#rough love

● It was never meant to be a test you could fail.

Viltrumite trials weren’t designed with failure in mind.

They were designed to prove something already there.

Strength. Resolve. Worth.

You were expected to stand your ground.

You didn’t.

--

It always would have.

The first strike came from your mother.

Vaedra.

She didn’t hesitate never did. Her hand struck with precision, calculated and clean, sending you crashing into the stone beneath your feet. The ground split slightly on impact, cracks spidering outward from where your body landed.

“Get up.”

Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.

You tried.

Your arms trembled beneath you, unsteady, your body slow to respond in the way it should have. That alone was enough to earn a look of quiet displeasure.

Then Kaelor moved.

Faster. Heavier.

Your father's blow didn’t just knock you down it kept you there.

● You were supposed to fight back.

That was the point.

Even children knew that.

Even you knew that.

But knowing didn’t mean your body would listen.

Every attempt to stand was met with another strike. Not reckless—never reckless. Each hit was measured, deliberate, meant to push you further. Meant to force something out of you.

It never came.

● “Again.”

Vaedra’s command cut through the space like a blade.

You didn’t move fast enough.

You didn’t move right.

And when you finally did manage to stand—barely balanced, barely conscious—it was already too late.

Kaelor’s next hit sent you back down harder than before.

This time, you didn’t get up.

● Silence followed.

Not relief.

Not mercy.

Assessment.

Vaedra stepped closer, looking down at you with something colder than anger.

Disappointment.

“Weak,” she said flatly.

The word settled heavier than any strike.

Kaelor didn’t respond immediately.

But you could feel it—the shift in him. The expectation. The conclusion they had both been raised to reach.

Weakness was not corrected.

It was erased.

● Vaedra turned slightly, already preparing to finish it.

Clean. Efficient. Necessary.

Kaelor stepped forward.

He raised his hand.

And stopped.

It wasn’t obvious.

Not at first.

Viltrumites didn’t falter—not in ways that could be seen.

But there was a pause.

A fraction too long.

His hand hovered where it shouldn’t have.

And in that moment—

Vaedra noticed.

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp, questioning.

Dangerous.

Not because of you.

Because of him.

---

His jaw tightened.

His hand lowered—just slightly.

“…Wait.”

The word was quiet.

Too quiet.

Vaedra’s eyes narrowed. “There is nothing to wait for.”

She stepped forward again.

Kaelor moved before she could finish it.

Not to strike—

But to block.

● That was when it changed.

Not because of what they said.

But because of what they didn’t.

Kaelor’s gaze shifted brief, precise as he scanned the horizon.

Once.

Twice.

Ensuring.

No witnesses.

No patrols.

No one to question why a defective Viltrumite child still breathed.

Vaedra followed his line of sight.

She understood immediately.

And for the first time

She hesitated too.

--

It wasn’t mercy.

It wasn’t softness.

It was calculation.

Risk.

And something far more dangerous beneath it.

Something neither of them named.

--

Kaelor moved first.

Not gently. Never gently.

But when he lifted you from the fractured ground, his grip adjusted—subtle, deliberate—so your head wouldn’t fall back the way it had before.

So your breathing however weak wouldn’t be obstructed.

Vaedra said nothing.

But she didn’t stop him.

They didn’t take you somewhere official.

Didn’t call for aid.

Didn’t report the outcome.

Because that would require answers.

And Viltrumites did not ask questions they didn’t already know the answer to.

So instead—

They left.

The flight was fast.

It had to be.

You drifted in and out of awareness, the rush of air sharp against broken skin, the pressure unbearable.

At some point—

It lessened.

Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to matter.

--

Their home wasn’t meant for weakness.

It was built like everything else—cold, structured, efficient.

But after that day—

It changed.

Not in appearance.

In function.

You weren’t allowed outside.

Not anymore.

Movement was restricted.

Watched.

Measured.

Every action observed with the same scrutiny as the trial you failed.

Training attempts came first.

Of course they did.

Vaedra refused to accept the outcome.

“If it can be corrected it will be,” she stated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until it became clear

It wouldn’t.

--

That was when the cage settled into place.

Not visible.

Not named.

But absolute.

