#and then heaven or hell and hell and hell.

[jmgangel]

I mean, there were some complications but Ivan’s plan did technically keep Till alive in the end? Congratulations, Ivan. You win Alien Stage, I guess.

[helioxed]

Goodnight, heaven

[masoena]

This is an amazing piece of Sam and Dean.

𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰

[mooningningg]

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Notes, he's just sooo ughhhmmfmm.

★ Bassist!Toji meets you for the first time.

The studio was loud when you walked in — amps humming, drums pounding, Gojo mid-vocal run like he was auditioning for heaven, shirt half off, sweat glistening like a pop star that didn’t pay rent.

You raised your hand slightly, awkward but amused. “Delivery for a diva.”

Gojo turned mid-belt, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, you’re an angel—” Then he tripped over a mic cord.

Sukuna slammed a cymbal. “Fucking hell, Gojo.”

You laughed and held up the tote bag. “You left your charger and sunglasses at mine.”

“Because I live in chaos, baby,” Gojo grinned. “Put it anywhere. You want water? Weed? A front row seat to my raw vocal brilliance?”

“No,” you said sweetly.

And then you noticed him.

Toji.

Off to the left. Bass slung low, body half-turned away, tattoos inked up his forearm where his sleeves were rolled, hair messy like he’d just woken up angry. He was tuning, or pretending to — his fingers barely moved, and his eyes… were on you.

Flat. Sharp. Curious.

Like he couldn’t figure out if you were real or just annoying.

You looked away first.

“Let’s take it from the top,” Gojo called out. “Try not to ruin my godlike momentum, yeah?”

They launched into the next take — Gojo wailing into the mic, Sukuna on drums like he was punishing them, Choso leaning on the keyboard like he was underwater.

And Toji—

Missed his cue.

The bass line came late. Not just a second. Noticeably.

They ran the song again. Loud. Messy. You leaned against the wall, half-watching, half-scrolling through your phone.

Then the rhythm dropped.

The room fell off-beat, the bass stumbling just long enough to make everyone stop.

“The fuck was that?” Sukuna snapped.

Gojo threw his hands up. “Why does this band hate my voice?”

“Toji,” Suguru barked. “You good?”

Toji said nothing for a second, then set the bass down with a quiet clunk.

“Take five.”

He grabbed a water bottle from the floor, cracked it open, and walked over to the side—closer to where you were standing. You didn’t move. He didn’t say anything right away.

He just stood there, unscrewed the cap, drank, and let the silence stretch.

You glanced at him. “You always take breaks after messing up?”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Didn’t fuck up.”

You raised a brow. “Sounded like you did.”

His gaze flicked down to your legs, back up.

“Yeah?”

You felt your face heat. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

“Wasn’t paying attention,” he added after a beat. “S’fine.”

His voice was low, casual. Like he wasn’t saying much—but he was saying enough.

Gojo yelled from across the room. “Toji, you flirting again?”

Toji didn’t move.

“Bro, I felt that bass line die. What, did you forget how to play when she walked in?”

“Shut it,” Toji muttered, mostly to himself. Then, to you, without looking:

“You sticking around or what?”

That was it.

No charm. No smooth lines.

Just Toji—shoulders loose, mouth set, standing a little too close like he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did.

And that was the first time you saw it.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

He just looked at you like he already knew how it would go.

And you didn’t hate it.

[arbitrarykiwi]

Heyyyyyy it's shawtyyyy (again)

So I have a question 👉🏾👈🏾

I just read your namgyu x big boobs!reader and it made me wonder...

If you'd do a reader with a big butt

Like a whole bakery behind her back

I feel like namgyu (or Thanos you can do either) would go crazyyyyyy just smacking readers ass all the time LMAO

Would you do that? Pretty please? *bats eyelashes* 🥹👉🏾👈🏾

SHAWTYYY!!!! MY LOVE!!!! ABSOLUTELY I WILL DO THAT!! 😩😋 this was already in the works after the big boobs!Reader because I couldn’t get the thought of riding him reverse cowgirl and making him see stars because he can’t handle all that ass

I hope you like this one!!!!! I’m prayin I did it justice

Warnings: nsfw themes , smut (18+)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

LMAO!! I said this in the last one I’ll say it again, idc- uses your ass as a pillow

Mf will make you get up from where ever you’re laying, flip on your stomach, and he will lay down. Head on your ass, cheek nuzzling into the jiggling flesh, arms wrapped around your waist and connected under you

Resting on your ass is also one of his favorite way to smoke

Sprawled out on the bed, you’re on your stomach. Red eyes watching some video and he’s laying on his back horizontal to you, head leaned up against your ass as he hits the blunt

He’s also such a fucking dweeb and gives you fake back shots everytime you bend over

Having just taken the laundry out of the dryer, you’re realizing you haven seen your phone in a long minute.

“Hey baby, have you seen my- oh fuck.” You groan, dropping one of the shirts you were carrying from the laundry room to the bedroom. You drop the rest of the pile you were holding to better scoop up the warm clothes.

You’re not even sure how he did it- how he got up that fast and knew you were bending over- he was in the living room and you were in a hallway! He couldn’t have seen you! But, Nam-Gyu is practically bounding down the hallway and coming up behind you.

One hand crossing over your lower back to hold your hip and the other presses down on your back, putting you into the pretty little arch he loves so much.

“Fuck, there you go.” He hisses out, pressing his pelvis flush against your ass. He’s pulling you back against him, drawing his hips back then thrusting forward.

Nam-Gyu is quite simply addicted to the image of your ass rippling against him, the way anytime he drives his hips forward his cock is completely surrounded by your ass- yeah, he’s in heaven.

“Fucking hell!” You giggle out surprised, placing your palms on the floor to steady yourself, “How’d you even move so fast?!” You say, simply taking each faux thrust he gives.

“I know when my baby’s bending over, it’s like a radar.” He says, laughing along with you.

When you play is game along with him, putting more weight on your hands and shaking your ass back against him??? Immediately to the bedroom with you!!!

Hand on your ass 100% of the time

Walking with you and you’re wearing jeans? Hand in your back pocket cupping your ass

No pockets? Fuck it, hand down the waist band of your pants. He really doesn’t care

Slapping your ass anytime he gets, much like you said

Walking by him while he’s playing some video game, he’s risking his character dying to reach out and slap your ass as you walk by

Pouts if the slap wasn’t good enough and makes you walk by again so he can try to slap your ass again

The sound of the slap echos out through the room, its dull, and really hits the side of your thigh more than anything. You don’t think anything about it, it’s happened more times than you can count- you were expecting it!

“That wasn’t a good one”

“Get the fuck back here, I need to try again.”

You two speak at the same time, laughter ringing out through the room as he realizes you really got him down to the littlest thing he does. Hell, you seemed to have some grasp on his ass slapping rating scale to realize that wasn’t going to cut it.

“Fuuuuck, you’re not real.” Nam-Gyu says with a groan, “You know me so well.” motioning you to walk backwards and pass by him again, he’s grinning and shamelessly looking at your ass when you step backwards.

You repeat what you just did, walking by him to your original destination. This time his palm is connecting with your ass in a perfectly time slap. It’s sharp, your ass recoiling with the impact- you can even feel the throbbing sting of where his palm landed seconds after it happened.

His eyes are locked onto your ass like a predator about to bite into a chunk of raw meat, “Ughhh, so much better, that one had some good fuckin’ recoil.”

And then he’s sending you on your way!

Also has definitely hit you with a “You need help holding that? Looks heavy.” And then grabs you ass

Yeah he loves lil’ short skirts or short shorts that ride up so high they’re not even shorts anymore- he adores them

But what really gets him going?!? You wearing his boxers or tight jeans

There’s something about the way you fill out his boxers- damn near busting at the seams becuase men’s boxers in his size aren’t sewn for that much curve.

And jeans?! Fuck, he could cum in his pants watching you walk away from him in jeans. Theoretically, the fabric should be constricting, should limit the amount of movement…but nope! It’s still moving

Especially loves the little jump you do when you put them on to get them over your ass

100% has went out and bought you a pair of jeans with his own money just to recreate a porn video he saw where the crotch of the pants was ripped and the girl was getting fucked from the back through the opening

ALSO THOSE NIGHTGOWNS!! Yk the ones that have that thin soft fabric that is baggy as hell but the second you’re walking the outline and jiggle of your ass and waist is so visible?

Yeah he’s like on his knees barking like a dog. You put that on he’s taking it as a sign he’s bout to have a fantastic fucking night even if all it amounts to is him getting to just look at you in it.

He’s the type of guy to literally not give a fuck what you wear outside. He’s confident you’re his and if you want to show off what you got?! By all means!!

He gets a sick ego boost when you’re out at the club he slides up to your side, arm pulling you into his side and watching every man who was staring at have a look of defeat when they realize you’re taken

More than a little tipsy and definitely stoned beyond belief- you’re having the time of your life at Club Pentagon. Having a boyfriend as a club promotor has its perks!!

The music is thrumming and you’re on the dance floor with a group of girls you randomly met. Dancing and hyping each other up like you’ve been friends for years. They’re so welcoming that you feel like you can dance more without having to worry about someone coming up to you.

So of course you have the time of your life!! You’re swaying your hips to the song, the fabric of the lil red dress you have on flowing with every little movement you make. And as the music picks up and the lovely group of girls around you dance with you- of course you’re throwing some ass!!

Nam-Gyu likes when you do this- a personal show just for him to watch while he works the floor of the club. It’s entrancing really, you know you look good, you know you have a lot of ass, and you know how to move- you’re a fucking masterpiece to him.

Standing against the bar, having just finished talking to some random VIP who was far too drunk to even realize the promotions Nam-Gyu was trying to sell, he’s now watching you dance.

You can feel his eyes on you, drinking you in like you’re the finest wine this bar as to offer (and a bottle is like 3k at the club). He’s licking his lips and doing his best to discretely adjust his pants as he watches- studies- you, ass and thighs jiggling with every shake you intentionally do.

He doesn’t move when he watches you throw your hips back on some girl who giggles and playfully smacks you ass- nah, you’re simply having fun- if anything he’s glad you found a little group to hang out with.

He does move when he sees a man somehow pushing his way through the group of girls surrounding you and try’s to talk to you. He can see how you freeze what you were doing, looking at the man with an irritated look. He can see how the man tries to reach out and touch your waist, attempting to talk to you.

You jump a little when you’re pulled into his side, you didn’t even see Nam-Gyu walk up! Nam-Gyu steps so he swats the man’s hand away from you, his own arm wrapping around your waist.

“Pretty isn’t she?” Nam-Gyu says, his voice low and stoic, hand squeezing you to him even more, “She’s not for you to touch though.”

“You just gonna let your girl whore out on the dance floor like that?” The guy scoffs, immediately switching his mood now that he knows he doesn’t have a chance to take you home

“Yeah.” Nam-Gyu says shrugging, “Why not, I’m the one taking her home and imprinting my hand on the ass she was just shaking.”

Your face is flushed and your body heated from your boyfriend’s words but Nam-Gyu just smirks lazily and waves the man off.

When he hugs you he’s putting both hands on your ass and using it as leverage to pull you closer to him and squish you against his chest

Sit on him

On his lap on his face…literally anywhere he wants it

Says that no chair is good enough to handle all of your ass so he’s the only option….again he’s a fucking dweeb

Facesitting 1000%

Facesitting, but!!! He’s making you twerk on his face. He’s so fucking nasty.

Also more often than not- he’s eating it from the back

Hands spreading your ass, fingers pressing into the flesh and shaking your ass on his face, going to town- like dudes obsessed

Of course he’s a doggy style fiend but I raise you…..

Prone bone!!!

His favorite position hands down.

“Just put it in~” you’re whining, trying your best to wiggle your hips back onto him. It’s hard the way you’re literally pinned to the mattress. He’s straddling your thighs- pelvis pressed against your ass as he just inspects you.

He can’t get over the way his dick looks pressed into the valley off your ass. He’s rocking himself back and forth just dragging the weight of his cock through your thick ass.

“You have no fucking patience.” You can hear how he’s speaking through gritted teeth- he’s trying not to blow his load all over your ass then and there.

You whine, “youve been doing this for hours…”, hips arching off the bed, when two large hands switch their grip and grab a handful of each ass cheek. He’s spreading you apart, watching how your own wetness strings between the fat of your ass in shiny webs.

The smartass he is, is pausing all movement to turn his head to look at the digital clock under the TV, “it’s been 15 minutes..” he scoffs, shifting back to prod his fat tip against your dripping pussy.

It doesn’t take much, the second you feel the tip of his cock draaag nice n’ slow through your folds, you’re moaning out his name.

“This fat fuckin’ ass…” he’s growling more to himself than you, one of his hands that grips your ass, shaking it and watching the flesh recoil against his pelvis and dick, “so good…just letting me play with you…you can wait a lil’ longer, yeah?”

Sobbing into the pillow you’re trying your best to press back against him and slip his cock into your cunt yourself! But Nam-Gyu was never one to rush things.

With a sharp slap! His hand is connecting with your ass. You’re moaning out in response, hands gripping at the pillows to try and ground yourself in anyway possible. When he witnesses the recoil and the blossoming red imprint of his hand, he’s moaning with you.

“Yeaahhh,” Nam-Gyu’s drawling out, “you can wait a lil’ longer.” He’s answering for you. He needs to make it even and do the other side of course!

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

Taglist: @namsgyu @nuttybeans @namgyucat @g1rlonthe3internet @reilapse @yuuumeee @thanosspills

((Lmk if you wanna be on my taglist for everytime I post <3))

[hoondrop]

getting freaky in the shower with sunghoon

a/n: here you go anon,, you ask and I'll try to deliver 🫶🏻

The bathroom was still foggy when he yanked you in, the door barely clicking shut before he had you against the wall. His smirk was lazy, cocky, almost cruel.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at me all day?” he murmured, voice low and sharp in your ear as his hands slid under your shirt, yanking it up. “Walking around in that tight little top like you don’t know what it does to me. Poor baby… so desperate and dumb you probably thought I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

He drags his knuckles over your nipple slowly, deliberately, eyes dark and hungry as you gasp. “Sensitive already? Fuck—of course you are. You're always needy, aren’t you?”

The water's now hot as he pushes you backwards under the spray, not caring that your back hit the tile with a soft thud. “Look at you,” his lips curl up in a sneer. “Tits all wet for me." One hand squeezes the flesh, the other ghosting over your inner thigh. "I haven’t even touched your pussy yet and you're already shaking.”

His hand moves to cup your jaw, a silent order for you to keep your eyes trained on him. With his own predator like gaze locked with yours, he slowly descends to his knees, his fingers following the sides of your figure, a tantalizing touch.

He kisses the inside of your thigh like it was sacred, licking a slow, saliva coated stripe up your slit, groaning like he was starved. “Fucking hell… this pussy was made for me. You taste like heaven and sin all mixed together, sweetheart.”

You cry out when he finally buries that sinful tongue of his deep, licking into you like he's trying to ruin you from the inside out. He holds your thighs open with bruising grip, not giving you room to move—just to take it.

“Can’t even stay still, can you?” his muffled voice mocks between licks, lips slick with your arousal. “Dripping down my chin already. Fucking mess. Bet if I told you to beg right now, you’d do it with no hesitation.”

You choke out a moan, making him scoff — low and mean. “Knew it. You like being talked down to, don’t you? Get wet when I tell you you’re just a little toy for me to use?”

Continuing his ministrations on your squelching cunt, his tongue circles your clit, slow and relentless, two fingers sliding in with no mercy.

“Say it,” his growl echoes. “Say you’re just a hole for me. Say it while I’m making you cum.”

Your voice cracks.

“I’m… I’m just a hole for you, Sunghoon—fuck—”

“Good girl,” he snarls, his hand leaving an echoing and stinging smack on your thigh the second you try to close them at the overwhelming pleasure, curling his fingers. “Cum on my tongue. Now.”

And when you do cum for him, legs trembling, head thrown back, he moans like he's high off your taste. He stands up, lips shiny with your slick, grabbing your jaw in one rough hand.

“You’re gonna take my cock next,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “And you’re not gonna whine about how deep it is. You’ll take every inch like the pathetic little slut you are.”

The second you give him permission, he shoves you against the wall again, lining himself up and dragging his tip through your folds, slow and heavy.

“Open up, baby. Time to fuck that bratty attitude out of you.”

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[mayahours]

7 minutes

A stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven cracks you both open. In the dim light, confessions slip out—and so does the hunger. It pulls you together, quiet and undeniable.

18+ mdni! sylus x reader. mean and jealous sylus. exhibitionism. mentions of alcohol. MENTIONS OF YOUR EX.(tw for the traumatized ones! me too) sex with panties on. reader helps sylus put it in. hair pulling. neck biting.

give it a listen while reading!

Your peers, drunk and jubilant—shove you and Sylus into a dim, empty room. A single bed sits like an altar in the center, bathed in the flickering light of scattered candles. Shadows dance along the walls, mocking the childish ritual everyone insisted on reviving.

“Have fun, you two.” A friend giggles, their face like a menace as they close the door behind them.

Seven Minutes in Heaven. A game for teenagers, not the ghosts you’ve all become.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sylus doesn’t move, but his neck twists with an audible crack, his gaze snapping toward you, like a compass finding north.

