I was looking for the Author who wrote a Story that was called 'Death in Family' or something. Reader could breathe on Pandora she was the first Daughter of Jake and Neytiri (not related to blood) and is during the time of 'Way of Water' stayed at the Omaticaya Clan. She had a side Love Story with Tarsem. My Problem now is i can't find the Author, not even the Story. Please help me and or if you have any Information about what happened to the Story/Author, please let me know. Thank you for your Time and Help 💕🩵💙🦋
Update!
Her Account got deleted and she has a new. Check it out she is really one of the best Authors on Tumblr! She's back!!!
@jsooly
AND IT'S BEEN GONE AGAIN TUMBLR WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM??
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Summary: Just outside the small town of Salida, Colorado, the Winchester Ranch spans from the forests and mountains of Antero to the frosty edges of Breckenridge. John Winchester isn’t about to concede his family legacy to anyone who comes to take it, but he’s sure trained his sons to protect it—with their own sets of skills.
When you return to Salida after 12 years, your reason brings you back to the ranch you couldn’t wait to leave, and to the boy you never wanted to see again. Well, Dean Winchester is a man now, and despite your best efforts, you aren’t immune to the pull of his charms, or the darker secrets of his world.
AN: Ready for some more Cowboy!Dean? 🤠❤️ Imagine Yellowstone meets Sweet Home Alabama, set in the Colorado mountains!
Supporting Cast: Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Jessica Moore (Jess), Castiel (Cas), Benny Lafitte, Brady (Weiss), Jack Kline, Kevin Tran, Dick Roman, and more character cameos as well as new OCs along the way
Series Tags & Warnings: 18+ || Modern Cowboy!AU, romance, exes to lovers, smut, angst and messy drama (reader and Dean aren't perfect), jealousy, violence and death, family secrets, and more chapter-specific tags || background Sam x Jess and other pairings
"How far will you go? You should know, you'll be on my mind..."
℧🌹 Chapters:
1: Sweet Home, Colorado
℧ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: August 2
2: Too Close to the Heat
🌹 Read on Patreon: July 24 || Tumblr: August 9
3: Nature, Nurture, Heaven & Home
℧ Read on Patreon: July 31 || Tumblr: August 16
4: My Diamond is Too Rough
🌹 Read on Patreon: August 7 || Tumblr: August 23
5: Time Bent Like an Hourglass
6: Word Gets Out When You Get Around
7: Every Moment's a Crime
8: What We Said and What We Meant
9: Hear Your Heart Beat Next to Mine
10: Wait for the River to Roll
11: Pay No Mind to the Battles You've Won
12: It'll Take a Lot More Than Words & Guns
13: It's a High Price, Paid in Blood
l4: The Roots Through Southern Ground
15: Brave the Forests, Brave the Stone
16: Sunshine on the Water
ᯓ✍🏽 Series coming soon in August!
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the nature of consent to angelic possession should’ve been explored so much more
by nature, it’s incredibly predatory and we see explicitly with jimmy that castiel essentially groomed him into saying yes. obviously by picking someone already devout, proving his existence by healing him when he puts his hand in boiling water, being told he’s needed and special, but he also promises he will protect his family - a promise at best he never intended to keep or one he finds a loop hole in by assuming if the world is saved from lucifer then jimmy’s family, by default, is safe. but he never explains possession to him in simple terms; he never says what it will feel like, how long it will last, what it means for jimmy to say no or if he’s ever freed from his possession
jimmy, by definition, cannot give informed consent because he is never informed. he’s never asked in a bubble where there is no consequence from his no; it’s either jimmy says yes or the world will fall into an apocalypse, say yes or doom the world, say yes and save everyone you know and love, save your daughter
jimmy is conscious enough to feel like he’s been “chained to a comet” and to know he’s been dragged all over the earth and healed over and over. he felt bodily sensations and either couldn’t think past the physical pain to be aware of what’s happening outside of his body beyond that or was mentally suppressed by castiel but not put to sleep. jimmy’s hunger bleeds into castiel when he’s in proximity to famine so he isn’t comatose or frozen; he is starving. he is aware. he is suffering
how many vessels do angels go through, not because they burn out from contact with angelic grace, but because angels don’t care enough to look after their human needs? do they age while possessed? could jimmy have been trapped in this eternal purgatory of hunger and pain until the day castiel decides he’s done with him? a day that may never come since castiel seems to view switching vessels with the kind of annoyance one would have with having to buy a new car
jimmy is never told that even if it is over, he and his family will never be safe because demons will always want an ex-vessel; just to torture for fun even if he doesn’t have any knowledge of heaven. he and his family are never safe again from the second he says yes- breaking castiel’s promise
and when he is injured outside of castiel’s influence? when he’s dying of his own accord? even when it was indirectly caused by castiel himself? instead of healing him like he easily could and has? he decides to keep possession of his 12 yr old daughter and let him die. the 12 yr old who likely only said yes because he told her he could protect her and her family
all of that pain, all of that agony, the kind of experience that leaves a scar on your soul; and castiel didn’t think twice about inflicting it on a child without explaining any of it to her. and this is when he’s at his most loyal, inferring every angel is like this. how many angels are on earth at any given time? how many take their vessels back to heaven? how many hundreds of people are screaming inside their own heads, feeling like they’ve been chained to a comet, just to be told they consented to it? they asked for it?
what if someone said a verbal yes but internally didn’t want it to happen? is the verbal consent enough to override how much they don’t want it? even sam saying yes to lucifer in s5, is his desire to complete the plan and save the world enough to outweigh how much his body and mind must have been screaming that he didn’t want this? castiel, micheal, lucifer; they all use the person they want to possess’s family against them. they will keep them safe. they will save them. they will avenge them. faced with that choice, with the power and might of an angel asking you for something they’re telling you only you can give them, how could anyone say no?
lucifer saying, “i don’t lie. i don’t need to” and “i will never lie to you. i will never trick you”, is technically correct of him and all angels. but you don’t need to lie to manipulate someone and angels are better at manipulating and using humans than demons will ever be. at least demons are honest about how awful it is to be possessed by them, how forced it is. they never try to coerce someone into saying they want it
Summary: You're a biology major out on a campout doing some extra research when you discover a circle of downed trees and make the choice to investigate the area further. However, while you're there you see something you could never have imagined when a man's hand shoots straight out of the ground - just like something out of a zombie movie a man crawls out of his grave and walks away. When the urge to follow becomes too much you will soon have your life flipped upside down.
