Cal

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Dean was ready.

He shut his eyes, drew in a shaky breath, breathed you in, and then he kissed you. Soft at first, then fierce and aching. The kiss he’d been holding back for years, because he knew it would be the last.

God, he wanted more time. With you. With Sam. With everyone he loved. But if this was it, if his life could mean something, if it could keep you safe, then he’d take the hit without a second thought.

And now he’d figured it out, the witch’s curse. Pieced together enough breadcrumbs to understand what she wanted, what she had planned. And he knew that the feeling that had hooked itself under his ribs the moment he’d met you, in some way you had known it too. 

He felt the cold steel of the gun trembling against his chest, he felt your tears hot against his skin, your breath shaking against his lips, and he felt your love, devastating and real.

Eyes shut tight, lips against yours, Dean waited for the gun to go off.

And it did. 

The gunshot blasted through the room, a deafening white-hot sound. His ears rang. His body flinched by instinct, but the pain he expected never came.

The gun hit the floor.

And your body went limp in his arms.

“No—no, no, no.” His voice broke like he hadn’t used it in years. 

Across the room, the witch lay slumped against the armchair, blood spreading from her chest in a slow, ugly bloom.

Dean shook his head, a whisper turning into a plea as he looked down at you. “No. You don’t—no. You don’t get to do this to me.”

He dropped to his knees with you, gathering you against him like he could shield you from what had already happened. His ears still rang, like the world was underwater, like everything was slipping too fast. 

He pressed his hand over your wound, desperately, like pressure alone could turn back time. Warm blood seeped through his palm instantly, and his breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound he couldn’t choke down. “Stay with me. You hear me? You don't get to leave me.”

“I'm right here, baby.” 

“I'm right here." 

—-

2 weeks later

The rain trickled quietly down the hospital window, a soft, steady sound you barely registered. Your eyes stayed fixed on the angry red carving slashed across your wrist, your faithful companion for more than five years. You could hardly remember how your skin looked without it.

The door creaked open.

Dean stepped in with a flimsy cup of hospital coffee and sat in the chair next to your bed. You didn’t look up, not at first. Your focus stayed on the paper-white sheets, on the handcuff digging into your wrist, on anything other than the expression on his face.

“Any news?” you finally asked.

“It worked,” he said.

Your head snapped up. “You mean it?”

Dean’s smile broke across his face, relieved, unguarded in a way that made your chest ache. “The link’s gone. You’re free.”

“I can’t believe it,” you whispered.

His smile quickly faded into something more serious as his eyes studied your face. “Can we talk now?” he asked; his tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight. He'd started this conversation so many times, only to get ignored over and over again, and his patience was running thin. “You’re not gonna pull something stupid again, are you?”

“I wouldn’t call it stupid,” you mumbled.

Dean exhaled, tired and frustrated. “Yeah? What d’you wanna call it? Reckless? Suicidal?”

"Just… keeping you safe.”

He looked away like he couldn’t stand hearing that again.

The first time, you hadn’t planned it. You’d barely had control. Just one moment – his kiss, his warmth, his love, the memories of him crowding your mind – just enough clarity to wrench the gun toward yourself before it fired. It hadn’t been a clean shot. Not deep enough to kill you, but enough to drag the witch down with you. Enough to buy time.

The second attempt had been different. Intentional. Calculated. You’d dragged yourself out of the hospital bed, IV still taped to your arm and blood thrumming weakly in your veins, and you’d gone looking for the witch’s room. Rowena kept repeating how difficult the spell was, how long it would take to gather the ingredients to break the link… And the witch was healing, getting stronger by the hour.

You knew what that meant.

You knew exactly who she’d go after the moment she got out of that hospital bed.

So you’d decided to end it yourself. To end both of you.

Dean had caught you at the last second, angrier and more heartbroken than you’d ever seen him, and he had handcuffed you to the damn bed.

He hadn’t left your side since.

He’d give himself maybe a minute or two at a time to run to the bathroom, to talk to the doctors, to grab the world’s worst cup of coffee. But every time he did, he hovered in the doorway first, double-checking the cuff, double-checking you.

Like he was scared you’d try to die the moment he stepped out of the room.

Like he wasn’t sure he’d survive it if you did.

The metal cuff still circled your wrist, and you rattled it with raised eyebrows. “Can you let me go now?”

“That depends,” he said. “On what you’re planning to do right now.”

“I’m gonna kill her. Obviously. What else is there to do?”

“Baby,” he sighed, “you need to calm down.”

“I will,” you said simply. “After I’m done with her. Now let me out.”

