wilbur 🦇

Peaceful jazz music and well dressed crowd fills the grand hall decorated in gold curtains, men and women from different wealthy families flaunting around their riches with drinks in hand. Adorned in nothing but expensive attires that feeds off of the poor were most guests that have been invited to celebrate another success of Vought-American with a superhero movie that starred its own team, Payback, while the heroes themselves remained in their pretty little costumes for the publicity and fame.

Cameras, photographers, and journalists lurked in the corner section of the hall, where they’ve been assigned to fulfil their destiny of capturing significant moments that are interesting enough to be written on headlines or shown on television.

Nights like this were when Soldier Boy wanted to beat the shit out of Vought employees for their incapability in making celebrations entertaining. The lack of excitement and chaos infuse Ben with excessive boredom that just gives him the urge to shoot himself in the head, all of its professionalism becoming nothing but a burden and straight up pain in the ass. He’s been hardly enjoying the night, having to put up with Crimson Countess attached to his hip at all times to keep appearances, which he admits is worse than fucking a loose cunt. It didn’t make him feel better that Stan fucking Edgar was watching, making sure things are under control.

The jazz music suddenly stops short with a loud screeching sound that has everyone covering their ears in pain, startled murmurs filling the air as all eyes turned to the stage where a famous band stood, confusion also plastered across their faces. One of them repeatedly presses down on the piano’s key, frowning when it does nothing as if it lost its function all of a sudden. Sensing the panic slowly rise among guests, Stan opens his mouth to speak, only for his words to die in his throat when the lights begin to flicker.

“You know, I’m quite displeased to not have received an invitation.” Deep, resonant, husky voice littered with confidence and cockiness erupt out of nowhere as the flickering lights return to normal, an utterly familiar figure making themselves known.

Gasps, of either excitement or fear, falls from everyone’s lips to your powerful presence that almost immediately caused a shift in atmosphere. Soldier Boy’s breath hitched, feeling his throat dry as he cleared his throat and swallowed.

You don’t miss the quick look of surprise and panic flashing across Stan’s face before they were hidden behind his casual mask of greedy businessman, making the corner of your lips twitch up.

“You’re simply not welcome here, Lucifer.” The man uttered with barely contained irritation despite his best efforts to remain calm, spitting your antihero name — given by, not Vought, but the public themselves — in distaste.

Amusement emerge on your expression, completely unbothered by the antagonistic perspective Stan sees you with.

There’s an underlying overconfidence and arrogance to the way you hold yourself, a man who clearly knows how influential and threatening your own existence is and isn’t even apologetic for it. It wasn’t just for a show — you knew you mattered, knew exactly your worth, and didn’t hide behind the fake persona of a beloved public figure that pretends they’re enjoying a single bit of what they’re doing. Your ego and pride seemingly rivals that of Soldier Boy’s yet yours come more naturally, like you were born with it without the need to develop them in amidst of your life to trick yourself into feeling more relevant. You held charisma, a charm that seems to pull people closer to you despite the dangerous, deceitful, fucking jackass attitude you had that’s supposed to be driving them away. It makes Ben want to either punch your face or suck your cock like a fag whore.

“Fair enough,” You shrugged. “But I certainly make parties more fun. You could learn a couple or two from me.”

Stan’s eye twitches in annoyance at your arrogance; it’s much worse that he can’t use anything to stomp on it because your ego wasn’t fragile like the others. While most men, supe or not, wrap their self-importance in toxic masculinity in order to feel superior than they actually are, you were fully comfortable with yourself. Your emotional capacity was extremely high that developed you to become invincible against criticism or rejection. He can attempt to hurt your feelings, manipulate you, use your own ego against you all he wants — none of it will force you to surrender or submit no matter what because you, quite simply, loved yourself too much to be under power hungry maniacs.

When Stan can’t seem to muster a snarky remark, you smirk and invite yourself in, walking further into the grand hall as you snap your fingers, the white bright lights turning into colourful disco lights with your magic.

You stared at the band members on stage, eyes glowing red, and forcefully overtake their minds to play an upbeat party worth music instead of the boring jazz they did. It’s not that you dislike jazz music, it’s peculiar and beautiful on its own, you’re just not really fond of formal parties where everyone’s required to be in their good behaviours, barely having the time of their life if not to shove their riches down less wealthy people’s throat, which you don’t particularly find amusing or fun at all.

It seems to excite the guests, some of them even beginning to bop their heads to the catchy rhythm, moving their previously still bodies along with the beats. Energy surges through them, life revealing itself within their eyes that was filled with misery before you barged in.

“Let go of the fucking formality, ladies and gentlemen.” You grinned wide with your arms spread open to your sides. “It’s time for a true fun party!”

Ben was in awe when all cheered at your declaration, how quick you were able to turn this entire place into your own playground despite the hosts — authorities — being present, how much of a natural you were at gaining people’s faith and attention without doing more than show up and be yourself.

It should be making him envious; he’s doing all these heroism, model, actor bullshit and hiding behind a perfect macho-man façade to be loved and paid attention to for fuck’s sake, and yet it’s so easy for you to bend people at your own will just by being yourself. He should be pissed as he always did when others get the spotlight more than him, but Ben couldn’t find it in himself to.

How the fuck is he going to be pissed when you look so disgustingly hot doing all of it?

“He’s fucking doing it again,” Countess seethes through gritted teeth, glaring at you. Her little tug on his arm snaps him out of daze as he shifts his gaze to her. “Taking all the attention away from you. With the rate he’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if he interrupts everything you’re in.”

Ben had to pretend to irritably clench his jaw, and smiled with sarcasm. “As if I’d let him. Fucking asshole needs to be put in his place.”

He knew you heard him when the corner of your lips pulled up in a smirk, one of your brows raising to shoot him a challenging look. It sends a thrill down Ben’s spine as he scowled, giving you a death glare that everyone sees for it is; rage, hatred, despise.

“Pleasure to see you here, Soldier Boy. Crimson Countess.” You greet in a feigned enthusiasm, swiftly taking a cocktail from the waiter that just passed, and approach them in all your glory.

“Fuck you,” Soldier Boy quickly snarled as Countess spits, “Get the fuck away from us.”

Amusement instantly cross your face, nearly making both of them want to punch you. “So much for greeting lovebirds in clown costumes,” You dejectedly say with a hand over your chest for dramatic effect, in contrast to the mocking way in which you spoke. “C’mon, I just made this boring, useless party worth your precious little time. At least now you can stop being a pussy hiding behind an awfully constructed television personality.”

That strikes a nerve in Soldier Boy as his face hardened and a cold look appeared, stepping forward warningly, “I’d choose my next fucking words wisely if I were you.” Countess tugs his arm in a nervous manner while scanning their surroundings, taking notice of people watching your interaction.

You meet his glare with a calm yet daring look and leaned closer, “I wouldn’t. I know I can beat you.” Your eyes glowed in red once again as you grinned confidently.

Ben’s hand twitched, but before he could make a move, a woman approached you from behind and tugged on your elbow, interrupting the little rivalry you had going on. “I’m sorry, do you mind if we dance and have fun for a bit?” She shyly but bravely asked you, not even sparing Soldier Boy a glance.

An unimpressed look flashes in your eyes that only Ben took notice of, the subtle annoyance to the woman for cutting into your rather hostile conversation. You, however, plastered on an emotionless smile within a split second, not giving anyone the chance to see through you. “I’ll lead the way,” You barely looked at him before walking off with her to the centre of the hall where bodies swayed to the beat.

It takes everything in Ben not to square up and make a mess of this party when you started dancing with her, your body dangerously close to hers as she stares at you with a look that made him want to strangle her slim neck. As if you’re a divine sculpture created by Gods, like you’re the entire universe, most precious being to ever exist in this planet, like she knew everything about you when she, in fact, absolutely did not. But he does.

And Ben knows he’ll be screaming your name, holding you impossibly close to him, digging his nails onto your back as you grind into him — everything she wished you’ll do to her — when all of this shit show is over.

At the end of the day, no slut or pussy fucker would come home to you but him; you’ve chosen him despite the countless amount of people throwing themselves pathetically at you, and Ben will make sure he’ll forever be the only one who does.

