SamardhWrites

The warehouse stank of decay and sulfur.

Dean Winchester had his boot pressed against the demon's chest, silver knife glinting in the dim light filtering through cracked windows. The creature beneath him, a young man with hollow eyes and a mouth full of teeth that seemed too sharp, hissed and spat, black smoke curling from its lips.

"Sam, now!" Dean shouted, his grip tightening on the blade.

Sam Winchester stood three feet away, his face a mask of concentration. His hand was raised, fingers spread, and his eyes had gone black-tinged at the edges. The demon's body began to convulse beneath Dean's weight as Sam's psychic powers latched onto the creature's essence, wrenching it from its vessel with invisible force.

The demon screamed. Actually screamed as its form began to unravel, black smoke pouring from its mouth, its eyes, its ears—

And then the temperature in the room dropped forty degrees in an instant.

Dean's breath crystallized in front of his face. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He'd felt this before. He'd know this presence anywhere.

"Winchester."

Castiel's voice was like grinding stones and distant thunder. The angel materialized from the shadows, his trench coat billowing despite the absence of wind, his face twisted with righteous fury. His hand shot out toward Sam, fingers splayed, holy power gathering in his palm.

"You will cease this immediately, Abomination." Castiel snarled, his eyes blazing with blue-white light. "You are forbidden from using—"

He never finished the sentence.

One moment, Castiel was standing on solid ground, his power building to subdue the youngest Winchester. The next, the world shifted. The air around him compressed, and he felt himself lifted off his feet, propelled backward at impossible speed, the wind ripped from his lungs as his vessel's body slammed into the cracked stone wall behind him.

The impact drove the breath from his lungs. Stone fragments rained down around him, and for a disorienting moment, Castiel couldn't process what had happened. His vessel's body was pinned against the wall, held in place by a grip that could only be described as absolute.

Your hand was around his throat.

Your hand.

Castiel's grace flared in recognition, in shock, in something that made his vessel's heart—a muscle he still didn't fully understand—stutter in his chest.

You had appeared from nowhere. One moment, the space beside Sam had been empty; the next, you were there, your vessel's tall, imposing form radiating power that made the air itself feel thick and heavy. Your fingers were wrapped around Castiel's throat with surgical precision, not squeezing quite hard enough to damage his vessel's trachea, but hard enough to cut off his air supply almost entirely.

Hard enough to lift him two feet off the ground.

His feet kicked uselessly against the wall. His hands flew up to grip your wrist, trying to peel your fingers from his neck, but you wouldn't budge. Couldn't. You were three celestial ranks above him. Three. Your power was to his as an ocean was to a raindrop.

"Sam, you are allowed to continue." you said, and your voice was calm. Dangerously calm. Motherly in a way that somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. "I've got him."

Sam's arm dropped. The black faded from his eyes as the a smoke of the same very shade of darkness escaped the man's mouth before disipating. Exorcised. He stared at you, at the angel dangling from your grip like a naughty kitten, and something like relief washed over his features.

"Ma'am-" he breathed. "I didn't- I wasn't going to-"

"I know, sweetheart. You weren't going to use your gift to cause harm." Your tone gentled just slightly, though your eyes, still fixed on Castiel, remained like chips of frozen starlight. "Dean. Get your brother out of here. I need to have a word with your angel."

Dean hesitated. His gaze flicked from Castiel's face to your expressionless features, and for a moment, the hunter looked like he was about to argue.

Castiel's hands scrabbled weakly at your wrist, his heels kicking against the wall. His vessel's face was flushed, his blue eyes wide and panicked as he tried to draw breath that wouldn't come.

"My charge," you switched to speak to the angel, your voice dropping to something dangerous and low. "You were going to harm my charge. After I specifically told you, ordered you, that Sam Winchester was under my protection."

Castiel made a choking sound. His fingers couldn't find purchase on your arm: you were too strong, far too strong, three ranks above him and he was just a grunt soldier, a foot soldier, and you were a seraphim, one of the most powerful beings in all of creation, and you were holding him against a wall with one hand like he weighed nothing at all-

"I... I..." Castiel managed, his voice a strangled rasp. "The... Abomination... he used his powers... he must be... contained..."

"Dean." Your voice dropped another octave. "Now."

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him toward the exit. Sam went willingly, shooting one last glance over his shoulder at Castiel's dangling form. There was something almost like pity in his eyes.

Castiel wanted to scream at him. Wanted to tell him that he didn't need the Abomination's pity. That he was an angel of the Lord, a soldier of Heaven, and he was being restrained by a superior officer, and this was not- this should not be-

His vessel's pulse hammered against your fingers. He could feel each beat of it, frantic and desperate, trying to pump oxygen to a brain that was slowly being starved of it. His vision was starting to go dark at the edges.

And yet.

And yet.

"The Abomination?" Your laughter was bitter, sharp as broken glass. "Is that what we're calling him? The boy who has done nothing but try to save his brother's life? The boy who has refused every demon's offer to use his powers for evil? The boy who has been nothing but a loyal servant to Heaven's cause?"

Castiel's grace surged with something that was not fear. It couldn't be fear. He was an angel of the Lord, and angels did not feel fear. They felt righteous fury, they felt purpose, they felt- they felt..

Your power was incredible.

He could feel it pressing against him from all sides. Your grace—your true celestial form, the part of you that existed beyond this fragile vessel—was overwhelming his senses completely. He could see it with his true sight, the vast expanse of your being, radiant and terrible and so much larger than his own. Ten times the size. Maybe more. Your grace flared with anger and protectiveness, a blinding supernova of righteous fury that made Castiel feel like a candle flame caught in a hurricane.

Your grace covered his own completely. Threatened it. Pressed in from all sides, suffocating and inescapable, threatening to smother his grace like a candle cut off from oxygen.

He should have been terrified.

He should have felt remorseful, ashamed, that his superior was so angry at him. So determined on protecting her charge that she would destroy him without a second thought, without so much as a struggle, and Heaven would not mourn the loss of one soldier who had threatened the Seraphim's sacred trust.

Castiel should have been afraid.

Instead, something else was happening. Something he didn't have the vocabulary to understand.

All the blood in his vessel's body seemed to be pooling low, very low, in a place that Castiel had only recently begun to understand had any significance at all. The vessel's reproductive organs—the part of the body that Dean seemed to think about constantly, that humans used to procreate and, according to the hunter, "blow off steam"—were... responding.

Engorging.

His vessel's dick was chubbing up in his pants, creating an obvious tent that his trench coat did nothing to conceal. It was embarrassingly apparent. Distractingly apparent. And yet you didn't seem to notice in your determined haste, your narrowed eyes fixed on his face, cold anger radiating from every inch of your vessel's body.

Castiel was not scared.

He was... something else. Something he couldn't name. Something that made his grace burn in ways it never had before, made his vessel's body feel strange and heated and alive in ways he didn't understand.

You were so angry at him.

You were being so scary, acting so terrifying, being so rough with his vessel. Your grace was so big and threatening, ready to smother his own smaller grace entirely. You were holding him by the throat, proving to him how much stronger you were, how much more powerful, and for some reason-

For some reason, it made him feel good.

Really, really good.

Not scared. Not afraid. Something else entirely. Something that made his grace pulse with need, made his vessel's body ache with want, made him want to beg for something he couldn't articulate.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, but they were no longer trying to peel you away. They were just... holding on. Clinging. Like a child clutching their mother's hand.

His feet still kicked uselessly, but there was no strength in it. No real struggle. He was completely, utterly helpless in your grip, and some traitorous part of him, a part he didn't even know existed until this moment, found that glorious.

"You forget your place, Castiel."

Your voice was like cold water down his spine. It made him shiver. Made his vessel's skin prickle with goosebumps despite the heat radiating from where your hand gripped his throat.

"You are a common angel. A soldier." Each word was precise. Measured. Dripping with disdain that made Castiel's grace sing with something that was definitely not shame. "I am a Seraphim. I am three ranks above you. I am closer to God than you will ever be. My power dwarfs yours. My wisdom eclipses yours. My charge, my responsibility, is Sam Winchester."

Your fingers tightened fractionally. Castiel let out a choked gasp.

"He is under my protection." you continued, and your voice was like the crack of a whip. "He is mine to guard. Mine to protect. Mine to guide. And you dare to raise a hand against him? You, a simple soldier, a low-ranking angel who can barely understand his own vessel, you think you have the right to interfere with my charge?"

Castiel tried to speak. He couldn't. His vessel's throat was constricted, his voice box crushed against your fingers. All that came out was a pathetic, strangled sound.

"It is my duty to ensure Sam does not stray from Heaven's plan," you continued, and your eyes blazed with holy fire. "It is my burden to bear. Not yours. You were tasked with Dean Winchester. The righteous man. The one who, despite all your posturing, you cannot even keep from danger."

Something flickered in Castiel's chest. Guilt? Shame? No. That wasn't quite right. It was more like... inadequacy. Being confronted with his own failure, his inability to control his charge, laid bare by a superior who clearly had no such problem.

You were so good at your job. So natural. Sam listened to you. Sam trusted you. Sam looked at you like you were the only being in the universe who could save him from himself.

Castiel couldn't even get Dean to stay in one place for five minutes.

But the inadequacy wasn't a painful feeling. It was... good. It made him feel small. Insignificant. Made him want to curl up at your feet and beg for your approval, your guidance, your..

He didn't know what. He didn't have the words.

"Sam is not an abomination," you said, and your voice softened for just a moment. "He is a child of God. A human born with a burden he never asked for. And I will not allow you, or anyone, to harm him."

Your grace pulsed, and Castiel felt it: the full weight of your power, the enormity of your celestial form, pressing down on his grace like a crushing weight. His own grace.. so small, so insignificant in comparison, flickered like a candle flame in a hurricane. He could barely breathe. Could barely think. Could barely form coherent thought beyond the overwhelming sensation of you.

You.

His vessel's dick was achingly hard now, pressing against his pants, and Castiel had no idea what that meant or why it was happening. All he knew was that every word you spoke, every second of your power pressing down on him, made him feel incredible. Made him want more. Made him want to be closer to you, even as you choked him, even as you threatened to smother his grace entirely.

"You will obey me, Castiel."

It wasn't a request. It was a command. Absolute. Final. The kind of order that could not be disobeyed, because the consequences were simply too terrible to contemplate.

"I have been merciful so far," you continued, your eyes boring into his. "I have allowed you to continue your mission. I have not reported your incompetence to The Host. I have not raised my hand against you, despite ample provocation." Your grip tightened another fraction of an inch, and Castiel's vision started to truly swim. "Until now. But if you ever, and I mean ever, raise a hand to my charge again, I will not be so forgiving. I will make sure you cease to exist. Not your vessel. You. Your grace. Your essence. Everything that makes Castiel, Castiel. I will unmake you so thoroughly that even our Father will not be able to find the pieces."

your grace flared with promise. Castiel felt it deep in his core, the absolute certainty that you meant every word.

And God help him, it made him even harder.

"Do you understand me?"

Castiel tried to nod. He tried to speak. All that came out was a choked, breathless sound that might have been "yes" if you were feeling generous.

You held him there for another long moment. Five seconds. Ten. Castiel's vision was going gray at the edges, his vessel's body starting to convulse from lack of oxygen. His grace flared weakly, trying to heal the damage, but your power was too strong, too overwhelming, pressing down on everything he was.

And then, finally, mercifully, you let him go.

He dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His knees buckled, his vessel's legs unable to support his weight. He collapsed against the wall, gasping, choking, his hands flying to his throat as he tried to pull air into his burning lungs.

You stood over him. Tall. Imposing. Your vessel's shadow falling across his trembling form like a judgment.

"Stand upright," you said. Your voice was cold. Dispassionate. There was no warmth in it at all. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Castiel tried. He really did. But his vessel's body was shaking too badly, his legs too weak to support him. He managed to get his hands braced against the wall, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep himself up.

It wasn't even five seconds before his knees buckled and sent him down against the ground while you towered over him. Now even taller from this new point of view that cast a grand shadow over him. Not that any physical height difference in human standards would ever compare to that of your graces's sizes.

He looked up at you with the neediest, widest, most pathetic eyes you had ever seen.

And Dean wasn't even here, nut if he had been, he would have recognized the expression immediately. It was the same look Sammy got when he wanted something but was too scared to ask. The same look that had gotten Dean to agree to a hundred dangerous hunts, a thousand stupid decisions, a million compromises that had ultimately led them here.

But Castiel wasn't Sam. He was a celestial being. An angel of the Lord. A soldier of Heaven.

And he was looking at you like you were his entire universe.

You stared down at him.

For a long, long moment, you said nothing. Your expression was unreadable, your vessel's features composed into a mask of cool authority. Castiel couldn't tell what you were thinking, couldn't read your thoughts the way he could with other angels. You were too powerful. Too beyond him.

But he could feel your grace. Still pressing against his own. Still threatening. Still overwhelming.

And he could feel something else, too. Something he didn't have the words for. Something that made his grace hum with need, made his vessel's body ache with want, made him want to reach out and-

Castiel didn't even realize he was moving. His hand was reaching out, his fingers stretching toward your vessel's ankle, desperate and pleading and utterly pathetic.

He caught himself before he made contact. His hand hovered in the air, trembling, and he forced himself to pull it back. Forced himself to press his palm flat against the cold stone floor, to try to push himself up again.

He couldn't. His vessel's body had given out entirely. All he could do was lay there, knees and hands on the dirty ground, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking, waiting for your judgment.

Your next words surprised him.

"Look at me, Castiel."

It wasn't a command. It was... softer. Almost gentle. The kind of tone you used with Sam when you were trying to coax him out of a spiral.

Castiel lifted his head, his eyes wide and questioning. His vessel's throat was bruising, the marks of your fingers starting to bloom on his skin, but he barely registered the discomfort.

You were still staring at him. But your expression had shifted. Something had softened. Your eyes were studying his face with an intensity that made his grace burn.

"You are shaking." you observed matter-of-factly. "Are you afraid of me?"

Castiel opened his mouth to respond. Closed it. Opened it again.

"No," he managed. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "I'm not afraid."

Your eyebrow arched. "No? Then what are you feeling, Castiel? Because you look like a frightened animal."

