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Butcher figured you hadn’t seen much action, but he had trouble believing you’d never given a handjob before. What kind of chaperoned, all hands on deck, home by ten prom had you been to?
That was alright. No better time to learn than the present.
He had you on your knees between his spread thighs, breath deep and rasping as he instructed you to gently nuzzle and tease him through his trousers before you really get started. No need go rush the main event.
“Gentle, sweetheart. Got all night, don’t we?”
When he was properly worked up enough, he lifted his hips and let you manage to work his belt loose, tug his trousers down and set eyes on him for the first time. He was big, and thick, and the head was already leaking precum that glistened softly in the dim light from the lamp.
Butcher tilted his head to the side and gave you a low, rumbling chuckle at your look of slightly intimidation.
“Don’t bite,” he tisked. “‘Less you ask real pretty for it.”
When you tentatively took him in hand and started to stroke him, his breath caught and his lip pulled back just slightly. His thighs flexed and he shifted, thick brows furrowing slightly.
Before long, he gruffed and placed his larger hand over yours, the callouses on his palm gently scratching over the backs of your knuckles. “Ever heard of a rhythm, darlin’?” he said, beginning to guide your hand in a deep, steady pace. He made sure to twist your hand on the upstroke, giving the head of his aching cock perfect friction. “There you go. Ain’t nothin’ to be ‘fraid of.”
You kept up that rhythm he liked, and eventually his hips started to twitch, his chest heaved deeper, his head tilted back against the cushion of the couch.
“Fuck, yeah,” he rasped out. “Just like that, darlin’. Fuckin’ perfect.”
You watched with rapt attention as he moved above you, those hands now gripping the edges of the sofa and his hips twitching. His grunts and groans and gruffs began to grow louder.
“Fuck—fuck. That’s it. Ah, shit…”
As Butcher grew closer, you experimentally quickened your pace just a bit, gripping his cock a bit harder on the downstroke. His jowls lifted and he beared his teeth, snarling out a ragged sound.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck. Fuckin’… shit!”
You watched, fascinated, as Butcher’s body jerked and his cock throbbed, shiny streams of pearly cum weeping from the head and streaming down your hand. He gasped softly for breath, letting himself slump back on the couch, head tipped back and lips parted as he attempted to come back to his body.
One of his eyes peeked open when, curiously, you leaned yourself forward and stuck out your tongue to give a kitten lick along the tip of his shaft. You gathered warm stickiness with the flat pink muscle, and he cracked another crooked smile. One of his wide hands reached out to cup your chin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a baby is not a life preserver. You don't throw a drowning man a baby. In fact, I remember my sister had her fourth kid, I said 'What's it like?' she goes 'Imagine you're drowning in a swimming pool and somebody throws you a baby."
Noah Wyle talking about people's theory that Robby will adopt Baby Jane Doe.
summary: as a winchester, you were divinely created to be a vessel for an archangel. as that archangel, gabriel waited a long, long time for you.
word count: 3k
warnings/tags: mentions of blood, swearing, gabriel being a bit of a stalker (but it’s sweet), sexual undertones, angelic possession
author’s note: nsfw part 2 mayhaps?
Gabriel would never cease to be amazed by the inventions of mankind; the gentle altruism of kindness, the floristry of their garden of love, the thrumming roar of bravery when their world collapsed in on them time and time again. Each new century, they created something more, from their own hands, their own hearts, just as his own father had—bridges to connect themselves, machines to spare their aching muscles, devices on which they could contact their loved ones halfway across the world all because they missed the sound of their voice.
So many wonderful, perfect, astounding inventions from a flourishing species that, when he was far younger, used to steal his breath away upon his perch in Heaven.
However, one of Gabriel’s least favorite inventions of mankind was patience.
It had never been his strong suit. Why wait for gratification, for pleasure and reward, when you could have it right then and there when you wanted? Too much of a good thing had never been too big a part of his vocabulary. He’d never had to wait for, well, much of anything. Either his father or brothers handed whatever he wished for over to quiet his incessant pleas, or he’d learn to simply conjure it up himself.
So when, those suddenly long, endless years ago, the Winchester brothers had been born—made and designed specially for Lucifer and Michael, their holy vessels, their human souls to be bound to—Gabriel immediately desired his own. Why did his brothers get to have their very own, and he didn’t? He—very politely, thank you—demanded of his father when he got his vessel. His person. His human.
God, in turn, kindly but firmly commanded him to wait.
Wait? What the hell was Gabriel supposed to do? Twiddle his thumbs? He’d watched empires rise and fall over hundreds of years all while traipsing about and wasting time, sure, but this was now torture. While Michael eyed his vessel as the boy grew, as Lucifer surely was down below as well, Gabriel couldn’t help but mope. Was he so looked down upon as the youngest son? Did he not deserve to have his own human crafted from God’s eye, made for him and him alone?
Then, finally, the time came. The Winchesters welcomed a third child into their midst, and when his father informed Gabriel you were his, he was enamored.
Oh, you were perfect. More beautiful than Mona when she’d posed for her portrait, than the first sunrise after the end of the Great War, than each and every moment dripping with wonder and awe and everything in between. You were tiny, and fussy, and shrill, and Gabriel swore your cries were the most wonderful symphonies he’d had the pleasure of hearing. But your laugh was even better, and he ensured your tears never stuck around for long. Your family had been wowed at your calmness as an infant, your calm disposition a direct opposition to your brothers’ fussiness in their first few months. They accredited it to your being a blessing after the nightmare of two small boys.
They were closer to the truth than they thought, fast asleep while your angel stood over your crib and watched you sleep, a silent guardian to your rest.
Gabriel still had heavenly responsibilities, of course, but he hardly ever missed an event in your life as you grew. Birthdays, the laughs that pulled tears from your eyes and made your stomach cramp, the days your eyes shone bright enough to rival heaven. Even on your worst days, he was there, protecting you from darkness that had, as a young Winchester, attempted to prey on you. Demons, devils, even regular, human men—they were met with the swift and searing blade of an archangel who had something to lose.
After the death of your mother and the disappearance of your father, your brothers tried their very best to raise you as best they could. You switched schools faster than clothing, and eventually Sam took it upon himself to teach you instead of going through the hassle. Friends came quick and left quicker. That was alright; you had your brothers. They wanted to keep you from the hunting life, protect the last thing they had left, but, as life deemed so often, plans fell through. It wasn’t long before your hands bore the same callouses from blades and firearms, and you knew the taste of blood in your mouth and the ache in your neck from long nights spent in the back of the car speeding along lone highways to and from cases.
You had grown into a bright, independent, marvelously wonderful young woman. Quick as a whip, smart as a tack. Your brothers’ pride, and your angel’s joy.
Only, once you and your brothers had discovered just whose vessel you were destined to be, you’d all been less than thrilled.
That was alright. Gabriel had ways of getting what he wanted.
The bunker sat still and tired like an old, protective embrace, keeping you warm and sheltered where you stood in the kitchen. You hummed softly to yourself, some tune that had been stuck in your head for days, as your eyes focused deftly on the dinner being prepared before you. Sam and Dean had gone out to their favorite dive bar to meet a pair of girls they’d met earlier this week, giving you the peace and quiet you’d been craving so long you’d lost count of the days. You had your show queued up in the den, your dinner plated, and your mind set on a hot bath before bed.
The perfect night in.
You’d only just grabbed your dinner on its plate and turned when, like a shush falling from above, there came the familiar rustle of wings and the collide of a warm body with yours.
“Woah, sugar,” said Gabriel with that smackable smirk he wore like a badge of honor. He reached out and held your upper arms to keep you steady, hands clasping at your skin a bit tighter than necessary. “I’ve only just gotten here, and you’re throwing yourself at me.”
Your pulse jumping to your throat with surprise, you felt yourself bristle as you instinctively took a step back and furrowed your brows up at the angel before you. “Jesus, Gabriel,” you gruffed, holding your dinner closer to yourself to keep it from dumping to the floor. “I’ve told you not to do that.”
“Well, I figure using the door is much less of a grand entrance than I prefer.”
Glaring up at the man—divine being—you had supposedly been created for, crafted and put together and designed for like a personal puppet, you deftly shifted around him. While you did, you tried to ignore the paintbrush-like swoop of dark locks that fell over his temples, the honeyed oak of his playful gaze, the way the collar of his jacket brushed against the barely-stubbled curve of his jaw. You wanted to believe it was just the holy connection that bound you to him that formed the attraction which sat in your gut every time you were around him. That you were being blindsided by the red string of destiny between your fingers. That, deep down, you didn’t truly think he was one of the most beautiful men you’d had the pleasure of meeting.
No, you tried to tell yourself. No. That wasn’t even Gabriel. That was just the vessel, the man, he was currently occupying.
He was so very good looking, though…
“Did you come here wanting something?” you forced yourself to get out around the conflicting, warring thoughts in your mind. Turning, you began to pad your way from the kitchen—knowing full well he’d follow. He always did. “Sam and Dean are out. If you hurry, you can probably catch them before tongues get stuck down throats who won’t call them tomorrow.”
Gabriel’s snicker that followed was warm and sticky, lodging in your throat like molasses as he trailed after you into the bunker’s den. His steps were relaxed and slinking like a predator’s who was comfortable in territories not even his own, like he’d memorized the drag paths in this building a long time ago. When you found your usual seat on the sofa, he dropped himself in the seat next to you—close enough that your knees brushed and his arm could extend across the cushion behind your head. He only smiled when you flickered a harsh glance his way and wriggled an inch or two away.
“Tempting as that sounds,” Gabriel drawled, crossing one ankle over his knee in that way men spread themselves out, “you should know I come here for you, honey.”
“Tch,” you said as you curled into yourself and propped your plate against your knees. “I know what you come here for.”
Since you had been young and gripping Dean’s hand while a fellow hunter tattooed the anti-possession into your skin, your brothers had driven home the point of never allowing an entity to possess you. No matter who or what it was, they would control you, wear you like a skin and play around with your body like a puppet. Use your hands to wreak havoc, wear your face to bear their teeth and snarl at innocent people who didn’t deserve their wrath. They’d told you horror stories of hunters’ possessions, your own parents being controlled when situations had gone from bad to worse. Blood spilled and loved ones harmed and their bodies never the same.
You didn’t quite think angels fell into the same category as the other possessing forces in the world, though you’d never taken the risk of allowing Gabriel what he truly wanted—to possess you. To occupy. To have and bond and connect in the way he was destined to. To fill you with himself and make his home where he belonged.
As you ate, Gabriel gave another tisk of his tongue and smoothly rolled his head on his neck. “You act like it’s this horrible thing,” he said teasingly, thick brows quirking. “Like it won’t be the best thing either of us have felt. And trust me, sugar, I’ve been around long enough to experience some doozies when it comes to pleasure.”
