#spn fluff

“It’s a fiberglass bird with foot pedals.”

“Which makes it whimsical.” you argued back playfully.

Mick is already paying the bored teenage attendant. “We deserve whimsy,” he declares. “We nearly died twice last week.”

Ketch pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t do whimsy.”

You loop your arm through his. “You do today.”

The three of you wobble your way onto the swan boat. Mick hops in with boyish excitement and immediately starts pedaling like he’s in a competitive race. You laugh, settling beside him.

Ketch sits stiff-backed across from you, knees angled carefully, hands folded, posture straight enough to balance a textbook on. He looks like someone forced a British assassin into a children’s birthday party. “This is humiliating,” he mutters as the boat lurches forward.

“It’s charming,” Mick counters, grinning at you.

“You’re both enjoying this far too much.”

The water is calm. The sun is warm. It’s stupidly peaceful.

You reach across the small space and tap Ketch’s knee. He looks at you with that guarded, exasperated expression — but it softens instantly when you smile. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know.”

“I am having fun,” he lies.

“You look like you’re preparing to deliver a lecture.”

“That child just splashed us.”

“It’s water. We’re on a lake.”

He sighs dramatically.

You lean forward without warning and press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick. Sweet. Completely unceremonious. And he just Short-circuits.

His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. The stern line of his mouth melts into something helplessly soft.

There’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck.

Mick notices immediately. “Oh, there he is,” Mick teases. “That’s the Arthur we like.”

“Quiet,” Ketch mutters, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, he leans just slightly closer to you.

“See?” you murmur. “Not so terrible.”

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him something priceless instead of a tiny kiss. “For the record,” he says quietly, voice low and sincere, “if this boat sinks, I am saving you first.”

Mick gasps in mock offense. “Rude.”

“You can swim.”

“I can also sulk.”

You laugh, and Ketch’s expression warms further at the sound.

The room fell into a comfortable, heavy silence. You leaned back against the headboard of your twin bed, watching Sam. He was hunched over the small circular table, his long legs tucked awkwardly beneath it, eyes scanning local police blotters. He looked exhausted—not just 'long drive' tired, but 'I forgot how to relax' tired.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he murmured, finally looking up. His hair was a bit of a mess, and the dim light caught the hazel in his eyes.

"There’s no case. Dean’s right. Salem is currently the safest place on earth because everyone is too busy selling overpriced candy to haunt anything." You swung your legs off the bed. "Let’s do something. Something normal."

Sam sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Define 'normal' for a Winchester."

"A horror movie marathon," you declared. "There’s a vintage rental shop two blocks over that still does VHS tapes. We get the cheesiest, oldest slashers we can find, some junk food, and we actually enjoy Halloween for once."

Sam hesitated. "I don’t know. If something pops up—"

"Then we’ll pause the movie and go kill it," you countered, walking over and gently closing his laptop. "Come on, Sam. Just one night."

He looked at your hand on his laptop, then up at your face, and his resolve crumbled. "Fine. But I’m picking at least one of the movies."

The rental store was a cramped, nostalgic dream. The air smelled of dust and plastic. You and Sam wandered the aisles, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you navigated the tight spaces.

"Okay, The Thing is a classic, we have to," Sam said, holding up the clunky black plastic casing.

"Only if we get Scream," you replied, tossing it into the basket. "I want to see if you can figure out the killer before the reveal."

Sam chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made your chest tighten. "I hunt monsters for a living, I think I can handle a guy in a ghost mask."

By the time you headed back to the motel, you were armed with a stack of tapes, two bags of oversized popcorn, and enough sour gummy worms to make a dentist weep.

Back in the room, the atmosphere had shifted. The harsh overhead lights were off, replaced by the soft, warm glow of a bedside lamp and the flickering blue light of the CRT television.

Sam had claimed his bed, propping up a mountain of pillows against the headboard. He looked surprisingly domestic in his grey hoodie, his large frame taking up most of the mattress.

