I wanna wrap my teeth around your world

Hi there sweets! 

I’m Em or Sprout (whatever is easier to remember) 

I used to write mainly for Aaron Hotchner from Criminal Minds, but as of late I've been getting more into writing for multiple fandoms and characters.

Here is the link to my masterlist

minors: There will be mentions of nsfw content, though my blog doesn’t focus specifically on this, I ask you to dni.

This blog is meant to be a safe place for whomever need it. Therefore hate in the slightest of any form will not be tolerated. 

but with that being said I’d love to converse with whomever wish to in the comments, inbox or through posts. Don’t hesitate to reach out if just to say hi <33

Requests are open.

Word count: 5k+

Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader

tags: pinning, denial, use of nickname 'princess', faint descriptions of wounds and blood.

Dean wasn’t sure when it started—this need to keep an eye on you.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t handle yourself. Hell, you’d proven more than once that you were more than capable in a fight. You moved with this instinctive grace when things went sideways, your mind sharp and steady even when chaos was all around. You fit into their ragtag group almost too perfectly, slipping between his dry humor and Sam’s research-heavy focus with ease.

And yet, there it was, this thing he couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t just that he watched out for you in hunts. It wasn’t just the way his heart kicked up a little whenever he caught you smiling, or the way he’d catch himself looking for you whenever the group split up, just to make sure you were still within reach.

It was something deeper. Something terrifying.

He didn’t have time for that kind of thing, not in this life. None of them did.

But the thought didn’t stop him from glancing at you now, as you leaned against the hood of the Impala, talking animatedly with Sam about some lore he barely half-understood. The setting sun cast a warm glow across your face, and for a moment, Dean let himself just watch you, his chest tightening in a way that felt both painful and addictive.

“You’re staring again,” Castiel said quietly, his voice low enough that only Dean could hear.

Dean jumped, nearly dropping the wrench in his hand as he turned to glare at the angel. “I’m not staring.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You are.”

Dean grumbled something under his breath, turning his attention back to the Impala’s engine. “Don’t you have some celestial mission to take care of or something?”

“Not at the moment,” Castiel replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. He hesitated for a beat, then added, “You care about them.”

Dean froze, his grip tightening on the wrench. He didn’t look up. “Yeah, well, we’re all on the same team, Cas. Of course I care.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Castiel said simply.

Dean swore under his breath, straightening and wiping his hands on a rag. He could feel the angel’s gaze boring into him, unyielding as ever, and it made his skin crawl. “Drop it,” he muttered, stepping away from the car.

But as much as he tried to ignore it, Castiel’s words stuck with him, circling his mind like a damn vulture.

The thing about Castiel was, he had this way of dropping truth bombs with all the subtlety of a hammer. And no matter how much Dean told himself to let it go, the angel’s words clung to him like smoke, impossible to shake.

You care about them.

It was a fact Dean already knew but refused to fully acknowledge. Caring meant opening yourself up to the inevitable loss, and in their line of work, loss was as certain as the sunrise. He’d been down that road too many times, had the scars to prove it. Letting himself feel—really feel—was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

And yet, here he was, watching you out of the corner of his eye as the four of you packed up the Impala to head to the next job.

You were laughing at something Sam said, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth, and Dean felt that stupid flutter in his chest again. Damn it. He couldn’t even be mad at Sam for getting that laugh out of you—just grateful someone could.

“Dean, you good?” your voice broke through his thoughts, and he realized with a start that you were standing right in front of him, your bag slung over one shoulder and a curious look on your face.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You squinted at him, clearly unconvinced, but you let it slide. “Okay. Just making sure.”

You turned to grab something from the backseat, and Dean found himself caught up in the simple, everyday way you moved, like none of the horrors you faced could touch you here. For just a second, it was easy to imagine a world where none of the monsters were real, where you were all just a group of friends hitting the road with no agenda.

But that wasn’t reality.

The drive to the next town passed in a blur. Sam was in the front seat with Dean, discussing the details of the case—missing hikers, a few weird reports about flickering lights and distorted voices. It all screamed “something supernatural,” but Dean could barely focus on the conversation. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, where you were sitting in the backseat with Castiel.

You had your nose buried in some book Sam had handed you, completely absorbed, while Castiel sat quietly beside you, staring out the window. Every now and then, your lips moved, mouthing words from the text, and Dean had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road.

When you finally pulled into the motel parking lot, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. Everyone shuffled out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long ride.

Dean grabbed the keys for the rooms and tossed one to Sam before motioning for Castiel. “Come on, Cas. You’re bunking with Sam.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, heading off with Sam toward the far room.

You paused beside Dean, your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets. “Guess that means we’re sharing,” you said lightly, tilting your head toward the other door.

Dean’s stomach flipped. He forced a grin, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt. “Yeah, guess so.”

The room was small but clean, the faint smell of bleach lingering in the air. You dropped your bag on one of the beds and flopped down with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

“Long day,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“Tell me about it,” Dean replied, kicking off his boots and sitting on the edge of his bed.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand as you looked at him. “You’ve been off today,” you said, your tone casual but laced with concern. “What’s up?”

Dean hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel. He could feel your gaze on him, steady and patient, and it made his chest tighten.

“Nothing,” he said finally, forcing a smirk. “Just thinking about the case.”

You didn’t buy it. He could tell by the way your eyebrows lifted slightly, the way your lips pressed into a thin line. But you didn’t push.

Instead, you reached into your bag and pulled out a deck of cards, holding it up with a small smile. “Wanna play? Might take your mind off things.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard by the simple gesture. He wanted to say no, to keep the distance he’d spent so much time building, but the look in your eyes made it impossible.

“Yeah,” he said finally, leaning forward to take the cards. “Why not?”

As the two of you settled into an easy rhythm, shuffling and dealing cards, Dean felt something loosen in his chest. For a little while, the weight he carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. And he couldn’t help but wonder—maybe caring wasn’t the worst thing after all.

The room was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of the cards and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted. The yellow-tinted motel lamp cast a warm glow over the table between the two beds, the light catching in your eyes as you dealt the first hand.

“What are we playing?” Dean asked, leaning back against the headboard. His tone was casual, but you caught the flicker of curiosity beneath it.

“Five-card draw,” you said, shooting him a playful smirk. “Unless you’re scared to lose.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head as he picked up his cards. “Scared? Sweetheart, I’ve been hustling pool and cards since I was a kid. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” you teased, rearranging your own hand with a confident air.

For a while, it was just the two of you, trading quips and laughs as you played. You weren’t keeping score—not really—but it was clear Dean was letting his guard down, bit by bit. His grin came easier, his shoulders relaxed, and for the first time all day, he seemed to forget whatever had been weighing on him.

“You’re bluffing,” Dean said suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you over the rim of his cards.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Am I?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re trying to pull one over on me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Dean, you’re terrible at reading people.”

His grin widened. “Am I? Because I’m about to call you out.”

You placed your cards face-down on the table, leaning back with a challenging smile. “Go ahead, Winchester. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dean revealed his hand with a dramatic flourish—two pairs, nothing spectacular, but enough to win most games. He leaned back, crossing his arms smugly.

“Beat that,” he said.

You flipped your cards over slowly, one at a time, revealing a full house.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “No freakin’ way.”

You laughed, gathering up the cards as he shook his head in disbelief. “I told you, you’re terrible at reading people.”

“Or you’re just ridiculously lucky,” Dean muttered, though his grin betrayed him.

The room fell into a comfortable silence as you shuffled the deck again, the rhythmic sound filling the space. Dean watched you for a moment, his grin fading into something softer.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

You glanced up, tilting your head. “At cards?”

“No,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “At... I don’t know. Just making things feel normal. Even when they’re not.”

The admission caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Dean wasn’t the kind of guy to open up easily, and you knew better than to push him too far.

“Guess someone’s gotta keep you from brooding all the time,” you said lightly, though your voice was warm.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well... you’re not half bad at it.”

You smiled, the moment stretching out between you. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made your chest tighten and your breath hitch just slightly.

“Your deal,” you said finally, sliding the deck across the table toward him.

Dean took the cards, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “My deal.”

And as the night went on, with the cards between you and the world outside the door forgotten, Dean found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—letting you in wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The game continued, though neither of you seemed to care about the score anymore. It was just an excuse to talk, to laugh, to fill the quiet spaces with something other than the heaviness of the hunt. Dean dealt the cards this time, his hands moving with practiced ease, though his focus seemed less on the game and more on you.

“Alright, your turn,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes sharp and teasing. “You gonna fold or make this interesting?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, your lips curving into a sly smile. “I think I’ll raise.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Gotta keep you on your toes,” you shot back, your voice light but laced with challenge.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed a couple of chips onto the makeshift pile in the middle of the table—a collection of buttons, bottle caps, and loose change you’d both scavenged from your bags.

The night stretched on, the game ebbing and flowing until the cards lay forgotten between you. The conversation had shifted, moving into stories from hunts, shared memories, and things you never thought you’d talk about.

“You ever think about it?” Dean asked suddenly, his voice quieter than it had been all night.

“Think about what?” you asked, leaning back against the headboard of your bed, the cards still in your hand but long since abandoned.

“This life,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “The hunting, the running, the never knowing if tomorrow’s gonna be the day we don’t make it back.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. “Sometimes,” you admitted softly. “But what’s the alternative? Pretend the monsters aren’t out there? Let someone else deal with them?”

Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Someone’s gotta do it.”

“And it’s us,” you said simply, though your voice carried a certain sadness.

Dean looked at you then, his gaze steady and intense in a way that made your pulse quicken. “I’m glad it’s us,” he said quietly. “I mean, if it has to be anyone...”

Your chest tightened at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. “Me too,” you murmured, your gaze meeting his.

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you charged with something unspoken. Dean looked like he wanted to say something, his lips parting slightly before he caught himself, shaking his head as though to clear it.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said instead, his voice tinged with a mix of affection and exasperation.

You laughed lightly, though your heart was racing. “I could say the same about you, Winchester.”

Dean smiled, a soft, almost shy thing that you weren’t sure you’d ever seen from him before. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The night wore on, the cards forgotten as the conversation shifted and softened. And as you both eventually drifted off to sleep, the unspoken weight between you lingered—heavy, but not unwelcome. Something had shifted tonight, and though neither of you said it out loud, Dean definitely felt it.

The next morning came too quickly, the sunlight creeping through the cheap motel blinds, casting long streaks of gold across the room. You groaned, rolling over and burying your face in the pillow. It had been far too late by the time you and Dean had finally called it a night, and the weight of the previous day’s hunt still clung to your bones.

“Rise and shine,” Dean’s gruff voice called from somewhere across the room.

You peeked out from under the pillow to see him standing by the small table near the window, a cup of coffee in hand. His hair was still messy, sticking up in every direction, but he looked more awake than you felt.

“Too early,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Dean smirked, taking a sip of his coffee. “Come on, princess. Sam’s already up and doing his research thing. If you don’t hurry, he’s gonna eat all the good stuff from the diner.”

“You mean the diner with the greasy eggs and burnt toast?” you shot back, sitting up and stretching with a groan.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics,” Dean said with mock seriousness. “Besides, nothing beats a diner breakfast after a long night.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine, fine. Let me get ready.”

As you shuffled off to the bathroom, Dean found himself watching you again, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Last night’s conversation lingered in his mind, your words, your laughter, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another hunter destined for an early grave.

He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Get it together, Dean.”

By the time you emerged, dressed and somewhat more awake, Sam had returned with takeout containers from the diner. He looked up from his laptop as you and Dean settled in at the table.

“Morning,” Sam said, sliding a container your way.

“Morning,” you replied, popping it open to reveal the aforementioned greasy eggs and toast. You glanced at Dean, smirking. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” he said around a mouthful of bacon.

Sam raised an eyebrow at the two of you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he went back to his research. “I’ve got something on the case,” he said, pushing his laptop toward the middle of the table. “Looks like the creature we’re dealing with is a revenant. There’s a legend in the area about a vengeful spirit that’s been digging itself out of graves for decades.”

Dean leaned forward, his playful demeanor from earlier slipping into something more focused. “Alright. How do we take it down?”

“Salt and burn the bones, standard procedure,” Sam said. “Problem is, the spirit’s been moving from body to body. We’ll need to track down where it’s currently buried.”

“Of course we will,” Dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

You set your fork down, your expression thoughtful. “Anything that could help us narrow it down? Specific cemeteries, unmarked graves?”

Sam nodded. “There’s a pattern. It’s been sticking to graves on the outskirts of town, ones that don’t get a lot of visitors. I’ve marked a few on the map we can check out.”

Dean glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment. “Guess we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. “Let’s get to it, then.”

The three of you piled into the Impala shortly after, the trunk loaded with shovels, salt, and lighter fluid. Castiel appeared in the backseat with his usual abruptness, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before falling into silence.

As the Impala roared to life and Dean pulled onto the highway, the air in the car was filled with the low hum of the radio, Sam’s quiet musings about the case, and your occasional input.

But every so often, Dean’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection as you gazed out the window. And each time, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his chest tightening with it.

He didn’t know how it happened, or when, but this thing—whatever it was—wasn’t going away.

The sun was setting by the time you reached the third cemetery, painting the sky in streaks of red and gold that bled into the shadows of the thick tree line. The air felt oppressive, heavy with something unspoken that prickled at the back of your neck.