The insult should have stung. It should have made him feel ashamed, humiliated, lesser. Instead, it made his vessel's body thrum with something that was definitely not shame. Something that made his dick twitch in his pants, pressing against the fabric, desperate for any kind of friction.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted. His voice was barely audible. "I don't- I don't understand what's happening to me. My vessel is... behaving strangely. It's reacting to you in ways I can't control."

Your expression flickered. Something passed over your face, too fast for him to read. For a moment, just a moment, your gaze dropped from his face to his lower body.

Castiel's vessel's body was still betraying him. His pants were tented, the outline of his erection impossible to miss. He had no idea what it meant, no framework to understand it, but he knew it was wrong. Inappropriate. He was a soldier, and soldiers didn't—

"Ah." you said.

Just that one word. A sound of understanding. Not judgment. Not scorn. Just... acknowledgment.

And then you turned around and walked right out to go find your charge. The one you found oh, so precious.

And Castiel caught himself wishing he'd had that very same demon blood poisoning him from the inside out just so you could care for him like you did with Sam.

Jealous much?

#ᥣ᥆gᥲᥒ һ᥆ᥕᥣᥱ𝗍𝗍

You thought you were being quiet. The TV was on mute, the subtitles glowing, and the only sound was the faint clack of your fingers on the keyboard. You were going over a history paper for the third time, your eyes burning. It was 4:36 AM.

The old wooden floorboards in the hallway were a landmine of potential sound, and you’d mapped them all out. What you hadn't accounted for was Logan’s superhuman senses. He didn't make a sound until his large, warm hand landed on the back of your neck, making you jump a foot in the air.

“Logan!” you squeaked, spinning in your chair.

He stood there in his tank top and jeans, arms crossed, a scowl firmly in place. But his eyes were soft, laced with concern. “What the hell are you doin’ up, kid? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m almost done,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “Just had to get this done.”

“At 4:30 in the morning on a Friday night?” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “You're gonna burn the candle at both ends and end up with nothin’ but a pile of melted wax. Up. Now.”

There was no arguing with that tone. You were too tired to argue anyway. You saved your work and stood up, swaying slightly on your feet. A strong, adamantium-laced arm immediately shot out, steadying you. “Whoa, there, sleepyhead.”

The moment his arm was around you, a wave of warmth washed over you. Without thinking, you leaned into him, your face pressing into the tough fabric of his tank top. You were exhausted, but it was the safe, kind of exhaustion that only came from being in a place where you didn't have to pretend. “Sorry, Logan,” you mumbled into his chest. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice softer now, his big hand coming up to rest on the top of your head.

“Just thinking,” you whispered, your words slurring together. “About stuff.”

He guided you slowly down the hall, his steps measured so you wouldn't stumble. He smelled of cigar smoke, leather. “You get these crazy ideas in your head and you gotta let ‘em run themselves out, but not like this.”

“I know,” you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I just… you make me feel safe, Logan. When my head gets too loud, I just want to be around you. Plus, you feel like… a teddy bear... now that I stop to think 'bout it..”

He stopped walking for a second. You felt his chest hitch with a quiet breath, his hand tightening on your shoulder. He was trying to play it cool, but you could hear the smile in his gruff voice. “A teddy bear, huh? That’s a new one.”

“The best teddy bear,” you insisted, fighting a losing battle against sleep. “Love you, Logan.”

He cleared his throat, a rough, raw sound. When he spoke, his voice was thick with an emotion he rarely let show. “Yeah, well… love you too, kid. More than you know. Now get in bed before you fall asleep in the hallway.” He tucked you in, pulling the covers up to your chin and turning on your small nightlight. He stood there for a long moment, watching you, his gruff facade replaced by a look of pure, devoted fatherly love that would have shattered anyone's heart.

#ᥕ᥆rs𝗍 ᥕ᥆ᥣ᥎ᥱrіᥒᥱ

The sound of a whispered curse and a soft thud from the common area of Wade’s apartment was enough to rouse the grizzled mutant from his spot on the lumpy couch. He was already awake, the insomnia from his multiversal jaunt a constant companion, but he pretended to be asleep. When he heard the distinctive clink of a glass against the counter, he decided to investigate.

He found you in the dimly lit kitchen, looking like a zombie in fuzzy pajamas, trying to pour yourself a glass of water but mostly just splashing it all over the counter. It was 4:30 AM.

“What in the actual hell do you think you’re doin’, bub?” he rumbled, his voice even lower and more gravelly than it usually was.

You spun around, your eyes wide and unfocused. “Wade! I mean… no… Wolverine! I mean… I’m sorry- Did I wake you?”

“It’s 4:30 in the mornin’, kid. Why ain’t you in bed?” He shuffled closer, his bare feet making no sound on the tile. He was a sleepy mess, but his eyes were sharp, watching you with a startled concern.

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you mumbled, your words falling out in a jumbled mess. “Just, like, a lot on my mind. School stuff. And like, you know, life stuff. And if I sleep, then the day’s over and I have to do more life stuff tomorrow and what if I don't…?”

“Hey, hey,” he said, gently taking the glass from your trembling hands and setting it down. “Easy. Take a breath.”

The moment his hand touched yours, a sob you didn’t know was coming bubbled up in your throat. You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in his chest. He was surprisingly solid, a stark contrast to the loud, chaotic presence he and Wade usually projected.

“Whoa, okay, okay- guess we're doing this.” he muttered, his massive, scarred hand coming up to rest awkwardly on your back. He wasn’t used to this, not for a long time. “Shh. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled against his shirt, words muffled. “You’re just… you’re always so quiet and I know I shouldn’t bother you but you’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel silly for having a lot of feelings."

His old, battered heart constricted in his chest. He felt a lump form in his throat, a feeling he’d thought was long dead and buried. He hadn’t been loved like this, so openly and without condition, since… well, since before his world went to hell. He gently squeezed you back, a movement so delicate it was surprising for a man of his immense strength.

“Alright, alright, gonna put you to bed now.” he said, his voice sounding like he had swallowed sand. He guided you toward your room, keeping a firm, grounding hand on your shoulder. “You’re not silly, kid. Your feelings are yours. Don’t ever let anyone tell you they ain’t valid.”

He tucked you in, and you were already half asleep, a small smile on your face. He just stood there for a few minutes, watching you breathe, his silent vow echoing in the quiet of the room. I’m gonna make sure you never have a reason to cry like that again.

#᥆ᥣძ mᥲᥒ ᥣ᥆gᥲᥒ

The limousine was silent, the desert wind outside a low moan. You were in the back, supposedly asleep, bundled under a thick blanket. But the fear and the grief of the past few days were too loud in your head. You were staring out the grimy window, counting the stars, when the front door creaked open.

Logan, old, weary, and sick, looked back at you from the driver’s seat. His face was a map of pain and regret, but his eyes, even through the haze of his illness, were sharp.

“Can’t sleep?” he rasped.

You shook your head, unwilling to speak, the words lodged in your throat. He didn’t say anything for a long time. He just watched you, his exhausted gaze holding a profound sadness. Finally, with a groan of effort, he got out and carefully opened the back door.

“Come here.” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

You shuffled over to him, and he sat on the tailgate, his legs dangling off the back. He pulled you to stand between his knees. The desert air was cool, but his hands, even in his state, were still warm and calloused. He looked up at you, his old, haunted eyes full of a love he didn’t know how to express.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he said, the gentle scolding sounding more like a weary plea. “You need your rest. We got a long drive tomorrow.”

“I know,” you whispered back, the exhaustion making your limbs heavy. “I just… I keep thinking… I don’t want to be alone.”

His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “You ain’t alone, kiddo. You got me.”

The simple statement broke your heart. You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. He felt so fragile, but you still clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder. “I love you, Logan. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He stiffened for a second, a jolt of pure, profound emotion running through his weary frame. His arms, which were usually heavy and tense, slowly wrapped around you, holding you close with the last of his fading strength. He didn’t say it back. He couldn’t. The words were too big for a man who felt he’d failed everyone he’d ever loved. Instead, he just held you, his chin resting on your head, his heart pounding with a fierce, protective love that was the one thing his failing body couldn't take from him. He held on, because you were the single most precious thing in his broken, dying world, and he would fight the darkness itself to make sure you knew you were safe.

#ᥕᥲძᥱ ᥕіᥣs᥆ᥒ

The apartment was quiet for once, with no screaming, no gunfire, and no Blind Al yelling at him to turn down the telenovelas. Wade was in the living room, doing something unspeakable to a pair of katanas, when he heard you shuffling out of your room at a snail's pace, looking like a sleep-deprived ghost. It was 4:33 AM.

“Well, hello there, little night owl!” he chirped, jumping up and blocking your path. “Going on a secret mission? Need me to be your getaway driver? Because I gotta tell you, my webslinger-adjacent parkour skills are pretty damn good.”

You just blinked up at him, utterly dead-eyed. “Wade, move.”

“Ooh, grumpy! I love it! Hey, are you okay tho? You look like you’ve been on a six-day bender of studying quantum physics. Did you read the ending of A Game of Thrones again?”

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you mumbled, rubbing your tired eyes. “I’m tired but my brain won't shut up.”

Wade’s usual manic energy immediately softened. It was a swift, almost imperceptible change. He crouched down to your level, his masked face inches from yours. “Alright, brain, shh. It’s 4:30 in the A M. The only thing you should be thinking about is how nice your pillow is gonna feel. Time for Operation: Bed.”

He put a firm hand on your shoulder and began to steer you back toward your room. But you were so exhausted and drained that you instantly leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and clinging to him like a koala.

“Whoa, okay, this is a new level of cuddly,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its frenetic edge. He was genuinely concerned now. “You okay, kid?”

You mumbled into his chest, your words soft and slurred. “You’re my favorite person, Wade. You make everything better.”

He went completely still. The merc with a mouth was utterly speechless. His heart, which he was fairly certain was just a dried-up raisin at this point, suddenly felt full and warm. He wasn’t used to this, to being someone’s safe place, someone’s favorite.

“Aww, peanut,” he finally whispered, his voice thick. “You can’t just say stuff like that, it makes my fragile, little ego get all big and puffy. Now, come on, let's get you to your nest.” He gently guided you to your room, tucking you in with a ridiculous amount of care. He leaned down and gave you a soft kiss on the forehead through his mask. “Sleep tight. I’ll make sure the bad guys and the scary thoughts stay far, far away.” He left the door slightly ajar, a silent sentinel standing guard.

#rᥱmᥡ ᥣᥱᑲᥱᥲᥙ

The click of a card against the mahogany table in the main room was your first sign. You shuffled out, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, to find Remy in a chair, idly shuffling a deck of cards, his red-on-black eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. It was 4:43 AM.

“Chère.” he murmured, setting the cards down. “What brings you out of your nest so late? Bad dreams?”

“Just couldn't sleep..” you said, leaning against the doorframe. Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “My brain won’t shut up.”

He smiled, a slow, warm, and sympathetic smile. “Oui, I know dat feeling all too well. Come ‘ere, mon petit.”

You shuffled over to him, and he pulled you down to sit on his lap, an arm wrapping protectively around your waist. He was warm, and he smelled of cologne and faint traces of spice. “It's almost 5 in de morning,” he said softly, his voice sounding almost like a low, French-accented lullaby. “You should be dreamin’ of sweet things, not worryin’ ‘bout whatever is goin’ on in dat clever head of yours.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your eyes already fluttering shut. “I just like being with you,” you whispered. “You’re so calming, Remy. You always know the right thing to say.”

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Is dat right?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, your hand reaching up to grab the fabric of his shirt.

His heart swelled. He was a thief, a scoundrel, a man with more sins than could be counted, and yet here you were, this innocent young soul, looking at him like he was the hero in one of your stories. It made him want to be that person, just for you.

“Mon petit cœur,” he whispered, the endearment heavy with affection. “You gonna make dis old Cajun cry. Come on, let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you to your room with the grace of a dancer. He laid you down, pulling the covers up, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You get some sleep, bébé. Remy will be right outside if you need anythin’.”

#kᥙr𝗍 ᥕᥲgᥒᥱr

A flash of blue and a soft BAMF of sulfurous smoke echoed in the hallway, and suddenly Kurt was there, his form appearing from thin air. He had been teleporting around the mansion as he often did during his own nocturnal prayer vigils. He nearly stumbled when he saw you slumped against a wall, trying to sit on the floor.

“Mein Gott!” he exclaimed, his German accent thick with concern. “What are you doing?” He knelt down, his golden eyes wide. “It is so late, liebling!”

“Just tired,” you breathed, giving him a weak smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Tired of being tired, I guess.”

He helped you stand, his three-fingered hands gentle and steadying. “It is almost 4:30 in the morning, mein Schatz! You must sleep! The body needs rest to heal and grow!”

You leaned into him, and even though his form was a startling blue, covered in fur and with a spaded tail, he was one of the most gentle, kind souls you knew. He was an angel, in every sense of the word. “You’re so warm, Kurt,” you mumbled, your face in his neck. “You always make me feel s'safe..”

His heart ached at your words. He, who was so often seen as a monster, a demon by those who didn’t know him, was being called ‘safe’ by you. A feeling of such profound, fatherly love washed over him that his tail gave a happy, involuntary flick. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“Ach, child.” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “You are just the sweetest soul. You must know you are a gift to all of us.” He teleported you directly into your room, a soft, gentle jump that didn’t disturb your drowsy state. He laid you down and made the sign of the cross over your forehead, a silent blessing. “Sleep, my little one. I will watch over you.”

#sᥴ᥆𝗍𝗍 sᥙmmᥱrs

Scott was in the Danger Room’s control booth when Cerebro pinged with a location: your room. The heat signatures were off. You were awake, your bio-signs clearly stating so. And so he found you sitting at your desk, not doing anything, just staring at the wall. It was 4:40 AM.

“Hey,” he said softly, knocking on your open door. He was in comfortable clothes, a sweater and jeans. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You jumped, wiping at your eyes. “Mr. Summers! Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine. And it's Scott.” he corrected gently. He walked over and sat on the edge of your bed. “What’s going on?”

You shrugged, looking down at your hands. “Nothing. I just… my brain is too loud.”

He gave a small, understanding nod. “I know how that is. But sitting up all night in the dark isn’t going to help. It’s 4:40 in the morning, you need to rest.”

His voice was so calm, so measured. It usually was the voice of a leader, but right now it was the voice of a worried dad. He held out a hand, and you took it. The moment you stood, you leaned your head against his shoulder. He was surprisingly sturdy and solid.

