#Nephilim

[melle-otterwise]

Just some father-son bonding 😇

(In reply to Misha's last post)

[kurt-wagner-my-beloved]

Idk if I'm behind on this but has it been said whether the casting for Jack was done to purposely resemble Cas or was that just a happy accident??

[0wavelength]

Honestly I kinda wish the creators of supernatural made the creation Nephilim a little more creepy, like instead of it being a normal pregnancy, the energy of the Nephilim actually feeds on the soul as well, but like make it painful. But not only that, the Nephilim wouldn’t look like a physical birth but instead a spiritual one because it orbits the soul like a planet to a star. A normal Nephilim birth on a human like Kelly, would not only leave them soulless but also dead.

But for Sam or Dean who can house the most powerful entities (Michael and Lucifer, or any angel) in existence, outside of God, Amara, and the Empty, they’d be fine. So if you want to do a omegaverse au, Dean should be fine because he can hold the most powerful archangel without combusting. However if you want to make it even creepier, instead of the Nephilim coming out like a normal baby Dean or Cas have to go find a dead baby to house the Nephilim’s soul and grace in it.

😀

[saintgothicsoul]

wounded angel

[ars-supreme]

Nephilim, Emile Corsi (Fake, AI Art).

[whereserpentswalk]

There are fallen angels all around your city. They don't do much, but they're always there. They're probably the most common cryptid in the city by far, they're almost a mascot for your city now. Your city used to be protected by actual normal angels, but history happened, now they're all fallen, their relationship with humanity forgotten, the ancient alliance lost. You don't think there was a betrayal, humanity just didn't need them anymore, they moved on, and now the fallen are just one of countless cryptids who landed here from another dimension.

Some look almost like humans, pretty humans, pretty humans wearing tattered and dirty clothing, but with wrong things about them, too many eyes, too many fingers, or just something off about them. Others look like their old angel selves more, but with time catching up to them, armor rusted, feathers unclean, the golden light turned cold and pale. Others look distorted, ghostly, like glitches in reality, sometimes monstrous and demonic in eldritch and terrifying ways. They say those were the most radiant before they fell.

Everyone kind of just knows to ignore them. Sometimes you'll see one, in an abandoned store, just on the street, in a subway station or an alleyway. But you know not to stop and stare like you would for other cryptids. They're common, and perhaps dangerous, at least unclean. And beyond that sad and unpleasant, and this twenty-first century world does not want to look at sad or unpleasant things. All the anger and little joy in the world is in a single cellphone, why bother taking a moment to pay respect.

There was that one time that one flew at you, with big, bloodstained wings, and a sword in its hands. It terrified you. But it was nothing, it didn't hurt you, you were just afraid. They set up traps for them, and places to make sure they don't rest. Little demonic sigils on pieces of architecture to make sure they don't perch there. Or pedants on shops so that they can never go in. Even a security camera, and a monster hunter's number, in case they're seen in the wrong place. They scare you sometimes, and to some creatures scaring a human is a crime that could cost them their lives. It's just how it is.

You gave some food to one, just some meat. She was small, would have looked like a pretty human girl wearing nothing but an old black coat she found, would have looked human if it wasn't for her featherless wings twitching in the rain. You let her come close to you. She didn't want to be touched. But you sung to her, and she liked your song. She told you that she used to sing before she was fallen, used to have shinning golden wings, and sing in the finest of restaurants. You let her sing back to you for a bit. You didn't ask her name. It would be weird to. But you hoped she was ok. Hoped she didn't pay the price of someone's fear.

You didn't see her again. But you think about her sometimes. It's silly to wonder if such a creature is ok. It's just a cryptid, the lowest and most forgettable of cryptids. It wouldn't affect you if anything happened, but you'd weep just to think of the possibility.

[roseydanes]

They had everybody fooled until they started to Devil Trigger.

[tasiakosh]

Tolerance

[tuxedoe]

༻ A New Kind of Lost ༺

WC - 3k ish

Synopsis - Dean discovers a nephilim out in the dead of the night. Against everything he knows, he brings her back to the bunker.