The corner of your mouth twisted, and you tried to pretend it was disgust roiling in your stomach. You didn’t want to acknowledge what you truly knew it to be. “Don’t make it gross.”
He gave one of those lapsing, confident laughs of his and tilted his head in your direction, gaze stuck momentarily to your lips as you chewed before he met your eyes again. “Nothing indecent about it,” he said, voice curling slyly. “Just the truth.” He tilted his head back, exposing his neck as he kept your gaze. “That first snap of the bond, it’s something else. Like that part you feel’s always been missing just…” He waves a graceful hand. “Latches into place.” He paused. “So I hear. My little vessel still won’t open the door for me.”
Giving a small breath of exasperation in an attempt to ignore the sudden tingling in your chest at the thought, you finished your dinner and leaned forward to set the plate on the coffee table. Sam was always dogging you and Dean about putting dishes where they didn’t go, and you’d been trying to do better… but something within you was loathe to get up and leave the angel sitting beside you on the couch.
You didn’t want to think about why.
“Guess you’ll have to suck it up,” you mused, finally breaking your eyes from Gabriel’s and attempting to find something else to focus on. You’d left your phone in the kitchen, having forgotten it in his abrupt appearance. “Patience is a virtue, you know.”
Something deep within Gabriel’s amber eyes shifted at your words, the very corner of his lips twitching. He was still for a long moment, seeming to be considering his next move. Then, his knee shifted and brushed heavily against yours. He moved himself, legs uncrossing and arms coaxing and mass shifting as he manipulated his body to lean in your direction. You felt your lips part as he loomed over you, your back pressing gently against the rounded arm of the couch. One arm caged you against the armrest, preventing your main route of escape—but never blocking entirely. If you so wished, you could easily wriggle between his arm and his torso and scramble from beneath him.
But you didn’t.
“Believe me, honey,” Gabriel said, his voice now touching a tone lower, deeper, “I’ve been patient.”
When he came close—closer than the few times he’d come this near before—something in your chest thrummed. Like a guitar string plucked and left to vibrate, a pang of an echo reverberating through an empty room, a beckoning surged through your very being. You’d only felt it this strongly once before, and that had been the moment you’d first set your eyes upon the archangel.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t feel it, too,” he murmured, and you were able to catch a hint of sweetness on his breath that rolled gently across your lips. “We’re connected. Interlinked. You know that.”
You felt yourself swallow thick, every argument and push back against this slowly and steadily dying on your tongue. His knee slotted gently between your legs to let him get closer down to you, and your breath hitched slightly in your throat.
You’d fought this for so long, and now that you were so close, the bond between you singing and straining to link, you were grasping at straws to keep yourself at bay. Every warnings your brothers had given you about allowing Gabriel close, about falling for his tricks and promises and flirtations—they were gone. What did they know, you found yourself suddenly thinking? Gabriel wasn’t like Michael or Lucifer; he had no side, no army except he, himself, and him.
And you.
Army of two against the world, and by god, you wanted to be one.
No more pretending.
“If…” The words bullied themselves from your lips and into the space between the two of you, lines and sinkers cast out desperately. “If I say yes, it… Just for a minute. And then—and then you have to come back out. Okay?”
A spark like a match catching lit in Gabriel’s eyes like you’d never seen before, even when his stupid jokes and conjured scenarios worked out better than he’d anticipated. It erupted and seemed to spread throughout his body, because you could have sworn he gave the smallest of shivers where he loomed over you.
“Just a minute,” he repeated, and his lower body ever so gently began to descend, resting himself there between your legs, which you unconsciously parted to make room for him. His weight rested gingerly against you, atop you, one of his hands still planted on the arm of the couch beside your head to keep from crushing your form with his own. “A couple minutes?”
“Don’t push it.”
He smiled crookedly, free hand raising to slowly, affectionately, lovingly cradle the softness of your cheek. A rush of dizziness flooded through you like his touch alone was capable of breaking dams. Which, it was. “A minute,” he conceded.
For a long few seconds, Gabriel simply stared down at you. Studied you. Took in every feature like you were something he couldn’t get enough of. You swallowed thick and glanced down to his collar, feeling all the sudden like an insect under a microscope with his scrutinizing. But then his hand on your cheek angled your head back up, and he cocked his head just an inch to the left.
“Sorry, honey,” he said, voice softer than you thought you’d heard it before. “Just been waiting a hell of a long time for this.” His throat bobbed once. “May I come in?”
“…Yes.”
When your lips connected with Gabriel’s, that straining, desperate, needy thrum of your bond snapped like a rubber band pulled too taut. Only, it was anything but painful. It pulled a small sound from your throat like a moan, an explosion of sharp, throbbing, warm sensation bursting and searing down each and every individual nerve and artery. A feeling like being filled from the inside out took its place and pleasure you didn’t know was possible to experience pulled another whine from your lips and a jerk of your hips.
Fuck, it was so, so good. Like coming home after a long trip. Like slowly allowing a lover to kiss down your body after time apart. Like being pulled back together after you hadn’t even realized you were in pieces.
Your eyes had slipped shut against the feeling of Gabriel’s lips on yours, but you were able to understand his weight had vanished from atop you. The tingling, exploding, collapsing sensation was still present, in you, on you, everywhere… but he was gone.
Then, gently, like a coaxing tug led by a gentle, patient hand, you felt your head buzz softly. Your mind began to slip and sink far into the depths of your head, attention dulling, senses humming and dimming. You were still there, of course, but it was almost as if you had been tugged to the backseat of the car of your thoughts. Of your body. Of control.
When your body inhaled a deep breath and your eyes flickered open, you let yourself sit back for the ride. You weren’t in charge any longer, the reigns taken from your hands—but that buzzing, surging, perfect heat was still there, and by god, you were going to enjoy it.
From your lips came a gentle, sly chuckle that was not your own, and when you turned your head, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the reflection of the entertainment stand’s glass; your eyes burned a deep, swimming golden, a pair of searchlights belonging to your angel, now nestled within your own sockets.
In your body, Gabriel grinned. “Oh, honey,” he moaned aloud, hands coming up to caress your own face. “You’re somehow even better than I dreamed.”
Slowly, he sat up there on the sofa, and you felt him give you a wink there in your shared mental space.
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of course!! i’ve been out of the game for a while and i’m still remembering all the little things! i’ll make an effort to put reader gender tags on fics from now on! :)
summary: sam's raised you from the moment you were born until adulthood. getting hurt on a hunt shows you that while you're not a child anymore, you'll always be sam's kid
pairing: sam x daughter!reader ft. dean | genre: angst w/ fluffy ending | word count: 7.1k
warnings: reader is sam and jess's daughter (no physical features described, although reader is written to be white), sam is trying his best to be a good dad, typical hunting injuries, scared sam, one use of the word 'fuck' (he's scared okay ? leave him alone </3), caring dad!sam and dean being a good uncle
notes: requested !! we trying something new and different this time !!!! t'was a fun experiment, i've considered writing dad!sam before but never with a reader as his kid, so this was kinda fun :] also i think i should mention; reader is written as an adult in this fic. italics represent the flashbacks, normal text is the present btw :]
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It happens so fast.
One second, you’re off to his right, gun held in front of you with the kind of military precision that comes from years of learning to keep yourself alive in the toughest battlefields. You’re scoping the room, checking all the shadows and the corners, just like Sam taught you. One foot in front of the other, steps quiet but sure, toes of your boots testing the ground under them with each movement, assuring the floor is sturdy enough for your weight. The safety clicks off, fingers readjusting their grip on the gun and wrapping tight around the handle, thumb sweeping along the barrel once. Something cracks and your head whips around, Sam wincing just slightly at the force of it, ears listening for words from you or Dean, eyes watching for the thing you’re hunting.
The next second, you’re falling, and you’re falling hard. Your body curls in on itself, thrown backward with a force Sam’s never quite seen before. Or maybe he has, but he’s never seen it directed at you. You land, body bending backward in a way that would be almost comical to Sam if it wasn’t happening to you before his very eyes. A trail of red immediately curls down your temple, trailing back into your hair and staining the strands some raspberry colour that would be pretty if it weren’t made of your blood. A dark patch of it blooms on the fabric of your shirt, soaking into the cotton and sticking the fibers to your skin. Your name gets caught in Sam’s throat before it makes it out of his mouth, the letters dying on his tongue the moment they appear.
You’re nestled in Sam’s arms, one arm under your shoulders and the other under your knees, head lolling against his chest as he cradles you close. He remembers doing this with you when you were just a little kid, running to him in your carefully tied shoes, asking for him to carry you. He’d scoop you up and hold you close, just like he is now. Except this time, it’s not to comfort you after a scraped knee, or to swing you through the air while you ask if this is how it feels to fly. This time, it’s to move you from the Impala to your bedroom, mind only half paying attention to the mud and droplets of your blood that Sam’s boots track through the bunker. Dean’s somewhere ahead of him, opening the door to your bedroom and disappearing immediately to find supplies; needle and thread, no doubt. Alcohol too, for the cleaning, and maybe a bit to take Sam’s mind off of the fact it’s his daughter’s body he’s putting back together.
Sam lays your body carefully on the bed, only partly paying attention to the blood that’s staining your bedsheets. He’ll change them later when he knows you’re not bleeding out in his arms. He arranges your limbs carefully, settling each one into a position that will be comfortable if you happen to wake up while he’s working, but also keeps the areas he needs accessible. Something about your lashes fluttering softly against your cheeks reminds him painfully of Jess; you’ve inherited the little things. That shine in your eyes when you learn something new that you’re particularly fond of. The little smile you give Sam when he brings you a book, or breakfast, or some random trinket he thought you might like. The rosiness to your cheeks when you’re out in the sun, and the way the sun glances off your hair like it belongs there, tangled in the wild strands.
He goes to stand, goes to meet Dean for the supplies, but something stops him. Your body looks so fragile lying there, hands curled lightly around the ghost of your gun that he’d taken off you in his haste, hair blown around you like the cracked halo of a fallen angel. The strands spread against the pillow, the same spider webbing as the cracks in the ceiling above you, and for a brief moment, Sam is too afraid to look up lest your body be trapped there like Jess’s was. He thanks whatever gods exist every day that you were in the other room when it happened. That you never saw your mother up there on the ceiling, burning. That he had the conscience to scoop up your little body and clutch you close to his chest while Dean guided him through the thick smoke of the fire.
One trembling hand brushes the blood-smeared hair back from your forehead, your skin looking so pale and ashen under the clinical bunker lighting. Sam yearns for the colour to come back to your cheeks just from his touch alone, but he knows it’s not going to happen, not unless he can fix you up like he promised to on the drive back home. His quivering cracked lips press a soft kiss to the skin of your forehead, a ghostly press of skin on skin that he hopes fruitlessly will wake you up like it woke up all those fairy tale princesses he used to tell you about. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it softly and moving only when Dean comes back with the materials, setting them on the table and resting a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I can do it, if you want,” Dean says, jutting his chin in your direction.