Dean exhaled hard, grabbed the key, and unlocked the cuff. Then he took your wrist in both hands, massaging the sore skin with a tenderness that made your throat tight. He looked up at you from under his lashes, the morning sun catching the freckles across his face, and something in your chest tightened and broke open at the same time. 

You leaned in to kiss him, warm and wanting, because now you finally could.

He tried to break the kiss. “This another scheme to distract me?” he said against your lips. “Don’t do that to me again. I’m serious.”

Oh, right. The third attempt.

That one had almost worked.

Your kiss had been good, but apparently not good enough to steal the keys from his pocket.

And the fourth attempt… well, he didn’t need to know about that one.

You kissed him again, slower this time but deeper, savoring the warmth, the taste of cheap hospital coffee on his tongue, the way his hand tightened on your waist like he wasn’t letting go. 

Then you leaned back with wide, pleading eyes. “Can we go kill her now? Please?”

“Sammy’s handling it,” Dean said. “Bobby’s with him.”

“I just – I need to see it with my own eyes. I need to know she’s gone. Please.”

One more kiss. One more soft brush of your lips against his.

Dean closed his eyes, jaw tight.

And then he caved.

—-

“God, I’m never getting used to this,” Sam muttered as he dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Bobby grunted in agreement but kept his gaze fixed on his plate.

Across the room, you had Dean pinned in the doorway with your mouth on his, and he was holding you so close you were practically part of him. He kissed you back just as eagerly, hands firm on your waist, like he’d been starving for you since the second he left.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his lips, the words brushing warmly across his mouth.

He chased the whisper with another kiss, slow and merciless and full of everything he didn’t say out loud.

Sam cleared his throat. Loudly. Twice.

Dean waved him off without even looking, like swatting away an annoying fly, and stole one more kiss before guiding you reluctantly toward the table, your fingers lacing together automatically.

Bobby kept staring at his meal like it was the most interesting thing in the world. And Sam… well, he watched you and Dean with the expression of a man witnessing a live crime.

“Do you really need to look at us like that?" You asked when you finally noticed. “We don't deserve this slander." 

“No, right," he replied immediately, ears red in embarrassment. “You're right, I'm sorry. It's just - weird. We went 5 years with you trying to kill my brother every time he was in the same room. I  think I’m gonna need some time to adjust, you know?”

He did have a point, so you conceded. “Okay, that's fair enough." 

“And,” Sam added, frowning, “I always kinda thought I was your favorite. So this hurts on, like… multiple levels.”

Bobby scoffed. “The hell you talkin’ about? You’ve never been her favorite. I was.”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest as you looked between them — these ridiculous, loyal, infuriatingly lovable men who had become your family.

You squeezed Dean's hand, and he squeezed back, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles like he was memorizing the shape of you.

For a moment, it felt like the nightmare of the past years had finally broken. And you hoped, selfishly, desperately, that this moment would never end.

—

That night, you sat up quietly on the bed and let yourself breathe in the peace. No weight pressing on your shoulders, no fear keeping you awake. Even your appetite had returned.

When your fingers traced the carved letters on your wrist, it didn’t feel like a curse anymore. It was something else now, a declaration of love. A love so strong and unshakable that you’d defend it with every part of yourself. A love you would treasure, protect, and honor, to redeem yourself for the past five years.

The name on your wrist was now a promise. To yourself, and to him.

Dean stirred beside you, his hand searching for you as he slept. When it didn’t find you, he jolted awake, panic flickering across his face…until his eyes landed on you.

“Baby, what are you doing up?” he asked, voice rough with concern.

“Nothing,” you replied, easing back under the covers beside him. His hand curled around you, holding you tightly to his chest. “I was just thinking,” you added softly.

“About what?” His lips brushed your forehead, warm and reassuring.

“Just, you know…plans for the future.”

Dean hummed against you, and you snuggled closer, fingers tracing the familiar lines of his arm. “Any space for me in those plans?” he asked, voice teasing, yet tender.

“Of course, baby,” you whispered. “You’re the protagonist.”

Dean’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, and he pulled you even closer. 

You closed your eyes, letting the quiet, the warmth, and his steady heartbeat fill every empty space inside you. And for the first time in so many years, you felt completely safe, completely loved, and completely home.

♡ The end ♡

—

A/N: I really hope you enjoyed this series! My original plans were really evil, but at some point, the story started writing itself, and I like to think it’s because these two really wanted a happy ending. They certainly deserve it.

Thank you so much for reading, for your kind comments, and for keeping me company as I wrote this story. It means the world! I can’t wait to share more stories with you ♡

—

Forever Tags: @gallifreyansass @hobby27 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @adoptdontshoppets @foxyjwls007 @hotgirlsshareaccounts @katiejade

The nurse places the baby in your arms, all warm skin and trembling life, and Dean just stares like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t deserve.

