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âËàż feedback is welcome and always appreciated <3 (as long as it's respectful ofc) // minors DNI with anything 18+ // fuck ice, fuck maga, free palestine // LGBT+ friendly blog <3 // don't be weird, treat others the way you wanna be treated âË⥠// anti ai .á
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My grandma just called and, among other things, said âYou have hips. Thatâs good! Men like hips!â and then she interrupted herself to say âWomen like hips. People of your preferred gender like hips. I can never rememberâÂ
And I was like âThanks grandma! My preferred gender is none of them, no thanks.â and she was like âOkay, no one will comment on your hips!â very self satisfied, like âaha, I have figured it outâ
I think like half her grandkids are some variety of not-straight and she canât always remember which is which but she is the epitome of like âsheâs a little confused, but sheâs got the spirit!â
I told my grandma that Iâd told my friends about what she said and that some of yâall had said you wished she was your grandma, and she said âWell, you can never have too many grandkids!âÂ
So likeâŠconsider her your honorary grandma* I guess?
*if you want an honorary grandma, that is
Update on my grandma: I told her my hair was standing up, but instead of straight line it was diagonal and she said âThatâs okay, youâve never been straight!â and then laughed so hard at her own joke I thought she was going to drop the phone
he'd learn a phrase every now and then, maybe a sentence here and there, but he never actually buckled in to fully learn the language, until a case goes sideways. if you hadn't been there to translate, there was no way they would've been able to rescue the victims. so from there on he really wanted to learn, because if they lost someone due to something as small as a language barrier it would weigh heavy on his mind and heart
you start little; naming objects he can see, things he's already familiar with. though after a session in the library, you both learn quickly that sitting down with books isn't really his learning style, he needs to move around, interact, so you adjust your techniqueâteaching as you go, translating/teaching him anything from how to say car to "we need to stop for gas" in spanish
sam chimes in with his research of full immersion; learning through the complete exposure of the language you're trying to learn, without the use of your own native language (for dean, english). so every sunday you guys would speak only in spanish from the moment you woke up, using many context clues (nearly playing charades) to figure it out, for as long as possible. when you first started he could only keep at it for three hours maximum, now he can go the full day
listening to your music recs (in spanish) and watching telenovelas (soap operas) with you also helped greatly...not that he'd admit it
eventually he gets comfortable enough to start cracking jokes, and of course it's the corniest ones possible (not that you mind, those make you laugh the hardest). it'll be random too, he'll say something like "you know what my favorite word to say in spanish is?" and wait for you to ask which one, before he answers with "mucho, because it means a lot to you."
and you'll look at him, and he'll smile at you, and you'll bust out laughing at how ridiculous (and endearing) the joke is
but it also comes in handy on another case fast forward a couple months, when you get separated and the only reason they're able to find you is with the help of some witnesses who only spoke spanish. he holds you close that entire night, beyond grateful to have understood fast enough to rescue you
it warms your heart greatly that he took the time and effort to learn, both to help others and "to love you in another language, because his love for you is the same in every oneâabundant and profound"
you tried translating that with a slight shine in your eyes but quickly gave up, lips meeting his in a tender kiss before you cuddled into his awaiting arms instead.
âË⥠notes; super short, self indulgent, and slightly silly, lol <3 (for anyone who doesn't speak spanish, "mucho" is the translation for "a lot"). what phrase(es) or word(s) do y'all think would be essential for him to know in spanish? or something he'd wanna know? đ
question for da people <3 I might have some time to work on a wip todayy and I feel like I don't interact much with u guys, so I ask, which one would y'all want first? :]
both are for ben, either the continuation for this house is not a home orrr the fic based off this little headcanon I wrote âš
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summary: sam winchester has only been sure of four things in his entire life. and all four of them are about you
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: adorable fluff and a pinch of spicy | word count: 4.0k
warnings: proposals and marriage mentioned (wedding is lightly described, so imagine whatever you want for it !!), sam is so painfully in love it hurts, married fluff, a bit of lightly described smut (minors read with caution)
notes: requested !! i am a sucker for married!sam apparently, this turned out longer than i thought it would :] older married!sam, you will always be loved <3 i was going to find a picture of older sam for this but he just looks cute in this picture in his lil suit so...you get this one instead :]
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Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life.
He wasnât sure when he left his family to go to Stanford, because that means leaving his entire life behind and starting over. A stranger in a city full of strangers who somehow would manage to look out of place. The new kid who never stopped being the new kid and never learned how not to be the new kid. He wasnât sure when he came back into hunting, because that mean leaving his new life behind for the old one heâd worked so hard to forget. But heâd lost Jess, and that meant that there was nothing left for him in that old life. He wasnât sure when he did all those things to save the world; saying yes to Lucifer, throwing himself in the pit, siding himself with the kinds of things he swore heâd never side with. Because it meant throwing away everything he knew about who he was and rebuilding himself into something with no instructions for what to do next.
