why so blue?

He wasn’t sure when he asked you out either, because it meant putting himself on the line for love and hoping nothing would take it away from him. It meant throwing himself into the world and praying the target on his back had faded enough that nothing could see it. It meant taking your hand and holding it tight and hoping you never let go, because he can’t bear to see you walk away from him. It meant stolen dates in between hunts, sleepovers in his room in the bunker, shared drinks and spilt tears and promised confessions to never leave each other behind.

The first thing in his entire life that Sam Winchester was completely sure of was the day he realized he wanted to marry you.

Days have no meaning in the bunker, because every day is more or less the same for you. No calendar can tell you what is hidden by layers of stone walls and dirt over your head, obscuring the sunlight from you. Every morning, you wake safe in Sam’s arms, one of them tucked under your pillow and the other settling soft over your ribs, thumb twitching lightly against your side as he dreams. Every morning he kisses you when he wakes up, lips soft against the corner of your mouth and curving into a soft smile against your skin. Every morning that you’re not inundated in cases and work, he keeps you in bed as long as he can, mumbling about whatever is on his mind, warm arms keeping you against his side until something forces him up and out of bed. He makes you breakfast some days, other days you scavenge whatever Dean’s left behind, and some days, you hop in the Impala before Dean can and get breakfast from a diner or a coffee shop.

He sits with an arm around your shoulders in the library, watching you more than reading the pages in his lap. It always astonishes him how the lamplight glints off your outline; bright along the ridge of your nose, soft over your cheekbones and lips, bright again on your chin as it drips honey-gold down your chest. Soft shadows by your jaw that he kisses away when he sees them. Divots under your eyes that earn a soft smoothing of his thumb over the skin. A spot or two on your cheek that he nudges with his nose until you start laughing about them instead of crying over them. Your fingers tangled with his in his lap, his nails tapping rhythms over your knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth. Soothing, relentless, grounding. A song woven with the melody of you and Sam.

The night he realizes it, you’re covered in blood and filth. There’s dirt caked in your hair and covering your shoelaces until whatever colour was underneath is hidden entirely by blackish-brown mud. A leaf is trapped behind your ear, one that Sam carefully plucks out like he’s afraid to crunch the already-dead thing. Blood is smeared across your cheek from a cut on your eyebrow, knuckles red and raw and scabbed with something that might be yours and might not be. Fingers wrapped so tight around the handle of a knife they’re turning pale against your skin. Holes in your jeans at the knees from where you fell, and another further down your leg from where you caught it on a bush as you stood back up and took off after the vampire. Your eyes are hollow and dull, mirroring the light taken from the eyes of the vampire as you took his head off and watched it roll away into the bushes for someone else to deal with later; that someone being Dean.

Nothing about you is beautiful right now.

Except for the fact that Sam doesn’t seem to realize this.

All he sees when he looks at you is the picture of perfection, pristine and gorgeous even in the dark lighting. He doesn’t see the blood and the dirt and the death grip on the blade. He doesn’t see the cuts and the rawness of your skin in the places it scraped and bruised and knocked against. He doesn’t see the look in your eyes that makes you feel like you’re something they’re supposed to hunt. He catalogues it all, because that’s just what he does when it comes to you. He tucks those things away into the back of his brain with a silent promise to revisit them at the motel.

What Sam sees instead is the person underneath it all. The one who gave up a normal life to be with him, even if that meant living underground and out of trashy motel rooms and sharing leftover pizza over a movie for anniversary dinners on the road. The person who looked at Sam in all his broken glory and told him you’d hold the pieces of himself in place so he can glue them back together again, complete with a kiss from your soft lips on every shattered juncture. Sam sees you; beautiful, glorious, you. The you who looks like something fallen from heaven for him to cherish and adore. The person he vows to keep safe with his entire life, even if it kills him. The person who can take down a vampire and still look at him with the kind of eyes that say I love you in the cold silence of nighttime.

If he had any less self-control, he’d have proposed right then and there, even without a ring. The words are halfway to his mouth by the time he realizes what he’s about to say, swallowing them down for a later date and making a mental note to search for a ring at the next store he can find. He’ll probably take Dean with him if he’s being honest, because it’ll cost him more money than he knows what to do with, and he needs someone to push him into spending that much. Even though he wants to, because he’d spent everything on you if you’d let him, he still needs someone to promise him he’s making the right choice.

Instead of dropping to one knee amidst the tangled weeds in the front yard, he takes your hand and carefully pries your fingers off the handle of the machete, tucking it safely away in the trunk of the Impala. Sam takes both your hands in his, thumbs rubbing over the backs of them where they rest between your waists, squeezing each other soft and reassuring. He drops a kiss to your temple where there’s no blood, soft and sweet and everything that isn’t the hunt. At your wordless insistence, he drops another kiss to your lips, and one to the end of your nose that makes you scrunch your face up in that way he finds beyond adorable. His hand rests on your waist as he tucks you into the car, kissing your palm before sliding into the front seat to help navigate Dean back to the motel.

The entire time he washes you in the shower, he’s rehearsing the biggest speech of his life. He doesn’t even know when he’s going to give it, or what you’ll say in reply, but somehow, none of that matters. He’s still going to give it anyway, even if you do say no, because he needs to give the words life and love and the air they deserve. He’s certain of that much. The dirt swirls down the shower drain as his mind sifts over word choice, a thesaurus running in his head over what words work best for you, which one holds the most value, and which one means everything he’s trying to say. It’s hard to find the ones he likes, because what he feels is much too complicated for words alone, but he’ll give it his all, because for the first time, Sam is sure of something.

Maybe he’ll ask you over dinner in the bunker, because going to a restaurant and asking you in a public place sounds absolutely terrifying on both your parts. Maybe he’ll do it while you read him a book, your head on his chest and his legs tangled with yours. Maybe he’ll do it on a walk, sitting on the mound of earth that houses the bunker underneath it, sharing his jacket to keep the dirt off your pants. Whenever it happens, he’ll kiss you after like he needs you to breathe, because maybe he does. He’ll get you something small, like a cookie or a chocolate bar, for afterward, because just giving you precious metal doesn’t seem personal enough. He’ll probably find a flower and tuck it behind your ear, and you’ll probably smile at him all bright and shy, and he’ll have no regrets about asking you the most important question.

The second thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was that you’re the only one he’ll willingly plan a wedding with.

Weddings sound unbearably complicated to plan. From the few friends Sam’s known or kept in touch with who’ve ever been married, he knows that there’s an uncomfortable amount of arguments involved. And he knows that there are things you’re going to have to think about that don’t seem like they’d even be there at a wedding. He’s slowly discovering it’s even harder to host a wedding when you’re a hunter and all your friends and family are dead.

The list of guests he’s meticulously writing out for you is stopped at about five. There’s Dean, obviously, and Castiel and Jack, because you’d both agreed it would only be right for them to be there with you. Sam would love to invite Bobby, but he’s been dead a while and it’s improper to summon a spirit for a wedding. You’re hesitating on adding your living family, partly because there’s a few that are so far away, and partly because you’re not sure how they’d react to knowing what Sam does and knowing you’d married into it by choice.

Tossing the list aside, you concentrate on something else. You’re going to do it on the bunker’s hill, because having it inside a church feels a little too on the nose, given the whole angel-demon-spirit business you’ve dealt with for years. Other religious grounds seem too pointed, like an open invitation for something to come strike you down from above and make sure you’ll never draw another breath with each other. So, the bunker’s hill it is; on the grounds you call home, and the closest place you’ve ever felt to each other and to life.

You’re murmuring with Sam as you comb over pictures, Sam’s long fingers sorting them out in order of which you like the most to least. He’s keeping tabs on the little details you like; the blue flower in that picture is really nice, you say, but you also think that having too much blue would be boring. There’s an old tablecloth in the basement to the bunker that you adore, but Sam’s not sure how easy it’ll be to clean and have presentable, so there’s the discourse over whether or not you could find another one exactly like it. Sam is wisely keeping his mouth shut on anything regarding what he’s wearing, because you both know his taste in clothing is miserable. He’s quite content to let you hold up pictures to him and test colours against his skin, trusting you to choose one you like, that you’re certain won’t wash him out and make him look like a ghost.