“No-. No. I have to,” Sam replies, shaky, clearing his throat. “I have to.”
“Sammy, y’don’t have to do anything.”
“Dean-.” He swallows hard. “I have to.”
Then, quieter.
“I promised her I would.”
Dean nods, eyes darting around the room. “You don’t have to do this to yourself.”
“I’m her father, Dean. I need to do this.”
“Sam.”
“If she wakes up, I need to be there. I promised her I wasn’t gonna leave her for anything, Dean. Not even this.”
Dean sighs. The heavy kind, that sits in his ribs and pushes its way out. He’s not mad; he’s far from mad. He’s just absorbing it all, taking everything in and sorting it out in that Dean Winchester way. He’s never seen his little brother this scared. Not when John died, not even when Sam himself died. Back then, he was brave, sacrificing himself in ways nobody should ever have to. Now, there’s an anxious tremor in Sam’s hands that will only stop when you’re stitched up and as comfortable as you can be.
“Alright. Alright, Sammy. You’ve got her.”
Sam nods. “I got her.”
When you hit the floor, Sam’s world goes dark. Everything stops existing. It’s just you, on your back, blood trailing down your skin and onto the cobbled tiles underneath you. Skin already losing colour, but your eyes stay open, terrified, watching. You try to speak, but nothing comes out other than a garbled sound of pain and fear that could be ‘Dad’ but could also be ‘help’, or ‘no’, or ‘please’. Sam’s never moved this fast before, because suddenly it’s his kid on the floor, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to you immediately. The monster makes a taunting sound that could be laughter, disappearing somewhere else, in search of a new target; Dean. Somehow, the fact Dean’s in danger doesn’t even cross Sam’s mind, not when you’re lying there just in his reach.
He clambers over to you, shoes catching in chips in the stones, slipping in the growing puddle of your blood at your side, voice already going rough from screaming your name. His hands hurriedly run up and down your sides, assessing the damage, pressing at your skin and fluttering away when you wince at his touch. His palms come away stained red, the colour draining from your face at the sight.
“’S that mine?” you ask weakly.
“No, sweetheart. Don’t think about it.”
“Dad-.”
He watches you with sad eyes, the kind that are scared and trying not to show it around you. The kind that’s hoping he’s sealed all the cracks in his heart well enough that he doesn’t start bleeding out with you on the floor. The kind of eyes that look at you and understand you need to know the truth about your situation.
“Did you hit something when you fell?”
You frown, already slipping into unconsciousness.
“Hey, hey. You gotta look at me,” Sam says, panicked.
“’M looking.”
“Did you hit anything?”
You slowly shake your head, groaning. “Nail.”
“Nail?”
You nod, swallowing. “Nail. Fingers. Fingernails.”
“They cut you?”
“Yeah.”
You blink, slow. “Dad?”
“Right here,” Sam says. “I’m right here.”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so small and quiet that it shatters Sam’s heart down the middle and breaks the halves into a thousand small pieces. They pierce his body, flooding his veins with hundreds of tiny knives, sticking into his skin like the spines on a burr. Poison in his body, blood running cold.
“It’s okay,” Sam promises. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” you reply.
“You will be. ‘M not gonna let anything happen to you.”
You smile, soft and slow, warm in the way that melts Sam’s heart. “I know.”
The blood is sticky in its half-dried state. Both Sam’s jacket and your shirt cling to your wound with the persistent attachment of a nightmare in waking hours. Sam feels bad for having to take your shirt off, pointedly looking away from your bare chest as he works at the wound on your side. A cursory examination of your back determines it’s nothing more than horrifically bruised, your skin already starting to turn a mottled blue and purple patchwork. Sam distantly remembers Jess bruising easily, and he’s forever glad you don’t seem to follow in her footsteps; but when you do bruise, you bruise nasty, the kind of bruise that sticks around for weeks longer than it needs to.
Dean took the liberty of threading the needle for Sam. A wise decision, given how bad his hands are trembling right now. He wouldn’t be able to hold the needle straight enough to thread it, let alone hold the thread steady to slide it into the eye. Instead, he reaches for a rag and soaks it in alcohol, whispering an apology to your unconscious form as he presses the rag to your wound. Your muscles flinch around his touches, a low whine that’s almost impossible to hear dragging itself from your chest with the energy of a man who’s been buried alive and risen from the grave. Sam wipes away at the edges of your wound with tenderness, the rag coming away pinker and pinker each time.
When he turns his attention to your main wound, he shrinks back on himself in pain. Not physical pain, because he’s not the one with a raw, angry wound in his side. Mental pain, the kind of pain that comes from believing you’ve failed the very thing you promised yourself to never fail. The kind of pain that comes from promising your dead girlfriend you’ll take care of your baby and protect her with your life and now seeing her lying there injured on the table before you. Sam swallows harsh, the sound catching in his throat and struggling to get down. Your fingers twitch against the sheets, a feeble attempt a reassurance. Sam’s lips quirk up of their volition, because a twitch means you’re alive, and in a bid to protect your privacy, he hasn’t been looking at the rise and fall of your chest so much as he’s been listening for the weak sound of your breaths.
The steady in and out of the needle through your skin makes Sam sigh heavy every time he thinks you’d be groaning in pain if you were awake. The mottled bruising on your skin is only getting darker the longer he works, and he’s afraid for you when you wake up and the feeling of it all hits you at once. He’ll have to make sure he brings you painkillers as soon as he’s done here, so that they can sit on the table and be ready for you when you decide to come back to his world. He works in silence, only pausing to wipe away blood or clear his throat before addressing Dean every time he pops in. Dean keeps his distance as promised, because he knows better than to distract Sam from this mission to keep you alive. But he talks, telling Sam anything and everything that comes to mind, in an attempt to keep his brother’s head on straight. Because when you wake up, and it is a when, not an if, Sam needs to be in his right mind to care for you. Because you’ll be asking for him if he’s not there, and as much as you love Dean as an uncle, nothing reassures you more than Sam’s steady presence, calm and right.
Tying off the last stitch, Sam dresses your wounds with careful precision, treating you as if you were awake and there to tell if something pinches or sits wrong, or too tight. He doesn’t dare try and put a shirt back on you, instead settling for spreading a clean sheet over your body and tucking it under your chin like he did when you were small. Something in him cracks at the bottom sheet being a little bloody, but he promises himself that’ll be the first thing he does tomorrow morning. Dean will help lift you while he changes the sheets, and Sam will settle you in the way you like. A clean cloth is run over your forehead by Sam’s hand, much steadier now that you’re breathing normally again and the lines on your face have devolved into something like casual acceptance of the pain. He’ll help you shower later, when you can sit up for long enough to sit in the bath.
In and out. In and out. It’s all he can think of while he kneels beside your body on the floor. In and out. One, two, three. In and out. In and-. Out. Quicker and quicker he breathes, each lung full of air compressing his chest from the inside out, determined to find a way out of his body that isn’t through his mouth or his nose. It shoves itself against his rib cage, rattling his heart and squeezing it until it’s too big for his skin and too small for his body to hold on to. It falls to the floor under his knees, spilling out onto the ground in the kind of way that can never really be recovered. Hands shaking, he reaches for your shoulders, tapping them, shaking them, determined to keep you awake and moving if it’s the last thing he does. The spirit isn’t even on his mind anymore, because there’s something more important to worry about; you.
Sam can hear Dean yelling something in the distance, something heavy and harsh and laden with curses. The kind he normally wouldn’t say around you even though you’re an adult. The kind that says he’s just as scared for you as Sam is, because something bad is happening to someone he loves, and he couldn’t prevent it. Sam knows there’s a harsh kind of vengeance in Dean’s blood right now, hand no doubt gripped tight around the lighter and another around his rock-salt gun as he digs up the bones. There’s a flicker of light when Dean drops the lighter into the ground, the pale colour of the flames only making your corpse seem more ashen-faced and cold, lips turning blue against the night air. You’re still breathing, and Sam counts each breath reverently, hands fluttering over you because he needs to keep them busy. He moves from your face down your body, checking and re-checking the state of your injuries, cataloguing them with the kind of careful precision that burns him from the inside out if he does it wrong or misses a spot. If he misjudges the condition you’re in, he’ll never forgive himself for it; he already won’t forgive himself for letting you get hurt like this.
The voices yelling in his head are loud. They scream your name, and Sam’s pretty sure half of them scream your name through his throat, the sounds raw and ragged and accompanied by rough pleas for your safety and promises you’ll be okay. His chest hurts, eyes burning with unshed tears, because he can’t let you see him cry. Not now, not when you need him to be strong enough for the both of you. He’ll cry later when you’re awake, and he’ll shamelessly let his tears track down his cheeks and drip into your hair. Now, he has to be strong, he has to be brave, he has to be what Jess made him promise to be for you. He has to be your saviour and your guardian angel, and he has to be the one bright light in the darkness of your life.
A scream rings out, one that sounds unearthly and harsh. It tears through the air like it’s ripping it apart at the seams, collapsing in on itself and echoing outward in the kind of death shriek of a dying spirit. Dean’s voice shouts something in triumph, boots scuffing on dirt as he kicks a bit over the dying embers. He keeps talking for Sam’s sake, voice getting louder and clearer as he enters the room you’re both in. Dean’s face goes pale at the sight of you on the floor, and even paler still at the sheer panic written across Sam’s features. It takes a lot to phase Sam, especially now given all that he’s been through. And this rocks him to his very core.
Sam’s arms are warm where he scoops you up, cradling you against his chest with your head over his heart. He runs, as fast as he dares to run without jostling you too much. You’re not awake anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel any pain, and that doesn’t mean Sam won’t stop acting like you are. He talks to you as he runs, murmuring softly to you the same way he did when you were small and woke him up when you had bad dreams. He’d cradle you then too, running a hand through your hair and talking to you for hours until you fell back asleep against his chest with a tiny hand clenched into the fabric of his shirt. Now, your hands rest uselessly over your stomach, bouncing when Sam takes a longer stride and hits the ground harder. He rests a hand over your head when he bundles you into the back seat of the Impala, stripping off his jacket and pressing it against your wound. He slides in beside you, your head on his lap and his hand in your hair, keeping pressure on the jacket over your wound while Dean drives as fast as the car will let him go.
Your bedroom in the bunker is quiet, the only sounds coming from your and Sam’s breathing, and the persistent hum of the ancient heater. The pipes in the walls spring to life briefly when Dean showers, the click of water starting to rush through the metal making Sam jump in his seat at the side of your bed. He’s taken a chair hostage from the kitchen, pulling it through the halls and setting it beside your bed, angled so that he can see the doorway and keep an eye over your sleeping form. You’re sleeping for real, he knows. Not the unconsciousness from earlier; this is true sleep, and he knows by the way your breaths have stayed steady but slowly become full. No more stutter on the inhale, no more fluttering air on the exhale. A proper breath, full in its entirety, passing lightly through your nose with a hint of a sound. A light, breathy sound, one that’s not properly snoring but isn’t nothing. The same kind of sound Jess made in her sleep when Sam had her tucked against his chest after night spent studying.