Lewd squelching, sucking sounds fill the dimly lit bedroom of your home as the stench of sex and arousal surround the air, more prominent due to your and Ben’s enhanced senses. You sat comfortably against the headboard of your shared bed with Ben in between your legs as he sucks and slurps your cock, taking it as far as he can in his mouth and gagging. Tiny muffled moans or groans escape him occasionally, hips grinding against the mattress to stimulate his own aching dick while the vibrator you bought for him nestled deep inside his prepped hole.

“You love my fuckin’ cock so much, don’t you?” You chuckled hoarsely, almost degrading, and Ben shudders. “It’s alright, love. m’not goin’ anywhere.” Your fingers tread through his hair, gently scraping your nails against his scalp, making him groan as his hips stutter.

Maintaining eye contact with you, Ben inhales a deep breath through his nose before taking your cock further down his throat, tears gathering in his eyes when he nearly gagged. A genuine smile adorns your face when he looks at you expectantly, the most beautiful green eyes you’d ever seen holding desperation and self-doubt. Pleading expression that he shows only to you.

“You want me to praise you, pup? Call you good boy?” He whines in response — God, that fucking sound you know he’d rather die than let anyone else hear. Ben doesn’t have any idea how much it affects you, the fact that you’re the only one whom he allows a vulnerable side of him show.

Realising he has to earn what he yearns for, Ben gently wraps his hand around the base of your cock where it didn’t fit and starts to bob his head. You moaned softly, throwing your head back; the sight being such a blessing to Ben’s eyes that makes his own cock throb and needy. He swirls his tongue on the underside of your shaft, his free hand gripping your thigh for support.

“Doin’ so good, love. You’ve gotten better at this,” You cooed, petting his hair and gently thrusting up into his throat. Ben closed his eyes, a blissful look appearing on his face as he relaxed and allowed you to move instead.

The trust and faith Ben has in you makes something explode within your chest, heart swelling in love and adoration at your troubled yet adorable partner.

Building a healthy and trustful relationship with him was more difficult than anything you’ve ever done before, considering the absolute bigotry his father forcefully fed into him and all the unresolved issues he had with himself. Despite the tough and harsh exterior he constantly put on, you had seen right through him when you first met — those broken spirit that yearned to be loved or needed by people hiding behind his douche, Soldier Boy persona, a man that his imbecile of a father always wanted him to be. It amused you as much as it squeezed your chest; one of the first strongest superhero being a fucking attention starved bastard was undeniably funny, but pitiful. It’s also why you fell in love with him.

You’ve accepted that Ben was always going to have a deep rooted homophobia in him, that there won’t be a day where you’ll be seen in the public with him holding hands like star-fucking-crossed lovers, that he’ll always be too much of a pussy to be fully himself — but you never expected him to be so open, comfortable, with you like this to the extent of willingly trusting you with a needy and desperate version of himself.

Benjamin is laying his heart out bare for you to take, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to make love to him or fuck his brains out. You decided with the former.

Confusion settles on Ben’s expression when you gently pushed his shoulders to make him pull away, a sudden worry if he’s done something wrong, but all thoughts flies out the window after you passionately smashed your lips against his and guided him on your lap. Ben gasps when you pulled the vibrator out of his hole and replaced it with your thick fingers, hooking his arms on the back of your neck.

“So good, love. Lookin’ all pretty for me.” He moans at your praise, the compliment making his heart flutter rather than boost his ego.

“s’for you…” They come out in whisper from his lips, littered with slight reluctance around the edge, but you hear it loud and clear. “All for you. I— fuck… just for you,” He grinds on your fingers, crying out when you curled them just right to stimulate his prostate.

You almost feel dizzy for his words that he’s never uttered before.

The utmost pride he upholds made it difficult for Ben to completely submit to you, often being a disobedient brat that needs to be put in his place or a quiet, reserved man that’s embarrassed to be loved by another man which causes him to be tense for the first half of this activity — so seeing him like this, hesitantly yet openly letting you in to his comfort zone, spilling the thoughts he’s always been fearful of admitting, holding you tight to him as if you’d slip from his grasp if he let you go, was pleasantly surprising. Your heart flutters, butterflies filling your stomach as the urge to protect and gently take him apart piece by piece runs like electricity through your veins, fuelling your desire for Ben.

You thrust your digits with gentle pace, Ben’s hips moving on its own to chase the pleasure. “That’s right, baby. All f’me, yeah? My pretty darling?”

The gentleness of your whispered voice and your eyes staring at him with pure love sends shivers down his spine; Ben holds your face and nods, pulling you in for a kiss. You can feel his suppressed fear through his desperate lips, the doubts that lingers in his mind that you might see him differently for being so vulnerable like this, and you quickly silence his thoughts by slipping your tongue inside his mouth.

Ben mewled when you add another digit in him, now having three fingers penetrating his hole, as he breaks the kiss to breathe for air. There’s a hazy look in his tearful eyes when he meets your gaze, “Take care of me, please.”

You groan at the plea, immediately pulling your fingers out to instead align your cock with his entrance. Ben must’ve been waiting for so long because he doesn’t hesitate to sink down on it almost in an instant, a loud collective moan escaping the two of you. Your hands gripped his hips while he rested both hands on your shoulders, and fuck he felt so fucking good. The way his warm, tight velvety walls deliciously clamp around you as if swallowing your cock whole, the way his divinely beautiful body perfectly fit against yours like he was made for you.

“fuck… you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” You praised, kissing up his throat as he threw his head back in pleasure. “Completely mine, so is Soldier Boy. Everythin’ about you, Ben. It’s all mine.”

Ben nods vigorously, gripping the back of your neck and starting to ride you at a perfect pace, tiny sounds escaping his mouth. Slipping his fingers through your hair, he gently tugged on them just enough that had you groaning, and laid his forehead to rest against yours. “Y-yours- ah… Yours as… as much as you’re fucking mine,” He grunts out, possessiveness hanging onto his every word that shot excitement through your body. “No one gets to f-fucking have you… oh fuck—!” He cuts himself off with a strangled moan when you snapped your hips up.

“Yeah? Not even that slut that danced with me on the dance floor?” You teased, smirking.

His bright green eyes seem to darken as he sinks even further down on your cock, forcefully stretching himself out, hissing at the delicious pain. You moaned, wrapping an arm around him to pull him to your chest. “Fuck, especially her.” Ben almost growls, one hand coming up to wrap around your throat, feeling you throb and seemingly get bigger inside him due to it. “You… belong to me, o-only me.”

You hum, moaning softly when he squeezed your jugular just right. “Always, my love.”

Relief washes over his entire body as he begins to roll his hips and move again, leaning down to suck and kiss on your exposed collarbone. “Oh fuck… It’s— a-agh…! Tell me- tell me, please…” He whined desperately.

Ben needed to hear you say it, have the promises of you completely belonging to him nailed into his brain so he’ll never feel insecure or doubtful again. He’ll never admit it, but you always know every little thing that goes on inside his head, those haunting words of his father that seems to have a tight grip over him. You’re the only one that could see right through his soul; someone exactly opposite from his father, someone who fearlessly challenges the normality or ancient traditions, someone who actually have their shit together that enabled you to be mature, wise, unapologetically yourself.

You were extraordinary in every way possible, and Ben knew his inner vulnerable — not quite the man his father wanted him to be — self was safe with you. Always secured. Never judged nor ridiculed, instead embraced perfectly by your strong and warm arms that shields him away from the mental, emotional harm.

He knew you would catch him when he falls. You would keep him and his treasured thoughts safe. You weren’t afraid to love him loudly, wholeheartedly, and Ben allows himself to be brave just this once without thinking about his fears.

Trailing one of your hands up his nape, you pull him back to a searing kiss, pouring all the desire and love into it. Ben melted, his hand on your throat loosening as you gently twist your bodies around to lay him down on the bed without pulling out. He whimpers and chases you when you detached your lips from his, which nearly made your heart explode.

“I belong to you, my love.” You whispered, kissing down his neck and chest, thrusting your cock sensually slow inside him. Nothing quite like the animalistic sex you two usually have due to your powers, but it was more right than ever. “My heart, my body, my soul, my spirit. All for you, belong with you.”

Ben feels as if his heart would hammer right out of his ribcage from how rapid it was beating.

Your soothing yet powerful presence all over the place, hovering over him and embracing every bit of the damaged part of himself that he refused to acknowledge. There’s resistance gnawing on his skin, the unhealthy urge to push you away and guard himself again with a thick wall despite being the one who willingly showed vulnerability, but Ben uses all of his ability to shove it down. He wanted to listen to your overwhelmingly romantic and gentle words that he’s been taught men should never utter, he wanted to be held with so much care like he was your most prized possession, he wanted to be actually loved. For once, he wanted to allow himself to not be drowned in the toxicity his father had force-fed him with.