“We’re not in fucking college,” he spits, venom curling in every syllable. His tongue clicks sharply against his teeth as his hands drag down his face, frustration etched into every line. “This is pathetic.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already continuing, voice edged in scorn.

“Why the hell did you even agree to this? What are you, fifteen?” His crimson eyes bore into you, not with fury, but something colder. He’s irritated, exhausted, and you’re the misfortunate target standing in his line of fire.

You falter, trying to explain, trying to find the words to deflect the heat of his stare. “My ex,” you whisper, throat dry. “They—”

He cuts you off, stepping on your words like a death match. “You wanted to make them jealous?” His tone rises with disbelief. “Is that it? You thought dragging someone in here would have them fuming?”

You can’t meet his eyes. You look down instead, as if the floor might open up and swallow you whole. “Even if I hadn’t agreed... they still would’ve played. Everyone wanted to. I—it was a majority win.”

He scoffs, disgust curling his lips as he rakes his gaze down your frame like judgment. “But you did agree,” he says, bitterly triumphant. “So that’s on you.”

A beat. Then, with a cruel twist of the mouth, he adds, “Didn’t your ex cheat on you? Why the hell are you still performing for them?” He gestures vaguely toward the door, disdain thick in his voice. “Why give them anything?”

You fumble for words. “My ex ain’t the only reason,” you murmur, nerves unraveling. The air between you grows hot, charged. You bite your lip, fingers tangling around each other, betraying you.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, something darker gleaming in his eyes. “Let me guess. There’s someone else here you’ve got a stupid little crush on?” His voice drops, laced with mockery. “Someone you’re hoping will notice?”

You look up at him, heart hammering like war drums in your chest, the nerves rushing through your veins like wildfire. Your mouth parts, but your voice stumbles out in fragments. Your mind knows the truth before your lips are ready to speak it.

He was the reason. The man who kept you company through silent nights, the one whose words you read between, searching for meaning in the quiet spaces. At times, he is the sweetest soul you’ve ever known; tender, gentle, impossibly kind. And at other times, he burns with a distant anger, as if he’s trying to forget you ever existed, just like right now. You ache for the sweetness you once held close, now drifting like distant galaxies, silent and unreachable.

“Um... yeah,” you murmur, eyes flicking to the floor like it might save you from your own confession. Shame sears through you. What the hell did you just say? Your chest tightens. You feel foolish, small. You dare not look at him again.

“I know you like me too, Sylus.” The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. Your heart stops. Time shudders. You want to vanish.

Sylus stares at you, stunned; like you’d just slapped him. His expression twists, not in kindness, but in incredulity.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, recoiling. “Why can’t you just be normal and say how you feel, instead of pulling stunts like this?”

Your shame hardens into something else; indignation. You rise with it, fists curling. “What are you even talking about? At least I try. At least I shoot my shot.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a bitter laugh. “Well, you missed.”

The words strike you like a gun to your chest. You flinch internally, but wear your pain in silence. His sarcasm coils around your body like a snake, suffocating.

You take a step back. The distance feels safer. Your legs give in, and you sink to the edge of the bed. The candles around you flicker with your breath, with your defeat. You look anywhere but at him.

He follows.

Still burning, but his fury ebbed, dissolving into something more tender.

“You know,” he says, standing over you, arms crossing over his chest but his voice softening, “I did feel the same way. I do. But this? This was the wrong move. I didn’t want to be dragged into some childish game.”

You let out a frustrated groan, pressing your forehead to your knees. “Me neither,” you say, muffled. “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

But of course, it had to get worse.

Because the rules of the game weren’t just a joke; they were a trap. The pair inside the room wasn’t meant to just sit and stew in awkward confessions. No, the bare minimum was a kiss, not just a sweet peck on the cheek, but something deeper. Erotic. Lingering.

And now here you were. The bed behind you. The candles around you. The weight of your words hanging between you like thunder.

And Sylus is still watching you. Breathing hard. Trying to decide whether to walk out that door or reach for you.

“I wanted to see where things might go with you,” The man mutters, his voice striked with frustration, but beneath it, something almost soft, almost real. “But not like this. Not in some idiotic party surrounded by people I don’t even know.”

The words hit like a balm. A cracked bandage pressed against the wound of your heart. You blink up at him, tears glassing your eyes, your lips trembling into a deeper frown.

He scoffs, suddenly averting his gaze, almost as if your sadness embarrasses him. But then, unexpectedly, his hand rises to your cheek. Not in comfort, not quite — just enough to stop your spiral. His palm is warm, rough, fleeting.

“Ugh, don’t give me that look,” he mutters, annoyed. “Let’s at least make this believable.”

You sniff, confused. “What do you mean?”

“They want a show, right?” he says, fingers tapping his chin in mock calculation. “Then we give them one. Kissing… maybe more, I don’t know. Whatever sells the fantasy.”

Your breath hitches again.

“When the seven minutes are up, the door swings open, boom! They catch us mid-makeout. Scene complete. Unless…” He raises a brow. “You’d rather chug a bottle of Don Julio and end the night with a blackout instead?”

You grimace. The thought of liquor burning your throat and your dignity doesn’t appeal in the slightest. You shake your head, then reach up and brush his hand away, heart thudding louder.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” you snap, voice sharper now, raw.

He rolls his eyes, and then suddenly, the air changes.

In one swift motion, he grabs the hand that had pushed him and slams it down against the bed, pinning your wrist to the mattress. You fall back with a startled gasp, the softness of the comforter doing nothing to cushion the tension that flares between you. He’s above you now, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

“You think I do?” he growls, his voice low, tight with restraint. “I’m trying to do you a favor. Keep your pride intact and avoid a drunk-driving charge all in one move. So the least you could do is stop acting like I dragged you in here.”

You squirm beneath him, stunned, breathless. His grip is firm, but he’s not hurting you; just holding you in place, forcing you to listen. Then, just as quickly, he lets go.

He straightens, running a hand through his hair as if to dispel the moment.

“This sucks,” he mutters, stepping back, pacing like a caged animal. “But it’s what we’ve got.”

The candles flicker behind him. The clock ticks down.

And still, something in your chest, even after everything aches toward him.

You sit up slowly, the mattress sighing beneath you. Disbelief still coils in your chest like smoke; heavy, unshakable. You stare at him, at the storm still settling in his bones, his shoulders, his silence. For a while, you say nothing. You just breathe.

But then, finally, a nod. Barely there. Barely brave.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word nearly swallowed by the knot in your throat. You bite down on your lower lip to steady yourself, but it only tightens the anticipation curling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales, low and guttural, like this costs him something too. “Then c’mere,” he murmurs, voice cracked and rough at the edges.

But his eyes, god, his eyes; they betray him. There’s no disdain in them now, no frustration. Only heat. Only hunger. They look at you like a dream he never asked to have, but can’t stop chasing.

You rise, tentative, your steps slow, delicate, almost hushed. But the slowness makes something inside him snap.

He groans, frustrated, desperate. In one sudden pull, he grabs you, hands flying to your face, fingers threading through your hair and cradling your jaw as he drags you forward.

His lips crash against yours like a storm meeting the shore. Fierce. Unforgiving. Starved. Your breath catches in your chest, your eyes wide for a moment, stunned by the intensity. But then the world fades. The candles blur. The silence grows loud with your pulse.

Your lashes flutter shut. You sink into it.

His grip tightens slightly, anchoring you to the moment. And instinctively, your hands reach for his wrists, fingers curling around them, not to stop him, but to keep him there, to hold onto the fire he’s giving you.

He’s kissing you; deeply, hungrily, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your breath. His hands keep you in place, but his mouth... his mouth moves with growing urgency, like he’s slipping, losing control in the worst and most delicious way.

But even as your heart races, your cheeks flush warm. You go soft, not from disinterest, but from the overwhelming tenderness flooding through you. You kiss him slower, gentler, lips molding against his like a confession you can’t speak aloud.

A sound escapes him; low, guttural. A groan pulled from somewhere deep. Then he pulls away, exhaling hard, his hands releasing your face like you’re made of fire.

“Okay,” he breathes, stepping back a half-pace. The golden light of the candles flickers against his skin, painting him in a glow that makes him look unreal. You stare, dazed, lips parted, still tasting him, still feeling the imprint of his palms on your jaw.

But then his voice cuts through the stillness, sharper now, dissatisfied. “No. You’re too soft.”

Your brow furrows, raising. “What?”

“It’s not convincing,” he says flatly, eyes scanning your face, as if searching for something he can’t quite find. “You’ve gotta do better if you want to get out of here.”

You look around the room, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leans in just enough for the weight of his next words to fall heavy. “Kiss me like you’ve been waiting for it all night.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it, like a challenge, like a plea, like a dare. He takes a step closer, and his voice drops firmly.

“Kiss me like we’re a couple who lives together—and we're about to have some insane sex and then suddenly we get dragged to this stupid party, and now we’ve got to wait until we get home to finish what we started.” He looks at you dead-on. “That kind of kiss.”

The specificity cuts through you like a blade wrapped in silk. It’s too exact. Too vivid. Too lived-in. Had he thought about this before? About you in that way?

You can barely breathe.

His tone is stern, almost reprimanding, but his eyes forsake him again. They're intense, yes, but not cruel. There’s heat behind them. Yearning. He’s not just talking about acting anymore. And you know it.

You swallow hard, your body still, your heart otherwise. His words echo in your mind like a dare you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet. But part of you wants to. You move before you can think, the silence between you thick and electric.

You grab him by the collar, pulling him down to you, and your lips crash into his with a hunger that's been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, your fingers tangling into his silver hair like you've wanted to for far too long.

Sylus stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden urgency, but only for a breath. Then he groans, low and deep, and melts into you. His lips match yours beat for beat, heat for heat. His hand snakes around your waist, fingers tightening with a possessive grip, pulling your hips against his until there's nothing left between you but the thrum of need.

Your body acts before your mind can stop it. You jump into him, legs wrapping tight around his waist. He catches you instantly, like he knew you would do it, like he's wanted you to. His hands shift down, gripping beneath your thighs, and his nails scrape your skin just enough to make you gasp.

The air around you is thick with heat, the candlelight gleams against the walls like it's trying to keep up with your pulse. His breath is ragged against your cheek, and his forehead rests against yours for half a second, his chest rising fast.

"Just like that, baby… Why were you holding out on me, huh?" he mutters, voice rough, almost accusing, but there's wonder in it too. A dazed kind of awe.

You don't answer. You just look at him - flushed, trembling, eyes locked like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. And then you kiss him again, slower this time but deeper, like you mean it.

With careful steps, Sylus comes closer to the bed, sitting down on the soft cushions with you now sitting on his lap. He tugs at your hair, making your head tilt back for his access. His lips separate from yours, trailing down your neck with kisses.

“Been wanting to do this to you,” he growls against your skin, his lips brushing just below your ear, his breath warm, his touch lingering. It sends a shiver down your spine. Your knees threaten to give away, and your fingers press instinctively to his chest, where his heart pounds wild and unrestrained against your palm.

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can even think to hold it back. He’s too close, too intense, and yet, not close enough. The heat of him, the sheer presence of him, drowns everything else out.

“Why’d you have to be dumb about it, though?” he mutters, almost like he’s scolding you but there’s something softer buried beneath the edge. Something that sounds like disappointment, not just in you, but in the time wasted.

“S–sorry… didn’t kno—” you try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat, unraveling as his hand slides into your hair; gripping, tugging, the pressure just shy of pain, just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, he drags you back down to the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, the room spinning in adrenaline. He hovers over you now, silver hair falling into his eyes, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze pins you in place, heavy, unreadable, but full of something fierce, something that makes your stomach knot and your pulse sing.

“Could’ve made it so special for you,” he murmurs, the regret in his voice slicing between the lust. “If you hadn’t turned it into a childrens’ game.”

His words sting; not cruelly, but truthfully. And they settle somewhere deep in you.

You swallow hard, caught between guilt and solemn, your lips parting like an apology is about to slip out again, or maybe even a plea.

You don't even know if the door is locked. Time has slipped through your fingers like smoke, you've been in here with Sylus for too long, and he seems just as lost in it.

"Sylus... the time," you whisper, your hand falling limp beside your head as your gaze drifts toward the door. Voices hum on the other side, laughter and music bleeding in through the crack beneath it.

"Fuck the time," he breathes against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw, soft and burning. His hips press into yours, slow and deliberate, grinding down with a hunger that makes the room feel smaller. His hand sliding up your wrist and into your hand, fingers intertwined with yours.

"Gonna remind your pathetic ex exactly what they lost," he growls between clenched teeth, each word seething with something deeper than lust; a promise, a fire.

Sylus' mouth trails along your skin, the scrape of his teeth sending a shiver down your spine. A quiet moan escapes you, unbidden, as your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, fingers fisting just to stay grounded.

"God, Sylus—" you breathe, hips rising to meet his in a slow, aching rhythm. Desire hums low in your chest, unsteady.

But your eyes flick toward the door—a whisper of fear, the world pressing in. The risk of being seen. The weight of being caught.

His hand finds your face, thumb pressing beneath your chin, lifting, forcing your gaze back to him.

"Look at me," he says, voice low, rough with something no amount of water can quench. “Let’s at least have some fun with this.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you watch his brow knit with raw, aching desire. His gaze holds you captive, those crimson eyes, dark and endless, drawing you in until you're drowning in them, willingly lost.

You finally give in. Your lips find his again, crashing together with a desperate urgency. Tongues meet in a feverish tangle, tasting the need that's been building between you. The risk of being caught fades into nothing, replaced by something far more dangerous; thrilling, intoxicating, you’re almost rushed with excitement.

His hands are on your hips, large and sure, lifting you effortlessly against him. The space between you disappears as he pulls you in, chasing the release he's been aching for with every touch, his cock trembling underneath the fabric of his pants, and you can feel it on your clothed cunt as the pressure hardens.

The kiss never breaks. Neither do you. But your hands move downward with purpose, fingers curling around his waistband, tugging hard in your impatience. He groans into your mouth, helping you with one hand shoving his trousers down, hips shifting as he kicks them off the bed without care.

You follow, shimmying out of your shorts beneath him, discarding them with a toss. There's nothing left between you now, just heat, breath, and the promise of what's to come.

The man pushes your panties to the side, the lace wet and warm against his digits. He keeps it in place with his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” Sylus says, finger gliding up your slick. “Barely even touched you.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, leaving you momentarily speechless. In the silver hush of moonlight, his arm glows, every curve of muscle sculpted in shadow and light. Drawn by something tender and magnetic, you reach out, your fingers gliding along his skin. Where you touch, goosebumps rise beneath your palm, a silent response to your closeness.

“Gonna have my way with you, baby.” His arm cages you in, braced over your head. He leans close, eyes dazed, a wicked grin curving his lips, desire crackling off him, aching to be unleashed, to pour itself into the girl fevered beneath him.

Your hand trails downward, slipping between your tightly pressed bodies. The space is narrow, but your touch finds his cock; tough as bark, pulsing in your grasp. You curl your fingers around him and give a slow, teasing tug. His breath catches, lips parting with a quiet gasp of pleasure. His eyes lock onto yours, silently urging you to go on.

After a few slow strokes of your hand along his length, you guide him to your entrance, your breath catching, body strung tight with need. Your free hand finds the curve of his shoulder, clutching for balance as your anticipation sharpens into ache. With his tip resting at your core and your fingers still wrapped around him, he begins to press in, slow and deliberate.

A gasp escapes you both, shared and unguarded, as he stretches into you. You wince through clenched teeth, the sudden fullness drawing a deep, ragged groan from his throat. His hands grip your thighs, dragging you closer with a desperate pull, needing to feel every inch, to lose himself in the heat of you.

He begins to move with you, every thrust heavy with desire. Your back arches instinctively, breath hitching as your hips surrender, melting into his rhythm. You let him take control, slowly succumbing to the heat between you.

His hand glides from your stomach to the small of your back, pulling you tighter, his body pressing down, grounding you both in this moment. His breath brushes your ear, urgent, as a low groan slips past his lips, raw and bare.

Your moans rise and fall together, a perfect, wordless harmony. Outside, the world fades, the distant noise softens and dims until it's just silence wrapped around you. It's only you and Sylus now, skin to skin.

"Too good, Sy..." Your voice falls away, soft as a sigh, trembling on the edge of breath, head falling back as he pulls you closer under him. He nods, gentle fingers tracing the shimmer of sweat upon your skin, cool and tender against the heat still rising from within.

"Yeah, I know, baby," he murmurs low, a teasing edge curling his words like smoke. "Your ex can’t make you feel this good, right?" His voice wraps around you, both challenge and caress, setting your core aflame. You bite your lip, nails digging lightly into his shoulder, holding on as if to tether yourself to this burning moment.

Your eyes, heavy and glazed with desire, lock with his, silent and unyielding. You shake your head at his rhetoric, and his grin deepens at the sight, fierce and wild, as he drives into you with relentless rhythm, drawing from your throat a moan that trembles, into the charmed air between you.

He chuckles, teasing sound slipping past his lips as his pace quickens, his length driving past that tender spot where pleasure consumes you whole.

"I'll make sure they know," he breathes, voice thick with possession, "you're mine now, baby. Completely."

But his words dissolve into the haze clouding your mind, slipping past comprehension, swallowed by the relentless rush of sensation. Your lips part, uttering nothing but soft, tangled murmurs. Your eyes flutter back, lost in the depths of pleasure, and with every powerful stroke, your fingers lift the sheets below you, clutching them tighter, grasping for something solid amid the sweet, shattering chaos.