He makes an off-hand comment about wanting something on him somewhere that matches the colour of your eyes. Your head pops up, face heating and mouth opening and closing slow, as if you’re forgetting the taste of words on your tongue. Sam grins soft, kissing your cheek until you’re laughing and falling against his chest, the ring on your finger catching the bunker light in just the right way. He kisses that too, because he can’t not do it. Dean wanders past muttering something about all the pictures you have printed out, but the words die on his tongue when he catches a glimpse of your enamoured smile in Sam’s direction, and his faint blush across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. As much as it pains him to admit it, there really is no better couple than the two of you.

Falling into bed that night is easy, because you’ve made substantial progress on colours. Sam has agreed to let you know if you’re leaning too far into the blue, and you’ve agreed to let him know that you’re not being strong enough with the blue. Maybe you’ll skip on the blue all together; Sam knows you could change your mind a hundred times before the actual day. Which, he reminds himself, is the next step; actually picking a day. Doing it on the day of your actual anniversary would be sweet, but Sam swears he remembers reading something about that being bad luck. He’ll have to revisit the lore before he agrees to it. You’ve decided you’re not going to do it in the summer, because according to you, Kansas summers are hell on earth, and I mean that literally, especially with the suffocating humidity. Sam is more than happy to not have to wear a suit in the summertime, and he knows you’re plenty thrilled about not dressing up nice in the heat either.

Discussing dates is tomorrow’s problem, though. Tonight’s problem is making sure the blankets are tucked soft around you and that your pillow isn’t getting sunken in from his head migrating to share it with you over the course of the night. It’s making sure his arm won’t fall asleep during the night, that his legs aren’t trapped in the sheets and in danger of pulling them off. It’s making sure you have water on your bedside table and a good book in arm’s reach if you can’t sleep, and it’s making sure he kisses you soft and sure before he turns out the light, and again after. One for the day when everything is joyful, and one for the night when everything is quiet and calm and making space for you and him.

The third thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was marrying you for real.

If he’s being completely honest, he remembers everything and nothing from your actual wedding day. He remembers getting ready and getting the cuff of his shirt stuck on his pinky finger while he put it on, and he remembers Dean laughing way too hard about it. He remembers Cas setting up a complicated looking ward on the lawn of the bunker; allegedly, something about blessings and protecting the peace in the area. He remembers getting soft and mushy when Dean did his tie for him, because he insisted that as Sam’s brother, he had to do it. He remembers Dean putting the little square of fabric into his pocket too; the fabric that just so happens to be the colour of your eyes, because he’d begged you to let him do that, and you couldn’t help but agree to the puppy eyes.

He remembers walking outside and getting hit with a gust of wind that blew his hair into his mouth, and he remembers spitting it out disgruntled, because it tasted like hair gel and plain soap. He remembers the metaphorical ‘first look’. Because it wasn’t a real one, since you’d insisted he come with you on the search for something to wear, and you’d purposely picked something that was simple, because you could do whatever you wanted to it later on without him knowing. You just wanted to see what shape or style he liked best on you, and conveniently, you happen to have very similar tastes in what looks like beauty on your body. He remembers reciting his vows that he’d memorized on purpose, because he needed to memorize them so that you knew they came from his heart. He remembers the food and the drinks, and he remembers whatever song you chose to dance to making him cry a little. He remembers crawling into bed with you and indulging in the one traditional custom you’ve both wanted to have.

Now, he lies on his back in the bed, the sheets messy and warm with your body heat. You’re tucked against his side, hair splayed out on the pillow, eyes closed and breathing steady as you dream something he hopes is lovely. Even in the afterglow, sticky with sweat and pure love, you look like the prettiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. And you’re his, officially in the eyes of the law that he thinks is stupid but sentimental nonetheless. The rings on the bedside table show that much. You’ve already mentioned to him no less than four times how you’re going to need him to remind you to take it off before going on hunts, because you never want to lose them. He’s decided that he’ll bring them with him on a chain around his neck, or tucked securely into a pocket, because if anything happens to you or him, he wants to make sure you go with your rings on.

Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, he turns onto his side with a deep huff, nuzzling his face into your neck and breathing in your scent. You sigh a little in your sleep, something light and soft that he swears could never hurt him, shuffling backward into him until your bare back hits his bare chest, and you’re back to skin on skin. He gives a soft breath of a laugh, pressing a kiss to the juncture between your jaw and your neck, parting slow and soft like he can’t bear to be separate from you. He drifts off slow and soft, unwilling to tear his eyes away from your form in the dim light of the room, but unable to keep his eyes open any longer to look at you. He’ll look at you tomorrow, he decides, and the day after that, and every day that comes after them.

The fourth thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of in his life his decision to stay with you for every day of it.

It’s quiet on the river edge. There’s some crickets striking up a chorus in the grass a few yards behind him, making the kind of music that would normally put him straight to sleep but instead is keeping him wide awake and focused on you. You’re in the river, the water deep enough it comes up to your chest but shallow enough you can keep your feet on the ground, even if that means standing up on your toes a little to be extra safe. Sam’s sitting on the bank, hands in the grass and feet in the water, slowly kicking his legs back and forth as he watches you wander around, mumbling something to yourself about moths and fireflies.

He’s barely had a minute to look you in the eyes before you’re clambering to the edge and impatiently pulling his shirt over his head. It gets stuck on his chin, and you whine a little in mock complaint before yanking the rest of it off, listening to the sound of static in his hair from the collision with the shirt’s material. Your eyes drift shamelessly over his body, taking in all his curves and rough edges and everything that makes him Sammy instead of Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester is a hunter, rugged and rough and stronger than half the world combined. Sammy is huge and soft and completely, entirely, yours. Sammy right now has a pathetically soft smile on his face, the one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes shine and makes you remember exactly why you fell in love with him. A simple tug of your hand, and he’s letting himself fall off the riverbank and into the water; and consequently, into your arms.

His arms come around your waist, stroking up and down at your skin that’s bare to the water and the moonlight. Nobody can see you out here, he made sure of it. It’s just you and him and the entire world before you, the stars in the sky the only witness to whatever happens. Your hands come up to rest at the back of his neck, tangling in the hair there and stroking it softly, smooth raking motions making him sigh contentedly. A quick glance back assures him the towels he brought are still there, still waiting all pearly and white and almost glowing in the night air.

Sam barely has time to take a breath before your lips are on his, guiding his head to meet yours and keeping it there with your hands in his hair as he sighs into your kiss. His hands wander a little; down your back to your ass, then up again to between your shoulder blades where they rest and hold you as close against him as he can. Fingertips tracing scars, chapped lips meeting in unhurried kisses, over and over again until all that’s definable is the way you feel on each other and the night wind brushing over the river and fluttering the loose strands of Sam’s hair around until they’re tousled and pretty. There’s an owl call in the distance that fades away immediately, Sam’s soft whisper of your name, and your cautious breath of consent that he swallows up in the kiss, deepened by his tongue on your bottom lip that intrudes.

The water turns noticeably cold around you, goosebumps rising on your skin and Sam’s. He breaks the kiss much to his and your disagreement, but he takes you hand and helps you hop up onto the riverbank before heaving himself over the edge with you. The towels are spread out in the grass, and Sam lays you down delicate and gentle atop them, removing the last barriers of clothing and tossing them behind him into the grass that will be nourished with the river water dripping from them. His lips are hot, the night air is cool and gentle on your skin, and everything disappears except for the heated feeling of Sam around and inside you, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. When it hits, your high is as soft and warm as laying in his arms afterward is, crashing over you in a kind wave that drags you into sunny warm depths with Sam holding your hand, the ring on your finger shining bright.

Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life. And all four things are loving you.

He wasn’t sure when he asked you out either, because it meant putting himself on the line for love and hoping nothing would take it away from him. It meant throwing himself into the world and praying the target on his back had faded enough that nothing could see it. It meant taking your hand and holding it tight and hoping you never let go, because he can’t bear to see you walk away from him. It meant stolen dates in between hunts, sleepovers in his room in the bunker, shared drinks and spilt tears and promised confessions to never leave each other behind.

The first thing in his entire life that Sam Winchester was completely sure of was the day he realized he wanted to marry you.

Days have no meaning in the bunker, because every day is more or less the same for you. No calendar can tell you what is hidden by layers of stone walls and dirt over your head, obscuring the sunlight from you. Every morning, you wake safe in Sam’s arms, one of them tucked under your pillow and the other settling soft over your ribs, thumb twitching lightly against your side as he dreams. Every morning he kisses you when he wakes up, lips soft against the corner of your mouth and curving into a soft smile against your skin. Every morning that you’re not inundated in cases and work, he keeps you in bed as long as he can, mumbling about whatever is on his mind, warm arms keeping you against his side until something forces him up and out of bed. He makes you breakfast some days, other days you scavenge whatever Dean’s left behind, and some days, you hop in the Impala before Dean can and get breakfast from a diner or a coffee shop.

