blame him.

“I don’t trust you,” Dean finally says, breaking the silence. “And I’m sure as hell not going to let my guard down around you. You might’ve walked away from Hell, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to forget who you are, what you are.”

You nod, accepting the truth of his words. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Dean exhales sharply, looking at the ceiling like he’s trying to push the tension away. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you out there, either.”

You meet his gaze then, and for the first time since you stepped into the bunker, you feel something close to hope.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs. “Yeah, well... I’m not letting you go anywhere until I know you’re not going to kill me in my sleep.”

You smile, despite yourself.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the first step toward trust.

****

It’s been a few days since you arrived at the bunker, and the tension is starting to wear thin.

Dean still watches you like a hawk, but the suspicion in his eyes isn’t as harsh as it once was. There are moments when his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary, and maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to see something more than just the demon you were.

You’ve kept to yourself mostly, reading the books in the library, staying out of the way, trying not to push your luck. You’ve been doing everything you can to prove you’re not a threat.

****

It’s late when Dean finally speaks.

You’re sitting in the kitchen, a mug of tea in your hands, watching the clock tick away in the silence. You should be asleep, but your mind is a tangled mess of thoughts—memories of Hell, of the choices you made, the souls you've torn apart.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean’s voice breaks through the quiet, and you glance up, surprised.

He’s standing in the doorway, arms folded, but the hardness in his posture is gone. It’s like he’s unwinding, just a little.

You nod. “Of course.”

Dean steps inside, leaning against the counter across from you. “Why’d you pick us?” His eyes flicker to you for a moment before looking away. “Why come to us, instead of, I don’t know... hiding somewhere?”

You take a breath, considering the question. It’s not easy to explain, but you know he deserves an answer.

“Because I couldn’t stay there. Not anymore.” Your voice is quiet, steady. “I tried to outrun it, tried to hide, but I kept hearing their voices—the demons, the ones who didn’t want to let go.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his eyes soften.

“I thought I was going to be like them forever,” you continue, “but then I saw you. You and your brother, fighting—really fighting—for the right reasons. And I realized maybe... maybe I had a chance.”

Dean exhales, a quiet, almost relieved sound. He takes a step closer, his gaze softer than before, but still heavy with something you can’t quite place.

“That’s why I came here.” You meet his eyes. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

For a moment, Dean just watches you, his jaw tense as if he’s holding something back. But then—finally—he speaks.

“I don’t know if I believe you yet,” he admits, his voice low, almost regretful. “But you’ve been here long enough that I’m starting to think... maybe you really are trying to change.”

You swallow, a weight lifting from your chest. “I am.”

Dean shifts, his expression unreadable for a second before he grunts softly. “You’re not exactly what I thought you’d be.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you think I’d be?”

He looks at you, his gaze steady but not as harsh as it used to be. “I thought you were just gonna be another monster. Someone I had to hunt down, someone who’d just... trick us.”

You nod, understanding. “I probably would’ve been, if I hadn’t found you.”

Dean lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t look as stiff as before, and that small shift in his posture makes your heart rate pick up just a little.

“I’m still keeping an eye on you,” he adds, his voice softer now, like he’s not quite sure how to say what he means. “But I won’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You give him a small smile, nodding again. “Thanks, Dean.”

There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “You ever need something? You ask. No questions.”

You’re taken aback by the unexpected kindness in his voice, and for a moment, you just stare at him. Dean Winchester—the guy who doesn’t trust anyone—is offering you a lifeline.

“I will,” you reply, your voice soft.

And just like that, the last wall between you and him begins to crumble. Dean lets out a breath, rubbing his eyes for a second. “Alright. Well, don’t get used to it, but I’ll be... decent for now.”

You chuckle softly, the tension in your shoulders easing. “Decent? You’re being downright nice,” you tease.

Dean smirks. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

For the first time since you’ve arrived, you feel something close to a bond forming between the two of you—a thread of understanding, a sliver of trust.

And as you sit there in the quiet of the bunker, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

A second chance.

And maybe, just maybe, Dean Winchester is the one who’ll help you find it.

****

The bunker feels different now. The tension has eased, even if it's only just a little, and you find yourself looking forward to each new day spent here. The place has become more than just a sanctuary—it’s starting to feel like a home.

Dean’s still not completely warm toward you, but you’ve noticed those small gestures—the way he doesn’t automatically flinch when you walk into the room, the way he stays a little longer when giving you updates on hunts.

It’s subtle. But it’s there.

You’re sitting at the table, your legs stretched out in front of you, a pile of research in front of you. The words blur together after a while, and you let out a quiet sigh, rubbing your eyes.

“Staring at a screen all day is going to make your eyes burn,” Dean’s voice calls out, and you turn to see him leaning against the doorframe of the library.

“Thanks for the advice, but I think I’ve already done enough damage,” you joke.

Dean grins, his eyes softening just a bit. “That’s what I’m here for. You need help?”

You smile up at him, feeling the weight of the kindness in his offer. “If you don’t mind…”

Dean steps into the room without hesitation, pulling up a chair next to you. He leans over the table, his breath warm against your ear as he helps you sift through the pages.

There’s no more tension in his touch, no wariness in the way he stands beside you. It’s just... two people working together.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

****

Later that night, after a long hunt, the two of you are back in the kitchen. The silence is comfortable, easy—no more edges between you, just a quiet understanding.

You’re drying dishes when Dean leans against the counter, his gaze soft as he watches you.

“So... how’s the whole ‘being human’ thing working out for you?” he asks, his voice teasing, but there’s something tender in it too.

You laugh, tossing the towel over your shoulder. “It’s a learning curve, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Dean smirks, the way he always does when he’s teasing. “Well, you’ve still got a long way to go. I mean, I didn’t know demons needed tea to function.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s called comfort, Dean. You might want to try it sometime.”

Dean’s grin fades, and he suddenly looks almost... serious. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your heart skips a beat at the unspoken vulnerability in his voice. You glance at him, surprised at the rare openness.