AUTHOR'S NOTE - First fic i've posted!! Barely proofread. I have plentyyyy of drafts that i could hypothetically finish if you guys want me to... Send recs in my inbox if you want something specific lmao

The Impala’s headlights cut twin streaks through the oppressive black of the Iowa night. The air hung heavy and still, thick with the scent of damp earth and the unseen rustling of unseen things in the endless fields flanking Highway 65. Dean gripped the wheel, the steady rumble of the engine the only sound against the deep, swallowing silence of the countryside. He was hours past the lazy orange sunset now, the moon a sliver hidden behind a heavy blanket of cloud, casting the world in shades of deepest grey and impenetrable shadow. The salt-and-burn felt like a lifetime ago, the lingering scent of sulfur almost a phantom memory against the metallic tang of the Impala’s aging interior. He just wanted to be back at the bunker, the familiar weight of lore books and the comforting presence (however exasperating) of Sam a bulwark against the encroaching darkness that always seemed to press in on them.

Then, his headlights snagged on something pale at the edge of the asphalt. A figure. Standing utterly still on the narrow shoulder, facing away from the road, swallowed by the suffocating black beyond the reach of his beams. A hitchhiker in this desolate stretch, in the dead of night? It sent a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air crawling up his spine.

He slowed instinctively, the classic rock on the radio suddenly feeling too loud, too brash against the oppressive stillness. Most people, stranded this late, would be frantically waving, a desperate silhouette against the encroaching void. This figure was a statue carved from moonlight and shadow, unnervingly serene in its isolation.

As the Impala crept closer, Dean’s hunter senses, usually lulled by the monotony of a night drive, snapped to attention. The figure was slight, almost fragile-looking, too young to be out here alone in this godforsaken darkness. The clothes – a light-colored t-shirt and jeans, stark against the black – seemed almost spectral. And the stillness… it was unnatural, as if they weren’t breathing, weren't even truly present.

He drew almost level, his foot hovering over the brake. Then, the figure turned its head. Slowly. Too slowly. The movement was fluid, unsettlingly graceful, like a predator swiveling its gaze in the dark. And then he saw the eyes.

Even in the brief flash of his headlights, they burned with an unnatural luminescence, a piercing pale blue that seemed to drink in the darkness around them. They locked onto his, not with surprise or fear, but with an unnerving, absolute focus that felt like being pinned under a cosmic gaze. There was a depth to them that belied the youth of the face, an ancient knowing that sent a primal unease crawling through Dean. This wasn't just a stranded traveler. This was something else. Something that belonged to the night, to the shadows.

He jammed on the brakes, the tires protesting with a screech that ripped through the silence. He killed the engine, plunging them into an almost absolute darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the dashboard. The sudden quiet was heavy, charged. He could feel the prickling sensation on his skin, the instinctive tightening in his chest that always preceded a confrontation with the truly unknown.

He waited, his hand instinctively reaching for the Colt tucked beneath his seat. The figure remained motionless, its pale eyes still fixed on him, as if studying him in the darkness. The air grew colder, a subtle, creeping chill that had nothing to do with the outside temperature.

"Hey," Dean called out, his voice tight, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "You alright there? Need a ride?"

The figure didn't answer. It just continued to stare, its head tilted slightly, as if listening to a sound only it could perceive. The silence stretched, taut and unnerving, filled only with the frantic thumping of Dean’s own heart.

Then, it spoke. The voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried with an unsettling clarity in the still night air. "The light… it changed. Then the ground under my feet was… different. I don't understand how."

"Light? Changed?" Dean echoed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a bright light. It made a path. When I stepped through it, this place was here instead of where I was before." Her words were simple, almost childlike in their directness, yet delivered with a detached curiosity that's utterly unnerving.

"A path?" Dean pressed, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. This isn't just confusion. This is a profound, almost literal interpretation of something deeply supernatural. "Where were you before?"

She looked down at her hands, turning them over, as if expecting to find answers etched on her skin. "A warm, quiet place. It felt like… waiting. Then, I just knew I had to move." She lifted her head, her pale blue eyes finding his again. "Are you from this place? Or did you also… just appear?"

Dean blinked. "Appear? No, I'm just… a guy. Name's Dean. What's yours?"

"Morgan," she stated, no hesitation, no emotion. "My name is Morgan."

"Alright, Morgan," Dean said, trying to re-center himself. This is way beyond just a lost kid. "You got any ID? A phone? Someone I can call?"