He sits with an arm around your shoulders in the library, watching you more than reading the pages in his lap. It always astonishes him how the lamplight glints off your outline; bright along the ridge of your nose, soft over your cheekbones and lips, bright again on your chin as it drips honey-gold down your chest. Soft shadows by your jaw that he kisses away when he sees them. Divots under your eyes that earn a soft smoothing of his thumb over the skin. A spot or two on your cheek that he nudges with his nose until you start laughing about them instead of crying over them. Your fingers tangled with his in his lap, his nails tapping rhythms over your knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth. Soothing, relentless, grounding. A song woven with the melody of you and Sam.

The night he realizes it, you’re covered in blood and filth. There’s dirt caked in your hair and covering your shoelaces until whatever colour was underneath is hidden entirely by blackish-brown mud. A leaf is trapped behind your ear, one that Sam carefully plucks out like he’s afraid to crunch the already-dead thing. Blood is smeared across your cheek from a cut on your eyebrow, knuckles red and raw and scabbed with something that might be yours and might not be. Fingers wrapped so tight around the handle of a knife they’re turning pale against your skin. Holes in your jeans at the knees from where you fell, and another further down your leg from where you caught it on a bush as you stood back up and took off after the vampire. Your eyes are hollow and dull, mirroring the light taken from the eyes of the vampire as you took his head off and watched it roll away into the bushes for someone else to deal with later; that someone being Dean.

Nothing about you is beautiful right now.

Except for the fact that Sam doesn’t seem to realize this.

All he sees when he looks at you is the picture of perfection, pristine and gorgeous even in the dark lighting. He doesn’t see the blood and the dirt and the death grip on the blade. He doesn’t see the cuts and the rawness of your skin in the places it scraped and bruised and knocked against. He doesn’t see the look in your eyes that makes you feel like you’re something they’re supposed to hunt. He catalogues it all, because that’s just what he does when it comes to you. He tucks those things away into the back of his brain with a silent promise to revisit them at the motel.

What Sam sees instead is the person underneath it all. The one who gave up a normal life to be with him, even if that meant living underground and out of trashy motel rooms and sharing leftover pizza over a movie for anniversary dinners on the road. The person who looked at Sam in all his broken glory and told him you’d hold the pieces of himself in place so he can glue them back together again, complete with a kiss from your soft lips on every shattered juncture. Sam sees you; beautiful, glorious, you. The you who looks like something fallen from heaven for him to cherish and adore. The person he vows to keep safe with his entire life, even if it kills him. The person who can take down a vampire and still look at him with the kind of eyes that say I love you in the cold silence of nighttime.

If he had any less self-control, he’d have proposed right then and there, even without a ring. The words are halfway to his mouth by the time he realizes what he’s about to say, swallowing them down for a later date and making a mental note to search for a ring at the next store he can find. He’ll probably take Dean with him if he’s being honest, because it’ll cost him more money than he knows what to do with, and he needs someone to push him into spending that much. Even though he wants to, because he’d spent everything on you if you’d let him, he still needs someone to promise him he’s making the right choice.

Instead of dropping to one knee amidst the tangled weeds in the front yard, he takes your hand and carefully pries your fingers off the handle of the machete, tucking it safely away in the trunk of the Impala. Sam takes both your hands in his, thumbs rubbing over the backs of them where they rest between your waists, squeezing each other soft and reassuring. He drops a kiss to your temple where there’s no blood, soft and sweet and everything that isn’t the hunt. At your wordless insistence, he drops another kiss to your lips, and one to the end of your nose that makes you scrunch your face up in that way he finds beyond adorable. His hand rests on your waist as he tucks you into the car, kissing your palm before sliding into the front seat to help navigate Dean back to the motel.

The entire time he washes you in the shower, he’s rehearsing the biggest speech of his life. He doesn’t even know when he’s going to give it, or what you’ll say in reply, but somehow, none of that matters. He’s still going to give it anyway, even if you do say no, because he needs to give the words life and love and the air they deserve. He’s certain of that much. The dirt swirls down the shower drain as his mind sifts over word choice, a thesaurus running in his head over what words work best for you, which one holds the most value, and which one means everything he’s trying to say. It’s hard to find the ones he likes, because what he feels is much too complicated for words alone, but he’ll give it his all, because for the first time, Sam is sure of something.

Maybe he’ll ask you over dinner in the bunker, because going to a restaurant and asking you in a public place sounds absolutely terrifying on both your parts. Maybe he’ll do it while you read him a book, your head on his chest and his legs tangled with yours. Maybe he’ll do it on a walk, sitting on the mound of earth that houses the bunker underneath it, sharing his jacket to keep the dirt off your pants. Whenever it happens, he’ll kiss you after like he needs you to breathe, because maybe he does. He’ll get you something small, like a cookie or a chocolate bar, for afterward, because just giving you precious metal doesn’t seem personal enough. He’ll probably find a flower and tuck it behind your ear, and you’ll probably smile at him all bright and shy, and he’ll have no regrets about asking you the most important question.

The second thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was that you’re the only one he’ll willingly plan a wedding with.

Weddings sound unbearably complicated to plan. From the few friends Sam’s known or kept in touch with who’ve ever been married, he knows that there’s an uncomfortable amount of arguments involved. And he knows that there are things you’re going to have to think about that don’t seem like they’d even be there at a wedding. He’s slowly discovering it’s even harder to host a wedding when you’re a hunter and all your friends and family are dead.

The list of guests he’s meticulously writing out for you is stopped at about five. There’s Dean, obviously, and Castiel and Jack, because you’d both agreed it would only be right for them to be there with you. Sam would love to invite Bobby, but he’s been dead a while and it’s improper to summon a spirit for a wedding. You’re hesitating on adding your living family, partly because there’s a few that are so far away, and partly because you’re not sure how they’d react to knowing what Sam does and knowing you’d married into it by choice.

Tossing the list aside, you concentrate on something else. You’re going to do it on the bunker’s hill, because having it inside a church feels a little too on the nose, given the whole angel-demon-spirit business you’ve dealt with for years. Other religious grounds seem too pointed, like an open invitation for something to come strike you down from above and make sure you’ll never draw another breath with each other. So, the bunker’s hill it is; on the grounds you call home, and the closest place you’ve ever felt to each other and to life.

You’re murmuring with Sam as you comb over pictures, Sam’s long fingers sorting them out in order of which you like the most to least. He’s keeping tabs on the little details you like; the blue flower in that picture is really nice, you say, but you also think that having too much blue would be boring. There’s an old tablecloth in the basement to the bunker that you adore, but Sam’s not sure how easy it’ll be to clean and have presentable, so there’s the discourse over whether or not you could find another one exactly like it. Sam is wisely keeping his mouth shut on anything regarding what he’s wearing, because you both know his taste in clothing is miserable. He’s quite content to let you hold up pictures to him and test colours against his skin, trusting you to choose one you like, that you’re certain won’t wash him out and make him look like a ghost.

He makes an off-hand comment about wanting something on him somewhere that matches the colour of your eyes. Your head pops up, face heating and mouth opening and closing slow, as if you’re forgetting the taste of words on your tongue. Sam grins soft, kissing your cheek until you’re laughing and falling against his chest, the ring on your finger catching the bunker light in just the right way. He kisses that too, because he can’t not do it. Dean wanders past muttering something about all the pictures you have printed out, but the words die on his tongue when he catches a glimpse of your enamoured smile in Sam’s direction, and his faint blush across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. As much as it pains him to admit it, there really is no better couple than the two of you.

Falling into bed that night is easy, because you’ve made substantial progress on colours. Sam has agreed to let you know if you’re leaning too far into the blue, and you’ve agreed to let him know that you’re not being strong enough with the blue. Maybe you’ll skip on the blue all together; Sam knows you could change your mind a hundred times before the actual day. Which, he reminds himself, is the next step; actually picking a day. Doing it on the day of your actual anniversary would be sweet, but Sam swears he remembers reading something about that being bad luck. He’ll have to revisit the lore before he agrees to it. You’ve decided you’re not going to do it in the summer, because according to you, Kansas summers are hell on earth, and I mean that literally, especially with the suffocating humidity. Sam is more than happy to not have to wear a suit in the summertime, and he knows you’re plenty thrilled about not dressing up nice in the heat either.