It doesn’t take you a second to notice him relaxing even further underneath your body, practically leaning onto your existence as the pretty noises escaping his mouth seems to gradually get louder, like he stopped holding himself back.

An awe surrounds your expression, genuinely taken aback by him letting everything go, and a soft sigh of pleasure falls from your lips. “That’s it, baby. You make the most prettiest sound. Don’t hold back,” Cooing gently, you adjust your hips and rolled into him, brushing his prostate at a perfect angle.

Ben keened, arching his back. “Fuuuck… oh, please. Deeper.”

You obliged, keeping the same slow and sensual pace but pushing further inside. “You’re made for me, aren’t you? Just as I’m made for you,” You sharply snap your hips once to emphasise, and he cries out. “We’re one, my love. No one can have me, I come home to you and only to you no matter what.”

His breath hitched, the pleasure and your words sending explosions of euphoria into his brain, nodding mindlessly at your promises. “Y-yes, fuck… I’m- I’m yours, too— ah, hng…” Tears spill from his beautiful green eyes as he spread his legs more wide, one hand grabbing your wrist that was propped beside his head to stabilise your body, almost clinging onto you while the other scratched against the mattress. “F-fucking Christ, always- always yours.”

“I know,” You softly acknowledged. “Always mine, no matter how much some part of you can’t accept it. I can see right through you, love. I understand everything about you.”

“I- oh yes! There, fuck!” Ben sobs when you start picking up your pace, hips bucking against you. “Y-you do… God, you a-always fucking do.”

That causes a grin to spread across your lips before you leaned down to devour him again.

Truth be told, Ben was afraid of how much you saw everything he’s been trying to hide all his life. It takes a bit of his soul every-time he learns to be indifferent, more sick and twisted. The innocence in him had died out long ago, but the desperation of a child never vanquished — the pathetic, ruined and heavily deprived of any love someone that he always forced himself to forget or get rid of, was seen entirely by you without much effort. He didn’t need to say anything, you always understood all the hidden insecurity, longing, pain, and fear nested deep in his mind. You also understood why he was the way he was, why he does what he does, who he had to become.

To be loved is to be seen and understood, he guesses.

A love he’s never thought he’ll ever experience from anyone, let alone his supposed enemy. You gave it to him, though. All so willingly, happily, like he was meant for it, like he was always meant for you.

Strangled, loud moan was forced out of him when your hand wrapped around his achingly hard dick, making him feel dizzy from all the overwhelming desire and pleasure. Every bit of love that emits from your touch sends a frying electricity through his veins, fulfilling his inner thirst that was supposed to be unquenchable.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck—!” Ben wails, arching his back and digging his nails on your forearm as your thumb rubbed his sensitive slit and smeared precum all over. “C-close… oh, Christ! Cummin’, cummin’, please—”

“It’s alright, Ben. I got you,” You purred, slamming your hips down on him. “Let go, cum for me.”

As if that’s all the permission he needed, Ben instantly tumbles over the edge with a loud breathy whine as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, sticky loads shooting out from his cock to his stomach. Body spasming and head thrown back, letting his mind-blowing orgasm wave right off of him, still clinging onto you. You gritted your teeth when his hole tightened impossibly around you, feeling yourself throb and ache to release.

Ben — in spite of his cloudy, mushed state of mind as well as hazy and cock-drunk look in his eyes — suddenly wraps both strong legs around your hips to keep you in place, which forces you forward to bury yourself deeper inside him, eliciting a growl of curses from you.

His mouth splits into a dumb, shit-eating grin. “Inside, baby. Fill me up… give me all you got. I need you.” He moves his hips and squeezes down like a fucking expert prostitute, and it’s enough to have you let out a guttural groan as you spilled inside his tight hole.

Ben released a shattered breath, moaning delightfully at your warm cum that taints his insides, his hand that was gripping your forearm moving down to caress his belly where he could feel you finishing.

It makes your breath hitch; the action sparking a deep hidden desire and possessiveness within you that you’ve had shackled for so long in order to not be too greedy.

But Ben, oh your precious Benjamin, pressed down on his perfect belly and whined so brokenly that tugged the strings of your heart, as if he wanted something so unreachable. He attempts to bury his face on the pillow in what you recognised as shame and you quickly hold his face to keep him from hiding from you, subtle concern glimmering in your gentle eyes.

“What’s bothering your mind, love?” You whispered with such carefulness, afraid speaking too loud would break the bubble of sensitivity that surrounded the two of you as you pressed a light kiss on his temple. “You can tell me, Benji. It’s not embarrassing nor shameful.”

Ben’s heart swells at the way you cage him in your protective arms and words, the back of his eyes stinging from the tears that threatened to come out. He doesn’t deserve you; he never did, but you’re so good to him and he doesn’t think he can live without you. No, he knows he can’t live without you.

What would he do without your captivating eyes looking at him with so much passion no one ever gave him before, your gentle voice uttering such carefully crafted words that embraces rather than cut through him, your big and muscular yet warmly protective arms holding him like he was a treasure to behold, your soul healing and rebuilding every damaged bit of his spirit like it was your purpose? What would he do without you?

And fuck, everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t a fucking man. If he wasn’t such a pussy who’s afraid of risking everything.

You gently roll your hips against his, slow and steady, as if to comfort his nerves and overthinking thoughts with a soft pleasure.

Letting out a quiet, breathy sigh, Ben holds your face close and internally fights back against the restraints that wanted to keep him from opening his soul up to you. “We’d be… We’d be so much happier if I wasn’t a fucking man,” His whispered voice breaks at the end.

His heart ached and so did yours, a realisation dwelling on you of how serious Ben actually was with your relationship. It comes off as an unexpected admittance. While you knew he did love you like you love him, you didn’t think it was to this extent of imagining the countless possibilities if either of you was a woman instead, much less he’d think of himself to be the woman. It was odd and so unlike him — true love brings out something within people, you suppose.

Tears glimmered in his green eyes that’s filled by storm of emotions.

Ben hated this, hated you for making him such a crybaby and a pussy, but he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts. He doesn’t know what triggered him to be an annoying, pathetic, insecure loser the moment you held him. God, he’s Soldier Boy for fuck’s sake!

Then, you look at him with so much tenderness like he hung the moon and was the only thing that grounds you down to earth, and Ben realises it’s this.

“You’re such a fucking fool,” You affectionately cursed with a tone barely above whisper before pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. “I wouldn’t have spared you a glance if you weren’t. Women never captivated me, love. Only you.”

Wrapping his arms around your back and burying his face on the crook of your neck, Ben inhales your scent as you gently rock your bodies together. “Love me more,” He almost demands, voice low and trembling.

You smiled, “Of course, Benji.”

Pressing a sweet kiss on his head, you grab the back of his thighs and push them to his muscular chest, Ben’s flexibility despite his well defined physique making it easier for you to fold him. In a swift motion, you slam down on him, beginning to pound away the loud thoughts that made home in his mind. Angelic, high pitched sounds escape Ben’s mouth with each rough thrusts, bordering on pornographic. The blissful look across his face enhance his already ethereal features, and you can’t help but stare intently at him.

“You look so beautiful like this, love. Taking me in so well, letting me cherish you.” You praised, earning a needy whimper from the love of your life. “My Benjamin… my brave soldier.”

At the unexpected pet name, Ben’s body jolts and a choked sob erupted from his throat, suddenly pushed over the edge as he cums undone on his stomach. “F-fuck!”

“G-god, baby…” You groaned, shuddering in pleasure at the way his gummy walls spasms around your girth. “Drivin’ me insane, y’know that? Cummin’ with just my words alone? Shit, wanna fuck you hard and love you at the same time.”

Digging his nails on your back, Ben attached his lips on your collarbone with an intent to leave several possessive marks, making you jut your hips forward. “D-do it, fuck me.” He mumbled breathlessly.

That’s the only permission you needed to let go of your own self-control and just rut into him like an animal, thrusting your cock with more vigour and roughness that forced the headboard to repeatedly bang against the wall. Feeling the way your shaft practically drill into and rearrange his guts that brought immeasurable ecstasy, Ben finds himself finally unable to make out a coherent thought as drools drip down his chin. The two orgasms you milked out of him already left him sensitive enough, his thighs quivering under your grasps.

Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and wet squelches filled the room, accompanied by feral noises of both of your moans and grunts.

It’s nearly incomprehensible how you’re able to quickly switch between loving him and treating him like a slut next, a perfect balance to Ben’s constant yearning for admiration or appreciation and his tendency to always be an inconsolable brat that needs to be put back in his place.

He feels so complete and whole, so loved. And so so fucking dumb for your cock. He could stay like this forever without heavy expectations weighing over his head all the time, just taking you whole and letting you ruin his body, looking all pretty and beautiful for you. Yeah, he can do that. Being pretty and sexy has always been a talent of his, after all. He can even learn to cook for you like a fucking perfect, pretty housewife, maybe you’ll stuff him full of your cum again while at it and tell him to keep them in. Fuck, he can do that too. He wants to do that.

“Oh fuck, Ben…” An almost pornographic, low growl rumbles from your chest when he squeezed down on you, his warm walls fluttering against your girth from the imagination. The coil in your stomach tightens as you twitched inside him, too close to your high.

“I- ah—! Please, pleaseplease—!” He babbles, one hand shifting to press your ass and push you in deeper, syllables slightly slurred from how cockdrunk he was.

Understanding his wordless signal, you increase your pace with an angle that drives your instincts wild, a chill running through your spine from the overwhelming pleasure. Seeing Ben completely fall apart and surrender underneath you gives your ego an infinite boost, the powerful man such a sobbing, wrecked, pretty little mess just because of your cock. Drunk in every little euphoria and precious love you feed him. Oh, how fucking adorable and gorgeous he was.

Before long, Ben feels you throb inside him and pulls you in with what little willpower he had left, clumsily slipping his tongue in your mouth, overwhelming you with different sensations of his body against yours. It’s enough to have you harshly ram your hips down in one swift motion and empty yourself inside him, a loud wail of your name leaving Ben’s lips as he finishes as well. You feel his body tremble violently due to overstimulation, breath stuttering.

“You look so fucked out,” You laugh breathlessly, hips softly grinding to ride out your climax. “Still fuckin’ hot when you’re all dumb n’ mindless.”

Petting his disheveled hair, a soft contented hum leaves Ben as he closed his eyes and nuzzled to your touch. The entire erotic sight of his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat, tears staining his cheeks, hazy look across his eyes, and swollen lips sends amusement and satisfaction through your veins — you definitely fucked whatever self-loathing thoughts he’s had out of his head.

Having completely spilled inside him, you moved to pull out only for Ben to groan in protest. “Stay the fuck in,” He grumbled, panting to catch his breath.

“I need to clean us up, love.” You gently say, but kept yourself sheathed inside him as your lips attach to his neck. “Wanna take care of you properly.”

Ben quietly sighs in content, “You already do.” Before he tilts his head to capture you in a passionate kiss. You slowly pull out of him in amidst of the moment, holding his face and reciprocating with equal passion.

He breathes low and heavy when you start to wipe him up with a wet towel you magically conjured up, running it across his body gently as your other hand massaged his sore hip with such tenderness. Your eyes taking in every part of his physique feels much more innocent now compared to before, deep appreciation and subtle awe flashing across your irises the more you stare, which causes his cheeks to tint slightly. You find it adorable how shy or embarrassed he gets whenever you look at him like he’s something born out of the stars in contrast to the overinflated cockiness he displays when others compliment him; it just proves he feels different, more special with you.

You shoot him a gentle smile that makes his brain shut down and his heart jump.

Christ on a cross, just what did you fucking reduce him into?

“Will you marry me?” The words had left his mouth before he could even process.

You froze, eyes wide as you snapped your gaze to him at the same time his own widened in shock. Fuck, did he just say what he thinks he did? After you fucked him ‘til he couldn’t even speak properly? God, his legs feel wobbly after all that delicious pounding of your dick in his tight little—

His distracting thoughts were interrupted by your hands cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at you. There’s a bit of doubt lingered across your expression, worried that you mistakenly heard him, and Ben’s gaze softened. “Will you marry me?” He repeats quietly this time with genuine emotion, wiping away your worry.

Excitement and happiness seem to explode within you as you beam; “Yes! Fuck, yes, I’ll marry you.” However, your smile slowly deflates and a foreign look of insecurity replaces the joy surrounding you. “Are you… are you sure? You’re not pushing yourself?”

Confusion spreads across his face, “Why would you think I am?”

“It’s just not that easy to break away from all the homophobia, love.” You softly remind him. “You’re still having a hard time accepting it, could barely even call yourself the right term. You’re afraid, and that’s fine. We can continue on like this. You don’t have to marry me because you feel obligated to.”

Ben frowns, his hand pulling you down to the mattress at his side as he props up on his elbow and stares at you incredulously. “You think I wanna fucking marry you just ‘cause I’m guilty about hiding this? Did it ever occur to you that I actually fuckin’ love you?”

You smile to yourself; what a long way it took for him to just be able to admit that. At least he’s letting himself know he can be vulnerable with you now, compared to when he was convinced you’ll despise his inner self — a big fucking pussy, he says — and completely shut himself off in the beginning.

“Hey,” He grabs your chin to make you pay attention. “I know I still don’t do enough to show you, but I do. I really fucking do, baby.”

You look into his captivating green eyes for a second before releasing a deep breath, “I know. Trust me, you don’t have to do enough to show it, I can already tell. And I love you too.”

Ben nods and kisses your lips, lying down beside you. Your hand instinctually attaches to his waist, caressing his soft skin and shooting warmth throughout his body.

He can’t help but stare at your features, the way you look different now from how you looked at the party you crashed earlier. A certain amount of coldness, hostility and displeasure usually lurked your expression in a daily manner — hidden behind the undeniable charisma and obnoxious arrogance — directed at others that told exactly what their worth to you was; nothing. Ben hasn’t seen a day you were even remotely pleased by someone in the long years of knowing you, the people who attempted to get in your good graces often ended up screwing everything up instead and irritating you enough to kill them off.

But with him, you wouldn’t even spare him a cold glance. Your gaze twinkling with a pleasant spark, always warm, always comforting, always proud. God forbid you look at him with hatred like you’re supposed to. So affectionate for a man who’s been named after the Devil by the idiotic public that only sees what you let them see.

It is then had Ben realised; to him, true love is you.

True love is when you embrace a part of him that he deems undesirable, mend his broken soul, and melt the ice of deep rooted trauma surrounding his heart — it is when Soldier Boy doesn’t drive you away from seeing Benjamin, an ordinary boy from South Philadelphia who desperately wanted to make his father proud. You see them as one, as equally significant parts of him.

Good fucking Lord, he was a gigantic imbecile if he didn’t want to marry you, even if the idea still makes him feel quite… odd. Fuck’s sake, he really needs to learn how to deal with this homophobia bullshit, doesn’t he?

Ben licks his lips anxiously, reluctance plastered on his face. “I… I actually got the rings,” He hesitantly admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You did?”

“I- Jesus Christ, of course I did! I know I don’t fucking do shit like that, okay?” He snapped before quietly muttering, “Just wanted you to believe me when I propose.”

“I do,” You don’t miss to give him comfort, grabbing his hand. Ben’s nerves soothes at your touch. “I just thought we still have a long way to go and you need more time to figure yourself out.”

He shakes his head, “Gotta claim you before some fucker decides you’re free for them.”

“Yeah?” You smirked, raising one eyebrow. “Could’ve gone with a collar, y’know. It would get your point straight across. Plus, it’s more visible.” Tapping your neck to emphasise, which made Ben swallow.

Yeah, you’ll look good with a collar in his colour. You can even wear both. That’ll definitely get his point across to anyone that even looks at you. Maybe next time, he decides.

A mischievous smirk spreads across his lips, “That’ll fucking work best. Think I could put a leash on you too?” He teased, letting out a chuckle and sliding his hand up to your neck and hold you there.

“Mhm, fuck yes,” You almost purred from how pleased you were at the idea.

Ben laughs, lightly squeezing your neck in affection before turning around to rummage through the cabinet on the side of your bed, pulling out a velvet box that’s in the shade of his green. You could tell he was enthusiastic and overwhelmed with emotions from the way his hands slightly trembled, though you made no mention of it to avoid bursting his adorable bubble.