"You coming?" he asked, patting the space beside him.

You didn't need to be told twice. You climbed onto the bed, settling in next to him. At first, you kept a polite distance, but as the first movie started—a low-budget flick about a killer scarecrow—the chill of the drafty motel room took over.

"You're shivering," Sam noted. Without waiting for a response, he reached down to the foot of the bed and pulled the heavy, scratchy motel comforter up over both of you.

As he settled back, his arm naturally found its way behind your shoulders. It felt like a bold move, but when you leaned into his side, he didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you closer, his thumb idly stroking your arm through your sweater.

"This is ridiculous," Sam whispered twenty minutes into the movie, gesturing at the screen where a girl was running toward the dark basement. "Why would she do that? Check the locks! Call for backup!"

"Not everyone has an arsenal in their trunk, Sam," you laughed, looking up at him.

He was looking down at you, his expression softening. The flickering light of the TV danced in his eyes, but he wasn't looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at you with a quiet, intense fondness that made your heart skip.

"I guess I’m just used to being the one doing the saving," he said softly.

"Well, tonight you're off duty," you said, reaching for a handful of popcorn. You popped a piece into your mouth and then held one up to his lips. He hesitated for a second before biting it out of your fingers, his lips brushing your skin.

By the middle of the third movie, the "scary" parts had lost their edge. You were tucked firmly under Sam's arm, your head resting on his chest. You could hear the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart—a grounding sound that reminded you that despite everything they faced, he was right here, safe and warm.

Sam’s hand had moved from your shoulder to your hair, his fingers gently twisting a strand of it. It was a soothing, repetitive motion that made your eyelids feel heavy.

"You still awake?" he breathed, his voice vibrating through his chest against your ear.

"Mmhmm," you lied, snuggling deeper into his side. "The scarecrow is back."

"The scarecrow died two movies ago," Sam teased gently. "We're watching the one with the haunted videotape now."

"Too many sequels," you mumbled.

Sam shifted slightly, not to get away, but to wrap his other arm around you, effectively cocooning you against him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, exhaling a long, contented breath.

"This is nice," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "No monsters, no silver bullets. Just... this."

You shifted your head to look up at him, and found him already watching you. The distance between you was non-existent. In the quiet of the room, with the muffled sound of the movie playing in the background, the rest of the world felt miles away.

"We should do 'normal' more often," you whispered.

Sam leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. "I’d like that."

He didn't move away. For a long moment, you just breathed in the scent of his cologne and the salt from the popcorn, perfectly content in the middle of a haunted town in a run-down motel. When he finally pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, you knew that even if a real monster knocked on the door right then, you wouldn't change a single second of the night.

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Maybe that’s what makes the conversation that much heavier. There’s a weight to it that only comes from unexpectedly talking about the things you keep close. When you started the night, you’d had no reason to assume it would happen, and maybe, it’s a good thing. Otherwise, you might have talked yourself out of it, convinced yourself that there was no way Dean Winchester would stay with you after knowing what he’s about to know. He deserves someone who can give him what he wants, when he wants it; not you, who feels like a moral failure for a simple fact of biology.

The guilt’s been gnawing at you since the first time Dean offhandedly mentioned getting out of the life. You know his life plan by heart at this point; a real house that isn’t a bunker surrounded in ghost lore, a wife who he can love with everything he has, a couple of kids who won’t ever grow up knowing about the supernatural. He wants something normal, something safe and typical, a chance to prove that he’s a better father than his father was. Dean needs to know that he’s still good and safe, and he wants you to help him learn it.

You can’t. You can stick with him if he’ll have you, and you can love him with your entire soul. You can let him dote on you and shower you in kisses when he sees you after a long day. You can spend your free time tucked into his side, head on his shoulder, watching cheesy movies because that’s allowed now that you’re out and safe. You’ll do anything to make sure he can have that sanctuary he deserves, and if that means leaving so he can have someone who can give him the children he so desperately wants, then that’s what you’ll do.