Discussing dates is tomorrow’s problem, though. Tonight’s problem is making sure the blankets are tucked soft around you and that your pillow isn’t getting sunken in from his head migrating to share it with you over the course of the night. It’s making sure his arm won’t fall asleep during the night, that his legs aren’t trapped in the sheets and in danger of pulling them off. It’s making sure you have water on your bedside table and a good book in arm’s reach if you can’t sleep, and it’s making sure he kisses you soft and sure before he turns out the light, and again after. One for the day when everything is joyful, and one for the night when everything is quiet and calm and making space for you and him.

The third thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was marrying you for real.

If he’s being completely honest, he remembers everything and nothing from your actual wedding day. He remembers getting ready and getting the cuff of his shirt stuck on his pinky finger while he put it on, and he remembers Dean laughing way too hard about it. He remembers Cas setting up a complicated looking ward on the lawn of the bunker; allegedly, something about blessings and protecting the peace in the area. He remembers getting soft and mushy when Dean did his tie for him, because he insisted that as Sam’s brother, he had to do it. He remembers Dean putting the little square of fabric into his pocket too; the fabric that just so happens to be the colour of your eyes, because he’d begged you to let him do that, and you couldn’t help but agree to the puppy eyes.

He remembers walking outside and getting hit with a gust of wind that blew his hair into his mouth, and he remembers spitting it out disgruntled, because it tasted like hair gel and plain soap. He remembers the metaphorical ‘first look’. Because it wasn’t a real one, since you’d insisted he come with you on the search for something to wear, and you’d purposely picked something that was simple, because you could do whatever you wanted to it later on without him knowing. You just wanted to see what shape or style he liked best on you, and conveniently, you happen to have very similar tastes in what looks like beauty on your body. He remembers reciting his vows that he’d memorized on purpose, because he needed to memorize them so that you knew they came from his heart. He remembers the food and the drinks, and he remembers whatever song you chose to dance to making him cry a little. He remembers crawling into bed with you and indulging in the one traditional custom you’ve both wanted to have.

Now, he lies on his back in the bed, the sheets messy and warm with your body heat. You’re tucked against his side, hair splayed out on the pillow, eyes closed and breathing steady as you dream something he hopes is lovely. Even in the afterglow, sticky with sweat and pure love, you look like the prettiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. And you’re his, officially in the eyes of the law that he thinks is stupid but sentimental nonetheless. The rings on the bedside table show that much. You’ve already mentioned to him no less than four times how you’re going to need him to remind you to take it off before going on hunts, because you never want to lose them. He’s decided that he’ll bring them with him on a chain around his neck, or tucked securely into a pocket, because if anything happens to you or him, he wants to make sure you go with your rings on.

Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, he turns onto his side with a deep huff, nuzzling his face into your neck and breathing in your scent. You sigh a little in your sleep, something light and soft that he swears could never hurt him, shuffling backward into him until your bare back hits his bare chest, and you’re back to skin on skin. He gives a soft breath of a laugh, pressing a kiss to the juncture between your jaw and your neck, parting slow and soft like he can’t bear to be separate from you. He drifts off slow and soft, unwilling to tear his eyes away from your form in the dim light of the room, but unable to keep his eyes open any longer to look at you. He’ll look at you tomorrow, he decides, and the day after that, and every day that comes after them.

The fourth thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of in his life his decision to stay with you for every day of it.

It’s quiet on the river edge. There’s some crickets striking up a chorus in the grass a few yards behind him, making the kind of music that would normally put him straight to sleep but instead is keeping him wide awake and focused on you. You’re in the river, the water deep enough it comes up to your chest but shallow enough you can keep your feet on the ground, even if that means standing up on your toes a little to be extra safe. Sam’s sitting on the bank, hands in the grass and feet in the water, slowly kicking his legs back and forth as he watches you wander around, mumbling something to yourself about moths and fireflies.

He’s barely had a minute to look you in the eyes before you’re clambering to the edge and impatiently pulling his shirt over his head. It gets stuck on his chin, and you whine a little in mock complaint before yanking the rest of it off, listening to the sound of static in his hair from the collision with the shirt’s material. Your eyes drift shamelessly over his body, taking in all his curves and rough edges and everything that makes him Sammy instead of Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester is a hunter, rugged and rough and stronger than half the world combined. Sammy is huge and soft and completely, entirely, yours. Sammy right now has a pathetically soft smile on his face, the one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes shine and makes you remember exactly why you fell in love with him. A simple tug of your hand, and he’s letting himself fall off the riverbank and into the water; and consequently, into your arms.

His arms come around your waist, stroking up and down at your skin that’s bare to the water and the moonlight. Nobody can see you out here, he made sure of it. It’s just you and him and the entire world before you, the stars in the sky the only witness to whatever happens. Your hands come up to rest at the back of his neck, tangling in the hair there and stroking it softly, smooth raking motions making him sigh contentedly. A quick glance back assures him the towels he brought are still there, still waiting all pearly and white and almost glowing in the night air.

Sam barely has time to take a breath before your lips are on his, guiding his head to meet yours and keeping it there with your hands in his hair as he sighs into your kiss. His hands wander a little; down your back to your ass, then up again to between your shoulder blades where they rest and hold you as close against him as he can. Fingertips tracing scars, chapped lips meeting in unhurried kisses, over and over again until all that’s definable is the way you feel on each other and the night wind brushing over the river and fluttering the loose strands of Sam’s hair around until they’re tousled and pretty. There’s an owl call in the distance that fades away immediately, Sam’s soft whisper of your name, and your cautious breath of consent that he swallows up in the kiss, deepened by his tongue on your bottom lip that intrudes.

The water turns noticeably cold around you, goosebumps rising on your skin and Sam’s. He breaks the kiss much to his and your disagreement, but he takes you hand and helps you hop up onto the riverbank before heaving himself over the edge with you. The towels are spread out in the grass, and Sam lays you down delicate and gentle atop them, removing the last barriers of clothing and tossing them behind him into the grass that will be nourished with the river water dripping from them. His lips are hot, the night air is cool and gentle on your skin, and everything disappears except for the heated feeling of Sam around and inside you, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. When it hits, your high is as soft and warm as laying in his arms afterward is, crashing over you in a kind wave that drags you into sunny warm depths with Sam holding your hand, the ring on your finger shining bright.

Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life. And all four things are loving you.

It had been over an hour since the nurse had drawn your blood. Over an hour since you’d been told, “Just sit tight, the doctor will be with you soon”.

And in that hour, your brain had spun through every worst-case scenario it could conjure.

Something bad. It had to be something bad. The constant nausea, the fatigue, the way your body just didn’t feel like yours anymore, it couldn’t just be the flu. What if it was worse? What if you wouldn’t be able to take care of Lilah? You pressed the heel of your hand to your temple, trying to steady the rush of thoughts. Dean’s got her. She’s safe. She’s laughing. You just have to get through this.

Finally, after what felt like forever, a nurse pushed the door open. “Miss (Y/L/N)? The doctor will see you now”.

Your legs felt shaky as you stood, your palms damp against your jacket. You followed her down the hall. The doctor walked in moments later, a folder in his hand, his expression carefully neutral. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Thanks for waiting”, he said, sitting across from you. “We’ve gone over your results, and I think we have an explanation for the symptoms you’ve been experiencing”.

Your chest tightened, your hands twisting in your lap. Just say it. Rip the band-aid off. Your knees bouncing uncontrollably.

The doctor glanced at the folder, then back at you, his tone calm and deliberate. “First, I want to reassure you, you don’t have anything dangerous. Your vitals are good, your labs are strong. What we’re seeing isn’t an illness”.

Your breath caught. “Not… an illness?”.

He shook his head gently. “No. Your bloodwork showed elevated hormone levels. Specifically, hCG. That, along with your symptoms… the nausea, fatigue—points to something else”.

Your throat went dry. Every worst-case scenario had been playing in your mind for the last hour, and this… this wasn’t one of them.

He smiled faintly, like he’d given this news a thousand times before. “You’re pregnant”.

The word landed heavy, ricocheting around the room until it felt unreal.

Pregnant.

You blinked, your mouth parting, but no sound came out. Pregnant. The room tilted for a second, the sound of your own heartbeat loud in your ears.

Not sick. Not dying. Pregnant.

The doctor continued, his voice professional but kind. “I’d estimate you’re about six weeks along. We’ll want to schedule an ultrasound to confirm. But everything else looks healthy”.