She shook her head, slowly. "I don't have anything like that. I only have myself." She gestures to her simple clothes. "These were… on me."

"On you?"

"Yes. Like a second skin. They were there after I moved."

Dean rubs his temples. Okay. Definitely not a random traveler. This is full-blown, sci-fi level weird. "Look, it's getting dark, Morgan. You can't stay out here. You got anywhere to go?"

Her pale eyes meet his again, and for the first time, Dean detected a flicker of something akin to uncertainty, perhaps even a nascent fear. "I don't know where I am, or what I'm supposed to do. My thoughts are… not complete."

That's it. That’s the click. Not just the words, but the sheer, vulnerable blankness behind them. Dean, who usually threw holy water at anything this fundamentally wrong, finds himself doing the unthinkable. He sees not a monster, but a being as lost and new as a newborn animal, thrown into a world it can’t process.

"Alright," he said, the word surprising himself. "Come on. I got a place. It's safe. We can… figure things out there."

She scrutinizes the car, then him, then the car again. "This vehicle," she says, her head tilting. "It looks heavy, but strong. Is it yours?"

"Yeah, it's mine," Dean grunts, opening the passenger door. "It'll get us off the road."

She slides in, her movements fluid and deliberate, almost too graceful, as if she's still getting used to inhabiting her own body. Dean gets back behind the wheel, throwing a quick glance at her. She’s already staring out the window, her gaze fixed on the receding cornfields, her expression one of intense, calculating study. He starts the engine. She doesn't flinch, just observes the rumble beneath them.

The drive to the bunker feels like a scene from a bad sci-fi movie. He tries to glean more information, but her responses are always this bizarre blend of simple language and profound ignorance.

"Do you remember anything before the light?" Dean asks, keeping his tone even.

"There was just me," she explains, her voice even. "And someone else. She was close. My… mother."

"Your mom?" Dean clarifies.

"Yes. Her presence was warm. Then, a strong pull inside me, and the path opened. She told me to go."

Dean’s jaw tightens. "She told you to go?"

"Yes. She said, 'Go, Morgan. Live.' Then the light was too bright to see, and I was here."

That last part. Go. Live. It hits Dean with a chilling clarity. The way she talks about "light," about a "path," her lack of memory for anything before, her utter detachment from normal human experience… and that mother, who initiated her arrival.

Holy hell.

His mind immediately goes to Jack. The wide-eyed, powerful, painfully innocent kid who literally popped into existence fully grown, struggling to understand humanity. Morgan is like that. So much like Jack. The same bewildering innocence, the same raw power just beneath the surface. Jack had been the son of Lucifer, a creature of unimaginable power, and look how much trouble that had caused. This girl… Morgan. She could be anything. And her power, unchecked, could be just as catastrophic.

He steals another glance at her. She’s watching the passing power lines, her head tilted slightly, an almost childlike fascination in her pale eyes. She seems to be tracking the electricity, sensing something he can’t. Like Jack could sense grace.

A nephilim. The word forms in his head, cold and definite. He just picked up a nephilim on the side of the road. On Highway 65, in the middle of Iowa. The irony burns a bitter taste in his mouth. Him. Dean Winchester. The guy who distrusts anything with wings or a halo. He's driving a nephilim to his own home.

But then he looks at her again. She’s not threatening. Not malicious. Just lost. And alone. And he remembers Jack. He remembers the initial fear, the suspicion. But then… the growth. The bond. The eventual, undeniable love. This girl, Morgan, she feels… similar. Like a raw, untamed force wrapped in the shell of an innocent. And she is so utterly, profoundly lost. He can't just leave her out there. Not now. Not when she's so clearly… one of them. Or, at least, something they had to deal with.

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The Impala purred to a stop in front of the bunker's massive concrete doors. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the facade.

"This building," Morgan says, her pale eyes sweeping over the bunker's entrance. "It looks hidden. Is it safe?"

Dean allows himself a grim, almost ironic, smile. "Something like that, Morgan," he says, pulling to a stop. "It's a safe place. My brother's inside. He'll… he'll help us figure out what's going on with you." He cuts the engine.

He gets out, walks around, and opens her door. She steps out, looking up at the imposing concrete structure. The air here is quiet, only the distant hum of the bunker's ventilation system breaking the silence.