Dean’s noticed something off about you the whole time you’ve been sitting beside him. You’re in the Dean Cave, the chairs pushed together so you can sit side by side and still have your hands on each other. He’s in that mood where he doesn’t want you to stray far from him at all, and some part of him is drawn to some part of you like a magnet. Dean’s palm currently rests on your thigh, thumb sliding mindlessly back and forth across the skin, dipping into the curve of your hip and back out again. His eyes are fixed on the screen, the light of the TV splashing across the bridge of his nose and making his eyes sparkle. These moments are your favourites, because Dean looks soft. He looks like he’s finally allowed himself to take the weight off his shoulders and exist as something other than the protector. He keeps glancing over at you occasionally, mouth twitching into a frown each time he sees your face furrowed in thought.

If he looks at you any harder, you swear he might be able to see the tension in your bones. It sits there, hot and heavy, like a fire that’s burning where it shouldn’t. It fills your lungs with smoke and makes your head spin and your heart race. The fear is all-consuming, even though it shouldn’t be; you’re safe here, with Dean. Only his future is the one at stake, but you carry that burden like it’s yours to hold.

Your hands are fiddling with the hem of your shirt, occasionally dipping to toy with Dean’s fingers in your lap instead. The rings on his fingers make for nice things to fidget with, and you’re grateful for the distraction. It keeps you from falling too deep into your thought spiral, and it stops you from thinking about your worth to Dean as something other than the one he wants to parent his children. Tonight, though, your usual tactics aren’t working. Dean’s eyes on you feel heavy, like they know something you don’t, or like they can see right through you.

You lose yourself in your mind again, replaying every moment of your life and searching desperately for something you could have done. Maybe if you’d eaten differently, or stopped hunting, or taken more vitamins as a kid, none of this would have happened. You can’t count how many things you wish you could have done differently, even if none of them would change a thing. To you, it feels like a failure. You’ve been told your whole life you’ll have children of your own someday, and the way it was told to you made it sound like gospel truth. You would have kids, and they would be your own, that you’d birthed. Except, you can’t.

Maybe you’re broken, something damaged and tainted with the kind of poison that seeps through the skin and infects the ones you love. Maybe if you can get far enough away from Dean, you won’t give him your disease. He can get out, have a life, marry a girl who can give him kids. You know that’s not in the cards for you, and as much as it hurts you say it, maybe it’s better for Dean if you leave. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by your biological failures, by your anatomy that’s been deprived of its one intended function.

“You okay sweetheart? You’re doin’ an awful lot of thinkin’ over there.”

You blink once, twice, three times as heat spreads across your face. Looking around, you realize Dean’s had the movie paused, and it likely has been for longer than you want to admit. You drop your gaze to your lap, hands tangling in your sleeves as you curl tighter around yourself, drawing your knees up.

“I’m fine, Dean. You can keep watching your movie.”

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that. Tell me what’s up. Somethin’ I did?”

You shake your head. “God, no, Dean. ‘S not you.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing. Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

Dean looks you over once, eyebrow slightly raised in concern, but he doesn’t say anything. He won’t push you if you don’t want to talk, because the last thing he wants to do is push you away or make you feel pressured to say what’s on your mind. He’s good at giving you that quiet reassurance that you can tell him anything, at your own pace. He’ll wait you out, giving you all the time in the world to think about whether or not you’re ready. He deserves to know what’s going on in your head, you think.

The movie keeps playing, but you’re not paying much attention. Now could be your chance to tell him everything you keep locked so close to your heart, but you’re still unsure if giving him the key is a wise choice. Realistically, he’ll treasure that key and keep it polished and make sure it doesn’t rust in the rain or get lost. He cares about this kind of thing, and you know he does, because you’ve seen it in the way he comforts others. But does that still apply to the person he loves? Does that change if you tell him you’re not what he thinks you are?