He wasnât 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 canât 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 Samâs 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 youâre 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 Deanâs 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, youâre covered in blood and filth. Thereâs 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 heâs 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 theyâre 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 doesnât 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 doesnât see the blood and the dirt and the death grip on the blade. He doesnât see the cuts and the rawness of your skin in the places it scraped and bruised and knocked against. He doesnât see the look in your eyes that makes you feel like youâre something theyâre supposed to hunt. He catalogues it all, because thatâs 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 youâd 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, heâd have proposed right then and there, even without a ring. The words are halfway to his mouth by the time he realizes what heâs 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. Heâll probably take Dean with him if heâs being honest, because itâll 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 heâd spent everything on you if youâd let him, he still needs someone to promise him heâs 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 thereâs no blood, soft and sweet and everything that isnât 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, heâs rehearsing the biggest speech of his life. He doesnât even know when heâs going to give it, or what youâll say in reply, but somehow, none of that matters. Heâs 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. Heâs 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 heâs trying to say. Itâs hard to find the ones he likes, because what he feels is much too complicated for words alone, but heâll give it his all, because for the first time, Sam is sure of something.
Maybe heâll 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 heâll do it while you read him a book, your head on his chest and his legs tangled with yours. Maybe heâll 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, heâll kiss you after like he needs you to breathe, because maybe he does. Heâll get you something small, like a cookie or a chocolate bar, for afterward, because just giving you precious metal doesnât seem personal enough. Heâll probably find a flower and tuck it behind your ear, and youâll probably smile at him all bright and shy, and heâll have no regrets about asking you the most important question.
The second thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was that youâre the only one heâll willingly plan a wedding with.
Weddings sound unbearably complicated to plan. From the few friends Samâs known or kept in touch with whoâve ever been married, he knows that thereâs an uncomfortable amount of arguments involved. And he knows that there are things youâre going to have to think about that donât seem like theyâd even be there at a wedding. Heâs slowly discovering itâs even harder to host a wedding when youâre a hunter and all your friends and family are dead.
The list of guests heâs meticulously writing out for you is stopped at about five. Thereâs Dean, obviously, and Castiel and Jack, because youâd both agreed it would only be right for them to be there with you. Sam would love to invite Bobby, but heâs been dead a while and itâs improper to summon a spirit for a wedding. Youâre hesitating on adding your living family, partly because thereâs a few that are so far away, and partly because youâre not sure how theyâd react to knowing what Sam does and knowing youâd married into it by choice.
Tossing the list aside, you concentrate on something else. Youâre going to do it on the bunkerâs hill, because having it inside a church feels a little too on the nose, given the whole angel-demon-spirit business youâve 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 youâll never draw another breath with each other. So, the bunkerâs hill it is; on the grounds you call home, and the closest place youâve ever felt to each other and to life.
Youâre murmuring with Sam as you comb over pictures, Samâs long fingers sorting them out in order of which you like the most to least. Heâs 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. Thereâs an old tablecloth in the basement to the bunker that you adore, but Samâs not sure how easy itâll be to clean and have presentable, so thereâs 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 heâs wearing, because you both know his taste in clothing is miserable. Heâs quite content to let you hold up pictures to him and test colours against his skin, trusting you to choose one you like, that youâre certain wonât 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 youâre forgetting the taste of words on your tongue. Sam grins soft, kissing your cheek until youâre 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 canât 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 Samâs 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 youâve made substantial progress on colours. Sam has agreed to let you know if youâre leaning too far into the blue, and youâve agreed to let him know that youâre not being strong enough with the blue. Maybe youâll 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. Heâll have to revisit the lore before he agrees to it. Youâve decided youâre 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 youâre plenty thrilled about not dressing up nice in the heat either.
Discussing dates is tomorrowâs problem, though. Tonightâs problem is making sure the blankets are tucked soft around you and that your pillow isnât getting sunken in from his head migrating to share it with you over the course of the night. Itâs making sure his arm wonât fall asleep during the night, that his legs arenât trapped in the sheets and in danger of pulling them off. Itâs making sure you have water on your bedside table and a good book in armâs reach if you canât sleep, and itâs 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 heâs 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 Samâs 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 heâd begged you to let him do that, and you couldnât 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 âfirst lookâ. Because it wasnât a real one, since youâd insisted he come with you on the search for something to wear, and youâd 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 heâd 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 youâve both wanted to have.
Now, he lies on his back in the bed, the sheets messy and warm with your body heat. Youâre 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 heâs ever laid eyes on. And youâre 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. Youâve already mentioned to him no less than four times how youâre going to need him to remind you to take it off before going on hunts, because you never want to lose them. Heâs decided that heâll 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 youâre 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 canât 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. Heâll 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.
Itâs quiet on the river edge. Thereâs 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. Youâre 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. Samâs 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.
Heâs barely had a minute to look you in the eyes before youâre 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 shirtâs 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 heâs 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 thatâs bare to the water and the moonlight. Nobody can see you out here, he made sure of it. Itâs 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 thatâs definable is the way you feel on each other and the night wind brushing over the river and fluttering the loose strands of Samâs hair around until theyâre tousled and pretty. Thereâs an owl call in the distance that fades away immediately, Samâs 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 Samâs. 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.
awww youâre a sweethearttt đđđ„č iâve been missing sammy and you wrote him so wonderfully, truly. canât wait to snoop through your other fics lolol, iâm sure theyâre just as amazing đ«¶đœđââïž
summary: sam winchester has only been sure of four things in his entire life. and all four of them are about you
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: adorable fluff and a pinch of spicy | word count: 4.0k
warnings: proposals and marriage mentioned (wedding is lightly described, so imagine whatever you want for it !!), sam is so painfully in love it hurts, married fluff, a bit of lightly described smut (minors read with caution)
notes: requested !! i am a sucker for married!sam apparently, this turned out longer than i thought it would :] older married!sam, you will always be loved <3 i was going to find a picture of older sam for this but he just looks cute in this picture in his lil suit so...you get this one instead :]
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Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life.