Dean cut the engine of the Impala, the silence that followed almost deafening. Sam had marked this as the most likely spot for the revenant’s remains—a forgotten graveyard on the outskirts of town, its boundaries consumed by creeping vines and overgrown brush.

“This place gives me the creeps,” you muttered, your eyes scanning the twisted trees that loomed over the plot like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.

Dean smirked faintly, grabbing his shotgun as he stepped out of the car. “What, this isn’t your idea of a perfect Saturday night?”

You shot him a look, grabbing your own weapon before following him. “Not unless it ends with me still breathing.”

Sam unfolded a crumpled map, his flashlight casting a shaky beam across the paper. “The grave should be near the western edge,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s move fast. If this thing’s still active, it won’t just sit around waiting for us.”

Castiel appeared beside you without warning, his presence sudden and eerie as always. He surveyed the area with narrowed eyes, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “There’s something here,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble. “I can feel it.”

Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun. “Then let’s not waste any time.”

The four of you moved as one, weaving through the crumbling headstones and tangled underbrush. The forest seemed to close in the farther you went, the air growing colder with every step.

When you finally found the grave, it was as Sam had described—partially disturbed, the earth uneven and freshly turned. You knelt by it, your fingers brushing the damp soil as a chill ran down your spine.

“This is it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He dropped his bag and grabbed a shovel, motioning for you to do the same. The two of you worked in silence, the sound of metal striking earth echoing in the stillness.

The unease in the air grew heavier as you dug, a tangible weight pressing down on your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching you, its gaze crawling over your skin like a thousand invisible spiders.

“Dean,” you said softly, pausing to wipe the sweat from your brow. “Do you feel that?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “Keep digging.”

It didn’t take long to reach the coffin. The wood was splintered and rotting, the smell of decay seeping into the air as Dean pried it open with the edge of his shovel. Inside were the remains of the revenant—a twisted, grotesque form that seemed to radiate malice even in death.

“Salt and burn,” Dean said, his voice low but firm. He reached for the salt, but before he could pour it, the ground beneath your feet trembled.

A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, and the shadows around you seemed to come alive, twisting and writhing with unnatural movement.

“Something’s here,” Castiel said sharply, stepping forward as his hand reached for the blade at his side.

Before anyone could react, the first attack came. A figure erupted from the darkness, its hollow eyes glowing with an unholy light as it lunged for Dean. You barely had time to shout a warning before it was on him, its claws raking across his chest.

“Dean!” you screamed, swinging your machete with all the strength you could muster. The blade connected with the creature’s side, sending it staggering back with an ear-splitting screech.

Dean stumbled, blood soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t fall. Gritting his teeth, he raised his shotgun and fired, the rock salt tearing through the creature’s chest in a burst of smoke and ash.

“Stay on it!” he barked, his voice rough with pain.

The creature wasn’t alone. More shapes emerged from the shadows, their twisted forms circling the group like predators closing in on their prey.

Sam fired his weapon, the sharp cracks of his gun splitting the night as you and Dean fought back-to-back, your movements frantic but coordinated.

“Castiel!” Dean shouted, his voice strained. “A little help here!”

The angel stepped forward, his blade gleaming with an otherworldly light. With a single, fluid motion, he drove it into the nearest creature, its body dissolving into ash with an agonized scream.

But for every one you took down, another seemed to rise in its place.

“They’re protecting the grave,” Sam yelled, reloading his gun. “We have to finish the job!”

Dean swore under his breath, grabbing the salt and dumping it into the coffin as quickly as he could. You covered him, your machete slicing through the air as another creature lunged at you, its claws missing your face by mere inches.

“Light it!” you shouted, your heart pounding in your chest.

Dean fumbled with his lighter, his blood-slicked fingers struggling to get it to spark. The creatures were closing in now, their guttural growls drowning out everything else.

Finally, the flame caught. Dean dropped the lighter into the coffin, and the fire roared to life, consuming the remains in a burst of heat and light.

The creatures screamed as one, their forms twisting and writhing before disintegrating into ash. The air around you grew still, the oppressive weight lifting as quickly as it had descended.

For a moment, none of you moved. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.

“You okay?” you asked, turning to Dean.

He nodded, but his face was pale, and his hand pressed tightly against the wound on his chest. “I’ll live,” he said, his voice strained.

You stepped closer, your heart still racing. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Dean managed a weak signature smirk. “What, you think I’m gonna check out that easy?”

Before you could respond, Castiel appeared at his side, his hand glowing faintly as he pressed it against Dean’s chest. The wound closed within seconds, the pain in Dean’s expression easing as the angel stepped back.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, his voice quieter now.

Castiel nodded. “We should leave before anything else stirs.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

As you all walked back to the Impala, the weight of the hunt settled over the group, the adrenaline fading as quickly as it had come. The night was quiet now, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the stillness. Dean’s shoulder brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it lingered longer than it should have. You could feel the tension radiating off him, his presence just as solid and comforting as ever. But there was something different in the air now—something unspoken between the two of you.

Once you reached the car, the familiar rumble of the engine starting up seemed to snap the moment away. Dean slammed the gearshift into place, the engine growling as he pulled onto the road. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of you before his gaze quickly returned to the road ahead. The silence stretched between the four of you, but it was different this time. He could feel it. And he wasn’t the only one.

Dean’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the leather worn and familiar under his palms. The road stretched out before him, a dark ribbon cutting through the night. He could feel the weight of the day pressing down on him, the blood still heavy in his veins, the scent of salt and burning bones still lingering on his skin.

His mind kept drifting back to the cemetery—the cold earth, the eerie silence that had fallen after the last of the creatures disintegrated into ash. And then there was you. He could still feel the heat of the battle in his muscles, but it wasn’t just the fight that had his mind racing now. It was the way you had looked at him—like you’d been there with him, every step, every breath. The way you’d stepped into the fray without hesitation, watching his back like he had yours. He wasn’t sure when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the bullets and the blood, he had come to realize that you meant something more to him than he could ever admit.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you in the rearview mirror. You were there, just behind him, eyes distant as the road blurred past. You’d said nothing since the fight ended—nothing about the blood that had stained his shirt, nothing about the sharp pain in his side, nothing about the way he’d stumbled once the adrenaline had started to wear off.

He could feel it, though. There was a change. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it was there. Maybe it had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to surface. But tonight… tonight had cracked something open, and now it was all he could think about.

The familiar hum of the Impala was a small comfort, but it couldn’t drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. He glanced over at Sam, who was bent over the map, his brow furrowed as he continued to check the coordinates of the next hunt. Sam’s focus was always a welcome distraction, but tonight even his presence wasn’t enough to pull Dean away from the realization that was settling heavy in his chest.

Dean shook his head, trying to push it away. He didn’t have time for distractions. Not now, not ever. This life was built on loss, on keeping your distance, on not letting anyone get too close. Especially not you.

But damn it, every time his eyes flicked over to you in the rearview mirror, he couldn’t help but notice how your presence seemed to anchor him in a way nothing else did. The way you moved in the car, the way your lips quirked up into that soft, effortless smile every time you caught him looking. He could feel your eyes on him, even when you weren’t speaking. And it was killing him. It was killing him because he didn’t know how to make sense of it. He didn’t know how to keep ignoring it.

Another glance at you. You were quiet, lost in your thoughts, but there was something different in the air. Dean knew you, maybe better than anyone, and tonight, there was a shift. It was subtle, but it was there. Something in the way you were no longer looking at him like he was just a brother in arms, but maybe—just maybe—something more.

Dean’s chest tightened as he stared straight ahead at the road. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to feel anything more than the usual sharp edge of survival that had kept him going all these years. But as the miles passed and the silence stretched between you, the question—no, the fear—clung to him.

What if you felt the same way?

What if he wasn’t the only one who had started to notice the tension, the crackling air between you both? What if this thing—the one that was impossible to ignore now—was real?

Dean clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. The last thing he needed was to complicate things. You were one of the few people he could trust, and in this life, trust was everything. You’d fought beside him, you’d bled beside him. He couldn’t risk losing that.

But as the Impala roared through the night, and the sound of the tires against the asphalt seemed to drown out everything else, he realized it didn’t matter. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

Word count: 2.4k+

Pairings: Castiel x reader

tags: angst, hurt, and potential resolve

The little bookstore on the corner has become your sanctuary—a refuge where the rest of the world seems to pause just outside its door. Inside, the air smells faintly of old paper and warm wood, the kind of scent that makes you breathe a little easier. The lighting is soft, golden, casting gentle shadows that dance along the spines of worn books lining the shelves.

A quiet hum of music plays in the background, blending seamlessly with the occasional rustle of pages or the muted thud of a book being placed back on a shelf. This is your safe place, a bubble of calm in an otherwise chaotic world.

And then there’s Castiel. That’s what you learned his name was. 

He’s been coming here for weeks now, always at the same time in the late afternoon, when the sunlight filters through the front window in warm, slanting beams. He chooses the same corner table near the poetry section, where the light is softest, and he sits with the same cup of chamomile tea, though you’ve noticed he rarely drinks it.

There’s a stillness about him that draws you in, like the eye of a storm. He’s different from the other customers—less hurried, less distracted. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though he’s carefully considering every moment. He always has a book in front of him, but you’ve realized he doesn’t seem to read much. Instead, his gaze often lingers on you.

At first, you’d been unsure of how to feel about it. But Castiel doesn’t watch you in a way that feels intrusive or unsettling. His eyes—so piercingly blue they almost seem to glow in the soft light—hold a quiet curiosity, as if he’s studying you not to judge, but to understand. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like scrutiny. It feels... safe.

You glance over now from your spot behind the counter, sorting through a stack of paperbacks that have just come in. When your eyes meet his, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, the faintest crease forming between his brows, like he’s trying to puzzle something out about you.

The corners of your mouth tug into a small, involuntary smile. “Your tea’s getting cold again,” you tease lightly, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Castiel glances down at the cup in front of him, as though noticing it for the first time. His lips part slightly in thought before he replies, his voice low and steady, with a weight that makes even simple words feel significant. “I don’t mind. I enjoy the ritual of it.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you slide another book onto the shelf behind you. “You’re an odd one, Cas.”

For a moment, you think you see the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and something about it warms you more than you’re willing to admit.

The air between you feels lighter now, as though his presence has smoothed out the edges of your day. You let yourself steal another glance at him as you return to your stack of books, your chest inexplicably lighter.

And as you work, you can still feel the weight of his gaze, steady and gentle, like he’s seeing something in you that you don’t yet see in yourself.

You don’t know how it happened, but Castiel has become a part of your life.

It started with small things: a kind word, an offer to carry a box of books you’d been struggling with, the quiet way he lingered after closing hours without making you feel obligated to rush him out. Slowly, it became more than that. He began staying longer, his presence a constant on the nights you closed the shop.

You’ve grown used to the sight of him sorting through stacks of books with that strange, careful grace he seems to have, his brow furrowed slightly in focus. He listens when you talk about your favorite stories, his blue eyes unwavering as he takes in your every word. And when he speaks, it’s always thoughtful—sometimes with a question so insightful it takes you a moment to remember what you were saying.

There’s something grounding about him, something steady and unwavering that feels like a lifeline in a storm you’re not sure how to navigate.

And yet, with each passing day, there’s a weight in your chest that grows heavier—a quiet, insidious whisper that tells you this can’t last. That this is too good, too fragile, and that you’re bound to ruin it if you let it go on too long.

One evening, after another long day, you find yourself locking up the shop with Castiel’s quiet presence beside you. The rain outside has stopped, leaving the air cool and damp, the scent of wet pavement wafting in through the slightly ajar front door.

You lean against the counter, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to ignore the growing ache in your throat. You don’t know why tonight feels different, heavier, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Cas,” you say hesitantly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Why do you keep coming here?”

He stops what he’s doing, turning to face you fully. His expression is calm, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he tilts his head, his eyes searching yours. “Because I feel at peace here. With you.”

The honesty in his voice cuts through you like a blade. Your chest aches, the weight pressing down harder. You look away, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, trying to steady your breathing.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Why not?” His question is soft but direct, his gaze unwavering.

You laugh lightly, but it’s a hollow sound, brittle and fragile. “Because I’m a mess, Cas,” you say, forcing the words out. “I’ve got more baggage than I can carry, and I’m barely holding it together most days.” You glance at him, the ache in your chest flaring as you meet his gaze. “You’re an angel, Castiel. You’re good. You’re everything I’m not.”

Castiel takes a step closer, his expression shifting into something more serious—something gentle but firm, like he’s afraid to shatter you but refuses to let you slip away.

“Why do you think that your pain makes you unworthy of love?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, and you freeze, your breath catching.

“Because it does,” you murmur after a moment, your voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like—to feel like you’re fighting yourself all the time. To wonder if you’re too broken to ever be whole again.”

The words spill out before you can stop them, and you hate how raw they sound, how exposed they make you feel. You turn away, your arms wrapping around yourself tightly as if you can hold yourself together.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then you hear the quiet sound of his footsteps as he moves closer.

