Dollavie

"No, I was-I was just, uh- working out and-"

"I'm kidding," she interrupted with a smile.

Peter huffed and sank into one of the two chairs at his "dining table." Dining table, workstation, counter space... that table did it all. Everything became multipurpose in such a small apartment. He wiped a few crumbs from the table while he watched (y/n) flit around the kitchen, telling him about her day at the coffee shop.

He listened intently about the group of teenage girls who'd spent the whole morning sitting across from each other without saying a single word. She absentmindedly chopped up the vegetables she'd brought from the store.

"What's the point of even hanging out if you're just gonna stare at your phone the whole time?" (Y/n) shook her head. "I don't get it."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"What?" she asked with a raised brow.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me. How about you tell me what you did today, Parker?"

What could he say? Yeah, I passed out and then woke up in a literal spiderweb? Or I'm currently fighting against arachnid DNA taking over my body?

"I just... delivered some DoorDash orders. A little dog got out, and I had to chase it down."

The expression on her face changed from faux annoyance to suspicion. “What color was it?”

“White,” he answered immediately.

“Hmm.”

Then she went back to cooking. Peter got up to join her, but then he bowed over, clutching his head with a hand on the chair for balance. (Y/n) ran over to him and helped him to the couch.

"Pete?" she sputtered, kneeling in front of him with her hands resting on his knees. "Hey, hey, hey. I'm here. What can I do?"

Her only answer was another groan as he tightened his grip on his head. Peter's headaches had started a few months prior and got progressively worse. This was the worst she'd seen.

(Y/n)'s eyes scanned the room, thinking of what she could do to help when they landed on the medicine cabinet. Advil. It wouldn't do much, but it would give him a little relief... right?

Promising she'd be right back, (y/n) sprinted to get the bottle and a glass of water. By the time she returned a few moments later, it appeared the worst of it had passed. She got him to take a few pills before sitting next to him.

She soothingly ran her fingers through his curls. Peter leaned into her touch as she whispered. "Feeling any better?"

Peter nodded slightly.

"Good... Babe, have you been to the doctor yet? They keep getting worse and-"

"I'm fine," he ground out. "I don't need to go. The meds are helping."

(Y/n) opened her mouth, but Peter beat her to it. He squinted over at her. "Dinner's burning."

"Shoot."

With a gentle kiss to his hair, she got up and sprinted to the kitchen. A sharp pain rang through his head at the loss of her touch. He didn't understand it-how he'd become so attached so quickly. One day he was content with being alone. But then the next, she was there, smiling at him from across the hall as she moved in.

And a year later, he couldn't imagine his life without her. Gone were the days of endless Little Caesars boxes littering his apartment. Instead, he had home-cooked meals most nights before patrols. (Y/n) brought back a light in his life that had long been extinguished... a warmth that had disappeared when May died.

May would like her. Peter had no doubt about that.

His heart beat a little faster, and his mind got fuzzy in her presence. He knew love was the word to describe how he felt, but saying it out loud made it more real. More dangerous.

The closer they got, the more danger she was in. Peter had battled within himself time and time again about telling her, but he could never justify putting (y/n) in more danger. So he kept her close, but just shut out, just far enough away to keep her from knowing the truth about him.

But a few days later, when the... thing that was inhabiting people found him, it shook him to his core.

"You know, your apartment is just what I expected. A sad, twenty-something man's apartment. Imagine my surprise when I read the letter on the fridge. Sweet really."

Peter's brows furrowed beneath his suit. "You're bluffing."

They had to be.

"Am I?" Then the thing jumped across the way to inhabit a man walking by. "Does (y/n) know about this side of you, Peter Parker? Does she know about the… monster inside you?"

Peter took a step closer, ignoring the forming pit in his stomach. “What do you want? V-MAX? You’re not getting it.”

The person laughed. “I can get whatever I want. I think (y/n) would love to know that her beloved boyfriend is New York’s favorite web slinger.”

“You don’t know where she is.”

“It’s a long way to the coffee shop.”

His heart sank. The letter. She’d talked about going there on their first date. And there was the picture hanging beside the letter of them. Peter was pretty sure you could see the window art behind them.

Before he could move, the thing switched to a woman twenty feet away. “Race you.”

And then he was off, frantically swinging through the city after the thing as it inhabited person after person. Peter couldn't, wouldn't let it near (y/n). If anything happened to her... no, he couldn't think about that. But then the thing inhabited the helicopter pilot, and Peter thought it was over. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he frantically got E.V. to figure out its max jump distance.

33 feet.

Peter managed to trap the thing by webbing the helicopter to a crane, suspending it with no one inside the jump radius. He breathed a little easier as he swung to the bakery.

He checked the time on his HUD. 2:30. She'd be on her lunch break, probably eating her sandwich on the roof of the building like normal. Peter smiled at the memory of that conversation.

"Why do you go up there?"

(Y/n) shrugged, smiling over at him. "I just like feeling the sun on my face."

It was the little things that made him love her. How she cooked for him without being asked, how she never pried about his past, how she was always patient when he had to cancel. But most of all, how she grounded him. Spider-Man had started to take over Peter Parker's life.

But then she'd arrived.

Peter found her just where he thought he would, sitting in a ratty beach chair atop the building. The crust of her sandwich lay in the plastic bag on her lap. Perching on the far corner of the building, Peter found himself watching her for a few moments.

A warmth he could only describe as adoration settled inside him where worry and fear had been occupying minutes earlier. She was safe.

But if this thing could travel that fast, he had to get her out of here. But where was far enough from people to keep her safe? Then it hit him.

Who was the one person who isolated themselves from everyone and could actually defend her if need be? Frank.

He turned on the voice changer on his suit and hopped down from his perch. "Miss (y/l/n)! You need to come with me right now. You're in danger."

She whipped around so fast that she almost fell out of the chair, barely managing to catch herself before shooting up. "Spider-Man? What are you talking about?" she sputtered.

"There's no time," he said with a shake of his head. "Someone's after you, and we need to get you out of here. Right now."

"But-"

"We gotta go." Peter extended a hand to her. "Trust me."

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes for half a second as she came to a decision. After a moment, she sighed. "Okay."

In a flash, she was in his arms, clutching him for dear life as he swung them across the city. Holding her close eased some of Peter's anxiety, but he wouldn't feel completely at ease until they reached Frank's.

"Hey! Spider-Man!" She cried, tapping his shoulder. "Put me down and tell me what's going on! Now!!"

They didn't have time, but he swung them onto a nearby roof anyway. She immediately stepped back from him. He expected her to run her hands through her now-tangled hair, but instead she bent over and placed her hands on her knees. After taking a few deep breaths, she stood up and approached him with wide eyes.

"What's happening right now?"

"There's this thing... it-it can inhabit people and control them," Peter stuttered. It was even scarier saying it out loud. "And now it's coming after you. We've got to get you out of the city so it can't reach you."

Her brows drew together. "Why is it after me?"

Peter took a moment to think. 'Because you're my girlfriend' didn't seem like the best answer at the moment. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Then how do you know it's coming after me?"

"I just do, okay?!" He took a few steps toward her so they were only a couple of feet apart. His voice softened. "You're going to have to trust me."

"I don't know you."

"(Y/n), please."

The desperation in his voice appeared to convince her. "Fine. But I need to let my boyfriend know I'm okay."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle. The irony of it all. "I'll take care of it."

"How do you know my boyfriend?"

"Peter, right?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "He, uh, delivered my DoorDash the other day. Told me about his girl who loved Spider-Man. Even showed me a picture. Respectful guy."

She turned from him, pacing. "He didn't mention that," she muttered. (Y/n) stopped pacing and wrapped her arms around herself, standing on the edge of the building and staring out over the city. "I think he’s cheating on me.”

“What!? No!” Peter’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “He’s crazy about you, (y/n), I swear!"

She peered at him over her shoulder, eyes shining with tears. "And how would you know that, Spider-Man?"

"Because I..." Peter trailed off.

He had to tell her.

Turning off his voice changer, Peter approached her. "Because I know how I feel about you, (y/n)."

"Peter?"

Her face morphed from sadness to confusion as she recognized his voice. She raised her hands to his shoulders, then up to his face before slowly peeling off his mask.

"Hi," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's because I-I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you because of me."

(Y/n) shook her head at him, hands resting on his face. "You could've told me. And I love you, too."

Their lips met a moment later. She threaded her fingers through his hair as they kissed. Pulling away, she smiled and turned back toward the edge.

"It's funny, you know?"

"What?" he chuckled, unable to stop a wide grin.

"That you thought she'd accept your lies."

Peter's smile dropped. No, no, no, no...

(Y/n) turned around to face him, backing her heels to the edge of the building, sending a few rocks tumbling to the street below. Her face no longer held the warmth he'd seen moments before.

"Still didn't mention the monster inside you, Peter."

He held out his hands. "Please, just leave her alone. Please."