He wasnât sure when he left his family to go to Stanford, because that means leaving his entire life behind and starting over. A stranger in a city full of strangers who somehow would manage to look out of place. The new kid who never stopped being the new kid and never learned how not to be the new kid. He wasnât sure when he came back into hunting, because that mean leaving his new life behind for the old one heâd worked so hard to forget. But heâd lost Jess, and that meant that there was nothing left for him in that old life. He wasnât sure when he did all those things to save the world; saying yes to Lucifer, throwing himself in the pit, siding himself with the kinds of things he swore heâd never side with. Because it meant throwing away everything he knew about who he was and rebuilding himself into something with no instructions for what to do next.
He wasnât 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 canât 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 Samâs 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 youâre 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 Deanâs 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, youâre covered in blood and filth. Thereâs 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 heâs 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 theyâre 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 doesnât 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 doesnât see the blood and the dirt and the death grip on the blade. He doesnât see the cuts and the rawness of your skin in the places it scraped and bruised and knocked against. He doesnât see the look in your eyes that makes you feel like youâre something theyâre supposed to hunt. He catalogues it all, because thatâs 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 youâd 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, heâd have proposed right then and there, even without a ring. The words are halfway to his mouth by the time he realizes what heâs 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. Heâll probably take Dean with him if heâs being honest, because itâll 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 heâd spent everything on you if youâd let him, he still needs someone to promise him heâs 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 thereâs no blood, soft and sweet and everything that isnât 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, heâs rehearsing the biggest speech of his life. He doesnât even know when heâs going to give it, or what youâll say in reply, but somehow, none of that matters. Heâs 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. Heâs 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 heâs trying to say. Itâs hard to find the ones he likes, because what he feels is much too complicated for words alone, but heâll give it his all, because for the first time, Sam is sure of something.
Maybe heâll 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 heâll do it while you read him a book, your head on his chest and his legs tangled with yours. Maybe heâll 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, heâll kiss you after like he needs you to breathe, because maybe he does. Heâll get you something small, like a cookie or a chocolate bar, for afterward, because just giving you precious metal doesnât seem personal enough. Heâll probably find a flower and tuck it behind your ear, and youâll probably smile at him all bright and shy, and heâll have no regrets about asking you the most important question.
The second thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was that youâre the only one heâll willingly plan a wedding with.
Weddings sound unbearably complicated to plan. From the few friends Samâs known or kept in touch with whoâve ever been married, he knows that thereâs an uncomfortable amount of arguments involved. And he knows that there are things youâre going to have to think about that donât seem like theyâd even be there at a wedding. Heâs slowly discovering itâs even harder to host a wedding when youâre a hunter and all your friends and family are dead.
The list of guests heâs meticulously writing out for you is stopped at about five. Thereâs Dean, obviously, and Castiel and Jack, because youâd both agreed it would only be right for them to be there with you. Sam would love to invite Bobby, but heâs been dead a while and itâs improper to summon a spirit for a wedding. Youâre hesitating on adding your living family, partly because thereâs a few that are so far away, and partly because youâre not sure how theyâd react to knowing what Sam does and knowing youâd married into it by choice.
Tossing the list aside, you concentrate on something else. Youâre going to do it on the bunkerâs hill, because having it inside a church feels a little too on the nose, given the whole angel-demon-spirit business youâve 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 youâll never draw another breath with each other. So, the bunkerâs hill it is; on the grounds you call home, and the closest place youâve ever felt to each other and to life.
Youâre murmuring with Sam as you comb over pictures, Samâs long fingers sorting them out in order of which you like the most to least. Heâs 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. Thereâs an old tablecloth in the basement to the bunker that you adore, but Samâs not sure how easy itâll be to clean and have presentable, so thereâs 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 heâs wearing, because you both know his taste in clothing is miserable. Heâs quite content to let you hold up pictures to him and test colours against his skin, trusting you to choose one you like, that youâre certain wonât 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 youâre forgetting the taste of words on your tongue. Sam grins soft, kissing your cheek until youâre 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 canât 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 Samâs 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 youâve made substantial progress on colours. Sam has agreed to let you know if youâre leaning too far into the blue, and youâve agreed to let him know that youâre not being strong enough with the blue. Maybe youâll 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. Heâll have to revisit the lore before he agrees to it. Youâve decided youâre 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 youâre plenty thrilled about not dressing up nice in the heat either.
Discussing dates is tomorrowâs problem, though. Tonightâs problem is making sure the blankets are tucked soft around you and that your pillow isnât getting sunken in from his head migrating to share it with you over the course of the night. Itâs making sure his arm wonât fall asleep during the night, that his legs arenât trapped in the sheets and in danger of pulling them off. Itâs making sure you have water on your bedside table and a good book in armâs reach if you canât sleep, and itâs 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 heâs 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 Samâs 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 heâd begged you to let him do that, and you couldnât 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 âfirst lookâ. Because it wasnât a real one, since youâd insisted he come with you on the search for something to wear, and youâd 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 heâd 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 youâve both wanted to have.