You whisper, “Hi, sweetheart,” tears catching on your voice.

Dean’s still silent, fingers trembling when he reaches out. “Can I—?”

You nod, smiling through the blur. He brushes one finger along her tiny hand, and she grips it instantly, impossibly small against his rough, calloused skin.

Dean lets out a choked sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “Would ya look at that? Strong already.”

You laugh quietly, tired and delirious. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

He sits beside you, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “She’s perfect,” he murmurs, awe painting every word. “Ten fingers, ten toes, little nose—” he huffs a small laugh, “—kinda got my scowl though. Poor kid.”

You smile. “She’ll grow into it.”

Dean’s eyes flick to you then—really look at you. “You okay?”

You nod weakly. “Just… tired.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, careful and reverent. “You did so good, sweetheart. I mean it. You’re—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “You’re unbelievable.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “We’re both a mess.”

“Yeah, but now we’re a mess with a baby.”

The nurse slips out quietly, leaving you two in that soft, fragile silence only new parents get to have. Dean’s hand stays on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles as if afraid you’ll disappear.

He can’t stop looking at her. “I used to think I’d never get this,” he admits quietly. “Family. Somethin’ that’s mine, that ain’t cursed or broken.”

You tilt your head toward him. “You have it now.”

He smiles—small, real. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

The baby stirs, tiny face scrunching up before settling again. Dean chuckles, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s got your nose, y’know.”

You grin, too tired to tease him back. “Lucky her.”

Dean brushes a stray curl from your forehead, his touch lingering. “Lucky me,” he corrects softly.

And as your daughter sighs in her sleep, the room feels lighter. Safer. Like, for once in his life, Dean Winchester’s not fighting the dark—he’s holding the light in his arms.

He leans in, kissing her tiny forehead, then yours. “Welcome to the world, kiddo,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he’s never been good at saying.

“You picked one hell of a dad.”

The nurse places the baby in your arms, all warm skin and trembling life, and Dean just stares like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t deserve.

You whisper, “Hi, sweetheart,” tears catching on your voice.

Dean’s still silent, fingers trembling when he reaches out. “Can I—?”

You nod, smiling through the blur. He brushes one finger along her tiny hand, and she grips it instantly, impossibly small against his rough, calloused skin.

Dean lets out a choked sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “Would ya look at that? Strong already.”

You laugh quietly, tired and delirious. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

He sits beside you, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “She’s perfect,” he murmurs, awe painting every word. “Ten fingers, ten toes, little nose—” he huffs a small laugh, “—kinda got my scowl though. Poor kid.”

You smile. “She’ll grow into it.”

Dean’s eyes flick to you then—really look at you. “You okay?”

You nod weakly. “Just… tired.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, careful and reverent. “You did so good, sweetheart. I mean it. You’re—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “You’re unbelievable.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “We’re both a mess.”

“Yeah, but now we’re a mess with a baby.”

The nurse slips out quietly, leaving you two in that soft, fragile silence only new parents get to have. Dean’s hand stays on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles as if afraid you’ll disappear.

He can’t stop looking at her. “I used to think I’d never get this,” he admits quietly. “Family. Somethin’ that’s mine, that ain’t cursed or broken.”

You tilt your head toward him. “You have it now.”

He smiles—small, real. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

The baby stirs, tiny face scrunching up before settling again. Dean chuckles, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s got your nose, y’know.”

You grin, too tired to tease him back. “Lucky her.”

Dean brushes a stray curl from your forehead, his touch lingering. “Lucky me,” he corrects softly.

And as your daughter sighs in her sleep, the room feels lighter. Safer. Like, for once in his life, Dean Winchester’s not fighting the dark—he’s holding the light in his arms.

He leans in, kissing her tiny forehead, then yours. “Welcome to the world, kiddo,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he’s never been good at saying.

“You picked one hell of a dad.”

sam’s barely standing upright, knuckles torn and bruised, cheek smeared in blood with a nasty scrape underneath, clothes matted in dirt and eyes, tired and heavy, unable to pry themselves away from your figure on the bed. 

you sit upright against the headboard instantly, “sam—” 

“i’m fine,” he interrupts, heaving uneven, dense breaths like he’s just run a marathon, “there were more vamps than we expected.” 

your eyebrows furrow in concern, giving him multiple once-overs as he groans while shrugging off his carhartt. “you aren’t fine.” 

“i am,” he pushes, giving you a hard look that softens as the sheets start to pool in your lap and drop from your chest when you sit up straighter. “you’re wearing my shirt.”  

you look down at the dark green tee, smelling strongly of smoke, grass, and some generic, woodsy motel soap, and nod, “i missed you.” but then you frown as he slowly begins to move closer and his injuries burn in your view, “then you come back in a million pieces.”  