Then she was falling, nothing but air between her and the street. Peter darted after her and managed to wrap his arms around her just before she hit the pavement. He propped her up against his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay," breathed Peter.

(Y/n)'s chest rose and fell slowly, and he felt like he could breathe again. That was until a car pulled up and its driver got out. The inhabited man threatened them one last time before getting back in and pulling away. Peter's HUD managed to get a picture of the culprit.

It was a girl. A teenager.

He would find out her identity later. The unconscious woman in his arms was his only priority. Wrapping his arms around her, Peter took off through the streets, swinging toward Frank's.

They were almost there when (y/n) came to. She started thrashing in his hold for a moment before realizing she was a hundred feet in the air.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! How'd I get here!? Spider-Man?"

"It's okay! I'm taking you somewhere safe, alright? Just breathe."

To his surprise, she only held him tighter and didn't ask any questions. Only when they landed at the docks did she speak.

"Look, I need to tell-"

He nodded back at her. "Your boyfriend knows you're safe."

"No, that's not what I was saying," (y/n) said with a smile. "Make sure to watch where you're-"

Click.

A moment later, Peter set off a series of booby traps that ended with them rolling down into the dry dock. "You good?" he asked breathlessly.

(Y/n) nodded and rose to her feet just as a rough voice echoed through the empty warehouse. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

Peter raised a brow. "Didn't really have time to call, Frank."

"Not you, daffodil," Frank scoffed. "Sweetheart, what are you doing with web-slinger here?"

Sweetheart?

She shrugged. "I don't really know."

"Why is she here, kid?" said Frank, his attention returning to Spider-Man.

"There's this thing after her, and I need somewhere to keep her safe."

The man's face shifted to something resembling worry. Peter had never seen the expression on Frank's face before. He'd expected to have to convince him, but he only scanned the dock's entrance before smiling down at (y/n).

"Made your favorite chili."

Peter glanced between the two of them. "You two know each other."

"Yeah," she chuckled. "He's my dad."

"Your dad?!"

________________________________________________________________

A/N: You might be able to twist my arm for a pt. 2 if y'all want it!

Hope you enjoyed!

You obviously kept it a secret. Curiosity, in most angel’s eyes, was close to doubt and they were right. As time went by, you started doubting, you started becoming more and more human.

There were few angels that would understand, one of them was your dearest brother: Castiel. He didn’t doubt yet, he still feared, but you saw in his eyes a spark of curiosity from the moment he first saved that Winchester boy, and that made him your favorite. So today, as his call came, you answered.

You appeared in some sort of basement in the middle of South Dakota. In front of you were two men and one angel.

“Hello sister.”

“Good morning, Cass. Do you need something?” He looked at the men beside him.

“Dean, Bobby, this is my sister” he said your name.

“Dean Winchester and Robert Singer, it is a pleasure to meet you.” You extended your hand and shook theirs with polite confidence.

“So, you do know social cues.” Dean said.

You laughed. “Yes, well, I have been in Earth a bit longer than my dear brother. I descended from heaven in 1968.”

“Rough time.” Bobby muttered.

“Indeed. That is exactly why I came. I am a protector of mankind and it hurt to watch everything from heaven without at least trying to help a bit.” You paused after the sincere moment. “So, gentleman, what do you need from me?”

Dean breathed deep. You could smell the nerves coming out of his body. “You see, my brother Sam…he has a problem.”

“Yes, I have heard.”

“So, you know about the demon blood.”

“I am aware your brother has been taking demon blood to enhance the psychic powers the demon Azazel gave him, am I wrong?

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, well, news travel fast and I tend to keep an eye on Castiel and, therefore, you troublemakers.”

“Cass said you might know how to help. That true?” His voice broke a bit. “It’s just…please, please the withdrawal is making him sick and I can’t help him, it’s-it’s killing me not being able to cure him. Please, please help him.” You placed a hand on his arm to ground him.

“It’s okay, calm down. There is a solution. It would make him stop craving demon blood forever, but it would require a lifelong treatment.”

Hope filled his eyes. “Well, what is it?”

“You see, where demon blood is like venom, angel blood is more like… medicine, it is one of the purest things in the universe and it can cure one’s body. It won’t make him powerful like a demons’, but it would protect him from ever wanting to consume it. That’s what I clearly know, but I don’t know about any other effects it could have. This, however, is not a detox, it could still cause an addiction. Addictions are behavioral, they are one’s choice. I can’t change that.”

“So, you want to, what? Change his drug basically?”

“It wouldn’t be the same. This “drug” he’s taking is destroying him. Look, I will give him mine personally, think of it like taking medication for a chronic disease. You must take it every day, but it cures you.” Despite the justification, both Dean and Bobby still seemed skeptical. “Look, Dean, I know it’s scary, and I know it hurts to see your brother be like this, Father knows if I had to watch Cassie in this situation it would pain me greatly. However, this is the best solution I am aware of. It’s all I can give.” They seemed to relax with that. “Look, I love humans. You are my father’s creation, hurting you would be blasphemy. I just want to help. But I respect your wishes and Sam’s and I won’t do anything you don’t want.” Your voice was kind and soft, Dean couldn’t help but melt. He was stressed and angry with his brother and himself for not protecting him, hearing that comforting tone made him trust her. He had hope.

“Okay.” He finally said. “I am going to ask Sam.”

He opened a door in the back of the wall. You could see a tall figure inside a hidden room, you assumed it was Sam. You turned to Cass.

“I missed you, Cassie.” You hugged him. That always seemed to surprise him. As you had mentioned, he had lived among humans for much less time and wasn’t as used to these displays of affection.

“I missed you too, dear sister.”

“I see taking care of the Winchesters Is proving to be difficult.” You looked at both Cass and Bobby. The last one chuckled.

“Tell me about it. Those idjits have been trouble since they were born.” The fatherly tone those words carried made you smile. You wished you could hear Father speak in that tone. A hidden part of yourself wished he spoke about you. Wished he spoke to you. How could He let humans suffer like you had seen Dean suffer for his brother? How could He leave his children alone? You decided not to think about it, those thoughts only made you sad and confused. Your attention rapidly changed when the door to the little room opened.

“You can come in.” Dean offered.

As you entered you discovered a circular chamber filled with protective sigils. There were books in the walls, a little table, and a bed where the tall man was seated.

“Sam?” You presented yourself with your name. “I have come here to help you. I understand Dean told you how.”

“He did.” He looked pale, tired and had a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite describe as something else than light madness. It saddened you to see him like this. Humans were beautiful creatures, full of life and joy. Human smiles were fascinating. You wondered how such a simple movement could change so many things. It could make one laugh, cry or fall in love. Sam looked anything but happy and you, as a protector of humanity (and therefore of their happiness) took it as your mission to cure him so you could see him smile. “Thank you.”

“What for? It is my duty to help you.” His eyes somehow lost a bit of that sadness as he gained a similar reaction to Dean’s. It seemed these boys hadn’t had a lot of gentleness in their lives, but you had plenty to spare. “Dean,” you turned and looked at him “could you leave us alone for a moment?”

“Sure. Thank you” he said your name and left closing the door.

“Well, I have obviously never done this before, so I don’t really know how it’s going to feel. So, I want you to be as comfortable as possible in case it kind of feels bad or something- “you saw fear in his eyes “which I sincerely doubt it will.”

“Okay.” His voice was soft, but unlike yours, it was born of exhaustion and pain. He sat further on the bed and looked at his side as if he was inviting you to take the place. You did.

“I think it would be best if you laid down.” He did. You approached his frame and sat beside his hips. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.” You took off your coat and your angel blade. You placed the garment at the foot of the bed and the knife on your thighs. Sam was enchanted by your movements, they seemed slow and careful. You handled everything with a sweetness and attention that, in his state, made him almost jealous of the blade.

You took the sleave of your shirt and folded it. Then you placed the knife against your wrist. Finally, you made an incision and watched as bright red blood started to make its way out. With the same meticulous care with which you handled everything you put your wrist against his lips. He looked at you, his eyes filled with shyness at the strangely intimate atmosphere as if asking for permission. You nodded. He dove right in.

At first the taste surprised him. It was very different from a demon’s blood’s. Where it had been more flavored, almost salty, this one was like sweet water. It tasted pure and clean; it filled his mouth so gently like those candies that melted in your tongue. It made tingles travel from his nose to his neck and down his spine leaving a trace of goosebumps. It was a hundred times better than demon’s blood. It was a million times better than anything he had ever tasted. His heart started beating faster, his senses regained their precision. He now could smell her: vanilla, clean; he could hear her breathing: low and deep; and he could feel her smooth skin under the tips of the fingers that had engulfed her little -by comparison- forearm so naturally. He opened his eyes, and he was met with an extraordinary view.

You stood with your eyes closed and brows furrowed, your chest raised slowly, and he could see the outlines of your breasts trembling as it did. You seemed as lost in the feeling as he was. Finally, he felt satisfied and let go of your wrist.