A/N: This is a LOONNGG fic! I'm still writing it and I'm at 24 chapters right now. This is a series rewrite going from Lazarus Rising onward.
Warnings: if it happened in the show it may be featured or mentioned in this fic. So warnings include but are not limited to - torture, blood, gore, death of characters, angst, fluff, sllllooooow burn, eventual smut, bad language words. Each chapter will have it's own warnings so please heed those.
A/N 2: If you like what you read please reblog so your friends can have the chance to see it too!
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Everyone has different deep down fears and Supernatural is showing that in different ways.
Deans and Sams are not the same but they're simmilar: the fear of hell.
For Cas it's also obvious: kill Dean - his love - over and over again. Even as angel with autistic behaviors he hast to fight his Nightmare over and over again.
Charlie? Her fear is being alone, having no family, being bullied and excluded, and never being truly seen for who she is and for how she behaves. Her fears are so normal and could be from nearly everyone else. But it is soo well played and written that we can feel with her.
Chucks fear is to be meaningless and gets outsorted from humans. He wants his power and showes it regularly. But he fears also beeing lonely, have no fans, no one who believes in him and left alone from all chatacters and his family.
Crowleys fear is also his addiction in my Point of View. He doesn't want that any demon sees him beeing addicted to be human and/or to pure human blood and his feelings coming back. But his fear is also be outsorted and be not necessary anymore. He loves his position in hell even when he doesn't liked hell.
And at the end I've got Rowenas Nightmare: Fergus in his pyjama beeing happy about a funko-pop-Sam at Christmas. I love that soo much because who would think that Fergus loves Sam, celebrate Christmas AND acts all in all like a child?
But Rowena fears even more Lucifer and his tortue and beeing unseen, unheard and beeing underestimated. Her fears are soo good seen in her actions when shes scared and cornered.
༗description: As Sam is dealing with his addiction to demon blood and Dean fearing his brother is becoming a monster, no one checks up on you. Especially with these weird changes happening. Winchesters x Fem! Sibling Reader
༗a/n: it’s been so hard uploading lately and honestly I kinda feel like utter shit fighting with grammar and formatting as always not edited
༗WARNINGS: body gore, inspired by the movie Black Swan, vomiting, burning, cuts, blood, body parts melting like heat melting
The first feather appears on a Tuesday. You don't think much of it.
Honestly, compared to everything else happening in your life, a random black feather isn't exactly worth panicking over.
You find it caught in the sleeve of your worn down jacket while Dean drives and Sam pretends to read in the passenger seat. You flick it away and forget about it. At least, you try to. It was probably just some stupid bird misplacing its grooming techniques.
Then another appears.
And another.
And another.
By the end of the week you've found six.
All black.
All identical.
All showing up where they shouldn't.
Inside your backpack. On your motel pillow. Tangled in your hair. Tiny ones under your fingernails. Every time you find one, a strange feeling settles in your stomach. A warning. A feeling that something is very, very wrong.
But nobody notices.
Dean's too busy watching Sam's every move with paranoia. And Sam's too busy hiding things. So you keep your mouth shut. Like always.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The coughing starts a few days later.
At first it's minor. Just a tickle in your throat. An irritation kinda like the beginning of strep throat.
Something easy to ignore. And curable with hot tea and steaming.
Then one morning you wake up feeling like your lungs are filled with broken glass.
Every breath hurts. Every inhale burns. Every exhale rattles your bones.
You spend ten minutes bent over the motel sink trying to catch your breath. The force of the cough was so strong it had left you hunched over, pushing your vertebrae to stick out against your skin.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Dean barely glances up from his lukewarm coffee.
"You sick?"
You force a smile.
"I'm fine. Just some allergies."
Dean nods.
"Well pick up some claritin on the way over."
Then he immediately turns to check on Sam.
It was September. Maybe the bees were also pollinating your lungs as well, leaving their stingers right next to your heart. A reminder of them in the winter.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The first time you see the cuts, you almost screamed - key word almost.
You're changing clothes after a hunt when you catch sight of your reflection on the dirty motel mirror.
For a second your brain can't process what you're looking at.
Then realization hits. There are marks on your back. Long. Deep. Jagged.
Running across your shoulder blades. They look like claw marks or lizard skin. Except they're perfectly symmetrical. As if someone drew them there with a ruler.
You twist around. Trying to get a better look. Pain shoots through your back.
The skin feels tight. Tender. Almost stretched to its brim.
Like something underneath is pushing outward.
You don't tell Dean.
You already know how that conversation goes.
“Later, Y/N.”
“Not now.”
“We're dealing with Sam.”
Everything is Sam. Sam and his stupid demon blood causing him to lean into the possession of Ruby. Dean hated her. But at least he would talk to her, unlike you.
Lately it feels like you're disappearing.
Standing right in front of them and somehow being invisible.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The next symptom terrifies you.
You catch your reflection in a gas station bathroom.
For half a second your eyes red.
Not bloodshot.
Not irritated.
Glowing. As the retinal veins filled with neon and burst in your frames of view, penetrating your iris.
A bright crimson flash. Your pupils began to open towards the liquid streaming down your eye ball. As if your eyes became cherry slushies in a matter of seconds.
Then they're normal again.
You stumble backward.
Your heart pounding.
"No."
The word comes out as a whisper.
You grip the sink.
Stare into the mirror.
Wait for it to happen again.
It doesn't.
But the fear stays.
Growing.
Spreading.
Poisoning every thought.
Because you know someone else whose eyes do strange things.
Someone else who was fed demon blood as a baby.
Someone else who's becoming less human every day.
Sam.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The thought follows you everywhere.
Maybe you're like him.
Maybe Azazel chose both twins.
Maybe you're just finding out later.
Maybe you're turning into something awful.
You start noticing similarities.
Sam gets headaches.
You get headaches.
Sam has nightmares.
You have nightmares.
Sam's changing.
You're changing.
It makes sense. Too much sense.
And the more you think about it, the more convinced you become.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
Then the feathers start coming up. Again.
One minute you're brushing your teeth.
The next you're doubled over the sink coughing so hard tears blur your vision.
Something catches in your throat.
You gag.
Choke.
Spit into the sink.
And freeze.
A black feather sits in the white porcelain.
Covered in blood.
For a moment the world stops.
You stare.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to move.
Unable to think.
The feather shouldn't be there. You shouldn’t even question why it is coming within you instead of outside. This is not normal.
Nothing about this should be possible. Sure, you lived in the supernatural world, but you weren't part of it yourself. This couldn't be real.
Yet there it is.
Real.
Proof that whatever is happening to you is getting worse.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
You stop sleeping after that.