On screen, the girl and the guy share a kiss. He’s somewhat handsome, dark eyes and hair that curls at the edges like a halo. He looks strong and stable, tall, like he could take on the world for his lover. She’s pretty, soft and sweet, and she’ll be able to give him what he wants. She’ll have no problem starting a family with that man, because she’s not doomed to the same reproductive fate you are. Fictional, yes, but no less disheartening.

“Hey- Dean,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever-.” You clear your throat before continuing, the sound like sandpaper. “Do you ever wish you had someone else?”

Dean blinks, taken aback. His mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words.

“Wh- No, ‘course not. Why’re you askin’?”

You feel shame flood through you, despite knowing your question was completely serious. Dean’s reaction makes you feel like you’ve just asked him if the sky was green, and for some reason, it makes you shy away from him. If you retreat far enough into the shadows of the Dean Cave, maybe he’ll forget you exist, and you can run away and let him be free like he deserves. He shouldn’t be chained down by someone like you.

“It- I- It’s stupid, never mind.”

Dean’s hands find yours, taking them in his and squeezing lightly. “C’mon sweetheart, it’s not stupid. It’s eatin’ you up inside, I can tell. Talk to me, what’s goin’ on?”

“I just- you always talk about a family and…” You trail off, eyes still on your lap where Dean’s hands rest with yours.

“Do you not want that? We don’t gotta have it if you don’t want.”

“It’s not that.”

He tilts his head to the side, hair flopping over slightly. The wrinkles near his mouth get deeper as his frown does, and his eyes are watching you with a protective sort of worry. It hits you then, that he really cares about how this conversation goes. Something in you wants to back out now, to pretend it never happened and carry on with your life. Dean wouldn’t let you, of course, not when you’re this worked up about it.

“Whatever’s botherin’ you, we can figure it out. Don’t gotta worry about a thing, sweetheart, I’m not gonna ditch you for that.”

“Dean-.”

“Promise. Whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”

“Dean, just stop talking for a second.”

He laughs softly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry. I’m listenin’ now.”

You rub your palms on the blanket, the sweat collecting on them cold compared to the room. This shouldn’t be scary, you think. You’ve fought vampires and werewolves with less nerves that you’re feeling right now. Dean himself even said family doesn’t matter if you’re not there, but somehow, you’re still worried he’ll hate you after you tell him. Irrational, maybe. But right now, this feels like the hardest thing you’ll ever do. And it feels very, very real.

“When you talk about a family, you always talk about kids, and- and how you want them.”

Dean nods slowly, brow still furrowed.

“And I guess I just- I didn’t tell you earlier because I was scared to.”

You’d half-expected him to just say something and break your fear, but he’s quiet. You almost think it would be easier if he just said something outright, and you could get the disappointment over with, but his silence is heavy. Not heavy in the way that judges, but heavy in the way that means he genuinely cares what the outcome is.

“I can’t,” you blurt out.

“You- can’t?” Dean asks. “Can’t what?”

There it is you think. His way of letting you down slowly.

“Can’t give you kids.”

“Why? Don’t want to? That’s fine.”

You huff an exasperated sigh. “It’s not fine, not to me. I can’t have kids, Dean. Can’t get pregnant, can’t give you what you want. Do the details really matter that much?”

Dean’s expression crumples, and you internally curse yourself. You shouldn’t have told him, you should have just left one night when he was asleep and wouldn’t have felt you leave. It would be easier to argue with him about your disappearance than it is to face his dreams for the future being crushed because you can’t do what you’d grown up believing you would do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will back the thorny tears in your eyes, but it’s no use. One slips free, tracking down your cheek until it rolls into your mouth. It’s salty, poisoned, just like you’d anticipated. Dean’s hand is on your cheek, warm and solid, and you should push him away before your tears burn him, but he doesn’t move. His thumb swipes across your cheekbone when your eyes flutter open again, and he’s looking at you with that sickly sweet expression of fondness he always gets.