Six weeks. Six weeks ago…

Your mind flashed back to that night where Dean had come back, where all the hurt and anger and longing had boiled over into hours that left you wrecked, sore, and unable to think straight for days.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles whitened. Pregnant. With Dean’s baby. Again.

You stared at the doctor, but his face blurred, the edges of the room slipping out of focus. Your ears rang, drowning out whatever else he was saying about follow-ups, vitamins, appointments.

Not flu. Not stress. Not something you could sleep off.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, your breaths shallow. You felt… split open. Like your body had just betrayed you with something you hadn’t asked for, hadn’t planned for—something that changed everything.

“Are you—”. The doctor’s voice broke through the haze. He paused, lowering his tone. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Do you want me to give you a moment?”.

You couldn’t even find words. You managed the smallest nod, your throat locked tight. He stood, offering a reassuring look before slipping out the door, leaving you alone in the glaringly white room.

You sat there frozen, your hands trembling in your lap, staring at nothing.

Pregnant. With Dean’s child.

Your mind skittered to Lilah, to her laugh, her tiny hands, the way she clung to Dean like she’d known him all her life. Your chest clenched, sharp and hot, as the reality pressed down. One child you’d raised alone. And now another. Only this time… Dean was here. But could you trust him to stay?

Your stomach rolled again, not from nausea but from pure shock. You pressed your hands over your face, trying to breathe, the truth pounding in your ears. You’re pregnant. And you had no idea what the hell to do next.

-

The cold nipped at Dean’s ears, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked on the little bundle of energy racing across the playground. Lilah’s boots stomped over the snow-packed ground as she charged for the swings. “Push me, Daddy!”, she called, climbing onto the seat and gripping the chains with her mittened hands.

Dean strode over, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning. “Alright, Buzz. Hang on tight”.

He gave her a gentle push, enough to make the swing creak. Lilah squealed, demanding louder, “Higher!”.

Dean chuckled, giving her a bit more momentum. “Careful what you wish for”.

Her laugh carried over the frosted air, pure and bright. “I can fly!”.

On the bench, Sam pulled out his phone, angling the camera toward them. He caught Dean pushing his daughter higher and higher, both of them laughing like they’d done this forever, not just weeks. Lilah’s little boots kicked the sky, Dean’s smile wide and unguarded.

Sam typed quickly under the video before hitting send:

To Jody: Turns out Dean Winchester’s a total softie. Kid’s got him wrapped around her finger. You gotta meet her.

Jody: Knew it. Been saying for years that man was secretly built for the dad life. Can’t wait to meet her.

Sam smirked, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He watched his brother and felt that familiar ache of pride. For all the scars, all the mistakes, Dean had found something real here.

Dean slowed the swing, steadying Lilah with a gentle hand as she hopped down into the snow. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. “Uncle Cas!”, she squealed. “Come play!”.

Cas blinked, tilting his head as though she’d just spoken in Enochian. “Play?”.

“Yeah!”, Lilah bounded over, mitten closing around his much larger hand. “C’mon!”.

Sam chuckled from the bench. “Go on, Cas. She’s not gonna let you say no”. Dean smirked. “Welcome to my world”.

Cas allowed himself to be tugged toward the jungle gym. Lilah pointed at the monkey bars. “Climb!”.

Cas looked up at the bars, then back down at her, utterly deadpan. “These appear structurally unsound for my weight”.

Lilah giggled. “Nooo, not you. Me! You help me”.

Cas blinked again, then carefully lifted her up under the arms. Lilah squealed with delight as she gripped the cold bars, her little boots kicking in the air while Cas stood solidly beneath her like a guardian statue. “Look, Daddy!”, she shouted.

Cas, meanwhile, frowned up at her. “Is this activity safe?”. Sam barked out a laugh. “Relax, Cas. Kids bounce”. Lilah giggled so hard she nearly slipped, but Cas adjusted instantly, holding her steady with surprising gentleness. “I will not permit her to bounce”, he said firmly.

-

You walked to your car in a daze, keys clutched so tight they cut into your palm. Pregnant. The word hadn’t stopped echoing in your head since the doctor said it.

You slid behind the wheel, the seat cold beneath you, and sat there for a moment, staring at the fog curling over the windshield.

As you finally pulled onto the road, the fog thickened, the yellow lines barely visible ahead. You gripped the wheel harder, eyes fixed on the faint glow of your headlights cutting a narrow path forward. Your mind wouldn’t quiet.

How am I supposed to tell him? What if he leaves again? What if he stays and it’s still not enough?

Lilah’s face flickered in your thoughts. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t understand what it would mean to share you, to not be the only one anymore.

For the first time in years, you felt small, almost afraid. Not of monsters. Not of the dark. But of this life you hadn’t planned and the man who held your heart in his calloused hands. You whispered to yourself, like maybe if you said it enough it would sink in: “Pregnant”.

When you cam home, Sam hovered by the stove with a wooden spoon. Cas stood nearby, frowning at a cookbook held upside down. Lilah sat on the counter in her bee-print pajamas, a wooden spoon in her hand, her cheeks pink with excitement. And Dean, Dean was moving between them all, sleeves rolled up, laughter tugging at his mouth as he tried to keep Lilah from stirring too hard.

“Hey, Buzz”, he said, catching the spoon before it splattered. “Gentle, remember? Soup’s not a race”. She giggled, leaning against him. “But I’m helping!”.

Dean kissed the top of her head, then glanced up and saw you. The grin faltered, softening into something gentler. “Hey. You’re back”.

Sam looked up too, his expression openly relieved. “We’re working on dinner. Got some soup going for you. Should be easy on your stomach”.

Cas finally turned the book right-side up, his voice deadpan. “You require nutrients”.

The laugh caught in your throat before it could escape. You managed a nod, clutching your coat tighter around you. “Thanks”.

Dean was still watching you, eyes narrowing just slightly like he could read something in your face. Like he always could.

You couldn’t meet his gaze. Not tonight. Not with everyone here. Not when the fear of what came next threatened to spill over. So you smiled faintly, ducking your head, and slipped further into the kitchen, praying no one noticed how your hands shook.

-

Later, Sam and Cas had taken their bags and left with promises to see everyone soon.

Now it was just the three of you.

The living room was lit only by the glow of the Christmas lights you’d strung along the mantel earlier in the week. A movie played.

Dean sat in the middle of the couch, his legs stretched out, a big bowl of popcorn balanced between his thighs. Lilah sat snug against him, her tiny hand fishing lazily through the bowl every few minutes. Her head leaned against his arm, her eyelids drooping heavier with each scene.

You sat beside them, wrapped in a blanket, your body sinking deeper into the cushions. The warmth of the room, the soft hum of the TV, and the rhythm of Lilah’s sleepy breathing made your own eyes grow heavy.

Dean glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting as he brushed a curl out of her face. “She’s about two minutes from crashing”, he murmured.

“Mm”, you hummed, too tired to form a proper answer.

He shifted just slightly, careful not to jostle her, and his gaze flicked to you. For a moment, he just watched. Watched the way your blanket bunched around your shoulders, the faint slump of your posture, the way you fought sleep like you didn’t trust it to hold. His chest ached. Because this—his daughter tucked under his arm, you beside him—was everything he’d never let himself hope for. And now that he had it, he didn’t know how to keep from breaking it.

Lilah yawned, her small body curling tighter into his side, the popcorn bowl sliding precariously until Dean steadied it with one hand. “Daddy…”, she mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, Buzz?”.

Her lips curved faintly, eyes closed. “Best Christmas ever”.

Dean’s throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to her hair, whispering, “Yeah, sweetheart. It really is”.

You turned your head, watching him, and for just a moment your eyes met. The tenderness in his gaze nearly unraveled you.

By the time the movie credits started rolling, Lilah was out cold with her cheek smushed against Dean’s arm and her hand still curled in a lazy fist near the empty popcorn bowl. You shifted slowly, sitting up just a bit. “I’ll carry her”.

Dean shook his head, careful not to move too fast. “Nah. I got her”.

He moved gently, like she was made of glass, cradling her against his chest as he stood. Her little arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, but she didn’t wake.

You followed quietly behind as he padded down the hallway.

In her room, Dean laid her down carefully, brushing a thumb over her forehead before tucking the blanket under her chin. She sighed in her sleep, turning her face into the pillow with a little mumble.