Every night you wake gasping.
Covered in sweat.
Your back burning. Your lungs aching. The cuts stretching wider every day.
And nobody notices.
Or maybe they do.
Maybe they just don't know what to do.
Dean spends every waking second worrying about Sam.
Following Sam.
Arguing with Sam.
Trying to save Sam.
Sometimes you want to scream at him.
Sometimes you want to grab his shoulders and shake him and shout:
LOOK AT ME.
I'M FALLING APART TOO.
But you never do.
Because Dean already looks exhausted.
And because part of you is terrified of what he'll find if he actually starts paying attention.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The breaking point comes three weeks later.
You're sitting alone in a motel room when Sam walks in.
He immediately notices something is wrong. He has for a while now, he just never grew the courage to say it until now. (Especially with Dean being gone.)
You look awful.
Your skin lacks color.
Dark circles sit beneath your eyes.
Your hands won't stop shaking.
"Y/N?"
You look up.
"What?"
His forehead wrinkles.
"You look terrible."
You laugh.
A harsh, bitter sound.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious."
You look away.
For some reason that hurts.
Because Sam noticed.
Sam noticed before Dean did.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
Later that night, after another coughing fit leaves blood staining your shirt, Sam approaches you quietly.
He's holding a flask.
You already know what's inside.
Demon blood.
The thing Dean hates.
The thing Sam swears helps him.
The thing that's slowly destroying him.
"I think you're like me," Sam says softly.
Your stomach drops.
Because you've been thinking the exact same thing. For weeks. For months. The only difference is Sam got to beat demons and you ended up feeling like one. It wasas if you got the other end of the deal.
"I know."
Sam sits beside you.
For a moment he's just your twin.
Not Lucifer's vessel.
Not the chosen child.
Not the boy carrying the weight of the apocalypse.
Just Sam.
Your brother.
The boy who used to hold your hand during thunderstorms. The boy who always shared his snickers. The boy who once punched a bully for making you cry.
"It helps," he says.
You stare at the flask. "If it helps you..."
"Maybe it'll help you too." He finished your sentence.
You don't want to do it.
Every instinct in your body screams not to.
But you're desperate.
You're scared.
And most of all—You want this nightmare to stop.
So you take the flask, and drink.
The second it touches your tongue, you know you've made a mistake.
Pain explodes through your body. Not discomfort. Not nausea.
Fuckin pain. Pure. Blinding.Agony.
The flask slips from your fingers and crashes onto the motel floor.
You barely hear it. Your ears are ringing. Your heartbeat is pounding so loudly it drowns everything else out.
"Y/N?"
Sam's voice sounds far away.
You clutch your throat.
It feels like you've swallowed fire. Actual hell fire.
Like molten metal is burning its way down your chest. Molding your insides to steel beams.
"Sam..."
The word comes out broken. Barely audible.
Then your knees hit the carpet.
Hard.
A scream tears from your throat. And suddenly Sam is beside you.
"Y/N!"
Your entire body convulses.
The pain spreads. Down your neck.
Across your shoulders. Through your ribs.
Every nerve feels like it's being ripped apart.
Something hot crawls beneath your skin.
You look down.
And your blood runs cold.
Golden cracks are spreading up your arms.
Thin lines glowing beneath your flesh.
Like sunlight trapped under your skin.
"What the hell—"Another scream cuts you off.
The motel room blurs.
Your vision doubles.
Triples.
The cuts on your back feel like they're splitting open.
Something pushes against them.
Something enormous.
Something trying to get out.
"Dean!" Sam shouts.
"DEAN!" He shouts again, and as if teleportation became a reality, the door slams open so hard it nearly flies off its hinges.
Dean storms inside.
"What happened?!"
Then he sees you.
And freezes.
For one horrible second nobody moves.
You lie crumpled on the floor.
Shaking.
Crying.
Barely conscious.
Smoke rises from your skin.
Actual smoke.
The air smells scorched.
Burn marks spread across your arms and neck. Your skin begins to melt off your bone and mold into lumps of molten lava. Almost as if your skin began to wrinkle like a pig in a fryer.
The carpet beneath you is blackening and rising with thick smoke.
Dean's face loses all color.
"Y/N."
You hear it.
The fear in his voice.
Real fear.
The kind he rarely lets anyone see.
The kind that instantly makes you feel six years old again.
"Dean..."
Your voice breaks.
Another wave of agony slams into you.
You scream.
Dean is beside you immediately.
One hand gripping your shoulder.
The other brushing your hair back from your face.
"Hey."
His voice shakes.
"Hey, hey, look at me."
You try.
You really do.
But everything hurts too much.
"Dean..."
"You're okay."
The lie is automatic.
You both know it.
Dean looks up at Sam.
"What happened?"
Sam looks sick.
Actually sick.
Like he might throw up.
"I gave her some."
Dean frowns.
"What?"
Sam swallows.
"Demon blood."
The room goes silent.
For a moment Dean simply stares.
Not understanding. Not processing. Then realization hits.
His eyes widen. "You did what?"
"I thought she was like me!"
Dean stands so fast the lamp rattles.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?!"
Another scream tears out of you.
Both brothers immediately snap their attention back.
Your body arches off the floor. The cuts on your back split wider. Blood soaks through your shirt. It was as if teeth with chomping away the flesh of your back and replacing the once smooth flesh with flakes of crisp bone.
Dean's heart nearly stops.
"Y/N!"
The motel lights begin flickering.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Off.
On.
Then every light explodes at once.
Glass rains from the ceiling. The television shorts out. The mirror shatters. The windows crack. A morning dove's cry could be heard within the blended screams.
And for one impossible second—the entire room fills with white light.
Blinding.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Dean throws an arm over his eyes.
Sam stumbles backward.
The walls shake.
The floor trembles.
And behind you—
For the briefest moment—
Something appears.
Massive.
Brilliant.
A silhouette made entirely of light.
Wings.
Huge marbled wings.
Stretching from one side of the room to the other.
Then they're gone.
Just like that.
The light disappears.
The shaking stops.
And you collapse.
Motionless.
Silence.
Nobody breathes.
Nobody moves.
Dean stares.
His mind refusing to process what just happened.
"Y/N?"
Nothing.
He reaches for your pulse.
His hand shakes.
"Come on."
Nothing.
Fear settles heavily in his chest.
Cold.
Sharp.
Familiar.
He remembers another hospital room.
Another impossible loss.
Another person he couldn't save.
"No."
His voice cracks.
"Come on, kid."
Still nothing.