“You think I don’t understand?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant, and when you finally glance at him, his expression is filled with something you can’t quite name. “I have fought battles that left scars on my soul. I have made choices I can never take back. And there were times—times when I felt lost. Without purpose. Without hope.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “But you’re still—” you falter, shaking your head. “You’re still so... good. And I’m not.”

He steps closer again, his gaze steady and unyielding. “Goodness is not the absence of pain or imperfection. It is the choice to keep going despite them. And I see so much goodness in you.”

His words are like a balm against the storm inside you, but the doubt is still there, clawing at the edges of your mind. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“You won’t,” he says firmly. There’s no hesitation in his voice, only quiet certainty. “You think you are protecting me by pushing me away, but you are only denying us both the chance to find something beautiful.”

You shake your head, your chest tightening as his words sink in. They’re so earnest, so heartfelt, but they feel like a distant melody you can’t quite reach. You take a step back, needing space to breathe, to think, to hold yourself together.

“Cas,” you murmur, your voice trembling, “I can’t.”

His brow furrows, the soft light catching in his impossibly blue eyes. “Why not?”

Your throat feels dry, and your hands clench at your sides as you search for the words, for some way to make him understand. “Because… it’s not fair to you,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve someone who doesn’t carry all this... this mess. Someone who isn’t constantly fighting to feel okay.”

“You think I don’t know what I’m choosing?” he asks, his voice low but steady. “You think I don’t see you for who you are?”

“I don’t think you do,” you say, the words spilling out faster now, your emotions threatening to crack through the surface. “You see the parts of me that I can keep together when I’m here—when I’m calm and things are quiet. But that’s not all there is, Cas. There are parts of me that you don’t know. Parts I don’t even like facing myself.”

“I would face them with you,” he says simply, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If you would let me.”

You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound, hollow and aching. “That’s just it, Cas. I don’t want you to have to. You shouldn’t have to.”

The silence that stretches between you is heavy, the air thick with things left unsaid. You glance at him again, and the look on his face—the quiet pain, the understanding, the refusal to pull away—it nearly breaks you. Nearly.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, your voice cracking. “I can’t do this. I can’t be what you deserve.”

“You already are,” he says, and the certainty in his voice shakes you. But it’s not enough—not when the storm inside you is louder than anything else.

You force yourself to turn away, walking toward the door and unlocking it, letting in the cool night air. “You should go, Cas,” you say, your back to him. “Please.”

For a moment, you think he might argue, might try to convince you one more time. But then you hear the faint shuffle of his coat as he moves, and you know he’s listening.

“Goodnight,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a sorrow that lingers in the air long after the door clicks shut behind him.

You stand there for a long time, staring at the empty street outside, the ache in your chest growing heavier. This is for the best, you tell yourself, even as the silence of the shop feels colder than it ever has before.

The shop feels unbearably quiet after Castiel leaves. You try to focus on cleaning up, stacking books and wiping the counter, but the silence presses in on you. It’s a hollow kind of silence, the kind that makes your thoughts louder.

You know you did the right thing. Pushing him away was the only choice, wasn’t it? Castiel is... everything good, everything steady, and you can’t let him get caught up in your storm. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.

The ache in your chest lingers long after you turn off the lights and lock the door.

Castiel doesn’t leave entirely.

Over the next few days, you notice him passing by the shop. He doesn’t come inside, but he lingers just long enough for you to catch a glimpse of his trench coat, his head turned slightly as though he’s searching for something.

You pretend not to notice.

But you do.

A week passes before you see him again—this time, inside the shop.

You’re stacking a fresh shipment of books onto a display when you feel it: that familiar presence, a quiet warmth that fills the space around you. You glance up, and there he is, standing just inside the doorway.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Finally, you set the book in your hand down carefully, your voice quiet. “Cas... why are you here?”

He steps closer, his gaze steady but gentle. “Because I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

You want to laugh, to tell him that you’re fine, but the words stick in your throat. You don’t feel fine, and you’re not sure you ever have.

Instead, you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest as if it might hold you together. “I thought we... I thought I made it clear this isn’t a good idea.”

“You made it clear that you believe it’s not,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “But I don’t agree.”

You frown, looking away. “Cas—”

“Please,” he interrupts, taking another step closer. “Just listen. I know you think you’re protecting me, but I don’t need protecting—not from you. I have seen humanity at its worst and at its best, and still, I am drawn to you.”

You shake your head, the familiar weight in your chest growing heavier. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” he insists, his voice quiet but filled with conviction. “You carry pain, and you believe it makes you unworthy of love. But it doesn’t. It only makes you human.”

Your heart twists at his words, but the doubt is still there, clawing at the edges of your mind. “What if I hurt you?” you whisper.

“Then I will heal,” he says simply. “But what if you let me in? What if this is something worth holding on to?”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You want to believe him, to let yourself reach for something good, but the fear is still there.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel’s expression softens, and he nods. “Then I will wait,” he says gently. “For as long as you need.”

The sincerity in his voice shakes something loose inside you, but you’re not ready—not yet.

He doesn’t push further. Instead, he steps back, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment before he turns toward the door.

As he leaves, you feel the ache in your chest again, but this time, there’s something else—something small and fragile, but there all the same.

Word count: 4.1k+

Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader

tags: pining, yearning, tooth rotting fluff, angst

Sequal to The Quiet Ache

The four of you—Sam, Dean, Castiel and you—are gathered around a worn motel table, pouring over case notes and trying to piece together the threads of the last hunt. The air is thick with concentration, the only sounds are the rustle of papers and the faint hum of the flickering motel light above.

You’re sitting next to Castiel, the angel frowning at a pile of documents as he tries to decipher the complexities of human handwriting. He’s been staring at the same page for ten minutes, his brow furrowed in frustration.

“Cas,” you say gently, nudging him out of his thoughts. “Do you need some help?”

He looks at you, his expression both puzzled and earnest. “I understand the words individually, but their meaning together is... elusive.”

You smile softly, taking the paper from his hands. “It’s just a witness statement,” you explain, leaning closer to show him the details. “This part here means they saw something in the woods. And this bit—it’s just their guess about what it was.”

Castiel listens intently, his head tilted slightly as he absorbs your explanation. When he nods, it’s slow, deliberate, as if he’s committing every word you say to memory.

“You’re really good at this,” he says after a moment, his voice tinged with something close to admiration. “At making things understandable.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “It’s just explaining, Cas. You’ll get the hang of it.”

But Sam, sitting across the table, feels his chest tighten as he watches the interaction.

It’s not the first time he’s seen you take the time to help Castiel navigate the complexities of being human. Whether it’s showing him how to work a coffee maker, explaining why humans say “bless you” after sneezing, or patiently describing the rules of Monopoly during a rare downtime, you always approach him with the same warmth and patience.

Sam remembers the way you guided Castiel through his first attempt at cooking, laughing softly as the angel held an egg like it might explode. The way you reassured him when he accidentally burned the toast, telling him it was no big deal and that everyone starts somewhere.

You treat Castiel not as someone who’s different or apart, but as someone who belongs. And it’s not just with Castiel. You have this quiet way of making everyone around you feel seen and valued.

As you lean closer to Castiel now, pointing something out on the paper in front of him, Sam can’t help but marvel at the easy kindness you extend to everyone in your life.

It’s in the way you explain things to Castiel without a trace of condescension, as though you genuinely enjoy helping him understand the nuances of human behavior. It’s in the way you treat Dean with a blend of camaraderie and care, knowing when to push him and when to let him be.

And it’s in the way you treat Sam—with a softness that feels almost like a salve to the rough edges of his life.

How do you do it? Sam wonders, his gaze lingering on you. How do you make everyone feel like they matter?

He notices the little things—the way your voice softens when you’re speaking to Castiel, the way you smile even when you think no one is looking, the way you never seem to tire of offering your patience and understanding.

It’s not just admirable; it’s breathtaking.

Sam doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you glance up and catch his eye.

“What’s up?” you ask, your tone light and curious.

He quickly shakes his head, his face flushing slightly as he pretends to refocus on the paper in front of him. “Nothing,” he says, his voice a little too quick, a little too quiet. “Just… watching you explain things to Cas. You’re good at it.”

You smile at him, a faint blush dusting your cheeks at the compliment. “Well, someone has to make sure he doesn’t think Monopoly is a form of warfare.”

Sam chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. But inside, his thoughts spiral.

You don’t even know, he thinks. You don’t know how much better you make everything. How much better you make me.

As you turn back to Castiel, picking up where you left off, Sam leans back in his chair, his gaze still lingering on you. He doesn’t say anything more, but in the quiet moments that follow, one thought echoes in his mind.

If there’s any good left in this world, it’s sitting right here at this table.

But it’s the little things you do that undo him, the quiet acts of care that feel so natural to you and yet so monumental to Sam. He knows you’re not trying to be extraordinary, but to him, you are.

He notices everything.

The way you leave a cup of coffee at his elbow during the late nights spent researching. You never make a fuss about it, never draw attention to yourself. You just set the steaming mug down with a quiet precision, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and return to your seat. It’s such a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. It tells him you see him, that you’re thinking of him even when he’s too caught up in his own mind to notice his own needs.

The way your voice changes when you talk to him. You’re still you—direct, steady, with a clarity that cuts through the chaos of their world—but there’s a softness, a warmth that’s reserved just for him. It’s in the way you ask if he’s eaten, the way you tease him when his head gets too stuck in the books, the way you draw him out of himself when the weight of everything becomes too much.

And then there’s the way you look at him.

It’s not pity—God, he hates pity—but something deeper, something gentler. Your eyes hold an understanding that feels rare and precious, an acceptance that makes him feel seen in a way that both comforts and terrifies him. It’s as though you’ve peered into the darkest corners of him, the parts he hides from everyone, even himself, and decided they’re worth staying for.

Sam doesn’t just notice the moments—you’ve etched them into his mind.

He remembers the night after a hunt that had gone sideways, leaving everyone bruised and exhausted. He’d been sitting at the war room table, staring blankly at the maps spread out before him, unable to shake the weight of the lives they couldn’t save. The bunker had been quiet, and he’d thought he was alone until he heard your footsteps.

You’d walked in, carrying two mugs of tea. “Coffee this late’ll wreck you,” you’d said simply, setting one in front of him before taking a seat across the table.

He hadn’t said much—what could he say? But he remembers the way the warmth of the tea seeped into his hands as he wrapped them around the mug, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. You hadn’t pushed him to talk, hadn’t tried to fix anything. You’d just been there, your presence anchoring him, your silence offering a solace words couldn’t provide.

Or the time you’d patched him up after a rough hunt. The gash on his arm had been deep, the sting of the antiseptic biting into his skin, but your hands had been steady, your focus sharp. You’d worked with a quiet efficiency, your brow furrowed in concentration, and for a while, he’d let himself just watch you, marveling at the way you carried yourself with such quiet strength.

When he’d flinched at the sting, your touch softened immediately. You’d glanced up at him, your eyes filled with something that looked like apology.

“It’s okay,” you’d murmured, your voice low and soothing. “You’re okay.”

And he’d believed you—not because of the words, but because of the way you’d said them, the quiet certainty in your tone that made him feel, even just for a moment, that he really was okay.

When you’d finished wrapping his arm, your fingers had lingered on his skin, just for a second longer than necessary. And in that second, Sam had felt the air between you shift, heavy with something unspoken. He remembers wishing you wouldn’t pull away, wishing he could reach out and hold onto that moment, onto you.

These memories stay with him, surfacing in the quiet hours when he’s alone. They aren’t loud or dramatic, but they cut deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

Because it’s not just the way you care for him—it’s the way you do it without expecting anything in return. The way you make him feel seen, steady, and whole in a life that so often feels like it’s falling apart.

Sam doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, doesn’t know how to tell you what you mean to him without risking everything. But the ache in his chest is growing, spreading, impossible to ignore.

And as he sits across the room now, watching you curled up in that oversized chair, your face serene, he can’t help but think: You deserve so much more than this life.

Sam doesn’t mean to hover. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But lately, it feels like you’ve become a magnet, and he’s powerless to do anything but orbit around you.

If you’re in the library, he finds reasons to join you. His laptop is always conveniently dead, his notes mysteriously missing, or he suddenly remembers a book he needs to check. He’ll settle across from you, opening a lore tome or pretending to skim a case file, but his eyes inevitably wander. He watches the way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought, the way your lips twitch into a small smile when you find something interesting.

And when you glance up and catch him looking, his heart skips a beat.

“Need something, Sam?” you ask, teasing but not unkind.

He clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Just… wondering if you found anything.”

You smile, shaking your head. “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”

In the kitchen, it’s the same story. You’ll be making tea or rummaging through the fridge, and suddenly, Sam decides he needs a snack. It’s not subtle—Dean’s smirk from across the room tells him as much—but Sam doesn’t care.

You greet him with a warm smile, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter to him before he even asks. “Figured you could use this.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment as he takes the mug. The brief contact sends a jolt through him, one he has to mask with a long sip of coffee.

You start talking about something casual—the weather, a new book you’re reading—and Sam drinks it in, grateful for the excuse to just be near you.

One evening, he walks into the living room to find you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a movie playing softly on the TV. You look up when he enters, your face lighting up with a smile that’s brighter than it has any right to be.

“Hey,” you say, shifting to make room for him.

Sam hesitates, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” you say, patting the cushion beside you.