“I’m not.” You say it with complete certainty. “I’m here.”

Dean exhales, like he’s been holding his breath. He doesn’t say anything else, but there’s something in his eyes—something that says he’s starting to believe it, too.

****

The next few days pass in a quiet rhythm—nothing extraordinary, just simple moments spent in each other’s company. Dean teaching you to drive the Impala, you making fun of his inability to cook, late-night research sessions with soft music playing in the background.

****

And then, one night, you and Dean are on the couch in the library. He’s sprawled out with his feet on the table, eyes closed as he listens to you read aloud from a book on ancient rituals.

“...and then the demon was bound by the blood of the firstborn... wait, that can’t be right,” you say, frowning at the page.

Dean opens one eye. “What’s wrong?”

“The firstborn? That doesn’t make sense. There’s got to be a mistake in the translation…”

Dean sighs dramatically. “You’re really trying to read this crap?” He sits up, stretching. “I thought we were supposed to have fun, not torture ourselves with demon history.”

You raise an eyebrow, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You mean, you’re not a fan of my riveting lecture?”

Dean smirks, but the moment is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

You both freeze, and you feel a cold sensation in the pit of your stomach.

Dean stands immediately, his expression turning serious. “Stay here,” he says, his voice low.

But before you can protest, the door bursts open, and a familiar, menacing presence fills the doorway.

A demon.

You immediately recognize the face, the aura—one of your past tormentors.

“Didn’t think you could hide from Hell forever,” the demon sneers, eyes gleaming with malice.

Dean moves in front of you instinctively, his body tense with readiness, but there’s a cold edge in his voice when he speaks. “You’re not welcome here.”

The demon smiles, looking between you and Dean. “You’re really going to protect her? After everything she’s done?”

Dean doesn’t flinch. “You don’t know a damn thing about her. And you’re not getting anywhere near her.”

But the demon’s grin only widens. “We’ll see about that. I’ve got time to make you regret this, Winchester.”

And just like that, the demon lunges forward, and everything spirals into chaos.

The demon steps into the room, its malicious grin widening as it takes in the sight of both you and Dean. The air thickens with the stench of old blood and sulfur, the kind that’s familiar, the kind that sends a chill down your spine.

“You really think you can hide from Hell forever?” the demon sneers, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. “You don’t belong here, not in this place. Hell’s calling, sweetheart. and it'd about damn time you answer teh call.”

Dean stands in front of you, his back straight, his posture tense. His hands are clenched at his sides, fingers flexing as if he’s ready for a fight. But there’s something different about his stance this time—something protective, something he can’t quite hide, no matter how hard he tries. “Not on my watch,” He says, his voice low but steady. “You’re not getting near her.”

The demon laughs, a hollow, mocking sound that echoes off the walls of the bunker. “She’s one of us, Dean. You can’t protect her forever. You really think you’re going to stop the inevitable?”

The words sting more than you care to admit, and your hand instinctively moves to the knife strapped to your side, but Dean holds up a hand.

“Don’t,” he says softly, but the firmness in his voice is enough to still your movements. He’s not going to let you fight this battle.

The demon’s eyes flicker to you, and you can see the recognition, the hunger in its gaze. “She hasn’t changed, has she? You think just because she’s walking around pretending to be human that she’s anything more than a tool for Hell?”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move to strike yet. He’s calculating, waiting for the right moment. But the demon doesn’t give him that luxury.

It lunges, the speed of its movement catching Dean off guard.

You move without thinking, stepping between them, your own instincts kicking in before your thoughts can catch up. You grab the demon’s arm, twisting it behind its back, but it’s strong, stronger than you expected. The air is thick with energy, the weight of its power pressing down on you.

“You’re going to regret this, little demon,” the creature hisses, licking the side of your face with malice.

Dean’s hand shoots out, grabbing a gun from the table, the cold metal in his grasp like a lifeline. He holds it steady, aimed at the demon.

“Get away from her,” Dean orders, his voice flat but filled with an edge of something deeper. “I said get away from her.”

The demon laughs again, low and menacing, its eyes glowing with malevolent light.

But you don’t need the demon’s threats to know the truth. You’ve been in this situation before, faced the darkness of Hell, the demons that controlled you.

You turn to Dean, your voice barely a whisper. “Dean, don’t—”

But Dean’s gaze never wavers from the demon. His finger tightens on the trigger, but for a split second, you see the hesitation. It’s not in his aim, not in his resolve to protect you—but in the way his eyes flicker to you, to the uncertainty gnawing at him.

If he pulls the trigger, if he kills this demon, what does it mean for you?

Can he really protect you without losing himself? Without losing the part of him that still believes in you?

The demon takes a step forward, its grin widening. “You’re really going to die for her, huh? You’d sacrifice yourself for this thing? She’s not human, Dean. She’s never going to be.”

Dean doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. But the words hit harder than the demon intended.

And then, with a sharp twist, you pull yourself out of the demon’s grip, shoving it back into the wall. You stumble forward, breath coming fast as the weight of the decision hangs heavy in the air.

“Dean…” you whisper, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to stay calm. “You can’t lose yourself because of me.”

Dean’s eyes meet yours, raw with emotion. His grip on the gun tightens, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to do it.

But then, without warning, he lowers the gun, a steady, silent resolve in his gaze.

“You’re not a demon anymore,” he says, his voice hoarse. “And I’m not going to lose you. Not to Hell, not to anything.”

The words feel like a lifeline, like the weight of the world is lifted off your shoulders, but the battle isn’t over.

Dean’s hand drops to his side, and without taking his eyes off the demon, he turns toward you.

“You need to get out of here. Now,” he says, his voice filled with an authority that brooks no argument. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

But you know better than to leave him alone with it. You stand your ground.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say firmly. “We’re in this together, Dean.”

The demon sneers. “Pathetic,” it growls, stepping forward. But before it can attack again, Dean’s quick to react, stepping in front of you once more.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. Dean raises the gun with calm precision, his eyes focused on the demon.

“You’ll regret this,” the demon warns, its grin fading.