“Y-yeah… mmngh—like that. Just like that.” You're babbling now; soft, broken sounds slipping past your lips like prayers, half-formed and breathless.

Words no longer belong to you; they've melted under the weight of sensation, dissolved in the rhythm of his body claiming yours. Sylus watches you closely, and a quiet coo escapes him, sweet, laced with mock affection, like he's savoring the way you fall apart for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a velvet hum, thick with pride. "So fucking pretty when you're gone like this..."

His gaze lingers on your face, studying every twitch, every quiver of your mouth, the dazed glassiness in your eyes. You look utterly undone, beautifully ruined, and entirely his.

Inside you, that familiar coil tightens; sharp, burning, exquisite. Each thrust pushes you closer, each stroke dragging across your sweet spot, a velvet trigger that makes your spine arch and your breath catch. You're trembling beneath him, muscles tightening, hips trying to meet his every motion even as your strength fades into the waves overtaking you.

"You're close, aren't you?" he growls softly, more a statement than a question. His words curl against your skin like heat. "Gonna give it to me, baby? Gonna come just for me?"

The sound of your slickness echoes between your bodies, your arousal coating him, wet and shameless.

His lower belly is slick from it, the friction only stoking his hunger. Your walls begin to flutter around him, grasping greedily with every thrust; like your body already knows what it needs, what it craves. The pleasure is white, hot now, swelling, cresting. Sylus feels it too. His breath hitches, a rough, primal growl rising from his chest as your heat clutches him tighter, pulling him deeper into your unraveling.

"That's it," he hisses, voice low and reverent. "Let go for me. Give me all of it."

And just like that, you do. Your body gives in with a shudder that rocks through you, eyes rolling back, hands clawing at the sheets as you're swept under.

He doesn't move.

He just watches you; eyelids heavy with something deeper than lust as your body slowly rides the last waves of your release. You're draped across him, glowing and breathless, hips still rolling in soft, instinctual motions, as though your body refuses to let the moment end.

And you look divine like this.

He sees it all; the way your skin glistens, how your chest rises and falls in shaky, uneven breaths, how your lips part with quiet gasps, trying to recover from the high that still clings to your bones. You're not even aware of the way you move, chasing the echo of what he gave you, but he is.

So he stays still. Buried deep. Letting you take from him what you need, letting your body speak its own language as it trembles around him. He could thrust, could claim more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives you the space to feel, to come down, to revel in your own pleasure.

His hands slide to your hips, just enough pressure to remind you he's still there, still holding you. Not controlling. Just present. Anchoring.

"You don't even know what you do to me," he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint. His eyes drink you in like you're something sacred-something to be worshipped. "Just look at you... so perfect f’me.”

You can't answer, not yet. You're still floating, your body loose, your muscles clenching around him without rhythm, like aftershocks in a storm.And he takes it all in; the way you surrender, the beauty in your unraveling, and stays there with you, deep and still, like he belongs nowhere else.

Your breath is still uneven, your body still pulsing faintly with aftershocks when the weight of reality suddenly crashes back in. Panic flickers in your chest like a spark catching flame. You sit up quickly, scanning the bed, sheets tangled around your legs as your hands fumble for your phone.

“The time,” you breathe, urgency rising in your voice. “How long have we been in here?”

Sylus glances lazily at the watch on his wrist, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I’d say… ten minutes. Maybe.”

“Ten?” you echo, eyes wide in disbelief.

You leap out of bed, tugging your shorts back on with hurried hands, fingers shaking with the twisted fabric of your shirt as you try to smooth it back into something that resembles presentable. Sylus chuckles quietly behind you, already slipping into his trousers, still entirely unbothered as he trails after you.

You push open the door. Silence.

The low hum of conversation in the hall dies as heads turn, eyes flicking toward the two of you with a knowing gleam. The air hangs heavy.

“You guys are like… twenty-three minutes past the clock,” someone calls out, tone teasing, laced with amusement.

You stop short. Slowly, you turn your head to Sylus, who stands just a breath away from your side, looking down at you with that same infuriating calm. You do the math.

Ten minutes, he said.

But thirty have passed.

Your heart sinks. Heat floods your cheeks, not from desire this time, but embarrassment, tinged with disbelief.

Thirty long minutes.

“Yeah, alright. Bye, everyone,” Sylus calls out with a casual wave, completely unfazed. His hand slips around your back, drawing you close with that effortless confidence he wears like a second skin.

You keep your eyes low, cheeks burning as you walk beside him, letting him guide you through the quieted crowd. The buzz of whispers trails behind you like a shadow, but Sylus carries you both through it with his usual cool indifference.

Once you’re outside, he glances over at you, that ever-present grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, mischief lacing his voice, “I think your ex noticed.”

You let out a groan, nudging him hard in the side. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs, the sound warm, and then leans in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, so soft it makes your heart catch. You smile, despite yourself.

No more eyes on you now. No more pressure. Just the quiet hum of the night as you both slide into his car, the door closing behind you like the punctuation at the end of a chapter.

“What I said earlier, before, you know…” he murmurs, the car shifting into reverse, easing both of you out of the neighborhood.

“Yeah?” you reply, your head resting against the seat, body melting into the cushions like you’re trying to disappear into the moment.

He glances at you, just once; quick, sharp, but his eyes return to the road.

“You want to finish what we started?”

author's note: wrote this with one hand and the other in my pants—WHO SAID THAT?

also, would you guys appreciate some goth music recs too? or just rnb, let me know :)

also!!! i'm highly aware that there's a possibility u might think this is out of his character. but idrc, just use ur imagination :P

[emotionalwizard]

I am exceedingly grateful every day for the Classic Shooter Revitalization.

I like guns, but so, SO many military shooters are framed around shooting my fellow man when what I really want is to slay some dragons with something more modern than a sword or lance.

The Legions of Heaven and Hell, or goofy cults to vile gods populated by slashers and wizards (half the time with Stephan Weyte voicing one of the characters, minimum), or brain-sucking aliens with a fake holiday scheme and some giant ACME magnets, or half-roboticized people turned into monsters by a rogue AI, or weird gangsters that think crime is good and stole your designer shoes, or even something as ridiculous as goblins with meat cleavers looking for cheese or "magical, factory-made ponies..."

These are all real examples of foes I've faced in FPS, and minus an appropriated native spirit or two here or a crappy reboot that amped up the sleaze factor of an already pretty immature game there, none of them come close to the discomfort I get from playing full-throated endorsements of genocide directed at Real People.

I rly hate the Satanic Panic & the moral panic surrounding violence in video games in the 90s, coz it's now impossible to talk about the social implications of violent video games in a realistic sense.

No, violence in video games does not create serial killers in the way most people imagine it would.

However, it's very important to notice how after 9/11, a lot of violent video games pivoted their content from silly gratuitous cartoon gore to more realistic military shooters set in the Levant from a US American lens. It's also important to notice the connection of these games & their toxic online multi-player voice chats to Gamer Gate in 2014.

It's obviously not as black & white as it was presented in the 80s & 90s, I dont think everyone who played early Call of Duty games is a white supremacist who wants to join the military to kill people in the middle east, but I think it's dangerous to pretend like video games or any media can't have an impact on the way people think about violence.

I think what makes all the difference here is how that violence is portrayed, what the message behind it is, what the motives are behind the people who crafted that message, who the victims of that violence are, how they are portrayed & the greater cultural context that surrounds it.

[orellazalonia]

Hello! Your works are so fun to read and i look forward to reading them everytime theres an update! Might i suggest shapeshifting cat reader that likes to hide themselves in Bucky’s jacket and refuses to leave? Imagine him huffing about all the cat fur yet he still carries reader around everywhere… a softy at heart, love your works!

Hello, dear! Thank you for the kind words. This was such a cute request, and exactly the type of mischief she’d get into. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Cat Uber

Summary: You shapeshift into a cat and wedge yourself into Bucky’s favorite jacket, refusing to leave no matter how much he grumbles or tries to remove you. However, he eventually gives in and ends up carrying you gently through the compound and letting you curl up nestled against his chest. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

Main Masterlist | Shapeshifting Shenanigans Masterlist

You didn’t wake up today intending to be a menace.

Well… maybe a little.

The tower was quiet, warm, and full of lazy late-morning sunbeams. The kind of day that begged for soft mischief and petty victories. You stretched luxuriously from your perch on the windowsill, fur fluffing up with satisfaction as you blinked down at the bustling floor below.

Bucky was around here somewhere.

Probably brooding. Probably wearing that same leather jacket he treated like a second skin and holy artifact combined. You’d seen how he carefully hung it up, how he glared at anyone who touched it, how he once threatened Sam with “a very quiet funeral” when he tried it on as a joke.

Which is exactly why your ears perked when you heard heavy boots echoing down the hall. Then came the voice: low, muttering, unmistakably Bucky.

“Where the hell are my keys…”

You crept to the edge of the hallway like a shadow, tail flicking, and eyes sharp.

There he was. Jacket zipped halfway, hair pulled back, irritation already tugging at his brow as he pat down his pockets with one hand and held a granola bar in the other.

You watched him. Calculated. Waited. And when he turned his back to rummage through the side table drawer, you moved lightning-quick with deadly precision, like the fluffiest assassin in the world.

Launch.

You leapt straight up and burrowed into the soft lining of his open jacket, tucking yourself in against the warmth of his chest like you belonged there.

“WH–?!”

Bucky jerked back so hard he knocked into the wall, granola bar flying across the floor as he tried to figure out what, exactly, just attached itself to him.

He looked down. You looked up.

Your head poked through the slightly open zipper like a smug little goblin. One paw reached up and ever-so-gently batted his chin.

“���You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You purred. Loudly. He stood there, jacket half zipped, arms awkwardly lifted, and eyes closed like he was summoning patience from the heavens.

“I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

You stretched inside his coat, repositioned yourself against his ribs, and started kneading gently.

“…You are doing this on purpose.”

You blinked slowly and yawned. And Bucky Barnes, hero, former assassin, brooding king, just stood there in the hallway with a cat stuffed down his jacket and the haunting realization that his day was already ruined.

He waited in the hallway for a solid minute, unmoving, like if he just didn’t acknowledge the situation, you might… evaporate.

Spoiler: you did not.

Instead, you made yourself even more comfortable. You’d managed to wedge yourself halfway into the inner lining, your little body molded against the inside of his chest like a warm purring furnace. Every time he shifted, you dug in a little deeper, like a very smug parasite.

“All right,” He muttered, squinting down at you, “Let’s just… fix this.”

He reached inside his jacket carefully, like he was disarming a bomb. The moment his fingers brushed under you, you let out a dramatic trill and rolled slightly, tail slapping against his wrist.

Bucky froze.

“Don’t you dare,” He warned.

You yawned and shifted again. A fresh puff of fur exploded from your coat.

He coughed. “God, you shed like you’re getting paid for it.”

The hallway was empty now, but the sound of your purring filled the space like mocking static. Every attempt he made to unzip the jacket fully or pull it open resulted in you shifting, pressing your body weight just enough to throw off his balance or force him to readjust.

“I’ve fought in countless missions, but this–” He paused, gritting his teeth, “—This is the fight of my life.”

You gave him a blink. Slow. Confident. Like you knew he wouldn’t win.

He started walking, grumbling under his breath. “Fine. Let’s go. But I swear, the second we’re–“

You shifted slightly, nuzzling under his chin. His words died off mid-grumble.

“…Unreal.”

He grabbed his keys off the floor, along with the granola bar you'd startled from his hand earlier, and headed toward the elevator. Every step, your claws dug in slightly, not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind him: I’m still here. And I’m not leaving.

By the time he got to the lobby, he looked like a man on the verge.

Steve was waiting by the front entrance, arms crossed. “Ready to head to the training center–“

He stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes dropped to the unmistakable lump under Bucky’s jacket. Then to the two pointy ears poking out beneath the collar. Then the bright eyes. The purring.

Steve opened his mouth then closed it again.

“…You know what? I don’t even wanna ask.”

“She ambushed me,” Bucky said flatly.

Steve smirked. “Isn’t that your thing?”

“Not when it’s fuzzy.”

At that moment, you licked Bucky’s jaw.

Steve wheezed.

“You’re making this worse,” Bucky told you without looking down.

You blinked slowly, smug as ever.

“Don’t encourage her,” He growled at Steve, who was now doubling over with laughter.

But still… Bucky didn’t reach for the zipper again.

He just adjusted his grip, sighed through his nose, and walked out the doors with you still purring against his chest like a satisfied little gremlin riding first class.

By the time Bucky made it back from the training center, you were still very much in the jacket. Still purring. Still smirking with your whole face.

He was tired. His hoodie underneath the jacket was already a lost cause, covered in fur and faintly radiating your body heat. The jacket? That was sacred. Untouchable. Now it had cat fur all over it.

“This was dry-cleaned last week,” He muttered as he walked into the kitchen.

You yawned.

Natasha looked up from her mug and immediately raised an eyebrow. “That… new?”

Bucky grunted. “She won’t leave.”

“She locked herself in your jacket?”

“She launched into it like a goddamn torpedo.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Sounds like love to me.”

Bucky shot her a glare. You licked your paw and rubbed your face dramatically on the inside of the jacket like this was your five-star hotel suite.

“She’s not even light,” Bucky grumbled, opening the fridge with one hand while the other braced under your butt. “She’s like hauling around a twenty-pound hot water bottle with claws.”

From across the room, Tony poked his head in.

“Oh, so you’ve finally accepted the role of personal transport vehicle for the shapeshifting floof, huh?”

“She. Will. Not. Move.”

Tony shrugged. “Just let it happen.”

Bucky shut the fridge with his hip and grabbed some leftovers. You tucked your head against his collarbone and promptly fell asleep.

“…She’s purring again,” He muttered, deadpan.

“Then you’ve been claimed,” Tony replied. “Congratulations.”

Bucky stared at the microwave, jaw clenched. He was a soldier. A sniper. A man with seven confirmed stealth takedowns last month alone. And now?

He was a sleep mat for a smug, magical cat-goblin with attachment issues. His microwave beeped. You shifted slightly to readjust. Bucky didn’t even flinch.

“Fine,” He muttered, voice low but not unkind. “You win. Just… stay on this side of the jacket, and no more fur in my holster.”

You stretched in response, a paw pressed to his ribs, and started softly snoring.

He sighed.

“…Great. I’m furniture now.”

But he didn’t push you out. He even zipped the jacket a little higher so you wouldn’t get cold.

The compound had quieted.

Lights dimmed room by room. Conversations turned low and tired. Most of the team had retreated to their own corners of the tower, where walls were thicker and expectations faded.

Bucky stayed in the lounge.

He sat on the couch for a while, long legs stretched out, one arm looped carefully across the bundle nestled in his jacket. You hadn’t moved in hours, not since the post-dinner lull, when you curled even tighter against his chest, tail wrapped neatly around your own paws. At some point, your ear had pressed right over his heartbeat. Your purring slowed until it faded into something softer. Sleep, real sleep, took over.

He could feel the warmth of you through his shirt. Faint, steady. The kind of heat that seeps into bone, not just skin. The kind that keeps you grounded when everything else feels like it could vanish.

You always had that effect on him. Even when you weren’t a cat.

His fingers hovered over you. He was still wearing the jacket, the one you’d made your home for the day. Your fur was everywhere now. Embedded into the fabric, clinging to the collar, and floating in the air like glitter from a storm. The Bucky of this morning would’ve lost it.

But now?

He looked down at you. Tucked in, dreaming, and trusted him enough to fall asleep.

He exhaled quietly and pulled the jacket tighter around you.

[kotias]

Heaven tried to shove him in an Office AU where he was eating healthy and exercising and he was clearly miserable about it.

He looked straight into our eyes like a character shaking his head at the writers for the mischaracterisation.

Dean "I get my 10k steps and change with our job Sam, why are you jogging" Winchester has clearly had heated debates about Bert and Ernie being gay, loves watching series and movies...

Dean would be a nerd who would not only be into fantasy books/series and western movies, he would be an avid gamer. He's bring his partners to play games together and/or play with them watching. He'd be obsessed with Red Dead Redemption, specifically the RDD Undead Edition because killing zombies is awesome AND SAMMY LOOK I GOT A HORSE OF THE APOCALYPSE, would love finding nice MMORPG communities to dive into.

He'd be one hell of an HL player, and would probably take the newbies under his wings like a flock of baby chicks on the side.

say it with me again for the people in the back:

IF GIVEN A NORMAL CHILDHOOD

DEAN 👏 WINCHESTER 👏 WOULD 👏 NOT 👏 BE 👏 A 👏 JOCK 👏

THAT BOY HATES EXERCISE AND HEALTHY EATING

AND HAS CANONICALLY READ HARRY POTTER AND LORD OF THE RINGS

IF GIVEN THE CHOICE, THAT BOY IS N O T SIGNING UP FOR ANY SPORTS TEAMS

[chezzhire]

❝ he is god amongst humans– he alone, is the honoured one. but when gods break, to whom do they pray? ❞

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 gojo satoru has always carried the expectations of the world alone. but tonight in the heart of post-intimacy, you never thought you’d hear the seams of him beginning to break. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ (alternative: satoru cries during sex.) wc: 1.8k cw: afab, angst, light smut, hurt/comfort, emotional breakdown, soft!gojo, lovesick!gojo (you!!🥺), his pov mostly, not plot-heavy more feeling-heavy

"Hah—"

like you're remade anew, you cum undone bearing his weight above yours, legs thrashing the back of his waist, cunt convulsing around him in staggered tempo. moonlight illuminates your blissed out surrender and, satoru thinks to himself that he'll never witness a more entrancing sight in his life than you falling apart in his arms– back curling, sheen on skin, your fury of pleasure brought about by him.

his whole body stiffens as he fights to delay his orgasm. a desperate grunt leaves his lips.

if he cums, it'll be over; when that happens, he'll have to pull out. he's not ready to part from you quite yet. he doesn't want to. no, not yet.