“You know, you’re a lot nicer than people think,” you murmured sleepily. “You’re all scary leader guy, but you’re just a big softie who wants everyone to be okay.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, he let out a soft, surprised laugh. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you insisted, wrapping an arm around his. “And I love you for it, Scott. You make us all feel so much less alone.”

His heart, which was usually under such rigid control, felt a loosening, a warmth that spread through his chest. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I love you too, kid. More than you could ever know.” He walked you to your bed, his hand firm on your back. “Now, lie down. I’ll stay for a while, make sure the loud thoughts stay quiet.”

#sᥲm ᥕіᥣs᥆ᥒ

You were in the common room kitchen, making tea you didn't even want. Sam, who was an early riser, walked in, still in his sweats, expecting an early morning workout. Instead, he found you, looking like a zombie. It was 4:28 AM.

“Whoa, what’s up, girl? Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope.” you said, popping the ‘p’ as you dramaticallycomcentrated on trying to pour the hot water onto a mug that was waayyy too small for how shot your vission and aim were.

“Hey, easy!” He took the kettle from you. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. C’mere, sit down.” He guided you to a stool. “What’s goin' on?”

“Everything is a lot, Sam. School, and life, and… I don’t know.” You rested your head on the cool countertop. “I just can’t shut my brain off.”

Sam nodded, his expression turning from friendly concern to genuine worry. It was 4:30 in the morning. He didn't care if tomorrow would be a Saturday, or that it already was anyways. You needed rest. He put a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Alright, come on. That’s it. We’re going to bed.”

You stood up on wobbly legs, and the moment you were in front of him, you collapsed forward into a hug, clinging to his shirt. “You’re the best, Sam. You’re like the cool, older brother who actually gives good advice and also can fly.”

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He hugged you back, his arms warm and secure. “That’s a pretty specific title, but I’ll take it.”

“love you.” you whispered into his chest.

His face softened, a fierce, brotherly love shining in his eyes. He squeezed you tighter. “I love you too, kid. You’re like the little sister I never knew I wanted. Now come on, let’s get you some real sleep.” He practically carried you to your room, making sure you were comfortable before leaving you to dream.

#s𝗍ᥱ᥎ᥱ r᥆gᥱrs

Steve was a chronic early riser, and he’d been sketching in the common room for an hour when he heard a soft, sleepy shuffling. He looked up to find you, in your pajamas, standing in the doorway. It was 4:55 AM.

“Sweetheart? What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately setting his sketchbook aside.

“Couldn’t sleep, Cap.” you mumbled, looking like you were about to fall over.

He stood, his brow furrowed with concern. “At this hour? It’s almost 5 in the morning, you need your rest.”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick with exhaustion. “But my brain just… it won’t shut up.”

He walked over to you, his every movement radiating a calming authority. He gently took your hand, his expression soft. “Alright, then. Let’s go get some sleep. No arguments.”

His hand was so warm, so reassuring. It made you feel instantly safe. You leaned into his side, your head resting against his arm. “You’re so strong, Steve,” you mumbled. “Not just physically. You’re like… a real-life knight. The good kind.”

His heart clenched. He’d stood up to bullies and Nazis, but your words made him feel prouder than any medal ever had. “I just do what’s right, sweetheart.”

“You do,” you insisted, your voice heavy with sleep. “You’re the best, Steve. I love you.”

He stopped in the hallway and pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug, his chin resting on your head. He felt a lump in his throat. “I love you too, honey. More than you’ll ever know.” He tucked you into bed, sitting on the edge until your breathing evened out, a silent guardian.

#ᑲᥙᥴkᥡ ᑲᥲrᥒᥱs

The metal arm was a dead giveaway. You were trying to get a glass of milk in the dark, and he was sitting at the kitchen table, the faint hum of his arm’s mechanics the only sound. It was 4:33 AM.

“Bucky?” you whispered, startled. “What're y'doing up..?”

He turned, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. “Should be askin’ you the same question, hon. It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, grabbing the milk carton. “Mind if I join you?”

He just nodded, and you sat opposite him. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was comfortable. After a moment, you spoke again. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”

“Not really.” he said, his voice soft and tired.

“Me neither,” you admitted. “Nightmares and stuff.”

He looked at you then, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He remembered. He remembered the cold and the fear. He got up and took the milk from you, placing it back in the fridge. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed. It’s almost 4:30.”

He held out his flesh hand to you, and you took it without hesitation. As he led you down the hall, you clung to his arm. “You make me feel safe, Bucky. Have I ever told you that?”

He felt a crack in the icy wall around his heart. He hadn't felt safe in decades. He hadn't thought he could be a source of safety for anyone else. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his voice rough with emotion. “Nah, you haven't, sugar. But I'm glad you're telling me now. Glad I can make you feel that way.”

#𝗍һ᥆r ᥆ძіᥒs᥆ᥒ

The Avengers compound was vast and silent, but the distant rumble of thunder was a dead giveaway. You found Thor on the balcony, leaning against the railing, watching the night sky with an expression of profound melancholy. It was 4:36 AM. You wrapped your blanket tighter around yourself and padded out to join him.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned, and his sorrowful expression immediately shifted to one of warm concern. "Little one." he rumbled, his deep voice like distant thunder. "it is the middle of the night. Why are you not resting?"

"Could ask you the same thing," you mumbled, shuffling closer. "Your storm gave you away."

A sad smile touched his lips. "The skies mourn with me tonight. But you, young one, have no such burdens to carry. It is almost 4:30 in the morning. You should be dreaming of joyous things."

You shrugged, leaning against the railing beside him. "My brain doesn't know how to be quiet. It's like... a thousand thoughts all shouting at once. And sometimes they're not very nice thoughts."

Thor's massive hand came to rest on your shoulder, warm and grounding. "I know well the weight of a restless mind. But you must not let the shadows win, little one. You are far too bright for that."

You turned to him, and without thinking, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest. He smelled of ozone, rain, and something ancient and comforting. "You make me feel safe, Thor. Nothing bad can happen when you're around."

His breath caught. For all his centuries of existence, for all the battles he'd fought and the realms he'd saved, this simple confession from a mortal child struck him deeper than any enemy's blade. His arms came around you, enveloping you completely, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

"You honor me with your words, little one," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And it is true. I would face a thousand enemies to keep that light in your eyes. You are precious beyond measure."

He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest as he carried you inside. "Now, we shall find you rest. And if the nightmares come, I shall stand guard and chase them away with Mjolnir itself."

#ᥣ᥆kі ᥣᥲᥙ𝖿ᥱᥡs᥆ᥒ

The library in the Avengers compound was vast and dimly lit. You had curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book lying forgotten in your lap, your eyes fixed on the windows where the first hints of false dawn were beginning to creep across the sky. You heard the softest footfall and looked up to find Loki standing in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the hall's dim light. It was 4:29 AM.

"Little mortal," he said, his voice a silken purr, "is there a particular reason you are haunting the shadows at this ungodly hour?"

"Couldn't sleep.." you admitted, your voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Didn't want to be alone with my thoughts."

He stepped closer, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable in the low light. "Your thoughts. Do they trouble you so greatly?"

You nodded, looking down at your hands. "They're loud. And mean. And they won't shut up."

Loki's expression shifted, the mask of sardonic amusement falling away to reveal something more genuine. He moved to sit on the arm of your chair, his presence cool and electric. "I understand troublesome thoughts better than most, youg mortal. They are persistent beasts." He paused, then added softly, "It is nearly 4:30 in the morning. Even the most stubborn of your kind should be abed by now."

You looked up at him, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy. "You make them quieter, you know. The thoughts. When you're around, they just... stop shouting."

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. "Do they now?"

"Mmhmm." you hummed, leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder.

His heart, that cold and withered thing he'd been told he didn't possess, constricted painfully in his chest. He was a god of lies, of mischief, of chaos. He had done terrible things. And yet this child, this innocent young soul, looked at him with such complete trust and affection. It was a gift he didn't deserve.

He slowly wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer, his voice barely a whisper. "You are far too trusting, my dear. It will be your undoing."

But his arms tightened around you, protective and possessive. He guided you to your feet, keeping you steady as you swayed with exhaustion. "Come. Let us get you to your chambers before you fall asleep on the floor like a common vagrant."

He walked you to your room, his hand firm and steady on your back. At your door, he paused, studying your sleepy face. "You are safe, little one. I give you my word." He pressed a cool kiss to your forehead, his touch surprisingly tender. "Now sleep. And dream only of pleasant things."

#𝗍᥆ᥒᥡ s𝗍ᥲrk

Tony was in his lab, as usual, with FRIDAY quietly running diagnostics. He heard a soft whimper from the doorway and saw you, wrapped in a blanket, your eyes red-rimmed. It was 4:40 AM.

“Hey, mini-me,” he said, his voice softer than he usually let on. “What’s with the sad eyes? Come here.”

You shuffled over to him, and he pulled you onto the workbench beside him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Just… a lot of bad thoughts..” you admitted, your voice small.

“Yeah, I know those guys,” he said, his tone light, but his eyes were deadly serious. “They’re real jerks. You gotta kick ‘em out. It’s 4:40, you should be drooling on a pillow.”

“I know, I know..” you mumbled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “It’s just… you’re the only one who makes the bad thoughts go away.”

His heart stopped. For a brilliant man, he was completely speechless. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “Happy to help, kid. Now, how about I walk you to your room and tell FRIDAY to play some calming music?” You smiled, taking his hand as he led you away.

#𝗊ᥙᥱᥒ𝗍іᥒ ᑲᥱᥴk

The penthouse suite was silent, save for the hum of the city below. You were standing on the balcony, looking out at the lights, your mind a million miles away. Quentin, who couldn’t sleep himself, saw you. It was 4:28 AM.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, young lady?” he asked, his voice a smooth, low baritone as he joined you.

You didn’t turn around. “Just wanted to see the stars.”

“I see,” he said, stepping beside you. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was calming. “And what is it about the stars that has you so fascinated at 4:30 in the morning?”

You sighed, finally turning to look at him. The exhaustion was palpable. “Just… how do you do it? How do you make people believe in you so completely? How do you get them to trust you?”

His eyes flickered, a mask of charm, but underneath, a genuine concern. “It’s a trick.” he said softly. “I trick them, you know that, pretty.”

You stepped forward and hugged him, burying your face in his expensive suit. “You’re not as bad as people think, Quentin. You’re just lonely. Like me.”

He froze for a second before he was able to wrap his arms around you, hesitantly almost, his hug surprisingly gentle. “I think it’s time for bed.”

#ᥲᥒძrᥱᥕ's !! ⍴ᥱ𝗍ᥱr ⍴ᥲrkᥱr

Peter was on the roof, doing some mental processing, when he heard your bedroom window slide open. You climbed out onto the fire escape, looking like a small, sad ghost. It was 4:34 AM.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise and worry. “It’s late.”

“Couldn’t breathe,” you said simply, sitting down next to him. “The room felt too small.”

Peter nodded, understanding that feeling all too well. “Been there. But 4:30 in the morning on a fire escape? That’s my domain.” He gave you a small, encouraging smile. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know..” you said, shaking your head. “I just… I have a lot of feelings. And you always seem to understand.”

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his side. He was warm, even in the cool night air. “I get it. Life is a lot. But you gotta try and get some sleep. Your body needs it.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your words a sleepy mumble. “You’re the best superhero, Peter.”

His heart swelled with a brotherly affection so powerful it made his chest ache. “Hey,” he whispered, tilting your chin up. “We're a team, okay? I got your back. Now, come on, let’s get you tucked in. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

#ȷ᥆һᥒᥒᥡ s𝗍᥆rm

The Baxter Building was mostly quiet, but Johnny was in the gym, doing laps on a treadmill. He heard you shuffle in, looking like you’d been dragged through a hedge backward. It was 4:35 AM.

“Whoa, baby girl, you’re looking rough.” he joked, hopping off the treadmill. “What’s the matter? Bad dream about getting a bad haircut?”

“Something like that.” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

His joking demeanor faded. He came closer, noticing the dark circles under your eyes. “Seriously, you okay?”

“Just couldn’t sleep,” you admitted. “My head’s too loud.”

Johnny put a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Okay, I got this. Operation: Johnny’s the Best Babysitter is a go. It’s 4:30, bedtime!” He led you out of the gym, and you immediately grabbed his hand, your small fingers fitting perfectly in his.

“You’re actually really warm,” you murmured, leaning into his arm. “Not just, like, the fire stuff. Like, you’re a warm person.”

He grinned, but his eyes were soft. “It’s a gift.”

“And you’re a good person, Johnny,” you said sleepily. “Even when you’re a giant show-off. I love you.”

His fiery heart stuttered. The Human Torch was not a guy known for deep emotional moments, but you’d just managed to hit him right in the core. He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Love you too, squirt. Now get in bed before you make me even more sappy.” He tucked you in and gave you a mock-salute, his smile genuine.

#rᥱᥱძ rіᥴһᥲrძs

Reed was in the lab, stretching his neck to look at two data pads at once when he heard a soft sniffle. He elongated his neck and found you, slumped in a chair, trying not to cry. It was 4 AM.

“Honey? What’s the matter?” he asked, retracting his neck and moving to stand in front of you. His voice was calm and analytical, but his eyes were full of a father’s concern.

“I’m just so tired,” you cried, the tears finally spilling over. “But I can’t sleep. What if I don’t do well on my test? What if I disappoint everyone?”

He knelt in front of you, his hands gentle on your arms. “Your value is not determined by a test score. Your value is intrinsic, a fundamental law of the universe.” He paused, his eyes softening even more. “And you could never disappoint me. Or anyone. It’s 4 in the morning, you’re exhausted, and your brain is coming up with worst-case scenarios. That’s a logical fallacy.”

You laughed despite the tears, hugging him tightly. “You always make it better, Mr. Richards..”

“Just Reed.” he corrected gently, returning the hug. He scooped you up with surprising ease, carrying you to your room. He talked to you about molecular structures and the fascinating properties of Vibranium, his voice a low, soothing hum that lulled you to sleep before you even reached the door.

#⍴ᥱ𝗍ᥱr 𝗊ᥙіᥣᥣ

The Milano’s cargo hold was dimly lit. You were sitting on a crate, looking at a hologram of Earth. Peter, unable to sleep, found you there. It was 4:32 AM.