You gradually opened your eyelids as he stood and returned to the seated position. His face was now so close to yours you could smell your blood in his mouth. He now could almost taste that vanilla his nose had noticed. He then started to focus on the features he hadn’t cared to note in his previous state. He observed your eyelashes and their gentle curve, your neat eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks and their gentle blush, your chin and its perfect curvature and finally, your lips. They looked so singular to him, he thought he had never seen lips with such a soft texture and beautiful color. They looked as if you had bitten them. He didn’t know why, maybe it was because of the intimate act you just had shared, maybe it was because of those attributes he had just noticed, but he felt something push him to place his lips against hers and their perfect shape.

While he was busy looking at you, you were frozen on the spot. Your wrist had already healed, and you were a bit lightheaded. You looked at his face and saw a mole on the side of his nose. You don’t know why but it was the first thing that caught your attention. You loved that about humans: moles. They were so unique, it reminded you of how diverse and special each person could be. Unlike angels, humans were more peculiar. They had desires and feelings, different thoughts, distinctive features. You don’t know why, but you suddenly had the urge to kiss it. And you did.

You closed the space between you two and kissed his mole. Sam closed his eyes, he felt you everywhere. In his hand that now rested in your shoulder gently as if he was touching something precious, in his mind that now held all the data his senses were receiving, inside his veins pumping and fighting the pain and suffering. You were everywhere like a bubble of intimacy and sweet care.

You finally parted and looked at him with a shy smile. God, he was fucked. “You should go upstairs and get some rest.” You tried to avoid acknowledging the sudden act of boldness. He nodded; he didn’t think he could speak right now.

The next day you returned to Bobby’s house and repeated the action and, after a week, it became a routine. You also started to get to know the boys. The need to be close to Sam grew uncontrollably. Day after day, you spent your time trying to fight the urge to bury your lips in his skin, to feel its warmth, to sense its smell.

he pokes your shoulder repeatedly, arm draped over the barrier pillow. "baby, baby, baby, baby," he repeats with each poke.

he grins big and wide when you finally turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. "do i need to get a bigger pillow?" you scoff.

"no. this one's perfectly fine," he chirps. "though i'd prefer no pillow at all. i can't feel my baby up like this!"

you roll your eyes. "you don't deserve to feel me up, richard. go to sleep." you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, juuust far enough that he can't reach you.

he groans dramatically, flopping down on his side with a huff. "fine, whatever. you don't love me, i get it. goodnight, i guess."

he falls asleep with a big, babyish pout on his face, his lip jutted out like a toddler's rather than a 20-something year old's.

his spirits are definitely raised in the morning, though, because he wakes up to his body being draped over the stupid pillow barrier, head nestled against your chest.

jason todd:

jason would take it much worse than dick. he'd feel personally offended, undoubtedly.

he'd glare daggers at the pillow separating his body from yours, wishing he could burn it to ashes with just his eyes. his arms are crossed over his beefy chest like a child told no to dessert.

finally, he tears his eyes from the pillow and onto your sweet body. your beautiful, worship-worthy body. "can i touch you yet?"

"no, jay! that's the whole point of the pillow. no cuddles allowed, i'm angry with you."

he grumbles. "no cuddles isn't the same as no touching. can't i at least hold your hand, ma?"

"no."

"ma, please?"

"jason peter," you snap, giving him the look. "i said no. goodnight."

his eyes remain trained to your back, watching it rise and fall as you breathe. "...night."

you feel much worse about how you spoke to him when you wake up the next morning. his side of the bed is cold, and the pillow in the middle looks as if it hadn't moved once since it was placed.

you get up, padding to the kitchen where jason is flipping pancakes at the stove. his shoulders are slumped, head swaying as if it's too heavy for his neck. he lets out a deep sigh. you frown.

your arms wrap around yourself as you approach. "jay?" you call softly, standing beside him at the stove. no touching, not yet. he doesn't look at you, so you tilt your head to get a look at his face and oh...

his eyelids droop with exhaustion, eyes a bit red from straining to stay awake. his under-eyes are dark bags. his lips are chapped. "baby? what's up with you?"

alas, he looks at you, his lips don't smile, eyes don't soften. he holds out your plate of pancakes and you accept it. "i did not sleep."

"...why?"

he looks at you as if it's obvious. "well, i did not have you to hold, and i can't guarantee your safety without holding you. i tried to sleep, but then i had a nightmare that i'd...lost you. every time i shut my eyes i saw the same thing as the dream. so, i decided to just stay awake."

you've never felt like a shittier person. you throw your arms around him, feeling him slump against you. you vow to never but him on a touch ban again, no matter how angry he makes you.

bruce wayne:

personally, i feel like bruce just...wouldn't even put up with it lol.

unlike how dick and jason kept the pillow and respected the rule (to an extent), bruce would just laugh in your face when he comes in for bed.

he stands at the foot of the bed, looking at your scowling face and the fluffy pillow at your side. "what's with the barrier?"

you huff. "no touching, bruce. i'm not in the mood."

he places his glass of water on his nightstand, casually crawling into bed and tossing the pillow across the room.

"bruce!" you glare, but you can't do much when he snakes his beefy arms around your waist and tugs you close until your back meets his chest. "i said no touch—"

"—i know what you said, darling. and—no offense—i don't give two fucks," he chuckles, the sound low and deep in your ear. fuck, why does he sound so good when you're so upset? "if i want to hold my wife, i'm going to hold my lovely wife."

you grumble, fighting his grip, but to no avail. "bruceeee," you groan.

"g'night, honey," he only croons, kissing your jawline so sweetly. "i love you."

moments of silence pass.

"i said i love you," he repeats, pinching your waist.

you squirm. "ughhhuh, i love you, too."

"good girl," he grins into your neck, holding you closer. "get some beauty sleep, i'll have alfred prepare you a spectacular breakfast tomorrow morning—y'know, as my apology."

true to his word, you wake up to his arms still locked around you like chains. however, the delectable scent of pancakes, waffles, berries and cream, eggs, and coffee wafts into the bedroom.

"ugh, i hate you, you promising, handsome bastard," you grumble, relaxing into his arms with the assumption that he's still sleeping. "i can never stay mad at you."

you feel lips curl into a grin against your shoulder. "yes, yes, you hate me," he mumbles sarcastically. "my wifey hates me and my lovely arms and the breakfast i make her."

"you didn't make anything. alfred made it."

"i made him make it. lovable by association, honey."

damian wayne:

when damian's told that you'd be sleeping with a pillow between you, your sweet baby's signature scowl is tainted with unshed tears. you feel bad, but your anger from the fight overpowers your remorse.

"a...pillow barrier?" he mumbles. "really, habibti?"

you nod. "a pillow barrier. i'm so upset with you, dami. i don't wanna cuddle."

he nods his head once. "i'll try to cope," he sighs, climbing into bed and throwing the covers over his head.

all of damian that shows is a little peek of jet-black hair from under the sheets. despite yourself, you have to bite back a smile. so cute.

"night, damian," you murmur.

his voice is muffled by the comforter. "goodnight, habibti. i love you oh so dearly, my world."

you're glad that he's hiding under the sheets, that way he can't see your grin breaks through—can't see your walls cracking. "i love you too, dami."

dami. the nickname makes your boyfriend smile. dami rather than damian, that's progress.

what you don't see is damian tossing and turning for hours until the clock strikes 2 am. he just can't sleep without his beloved woman in his arms, without your hair tickling his cheek as you drool into his neck.

so, he crawls out of bed and into the cool nighttime chill of the manor. if you won't cuddle him, he shall find a replacement. he returns to the bedroom a bit later with alfred the cat tucked under his arm and titus trailing lazily behind him.

he reunites with the warm blankets, holding alfred close under his chin. titus climbs into bed, sprawling comfortably over damian's legs.

you awaken the next morning the most adorable sight. your dami, arms (and legs) full of his cherished pets.

his hold on the cat is tight, the animal purring softly into damian's neck. titus has since inched his way up the bed, his head level with damian's—the dog is nearly spooning your boyfriend, doggy drool coating his sleep shirt.

well, at least he found a way to get his fix of drool and warmth. your walls finally crumble, and you reach over the pillow to stroke your knuckles against his cheek. that wakes him up.

he peels one eye open, grinning at the gooey look on your face. "what? i needed something to hold."

tim drake:

mommy kink!tim is activated almost instantly, and he tears each and every one of your walls down until you forget why you were even upset with him in the first place.

his face falls when you announce the pillow's presence. "what?!"

"you heard me, tim. pillow stays."

"no...no, no, no, no," he whines softly, feeling helpless. he tosses his phone haphazardly onto his nightstand, flopping onto the bed. "please, no."

you huff. "i'm upset, tim! i can't cuddle with you tonight, i just can't."