The panic starts rising.
Fast.
Dangerously fast.
Because Y/N isn't supposed to be the one lying there.
She's supposed to be stubborn.
Annoying. Rolling her eyes. Arguing with him. For everything good in the world, she was supposed to be making fun of his haircuts and sideburns, not on the floor waiting for door dashed reaper.
Not—not this.
Never this.
⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆
The familiar flutter of wings echoed through the motel room, but this time it didn't bring relief.
Dean spun around, ready to snap at Castiel for appearing unannounced as usual, but the words died in his throat the moment he saw the angel's face.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Over the years Dean had seen Castiel experience just about every human emotion imaginable. He'd seen him furious enough to start wars, confused by humanity's simplest habits, determined enough to rebel against Heaven itself, and burdened by guilt so heavy it nearly destroyed him.
But fear?
Dean had never seen Castiel afraid.
Not once.
Yet that was exactly what he saw now.
The angel's eyes immediately found Y/N's unconscious form sprawled across the motel floor. His expression tightened as he took in the burns crawling across her skin, the blood staining her clothes, and the black feathers scattered around her like the aftermath of some impossible storm.
For a moment, Castiel simply stared.
Then the color drained from his face.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
Dean pointed toward Sam.
Sam looked sick enough to collapse.
"I gave her demon blood."
The words hung in the air.
Castiel's gaze shifted to him so slowly that it made Dean's stomach twist.
"Why?"
Sam swallowed hard. "I thought she was infected too. I thought she was like me."
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
Castiel crossed the room and knelt beside Y/N. His hand hovered over one of the burn marks on her arm without quite touching it. The closer he got, the more troubled he seemed.
"You thought she was like you, Sam," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It sounded like an accusation.
Sam's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it.
"Isn't she?"
For a moment Castiel said nothing.
His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again there was something exhausted in them, as though he were carrying knowledge he had hoped never to share.
Dean immediately hated whatever answer was coming.
Finally, Castiel looked up.
"She was never infected."
Dean frowned.
"What?"
The angel's gaze returned to Y/N.
The hardness in his expression softened into something that looked dangerously close to grief.
"She was never carrying demon blood."
The room fell completely silent.
Sam stared.
Dean stared.
Neither of them understood.
Dean let out a frustrated laugh.
"What the hell does that mean?"
Castiel remained quiet for a moment before speaking.
"When Azazel fed Sam his blood as an infant, Heaven became aware of what he was doing."
Dean's stomach sank.
A cold feeling settled deep in his chest.
"...Go on."
For the first time, Castiel seemed reluctant.
"It means one twin was claimed by Hell."
Dean's jaw tightened.
His eyes immediately moved to Sam.
"And the other?"
Castiel looked down at Y/N once more.
The expression on his face made Dean wish he hadn't asked.
"The other was claimed by Heaven."
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Dean's mind raced through months of memories.
The feathers.
The coughing fits.
The strange wounds on her back.
The flashes of red in her eyes.
The way she always looked exhausted.
The way she kept insisting something was wrong, then backing down saying it was nothing.
The way he'd brushed it aside because Sam's problems had seemed more urgent. I mean, his brother was drinking demon blood straight from the source.
One by one, every piece fell into place.
Not demon blood.
Grace.
Angel grace.
The realization made him feel physically ill.
His gaze dropped to his sister's unconscious form.
She looked so small lying there.
Fragile.
Human.
Yet apparently she had been carrying something impossible inside her for her entire life.
Dean remembered every time she had tried to get his attention.
Every complaint he hadn't listened to.
Every cough he'd ignored.
Every exhausted look he'd failed to notice.
While he'd been watching Sam spiral toward Hell, Y/N had been suffering right in front of him.
And he hadn't seen any of it.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest.
Because for weeks he'd convinced himself he was protecting his family.
But looking at Y/N now, broken and unconscious on the motel floor, all he could think was that he'd failed her.
He should have noticed. He should have listened.He should have been there.
And somehow, the look on Castiel's face told him that none of that was the worst part.
Whatever was happening to Y/N, whatever Heaven had hidden inside her all those years ago, it wasn't over.
In fact, Dean had the sinking feeling it was only just beginning.
summary: it's amazing how quickly things can change in just a couple of minutes. a hunt gone wrong shows you that
pairing: dean x reader (gn) ft. sam | genre: hurt/comfort, happy ending | word count: 2.3k (oops !)
warnings: nightmares, mentions of guns and death, crying dean
notes: the series finale ! ty to everyone who enjoyed :]
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
It’s soft and quiet in the bunker. There’s a faint hum from the heating somewhere in the walls, and Sam’s footsteps slowly fade as he retreats to his room for the night. You’re still awake, listening to the sounds of the bunker. Even in the week you’ve been back, the noises still unsettle you. Something about going from the silent emptiness of death to the noise of the living sets your nerves on fire. The clock ticking on the wall is like a metronome, and you count the seconds with it. The sheets are cool around your waist as you lay on your back, counting the grooves in the ceiling’s paint job. You trace the cracks with your eyes, following the worn lines back and forth.
Dean’s beside you, dead to the world. His mouth hangs slightly open, and you watch as his chest rises and falls with each breath. His shirt rides up from where it’s trapped under his side, and you count the freckles on his skin as he sleeps. With his hair messy, he looks domestic. Warm. Safe. You resist the urge to kiss his forehead; even in the deepest sleep, he still wakes up when something touches him.
Your gaze returns to the ceiling, and you can feel frustration start to bubble up in your chest. It’s never been this hard to fall asleep before, especially not with Dean tucked beside you. But something about tonight just feels wrong. There’s anxiety humming under your skin, and you find your own breaths starting to pick up.
You’re afraid to disappear again. You make this realization moments later, because Dean turns towards you in his sleep, nudging you with his arm. You’re afraid that what Castiel and Rowena did might only be temporary, and you’ll be stolen from the world again too soon. While being dead wasn’t exactly terrible, you’re still afraid to die because of everything you’ll have to leave behind. There’s a fear buried deep in your chest that if you close your eyes tonight, you won’t be able to open them the next morning.
Beside you, Dean’s breath quickens, and he mutters something in his sleep. You turn, finding his brows pinched together and a growing frown on his lips. He twitches, arm shifting under the pillow and towards your head. You sit up in bed, listening as his voice gets louder. He’s pleading with someone, frantic words of reassurance spilling from his lips, and you realize with a start he’s talking to you. He must be dreaming about that night, because you vaguely recognize half of what he’s saying.
