#selfinsertfic

"The world shall kneel before my new order," Wesker intoned, voice dripping with menace as red warning lights blinked around the lab, painting his cheekbones in dramatic crimson shadows.

You rolled your eyes from your spinning chair in the corner. "That line sounds like a villain wrote it after binge-watching bad anime dubs. Cringe."

Wesker froze mid-speech like someone had unplugged him. "Excuse me?"

You sipped from your Umbrella-logo mug. "I'm just saying, if you want people to actually kneel, you might wanna update your material. Maybe something less ‘theatre kid turned fascist.’"

His jaw flexed. "You're fired."

"Cool. I'll pack after I finish fixing your disaster of a PowerPoint presentation. Seriously, slide three transitions simulate a car chase. Did you mean to make it look like a Michael Bay film?"

Wesker glared, his sunglasses somehow reflecting your judgmental stare even though you were indoors. You glared back, wholly unimpressed. The red lights continued to blink like a rave for evil plans, unnoticed by both of you.

Day 34

Wesker tried to fire you again after you brought cupcakes to a top-secret Umbrella executive meeting and insisted everyone sing happy birthday to Nemesis.

"You are the worst assistant I've ever had," he snapped, lips twitching like he was trying not to scream.

"Nemesis deserves joy, Albert," you replied calmly, placing a party hat on a bio-organic weapon—roughly eight feet tall with a permanent snarl—that blinked once in confused gratitude.

He rubbed his temple. "I created life to destroy the world, not to… wear sprinkle cupcakes as hats."

You looked him dead in the eye. "Sounds like a you problem."

Day 46

You changed the lab’s background music to Barbie Girl during a viral sample test. Wesker entered the room to find you and Mr. X doing a synchronized head bop.

"Do I even want to know?"

"Team morale, sir."

He tried to fire you. You printed the HR handbook in Comic Sans and highlighted the clause where he couldn’t actually terminate staff without written approval from Umbrella HQ.

Day 58

You changed his password to "ILoveCringe69" and left a sticky note that said, "World domination is temporary. Memes are forever."

Wesker stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. He fired you via email this time. You replied with a meme of a raccoon giving a thumbs-up, captioned: "Mood."

Day 73

He returned to his office to find a slideshow titled "Top 10 Times Wesker Tried to Monologue and I Laughed."

"Number 4 was during a hostage situation!" he shouted.

"Exactly. Peak comedy."

"Get out."

You reached for your bag. "Do I take the laser pointer or...?"

He screamed into his glove.

Day 100

He gave up.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because no one else knows how to rewire the coffee machine without setting the lab on fire. Plus, I'm the only one who can decipher your handwriting. Is that 'Destroy the Resistance' or 'Dessert Inventory'?"

He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere in the distance, a B.O.W. dropped a beaker. No one moved.

"...Fine. But no more cupcakes."

"Deal."

(You still brought cupcakes. With little Umbrella logos on top. Nemesis ate six. Wesker stared at the crumbs and muttered, "At this point, resistance is futile.")

If you want to see more of Wesker's Assistant Chaos, take a look at Part 2

Dean strides in, carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a bottle of cold medicine in the other. His green eyes scan you critically, but there’s no mocking smirk, no sarcastic comment. He’s wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a faded black T-shirt, but his hair is a little mussed, and there’s a subtle droop in his posture, like he’s been pacing or running errands you don’t remember asking for.

“Well, you’re alive,” he says, his voice a blend of dry humor and something softer. “Barely. Look like crap, though.”

“Feel worse,” you croak, voice barely above a whisper. It’s hard to say more; even talking feels like a monumental effort.

Dean chuckles low, shaking his head as he places the mug on the nightstand and sets the cold medicine beside it. “Yeah, figured. Got your meds, some soup—don’t ask what’s in it; just eat it—and, uh, entertainment.” He gestures vaguely toward the TV on the dresser. You glance over to see a cheesy Christmas movie already queued up. Twinkling lights, fake snow, and actors way too cheerful for your current state fill the screen.

“Is that Holiday in Handcuffs?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I remember you said once it was your favorite holiday movie. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Not like you’re watching Die Hard in this condition.”

You let out a weak laugh that quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean’s immediately at your side, placing a steadying hand on your back as you double over. His palm is broad and warm, the pressure grounding you until the coughing subsides.

“Jesus, take it easy,” he mutters, his tone gruff but not unkind. He pulls a box of tissues closer and thrusts them into your hand. “You hack up a lung, and I’m not cleaning it up.”

You wipe your nose and sink back into the pillows, utterly spent. Dean unscrews the cap on the cold medicine, his expression twisting in irritation as it resists. “Stupid thing,” he grumbles, shaking it like the lid might magically pop off. Finally, with a satisfying click, he hands it over, careful not to spill.

“Bottoms up,” he says, watching you like a hawk. You grimace as the thick, syrupy liquid slides down your throat, and Dean snorts. “What, too fancy for cherry flavor?”

“It’s awful,” you manage, wincing.