—yet he feels your walls tightening around his cock as you ride along your climax, then it's a waver of resistance and a few more sloppy thrusts before he meets his own release hot and overflowing inside of you, filling in every hollow until you feel all plugged up.

he collapses atop you, though he's always careful not to crush you beneath his mass, supporting himself with what strength he can in his arms, trying to regain his breath; his body continues to shudder, his eyes are dazed watching you pant underneath him: the strongest.

...

gojo satoru is the strongest.

strongest.

the conspicuous word –akin to a title– is less a compliment and more a birthright carved into the bones of his existence the moment he came wailing into the world as a newborn, with a face too wide, his erratic hair the softness of snow petals, considerably one of the greater distinctives to those from the Gojo clan.

and his eyes...

unholy eyes that shimmer like moonstones drowned beneath layers of divine arithmetic only the heavens could read– and the heavens, clearly, had read enough to know what they’d done, for he was the first in centuries to inherit both Limitless & Six Eyes. they promised him potential before he could understand what the word meant; promised him power meant for him to look down at the world and uphold control over the jujutsu society, order and havoc nurtured not just by ink but by bone.

to have entirely upended the universe solely from having born. by existing –by simply having born–, he did not become. he simply was. greatness. precedence. the honoured.

so he wore the title: the strongest. and he wore it well. never mind the fact that he was damn fucking good at it too.

wore it back in his first year like a crown tailored for him when he walked through the corridors of jujutsu high like he already knew the halls would give way for him. proud and loud like an egotisstic maniac who’d never met loss., with brilliance a blade so sharp it made everyone look twice, first in disapproval followed by envied admiration next. they didn’t know what to do with him. not yaga, not the elders, not even suguru— and suguru had always known him best.

and where others bled, he didn’t flinch nor blink, just stared through it all unbothered, too distant from mortality to spare feelings on what'd sting. because back then it was easy, when he still believed that being the strongest meant no one could hurt him. because he was standing so high, high enough that nothing could ever reach him.

it's when things start to crack in the span of those days, and even then— when riko died and everything spiralled south, from how the blood on his hands was still lukewarm when suguru began to slip and he lost not only his best friend but his own reflection and he feels behind the curse of his eyes his own hell swallowing him whole— he simply stood taller because when did he ever even had a say on what choice he had in the first place?

wore it through missions that lasted days without sleep. when the ground spilt beneath his feet as he ended the life of his once partner, the boy who once stood beside him became someone unreachable, gone. in the many years later while lifting the next generation of jujutsu on his shoulders as their mentor. through the never-ending scrutinization of the higher-ups on his ass above the reports and briefings. pushing higher and further, until the sky itself seemed to bend around his presence, and they deemed it the great divinity– but what he felt, beneath all of it, was cold, calcified prophecy.

no longer a crown that fit like it used to but a noose arond his neck.

because no one tells you that to be exalted is also to be alone. no one admits the higher you' ascend, the farther you fall if you ever stumble. that when the strongest himself touch his own chest, it's to check if he is, somehow, still breathing on his own accord. to make sure if it's still there, that something human hasn't disappeared entirely.

you're his salvation.

your presence disrupted him more than any curse that obstructs his way or elders puppeting him ever could.

now here, with you beneath him, warm and trembling, still gasping his name like it means something beyond legend– he finally feels it. he's still inside you, soft yet hard even after, nestled in the cavity of your haven that grips around him like your body doesn’t want to let go either. you’re flushed, wrecked, glowing under the moonlight, and for a second, all he can do is look at you –really look– and wonder how the hell he got here. how someone like him ended up with something so… constant.

with his arm around your back, he pulls you tight. flips you over with incredible ease & strength, pulling you on top of him; without a moment's hesitation, he starts to thrust up into you again as he props himself against the pillows, looking up at you, hands exploring you once more like he's worshipping your body for the first time again.

this time, the heat of whatever lust has subsided, and this time, it's slower, calmer, almost lazy, guided by none than the need to be close in this newfound intimacy.

intimacy is such a foreign pill on his tongue.

you ride him slow, thighs twitching, breathing uneven, your body slick and open and pliant. every time you move, he follows you with his hands, his eyes. his heart.

this isn't fucking. it's not even sex anymore.

up... down... up... down...

up—

he smothers his face into the crook of your neck, because he's so overwhelmed by the sheer sentiments of it all. the unrelenting intensity of the moment, all the emotions crashing down on him– it's unbearable.

you?

well, you're breathless on top of him. one hand at the base of his skull, fingers curled gently through the damp mess of his hair. relishing in all of his touches. from the way he gently holds the curve of your ass, the way you feel his nose nuzzle against your clavicle, feel the heat of his breath, the shiver in his shoulders and—

... —and...

...and then you hear a sob.

it's the faintest of a sniff, but you catch it. and it drowns you like ice water.

you like to think you know gojo satoru well, enough at least. you met him later in life, not in the chaos of his youth but more like when the dust had settled so you never lived his past with him, only that you heard about them, the names and the tragedies that come bearing with. but you’ve seen him laugh, joke, tease, push through pain with a grin. you've felt strength beneath his hands, been with him long enough to catch his mask slip in moments.

not like this. now.

surprise shoots up your spine, but it's immediately shadowed by concern, and your hands move from around his shoulders up his undercut to pull him back gently. the angle's dim , and its hard to make out his face under his mopey hair with how scarce the silver of the moon shines through the window... over his jaw and the tremble on his lips... and your worry increases tenfold when you start to realize that he's shaking.

you whisper, in a tenderness that's nearly aching.

"Baby?"

and in that moment of stillness, in between the familiar walls of your bedroom, satoru let the tears fall. from the vicinity of your presence. tears safe enough to let go. tears of affection because his heart is so full of love, so full of you.

he had nothing to lose then, not really. because you cannot lose what was never yours to begin with: not a childhood, not peace, not the wishfulness of being normalcy, not freedom t fall without consequence.

not until your laughter cracked through his life like sunlight through frost. you let him be flawed. to be tirred and be human. until your voice is the first ever to ask the most gentle 'Are you okay?' like you're doing right now, fingers wiping his tear-stained cheeks like he's actually here.

"Satoru." you call out again. "Hey… baby. Look at me."

and he realized, so painfully, that he wanted more days & nights to be like this.

"I love you." he chokes out ,heavy with emotion, and it's raw. it's as honest as someone like him can get. "I— fuck, I love you so much."

"..."

you're stunned. sure, you’ve heard his voice a thousand times before: teasing, laughing, moaning, commanding. never so honest it sounds like it hurts for him to say.

you cup his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes, catching the wetness you now see clearly, and you press your forehead to his, warmth fanning his lashes. "I love you too," you echo his tune, barely a breath between your lips. "So... so much..."

with no more words, you lean in and kiss him. it crushes him, right there. while you're still rolling your hips holding onto him like he's not falling apart beneath you. it doesn’t take much— just the slow push of your body sinking down, the soft moan that leaves both of your mouths as he fills you again.

"I’m right here, 've got you..."

every touch felt. every whisper spoken is an act of declaration, his heart laid vulnerable in the sanctuary of your shared intimacy. he cries because he loves you so much it terrifies him. because in this world of death and curses, you've given him something to lose.

because in this reality where sorcerers are no strangers to loss and death is but a doorstep away, where he's not seen as a breathing, living human but a mere fucking tool, ...you're his lifeline that he grasps onto.

you came into his life and became his life.

and when he's in your arms, he's not a force to be reckoned with. he's not a weapon of destruction.

he's not gojo the strongest. in your arms, for once, he doesn’t have to hold up the world.

he only has to hold you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 happy 1 year to this draft in honour of the tragedy that was jjk 261. i was so in shambles reviewing this?? chezzhire © 2025. all original writing & concepts from me. Do not copy, modify ⚠

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾✩☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 26 - Worth the Fight

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Dean about to take gold in the Yearning Olympics.

Chapter Title from Nettles by Ethel Cain

Word Count: 19.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean picks you and Adam up, and everyone makes some choices. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 25 - Chapter 27

Read on A03!

There are a lot of different types of fear, and Dean Winchester has felt most of them.

There’s the white-hot, fury-made fear he feels during hunts. That one is useful. It’s a fuel. He can brace his body and fly through the fight with ease, swinging and shooting and marching right to the other side. Just like Dad taught him. 

But then there’s the rotting fear, and that one is just annoying. It sort of festers in his throat, and then he can’t damn breathe out of nowhere, the fear having taken months to root with no clear way of how to get it out.

Sammy’s moping in the corner about unleashing the apocalypse, can’t figure out the right words to tell the kid it’s not his fault, and it’s electric under his skin that something horrible is going to happen. Bobby’s trapped in the wheelchair, and Dean isn’t a doctor, but one day that’s going to end in an empty chair and another funeral pier.

But this is the worst fear. The frenzied, wired one, that means something’s gone wrong—why the hell does something always have to go wrong—and Dean won’t be able to feel okay until it’s better.

That one can be about Sammy and the demon blood. About being forced to his knees while Anna sliced Jo’s neck open.

But it’s mostly about Her. 

In pain in his arms. Calling him and saying She’ll be in Michigan, but then Dean got to Michigan and all that was left was the Firebird. Then hunters get the jump on his and Sam, because this fear doesn’t make him useful, or delay until he can’t ignore it anymore. It’s demanding, and painful, and every single time they’d walked into a memory of Her in Heaven, Dean had wanted to grab Her and never let go. Even when he damn well knew it wasn’t Her—the memories didn’t smell like fruit, and he should’ve gotten that it was Her in the blanket fort in the first second, because She’d smelled like fruit there—Dean had felt all the air tighten in his lungs.

Then he’d lost Her.

He’d grabbed the real Her—not dead, just walking through heaven like it was nothing, because she was a freaking angel—and then watched Her vanish with Zachariah. 

The rest of the night had been a blur. A lot of Sam and Cas trying to calm him down, things breaking, and graphic threats that he wouldn’t actually inflict on them, but likely on himself. He’d roared at the sky, begging it to split open and Dean catch Her. He’d somehow lost Her again, and there was no damn point in being Her shadow or guard or friend or anything if Dean just kept fucking dropping Her, when She needed to be held like it was the world and all the stars in his hands- 

“Dean.” Bobby had frowned at him from the doorway of their room. 

Her room. Her room, that She trusted Dean to share. That had all his clothing, because they’d all stopped pretending Dean would ever be able to sleep without Her. The sheets still smelled like Her. Dean was holding one of Her notebooks, all the words in Enochian, like he could somehow read it and find a way to bring her back. 

“Don’t say anything,” Dean had muttered, closing the book. “I don’t want to hear it, Bobby, I freakin’ know-“

“She called, ya idjit.”

His head had shot up. “She-“

“Sent a text first.” Bobby had grunted. “Called ‘er, we figure she got dropped somewhere in Northern California. She’s tryin’ to find somewhere to lay low ‘till you get her, but she’s stuck luggin’ that Adam kid with her. I were you, I’d get her fast.”

The fear had been clouding his brain. She’d gotten out, with Adam, but that didn’t mean she was safe. They didn’t know what the hell the angels had done to Her, if they’d hurt Her, if She’d needed Dean and he hadn’t been there. And California was far, and- 

“She fucking hates California.” Dean had said, the only thought able to get itself out of his mouth, and Bobby had only shrugged.

“Then you’d better drive fast.” He’d paused. “Don’t get arrested. I ain’t got the time to bail you out.”

Dean had nodded, and sprinted out of the room. No need to wake Sam up for this, not when they were still a pissed at each other. All of Sam’s Heaven’s had been fucking bullshit—times he’d left Dean, shit he’d pulled off that had spurred memories of Dad spitting in Dean’s face and bruises on his jaw—and Dean had thrown a few chairs after Sam told him he couldn’t just go back to Heaven and get Her. 

They fell the fuck apart, without Her. And Dean needed Her back now. The fear had turned almost numb and electric, and slowly ebbed out the closer he got to the address Bobby had given him.

But it gave way to new fear.

Cold fear. He could sort of feel it in his bones, and he’d been able to feel it since Mom died. He’d felt it every time Dad had gone out for a hunt, and Dean hadn’t been sure he’d return—and whenever he’d fucked up while Dad was on a hunt, and he hadn’t wanted Dad to return—and he’d felt it when he’d been in the demon deal, and She hadn’t known. Felt it every damn month She’d been gone, he’d called Her, and it had twisted in his stomach that this might be the time She didn’t pick up. 

Dread. It was dread. 

And as he pulled up the final dirt street—he’d been driving for over a day without sleep, but he didn’t need sleep, he needed Her—that was the fear that sunk into his body.

The fear that She’d be in pain when he saw Her, and this time, he wouldn’t be able to fix it. 

Dean shut off Baby’s engine, but this would be quick. He just needed to grab Her—and Adam—and get home. And this was the address, but it was a dusty, abandoned looking cabin on the edge of some farmland, so- 

Something tackled him from behind, arms wrapping around his chest and a face pressing into his back. 

Anyone else, and he would’ve shot without thinking. But somehow—maybe the smell, maybe the feel, maybe just a deep instinct that told him don’t shoot the best person you’ve ever loved, dumbass—he knew it was Her. So his arm dropped to keep Her’s around him, and he let out a heavy breath as they swayed on the sidewalk. 

Dean muttered Her name, craning his head back to meet Her gaze, and found her face still buried into his back. Her cheeks were smushed, and Her hair was a mess—but still somehow shiny, even in the dust of California—and when Dean repeated Her name, she just held him tighter. 

“You found me.” She mumbled against his shirt, something soft and choked in Her voice, and Dean twisted fully in Her arms. He needed to hold Her back. To make sure she was real. 

“Course I found you,” he kissed the top of Her head—that was allowed right now, she was crying—and she was going to suffocate him. He didn’t mind. “You-“

“I’m okay.” 

Dean sighed, and took Her face between his hands, tipping it back to meet his gaze. 

Her eyes were almost blinding, and glossy. Tinted red with tears, just as her cheeks were flushed and Her lips were swollen, likely from chewing. And there was that little, worried furrow in Her brow. 

She wasn’t okay. 

Dean ran his thumb down the bridge of Her nose, and tried to make his voice as gentle as possible. He didn’t know how to fix whatever was getting to Her. He had to fucking try.

“What happened?”

She shook Her head, hair sliding over her face that Dean got to brush away with his softest touch. 

“I-“ She took a shaking breath, leaning into his touch. And he really was a piece of shit, because that was going to replay over and over in his head for the rest of his damn life. “I’m-“

Someone called Her name, and Dean tugged Her forward, wrapping an arm back around Her and raising his gun. He got Her, he had Her, she wasn’t anybody’s but Dean was Her’s, and they’d have to kill him to touch Her- 

“What’s-“ Adam’s head poked out from behind the cabin, and his eyes widened, flicking between Dean, and Her in Dean’s arms. “Oh. Dean, you, uh- I thought Sam was coming?”

“Sam was sleeping.” Dean grunted. “And I’ve got the freakin’ car- Shit-“

Dean groaned as She shoved him, right in the gut, and leaned back with a glower. 

He tried to give Her a winning smile, but it was more of a wince. “Ow, Princess-“

“Don’t Princess me, Winchester.” She snapped, and Dean’s grin felt a little more real. He was either going insane, or the hours without sleep were finally getting to him. She was so pretty, and the sun was rising, and all the light seemed to only shine for Her. Making Her almost freaking glow. “Put the gun down.”

He hadn’t realized he was still holding it. But he listened, raising his brows as he tucked it away. 

Her scowl didn’t waver. “Where is Sam.”

“I told you, sleeping-“

“So you drive here alone?!”

“Uh,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck and glanced to Adam, but the kid was just staring at Her. “Maybe. But you needed help-“

“Not drive all night help, Dean!” She grabbed his face between Her hands, and Dean didn’t even bother to fight it. He was pretty sure she could try to stab him for real this time, and he wouldn’t do a damn thing about it. “When was the last time you slept?”

He wasn’t sure. He knew he hadn’t slept on the drive to Michigan, then he hadn’t slept in Heaven, but he’d been dead. That didn’t count. And She’d been missing for about a day and a half, plus the drive-

He was well over thirty-six hours.  

Telling Her that didn’t seem like the best idea. 

“I dunno,” he mumbled, and Her hands were so soft. “I’m fine, Princess-“

“Dean Winchester.” She hissed, and he might have lost all the blood in his face, rushing to other places in his body. She needed to keep looking at him like that. Forever. Like his health was something that really mattered to Her. 

He drawled Her name back, but he sounded a little drunk. This wasn’t working in his favor. 

“When did you last sleep,” She hissed—now didn’t feel like a good time to kiss Her—and he sighed. 

“Connecticut.”