“’Course it matters, sweetheart. I gotta know if I can do anything. If it’s a- if it’s somethin’ dangerous to you, I gotta know so I can help you.”

You laugh, but there’s no humour. “It’s not dangerous unless you count the fact it makes me feel stupid for being born this way.”

Dean’s hand cradles your cheek as he looks at you. He takes you in, all the way from your slightly knotted hair down to your borrowed sweatpants. You, the one he fell in love with at first sight in that stupid diner, who stitches him up without a complaint because it’s better than him doing it himself. You, who goes on drives with him and rolls down the window, shouting the lyrics to his favourites as you go, who makes fun of the way he pronounces certain words. You, who’s always made him feel like he mattered, like he was home, is worried about how he’ll react.

How could he react with anything besides love and adoration? You’re the best thing that’s happened to him, the one constant in a life of turmoil. He’ll do anything to keep you by his side, and he sure as hell won’t leave you because you can’t have kids. He’d be an idiot to ditch the one person that’s made him feel like life is worth living. You cracked his chest open the first time you hugged him, letting golden light seep through him and illuminate his soul. He can’t let you go, not after you did that. He needs to see you glowing too.

“’S not your fault,” he says softly.

“Isn’t it? It’s my job, Dean. This is what I’m supposed to do, and I can’t do it.”

His expression turns shocked, brows pinching. “Hey, woah. Not your job, sweetheart.”

“No? So, all the people who keep asking if I’m excited to have kids are just making stuff up?”

“Your job isn’t to have kids. Your job is to be happy. Your job is to do what makes you the happiest, and everyone else can suck it.” Your job is to love me the same way I love you, he almost says, but it doesn’t sound quite right in his head. You don’t have a job in this relationship besides being yourself and sitting still sometimes so Dean can shower you with kisses.

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you, making Dean smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“God, no. I could never be mad about that.”

“But you want kids.”

“Maybe, but I want you the most. Kids don’t matter, ‘specially not when I’ve got you.”

You snort. “’Kids don’t matter’?”

“Okay, so maybe that sounds bad. But I’m serious. Me having kids doesn’t matter if you’re not gonna be there. If you want kids, we can adopt or somethin’. If you don’t, then we’ll just keep doin’ what we’re doin’.”

“You don’t regret this? Getting with me?”

“Sweetheart, the day I say that is the day you stab me with an angel blade. I could never regret this, never in a million years. You’re it for me, whatever that means, okay?”

You nod, some of the uncertainty flooding from you in the form of relieved tears. Dean tugs you into a hug, made slightly awkward by the chair situation, but comforting, nonetheless. It’ll take a bit longer for the anxiety to fade, but now you know Dean will stick around with you throughout it all. Dean loves you more than he loves what you can or can’t do; he’s pretty sure he loves you more than he loves himself. As long as he gets to touch you and love you and make you feel special, that’s plenty good enough for him.

He gives you a soft kiss to your lips, all pressure and the weight of undying love. A second kiss to your temple, then one to the top of your head. He adjusts the blankets around you, tucking you further into the warmth of the soft material. His arm goes around your shoulders, curling you against his side, his cheek resting on your head. You’re safe with Dean, no matter what happens. He’ll always love you, and he’ll always make you feel worthy, especially after talks like these.

You focus on the movie, letting your mind get carried away by the plot. Your worries seem far away now that you know what Dean’s really thinking, now that you know what really matters to him. It’s not so heavy anymore, not when you have him. The future can wait; the struggles of what life looks like after hunting is a discussion for later. Someday you’ll come back to this conversation and talk about what you want to do with your lives, but for now, you can soak in the revelation that Dean will never leave, that he loves you for you. It’s warm, safe, Dean’s heartbeat in your ear a calming rhythm that rocks you toward sleep in his arms.