Dean doesn’t flinch. “I don’t think so.”

With a final, sharp shot, the demon crumples to the floor, its form disintegrating into a pile of ash.

The room falls silent, save for the sound of your breath and the pounding of your heart.

Dean lowers the gun, his hands still shaking slightly. He turns to you, eyes searching. “You okay?”

You nod, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but you’re more shaken by the decision he made than by the fight itself.

Dean looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, like he’s realizing what he’s just sacrificed.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he mutters under his breath.

You step closer to him, the tension between you finally breaking, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “Then don’t let me go,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Dean doesn’t answer immediately, but his eyes say everything.

You’ve found a fragile thread of trust, a lifeline you both cling to, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe you’re both going to make it through.

The bunker feels like a ghost town after the demon is gone. The air is heavy, thick with adrenaline and unspoken words, and it’s almost suffocating.

You’re standing in the middle of the library, your heart still racing from the encounter, but the silence is deafening. The chaos has ended, but the emotional storm is just beginning to churn between you and Dean.

Dean hasn’t moved much since he killed the demon. His back is to you, his hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. You can see the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his shoulders are slumped under the weight of something he’s trying not to carry.

You know what he’s feeling.

The weight of the decision—the moment he had to choose between saving you or doing what was easy, what was safe. The fear that you might have slipped away, that he might have failed you.

Without thinking, you move toward him, your steps quiet as you close the distance between you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper, your voice soft but thick with emotion.

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t turn around. He’s silent, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even listening.

“I had to,” he says, his voice low, almost raw. “You... you matter to me. More than you know.”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his words, the vulnerability you rarely see in him. It makes your heart ache. You step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder.

“You don’t have to protect me like that,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’m not a threat anymore.”

Dean doesn’t answer immediately. He just stands there, his back stiff, his body still taut with unspent tension. You can see the conflict swirling within him—the desire to be strong, to keep pushing forward, to protect you, but also the fear, the fear that maybe, just maybe, he’d lose himself in this. In you.

“I almost lost you,” Dean mutters, his voice breaking just slightly, and your heart shatters. “And I don’t know what the hell I would’ve done if I—”

You cut him off, reaching out to touch his arm gently, turning him to face you. “Dean…”

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see the depth of what he’s been holding in. There’s fear there, yes, but there’s also something softer—something that’s been buried beneath the years of fighting, of losing people, of living a life that has never allowed room for tenderness.

“You mean something to me, too,” you say softly, your voice filled with the truth you’ve been carrying. “More than I ever thought I’d feel for anyone again.”

Dean’s breath hitches, and you can see it in his eyes—the way he’s fighting not to show just how much it hurts to even admit that he cares. He’s always been guarded, always afraid to open up, but in this moment, with everything raw between you, there’s nothing left to hide.

“You’re not just a demon to me,” he says quietly, his voice shaky, but steady. “I don’t know what the hell you are anymore, but I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You reach out, your hand trembling as it rests on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The tension between you is thick—there’s a lifetime of pain, of battles fought, of lives lost, but there’s also something new here. Something tentative, fragile, but undeniably real.

And just like that, you let everything fall away—the walls you’d both built to protect yourselves, the fears that had kept you apart.

You close the distance, your lips brushing softly against his, the kiss gentle at first, testing the waters. But then, when Dean doesn’t pull away, you deepen it, your hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He responds almost instantly, his arms wrapping around you, his grip firm but not possessive—just enough to pull you into him, like he’s trying to tell you, without words, that you’re safe. That he is safe, now that you’re here.

When you pull back, just enough to catch your breath, Dean looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time—not as the demon who once stood on the other side of everything he’s ever known, but as the person you are now.

“Do you know what you just did?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You saved me. You saved us.”

Dean’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You did,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion. “You chose me. And that’s the hardest thing anyone could do.”

For a moment, Dean just stands there, looking down at you like he’s trying to make sense of the whirlwind of feelings inside him. But then, his expression softens, and you see the slightest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re crazy,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in his words. It’s affection, pure and simple.

You chuckle softly, resting your forehead against his chest. “Maybe. But I’m crazy for you, Dean.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. The way he holds you speaks louder than anything he could put into words.

The quiet in the bunker isn’t unsettling anymore. It’s peaceful. The storm has passed, and maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something worth fighting for. Together.

It's almost coming up on the sixth month anniversary since he had started this game of murder. Of course, he knew his mug shot was plastered on almost every store front from here all the way to the White House. The police had been after him for a long time. And he'd be damned if they had caught him now. The police feared him. Ladies wanted him. Men wanted to fight him. He'd never willingly give in. But maybe, just maybe, he'd allow them to catch sight of him.

He peered over the roof ledge, checking the visuals around him. He had still heard the ruckus of the officers beneath him. He looked to his left at the rain drainage pipe and took a steady breath, debating if he should test the waters or not. He crawled over to it quickly, and grabbed hold of the white material, shaking it, testing its strength. The noise must have caught the attention of one of the officers inside because seconds later, one of them had run out of the store frantically searching for the source of the noise. Dean had quickly hid from view again as the officer had turned to the draining pipe and looked inside it. He must have decided that the noise was caused by an animal because a moment later, he had walked back inside.

Dean had relaxed his body when he realised he hadn't been caught. He placed his head in his hands and breathed in. "Fucking hell."

He looked around again, checking if the coast had been clear. He crawled back over to the ladder that he had climbed up earlier and climbed down, skipping the last five steps. He ran through the alleyway, laughing to himself. He'd gotten away. Close call, he thought to himself. He ran through an alley way and leaned against the yellow bricks and breathed deeply through his nostrils.

When he had regained a steady heart beat once more, he walked out of the alleyway, peering out cautiously before stepping out and walking down the street. He kept his head bent low over the collar of his shirt as he paced the streets. He could sense the stares of the other people around him as he quickened his pace, making his way to the apartment building that he lived in with his younger brother Sam.

