Random shit

:･ﾟ⛧ He's not sitting by your side, he doesn't have an arm loosely around your waist, he's not cool or suave or nonchalant. He's desperate.

:･ﾟ⛧ If he is sleeping, it's almost terrifying for him. Because for those few hours, he can't make sure you're okay. He can't fend off any threats. He can't save you.

:･ﾟ⛧ Which is why he doesn't sleep much. He chooses not to so he can make sure you're safe.

:･ﾟ⛧ After a tough fight or when you beg him to, he'll sleep, but only in the bunker. That's the only place he's ever felt safe enough to let his guard down.

:･ﾟ⛧ But when he does sleep? He's so soft.

:･ﾟ⛧ He curls up into you, burrowing his head against your chest, sometimes nuzzling up into the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around you tight, pressing your body against his, often close enough that, with his angelic abilities, he can hear your heart beating and the rush of blood through your veins, reassuring him that you're okay. His legs curl up, often intertwining with yours.

:･ﾟ⛧ With this position, he's always on his side and some days, when he's really feeling absolutely terrible, he lets his wings out. You gently run your hands over his back, slowly working your way up to his wings. When your fingers ghost across the base, he winces. This high, broken sound. Utterly heartbreaking.

:･ﾟ⛧ You let your hands rest there for a moment, allowing Cas to adjust to the feeling, then you start moving again. Slow, steady, light. His breath hitches when you press a little firmer, and when you fully rest your hand against the base? He buries his face further into your neck, both hurt and loving the feeling of your gentle, caring touch.

:･ﾟ⛧ You're always careful, fingertips ghosting up the length of his wings, combing through the feathers, the ones that aren't scorched. His breath fans across your skin, shaky and broken, fingers curling into your back. And sometimes, when he fully lets himself go, you can hear the softest of whimpers.

:･ﾟ⛧ He's such a precious little Angel. For the whole night, even when he's in the deepest of slumbers, he never once lets you go. If you move a lot in your sleep, his leg finds its way over yours, stilling you, keeping you steady.

:･ﾟ⛧ And if you try to pull away? Think again. He's holding you so tight you have little crescent shaped indentations on your back and arms from his finger nails. Never so much that you're uncomfortable, but just enough that you can't leave him.

:･ﾟ⛧ On the rare occasion he wakes up and you're not there, he's immediately panicking. Where are you? Are you okay? Did someone take you? He'll kill them. He doesn't care who they are, they're dead. Then you come out of the bathroom and you can hear this funny sound, like a heartbeat returning to a normal rhythm after beating so fast it nearly burst.

:･ﾟ⛧ He'd rush towards you, immediately checking you over for any kind of damage, even a damn paper cut.

"Are you hurt?"

"…no?"

"What happened to you? Where were you?"

"Aw baby, were you worried?"

"I always worry for you"

"Angelface, that's precious and I adore you for it, but I had to pee"

"Oh, you're sure you're not in danger?"

"Pretty sure yeah"

"Very good" He'd give you a little smile, taking your hand "Back to bed then"

:･ﾟ⛧ Speaking of, he adores cuddling whether you're going to sleep or just waking up. He's clingy, that's been established, but he relishes in those moments right when you both wake up, the world still quiet and hazy, nothing but the two of you in your warm, cozy bed.

:･ﾟ⛧ He's never softer than in the early mornings he spends with you. He lets his hands and lips wander, caressing, pressing kisses all over your face, down your jaw and over your shoulders, everywhere he can reach without having to move.

:･ﾟ⛧ He whispers Enochian against your skin, promises, vows to love you until he draws his last breath, because even after you're gone, hell never stop loving you with his entire being, vessel and celestial alike.

Taglist for all of my writing - 33

@craftytacopiecash @meryuniverse @aliljaybird @macbaetwo

@scarletluvsdanno @twentyonetornmyheart @neospacedoctor @valkyra-black @dean-winchester06

@something0193 @ursamajor17 @colorfulavenuecollection @fairytailnerd1024-blog @daithideolishmer19

@am-i-the-villain-co @mameeta @bblessed @maximum-uwu @bbywonu

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@kmystery @fandomwriter013 @dafidiblogwriter @whitemelanin @ta1itha

@wendichester @samanddeanswife @casanddeanswife

Dean had begun having nightmares again. His conscience was never clear—he knew that much—and every hunt only served as a fresh reminder.

He tossed and turned, tangled in the stiff sheets of another cheap motel bed. The blanket was bunched up at his feet, useless against the chill, but Dean couldn't find the energy to fix it.

Another night, another bar, another cheap hangover meant to drown out the noise in his head. None of it ever worked for long.

A few feet away, Sam was fast asleep, breathing evenly. Dean used to make jokes about Sam's old visions, but lately, the thought of prophetic dreams didn't even bother him. At least those were useful. Dean's dreams were just blood, fire, and memories he couldn't scrub out of his skin.

Castiel was off handling heavenly business somewhere, which left dean alone with his own head. Who would care about him anyway?

"I do," a quiet voice murmured.