Her eyes flashed, and before he was sure what was happening, they were moving. She’d grabbed Dean’s hand and was tugging him around the back of the cabin, and he was Her shadow. He didn’t know how to do anything but follow Her, wherever the hell she wanted to take him. 

Adam mumbled Her name as they passed him. “What-“

“We’re sleeping.” She snapped, and Adam frowned. 

“But-“

“Dean can’t sleep in the car.”

That was true. He couldn’t. And he didn’t know how the hell she knew that, but it didn’t matter. She was holding his hand. Half shoving him into some sort of makeshift bed before crawling up to his side, like She couldn’t bear to be away from him.

“Uh-“ Adam cleared his throat from somewhere near the door. “I thought we were going somewhere safe-“

“We’re safe here.” She shrugged, and Her hand was in Dean’s hair. He wasn’t sure She knew she was doing it. He never wanted Her to stop.

“Oh- okay.” Dean let his eyes flutter open, and Adam was frowning between them.

Dean let out a slow breath, and Adam’s attention settled on him. “We’ll drive in the morning, dude. I’ll call Sammy to get a room ready for you.”

Adam blinked. “For- me?”

“Bobby’s got a lot of rooms.” She hummed. “You can take Dean’s old one. We’ll figure the rest when we get home.”

Adam nodded nervously, and Dean felt a little guilty. He should be doing more, but his thoughts were only circling around old room. His old room. Because now they shared one, and didn’t bother to pretend.

But that wasn’t important. And even if Adam wasn’t Sammy, they were still family. Dean was the big brother. He should be helping Adam. Telling him that he was going to sleep because telling Her no took all the willpower in the world—and with Her hand in his hair and his head on Her thigh, Dean didn’t have any willpower—but then they’d go to Bobby’s, and everything would be fine. 

But he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what had happened to them, in those two days. And Adam was looking at him strangely, the same way Dad used to look at him. The way that made Dean feel like he was doing something wrong, when he was doing nothing at all. And Adam wasn’t Dad—he wasn’t going to hurt Her—but Dean didn’t like the way the kid’s eyes kept flicking between Her and Dean. 

Mostly Her. Adam kept looking at Her with an expression Dean knew from the mirror. Like She was the most beautiful thing in the universe—She was—and just a brush of Her skin against his would be a high better than goddamn heroine. 

Dean could understand a crush. Adam was just a kid, and She was magnetic. But She was sitting with Dean. And he was Her shadow. Adam could want Her, Dean wasn’t going to be weird about that. Dad might crawl out of the grave to strangle him if he ever chose a girl over family—even though She was family, and he’d only just met the real Adam—and Dean didn’t have any right to get possessive. She wasn’t Dean’s to possess. Only to protect, and hold, and maybe touch wherever he was allowed.

Another selfish thought. He should be focusing on Her and Adam’s safety and stability. On how there was a hollowness to Her features that told him something was wrong. But She was warm, Dean was exhausted, and this cabin was safe. Dean could recognize Her handwriting if he was blindfolded, even when said writing was in Enochian. Those were Her wards, the ones She’d put up at Bobby’s, and they’d had to toss three kinds of salt over Cas’ shoulder, dump him in holy water of the spring—rose water that Bobby had blessed with an eye roll—and let Her burn a lock of his vessel’s hair for him to be allowed into the yard. They’d be fine. 

Dean could turn his face to rest on Her abdomen and hear Her breath hitch, grinning to himself at the sound. He’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe damn the world and rest here into the apocalypse and after. Her fingers combing through his hair and making him feel like a dog, the smell of fruit all around him, his body relaxing because it was Her. 

And She was humming softly.

That wasn’t the voice of a siren, or an angel. It was whatever starlight sounded like, humming Ramble On just so Dean could sleep. 

He passed out faster than maybe ever in his life. He didn’t dream. And when his eyes blinked open to hazy, golden sunlight, She was watching him. 

She was so beautiful. There seemed to be a halo around Her head, and Her skin was still glowing, and Her eyes were so bright Dean was pretty sure he’d be able to see them guiding him home in the darkest storms.

He loved Her. 

She looked so tired. 

Dean reached a hand up before he could think better of it, and traced his fingers over Her cheeks. She blinked at him, leaning into his touch as Her eyes went glossy again, and something was wrong. He’d been an asshole, he’d known something was wrong, and he’d just fallen asleep like she hadn’t just been an angel prisoner-

“Feel better?” She whispered, and Dean voice was barely a rasp.

“Now I do, yeah.” He sat up slowly, keeping hold on Her careful. Tight enough that he could shift Her into his lap. Lose enough that, if She wanted, She could leave.

But She didn’t. 

She just wrapped Her legs around his torso, and dropped Her head to his chest. His arms flew up, caging Her back to keep Her steady, hands tangling in Her hair because he could.

Dean muttered Her name, and She held him tighter. “What the hell happened, after we got zapped.”

“I- I can’t-“ She curled further into him, and Dean knew that strain in Her voice. She was trying not to cry. “De, I don’t know how to- I don’t know what to do- I- I’m not-“

“It’s okay.” He kept his voice soft, swallowing down another baby. It wasn’t the time. “I’ve got you, Princess, you’re safe-“

A sob shook Her body, and Dean just held Her. If that was all he had to do right now, to be worthy of being Her shadow, he’d do it every damn time. Until Her breathing was even, and he could carefully tip Her head back and give her a sad smile. 

“I’m here.” He murmured, and She blinked at him through Her tears. 

He wiped them away with his thumb, then let it drift to the bridge of Her nose once more. Her eyes fluttered shut and She let out the best, airiest sigh he’d ever heard in his damn life. Dean could die here. With Her relaxed in his arms, their bodies tangled together, and nothing real in the world but the feeling of Her against him.

But Adam. The end of the world and Adam. 

Dean kissed Her brow, fought the urge to just kiss Her when She made another soft sound and curled her fingers on his chest, and forced himself to get up. He kept Her in his arms—She didn’t fight it, another bad sign—and walked Her outside to the Impala. After She was safely in the passenger’s seat, he went back for Adam. The kid had been sleeping in the room over, and it wasn’t hard to get him moving. 

He just had to say She was waiting in the car.

They were on the road quick. And it was a day long drive, but that was for assholes who obeyed things like speed limits.

Dean didn’t have time for that. She was being too quiet, Adam kept opening and closing his mouth like he wanted to ask questions but wasn’t sure how, and Dean could feel that cold fear again. Something had happened. Something had to have happened. Ellen was gone, all She had was her knives and a jar with something brown and sludge-like in it, and She kept looking at the skyline with that small wrinkle in her brow. 

It was going to drive him insane. He could beat his own muscle and soft tissue going black and blue over it, how he’d just fallen asleep at Her request, like he wasn’t supposed to be the one taking care of Her-

“Dean.” She mumbled, after they’d stopped for gas somewhere in Wyoming, long Adam knocked out in the backseat. “I called Sam. I think Adam’s a little sick, so they’ll be ready to look at him.”

Dean glanced at Adam in the rearview. “He looks fine-“

“He’s got a bite mark.” She was picking the skin on Her nails again, and gave Dean a sad look when his hand shot out of cover her’s. “I-“

“Don’t do that.” He muttered. “How the hell’d he get a bite mark, a freakin’ snake?”

She shook Her head, her hair falling over Her face and Her voice almost a whisper. “Me. I- I’ve never resurrected someone before. I think I did it wrong or something, because it looks like a ghoul bite, and it’s right here.” She reached up and touch the soft skin under Dean’s collarbone. A little electric shock ran through his body at the contact. He was worse than a damn teenager. 

He took a steadying breath—he was a grown man, he’d just slept in her lap, he could handle her touching him and talking to him all gorgeous and awesome—and shot her a small frown. “You’re the one who brought him back?”

She only nodded, and Dean felt the dread move deeper than his bones. Into something colorful and vital and shimmering, that knew Dean was just another thing in Her orbit, but he still had to keep Her safe.

Dean said Her name, and Her fingers twined with his. As if She was afraid he was going to let go. “Tell me what happened, sweetheart. Please.”

Her grip was death like. And it didn’t loosen, as She turned to press Her face into his arm. Her breaths muffled in Dean’s body, but She was also clinging to him like he was a buoy in a hurricane, so he just squeezed Her hand once.

There was a pause, then three squeezes in return. She didn’t seem fine. But before Dean could push it, she was talking. 

“I- I need to tell you most of it later.” She mumbled. “With everyone else. But, I – I don’t know what to do.”

He sighed. “I know, but-“

“I met Michael.” Her words were quick, and the dread was going to eat him alive. “He- He was yellow. And big. And he- he said that I-“ 

She made another weak noise, and Dean muttered Her name. “Breathe, Princess, I’ve got you-“

“Dean.” She whispered, Her chin propping on his shoulder, and when he shot Her a glance, Her eyes were big and bright on his. “Michael told me something.”

Dean frowned. “Like what? His evil plan?”

“No. Not his.”

“Wha-“

“He said I was the bride of God.” She whispered. “He- He said that’s what I was made for. That it’s why I’m like this.”

Dean couldn’t really hear anything. Couldn’t really see anything, either. It wasn’t a safe way to drive, but he didn’t care about driving right now. 

He cared about Her, half clinging to his side, Her voice far too fucking small and defeated. He cared about why She’d say like this—She was perfect, if anything, everyone else should want to be more like Her—and that Michael would call Her that. 

Bride of God.

“What the fuck does that mean.” He muttered, and his knuckles were white on the wheel. 

“Probably what it sounds like.” She mumbled, blinking up at Dean with a nervous expression. “Dean?”

He grunted—he felt like he was drowning without any water to blame—and glanced back to find Her watching him with an open, nervous expression.

“Are you mad at me?”

Dean stared at Her for a moment. That was insane. None of this was Her fault, it was God and the Angels and Hell and all these stupid fucking games with people’s lives that didn’t make sense, he understood it but he couldn’t let it make sense-

She opened Her mouth, and Dean shook his head. Her shadow. The most important thing was being Her shadow, and keeping Her safe.

“I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.” He muttered, kissing the top of Her head and forcing himself to not crash the car when She made another little sound. “We just- Guess we got work to do. We’ll call Cas. See what he knows.”

“Okay.” She dropped Her face back down to Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Course.” I love you. I just want to love you Princess, cryptic douchebag archangels or not. “You’re gonna be alright, Princess. Pinky promise.

He turned his hand in Her’s, hooked their pinkies, let out a slow breath as She hummed into his side.

Bride of God.

She was the Bride of God.

Son of a Bitch, he wished that didn’t make sense. That he could just call Michael a lying asshole and be done with it.

But She was divine. Dean had always known She was divine. Ethereal and blinding, made of something he should never be allowed to touch. Something nobody should be allowed to touch, something that was too good to be stuck in the mud with the rest of them. Not just hunters and people born with no way out but a bloody one. Everyone. Even the fanciest asshole at bars—hitting on Her while Dean had glowered at his beer and shoved down the urge to march over and slam his lips against Her’s—had been beneath Her. Dean had just gotten real damn lucky, being the animal that She grew fond of. 

Or unlucky. 

Because if She was the Bride of God—if that was a real thing, and She was it, and She might as well be because Dean had always worshipped Her all the same—that meant She could never be Dean’s. That the most he would ever get was this. 

Her head on his shoulder as they drove, fast asleep and peaceful. Her hand was still in Dean’s free one—he could drive with one hand, he wasn’t a fucking idiot, and when he kissed Her knuckles she made another soft, sweet sound he wanted to devour—as he listened to the music, and got them home. 

Sam was pacing outside, when they pulled into the yard around midnight. She and Adam had both been knocked out for a few hours, and while She didn’t jolt awake as the engine turned off, Adam did.

“Wha-“ The kid blinked around, rubbing his eyes as Dean adjusted Her in his lap. “Where are we?”

“Bobby’s.” Dean muttered, glancing in the side mirror. Sammy was coming over, he could help Adam while Dean took care of Her. “It’s safe. He’s family, and the place is warded to freakin’ hell.”

Adam paled. “Like- Literally?”

“No.” She made a small noise as Dean wrapped Her arms around his neck, but didn’t try to pull away. He was the most selfish asshole in the world. “Sam’ll help you with that bite, then we’ll all meet up in the morning.”

“How’d you know about-“ Adam paused, then said Her name. “She told you?”

“Yep.” He glanced up as Sam knocked on the window, and nodded his head to the backseat. Sam understood—thank Fucking Christ—and opened the back door.

“Hi, Adam, I’ve got the medkit, and- Dean?”

Dean grunted, and glanced back to see Sam frowning at Her.

“Is she-“

“She fine.” Bride of God. “Need to get her to bed, can you-“

“Yeah, I’ve got it. You want me to-“

“Call Cas. Tell him we’re gonna talk in the morning. Is Bobby-“

“In his office. I’ll tell him you’re home.”

Adam cleared his throat, and they both looked to him with a frown. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “That’s just- It’s kinda freaky.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean adjusted Her fully, and he’d be able to carry Her like this. He’d always carry Her. “Lot more shit where that came from.”

He was being an asshole. Dean knew he was being an asshole, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. He needed to take care of Her. 

Their room was untouched, from when Dean had left it. Her notebook was still on the floor. Everything was in its place. 

Including Her. Fit perfectly in Dean’s arms.

Bride of God.

Maybe it wasn’t Her place. Maybe She should be sleeping on a freaking cloud, or on vacation in Jupiter, making angel babies. Dean really didn’t want to think about Her making angel babies. It didn’t matter if it was Her destiny, he didn’t want Her to be anywhere that he couldn’t follow. Because even if She was the Bride of God, God wouldn’t hold Her like Dean could. It was an insane, absurd thought—it was fucking God—but it was the only thing that eased the frozen dread in his body. If God was out there, he hadn’t done shit for Her. Dean would do anything. He loved Her, and he loved Her like it was written into his fucking DNA, and when he eased them both down onto the bed, She wrapped herself around Dean’s body. 

Michael might have been lying.

Dean wasn’t that lucky. 

That could be what being Her shadow was. Her lover in the corners, and Her guard dog, and nothing more than just the luckiest son of a bitch alive, there for Her in all the ways God couldn’t be.

God.

Fucking God.

What chance did Dean stand against God-

She made a soft, sleepy sound, and Dean glanced down. She was drooling, right onto his chest. Her nose was nuzzled into his throat, and son of a bitch, of course She was the Bride of God. She was perfect.

But She was still sleeping on Dean. When he so much as shifted, Dean was the one who got a distressed sound and tight grip around his neck. 

Dean was Her’s. He loved Her, and he’d love Her all the way down. 

He shouldn’t have been able to sleep, with all the lingering dread. But She smelled like fruit, and She was warm around him, and- 

This place was creepy.

The ceilings were too high, everything was too clean, and the polished floor had some sort of weird engraving on it. It looked like Enochian, when Dean squinted and tilted his head. But the people around him couldn’t be angels. Angels didn’t wear fancy clothing like that, and while they did have cold, unforgiving features, they didn’t lurk in dark corners. The only angel Dean had ever seen lurk in a corner was Cas, and Cas wasn’t a normal angel. 

Angels didn’t whisper, and all these assholes were whispering. Slowly milling about until they’d formed some big sort of circle, and shooting glances at the center of the room.

Dean felt like he was supposed to go somewhere. Maybe anywhere but here. He was like a freaking match in a needle stack, surrounded by sharp, polished people, while he wore a leather jacket, jeans, and mud-caked boots. 

At least he wasn’t tracking the mud, as he tried to push through the odd crowd. Given how clean these people were, that would probably be a whole thing. 

He should just leave. He was definitely intruding on something that he wasn’t supposed to see, and didn’t really want to anyway. But something was calling him. Pulling him forward like a magnet, tugging on something just to the right of his heart and telling him to fucking go-

He stumbled forward as the crowd suddenly ended, and there She was. 

A smaller version of Her—a little doll-like with her black dress, perfectly styled hair, and blank expression that made Dean’s gut twist—but Her. Dean would know Her anywhere.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the old man standing over Her—he had the same nose She did, and different coloring, but an almost identical posture—and the blade in his hand. 

It looked like an echo of Her blade. A crude replica. And She stared at it as the man took Her hand, and flipped it palm up. 

Dean wanted to call Her name, but his voice was stuck in his throat.

The old man beat him to it. 

“First born daughter of the coven’s last born daughter, you have bled for the first time. Your second blood will be spilt in his name, the great one, Yahweh, the creator, who has promised us greatness in his service. Do you offer yourself to him, in entirely, should you be the Bride?”

He had to do something. Dean was just goddamn standing here, and She looked so young, and her voice was so soft and small and this felt like something someone should get shot about-

“I do.” She bowed Her head, and the whole room started whispering. There were some barely muffled laughs, too. As if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. They were lucky to even be in Her presence, but Dean still needed to do something, why couldn’t he fucking move and do something-

Her name escaped his throat, his voice hoarse, and Her head whipped to his. For a second, She was the version of Her Dean knew, and loved, and would drown in the mud or the ocean or pits of hell for. Then the old man sliced the blade deep into Her hand, and she flickered back into the little girl. 

It was only for a second. As Her hand was twisted so the blood fell to the floor, and the room filled with some creepy chant that nobody seemed to be trying all that hard on. Then She was back to herself, yanking Her hand away from the old man and sprinting over to Dean. She slammed into him with an almost frightening force, but Dean didn’t flinch. His arms wrapped around Her and he lifted her off the ground, their faces inches away, Her eyes blinding on his and Her lips parted with a small flush-

The room shook, and a few people screamed. Dean’s grip tensed around Her, his hand shooting to his jeans for his pistol, but she caught it first.