“Hey, kid. You get lost on your way to your bunk?” he asked, his voice soft and teasing, but his eyes held a deep concern.

“Just… homesick, I guess,” you admitted, looking down. “I miss the sky. The real sky.”

Peter nodded, sitting beside you. “Yeah, I know that feeling. It sucks.” He didn't offer a solution. He just sat with you.

“You know, you’re not just a good captain, Peter,” you said, your voice small. “You’re a good person. You make people feel like they can be themselves.”

He glanced at you, a soft smile on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning against his arm. “I love you, you weirdo.”

His heart did a little flip. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side. “Love you too, kiddo. Now come on, let’s get some sleep. Even if it’s fake-sky sleep.”

#𝗍һᥱ ⍴ᥙᥒіsһᥱr

Frank was in the warehouse, cleaning his guns in the middle of the night. A sound alerted him, and he had a weapon half-raised before he saw you, standing there in your pajamas, looking lost. It was 4:28 AM.

“What the hell are you doin’ up, brat?” he grunted, lowering the gun.

“Couldn’t sleep.” you whispered, not wanting to anger him.

He just stared at you for a long moment, then gestured to a chair across from him. You sat, and he went back to cleaning, the only sound the metallic click of the parts. The silence was heavy, but not scary. Finally, you spoke.

“I know you have nightmares too, you know.” you said.

He looked up at you, his gray eyes unreadable. Then, he put down the gun and walked over to you. He wasn't a hugger. He was a force of nature, a weapon of vengeance. But you were a kid. His kid. He placed a large, calloused hand on your head, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Go to bed. It’s late.”

You leaned into his touch. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away. He just gave a curt nod. He walked you to your small room and waited by the door, a silent, terrifying, and yet utterly protective guardian.

#⍴іᥱ𝗍r᥆ mᥲ᥊іm᥆𝖿𝖿

You didn't see him arrive. One moment you were alone on the common room, the next he was there, leaning against the back of the couch, his silver hair catching the faint light. And he was looking at you with a mixture of amusement and concern in his slightly tilted head.

"Excuse mua, madmoiselle." he said, putting on a fake french accent just for kicks. As he made a show of knocking on the wall as if he was asking for permission to come in.

"Pietro?"

"The one and only, draga. You are still awake? It is almost 4:30 in the morning!"

You blinked up at him, too tired to be startled. "I didn't hear you come in."

He laughed. "Because I am quiet when I want to be. Or do you not remember that I am the fastest man alive?" He vaulted over the back of the couch, landing beside you with a soft thud. "Now, why are you not sleeping?"

"Couldn't sleep," you mumbled, setting the book aside. "Too much on my mind."

He tilted his head, his blue eyes sharp and focused. "Too much on your mind, da? Tell me. What is so important that it keeps you from your rest?"

You shrugged, suddenly too exhausted to articulate it. "Everything. Nothing. I dunno. My brain just won't shut the fuck up."

Pietro studied you for a moment, his usual restless energy calming. He was always in motion, always vibrating with barely contained speed, but right now, he was still. Present. "I know that feeling," he said softly. "When your thoughts run faster than you can outrun them. It is not a pleasant place to be."

You looked at him, surprised by the depth in his voice. "You... you know?"

"Da," he said, his smile turning wistful. "In Sokovia, with my sister, after the bombs, there were many sleepless nights. I would run. For hours, I would run, trying to outrun the thoughts. But they always caught up." He reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. "You cannot outrun your thoughts, little one. But you can learn to rest despite them."

Without warning, he moved. In the space between one breath and the next, he had scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. You let out a small, surprised yelp.

"Pietro! What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed," he said, his voice light but firm. "It is 4:30 in the morning, and you are exhausted. This is not negotiable."

You wanted to protest, but you were so tired, and he was so warm. You leaned into his chest, your head resting against his shoulder. He was surprisingly solid for someone so lithe, and his heart was beating fast, even when he was standing still.

"You're warm," you murmured, your words slurring. "And fast. Really, really fast."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Da. That is what they tell me."

"And you're funny," you added, your voice getting softer. "And brave. Very, very brave, Pietro."

Pietro's steps faltered for just a moment. His heart, which usually beat at a pace that would kill a normal person, seemed to skip. "You think so?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Know so," you insisted, your fingers curling into his jacket. "I love you, Pietro. I wish you were my big brother, Wanda is so lucky to have you."

He came to a stop outside your room, and for a moment, he couldn't speak. His eyes stung, and he had to blink rapidly to clear them. He was used to being fast, to being the one who zipped in and out, never staying long enough for anyone to get close. But you had somehow gotten close, and you were looking at him like he was a hero instead of just a broken kid from Sokovia.

"Draga," he whispered, his voice rough. "You... you cannot say things like that."

"Why not?" you asked, your eyes already closing.

"Because," he said, carefully laying you down on your bed, "it makes my heart feel like it is going to burst." He pulled the covers up, tucking them around you with a tenderness that was at odds with his usual reckless demeanor. "I love you too, baby girl. More than any speed I have ever run. You are my family now, yes?"

You nodded, already half-asleep. "Yes. Forever."

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Forever," he repeated. "I will be here. Always. Now sleep. I will make sure no bad dreams catch you."

The motel room was cramped, as always. Three beds crammed into a space that should have held two, with a kitchenette that was more of a suggestion than an actual kitchen, and a bathroom so small you could barely turn around in it. But it was clean enough, cheap enough, and most importantly, it was yours. For now.

You sat cross-legged on the end of your bed, a worn copy of Emily Dickinson's collected poems open in your lap. The pages were soft with age, the spine cracked from countless readings. You'd found it in a used bookstore three states back, and it had become your constant companion. There was something about Dickinson's words that spoke to you, that understood the weight you carried in your chest.

Across the room, Sam was doing research at the small table, his laptop open, a stack of lore books piled precariously beside him. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, and you could see the tension radiating from every line of his body. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, and he'd been flinching at nothing all day.

You knew what that meant. You'd learned to read the signs over the years—the way his eyes would dart to empty corners, the way he'd go still and silent, listening to things no one else could hear. The way he'd sometimes whisper under his breath, arguing with someone who wasn't there.

Lucifer.

The thought made your stomach clench with cold anger. That thing had been tormenting your brother for months now, ever since Castiel had broken down the psychic walls in his mind. Sam tried to hide it, tried to pretend he was fine, but you knew better. You'd always known better. It was like you had a sixth sense for other people's emotions, and right now, Sam was a storm of pain and fear and exhaustion that he was trying desperately to keep contained.

Dean was at the small table too, cleaning his guns with the kind of methodical precision that was almost meditative for him. His movements were steady, but you could see the way he kept glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye, could see the worry etched into the lines of his face.

"The spell should work," Dean said, breaking the silence. "Bobby's notes say it'll purify any residual demon or ghost energy in a space. We cast it, the motel's clean, and we can actually get some decent sleep without worrying about some vengeful spirit crawling up our asses."

Sam nodded without looking up from his laptop. "The ingredients are ready. I triple-checked them. It should be straightforward."

You watched Sam's shoulders tense as he said that last part. He was probably expecting Lucifer to make some snide comment about how nothing was ever straightforward for them. Your jaw tightened. If you could reach into Sam's head and punch that hallucination right in its smug face, you would. But you couldn't. All you could do was be there, be present, try to ground him in reality when the hallucinations got too loud.

"Kid?" Dean's voice cut through your thoughts. "You gonna help us with this or just sit there reading all day?"

You looked up from your book, a small smile playing at your lips. "I'm multitasking. Reading and supervising. It's a talent."

Dean snorted. "Smartass. Come on, we need you to hold the flashlight while we draw the symbols."

"Ah, the glamorous life of a hunter," you said, closing your book carefully and setting it aside. "Flashlight duty. My true calling."

Sam actually smiled at that: a small, tired thing, but it was there. A brief flicker of warmth in his exhausted face. "It's an important job," he said, his voice soft. "Someone has to make sure Dean doesn't draw the symbols backward again."

"Hey!" Dean protested. "That was one time. And it was dark."

"It was the middle of the afternoon," Sam countered, and there was something almost like his old humor in his voice. "The curtains were just drawn."

"Because the sunlight was giving me a headache! And anyway, Bobby's handwriting is impossible to read. It's like chicken scratch."

You laughed, the sound surprising you. It had been so long since you'd heard Sam joke like this, since any of you had felt light enough to tease each other. Maybe things were finally getting better. Maybe this spell would work, and you'd have a few days of peace before the next crisis hit.

"Okay, okay." you said, getting to your feet and stretching. "I'll hold the flashlight. But I want cookies afterward. The good kind, with the chocolate chips."

"Deal," Dean said, already standing and gathering the supplies. "Sam, you got the book?"

Sam nodded, closing his laptop. He moved to join them, but you caught the way he hesitated, the way he glanced around the room as if checking for something. You followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. Just the ugly floral wallpaper and the faded curtains and the cheap furniture.

You moved to stand beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. "Hey," you said softly. "You okay?"

Sam's eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the weight he was carrying.. the crushing burden of everything he'd been through, everything he was still going through. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by the careful mask he wore for the rest of the world.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine. Let's just get this over with."

You knew he was lying. But you also knew that pushing him wouldn't help. So you just nodded and followed Dean to the center of the room, where he'd set up the ingredients for the spell.

The spell was complicated. You'd learned enough over the years to recognize the symbols Bobby had drawn in his notes, the careful patterns that would create the purification effect. It was designed to be cast in a space, to cleanse it of any supernatural residue that might have been left behind.

Dean lit the candles, arranged in a careful circle around the room. Sam was chanting, his voice low and steady, reading from the book. The words were in Latin, ancient and powerful. You felt the air in the room begin to change, growing heavy and charged with energy.

And then something went wrong.

You didn't notice it at first. The spell was supposed to target the space, to work its way through the walls and floors and ceiling, purifying everything it touched. But somewhere in the middle, there was a slip (a word mispronounced, a symbol drawn slightly off) and the energy shifted.

It didn't go wrong in a harmful way. The spell was a good one, designed for healing and cleansing. It couldn't hurt anyone. But it had become targeted. Instead of spreading outward to fill the space, it had latched onto something specific. Someone specific.

You.

You felt a strange sensation, like being lifted and set back down again, but the world around you was swimming, the edges of your vision going blurry. You tried to call out to your brothers, but your voice came out wrong, too high and too soft.

Then everything went dark.

Sam watched in horror as the light enveloped you, as the glow faded from the candles and died. When the light cleared, you were gone, and in your place was a pile of clothes and—

No. No, no, no, no, no.

"Sam, what the hell just happened? Where's—" Dean's voice cut off as he followed Sam's gaze to the small figure in the center of the pile of clothes. The figure of a small child, maybe three years old, wearing an oversized t-shirt that was obviously yours and absolutely nothing else.

The child stirred, blinked up at them with familiar green eyes, and spoke. "Sammy? De?"

Sam felt his heart stop. He'd know those eyes anywhere. He'd spent hours looking into them when you were small, when he'd hold you in his arms and read you stories, when you'd look at him with complete trust and unconditional love. Those were your eyes, and that was your face, just younger. Much, much younger.

The ceiling stretched above you like the sky, impossibly high and far away. The bed beneath you was enormous, a vast landscape of scratchy motel sheets. And the clothes you were wearing: your favorite flannel, the one you'd had for years, were hanging off you like a tent, the sleeves drowning your hands, the hem pooling around you like a puddle of fabric.

"Dean," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's her. That's our sister."

"What? Sam, that's impossible. She's—she's a kid."

"She was three," Sam said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "The spell—it was supposed to purify the building. It must have latched onto her instead. It returned her to her purest state, before she was exposed to—to all of this."

He gestured vaguely around them, but Dean seemed to understand. The hunting. The violence. The constant fear and danger.

"Well, fix it! Turn her back!"

"I can't! The spell is over, the energy's dissipated- I don't even know how it did that to her!" Sam continued, his voice breaking. "She was three. Dad said she was old enough to start learning, that she needed to be useful. Dean, I couldn't—I didn't want to- "

"Sam." Dean put a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, breathe. We'll figure this out. We'll find a way to fix it."

But Sam couldn't hear him. He was too busy staring at the small child you were now, so small.. so fragile... He remembered holding you at this age, remembered how tiny you felt in his arms, how he'd been so terrified of breaking you. His heart ached with the memory, with the weight of all the things he'd done wrong, all the times he'd let you down and failed to protect you.

"Oh my god," he breathed, in wonder. "Oh my god, Dean. Look at her."

Dean watched in silence as Sam gathered you up, tucking you against his chest. He could see it in the way his brother held you, the way he cradled your head like you were made of glass. It was the same way he'd always held you, even when you'd been a teenager. Protective. Loving. More like a mother than any father could ever hope to be.

"Okay," Dean said, his voice steady. "Okay. First things first. We need to get her some clothes. She can't go around in just a t-shirt."

Sam nodded, but he didn't let go of you. He couldn't. He'd spent years trying to protect you, trying to keep you safe from the darkness that consumed their family, and now you were back at the beginning, back to the age when he'd first started to truly love you. Back to the age when you were innocent and unbroken and pure.

Dean was silent. You peeked up at him through your lashes, and you saw the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hands had fisted at his sides.

"So what do we do?" Dean asked finally.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know . The spell was a one-time thing. The energy's gone. I'd have to find another way to reverse it, and that could take days. Weeks. Maybe longer."

Dean swore under his breath. "So we're stuck with a toddler? We can't hunt like this. We can't keep her safe like this."

"We can," Sam said, and there was something fierce in his voice. "We will. I'll keep her safe. I'll protect her."

The words were said with such conviction, such intensity, that Dean actually took a step back. You felt Sam's arms tighten around you, cradling you closer like you were something precious. Something he would never let go.

"Sammy.." Dean started, warningly, but Sam cut him off.

"I know what I'm doing, Dean. I know… I know how to take care of her. I was there before, remember? When she was this age. I was the one who raised her. I was the one who taught her her first words, who she walked her first steps toward, who held her when she was scared."

His voice was soft now, almost dreamy. You could hear the nostalgia in it, the warmth of old memories rising to the surface.

