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actuallybean · 1 day ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part Seventeen

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) A/N: Guys I'm actually scaring myself with my writing... It's getting intense y'all! Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage @ladykitana90 @sepho @kinavet Part Eighteen Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The bunker had never felt heavier.

Not in all the years you'd lived within its fortified walls — not when it had flooded during a haunting, not when Sam and Dean had dragged themselves home after bleeding out in battles they swore they’d win, not even when Castiel came to you with the message from God and not knowing it would change everything.

No, this was something deeper. Denser.

The silence had thickened into a tangible thing — oppressive and vast, pressing in from all sides like the weight of eternity itself. It wasn't just quiet. It was sacred. Tomb-like. Like the whole place had been cracked open and filled with reverence and dread in equal measure.

It was the stillness of churches just before confession. Of graveyards just before thunder. Of creation right before the breath of God stirred dust into man.

The air felt swollen with it. Like it was waiting to split open.

Somewhere far above your head — through feet of steel, rock, and time — the morning sky stretched wide and clear, unaware. Maybe even uncaring. Sunlight spilled down through the narrow vents high in the concrete ceiling, those familiar slats letting thin, slanted beams fall across the stone floor. They painted the room in golden stripes, like bars of light in a cage you couldn’t leave.

It should have felt like any other morning.

But it didn’t.

Not when you'd gone to sleep three months pregnant and woken up eight.

Not when your body had bent to something divine overnight — not with your breath shallow in your chest, your skin tight and trembling, and the swell of your belly grown into something impossibly full.

Not when you'd felt the pulse of something not yours flutter beneath your ribs — like wings stretching inside a cage of bone.

The air smelled of candle smoke, and blood. Of iron, and lavender oil from the rag Sam had used to wipe your face. Of old stone and something new — something charged. The scent of sanctity.

The tension had rooted itself into the bunker’s bones. Every hallway hummed with divine static, soft but present, like a radio tuned to a station just beyond reach. It curled in the seams between tiles, slithered through air vents, and settled behind the lightbulbs, each one buzzing faintly with electricity or grace — or both.

No one spoke now. Not really. Not in full sentences. Just fragments. Hushed phrases, strained prayers. The occasional gasp of breath, like someone surfacing from a bad dream.

Somewhere nearby, you heard Sam.

Pacing again.

The steady rhythm of his boots echoed faintly down the hallway, heel-to-toe across stone, each pass sharper than the last. You could imagine him clearly, even without seeing — jaw tight, hair mussed, brows drawn together in quiet devastation. One hand raking through his hair in frustrated arcs, the other curling and uncurling at his side, knuckles pale with tension.

He hadn’t left you since the shift.

Since the morning you woke screaming with both hands clenched over your abdomen, whispering you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t move, something was wrong — something was happening.

He’d been by your side as the hours passed and your body changed beneath the candlelight — as your belly grew beneath the thin cotton sheet, as stretch marks bloomed like halos along your sides, as the pain quieted into pressure and the pressure settled into stillness.

He’d kissed your forehead and whispered, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” but it hadn’t stopped the shaking in his voice. It hadn’t steadied the fear in his chest.

Because Sam Winchester had read every scripture on miracles. On chosen vessels. On prophecy and holy birth.

And not one of those stories had ever ended in peace.

Now, even with your room hushed and cloaked in the flickering glow of votive candles and the low drone of scripture, Sam couldn't be still. Couldn’t stop the slow, panicked spiral of thought that something was coming. That you might break before it did.

And then there was Castiel.

He knelt at your bedside like he belonged there.

Like he’d never known anything else.

His trench coat had been folded over the back of the chair hours ago, neatly, reverently. He remained in slacks and a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows, his tie askew. His vessel’s body was worn at the edges — subtle signs of grace stretched too thin — but his eyes held nothing but quiet, unshakable loyalty.

And love.

He hadn’t moved for nearly an hour, not since you’d begged him — hands trembling, rosary slipping between your fingers — “Stay with me, please.”

Now, he read from your Bible in a low, unwavering voice. Psalms and gospels braided together with murmured Enochian that buzzed against your ears like thunder behind a veil. One hand rested over your swollen stomach. The other braced your fingers when you fumbled, grounding you through the contractions that weren’t quite contractions — through the pressure that was building like the world was being born inside you.