“It’s fine.” She mumbled, squeezing his hand three times and pressing Her face to the crook of his neck. “I- I’m glad you’re here, De. I hate this one.”

“Course I’m here, Princess.” He muttered, even though he didn’t like this one either, and he didn’t even know what ‘this’ was. “Always here.”

She let out a soft laugh, and just held him a little tighter. But Dean’s eyes were trapped on the sight before him. 

Her blood, no longer just a single stain of red in the Enochian carvings.

It was a river, running through the sigil, fucking glowing silver. Like someone had sliced a little bit of starlight, and dumped it over the fucking floor. It looked molten and dangerous and alluring, and the whole fucking chamber smelled like fruit to the point that Dean was pretty sure it wasn’t just her hair near his nose. 

Dean said Her name carefully, and She shook Her head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She mumbled into his skin. “I- I don’t want it to be real.”

And he didn’t have to ask what. He knew. That cut had been exactly where Her scar was, and She’d always told him that her family was full of cultic assholes. That they’d thought She was destined to marry-

Son of a bitch.

She’d been right. Dean didn’t really want to talk about it either. He just wanted to hold Her a little tighter and bury his face in Her hair, as chaos broke out around him. People were shouting and screaming like this hadn’t been the whole purpose of the stupid thing, the Silver was only growing brighter and brighter, and Dean just kept holding Her. 

He’d hold her like this when the real world ended too. 

He’d hold Her until she was ripped from his arms, and he was left in the mud. 

His eyes blinked open to harsh light through the windows, and they’d shifted in their sleep. Dean was still holding Her, but she wasn’t straddling him anymore. Her face wasn’t his neck either, but pressed right against Dean’s as he lay on his stomach. Pinning Her to the mattress. Their legs tangled together and Her knee pressed dangerously close to-

Fuck.

Dean tried to shift away, but he was too slow. She mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like his name, held him tighter, and Dean groaned. Right in Her ear. 

Another mistake. 

She made the softest, most musical and intoxicating sound Dean had ever heard, and he definitely had to move now, but it was too late. Her eyes fluttered open and landed on his, and-

“Dean?” She mumbled, yawning right into his face, and Dean never wanted to move again. 

“Hey, Princess.” He sounded like a fucking idiot. “You, uh-“ His boner. He was so hard it hurt, and She was right there and so pretty with glazed eyes and sleep swollen lips. And he was all kinds of fucked up for having a nightmare then getting a hard-on for his best friend, but that’s what was happening. “Breakfast?”

She hummed and nodded, but made no effort to move. 

That was fine. Dean could move for both of them. He pushed up off of Her slowly, angling his hips carefully to keep them out of Her attention, and let just a little bit of his will falter. He ducked down at the last second, pressed a kiss to Her brow, and grinned to himself as She made a soft, sweet sound. Son of a bitch, he loved Her.

But he was still a piece of shit. He still brushed hair from Her face and ran his thumb down her nose, before shuffling to the bathroom, turning on the sink, and fisting his cock in his hand. Letting his thoughts wander to Her beautiful, heavenly features and soft skin and body tangled with his. The feeling on Her breath on his neck and the flutter of Her eyes in the low light of parking lots. The sound of Her voice saying his name in a tiny gasp and the phantom taste of Her from months ago, they haven’t kissed in over half a freaking year but Dean was still being haunted by Her touch and taste, and he could see Her sprawled out below him in bed, or maybe straddling his waist again and kissing his jaw-

He clenched his jaw as he came, choking on the groan of Her name and squeezing his eyes tight enough for it to hurt. He didn’t deserve Her. He still stopped at the edge of their bed after he cleaned himself up—their bed, he was standing at their bed—and stared at Her for a long moment like some stalker.

Breakfast.

He needed to make sure She ate, because that cabin hadn’t looked like a restaurant, and something told him she’d probably told Adam she was eating whatever rations they’d had, while giving them all to him. And the kid didn’t know how to tell when She was lying. So it was Dean’s job to make sure She ate. 

He opened the door, and almost had a damn heart attack.

“Jesus fucking-“ He took a steady breath, running a hand over his face. “Son of a bitch, Cas, what are you doing-“

Cas frowned at him, as if the answer should be obvious. “Watching over you, Dean. Well,” Cas nodded past his shoulder, when Dean could hear Her shifting in the sheets. “Both of you.”

“Dean?” Her voice was still filled with sleep, Dean narrowed his eyes at Cas, and Cas paled slightly. “What’s-“

“Nothing, Princess.” He grunted. “Go back to sleep-“

“Cas?” Goddamnit. “What are you-“

“I told Dean already,” Cas said, his words slow. “I was watching over you both.”

Dean sensed Her behind him before he felt Her. And he could be normal about this. About Her standing right next to him, Her chin propped on his bicep, his arm braced on the door. He could be normal.

“But you were standing outside?” Dean glanced down to see the prettiest frown on Her face, and Cas shrugged. 

“This seemed to be a private moment, I didn’t wish to interrupt it.” He glanced back to Dean. “You should change. We have been waiting for you to awaken.”

Dean sighed. He couldn’t punch Cas, even if he’d woken Her up. “Don’t say awaken, dude, you sound a million.”

“He is a million, Deano.”

Dean gave Her an exasperated look, and Cas frowned.

“I am actually over a billion-“

“Really?!” Her eyes went wide, and Dean sighed. 

“Princess,” he muttered, letting his hand glide down to Her lower back. Her attention turned to him, Her eyes fluttering slightly, and two boners in one morning was too many. “They’re waitin’ for us to awaken. Go change.”

She glanced back to Cas. “But I wanna ask him about dinosaurs-“

Dean gave Her a flat look, and She sighed.

“Fine. But,” She shot him a glare. “Just because Cas said we need to change. You’re not my boss, Winchester.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I got that, sweetheart-“

“Shut up.”

“Bossy.” He called after Her, watching Her stomp into the bathroom, and turned back to Cas with a sigh. “C’mon. Gotta make her majesty eggs.”

Cas nodded, following Dean down the stairs, and everyone was waiting for them. Seated around the table, frowning at Dean and Cas as they entered the kitchen. 

Bobby cleared his throat. “Dean, where-“

“Getting dressed.” He muttered, walking over to the stove. “She’ll be down soon. You guys already gone over all the shit?”

“Almost,” Sam sighed. “We know that the Angels were going to use Adam as bait for us, that we all got brought back when Zachariah showed up, and Adam says that they were in some sort of magic room for a while.”

“I don’t know how long.” Adam jumped in. “It felt like it was a while? They took me, the brown-haired lady-“

“Ellen,” Sam muttered with a grimace, and Adam nodded. 

“Yeah, her. And,” Adam said Her name, shooting Dean a strange look. “She said she had a plan to break us out. But I blacked out, and when I woke up she was fighting the bald guy-“

“Zachariah.”

“And she made him vanish, then sort of,” Adam placed his hand on his brow. “And I woke up on the side of the road with her next to me.”

Dean frowned. “Ellen-“

“Didn’t make it.”

Their attention all shot to the door, and She looked so small. Her arms wrapped around Her stomach and her words nervous, as if she was worried someone was going to try and kick her. None of them would. Ever. Even Adam seemed to understand that after a day, scrambling to his feet and pulling out the chair next to his. She shuffled over with a small smile of thanks—and a bigger smile to Dean, but he wasn’t going to let that go to his head—and dropped down with a long sigh. 

“I- Um- I got Adam.” She whispered, Her eyes fixed on her hands. “But Zachariah came back. And he grabbed Ellen. I don’t think angels can kill souls, but he- he was going to do something. I couldn’t stop it, and she said it was okay, but- I-“ She swallowed, and Dean abandoned the eggs. There were more eggs in the universe anyway. There was only one Her. 

He muttered Her name, standing right behind her chair, and Her head tipped back to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to-“

“Yeah, I do.”  

She fucking didn’t. But he wasn’t going to win this conversation. So Dean just offered his hand. 

She took it. In front of everyone. Squeezed it three times—She was fine—and took a shaking breath. 

“I don’t know what happened to her. But I got Zachariah-“ She sat up suddenly, and Dean grunted as Her grip tightened. “Fuck- My jar, where the fuck is my jar-“

“I’ve got it.” Sam cut in quickly, pulling it out of his bag on the floor. “What-“

Cas cut Sam off with Her name, his eyes comically wide. “Is that…”

“Yeah.” She sighed, pulling the jar forward. “Say hi, Zachariah.”

There was a long silence, filled with only the sound of the frying pan sizzling and brown sludge slushing around.

Bobby cleared his throat. “Kiddo, you’re tellin’ me that you got an angel in a fuckin’ jar?”

“Yeah.” 

“But-“ Sam shook his head. “I mean, how-“

“Don’t know.” She sighed, setting Zachariah down on the table. “I just… did. Then I ripped open a hole in the room, and walked out.”

“The room?” Cas frowned. “The green room?”

“I don’t think so. This one was in heaven and- Reinforced. With iron. It seemed like it was part of old Heaven.”

Sam raised his hand. “What’s old Heaven-“

“Heaven before God left.” Cas said, still watching Her. “Most of it is off limits to everyone, but archangels have access to certain areas. Did you-“

“Yeah. Micheal.”

Silence again, this time broken by Sam.

“You met Michael? Did he, like, want something?”

“Yeah. Um, a lot. He wanted a lot, and said a bunch of stuff and-“ She took a shaking, long breath, and broke into a frantic ramble. “He wanted my alliance. For me to tell Dean to say yes, just like Lucifer wanted me to convince Sam to say yes, and I know I should have told you guys that when it happened but a lot was going on and I- I don’t know. But Michael said he wanted me at his side when God returned, because I- He-“ 

Dean muttered Her name, and she shook Her head. 

“I’m the Bride of God.” She whispered. “He said it was my destiny. That I should want to speed this along, because the sooner Lucifer is dead the sooner God will return.” She wrinkled Her nose. “For- For me.”

Dean was getting really sick of the silences. They let him feel his heartbeat in his fucking throat. And he didn’t even give a shit that She’d lied about Lucifer, because he’d known She’d lied. He just wanted that last part to be a lie, for him to have a single fucking chance of keeping her.

“The Bride of God.” Cas’ expression was strange, but Dean understood it. And the last bit of his hope sank into his gut like a stone. “That is supposed to be a myth.”

Sam frowned. “Angels have myths?”

“More like bedtime stories.” Cas sighed. “But I have to admit, it does make sense. You fall into every part of the legend, Heaven bent to your will, and you were able to enter the throne room. There is… no other explication. The only part I don’t understand is how you are also the Magdalene-“

“One angel- Joshua, he said it was a cruel joke.” She said quietly. “But Michael said it was on purpose.”

Bobby grunted. “Don’t think it matters. You wanna marry God, kiddo?”

Her nails were digging into Dean’s skin. “No.”

“Then you ain’t gonna. Any other archangels tellin’ you important shit?”

She nodded, and they all just fucking kept talking. About Gabriel, and how he’d explained a way for them to put Lucifer back in the cage, with the Horseman’s rings. And it was important, and Dean felt a little damn sick when She said they’d need to find a way to get Lucifer into the cage—there weren’t a lot of options, and Sammy’s expression meant he was thinking something smart and stupid—but they needed to go back. To stop talking about the last two rings, and start talking about how She was the Bride of fucking God. Destinies weren’t easy to avoid when it was just two archangels trying to ride Sam and Dean’s ass, there was no way God was just going to take Her no thanks and walk away. 

And if She didn’t want to marry the asshole, Dean try his goddamn best to stop it. But it was fucking God. If the guy was still alive, he was going to be impossible to just sock in the jaw and kick to the curb. They needed a plan, to keep Her here. Talking to Bobby about the Horsemen—She said she’d tracked Pestilence to upstate New York as She twisted the skin of Her finger, and Dean knew She was lying, but he was already sort of having trouble doing anything except holding Her hand like she was going to vanish a flash of light—and explaining to Sam how She’d made a spell to track Eileen, but just had to alter it for Death. 

She needed to stay next to Dean. 

She needed to stay Her own. 

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled that night, the day having passed in a slow inch of planning and trying to make sense of the whole, horrible situation. 

Dean spat out his mouthwash, and frowned at Her, sitting cross-legged on their mattress. “‘Bout what?”

“Not telling you about Lucifer.” She frowned at Her hands, rubbing Her wrists. “And making things more complicated.”

Dean let out a long, slow breath. He wasn’t thrilled about the Lucifer shit, but there were other things to worry about. The end of the world. Getting all the rings. How there was an archangel in a box downstairs, because none of them had really wanted Zachariah hearing their conversations.

Her. 

She was curling into Herself, and Dean was worried about Her.

He crossed the room to stand over Her, taking Her face between his hands and saying Her name as soft as he could. The way he’d say a prayer, if that was something he did. The way he’d always said it. The way that told him, yet again, that She was never his.

But She was leaning into Dean’s touch. 

And he didn’t want to let Her go. 

“Hey.” He murmured, and She looked at him under her lashes like some sort of perfectly designed sin. “I’m not pissed at you.”

She swallowed. “Why?”

He didn’t know. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t remember how to be, when Michael had offered Her paradise and she’d still chosen to be here.

“I lied.” She whispered, Her eyes wide and glossy on his. “And I- I’m not human, I’m just like them-“ She grabbed Dean’s wrists, Her words growing frantic. “Dean, I’m just like them-“

“Breathe.” He made his voice firm, commanding, and it wasn’t good for his health how She obeyed in half a second. “You’re not just like them, sweetheart-“

“Michael said I was designed to mirror god-“

“And I’m designed to be Michael’s favorite outfit.” Dean gave Her a pointed look. “You want me to be a meatsuit, Princess?”

“No.” 

“Then that’s it.”

That was it. 

Looking at Her, still clinging to his wrists and staring up at him like he was maybe the only planet in an infinite universe, Dean got what Bobby had meant. 

It was just Her. She didn’t want to be the freaking Bride or whatever, She wouldn’t be. If Dean didn’t get to have Her just because he wanted Her, God didn’t either. Dean had put in close to a decade of fights and conversations and trust and teamwork into just getting Her to kiss him once. She was here because She wanted to, so Dean would fight until his guts were lining the walls of heaven to keep Her here. 

He’d been right. He’d never been worthy of all Her light and life and smile, of the contact high he got just from being where she might smile at him.

But God wasn’t worthy of that either. And until She looked up at the sky and decided She’d rather be in the stars, Dean would care for Her in the warmth of the mud. 

“Can we-” She took a long, slow breath, and Dean’s thumb paused on Her nose. He hadn’t even realized he was doing that. “Go for a drive?”

Goddamnit. He was going to get another boner. “In… the car?”

She gave him a flat look. “No, De, on a horse.”

“You got a secret horse, Princess?”

“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you about it-“

“Thought you trusted me,” Dean gave Her a wide grin, even as he faked a wounded tone. “Safer together, sweetheart-“

“That in no way applies here.” 

“Maybe. But you’re gonna feel real stupid when I die in a horse related emergency.”

“That means it’s an emergency with horses, Dean. Another one would not help.”

Dean laughed—She was back to being his girl, even if She wasn’t Dean’s anything—and helped Her to her feet. “C’mon, we can get a huge tub of ice cream and stick Zachariah in it.”

She sighed, but Dean could see the twitch of Her lips. She felt better. No longer shrinking into Herself, Her fingers laced through Dean’s as he pulled her outside with low whispers and Her pretty giggles carrying on the wind. They ended up at the convince store—armed, because they weren’t idiots—to get snacks, and sat in Baby’s front seat as the night crept on, and Her head landed on Dean’s shoulder.

He cleared his throat when he was about halfway through his bag of jerky, and She turned to him with that pretty, fluttering gaze. He almost forgot how to talk.

“I, uh-“ Dean coughed, and this was important. He had to ask, or it was going to drive him insane for the rest of his life. “What was Heaven like, before you jailbreaked?”

She stared at him for a beat before answering. “Different.”

He raised his brows, and She let out a slow sigh. 

“I- I don’t want to talk about it.” She mumbled. “Please.”

Dean didn’t want to not talk about it. He needed to know if he’d been in Her heaven. If he’d haunted the edge of all Her greatest hits, the same was She’d lined his. Because half of Dean’s heaven had been the better times with Sammy, and his rose-painted memories of his mother, but the other half had been Her. Meeting Her. Hunting with Her, hugging Her, two out of their three kisses—the second one a harsh, bright loop, because She’d kissed him—and a lot of moments like this. Sitting in his car, talking like things weren’t complicated. In a way that, to anyone just passing by the window, would look like two normal people in love. 

And that was exactly why Dean wouldn’t push it. He loved Her. It had been a long enough day as it was, and he didn’t want to end it in a fight.

“Alright.” He held out a gummy worm for Her, and tried not to jump on Her when she ate it out of his hand. “Who made the better case? Lucifer or Michael?”

She gave him an odd look, and Her voice fell to something soft. “Neither.”

“C’mon, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” She said, reaching into Dean’s lap for another gummy worm. She was trying to kill him. “They both sort of offered me the same thing. And even if I trusted one of them more than the other, and I fucking don’t, I’m not picking a side.”