As he stepped into the lobby, he stripped off the bloodied shirt he was supporting and balled it up in his fist. He smiled at the lady behind the counter as she welcomed him, calling him by name.

"How're you doing today, Ellen?" He called as he made his way to the elevator.

"Doing swell, actually, yourself, Winchester?"

"Have you seen the newest posters they put up yet?" Dean chuckled, stopping in the middle of the lobby, causing a man to almost bump into him.

She had rolled her eyes. "They can't seem to get your face correct, can they?"

"Never, sweetheart. Is Sam upstairs yet?" He questioned.

She nodded.

"Alright, I'll come down in a little while and bring you down entertainment. Is that okay?"

"Unless the entertainment is you relieving me from this boring ass day, I can only imagine."

He smirked as he pressed the button to call for the elevator. He had looked down and noticed the wet blood still splattered on his jeans. He sighed as the elevator came. He stepped into the small box and pressed the button that indicated the seventh floor.

He hummed to himself as he surveyed his body in the reflection of the grey walls. I look damn good. All this running must be doing good on my body.

Soon enough, the elevators dinged indicating his floor. He stepped out and turned left and walked down the hall, nodding silently to his neighbour as he pulled out his key and shoved it into the lock and pushed open the door. He entered and called out his brother's name. "Sammy?"

"Kitchen." Came the voice of his brother. Dean had heard a girls giggle as he walked down the short hallway. "Is that my beautiful sister in law that I hear?" He had said, smiling as he turned into the room.

"Hey handsome," Jessica Moore had greeted as she turned around, allowing him to kiss her cheek.

"What's for dinner?"

"Baked macaroni and pepper steak." Sam answered as he bent over to peer into the oven.

"Go get washed up, tiger." Jessica had said, slapping Dean on the behind.

He smirked. "Only if you join me, sweetheart."

She rolled her eyes, shooing him out of the kitchen. "Go." She pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

He laughed out loud and walked out of the room.

"...sightings of the murderer around noon today, exiting the quickie mart on Locust Ave." the news reporter continued, showing a rough sketch of Dean's face on the screen.

"Hey, Dean!" Sam called from the living room. He and Jessica were lounging around after dinner. Dean had retired to his bedroom. He had been exhausted after the events of the day.

"Hey, Sammy!" He called back, not moving from his bed.

"Are you watching this?" Sam called.

"Is it my face again? Does it look good?" Dean asked, finally sitting up from the bed into a sitting position.

"Come here!" Sam yelled.

Grunting to himself, he heaved his body and stood up, shaking his head as dizziness blurred his vision. He walked down the hall and sat on the arm of the couch.

Sam looked over at him and slapped his leg. "How many today, man?"

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Six, maybe."

Sam shook his head as he let out a sigh of disbelief. "You can't keep doing this. You're going to get yourself caught."

Dean smirked proudly as he started running his hair through Jessica's hair. She hummed and leaned into the touch. "But I haven't. I've been careful."

"Dean," Sam sighed deeply. "Please. It's bad enough everyone knows what you look like. Did anyone see you come into the building?" Sam asked as he leaned over.

He shook his head. "I was careful."

"Are you going out tomorrow?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm not sure. Bobby wanted my help at the shop."

At this, Sam sighed and rubbed at his face roughly. "Why don't you stay home for a while? Lay low."

Dean's eyes flashed in anger for a moment before he calmed down. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, man. Just stay here for a while. Call some girl over. How about Lisa? You haven't brought her over in a while."

"She's scared of me." Dean rubbed his face again. "She thinks it's me killing all over the city."

Jessica smirked. "But it is you."

He smirked. "Your point?"

"Don't get caught, Dean." Sam said, standing up. "Jess and I are going out for the night. Mind holding down the fort for us until we get back?"

Dean nodded. "Let me know if anything pops up, okay?" Jess kissed him on the cheek before they left the apartment, leaving him completely alone.

He slid onto the couch in a laying position and grabbed the landline from the table next to him. He dialled Lisa's number.

"What do you want, Dean?" She asked when she picked up.

"Why don't you come over for a few hours?" He asked.

She sighed deeply. "Why? So you can kill me?"

He chuckled. "Come on, baby. Why do you gotta be like that? It's not me! I'm telling you, baby. You got the wrong idea."

"Your mug is all over the tv, Dean. I know it's you killing those innocent people."

"Aw, come on, Lisa just come over. I miss you."

She sighed again. "Is Sam there?"

"No, he just left with Jess."

"Give me a few minutes." The line went dead and Dean felt accomplished. I knew she would give in. He stood up and walked over to unlock the door and returned back to the couch to relax until Lisa had arrived.

********

An hour later, he must've fallen asleep because he was blinking wildly as he heard someone knocking on the door. "Who is it?" He called as he sat up.

"Open the damn door, Dean." Lisa's voice echoed through the hallway.

"It's open, Lis. Come in." He said as he yawned into his hand.

"You can't be gentleman enough to open the door?" She scolded as she came through the threshold.

He smirked up at her as he turned to look at her. "For someone like you? Of course not."

She rolled her eyes. "You got any beer?"

"You know where the kitchen is, right?" Dean asked, pointing.

"Want one?" She asked, knowing the answer before he opened his mouth.

"Bring me two."

She returned with three bottles and placed them on the glass coffee table in front of him. He took one and popped the cap off with his teeth easily. He spit the cap onto the table and grinned at her as he placed his mouth around the neck of the bottle.

"You're disgusting." She commented as she twisted the cap from her bottle with the edge of her short.

"You love it, though." He took another drink from the bottle and smacked his lips together.

"Are you sure it's not you killing those people, Dean?" She asked as she as back and leaned into him.

"Of course it's not me. I'd be in jail right now if it was" What she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?

She looked into his eyes and smiled gently as she leaned deeper into his touch when he started massaging the top of her head. She moaned in appreciation at the touch. "I missed this," she commented.

"Stay the night?" He asked lightly brushing his lips against her neck.

She hummed. "Why? So you can just fuck me and then force me to leave in the morning?"