Dean jolted, his eyes snapping open as he scrambled back against the thin headboard. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

You were already sitting on the edge of his bed. You stared down at him with that usual quiet, unreadable gaze—deep and entirely unfazed by his sudden panic.

You was an angel, much like Cas, but younger by angelic standards. Still learning how humans worked, still trying to make sense of emotional baggage. But you had taken to the Winchesters quickly. Or, more accurately, you had taken to Dean.

After months of dealing with Cas's complete lack of human awareness, teaching you basic social etiquette felt like second nature to him—even if you still didn't quite get the concept of boundaries.

"Jesus—" Dean rasped out, his voice rough from sleep and cheap whiskey. He dragged a palm down his face, taking a slow, shaky breath in a desperate attempt to steady himself.

"How many times have I told you about personal space? Scared the hell outta me."

"You were dreaming," You said softly, non-plussed by his exasperation. You didn't move away. If anything, you tilted your head slightly, studying the tense line of his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes.

"You were screaming in your head."

Dean swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. He hated how easily you could see right through him, but at the same time... he couldn't bring himself to tell you to leave.

"I was fine," he muttered, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him.

"You weren't," you replied softly. You didn't say it to argue or mock him, it was simply just a matter-of-fact observation.

You moved just a fraction closer, careful not to startle him again, but close enough that he could feel the faint, soothing aura that always seemed to follow you.

"It's just the usual stuff," Dean grunted, looking away toward the grimy window of the motel room. "Occupational hazard."

"Hell isn't just an occupational hazard, Dean."

The word hung in the quiet room, heavy and dark. Dean flinched slightly, his jaw tightening.

He opened his mouth to spit out another defensive deflect, but the look in your eyes stopped him cold. There was no pity there, just a deep, unwavering understanding that made his chest ache.

Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out.

Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.

Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out. Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.

At first, Dean went entirely still. Every instinct trained him to flinch away from vulnerability, to put up walls and pretend he was fine. But as your thumb lightly rubbed over his knuckles, a familiar, grounding warmth washed over him.

It wasn't the fiery grace of an attack or the overwhelming power of older angels; it was soft, steady, and entirely safe. Unfamiliar to him.

The phantom heat of Hell’s fires slowly began to recede, replaced by the cool, real air of the motel room and the gentle pressure of your hand.

A quiet gasp escaped Dean's lips as his shoulders finally dropped, weeks of tension melting away in an instant. He didn't let go of your hand. In fact, his fingers tightened around yours, holding on like a lifeline.

"Stay," Dean rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, so low he was sure Sam wouldn't hear even if he woke up. "Just… for a bit."

You offered him a faint, reassuring nod, shifting up to sit beside him against the headboard, keeping your hand wrapped snugly in his.

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

The motel room settled back into a heavy, suffocating silence.

The only sound was the rhythmic hum of the ancient mini-fridge in the corner and Sam’s steady breathing from the far bed.

Outside, a light rain began to tap softly against the glass. It masked the dark, terrifying memories still trying to claw their way back into Dean’s head.

Dean didn't move an inch.

He sat frozen, his back pressed flat against the flimsy headboard. His hand was still anchored tightly around yours.

For a man who spent every waking hour pretending he was made of iron, holding onto you felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn't press him to speak.

Instead, you shifted slightly on the edge of the mattress, pulling your feet up to sit cross-legged beside him.

Your grace—soft, calm, and steady—hummed gently beneath your skin. It radiated a subtle warmth that slowly seeped into his frozen hands.

"You're shaking, Dean," you murmured. Your voice was soft, completely devoid of judgment.

Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight.

He looked down at your joined hands. His knuckles were raw and bruised from the day's hunt, contrasting sharply against your calm, steady touch.

"Just cold," he lied automatically. The defensive reflex was as natural to him as breathing.

"You aren't cold," you replied simply.

You brushed your free hand over his forearm, resting it gently against the crook of his elbow.

"You're afraid."

A sharp, defensive huff left Dean's lips, but the fight had completely drained out of him. He couldn't even muster up a glare.

"Yeah, well... you spend forty years in the pit, see how easy it is to sleep through the night."

"I know," you said quietly. "I know it doesn't just leave you. But you're not there anymore."

You leaned in slightly. "Look at me, Dean."

It took him a long moment to respond. His jaw clenched and unclenched before he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours.

The green of his eyes was glassy, brimmed with unshed tears he was fighting desperately to hold back.

"You are in a motel in Ohio," you told him softly.

"Sam is right over there. The air is cool. The rain is falling."

You held his gaze. "The fire is gone." Slowly, you reached up with your free hand.

You hesitated for a split second before brushing your thumb softly over his cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.

That single touch seemed to shatter whatever last thread of composure Dean was holding onto.

A shuddering breath hitched in his chest. Before he could stop himself, his head sagged forward until his forehead rested heavily against your shoulder.

He didn't cry out—Dean never allowed himself to break like that.

Instead, his breath came in short, ragged gasps against the fabric of your shirt. His grip on your hand tightened until it was almost painful, but you didn't pull away.

You wrapped your arm around his broad shoulders, pulling him in close until he was completely enveloped by your grace.