"It is… very strong," Morgan observes, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the rough concrete of the wall. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, a faint flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "It feels… old. Deep."

"Yeah, it's pretty old," Dean confirms, leading her towards the massive steel door. He punches in the code, the familiar whirring and clunking of the locks filling the air. The door groans open, revealing the cool, dimly lit corridor beyond.

Morgan enters first, her head slowly turning, taking in the long hallway, the exposed pipes, the faint glow from the library beyond. "The inside is… consistent," she murmurs, a small, almost imperceptible nod. "And cooler."

Dean follows her in, the heavy door thudding shut behind them, sealing them away from the world. He leads her down the main corridor, past the rows of dusty shelves, the low hum of the bunker providing a strange, comforting backdrop. He can already smell a hint of Sammy’s half-eaten pizza lingering in the air.

He guides her towards the kitchen, the most neutral territory in the bunker. "Let's get you some food," he says, his voice gruffer than he intends. He gestures to a chair at the long wooden table. "Take a seat."

Morgan slides into the chair, her movements still precise, almost too deliberate. She looks at the table, then at the empty chairs, then back at Dean, her eyes wide and curious. "Food?" she asks, the single word holding a wealth of unasked questions about the concept.

Dean opens the fridge, rummaging. "Yeah, food. You eat, right? Like… pizza rolls? Or a burger?" He pulls out a bag of frozen pizza rolls, holding it up.

"I am not familiar with these items," Morgan states, her gaze fixed on the bag. "But… I am sensing a… need. An internal pull." She places a hand over her stomach.

Dean manages a small, strained chuckle. "Yeah, that's hunger, kid. We can fix that." He grabs a baking sheet and dumps the rolls onto it. He can practically feel Sam's presence approaching, a steady thrum in the bunker’s quiet.

Sam Winchester, who had been hunched over a dusty tome in the library, straightened up, his brow furrowed in immediate suspicion. Dean rarely prefaced anything with such a dramatic statement, and the sight of the stranger Dean was escorting – a young woman who looked barely out of her teens, with a lost and slightly bewildered air about her – only deepened his unease.

"Sammy, you are not going to believe this," Dean says, his voice a low rumble as he leads Morgan through the main war room, where Sam is now standing, observing. She looks around with wide, unfocused eyes, taking in the cavernous space, the towering bookshelves, and the flickering fluorescent lights with an almost childlike wonder.

"Believe what, Dean?" Sam asks, his gaze flicking between his brother and the girl. She's dressed in a simple, slightly stained t-shirt and jeans, her hair tangled as if she’d been running a hand through it repeatedly. There's nothing overtly threatening about her appearance, which only makes Sam more cautious. Dean’s usual companions in tow are either victims, sources, or something decidedly more monstrous. This… feels different.

"Found her on the side of Highway 65, just south of Nora Springs," Dean explains, his hand lightly resting on the small of the girl’s back, more to guide her than restrain her. "Walking like she didn't have a damn clue where she was going. Asked her if she needed help, and… well, here we are."

Sam’s eyes narrow. "Just… walking? In the middle of nowhere?" Highway 65 isn't exactly a bustling thoroughfare, and anyone walking along it looks either stranded or up to no good. Dean picking up a random hitchhiker, especially one who looks this vulnerable, is wildly out of character.

Morgan finally speaks, her voice surprisingly soft and clear. "The light… it changed," she says, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "And then the ground was… not the same. I don't understand how."

Dean exchanges a quick, uneasy glance with Sam. "She's a little… out of it," he mouths, before turning back to Morgan with a forcedly reassuring smile. "It's okay, kid. You're safe here. This is… a friend's place."

Sam clears his throat. "Dean, who is she?" He needs answers, and the vague explanations aren't cutting it. He knows his brother. This isn't just a case of a Good Samaritan act. There’s something Dean isn’t saying.

"Her name is Morgan," Dean supplies, looking at her expectantly.

"Morgan," Sam repeats slowly, his mind already racing. There are too many unanswered questions. "Do you remember how you got to the highway, Morgan?"

Morgan frowns, her brow furrowing in concentration. "There was… a strong pull. And then… the road. The cars were loud." Her explanations are fragmented, disjointed, and deeply unsettling.

Dean steps forward slightly. "Look, Sammy, she was clearly distressed. Didn't know where she was, didn't have any ID, no phone. It was getting dark. What was I supposed to do? Leave her for some trucker to find?"