His voice was low and measured. Never dramatic. Never performative. Just deep and steady — like a lullaby, or a eulogy.

Like an angel remembering how to pray like a man.

You lay still.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in uneven cadence.

You were too tired to cry anymore. You felt like wax — melted, shaped, and hollowed out. Your skin, once soft, now strained over something divine and terrifying. You could feel the heat of it inside you — not just warmth, but presence. Sacred. Pulsing. Holy.

Your belly had become a chalice. A reliquary.

And you could feel something watching from the inside.

Every so often, Castiel would pause and look at you — not with pity, never with fear. Just quiet knowing. And when the pain took your breath again, he would whisper another line from Luke, or a verse from Isaiah, or a phrase in an ancient tongue that curled in your mind like a forgotten lullaby.

It didn’t matter that you didn’t understand the words.

Your soul did.

And then… there was Dean.

Dean, who hadn’t come back since the angels left.

You knew he was somewhere in the bunker. Probably the kitchen. Maybe the garage. Pretending to fuss with coffee or the Impala’s engine again — anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep him from walking through the door.

He hadn’t come back to see you.

Not once.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because he did.

Because to Dean, your room wasn’t just a room anymore. It had become something consecrated. Touched. Beyond him.

It was no longer just you in that bed.

You were the girl he’d once called sweetheart. The one he’d protected in parking lots and patched up after hunts. But now, you were also the vessel of something celestial. Something too big. Too holy. Something not even Dean Winchester — hunter, brother, warrior — could fight.

And Dean had never known what to do with God.

You'd seen it in his eyes — that haunted distance — the night the angels first gathered around you. The night they spoke in thunder and called you blessed among women. The night your breath caught and the lights flickered and Dean backed away like the sanctity might burn him.

He hadn’t said it, but he didn’t need to.

He flinched when the crucifix around your neck caught the candlelight.

He clenched his jaw when Castiel pressed his fingers to your temple and whispered blessings older than sin.

He swallowed hard when your stomach moved beneath the sheet — not with a kick, but with something that felt like a ripple of creation itself.

To Dean, you were still you. But you were also something sacred now. Claimed.

And that scared him more than anything ever had.

Because Dean Winchester could kill demons. He could stand between you and monsters. He could bleed for you.

But he didn’t know how to protect something God had already claimed for Himself.

So instead, he stayed away.

In the kitchen, Dean sat like a statue carved from tension and sleeplessness, unmoving save for the rhythmic twitch of his leg beneath the table. The chair creaked softly beneath him each time his knee bounced, the sound a lonely metronome in the silence. The air was cold down here — or maybe it just felt that way, leeched of warmth by the weight of everything that had unfolded in the hours before.

A mug sat between his hands, cradled like an anchor he wasn’t sure he needed. The coffee inside had long gone cold, a sheen of oil glimmering faintly across the surface. He hadn’t taken a sip since he poured it. Hadn’t moved except to run a tired hand down the length of his face, stubble rasping against his palm as he exhaled hard through his nose.

His eyes were bloodshot. Not just from lack of sleep, though God knew he hadn’t closed his eyes in over thirty hours. But from emotion. From watching. From holding too much in.

His shoulders, normally broad and squared like a soldier’s, slouched inward. His Henley clung to him, damp around the collar with nervous sweat, sleeves shoved up over his forearms like he was about to fight someone — or fall apart. His right thumb traced slow circles over the ceramic of the mug, a compulsive, quiet motion. Just something to do.

Beside him on the table, the cracked screen of his phone pulsed with a faint blue glow ofJody’s number. Still open.

She was coming. He’d already made the call. The words had tasted like gravel in his mouth, but he’d said them — told her everything. Enough, at least. Her answer had been clipped, urgent, the sound of keys jangling in the background and a barked command to Donna as she hung up.

She was on her way.

But time didn’t move the same in the bunker anymore.

It had stretched into something elastic — something long and aching and infinite. Like the minutes themselves were holding their breath, waiting for some holy detonation. The weight of the divine made the fluorescent lights feel too bright, the shadows too deep. It made the tile floor feel like it was humming beneath his boots.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands tightening around the coffee until the ceramic groaned.

Then, in a voice that barely cleared his throat, raw and tight and aching, he muttered, “Jesus… what the hell are we doing?”

The question went unanswered.

Not from the phone.

Not from the walls.