Kaelor stopped initiating the training.

Vaedra didn’t.

But even she…

Reduced it.

Not out of pity.

Out of… practicality.

A broken thing couldn’t be reforged if it shattered completely.

---

They never said they spared you.

Never acknowledged it.

To do so would mean admitting the truth.

That they had chosen wrong.

That they had hesitated.

But sometimes

When you were still.

When your breathing evened out enough to mimic sleep

There were moments.

Brief.

Unspoken.

----

A pause in Vaedra’s steps as she passed your resting place.

A glance that lingered a second longer than necessary.

Her hand adjusting something—fabric, positioning—without comment.

Precise.

Controlled.

Gone just as quickly.

--

Kaelor was worse.

Or better.

It depended on how you looked at it.

He stayed.

Not close enough to be seen as concern.

Not far enough to be absence.

Always within reach.

Always watching.

--

They never called it love.

They wouldn’t know how.

But they kept you.

And on Viltrum—

That meant more than it ever should have.

The stale motel air crackled with tension thicker than the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon sunlight. You’d been arguing for twenty minutes straight, circling the same damn point about a vengeful spirit case in Des Moines like vultures over carrion. Dean paced the worn carpet, boots scuffing aggressively, his shoulders a rigid line beneath his worn Henley. Every frustrated sweep of his hand through his hair sent a fresh wave of irritation through you.

"No, Dean! That's not how we handle it!" You threw your hands up, exasperation boiling over. "Charging in guns blazing? Again? After what happened in Toledo?"

He whirled on you, eyes dark as storm clouds, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "And what?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, vibrating with barely leashed fury. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, shouldn’t have sent a treacherous heat pooling low in your belly. But it did. "You think I don't know that? Think I forgot Toledo? I know what I'm doing!" The sharpness of his tone was a physical thing, scraping against your nerves.

"Well, maybe you should listen for once!" You stepped forward, invading his space, your own anger trembling in your voice, fueled by the unwanted flutter his proximity caused. "Instead of just doing whatever reckless, stupid thing pops into your head! We're supposed to be a team, Dean! Partners!"

"I am listening!" He roared back, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his furious gaze. The air between you crackled, thick with ozone and unresolved everything. "But you're overthinking everything! Paralysis by analysis! Like always!" He punctuated the last word with a sharp kick to the leg of the rickety motel table, sending a half-empty bottle of whiskey wobbling precariously.

The accusation stung, sharp and unfair. "Overthinking?" You spat, grabbing the nearest harmless object – a packet of rock salt – and hurling it at his chest. It bounced off harmlessly. "I'm trying to keep us alive, you idiot! Unlike you, who seems determined to get himself killed!"

His eyes flashed, something primal igniting in their depths. Before you could draw breath for another retort, before your brain could fully register the shift, Dean lunged.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was pure, pent-up fury and frustration channeled into a single, devastating action. His hands shot out, one tangling roughly in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and his lips crashed down onto yours.

The impact stole your breath. You staggered back a step, but he was relentless, an immovable force. His kiss was hot, heavy, urgent – a desperate attempt to shut you up. A groan ripped from your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth. Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to clutch desperately at his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath the worn cotton.

"Dean—" you gasped against his lips, but he wasn't stopping. His hands slid down your sides, strong and demanding, lifting you effortlessly until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking you flush against him. Every hard plane of his body pressed against yours – the buckle of his belt digging into your stomach, the heat radiating from his chest, the undeniable hardness straining against his jeans, pressed intimately against your core. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pure, molten need straight through you.

The anger was still there, a tangled knot in your chest, but it was rapidly being consumed, overwritten by a tidal wave of desire. Every frantic kiss, every possessive slide of his tongue against yours, every desperate shove of his hips against yours only fanned the flames higher, blurring the lines between fury and lust until they were indistinguishable.

"You think I don't feel it too, baby?" he hissed against your lips, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated through your entire body. His teeth nipped sharply at your bottom lip, sending a shockwave of pleasure-pain down your spine. "You think this constant fighting, this goddamn arguing… you think it isn't killing me?"

He kissed you again, deep and consuming, one hand sliding under your shirt, his rough palm scraping against your bare skin, sending shivers cascading over you.