“Dean?” you whisper, running a hand through his wild hair. He doesn’t wake up, but he moves closer to your side. “Wake up.”
Nothing gets through to him; he’s still trapped in the dream world, likely watching you bleed out in his arms all over again. His whispers get louder and his movements get sharper. He’s shifting almost constantly, limbs jerking out at odd angles as he tries to escape from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in.
He finally wakes with a shout and a sharp inhale, eyes flying open and chest heaving. There’s sweat pooling on his brow, and you wipe his forehead with your shirt sleeve. His wild eyes dart around the room, and he throws himself out of the bed and to his feet.
“What are you doing Dean?” you ask.
“Checkin’. It’s not safe, we gotta move.” He’s still partly in his dream, you realize. The last dregs of the nightmare must be sticking around in his mind. “I can’t let anything hurt you sweetheart, not again.”
Your expression softens, and you pat the bed beside you. “Oh, Dean. It’s okay, I promise. It’s over.” He turns to look at you, doubt still in his features. “Do you know where we are?”
He pauses for a moment. “We aren’t in Utah anymore, are we?” His voice is worried.
“No. We haven’t been in Utah for months. We’re in the bunker now, remember?”
His shoulders fall just a touch, and you see the façade slowly start to crumble. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s a step further into the clearing than he was just a minute ago. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, but nothing’s working. His heart is going a million miles a second, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Dean. Come back to me,” you say softly, waving your hand in front of his face. His eyes refocus on you, tracing the features of your face with intense concentration. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies quietly, voice barely above a whisper. He sits beside you reluctantly, hands toying with the hem of his shirt in his lap. His fingers have a tremor in them, and you reach over to cover them with your own hands. “I’m sorry.”
“What? Why are you apologizing?” you ask, tilting your head to look at him. He’s not looking at you, and you reach out, grabbing his chin and turning his head in your direction. “Look at me Dean. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yeah, I do, and you know it.”
“Then tell me. What’s eating at you?”
His eyes lock on yours, then quickly dart away again. There’s an odd expression on his face; guilt, shame, regret, you can’t tell.
“I’m sorry for everything that happened,” he says, voice low. You start to reply, and he cuts you off, words spilling from him before he can take them back. “For back at the house, for the grave, for the night we danced. All of it. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t fix it. I’m sorry you had to die on that hunt, and I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker. I’m sorry it had to be so far away from a hospital, and I’m sorry we didn’t find the bones faster and-.”
“Dean don’t apologize for those things. They’re out of your control.”
“Just- just let me finish. Please,” he begs, eyes tired and rimmed with tears.
“Okay. Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry you had to die alone. That I couldn’t go with you. That’s supposed to be my job, you know, goin’ everywhere with you.” He laughs a little at that, but it’s watery. “I didn’t understand how much I meant that until you were gone and I just- I couldn’t do it.”
“Sam wanted to burn your bones, just in case you turned into somethin’ we’d have to kill, but I couldn’t let him. I just couldn’t do it, and I’m sorry about that too. I should’ve listened; I shouldn’t’ve let that stop me. And then, when you came back, I tried to shoot you too. I could have killed you if I hadn’t dropped the damn bullets. I can’t forgive myself for that.”
You fully grab his hands in yours, holding them tight and tracing shapes on the backs of them as he talks. There’s a million things he’s sorry for, and you know he shouldn’t be apologizing for any of them. He knows it too, knows there’s nothing he could have done differently, but he needs to say it. Needs to make himself feel like he’s to blame, because it’s the only way he knows how to cope with it.
“Dean…please. Look at me,” you murmur. It takes a long moment for him to lift his head, and when he does, you see tears on his cheeks. He tries to tug his hand from yours to wipe them away, but you hold on tighter. “Don’t hide from me love, okay?”
“Okay,” he replies, uncertain.
“Listen to me. None of that is your fault, okay? And I know that you know it. You just…you need something to blame, but it can’t keep being you. Blame the damn spirit that got me. You could have done everything differently that day and I still might have died.”
“If I’d just picked a different hunt-.”
“Stop it. So what if you had? You can’t change any of that now. What happened, happened, and that’s that. You can’t just keep beating yourself up for something that happened, what, eight months ago?”
He’s quiet as he takes in your words. Finally, with a tremendous effort, he nods his head faintly. He’s heard you, you know it, and you’ll sit here with him for as long as it takes just to make him believe in what you say. You don’t know how long you sit like that; shoulder to shoulder, hands intertwined. His breathing eventually slows to match yours, and you can see a weight start to lift from his shoulders the longer he spends beside you.
“Sweetheart?” Dean asks quietly.
“Yeah?” you hum in reply.
“I gotta ask you somethin’.”
“Shoot. What d’you wanna know?”
“That night. When you died. Before you- before you…left, you tried to say somethin’. What was it?”
You’re quiet for a moment. Not because you don’t know what you wanted to say; you remember your thoughts painfully clearly. You’re quiet because you don’t know if you can bring yourself to repeat it. Because what if thinking about it makes it real? What if something happens if you speak it out loud, and the world steals you away again?
“Don’t lie to me. Please. I need to know what you were gonna say,” he begs.
You take a deep breath in, exhaling slowly as you gather your words.
“When I was dying, I was so damn scared Dean. I was so afraid to die it hurt. And when everything started to go dark, I just panicked. It was awful, it felt-.”
“Like you were dying?”
You huff a laugh. “Yeah. Only this time I really was.”
Your voice breaks, and Dean doesn’t push. He reaches his arm around your shoulders, tucking you closer to his side. Your head comes to rest on his chest, and his heartbeat under your cheek calms you. He puts his chin on your head, enveloping you completely in his warmth.
“The only thing I could think was how I didn’t want to go, not yet. I didn’t want to leave you and Sam alone again. I mean, I knew you’d be fine, but-. I was so afraid to leave you that it just…it was the only thing in my mind. And that’s what I was trying to tell you – that I was scared.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. If I’d known, maybe I could’ve said somethin’ else,” Dean starts to say, but you cut him off.
“That’s just the thing Dean. You didn’t have to say anything. You could have been completely silent, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Because you were still there, and you had me, and I guess I just knew I was gonna be safe, even if I was terrified. You were so warm and suddenly it wasn’t so bad anymore. At least, not right then. I didn’t die afraid Dean, I died loved. I only got scared afterwards, when I woke up and didn’t know where I was.”
He buries a kiss to your temple, a tear breaking free and tracking down his face as he takes in your words. Knowing that he made it better just by being there means more to him than anything else in the whole world.