"Please?" Dean pleaded, nuzzling his nose against her neck. He knew he'd get his way. He always did with her.

Finally, she sighed. "Just tonight."

He smiled and looked at her, kissing the corner of we mouth lightly. "You won't regret this tonight. I promise."

She scoffed. "I'm sorry, have you met me?" She stood up from the couch and sauntered down the hall. "Are you coming or not?" She called as she reached the bedroom.

He huffed and stood up mimicking her footsteps until he reached his bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe as she sat on the bed, legs crossed. "Well?" She commanded.

"So bossy," he mumbled, though he walked into the room, stripping his shirt and pants in the process. He stood in front of her and she grabbed hold of his hips lightly.

"Do you want me, Dean?" She asked, kissing the space just above the hem of his boxers.

He licked his lips as he looked down at her. "More than you know," he said, almost in a low whisper.

"Prove it," she said, sliding her hands behind his knees and pushing until he was kneeling in front of her.

"What do you want?" He asked, voice full of need.

"I want you to pull my skirt away and pull my panties off," she started, not breaking eye contact. He reached up with his hands, breath coming in sharp and quick. He hooked two fingers in the sides of her skirt, making sure to graze against the bare skin of her hips. He slowly pulled them down, gently kissing the newly exposed skin. She had let out a slight whimper at the touch.

When her panties and skirt had been discarded across the room, he licked at his lips, looking at her for more directions. "Do you want me, Dean?" She asked, running a hand of her own across her exposed hips and thighs.

He nodded, never once breaking eye contact.

"I want you, too." She said, grabbing his right hand and placing it on her thigh.

"Can I?" He asked, swallowing thickly.

"You may," she commanded.

He ran his hand down her thigh and pulled his face closer to her throbbing core. He blew against it lightly and she shivered slightly. "Go on," she urged, leg twitching in anticipation at the thought of his mouth being against her.

He enveloped her in his mouth, moaning into it. She threw her head back in pleasure. He kicked viciously at her core and placed a hand on her breast, pulling and rubbing at her nipple. She bucked underneath his mouth. He placed his unoccupied hand across her hips to steady her body.

She moaned loudly, calling out his name in breathless moans and groans. He kept licking and sucking her clit. He released his hands from around her hips and placed a long finger inside of her. He felt her clench around him as he pumped. "Come for me, baby. Come on," he urged around her clit.

And that's all she needed to hear before she was coming undone around his mouth. He licked and lapped up all of what she had spilled for him. "I hate you," she said through heavy breaths as she came down from her orgasm.

"You love my tongue and you know it." He smirked as he whipped his mouth on his black sheet.

"That's going to stain." She observed.

"I'll buy new sheets," he said uncaringly. He crawled up the bed and pulled her body into his own. "I love you, Lisa." He said as he nuzzled his face into her long brown hair.

"No, you don't." She said as she cupped their hands together. "You're only saying that because we just had sex,"

He laughed softly. "Why don't you believe me?"

She turned her head to look at him. "Because your lying to me."

"About what, sweetheart?" His green eyes were concerned.

"I know you killed all those people, Dean." She whisoered as she turned onto her back.

He shook his head. "No, Lisa."

"Stop lying to me, Dean." She pleaded, turning fully to face him before placing her palm on his cheek. "What am I going to explain to Ben when you go to jail? He looks up to you."

He sighed heavily and rubbed at his face. "First, Ben isn't my biological kid. DNA tests proved that to be true years ago. And second, I'm not going to be caught."

"So you admit that you've killed those people?" She asked, knowing she caught him.

He stiffened at her question. "No."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Stop lying."

"I'm not.”

"You're mug-"

"Lis-" he grabbed both of her hands gently and kissed each knuckle before speaking again. "I promise, it's not me. They have the wrong man."

"What, do you have a secret twin that I don't know about?"

He sighed and placed his hand over his face before looking at her again. "I promise, I'm not a killer."

She hummed and he knew she didn't believe a word he said.

"I have to go, Dean." She said unexpectedly.

"What?" He sounded surprised. "Why?"

"I shouldn't have come."

He smirked. "I thought you enjoyed my tongue work?"

She rolled her eyes. "I have a child to worry about."

"Will I see you again?" He asked.

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips before answering. "I don't know." She walked out of the bedroom and before Dean could put his shirt back on, the front door had closed as she left.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the mattress.

"Do you think he left?" Jess asked as they walked down the hall to the apartment.

"I'm hoping not." Sam answered as he turned the doorknob and swung it open. "Dean?"

"I'm here, Sam." He walked out of the kitchen and smiled at the pair. "Beer?"

"No, thank you." Sam declined.

Jessica, however, walked over and took the bottle he offered and muttered a thanks. "So, what did you do while we were gone?"

He shrugged. "Nothing too crazy."

She leaned in closer to him and made a face. "What girl did you have over this time?"

He feigned offence and placed a hand over his heart. "I'm extremely offended that you would assume that about me."

She smirked. "Who was it this time?"

"Lisa."

"I thought so." She said knowingly. "Does she know anything about your day time activities yet?"

He nodded solemnly. "She put two and two together."

"And how does she feel about it?" Jess asked as she leaned against the counter.

"I don't think she'll be bringing Ben around me much longer."

"Oh, Dean." She said, placing a hand on his arm.

He gave her a weak smile in return. "It's not like the kid's mine, so I can't force her to let me see him."

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" She asked.

"Might go help Bobby over at his garage. Why?"

"I was gonna offer you and I go downtown for some fun time." She smiled softly.

He raised a tempting brow. "And how would Sam feel if you took his brother out?"

"It's not like I'm asking for a good fuck, Dee." She smiled. "I was just thinking it would be nice for you to get out for a while and not kill people when you do."

"Jess," he started. "Darling, I would love to. But no thanks."

"And why not?" She looked at him with a knowing look.

"I'm going to Bobby's shop." He repeated.

"Don't make me call the shop to make sure your there." She threatened lightly.

"I'll be there," he promised, grabbing her hand and kissing it lightly.