You both walked back toward the living room. Dean scratched the back of his neck as he stood in the hallway, his voice rough when he finally said, “She had a good day”. You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. “She really did”.

He shifted closer, watching you. “You okay?”.

You hesitated. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was pressing against your ribs, building like a wave behind your teeth. You wanted to tell him. You needed to. But the fear was louder. Instead, you nodded, voice barely audible. “Just tired”.

Dean studied you for a long second. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just… watching. Then he shifted his weight, glancing toward the living room, then back at you. “Couch?”. It wasn’t really a question, more like habit. He always defaulted to giving you space, letting you set the rules.

Your throat tightened. You bit your lip, eyes burning before you could stop them. The thought of lying alone in that big, too-quiet bed with the doctor’s words echoing in your skull made your chest ache. You shook your head quickly, voice trembling. “No. Don’t… I don’t want to be alone tonight”.

For a second, surprise flickered in his face. Then he nodded once, gentle. “Okay”. He followed you down the hall without another word.

In your room, you slipped under the covers, clutching the blanket tight, your body heavy with exhaustion. Dean kicked off his boots, tugged his flannel off, and slid in on the other side. Just sweatpants and a T-shirt.

For a beat, you both just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the silence heavy.

Then Dean shifted, turning on his side to face you. His hand hovered, then settled lightly on your arm. “C’mere”, he murmured.

And you did. Without hesitation, without thought. Curling into his chest like it was the only place you could breathe. His arms came around you instantly, holding you together when you felt like you might fall apart. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into him, even if just for tonight.

Sleep came for you quick, while Dean stayed awake.

He lay on his side, one arm draped protectively over you, eyes tracing the lines of your face in the soft moonlight. The exhaustion in your features. The faint crease between your brows that hadn’t smoothed, even in sleep.

His thumb brushed lightly against your arm, soothing a rhythm you’d never feel.

He should’ve been asleep too. God knew he was running on fumes after the case, after chasing Lilah around the playground, after keeping up the front of a man who had this whole dad thing down pat. But he couldn’t close his eyes. Not when holding you felt like something borrowed, fragile. Like if he blinked, you’d slip through his fingers all over again.

His throat tightened, words he’d never say pressing against his ribs.

I’m not leaving this time. I swear it. I don’t care if I’m not good enough, if you never forgive me for before. I’ll be here. For her. For you.

You shifted in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent, and nestled closer. The movement made his heart twist, sharp and sweet. He bent his head, pressing the softest kiss to your hair. You didn’t stir. So he whispered into the quiet, voice breaking on the words meant only for you and the dark: “I still love you so damn much”.

-

For once, you were warm, cocooned in Dean’s arms, with your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady drum under your ear. It might have lasted—if you lived in any world other than one with a four-year-old.

The door creaked. Then a burst of energy launched itself onto the bed.

“Wake up, it’s Christmas Eve!”, Lilah shouted, bouncing on the mattress with all the grace of a baby deer.

You groaned, burrowing deeper into Dean’s chest. He let out a grunt as Lilah landed squarely on his stomach. “Buzz”, he wheezed, catching her before she toppled, “it is way too early for Santa-level enthusiasm”.

“It’s not too early!”, she insisted, bouncing again. “It’s Christmas Eve!”.

Dean laughed despite himself, pulling her down into a tickle attack until she squealed, kicking her feet. “Alright, alright, you little maniac. You win”.

You peeked out from under the blanket. “Don’t let her think she can win every time”.

Lilah flopped dramatically across both of you, her little arms spreading wide. “I always win”, she declared giggling.

With that, the morning blurred into chaos. Lilah had you both up and moving before the coffee had even finished brewing; dragging Dean to the tree to inspect every ornament, insisting on Christmas music at full volume and begging for cookies for breakfast until Dean bribed her down to toast with sprinkles.

And you, you felt… almost normal. The nausea had eased, your stomach calm enough to let you nibble on toast and sip warm tea. Your body was still heavy with fatigue, but nothing like the past days.

By late morning, Lilah was sprawled on the rug with crayons, working on a drawing of “Santa’s loud car” (which suspiciously looked like the Impala). Dean leaned against the counter, sipping coffee from his favorite mug, his eyes flicking between her and you.

Finally, when Lilah was humming too loudly to notice, he set the mug down and cleared his throat. “So…”. His voice was careful. Too casual. “What’d the doc say yesterday?”.

Your hand froze around the dish towel. The air in your lungs seemed to thicken. He was watching you now, really watching. His jaw tight, his shoulders tense, but his eyes were soft. Concern edged with something else. Fear.

You forced a smile, weak around the edges. “Said I’m fine”.

Dean didn’t look convinced. “That’s it? Just fine?”.

You nodded, turning back to the dishes in the sink, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hands. “Yeah. Nothing to worry about”.

Dean let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “If you say so”. But he didn’t believe you.

Later, Dean cranked up “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” way too loud and danced Lilah around the kitchen until she shrieked with laughter.

Cookies came next. Dean showed Lilah how to crack an egg (“tap, tap—not smash, buzz”), fished out the inevitable shells, then guided her hand through a snowfall of flour. She puffed a cloud straight into his face and dissolved into giggles.

While the dough chilled, Dean hauled out the craft bin. Lilah gasped like treasure had been revealed. Glue sticks, glitter, paper, pipe cleaners. You cut circles; Dean threaded yarn; Lilah supervised and added “bee stripes” to everything, including Dean’s wrist again. Together you made a lopsided ornament for Baby: a tiny black oval with yellow tape lines and two googly eyes that would 100% fall off by New Year’s.

“Baby’s gonna buzz”, Lilah declared, holding it up to the light.

As dusk settled, you bundled up for a five-minute backyard breath. Dean draped his arm over your shoulders without thinking, then seemed to realize he’d done it and started to move. You didn’t step away. For a moment you just stood there, listening to Lilah narrate her breath like dragon smoke.

Inside, cocoa (mostly milk for you), and one last craft: a construction-paper “Welcome Santa” sign with a bee drawn in the corner. Lilah dictated a note: “Dear Santa, please be careful. Our house has glitter". Dean added, “P.S. oatmeal raisin is a trap. Enjoy the chocolate chips”.

When the plate and the glass were set, Lilah climbed into his lap in front of the tree, heavy and drowsy. Dean hummed something low and shapeless into her hair, palm moving slow over her back. You tucked the blanket around both of them and felt that same fragile fullness tug behind your ribs.

“Best Christmas Eve”, she mumbled, already slipping. “Best one”, Dean agreed, eyes on you when he said it.

After you carried her to bed together, Dean set out the presents with careful hands. When he set the last present under the tree and sat back on his heels, hands braced on his thighs, you came up behind him. When he turned, you were holding out a small, flat package. Brown paper with red twine and a tiny bee sticker sealing the corner.

“For you”, you said. Your voice was steady; your hands weren’t.

He frowned like he wanted to argue he didn’t need anything, then took it anyway. He worked the twine loose carefully and peeled back the paper.

A simple black frame. Behind the glass: Halloween. Lilah in her bee costume, cheeks pink, sound asleep in his arms. Dean on your front steps, head tipped down to her, his mouth soft in a way you’d never seen on a hunt. You’d caught it just before he carried her inside. “When did you—”.

“After trick-or-treating”, you said. “You were both out cold. I… couldn’t not take it”.

He traced the edge of the frame with his thumb, like the picture might blur if he touched the center. “It’s—”. He tried again. “It’s good”.

“It’s for her wall”, you said, and the words came out a little thick. “If you want”.

His eyes lifted to yours, something raw and bright there. You could see the moment he remembered what you’d told him weeks ago: Make it onto the wall first. Then we’ll talk.

“This mean I… did?”, he asked disbelieving. You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, Dean. You did”.

Dean´s grin spread slow and wide. It softened the lines around his eyes, lit him up from the inside. And then his expression faltered. His hand lifted, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with all the tenderness he’d been carrying. He leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed your lips, then stilled. The memory of your words was written all over his face. We’ll talk first. His jaw clenched, and his hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. “We should—”.

But you couldn’t take it anymore. The ache, the pull, the need that had been gnawing at you since the moment he stepped back into your life. You grabbed a fistful of his flannel, yanked him closer, and pressed your mouth to his. Not soft. Not careful. Hot and desperate.

Dean froze for a heartbeat, shocked. Then he groaned into you, hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. His mouth moved hard over yours, all heat and want, years of restraint snapping.

You gasped against him, tilting your head, letting him in. His tongue slid against yours. Your body pressed flush to his.