His grin was as bright as the sun on a sunny day when the ring perfectly fits around your finger, already snuggling comfortably on your skin and bringing a weight of new purpose in life. You slip the other ring on his as well, feeling the entanglement of your destiny with one another, the red strings of fate on both of your pinky fingers thickening. It’s a sacred oath that ties you to each other forever.

Warmth spreads around your chest at the fact it’s his first time giving you a gift and it’s something so unexpectedly intimate. A silver engagement ring with a ruby in his shade of green and his name engraved on the inner side; practically a part of his soul, settling itself home around your finger. You shift your gaze to the one he wears — the same silver ring but with a dark red ruby instead, your signature colour, and you assume also have your name engraved on the inner side as well.

A big, significant step for a man who’s constantly afraid of what others think about him, and you couldn’t be more prouder.

Lying back down on the bed together, Ben turns his back on you and scoots closer to your chest, making you smile when he grabbed your wrist to pull your arm over his torso. He always loved being hugged by you from behind despite the fact he’ll never admit it out loud; as much as it sounds pathetic and unmanly, he doesn’t argue with himself of how it gives him safety and protection from the harsh judgmental world. Being in your arms always dissipated the cruel words of his father carved in his mind.

You gently pulled him closer to your body and pressed a kiss on his shoulder blade. “Don’t have to rush about coming out, love. It’ll take more than a simple courage to be open about something considered taboo by our society. You’re still dealing with personal issues, we’ll focus on that for now.”

Ben’s heart warms at your consideration, unable to resist the urge to stick to you like a glue as he leans back on your chest. “How the fuck did you do it? This feels like a pain in the fucking ass,” He muttered disdainfully, though there was a hint of willingness in his tone, like he’s willing to make an effort just for you.

You shrugged, “m’not exactly shaped by my childhood trauma, Benji, and I didn’t like my parents that much. Never really gave a fuck about somethin’ that has no benefit to my life whatsoever.”

“Entitled asshole,” He laughs.

“So are you,” You teased, making you both erupt in loud laughter.

I could get used to this, Ben thinks as genuine happiness glows bright in his heart, your love anchoring him and providing a solid land for him to stand on. Dealing with his own problems doesn’t sound so bad when you’re there for him every step of the way. With your protective arms around his body, both Soldier Boy and Benjamin knew their heart will always be safe with you.

For once, Ben believes he can finally learn to create a family of his own.

Until disaster struck and life suddenly decides to not be fair on someone as fucked up as him — ripping his world apart into shreds in the form of coward, betraying bastards known as his fucking teammates.

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarising, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

He was either halfway to saving Dean, or halfway to killing him, but either way you shouldn’t be alone with the demon that used to be your brother. But Sam didn’t have a choice.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He told himself that he needed to get more blood, even though he wasn’t quite out. He told himself he needed to check the warding again, even though he’d checked it half a dozen times.

The truth was, he needed to get away from Dean. That roiling mass of dark energy and evil intentions that wore his brother’s face. After weeks of obsessive searching to save his brother, Sammy needed one moment of selfishness, one moment of weakness where he didn’t need to think about saving anyone.

So he left.

And he would regret it.

…

Sam shouldn’t have left you alone.

Dean watched as Sam muttered something to you about needing more blood, before the both of you left the room. However, while Sam’s heavy footsteps slowly faded out of Dean’s demonically impressive earshot, yours didn’t go farther than the other side of the door.

You were alone in the bunker with him.

It really was a perfect opportunity. Not that Dean didn’t think he could take Sam, but he was weaker with all that human blood in him, and he’d prefer to take you out one at a time.

Dean yanked at his chains in one sharp tug, and they came loose easily. Dean grinned as he tossed the metal aside. Being a demon really did have its perks. But it also had its downsides—such as the paint under him that supposedly kept him from leaving. But if Dean’s theory was correct, with all the human blood in him he just might be able to cross.

Dean took a cautionary step forward. His foot hovered over the paint, then crossed it, then came to rest on un-vandalized concrete. A low chuckle escaped from the back of Dean’s throat as he crossed the room. Ever since he’d died, he felt like he barely touched the ground anymore. The crushing weight of guilt that the lesser part of him constantly struggled under was gone, and now he could float around the world and do whatever he wanted.

At least, he had been able to until you and Sam appeared. He’d make you pay for that.

Dean paused when he reached the door out of his little dungeon. He could hear your staggered breathing just on the other side, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His poor, stupid little sister, always hovering around him as if he were her personal guard. For a while, he had been.

But things had changed.

Dean slammed his fist against the door, and listened with a satisfied smirk as your breath caught and your footsteps started echoing away from him. This wouldn’t be any fun unless it was a bit of a chase. Not that he’d have to work hard to get you—you weren’t Sam. It was almost sad how quickly Dean knew he’d catch you. How quickly he’d kill you.

Once the sound of your footsteps died away, Dean opened the door. He’d heard you go left, but he headed right, in the direction of the weapons cache. Once he reached it, he took his time selecting a weapon. He was in no rush. His hand hovered over a hammer—brutal, bloody, and slow—before he changed his mind and grabbed a gun. It wasn’t mercy. It was Dean’s way of proving a point. Dean wanted Sam to know exactly how he saw you. As an inconvenience to be thrown away. He would let you—the extra, the tagalong—die like collateral damage. Like he couldn’t care less about you. But Sam…

Dean would make Sam die slowly.

He would save the hammer for Sam.

Dean let the gun hang limply in his hand as he strode across the bunker in your direction. Besides the gun and the heavy echo of his boots ominously clashing around the concrete bunker, Dean could’ve been going through a stroll in the park. Killing you wasn’t even a question in his mind. You’d barely even helped Sam—mostly just stayed in the car while your big brother did the hard work—which Dean knew was Sam’s choice. The boys had always been very careful about keeping you out of danger. But that didn’t matter to Dean. You may not have personally tied him to that chair, and you represented no threat to Dean’s freedom, but that wasn’t going to stop him from killing you. Beside the fact that it would send a message to Sam, it was also a pleasant inconvenience to Dean. Like going out of your way to pick up a treat from the gas station. He wanted you dead.

After everything Sam had done, Dean was no longer content with letting anything from his old life live. Dean was dead, and his so-called loved ones would die with him.

Long live Demon Dean.

Dean froze halfway through his stride. The echo of footsteps was gone, but your faint gasps now reached his ears. Dean grinned. He could all but hear your racing heart. He was glad he hadn’t killed you immediately—getting you scared was much more fun, even if it was easy.

“Ohh N/N!” Dean taunted, turning his strut in the direction of your heavy breathing. “Come out, come out to play!”

The patter of your footsteps echoed again, and Dean turned left down a hallway. He caught sight of a flash of your blue shirt sleeve at the end of the hall, before you disappeared around the corner.

Dean chuckled lowly, enjoying how the sound echoed against the wall and the way your gasping became louder after you heard it. You had just turned down a dead end. This chase was almost over, and it was about to end in the perfect place. The hallway you’d turned down ended with a single bedroom.

Dean’s.

Dean heard his own door slam shut, and listened to your ragged breaths as you surely searched for a hiding place. Dean slowed his steps. He would let you hide.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Dean reached his door. He twisted the handle slowly, deliberately, and let the door creak open with just a small push.

“I know you’re in here, sweetheart,” Dean cooed. He could hear exactly where you were, but he took a moment to revel in the way your breath caught at the nickname. The one he once used to comfort you. It felt right to use now. It felt like letting go of the nurturing side that had been forced upon him since childhood.

A floorboard creaked. The room grew eerily silent. Dean could tell you were holding your breath. He let the moment linger like the pause before a rollercoaster drop. Then he took a purposefully silent step toward his prey, and knelt down.

You were under the bed. Regular-old Dean would’ve been pained to see you so vulnerable, acting like a child in a cheesy horror flick. Demon Dean just laughed and wrapped his hand around your ankle. You screamed the second his hand closed around you, but Dean ignored your cries as he yanked you into the light.

Your hands automatically lifted to cover your face, and Dean rewarded your cowering with a swift jab to your ribs. You let out a pitiful sound between a yelp and a whimper as your hands flew to your rapidly-bruising side. As soon as your hands were out of the way, Dean raised his pistol to the side of your head, grinning as your body stiffened and froze.

“That’s it.” Dean’s voice was tauntingly gentle, like he was soothing a crying baby. “Stay still, or this will hurt so much more.”