“When I was, uh, dead or whatever, you were the only thing I could think about. I watched you, you know. Listened to everything you told me. I followed you to hunts, because I needed to know you were still alive. And in that void, do you know what the one thing I felt was?”
“What?”
“Love. Your love. It was everywhere. Because you still loved me, even if I was gone. And I think that’s what brought me back as a ghost before. Because I couldn’t let you go, and you couldn’t let me go, and that turned me into a spirit, just for a night. You never stopped loving me Dean, and I need you to know that I never, ever, stopped loving you.”
He kisses you then, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting gently under your chin. You wrap your arms around his back, fingers threading into the hair at the base of his neck. When he pulls away, you tuck his head under your chin, just as he had done to you before. You rock him slowly side to side, rubbing up and down his back, whispering to him under your breath.
When Sam walks past the room in the morning, you’re still sitting there, together, in your own little bubble of safety. He doesn’t enter, because he knows you both need this moment. Instead, he smiles softly from the doorframe, and you return it with a smile of your own. From under you, Dean grumbles something about Sam ‘always ruinin’ a good moment’, and Sam snorts a laugh from the doorway before disappearing again.
It'll take time for this all to fade, and you know it just as well as Dean does. There’ll be bad nights again, and there’ll be days where everything feels too heavy. When your death anniversary comes around, you’ll spend the day with Dean, doing anything and everything to lift his spirits, to prove to him that you’re here for good. And you’ll heal, slowly but surely, from everything that had happened. You’re still here, and Dean’s still with you, and you’re both still changing, and growing, and loving. Nothing can take that away from you, not even death.
๋࣭⭑atlas : you're a witch. dean hates witches. but he loves you so much it hurts, especially when you call him your sweetheart and bring out his soft side
๋࣭⭑binary stars : dean x witch!reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑classification : big soft fluff hours
๋࣭⭑stellar density : 3.5k
๋࣭⭑omens : genuinely nothing, just super soft and fluffy mostly retired dean and reader :], SAILEEN MENTIONED (and yes, they have a child. yes his name is dean. yes this is me spreading the propaganda that blurry wife in 15x20 was eileen)
๋࣭⭑message in a bottle : requested !! technically this is the same reader from reckless but they don't have to be :]
๋࣭⭑taglist ༊彡 masterlist
A lot changes after you save the world from the clutches of an apocalypse and a vengeful god. There are no more frantic phone calls from other hunters begging for help with a demon that won’t leave its host alone. There’s no more trashy hotel rooms with peeling, ugly wallpaper from forty years ago and unstable heating that leaves you either huddled close in Dean’s arms or spread out as far from him as you can be. No more noises that sound like death screams and final breaths whispering prayers and pleas into the cold air for nobody but the killer to hear. You can go entire days without stepping foot in a library for obscure lore written about things you’d rather ignore. You don’t need your hands always on a gun or checking salt rounds, and you don’t need to keep staying stuck in the limbo between being alive and living life.
Now, life looks like a house above ground with real windows and sunlight and a deck with a swinging chair on it that sings as it creaks in the breeze. It looks like evenings with real food and soft blankets curled together on the couch while you read and Dean watches TV, the low hum of the shows surrounding you in softness and comfort. It looks less like running to Sam for help on a hunt and more like driving to his place to babysit little Dean for a while so that Sam can go out with Eileen and have a night to themselves. Dean jokes they’ll name the second after you. Sam always turns a deep red, stammering something about how that’s not what they do when they go out; the light marks on his collarbones suggest otherwise, but you never comment on them. Eileen signs her agreement with Dean rather enthusiastically, and Sam has no choice but to look at her so fondly it makes your heart ache with joy for what you all have.
Today looks like Dean surfacing so slowly from sleep that he’s not entire sure if he ever truly woke up or not. His body is tucked under a thin sheet that’s wrapped around his hips, a white comforter lopsided across the bed with a sigil sewn into the bottom corner. It’s courtesy of you, of course, with the sole purpose of making sure Dean doesn’t overheat in the summer. You’ve discovered over the years he radiates insane amounts of body heat, and it’s easier for you to cuddle up to him when you’re cold instead of making him suffer by being too hot. The room is still in blissful darkness despite Dean tipping his head toward the clock and discovering the time is ten in the morning. He can do this now, he realizes; sleep in, because nothing wakes him up in the middle of the night anymore. Because you keep the bad dreams and ghosts away with nothing more than the sheer force of your love, no magic attached.
He’s not sure if it takes an hour or just five minutes, but he finally manages to get his eyes open. There’s a gentle weight on his chest that he comes to realize is you. Your head rests on his pillow, breath tickling his neck, your arm and half your body laying on top of him. Your legs are tangled beneath the bedsheets so closely that he can barely tell who’s legs are his anymore. He knows you’re awake by the rhythmic twitching of your fingers against his bare chest. Nothing is sweeter than the smile you give him when he kisses your forehead, hair mussed and falling in his eyes, soft beginnings of a beard threaded with grey scraping your cheek. Except, he discovers, maybe the sweet laugh you breathe back at him, your own lips soft on his cheek in return.
“Hi sweetheart,” you murmur, soft and sounding like your body woke up before your voice did.
Dean blushes, cheeks tinting a soft shade of pink, petaling out over his cheekbones. Your fingers dance along his freckles, each one you touch shining for a brief moment like a star in the sky, magic simmering warm under his skin.
“Hey,” he finally replies, clearing his throat. “Sleep okay?”
“Mhm.” You yawn lightly, burying your face into the crook of his neck and making him laugh. “’M hungry.”
Dean chuckles, chest rising and falling underneath your arm.
“’Course y’are. You start, I’ll be there in a minute.”
“No.” you whine, drawing it out. “Come with me.”
Dean stares, smile ghosting his lips.
“Why? ‘M comfortable. I’ll come after.”
You tilt your head up, eyes wide and soft with the kind of gentle pleading of someone who always gets what they want from Dean.
“Please?” you murmur, pouting.
You can see him cave in real time.
“Fine.”
“Yay.” You kiss him slow, pouring all the sugar you can muster into it. “Wanna see the sun now?”
Dean shrugs in that way you’ve learned is a non-verbal ‘yes’. You drag yourself form the sheets, mourning the softness as you pad across the room and over to the window. The sun’s rays make your skin radiant as you pull back the curtains with a soft hush, the thick material having done its job well. You ignore Dean’s groans of discomfort as the brightness hits his eyes, snuffling further into his pillow until his eyes are ready to see the day in full brightness.