"Did you eat after we left?"

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Food? Or a girl?"

"Food, you perv." He laughed at the disturbed expression on her face.

"No," he smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"What do you want to eat? I'll get Sam to cook you something."

"Do you think he'd mind if I stole you for the night?" He smirked.

"Yes, he would."

"Damn." Dean pretended to be offended and released his hold on her. "Where'd the Sasquatch head off to anyway?"

"Probably the bedroom." She answered as she walked out of the kitchen.

"If I fry up some burgers, want one?"

"No thanks. We are at a restaurant in the city."

"And you guys didn't bring anything back for me?"

"We figured you ate already," she looked apologetic.

"You know," he started, pointing a spatula in her direction. "you're lucky I love you. Or else I would be severely offended."

She smiled at him before she walked away and down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Sam.

"Hey, kid." Bobby called through the speaker from the office.

Dean looked up from the car he had been working on and turned around to look at the other mechanic, Kevin. "Is he talking to me or you?"

Kevin shrugged and continued pulling out the hose of the engine he had been fighting with for the last ten minutes.

Dean walked over to the speaker and pressed the button. "Yeah, Bobby?" He spoke.

"Come to my office for a minute." Bobby requested.

Dean sighed and wiped the back of his hand on his forehead, knowing it was going to leave a black line against his tanned skin. "Coming." He threw the towel on the ground and marched through the garage and into the store and made his way to the back into Bobby's office. "Yeah, sir?"

"Quit callin' me that, will you, boy?" He said as he looked up from the papers on his desk. "I'm your uncle, alright? Not your boss."

"What did you need, Bobby?"

Bobby roughly ran a hand across his face before folding his hands together on the desk. "Sit."

Dean obeyed.

"Why in the hell am I getting complaints about a serial killer working in my shop?" He whispered, though the room was soundproof.

"I have no-"

"Boy." Bobby threatened. "You know damned well I don't watch the damned horse shit that's on television." He said. "So tell me what the hell people are complaining about."

"Bobby, I-" wanted to lie. That's what I wanted to do. He'd have fired me on the spot if he'd known about my pastime. "-I don't know what people are talking about." He said calmly. He felt the older man's eyes scrutinise him heavily. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"You lying to me, boy?" He pointed a threatening finger.

"No, Bobby. Of course not."

"Do I need to start watching the news or something?"

Dean shook his head. "No, sir."

"Get out there and continue working, then."

Dean nodded and silently walked out of the office and back into the garage.

"What was that about, Dee Bag?" Kevin asked.

Dean shrugged. "Wanted to know if I have been cleaning the bathroom properly," he invented quickly before returning to the car he was working on previously.

"Hey, Bobby." Sam greeted through the phone. "Is Dean available?"

"No, he went on his lunch break a few minutes ago. Say, Sam. Mind if I ask you a question?" Bobby asked.

Sam scrunched his brows. "Anything."

"Did your brother kill anyone that you know of?"

He was taken aback by the sudden question. "Not that I'm aware of, why?" He lied quickly.

"I've been hearing around the shop over the last few weeks."

"Hearing what?" Sam questioned.

"People have been complaining; They say they don't want a murderer working on their cars."

"Bobby," Sam started. "He's been here with Jess almost constantly. She can vouch for him on that."

"Are you sure?”

"Of course."

"Alright then," Bobby excused himself from the phone.

Sam looked over at his girlfriend the minute the dial tone died down in his ear.

"What's wrong?" She asked, noting the look on his face.

"I think Bobby’s catching on."

Her eyes grew wide in fear. "How?"

"People have made some complaints to him about recognising Dean from the sketches."

"Where is he now?"

He shrugged. "Out on lunch."

"Do you think he's-"

"I wouldn't doubt it." Sam sighed. "He carries extra mechanic uniforms in his trunk."

"Sam-"

"He's not dumb enough to get caught, Jess."

She sighed and leaned back in the chair.

*********

Dean looked down at the cowering woman in front of him. "Please," she pleaded desperately.

"Sorry, toots." He mumbled as she shoved the knife into her chest and twisted it roughly, killing her instantly. He watched the light leave the woman's eyes and smirked as he stood up again. He wiped the blood on his uniform and walked out of the laundromat from the back. He quickly shed his mechanics uniform and changed into a clean one. He smoothed down the creases as he sat in the driver’s seat and drove back to Bobby’s garage.

"Heya, Bobby." He greeted as he walked into the shop.

"Sam called a few minutes ago looking for you." He said in way of greeting.

"Did you tell him I was on lunch?"

He nodded. "I suggest you call him back. He sounded concerned about something or other."

Dean nodded and walked to the office and picked up the phone, dialling Sam’s phone number.

"Hello?" He questioned as he answered the phone.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean said.

"Where'd you go for lunch, bub?"

"Just drove around. Why?"

"Dean." Sam warned.

"What?" Dean half laughed. "That's all I did, I promise."

"If I see your mugshot on the Tv tonight, I'll kill you myself."

"You won't." Dean promised.

"Alright, get back to work. I'll see you later tonight."

"See you, brother." Dean hung up and walked to the bathroom to clean the dried blood from his hands.

--

He could hear the men closing in—boots stomping, dogs snarling, voices hoarse with hatred. They didn’t know mercy. Not for witches. Not for monsters.

And that’s what they thought he was, wasn’t it? A monster. Just like Y/N. Just like the blood that ran through Emma’s veins.

Dean forced his legs to move again, lungs screaming. Magic buzzed faintly under his skin, a living current begging to be unleashed. He didn’t dare. Not here. Not with so many ears and eyes and traps waiting to feel it.

He ran until the air changed. Until the cold seemed less biting and the light less sharp. A whisper of warmth brushed across his skin like a memory, and he knew. The boundary. The spellwork they’d laid long ago still held. He was home.

Silence fell like snowfall.

Dean collapsed to his knees, choking on exhaustion and relief. His head bowed, forehead nearly touching the forest floor, until—

“Papa!”

That voice.