Now, he lies on his back in the bed, the sheets messy and warm with your body heat. Youâre 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 heâs ever laid eyes on. And youâre 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. Youâve already mentioned to him no less than four times how youâre going to need him to remind you to take it off before going on hunts, because you never want to lose them. Heâs decided that heâll 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 youâre 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 canât 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. Heâll 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.
Itâs quiet on the river edge. Thereâs 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. Youâre 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. Samâs 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.
Heâs barely had a minute to look you in the eyes before youâre 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 shirtâs 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 heâs 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 thatâs bare to the water and the moonlight. Nobody can see you out here, he made sure of it. Itâs 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 thatâs definable is the way you feel on each other and the night wind brushing over the river and fluttering the loose strands of Samâs hair around until theyâre tousled and pretty. Thereâs an owl call in the distance that fades away immediately, Samâs 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 Samâs. 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 thinks he's being super smooth and charming, meanwhile she's just being nice and friendly cause that's who she is. he asks if she wants to get outta there so he can "see her pretty pussy for himself" and she tells him that she's busy, but can show him pictures if he wants.
he smirks deviously, getting closer in anticipation because after seeing how modern phones work he's ready to inspect her nudes eagerly untilâshe shows him a picture of her cat. a literal cat, chunky little furball laying on it's side, arms curled above it's head in the most adorable pose.
he looks at it, looks at her, then responds with "the fuck is this", to which she furrows her eyebrows in adorable confusion. "you said you wanted to see my cat?" and she's being a hundred percent serious, completely genuine. she thought he was just being old school per usual (like, pussycat). he just pinches the bridge of his nose with a defeated sigh.
2k notes for the first time on this tiny little thing is craaazy to me lol, thank you guysss !! đđ I will be writing a longer fic based off this, just again...I don't have an eta, sorry :') but within the month forshoree I already have the base idea <3
he'd learn a phrase every now and then, maybe a sentence here and there, but he never actually buckled in to fully learn the language, until a case goes sideways. if you hadn't been there to translate, there was no way they would've been able to rescue the victims. so from there on he really wanted to learn, because if they lost someone due to something as small as a language barrier it would weigh heavy on his mind and heart
you start little; naming objects he can see, things he's already familiar with. though after a session in the library, you both learn quickly that sitting down with books isn't really his learning style, he needs to move around, interact, so you adjust your techniqueâteaching as you go, translating/teaching him anything from how to say car to "we need to stop for gas" in spanish
sam chimes in with his research of full immersion; learning through the complete exposure of the language you're trying to learn, without the use of your own native language (for dean, english). so every sunday you guys would speak only in spanish from the moment you woke up, using many context clues (nearly playing charades) to figure it out, for as long as possible. when you first started he could only keep at it for three hours maximum, now he can go the full day
listening to your music recs (in spanish) and watching telenovelas (soap operas) with you also helped greatly...not that he'd admit it
eventually he gets comfortable enough to start cracking jokes, and of course it's the corniest ones possible (not that you mind, those make you laugh the hardest). it'll be random too, he'll say something like "you know what my favorite word to say in spanish is?" and wait for you to ask which one, before he answers with "mucho, because it means a lot to you."
and you'll look at him, and he'll smile at you, and you'll bust out laughing at how ridiculous (and endearing) the joke is
but it also comes in handy on another case fast forward a couple months, when you get separated and the only reason they're able to find you is with the help of some witnesses who only spoke spanish. he holds you close that entire night, beyond grateful to have understood fast enough to rescue you
it warms your heart greatly that he took the time and effort to learn, both to help others and "to love you in another language, because his love for you is the same in every oneâabundant and profound"
you tried translating that with a slight shine in your eyes but quickly gave up, lips meeting his in a tender kiss before you cuddled into his awaiting arms instead.
âË⥠notes; super short, self indulgent, and slightly silly, lol <3 (for anyone who doesn't speak spanish, "mucho" is the translation for "a lot"). what phrase(es) or word(s) do y'all think would be essential for him to know in spanish? or something he'd wanna know? đ
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind⊠waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now itâs ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everythingâor break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 6794
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
It had been over an hour since the nurse had drawn your blood. Over an hour since youâd been told, âJust sit tight, the doctor will be with you soonâ.
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 didnât feel like yours anymore, it couldnât just be the flu. What if it was worse? What if you wouldnât be able to take care of Lilah?
You pressed the heel of your hand to your temple, trying to steady the rush of thoughts.
Deanâs got her. Sheâs safe. Sheâs laughing. You just have to get through this.
Finally, after what felt like forever, a nurse pushed the door open. âMiss (Y/L/N)? The doctor will see you nowâ.
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.
âThanks for waitingâ, he said, sitting across from you. âWeâve gone over your results, and I think we have an explanation for the symptoms youâve been experiencingâ.
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. âFirst, I want to reassure you, you donât have anything dangerous. Your vitals are good, your labs are strong. What weâre seeing isnât an illnessâ.
Your breath caught. âNot⊠an illness?â.
He shook his head gently. âNo. Your bloodwork showed elevated hormone levels. Specifically, hCG. That, along with your symptoms⊠the nausea, fatigueâpoints to something elseâ.
Your throat went dry. Every worst-case scenario had been playing in your mind for the last hour, and this⊠this wasnât one of them.
He smiled faintly, like heâd given this news a thousand times before. âYouâre pregnantâ.