"mommy, please!" he begs pathetically, shoving the pillow out from where it's lodged between your bodies. he nuzzles up into your side instantly. his dark locks brush your cheek. "can't sleep without my mommy...need her to hold me, and love me, and tell me i'm a good boy."

you arch a brow. "but you're not a good boy."

he whimpers, eyes drilling shut in regret at your words. "o– okay, then to tell me i'm a bad boy. that i'm such a bad boy and don't deserve my mommy's affection."

"okay, fine. you're a ba—"

"—no! i change my mind. don't tell me any of those things," he whines, big blue eyes looking apologetically up at you through thick lashes. fuck, the eyes. "i'm so so so sorry, mama. i wasn't a good boy, but i can be! a good boy, that is."

you run a hand through his hair, and he whimpers—loud and desperate for more touch. "you promise you'll be good? you're not lying to mommy so she'll cuddle you?"

he keeps his eyes on yours, so melty and gentle. "i'd never lie to you, mommy. i swear."

"okay, then. if you say you can be a good boy, timmy, then i'll cuddle you tonight. but don't make me mad again, understand?"

"understand, mommy," he coos, smiling happily now that he's won you over. he snuggles into your chest, sighing contentedly. "thank you."

Your make up is strewn across the bathroom counter, but this is out of shot. Instead, the skin care products are all neatly lined up on Bruce’s side.

You’re dressed in a fluffy white robe with your initials embroidered, hair clipped away from your face. Your make up from the gala is still on and you’re beautiful diamond studs— a present from Bruce, glitter under the bathroom’s lights. 

“Hello!” You smile at the camera. “And welcome to Vogue Beauty Secrets. Today, I’ll be showing you my skincare routine for after galas. We literally got back from the gala..." 

You glance over at Bruce, who is getting rid of his tie in the main bedroom. Luckily, the camera can’t see him. "What, twenty minutes ago?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

You laugh. "Twenty-three minutes ago. I wanted to film this while everything was still on because I feel like that's the only way to really show what works for me."

You carefully unclip the earrings, gently setting them down on a tiny golden plate. The camera picks the small metallic sound of the diamonds clicking against the metal. “These are usually the first thing to go because I'm terrified of dropping one down the sink. Bruce says that's what insurance is for, but I think he'd still judge me."

Somewhere off-camera, “I absolutely would.”

You laugh. “He's lurking somewhere off camera, don’t mind him.”

Slow and sure steps approach, Bruce’s is wearing a matching robe to yours and fluffy slippers the hotel provided. He looks absolutely adorable, but not like the camera sees it– the angle is too far off.

You pick up the cleansing balm, a yellow thing with a metallic lid. “This is the Elemis Cleansing Balm and an absolute jewel.” You rub the balm with circular motions all over your face. “And no, this isn’t sponsored.”

“When people always ask what my biggest beauty secret is.." You slightly turn your body in Bruce's direction. He grabs a cotton cloth, previously soaked in warm water. “It's probably hydration. Which is the most boring answer imaginable, but unfortunately it's true.”

Bruce begins removing the make up, with soft and soothing motions. His eyes are soft and focused on the task. Your heart swells, how is it you have such an amazing husband?

"People always think the gala is the exhausting part." Your eyes are still closed as Bruce keeps wiping a stubborn streak of mascara. "It's actually this. You're tired, your feet hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror." You smile. "It helps that Bruce loves to help with my skincare.”

He smiles, small and just for you. “If I didn’t you’d probably forget.”

You laugh. “That's not true!” You turn to the camera again. “Show them the cloth.”

Bruce’s massive hand appears in frame, veins noticeable and his golden wedding band shining. The cloth is now dirtied with varying shades of brown and a speck of maroon. 

“As you can see I was wearing loads of make up, and for that reason– where is i–”

Bruce hands you the next product. 

You barely look at him. “I use a second cleanser.” 

You quickly apply it. “Okay, boom! Makeup is off.” You move your head, showing the different angles. “Now comes the fun part.” A small pause. "When I was younger I used to think skincare was something you only did when your skin looked bad."

Bruce hums. "It showed."

You gasp, pretending to be offended. "You're unbelievable."

“You still married me.”

You hum, smirking at the camera. “It’s never too late to get a divorce.”

“Hydration,” Bruce clears his throat, and hands you the SK-II bottle.

“I was actually terrible with skincare,” you say as you press your product-soaked hands onto your cheeks. “As Bruce here snitched.”

“She used a barsoap.” Bruce dryly says. 

You laugh, glancing at him. “You’re getting kicked out of my video.”

“But then who would hand you everything?”

Just as you’re about to reply your phone rings. You quickly rinse your hands in the sink before picking it up. You click the speakerphone and set it on the counter.

“Dick, baby. What's wrong?”

“Can’t I just call to ask how my wonderful mother is doing?”

You suppress a smile. “So nothing is on fire?”

“Not on fire, no. Hypothetically... are all the cars insured?”

Beside you, Bruce pales. “Is someone hurt?”

Dick groans. “Please don’t tell me Bruce is there.”

“Sorry, baby,” You pause, shooting the camera a look. “And yes, all of the cars are insured. After you and Jason crashed the last one we weren’t taking risks.”

“Oh, okay! Thank you mom, love you. Bye!” He hangs up.

You look back at the camera with a fond smile. "Everyone says parenting gets easier when they're older."

Bruce slowly shakes his head. "It just gets louder."

You nod. "He's right. When they’re older they have their own opinions and personalities, and they have the confidence to argue back.” You scrunch your nose. “Eventually they realize I can out-stubborn every single one of them.”

You sigh affectionately. “This is part of the routine as much as the other steps. There’s always some emergency– so even if my phone is off there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through.”

“That being the kids and me.”

You grab the next product before Bruce can beat you to it. He grumbles something, but it lacks any heat.

You show it to the camera. It’s a tiny dark purple bottle, with a black pipette as lid. You squint your eyes, trying to read the description. “This is the Skin Ceuticals Hya–Hyaluronic… Acid Intensifier... Multi-Glyyycan. Wow, what a mouthful. Who even came up with the name?”

"Scientists."

You shake your head. "It’s all marketing." You slowly apply it. “I forgot to mention the names of the other products– wait, can I mention them? Since I’m not doing publicity or anything. Wait, am I going to get sued?"

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll ask the lawyers tomorrow.”

"See?" You grin at the camera. "I don't even have to think about things like that anymore."

Bruce shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

You shift the camera slightly, so it doesn’t catch you giving Bruce a sweet peck on the cheek. His shoulders slump and you give him another.

A second after you’re back to the camera. “Sorry guys, I can’t resist my husband.”

Your phone rings yet again, the noise interrupting you mid-speech. You immediately pick it up, setting it on speaker again.

“Mother.” Damian’s voice can be heard. “I understood Richard called you?”

You raise a conspiratorial brow at the camera. “Yes, darling.”

“Richard has made yet another poor decision.”

“Ahuh.”

“I simply wished to clarify that I advised against it.” 

“Thanks sweetheart— please go to sleep now, it’s getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night Damian, I love you.”

He hangs up after a second.

You laugh, bright and amused. “I think we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. But there’s only two more steps to go!”

Bruce’s hand appears on screen again, showing the eye cream. You offer your face, your side profile is the only visible thing aside from Bruce’s gentle fingers applying the cream on your under eyes.

“You know, you’re really good at this.”

He barely smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

"Bruce always does the eye cream." You whisper to the invisible audience.

"You poke yourself."

You roll your eyes. "Once."

He looks at you, stopping his ministrations for a second. 

You sigh. "Twice."

Then the lipbalm, this time it's you who shows it to the camera. “And now my favourite part. The lip balm!” You apply it on your lips. “This one is honestly so good…” you finish rubbing it, “I keep one in each bag. A bit pricey though.”

“I think everyone expects some elaborate forty step routine. There isn’t one, just make sure your skin is clean and healthy. Oh, and really, really important. Don’t forget to drink water. The key for the whole glowy look is to be hydrated.”

“And marry someone who reminds you.” Bruce chimes in.

You smile. “That one definitely helps.” You unclipp your hair away, your hair gently framing your face. “Be kind to your skin. Don’t pick it, it’ll just get red and you’ll get more pimples.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to people on the internet either— I’m literally standing under a studio light.”

Bruce leans into frame just enough to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him, then at the camera again. “Thanks for watching!”

Comment Section:

@snoopycftheday the fact that she looks BETTER after taking her makeup off ?????????

@vogue Thank you for joining us 🤍

@slutforthestarks Bruce's entire personality is 'yes dear'

@metropolismetrosfan she genuinely has the most insane face card i've ever seen

@parasocialalert she has the personality of a wallpaper

@sukunt its sending me that 80% of the video is her flirting with her husband and talking to her kids and the other 20% is actual skincare

@selinakyle Can your husband fight?