You’re waiting in the kitchen with coffee for him by the time he gets downstairs. He’s glad you weren’t there when he got out of bed; his hip cracks dramatically every time he does. He doesn’t need you to worry about it more often than you already do, although he wouldn’t have been opposed to the familiar way your eyes trace down his figure when he dresses. He takes the coffee gratefully, humming something rough while he waits for it to warm up his vocal cords, nose picking up the traces of breakfast being prepared. There’s quiet conversation to his mornings now, chatting softly about whatever is on your mind. Sometimes it’s about ingredients for bags and spells, the closest to hunting talk you ever really get. Usually, it’s about a book you’re reading for fun, recommended by Eileen or Sam. Sometimes it’s hypotheticals. Always, it’s lovely and sweet.
There’s something beautiful to how far you’ve come. You and Dean both vividly remember hating each other; him because you’re a witch, you because he hated your guts. On nights when he takes a quick hunt for something to do, you entertain yourself with memories of your past. Often, you pick some soft ones from driving down deserted roads in the Impala with the radio up way too loud. Sometimes, you pick something braver, like the times you best him in a hunt and he hates it. Occasionally, you’ll pick that one fateful motel room meet-up years ago. An unconventional start, maybe, but all things begin somewhere. You don’t hesitate to hide your magic on warm nights between the sheets now, not when you know Dean loves it just as much as you.
The second realization you love is that he doesn’t stop you from using spells anymore; Rowena set him straight quick. He lets you use sigils and bags and charms on hunts, both to keep each other safe but also for a fighting chance. He expects it now, and he’s told you that hunting totally alone without an ounce of your help puts him off his game. For a while, he thought he’d gotten soft. You think it makes him human, and even more in love with you. The fact he lets your skills have a place in a space he calls home means enough to you to melt your heart whenever he mentions it. The sigils on the sheets to keep them the right temperature, on the water heater and the air conditioning to make sure that your water stays hot and the house stays cool in the summer, on the one doorhandle that keeps squeaking no matter how many times you and Dean replace it or oil it.
There’s only one place on the property that doesn’t get your magic touch; the garage. You can have your spells on herb pots to make them grow quicker and inside the fridge to keep your food from spoiling, and Dean can have his own magic in the garage. You’ve mutually agreed that it’s his space, and at his requests, your sigils don’t cross the threshold. Everything that happens in there is 100% real human work, something for Dean to take pride in and call his own. All he needs is his cars and the afternoon to exist in his own space with a drink and old cassette tapes, and you’re more than happy to give him that.
He rarely even drinks anymore, something you’ve been pushing for since you first met him. Something about surviving the end of the world encouraged him to get help and quit relying on fermented grain to keep himself afloat. It wasn’t easy, because nothing that’s worth it is easy. For a while, he went to meetings at your insistence. He hates them, but he went for you, so you could have him in your life for the rest of it instead of a shell of himself wearing Dean’s face. Now, he only pulls out a beer or something stronger when he’s with Sam, if only to remind themselves that they can exist without hunting. What used to be a pile of cans and glass bottles on a table somewhere has turned into the odd water glass or can of coke left behind, abandoned empty by a brain that cant sit still long enough to remember to pick it up and throw it out.
Dean’s sweeter when he’s not running on alcohol and something sour in his blood. He’s got a kinder side to him you never knew existed in bursts longer than an hour. Strange how he used to be the sweetest at his drunkest, before the alcohol left his system. Now, when he’s sober all day and never getting more than the rare buzz when he trusts you and Sam to stop him, he’s impossibly sweet. Sweet on you, because he loves you too much to let you stray from him for longer than you do when you’re at home. He’s learning to be kinder to Sam, to love him like a brother instead of a child he needs to protect. It’s strange to see Dean to openly affectionate, but he’s happier, and that’s all you can ask for.
It’s not just always you and Dean in the house, which you’ve forever been thankful for. Sam and Eileen come over often, now bringing their little Dean toddling along with them, arm stretched to hold Sam’s hand or tiny body balanced on his hip. The brothers will grab a beer, and Sam will hoist himself up onto your porch railing to sit and talk Dean’s ear off while he grills something for dinner. Sam will follow Dean to the garage, either to keep him company for a while or to head out on a hunt to keep Dean alive and, preferably, unharmed. Little Dean stays with Eileen in the house, while you and her do whatever you decide; watching trash television, gossiping about her students in her ASL classes, debating new hunts for you or the brothers to take. Eileen hunts with you sometimes, choosing your protection over her husband’s occasionally worried love. The days when Sam and Dean watch the kid are always entertaining, with plenty of stories told upon your return.
They don’t come over today, for reasons you didn’t quite catch but seem to have something to do with Eileen teaching a course and Sam staying home on child duty. For him, you’ve learned, it seems to involve enough reading to put him and little Dean to sleep for a few hours, the kid sleeping soft on his chest. There’s a folder on your phone dedicated to all the times Eileen has sent you a picture of them stretched out together on the couch when she comes home from wherever she’s been.
Dean reappears at about three, grease on his hands and laced through his hair like a dark thread. He gives you a soft smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle delightfully when you kiss him, his hands wanting to touch you but not wanting to cover you in motor oil. He lets you untangle his hair with soft fingers, combing through the strands while he rests his head on your shoulder and closes his eyes, swaying you both in place to music you can’t hear.
By dinner, he’s tired in that adorably soft sun-drunk way that says you’ve got about four hours before he’s out cold. He’s starting to tan, freckles darkening around his cheeks and chest, hands sand-coloured and worn by years of working with them. Instead of holding guns and knives, his hands hold car parts and most importantly, they cradle you so tenderly it makes you feel like melting into the floorboards and never quite reforming. You eat beside him, his hand alternating between his knife and your thigh. You’ve trained him well because he even puts his empty plate into the dishwasher without your reminder. He helps you wash the leftover dishes, dunking them in soapy water and scrubbing them off while he hums something shaped like Metallica under his breath. You towel the plates as he hands them to you, setting them in careful stacks in the cupboards that you cover the corners of with your hand to keep Dean from hitting his head on them as he passes by.
There’s a blissful hour or so where Dean cleans up the garage, putting away all the stray parts he wasn’t able to put away before dinner. You organize the spice rack, then reorganize it when you realize it’s better to have them sorted by how often you use them as opposed to the colour of the lid. The throw pillows on the couch get repositioned by your tender hands, the fluffy blanket rescued from its position on the back of the couch, no longer halfway sliding off the back of it. Dean’s boots get put back in their spot, the laces tucked inside them to keep them from getting destroyed. These are all things you could easily do with your magic, but you’ve discovered there’s something soft in the humanity of doing it yourself. You do, however, give yourself the grace of using some softly uttered spell work to fluff up the pillows on the bed and heat the sheets enough to make them feel like they’ve just come out of the dryer.