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. âIâd estimate youâre about six weeks along. Weâll want to schedule an ultrasound to confirm. But everything else looks healthyâ.
Six weeks.
Six weeks agoâŠ
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 Deanâs 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 hadnât asked for, hadnât planned forâsomething that changed everything.
âAre youââ. The doctorâs voice broke through the haze. He paused, lowering his tone. âI know itâs a lot to take in. Do you want me to give you a moment?â.
You couldnât 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 Deanâs child.
Your mind skittered to Lilah, to her laugh, her tiny hands, the way she clung to Dean like sheâd known him all her life. Your chest clenched, sharp and hot, as the reality pressed down. One child youâd 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.
Youâre pregnant. And you had no idea what the hell to do next.
-
The cold nipped at Deanâs ears, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked on the little bundle of energy racing across the playground. Lilahâs boots stomped over the snow-packed ground as she charged for the swings. âPush me, Daddy!â, she called, climbing onto the seat and gripping the chains with her mittened hands.
Dean strode over, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning. âAlright, Buzz. Hang on tightâ.
He gave her a gentle push, enough to make the swing creak. Lilah squealed, demanding louder, âHigher!â.
Dean chuckled, giving her a bit more momentum. âCareful what you wish forâ.
Her laugh carried over the frosted air, pure and bright. âI can fly!â.
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 theyâd done this forever, not just weeks. Lilahâs little boots kicked the sky, Deanâs smile wide and unguarded.
Sam typed quickly under the video before hitting send:
To Jody: Turns out Dean Winchesterâs a total softie. Kidâs 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. Canât 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. âUncle Cas!â, she squealed. âCome play!â.
Cas blinked, tilting his head as though sheâd just spoken in Enochian. âPlay?â.
âYeah!â, Lilah bounded over, mitten closing around his much larger hand. âCâmon!â.
Sam chuckled from the bench. âGo on, Cas. Sheâs not gonna let you say noâ.
Dean smirked. âWelcome to my worldâ.
Cas allowed himself to be tugged toward the jungle gym. Lilah pointed at the monkey bars. âClimb!â.
Cas looked up at the bars, then back down at her, utterly deadpan. âThese appear structurally unsound for my weightâ.
Lilah giggled. âNooo, not you. Me! You help meâ.
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.
âLook, Daddy!â, she shouted.
Cas, meanwhile, frowned up at her. âIs this activity safe?â.
Sam barked out a laugh. âRelax, Cas. Kids bounceâ.
Lilah giggled so hard she nearly slipped, but Cas adjusted instantly, holding her steady with surprising gentleness. âI will not permit her to bounceâ, he said firmly.
-
You walked to your car in a daze, keys clutched so tight they cut into your palm.
Pregnant.
The word hadnât 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 wouldnât quiet.
How am I supposed to tell him?
What if he leaves again?
What if he stays and itâs still not enough?
Lilahâs face flickered in your thoughts. She didnât know yet. She didnât 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 hadnât 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: âPregnantâ.
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.
âHey, Buzzâ, he said, catching the spoon before it splattered. âGentle, remember? Soupâs not a raceâ.
She giggled, leaning against him. âBut Iâm helping!â.
Dean kissed the top of her head, then glanced up and saw you.
The grin faltered, softening into something gentler. âHey. Youâre backâ.
Sam looked up too, his expression openly relieved. âWeâre working on dinner. Got some soup going for you. Should be easy on your stomachâ.
Cas finally turned the book right-side up, his voice deadpan. âYou require nutrientsâ.
The laugh caught in your throat before it could escape. You managed a nod, clutching your coat tighter around you. âThanksâ.
Dean was still watching you, eyes narrowing just slightly like he could read something in your face. Like he always could.
You couldnât 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 youâd 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 Lilahâs 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. âSheâs about two minutes from crashingâ, he murmured.
âMmâ, 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 didnât trust it to hold. His chest ached. Because thisâhis daughter tucked under his arm, you beside himâwas everything heâd never let himself hope for. And now that he had it, he didnât 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. âDaddyâŠâ, she mumbled, already half-asleep.
âYeah, Buzz?â.
Her lips curved faintly, eyes closed. âBest Christmas everâ.
Deanâs throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to her hair, whispering, âYeah, sweetheart. It really isâ.
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 Deanâs arm and her hand still curled in a lazy fist near the empty popcorn bowl.
You shifted slowly, sitting up just a bit. âIâll carry herâ.
Dean shook his head, careful not to move too fast. âNah. I got herâ.
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 didnât 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, âShe had a good dayâ.
You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. âShe really didâ.
He shifted closer, watching you. âYou okay?â.
You hesitated. You didnât answer. You couldnât. 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. âJust tiredâ.
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. âCouch?â.
It wasnât 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 doctorâs words echoing in your skull made your chest ache.
You shook your head quickly, voice trembling. âNo. Donât⊠I donât want to be alone tonightâ.
For a second, surprise flickered in his face. Then he nodded once, gentle. âOkayâ.
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. âCâmereâ, 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 hadnât smoothed, even in sleep.
His thumb brushed lightly against your arm, soothing a rhythm youâd never feel.
He shouldâve 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 couldnât close his eyes. Not when holding you felt like something borrowed, fragile. Like if he blinked, youâd slip through his fingers all over again.
His throat tightened, words heâd never say pressing against his ribs.