“Shit”, he rasped, breaking just enough to drag air into his lungs, his forehead pressed to yours. “You sure?”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers already sliding under his shirt, nails grazing skin. “I need you. Now”.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. He kissed you again, rougher this time, one hand tangling in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your hip and pull you tight against the hard line of him.

The framed picture lay forgotten beside him. The only thing that mattered was the fire sparking to life between you, the one you couldn’t put out, no matter how many reasons you’d told yourself not to strike the match.

Dean barely had time to breathe before you pushed him onto the couch. His eyes went wide, a sharp exhale leaving him as you straddled him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. “Fuck”, he rasped, hands instinctively gripping your hips. His head tipped back against the cushions, jaw tight as he dragged his gaze up your body. “You’re gonna kill me”.

You leaned down, kissing him hard and swallowing the low groan that rumbled out of his chest. Your hands slid up under his shirt, pushing it higher until it bunched around his ribs. His skin was hot under your palms, muscle shifting as he tugged the shirt off in one motion and tossed it aside.

Your mouth trailed down his throat, biting lightly at the sensitive spot beneath his jaw, and he swore under his breath, hips bucking up into you. You could feel him beneath the thin barrier of his sweats and your leggings. You ground down against him, desperate, and his grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising.

“Baby—”. His voice broke. “You sure about this?”.

“Dean”, you whispered, biting at his lip before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Yours burned with the same heat twisting through your belly. “I don’t wanna think. I just want you”.

That was all it took. He surged up, kissing you hard, one hand sliding under your top to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you gasped. You rolled your hips against him, chasing friction and he groaned so low it vibrated through your chest. He leaned back into the couch, chest heaving, his hands shaking just enough to betray how badly he wanted you. Needed you.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered the same warning it always did: Don’t let it go too far. Don’t wake up alone in the morning. Don’t let her shut down on you again. But when you stood, shoving your leggings and panties down in one sweep, leaving only the hem of your shirt brushing the tops of your thighs, that voice got drowned out by the sight of you.

Dean’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he shoved his sweats and boxers down to his thighs. His cock sprang free, already swollen, thick in his fist as he stroked himself slow. Precum glistened at the tip, slicking his thumb as he worked it over the sensitive head. His breathing turned rougher, chest rising and falling hard.

You swallowed, heat coiling sharp in your belly as your thighs pressed together.

Dean grinned through the strain, tilting his chin up at you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t just stand there. Come take what’s yours”.

Your knees hit the couch before your mind could even catch up. Dean’s hand barely had time to fall away from his cock before you were straddling him, one palm pressed to his chest for balance, the other guiding him to your entrance.

The blunt head of him slid through your slick folds, and Dean’s head snapped back against the cushions with a deep groan. “Shit—”.

You didn’t wait. You sank down in one steady stroke, stretching around him until you were seated flush against his lap, his cock filling you so deep you couldn’t breathe.

Dean’s fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to bruise, his mouth falling open as he stared up at you, wrecked already. His chest heaved under your palm, his eyes locked on yours. Then you shifted, rolling your hips just the way he liked, slow and deep, grinding down until his groan rattled through you.

“Fuck, sweetheart—”. His hands tightened on your waist, knuckles white, holding you steady as you set the rhythm. You did it again, circling your hips, dragging his cock against every spot inside you that made your body sing.

His head fell against your collarbone, hot breath searing your skin as he clung to you. “Shit—don’t—”, his voice broke into a groan. “Don’t stop, baby. Please. Don’t stop”.

The grip on your waist turned desperate. You rocked against him harder, every grind pulling a new sound from his throat. Your hand threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to keep his face buried against your skin, his stubble scraping your collarbone as he groaned again.

Every grind and every drag of his cock pushing you closer. You could feel your body tightening around him with every roll of your hips.

“Fuck—”, Dean choked out, his head tipping back against the couch, jaw slack and eyes screwed shut. His throat bared wide for you, his pulse pounding just beneath the skin. You leaned in and let your lips part over that spot, sucking hard. His whole body jolted, a ragged moan tearing out of him. “Baby—shit, baby, I’m gonna—”. His words broke into a growl as you clenched down around him harder.

Your moans spilling against his throat, your body shaking as heat flooded through you. Your muscles spasming around him as you came, clinging to his shoulders and biting back a cry.

Dean cursed, hands gripping your ass as he pulled you down. He growled against your skin, groaning your name as he spilled into you.

When you finally pulled back, panting, you collapsed against his chest, your ear pressed to the frantic hammer of his heart. His arms wrapped tight around you, one hand splayed wide across your back, the other in your hair, holding you there like he couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.

Both of you were still connected and for a few long, breathless minutes, there was nothing else in the world—just the wreckage of what you’d done and the steady, unshakable fact that neither of you had wanted to stop.

His fingers traced small circles at the base of your spine, absent and gentle, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. The other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing the damp strands back from your temple.

“Sweetheart”, he whispered finally.

You hummed in response, too wrung out to lift your head.

Dean pressed his lips to your hairline, lingering there, breathing you in. His voice broke low against your skin. “Missed you. Missed this. So damn much”.

You closed your eyes, chest aching. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words lodged in your throat. So instead you tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Dean’s lips brushed your hair again, lingering like he wanted to fuse you into him. His breath trembled as he spoke, so low you almost didn’t catch it. “I never stopped lovin’ you”, he whispered. “Not for a second. Don’t think I ever could, even if I wanted to”.

Your throat closed up, eyes stinging hot. You pressed your face harder into his chest, hiding, because if he saw your eyes right now, he’d know too much. You stayed quiet. Long enough that you felt his chest rise with a sigh, his hand rubbing slow circles against your spine like he was bracing himself.

“It’s okay”, he mumbled after a beat, voice softer, almost resigned. “You don’t gotta say it back. I just… I just wanted you to know”.

Your heart cracked wide open.

“I’m pregnant”, you whispered, muffled against his skin but undeniable.

Dean’s entire body went still. The soothing circles on your back stopped. The entire room was quiet for a moment.

Slowly, his hand flexed against your back, but he didn’t speak.

You kept your face pressed to his chest, terrified to lift it. “I found out yesterday”, you added, your voice barely audible“.

Dean’s heart pounded under your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost breaking. “So… there’s… someone else?”.

You lifted your head just enough to see his face, but his eyes were cast down, jaw locked tight, throat bobbing as he forced the words out. “You don’t gotta explain”, he rushed, his voice uneven. “You’re allowed to… I mean, I wasn’t here. You had your life. And he—he gave you this”. His hand twitched like he wanted to gesture at your stomach but couldn’t. “So I get it. You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t want me hanging around, not now”.

The look in his eyes, god, it broke you. That quiet resignation. The way he was already bracing to step aside. “Dean—”.

“I’ll still be here for Lilah”, he cut in, his tone sharp but shaking. “No matter what. That doesn’t change. I swear to god, nothing takes me from her again”. His voice cracked, softer at the edges. “But you—you’ve got someone else’s kid now. I won’t… I won’t make this harder on you”.

You pulled back just enough to see his face clearly. His mouth was tight, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his eyes flicking away from yours every time you tried to catch them. “Dean”, you whispered, trying to steady your voice. “What are you even talking about?”.

His laugh was short, hollow, with no humor in it. “C’mon. You said you just found out. You don’t know that quick”. He shook his head, staring down at his lap, his hand dragging over his mouth like he couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. “Six weeks ago—hell, that’s not even enough time, right? You don’t just… know that fast”.

Your chest ached. Oh. Dean… he’d dropped out of school young, the way most of what he knew came from hunting or hard living, not textbooks or doctors. Dean Winchester could field strip a gun blindfolded, stitch a wound with one hand, hotwire any car in America—but pregnancy math? That wasn’t in his arsenal. And underneath that, woven through every word, was something heavier: that ugly old voice in his head whispering he wasn’t good enough, that he didn’t deserve you, that of course you’d have found someone else when he left you behind. You stared at him, stunned, your own heartbeat racing now.

“Dean”, you started, but he was already moving, hands gentle under your arms as he lifted you off his lap and settled you beside him on the couch. He tugged his sweats back up with clumsy fingers, jaw working, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. He looked wrecked. Trying not to show it. Failing.

“You’re serious?”, you asked, staring at him. The confusion cracked into something almost like a laugh because—God—of all the things Dean Winchester didn’t know, this was one of them. It was… weirdly sweet.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and shrugged, frustrated at himself.