Sam knows that argument is paper-thin. Dean had left plenty of people in far less precarious situations if his gut told him they were trouble. This protectiveness is unusual, almost… fatherly, in a way Sam hasn't seen since they were kids.

"And you didn't think to call the local authorities?" Sam counters, his voice laced with suspicion. "Or even just bring her to a gas station?"

"She seemed… scared," Dean says, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he looks at Morgan. "Like she wouldn't trust them. Besides…" He hesitates, then lowers his voice. "There was something about her, Sam. I can't explain it."

Sam’s hunter instincts go on high alert. "Something like what, Dean?"

Morgan tilts her head, her innocent gaze fixed on Sam. "You smell… like worry," she states matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather.

Sam blinks, taken aback by her bluntness. He does worry, constantly, but he doubts it has a discernible smell. He looks at Dean, who seems equally surprised by her comment.

"Okay," Sam says slowly, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. "Morgan, do you remember anything else? Where you were before the highway? Do you have any family?"

Morgan shakes her head, her expression clouding with confusion. "No. Just… the pull. And then the light."

Dean sighs. "Look, she's clearly not in her right mind. Let's just get her some food, a place to rest for the night, and figure things out in the morning." He steers Morgan towards the kitchen, where the pizza rolls are waiting.

Sam watches them go, his mind reeling. Dean’s uncharacteristic behavior, Morgan’s strange comments, the complete lack of any plausible explanation for her appearance – it all adds up to a big, flashing red warning sign. And yet… there's something undeniably vulnerable about the girl. She seems genuinely lost and confused, not malicious.

He follows them into the kitchen, where Dean is pulling a tray of golden-brown pizza rolls from the oven. The cheesy aroma fills the air.

"Pizza rolls?" Dean offers Morgan, setting the tray on the table.

Morgan's eyes widen slightly. "Food?" she asks, as if the concept is foreign to her.

"Yeah, food," Dean chuckles, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. "You eat, right?"

"I… I think so," Morgan replies, her brow furrowed again. "There was a taste… sweet. Like sunshine."

Sam and Dean exchange another look, this one tinged with a shared, dawning realization. The "pull," the "light," the strange sensory descriptions… it all sounds disturbingly familiar.

"Morgan," Sam begins carefully, "do you know what you are?"

Morgan looks at him, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. "A… person?"

"Well, yeah," Dean interjects quickly, shooting Sam a warning glance. "But… have you ever felt… different? Like you could do things other people can't?"

Morgan considers this, her gaze drifting towards a stack of chipped mugs on the counter. Without consciously seeming to try, one of the mugs wobbled and then gently floated a few inches in the air before settling back down.

Dean and Sam stare, their earlier suspicions solidifying into a grim certainty.

"Okay," Dean says, his voice now devoid of its earlier casualness. "Maybe pizza rolls can wait. Let's go sit down."

He guides Morgan to the main war room table, the weight of the revelation settling heavily in the air. Sam follows, his mind racing through the implications. A nephilim. And Dean had brought it – her – back to the bunker. The same Dean who had a healthy (and often vocal) distrust of anything even remotely angelic.

Once they're seated around the large wooden table, Sam leans forward. "Morgan," he says gently, "do you know who your parents are?"

Morgan shakes her head again, her expression a mixture of confusion and a growing unease. "No. Just… her. She was kind. But then… the light."

"Her?" Dean asks, his voice tight.

"Yes. My… mother?" Morgan offers, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.

Sam presses on. "And your… other parent? Do you know anything about him?"

Morgan frowns, her eyes flickering with a faint, golden light that vanishes as quickly as it appears. "He was… bright. Like the stars. But… far away."

The pieces click into place with a sickening finality. A human mother, a celestial father. A nephilim. Just like Jack Kline, but… different. Younger, more lost, and found by Dean under the most bizarre of circumstances.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice low and urgent. "You realize what this means, right?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair, his usual confident demeanor replaced with a look of troubled uncertainty. "Yeah, Sammy, I kinda figured it out when the mug started doing its own damn thing." He looks at Morgan, his expression softening again. "She doesn't seem like… you know… bad."