He lifted his head. A tiny figure raced toward him, all bouncing curls and muddy boots and reckless joy.

“Papa!” she cried again, and he caught her just in time, arms wrapping around her small body as if he could press her into his chest and never let go.

“Emma,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair, inhaling her scent—pine needles, earth, and sweet strawberries. “My sweet girl. My brave girl. My, I've missed you so much.”

She clung to his neck, tiny hands tugging at the silver chains looped around it.

“Benny said bad people took you,” she sniffled, her voice trembling for the first time.

“They did, baby. But I got away. I came back for you.” He kissed her temple, cradling her head with so much love and care. “I’ll always come back.”

She tucked her face under his chin, and for a moment, the world stilled. The hunted witch, the burned village, the loss and blood and fire—it all went quiet.

She took his hand as they walked down the narrow, moss-covered trail, feet rustling through last autumn’s leaves.

“Uncle Benny went to get food. Uncle Cas is milking the cow. And I’ve been very good,” she declared proudly.

Dean smiled, crooked and tired. “Of course you have, lassie.”

They reached the clearing, and there it was—the cottage. The barn. Smoke curling from the chimney. The protective wards shimmered faintly in the sunlight, like dust motes kissed with magic. Home.

Inside the barn, Castiel dropped his pail of milk when he saw them.

“Dean?” he asked, breath caught in his throat, disbelief painting his face pale. “Dean, is it really—?”

“It’s me, Cas,” Dean said softly. “Still got the ugly chickens?”

Cas didn’t answer—just crossed the floor and gripped Dean in a bone-crushing hug.

“You’re alive,” he whispered. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it out,” Dean admitted, gripping the back of Cas’s worn shirt. “It was hell, Cas. Every day. Every goddamn day.”

When they pulled apart, their hands lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“Emma had nightmares every night,” Cas murmured. “She missed you.”

“I missed her more than I can explain.”

Dean sat beside Cas on the bench outside the barn, both of them watching the chickens peck at frostbitten grass.

“Tell me,” Dean said. “What happened while I was gone?”

Cas’s face darkened. “There were… betrayals. We had to banish some of our own. George disappeared. Hael sold us out—again. We had the wards down for a while. That nearly cost us everything. Jordan never came back from the berry run two moons ago. We think he’s dead.”

Dean let out a long, bitter breath. “That tracks. He was never careful.”

They lapsed into silence.

“I burned a traitor once,” Dean said, barely above a whisper. “Right here. In the square. He gave away our location to the hunters. I couldn’t let it happen again. Emma saw it. I tried to cover her ears.”

Cas looked at him—really looked—and nodded. “Sometimes the monster is the only thing that can protect what’s left.”

Dean closed his eyes as tears filled his vision. “God, I missed her first words. Her first steps. Everything.”

“She never stopped looking for you,” Cas said gently. “Even when we begged her to stop.”

--

The sun was setting, casting the clearing in amber light when the crunch of boots on gravel broke the quiet.

Dean looked up from where he sat sharpening a blade near the fire pit. He stood slowly as a tall figure emerged from the trees, dragging a deer carcass over his shoulder.

“Benny,” Dean breathed.

The man froze. His eyes locked on Dean like he was seeing a ghost.

“No fuckin’ way,” Benny said lowly, dropping the deer. “Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice cracking. “It’s me.”

Benny crossed the clearing in seconds and yanked Dean into a fierce embrace, clapping him hard on the back.

“Holy hell, man,” Benny choked out. “We thought you were— You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” Dean managed. “But I’m here. I’m home.”

They pulled apart. Benny’s eyes were misty. “Emma’s gonna be glued to your hip now, you know that, right?”

“Good,” Dean said plainly. “That’s where she belongs.”

--

Later that night, the fire crackled inside the small house as Dean sat on a thick rug, wrapped in a wool blanket. Cas poured two cups of elderflower tea and sat beside him, the silence gentle, heavy with shared grief.

“She would’ve loved to see this,” Dean said, staring into the flames.

“Y/N?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded. “Emma chasing chickens. This whole weird-ass farm. You cooking soup with too much rosemary.”

Cas huffed a quiet laugh. “She’d have kept us in line.”

“She would’ve made Emma braids. Taught her how to draw sigils right.”

Dean’s eyes shimmered, and his voice cracked. “I still hear her sometimes. When it’s quiet. Like she’s just in the next room. And then I remember the scream. The fire.”

Cas put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s still here,” he said. “In Emma. In you.”

Dean blinked, then reached up to squeeze Cas’s wrist, grounding himself.

“She always said if they took her, I had to keep Emma safe. That’s all she cared about. Not justice. Not revenge. Just Emma.”

“And you did,” Cas said firmly. “You came back. That’s everything.”

Dean stared into the fire a moment longer before finally whispering, “I hope she knows.”

“She does.”

--

He’s there in an instant, socked feet padding quietly across the hardwood. His eyes are already searching your face, his mouth tugging down into that gentle frown he only wears when he’s worried. He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.

His arms open.

And you fall right into them.

Bucky wraps you up so fast, so tightly, that it knocks the breath out of you in the best way. One hand cups the back of your head, his thumb stroking through your hair, the other arm curled around your waist like he’s shielding you from the rest of the damn world. You cling to him like gravity’s finally let go.

“Bad day?” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your temple.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is too thick with unshed tears, and if you open your mouth, you’re pretty sure all that’ll come out is a broken sob.

He pulls you tighter, like he heard that anyway.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk yet,” he whispers, resting his chin on top of your head. “You just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, swaying with him in the soft quiet of home. It’s the only time today you’ve felt like you weren’t failing at something.

Eventually, your voice scrapes out. “I forgot gas this morning. Again. Had to stop in heels and wait twenty minutes at a station that only took cash. Boss humiliated me in front of the whole team, said I was a disappointment. Three clients bailed. And then—" Your throat clicks. "Then I stepped in mud.”

You feel more than hear Bucky’s low, incredulous huff.

“Mud?” he repeats, like that was the final straw.