"I raised her," Sam said, and there was a note of wonder in his voice. "And Dad hated it. Hated it. He said I was making her soft, making her weak. That she was making me soft and weak. But I didn't care. She was just a baby. She needed love. She needed comfort. And I gave her everything I could."

Dean's face had gone through a series of complicated expressions: confusion, discomfort, and then something that looked almost like understanding.

"Sam," he said carefully, "you know she's not really three, right? I mean, her body is, but her mind… she's still seventeen. She's still our sister."

You nodded frantically against Sam's chest, trying to tell them that yes, you were still in here. You were still you. But all that came out was a little gurgle and a string of nonsense syllables.

"I know," Sam said. "But she can't talk right now. She can't explain herself. And whatever's happened to her body, it's affecting her emotions too. She's scared and confused and… and she needs me."

He looked down at you, and his eyes were filled with such tenderness, such devotion, that it made your heart ache.

"Don't worry, baby girl," he murmured. "Mama's got you."

The word hit you like a physical blow. You hadn't heard him call himself that since you were a child, since years before he'd left for Stanford. You'd always known he felt like your mother in some ways, had always understood that he'd been the one to fill that role in your life. But he'd never said it out loud, not since you were old enough to remember.

Dean made a strangled sound. "Mama? Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm taking care of my daughter," Sam said calmly. "Just like I did before. Just like I have been doing all along."

"You're not her… you're her brother, Sam. Her half-brother. You're not her mother."

"I was her mother." Sam shot back, and his voice was sharp now, challenging. "When she was little, I was the one who was there. I was the one who changed her diapers, who fed her, who sang her to sleep. I was the one who loved her, who protected her from Dad's bullshit, who made sure she knew she was wanted."

He paused, taking a breath. "I will not let anyone take that away from me. Not Dad, not you, not anyone. If she needs me to be her mother again, then that's what I'll be. I don't care how weird you think it is."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. You could see the confusion on his face, the internal struggle. This was clearly not how he'd expected the night to go.

"Fine," he said finally. "Fine. But we're still going to find a way to fix this. She can't stay like this forever."

Sam didn't answer. He just looked down at you, his eyes soft and warm, and you saw something shift in his expression. The tension in his face had eased, the haunted look in his eyes had faded. For the first time in months, he looked almost peaceful.

"Hey there, little one," he said softly, bouncing you gently. "You doing okay? Huh? You want some juice? Some crackers?"

You blinked up at him, still trying to process what was happening. But your stomach chose that moment to rumble, a hungry little growl that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

Sam laughed—a real laugh, warm and genuine. "Sounds like a yes. Come on, let's get you something to eat."

He carried you over to the small kitchenette, settling you on his hip like he'd done it a thousand times before. You clung to his shirt, still feeling strange and off-balance. But there was something comforting about the way he held you, the way his hand pressed against your back to keep you steady.

"This is so weird," Dean muttered, watching from across the room. "You're just… you're just okay with this? With her being a baby?"

"I'm not "okay" with it," Sam said, pulling a box of crackers from the cabinet. "Of course I'm not okay with it. I want her back to normal as much as you do. But until we can find a way to reverse this, I'm going to take care of her. Because that's what she needs."

He opened the box of crackers and took one out, holding it up to your lips. You opened your mouth automatically, the way you'd done when you were actually three. The cracker was dry and bland, but you chewed it anyway, suddenly ravenous.

"There you go," Sam crooned. "That's my good girl. You need to eat up. You've been through a lot tonight, haven't you? Yeah, you have."

You tried to speak, to tell him you were okay, that you were still in here. But all that came out was a humming sound that made absolutely no sense.

Sam smiled at you, a soft, sweet smile that made your heart flutter. "I know, baby girl. I know. You're frustrated, aren't you? You can't tell me what you're thinking. But it's okay. Mama's here. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean made a choking sound. "Will you stop calling yourself that? It's… it's weird."

"Is it?" Sam asked calmly. "Because I remember a time when Dad was gone, and I was sick, and you held me all night, singing me lullabies. You were twelve. You didn't think it was weird then."

Dean flushed. "That was different. You were six. You were a kid. And I was just… I was trying to help."

"Exactly," Sam said. "You were trying to help. And that's all I'm doing now. Helping the person I love most in the world."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Dean looked away, his jaw tight. You could see the conflict on his face: the part of him that wanted to argue, to deny, and the part of him that understood exactly what Sam was saying.

He didn't notice the figure standing in the corner of the room until it spoke.

"Well, well, well. Isn't this precious? Sammy's little doll is back, all new and shiny. Just like the old days, right? Back when you thought you could be a real mother, back when you thought you could save her from the darkness."

Sam's grip tightened on you, and he forced himself to breathe. Lucifer.

"You're not real," he whispered. "You're not here."

"Oh, I'm here, Sammy. I'm always here. Just like I was when you were in the Cage. Remember? Good times."

Sam closed his eyes, trying to shut out the voice. It was just a hallucination. It wasn't real. You were real, warm and solid in his arms. You were real, and he was going to protect you. He was going to do it right this time.

"I'm not listening to you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not going to listen to you."

Dean was watching him, concern in his eyes. "Sam? You okay back there?"

"Fine," Sam said, and the word came out more sharply than he'd intended. "I'm fine. Just... I'm fine."

The next few hours were a blur of activity. Sam was a whirlwind of efficiency, moving through the motel room with a purpose you hadn't seen in him for months. He'd obviously done this before: cared for you, managed all the small, necessary tasks that came with you being a young child (once again).

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Dean had returned until his brother cleared his throat from the doorway.

"Got some clothes," Dean said, holding up a plastic bag. "Had to guess at the size. Hope they fit."

Sam nodded, taking the bag and setting you gently on the bed. You protested, reaching for him with small, insistent hands, and he couldn't help but smile.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I'm just going to get you dressed, okay?"

You made a little fussy sound, as if refusing to let go of whatever trace of your old self you had.

"I know, sweetheart. I know this isn't what you wanted. But we're going to make the best of it, okay? We're going to be okay."

"...kay." you said, eventually, and Sam's heart melted at the trust in your voice. He got to work. The clothes Dean had found were close to the right size. Sam dressed you in a small pair of pink pajamas, the kind with little cartoon animals on them, and you immediately fell in love with them.

"There," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "That's better. You look comfortable now."

"Look, Sammy!" you said, pointing to the bunny on your shirt. "Bunny!"

"I see it, baby. That's a very nice bunny."

You beamed at him, and Sam felt his heart swell. God, he'd missed this. He'd missed the simple joy of making you happy, of seeing your face light up with excitement over something so simple. He'd spent so long trying to protect you from the darkness that he'd forgotten what it was like to just be with you, to enjoy your company without the weight of the world pressing down on him.

He let you sit on the bed for a few minutes, playing hand-games with you to keep you entertained. And you would have found yourself humiliated at how captivating you found the motions. But after more-or-less half an hour he picked you up again, settling you on his hip, and carried you over to the bathroom. You had a brief moment of mortification as you realized what was happening, but Sam was already running the bathwater, testing the temperature with his elbow.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said. "You must be tired. And hungry, still. We'll have a bath, and then some dinner, and then bed. Sound good?"

You nodded, because what else could you do? And as Sam eased you into the warm water, you found yourself relaxing despite everything. It was so familiar, this feeling of being cared for, being loved. It was like coming home.

Sam hummed as he washed you, a soft, tuneless melody that you vaguely recognized. It was a lullaby, something he'd sung to you when you were little. You hadn't heard it in years, but it was still there, buried deep in your memory.

"You remember this?" Sam asked softly. "I used to sing it to you when you couldn't sleep. You'd get so fussy sometimes, and nothing would calm you down except this song and a walk around the room."

You nodded, and he smiled.

"Yeah, you remember. Good. That's good."

Dean appeared in the doorway, watching with an unreadable expression. He'd been quiet for the past hour, clearly struggling with what was happening. But he was still there, still present, even if he didn't quite know how to help.

"Sam," he said, his voice uncertain. "We need to talk. About… about what we're going to do."

"I know," Sam said. "I know we need to figure out how to fix this. But right now, she needs a bath and some food. Everything else can wait."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He knew that tone. the stubborn, unyielding tone that said Sam had made up his mind and nothing was going to change it.

"Fine," he said. "But we're going to have this conversation. Soon."

"Whenever you're ready," Sam said, and there was something almost challenging in his voice. "But not while she's here. She doesn't need to hear us arguing."

Dean made a frustrated sound and walked away. You could hear him moving around in the other room, his footsteps heavy on the cheap carpet.

Sam sighed. "Don't mind him, sweetheart. He's just worried. We all are. But we're going to get through this. I promise."

He was so gentle with you. He washed your hair carefully, making sure the soap didn't get in your eyes. He rinsed you off with a cup, pouring the warm water over your shoulders, making sure you were clean. And then he lifted you out, wrapping you in a towel that was much too big for you, and dried you off with such care that it made your heart ache.

"I missed this," he murmured, almost to himself. "I missed taking care of you. I missed this little face, these little hands and feet. You were so small. So perfect."

He held you against his chest, and you could feel the tears on his cheeks, falling into your hair. He was crying, you realized. And you were crying too, silent tears that streamed down your face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry for everything."

You reached up with your tiny hand and touched his face, trying to tell him it was okay. That you didn't blame him. That you loved him.

His breath hitched. "Oh, baby girl. Oh, my sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you so, so much."

He held you for a long moment, both of you crying. And then he pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and forced a smile.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's get you dressed and fed. And then maybe we can watch some TV? There's a cartoon on. You used to love that one."

You nodded, and he carried you back to the main room, where Dean was sitting on his bed, staring at nothing.

He put you back in the clothes from before the bath, knowing they would not be dirty from half an hour of wearing use.

He dressed you quickly, with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. And then he lifted you up, setting you on his hip again, and headed for the small table.

"Dinner time," he announced. "What do you want, sweetheart? We've got… crackers, and some canned soup, and maybe some fruit if Dean hasn't eaten it all."

"I haven't touched your fruit," Dean muttered, his voice still rough. "It's probably expired anyway."

Sam ignored him, focusing on you. "How about some soup, huh? Nice and warm, good for the tummy. Sound good?"

You nodded, and he set you down on the chair, looking for something to use as a booster seat. He found a thick book and set it on the chair, then lifted you onto it, making sure you were stable.

"Okay," he said. "Let me heat this up."

He moved to the kitchenette, opening the can of soup and pouring it into a small pot. Dean watched him in silence, his eyes unreadable.

Sam worked quickly, stirring the soup, adding a little bit of water to make it easier for you to eat. And then he served it into a bowl, blowing on it to cool it down.

"Here you go, baby girl," he said, setting the bowl in front of you. "Be careful, it's still a little hot."

You reached for the spoon, but your hand was clumsy, still not quite used to your new body. Sam noticed immediately.

"Here," he said gently. "Let me help you."

He took the spoon and scooped up a small bit of soup, blowing on it again. And then he brought it to your lips, waiting for you to open.

You did, without even thinking. It was instinct, the way you had no control over your body and your reactions. The soup was warm and comforting, and you swallowed it eagerly.

"There you go," Sam smiled. "Good girl. That's my good girl."

He fed you the whole bowl, patiently, carefully, making sure you had enough. And then he brought out a small cup of juice, holding it up so you could drink.

"Thirsty?" he asked. "Here, have some juice."

You drank, and it was sweet, and you realized you were exhausted. The day's events had taken a toll on you, and your little body was struggling to keep up.

Sam noticed. "Okay, sleepy girl. Let's get you to bed."

He carried you over to his bed—the one closest to the window, the one you usually slept in because you preferred to not be near the door. He pulled back the covers and laid you down gently, tucking you in.

"I'll be right here," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

You tried to keep your eyes open, but it was impossible. The warmth and comfort and exhaustion overwhelmed you, and you felt yourself drifting off.

"Sleep well, sweetheart," Sam murmured. "Mama's here. Mama's always going to be here."

You woke up warm and comfortable and completely disoriented.

The ceiling was still too far away, and the bed was still too big. Your body still felt wrong, your limbs too short and your hands too small. And when you tried to call out, the words still came out wrong.

But you weren't scared. Because Sam was there.

He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, watching over you. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles underneath them, but there was a peace on his face that you hadn't seen in months. He was holding your hand, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your palm.

"Morning, baby girl," he said softly. "Did you sleep okay?"

You nodded, and he smiled.

"Good. I slept too. Right here, in this chair. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

There was no Lucifer in his eyes. There was no flickering of fear, no darting glances at empty corners. There was just warmth, and love, and a deep, unshakeable peace.

It was so different from how he'd been. Just yesterday, he'd been a wreck. tense and anxious, flinching at shadows. And now he was… calm. Relaxed. Almost happy.

You wondered if it was because of you. If taking care of you, being needed, was what he'd needed to push the hallucinations away.

"Sam," you tried to say, but it came out as a babble. "okay?"

He seemed to understand anyway. "I'm okay, sweetheart. I'm better than I have been in a long time. And it's all because of you."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and warm.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you some breakfast. And then maybe we can go for a walk? There's a park nearby, I saw it when we drove in. I bet you'd like that."

You nodded eagerly, and he laughed.

"Yeah? You want to go to the park? Yeah, sure you do, baby. Okay, honey. Whatever you want."

Dean was already up, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept well, and there was something guarded in his eyes.

"You're really going to take her to a park?" he asked. "She's a toddler, Sam. People are going to notice. People are going to ask questions."

"Then I'll tell them the truth," Sam said calmly. "I'll tell them she's my daughter. That's all they need to know."

Dean stared at him. "Your daughter? Sam, she's not…"

"She was supposed to be," Sam said, his voice soft but firm. "When she was little, I always thought of her as my daughter. Dad may have been her biological father, but he was never there for her. I was. I was the one who raised her, who loved her, who protected her. And now that she needs me again, I'm not going to hide that."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at you, really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

"You love her that much?" he asked quietly.

"I love her more than anything," Sam said. "I always have. I always will."

Dean was silent for a long moment. And then he nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. But we're still going to find a way to fix this. We can't just keep her like this forever."

"I know," Sam said. "And we will. But for now… for now, I just want her to be happy. I want her to feel safe. She deserves that. She deserves everything."

He looked down at you, and his eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"Come on, sweetheart," he said. "Let's get you dressed and fed. We've got a big day ahead of us."

The park was beautiful.