"They never do, Dean," Sam counters, the memory of a certain other nephilim still fresh in his mind, despite the eventual outcome. "They're powerful, unpredictable. They're targets."

Morgan flinches at Sam's tone, her wide eyes filling with a hint of fear. "Target?" she whispers.

Dean immediately places a reassuring hand on her arm. "Hey, it's okay. He just means… things can be complicated." He shoots Sam a sharp look. "Lay off her, Sammy. She's scared and confused."

"I'm just being realistic, Dean," Sam insists. "We don't know anything about her. Her parentage, her abilities…"

"She doesn't even know she has abilities," Dean retorts, his protectiveness kicking into high gear. "Look at her, Sam. She's like a newborn fawn who wandered onto the highway."

"But a fawn that can probably level this bunker without even trying," Sam reminds him, his voice firm. "Dean, you know the lore. Nephilim are dangerous. Angels and demons will be after her."

Morgan looks from Dean to Sam, her confusion deepening. "Angels? Demons? What are you talking about?"

Dean sighs, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He hadn't thought this far ahead when he’d seen her lost and alone on the side of the road. His gut had just told him she needed help, a feeling he hadn't questioned until now.

"It's… a long story, kid," Dean says to Morgan, his voice gentler this time. He looks back at Sam, a plea in his eyes. "Just… give her a chance, Sammy. Let's figure out what's going on before we jump to conclusions."

Sam looks at his brother, at the unusual vulnerability in his expression, and then at Morgan, who sits at the table looking utterly lost and bewildered. He still has a mountain of reservations, a deep-seated fear of what a nephilim could be capable of. But he also sees a flicker of genuine innocence in her eyes, a stark contrast to the inherent danger she represents.

He lets out a long breath. "Okay, Dean," he concedes, though his voice still holds a note of caution. "Okay. Let's figure it out."

Dean offers Morgan a small, hesitant smile. "See? Told you he was a friend."

Morgan looks at Sam, a tentative question in her gaze. "Friend?"

Sam manages a small, tight nod. "Yeah, Morgan. We're… friends." He knew it was a lie, at least for now. But as he looks at the bewildered young woman and the uncharacteristic protectiveness radiating off his brother, he knows their lives have just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

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The rest of the evening is a slow, cautious dance. Dean pulls out a few of the untouched pizza rolls, and Morgan watches him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He tries to explain, in simple terms, how to eat them. She mimics him, her small bites deliberate, her expression changing as she processes the flavors. "It is… warm," she says, tasting the tomato and cheese. "And… satisfying. The internal pull is lessened."

Sam, meanwhile, has retreated to the library, the low murmur of his voice as he talks on the phone with Castiel barely audible. Dean catches snippets – "...found her on the highway… a nephilim… no, like Jack, but… completely lost…" The tension in Sam's shoulders, even from a distance, is palpable.

Dean gives Morgan a quick tour of the living quarters. He shows her an empty bedroom, a spare set of clothes he digs out from a closet, and the bathroom. He explains how the shower works, how to use the toilet. She absorbs it all, her pale eyes wide, asking simple, direct questions about mundane things. "This… water… it falls?" "This cloth… it makes the body clean?"

It's unsettlingly familiar, the echoes of Jack's early days. The same profound ignorance of human custom, the same innocent gaze that belies immense power. Dean finds himself strangely calm, perhaps because he's done this before. He knows how to guide a cosmic being through the simple intricacies of human life.

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Later, Dean finds Sam still in the library, pacing. "Cas is on his way," Sam says, running a hand through his hair. "He's… concerned. Said he'd get here as fast as he can."

"Figures," Dean mutters, leaning against a bookshelf. "What'd he say about Morgan?"

"Not much he could, without seeing her," Sam replies, sighing. "Just confirmed what we already know. Nephilim are powerful, a threat to Heaven and Hell, and a beacon for anything looking for power." He pauses, looking at Dean. "You really think she's harmless, Dean? She's not like Jack."

Dean shrugs. "She's not like anyone I've ever met, Sammy. Except maybe… Jack. She's got that same confused look, like a puppy who just realized it has opposable thumbs. Give her a chance. We'll figure it out." He knows the skepticism in Sam's eyes is justified, but something in him just can't write Morgan off. Not yet.

"Alright," Sam says, though the word comes out laced with exhaustion. "It's late. We'll get some sleep. Try to get some more answers tomorrow."