@selinakyle Bruce CANNOT handle all that

@officialgothamgazette "there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through" being a mom never clocks out 

@slutforgreenlantern they're both so hot idk if i want to be them or be with them #pleasepleasepleaseletmethird

@boostergoldslefttoe just added everything to my cart... why is the total $672 😭😭😭

@daschundmom "Bruce is lurking somewhere off camera" Bruce proceeds to become half the video.

@user7696the way she instinctively tilted her face up so bruce could put on her eye cream... they've done this a thousand times IM SICK

@truthhurts she's only famous because she married bruce lmao she's not even that pretty

@mrswayneisamilf everyone talks about his green flags but can we discuss HER ?? she's so patient and kind every time one of the kids called she's my role model

The only reason Dean had stayed behind at a different motel was because Sam had suggested it, claiming he’d already checked and found there weren’t two rooms available—specifically, none with two twin beds in one—so he’d have to find another place, leaving the two remaining rooms for you and him. Dean didn’t ask questions, though he did eye Sam suspiciously. He simply dropped the two of you off at the motel before driving on to the next nearest hotel.

The truth was, Sam hadn’t checked anything. He’d been hatching a plan in his head ever since he learned you’d be joining the hunt. He’d harbored feelings for you for a long time but never had the chance—or the courage—to express them. Instead, he’d settled for watching you from afar, sniffing your underwear (stealing just enough so you wouldn’t suspect a thing), and faking injuries just to make you worry and drop whatever you were doing to tend to him. Yes, Sam knew it was wrong; he knew that if you ever found out about that—or about the times he’d masturbated while fantasizing about taking you passionately and roughly—you wouldn’t even look at him again. So, he quickly devised a plan.

When you arrived at the motel, he asked you to grab his bag as well and wait outside while he went to book the rooms. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly behavior, but it ensured you wouldn’t overhear the conversation he was about to have with the clerk.

“Hi,” He greeted, glancing back over his shoulder at you as Dean drove off and you adjusted the bags onto your shoulders. He turned back to the clerk. “I need a room with a double bed.”

He felt no remorse, smiling with satisfaction as he took the room key, though he quickly wiped the smile away and feigned an awkward expression as he walked back to your side.

“What happened?” You asked when you noticed the look on his face.

“There was only one room.”

“Well, I don’t mind sharing a room.” You shrugged.

“No, I mean… There was only one room with a bed for two.”

“Oh…”

He watched your reaction closely. This was a pivotal moment; you might decide to call Dean and go to another motel, shattering his plan—but instead, he just saw you shake your head.

“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, just to keep you from getting suspicious.

“Yes, it’s already paid for and Dean has already left. Let’s just get this over with.”

You headed toward the rooms, and Sam followed with a smile, catching up to walk beside you. You entered the room and dropped your bags on the floor before looking at the bed and placing your hands on your hips. But for Sam, there was still one more step in his plan—one that could cost him everything, yet one he had to take to ensure you didn’t suspect a thing.

“You know… I can use the couch.” You looked at him with a sigh, as if his idea were silly, but he pressed on to ensure you wouldn’t suspect a thing. “Really. It looks comfortable.” He gave a small laugh, acting as though the idea might be uncomfortable for him, but implying he’d do it just to put you at ease.

You clicked your tongue and took off your jacket.

“Nonsense. We’re both adults.”

With that, you headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Sam smiled again as he took off his own jacket. He could already imagine the feel of your soft skin brushing against his under the sheets—perhaps just because he shifted position and you happened to be close by.

By the time you came out, Sam was already in his sleepwear.

“I’ll go to the bathroom, and you can get changed in the meantime.”

You nodded; before he went in, he glanced at you as you bent down to open your bag and pull out your pajamas. He shook his head with amusement and stepped into the bathroom.

When he emerged, you were already in bed, under the covers, with your back turned to him. He approached like a predator stalking its prey, climbing onto the bed—making it creak—and shifting the sheets to slide underneath. He gazed at your shoulder and the strap of the thin shirt you were wearing. He grew bolder, moving his nose closer to deeply inhale the scent of your hair—not so strongly that you’d notice, but enough to let your fragrance fill his senses. He was tempted to let out a groan but held it back. He didn’t think you were asleep yet; your breathing didn’t match that of someone who had already drifted off.

He lay on his side, watching you intently. Even in the darkness, he could make out your silhouette and the way it shifted and moved with your breathing. He made sure you were asleep before proceeding with his plan and moving closer to you, slowly draping an arm over your stomach and subtly pulling you toward him. He slid his other arm beneath your head and buried his face in your hair, finally breathing in your scent just as he had wanted.

You slowly opened your eyes upon waking. Sunlight was already streaming in through the blinds and curtains. You blinked and stretched, feeling well-rested, but you couldn’t move far because something strong was holding you back. Frowning slightly, you took a better look at your surroundings. Your head was resting on Sam’s chest; your arms were wrapped around him, and his were around you. You looked on in confusion. You didn’t know at what point in the night you had ended up like this, but it felt surprisingly right, so you decided not to move—not even when Sam woke up, rubbed his eye, and looked down at you curiously before smiling.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“I see we moved around during the night.” He joked. You laughed softly, still half-asleep.

“It seems so. Though I swear I didn’t expect it.”

“And do you feel okay like this?”

You smiled and nodded.

“I’d be lying if I said no.” You admitted shyly.

He stroked your hair, and you rested your head back against his chest. In truth, none of this had been accidental. His plan from the start was for you to wake up in his arms—as if you felt so comfortable with him that you subconsciously sought out his touch and protection. He had stayed awake for most of the night, shifting you at key moments until you were in your current position. His plan had worked, and you remained completely unaware of it all.

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Sam Winchester. The known, and feared demon hunter Sam Winchester was pouting. Dean's eyebrows furrowed "Dude. Are you pouting?" He sounded disgusted

Sam looked over at him like a deer caught in headlights "Wha- no" he denied, but the uptick in his voice said otherwise.

Dean couldn't hide his shocked expression "Yeah, whatever-" he waved it off and returned to his original thought but in the back of his mind he confirmed. Sam Winchester definitely pouts.

Sam let out a released breath because he in fact had been pouting. He hated the thought that you had to go and possibly flirt with an asshole just to get information from the guy.

The next time he's caught pouting it's by Bobby. Which is somehow worse than Dean. This time it was because the two of you had a small disagreement about your capabilities.

At least that's how you'd taken it. Sam had been worried about you being sent off to torch bones on the other side of the large and very haunted estate.

He knew you could take care of yourself he'd seen you smite three demons all on your own just to save his ass. But it never stopped the worry.

You gave him a piece of your mind when he volunteered to go find the newfound missing girl that had just been right behind you, instead of you. And then you went anyway.

While they were waiting inside the salted room, Bobby happened to look over at Sam, noticing how quiet he'd been, and scoffed in disbelief at what he saw.

Sam is sitting with his arms folded and pouting like a child.

"Oh come on she's got you poutin' on the job? What's next you kiss the ground she walks on"

"He already does that. You should see him when she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. Man's whipped" Dean added his (in Sam's opinion) unnecessary commentary.

Sam rolled his eyes because they were being stupid. Winchesters don't pout. Especially not during a job. But Sam was pouting.

He's a grown, 6'4, widely feared hunter and he was pouting.

What the hell is happening to him?

The last time he had been caught was the worst because it had been by you. Dean had gone out to do whatever Dean does in his free time and you and Sam had stayed in your shared motel.

You were lying in Sam's lap, magazine in hand while Sam flipped through channels on the t.v.

You had been so engrossed in the latest celebrity gossip that you rarely had the chance to catch up on that you hadn't acknowledged when Sam had muttered three heavy words.

There was a pang in Sam's chest when seconds of silence passed after he muttered the words. Which it's not like he hadn't said them to you before. He had, hundreds of times.

But usually, every time you would mutter back 'I love you more Sammy' and the words would ease any doubt or pain that he had been feeling.

But you didn't this time. This time you flipped the page and gasped when you saw that Angelina and Brad Pitt had divorced.

So Sam couldn't help when his lips had downturned, or when his eyebrows found company in one another. As his brain wracked itself to see if he had done something- anything to make you angry.

But when you lifted your head up to look at him, preparing to say something to him your face fell. "What's wrong?" Your voice came out soft and quiet.

Sam felt embarrassed, because he knows you love him. Everybody knows, but he couldn't help it. "You didn't-" he pauses, feeling absolutely absurd, he sighed ticking his jaw. "You didn't say I love you back" he muttered.

You blinked at him once. Twice. Three times.

A hint of a smile began growing on your lips, and Sam's heart dropped. Before you could stop it a full smile grew and you let out a delighted laugh, repositioning yourself on his lap.

You're now sitting up and facing him, a shit-eating smile on your face, Sam groaned his head falling back, thudding gently against the headboard "Oh god" he sighs.

"Aw! Oh my goodness, Sam." You grabbed his face dramatically, punctuating each word with kisses "I'm-" kiss "so-" kiss "sorry!"