It was a small town park, the kind you'd find in any Midwestern town—a few trees, some benches, a playground that was clearly well-loved. There were families everywhere, children running and laughing, parents watching from the sidelines.

Sam carried you in his arms, his stride easy and relaxed. He'd dressed you in the cutest outfit he could find—a little pink dress with matching shoes, both of which he'd somehow found in your bag. You looked adorable, and he kept telling you so.

"You're the prettiest girl in the whole world," he murmured. "Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

You giggled, because it was ridiculous and sweet and so very Sam. And he smiled at the sound, his whole face lighting up.

"There it is," he said. "There's that laugh I love."

He set you down on the grass, and you immediately started to explore. Your little legs were unsteady, but you were determined. You wanted to see everything, touch everything, experience everything.

Sam followed close behind, never letting you get too far away. He was always there, always watching, always ready to catch you if you stumbled.

"Be careful, sweetheart," he called out. "Watch where you're going."

You looked back at him and grinned, then turned and ran toward the swings. You didn't make it far before you tripped over your own feet and fell, landing in a heap on the grass.

Sam was there in an instant, scooping you up into his arms. "Oh, baby girl! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, laughing. It didn't hurt. It was just grass. And Sam's face was so worried, so full of concern, that it made you want to laugh even more.

"Okay," he said, his voice shaky. "Okay. You're okay. Good. That's good."

He held you for a long moment, burying his face in your hair. And you realized he was more scared than you were. that the thought of you getting hurt was almost too much for him to bear.

"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you, baby girl. I'm not letting anything happen to you."

You reached up and touched his cheek, trying to comfort him. And he smiled, a watery smile that made your heart ache.

"Let's go on the swings," he said. "How about that? I'll push you."

He carried you over to the swings and set you down, making sure you were stable. And then he started to push, gently at first, then higher, until you were soaring through the air.

You laughed, the sound bright and happy and so full of joy. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this happy, this free. And Sam was laughing too, his laughter mingling with yours, filling the air with warmth.

"Higher!" you shouted, the word coming out clear for the first time.

Sam's eyes widened. "Did you just…?"

"Higher!" you shouted again. "Higher, Mama!"

His eyes grew teary, but he was smiling. "Yes, sweetheart. Yes. Higher."

He pushed you higher, and you soared, and everything was perfect.

A young woman approached you, a toddler of her own in her arms. She was pretty, with kind eyes and a warm smile. She looked at Sam and you, and her smile grew.

"She's beautiful," she said. "How old is she?"

Sam's face went soft and proud. "She's three. She's still my little girl. She's the light of my life."

The woman laughed. "I know the feeling. This is my son, Charlie. He's two and a half. They're growing up so fast, aren't they?"

"Too fast," Sam agreed. "I feel like I blink and she's changed. But I'm trying to savor every moment."

"Is her mother around?"

A beat of silence.

Sam hesitated for just a moment. "It's just me," he said. "Her mother's... not in the picture."

The woman's expression softened. "Oh, I see. I'm sorry. That must be hard."

"Sometimes," Sam said, and the truth of the words hit him harder than he'd expected. It had been hard. It had been so hard. He'd spent years trying to be everything for you, to fill the role of both mother and father. He'd failed so many times, had made so many mistakes. But he'd kept trying, kept loving you with everything he had.

"You're doing a great job," the woman said, and Sam felt his throat tighten. "She's so happy. That's all that really matters in the end, isn't it? That they're happy?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and his voice was rough. "Yeah. It is."

They talked for a while longer, about parenting and moving and the challenges of raising a child alone. The woman was kind, and Sam found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't done in years. For a little while, he was just a father at the park, watching his child play. He wasn't a hunter. He wasn't a broken man haunted by the devil. He was just Sam, a single dad trying his best.

The woman smiled. "She's lucky to have you. You can tell she's loved. There's a shine in her eyes that you don't see in every child."

Sam's voice was thick with emotion. "Thank you. That… that means a lot."

"Do you come here often?" the woman asked. "I'm always looking for other parents to talk to. It gets lonely sometimes, just me and little Charlie."

"We're just passing through," Sam said. "But I'm glad we stopped. This park is lovely."

"It is," the woman agreed. "It's one of the things I love about this town. There's always something to do, somewhere to go. It's a good place to raise a family."

Sam looked down at you, and his eyes were soft and warm. "Maybe we should stay," he said. "Just for a little while. I think my daughter needs a break from all the traveling."

The woman looked at him curiously. "Traveling? Are you a…?"

"Salesman." Sam said quickly. "I'm a salesman. We're on the road a lot. It's hard on her, being in different motels every night."

"Ah," the woman said, understanding dawning. "That must be tough. But you're doing the right thing, giving her some stability. Children need that."

"They do," Sam agreed. "I'm trying. I'm really trying."

You reached up and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight. And he looked down at you, and his expression softened.

"See?" she said, once again. "She's happy. That's all that matters."

The rest of the day was a blur of happiness.

Sam pushed you on the swings for what felt like hours. He played with you in the sandbox, building castles and knocking them down. He chased you around the playground, letting you catch him, making you laugh with his over-the-top reactions.

And when it was time to leave, he picked you up and held you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Did you have fun, baby girl?" he asked.

You nodded, and he smiled.

"Good. I'm glad. I love seeing you happy."

He carried you back to the motel, your head resting on his shoulder. You were tired, exhausted from all the running and playing, and you could barely keep your eyes open.

"Tired?" Sam asked softly. "Let's get you a bath and some dinner, and then you can sleep."

You nodded against his shoulder, and he laughed.

"Okay, sleepy girl. Let's get you cleaned up."

The bath was warm and soothing, and Sam sang to you again as he washed you. You were too tired to even try to speak, but you didn't need to. You knew that Sam understood. He always understood.

After the bath, he dressed you in your pajamas and carried you to the table. Dean had made dinner while you were in the bath, a simple meal of chicken and vegetables, and he fed you carefully, making sure you ate enough.

"Good girl," he said. "That's my good girl. Eat up. You need your strength."

You ate until you were full, and then he gave you a cookie. It was a chocolate chip cookie, warm and soft, and you ate it with the kind of pleasure that only a toddler could feel.

"More?" you asked, your voice small and hopeful.

Sam laughed. "Okay, one more. But then it's bedtime. You hear me?"

You nodded, and he gave you another cookie. You ate it slowly, savoring every bite, and when you were done, he picked you up and carried you to his bed.

"I'm sleeping here tonight," he told you. "Dean's on the couch. I want to be close to you, okay?"

You nodded, and he climbed into bed beside you, pulling you close. You nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and you felt so safe, so loved, so home.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he murmured. "Goodnight, my precious girl. Mama's here. Mama's always going to be here."

You fell asleep with a smile on your face, knowing that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The next few days were a dream.

Sam was a different person. The haunted look was gone from his eyes, replaced by warmth and love and a peace that you hadn't seen in months. He was patient and kind and so, so gentle with you. He played with you, read to you, sang to you. He held you when you were scared, comforted you when you were sad, celebrated with you when you were happy.

And the hallucinations were gone. Completely, utterly gone. Lucifer's voice had been silenced, replaced by your laughter. The shadows had vanished, replaced by your smile.

You knew it was because of you. Taking care of you was healing him in a way that nothing else could. You were his purpose, his reason, his everything. And as long as he had you, he was okay.

Dean noticed too. He watched Sam with a mixture of relief and confusion, trying to understand what was happening. He was still awkward around you, still unsure how to treat you, but he was trying. He brought you toys from the store, bought you books and games. He let you cuddle with him when Sam was busy, and he even sang you a song once, a soft, off-key lullaby that made you want to cry.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said one night, when you were already asleep. "For… for being here. For helping."

Dean shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "You're my brother. She's my sister. Of course I'm going to help."

"I know," Sam said. "But it means a lot. More than you know."

Dean was quiet for a moment. And then he asked, "Do you ever think about what it would be like? If we weren't hunters? If we could just… live normal lives?"

"All the time," Sam admitted. "I think about it constantly. Especially now. I want to give her that. I want to give her a normal childhood, a normal life. I don't want her to grow up like we did."

"Neither do I," Dean said quietly. "But it is what it is. We can't change the past."

"I know," Sam said. "But we can change the future. We can make sure she has a better life. We can protect her, keep her safe. That's what I want. That's all I've ever wanted."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "Okay. We'll figure it out. Together."

Sam smiled, a true, genuine smile that lit up his whole face. "Thank you, Dean. That… that means everything."

"Don't get sappy on me," Dean muttered, but he was smiling too. "Come on, let's get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

The next morning, Sam was in the kitchenette, making you breakfast. You were sitting on the counter, swinging your legs and chattering about the bunny pajamas you were still wearing.

"Sammy, the bunny is my friend," you said. "I'm gonna take him everywhere."

"Are you? That's a very good idea." Sam flipped a pancake, smiling. "You know, I used to have a friend like that when I was little. A stuffed dog. I took him everywhere."

"Where is he?" you asked.

Sam paused. He'd lost the dog years ago, during one of their many moves. "I don't know, baby. I think he got lost."

"That's sad."

"Yeah. It is."

Sam was reaching for the syrup when he saw it. Lucifer was standing in the corner of the room, watching him with that familiar, mocking smile. Sam felt his heart rate spike, felt the familiar wave of panic wash over him.

"Look at you, Sammy," Lucifer said, his voice soft and cruel. "Playing house. Pretending to be a mother. Is that what you think you are? A good mother?"

Sam closed his eyes, trying to shut out the voice. He could feel his hands shaking, could feel the panic rising in his chest.

"Sammy?" you said, and his eyes snapped open. You were looking at him, your brow furrowed with concern. "Sammy?"

Sam forced a smile. "Don't worry, baby. I'm fine."

"Sammy," you said, and your voice was firm. "You look scared."

He was. He was so scared. He was scared of losing you, scared of the darkness, scared of the devil who haunted his every waking moment. But when he looked at you, when he saw the concern in your eyes, he found the strength to push back.

"I'm okay," he said, and this time he meant it. "I'm okay, baby. I'm right here."

"Sammy," you said again, and you reached for him. "Sammy, come here."

Sam set down the spatula and walked over to you. You wrapped your small arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"I love you, Sammy," you said.

Sam felt the words like a balm on his wounded soul. The panic faded, replaced by a warmth that spread through his entire body.

"I love you too, baby," he said. "More than anything."

Lucifer was still there, still watching, but Sam forced himself to ignore him. He focused on you, on your warmth and your love. He wasn't going to let the devil take this away from him. He wasn't going to let the darkness win.

"Sammy, the pancakes.." you said, and Sam laughed, a sound of pure joy.

"Right. Sorry, baby. Let me get those."

He set you back on the counter and turned to the stove, his heart light. The hallucination was still there, but it was quieter now, less threatening. He could push it away. For you, he could push anything away.

Dean watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable. He'd come back from his "research" to find Sam in the kitchenette, you on the counter, the two of you laughing about something.

It was such a domestic scene, so normal, that it almost hurt to look at. Sam was happy. Actually happy. Dean hadn't seen his brother like this in years, not since before the Cage, before all the trauma and the pain. He was lighter, more relaxed. The constant tension that had been in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a calm that seemed almost alien.

And it was all because of you. You, with your small hands and your bright eyes and your unconditional love. You'd saved Sam in a way Dean never could. You'd given him a reason to keep going, a reason to fight.

Dean had always thought of Sam as his little brother, the one he needed to protect. But watching Sam with you, seeing the love and tenderness in his eyes, Dean realized that Sam was more than just a brother. He was a mother, in every way that mattered. He was the one who'd loved you when John couldn't, who'd cared for you when Dean was too busy hunting. He was the one who'd made you into the person you were, the kind, sensitive, emotionally intelligent girl who'd grown into a wonderful young woman.

And now you were small again, and Sam got a second chance to raise you right. A second chance to be the mother he'd always wanted to be.

Dean cleared his throat, and Sam looked up. "Hey," he said. "You're back."

"Yeah." Dean walked into the room, sitting down at the table. "Looks like you two are having fun."

"We are," Sam said, and his voice was warm. "We're making breakfast. Want some?"

"Sure. Sounds good."

Dean watched as Sam finished cooking the pancakes, plating them and setting them on the table. He watched as Sam lifted you off the counter and settled you in a chair, making sure you were comfortable. He watched as Sam cut up the pancakes into small, bite-sized pieces and helped you eat.

"You're good at that." Dean said, and Sam looked up.

"At what?"

"Taking care of her." Dean shrugged. "You've always been good at it. When she was a baby, I mean. You'd spend hours with her, just holding her and talking to her. I didn't understand it then, not really. But I think I do now."

Sam was silent for a moment, his eyes on you. "She needed someone," he said quietly. "Dad wasn't going to be that someone. You were too busy trying to be the perfect son. So it had to be me."

"You were just a kid yourself." Dean said.

"I know. But I loved her. I couldn't let her go through what we went through. I couldn't let her be alone."

Dean nodded slowly. He thought about the years after Mary died, the years when John had been consumed by grief and rage, leaving Dean to raise Sam. He thought about how hard it had been, how much he'd resented his father for abandoning them, and he felt a sudden understanding.

"You raised her like she was yours," Dean said. "Like she was your own kid."

"She was," Sam said, and his voice was fierce. "She is. She's my daughter. I don't care what anyone says."

Dean looked at you, at your small face and your bright eyes, and he believed him.

"She's lucky," Dean said. "She's lucky to have you."

Sam looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thanks, Dean. That means a lot."

That night, Sam woke to the sound of crying. For a moment, he was disoriented, not sure where he was or what was happening. Then he felt your small body pressed against his, felt the tears on your cheeks, and he was awake in an instant.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he said, pulling you close. "What happened?"

"I had a bad dream," you said, your voice trembling. "There was a monster, and it was trying to hurt me."

Sam's heart clenched. He hated that you were scared, hated that even in your dreams, the darkness found a way to reach you. "It's okay, baby. I'm here. I'm not going to let any monsters hurt you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Sam began to rock you gently, humming a lullaby. He could feel your tears soaking through his shirt, but he didn't care. All that mattered was making you feel safe. All that mattered was chasing away the darkness.

"Sammy?" you said, your voice small and tired. "Will you stay with me forever?"

Sam felt a surge of love so powerful it stole his breath. "Yes, baby. I'll stay with you forever."

"Even when I'm big and grown?"