He sits down, careful to keep a bit of space between you at first. The movie is something light, a romantic comedy that Dean would have mercilessly mocked, but Sam doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the warmth radiating from you, the way your laughter fills the room.

“You can change it if you want,” you offer, gesturing toward the remote.

“No, this is fine,” he says quickly.

Minutes pass, the movie fading into the background as Sam’s attention drifts entirely to you. You shift, leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder.

Sam freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. He glances down at you, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your face. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady, and for a moment, he can’t believe this is real.

He wants to move, to wrap his arm around you, to hold you closer, but he’s terrified of waking you. So he sits there, perfectly still, letting the weight of your head anchor him in a way nothing else ever has.

You fall asleep like that, your body relaxed against his. Sam stays awake, his mind racing but his body still, savoring the moment. The blanket you’ve draped over yourself spills onto him, and he tugs it up a little, covering you more fully.

The movie ends, the credits rolling silently, but Sam doesn’t dare reach for the remote. He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to disturb the fragile peace that’s settled over the room.

In the quiet, he lets himself imagine—what it would be like if moments like this weren’t rare, if they weren’t accidents. What it would be like if he could hold you like this every night, no excuses, no hesitations.

But for now, he just sits there, his heart full and aching all at once, and lets the hours pass with you by his side.

It starts small—a faint tightening in his chest, a flicker of heat low in his stomach. Sam tells himself it’s nothing, just the remnants of a long day and a longer week. But as he watches, that faint flicker builds, burning into something sharper, something heavier.

You’re standing by the counter of the diner, waiting for the check while the three of you gear up to leave. The guy behind the register—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin—has been chatting with you for a few minutes now. It’s harmless. He’s just being friendly, and you, being you, respond with a warm smile and a polite laugh.

Sam knows that smile. He’s seen it a hundred times. It’s the one you give to strangers who need a bit of kindness, the one that makes people feel at ease. It shouldn’t bother him. You’re not flirting, not leading the guy on in the slightest. You’re just… you.

And yet, it twists something inside him.

Sam knows it’s irrational. He knows he has no right to feel this way. You’re not his—hell, he hasn’t even worked up the courage to tell you how he feels. And even if you were, this? This isn’t anything.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

He tries to focus on something else—the way the warm light of the diner reflects off the checkered tiles, the smell of burgers and coffee that hangs in the air—but his eyes keep drifting back to you. To the way your shoulders relax as you chat, to the way your laugh rings out, soft but genuine.

To the way the guy leans just a little closer, like he’s trying to soak in as much of you as he can.

Sam’s fists clench under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He hates the way it makes him feel, this jealousy curling tight in his chest. It’s not you—it’s him, and he knows it.

You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re just being polite, kind, the way you always are. But Sam can’t help it, can’t stop the possessive streak that flares despite every logical argument he throws at it.

Dean notices, of course. He always notices.

“You good, man?” Dean asks, his voice low as he leans back in the booth. His eyes flick toward you, still at the counter, before landing on Sam with a knowing look.

“I’m fine,” Sam says quickly, too quickly.

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Right. You keep telling yourself that.”

Sam grits his teeth, his gaze dropping to the table. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to acknowledge the mess of feelings swirling inside him. Because the truth is, this isn’t the first time he’s felt it—the ache of wanting something he doesn’t know how to reach, the sting of watching someone else notice what he’s known all along.

When you finally return to the table, smiling as you hand over the receipt, Sam forces himself to relax. He unclenches his fists, lets out a slow breath, and meets your eyes with what he hopes is a neutral expression.

“Everything okay?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “Ready to go?”

You nod, grabbing your coat as Dean tosses a few bills onto the table for a tip.

As the three of you step out into the cool night air, Sam walks beside you, keeping his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He’s quiet, his mind racing with thoughts he can’t quite pin down.

It’s not your fault. You don’t even know.

But that doesn’t make the jealousy any easier to bear.

Because the truth is, Sam wants more than he has any right to. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh like that, who gets to lean close and soak in your warmth. And as much as he hates himself for it, he wants everyone else to see that you’re his—even though he knows you’re not.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The thought is enough to make his chest tighten, but he keeps walking, the sound of your voice pulling him out of his spiral as you talk about something mundane and comforting.

Sam’s grip on his machete tightens as the group approaches the abandoned house. The air is heavy, the kind of oppressive stillness that always precedes a fight. Dean is leading the way, his shotgun raised, while you follow just behind, your steps quiet but sure.

Sam should be focusing on the hunt—on the creak of the floorboards, the faint whispers of movement coming from deeper inside—but he can’t. His eyes keep darting to you, his chest tightening every time you take a step further into danger.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual.

You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow but nodding. “I’m fine, Sam.”

Fine. The word does nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.

It happens fast. Too fast.

The wendigo bursts through a wall, a blur of claws and teeth, and the room erupts into chaos. Dean fires a shot, the salt rounds forcing the creature to stumble, but it’s not enough to stop it. You lunge toward it with your knife, and Sam’s heart nearly stops.

“Wait!” he yells, his voice sharp.

You hesitate for just a second, long enough for the wendigo to change direction. It barrels toward you, and before Sam can think, he’s moving. He throws himself between you and the creature, his machete swinging in a wide arc.

The blade connects, but it’s not a clean hit. The wendigo shrieks, clawing at Sam’s arm as it retreats into the shadows. Blood drips down his sleeve, hot and sticky, but he barely notices.

“Sam!” Your voice is frantic as you grab his arm, trying to check the wound.

“I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off as his eyes dart around the room. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? You’re bleeding!”

Dean shouts from across the room, drawing their attention back to the hunt. “Focus, you two! It’s still here!”

Sam forces himself to breathe, to focus, but his hands shake as he readjusts his grip on the machete.

The hunt ends in a blur. Dean gets the kill, the wendigo collapsing in a heap of ash and bone, and the three of you stumble out of the house, battered but alive.

Back at the Impala, Dean tosses his shotgun into the trunk with a muttered curse. “What the hell was that, Sam? You almost got yourself killed!”

Sam doesn’t answer, his eyes fixed on you as you press a cloth against his arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he says, his voice softer than before.

You glare at him. “You’re not fine, Sam. That thing could’ve killed you.”

“And it could’ve killed you!” he snaps, the words bursting out before he can stop them.

The silence that follows is heavy. Dean glances between the two of you, his expression unreadable, before muttering something about “patching up later” and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Later, inside the bunker, you refuse to let him brush it off. You pull him into the kitchen, forcing him to sit while you clean and bandage his arm.

“What was that back there?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm.

Sam hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I just… I couldn’t let you—”

“Get hurt?” you interrupt, finishing his sentence for him.

He nods, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, your hands working methodically to wrap the bandage around his arm. When you finally speak, your voice is softer. “Sam, I know you worry. But you can’t let it get in the way like that. We have to trust each other out there.”

“I do trust you,” he says quickly. “It’s me I don’t trust. Not when it comes to keeping you safe.”

You meet his eyes, your expression gentle but unyielding. “We keep each other safe. That’s how this works.”

Sam swallows hard, the weight of your words settling over him. He knows you’re right. But as he looks at you, at the quiet strength in your eyes, he also knows that his feelings for you are becoming harder to control.

For now, though, he nods, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”

But deep down, he knows it’s not that simple.

Another hunt had gone wrong—terribly, inexplicably wrong.

You’re sitting at the war room table back in the bunker, a hastily wrapped bandage on your arm, your face pale and drawn. Sam is pacing, his long strides eating up the space between the table and the far wall, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” His voice is sharp, louder than you’ve ever heard it.

You glare at him, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “I saved your ass, Sam! Or did you miss the part where that thing was about to rip your head off?”

“I didn’t need you to throw yourself into danger like that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, standing up despite the sharp pain in your arm. “Did you want me to just stand there and watch you get torn apart?”

“That’s not the point!” Sam’s voice cracks, his frustration turning into something raw.

“Then what is the point, Sam?” you shout, stepping closer to him. “Because all I see is you treating me like I’m some fragile thing that can’t handle myself!”

“You don’t get it,” he growls, his eyes blazing as he finally stops pacing. “It’s not about whether you can handle yourself! It’s about the fact that I can’t handle losing you!”

The words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on both of you. Your breath catches, your anger faltering as his admission sinks in.

“Sam…” you start, but he cuts you off, his voice softer now but no less intense.

“You don’t understand,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Every time we’re out there, I can’t stop thinking about what could happen to you. Every scratch, every close call—it eats me alive. And tonight? Seeing you get hurt? I—” He stops, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to find the words. “I can’t do it anymore.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. “Sam, I—”

But before you can finish, he closes the distance between you in two long strides, his hands cupping your face as his lips crash into yours. It’s desperate, unrestrained, years of pent-up emotion spilling over all at once.

For a moment, you freeze, too stunned to react. But then you’re kissing him back, your fingers tangling in his shirt as you pull him closer. It’s messy, overwhelming, and everything you’ve both been holding back.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality.

You break apart, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you turn to see Dean and Castiel standing in the doorway. Dean’s eyebrows are raised so high they practically disappear into his hairline, while Cas looks… well, Cas-like, but with a hint of curiosity.

“Uh… are we interrupting something?” Dean asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best effort to sound serious.

Sam takes a step back, his face flushed as he scrambles to say something. “I, uh—this isn’t—”

“Sure doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” Dean quips, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe.

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

Cas tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “I believe this is what humans call ‘acting on repressed emotions.’”

word count: 2.3k+ pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!reader tags: mutual pinning, angst and lots and lots of fluff after

You sighed softly, watching JJ's hopeful expression as she practically bounced with excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious, but you couldn’t quite muster the same excitement for New Year’s Eve.

"Come on," JJ said as you tried to keep up with her brisk pace as she rushed toward the printer. "Even Hotch is joining."

She grinned, spinning around to face you with a knowing look. "If Hotch can have a little fun, then so can you."

You gave a small chuckle, shaking your head. "I know everyone’s going to be there. It's just… not really my scene."

"But you come to all our team celebrations! Halloween, Christmas—you’re always there."

"That’s different," you argued, keeping pace beside her. "Those are easy. This? New Year’s Eve? It’s... it’s not my holiday. I’ve never really been into the grandiose celebrations and the whole countdown thing."

JJ’s face softened, and she reached out to lightly nudge your shoulder. "But this year, it’s going to be low-key. Just dinner, wine, maybe a little champagne, and fireworks from my balcony. Nothing over the top."

You hesitated for a moment, conflicted. "I don’t know…"

"Come on," JJ said again, her voice gentle. "Think about it. Please?"

You stopped in front of her office, the printer beeping softly beside you both. You sighed and looked down for a moment before meeting her gaze. "Okay, I'tt htink about it."

The private jet hummed with the quiet buzz of conversation, the steady hum of the engines providing a rhythmic backdrop to the exhaustion that hung in the air. After the intense case they’d just wrapped up, everyone was ready for the upcoming New Year’s Eve party, but the tension of travel and long hours weighed heavy.

You sat by the window, watching the landscape pass by as the others—Derek, JJ, and Emily—milled around, catching up and joking. Hotch sat a little farther away, his face calm, though his posture remained sharp as usual.

Emily leaned in, her voice low but teasing. "Have you decided what to wear yet?"

Before you could respond, JJ gave her an elbow in the ribs. "Come on, Em. Back off a little."

The smile on Emily’s face remained, but her eyes held concern. "I just asked. No need to be defensive."

You sighed softly, leaning back in your seat. "I don’t know if I’m going."

Derek perked up, his expression shifting to confusion. "What? Why?"

"It’s just… not really my scene," you said softly. "Big parties, loud noises, countdowns—it’s not really my thing."

"You’re telling me you don’t want to come out with all of us?" JJ asked, genuinely surprised.

"I didn’t say that," you replied. "It’s just not something I enjoy. Honestly, I’d rather sit this one out. You guys deserve a break, and I don’t want to be the one dragging everyone down."

Derek frowned. "You won’t drag anyone down. We’ll lift you up if anything."

Before the conversation could continue, Hotch’s voice cut through the noise with its usual steady, firm tone. "Enough. Back off," he said, his gaze steady on the group. His tone left no room for argument.

The others fell silent, though you could feel their curiosity, still lingering. The warmth from Hotch’s concern was there, but they respected his decision to step in.

You gave a small nod in acknowledgment, taking a deep breath as you mouthed a 'Thanks' at Hotch.

After Hotch’s intervention, the ride back to the office was subdued. The jet was quiet, everyone visibly exhausted from the case, but the warmth of the team’s presence lingered in the air. Derek had tried to lift your spirits, and while his words were well-meaning, there was still a heaviness you couldn’t shake. Emily offered a sympathetic smile from her seat, while JJ and Rossi sat quietly, content with simply being there without pushing.

As the jet touched down, the tension began to ease slightly, but the unease remained. The drive back to the office was equally quiet, the city lights flashing past the windows in a blur. The conversation was minimal, the team too drained to maintain the usual banter. When you finally arrived, the office stood empty, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the faint sound of your own footsteps echoing softly on the tile floor.

The office was eerily quiet as you returned, the hum of the jet and the chatter of your team now distant memories. The faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the room. You walked toward your desk, your mind still processing the events of the case. Your fingers brushed over the surface as you absentmindedly picked up a few scattered papers, but your gaze kept drifting. It landed on the framed photo of your dad, his image calm and familiar in the corner, but still a haunting presence in moments like this.

Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the door open behind you until you caught a familiar presence. Slowly, you turned, and there he was—Aaron Hotchner. His usual composed expression softened just slightly when he saw you, the weight of his usual stern demeanor lightening, even if only slightly.

"Thanks, for having my back back there," you said quietly, breaking the silence first.

Hotch gave a small nod, his tone steady. "They never know when to stop."

"True," you agreed, offering a small smile. "But we still love them."

"Some more than others," he said with a faint smirk, his voice low enough so you couldn’t quite make out the last part.

"What was that?" you asked, arching an eyebrow.

He shifted slightly, his gaze meeting yours. "I said don’t show up just to please the others," he clarified, his voice softer now, the humor behind his words subdued.

You exhaled softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "Thanks. I was kinda feeling like I have to go."

"You shouldn’t," he said gently, his tone quiet but firm. "If you don’t want to go, or if you have someone else to spend your time with, then you should do that instead."

You hesitated, your fingers lingering on the edge of your desk. "I don’t know… it’s hard."

Hotch’s gaze softened even more, his expression warm but still composed. "Holidays are especially hard."

You nodded, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. "Yeah… you can say that again."

"But you’re not going to be all alone on New Year’s, are you?" he asked softly, his voice laced with subtle concern.

"I was kind of planning on it," you admitted quietly, looking down again, unable to meet his steady gaze.

He paused, as if carefully considering his next words. Then, he spoke softly, leaving the statement open-ended. "If you want company…"

The words hung in the air between you, a quiet offer that wasn’t forced or expected, but there nonetheless. You felt the warmth in his voice, the understanding, and it gave you a sense of relief.

"I might take you up on that," you said finally, meeting his eyes once more.

Hotch gave a small, approving nod, his gaze steady. "You don’t have to decide now."

The sight of Aaron Hotchner in your kitchen was one you never thought you’d witness. Over the years, you’d grown to know him as a man of discipline, authority, and unwavering professionalism. So the thought of him preparing a secret dinner for New Year’s Eve in nothing but his most lounge-worthy clothes, while you sipped on a glass of red wine seated on the kitchen island, laughing at his attempts at humor, seemed almost surreal.

If someone had told you, two years ago when you first joined the BAU, that your stoic boss would, one day, be cracking jokes while cooking, you would’ve laughed in disbelief. There was no way Hotch would ever let his guard down like this—not in front of anyone, let alone in such a relaxed setting.

Yet, here you were.

He had made a last-minute excuse to JJ, opting to keep you company instead.

The soft hum of The Beatles’ melodies filled the room as Aaron moved around the unfamiliar kitchen, his relaxed demeanor at odds with the precision he usually displayed in the field. He’d noticed your LP collection before and had quietly put on The Beatles album, allowing the gentle tunes to wash over the space.

You’d offered countless times to handle dinner, but tonight he insisted, claiming he wanted to try a new recipe—something he rarely had the chance to experiment with.

So you let him have the space, knowing how much he valued the moments where he could step away from the rigidity of his usual responsibilities. The dinner he prepared was unexpectedly perfect—flavors balanced, every dish meticulously crafted—and afterward, the two of you found yourselves sitting comfortably on the couch, lost in easy conversation.

As the evening wore on, the clock edged closer to midnight, and the weight of the holiday settled in your chest. You tried to push it aside, but the memory of past New Year’s celebrations with your dad crept up on you. The first year without him felt like a gaping absence, and despite Aaron’s presence, the sadness was overwhelming.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, your gaze falling back to the family portrait on the shelf—a snapshot of a moment frozen in time with your dad, the man who had always been your rock, your best friend, the one who had always watched fireworks with you.

Aaron returned from the bathroom, his eyes meeting yours. The lighthearted mood in the room shifted as he saw the tear sliding down your face.

"Hey," he said softly, concern clouding his usually composed expression. "Do you want a hug?"

You nod immediately, your breath catching in your throat as Aaron pulls you into his steady embrace. For a moment, the world seems to pause—everything fades away except for the comfort of his arms around you. The floodgates open, and the words pour out, each memory, each longing spilling into the quiet space between you.

"It’s the first year without him," you whisper, your voice shaky with emotion. "We always used to watch the fireworks together." A soft, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you remember the times you would sit on the roof of your childhood home, sneaking out through the window in your old bedroom to watch the sky light up with vibrant colors. "We’d sit there, just the two of us, watching the sky erupt into every color imaginable."

Aaron holds you tightly, his presence grounding. He doesn’t rush you, allowing the silence to stretch between you as you collect yourself. The weight of the moment is palpable, but his steady embrace offers a sense of peace that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"It’s not too late…"

You pull back slightly, frowning in confusion. "Too late for what?"

"To do the tradition," he says softly, his voice calm and reassuring.

You blink up at him, still trying to process his words. "What tradition?"

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his gaze steady and unyielding.

With my life, you want to say, but instead you hesitate for a second, your heart beating a little faster, but a warm smile spreads across your face. "Yeah."

Aaron gives a small nod, leading you gently towards your bedroom. Moments later, you emerge in a simple outfit, ready to follow his quiet guidance.

Together, you make your way to the rooftop of your building. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling in the distance, but up here, it’s quiet, private. There’s no one else in sight. The fireworks begin to burst in the sky, dazzling colors lighting up the night.

The city hums below, but the roof is still, just the two of you standing side by side as the world around you is illuminated in bursts of reds, blues, and golden hues.

You turn to Aaron, the warmth of the moment filling the air between you. He watches you closely, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Your breath hitches as a tear slips down your cheek, and without thinking, you press your lips softly against his shoulder in a wordless thank you.

Aaron doesn’t flinch, simply holds you a little tighter.

"Any other traditions?" he asks softly, breaking the quiet that surrounds you.

You take a deep breath, recalling a memory you hadn’t fully shared with anyone in years. "He’d always kiss me on the forehead at midnight. That was my New Year’s kiss." You let out a small, wistful laugh despite the tears that blur your vision. "Then, he’d walk over and kiss my mom. It was their thing." You pause, the sadness creeping in again. "He was heartbroken when she passed, but he kept the tradition alive for me. Even though… it meant I never had a real New Year’s kiss."

Aaron listens carefully, the weight of your words settling between you like an unspoken understanding.

"Ever?" he asks gently.

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. "Ever."

For a moment, you both stand there, the quiet moment wrapping around you. Then, Aaron’s voice cuts through the stillness, steady and firm.

"Would you want one?"

You look up, your eyes meeting his, the moment shifting. It isn’t just a simple question anymore—it’s more. You realize that this isn’t just about tradition or comfort; this is something deeper. He’s offering something more personal, more vulnerable, and that thought leaves you breathless.

You nod slowly. "Yes," you breathe out, the weight of the moment sinking into your heart.

Without hesitation, he leans in, his lips brushing gently against yours. The world melts away in that single moment—no fireworks, no city sounds, just the two of you sharing something tender and meaningful. When the kiss ends, you rest your head against his shoulder again, the weight of the night finally lifting.

"Thank you," you whisper once more, your voice filled with emotion.

Just wanted to pop in and wish everyone a happy new years!

Hope your day and night turns out to be as lovely y'all are, no matter how you chose to celebrate ✨️

I'll try to post a few new years themed fics or drabbles around midnight my time (GMT +1), so if you have any characters you wanna see let me know and I'll do my best to get them published within the 24 hour mark. 🫶

word count: 1.3k+

pairing: Dean Winchester x GN!reader

tags: angst, bad day, fluff, dean being adorable

The day had started wrong and never quite managed to right itself. From the moment you got out of bed, everything seemed just a little off. First, it was the frustrating, endless search for clean socks that derailed your morning. Then, you stubbed your toe on the edge of the bathroom door. Small, insignificant things, but they piled up, one after the other, wearing you down by degrees.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, you felt like you were barely holding yourself together. The bunker’s halls, usually comforting in their quiet sturdiness, seemed to echo too much today, their shadows stretching longer than usual.

All you wanted was a moment to yourself, a brief reprieve from the weight pressing down on your chest. You found it, or at least tried to, in the kitchen. The simple act of brewing a pot of coffee felt grounding, the steady drip and rich aroma wrapping around you like a familiar hug.

As the pot finished brewing, you reached for your favorite mug—the one Dean had teased you about endlessly when you insisted it was the perfect size, even though it had a small chip on the rim. It wasn’t fancy, but it was yours, and that made it special.

Pouring the coffee, you added the usual splash of cream, stirring it slowly as you took a deep breath. The warmth of the mug against your palms was soothing, the scent promising comfort.

But then, as you turned to head to the table, the mug slipped from your grasp.

It all happened in slow motion. The mug fell, crashing onto the tile floor, coffee splattering everywhere in chaotic streaks. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed in the small kitchen, louder than it had any right to be.

You froze, staring down at the mess. The last thread of control you’d been clinging to snapped. Tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, spilling over as you sank to your knees.

“It’s just a mug,” you whispered to yourself, the words trembling as they fell from your lips. “It’s just coffee.” But the tears didn’t stop.

“Hey.”

Dean’s voice broke through the haze, soft and laced with concern. You hadn’t even heard him come in.

You hastily wiped at your face with the back of your hand, trying to collect yourself. “It’s fine,” you mumbled, your voice shaky. “I’m fine. Just made a mess.”

Dean crouched down beside you, his green eyes scanning your face. His expression was tender, worry etched into every line. He said you name softly, “this isn’t about the coffee, is it?”

The kindness in his voice, the understanding, was too much. The dam burst, and you let out a choked sob, covering your face with your hands.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. His flannel smelled like leather and the faint trace of gun oil, grounding you in its familiarity.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. “I got you. Just let it out.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his shirt as the weight of the day finally found release. Dean held you tighter, as if his arms alone could shield you from whatever had driven you to this breaking point.

When the sobs subsided into soft sniffles, Dean pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his touch warm and gentle.

“There you are,” he said, offering a small smile. “You with me now?”

You nodded, though your voice was still thick with emotion. “Yeah. Sorry. I just…”

Dean shook his head, silencing you with a look that was equal parts affection and exasperation. “You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said. “We all have those days.”

He stood, offering you a hand. You hesitated, glancing down at the shattered mug and the coffee pooling around it.

“Dean, I should clean this up—”

“Nope.” He cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You sit. I’ll take care of it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he gave you stopped you in your tracks. It wasn’t stern, exactly—just determined, with a hint of that Dean Winchester stubbornness that you knew better than to fight.

Reluctantly, you let him guide you to one of the stools at the counter.

Dean moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, grabbing a towel to mop up the coffee and a dustpan to sweep up the shards of the broken mug. He worked quickly but carefully, his movements efficient.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly, watching him from your perch.

Dean glanced up, his green eyes locking onto yours. “Of course I did,” he said simply. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t clean up your spilled coffee and make you feel better about it?”

The warmth in his voice made your chest tighten, but this time it wasn’t from sadness.

Once the mess was cleaned, Dean washed his hands and turned back to you. “Now, let’s get you a new cup of coffee.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I want—”

“Uh-uh,” Dean interrupted, holding up a finger. “No arguing. You’re getting a fresh cup, and you’re going to sit here and let me take care of you. End of discussion.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound soft but genuine. “Yes, sir,” you said, mock saluting.

Dean smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

He took extra care this time, pouring the coffee, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar. When he handed you the mug, he stayed close, leaning against the counter as his eyes searched your face.

“Better?” he asked, his tone quieter now, his concern evident.

You nodded, wrapping your hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into your skin, soothing in a way that went beyond the physical. “Better,” you admitted.

Dean didn’t move right away. Instead, he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against your arm.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said. “About anything. I don’t care if it’s big or small. If it’s bugging you, I want to know.”

His words hit you harder than you expected. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep fresh tears at bay. “I know,” you said softly. “It’s just… hard sometimes.”

Dean nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your arm. “I get it. Believe me, I do. But you’re not alone, okay? Not ever.”

You set the mug down, reaching for his hand. His fingers laced through yours automatically, the simple gesture grounding you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

Dean leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Always,” he murmured against your skin.

As the tension in your chest finally began to ease, you couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly Dean managed to make you feel safe. It wasn’t just the way he took charge or his easy confidence—it was the way he saw you, really saw you, and cared enough to stay when things got messy.

He moved to sit beside you, his hand never letting go of yours. “Alright,” he said, his voice lighter now. “Now that we’ve got the coffee situation under control, how about we take the rest of the night off?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Take the night off? From what?”

Dean grinned, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. “From everything. No hunts, no research, no worrying about the end of the world. Just you, me, and maybe a bad movie or two.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth in your chest spreading. “That sounds perfect.”

Word count: 4.5k+

Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader

tags: pining, yearning, tooth rotting fluff

Prequal to The Heated Confession

The bunker was unusually still, its halls wrapped in a silence that felt heavy yet comforting, like a well-worn blanket on a cold night. The only sounds were the faint hum of the electrical systems and the occasional creak of old pipes—a symphony of small, familiar noises that made the sprawling space feel almost alive.