Sam's face reddens, but he can't deny the sudden feeling of pleasure that coursed through him. He laughs through the kisses, each one in a different spot. One on his cheek, one on his nose, one on his forehead, a sneaky one on his neck, a final one on his lips.

Sam couldn't stop smiling long enough to kiss you back, and you knew that. Your hands moved to his hair as you separated, you gave him the smile that caught him by his heart "I'm sorry baby. I love you too." you said earnestly.

Sam's head cocked to the side, it was his turn to be a little shit "Are you sure? I'm not really convin-" You shot off of his lap, running to your bag "Where are you going?" He calls after you.

You smiled, "Getting my lipstick, gonna show you my lovin' baby" you joked "you look cute when you pout by the way" you said as you sat back down on his lap.

Sam scoffs watching you apply the bright lipstick "I don't pout"

"You absolutely do, but like I said it's cute. Don't worry I won't tell the ghosts"

it all started going downhill the moment you took on this hunt. sam and dean had been on the outs with each other again, and you’re not sure why. they weren’t saying much to each other—or saying much at all, period. they seemed to be avoiding talking as much as possible. it didn’t help that the hunt seemed to last forever, and it certainly wasn’t getting any closer to being solved. it seemed like the universe was laughing at you.

dean, as he always seems to do, breaks first.

it was mostly because he’s been realizing that he can’t do anything right. he can’t take care of his brother, and he can’t take care of the people he’s trying to save. he’s not mad at his brother. that’s not why dean’s avoiding him. it’s because he feels like he failed his little brother. no matter how hard he tries to make things right, in any sense, he always fails. always. whether it’s with sam or anything else, he fails. it’s discouraging, and it eats away at what little is left of his psyche. so when one of the potential victims almost dies, the one he swore to protect—it’s over. he’s done, at least for tonight. he’ll get up tomorrow, pretend to be fine, but he knows the truth. he’s a failure of a man.

that’s why he has to get out of bed in the middle of the night, fighting the tears that have been buried deep inside him this whole damn hunt. this whole damn year. he loses the fight almost immediately, and he can’t drown alone. he’ll never live to see tomorrow if he does. so that’s what leads him to your room, connected to his and sam’s own.

you wake, not even having been really asleep, but you blink when you hear the door on the wall open. you weren’t sure who you were expecting through the adjourning door between your room and theirs, but the moment you see dean’s glassy eyes, you fight the urge to get out of bed and meet him halfway. he gets to you eventually after carefully shutting the door, then almost falling into your bed you’ve called home for the past week or so. he doesn’t make a sound, but you feel your shirt getting wet where his face is buried into you. a few sniffles leave him as he wraps his arms tight around your torso, holding on for dear life.

you’re not too sure how long you lay with dean curled up beside you. he’s wearing his jeans to bed again, you notice, and you make a note to scold him nicely for it when he’s not sobbing in your arms. but for now, you hold him tight, like you’re trying to squeeze the sadness out of him. it doesn’t seem to work as well as you want it to, but dean knows. he always does.

sam’s not boding too well, either. he’s been having nightmares again, always ending with him waking up in a cold sweat and no air in his lungs. it’s exhausting. he’s trying to prove to everyone that he’s fine, that he can handle everything, but he’s not. and he can’t. not now. not tonight. he’s long overdue for a breakdown, and it seems like tonight’s going to be the night it all blows up. dean’s gone when sam glances at the bed parallel to his own—and he doesn’t care anymore now. the tears start coming too fast to stop, and there’s only one person he can think of within a 5 square mile radius that can help him not suffocate on his own thoughts.

you.

it’s you.

he gets your door open, not knowing his older brother had opened it once already tonight. sam freezes in place when he realizes who is next to you, hand still on the door handle. you know dean heard sam walk in, judging by the way dean tenses up in your arms. you think he might run—and if the roles were reversed, you realize if sam came to you first, dean would’ve never gotten this far. he would have suffered alone.

but he’s not.

and neither is sam.

while dean lay next to you, sam rounds the other corner of the bed, climbing in carefully, like he’s scared you’ll turn him away. you wouldn’t—never in a million lifetimes would you turn away either of these men. you hold them both now: sam’s arms fill the gaps where dean’s aren’t, their heads resting close to your own, faces buried into you to hide their wet eyes. you kiss each of the tops of their heads, the smell of dean’s hair reminding you of fresh-cut grass, sam’s resembling something like old paper. the only sound in the room is their muffled sobs when they feel the need to let the sound out and the occasional sniff from them.

your shirt is soaked now from the brother’s tears, the fabric sticking to your skin, but you don’t care. you’d jump into a pool fully clothed if you had to for them. and you know that they know that tidbit—it’s why they both came to you.

you hold them close to you until their sobs quiet into just soft sniffs and intakes of breath—and then until their breathing slows down to when you know they’re asleep. it is only then that you allow yourself to succumb to sleep, making sure to keep an arm around each of the brothers as you do. you don’t want them waking up without feeling you there.

maybe you didn’t fix all their problems, and you most certainly didn’t do much talking to them at all—but you know you can’t fix all their problems, all their issues that are cemented into their souls. you also know, however, that dean and sam didn’t go through this alone tonight. they never have to, not with you around. after so many years of suffering, they have you to hold them together now. you can’t heal them. you know that, too.

all you want to do is hold them though it.

so you will until the sun graces the horizon.

He’s been keeping this on the down low. He’s not sure why he’s having visions, but until he understands why his nightmares were coming true… well, he’s gonna keep that to himself.

And now, he was starting to get headaches. To get visions during the day. As clear as a video he would be watching on TV. And he feels awful. He and Dean have been hunting together. You were always accompanying them to hunt, especially after Sam went to Stanford. You kept Dean company and hunted with him.

However, these past few days, Dean and Sam went on their own. You stayed at Bobby’s place since you were a bit sick and needed to stay in bed for a little while. They didn’t mind, and Bobby insisted anyway. He was always taking care of all of you.

Sam’s headache started, and he needed to grab his head and hiss at the pain. He hates what he’s feeling, and he knows what’s coming. Dean rushes to his side immediately.

“Hey, hey, hey. Sammy, are you alright?” he asks. But Sam is deep into his vision.

You’re tied up to a chair, with a tear-streaked face and screaming out. He doesn’t get to hear your voice, but for the way your lips move, he can be sure you’re yelling out his name. You look desperate and helpless, pulling at your restraints, but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing you can do. Your face goes up to the ceiling as you scream desperately while your whole body contorts, as if something invisible was pulling you.

He comes back with wide and worried eyes, looking up at Dean. “We- we gotta go, Dean, now!”

“Why? Where?” Dean’s worried, confused. What had just happened to his brother?

“Now, Dean!” he yells and yanks him towards the Impala. “To Bobby’s, now!”

He had never seen his brother like this. He’s grabbing his phone as if it were a lifeline, alternating calls between you and Bobby. Neither of you two is picking up, and he’s going insane. Dean is driving and staring, his worry increasing every second that none of you is picking up the phone.

“Drive faster, Dean!” Sam’s frustration is flaring up increasingly. His chest was heavy with worry and all the thoughts that were rushing through his mind. He didn’t get to see exactly what was happening to you. He’s going insane in the small car that can only go so fast.

Dean floors the pedal, accelerating for his growing worry and for his little brother. Who hasn’t even been able to tell him what was wrong or why they were going to check up on you. But for the way Sam was going insane right beside him, he didn’t even dare to say anything. Not even trying to comfort him. It was hopeless to try; he knew his brother was gonna brush off whatever words he said.

Sam is almost shaking with anxiety, checking on police scanners for anything that could lead him to where you were or if anything had happened to you yet. He was still trying to call you, but your lack of response —and Bobby’s too— was enough to bring this 6’4” tall man to the brink of tears. Not shedding anything yet as he tried his best to keep his composure.

The Impala’s engine roared, a low, vibrating growl that usually brought Sam some semblance of comfort. Right now, it just sounded like a countdown.

He was practically vibrating in the passenger seat, his knees pressed against the dashboard because he couldn't sit still. The police scanner on his lap hummed with static, filling the tense silence of the cabin with fragmented dispatches about traffic violations and minor accidents. Nothing about a house in South Dakota. Nothing about you.

"Sammy, you’re gonna put your fist through the glass if you keep squeezing that phone like that," Dean said, his eyes darting from the dark, open highway to his brother’s profile. He eased the Chevy down a gear, pushing her past eighty-five. "Talk to me. Did someone call you? Did you get a bad feeling, or what?"

"Just drive, Dean," Sam choked out, his voice raw. He stared out the window, watching the blurred silhouettes of cornfields rip past in the fading twilight.

Inside his head, the vision was still playing on a loop. The image of you screaming his name—silent but desperate—was burned into the back of his eyelids. Every time he blinked, he saw it. The phantom pain of the headache was still throbbing behind his temples, a dull, sickening reminder that whatever was happening to him wasn't a fluke.