Sam paused. He'd almost forgotten that this was temporary, that eventually you'd be returned to your original age. The thought of losing you, of losing this closeness, was almost unbearable.

"Even then," he said. "I'll always be with you. No matter what."

You seemed satisfied with that answer, your breathing evening out as you drifted back to sleep. Sam held you close, feeling your warmth against his chest. He thought about the future, about how he was going to be there for you every step of the way. He was going to be your mother, your protector, your everything.

He was going to make sure you never felt alone again.

The next morning, Sam was in the best mood he'd been in for years.

He made you breakfast, you chattering away about your dreams and the bunny pajamas and the little girl you'd met at the park. Sam listened with a smile, responding when you asked him questions.

"What color should the bunny be?" you asked, holding up a crayon.

"Hmm. I think pink. Pink's a good color for bunnies."

"Okay!" You set to work coloring, your tongue poking out in concentration. Sam watched you, marveling at the simple joy you took in the world.

"Sammy?" you said, not looking up from your coloring. "Can we go to the park again today?"

"Sure, baby. After breakfast."

"And can we get ice cream?"

"Absolutely."

You beamed at him, and Sam felt his heart melt.

Dean showed up later that morning with a strange expression on his face. He was carrying a small package, wrapped in brown paper.

"Hey," he said. "Got something for the kid."

Sam looked up, surprised. "Dean, you didn't have to-"

"Wanted to." Dean handed the package to you, and you tore into it with the enthusiasm of a three-year-old. Inside was a small stuffed bunny, its fur soft and white, its eyes button black.

"Bunny!" you said, hugging it to your chest. "It's my friend!"

"Glad you like it, honey." Dean said, and there was something in his voice that was almost vulnerable.

Sam looked at his brother, at the awkwardness in his posture, and he understood. Dean was trying to be a part of this, to be a good uncle. He'd never been good with kids, not really, but he was trying.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said. "That was really nice."

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks. "Just thought she needed a friend."

You'd already named the bunny 'Cotton' and were telling it all about your day. Sam watched you, his heart full. This was what family was supposed to be like. This was the kind of love he'd always wanted to give you.

Three days later, and it was time.

Dean had been working on the reversal spell for days, gathering the ingredients he needed and researching the proper incantations. He'd been careful, meticulous, not wanting to make any mistakes.

"Okay," he said, on the third night. "I think I've got it. Sam, I need you to hold her still."

Sam looked at you, sleeping peacefully in the bed. He knew what was coming, knew that this moment had to happen, but he couldn't help the surge of grief that rose in his chest.

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked.

"As sure as I can be." Dean lit the candles, placed the ingredients in a circle around the bed. "It might be a little uncomfortable for her. But it should work."

Sam nodded, picking you up and holding you close. You stirred, blinking sleepily.

"Sammy?" you said, your voice small and confused.

"It's okay, baby," Sam said. "It's okay. I've got you. Mama's got you."

Dean began to chant, his voice low and steady. The candles flickered, the light growing brighter. Sam held you tighter, feeling the warmth of your small body against his.

And then the light flared, bright and blinding, and Sam closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the candles were out, and you were no longer a child. You were a teenager again, you as he remembered you, slumped in his arms.

"Sam?" you said, your voice hoarse. "What happened?"

Sam felt the tears come. He'd missed you, so much. He'd loved you as a child, would have given anything to keep you that way, but he'd also loved you as the person you'd become. He'd loved you every step of the way.

"Nothing, baby," he said. "Nothing happened. I've got you."

Dean was watching them, his expression unreadable. "It worked," he said, and there was relief in his voice. "I can't believe it worked."

You looked between them, confused. "Guys, what's going on? What happened to me?"

Sam took a deep breath. "There was a spell," he said. "It turned you back into a child. We reversed it."

You were silent for a moment, processing this. Then you looked at Sam, at his tear-stained face, and your expression softened.

"You took care of me," you said. "Like you always do."

"Yeah." Sam's voice broke. "Yeah, I did."

You smiled, a slow, warm smile that reminded Sam of the child you'd been. "Thanks, mama."

Sam stared at you, his heart aching. "You remember?"

"Some of it," you said. "The park. The bath. You playing wiht me." You paused. "I remember you calling yourself my mama. I think that's my favorite part."

Sam laughed, a wet, broken sound. "You're not weirded out by it?"

"No." You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tight. "You've always been my mom. In every way that mattered. I just never knew how to say it."

Sam hugged you back, burying his face in your hair. He'd lost the child, but he'd gained something else. Something just as precious. He'd gained your understanding, your love. And that was more than enough.

"You know, I was thinking. About what you said. About being her mom."

Sam braced himself for Dean's words.. "Yeah?"

"I think I get it now." His brother shrugged, looking awkward. "I mean, I don't fully understand it. But I get why you feel that way. You raised her. You loved her. That's what matters, I guess.."

Sam stared at him, surprised. "Dean..."

"I'm not saying I'm gonna start calling you mom or anything," Dean said quickly. "But I'm okay with it. I'm okay with you being her mom."

Sam felt his eyes fill with tears. "Thanks, Dean. That means a lot."

Dean shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Don't mention it."

It started in a drafty, yellow-walled motel room outside of Topeka, two mornings after a messy spirit purge in an abandoned grain silo. The room smelled like stale iron, sulfur, and the chemical tang of cheap pine cleaner.

You were standing in front of the tiny, steam-fogged bathroom mirror, struggling into your clothes after a long shower that had done absolute zero to relieve the deep, bone-heavy ache humming in your limbs. You reached back to pull the thick elastic band of your sports bra into place, but the second the fabric pressed against your skin, a sharp, white-hot sting shot across your chest.

"...Ow. Son of a..."

Dean didn't even look up from the foot of the sagging mattress, where he had a disassembled Colt scattered over a faded chenille bedspread. His calloused fingers were moving with rhythmic, practiced ease, rubbing a oil-soaked rag down the steel barrel.

"What's breaking?" he muttered around the unlit matchstick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Door's already squeaking."

You frowned, gingerly tugging the strap over your shoulder, wincing at the sheer, hypersensitive friction of the seam. "My bra is trying to murder me."

Dean snorted, a low, gravelly rumble in his chest. "I don't think that's how apparel works, sweetheart. Pretty sure they're non-violent."

"I'm serious, Dean. It hurts."

"What, did you buy the wrong size?"

"I've worn this exact one for six months," you grumbled, turning slightly to adjust the back clasp, only for another throb of tender pressure to make you hiss through your teeth. "It feels like I've been kicked by a mule."

"Huh."

Dean set the barrel down on his lap and finally looked over.

His sharp green eyes locked onto you—first out of pure hunter habit, checking for visible bruises, hidden hex marks, or phantom cuts. But as his gaze lingered, the analytical edge in his eyes completely dissolved.

His focus dropped.

Drifted back up to your face.

Then dropped right back down, lingering with zero subtle grace whatsoever.

A slow, thoroughly unrepentant grin spread across his face, lifting the corner of his mouth into that infuriating, cocky smirk.

"...Well."

You blinked, leaning against the doorframe. "...What?"

"I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck with oil-stained fingers, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "...Far be it from me to complain about structural improvements."

You stared at him, your brows pulling down into a sharp crease. "...Dean."

"What?" he asked, throwing his hands up in mock innocence, though the grin only widened. "I'm just making an objective tactical observation."

"You are staring like a damn pervert."

"I am appreciating fine craftsmanship," he corrected smoothly, leaning back on his elbows against the footboard. "There's a vast difference."

You snatched a damp hand towel off the rack beside the sink and balled it up, hurling it straight at his face.

Dean caught it out of the air without even breaking a sweat, tossing it casually onto the nightstand. "Hey! Watch the firearms."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm a man of culture," he shot back, his eyes flashing with that familiar, warm heat as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I'm just saying... you've got a little... y'know..." He gestured vaguely toward your chest with both hands, making a wide, curved shape in the air. "...More."

You stared down at yourself, your arms folding defensively across your middle—which only pressed against the tenderness and made you wince all over again. "...More?"

He nodded once, definitive and entirely unbothered. "...Definitely more. A little bit extra. A bonus."

"They're swollen, you absolute idiot."

Dean shrugged, his broad shoulders rising under his grey t-shirt in a posture of total, unbothered satisfaction. "Didn't hear me complaining. If sore muscles mean extra real estate, I say we hunt in silos more often."

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt behind your temples. "You're unbelievable."

"I've been called worse by better-looking ghosts."

You muttered a string of colourful curses under your breath, turning back toward the fogged-up mirror to comb through your wet hair. The plastic teeth of the comb snagged on a knot, and a sudden, bizarre rush of heavy, overwhelming fatigue slammed into your chest out of nowhere, making your eyes sting with a fleeting, absurd urge to cry.

You swallowed it down furiously, pressing the heels of your palms against the cold porcelain sink.

Behind you, the soft clink of brass against steel resumed as Dean went right back to reassembling the cylinder of the revolver, completely oblivious to the micro-quake happening three feet away from him.

"Seriously, though," his rough voice drifted across the small room, softer this time, stripped of the cocky edge.

You paused, staring at your own pale reflection. "What?"

"You sure you're okay? You've been complaining a lot lately. Slept ten hours yesterday and you still look like you got run over by a tractor."

Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second. You thought of the lingering nausea that had hit you in the diner two towns back—the greasy smell of sausage that had made your stomach violently flip—and the way your heavy combat boots suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

"...Yeah," you murmured softly, smoothing a hand over your damp hair. "Just tired. Tough hunt."

"Yeah," Dean agreed easily, sliding the cylinder back into place with a solid, metallic click. "Tell me about it. Salting bones takes it out of you."

He accepted the answer without a single shadow of doubt.

The second clue arrived in the form of a woman neither of you believed.

It wasn't even a real case. At least, that's what Dean insisted while chewing violently on a stick of fried dough.

"You dragged me to a carnival," he grumbled, his voice low enough to avoid drawing eyes as the three of you navigated the crowded, sawdust-covered walkways beneath strings of humming, incandescent lights. "You know how many monsters hide at carnivals? It’s practically a union requirement for shapeshifters and rogue hex-weavers."

Sam didn't even look up from the dog-eared local newspaper clipping tucked into his hand. "None. Which is exactly why we're here. The salt-and-burn in Columbus took three days, the Impala needs an oil change, and we have zero active leads."

Dean scowled, wiping a smudge of powdered sugar off his thumb onto his jeans. "...I hate when you're right."

The hunt had wrapped up yesterday afternoon. No vengeful spirits, no wandering ghouls, no bloodthirsty creatures waiting in the dark—just a false alarm from an overworked county sheriff who’d mistaken a black bear attack for a local urban legend. For the first time in three straight months, the Winchesters had nowhere to be until Sunday morning.

So when the annual county fair lit up the field across the highway from your neon-buzzing motel...

You’d managed to talk them into going.

Dean had aggressively insisted he was only attending for the heart-clogging food options. Yet, twenty minutes after passing through the turnstiles, he’d already blown twenty dollars trying—and spectacularly failing—to win you an oversized, gaudy blue stuffed bear at the shooting gallery.

"The barrel on that air rifle is bent," he muttered, glaring at the teenager running the booth as if the kid were a demon in disguise. "It’s off by at least two degrees to the left. It's regulation sabotage."

"It is not," you replied, leaning back against the wooden rail.

"It’s a rigged carny racket!"

"You just have terrible aim with low-caliber air pellets, Dean."

"I shoot moving targets for a living," he countered, spinning around to narrow his eyes at you.

"Which makes your inability to hit a stationary tin duck even funnier."

He pointed a calloused, grease-stained forefinger directly between your eyes. "I don't appreciate your tone. Or your attitude."

You just laughed, casually reaching over to snatch two salted fries straight out of his paper basket. He made a weak, half-hearted swipe at your hand, missing entirely, though the familiar, quiet warmth in his green eyes gave away just how much he was actually enjoying himself.

The three of you were halfway across the noisy fairgrounds—past the screaming riders on the Tilt-A-Whirl and the heavy smell of fried butter—when you noticed the faded, ruby-red velvet tent tucked into the shadow between the creaking Ferris wheel and the ring toss.

A crooked wooden sign swayed overhead in the humid night breeze:

MADAME ZORA Palm Readings • Tarot • Futures Revealed

"Oh, absolutely not," Dean barked the literal microsecond he caught where your eyes had landed.

"You haven't even heard my pitch yet," you said, snagging the sleeve of his flannel to slow his pace.

"I don't need to. I know that face. That’s your 'I’m about to waste time and money' face."

"It's five bucks, Dean."

"It's a neon-lit tourist trap run by a lady who probably smells like stale patchouli and store-bought incense."

"It'll be funny."

"It's still five dollars that could buy a draft beer."

You stopped in the middle of the walkway, looking up at him through your eyelashes, letting a sweet, deliberately innocent smile curve your lips. "Please? Just five minutes."

Dean stared at you, his jaw working as he tried—and failed—to maintain his stern, uncompromising hunter scowl. He let out a dramatic, chest-heaving sigh that earned a bewildered glance from two passing high schoolers.

"I've fought actual demons with less persistence than you," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is that a yes?"

"...It’s a deeply reluctant, highly annoyed yes," he muttered, though he didn't pull his arm away from your hand as you tugged him toward the heavy velvet curtain. "If she pulls out a crystal ball, I’m leaving."

Madame Zora didn't ask for your hand.

She asked for Dean's.

Dean stared at the silver-ringed hand outstretched across the table for a full five seconds, his jaw set, his green eyes flicking from her heavy eyeliner to the glowing amber lamp sitting between them.

"...Seriously?" he muttered.

Madame Zora simply waited, her dark eyes unblinking, totally unbothered by his signature intimidating glare.

With an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, Dean dropped heavily into the tiny wooden chair opposite her, the frame groaning under his weight. He slapped his calloused palm onto the faded velvet table runner with an unceremonious thud.

"There," he grumbled, leaning back and resting his elbow on the table. "If you're about to tell me I'm gonna die young, get in line. I've got a whole list."

The old woman's lips twitched into a faint, mysterious smile. "I don't tell people when they'll die."

"Good."

"I tell them how they're living."

Dean snorted, glancing over his shoulder toward you with a quick, disbelieving smirk. "Lady, if this is the part where you tell me I have unresolved childhood trauma and emotional issues—"

Her dry, warm fingers brushed lightly across the thick, hardened lines of his palm.