Iâm not leaving this time. I swear it. I donât care if Iâm not good enough, if you never forgive me for before. Iâll 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 didnât stir. So he whispered into the quiet, voice breaking on the words meant only for you and the dark: âI still love you so damn muchâ.
-
For once, you were warm, cocooned in Deanâs arms, with your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady drum under your ear. It might have lastedâif 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.
âWake up, itâs Christmas Eve!â, Lilah shouted, bouncing on the mattress with all the grace of a baby deer.
You groaned, burrowing deeper into Deanâs chest. He let out a grunt as Lilah landed squarely on his stomach.
âBuzzâ, he wheezed, catching her before she toppled, âit is way too early for Santa-level enthusiasmâ.
âItâs not too early!â, she insisted, bouncing again. âItâs Christmas Eve!â.
Dean laughed despite himself, pulling her down into a tickle attack until she squealed, kicking her feet. âAlright, alright, you little maniac. You winâ.
You peeked out from under the blanket. âDonât let her think she can win every timeâ.
Lilah flopped dramatically across both of you, her little arms spreading wide. âI always winâ, 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 âSantaâs loud carâ (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.
âSoâŠâ. His voice was careful. Too casual. âWhatâd the doc say yesterday?â.
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. âSaid Iâm fineâ.
Dean didnât look convinced. âThatâs it? Just fine?â.
You nodded, turning back to the dishes in the sink, hoping he wouldnât notice the tremor in your hands. âYeah. Nothing to worry aboutâ.
Dean let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. âIf you say soâ.
But he didnât believe you.
Later, Dean cranked up âRockinâ Around the Christmas Treeâ 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 (âtap, tapânot smash, buzzâ), 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 âbee stripesâ to everything, including Deanâs 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 Yearâs.
âBabyâs gonna buzzâ, 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 heâd done it and started to move. You didnât 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 âWelcome Santaâ sign with a bee drawn in the corner. Lilah dictated a note:
âDear Santa, please be careful. Our house has glitter".
Dean added, âP.S. oatmeal raisin is a trap. Enjoy the chocolate chipsâ.
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.
âBest Christmas Eveâ, she mumbled, already slipping.
âBest oneâ, 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.
âFor youâ, you said. Your voice was steady; your hands werenât.
He frowned like he wanted to argue he didnât 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 youâd never seen on a hunt. Youâd caught it just before he carried her inside.
âWhen did youââ.
âAfter trick-or-treatingâ, you said. âYou were both out cold. I⊠couldnât not take itâ.
He traced the edge of the frame with his thumb, like the picture might blur if he touched the center. âItâsââ. He tried again. âItâs goodâ.
âItâs for her wallâ, you said, and the words came out a little thick. âIf you wantâ.
His eyes lifted to yours, something raw and bright there. You could see the moment he remembered what youâd told him weeks ago: Make it onto the wall first. Then weâll talk.
âThis mean I⊠did?â, he asked disbelieving.
You swallowed and nodded. âYeah, Dean. You didâ.
DeanÂŽs 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 heâd 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. Weâll talk first. His jaw clenched, and his hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. âWe shouldââ.
But you couldnât 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 couldnât 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.
âShitâ, he rasped, breaking just enough to drag air into his lungs, his forehead pressed to yours. âYou sure?â.
You swallowed hard, your fingers already sliding under his shirt, nails grazing skin. âI need you. Nowâ.
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 couldnât put out, no matter how many reasons youâd 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.
âFuckâ, he rasped, hands instinctively gripping your hips. His head tipped back against the cushions, jaw tight as he dragged his gaze up your body. âYouâre gonna kill meâ.
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.
âBabyââ. His voice broke. âYou sure about this?â.
âDeanâ, 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. âI donât wanna think. I just want youâ.
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: Donât let it go too far. Donât wake up alone in the morning. Donât 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.
Deanâs 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. âCâmon, sweetheart. Donât just stand there. Come take whatâs yoursâ.
Your knees hit the couch before your mind could even catch up. Deanâs 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 Deanâs head snapped back against the cushions with a deep groan. âShitââ.
You didnât 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 couldnât breathe.
Deanâs 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.
âFuck, sweetheartââ. 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.
âShitâdonâtââ, his voice broke into a groan. âDonât stop, baby. Please. Donât stopâ.
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.
âFuckââ, 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.
âBabyâshit, baby, Iâm gonnaââ. 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 couldnât 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 worldâjust the wreckage of what youâd 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 couldnât 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.
âSweetheartâ, 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. âMissed you. Missed this. So damn muchâ.
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.
Deanâs lips brushed your hair again, lingering like he wanted to fuse you into him. His breath trembled as he spoke, so low you almost didnât catch it.
âI never stopped lovinâ youâ, he whispered. âNot for a second. Donât think I ever could, even if I wanted toâ.
Your throat closed up, eyes stinging hot. You pressed your face harder into his chest, hiding, because if he saw your eyes right now, heâd 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.
âItâs okayâ, he mumbled after a beat, voice softer, almost resigned. âYou donât gotta say it back. I just⊠I just wanted you to knowâ.
Your heart cracked wide open.
âIâm pregnantâ, you whispered, muffled against his skin but undeniable.
Deanâs 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 didnât speak.
You kept your face pressed to his chest, terrified to lift it. âI found out yesterdayâ, you added, your voice barely audibleâ.