Not from the universe.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was filled with something unspeakable. Something vast. The kind of quiet that lives in sanctuaries and cathedrals after the last hymn is sung. A silence that buzzed under the skin. Made him feel like a sinner in a church that had suddenly turned its gaze on him.

Dean dragged a hand back through his hair and stared at the phone again, as if it might blink with a message from God Himself. Nothing came. Just his own reflection in the cracked glass, warped and worn and older than he remembered feeling.

He hadn’t stepped foot in your room since the change.

Couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Because something had shifted in that space — in you — and he didn’t know how to look at it without falling apart. Without folding in on himself completely.

But even now, from three hallways and a war room away, he could hear Castiel’s voice.

Faint, distant, reverent — a low hum that filtered through the ventilation ducts and echoed like a psalm trapped between stone walls. He could hear the words, just barely, carried on grace and candlelight.

“‘And Mary said, My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…’”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

The words burned.

Not because they were wrong. But because they were true.

He could see it all — burned behind his eyelids in painful detail. You, lying still on the narrow bed, eyes glassy with exhaustion. Your body unfamiliar, too full, too far along, your belly stretching the soft cotton of your shirt as though something ancient was pressing outward from beneath your skin.

He could still feel the way the air had gone sharp when the angels came. Could still taste the metallic zing of power in his mouth, like lightning in the walls.

He had watched your body betray time. Watched it accelerate, overnight — from soft, glowing second trimester to the terrifying brink of birth. Like you’d stepped through a rift in the universe, and God had pulled you forward without warning.

You hadn’t screamed. Not really.

Just a breathless cry. A wordless gasp. A sound that cut through the bunker like a blade and left Dean paralyzed in the hallway — cross around your neck glinting like a warning, like a crown.

He hadn’t gone back in.

Because what was happening inside that room was no longer something he could fight. Not a demon. Not a curse. Not some bastard angel with a smirk and a blade.

This was bigger.

This was biblical.

And Dean Winchester didn’t know how to fix a miracle.

✦

Sam finally entered the room again, moving like he might burst out of his skin. His eyes landed on you immediately — always on you — and he crossed to your side, brushing your hair gently back, his palm landing over Castiel’s briefly before the angel rose and stepped aside to let him kneel beside you again.

“Jody’s on her way,” he whispered. “She’s bringing everything she can.”

You nodded faintly, your eyes fluttering shut.

Sam kissed your hand and held it against his chest. “We’ll be ready. I promise.”

But the truth hung in the air between all of you.

None of you were ready.

Not for what this birth would look like. Not for what might arrive when your body broke open and delivered something holy into the world. Not for what it might mean.

Not even the angels had said.

And in that tension — in that waiting — time stretched further, until every breath felt like it echoed.

And still you waited.

For Jody.

For answers.

For God.

For a miracle.

Or a reckoning.

Or both.

✦

Outside, the sky was thick with storm-colored clouds, the kind that hung low enough to touch. The wind pulled at the trees near the edge of the hidden road, curling leaves and tugging at loose gravel like the world itself was holding its breath.

Dean stood by the bunker entrance, arms crossed, boots planted in the damp earth. His eyes scanned the tree line, restless. The last few hours had twisted his nerves tighter than barbed wire. Inside, everything was breaking down into quiet chaos. Sam hadn’t stopped pacing. Castiel barely blinked, anchored in prayer beside your bed. And you—sweet, brave, silent you—were curled under heaven’s impossible weight with no promise of peace. Just faith.

The truck’s headlights cut through the fog.

Dean exhaled, almost startled by the relief. The familiar crunch of tires over the dirt made his shoulders drop an inch. He jogged forward as the truck pulled up, skidding slightly before it stopped. The driver’s side door popped open.

“Dean Winchester,” Jody called as she stepped out, her eyes sharp as ever despite the long drive. “You sound like you’ve been hiding a nuclear bomb under your mattress.”

Dean huffed out a breath, already reaching for the duffel bags in the back seat. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I brought medical supplies, extra towels, canned food, holy water… and three pies,” Jody rattled off as she joined him around the trunk.

Dean paused and looked at her. “You brought pie?”

“Pregnant girl’s in a bunker filled with men who can’t cook. Yeah, I brought pie.”

He grinned, just for a second—quick and crooked—and shouldered the heavier bag. “You’re a damn saint.”