Dean fell dead silent.

Not because some mystical charge shot through the air. Not because the candles flickered or a cold draft swept through the heavy velvet drapery.

Simply because... she'd stopped smiling.

Her eyes lifted slowly from the lines carved into his hand, moving up the leather of his jacket, settling on his face.

Then... past him.

Her gaze drifted right to where you stood, a few feet away, leaning casually against the tent's main wooden support pole near the entrance flap.

Her expression shifted. It wasn't excitement or theatrical carnival flair. It was recognition. The quiet, heavy look of someone suddenly realizing they were looking at two halves of the same picture.

"Hm," she breathed.

Dean’s left eyebrow shot up, his body instinctively tensing. "What?"

Madame Zora ignored his question entirely. Instead, her eyes dropped back down to the broad expanse of his palm, her thumb tracing a faint, curved line near his wrist.

"...You have a child," she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the distant, muffled music of the carousel outside.

Silence stretched across the small tent.

Dean barked out a short, harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, no. No, I don't."

She didn't laugh with him. "You do."

"No," he repeated, his tone shifting into something a little more amused, a little more dismissive as he tried to pull his hand back. She didn't let go. "Pretty sure I'd remember something like that, lady."

"You aren't raising one," she continued calmly, as if reading the text off a page. "You haven't held them. But you have one."

Dean leaned back, a cocky, sharp grin fixing on his face as he leaned into his usual bulletproof defense mechanism. "Okay... now I know you're just throwing darts in the dark. Standard psychic stuff."

"I don't throw darts."

"You definitely got the wrong Winchester. Try the tall guy wandering around the funnel cake stand."

"I rarely miss," she replied quietly.

Dean looked back toward you, rolling his eyes as if inviting you to share in the sheer absurdity of it all. "You hearin' this?"

You crossed your arms, letting a slow, amused smile spread across your face. "I mean... it'd explain your sleep schedule. And your taste in food."

Dean pointed a stern, calloused finger directly at you. "Do not encourage the carnival lady."

Madame Zora never took her eyes off him. "Sometimes," she said softly, her voice carrying a strange, weightless authority, "life arrives before we have the eyes to recognize it."

Dean scoffed, his patience officially running dry. "Or..."

He pulled his hand firmly from her grip and stood up, his large frame instantly shrinking the tiny space of the tent.

"...sometimes carnival psychics make stuff up to justify five bucks." He reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the faded velvet table. He gave you a quick nod toward the curtain flap. "C'mon. We're done here."

The cool, damp Midwest night air hit your face the moment you pushed past the thick curtain and stepped back into the glowing, noisy fairgrounds.

Dean immediately let out a loud snort, shaking his head as he adjusted his jacket. "Unbelievable. I can't believe I paid actual, legal tender for that garbage."

"You paid because you're secretly a charitable man at heart," you teased, stepping into stride beside him as the smell of roasted peanuts and exhaust fumes replaced the thick incense.

"I paid because you gave me those stupid puppy-dog eyes."

"Hey, they work."

"They're a hazard to my bank account is what they are."

You smiled, sliding your hand naturally into his. His fingers instinctively closed around yours, his calloused palm warm against the chill of the evening as the neon reflections of the Ferris wheel danced off the polished chrome of the Impala parked near the exit gates.

He squeezed your hand absentmindedly, sweeping his eyes over the passing crowds out of sheer, unerasable habit.

You walked in silence for a few yards before tilting your head to look sideways at him. "...So."

Dean let out a long, suffering groan. "Oh, here we go."

You fought the grin tugging at your lips. "So..."

"You are absolutely not gonna let this go, are you?"

"I just think it's funny."

"It wasn't funny. It was highway robbery."

"It was a little funny."

Dean reached up with his free hand and rubbed it roughly over his face. "She literally made up a kid! Out of thin air!"

You stopped walking, turning your body toward him and looking up at him with exaggerated, dramatic suspicion. "...You got any secret offspring running around Kansas I should know about, Dean?"

He stopped in his tracks, turning to face you. He gave you the single most offended, deeply scandalized look you had ever seen on his face.

"What?!"

"I'm just asking!"

"I'm twenty-seven!" he protested loudly, earning a quick glance from a mother pushing a stroller past you.

"So?"

"When exactly was I supposed to have this mystery child?!" he argued, throwing his free hand up in the air. "Between getting thrown through windows by ghosts and driving across forty-eight states?!"

"I don't know," you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "Pretty sure you had a reputation as a bit of a womanizer before we met."

Dean stared at you, his jaw dropping for a second before he burst into a loud, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, that is dirty. That is below the belt."

"So that's a definitive no?"

He stepped closer, wrapping his arm heavily around your shoulders and pulling you tight against his side as the two of you started walking again toward the exit lights.

"If I had a kid," he said, his tone softening just a fraction beneath the bravado, "I'd know about it. I wouldn't leave a kid out there."

"You sure?"

"I'm positive."

"You didn't sound very convincing just now."

"I am one hundred percent, rock-solid certain that I have never accidentally become somebody's father," he declared, bumping his shoulder against yours with a grin. "Nice try, though."

You laughed, leaning your head against his arm for a brief second as the chatter of the carnival faded into the quiet hum of the night. You let the conversation float away into the dark, lost among the flashing lights and the distant roar of the highway.

Neither of you noticed Madame Zora standing just inside the dark slit of her red tent curtains, watching the two of you walk away toward the dark silhouette of the Chevrolet Impala.

She didn't look surprised by his denial. Only thoughtful.

Very quietly, to the quiet wind rustling the canvas overhead, she murmured,

"...Not father."

A faint, knowing smile touched her weathered lips.

"...Not yet."

Then she pulled her hand back, and let the heavy red velvet drop shut.

The third clue arrived on a hot Sunday afternoon at Bobby Singer’s salvage yard.

It wasn't a hunt. There were no hex bags in the floorboards, no sulfur in the wind, and no blood on the upholstery.

It was one of those rare, almost suspiciously peaceful afternoons where Bobby had declared the three of you were staying put because, in his exact words, "The world's still gonna try to end on Monday. Today, we're eatin' ribs."

The backyard smelled of white-hot charcoal, sweet hickory smoke, and whatever secret, vinegar-heavy rub Bobby swore under penalty of death came from a family recipe, even though Sam had once spotted three empty grocery store shaker bottles in the trash.

Dean had, naturally, appointed himself assistant grill master—a title that mostly consisted of him hovering over the grates with a pair of metal tongs, aggressively offering unprompted advice while Bobby loudly insisted he was "just in the damn way."

"You flipped 'em too early," Bobby grumbled, swatting at Dean’s hand with a wooden spoon.

"They’re fine," Dean countered, adjusting his leather cap. "Look at that sear."

"That ain't a sear, idjit, that's charcoal."

"It's flavor."

"It's a fire hazard."

Sam sat at the weathered, sun-bleached picnic table beneath the shade of the back porch overhang. He had a sweating bottle of beer in one hand and a battered, leather-bound folklore book open beside his plate, pretending to cross-reference creature lore while quietly enjoying the bickering.

You wandered out through the squeaking screen door carrying a heavy glass bowl of potato salad.

Dean’s head turned instantly, his green eyes lighting up the moment he saw you. "There she is."

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Bobby threatened to banish me from his kitchen if I didn't get out."

"He threaten you with the 12-gauge or just the spatula?" Dean asked with a smirk.

"Spatula. Though he brandished a rolling pin at one point."

"He likes you," Dean declared, casually taking the bowl from your hands and setting it on the table. "He only uses cookware on people he respects."

"Good to know."

You stayed by the table for maybe three minutes—long enough to laugh at one of Sam's dry remarks about Dean's grilling technique—and then quietly slipped back inside the house.

Nobody thought much of it.

At first.

Five minutes later, you came back out carrying a fresh stack of paper plates and napkins. You set them down, reached over, and casually stole a pickle straight off Dean's prep tray.

He let out a dramatically offended, scandalized gasp, pointing a grease-stained thumb at you as you retreated. "Hey! That's a structural pickle!"

You just grinned over your shoulder, popped it into your mouth, and disappeared through the screen door once again.

Dean frowned, leaning on the grill scraper as his eyes lingered on the dark mesh of the door.

"...Where's she keep goin'?"

Bobby didn't even look up as he basted a rack of ribs. "House."

"Yeah, I know where, but what's she doing in there? We brought everything out."

"Maybe she's getting away from your breathing."

"Hilarious."

Ten minutes after that, you returned with a bottle of yellow mustard and a jar of jalapeños. You paused to listen as Sam read a ridiculous excerpt from the county paper, laughed, and then, before anyone could ask you to sit down, turned right around and walked back toward the kitchen.

The screen door slapped shut behind you.

Dean stared at the door, his brows pulling into that sharp, familiar crease. "...Again?"

Sam finally looked up from his lore book, tapping his pencil against the wood. "She's been going back and forth a lot today."

Dean scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck, his eyes still fixed on the house. "...Yeah." A long beat passed. He looked sideways at Bobby. "...Maybe she's avoiding you."

"I can hear you, idjit," Bobby snapped without pausing his basting.

Dean gave a quick, satisfied grin. "Worth a shot."

Another ten minutes passed.

The burgers were resting under a sheet of foil. The ribs were sputtering over the last of the embers. You still hadn't come back out.

Dean finally tossed his tongs onto the side tray and ambled toward the back porch, his boots heavy on the wooden steps. Just as his calloused hand reached out for the screen door handle—

It swung open.

You bumped right into his chest, stepping back with a tiny, sharp intake of breath.

"There you are," he said, taking a quick step back to give you room, his hands rising instinctively to steady you by your hips. His eyes scanned your face. "You okay?"

You smiled a little too quickly. "Fine. Miss me already?"

"You've disappeared like... six times in forty-five minutes."

"I have not."

"Five," Sam called out helpfully from the picnic table.

"Four," you corrected, shooting Sam a look.

Dean pointed a finger toward the dark hallway behind you. "You've been roaming around Bobby's kitchen like a restless spirit. What's going on in there?"

"I've just been... getting stuff. Helping out."

"Bobby would've yelled at the top of his lungs if he needed help."

"Are you saying I'm unwanted?"

"I'm saying you're acting suspicious," Dean murmured, leaning down slightly, a playful, searching grin curving his lips. "You got a secret stash of pie in there you're not sharing?"

You laughed, a soft, nervous sound, and lightly pushed his chest. "I'm getting a bell."

"For you?"

"For you. So you stop tracking my every footstep."

You bumped his shoulder as you stepped past him onto the porch.

"You'd get tired of hearing it ring," he called after you, turning to follow you back down the steps.

"Nah," you said softly, looking back over your shoulder. "I don't think I would."

Dinner finally settled onto the old wooden picnic table in a messy, glorious spread.

Paper plates piled high with smoky ribs, grilled corn, baked beans, and potato salad. Enough food to feed an army, or three very hungry hunters.

Dean dropped into the wooden bench right beside you with a deep, satisfied groan, stretching his long legs out under the table. He reached automatically into the red plastic cooler sitting on the grass, pulling out a dripping six-pack of cold beer.

He popped a bottle for himself, then pulled out a second one. Without even looking at you, driven purely by month upon month of shared muscle memory and unspoken instinct, he held the sweating glass bottle out toward your hand.

"Here."

It was a small gesture. Casual. Second nature.

You looked down at the dark glass bottle, your hand hovering over it for a fraction of a second... and then you pulled back.

"...Actually."

Dean turned his head, his brow furrowing as he held the bottle in mid-air. "What?"

"I think I'll just have some water."

He blinked, staring at you as if you'd just spoken fluent ancient Sumerian. "...Water?"

"Yeah."

"You hate water."

"I do not hate water. It's hydration."

"You literally called it 'tap-flavored boredom' three days ago in Nebraska."

"I have never said that phrase in my life."

Dean let out a short, bark of a laugh, looking toward the end of the table. "Sammy, back me up. She hates water."

Sam looked up from slathering butter on a cob of corn. "She's right, Dean. You said it, not her. But she did say water was 'for washing the Impala.'"

"See?!" Dean pointed at Sam. "Thank you!"

Bobby snorted into his napkin. "Kid, I've seen you drink stale coffee out of a pot that hadn't been washed since the Reagan administration. Don't go judging people's liquid choices."

Dean ignored both of them, his green eyes settling back on you, searching your face with a mix of genuine amusement and mild confusion. "You always steal my beer. You take three sips and then leave the bottle for me."

"I'm just... not really in the mood for a beer today," you said, keeping your voice light, though your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.

"...Huh."

Without another thought—without a single drop of suspicion, without connecting a single dot, without even registering the strange, quiet tension sitting in your shoulders—he simply shrugged.

"More for me."

He twisted the cap off the bottle with the hem of his shirt, handed it across the table to Sam instead, and then reached straight over you. He grabbed the heavy plastic pitcher of ice water sitting near the salad, poured a generous glass, and set it down right in front of you.

"There you go. Fresh from the Singer well."

"Thanks," you murmured.

Dean smiled, a warm, completely unguarded expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and bumped his shoulder heavily against yours. "Try to stay in one place for ten minutes, alright? You're making me tired just watching you."

You stared down at the clear glass of water, watching the condensation bead along the plastic rim. A strange, heavy little knot of warmth—mixed with a sudden, suffocating wave of quiet panic—settled right in the center of your chest.

You looked at the way his broad shoulder rested against yours, comfortable and solid. You looked at the carefree way he reached for a rib, completely oblivious to the massive, terrifying shift currently happening in his universe.

You took a slow, deep breath.

"..Dean."

"..Hmm?" he hummed around a bite, taking a long, lazy pull from his beer bottle.

"..I'm pregnant."

PFFFFFT.

A violent, chaotic geyser of amber foam and beer erupted from Dean’s mouth, spraying straight across the picnic table in a glorious, misting fountain.

Sam ducked sideways with lightning-fast hunter reflexes, his plate barely escaping the blast zone, while Bobby simply froze mid-chew, his fork hovering an inch from his mouth.

Dean hacked, coughing violently, his eyes watering as he slammed the beer bottle onto the wood so hard the glass rattled. He wiped his mouth frantically with the back of his hand, gasping for air, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he stared at you in absolute, wide-eyed, horror-stricken shock.