Dean hummed. “What’d they offer you?”

She paused, scanning over Dean’s features so carefully, and he really hope She wouldn’t lie. Not because of the lie, but because if She didn’t want him to know what they'd offered Her, it was probably something he’d have to worry about-

“Paradise.” She whispered, and Dean swallowed. That was the truth. “Dean?”

“Yeah?” He sounded like an idiot. She didn’t seem to mind. 

“Promise me you won’t say yes to Michael.”

Dean blinked. “Wha-“

“Please.” She held up Her pinky. “Promise.”

Dean had considered it a few times. When there looked to be no way out. But then Michael had kidnapped his girl and made Her cry. And Dean had made Her cry a lot, but at least he’d been sick with guilt after. Michael probably thought he’d been right to lock Her up. And Dean would never hurt Her on purpose. So he wasn’t going to say yes to anyone who hurt Her. Ever. 

It seemed to mean a lot to Her that he promised, though. And it was an easy promise to make. 

“Okay.” He hooked his pinky through Her’s. “Pinky promise, Princess. Michael’s too tall to get on this ride.”

She let out a soft, breathy giggle, but didn’t let go. “For anything, right? You’ll never let him in?”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.”

She let out a slow breath, and nodded. It calmed Her down. Dean was helping Her, and right now, that was the most he could do. 

They had work to do—planning and hunting and trying to stop the end of the world—but Dean most just had to help Her.

“I am not saying that.”

Dean glanced at Cas in the blue light of the TV, and found him glaring at a box in his lap. “Cas.”

Cas’ eyes shot up. “Dean.”

“What are you doing.”

“Talking to Zachariah.” Cas sighed, glaring back down at the box. “He was of a higher rank than I was. I was hoping he’d be able to tell me what Michael knows about the Bride of God, but he is being… uncooperative. And vulgar.”

She hummed, tilting Her head against Dean’s chest. She’d been lying there for an hour. He’d been very chill about it. “You can talk to him, in his jar?”

“Angel radio.” Cas muttered. “A one-to-one line.”

“Walkie talkie.” Dean offered, and Cas frowned.

“I do not know what that means.”

“It’s like a one-to-one radio,” Sam called from the table, not looking up from his book. “Dean’s actually right with this one.”

“The fuck you mean this one-“ 

Dean’s snap was cut off with an oof, and She’d shoved him back down onto the couch, giving him a firm glare before turning back to Cas. Dean was mostly just gaping up at Her like a dumbass. He wanted Her to shove him again, then maybe climb onto his lap and kiss him stupid, until he rolled them over and fucked Her into the couch-

“Do you think it’s important for us to worry about that?” Her voice was catious, and Dean let his hand trail up to Her waist. Just to rub small circles, and keep Her steady. “I mean, it’s not like I am God-“

“Yet.” Cas shrugged, and She tensed. “If both Michael and Lucifer want you on their teams, there may be other reasons than Sam and Dean. And if you are the Bride of God, maybe there is some sort of connection. My search has been useless-“

“Cas.” Sam cut in, his words soft. “I don’t think we should use her as just- A way to find God. This isn’t like Dean’s amulet, we need her-“

“And it’s not like God seems all that interested in what’s goin’ on anyway.” Dean grumbled. “He’s fuckin’ God, Cas, he wants us, he can make a house call.”

“No.” Her eyes were locked on to Cas’, and Dean frowned. That was a weird stare. “I- I’m with Cas. It can’t hurt to check.”

Dean sighed, “Fine.” And got a glare from Sam.

“Really, man? You’re just going to switch sides-“

“We lost, Sammy. Deal with it.” Dean looked back to Cas. “We bought ice cream, last week. We can shove him in there until he starts talking.”

Cas shook his head, and it was the only thing that saved Dean from getting hit. “That will not be effective. I do not believe he actually knows anything.”

She frowned. “Then wha- Oh.” Her eyes widened, and Dean sighed. She was going to say something stupid. “I have an idea.”

Dean needed to get better at saying no to Her ideas. They were always designed to try and fucking kill him. A good idea would be something safe and controlled, where the chances of it going wrong were slim and if it did go wrong, Dean could shoot their way out and carry Her to safety. 

This was not that. 

This was insane. 

Raphael. She wanted to use one of Her easy bake magic spells to summon Raphael and interrogate him like it was a freaking job interview. And there were about a million ways that could blow up in their faces, but Dean used all his willpower to say no to Her hunting Pestilence with Cas and Sam. And that had taken a whole argument in the kitchen, that he’d only won because Bobby cut in, called them both dramatic, and told Her that while her magic shit was still haywire, she shouldn’t be playin’ with jumper cables.

And this wasn’t much better. But at least She didn’t have nightmares about Raphael. 

So, small victories.

“It don’t like this,” Dean muttered, frowning at Her on the floor. She was knelt on the grass in the middle of the woods, drawing a sigil in the dirt. “I wanna go back to my ice cream idea-“

“If this doesn’t work, we can do the ice cream idea.” She stood up, wiping Her hands on her jeans. “Did you bring the mushrooms?”

Dean nodded, fumbling in his pockets with a small frown. “I want it down that I think there are other options,” he muttered, passing her the weird, moldy looking fungus he’d been tasked with carrying. “Jumping right in archangel wrestling is insane, Princess-“

“I’m not wrestling him, I’m trapping him.” She ground the mushroom in Her hand. “And I know you hate this, De, but I’d- I don’t want to do it alone-“

Her words ended in a squeak as Dean rolled his eyes, and tugged Her to his side. 

“You’re not doing anything alone,” he wanted to say baby. Her eyes were so bright on his, and She’d chosen to be here.

He couldn’t get away with it.

So he just said Her name, and held her gaze.

“Safe together.” He grunted, and Her throat bobbed. “All the way down.”

She nodded slowly, the tension in Her shoulder loosening. “All the way down. Are you-“

“Light it up.”

Her hand locked into Dean’s, and She looked up to the sky as she said a word that had to be Enochian. Then another word, then–right as She called the last one—the sky split open and she tossed a match onto the forest ground. 

A wildfire didn’t start. Lighting was striking the ground before him, but Dean wasn’t dying. Their hands felt fused together for a split second—skin melting into skin—but then it was over. The blinding light cleared, and there was Raphael. Frowning around the forest, then scowling as his attention landed on Her. 

“Oh.” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Of course it’s you. And the most frustrating creature on the planet. And Dean Winchester, I thought I promised to make you wish you were never born?”

Dean shrugged, tugging Her a little behind him. “You can try, buddy, but-“

“You’ve got me in holy fire.” Raphael drawled, giving him a flat look. “I am aware. And reinforced holy fire, too. You are smart to keep such insubordinate company.” His eyes landed back on Her. “Smart to bring the whore.”

 “Listen here, you son of a bitch-“

“You want me to find God again?” Raphael cut Dean off with a bored tone. “Or maybe try to reason with Michael, when I have made it very clear I have no interest in doing so? Maybe you’re coming to your senses, and Michael’s blind faith in her,” he jerked his head to Her, and Dean was getting pretty fucking sick of how Raphael looked at Her like she was meat. “Isn’t misplaced?”

“We just want to talk,” She said, Her voice in a strange sort of song with the holy fire. “I- I have-“ She pulled Zachariah out of their bag, and Raphael’s eyes narrowed. 

“You expect me to care about Zachariah? You brought him as leverage? The most irritating angel I have ever met, including your little pet rebel?”

Dean scowled. “Cas isn’t our pet, dipshit-“

“Ah.” Raphael cut him off with a smirk. “Not your pet. I mean. Maybe your pet. But I was talking about her.” He looked back to Her, and her breathing sounded too shallow. “The Bride. The little girl, running around with angels in her pockets and gallivanting with humans, when she could bring paradise all on her own. Michael doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows.”

“Knows?” She whispered, and Raphael’s grin grew. 

“What you could be, if you weren’t you. He can see it. I can see it. But he will not accept that our father is dead-“

“He isn’t.”

Dean froze at Her soft words, and Raphael frowned. 

“What.”

“God,” She said, taking a slow step forward. “He isn’t dead.”

Raphael flinches slightly, but scoffed all the same. “You don’t know what you speak of, girl. You are still in infancy, and I have seen false prophets before-“

“But I’m not a false prophet.” She whispered, and Raphael froze. She was releasing Dean’s hand, passing him Zachariah, and walking forward. “You know that.”

“Do not tell me what I know-“

“But you do know.” She tilted Her head, and Dean could swear all the colors on the forest were getting saturated. That Her skin was starting to glow from more than the fire. “Just like you know that if you do touch Cas or Dean, I’ll hurt you.”

That was fear on Raphael’s face. Real damn fear. And Dean understood it. 

She’d stepped over the holy fire, and it had done nothing but dance along Her skin. Dean had a feeling if She turned back to look at him, Her pupils would be a brilliant silver. 

“Nobody would ever hurt again,” Raphael said, taking a step back as She walked forward, the Blade spinning in Her hands. “That father of yours would walk, Castiel’s grace would be returned, that girl, on your fingers, we’d bring her back as well, and- I know what Michael promised you-“

“I don’t care what Michael promised me.” She hissed, and Raphael seemed backed right to the edge of the circle. “And I think I can give Castiel his grace back myself. Just as I can resurrect, and heal. I don’t think I need you.”

Raphael’s eyes darted back to Dean, then narrowed. “You don’t understand what you can do. And we have a backup, while you will not get the liberty of a second choice-“

“I don’t need one.” She shrugged, stopped barely a foot front Raphael, all the wind seeming to swirl around Her. “Tell Michael that I’m out. And if he tries to touch my d- family, we’ll find out exactly what does make God come back.”

Raphael opened mouth, and Her hand pressed over it. 

Then there was a second where Dean couldn’t see anything but Her. Like a lighthouse in a storm, telling him to follow Her and dodge the swirling chaos of the lightning and thunder. It hadn’t been raining a minute ago. 

But when his vision cleared, it was pouring. The water pressing the holy fire into smoke, Raphael had vanished and She was passed out in the mud. 

Dean skid to his knees at Her side, pulling her limp body fully into his lap. She was infuriating, and if Her cheeks weren’t flushed, and if Dean couldn’t feel the heat of a fever, radiating from Her skin, he’d shout at Her for trying to give him a heart attack. He’d known this was a bad idea, and now he had to carry Her back to the car, through a whole ass forest-

The forest.

It was blooming. 

Leaves larger than Dean had ever seen, and flowers with petals that he could swear were sucking up light like a void, then spitting it back out into the air. The grass seemed to be singing, and there were oddly twisted branches spreading over their heads as Dean carried Her, as if they were trying to shield them from the storm. Strange, iridescent apples hung over their heads, and whenever Dean glanced over to the side, he could swear he saw a flash of fur or feathers, just out of sight. 

Not attacking. 

Guarding. 

Guarding Her. All the way to the edge of the tree line, when Dean stepped on concrete, and the rain seemed to triple in force. Dean half ran to the Impala, tucking Her into the seat first and pressing a kiss to Her brow before standing back upright. She was going to drive him insane. 

He never really wanted Her any other way. 

And he stared at Zachariah, in his stupid little jar, as he waited for the rain to lighten up. Baby could make it through the storm, but Dean didn’t want to risk the roads. Not when She was in this state, and seemed alright with just the heat of the car one, and Her body curled into Dean’s. He’d changed Her into the dry clothing he kept on the trunk, but kept his eyes off the goods. 

This—Her in his arms, his hand tangled at the base of Her wet hair, and Her breath on Dean’s arm—could be enough. Dean loved Her, even when She pulled crazy shit like this, so it was enough. 

He wasn’t going to say yes to Michael. And if that hadn’t made it clear enough to the feathered douchebags, he hoped this would.

Dean grabbed the angel blade Cas had given him a few months ago, kissed the top of Her head and stepped out into the storm. The sky lit up, and another clap of thunder rolled over through the air. If they wanted Dean, they could hit him. 

But they didn’t. 

So Dean slammed the jar down on the ground and drove the angel blade right into Zachariah’s ugly mug. He looked like a tiny, strange beast, reduced so small and pathetic it didn’t even make his eyes hurt to look at. And it flickered like a candle as the rain pelted down—cold and hard, like small bullets against his skull—but Dean didn’t move. Not until the light went out, and Dean got to slam his boot down, until Zachariah was nothing more than a shit-colored stain on the pavement. 

The whole experiment had failed. But he’d still killed Zachariah. And when Dean finally got to drive Her home, he got to have Her cling to his chest. Got to carry Her inside, and bring Her right to bed. Their bed. 

At least Sammy and Cas had some better luck. 

“It’s just Death, now.” Sam said, frowning at the three rings on the table. “I think we have a little time, though. He seemed surprised to see us.”

“Their plan wasn’t completed.” Cas muttered. “He and Lucifer have been working on infecting humans with the Croatoan virus-“

Dean cut in with a frown. “Like when Zachariah sent me to the future?”

“Zachariah sent you to the future?” She gaped at Dean—wrapped in a fuzzy blanket he’d forced around her shoulders—and he sighed.

“Sorry, Princess, thought I told you-“

“No, you didn’t-“

“Dean got sent to 2014.” Cas said, and Dean was going to have to get him a gift for taking that bullet. “Croatoan had wiped out much of humanity, by causing them to kill each other, and Lucifer had won. Without Pestilence on the front lines that outcome may be delayed, but demons are not idiots. They will be able to finish what Pestilence started.”

“Great.” Dean ran a hand over his face, and the rings were fucking taunting him on the table. Unable to open the door with only three, unable to just grab Lucifer when the door did open. “So we got a game plan to stop the murder plague?”

Cas shrugged. “Imprison Lucifer.”

“By what, asking him nicely?” 

“I- I have an idea.” Sam cleared his throat, and when Dean looked to him, he seemed almost guilty. Dean didn’t trust it. “I can’t think of anything better, and it’s- it feels fair.”

“Fair?” She was frowning, and Sam gave her an almost apologetic smile.

“I’ll let Lucifer in. Then jump into the cage before he can take over my body.”

There was a high ringing in Dean’s ears again. He needed to have a serious conversation with the people he loved about trying to kill him with stupid fucking ideas. “No.”

“Dean, I don’t like it either-“

“I don’t just not like it, Sammy.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “It’s fucking insane. Batshit. What if Lucifer gets the jump on you first? What if you can’t hit eject, and now you’re stuck in the cage-“

“He will be stuck in the cage.” Cas muttered, glancing to Her. “There is no external eject button.”

The color drained slightly from Her face. “What happens if Michael and Lucifer don’t get their vessels. Are they weaker?”

“Yes.” Cas sighed. “But we already know Michael has a backup plan. And I doubt Lucifer will want to fight in his current vessel, but he doesn’t need to. If he waits Michael out, he wins.”

“So we won’t wait him out, he’ll take me and then we can trap him-“

“Sam.” Dean snapped. “We’re not fucking doing that, so stop suggesting it-“

“But-“ Sam looked to Her, and said Her name in pleading tone. “Please, it’s the only way-“

She shook He head. “I- I don’t know. It’s a big risk to take, if we don’t know it will work-“

“It will work-“

“But Dean’s right.” She’d drawn Her knees up to her chest, rubbing at her wrists as she spoke. She was distressed. “What if it doesn’t work, Sam. Then you’re stuck with Lucifer and no way out, and Dean- The future you saw-“

“Lucifer had Sam.” He muttered. “Zachariah sent me there to show me what would happen if I didn’t say yes.”

“Where is Zachariah-“

“I smashed him.” Dean grunted, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “Don’t try to change what we’re talking about, Sammy, you’re not letting Lucifer ride you like a prize pony, and that’s it.”

“But-“

“No but. I said no to Michael, you say no to Lucifer, that’s how this fucking works-“

“They’re just going to try and take Adam-“

“Then we’ll keep him here. And if you don’t stop talking crazy-“

“I could do it, Dean.” Sam stared at the floor, his voice quieter than Dean had heard it in a long time. “I know you don’t want me going to hell, but you did the same for me-“

“That’s-“

“And I started this.” Sam looked up to Her. “I want to finish it. Please.”

She swallowed, Her eyes darting to Dean’s, then Cas’. And they lingered on Cas. Like they were having a silent conversation Dean didn’t get to be a part of, and he wasn’t sure what the hell they were up to, but he didn’t like it. 

“There has to be another way, Sam.” She whispered, and Sam’s face fell. “I don’t think you should do it.”

Sam sighed, and looked back to the rings. “Just- can you think about it? Until we get the Death ring?”

She took a stuttering breath, and nodded. “Fine. I, um- I’m having trouble with the tracking spell, but I’ll get it soon. Then we’ll talk about it.”

Dean didn’t think there was shit to talk about. He wasn’t going to let Sammy just jump into Hell, when there had to be another way. She could kill Lucifer. Death could kill Lucifer. Fuck, Cas could kill Lucifer if She gave him another dose of steroids, like Heaven. They’d figure out another way. 

They just had to find Death first. 

She’d been staying up all night again. They’d watch TV on the couch, Cas frowning at it like it was something to study, Sam pouring over a book at the table, and Her at Dean’s side on the couch, scribbling down notes so fast Dean wasn’t sure how Her hands weren’t getting tired. Bobby would grumble that he was going to bed, Adam would drift in and out of the room like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to be, and She’d just keep writing. Dean would have to pull Her to her feet, when it hit one in the morning and she wasn’t showing any sign of stopping. Then She’d just sit on the bed, Dean’s head pressed near Her thigh as he tried to sleep, and wouldn’t lie down until Dean pried the pencil from Her hands and tugged the covers over Her body. 