Deanâs heart pounded under your ear.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost breaking. âSo⊠thereâs⊠someone else?â.
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.
âYou donât gotta explainâ, he rushed, his voice uneven. âYouâre allowed to⊠I mean, I wasnât here. You had your life. And heâhe gave you thisâ. His hand twitched like he wanted to gesture at your stomach but couldnât. âSo I get it. You wouldnât⊠you wouldnât want me hanging around, not nowâ.
The look in his eyes, god, it broke you. That quiet resignation. The way he was already bracing to step aside.
âDeanââ.
âIâll still be here for Lilahâ, he cut in, his tone sharp but shaking. âNo matter what. That doesnât change. I swear to god, nothing takes me from her againâ. His voice cracked, softer at the edges. âBut youâyouâve got someone elseâs kid now. I wonât⊠I wonât make this harder on youâ.
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.
âDeanâ, you whispered, trying to steady your voice. âWhat are you even talking about?â.
His laugh was short, hollow, with no humor in it. âCâmon. You said you just found out. You donât know that quickâ. He shook his head, staring down at his lap, his hand dragging over his mouth like he couldnât believe he was saying this out loud. âSix weeks agoâhell, thatâs not even enough time, right? You donât just⊠know that fastâ.
Your chest ached. Oh.
Dean⊠heâd 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 Americaâbut pregnancy math? That wasnât in his arsenal.
And underneath that, woven through every word, was something heavier: that ugly old voice in his head whispering he wasnât good enough, that he didnât deserve you, that of course youâd have found someone else when he left you behind.
You stared at him, stunned, your own heartbeat racing now.
âDeanâ, 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.
âYouâre serious?â, you asked, staring at him. The confusion cracked into something almost like a laugh becauseâGodâof all the things Dean Winchester didnât 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. âDean. Noâ.
He searched your eyes, stubborn disbelief fighting hope. You held his gaze.
âYou can know pretty earlyâ, you said softly. âBlood tests pick it up fast. Doctors count from the last period and-âŠ.â. You exhaled. âBottom line? Itâs yoursâ.
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 couldnât let go. Not until he said something.
âDeanâ, you whispered, your voice thin and trembling. âSay somethingâ.
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. âMine?â.
You nodded, tears clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Your throat was so tight you couldnât 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.
Deanâs breath hitched, his chest shuddering under your palms. Then, quieter than youâd ever heard him, like the words hurt to even ask, he rasped, âAnd youâll⊠keep it?â.
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 wouldnât want another piece of him, not after everything heâd put you through. That youâd see him as a mistake, again.
You blinked hard, the tears spilling free. âOf course I willâ, you whispered. âDeanâthis is yours. This is ours. I would neverâŠâ. Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. âI could neverâ.
For a second, he didnât 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 heâd drown if he let go.
âJesus Christâ, he muttered, shaking his head, eyes wet. âYouâre⊠youâre really giving me another kid?â.
You let out a shaky laugh through your tears, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. âLooks like itâ.
Deanâs 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.
Deanâs words hit you like a punch and a promise all at once. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. âYou better still have that ringâ, he growled, not mean, more like he was staking a goddamn claim on the whole messy, impossible, beautiful heap of you. ââCause I donât fucking care if you want it or not. Youâre mineâ.
âItÂŽs in the drawer", you whispered.
Deanâs hand closed over yours like a vice, then softened. âShow me".
You got up on wobbly knees and padded to the small bedroom dresser. Your fingers dove into the drawer youâd hidden it in. Youâd kept it because youâd promised yourself you wouldnât throw anything away that mattered without thinking it through. Because it was a thing heâd given you in a different life, and because, God, you werenât ready to let the symbol die even if the promise it used to mean had.
You came back, holding the ring between your fingers. Deanâs breath hitched the second he saw it, like the sight of it gave the whole room shape.
Dean didnât 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.
âIâm gonna marry youâ, he said, not a question. Not a proposal. A promise spoken like a fact. The words were hushed, rough with everything heâd swallowed for years and every hope heâd been too scared to admit. He slipped the ring on your finger slowly, like it was the most important thing heâd 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 hadnât known youâd 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.
âI still love you tooâ, you breathed, fingers tightening around his.
Deanâs 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. âGoodâ, he murmured. âBecause Iâm not letting you go againâ.
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Virgin!Reader wants to lose her v-card, but doesnât want it to be to a complete stranger. Not being in a place long enough to actually get to know someone she "man up" and asks her best friend (one of the Winchester brothers) to take her virginity â while hoping he doesn't find it weird or ruins their friendship.
(I don't mind it, but I would really like it if he wasn't secretly in love with her already... idk, sometimes it just makes it feel like then it's for him and not her)
âïœĄ Ë just once
summary ËËđąÖŽà»ÖŽ when you finally work up the courage to ask your best friend to take your virginity, he agreesânot because he wants you, but because he cares enough to make your first time safe and good
pairing ËËđąÖŽà»ÖŽ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ËËđąÖŽà»ÖŽ 922 genre ËËđąÖŽà»ÖŽ soft smut !!
warnings ËËđąÖŽà»ÖŽ explicit sexual content, loss of virginity, soft and gentle sex, use of condom, emotional vulnerability, best friends having sex with no romantic feelings involved, mild anxiety
notes ËËđąÖŽà» ÖŽâà» consider supporting my work .á
youâre both sitting on the edge of the motel bed, the neon sign outside flickering through the thin curtains. your hands are shaking in your lap. youâve rehearsed this conversation at least twenty times in your head, but now that dean is actually looking at you, patient and a little confused, the words feel too heavy.