"I can still smell it," Dean rasped out. His voice was muffled against your shoulder, entirely stripped of his usual bravado.

"Every time I close my eyes... the ash, the sulfur. It's like I never left."

"I know," you whispered, resting your chin lightly against the top of his head. You began tracing slow, soothing circles into the tight muscle between his shoulder blades.

"Memory is a heavy burden for a human mind. But it is just a ghost, Dean. It cannot burn you here."

"Feels real enough," he grumbled. Yet, the tremor in his shoulders was finally beginning to slow down.

"I am real, too," you reminded him softly. "Focus on my voice."

Angels were, by nature, celestial beings—sharp, terrifying, and unyielding.

But sitting on that sagging motel mattress, you smoothed away every sharp edge of your being. You let your grace settle into a slow, gentle pulse that mirrored a calm heartbeat.

Dean focused on it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the comforting scent that surrounded you—like ozone after a storm, clean wood, and crisp night air.

Slowly, the lingering stench of blood and sulfur in his throat faded away. Minutes bled into one another in the dark.

Neither of you spoke as the quiet rhythm of breathing replaced the heavy panic in the room.

Dean’s rigid posture slowly melted. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder as the sheer weight of a sleepless week caught up to him.

"You're terrible at personal space," Dean muttered after a long while. There was no real bite to the words, his voice thick with sleep.

"You asked me to stay," you pointed out gently, a tiny smile touching your lips.

"Yeah... well. Don't go making a habit out of it."

"I will stay as long as you need me to."

Dean didn't answer that.

He just leaned into your side a little more, his hand finally relaxing its tight grip on yours, though his fingers remained loosely intertwined.

The suffocating knot in his chest had finally unravelled, replaced by a deep, heavy calm.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position so he could lean back comfortably without pulling away.

With one hand resting over his and the other continuing slow, comforting strokes along his back, you watched as his breathing evened out.

He didn't ask the others to explain things to him, even when he really wanted them to. He knew that most of the things he questioned were probably natural for them, so he thought it'd be weird to interrogate them about them.

That's when you come in.

You've always noticed his confusion and struggles when it came to "acting proper" or the basics of human etiquette, and knew exactly why. But instead of addressing it to him straight on, pointing it out and potentially embarrassing him, you've learnt when to quietly slip by and subtly explain these things to him.

So, by now, it was only natural for Choso to ask you when he had any questions about the behavioral aspects of things going on around him.

"What's the point of that?"

"Hm?"

"What's the point of that?" He repeated.

You two were sitting down on a bench in the garden of Jujutsu High, as you watched the other students carry on with their own things - some just chatting, some playing around, while others still training.

What Choso was talking about in particular right now, was Maki and Panda. Maki - still as ever - has been training for hours now, when she finally decided to chill out. As soon as she put away her sword, Panda was on her, hugging her tight to his chest, much to the girl's dismay.

"The hugging?"

"Yeah."

"Have you never hugged anyone?"

"I have... I think."

"Right." By this, you already knew that whenever it was that he hugged someone, he probably did it after some near-death experience.

"Some people like to hug others a lot, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You hug the others a lot. But I just don't see why it's so good."

"It isn't good for everyone. Some like it, some don't." You tried explaining. "You probably only hug those who you love, so, it's like, a nonverbal show of love or affection."

"I love my friends. And I love my family too."

"Yeah, I know you." It was quite hard to ignore how he was probably one of the most loving people you've ever met, even if he wasn't technically fully human.

"It just feels awkward... When do I hug someone? I thought you only do that on special events but some seem to be hugging all the time."

"Yeah, well- you just have to figure that out for yourself. With people who don't enjoy the physical closeness, yes, only on special occasions. But others, who like hugs, will enjoy them no matter the time." You tried wording it, though it was surprisingly difficult explaining something that was so natural for you.

"Hm..." He fell silent after that, deep in thoughts by the looks of it. "Do I even like it? What if I don't?"

"Maybe you don't. But there's nothing with that." You said with a shrug.

Then, out of nowhere, you felt arms wrapped around you. It was him, of course. You could only assume he was hugging you so suddenly to try and figure out if he even likes hugs to begin with.

"Sorry. I didn't even ask if you like hugs.." Though, despite his apology, he still hasn't let go.

"No, it's okay. I do."

"Oh, okay, good... I think I do too." He remarked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm..."

Ever since that, it's like you've created a monster — one you don't actually dislike having around, at all. He's tried hugging the others, too.

First Panda, who gladly took him in, maybe even a little too enthusiastically. Then there was Yuji, who, after he accepted, almost made him cry by just that (he just lives his lil' bro so much). But by a far margin, it was you who he hugged the most.

It was like he was addicted instantly. He just felt so wanted, secured and cared for when you wrapped your arms back around him, but even if you didn't, holding onto you, and placing a little of his weight onto you was such a reliving feeling.

You've also introduced him to the concept of cuddling, and how it's different from hugging. You tried explaining how it's a somewhat more intimate way of showing affection and way less casual than hugging. Not that that stopped him from being all over you, even in this new form of affection, too.

Safe to say, Choso was a sucker for physical affection.