“this is not what i look like when i’m in a million pieces,” he attempts to tease, and there’s a sultryness to his voice that perplexes you. his eyes hold a different weight now as they run down your body, exposed legs criss-crossed on the mattress, arms folded like a mother scolding her child, brows tense and heart loose in your ribcage. “i thought of you. that’s what got me out.” 

the unexpected burn of tears stings your eyes and nose, clogging your throat with sudden emotion. “don’t say things like that, sam.” 

he shakes his head as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed, reaching to grab your hand and hold it firmly in his, calloused and bloodstained, “you, waiting in this bed for me to come home to you—” he brings your knuckles to his lips, placing a chaste kiss there, “i couldn’t let you down.” 

you sniffle, loud and wet, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. a fire ignites in your chest at his soft words, so different in comparison to his roughened, scraped face that not mere hours ago was the last thing vamps saw before he’d brutally end them. a force you’d never know from him. 

well, at least not in that way. 

“you must be exhausted,” you change the subject before you’re swept away, and it doesn’t help that he’s now kissing up your arm. 

he nods, but his eyes are distracted, lustful, “so exhausted.” 

when he reaches your collarbone, the hem of his t-shirt pulling slightly so he can get to the bone, you giggle, but, when he travels further to the softness of your neck, you moan. 

he’s ungentle. leaves purple marks on your jugular like the bruises on his knuckles. kisses messily like the deep red smears on his skin. he’s on fire like the lingering, tense air surrounding him.

and it makes you weak, falling into sam’s strong grip that holds guns, knives, and always, you. 

you don’t register him pushing your back against the mattress, or him tugging the panties down your legs, too wrapped up in the sensation of his lips all over you, worhsipping, desperate, needy, and it isn’t until you can feel his breath fan against your core that you’re brought back. 

“mmm, fuck, sam,” you whimper, bucking your hips to meet his mouth, only for him to pull away, watching you squirm. 

he breathes a laugh, fingertips pressing imprints into your thighs as he tries to hold them steady, “you’re so wet already,” he reaches a finger to swipe some of it from your slit, watching in awe as it glistens on his skin, “jesus christ.” 

“you’re hurt,” you whisper, trying to reason why this isn’t the best idea. sam hasn’t even cleaned himself up yet, but somehow, that just makes everything hotter. the blood from his cheek has already smudged the inside of your thigh as he lingers between them. 

sam nudges your clit with his nose like he’s waiting to ravish you, “this’ll make me feel better.” 

and he dives in, licking a thick stripe that arches your back and ties a knot in your belly. he’s slow at first, letting the taste of you flood his palette and make him hungry for more. his hands flex as they grip you, head bobbing as he laps leisurely, then quickly, then slow again. the veins in his biceps pop as he props himself upright, and it takes everything in you not to cum just watching his sore muscles hang on for a little longer so he can devour you. 

“god, you’re so good, sammy.” the nickname slips like the hold you have on every nerve, fingers tangling themselves in his stringy locks. 

he smirks against your pussy, feeling your clit pulse on his tongue as he sucks it into his mouth, reveling in the way you shake from what he does to you. 

sam can fight any monster, come back trudging through the door with his life barely intact, and nothing—nothing, is more rewarding to him than seeing you fall apart at his doing. it’s more control than he’ll ever feel wrestling those that go bump in the night. 

“i love you,” he murmurs into your skin—words holding more weight, especially after tonight—kissing, licking, sucking, until you become as weak as he is, “i love you so much.” 

you cry out, eyes squeezed shut as you try desperately to grab onto whatever is left of your mind, “fuck! i love—” you moan as he tongues your slit, rolling your hips against his split, bloody lip that’s certainly left marks on your folds, “sam, i love—” 

it’s white hot pleasure, knuckles pale as you clench the sheets beneath you, pussy squeezing nothing as he laps at every drop leaking from his merciless attack on you. the hard grasp he has on your thighs starts to ache, and the struggled breaths you try to inhale are practically suffocating. 

he’s made you a disaster, just like he is. 

sam wipes his mouth with the back of his velvet hand, peering up at you from between your legs, “how could i let some vamp keep me away from that?”

you laugh breathlessly, running the back of your hand against his drying, stained cheek. but, the hiss he lets out when you hesitate over his deep scrape sobers you up, forces you to realize what could’ve been if he hadn’t walked through that door, “you scared me tonight.” 

he drags his body up until his maroon lips are barely grazing your own, eyes sparkling in the yellow light as they stare into yours. his head leans affectionately, voice barely audible against the cars outside, “i’ll always come back to you alive—” he breaks his words to kiss you, finally gentle, safe, “—always.”

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