âdean⊠i need to ask you something weird.â
he raises an eyebrow, beer bottle halfway to his lips. âweirder than the usual crap we deal with?â
you let out a nervous laugh that dies quickly. âyeah. probably.â
you stare at the ugly carpet for a second, then force yourself to meet his eyes. âiâm still a virgin.â
the words hang in the air. dean doesnât laugh. he doesnât look disgusted. he just nods slowly, waiting for you to keep going. he probably already knew.
âwe never stay anywhere long enough for me to⊠you know, actually trust someone. and i donât want my first time to be with some random guy in a bar who doesnât give a shit.â you swallow hard. âso i was thinking⊠maybe we could do it. just once. help me get it over with.â
dean is quiet for a long moment. his green eyes search your face carefully. âyou sure about this?â he asks, voice low and serious. âyou want me to be the one?â
âi trust you,â you say simply. âand i know you donât⊠feel that way about me. iâm not asking for anything more. i just want it to be safe. and kind. i donât want it to suck.â
dean rubs a hand over his jaw, thinking. then he nods once. âalright,â he says. âif youâre sure. we do this your way though. slow. you tell me to stop at any point and we stop. no questions.â
relief floods through you so fast your eyes sting. âthank you,â you whisper.
he stands up and pulls you gently to your feet. his hands are warm when they cup your face. âno need to thank me, sweetheart. just breathe.â
he kisses you firstâsoft, unhurried, nothing rushed or hungry. itâs 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 heâs being. âyou still good?â he asks, rolling it on.
âyeah,â you breathe. âjust⊠nervous.â
âthatâs okay. we can stop anytime.â
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. âeasy,â dean murmurs. ârelax for me. breathe out.â
you do. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stopping every time your breath hitches. the stretch burns, but itâs not unbearable. deanâs jaw is tight, clearly holding himself back, but his voice stays soft. âyouâre doing so good,â he whispers when heâs halfway in. âtaking me so well. almost there.â
when he bottoms out you both stay still for a moment. you feel so full itâs overwhelming. a tiny whimper slips out of you.
dean presses his forehead to yours. âyou okay?â
you nod, arms wrapping around his back. âmove⊠please.â
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. âthatâs it,â he murmurs against your neck. âjust feel it.â
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.
âdeanââ
âiâve got you,â he says quietly. âlet go if you can.â
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.
âyou alright?â he asks, voice rough but gentle.
you nod against his skin, tears suddenly pricking at your eyes. not from sadnessâjust from how safe you felt the whole time. âthank you,â you whisper. âreally.â
dean presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. âanytime you need me, iâm here,â he says simply. âfriendship doesnât change. not over this.â
you close your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.
for the first time, losing your virginity didnât 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 âiâm in love with youâ, it was still perfect in its own quiet, honest way.
ê. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
AN: Requested by Ashley Klann on Patreon! Iâve written a âback from Hellâ piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But hereâs a more canon-rooted drabble. đ
Request: After Dean comes back from hell, he has nightmares and a breakdown. The reader is there to comfort him and just holds him, and he ends up letting all pent-up feelings out.
Posted on Patreon: May 15, 2026
Word Count: 1.3K
Tags & Warnings: Set around mid-season 4 (when Sam was traipsing around with Ruby). Established relationship, angst, feels, hurt/comfort to the max
Dean mightâve been able to shrug off ghost sickness. He mightâve been able to look you and Sam in the eyes, with his third beer in hand, and claim he didnât remember anything about his four months in Hell.
But what he just couldnât do was make you believe it. Not a month ago, not last week, not tonight.
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 hadnât truly rested since he got âtopside.â
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 wasnât 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. Youâd 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 didnât reach for you. He didnât welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didnât even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldnât be one.
Dean had stopped trying, even though heâd noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.
Tonight, he didnât seem to care about his brotherâs nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.
âYou okay?â you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.
ââM fine,â he said. âJust tired.â
You nodded, even though he couldnât see it. You wished he wouldnât 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.
Youâd noticed that his fatherâs jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadnât been wearing it since he got back.
You couldnât help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.
ââKay, goodnight,â 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 skinâthe mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.
You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Deanâs 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.Â
You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadnât 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.
âDean,â 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.
âDean?â 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 couldnât 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 didnât want to smother him, but you wouldnât leave him alone either.
âYou do remember everything, donât you,â 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 wasnât a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.
âNot justâŠwhat happened to me,â he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. âWhat I did.â
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didnât understand, but he couldnât bring himself to explain it to youâwhy he hadnât been able to let you in. Why he couldnât 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 didnât understand, but it didnât matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldnât 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.
âI love you,â you reminded him. âThat doesnât change.â
Again, Dean shook his head. âYou donât know. You donât know what IâŠâ
âRight now, I donât need to know,â you said.
Just then, he was desperate to believe you.
He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.
One touch couldnât make him forget. It wouldnât 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. đ„Čđ But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!
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Extract: You placed your hands on his cheeks, he closed his eyes and leaned into you "You love me?" You asked quietly, more of a statement,
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