In the library, the soft glow of a desk lamp spilled over the room, pooling across the scratched wood of the table and the spines of worn books stacked in uneven piles. You were curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, your legs tucked beneath you, a knit blanket draped loosely over your shoulders. A steaming mug of tea sat on the table beside you, wisps of chamomile-scented steam curling lazily into the air, forgotten as you lost yourself in the book balanced on your lap.

Your face was serene, your eyes scanning the pages with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade away. Every so often, your brow would furrow slightly, or the corners of your lips would curve into a faint smile, as if the story had drawn you in so deeply that even your expressions danced along with its rhythm.

Across the room, Sam sat at the long wooden table, his laptop open in front of him. Its faint blue glow illuminated a collection of untouched case files, the cursor blinking in the empty search bar. He was supposed to be working, but his mind had long since wandered.

Leaning back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest, he let his gaze settle on you.

You weren’t doing anything remarkable, not in the grand sense. You were simply there, existing, caught up in your own quiet world. But to Sam, it was enough to hold him captive.

The way the soft light cast warm shadows across your face. The way you absently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, only for it to fall loose again. The way the blanket slipped from your shoulder, and you tugged it back into place without looking away from your book.

Sam felt his chest tighten.

For years, the bunker had been a place of practicality—an armory, a fortress, a safe haven built for survival. Comfort had always been secondary, a luxury he barely allowed himself to consider. But tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt like home.

And he knew it wasn’t the walls or the quiet that made it so. It was you.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position in the chair. The blanket rustled faintly, breaking the silence, and for a moment, Sam wondered if you could feel his gaze. But you didn’t look up. Instead, you reached for your mug, fingers curling around the handle as you took a slow sip. The faintest smile touched your lips, as if the tea had brought you some small, private comfort.

Sam exhaled softly, the sound barely audible in the stillness.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, watching you, letting the moment stretch out. It felt fragile, like glass—something that might shatter if he moved too suddenly or spoke too loudly. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

You turned a page in your book, your fingers brushing the edge with an absentminded care, and Sam’s lips quirked into a small, private smile of his own.

If he could, he’d freeze this moment, hold onto it forever. No monsters, no hunts, no danger waiting in the shadows. Just you, wrapped in soft light and quiet, the picture of peace.

Crickets chirped in the grass, their song weaving with the soft rustle of leaves in the cool evening breeze. A campfire crackled in front of you, casting flickering orange light across the clearing.

You were sitting cross-legged on a worn blanket, a mug of cocoa cradled in your hands. The fire’s warmth kissed your skin, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the chill entirely, so you’d wrapped yourself in Sam’s flannel jacket. It was oversized on you, the sleeves rolled up clumsily, but the fabric carried his scent—earthy and clean, with a faint trace of soap.

Sam sat a few feet away, leaning back against a fallen log. His long legs were stretched out toward the fire, his hands resting loosely on his knees. He wasn’t cold—his sturdy jacket and natural warmth saw to that—but he still glanced at you every so often, as if to make sure you weren’t freezing.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward. It rarely was. Instead, it felt like a shared understanding, a mutual appreciation for the calm that neither of you got to experience often enough.

Sam tilted his head back, gazing at the stars scattered across the sky. Out here, away from the bunker’s endless hum and the glow of artificial light, the constellations were bright and vivid. It was the kind of view he imagined people spent their whole lives chasing.

But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You were staring into the fire, your face illuminated by its soft glow. Every flicker of the flames seemed to paint you differently—gentle one moment, fierce the next. You tucked your knees up under your chin, holding the mug close as if trying to draw every ounce of warmth from it.

Sam’s chest tightened.

There was something grounding about you, something that made everything else fade away. He could be drowning in the chaos of their life—monsters, hunts, and memories that refused to stay buried—and yet one look at you, one shared moment, was enough to steady him.

Do you know? he wondered, the thought circling back like it always did. Do you know what you do to me?

He noticed it all.

The way you blew gently on the cocoa before taking a sip, your breath visible in the crisp night air. The way you smiled softly, almost to yourself, when the fire popped and sparked like it was trying to impress you. The way his flannel looked on you, too big and comically loose, but somehow perfect.

It wasn’t the first time you’d borrowed something of his. A hoodie when it was cold in the bunker. A pair of gloves when your own had worn thin. He didn’t know if you realized it, but every time you returned them, he found himself hesitating before washing them. There was always a lingering trace of you—your warmth, your scent—and it felt like letting go of something precious.

You shifted, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, and Sam’s fingers twitched against his knees. He wanted to reach out, to pull you closer to the fire—or closer to him—but he didn’t move. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to break the moment, but deep down, he knew it was fear holding him back.

The fire crackled again, louder this time, and you looked up at him, your eyes catching the light.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft but clear in the stillness.

Sam blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he said quickly, his voice a little rough. “Just… thinking.”

You tilted your head, your gaze curious but not pressing. “Heavy thoughts?”

He shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Not really. Just… stuff.”

You smiled at that, shaking your head as you turned back to the fire. “You’re always thinking about stuff, Sam.”

He chuckled softly, your teasing warming him more than the flames. But as he watched you settle back into the quiet, the thoughts returned, unbidden and insistent.

He imagined nights like this one, but different. A small cabin instead of the open sky. The fire crackling in a stone hearth instead of on a pile of logs. You curled up beside him on a couch, leaning into his side as he draped an arm around you.

The fantasy felt so vivid, so real, that it left a bittersweet ache in his chest. He wanted it. God, he wanted it so badly it hurt. But he couldn’t shake the voice in his head whispering that you deserved better—better than hunts, better than him.

The wind shifted slightly, stirring the fire and sending a few embers spiraling into the air. You leaned forward to poke at the logs with a stick, your brows furrowing in concentration. It was such a simple thing, but Sam felt his heart stumble over itself.

You have no idea.

No idea how deeply he cared. No idea how many times he’d thought about telling you, only to talk himself out of it. No idea how much you’d already become a part of his every dream, every hope, every fragile piece of a future he barely dared to imagine.

Sam’s hands clenched into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. He wanted to tell you, but the words felt too big, too tangled. What if he got it wrong? What if it scared you away?

And yet, as he watched you, bundled in his jacket, bathed in firelight, the ache in his chest grew sharper. He knew he couldn’t keep this to himself forever.

But for now, he let the moment hold its quiet magic.

The Impala’s engine hums beneath them as they barrel down the highway, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the landscape. You’re sitting in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash despite Dean’s half-hearted protests, singing along to the blaring classic rock on the radio.

Dean is grinning as he teases you about missing a lyric, and you laugh, throwing your head back as you belt out the next line with dramatic flair. The sound of your voice fills the car, blending with the music, and for a moment, everything feels light—effortless in a way Sam rarely experiences.

Sam sits in the back, pressed against the worn leather, his book open but unread on his lap. His gaze is fixed on you, his eyes tracing the way your hair catches the sunlight, the curve of your lips as you smile, the ease in your movements as you lean toward Dean, teasing him right back.

It hits Sam all at once, the overwhelming sense of just how radiant you are. It’s not just the way you look, though that alone is enough to make his heart stutter. It’s everything—the way your laugh carries through the air, unselfconscious and real; the way you seem to draw Dean out of his gruff exterior, making him join in your silliness despite himself.

Sam knows he should look away, that staring is bound to get him caught, but he can’t help it. It’s like you’ve filled the car with a kind of warmth he can’t pull himself away from.

God, you’re amazing, he thinks, his chest tightening.

You’re talking now, your hands moving animatedly as you recount a story about some mishap from a previous hunt. Dean is laughing along, throwing in his own commentary, but Sam is barely listening. His focus is entirely on you, the way your face lights up when you’re telling a story, the way you gesture with so much energy, as if you’re reliving the moment.

Sam feels a pang in his chest—a mix of admiration, longing, and something heavier. -You have no idea, do you? he thinks, the familiar ache settling in. No idea how much you mean to me.

Dean cracks a joke, and you double over laughing, your hand flying to his arm as if to steady yourself. It’s a simple, innocent gesture, but it sends a jolt through Sam, sharp and unrelenting.

His grip on the book tightens, his knuckles white as he stares at the two of you. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way—jealousy has no place here, not when Dean is his brother and you’re… well, you’re you.

But the sight of you so close to Dean, so at ease with him, feels like a punch to the gut. Not because he doesn’t want you to be happy—you deserve that and so much more—but because he can’t stop wishing it was him.

Sam shifts in his seat, trying to focus on the book in his lap, but the words blur together. All he can think about is you—your laughter, your smile, the way you’ve effortlessly taken up space in his heart without even realizing it.

He knows it’s not fair. He knows he should let it go, should bury these feelings before they get the better of him. But as you glance back over your shoulder, flashing him a quick smile, he feels his resolve crumble.

You deserve more, he thinks, his chest tight with the weight of it. But God, I can’t stop hoping.

When the car finally pulls into the motel parking lot, Sam is the first to climb out. He mumbles something about needing air, avoiding your gaze as he grabs his bag and heads inside.

You watch him go, your smile fading slightly as you exchange a confused glance with Dean. “What’s with him?” you ask, but Dean just shrugs, chalking it up to Sam being Sam.

But Sam doesn’t head to the room. Instead, he stops just outside, leaning against the wall and staring up at the darkening sky. His heart feels like it’s caught in a vise, and for the first time, he wonders if he’s in too deep.

Because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he tells himself to let it go, he can’t stop looking at you like you’re the sun.

The diner is quiet, a small, worn-down place nestled between the endless stretches of empty roads and forest. The neon sign flickers slightly above the entrance, casting a soft glow over the worn booths and cracked linoleum floor. Sam and Dean sit in one of those booths, their plates half-finished, the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation surrounding them.

But Sam isn’t really paying attention to any of that. His eyes are on you.

You’re walking toward the counter, your steps steady and confident, the soft sway of your hair against your back with each motion. The dim lighting catches the edges of your features—sharp cheekbones, a smile that easily lights up the room—and Sam watches, transfixed.

You order coffee and a piece of pie with an effortless charm, your voice smooth and easy as you exchange a few words with the waitress. You laugh softly at something she says, your expression warm, and Sam feels a tug in his chest.

It’s not just how you look, or how effortlessly you seem to light up the room. It’s everything—your kindness, the way you carry yourself, the quiet way you exist in a world that often feels dark and chaotic.

And Sam can’t help but think how nice it would’ve been if just this moment belonged to the two of you. Alone.

He imagines a different scenario—the two of you seated across from each other in a quiet, tucked-away corner of the diner, away from the clatter of silverware and the distant sounds of other patrons. Just the two of you, a comfortable silence between bites, or soft laughter over a shared joke.

No looming hunts. No looming danger. Just peace.

Sam’s heart twists a little at the thought, and it surprises him. He’s so used to burying emotions under the weight of their world—dealing with demons, hunting monsters, the constant sense of loss. But watching you now, in a simple, mundane moment, feels like a stark contrast to all of that.

You return to the booth, a playful grin tugging at your lips as you slide into the seat across from Sam. “What?” you ask softly, noticing his gaze lingering on you.

He clears his throat, shaking his head slightly. “Nothing.” His voice is low, but it’s not convincing.

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile on your face. “You were watching me.”

He pauses, then gives a half-smile in return. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I was.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you for a moment. Dean is off in his own world, too busy grumbling about bad pie and worse coffee to pay attention to the conversation. But Sam can’t focus on that right now.

His mind is too occupied with you.

Sam takes a slow sip of his coffee, his thoughts drifting again. He wonders what it would’ve been like if you were sitting closer—your hands brushing against his, the small gestures that don’t seem significant in other circumstances but feel impossibly intimate in this quiet diner.

“You know,” you start, breaking the silence gently, “this actually isn’t the worst place in the world.”

Sam hums in agreement, offering a faint smile. “It’s not terrible.”

“I mean, for a diner,” you continue, tapping your fingers against the edge of your mug. “It’s kind of charming in a... retro way.”

Sam chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The conversation lulls again, but this time it’s different. Sam isn’t just listening. He’s thinking—thinking about how easy it is to talk to you, how effortless these small moments feel. And it’s that realization that tugs at his heart the most.

“You look good here,” Sam says suddenly, the words slipping out before he can overthink them.

Your eyes meet his, a small smile playing on your lips. “Thanks,” you reply softly, but there’s something lingering in your expression—something like understanding.

Sam reaches for his fork again, picking at his food mindlessly. His thoughts spiral into the possibility—the what-ifs. What if this was the life he could’ve had? One without hunts, without constant danger, where you could hold hands at a table like this and not worry about what’s waiting around the next corner.

It’s a dream, one he knows he might never have, but for this moment, at least, he lets himself wish.

Because watching you now, even in the simplicity of a diner visit, feels like something worth holding onto—something worth dreaming about.

The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that settles in after a long day. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead is muted, blending with the soft rustle of pages being turned and the faint clink of your spoon against the ceramic of your tea mug.

You’re curled up in that oversized armchair in the corner of the library again, the warm glow of a single lamp casting a soft light over you. A knit blanket is draped over your shoulders, its edges trailing down to cover your legs. Your chamomile tea sits on the small table beside you, a thin wisp of steam rising from the cup.

Just like the first time he noticed you, really noticed you.

Sam is across the room, seated at one of the long wooden tables with his laptop open. He’s supposed to be researching—digging into lore for the latest case, finding answers that could mean life or death. But the words on the screen blur together, meaningless, as his focus strays again.