“Please De—“

You started to shift, testing your boundaries. Dean wasn’t in the mood to be tested. He moved his gun an inch to the right and fired into the concrete. Your body convulsed in a dramatic flinch, and Dean watched as a trickle of blood dripped down from your ear that was closest to the gun.

Tears tracked down the sides of your face, mingling with the blood coming out of your ear.

“I said stay still,” Dean growled, and he could tell from the way you squinted your eyes at him that you were reading his lips—your ears must’ve been ringing from the blast that Dean’s superhuman abilities protected him from.

Despite your damaged ears, you got the message and obeyed it. You shook like a leaf, but you didn’t try to squirm or move your hands again.

“De,” you whimpered. “Please don’t—please don’t hurt me Dean.”

The tears were coming faster now, and your breathing was becoming shallower.

Dean lingered in the moment, relishing every second he got to explore the newfound freedom in his soul. He knew that the human version of himself would be wracked with guilt looking at your terrified face. The mark of Cain version of himself would’ve been angry at your obnoxious cries—he was always angry, in a way that only made the guilt feel worse.

But here, now, this black-eyed, better version of Dean didn’t have to feel any of it. He could finally let go of the family that had been weighing him down for too long, and he didn’t have to feel bad about it for a single second.

Dean slowly lifted his thumb to the hammer of his gun and pulled it back, grinning as you flinched at the crack of the gun cocking.

“Dean?” Your sob came out as a question, as if you were looking for your big brother and didn’t see him in front of you. Good. You were learning.

Just to let the moment play out a little longer, Dean moved his gun away from your face. Relief lighted your features. Dean was excited to see it wash away. But first—

Dean’s free hand came up to the side of your face while his gun traveled lower, finding its spot right above your lung.

Dean’s palm brushed your face just as the muzzle of his gun brushed your ribs. Your face twitched, ever-so-slightly, toward Dean’s hand, as if you actually believed it was there to comfort you.

Then your brain seemed to register the gun that was pressing against your skin, and the horror returned to your eyes.

“Dean, don’t do this,” you pleaded. “You’re my—“

Dean pulled the trigger.

He felt your blood splatter across his face, staining his cheeks, his hair, his toothy grin. But he didn’t care.

Dean waited to feel something negative—remorse, guilt, grief—but no such feelings came. His demon soul was truly, profoundly free.

A single tear tracked down your face, remnants of the begging that had done you no good.

Your chest convulsed up and down in a crude attempt to find air, and a horrible gargling sound escaped your mouth as proof that no air would come. You were drowning in the blood that was quickly filling your lungs, just as Dean aimed for.

The light was slowly draining from your eyes, but still you kept them trained on Dean.

“De—“ a whine that sounded like a twisted attempt at Dean’s name tore from your throat as Dean got to his feet. You coughed, and blood tainted your lips scarlet. You would be dead within seconds, but Dean couldn’t be bothered to sit around and wait. He wasn’t going to offer you the comfort of dying in his arms.

Your hands twitched up at him as he rose out of reach. Even now, even after he’d murdered you, you were still looking for your brother behind the black eyes. Dean wasn’t about to let you find him. He wanted the last thing you ever saw to be him, doing what he should’ve done the second John placed you in his arms.

Walking away from you.

…

Sam would never forgive himself for leaving you alone.

As soon as he’d returned to find the dungeon door open and Dean’s chains on the floor, a horrible pit had opened in his stomach.

He’d left you alone with a monster. And now the monster was out.

The bunker was eerily silent except for the pounding in Sam’s ears as he began the search for his siblings.

He didn’t know which one of you he was looking for. He didn’t know if he even wanted to find either of you. He didn’t know if he was ready for what he would find.

He wasn’t.

The sound that tore from his throat the moment he laid eyes on you wasn’t human. It wasn’t animalistic, either. It was raw. It was grief in echoed form.

He wasn’t sure when his legs gave out, he only knew that he was now closer to your deadened eyes, and his pants were now soaked with your blood.

Every part of him knew that you were already long gone, but he cradled your body anyway, as if he could turn back the clock and at least give you the slightest comfort of dying in his arms.

He couldn’t.

You’d faded away on the unforgiving cold concrete, with no one to hold your hand and no one to wipe your tears. It wasn’t just that Sam hadn’t protected you—he’d let you die alone.

The three of you had been through almost every pain it was possible to go through. But none of you had ever been allowed to die alone.

The presence hit Sam before he even saw his brother. The room suddenly felt shrouded in darkness and stiff with cold. The air felt sucked out by the presence of an evil Sam didn’t want to face.

For a moment, neither brother spoke. It took every ounce of Sam’s courage to lift his chin a few inches to face his big brother.

Your blood was smeared across Dean’s cheek. A grin split his face, wide in an almost unnatural way. But the worst part—the part that hit Sam in the gut and made him want to throw up—was that Dean’s eyes weren’t black. Dean was still a demon, but he’d chosen to face Sam with a green stare that only stood to remind Sam of the brother he’d lost.

The brother that had killed his sister.

“Why—“ Sam voice came out in a broken sob. “Why would you do this? She only ever wanted to help you! She only—we only wanted to save you!”

Dean’s smiling composure didn’t waver.

“I told you I didn’t want to be saved. I warned you—“ Sam flinched when Dean raised his hand. He was clutching a hammer in his fist, pointing it at Sam. “And I warned her. And now I’m gonna give you the same chance I gave her. Five.”

Five?

“What?” Sam breathed.

“Four.”

…

Sam was out of the room before Dean got to three. Dean watched as his little brother spared an agonized glance at your body before disappearing around the corner.

Sam’s footsteps echoed in Dean’s ears as he finished his count. He listened for the footsteps to stop as he stepped over your body, but they kept going.

Sam had run right past the armory. Interesting.

“Zero!” Dean called out as he followed his brother’s path. “I’m coming for you, Sammy!”

…

Cas had arrived in time to save Sam, and Dean was back in the dungeon.

Sam stood just outside the door, his hands shaking. He was barely holding it together, and it had nothing to do with Dean chasing him around with a hammer.

He’d lost you. He hadn’t protected you when it mattered most.

Sam watched Castiel pace and knew that the angel was blaming himself, too. If he’d arrived earlier, he could’ve stopped Dean.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Sam could’ve stayed, Cas could’ve moved faster, heck, Dean could’ve fought the evil inside him just a little harder. The blame game never ending and impossible to win, with countless possibilities and different paths that it was too late to take.

You were dead. You were dead, and you’d died alone, and the three men in your life that had once loved you more than anything were responsible. No amount of blame games could fix that.

“It’s time to finish this,” Sam said at last. “It’s time to bring Dean back.”

…

For one, fleeting moment, Dean thought the agony that ripped into his soul might destroy him from the inside.

But this was not a pain that would do him the mercy of killing him.

Dean was on his knees with his head in his hands, though he wasn’t sure when he’d been freed of his restraints. Cas’s voice was hovering around him, but he couldn’t make out the words. When he finally managed to look up, Sam was there. Dean saw his own pain reflected in his brother’s eyes, and for a moment he wanted to scream, until he realized he already was.

The cry broke off when he ran out of air, and though he suddenly heard the sound of his own gasping, he couldn’t feel the lack of air. He couldn’t feel anything other than his newly-purified soul cracking under the weight of his guilt.

“I…I want to see her.” He didn’t even know when he’d decided to speak. The words just came. “Is she…”

“I…” Sam’s whole body twitched as he swallowed, as though every movement hurt. “I haven’t moved her yet.”

Walking the hallway to Dean’s bedroom felt more like walking to an execution chamber. Each step landed heavy, the echoing click pounding in Dean’s ears.

His door was still open, and Dean saw a trail of red blood before he saw you. The sight of your body washed over him in waves, each one impossibly more painful than the last as he took it all in.

The blood that had dripped from your ear after he fired that shot just for the sheer joy of scaring you.

The pool of red covering the floor around your chest, where he had shot you knowing that it would hurt so much more than a bullet between the eyes. He hadn’t wanted to give you the mercy of a swift death.

Your still-open eyes, from when you had looked for him as he turned his back on you.

Your barely-outstretched hand, from when you had reached for him as he walked away. Reached for him until your strength gave out.

Dean’s hand shook as he reached down and closed your eyes. He’d been around enough death to know that it didn’t look like sleeping, even with your eyes closed, but he did it anyway.