Immediately after settling you in under the blankets, Sam went on a mission. First, a thicker blanket, because your room has a habit of being colder than the rest of the bunker for reasons he hasn’t quite figured out yet. Second, a glass of water and painkillers, which he sets carefully on the table beside you. They taste awful and Sam knows it, but he also know given the extent of your bruising, they’ll probably be the first thing you ask for once you can formulate proper questions. Third, at Dean’s insistence he takes the quickest shower known to mankind and gives himself the grace of putting on clothes that aren’t stained with dirt and blood. Washing the pink down the drain feels like he’s getting stabbed all over again, but the moment it’s gone brings him the kind of relief he never thought he’d feel again.
Now, he sits vigil at your bedside. Not even a book in hand, because reading means taking his eyes off you, and taking his eyes off you means he could miss the moment you wake up. He doesn’t consider the alternative, because he has to believe that you’ll wake up. You always do, he reasons with himself. You’re a Winchester. Winchesters don’t get the blessing of death so young. Each rise and fall of your now covered chest is tracked by his eyes, Sam’s hand occasionally drifting toward your wrist and taking your pulse. Counting the numbers steady in his head, an eye on his watch to count a whole minute. It spikes once, somewhere around five in the morning, and Sam murmurs to you under his breath like he did when you were young until the furrow in your brow disappears and whatever dream plagued you has passed.
With nothing else to do but watch you sleep, Sam talks. He doesn’t dare fall asleep; not tonight. Not when you’re vulnerable to your injury, and not when he’s vulnerable to his emotions. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried, his mind running a hundred miles an hour and throwing the worst at him from every angle. So, he talks. He tells you things he knows he’s told you before, and he tells you things he’s kept secret and will keep secret until the day he dies. He tells you things that would make you cry if you were awake, and he tells you the little things from when you were young that would make your face flush red in embarrassment. He tells them because he has to. He needs the silence in the room to understand how important you are to him. He needs the bunker to understand it has to wake you up at some point and bring you back to him. Sam needs his daughter, because without you, he’s not much of anything.
He tells you first about when Jess told him she was pregnant. A mistake, he knows for a fact. They were in college for heaven’s sake, neither of them had the time for a baby. But that wasn’t going to stop him from loving both his girls with everything he has, because Sam is nothing if not a lover. He tells you about how he cared for Jess, making sure he attended lectures in her absence and brought her review packets and textbook work and set up exams so that she could take them without having to go very far. He tells you about how he sat beside her just like this in the hospital, watching the both of you sleep after you were born. He tells you about bringing you back to the apartment, and how much it meant that his college friends were there for him and Jess; helping out when there was homework and studying to do, keeping you entertained while they wrote exams, bringing you little gifts when they saw you.
Sam doesn’t tell you about the fire, because he can’t bring himself to talk about it right now. The fire that killed his lover has no place in the room today, not when you’re lying there just as immobile as she was on the ceiling. Instead, he tells you about the first night he took you on the road with Dean, the night after the fire. Where he sat with you in his lap the entire drive, and worried incessantly about how he was going to explain a nearly seven-month-old baby to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to care very much beyond a bit of casual teasing.
Then, he worried about how he was supposed to tell his dad about you. John, the man Sam swore he’d never become. The man who responded to everything with anger, the one who never explained why he was angry, the one who let everyone flounder in the confusion of being in trouble and never knowing why. Everything Sam hates about himself, he hates because they’re the parts that are most like John. Everything Sam tolerates about himself, and everything he loves about you, he loves because they’re nothing like his father. They’re every bit like Jess, or maybe him, or even a little bit of Dean. The parts that reminds him that he’s more than his father’s failures.
After that, he hops around a bit. He doesn’t follow a timeline anymore, because everything he tells you doesn’t need a date and time to mean something. Sam talks about all the late-night conversations he had with Dean about you. About whether it was better to leave you with Bobby, even though it tore him up inside to let you out of his sight. You, the last living proof of Jess. The part of his life he treasured the most. He talks about all the times he made Dean promise that no matter what, you come first. All the times he sat Dean down and said that if the both of you are in danger, Dean has to promise to get you safe before he even thinks about coming back for Sam. No heroics to try and save the both of you at once; just a solid promise that you come first, always. He tells you about bringing you to school and the joy he got from meeting your friends, and then he tells you about how much it hurt him to have to take you away from those friends. He talks about all the memories of your childhood with the people who meant the most; Bobby, the roadhouse gang to an extent, the tiniest bit of joy John got from learning he was a grandfather. A poor excuse for one, but still one, nonetheless.
He talks the entire night, hoping that his words are enough to keep away the shadowed parts of the room that threaten to engulf your figure and never let it go again. He sits with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced together and he sits until his back starts getting sore. And then he ignores it and sits longer, because you still haven’t woken up yet, and he needs to be beside you when you do. He gets up once to refill his own glass of water, and he’s only gone for as short as he possibly can be. He watches your body for any signs of waking. Every twitch of your hand, every shift of your leg against the bedsheets, every sigh from your mouth when you settle that gets closer and closer to the kind of sigh that wakes you up every morning.
At some point, he grows restless, shifting in his chair with the kind of nervous energy that comes from a man who’s been counting the hours you sleep and is getting worried you’re not waking up fast enough. He knows its morning because Dean shows up with a paper plate and some half-burnt toast, nudging it in Sam’s direction with the authority of someone who won’t leave the room until the toast is gone. Dean hovers in the corner as Sam eats, prompting him with small talk that Sam barely bothers entertaining. He gives just enough of an answer that Dean won’t press, but keep it vague, because even now he doesn’t need his brother to know everything going on inside his head.
“Should get outta that chair, Sammy,” Dean comments.
“Not until-.”
“Not until she wakes up, you said that.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
Dean shrugs, serious. “I know you weren’t. You’re still gonna wear a hole in the floor if y’keep bouncin’ your leg like that.”
Sam’s leg stills, the energy dispelling into his hands that start twisting nervously in his lap. Dean sighs, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and dragging him upright.
“C’mon, just...just stand up for a few minutes,” Dean says, quiet. “You’ve been sittin’ there all night.”
Slow, Sam stretches his aching limbs, stiff at the joints from hours of sitting cramped in the chair that’s too small for him. A yawn escapes him when he puts his arms over his head and stretches out his back, Dean’s expression turning sympathetic in response.
“Did y’sleep at all?” Dean asks, hand on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s look tells him everything he needs to hear. He’s expecting Dean to force him into the chair or maybe drag him to his own room and push him into the bed. He’s expecting a lecture about sleep deprivation being no use to you if Sam drops from exhaustion before you even wake up. He’s expecting something, anything. A shout, a curse, even a slap across the face.
Instead, Dean murmurs his name and tugs him in by the shoulders, big hands wrapping around his back. Dean doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t rub circles or trace patterns or even pat his back when a tear escapes his eye. He just stands, lightly rocking them side to side, holding Sam tight to his chest in the quiet of the room. Slowly, Sam exhales a shuddering breath into the room, giving the air something to sing about. A breath of exhaustion, of sorrow, tinged at the edges with guilt. And Dean sees right through him.
“Don’t start thinkin’ about it, Sammy,” he warns.
“’M not thinking anything.”
“You are, I can hear it in that giant head of yours.”
Sam gives him the tiniest hint of a smile. “Should’ve been faster.”
Dean’s expression crumples. “Sammy, don’t.”
“I should’ve.”
“It wouldn’t’ve mattered. Bastard was invisible the whole time, you couldn’t’ve shot it.”
“I could’ve tried.”
“You gotta stop dragging yourself for things like that, man,” Dean pleads. “It happened. It’s over. She’ll wake up and it’ll be like nothing changed.”
“Everything changed, Dean. I broke a promise.”
Dean frowns, pulling away and holding Sam at arm’s length. “Promise? What promise?”
Sam swallows, thick. “I promised Jess I’d keep her safe.”
“You did.”
Sam’s head shakes violently. “No, Dean. I didn’t. She’s lying there because I messed up. She’s lying there because I couldn’t do what I promised her I’d do.”
The end of his sentence rises, voice getting louder in his frustration. Dean shushes him with a murmur and a gesture of his hand, jutting his head in your direction.
“Okay, Sammy. Okay. I get it. But she’s alive because of you. Don’t forget that.”
Dean gives him one last hug, then leaves the room. Sam stays frozen in place, eyes watching the drag path Dean tracked to the door, the handle rattling lightly as it closes behind him. Slowly, his feet wander back to the chair at the bedside, big hands smoothing down the blankets around you shoulders and grabbing tight to your smaller one.
“Hey sweetheart. I’m sorry about all this. I don’t know if you can hear me, but-.” He pauses, sharp. “I’m sorry. I promised to protect you, and- and now you’re hurt ‘cause I didn’t do that. You gotta wake up for me, okay? I need-. I-. You gotta wake up. Please.”
Squeezing your hand once again, he lets it drop to the mattress, fingers still lingering on your skin. Your fingers twitch in reply, giving him hope that you’re approaching consciousness, but you still don’t open your eyes. He takes your pulse again, watches your chest rise and fall, analysing you. He can tell you’re slowly drifting awake; it’s just a matter of how much time he has until your eyes finally flutter open. One quick decision and he’s on his feet, walking as fast as he can to pick up some clothes for you to wear if you’re cold. A Stanford hoodie that used to be his and then got stolen by Jess before you claimed it. Sweatpants that Sam bought you years ago that never managed to fit you right yet somehow ended up being the comfiest pair you own. When you wake up, you’ll judge if you’re well enough to handle getting into other clothes.
When your eyes finally creak open, it’s midafternoon. The door to your room is slightly ajar, light from the hallway spilling in through the gap. It trails across the floor in thin stripes of warmth, yellow and gold and some dark kind of orange; the bunker lighting, you recognize. You’re home. You’re under a blanket that’s a little thin for your liking, and you can feel what seems to be a thicker one bundled up at your feet. Perhaps waiting for permission from your body to cover you or waiting for hands other than yours to move it on your behalf. Upon careful inspection, you realize you can move all your limbs, although moving anything comes with a sharp sting of pain up your side, the crinkling of bandages alerting you to the notion that you should stay as still as you possibly can.
Turning your head is slow. There’s a crick in your neck that’s getting harsher by the minute, eating up your spinal cord and tearing into the muscles of your back. Clearly, you’ve been still for way too long, confined to your back with barely any room to move from it. Finally, your eyes land on a familiar shape hunched in a chair. Long legs stretched out across the floor, socked feet with one toe sticking out through a hole in the right sock. Rough jeans, tattered and worn with a crudely made patch over one knee. Dark shirt and light flannel covering a broad chest with arms crossed in front of it, head tipped down and chin rising and falling with the motions. Dark hair and scruffy stubble covering the barely sleeping face that only belongs to one man you know.