You nod against his chest, sniffling. “Like ankle-deep puddle of it. Ruined my shoes. Ruined my socks.”

He shifts a little, tugging your coat off with slow, careful hands, then unshoulders your bag and drops it on the couch. His vibranium hand finds yours—cold and stiff—and rubs gentle circles into your palm.

“I took care of your car,” he says after a moment. “Filled up the tank around noon. Thought maybe you’d forget again after that late night.”

You blink. “You—?”

“Yeah,” he says simply, nudging your nose with his. “And I already saw the shoes by the door. Put ‘em in the wash. I don’t think they’re ruined. You’d be surprised how much gunk that fancy washer can get out.”

You stare at him.

“Why?”

“Because I knew,” he says, still rubbing your hand. “You had that tight look on your face this morning. Like you were already bracing for the world to hit you.”

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Am I that obvious?”

“To me?” he says, brushing a soft kiss to your cheek. “Always.”

He walks you to the couch and eases you down into the cushions, then sits beside you, letting you lean into him until you’re practically draped over his lap. There’s a blanket already there—warm, worn, soft—and he tucks it around your legs without saying anything.

You bury your face in his shoulder, just breathing him in. Clean cotton, cedar soap, a little sweat. Bucky.

“I don’t want to go back tomorrow,” you mumble, half-hearted.

He kisses the side of your head. “Then don’t.”

“I have to—”

“No, you don’t.” He leans back, just enough to look into your eyes. “You have to breathe. You have to let yourself rest. Everything else can wait a damn minute.”

You exhale shakily, and he presses his forehead to yours.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispers. “Not with me. I’ll be strong for both of us tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, voice thick.

“I made your favorite,” he adds, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Hope that’s not too predictable of me.”

You look toward the kitchen. Something smells good—savory, buttery, warm.

He winks. “That movie you like is queued up, too. The one with the talking dog and the alien grandpa?”

“You hate that movie.”

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “And I’d hate seeing you cry alone on a bad day even more.”

You press your face to his neck, and this time the tears come. Not the bitter, choking kind. The safe kind. The held kind. Bucky doesn’t say a word. He just rubs your back and waits until you’re done.

You’ve had a terrible day.

But you have Bucky.

And somehow, that makes everything else survivable.

It was during one of those rare, quiet moments when Sam had excused himself to grab more coffee that you noticed it. Dean hadn’t looked at you this way before. The distance in his gaze, the way his shoulders were a little too stiff, the tension in his movements—it was like he was holding something back. It wasn’t until he leaned a little too close while reaching for a tool that you felt the chill in his presence, like a shadow creeping over him.

“Dean?” you asked softly, testing the waters. You were used to being able to read him, but tonight, he was a stranger.

His eyes flickered toward you, and the smile that stretched across his face didn’t look quite right. “What’s up?” he said, the casual tone almost too smooth. Almost too rehearsed.

You swallowed, hesitating. “You’ve been acting weird. Since we finished the hunt. What’s going on?”

He paused for a beat, his fingers brushing against yours, and you felt that odd chill run up your spine again. "Nothing’s wrong," he said, but there was an edge to his voice now, a subtle hardness that hadn’t been there before. “You worry too much.”

“I’m not worried. I just… something’s off,” you muttered, shaking your head, trying to dismiss it. You had to be imagining it. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination.

You turned away for a second, a fleeting moment where your focus drifted to the map Sam had left out. When you looked back, you realized Dean had stepped even closer, closing the small gap between you in an instant. His breath was warm against your neck, and your heartbeat quickened, the air growing thicker, heavier with each passing second.

“Dean…” you started again, this time your voice trembled, unsure if you were more frightened of what was happening or of how much you didn’t understand.

His lips brushed your ear as he spoke, his words low, dangerous. “You think I’m acting strange? Maybe you just don’t know me anymore.”

You felt his hand on your wrist before you could pull away, his grip firm, too firm, like a vice. The coldness of his touch sent a shiver through your whole body, and you froze, suddenly feeling a deep sense of dread in your gut.

“Dean,” you gasped, trying to pry his fingers off, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he tightened his hold, his thumb pressing into the delicate skin of your pulse point. The sensation was almost painful, and you couldn’t breathe, the fear paralyzing you.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice deceptively soft, almost coaxing, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let go of me,” you demanded, your voice shaking, but you knew—deep down—you couldn’t overpower him. Something in his eyes—those eyes that once carried warmth and affection—was now dark, calculating, and cold.

And then it hit you, like a thunderclap.

He had said yes to Michael.

Dean Winchester, your Dean, wasn’t here anymore. This wasn’t the man you knew and loved. This was Michael—an archangel—riding shotgun in his body. All the signs, all the little details you hadn’t put together, snapped into place. The coldness, the unpredictability, the subtle cruelty in his gaze—it was all Michael.

You opened your mouth to scream, to call for help, but the words caught in your throat. What was there to do? Who could you turn to? Sam had no idea. You hadn’t known yourself until now.

Dean—or what was left of him—leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear again. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you… yet.”

Your stomach churned at the sound of his voice—how it wasn’t his voice anymore. The weight of it pressed down on you, like a predator circling its prey, and you wanted nothing more than to run, to escape. But his grip kept you in place, a cruel reminder of just how trapped you were.

“You don’t get to run,” he continued, the words so chilling they cut through your skin like ice. “Not anymore.”

You could feel the tears stinging your eyes, the panic rising in your chest. What had happened to him? What had happened to them—to you? How had it come to this?

When you tried to pull away again, he didn’t allow it. His hand shot up, cupping your jaw with a brutal force that made your breath hitch. His thumb brushed across your lips, forcing you to look at him—no, to look into Michael’s eyes, the eyes of the monster that had taken over your best friend, your lover.

“I’m still here,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “But you’re going to have to learn to accept me, sweetheart. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The words rang in your ears, cold and unrelenting. The trust you had once held in him was slipping through your fingers, turning to ash in the silence between you. You wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Your voice had been stolen, just like everything else about him.