"Knowing… knowing I want you like this." He punctuated the word with another hard grind of his hips, drawing a choked whimper from you.

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your mind was white noise, consumed by the feel of him, the taste of whiskey and Dean, the sheer overwhelming need. Your fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards, desperate for skin.

"Dean…" It was barely a breath, ragged and pleading. "Don't stop."

A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark pools of hunger, a smirk playing on his kiss-swollen lips. "Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over your peaked nipple through the fabric of your bra. "Because I wasn't planning to." He shifted his grip, carrying you the few steps to the nearest motel bed. "Let me make you feel it, sweetheart. All of it."

He lowered you onto the scratchy comforter, following you down, his body covering yours completely. There was no more talking.

Arguments dissolved into gasps and moans. Frustration melted into desperate touches. Clothes became obstacles ripped away with impatient hands – buttons flying, fabric tearing. His mouth was everywhere: hot and demanding on your neck, sucking bruises onto your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast before closing hungrily over a nipple, drawing a sharp cry from you.

His hands mapped your body with possessive urgency, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, dipping into the hollow of your navel, sliding down to grip your thigh and hike it higher over his hip. The first touch of his fingers against your slick heat drew a ragged sob from your throat. He teased you relentlessly, circling your clit with agonizing slowness before plunging two fingers deep inside, curling them expertly.

"Dean! Please!" You arched against him, your nails scoring down his back.

"Tell me," he growled, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously, his thumb pressing hard against your clit. "Tell me what you want."

"You!" you gasped, writhing beneath him. "Just you! Now!"

He didn't need telling twice. With a groan that sounded ripped from his soul, Dean positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. He held your gaze, his own eyes wild with need, the last vestiges of anger completely consumed by raw desire. Then, with one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.

The sensation was overwhelming – a perfect, stretching fullness that bordered on pain before dissolving into pure, blinding pleasure. You cried out, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm from the start, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a frantic, rhythmic protest.

It was fierce, primal. Every unresolved argument, every moment of tension, every spark of frustration fueled the fire. He fucked you like he fought – relentlessly, passionately, giving no quarter. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for bruising kisses. The sounds filling the room were raw: the slap of skin on skin, Dean’s guttural groans, your own keening cries, the creak of the protesting bed.

He shifted, hooking your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle. The new depth drew a scream from you as he hit that spot inside you with devastating precision. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. "That's it, sweetheart," he rasped, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you unravel. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

The command, coupled with the relentless pressure, shattered you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your body clamped down around him, milking him as you cried out his name, trembling uncontrollably.

Feeling you convulse around him was Dean’s undoing. With a final, deep thrust and a roar that echoed off the cheap motel walls, he followed you over the edge. His hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself deep inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

Silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of two hearts slowing gradually, and the soft drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The motel room smelled of sex, sweat, gunpowder, and Dean.

Slowly, carefully, Dean shifted his weight off you, pulling you with him until you were both lying tangled on the rumpled sheets. Your limbs were heavy, pleasantly numb. He gathered you against his side, your head finding its familiar place on his chest, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

Skin slid against skin, cooling in the stale air. You traced idle patterns on the sweat-damp hair scattered across his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The silence stretched, comfortable now, charged with a different kind of energy – the aftershocks of shared intensity. You felt him press a kiss into the top of your hair, surprisingly soft.

"Still think I don't listen?" His voice was a low rumble, rough-edged but lacking its earlier bite. There was a hint of smugness, but underneath it, something softer, almost… tender.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, a satisfied, lazy smirk playing on his lips. The familiar teasing glint was back, but tempered now. You felt a smile tug at your own lips, a mix of sass and the bone-deep contentment humming through your veins.

"Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Winchester," you murmured, your voice husky. You reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with a fingertip. "But next time? Maybe try using your words before you decide to shut me up like that." Your smile widened, pure sweetness laced with challenge. "Though… I’m not exactly complaining about your methods."

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "Noted," he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead again. "But no promises, sweetheart. Sometimes…" He trailed off, his fingers tracing idle circles on your bare hip. "...sometimes shutting you up is just too damn satisfying."