“You’ll live,” he retorts, grabbing the mug of soup and placing it in your hands. The steam rises in delicate swirls, but when you take a sip, the taste is... underwhelming. It’s warm, sure, but there’s no seasoning, no flavor beyond the faint hint of chicken broth.

Dean notices your hesitation and narrows his eyes. “Don’t even start. I followed the recipe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you rasp.

“Okay, so I skipped the part with the spices. Sue me,” he says, crossing his arms defensively. “Not like I keep a spice rack in Baby’s trunk.”

Despite everything, you smile. The soup isn’t great, but it’s warm, and it’s Dean. He could’ve left you to fend for yourself, but instead, he’s here, fumbling his way through what has to be his least favorite role—caretaker.

As the afternoon drags on, Dean refuses to leave your side for long. He keeps himself busy, fussing with blankets, refilling your mug with tea, and grumbling every time you so much as sniffle. When you return from the bathroom, you find Dean, perched on the edge of the bed, stabs at his phone with one finger, muttering something about "Christmas movies" and "Sam's stupid suggestions."

“What are you doing?” you croak, your voice rougher than gravel.

He barely glances up. “Finding something less... sparkly. Seriously, how does anyone enjoy this crap?” he mutters, flipping through the options. “Where’s the explosions? The car chases? It’s all snowflakes and—oh, look, another goddamn mistletoe scene.”

He makes a dramatic gagging noise as another cheesy romantic gesture plays out on the screen. “This is a no-chick-flick zone, remember? Rule number one.”

You muster a weak smile, though it quickly turns into a cough. Dean tosses the phone aside and hands you a tissue like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brushes yours for a moment, warm and steady, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Maybe concern, maybe embarrassment—hard to tell with Dean.

“Is that why you’re still here?” you rasp, dabbing at your nose. “Cause this feels suspiciously chick-flicky to me.”

Dean snorts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s defending himself from the accusation. “Look, you’re sick. Can’t have you wandering around half-dead infecting everybody else—especially me. This is survival, not sentiment.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, raising an eyebrow. “So it’s not because you secretly enjoy the sappy holiday romance?”

His jaw tightens, and he glares at the screen as if it personally insulted him. “Okay, first of all, no. Second, I’m not staying here ‘cause of the movie. I’m staying ‘cause someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die from lack of fluids.”

You laugh weakly, though it fades into another cough. Dean sighs, running a hand down his face. “Fine,” he mutters, leaning back against the headboard. “Maybe I’m breaking my own rule. But don’t get used to it, okay? This is a one-time deal. You’re sick. That’s the only reason I’m letting this slide.”

Your smile softens as you glance at him, his arms crossed, boots propped on the bed frame, a grumble on his lips but undeniable warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, Dean,” you whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just don’t tell Sam. He’ll never let me live it down.” 

Hours later, as the sky outside darkens, Dean’s still there. He’s stretched out in the chair beside your bed, his legs sprawled out and boots resting against the edge of the mattress. The TV flickers in the dim light, a cheesy Christmas movie filling the room with soft chatter, though it’s clear his focus isn’t on the screen. His gaze keeps drifting toward you every time you shift or let out a quiet cough, his features softening just slightly in that way he’d never admit to.

“You’re not half bad at this,” you murmur, your voice raspier than usual, the words barely audible over the sound of the TV.

Dean’s head snaps toward you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He snorts, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, the usual edge in his tone softened by something warmer. “I’m not about to start knitting you sweaters or reading bedtime stories.”

“Shame,” you manage, offering him a faint smile. “You rock the whole ‘caretaker’ vibe.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting in the chair like he’s trying to get comfortable but failing miserably. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Chuckles,” he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the grin he’s trying to suppress. “Next time you get sick, I’m calling Cas. Let him deal with the mucus and misery.”

Your weak laugh quickly morphs into a cough, and Dean is on his feet before you’ve even finished, hovering with an uneasy blend of concern and awkwardness. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something about getting you more water, but instead, he pulls the chair closer to the bed, then changes his mind again and sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

“You’re gonna break that damn chair if you keep flopping around in it,” you tease weakly, watching as he settles beside you. His presence feels grounding, steady, even if he pretends not to notice the way you relax as he leans back against the headboard.

“Flopping? You’re delirious,” he shoots back, though he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles and resting one arm along the back of the bed frame like he belongs there. “This doesn’t mean I’m staying,” he adds after a beat. “I’m just... making sure you don’t roll over and die in your sleep or something.”

You don’t call him out on the obvious lie. Instead, you let your hand rest on the edge of the blanket, and after a long moment of silence, you feel the weight of his hand brush against yours. It’s tentative, uncharacteristically soft, and when he doesn’t pull away, neither do you.

The bunker grows quieter as the night stretches on, the low hum of the TV blending with the sound of your slowed breathing. You drift off, comforted not just by the warmth of his hand but by the steady, undeniable presence of Dean Winchester at your side. And as sleep claims you, you know that badass reputation or not, Dean is more than capable of caring for the people he loves. Right now, that person is you.