To you.

He watches as you shift slightly in the chair, pulling the blanket tighter around you, your brow furrowing in concentration as you read. You reach for your tea, lifting it to your lips, and take a slow sip, your eyes never leaving the page. It’s such a small, mundane moment, but to Sam, it feels like everything.

The corner of your mouth quirks upward in a faint smile, as if something in the story has amused you. The sight tugs at something deep in Sam’s chest, and he feels his breath catch.

He doesn’t understand how you do this to him—how you can just sit there, completely unaware of the effect you have on him, and yet somehow command his entire world.

You’re not trying to be captivating. You’re just… you. And that’s what undoes him the most.

Sam’s fingers hover over the keyboard, but he doesn’t type. His mind is too full—spiraling with thoughts he can’t quite quiet.

He notices everything: the way the soft lamplight makes your skin glow, the way your hair falls in loose strands that you absently brush back every few minutes, the way your lips part slightly as you lose yourself in the story.

It’s in moments like this that Sam feels the full weight of his emotions, the way they’ve grown and taken root without his permission. He’s always admired you, always been drawn to the warmth you bring into the bunker, into his life. But now it’s more than that—so much more.

And that terrifies him.

What if he’s wrong? What if the way you smile at him, the way you tease him, the way you care for him doesn’t mean what he thinks it means? What if he tells you how he feels and it shatters the delicate balance of your friendship?

The thought alone is enough to make his chest tighten, to make him want to bury these feelings even deeper.

But then he looks at you again, and the ache in his chest returns—stronger, sharper, impossible to ignore.

For a moment, he lets himself imagine.

He pictures waking up to mornings like this, only softer—your hair tousled from sleep, your face peaceful as you lie beside him. He imagines you in the kitchen together, teasing him about his ridiculous health smoothies while you make coffee, stealing bites of each other’s breakfasts and laughing when Dean grumbles about the noise.

He thinks about the nights you’d spend curled up together, your head on his shoulder as you watch a movie, your fingers intertwined with his as the weight of the world fades away for a little while.

It’s a life he’s never let himself want—never let himself believe he could have. But now, with you so close and yet so far, he can’t stop the longing from creeping in.

You shift in the chair again, pulling your knees up under the blanket, and glance up briefly. Your eyes meet his, and you smile—soft, warm, utterly disarming.

“What?” you ask, your voice cutting through the silence like a melody.

Sam blinks, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he says quickly, his voice lower than he intended.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him for a moment, and then shrug, your attention returning to your book.

But Sam doesn’t move. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, and lets out a slow breath.

The realization settles over him, heavy and undeniable: he’s in love with you.

It’s not a fleeting crush or a passing admiration. It’s deep, rooted in every quiet moment, every shared laugh, every time you’ve looked at him like he mattered in a way he never thought he could.

And as much as it terrifies him—as much as the fear of losing you grips him—he knows he can’t keep this to himself forever.

♡ = suggestive content ♥ = explicit sexual content, minors dni

Castiel

More Than Grace

Dean Winchester:

Don't Cry (Over Spilled Coffee)

Sam Winchester:

The Quiet Ache

♡ = suggestive content ♥ = explicit sexual content, minors dni

Neuvillette:

Word count: 5.9k+

Pairings: Neuvillette x GN!fontainian!reader

tags: angst, pining, tooth rotting fluff

Spoilers for the main archon quest of Fontaine!

The tide lapped softly at your ankles, the gentle waves weaving patterns in the sand like a soothing lullaby. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and lavender. You sat there, where the sea kissed the shore, your gaze fixed on the endless horizon as if searching for something just out of reach.

Behind you, Neuvillette stood silently for a moment, his long coat brushing against the breeze. The Chief Justice of Fontaine, renowned for his unshakable demeanor, found himself hesitating in a way that felt foreign to him. You had asked for his company tonight—a rare request. There was something in the way you spoke of the sea that had stirred an unfamiliar curiosity within him.

Now, as he approached, his lilac eyes softened at the sight of you. The serenity of your posture contrasted with the melancholy in the set of your shoulders. His footsteps on the damp sand were soft, barely disturbing the moment.

"You're quiet tonight," he said, his voice gentle, a deep contrast to the authority it usually carried.

You turned your head, your lips curving into a small, almost wistful smile. "The sea has a way of pulling thoughts out of you, doesn’t it?"

He nodded slowly, following your gaze toward the horizon. The waves rolled in, steady and unrelenting, their rhythm soothing. The sea had always resonated with him—a reminder of his own shifting emotions, calm on the surface but turbulent beneath. Yet tonight, it seemed subdued, almost as if it, too, was waiting.

"I wanted to tell you a story," you said softly, breaking the silence. Drawing your knees up, you wrapped your arms around them, your voice carrying a note of something bittersweet. "About something I saw the night the flood came to Fontaine."

His attention sharpened at your words. The flood—it was a memory he carried like a scar, etched deeply into his being. The weight of the lives lost, the chaos of the waters... and his desperate attempt to hold it all together.

You continued, your voice trembling slightly. "I thought I was going to die that night. The water was rising so quickly, and everywhere was chaos. People running, screaming, searching for safety. It was overwhelming."

Your hands clenched around the fabric of your clothes, and Neuvillette's gaze flickered to them before returning to your face. You were steady now, but he could sense the lingering echo of fear in your words.

"I was swept away," you admitted, your tone quieter now. "And as I struggled, I looked up. And that’s when I saw it."

Neuvillette tilted his head. "Saw what?"

"A star," you said, your expression softening as a glimmer of awe returned to your eyes. "It shot up from the Palais Mémoria, this stunning blue light streaking through the heavens. It was so beautiful. For a moment, I forgot everything—the fear, the flood, all of it. I just stared at that light, thinking, 'If I’m going to die, at least I’ll go with this image burned into my memory.'"

His breath caught in his throat. A blue light... He knew exactly what you were describing. It had been him. The surge of energy he had unleashed in a desperate bid to protect the people of Fontaine, to hold back the waters threatening to swallow them all.

"I don’t know why," you continued, your voice a blend of sadness and wonder, "but that light gave me hope. Even as the waters tried to claim me, even when I thought I’d never see another sunrise... I held on to that sight. It felt like a promise, like a sign that things would be okay. And here I am, alive to tell the tale."

He stared at you, his heart twisting at the sincerity in your words. You had clung to a moment born of his power, of his fear and determination to save Fontaine. You had survived because you believed in something he hadn’t even intended for anyone to see.

"The star..." he began, his voice quiet but resonant, "it wasn’t just a light. It was..." He paused, unsure how much he should reveal. "It was someone's attempt to protect what they cared about most."

You turned your gaze to him, searching his expression. "You speak as if you know," you said softly, your tone laced with curiosity.

He hesitated, then nodded. "I do," he admitted, his words carrying a weight he couldn’t conceal. "And I believe that star would be glad to know it gave you peace."

For a moment, silence settled between you, the waves filling the space with their soothing cadence. Then, tentatively, you reached out, your fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve.

"Thank you," you whispered, your touch grounding him in a way he didn’t fully understand.

Neuvillette’s hand hovered over yours for a heartbeat before he placed it there, his fingers curling around yours. His touch was careful, as if afraid of breaking the fragile connection between you.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice low, his words carrying the depth of his own unspoken gratitude.

As the first stars appeared in the evening sky, he thought: Thank you for seeing me.

And in the quiet embrace of the shore, the waves seemed to carry the melody of something new—something that had always been there, waiting to be discovered.

The morning after your quiet conversation by the sea, Neuvillette found himself at his desk in the grand expanse of the Palais Mémoria. The familiar weight of responsibility surrounded him: stacks of neatly arranged documents, sealed letters waiting for his review, and the ever-present hum of Fontaine’s legal machinery. But for once, the solemn rhythm of his duties failed to hold his attention.

His thoughts, unruly and persistent, strayed to you. To the way your voice softened when you spoke of the star, your words carrying a blend of awe and vulnerability that stirred something deep within him. To the light in your eyes, a fragile yet resilient glow that seemed to illuminate the darkest parts of the world. To the quiet courage in your voice when you shared the memory of that night—the night of the flood.

He sighed and leaned back, his hands folded in his lap. It wasn’t like him to be so preoccupied, so drawn to fleeting thoughts. He had lived for centuries, had weathered storms both literal and metaphorical, yet this... This was different.

When he saw you again later that day, it was in the bustling marketplace. A soft breeze carried the mingling scents of fresh bread, vibrant spices, and the salt of the distant sea. Among the moving crowd, his gaze found you effortlessly, as if drawn by some unseen force.

You stood at a vendor’s stall, a bouquet of wildflowers cradled in your hands. Your fingertips brushed over the petals with care, and the sunlight framed you in a golden glow. Neuvillette froze for a moment, watching as your head tilted back in laughter—a sound so soft and genuine it seemed to momentarily hush the bustling world around you.

He found himself captivated, his heart betraying him with an unfamiliar ache. It wasn’t the grandeur of your actions that caught him—it was the simplicity. The way you held the flowers as though they were a treasure, the way you exchanged warm words with the vendor, the way the edges of your smile seemed to carry an unspoken kindness.

When you finally turned and saw him, your surprise melted into a warm smile. Raising the bouquet slightly, you waved him over.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” you called, your voice light and inviting.

He approached, his composure intact but his gaze undeniably soft. “Good afternoon. I trust you’re enjoying the marketplace?”

You nodded enthusiastically, shifting the flowers in your hand. “It’s been so long since I’ve taken the time to wander here. Everything feels so alive today.” You held up the bouquet. “And I couldn’t resist these. Aren’t they lovely?”

“They are,” he replied, his tone gentle, though his focus lingered on you rather than the blooms.

The two of you walked together, your steps naturally falling into sync. The sounds of the marketplace faded into a pleasant hum as you began to speak, sharing the small details of your morning. You spoke of the street performers playing vibrant tunes, of a child chasing after a balloon, of a baker who gifted you a small loaf of bread as thanks for helping pick up scattered ingredients.

Neuvillette listened intently, though it wasn’t your stories themselves that held him captive—it was you. The way your voice rose and fell, the slight lift of your lips when you recounted something amusing, the way you looked at the world with an almost childlike wonder.

For someone who had lived so long, who had seen so much, you made everything feel startlingly new.

When the time came for you to part ways, you turned to him, your bouquet held loosely in your hands. “Thank you for indulging me today, Monsieur Neuvillette. It was nice to have company for a change.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied sincerely, dipping his head in farewell.

You smiled again, the kind that lingered even after you turned and walked away. He remained rooted in place for a long moment, his lilac eyes following you as you disappeared into the crowd. The faint scent of wildflowers lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of your presence.

That evening, Neuvillette stood by the window of his chambers, gazing out at the vast sea. The waves rolled gently under the pale light of the moon, their rhythm steady and eternal. Yet his thoughts returned to you—your words, your laughter, the way you had described the star.

How you had unknowingly described him.

He wondered what you would say if you knew the truth. Would it matter to you that the light you cherished, the star that had given you hope, had come from him?

For centuries, he had existed as a symbol—of justice, of power, of Fontaine itself. Yet in your presence, he felt less like an untouchable figure and more like... himself. The man behind the title. The person you had unknowingly reached.

As the waves whispered their endless melody, he allowed himself a small smile. You had unknowingly begun to bridge a gap he hadn’t even realized existed. And as your laughter echoed faintly in his memory, he found himself wondering—perhaps for the first time—what it would mean to love someone, not as a protector or a symbol, but simply as Neuvillette.

Neuvillette found Furina seated quietly in the palace gardens, her usual flamboyance subdued under the soft, golden hues of a Fontaine sunset. The tranquil koi pond before her reflected the changing colors of the sky, rippling gently as a breeze played across its surface. For once, Furina wasn’t holding court or dramatizing her every word—she simply sat, her hands resting on her lap, her gaze distant and thoughtful.

“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette greeted, his voice calm and steady as he approached.

She turned her head toward him, her usual theatrics absent. Instead, her expression was tired but softened by the quiet ambiance of the gardens. “Monsieur Neuvillette,” she replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Come to check on me again?”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been spending more time alone,” he said carefully. “I thought perhaps you might appreciate some company.”

Her brow arched slightly, though the gesture lacked its usual flair. “How considerate of you. I didn’t think the great Iudex of Fontaine made time for garden strolls.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “I believe even the busiest among us must make time to reflect. Shall we walk?”

Furina hesitated, her hands twitching slightly before she stood with a soft sigh. “Very well,” she said, smoothing the folds of her gown. “Lead the way, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

They walked along the gravel paths, the serene quiet of the garden broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets. Flowers in full bloom lined their path, their delicate scents mingling with the cool, crisp evening air. Neuvillette’s sharp eyes caught the occasional tension in Furina’s movements—the subtle way her fingers played with the hem of her sleeve, the furrow in her brow as if she were wrestling with unspoken thoughts.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked, his tone warm yet measured.

Furina’s steps faltered for the briefest moment. “Better,” she said after a pause, though her voice held a guarded quality. “I mean… I’m trying.”

He nodded, matching her unhurried pace. “That is good to hear. You’ve been through much lately, and it’s only natural to need time.”