“I’m a damn sheriff,” she corrected. “Now take me to her.”

✦

The air inside the bunker hit Jody like a wave of memory: musty, metallic, still humming with warding spells and the weight of secrets. But something was different now. Heavier. Sacred, somehow.

She followed Dean through the halls, her footsteps quieted by the old stone.

“How bad is it?” she asked softly, her eyes scanning every hallway like she half-expected angels to come screaming out of the walls.

Dean sighed. “It’s… hard to explain. We’ve all been through a lot, but this? This feels bigger than anything we’ve faced. Not in a monster-hunting way. In a God-chose-her kind of way.”

Jody stopped walking. “You’re serious.”

He turned to face her. “She’s not the same, Jody. She’s still her—but something’s wrapped around her now. Like light, or grace, or… I don’t know what. It makes it hard to be in the same room too long. Even for me.”

Jody’s lips tightened. “You afraid?”

Dean met her eyes, honest. “Yeah. But I’m more afraid for her.”

They turned the last corner.

✦

Your door was open a crack. Light spilled into the dim hallway—warm, golden, somehow softer than any other glow in the bunker. Jody stepped inside.

You were in bed, propped against pillows, wrapped in layers of linen and Sam’s old flannel shirts. Your belly—once small and tentative—was now full and ripe beneath the covers, a curve of divinity pressing against cotton and ribs. You were pale, your lips chapped, your eyes sunken with exhaustion. But you were luminous too. A quiet sort of holy.

Castiel sat beside you, murmuring a Psalm under his breath, his fingers folded in prayer. When Jody entered, he lifted his head and nodded once, solemn.

Sam stood nearby, watching you like he might shatter from the effort of holding himself together.

You looked up, tired but smiling. “Jody…”

Jody blinked. Her throat closed up.

“Oh sweetheart,” she whispered.

In two strides, she was beside the bed, kneeling, brushing damp hair from your forehead. She cupped your cheek the way a mother would, steady and strong.

“You’ve been through hell,” she said. “And you still look like the bravest girl I know.”

You choked on a soft laugh. “Is it weird that I’m glad you brought pie?”

Jody smiled, her eyes glassy. “Pie fixes everything.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, resting against her touch. Sam hovered at the edge, aching to protect but powerless to soothe this particular ache. Castiel resumed his quiet reading. Somewhere deeper in the bunker, Dean poured himself a drink he wouldn’t touch.

But here, in this moment, there was something like comfort. A woman’s hand on your cheek. An old friend at your side.

Jody leaned in close. “We’re gonna get through this. You hear me?”

You nodded, tears slipping silently down your temples. “I’m just scared. Not for me. For the baby. For what comes after.”

“I know, honey. I know.” She brushed the tears away with her thumb. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing hers, anchoring yourself to that truth. You weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And as the air in the room shimmered with holiness and heat and the promise of something bigger than all of you, Jody Mills whispered the oldest truth in the world:

“You are loved.”

✦

It was nearing mid-afternoon, though time felt vague now—disjointed, soft around the edges, like reality itself had slowed to match the pace of your labored breathing. The bunker was dim and quiet, lit only by the occasional flicker of warm bulb overhead and the echo of footsteps in stone halls.

Jody had taken control like only she could, grounding herself in action. She was seated beside your bed, gently helping you stretch your legs and ankles, murmuring things under her breath like “circulation, sweetheart—helps the blood flow,” as if normalizing this thing you were about to endure would make it less terrifying.

“Up,” she finally said, patting your arm. “Let’s try a few laps. Doesn’t have to be long. Just some movement. Stretch the hips a little.”

You nodded slowly, hands braced against your belly, which felt impossibly large and high and full. Everything ached—your back, your ribs, your thighs. But there was comfort in Jody’s command, in the way she looped her arm around you like she’d done this a hundred times.

She had. Twice. And she hadn’t done it alone either.

“Slow,” she said gently as you swung your feet off the bed. “We’re walking, not running a marathon.”

“I feel like a house,” you muttered as you shuffled forward.

“You’re carrying a world, honey,” Jody said. “Houses don’t move on their own. You’re doing amazing.”

Your breath caught slightly, and you laughed through it. That kind of hollow laugh that lived beside tears.

A familiar perfume bloomed at the corridor’s end, even before her voice echoed down the hallway like silk and thunder.