He didn’t kneel down. He didn’t cradle your body the way Sam had. It was too late for that. He had chosen to let you die alone on the floor, and trying to make up for it now by holding your cold body just felt like a pathetic cop-out.

Instead, Dean lifted you into his arms and set you gently down onto his bed. His fingers groped around for his blanket, and when he found it he pulled it up to your chin. Not over your face. Not yet. That was too final.

“She was cold.” Dean didn’t know who he was talking to, but the three words were the only way he could explain why he’d tucked you in as though you had just fallen asleep.

She was cold.

She was alone.

I did this.

Sam didn’t speak. That was worse. Dean wanted Sam to blame him, if only to know that Sam wasn’t blaming himself.

It wasn’t Sam’s fault. But Sammy always carried guilt, and Dean had never been able to take it from him, no matter how hard he tried. Guilt about Mom. Guilt about Jess.

And now you.

“We should—“ Sam’s voice stopped abruptly. Dean knew why. There was so many things they should do, but not yet.

They should burn your body.

They should tell their friends.

They should say goodbye.

It was too soon. Dean didn’t want it to be real yet, but the blood all over his hands made it all too real already.

Dean’s eyes moved from you to his little brother.

“You should get cleaned up,” he said finally. Sam’s clothes and hands were soaked in your blood.

“You too,” Sam echoed.

Dean nodded. He needed to do something, something that wasn’t looking at your pale face or mentally planning how to say goodbye.

He would take a shower. He did that every day. It had no sense of finality to it.

Dean moved like a ghost through his own room, refusing to look at his bed. He retrieved clean clothes from his drawer, his hands trembling when his fingers brushed a gray hoodie—the one you always liked to steal.

He left it in the drawer.

Dean stood under the hot water until it turned cold. He watched your blood go down the drain, trying to pretend it was someone else’s.

A vampire, like the one you’d killed on your very first hunt.

A wendigo, like the one he’d saved you from.

His own, like that time a hunt went sideways and you’d had to drive him to a hospital.

Anyone’s but yours.

…

You woke up alone.

Your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving for breath that came easier than you thought it would. You sat up, the gentle weight of Dean’s blanket sliding off you. Your hand shot up to your side as images flashed in your head.

Dean chasing you.

Dean shooting you.

Dean walking away.

Your fingers couldn’t find the bullet wound. You lifted your shirt and looked down. You were still soaked in sticky red, but you couldn’t find a wound. Your ribs were bruised from where Dean had struck you, but there was no hole. No bullet.

Your confusion fled, to be replaced by panic, when Dean’s bathroom door opened to your left. Dean emerged, no longer covered in your blood, but that didn’t matter.

He had hunted you down.

He had killed you.

You threw yourself out of bed and ran out the door, not daring to spare a glance behind you.

You didn’t know how much time had passed—long enough for Dean to change clothes—and you didn’t know why you were alive. Those questions could wait. You weren’t going to let Dean kill you again.

“Sam!” You screamed, listening to the sound echo around you. You could only hope that he was back now, that he could save you.

“Y/N!”

It wasn’t Sam’s voice that answered, but Dean’s. He was close behind you.

“Sam!” You called again, hesitating when you reached the war room. The dungeon, or Sam’s room? You didn’t have time to ponder, but the wrong answer could mean death. Again.

You turned left, down the hallway that led to Sam’s room.

“Sam help!”

You couldn’t let Dean kill you again.

…

“Y/N!”

Dean had a thousand questions, but he didn’t dare stop to think about them yet. He’d stepped out of the shower, and before he could stop himself, his eyes drifted over to where he’d laid your body. Only now, you were sitting up. His foot hovered halfway through a step, and his breath froze in his throat.

Then you’d seen him. The sight of him used to bring relief to your eyes when you were feeling scared, but this time your face drained of what little color it had, and you were out the door before Dean could even think to wonder why you were alive.

And now he was doing the last thing he should be doing—chasing you. He knew you were scared, but he had to get to you. He had to tell you that he wasn’t going to hurt you. You needed to know he wasn’t a demon anymore. He had to know why you were ok.

So he ran.

…

Sam had been out of the shower for a while, but he didn’t leave his room. Instead, he sat cross-legged on his bed, trying to keep his mind from picturing how you died.

It wasn’t working.

His imagination became so vivid, that for a moment he thought he heard you calling for him.

Then his door burst open.

“Sam!” You were a sobbing mess in his arms before he could even begin to understand what he was seeing. Sam’s arms came around you subconsciously even as his mind worked overtime.

This wasn’t possible.

You couldn’t be here.

“N/N?” Sam pulled you back, his eyes trailing over your blood-soaked clothes. He reached down to where he knew your wound was, and lifted your shirt.

It wasn’t there.

“What—what—“

“Dean’s after me,” you sobbed. “Please don’t let him get me again Sam, please don’t let him—“

“Hey—hey—“ Sam tucked your trembling form in his arms. The hunter part of him wanted to question this—to question you, to test you in case you were a shifter, or a demon. The scholar part of him realized that the bunker was too warded for anything to get in, but also didn’t believe that you could be alive. But the big brother part of him just wanted to dry your tears and tell you everything was gonna be ok.

The big brother won.

“It’s ok,” he soothed. “Dean’s not a demon anymore. He’s never gonna hurt you again.”

“He killed me,” you whimpered. “Sammy, he—he killed me.”

His arms tightened around you. “I…I know.” Sam’s chest ached. “I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Y/N.”

You flinched in Sam’s arms at the sound of Dean’s voice. He was standing wide-eyed in Sam’s doorway, looking like he wasn’t sure whether he should run away from you or toward you.

“It’s ok,” Sam promised. “He’s not a demon anymore.”

Emboldened by Sam’s words, Dean stepped forward.

“Sweetheart—“

Sam felt you flinch again as you tucked your head against Sam’s shoulder.

“Not yet,” Sam told Dean. “Just—just give her a minute. Go get her some water.” This seemed the most subtle way to tell Dean to get out without actually needing to tell him to go.

Sam waited until Dean was gone to speak again. “I know you’re scared. But I promise, he won’t hurt you again, he’s—“

Sam’s phone rang in his back pocket. Frowning, he pulled it out to glance at it. Crowley. He answered it.

“What do you want?” He demanded.

“Moose. Lovely talking to you too, as always. Did you get the gift I sent you?”

Sam’s eyes flicked down to you.

“Did you bring her back?”

“I finally get rid of one Winchester only for you idiots to send another one down to me. I hear Dean’s human again. I just dumped him, I’m not looking to have him come track me down again demanding his little sister back, so I sent her before he could come pounding at my door.”

“I…you…” Sam didn’t know what to say.

“No need to thank me,” Crowley interrupted. “Just keep your family out of hell and away from me.”

The phone clicked.

You blinked up at Sam as he put the phone down, looking to all the world like a little girl who had been through too much.

“Crowley brought me back?” It wasn’t an observation, it was a question.

“That’s what he said. You don’t remember anything?”

You shook your head.

“Does—does that mean that somebody has to go to hell? Did one of you sell your soul?”

“We’re gonna be fine,” Sam promised. “Nobody is going to hell.”

Sam knew Dean would be back any minute. He took another look at you—you were still shaking, and there were still tears in your eyes. You weren’t ready.

“Why don’t you go clean up?” He suggested gently. “Use my shower—I’ll bring you some clothes.” He didn’t want to think about how panicked you’d be if you ran into Dean on the way to your room.

You nodded mutely and made your way across the room, but stopped just before you reached the bathroom.

“Are you sure he’s better?” Your voice came out strained and small.

“I promise,” Sam replied firmly. “He’s just regular-old Dean again.” Sam hesitated. “He’s never gonna forgive himself for what he did to you.”

You pondered this for a moment.

“I will,” you decided. “Just…I’m just not ready yet.”

“That’s ok. He can wait.”

You stood in the doorway a moment longer, before stepping through and shutting the door behind you.

…

The glass of water was shaking in Dean’s hands. The sound of you choking on your own blood kept replaying in his head, and he couldn’t make it stop.

Sam appeared to be waiting for him when he returned. You weren’t in sight, but the sound of the shower running in Sam’s bathroom explained why.

“Crowley brought her back,” Sam spoke softly, as if he was trying to preserve a fragile sense of peace. “No deals, no red tape. He just didn’t want you to come looking for her in hell.”