She looked away, her fingers tightening on her sleeve before she spoke again, quieter this time. “It helps to have someone.”

That gave him pause. He glanced at her, his curiosity piqued. “Someone?”

Furina nodded, her expression softening. “Yes. Someone who checks on me, listens, makes sure I’m not completely drowning in my own thoughts.”

Relief flickered in his chest, though he kept his tone even. “I am glad you have such support. It is… a comfort, I hope.”

“Oh, more than a comfort,” Furina said, her voice lifting slightly. Her usual theatrical energy flickered to life as a playful smirk crossed her face. “And you’ll be even more pleased when you hear who it is.”

Neuvillette tilted his head, his lilac eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “And who might that be?”

She stopped walking abruptly, turning to face him with a grin that could only mean mischief. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

“I assure you, I do not,” he replied cautiously, though his mind immediately conjured a face—your face.

Furina rolled her eyes dramatically, placing her hands on her hips. “Oh, come now, Monsieur Neuvillette. Don’t pretend to be dense. It’s them—the one you’ve been hopelessly mooning over for weeks.”

The effect of her words was immediate. Neuvillette’s usually composed demeanor cracked, a faint blush coloring his pale cheeks. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a rare loss for words.

“Speechless?” Furina teased, clearly reveling in his discomfort. “The mighty Iudex of Fontaine, reduced to silence? Truly a sight to behold.”

Neuvillette looked away, his hand brushing absently against the edge of his coat as he composed himself. “I merely… appreciate their kindness toward you,” he said carefully.

“‘Kindness,’” Furina echoed, feigning exasperation. “You’re blushing like a lovesick poet, and that’s all you can say? Please, Neuvillette, you’re not fooling anyone. Admit it—you’re completely smitten.”

His shoulders tensed, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You are relentless, Lady Furina.”

“And you’re predictable,” she shot back, though her tone carried a rare note of sincerity. “But really, Neuvillette… isn’t it time you let yourself have this? You’ve spent so long carrying the weight of Fontaine on your shoulders. Don’t you think you deserve a little happiness for yourself?”

Her words struck a chord deep within him. For centuries, Neuvillette had devoted himself entirely to Fontaine, his duty consuming every aspect of his existence. He had never allowed himself to entertain personal desires or affections, yet the thought of you—your laughter, your kindness, the way you seemed to see through his reserved exterior—had become an undeniable presence in his mind.

“You seem more like yourself today,” he observed quietly, deflecting her teasing as he studied her with a soft gaze.

Furina’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. “Maybe that’s thanks to them,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “They don’t just help. They care. It’s… nice, having someone like that around.”

Neuvillette felt his chest tighten at the thought of you. The way you had extended your compassion not only to him but to Furina as well, asking for nothing in return, had touched him more deeply than he could express.

Furina’s teasing tone broke through his reverie. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Do about it?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Are you just going to stand there brooding forever, or are you actually going to tell them how you feel?”

He sighed, though his faint smile lingered. “Perhaps I will.”

Furina’s grin widened, a glimmer of satisfaction lighting her eyes. “Now that is something I’d like to see.”

As they resumed their walk, Neuvillette found himself mulling over her words. The garden’s tranquil beauty seemed to reflect the quiet hope stirring within him. For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to consider the possibility of stepping out from behind the mantle of the Iudex—not as a protector or symbol, but simply as Neuvillette.

The Melusines had always been an observant presence in Fontaine, blending seamlessly into the fabric of daily life while quietly noting the shifts in the moods of its people. They held a special fondness for Neuvillette, their beloved protector, whose wisdom and kindness earned their undying loyalty. But lately, they had noticed something peculiar—a softening in his usually stoic expression, a wistful look in his eyes whenever a certain someone was brought up in conversation.

To them, it was as clear as the glistening waters of the sea: the Iudex was smitten. And so, a plan began to take shape.

Neuvillette was seated at his desk in the Palais Mémoria, immersed in his usual workload, when Melly, one of the more spirited Melusines, appeared. She tugged insistently at his sleeve, her small face glowing with excitement.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, you have to come! It’s really, really important!” she exclaimed, her shimmering eyes wide with urgency.

He glanced down at her, arching a pale brow. “Is there some manner of trouble?”

“Not trouble,” Melly replied with a grin that hinted at mischief. “Just… something you shouldn’t miss!”

Her insistence was so earnest, so determined, that Neuvillette found himself setting aside his papers. With a resigned sigh, he followed her, his long strides effortlessly keeping up with her eager skips. She led him through winding streets and quiet alleys, until they emerged at a secluded garden path near the edge of the city.

Standing there, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, was you. You stood with your arms loosely crossed, gazing at the sky, your expression contemplative. The breeze caught a few strands of your hair, and the sight stirred something deep within him—something he could neither name nor ignore.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, and upon seeing him, your face lit up with a warm, genuine smile. “Monsieur Neuvillette.”

“Melly,” he said with a sigh, glancing at the Melusine, who was now beaming with unrestrained glee. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, nothing!” Melly said innocently, though her tail swished with uncontained amusement. “You two just looked like you needed a walk. Bye!” And before either of you could respond, she darted off, leaving only her giggles trailing behind.

Neuvillette cleared his throat, slightly flustered. “I apologize. It seems our friends have… orchestrated this encounter.”

You laughed softly, your voice carrying a lightness that instantly eased his embarrassment. “I don’t mind. They mean well.”

“Indeed, they do,” he agreed, his tone softening. “Shall we, then?”

You nodded, and the two of you began walking along the path, the garden alive with the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of crickets. The path eventually opened up to a quiet stretch of beach, where the sea stretched out endlessly before you, its waves glowing with the warm hues of twilight.

You slipped off your shoes without hesitation, stepping into the cool, lapping water with an ease that made him pause. There was something inherently captivating about your unguarded joy, the way you seemed to embrace the moment so freely.

“Come on,” you called, glancing back at him with a teasing smile. “It’s just water.”

He remained rooted on the dry sand, his composed demeanor unshaken, though a faint smile played at his lips. “I am content to observe.”

“Suit yourself,” you said with a light laugh, turning your attention back to the waves. Your movements were unhurried, your bare feet leaving faint imprints that the sea quickly washed away. As you wandered, you began to speak, your voice carrying over the gentle rhythm of the tide.

“I’ve always loved the sea,” you admitted, your gaze fixed on the horizon. “There’s something comforting about it. No matter how wild or stormy it gets, it always returns to this—calm, steady, constant.”

Neuvillette stayed silent, content to listen. You spoke of childhood memories, of collecting seashells and listening to the ocean’s lullabies. You spoke of the peculiarities of Fontaine’s city life, the little joys you found in its vibrant chaos. Each word seemed to weave a story, and he found himself utterly captivated—not just by your words, but by the light in your eyes, the way you seemed to find beauty in the smallest things.

After a while, you turned back to him, a hint of shyness in your expression. “You’re awfully quiet, Monsieur Neuvillette. I hope I’m not boring you.”

“Not at all,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “Your thoughts are… calming.”

Your cheeks tinged with a faint blush, and you smiled. “That’s kind of you to say.”

As twilight deepened, the two of you wandered side by side, the world shrinking to the space you shared. For Neuvillette, time seemed to slow, the weight of his responsibilities momentarily forgotten. He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so wholly present, so at peace.

Eventually, you paused, your gaze fixed on the shimmering horizon. “Thank you for walking with me,” you said softly. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, his tone scarcely above a whisper.

When you turned to face him, your eyes held his for a moment longer than expected. In them, he saw not just kindness, but an understanding that warmed something deep within him—something that had long been dormant.

From the distance, a familiar giggle drifted on the breeze. Neuvillette glanced toward the garden, catching sight of Melly peeking out from behind a bush, her small hands clasped together in triumph.

A faint chuckle escaped him, and he looked back at you. “It seems the Melusines’ intentions were pure, after all.”

“They’re smarter than they let on,” you said with a smile, your gaze softening.

“They are,” he agreed, his voice tinged with quiet affection.

The waves continued their endless dance, the world around you fading into the background. And for the first time in centuries, Neuvillette allowed himself to believe in something beyond duty—a quiet, unspoken hope that perhaps, amidst the vastness of the sea and the ceaseless flow of time, he had found a moment worth holding on to.

The courtyard was alive with warmth and laughter, sunlight cascading over the cobblestones as Fontaine enjoyed a rare, perfect afternoon. Neuvillette walked with measured grace toward the Palais Mémoria, his thoughts preoccupied with the endless responsibilities awaiting him. Yet his steps faltered when his gaze landed on a scene by the fountain.

You stood there.

The golden light seemed to frame you in an otherworldly glow, your expression alight with joy. The sight would have been enough to steal his breath, but it wasn’t him you were smiling at.

A man stood beside you—confident, charming, he gestures animated as he spoke. Whatever he said must have been clever, because it drew a laugh from you, bright and unrestrained, a sound that struck something deep within Neuvillette.

He froze, his chest tightening as he watched the exchange. The other man handed you a small bouquet of flowers. You accepted it with a faint blush, your smile softening in gratitude.

It was too much.

Neuvillette turned sharply and walked away, his steps brisk, his heart aching with a feeling he couldn’t name—or rather, wouldn’t. Overhead, the clouds began to gather, the sunlight dimming as rain started to fall.

The rain didn’t stop for days.

Fontaine’s usual soft drizzles gave way to an unyielding downpour, mirrored the turbulence in its Iudex’s heart. Neuvillette secluded himself in his office, his desk untouched, his mind elsewhere. The rhythmic patter of rain against the windows offered no solace, only amplifying the echoes of his thoughts.

The image of your laughter haunted him, as did the warmth in your eyes when you looked at someone else. He had always cherished you from afar, his devotion silent and steadfast. Yet now, faced with the prospect of someone else claiming the closeness he had yearned for, he was left adrift, the storm within him unrelenting.

He didn’t expect the soft knock on his door, nor the familiar sound of your voice calling his name.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?”

His head snapped up, his heart quickening at the sight of you stepping into the room. You approached with careful steps, concern evident in your gaze.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you said gently. “You’ve been missed.”

He averted his eyes, unwilling to meet your gaze. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself,” he murmured. “I am fine.”

But your expression told him you weren’t convinced. You crossed the room, stopping just in front of his desk. When he didn’t look up, you moved to his side, crouching so you were level with him.

“Neuvillette,” you said softly, your tone as steady as it was kind. “What’s wrong?”

His hands, folded tightly in his lap, clenched further. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice low.

You frowned, undeterred. Carefully, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his temple before cupping his face. The tenderness of the gesture made him flinch, though he didn’t pull away.

“Please,” you urged. “Tell me.”

The quiet plea unraveled him. His composure cracked, the emotions he’d fought to suppress spilling forth. “It hurt,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Seeing you… with him.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and then understanding dawned. “Jaques?”

He nodded, his gaze falling to the floor. “I thought I could be content simply protecting you, watching over you from afar. But seeing you with someone else…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.

The rain outside seemed to intensify, as if mirroring the turmoil inside him.

“Neuvillette,” you said softly, your voice filled with something he couldn’t quite name. “You don’t need to hold back with me.”

He shook his head. “You deserve happiness, and I… I am hardly what you need.”

Your expression softened, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said firmly. “Do you really think anyone else has made me feel as safe, as cared for, as you have?”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, uncertainty and hope warring within him. “But… I saw you smiling—”

“Because they were kind,” you interrupted gently. “But kindness alone doesn’t mean they’re the one I care for.”

The storm inside him stilled, your words cutting through the maelstrom like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” you said simply. “It’s you, Neuvillette. It’s always been you.”

The rain outside softened, its intensity fading as if the heavens themselves sighed in relief. Slowly, hesitantly, Neuvillette raised his hands to cover yours, his larger palms enveloping your touch.

“I never thought…” He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to think,” you said, a small laugh escaping you. “Just feel.”

The quiet encouragement shattered the last of his defenses. Carefully, reverently, he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “May I?” he asked, his voice unsteady. “May I kiss you?”

Your smile widened, your hand moving to gently brush a stray strand of silver hair from his face. “You never have to ask.”

His breath caught at your words, and then he closed the distance. The kiss was slow, tender, unhurried. It was a melding of unspoken emotions, a quiet confession of all the feelings he had buried for so long.

When he finally pulled back, his gaze met yours, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he smiled—soft, genuine, unguarded.

“You’re remarkable,” he whispered, his voice laced with awe.

“And you,” you replied, your fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw, “are everything I needed, even if I didn’t realize it at first.”

Outside, the rain had stopped entirely, the world washed clean and renewed. In the quiet of his office, Neuvillette held you close, his heart no longer heavy but light, full of a hope he hadn’t dared to believe in before.

♡ = suggestive content ♥ = explicit sexual content, minors dni

Aaron Hotchner

A different kind of issue

Fireworks

I won't say (I'm in love)

Secrets we share

Incorrect criminal minds

Lately I've been dipping into other fandoms and started to make this blog not just an Aaron Hotchner blog, but expand the blog to write about whoever fits. I'll still be writing some Hotch fics here and there, but not as many and as often as I did before.

With that being said, my blog is a little under construction to fix things. I need figure out a new theme, etc, so bare with me!

hope y'all understand, loves and kind throughts

sprout 🌱

Aaron Hotchner as a girl dad moodboard