When Dean stops back inside, he immediately beelines for the bathroom, desperate for a shower. He’s sticky from working outside all day, grease still lingering in his hair and under his nails, a cut on his thigh that’s now scabbed over needing the faint blood traces washed off with a careful hand. You trail in after him, bringing clean sleep clothes for yourself and fresh boxers for Dean, folding them and setting them on the closed toilet lid for after you’re done in the hot water. It takes Dean two whole minutes to decide he’s done hugging you, nuzzling himself into your neck in the way that tells you he’s getting sleepy; he’s gotten clingier as he’s aged, choosing to attach himself to you for as long as he can, even if you’re standing half undressed in the bathroom waiting to shower.
He climbs in first, adjusting the temperature to somewhere halfway between your favourite and his ideal. Not hot enough that he burns the skin off his back, but not cold enough that either of you start to shiver when you’re not under the stream of water. At your insistence, he washes your body first, rubbing his hands in smooth circles over your back as he lathers the soap into your skin. Today isn’t a hair wash day, and Dean knows it, so he takes extra care to keep your head from getting wet, using one big hand to protect it when he can’t angle his body in the way instead. His fingers are soft on your skin despite their rough appearance, callouses dampened into something humane by the gentleness of your domestic life rather than the harshness of hunting.
You take your time washing him, staring with his hair as he moves himself however you need in order to reach all of his hair. The more you look the more greys you see threading in them, trapped starlight in his hair looking like quartz shining in the sand. Precious in its own special way, because he never expected to make it far enough to find greys when he shaves or your fingers comb through his hair and take out the loose strands. When you move onto his body, you can see how unkind the years have been to him. They’ve given him scars you know he hates, marks across his skin from knives and bullets and claws of creatures who’s names you’d rather forget. Your thumb works into his bad hip and increasingly achy back, pulling a sigh of relief from him as you work out the worst of the knots that form every day, a tiny strain of your magic seeping into his skin with warmth and tenderness and love.
But you can also see, the longer you really study him, how kind semi-retirement has been to him. He’s filled out, no longer built solid and stocky with skin and muscle. There’s fat to him now, residing in his stomach and his thighs and his biceps, beginning to fill out his chest until it’s less of the barrel from unintentional workouts and more the solidness from casually kept muscle and being well-fed. If you look closely, he has dainty stretch marks on his hipbones, silver lines decorating the V of his skin, a sure sign that the weight he’s gained is being put to good use. He looks healthy; not in the way an athlete looks the peak of human performance, but in the way of someone who’s learned to come home and accept that it won’t go anywhere, that the food in it won’t disappear on him, that he can have days where he sleeps on the couch all afternoon and doesn’t leave the house.
In true Dean Winchester fashion, it takes a minute longer than it needs to for him to get his boxers on and brush his teeth. He spends a solid thirty seconds telling you he’s too old to brush his teeth, and another thirty seconds fighting you when you slide the material of his boxers over his waist. He’s grinning wickedly the whole time, the one that says I love you and you know you love me all in one. He’s right, every single time; you do love him, so much so that you’ll put up with him playfighting you every day for the rest of time. He splashes you with water when you’re done your teeth, you tackle him back into the bed, listening to him laugh wholeheartedly the whole way down to the soft sheets. He wiggles up until his head is on the pillow, tugging the sheets around him and waiting impatiently for you to join him in bed.
Dean gives a deep groaning sigh when his head hits the pillow, rolling onto his stomach almost immediately when you join him. He starfishes over you, just enough to give you comfortable weight over you but not enough that you can’t breathe. He’s not exactly light, but he always takes the most care to keep himself from squishing you. Even when he melts completely boneless like he is right now, he never suffocates you, always strategically distributing his weight to make sure you’re comfortable.
“Hi, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing the side of his head.
He sighs something low and soft into your skin, dissipating over you. “Hey.”
“Tired?”
He nods, hair scraping your skin. “Mhm.”
You rub a hand up and down the bare skin of his back, drawing circles and shapes that you take great care to ensure don’t become a sigil of any sort. Sometimes if you think he’ll have a rough night, you trace a small sigil to ward off nightmares on the skin of his back, right over his left shoulder blade. He needs it less and less, instead finding himself able to sleep heavy and deep right through the night now, one weighty arm across your body and lips parted, snoring soft into his pillow. Turning off the light plunges the room into darkness, and the last thing you feel before succumbing to sleep is Dean shuffling into a more comfortable position, huffing out a contented exhale when he finds it, drifting off shortly after you.
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Rotting from the Inside out CW: implied sexual assault
Transferring Pain
Mini Series
Dragon Fly
Monday Morning
Another Lonely Day
World Turning
(more parts coming!)
Blurbs:
Blurb 1
blurb 2
bobby's house
Sunny's Screeches:
My baby is getting her time in the sun!! I'm letter her out of the depths of my evil brain! I'm gonna be writing for her a whole bunch since i literally have so much material for her !!
tumblr has marked some of the posts as mature, none of them are overly violent or have any sexual content (aside from rotting with the implication of SA [which is very minor]), so just a heads up!
Characters: Archangel!Reader x Crowley, with appearances by Sam, Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, Balthazar, and good ol’ Chuck (quite the star-studded cast if I do say so myself)
Word Count: 6,644 words
Warnings: none that I can think of tbh, just some romantic tension and the usual fluff.
Request: archangel reader has a thing for crowley and he feels the same but her brothers try to warn her against him. eventually they go to chuck to get him to talk some sense into her but he kinda ships them
Author’s Note: Hi guys! Long time since one of these have gone up, huh? Not gonna sugar coat it, I MISS WRITING FOR YOU GUYS. I really hope this fic makes up for the fact that I haven’t written in ages. I hope you guys enjoy! And also, my requests are still open, so if you would like something written, send it my way!
holy shit ok i had this idea. i got very carried away imagining what cas would be like if he became a tumblr user and found fans of the supernatural books, who thought he was a really accurate parody account because he talked exactly like cas. soooo it kind of accidentally turned into a whole ass socmed au where he answers peoples' asks. here it is 😭
Dean and Cas own a ranch where they raise their kids, own three horses, a motorcycle, and have a cow named Curtis, who is a rescue. Curtis LOVES Dean (this causes tension in the household between angelic being and mortal cow).
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