Clearing your throat and wincing at the harsh ache in it, you tip your chin up toward him.
“Dad?”
Your voice is so quiet you’re not sure how he heard you, but he’s been tuned to you since the day you were born. Sam’s head shoots upright, hands scrambling to hold on to yours as his eyes find yours fully open and staring at him.
“Hi,” he murmurs, hands squeezing yours. “How’re you feeling?”
“Hurts,” you whisper.
He gives you a sad smile. “I bet.”
Nudging painkillers and water toward you, he leans forward so that his knees are resting on your mattress. His hand falls to the top of your head, stroking your hair as you take the medication, cradling it as you fall back onto the pillows, drained.
“Dad, what-.”
“Shh. It’s okay, kiddo.”
“I know it’s okay. I wanna know what happened.”
“You sure? I don’t wanna scare you.”
You give a soft grin. “You won’t scare me. I’m alive, see? It’s fine.”
“I- I know that. I just-.”
Your eyes meet his, and you can see the residual traces of fear locked in them. “Did I scare you?”
Sam frowns. “What?”
“When I went down. Did I scare you?”
Sam’s hand tightens on yours, then relaxes, like he’s reminding himself whatever is playing in his head isn’t real.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did. You scared me so fucking much.”
You look up at him with those eyes; the ones that have all of Jess’s beauty and all of Sam’s persuasion.
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs, the sound broken. “Oh, god, don’t apologize for that.”
“I’m…sorry…?” you say, realizing halfway through that you’re still apologizing.
For the first time all day, Sam gets a real smile across his face, dimple finally greeting you underneath the scruff on his jaw. You laugh a little too, stopping immediately when your spine starts to ache all the way across the muscles.
“Careful,” Sam warns, steadying you.
“Did I break my ribs?” you ask, groaning in frustration.
“Not this time. Your spine might be black and blue for a month though.”
“What else?” you mumble bitterly.
Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I had to stitch up your side, but…does anything else hurt?”
You pause, assessing. “My head, I think. I remember hitting it.”
Sam nods. “You did.”
You’re quiet for a moment, letting Sam rock slightly in his chair. Tipping it back on the back legs, letting it fall forward and catching it before it can thud on the ground.
“You hungry?” Sam asks, quiet. “I can make you something.”
You shrug as best you can. “I dunno. Can you-.” You gesture to the blanket. “Can you put that on, please?”
Sam nods, taking the edge of the blanket in his hands and draping it over your body. You sigh when the warmth stays trapped against your skin, settling deeper into your pillow. You remember those same hands smoothing blankets over you when you got sick as a kid, tucking pillows under your head and taking your temperature with the back of a hand pressed to your skin. You remember those hands picking you up and carrying you around, and when you got too big to be carried on the regular, those hands would rest on your shoulders and keep you from running off on him. Clasped around your hand at the park, walking with you to motel check-out desks and placing bandages over scraped knees in parking lots.
“Better?” Sam asks when you’re settled.
“Mhm. Better.”
“Good.”
Sam’s hands fiddle nervously in his lap, clearly debating what to say next. He takes a deep breath, one that makes his lungs feel like rubber balloons, and exhales slow and heavy, the kind that says he has words to say but doesn’t know how to string them together.
“I, uh,” he starts, eloquently. “I wanted to apologize.”
You freeze.
“Why?” you ask, wary.
“Because I broke our promise. I broke your mother’s promise.”
Your brows scrunch together, genuine confusion painted on your features.
“What promise?”
“I promised you both that I’d keep you safe.”
You nod. “I know.”
“And I didn’t do that. And I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”
“Dad-.”
“When you went down, all I could think about was what was gonna happen to you. And I froze. For a minute, I just froze. And I let you get hurt. And I’m sorry that I let you down like that.”
“It’s not your fault, you know that, right?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m supposed to look out for you. Protect you. Keep you safe. ‘Nd I didn’t and now look where we are.”
“We’re home.”
“We’re- what?”
“You said look where we are. We’re home. We’re safe. I’m okay.”
“But I promised…” he says, trailing off quietly.
“I know what you promised. You didn’t break it, trust me. If you did, I wouldn’t be lying here feeling like I got ran over by a truck. If you didn’t protect me, I’d be dead, Dad.”
“I-.”
You shift, letting him see you properly.
“When I was lying there and you told me I was going to be okay, I believed you. I always do. Because I know if you’re there, it’ll always be okay. That means more to me than this one thing does.”
Sam nods, eyes looking a little teary.
“I just worry because-.” He swallows thick around the emotion. “Because I couldn’t save Jess. And I feel awful for it because she was supposed to be there for all of it.”
“What happened to Mom isn’t your fault either.”
“I never said it was my fault. I just said I couldn’t save her. I feel like- like if I can keep you from ever getting hurt, I’ll…I don’t know. Avenge myself or something. Make up for it.”
Your features soften, heart melting a bit at the admission. Sam’s an emotional guy, and he’s never tried to hide any of that from you. But something about this raw honesty hits you hard in the chest, punching the air out of your lungs. Neither of you speak for a while. Sam just sits beside you, scrubbing a heavy hand down his face and keeping close. Keeping you steady, because putting on a calm front for you is his way of keeping himself under control. He doesn’t let more than a few tears fall, but it’s cathartic anyway.
“Hey, dad?” you say, breaking the silence.
“Hm? What’s wrong?”
You smile. “Nothing’s wrong. ‘M just hungry, that’s all.”
Sam’s eyes light up. “That’s a good sign. What do you want?”
“Dunno,” you muse. “Soup’s good.”
“I’ll bring you soup. Want anything else?”
You shake your head.
“I’ll just tell Dean you’re awake,” Sam says.
“Okay,” you whisper, settling into bed.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Sam says. “I love you so much, sweetheart.”
“Love you,” you murmur.
Sam bends quick to press a soft kiss to your hair, thumb brushing soft against your shoulder.
“I’ll help you get a sweater on after, okay?” he asks.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re just a child. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“I’m a whole adult,” you whine.
Sam grins. “You’re still my kid. Sit still while I get your soup, okay?”
“Okay.”
Warm soup, warm blankets, Sam’s warm hands helping you slip the warm hoodie over your shoulder. Dean’s cheery voice checking in on you when he gets in the room, poking fun at Sam for being so worried. His eyes hold the same concern as his brother though, because you really did scare the both of them. Sam’s warm arms hugging you close when he helps you settle in for bed, squeezing you as tight as he dares with one hand cradling your head like he did when you were a little girl scared of storms. To him, you really are still just his kid. And he’ll love you like it for the rest of time.
summary: you, an ex-soldier, allow astarion to teach you to dance
word count: 3.3k
warnings/tags: yearning, slow dancing, romantic tension, astarion struggling to say thank you and process his emotions
The Last Light Inn was in danger of its stained glass windows rattling in their frames and the walls threatening to tip over and fall whichever way they deemed fit, but it hardly seemed as though its occupants cared in the slightest. Beings from across the Shadow-Cursed Lands had crawled from their wrecked homes and barricaded hiding places to watch as Moonrise Towers had nearly imploded with the force of the curse being lifted, daylight that seemed blinding after so many years absent flooding the canvas of the sky to chase away the swirling, snarling shadows back where they had once emerged from. Word certainly spread fast here despite the lands being next to empty; there was a celebration to be held at the inn, where the shields had finally come down and the monsters had been banished.
It seemed as though everyone here in the little inn wore wide, cracking smiles and danced to the music the bards strummed and forgot about their worries for the first time in decades.
Nearly everyone.
You were not versed in celebration. You had once, long ago, been accustomed to taking guard near the doors and watching the windows, keeping vigil late into the night while people more deserving, better suited, sang and drank and cheered. It was a hard habit to shake, even when you sat here at the bar nursing a small glass between clammy hands. Your eyes flitted above bobbing heads in order to scope out the balconies, the cracks and crevices, the weak points - anywhere and everywhere a shadow could leak in, a hidden foe could be lurking.
You were a soldier of war, bred for battle. You simply didn’t know how to be the opposite.
Your gaze flickered to where Karlach and Wyll danced before the bards, each a bit tipsy in their own, but still afflicted with smiles she envied and interlocked hands that made you bite at your tongue until it bled and mixed with the liquor permeating your tongue. The pair had been getting on well as of late; who would have thought? Certainly not you. A valiant, double edged servant of the needy and a flaming devil from the Hells - you could not have fathomed a pair more opposite, so charmingly drawn to one another in such a terrible, unassuming place.
Well.
You could - you simply didn’t want to.
Exhaling a small, silent breath, you turned your gaze back down to your drink and the polished wood of the bar underneath. How frustratingly irksome this all had been; traveling with a vampire, sleeping just a handful of tents away from him at night when you were at your most vulnerable. Allowing him to take his fill of your dark, staining blood late in the evenings when no one else was there to hear your gasps. Letting him catch sight of your tears and hear your ravaged cries. Murmuring long-buried secrets and insecurities to one another through the dark.
Astarion was a riddle you could not solve for the life of you, and as the evenings wore on into months, you grew increasingly more agitated, because you had never really been all that good at riddles, anyhow. He had once sneered and snapped at you, batted away your attempts to forcibly tear down his walls and find out just for yourself why. Why he did what he did, why he was the way that he was. And now, some confusing months along, he’d allowed you to run the tips of your fingers along the scars across his back, murmur to him of your waking nightmares, keep hold of the back of his overcoat so that you did not lose sight of him when you traversed the dark.
You had tried to convince yourself at first that it was because you hated him. You were luring him in close enough to snag him before he could sense the danger, allowing him to confuse friendship for what it was not.
But that was not the truth, and you hated it. You’d come to care for Astarion, as horrific the thought was. Care for him beyond what he’d once done, who he’d once been. You wanted him safe, and fed, and warm, sheltered from his old master and what you both knew was awaiting him at Cazador’s palace, and you had come to the conclusion that - even if it meant letting yourself fall - you would see to it that he was all those things and more.
You had known, he had known, everyone in your damnable little party had known - that today had been the turning point.
That drow woman - Araj had been her name - had struck a licking, searing fire within you that ate at you until you felt as though you had been going to erupt then and there. She had offered them potions and trinkets infused with magic - all for a price, of course. Just not one their party had been expecting.
“Is he a real vampire?” Araj had lilted while Gale had sifted through the items she had to offer. Her head had tilted to the side, hair tumbling over her shoulder as her dark gaze flitted across the pale elf where he stood murmuring with Lae’zel.
Your attention had been pulled from the dagger you’d been examining upon the mat of wares, ears pricked with a kind of caution that still lay within her since her days soldiering. You’d glanced back toward Astarion, who regarded the drow with a bout of uncertainty. His lips had been parted for an answer, no doubt cheeky and dripping with his regular facade of sarcasm, but you’d beat him to it.