He pressed the call button on his phone for the tenth time. He held it to his ear, listening to the agonizingly slow ring... ring... ring... before it cut to your voicemail greeting.

“Hey, you’ve reached—”

Sam slammed the phone down on the bench seat, a ragged, frustrated breath escaping his chest. "Come on, come on, pick up..."

"That’s it," Dean muttered, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "I’ve been patient for the last fifty miles, Sam. You look like you’re about to jump out of a moving vehicle. If you don't tell me what’s waiting for us at Bobby’s, I’m pulling over."

"Don't you dare slow down!" Sam snapped, turning on him, his eyes wide and bloodshot. The sudden flare of anger caught Dean off guard. Sam swallowed hard, trying to force his voice back into a normal register, but his chest was heaving. "Just... please. Trust me. We need to get there right now. If we’re too late..." He choked on the words, unable to finish the sentence.

Dean stared at him for a long, heavy second, scanning the sheer terror written across his little brother's face. He recognized that look. It was the same look Sam had when they were kids and something went bump in the night—only this time, Sam was a 6'4" hunter, and the monster wasn't in the closet.

Dean didn't ask another question. He just slammed his boot down on the accelerator.

The Impala surged forward, the speedometer needle creeping toward a hundred. The wind howled against the windshield, drowning out the static of the police scanner. Dean reached down, grabbing a silver flask from the door pocket, and tossed it into Sam’s lap.

"Holy water," Dean said grimly, keeping his eyes glued to the asphalt. "Just in case. Whatever it is, Sammy, we’re going to handle it. She’s gonna be fine. Bobby’s there."

Sam gripped the flask, his knuckles locking. He wanted to believe Dean. He wanted so badly to believe that Bobby’s presence meant safety. But the vision hadn't shown Bobby standing guard. It had shown total, helpless isolation.

He closed his eyes again, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the passenger window, praying to a heaven he wasn't sure was listening that the old car could go just a little bit faster.

The tires of the Impala shrieked against the asphalt as Dean tore into Bobby’s scrapyard, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and gravel. Before the car even came to a complete halt, Sam was throwing his door open, stumbling out into the humid air and sprinting toward the house.

"Sam, wait!" Dean yelled, killing the engine and grabbing his duffel bag from the backseat, his hand instinctively dropping to the machete tucked under his seat before he bolted after his brother.

The silence hanging over the salvage yard was deafening. No music from Bobby’s radio, no clinking of tools—nothing. He screams your name, trying to call you, but you obviously don’t answer.

The house was in shambles. Books were ripped from the shelves, and Bobby’s favorite ancient lore volumes were scattered across the floor. In the kitchen, a half-empty mug of coffee had been knocked over, the dark liquid still slowly dripping off the edge of the table and pooling on the linoleum.

Dean pushed past Sam, his eyes scanning the room with lethal focus. "Sammy, look."

On the floor near the kitchen doorway, Bobby’s shotgun lay abandoned. Just a few feet away, a thick line of black salt had been violently swept aside, breaking the barrier.

"They were ambushed," Dean muttered, his face hardening as the realization hit. He knows Bobby wouldn’t have left his gun lying around. They were probably attacked. But there was no clue of where you were.

Sam didn't answer. His head was pounding again, a dull, throbbing pressure building behind his eyes as he stared at the center of the living room. The vision from earlier flashed in his mind again—the chair, the desperate screams, your lips forming his name. He gripped Dean by his bicep. “Downstairs,” he muttered, barely. They needed to be silent and careful.

Dean’s eyes snapped from the broken salt line to the grip Sam had on his bicep. The sheer force of his brother's fingers digging into his muscle was enough to tell him everything he needed to know. Sam was completely dialed in, his face pale, his jaw set in a hard, desperate line.

"Downstairs," Sam repeated in a harsh, barely audible whisper. His head felt like it was splitting open, the phantom echo of your screams vibrating right through his skull. In the vision, the background had been dark, the ceiling low and lined with exposed wooden beams. It wasn't the spare bedroom. It was Bobby’s basement. The panic room.

Dean didn't question it this time. The urgency radiating off Sam was a physical force.

Nodding slowly, Dean slipped his hand inside his jacket, drawing his silver-plated pistol. He flipped the safety off with a completely silent, practiced click of his thumb. Sam’s hand dropped to his own waistband, pulling his weapon, his breath coming in shallow, measured draws as he fought back the blinding ache behind his eyes.

They moved like ghosts across the ruined living room, stepping perfectly over the scattered lore books and avoiding the floorboards they both knew creaked.

The door leading down to the basement was tucked away down the hall, standing just an inch ajar. A thin sliver of pitch-black darkness peeked through the gap. Usually, a warm, low light spilled from Bobby’s workshop down there, but right now, it was like looking into a void. The air moving out of the basement felt unnaturally, violently cold—carrying the faint, metallic tang of blood and the heavy, sulfurous stench of a demon.

Dean took the lead, placing his boot against the wood and pushing the door open millimeter by millimeter until it cleared the frame. He caught Sam’s eye, giving him a sharp nod, and began the descent.

The wooden stairs felt endless. With every step downward, the temperature plummeted, turning their breath into thick, white clouds. Sam’s heart was hammering against his ribs so loudly he was terrified the things waiting below would hear it. Just let her be okay, he repeated like a silent mantra, his fingers freezing against the grip of his gun. Please, just let us be on time.

At the bottom of the stairs, the darkness gave way to the flickering, eerie glow of a few melted candles.

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat.

The heavy iron door of Bobby’s panic room was wide open. Inside the threshold, the dim candlelight caught the silhouette of a heavy wooden chair. You were there, tied down, your face slick with sweat and tears, your chest heaving as you fought against the thick ropes cutting into your wrists. Bobby was slumped against the reinforced wall beside you, unmoving, a dark trail of blood drying down the side of his face.

Standing right over you, fingers buried tangled in your hair to force your head back, was a man in a sharp, dark suit. As the shadow of the Winchesters fell across the basement floor, the man turned his head toward the stairs. His eyes rolled back, revealing solid, bottomless black.

"Look at that," the demon purred, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "The dynamic duo finally made it. I was worried you boys got lost on the highway."

Your breath is heavy, and you look up at Sam with clenched teeth. “Sam, don’t.” Your voice is breathy, tired. You sound as if you had been putting up with hours of torture. The mere idea makes Sam’s fists clench. “It’s a trap, Sam, please,” you beg barely, and the man pulls your hair harder, making you squeal out of pain.

“Shut up!” he screams at you. “They know what they’re doing.”

Hearing you cry out in pain made something fundamental snap inside Sam’s chest. The sight of your face—pale, exhausted, and streaked with tears—collided violently with the vision that had been torturing him for the last fifty miles. Seeing you hurt in real time was a thousand times worse than the video playing in his head.

Beside him, Dean’s eyes went dead and cold. He raised his gun, aiming it straight between the demon's pitch-black eyes. "Let her go, you son of a bitch."

The demon just laughed, a cruel, grating sound that echoed unpleasantly off the reinforced concrete walls of the panic room. He didn't let go of your hair. Instead, he twisted his fingers tighter, deliberately forcing your chin upward to show off how completely he controlled the situation.

"Or what, Dean?" the demon mocked, tilting his head. "You'll shoot this pretty little meat suit I'm wearing? Go ahead. See how that helps your friend here."

"Sam..." you choked out again, your eyes swimming with fresh tears as you tried to look at him through the pain. "Please... just go. Bobby's..."

"I told you to shut your mouth!" the demon roared. He raised his free hand, and before Dean could even pull the trigger, a violent, invisible shockwave blasted through the doorway.

The telekinetic force hit the Winchesters like a freight train. Dean was thrown backward, his gun clattering across the concrete floor as he slammed hard into the wooden stairs, coughing as the breath was knocked out of him. Sam was lifted right off his feet, pinned ruthlessly against the solid stone wall of the basement. The invisible grip wrapped around his throat and chest, tightening until his ribs creaked under the pressure.

"You Winchester boys really are as predictable as they say," the demon sneered, stepping away from you but keeping his hand outstretched to hold Sam against the wall. "Always running into the fire for the people you love. It’s pathetic, really."

Sam thrashed against the wall, his boots kicking uselessly at the air. He tried to draw a breath, but his airway was completely blocked. His vision started to blur at the edges, the candles in the room dancing in distorted shapes.

Then, the demon turned back to you.

"Now, where were we?" the monster murmured. He raised his hand toward your face, his fingers curling into a claw-like shape.

Suddenly, your body contorted violently in the chair. You let out a strangled, blood-curdling scream, your head snapping back toward the ceiling as if something invisible was violently ripping into your very soul.

It was the exact moment from his nightmare. The exact, helpless agony.

No. No, no, no.

The pressure behind Sam's eyes exploded. The dull headache he had been fighting on the highway turned into a blinding, searing white heat that rushed down his spine and filled his veins with pure, unadulterated fury. The sheer desperation to save you—to stop that scream from tearing out of your throat—triggered something deep, dark, and terrifyingly powerful inside him.