“Oh, what a sight,” Rowena cooed, appearing at the threshold with a flourish of velvet and crimson skirts. “A glowing miracle and her earthly escort.”

Jody glanced back. “Took you long enough.”

Rowena smirked. “I didn’t want to interfere with your little marching band.”

Still, she joined you. Surprisingly gentle hands hovered just behind your back, not quite touching, but close enough to catch you if you stumbled.

Your feet padded slowly over the cold tile as the three of you walked the central corridor of the bunker, just past the war room, looping around the familiar halls. The silence around you was profound, thick with tension and the faint weight of heaven pressing from above. Even the bunker’s usual hum—those long-forgotten spells embedded in stone, the distant groan of pipes—felt quieter now.

“God really knows how to put on a show,” Rowena murmured, eyeing the low golden sheen still hanging faintly in the air around you.

“I didn’t want a show,” you whispered, a little breathless from the effort of walking. “I just wanted to be normal. To be… me.”

Jody rubbed your back lightly. “You’re still you, sweetie. You’re just… shining a little brighter than the rest of us right now.”

“Feels more like I’m on fire.”

Rowena chuckled under her breath, but there was something soft in her eyes when she looked at you. “You’re doing better than I would’ve at your age. Back then I was burning down castles and stealing love spells from priests.”

“I think you’re still doing most of that,” Jody muttered.

“Details.”

They were trying, you knew—trying to make you laugh, trying to keep the shadows at bay. And it was working. A little.

You walked a bit further, one hand pressed to your side where a quiet ache had begun to bloom. You felt huge. Stretched. The baby hadn’t moved in the last hour, but you could feel the pressure of their presence—the divine weight of something older than time curled beneath your ribs.

You paused at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, panting softly. Jody and Rowena both steadied you.

“Breathe through it,” Jody said gently, thumb rubbing circles on your shoulder.

Rowena leaned close. “Just like before. When the pain comes, you let it pass through you, not against you.”

You nodded, trying to stay grounded in the warmth of their voices.

And maybe because you needed a distraction—or maybe because the tension between your ribs was getting tighter by the second—you said, “Sam proposed.”

They both turned at once.

“He what?” Jody blinked.

Rowena’s brows shot up. “Before or after the immaculate conception, darling?”

“After. In the shower,” you said, cheeks warm. “It wasn’t… formal. But he meant it. And I said yes.”

Rowena blinked slowly, then gave a laugh that was almost wistful. “That boy has impeccable timing.”

Jody raised a brow. “What about a ring?”

You smirked. “I’m a barefoot, hormonal Virgin Mary. I think we’re past jewelry.”

That earned a snort from Rowena.

Then Rowena tilted her head, her grin going a little feral. “Still a virgin, hm?”

Your face went red hot. “Rowena—”

“Oh, come now,” she said, waving a hand. “There’s not a woman alive who doesn’t think about it—prophecy or not. Especially with those shoulders. Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.”

Jody rolled her eyes. “Rowena.”

“What?” she said innocently. “It’s called tension. I’m giving her something to think about besides the holy fetus punching her lungs.”

You did laugh then—a watery, breathless little sound—but genuine. For a moment, the pressure behind your eyes eased.

You pressed a hand over your belly. The baby shifted, just faintly, and your breath hitched again—this time, from something other than pain.

“They’re so quiet now,” you murmured.

“They’re saving their strength,” Jody said. “So should you.”

The three of you slowly made your way back to your room, one agonizing step at a time. Your body felt tight, stretched thin as silk. There was no medical support waiting for you. No hospital gown. No anesthesia. Only salt lines and grace, old spells and whispered prayers.

You weren’t allowed pain meds. That had been the angels’ decree. No man-made medicine. Only what Mary had. Only what God allowed. And it terrified you.

Once back in bed, Rowena helped you settle in, fluffing the pillows with gentle hands. Jody brought a glass of cool water and pressed it into your palm. You drank slowly, your eyes catching theirs—two women who had known birth and blood and the raw miracle of creation. They weren’t angels. They weren’t prophets.

They were mothers.

“Do you think I’ll survive it?” you asked softly.

Rowena sat beside you and took your hand in both of hers. Her voice was low, but sure.

“You are stronger than the divine gives you credit for,” she said. “And if you falter, we will carry you.”

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, as the storm outside rattled the bunker walls and God’s silence loomed like thunder overhead, you believed her.