“Pardon my bluntness,” you had said as you went back to holding the small, curved knife up to the light. The steel glinted a sharp, accented light across one of your eyes as you spoke. “But I’m inclined to say it isn’t much of your business.”
Araj had hummed with a gentle, coy smile that was perhaps a bit too wide for her face and rounded her table, brushing past Gale as she swayed her way toward the vampire where he stood. Any member of the party who knew the inner workings of his mind was able to see the way he tensed ever so gently in the way his chin tilted up and his stance corrected itself. Despite his true, underlying emotions he’d so long ago manipulated into hiding away, he gave a short little sound and smirked at the drow.
“You’ll have to forgive our little soldier,” he’d said. “She tends to think with her blade before her head.”
You had let your eyes roll back into your head before turning again and setting down the blade back where you’d found it. So served you for attempting to bestow him a bit of misplaced kindness, unneeded protection.
“You know,” said Araj as she wandered even closer, “I’ve been researching vampires and their ways for years. I would be lying if I claimed not to wonder…” Her eyes had flicked down to Astarion’s lips - or rather, what lay behind them. She thought for a moment, then hummed with a sick, sadistic kind of smile and turned. “I must extend a proposition. Allow me a potent, transforming bite from your vampire, and you may take what you wish from my wares, free of charge.”
There had been a long, still moment of silence in which the party followed Araj’s gaze toward where you stood at the table, now reading the scrawling label upon a potion. Gale had brushed his hand against your arm, catching your attention, and you had tossed a glance over your shoulder before realizing the question had been directed at you. All eyes of the party and the trader had been affixed to you, all scuffed and burned armor, healing tears across your skin that would turn to scars by the end of the month. Your grasp had tightened around the glass containing the potion.
“You’re asking me?” you had said, brows furrowing together.
“Yes,” answered Araj. “He belongs to you, does he not?”
“No,” had been your immediate answer, flashes of the white-haired elf in chains at the hand of a cruel, torturing master searing the forefront of your mind. You had set down the potion, suddenly unwilling to buy from a trader so harsh in her assumptions. “He belongs to no one. He makes his own decisions.”
There had been a thickening, a strengthening, of the bond between you and Astarion then, one each of you felt like a tug deep in their chests where no one, not even themselves, knew existed. It was a mutual understanding, a mutual appreciation. An affection, perhaps?
Astarion cleared his throat, eyes burning holes in your back from beneath hooded lids, before at last sweeping his gaze back to Araj. “I’m afraid my answer will have to be a no, dear,” he’d said with a wane smile. “Prideful as I am, it’s not exactly in my nature to be running around creating more creatures of bloodlust about the lands.”
Araj clearly had not liked this answer, as she had painted herself with an expression obviously meant to be seductive and lifted a hand to rest upon his upper arm. “Are you quite certain you wouldn’t spare me even the smallest nip, vampire?”
“Ah - no. My… sincerest apologies.”
“I wouldn’t want to -”
She had been interrupted when, from the inky darkness that had surrounded them there in Moonrise Towers, there came the glint of a blade in the dim light, visible only for a moment before it came to a still, unwavering halt just a handful of inches from Araj’s throat - thus severing her from approaching Astarion any further, lest she did and slit her own jugular. At the hilt end of the longsword stood you, brows low over your eyes and the corner of your mouth tilted downward. It was obvious to the party you were fighting yourself attempting to keep your features neutral, expressionless, unreadable. Yet try as you might, an inkling of what sweltering rage lay beneath seeped through the cracks.
“I believe he said his answer was no,” you stated, your voice like a spear through the otherwise still chamber. “Unless you wish to step forward and seal your own fate, I suggest it would be in your best interest to let him and us alone. We do not wish to trade in blood.”
The clanking of glasses and a startling chorus of cheers brought you back to the present, where you blinked a number of times in an attempt to clear the stale memories from your head. Araj was long gone; the curse had been lifted. So why did you still feel this hideous, lurching feeling in your chest, nestled deep between your ribs like a dull knife?
You turned her head a fraction of an inch when you felt the weight of a presence behind you, beside you, with you. You didn’t have to move any further to know who it was, and if it was possible, that sensation in your chest worsened and eased all at once.
“You know, I have attended my fair share of parties,” mused Astarion as he came to rest against the bar beside you, elbow braced dangerously close to your own. “And if my impeccable memory is serving me correctly, celebrations are usually spent with others, not curled up by oneself looking as though they’re miserably stuck in their heads.”
You hummed as you brought your small glass to your lips despite not wanting any more. “Obviously you have never attended a party with me,” you said over the rim. “I do hate to spoil your fun, but parties are not in my interest.”
“Oh, that was apparent the first time we met, little soldier.”
Oh, how you hated it and loved it all at the same time when he called you that. And oh, how he knew it.
“Which time?” you said and finally turned her head to face him. “When you left me behind on the nautiloid, or when you held a blade to my throat upon our first meeting?”
Astarion’s scarlet gaze sharpened a touch, the memories practically playing themselves behind his eyes, and he twisted his head around on his neck in an almost unsettling manner. “What is the matter, dear?” he asked, leaning himself in a bit further to be heard over the boisterous cacophony of laughter and music. “We’ve had a rather exciting day. This is… well, I suppose this is cause for celebration. Look, even Lae’zel is enjoying herself, and she’s far less agreeable than you.”
You followed his gesture across the inn, where, indeed, Lae’zel was barking for another refill of her tankard and regaling a few young tieflings with her bloody tales of her people’s empire.
You thumbed around the rim of your glass for a moment before you answered, “By all means, don’t let my mood sour your fun. Go and ask some pretty young thing to dance before they’re wooed by Gale’s charms.”
Astarion’s tall, pointed ears twitched and he tipped back his head to release a short bark of a laugh - the kind he let out when he found something wildly amusing. “Aha!” he yipped. “I do think that’s the funniest thing you’ve said to me. No…” He straightened himself and placed one arm behind his back in a formal manner, then extended the other toward you where you sat slumped at the bar. “I would much rather dance with you, darling.”
“Me?” You shook your head, attempting to force down the hint of a jesting smirk upon your lips. “I don’t think so. I haven’t…” You swallowed and cleared your throat. “I don’t know how to dance.”
“Oh, it isn’t much of a difficult thing.” Astarion stretched out his hand a bit further, urging you to take his palm, but never touching. Never touching without your permission, your nod, your familiar gleam that told him here is my neck, here is my hand - take however much you’d like. “Come along, little soldier. Perhaps you’ll even learn to have fun, for once.”
You let his words pang around in your chest for a long, stifling moment, your mouth twisted into a crooked line before, at last, you exhaled and slipped your warm, clammy palm into his cold one. His grin was toothy and mischievous as he pulled you to your feet and guided you toward a corner that was not nearly as crowded as the rest of the inn, but still held enough room for the pair of you to wind around one another while you learned to dance, live, exist in one another’s presence.
Astarion took each of your hands into his own, his touch sending a shiver racing down your spine that you tried with everything you were made of to suppress, and used his boot to nudge apart your own. “On the balls of your feet, dear. None of those stiff elbows and locked knees. Perfect. Good girl.”
Gods, this stupid, handsome, utterly maddening bloodsucker was going to be the death of you.
Gingerly, once he’d corrected your footing, you wound about each other in a loose circle, lively enough to match the music but slow to the point that you did not stutter and end up taking the both of you to the ground if you lost your balance. Your heart was thundering like a storm in your ears and you were sure he could hear it, based on that cheeky, smackable smirk playing his lips while he watched you, but you chose to ignore the telltale signs of your nerves and let yourself dance to the music and the floppy, bouncing lyrics the bards cried.
Was this what it was like, you wondered while you danced, hand in hand and chests just inches apart? Was this what you had been missing out on while guarding doors and watching windows, keeping a hand upon the hilt of your sword and blocking out the music, the allure, the need to feel free? If so, you believed that, just perhaps, you had been cheated out of far too much when you had been reigned into the life and liberties of a soldier.
“You know,” said Astarion, breaking your momentary distraction. He held your hands tightly as you danced, keeping you steady, always keeping you steady. “I never properly thanked you for… for earlier. Today. In the towers. It was very…” He almost seemed to struggle to say the words. “It was very… kind. Of you.”
Your hair flounced with your movements as you stared back into pools of scarlet that threatened to snap you up whole and leave not a trace of you behind. Normally you would give him shit for struggling with a simple thanks, a genuine one, at that, but you couldn’t find the heart nor tongue from it here, now, tonight. You could only feel that stabbing, twisting sensation deep in your gut that warmed you from the inside out as you gazed back at him. “You would have done the same,” you said, wanted to believe, tried so desperately to tell yourself, was the truth.
His lips parted ever so slightly, eyes softening just a touch, and it was not from the dance holding you captive that stole your breath and twisted your feet. He lurched just a fraction of a touch, almost like he’d been struck with an arrow between his shoulder blades, and he blinked a few times. “I… I would have.”
Oh, how few people, if any at all, could do this to him. Rob him of his facade, his vicious craft, his so-carefully fine tuned persona, muddle him down to this - to a softened shell of who he tried to be, was taught to be. His hands tightened around yours just a touch, and not but a moment later, yours did the same.
You gazed at one another, wanting, needing, so badly to come together and prove to each other and the rest of the world that, yes, this could happen. This could work. You could pick one another without masters to tell you to or orders forbidding such a thing to blossom. You could love one another without baring teeth or brandishing blades, need each other with only the thrumming, beating, screaming of your hearts and the aching of your souls, and nothing more.
You needed to have one another, because if either fell, by blade, or chain, or sunlight, the other could lie beside their corpse and have known their devotion.
Blinking against the firelight of the inn, Astarion began to crane his head down toward you, toward your lips - when the bards yipped out a final few chords and the song came to a halting, screeching end. The inn erupted with applause and cheers. Your dance slowed until you were still, faces still inclined toward one another, before slowly, reluctantly, you pulled away. Took a step apart.
“Well,” sighed Astarion, forcing himself to plaster a smile across his lips as he cocked his head in your direction. “That wasn’t nearly as bad as you were thinking it to be, was it?”
You held his gaze for just a moment too long before glancing down at your boots. “No. I suppose not.” You sniffed, feeling the burning, knowing gaze of more than a few party members upon them, before you took another step backward. “Thank you, Astarion… for the dance.” You nodded your head to him, suddenly far too shy, desperate, hesitant, to meet his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then you turned and disappeared into the still-celebrating crowd.
His expression cracked ever so subtly with an emotion even he could not place. But nevertheless he dipped his head. “Sweet dreams… little soldier.”