You caught his face in both hands, made him look at you. “Dean. No“.

He searched your eyes, stubborn disbelief fighting hope. You held his gaze.

“You can know pretty early”, you said softly. “Blood tests pick it up fast. Doctors count from the last period and-….”. You exhaled. “Bottom line? It’s yours“.

Dean just… stared. Green eyes wide, mouth slack between your palms as if his brain had short-circuited.

You realized belatedly that you were squishing his cheeks far too hard, your fingers digging in as you shook a little with nerves. But you couldn’t let go. Not until he said something. “Dean”, you whispered, your voice thin and trembling. “Say something”.

His throat worked, but no words came. He blinked once, twice, like maybe he thought you were messing with him.

When he finally spoke, it was muffled against your hands. “Mine?”.

You nodded, tears clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Your throat was so tight you couldn’t even speak, so you just pressed your forehead to his, hoping he could feel the answer in the way your hands trembled against his cheeks.

Dean’s breath hitched, his chest shuddering under your palms. Then, quieter than you’d ever heard him, like the words hurt to even ask, he rasped, “And you’ll… keep it?”.

Your heart cracked clean open.

His eyes were wide, full of raw, aching fear. The kind that went deeper than just this moment. It was the fear that you wouldn’t want another piece of him, not after everything he’d put you through. That you’d see him as a mistake, again.

You blinked hard, the tears spilling free. “Of course I will”, you whispered. “Dean—this is yours. This is ours. I would never…”. Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “I could never”.

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared at you like he was trying to burn the words into his skin, make sure they were real. Then his jaw clenched, and his hands covered yours, holding on like he’d drown if he let go. “Jesus Christ”, he muttered, shaking his head, eyes wet. “You’re… you’re really giving me another kid?”.

You let out a shaky laugh through your tears, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. “Looks like it”.

Dean’s laugh broke right in the middle, crumbling into a sound dangerously close to a sob. He hauled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, his face buried in your hair.

Dean’s words hit you like a punch and a promise all at once. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You better still have that ring”, he growled, not mean, more like he was staking a goddamn claim on the whole messy, impossible, beautiful heap of you. “’Cause I don’t fucking care if you want it or not. You’re mine”.

“It´s in the drawer", you whispered.

Dean’s hand closed over yours like a vice, then softened. “Show me".

You got up on wobbly knees and padded to the small bedroom dresser. Your fingers dove into the drawer you’d hidden it in. You’d kept it because you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t throw anything away that mattered without thinking it through. Because it was a thing he’d given you in a different life, and because, God, you weren’t ready to let the symbol die even if the promise it used to mean had.

You came back, holding the ring between your fingers. Dean’s breath hitched the second he saw it, like the sight of it gave the whole room shape.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He scooped you up onto his knee like you were smaller than you felt, like he could keep you safe by the mere fact of holding you. He took the ring from your fingers with a reverent sort of clumsiness, turned it on his thumb once as if re-familiarizing himself with the weight of it, then held out his own hand for yours. His eyes never left your face. “I’m gonna marry you”, he said, not a question. Not a proposal. A promise spoken like a fact. The words were hushed, rough with everything he’d swallowed for years and every hope he’d been too scared to admit. He slipped the ring on your finger slowly, like it was the most important thing he’d ever done.

When his mouth found the knuckles of your hand it was gentle, a kiss pressed there as if blessing the metal against your skin. You let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding.

Then, almost instinctively, he took your hand and placed it palm down against your flat stomach. His own palm went over yours. You leaned your forehead to his. “I still love you too”, you breathed, fingers tightening around his.

Dean’s face, already soft, melted into something that looked dangerously close to relief. He let out a laugh that was half sob, half laugh, and kissed you slowly. It was quiet and steady, not the frantic need of earlier but the kind that meant something deeper.

When he pulled back his forehead rested against yours. “Good”, he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you go again”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

you let out a nervous laugh that dies quickly. “yeah. probably.”

you stare at the ugly carpet for a second, then force yourself to meet his eyes. “i’m still a virgin.”

the words hang in the air. dean doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t look disgusted. he just nods slowly, waiting for you to keep going. he probably already knew.

“we never stay anywhere long enough for me to… you know, actually trust someone. and i don’t want my first time to be with some random guy in a bar who doesn’t give a shit.” you swallow hard. “so i was thinking… maybe we could do it. just once. help me get it over with.”

dean is quiet for a long moment. his green eyes search your face carefully. “you sure about this?” he asks, voice low and serious. “you want me to be the one?”

“i trust you,” you say simply. “and i know you don’t… feel that way about me. i’m not asking for anything more. i just want it to be safe. and kind. i don’t want it to suck.”

dean rubs a hand over his jaw, thinking. then he nods once. “alright,” he says. “if you’re sure. we do this your way though. slow. you tell me to stop at any point and we stop. no questions.”

relief floods through you so fast your eyes sting. “thank you,” you whisper.

he stands up and pulls you gently to your feet. his hands are warm when they cup your face. “no need to thank me, sweetheart. just breathe.”

he kisses you first—soft, unhurried, nothing rushed or hungry. it’s strange at first, kissing your best friend, but his mouth is gentle and patient. he waits until you relax into it before deepening the kiss, tongue brushing yours carefully.

clothes come off slowly. dean talks you through every step, murmuring quiet reassurances when your hands start shaking again. when you’re both naked he lays you down on the bed, covering your body with his own. his weight feels grounding instead of scary.

he spends a long time touching you, fingers sliding between your legs, stroking until you’re wet and breathing heavier. every time you tense up he pauses, checks your face, waits for your nod before continuing.

when he reaches for the condom you almost cry from how careful he’s being. “you still good?” he asks, rolling it on.

“yeah,” you breathe. “just… nervous.”

“that’s okay. we can stop anytime.”

he settles between your thighs, one hand holding himself up, the other brushing hair from your forehead. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance and you tense. “easy,” dean murmurs. “relax for me. breathe out.”

you do. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stopping every time your breath hitches. the stretch burns, but it’s not unbearable. dean’s jaw is tight, clearly holding himself back, but his voice stays soft. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers when he’s halfway in. “taking me so well. almost there.”

when he bottoms out you both stay still for a moment. you feel so full it’s overwhelming. a tiny whimper slips out of you.

dean presses his forehead to yours. “you okay?”

you nod, arms wrapping around his back. “move… please.”

he starts slow, gentle rolls of his hips instead of thrusting. every stroke is careful, measured. the pain gradually fades into something warmer, deeper. your legs wrap around his waist without thinking. “that’s it,” he murmurs against your neck. “just feel it.”

the longer it goes on, the better it feels. soft moans start falling from your lips. dean keeps his pace steady, never rough, never rushing. his hand slips between you to rub gentle circles over your clit and your back arches.

“dean—”

“i’ve got you,” he says quietly. “let go if you can.”

you come with a surprised cry, thighs trembling around him. dean follows a few thrusts later, groaning low into your shoulder as he spills into the condom.

afterward he stays inside you for a minute, breathing hard, before carefully pulling out. he disposes of the condom and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleaning you up without a word. then he pulls the covers over both of you and tugs you against his chest.

“you alright?” he asks, voice rough but gentle.

you nod against his skin, tears suddenly pricking at your eyes. not from sadness—just from how safe you felt the whole time. “thank you,” you whisper. “really.”

dean presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “anytime you need me, i’m here,” he says simply. “friendship doesn’t change. not over this.”

you close your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

for the first time, losing your virginity didn’t feel like something you had to survive. it just felt like being taken care of by someone who truly mattered. and even though there was no romance, no spark, no “i’m in love with you”, it was still perfect in its own quiet, honest way.

He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”

Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.

The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.

He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.

But this was a different kind of living.

When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.

Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.

Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.

Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.

“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.

“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.

You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.

You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.

“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.

You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.

You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.

Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.

The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.

The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it. 

You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.

“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.

It did manage to wake him up though.

His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.

He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.

But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.

He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.

He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.

You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.

“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.

Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.

“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.

And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.

His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.

You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.

He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.

“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”

Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”

“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.

Just then, he was desperate to believe you.

He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.

One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.

All you could do was stay.

AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!

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this was the sweetest hurt/comfort, like literally every time dean is sad or in distress in the show (which is way too often) I wanna go through the screen and comfort him exactly like she did ☹️🩵🩵 even when he's being all stubborn lol (especially then)

Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…” “Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.

my heartttt ❤️‍🩹😔