He didn't care what was happening to him. He didn't care why he could feel it. He just needed the demon dead.

Stop it, Sam thought, focusing every ounce of his burning rage entirely on the man in the suit. I said, STOP!

The demon abruptly froze. His telekinetic grip on Sam vanished instantly, and Sam dropped to his knees, gasping for air. But Sam didn't stay down. He forced himself up, his eyes locked onto the monster, his right hand extended, fingers trembling with a strange, heavy force.

The demon's hand dropped away from you. You slumped forward in your restraints, coughing and drawing ragged, desperate breaths, finally free of the invisible torture.

The demon gasped, his head snapping toward Sam with sudden, genuine shock. The bottomless black in his eyes flickered violently, turning back to human white for a fraction of a second before being forced back into darkness. He gripped his own throat, his knees buckling as if an invisible noose was tightening around his neck.

"What... what are you doing?" the demon choked out, his voice turning into a wet, terrified wheeze.

"Sammy?" Dean gasped from the floor by the stairs, pushing himself up, his eyes wide with a mixture of absolute awe and deep, instinctual terror as he looked at his little brother.

But Sam wasn't listening. He didn't see Dean, and he didn't care about the rules anymore. He just saw you—bruised, breathing, and terrified—and the thing that had dared to touch you.

Sam took a heavy step forward, his hand flexing as he squeezed the invisible hold he had on the demon's throat. His voice dropped to a dangerously low, resonant pitch that didn't sound like him at all.

Panicked, the demon looked up at the cloud of black smoke went out of his mouth, making his host fall to the ground unconscious. You were still crying a little, Sam rushed right over you.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re okay, I got you. I’m so sorry, I got you,” he kept repeating, his hands working fast on your restraints, and as soon as your hands are free, they go around his neck to pull him into a hug, crying into his neck. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m right here, baby.”

He holds you tightly while Dean checks out where Bobby was. He was unconscious in another room.

Both Sam and Dean take Bobby into the Impala, and only the older brother drives him to the hospital. Sam stays with you, cleaning up your wounds and holding your hand through it all. You’re not so badly hurt; you didn’t need a hospital. Just Sam.

Even worse is how you just knew this wasn’t the end of that demon. But so did Sam.

“You’re not serious,” Sam exclaimed in a hushed whisper, sweeping his gaze over the silver lake, the sandy shore, the deep stretch of evergreens that encircled the area. 

There was nobody else around. Nobody else was around for miles. A mile. Three quarters of a mile, technically, the distance back to the Whispering Pine Log Cabin Motel. 

“I’m serious,” you said. 

Sam gave you a sceptical look. It wasn’t entirely effective—his cheeks burned as bright as the undoubtedly illegal bonfire you’d yanked him into setting up earlier. 

“You’re not serious.” 

“I’m very serious,” you insisted, your laugh cutting through the late night quiet. “It’s Joninės.”

“Joninės.” 

You laughed again as Sam butchered the pronunciation. 

“Rasos.” 

“Rasos.” 

“Surprisingly better,” you complimented playfully and patted his shoulder. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, but he stayed rather casual about it. The girl he had one big, fat, embarrassing crush on touching him was no big deal. No big deal at all. He’d remain cool if that was the last thing he ever did. “Water becomes alive during summer solstice. One dip and you’ll be pretty forever.” 

“One skinny dip,” he said, shamefully excited, although he’d never admit it, and helpless to the fact you were undressing already. “Why do we have to be naked?” 

“It’s tradition,” you said like it was obvious, and maybe to you, it was, but Sam couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine that he was capable of surviving you and him swimming naked underneath the moonlight together.  

“We braided wreaths. We jumped over the fire. We could stop here.” 

“We could stop.” You crouched down to take a sip of red wine before burying the bottle halfway back into the ground again. “But you promised to celebrate Rasos with me, best friend. Agreed to partake in every tradition I remember from my childhood.” 

Sam didn’t know whether he’d just gotten promoted or demoted with the “best friend” there, but he didn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t, or he’d have driven himself crazy otherwise. “That was before you oh so graciously informed me birthday suits were involved.” 

“We’re born naked, and if we do it right, we die naked, too. Clothes off, dude.” 

“That makes no sense,” he mumbled lamely, trying to get his hands and brain to communicate. 

One was against skinny dipping as a concept, much less with you. The other was eagerly pulling his faded t-shirt up and over his head.

“There we go.” 

“There we not go,” Sam protested, even as his jeans swiftly cosied up to his discarded tee. 

“It’s just us.” Your voice dipped into something more quiet, a soothing note gentler. You unclasped your bra and stepped out of your panties just as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his boxers. “And… you can stop at underwear. I suppose the water won’t be any less magical if Sam’s Secret is tucked away.” 

“Very funny. I can tell you’re trying not to smile. You knew I’d go along with this ridiculous… nude late night dip thing the moment you suggested it.”

“Nothing gets past you.” 

Silence settled between you. The fire crinkled. Pine needles rustled in the warm summer wind. Sam’s eyes caught yours as he peeled away his boxers, and then you stared at each other like a pair of tipsy, bare fools. 

“Can I be honest? I’m trying pretty hard not to stare,” he blurted out after a stretched minute, struggling to focus on anything except the situation below your neck. 

“Yeah. It’s weirder than I thought it’d be. And I’ve once treated your butt injury.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. Weird was an understatement. If you couldn’t see his heart attempting to break past his ribcage, he was certain you could hear it. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. 

“Don’t say butt injury. It was a gunshot injury that just so happened to be on my… butt.”

You stole a moment to study him—the slope of his nose, the little mole on his left cheek, the shape of his eyes, ever-warm whenever on you—and stumbled back, the sand cold and wet against your toes. Sam stayed planted in his spot. 

“So,” the corners of your lips quirked up as you drifted closer to the lake, water twining around your ankles at first and then higher the farther you waded, “a butt injury.” 

Instead of defending his very serious gunshot injury, Sam smiled, just the slightest bit, and took a slow step towards you. “Didn’t you once wax off half a lip down south?” 

“How do you know that?”

It was nice seeing you flustered for a change. 

Sam sidled forward some more, and more, and more, until he was edging into the lake, murky green embracing his skin. 

“That’s classified, sorry.” 

Your mouth opened before falling closed again. Sam inched closer. 

“Did you read my journal? You read my journal.” 

“I did not read your journal.” His gaze dipped downwards, and he waded another good bit deeper into the lake to shield his secret from view—yours, his own, the curious mallard’s behind you. “On purpose.” 

A soft groan escaped past your lips. “You don’t accidentally read another person’s journal.” 

“You left it open.” Sam reached for you as the lake enveloped your features, calloused hands curling around your waist and hauling you to the surface. “I swear I didn’t see much.” 

You clutched Sam’s shoulders upon the realisation that you’d glided too far away from the shore in your little endeavour of hiding your embarrassment underwater and your feet wouldn’t graze the bottom anymore. 

“Did you see the part about a crush?”

“A crush?” 

“No crush.” 

Sam’s pulse kicked up. You’d written about a crush in your journal, the uttermost personal thing, a place where every secret you’d kept buried bled onto yellowed paper. 

He should’ve left it alone. 

You were squirming enough to throw off his balance. You refused to look at him, suddenly. Your fingers trembled the slightest bit where they dug into the broad line of his shoulders. 

Despite his head, his heart couldn’t.

You're not wearing the mask (a lucky thing, otherwise this might have proven a pretty sexually confusing experiment) so Peter sees every ounce of mischief in your eyes when you tilt your head and smile. "Can I try the web shooters, too?"

"Totally." Peter flicks his wrists, latching onto your hips on either side. When he pulls tight, you have no choice but to stumble towards him, laughing as you fall into his lap. "Another time."

"Why not now?"

"Too much power."

You grin at him, positively impish as your legs shift to straddle him more fully. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Sorry, you've got to go through orientation first."

You set yourself down in his lap. Peter's hands travel from your hips down your legs, meandering, but your bravado slips when you hear a ripping sound.

"Oh, no." You twist your neck to see your backside. You arch toward him a bit in the process, which Peter is not mad about. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine," he says. "I'll fix it."

You still look guilty. "I didn't think it would tear."

"I tear it all the time. Trust me, this is not the worst tear this thing has seen." Peter touches your jaw, angling you for a kiss. "Anyway, it looks good on you. Worth it."

You soften. "You think?"

You let Peter kiss you a while longer. Your fingers cup his face and curl in the hair at the back of his head. He knew the material of his suit was slippery, obviously, but he never really considered how that might feel for you until he experiences the sensation of you moving smoothly over the material of his jeans. He can feel your body heat through the spandex.

"Are you super sure I can't try the web shooters?" you murmur near his ear after a while.

"Hmm…huh?"

"I just think it would be fun."