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summary: robby comes to visit you while you chaperone the peds department prom.
word count: 3k
warnings/tags: allusions to cancer/illness, mentions of vomiting, age gap, resident/attending relationship, first kiss
Friday was your least favorite day of the week. Friday nights, in particular. People seemed to let themselves loose at the end of the week, let their inhibitions free from their cages and do things they would regularly never even think of doing. Stupid, stupid things. You didn’t think you’d have enough fingers and toes to list off the dumbass dares and challenges you’ve heard as excuses as to why they end up in the ER over the years of your residency. Impressing a girl. Impressing friends. High off their asses from pens and coincidentally ‘forgetting’ to wear a seatbelt while doing sixty in a twenty.
Stupid, stupid people doing stupid, stupid things.
You were at work this Friday evening, but not in the emergency department where you felt you belonged like a soldier in line. Tonight, you found yourself in the hospital’s cafeteria, which had been transformed in a wash of color and mood lighting that reminded you of a cheesy coming of age movie they used to show on Disney Channel. The overhead fluorescents had been covered with long, thick strips of colored fabric to alter their hue, streamers have been taped along the sides of tables and the walls, and music is controlled from a decorated DJ’s booth near the corner. Images of sea creatures and handmade decorations littered the cafeteria, making it appear as though a cartoon ocean swept through the place and left behind its evidence on purpose.
The PTMC’s prom night was, in your opinion, the cheesiest thing you’d seen in a long, long while.
The peds department—and the dozens of parents who’d spent their children’s entire lives within those walls—had recently approached Gloria with the idea of giving the kids a prom, given the majority of them were too sick to attend a real one. She’d been hesitant, the looming threat of a dwindling budget swinging over her head like a blade, but rumor was the idea of good press was too good for her to pass up. Thus, the moms had all gotten together while their children slept through treatments, spending their restless hours stitching together table runners and decorations and squawking over ideas they’d screengrabbed from Pinterest.
Of course, prom night was a hunting ground for preteens with eyes for one another (even if some of them were confined to wheelchairs and bound to IV poles), and supervision was required. Names were drawn from each department, and lo and behold, your name had been picked from the hat. You had the sneaking suspicion this was payback from Gloria after you’d refused to give a statement to the press a few months back after a mass pileup event.
You shifted back and forth on the balls of your feet as you watched the scene before you, hands held restlessly behind your back. Pop music you faintly recognized from the radio and fan edits you picked up from passing the interns on their breaks thumped in your ears—all mom–approved, of course. You stood by yourself near the door leading into the hall, fingers twisting in the back of your jacket over your scrubs. Despite the break you tried to look at this as, you were antsy to get back to the Pitt, to throw yourself back into the fray with your regular coworkers. You had always thrived on pressure and high stakes, a constant steady of calmness you weren’t able to control.
Maybe that was why, since your first year of your residency, you’d become Doctor Robinavitch’s right hand.
It wasn’t really a secret Robby held you closer than the other residents and interns. He barked your name like a rehearsed speech when he needed a steady hand he could trust, made sure you were among the watching eyes when he demonstrated a new technique. When he wasn’t around, people usually looked to you for direction; by extension, you were Robby. At his hip, at his side, your hands under his when everything was on the line and your scalpel wasn’t cutting deep enough.
You’d tried to tell yourself, these years, it was just professional. He was your senior attending, for god’s sake. The only reason he kept you so close was because he trusted you, because you were good at your job, because he wanted to see you succeed. But between shifts… those incidents posed a different perspective. A drive home here or there. A late coffee shared in the early, unholy hours of the morning after you’d both clocked off and were too wired to go home despite the aching in your bones, your backs, your hearts. You’d cooked him dinner once, on his birthday. Kosher.
He hadn’t told you until months later that he’d been so touched you even remembered his birthday, he didn’t want to spoil your effort by admitting he hadn’t followed kosher rules since he was a kid.
Your heart had become soft for your senior attending, despite how much you’d attempted to toughen it out, to force yourself to acknowledge he was old enough to be your father, to remind yourself he was your boss and nothing would ever happen. Still, when times were quiet like now and your mind was unburdened with charts and vitals and an order of which patient got priority, you allowed yourself to fantasize over the what-ifs you held so dear.
You watched as, across the cafeteria, a mother and father insisted on taking a picture of their son before he joined his friends by the sugar-free refreshments table. The boy’s head was absent of hair, his brow bones naked, and he clutched onto an IV pole with one hand while the other tugged at the collar of his suit with an exasperated glance to the camera presented toward him. He offered a half-hearted smile, clearly embarrassed, and once he was dismissed, he quickly skittered himself and his pole toward where a group of other children waited.
“Hey.”
You glanced up, having been too lost in the prom and your own private thoughts to realize someone had been approaching you. Your heart gave something like a shortened, excited couple thumps behind your ribs as you watched Robby come to settle beside you, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. He’d had to lower himself to near your ear to be heard over the music and cacophony of the prom, and as he straightened himself, he gave a small tilt of his head toward you.
“Hey,” you said, your shoulders relaxing slightly as you stepped closer to be heard. “What are you doing here? Don’t they need you in the Pitt?”
Robby gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder, the stethoscope slung around his neck glinting in the pink light that played with shadows across his tired features. “They’ll be fine for a few minutes,” he said. “It’s mostly frat kids piled up from a hazing thing.”
“I’ll trade you.”
“Oh, come on.” He shifted his gaze out across the cafeteria, watching as a few kids awkwardly danced, moving their bodies in their gowns and tuxes they were so unaccustomed to wearing in comparison to their hospital sheets. “You’re telling me you’re not having the time of your life down here at the bottom of the sea?”
You felt a smile tug your lips upward as you followed his gaze. A girl carefully spun around another in her wheelchair despite an overprotective parent calling for them to be careful. Above them, from the ceiling, clear plastic baubles supposed to resemble bubbles had been dangled from fishing line and swayed with the shuffling underneath.
You said over the music, “I’m more of a black and white theme girl, to be honest.”
“Oh, so you like the classics.” Robby gave you one of those exhausted, gentle smiles he seemed to reserve only for you, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling softly and the apple of his throat bobbing once. “And yet you never seem to be around when it comes time for the annual charity balls.”
“Like you are, either.”
It was true, as much as you were hesitant to admit it. You and Robby were both in your element when wrist–deep in bloodied wounds and extracting bullets from flesh, but formal, public events in which eyes would be upon you seemed to scare you both off like animals from a trap. You were alike in that way, preferring to work behind the scenes and shy from the spotlight when it began to swing in your direction. This—standing on the sidelines in the shadows—was where you were both comfortable.
For a long few minutes, the pair of you stood there and watched only half–vigilantly as the peds kids enjoyed their prom. Exhausted parents clinging to hope sat at the plastic–covered tables along the far wall, phones held up in recording and chins planted in chins as they watched their babies. As tacky as you found the entire party, you had to admire their hard work and resilience. It wasn’t easy, you were sure, being in their shoes.
Beside you, Robby spoke again. Just as you did in the ER, you snapped up to pay attention, hoping he didn’t notice how quickly you jolted to. “You ever go to prom?” he asked.
“Hah.” You shook your head, a rueful smile playing your lips. “No. It was never really my scene.”
“You’re kidding.” Robby glanced down at you, shifting his weight as he fixed you with one of those incredulous stares he gave when he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I would’ve figured you were prom queen or something.”
The idea made you laugh. Actually laugh, your hand coming up to wave. “Oh, absolutely not,” you replied over the music as it thrummed and thumped and hummed through the reverberating cafeteria. “No, I, ah…” You hesitated for just a few moments before you shook your head. “I wasn’t ever very popular in school. Didn’t have all too many friends. I guess I didn’t really see the point of wasting all that money on a dress and going when no one was going to hang out with me.”
It was a bit of a pathetic admission, and you immediately turned away, feeling heat rising up your neck. Good god, you seriously didn’t just tell him that. Could you get any more desperate?
Robby was quiet for a moment, and all you could do was look at how closely your shoes were fidgeting next to his there on the shimmering tile floor. “That’s too bad,” he said finally, arms flexing themselves beneath his scrub sleeves before settling again, still crossed. “But I see the reasoning.”
You lifted your head, gaze lingering for a fraction of a moment on a child hunched over a book at one of the tables instead of mingling with the others before you looked up at him. God, how badly you wanted to reach up and touch the scruff of his beard on his jaw, to let your hand rest on the nape of his neck and thread your fingers through his short hair. “Did you go?”
At your reciprocated question, he gives something like a low chuckle of a laugh, nostalgia flickering behind his dark eyes despite the tinted light from overhead. “Yeah,” he mused, reaching up to scratch briefly at his stubbled throat, drawing your attention there. “Drank too much spiked punch, threw up outside the gym, and then went back in and danced with my girlfriend like nothing happened. Didn’t understand why she didn’t want to kiss me.”
A soft bark of laughter escaped you. “Can’t fathom as to why she didn’t want to stick her tongue down your acidic throat,” you said, then mentally scolded yourself for picturing sticking your own tongue into his mouth and licking up the sounds he most certainly would gruff out from the feeling.
“God, what a shitty night that was.” Robby shook his head, watching the little prom for another long few moments. After what seemed to be both an eternity and just a few seconds, he turned his head over to face you. He studied you long enough that you looked at him questioningly, your heart climbing up your esophagus. He hesitated for a moment, then gave another rough sound of amusement and extended a hand between the two of you.
Amused and slightly confused, you furrowed your brows and gave a small smile. Nonetheless, you placed your hand in his, rough callouses sliding against your skin. Your smile widened with both alarm and thrill, you gave a small gasp when he attempted to pull you closer. “Wh–Robby, what are you doing?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, his eyes soft like he was tiptoeing a line you each had been caressing oh so carefully these last months or so. “When are we going to get another chance to fix our crappy prom experiences?” He nodded his head at you. “Or, I guess, lack thereof.”
Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder toward the cafeteria, your insides suddenly dancing with the nerves that someone would see you. Not that you were doing anything wrong—you weren’t, not really. Just two coworkers playfully taking part in what was supposed to be a fun night, a night for forgetting medical woes and mounting anxieties and the inescapable knowledge of what was coming. No one seemed to be paying you any mind. Everyone’s attention was on the kids… especially when the DJ switched tracks and a slower, sappy pop love song began to croon over the speakers.
Robby tilted his head to the side and you wanted to melt right there before him. “See?” he teased you over the annoying wail of the singer’s rasp. “They’re even playing our song.”
Finally, you forced your nerves back and gave a small, nervous smile, allowing him to pull you gently closer. Your free hand reached up to his shoulder. His found your waist, touching only a necessary, respectful amount. No more, no less. God, how you wished it was more. More, more, more, harder, rougher, closer, tighter. “I wasn’t aware we had a song.”
As your and Robby’s feet began to gently move—not dancing, not really, just sort of swaying yourselves back and forth—he nodded his head in what looked like defeat. “Well, if we did,” he said, “it wouldn’t be this crap.”