Dean’s voice came out thin and rough, like sandpaper, after a long pause.

“So we got lucky.”

“Yeah.” Sam breathed. “Yeah. We got really lucky.”

The door opened slowly, so slowly that Dean only noticed it because of the way it creaked. He hadn’t even heard the shower turn off, but now the quiet in the room felt suffocating.

You had a towel wrapped around your shoulders like a cape, and you were drowning in Sam’s old Stanford hoodie. Dean hadn’t realized how much your blood-soaked clothes had been affecting him until you were no longer wearing them. He no longer felt like he was staring at a walking corpse, but instead his living, breathing little sister.

The one that he had drained the life out of, and reveled in the act.

“I’m sorry.” The words were so pathetic, so inadequate, but Dean had nothing else to say.

“I know.” Your eyes flicked up to Dean’s before you looked back down. Your shoulders hunched in, like you were trying to make yourself smaller.

Dean took slow steps forward. When you didn’t step back or cower, he lifted a gentle hand to your cheek.

“I can’t make up for this. I just want you to know—“

You flinched suddenly away from Dean, almost tripping over your feet to back away from him.

Your hyperventilating triggered alarm bells in Dean’s head, and he realized just what he’d done.

The last time he’d touched your face like that, just hours ago, he’d had a gun pressed into your ribs.

“I’m sorry.” Dean choked. “I—I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry—“

Sam was between the two of you in an instant. He faced Dean, as if guarding you.

“Just give her some space.” Sam didn’t sound angry. He just sounded tired. He turned his back to Dean and wrapped you in his arms, muttering something in your ear.

Dean could do nothing but stagger out of the room, echoing apologies all the way.

…

Memories were slamming unbidden into your mind.

Dean’s gentle hand on your cheek.

The cold muzzle of a gun pressing into your ribs.

The bang.

The spurt of blood.

Drowning.

It was happening again. There was no gun, no bang, but it was happening again. Dean. His touch on your face. And now…

You couldn’t breathe.

Your ears were ringing, just as they had after Dean fired that shot next to your head. There was no blood, no bullet, but you were still drowning.

Then, a voice that hadn’t been there when you’d drowned the first time.

“N/N, listen to me. You’re safe, you’re safe now. I’ve got you, just breathe.”

Sam. He’d come at last to save you.

Too late. You had already drowned.

But no. Not this time. This time, your desperate gasps for air were successful, even if it was a struggle. Your vision wasn’t clouding, blood wasn’t clogging your airways and staining your lips.

“That’s it, that’s it.” You could track your breathing progress based on the relief in your big brother’s voice. “You’re doing great, just keep breathing.”

You weren’t drowning. You weren’t dying. Dean wasn’t going to come after you again.

Your mind was sure of these three things, but your body wasn’t ready to let go of the panic just yet.

You didn’t know if it would ever be ready.

…

Dean was sitting on the cold concrete floor of the bunker, his back against the wall, when Sam’s door open. You emerged slowly and took a seat on the floor next to Dean.

“I know it wasn’t you.” You didn’t look at Dean as you spoke.

“But you’re still scared of me.”

“I’m trying not to be.” You paused before turning to face Dean fully. “I forgive you.”

Dean could hardly meet your eye.

“I don’t.”

You let the words hang in the air for only a moment.

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” you decided. “But this time, I think how I feel is more important. Since you know, I’m the one who got murdered.” The smile you gave Dean didn’t reach your eyes, and Dean didn’t even try to return it. Instead, he gave you a single, steady nod. You were right. This was about your safety, not Dean’s self-loathing.

“I want you to forgive yourself,” you added. “But I know why you can’t yet. But I want you to try.”

Dean gave no promises. He didn’t think you expected any.

You sank back against the wall, facing away from Dean again.

“We’re pretty screwed up, huh.”

Dean hummed.

“But maybe—“ you reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand in yours. Not trust, not yet. But something like it. “Maybe we can fix it.”

Dean looked down at your little hand holding his.

Yeah. Maybe you could.

Taglist:

-> Spencer Reid and his Emo/alternative boyfriend!

Details: fluff, headcanon format, third person, male!reader, established relationship, 307 words!

Spencer Reid, who was spotted with a very... interesting-looking man at the movies on Friday night.

Spencer Reid, who when asked about it, just turned bright red and mumbled something no one could here.

Spencer Reid, who, when Derek Morgan found out about his boyfriend, was teased relentlessly.

Spencer Reid, who tried his best to listen to music his beloved liked, but MUCH preferred his classical music instead. But he wouldn't ever judge his boyfriend.

Spencer Reid, who started wearing slightly darker clothes, and had a small enamel pin of a skull on his shirt collar one time, courtesy of his boyfriend dressing him every morning.

Spencer Reid, who would let his boyfriend paint his nails black, no matter what questioning looks he got from the BAU.

Spencer Reid, who also let his boyfriend try eyeliner on him, and found himself really enjoying how close his boyfriend had to get to paint the eyeliner on.

Spencer Reid, who always enjoyed watching his boyfriend get ready in the morning, especially when he began putting on his 1000 accessories.

Spencer Reid, who would proudly hold his beloved's hand in public, not caring about odd looks they might get for being so different.

Spencer Reid, who would go thrifting with his boyfriend every other weekend, and enjoyed watching his boyfriend soft through clothes and accessories.

Spencer Reid, who wouldn't stop telling his boyfriend facts about gothic literature, hoping to god to impress him-- that was when his boyfriend had kissed him for the first time.

Spencer Reid, who proudly put a photo of him and his lover on his desk, in a black frame with little skulls and crow-heads decorated on it.

Spencer Reid, who would watch in amazement whenever his boyfriend DIYed his clothes, always easily impressed by his beloved's creativity.

Spencer Reid, who wouldn't trade his alternative lover for anything.

-> Spencer Reid tries desperately to get further than just a simple kiss, but his partner's smiling always spoils his plans 0~0

details: fluff, silly, gn!reader, established relationship, use of Y/N, making out/kissing, 489 words!

There they were, in Spencer's apartment on his couch. This was it. Spencer was finally gonna work up the guts to do it! To go further than just a quick kiss on the lips. He was aiming for something along the lines of making out, but it didn't matter too much. As long as the kiss lasted more than .2 seconds.

Spencer was nervous. He looked at his partner lovingly.. They looked angelic.. Even though they were just sitting on the couch with him, watching tv in their pyjamas, Spencer couldn't think of a better sight.

He worked up the courage to lean over and pucker his lips. Y/N noticed this and met his lips. Spencer was going to make a move to open his mouth, when Y/N smiled so gently and warmly.. Spencer couldn't do it. He pulled off.

Another time, they were getting ice cream. Spencer had finished his, and Y/N was finishing theirs as well. Spencer waited until they were done before leaning forward and puckering his lips again... and again, Y/N kissed him briefly, before smiling and melting Spencer's heart.

Eventually, Spencer had tried a total of 322 times over the course of 2 weeks. Each time being met with failure. Until one night, they were at Y/N's apartment, cuddling on their bed and watching a movie on their laptop.

"Spencer?" "Yeah?" "Why do you keep kissing me so much more than usual?" Spencer's cheeks heated up.. How was he supposed to answer that? Honestly? No, they'd think he was a freak... or would they? "I.. promise you won't judge?"

Y/N giggled, "I promise!" "I.. I keep trying to make out with you.. but every time I kiss you, you smile and I can't bring myself to ruin it... Your smile is so perfect.. I just can't bring myself to wipe it off." Y/N's heart warmed. "Aw, Spencer... I smile when you kiss me because you make me so happy. I love receiving your affection..."

Spencer's face only reddened deeper. "O-oh.." "If you wanted to make out with me.." Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind Spencer's ear. "You could've just asked." Spencer swallowed nervously. Was this it? Was he finally going to get what he had so desperately craved?

Y/N pressed his lips to Spencer's, only this time it was different. Instead of the usual smile-and-pull-away, they opened their mouth, running the tip of their tongue between Spencer's lips to part them.

Spencer groaned and happily obliged.

When Y/N had pulled off 6 minutes later, Spencer was on cloud 9... He had a goofy smile on his puffy lips. "Satisfied?" Y/N asked, holding in a laugh. "Y-yeah..." Spencer whispered.

"See, babe? All you have to do is use your words." Y/N teased. Spencer knew right then and there that he would BEG to be kissed like that again if he had to.