Dean nods. He walks Morgan back to the bedroom he's set up for her. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, the borrowed clothes a little too big.

"Is this… my resting place?" she asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah, kid. You sleep here. We're just down the hall." He points vaguely. "If you need anything, just… yell. Or something."

She nods, her expression unreadable. "I understand. I will try to think about everything that happened today during this 'sleep' period."

Dean manages a small, tired smile. "Sounds like a plan." He lingers for a moment, then backs out, closing the door softly behind him.

The bunker settles into a tense silence. Dean heads to his own room, the familiar scent of old leather and dust a faint comfort. He strips down, tossing his clothes into a pile, then collapses onto his bed. The day's events replay in his mind: the desolate highway, Morgan's pale, questioning eyes, the floating mug. He can still hear the simple, yet profound, quality of her voice.

He closes his eyes, exhaustion pulling him down. He’s brought a lot of things into the bunker over the years – monsters, demons, angels, even Death. But a nephilim, completely new and utterly lost, found on the side of a highway… that's a new one.

It’s going to be a long night. And a much longer tomorrow. Dean drifts off, the quiet hum of the bunker the last thing he hears, the faint, persistent whisper of Morgan echoing in his mind.

[bird-in-the-space]

The Nephilim

(Author's note: I watched the Alita movie. It was hella good, and let's just say it got me a bit inspired. I started thinking if there were robots like Alita in the Bayverse universe and I came up with this, mixed with some myths.)

Warnings: mentions of war, cyberforming, Fallen, mentions of extinction and having been torn to pieces.

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Imagine this setting up in the Bayverse universe during the dynasty of the Primes, when the Primes came to the earth. Perhaps before the Fallen's betrayal, some Primes interacted with humans who were brave enough to talk to these giants from the stars. 

After the Fallen’s betrayal and the battles that followed, the Primes suspected that his followers would return and Earth would be left defenseless after their sacrifice. Thus, they agreed to select brave human warriors—those who willingly accepted the task—and transform them into a perfect combination of human and Cybertronian.

Through the cyberformation ceremony, the chosen human's bodies became metallic, allowing them to grow taller than other ordinary humans, more durable, and stronger. This process also extended their lifespan.

Under the Primes' guidance, they became forces to be reckoned with on the battlefield—swift and powerful warriors.

Due to their inability to transform, they were granted loyal steeds, cyberformed to assist them in battle and travel long distances. Because of this, they became known as the Horsemen.

After the Primes sacrificed themselves to hide the Sun Harvester and the Matrix of Leadership, the techno-organic warriors continued to fight and defend Earth from the Fallen’s followers, engaging in a long war to protect their world and prevent the Matrix and the Sun Harvester from being found.

They carried on, as the Primes had prophesied that the Fallen would one day return to Earth and attempt to destroy their sun. It was also foretold that a new Prime would rise to defeat him. Holding on to that hope, they fought on.

But as centuries passed and the world changed around them, their numbers dwindled—until the day they vanished entirely from the face of the Earth.

Through time, they came to be known as the Nephilim—children of Earth and the metallic beings from the heavens. They became the stuff of myths and legends, believed to have been either imprisoned or hunted to extinction.

Their secrets and stories were lost. The only myth that remained was that, at the world’s end, four Horsemen would arise to fight. But even that was reduced to nothing more than a mural and a story—just another legend of the past.

Until the modern day.

When the Autobots had made their home on Earth and began hunting Decepticons with their human allies, they stumbled upon a hidden research facility while investigating a strange Energon signature. In its abandoned ruins, they discovered a torn body made of Cybertronian metal. However, what most caught their attention was the upper torso that resembled a human.

And inside that human’s chest, they found a heart containing a spark that still pulsed with life.

[umi-no-onnanoko]

-nephilim (1889)

[rkdvanguard]

Worked on this on the Lexicon stream! I'm calling her Blythe!

[angel-hole]

SUPTOBER 02 - pumpkin patch

4 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

— Genesis 6:4

[paigeyssims2004]

First time posting some 3D stuff

[howl-arnon]

More illustration for this :D

I'd like to do a project based on Paradise Lost but that'll have to wait.

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Emile Corsi - Nephilim.

>> Emile Corsi: The Artist That Never Existed