You laughed again. You’d been doing that a lot lately around him. Even after long, grueling shifts when all you wanted to do was curl up and forget everything bad in the world, everything that let people get so, so hurt and scarred and landed them in your trauma rooms. Despite everything, despite his own demons that flickered in his darkened gaze sometimes when no one else was looking, he still managed to make you laugh. How ironic. How perfectly and wonderfully delightful.
Neither of you said anything more. You only rocked gently back and forth, clutching each other gently, carefully, so mindful of that final line you’d been leaning across for what seemed forever now. The music carried your heartbeats as one, and, as the lyrics droned on and the beat bounced back and forth, refusing to pick a tempo, you felt yourself drifting a few inches closer. Shuffling, bringing your chest to ever so kindly press against his. In response, his hand on your waist drifted to the small of your back and encouraged you even closer, ever closer. Your fingers slipped to the base of his neck, thumb gently tracing the line of his scrub collar.
You were sure Robby was able to feel how violently your heart was pounding. There was no way he couldn’t pick up the beat–beat–beat of your frantic pulse against his own. Was his jumping, too? You couldn’t tell beyond your own, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer. Your skin was lining with goosebumps and when your hips pressed to his and his grip tightened carefully around yours, you couldn’t take it any more.
“Robby…” you heard yourself murmur, just barely audible over the song beginning to wind its way toward a closing bridge. You weren’t even sure he heard you. You didn’t know if you wanted him to hear you.
But then—impossibly, amazingly, perfectly—you felt him press his lips to the top of your hair. “I know, sweetheart.”
I know, I know, I know.
Before you could stop yourself, before you could think of any consequences of what you were about to do, you tilted your head up and connected your lips to his. It was short, too short, but you wanted to give him an out if suddenly you’d read everything wrong and you’d jumped too far over that line. Yet when you tried to pull away, Robby’s lips chased yours, reconnecting your mouths before they even had a chance to part. Sensations like fireworks rocketed through your veins when you realized, yes, fuck yes, he wanted it, too. You hadn’t been imagining this, you hadn’t been delusional, you hadn’t been—
Robby gave a sound from the back of his throat and pressed his lips against yours a touch harder, the hand on your back pressing you even closer to him. He wanted more. More of this, more of you. And by god, did you want to give it to him.
But you were at work. Not only at work, but at a prom for the peds kids. This was their time, not yours.
Reluctantly, you pulled yourself away and panted softly as you peered up at him. Your eyes found his through the pink and blue lighting, and, just like when you were working as a well–oiled pair of cogs in crisis, you were able to read one another’s meanings. Later. Later.
I will have you later.
Robby’s throat bobbed once in that perfect way it did, his eyes flicking over you in a way that made your heart patter. “…Let me drive you home tonight?” he said.
You nodded quicker than you would have liked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care in that hue-tinted moment. “Always.”
warnings: slightly sub!gabriel (but mostly a switch) teasing, wing kink, smut, language, maybe overstim if you look hard enough?
Gabriel had been around since creation. Hell, even before that. During early stages of his life, he had been too busy to think about pursuing any sort of romantic interests; doing his father’s dirty work, delivering messages, avoiding fights between his siblings, whatever kept him busy.
In recent years, the occasional hooker or porn star was enough to suffice. He’d messed around with Kali, but there wasn’t any emotional attachment there. He preferred to be constantly on the go. That was until he met you.
Gabriel was instantly drawn to you. He tried, tried so hard to avoid it, for your own safety. If the wrong people found out he had a soft spot for you, that’d make you a target. But you’d stuck to him like glue. Neither of you could deny it. It didn’t matter what the Winchesters or anybody thought; he was your archangel. You were his person.
Now here you were, on top of him, peppering kisses along his jawline, fingers weaving their way through his soft, golden feathers. His hands gripped the bedsheets, and he let out a long, husky sigh. You circled your hips against his, grinding against him, earning a low groan.
“Sugar, please.” Gabriel whined, pushing his hips up at yours, desperate for any friction.
You weren’t about to give in yet, wanting to see how far he’d unravel. Sitting up, you looked over him, your eyes meeting his. His eyes were dark and wild with lust, staring into yours with need. The messy sight of him beneath you was almost enough to send you over the edge; almost. His hair was disheveled, breathing uneven.
He had no idea he was capable of wanting something so badly. You leaned back down over him, kissing below his ear, gently sucking the skin before moving to his mouth. He leaned up, meeting your lips with his own. You could almost taste the desire on him. His tongue made its way into your mouth, clashing with yours. When you came up for breath, you moved back down to his collarbone, kissing and leaving a line across him.
You moved your fingers further up toward the base of his wings, weaving through feathers and massaging deep into the muscle, earning a whimper from him. Now that was driving him crazy. Gabriel didn’t show his wings to anyone, apart from casting shadows, which was more a display of power. You were the first person to see them in all of their glory, which was probably the deepest form of trust he could ever give.
And here you were, using them to your advantage. Each movement across his feathers sent pleasure coursing through his very essence. He groaned as you hit a particularly sensitive spot, his grace stirring within him. Your name rolled from his tongue as if it were something from the gospel. It was almost too much. The room felt too hot, despite the fact that he was supposed to be unbothered by temperature. He wanted, no, needed more.
Part of him wanted to flip you over and fuck you right into the mattress until you couldn’t even think. On the other hand, he wanted to melt right there. He could die happily right then and there, with you on top of him, giving him your full, undivided attention.
Sex was not something archangels needed. God’s creatures and lust just didn’t mix. Sure, it was a decent outlet to blow off steam, but for the longest time Gabriel never even pursued it. When he did, it was just that; to blow off steam on some pornstar. It was never something he needed.
But at this moment, he couldn’t think about anything else. He needed you more than anything, as if it were a basic survival need; and in his state of mind, it might actually be. For the first time in centuries- perhaps ever, his mind was blank with pure, unfiltered lust.
“Y/N, I need you. Please.” Gabriel begged.
Nothing else mattered but you in that moment. His hands moved to your hips with a grip that, in any other circumstance, would hurt. You knew you’d be waking up the next morning with fingertip bruises. He had never wanted anything more in his entire life. You sat up, moving your hands down to his pants, finding his hard cock pressed against the fabric.
“Is that all for me, Gabe?” There was an edge of humor in your tone. It wasn’t very often you found yourself in this position. It was almost a humbling thought, that one of the world’s most powerful forces was a whimpering mess beneath you.
He pulled you back down on top of him. “Sugar, all of me is for you,” And there was not a single doubt about that.
Gabriel sat up, keeping you in his lap. His patience was gone, and he could barely even think straight. He didn’t have to put any thought into it, and just like that, and his pants, along with your own clothes were gone, leaving nothing to separate the two of you. He was quick to work, lifting his hand up to grab your breasts, massaging and thumbing over your sensitive nipples. He placed deep kisses at your neck, his molten hot cock between your thighs begging for friction.
He flipped you over, so that he towered over you. He spent the next few moments with his full attention on you, kissing every sensitive spot on your neck. Each little sound you made fueled him on.
“Gabriel..” You whined. Every ounce of you wanted him, more than anything.
“Oh, now you want more? Hm?” He replied, bringing two fingers down your your folds, rubbing back and forth. You were soaked. It was his turn to tease you now, and he wasn’t planning on giving in easily. He returned to your breasts, leaving soft kisses all over.
His fingers circled your clit, his touch light as a feather. You bucked your hips towards him, desperate for more. He groaned at your need, kissing and sucking at your neck, and at the same time, slipped two fingers into you. You tossed your head back, an embarrassingly loud moan filling the air. If this was the reaction two fingers got, you were in for a long night.
“You’re so good for me, sugar.” He smirked, curling his fingers to hit just the right spot. You cried out, the pleasure coursed through your body. He repeated the motion, slipping in and out of you, his thumb occasionally rubbing at your clit.
You reached up to grab something- anything, and your fingers met with his wings again. You gripped the feathers, pulling softly and he emitted a nearly inhuman sound. He’s starting to feel possessive, and it’s both scary and invigorating. His grace stirs deep within him, more than it has in a very long time.
Gabriel’s breath is shaky, and you aren’t sure you’ve ever heard him like this. When it comes to his wings, this is intimacy beyond the regular sex you have. In this moment, you’re touching him; his actual self, not just his vessel. That’s a rather profound realization. His fingers pushed deeper into her, curling again at just the right spot.
“Oh- Fuck, Gabriel..” You murmur, and he cups your jaw with his other hand, his mouth covering yours as he takes his fingers out of you. He stroked his cock, coating it with your juices. He guided himself to just the right place, leaving it right at your entrance. Your fingertips dug into the muscle of his wings, and electricity crackled through the air as he moaned your name. He rubbed his cock against your clit.
Gabriel bucked his hips forward with one swift motion, his hot cock filling you completely. You gasped at the intrusion, and his breathing hitched. For a moment there was silence between the two of you. You wiggled your hips, adjusting to him.
“You okay, sugar?” He murmured, beginning at a slow pace. There were no words, your mind blank with pleasure. You could only moan his name, bucking your hips up to push him in deeper. You could only hope he got the point.
And that he did, he planted his mouth onto yours, withdrawing his cock completely. His tongue danced with yours, and he thrust back into you, filling you to the brim once more. This time, he wasted no time. He set a hard, fast pace, fucking you damn near senseless. The room filled with the sounds of his groans, your moans, and skin on skin.
You moved your hands further up the base of his wings, massaging between the feathers, earning a whine at your touch. Gabriel couldn’t stand it. His grace whorled deep inside of him, and for once, he knew he wouldn’t last long. He reached down between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You practically melted at the extra touch, pleasure coursing through your body in waves.
You recognized a familiar buildup deep within your core; you were close, and Gabriel knew it as well. He knew by the way you gripped his feathers, by the way your moans grew breathy, the way your hips bucked up at him.
“I’ve got you, sugar,” He coaxed. He was almost there too. The pressure built up, more and more, until you couldn’t bear it anymore. You cried out, clinging to him as your orgasm rocked your body, bucking your hips up at him. He following you quickly, his cock twitched, and he gave a couple more hard thrusts.
Gabriel cried out your name, followed by words in a language you’d never heard. Hot spurts of cum coated your insides, and he groaned, pressing his forehead against your chest.
The two of you lay there panting, and you relaxed into the bed, letting out a deep sigh. Gabriel rolled over to the side, pulling you into his arms. He stared down at you with dark, honey gold eyes, analyzing your movements.
“You okay, Y/N?” He murmured, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You looked up to him, nothing but love in your expression, and nodded. You met his lips with your own, kissing him slowly.
“I love you, Gabe.” You whispered back at him. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. There was no question to how he felt about you, and he had just cemented that fact. You could die happy in that moment, and he was in the same boat.
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anyway the funniest detail from the Fallout show is the fact that when Lucy is threatening the organ dealers in the super duper mart, there's a tv next to them playing security footage and it's just cooper laying facedown in the parking lot