He was worried about Her. She was acting like this started and ended with Her, when she was refusing to choose a side. She and Cas kept fucking whispering, and She’d been looking at a lot of books on angels, and Dean knew Her.

Knew when She was planning something fucking stupid. 

“You’re not gonna use your, y’know.” Dean leaned down to whisper in Her ear, after almost a week of no progress on finding Death. “Thingy.”

She blinked up at him in the dark, and She was always so fucking beautiful. “My thingy?”

“Yeah. Your zap,” He poked Her side, and tried not to grin at Her high squeak. “The magic.”

She whacked his chest, before settling right back into his side and shaking Her head, twisting the skin of Her finger. “No. I’m not.”

Lie. 

That was a fucking lie. And Dean didn’t know how to call Her on it, but he needed to figure it out. How to tell Her that, whatever She was up to, it was probably as insane as Sam’s plan. Maybe more insane. And She couldn’t just pull something without at least warning Dean, because Sam was still pushing the let Lucifer in plan, and if he lost either one of them, Dean was going to go insane. 

But they weren’t making any progress. Cas said they had time, but it couldn’t be that much. They’d gone over Sam and Cas’ fight with Pestilence—he’d tried to make them sick, had whined about humans, and Cas had cut his finger off, nothing special—about a million times in the hope it would give them ideas about Death, or a bigger picture of Lucifer’s plan, but it hadn’t. And they were stuck right where they’d started. Holed up in Bobby’s cabin with only a few small cases, trying to figure out how to stop the end of the freaking world and keeping Adam away from Michael.

“Can you shoot an archangel?” Adam asked, and Dean shook his head, reloading his shotgun.

“Not in a way that’s gonna do anything.” He muttered. “But you can piss them off, if you want.”

Adam nodded, glancing down to his own gun. “So there are no protections?”

“Not for you and me, other than telling the douchebags to take a hike.” 

“How come they’re not, like- Burning down the house, then? If they’re that desperate for us.”

Dean grunted Her name, and something to the right of his heart whined. She was in the freaking library with Cas. She was fine. “Told you, she’s warded the whole property. Nothing’s getting in that she doesn’t open the door for.”

“Oh.” Dean glanced over, and Adam was blushing. “She’s cool.”

“Yeah, she is.” He jerked his head to the lined-up beer bottles. “Shoot.”

He didn’t want to talk about how cool She was with Adam. Not when the poor kid had been making heart eyes at Her all week, and Dean had been trying to figure out if now was a bad time to try kissing Her again, every single waking moment. It probably was. Any time right before the end of the world was, She was still processing the Bride of God thing, and Raphael hadn’t been helpful in telling them about her destiny at all. All they knew was that She didn’t seem to have a 100% approval rating with archangels, she could be more, and God was alive. 

Dean hadn’t loved how certainly She’d said that. He needed to figure out how to ask Her about that, too. As well as what the hell She was planning, and how to talk her out of it without caving, and—if She got the choice, and God returned—She wouldn’t just want to not marry God, but maybe stay with Dean-

“How did you guys meet her?” Adam cut through Dean’s thoughts, and none of the bottles had been shot. 

“Case we worked in 2000. Then we just kept running into each other, and now we’re here.”

Adam frowned. “But isn’t she Bobby’s daughter-“

“Adopted.” Dean muttered. “It’s complicated. The bottles-“

“And she’s, uh- Just your friend-“

“Adam.” Dean snapped. “Shoot the fuckin’ bottles.”

Adam swallowed, and obeyed. He was an alright shot, but getting better by the day. He had asked if She could teach him how to shoot, instead of Dean, but She’d just shaken Her head and mumbled that she didn’t use a gun.

And Adam had a crush. Which was fine. It was a weird, intense crush that didn’t seem to let Adam notice how She was always next to Dean, but it was just a crush. Dean couldn’t be pissed about a crush. Not on Her. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and sweet in strange, small ways that he’d never really understand. Even when She was up until three in the morning—writing and reading in bed, swatting Dean’s hand away whenever he tried to get Her to sleep—She kept quiet so he could rest. And when Dean would roll around with a grunt, Her fingers would tangle into his hair, and he’d feel like a dog again. She kept getting all his favorite foods when She and Sam did their grocery runs. She always sat with him while he worked on Baby and the Firebird.

“You never named him, y’know-“

“I did, actually.” She was sat on the hood of Baby, parked across from the Firebird as Dean ran his maintenance. “I just haven’t told you yet.”

Dean raised his brows. “You gonna tell me, sweetheart?”

“Nope. It’s a surprise.”

“Pretty shit surprise-“

“That’s what you think.”

Dean snorted. “That is what I think. And you gotta tell me, Princess, it’s not fair to just tease like that.”

“I think I’ll tell you whenever I want.” She shrugged, leaning forward with a bright, pretty smile. “But you’ll like it.”

“I will?”

“Yeah, you will.” She glanced to Dean’s grease-stained hands. “Do you want gloves, De? It’s cold-“

He shook his head. “I’m fine. But if you gotta go inside-“

“I’m good here.” She said it like it was the plain, simple truth. She was good here. With Dean. 

So he wouldn’t let Her down. And She was awesome, all the time, so Dean would claw himself apart to be worthy of that. He couldn’t be God, but he could buy Her all the root beers in the world, and make Her breakfast, and sit with Her while she did Her research. Soothing Her when she had nightmare. Pretending that the walls weren’t closing in on all of them, as they got closer to finding Death, and didn’t have a plan to get Lucifer in the cage. 

“I can’t get it.” She glared at all Her notes on the kitchen table, shaking Her head. “Dean, I- I can’t get it-“

“Hey.” He grabbed Her hand, and She looked to him with big, glossy eyes. “You’ll get it. You need to go for a drive?”

She nodded weakly. “Or- Maybe a walk-“

“I could go for a walk.” Adam jumped in, his eyes shooting up from the lore book in his lap. She and Sam had been helping him catch up on everything, and he was taking well to it, but son of a bitch, Dean didn’t want Her to go on a walk with him. Not because of insane reason like jealousy, but the kid didn’t know how to take care of Her. How to defend Her if angels started raining down from the sky. If She started having a freak out, She’d need Dean-

“Okay.” She gave Adam a small smile, squeezing Dean’s hand three times as She stood up. “Let’s go.”

Dean gave Adam a small nod as they passed him, and he had to be fine with it. He had no real reason not to be. She’d be fine, Adam would be fine, and it wasn’t like they were storming a vamp nest. She was just being kind, and letting Adam go for a walk with Her. Probably just around the yard. Dean wouldn’t lose more family by letting that happen. 

And Sam kept pushing the Lucifer idea, in the car and the morning and every damn second of peace Dean tried to get. Bobby had put them on ingredient gathering for Her spell—Sam and Dean found them, Cas ran the errand—and Sam wouldn’t stop bringing it up. All while Adam was still trying hit on Her, and Dean had to herd Her away for the ingredient work.

She was already doing everything. She didn’t need to do more. Dean couldn’t take Her hurting herself while Sammy was trying to fucking die. She—by some miracle—gave it up. And Cas was able to sweep up all Her ingredients in a night, so the moment She got it, they’d be set. Then a whole new issue would arise, but that was a problem for after. 

She and Cas had been whispering. A lot. Sam and Dean left for two days, doing demon hunt a town over, and when they came back Adam was reading a book in the living room, Bobby was cleaning his guns, and She and Cas were talking in low voices in the kitchen. Sam shot Dean a worried look, and Dean sighed. He didn’t know what the hell to do about that. They were probably just talking about the Death spell. 

Probably. 

Son of a bitch, Dean hoped they were just talking about the Death spell.

Maybe Cas was helping with it, and they’d get this over with sooner, and She’d start sleeping properly again. Dean could see the bags getting heavier under Her eyes. She’d been eating less again, and all Her sleep had been nightmares he had to hold Her through—or, over the past nights, talk Her down from over the phone—and it was splitting him in half. She was going outside less, as well. Just a few walks with Adam, because the kid kept asking Her, and midnight drives with Dean. Every other moment had been research, teaching Adam about the lore, and whispering with Cas. 

Dean said Her name, and She looked up at him with a wide, blinding smile. She looked exhausted. “Hey, Princess.”

“Hi,” Her smile didn’t waver as She glanced to Sam. “You guys-“

“One piece.” Dean dropped in the chair at Her side, and he might have gotten away with carrying Her out of the room for research, but carrying Her to bed with it was barely dusk was going to get him stabbed. “You eat yet, sweetheart?”

“She had yogurt.” Cas said, and Dean frowned.

“You make her eat the yogurt, dude?”

“Don’t answer that.” She gave Cas a firm look, and his mouth snapped shut, but Dean understood what that meant.

“Goddamnit,” he said Her name with glare, and She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Fuck off, Winchester, you’re not my dad.”

Sam snorted, and Dean shot him a glare. 

“Shut your face, Sammy-“

“I didn’t say anything, dude.” Sam raised his hands, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I was just going to ask what they did while we were gone-“

“Death spell.” Cas said, and Dean narrowed his eyes. Cas had said that too damn fast. And Dean opened his mouth to push it, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Good,” Bobby grunted, wheeling into the kitchen. “You four travel like gazelle, you know that?”

Sam frowned. “What?”

“I find one of ya idjits, the other three ain’t gonna be far behind.” Bobby stopped at the head of the table, giving Her a firm look as he said Her name. “No knives at the dinner table.”

She frowned. “But-“

“No but. We’re eatin’ dinner now, together.”

Cas cleared his throat. “I don’t need to eat-“

“Then you can shove it down your throat and play pretend like it matters. I’m a cripple, Cas, let me have one dinner where none of us are tryin’ to run away.”

They all exchanged quick looks—Dean liked the idea, liked the thought of getting to sit with Her for a family dinner, even if it was forced, and everyone seeing his hand in Her’s or his arms around Her chair or something—and didn’t fight it. They didn’t know how many more times they’d get a chance to sit there, with the end of the world. With Cas still on the angel blacklist, Sam gunning to jump in the cage, and Her whole Bride of God thing. 

None of them had been talking about that. 

They didn’t know how. And God wasn’t going to just swoop down and take Her, so it couldn’t be the focus right now. 

Dean really hoped God wouldn’t swoop down and take Her. 

But it was a thought stuck to the back of his brain, now. All the time. He could defend Her from demons and monsters, and he’d bleed to keep Her from God, but if they guy just appeared and grabbed Her, Dean didn’t know what kind of line he’d be able to hold. Same as if Sammy decided to say yes to Lucifer, without any heads up, Dean wouldn’t be able top stop it. Then he’d lose both of them. And he couldn’t fully enjoy the mock family dinner, because all he could think about was how he didn’t know how this ended. 

It felt like they were building up to a high, horrible drop. Like the rollercoaster he’d taken Sammy on when they were kids, hovering right at the edge of a fall they couldn’t even see with no way out but down. Sam was right. Dean didn’t have a better idea to get Lucifer in the cage. And even if that worked, and they stopped the whole apocalypse train from leaving the station, he’d have lost Sam. His one job was keeping Sam safe. Keeping his family together, and fucking safe.

They were all safe and together now. Adam was still a little stiff—as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be here—but he was still making conversation, telling stories about high school and asking them all—mostly Her—nervous questions about their own lives. Cas was answering all Her questions about history, and Sam and Bobby had started to jump in with their own. She and Sammy were nerding out about some science museum that Dean had taken Sammy to as a kid, and she’d visited when She was sixteen and hunting alone. Bobby rolled his eyes and grumbled about her illegally driving, and she just hummed who taught me how to drive, old man. 

Dean wanted to enjoy it. To not feel like he was holding something that was about to break. But there was a sort feeling in his gut, and that deep, cold fear creeping back over his bones. 

And he couldn’t sleep that night. All the was running through his head was a bunch of goddamn what ifs.

What if he let Sam jump, and lost him. What if, after he lost Sam, God swooped down and tore Her from Dean’s arm. What if the world ended, and God took Her anyway. What if God was always going to take Her. And this wasn’t like the vessel deal, where they could say no.

What if, one day, Dean woke up and She was just fucking gone.

So he couldn’t sleep. She’d passed out, but Dean had never felt more wired. He just watched Her, slumped against his body and molded so perfectly against him, and tried to reason how God could ever hold Her better than this. She fit too damn well with Dean. It didn’t matter how God had made Her, Dean got Her. Even when he didn’t understand Her, Dean got Her. He was Her shadow. He loved Her. If he could, he would have made the world for Her too, but he wouldn’t have made it like God. He would’ve made it without pain.

And he wished he could take all Her pain. Instead of just running and hiding like a fucking pussy, making Her deal with it herself.

But he couldn’t.

So when She started to mumble, and the little wrinkle formed on Her brow, Dean cradled Her in his arms. He wasn’t God.

He’d never leave Her to hurt alone. 

She tried to claw out of his arms. Pushed at his chest as a small, distressed noise left Her throat, and the world started go a little brighter without a single light on in the room. But Dean just held Her. Not tighter—he didn’t want to hurt Her, or make Her more frantic—but firmly. And when Her eyes shot open with a choked scream, silver seeming to fade quick from Her pupils as She writhed and scratched at his chest, Dean didn’t move. He just caught Her hand and squeezed it three times, because nothing was okay, but She was safe. They’d spent the time after dinner tracking omen after omen, and the end of the world drew closer with every breath, but right now, She going to be okay.

“I’ve got you, Princess.” He moved Her carefully into his lap, and She melted quick.

Broken sobs shook Her body as she wrapped around Dean, and he tried not think about how this was going to work into his own nightmares.

Something would claw Her out of his hold, She’d vanish up into the sky, and the only proof Dean would have that She ever existed at was an empty room, and pile of notebooks he couldn’t read. He’d have to tell Bobby. Tell Sammy, if he was still with them. Then either keep sleeping in Her room, or find a new one and move on, but he’d never be able to move on. He loved her, and She didn’t want to leave him, but what if God showed Her paradise and she did chose to leave him-

“Dean?” She whispered, Her words muffled in his shirt. “Am I- Did I hurt-“

“I’m fine,” he murmured. She wasn’t allowed to think She could hurt him. Ever. “You’re okay. Just a nightmare.”

She hummed, Her fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nah.”

“Oh- Okay.” There was a beat of silence, then- “I don’t want to go.”

Dean frowned down at Her. “Go where?”

“Back.” Her gaze titled up to meet his, and Her eyes were so soft and bright and sad. Glossed with tears and wide in the dark, and Dean sort of felt like he was drowning. “To Heaven. I- I don’t want to be one of them, Dean, I don’t want to go-“

“Hey.” He cupped Her face, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere, Princess-“

“But what if he comes.” 

She’d been thinking about it too. And it didn’t make Dean feel better. It only made the cold dread drop right into that dark pit, splitting it wider and wider open. It would slice him in two, if She left. If the dread kept growing, and then he lost Her. 

“He’s going to come, De.” She whispered, planting Her hands on his chest as she sat up. “He- He watches me. I’ve always felt him watching me- And I don’t wanna go-“

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean wrapped himself a little tighter around Her. “He, uh- He watching right now?”

She shook Her head. “The windows are closed.”

The windows. And the curtains in every motel, for years. And She didn’t like going outside, and son of a bitch-

“He’s in the sky.” She dropped Her face down to Dean’s neck, and his hand shot up to tangle in Her hair. “He- He doesn’t come inside, and I don’t know why, but- He’s angry with me. I can feel it, and- He wants me to leave but I don’t want to-“

“Princess-“

“I don’t want to leave you, Dean.” She mumbled, and he froze. “I- I never want to leave you, but he- He keeps- I don’t want to leave-“

“So you’re not gonna. We’ll keep you safe-“

“It’s not up to you.” Her voice was so soft, and the dread grew. “He’s just waiting. And watching. But it’s- I don’t think I get to choose, and when he- When- I don’t want to go, De.” She held him a little tighter. “I don’t wanna go.”

Dean felt like his heart was trying to strain out of his chest. He was goddamn useless. He was supposed to protect Her, to make sure nothing hurt Her, but she said it wasn’t up to him. Or Her. 

He should’ve pushed Raphael for more answers. For what the Hell this meant, and how it all lined up. If it was something Dean could kill, or She just needed to be defended. If it was like a demon deal She didn’t choose to make, or a trade they could barter for. Dean could go in Her place, if God was just looking for a human. They could get God a freakin’ dog, if this was about companionship. Or one of those sex dolls, if that was about that-

He felt sort of sick.

Just thinking about Her with anyone had always made something to the left of his heart sour and foul. Thinking of God doing that, when She was crying in his arms-

Not now. She needed Dean here, holding Her. He’d deal with that later. 

Her breathing had steadied, but She wasn’t falling back asleep. She was just tracing patterns on Dean’s forearm in the dark, and he just watched Her in his arms. When She wanted to talk, she would, and he-

“Dean.” She angled Her face to his, Her eyes wide, and he frowned. “I think I’ve got it.”

 “Got-“

“Death.”

Dean blinked, and he wasn’t fast enough to pull Her back to bed, when She crawled out of his arms. This was something that could wait for morning, when they could make a game plan, and She hadn’t just been sobbing ten minutes ago.

“Princess-“

“It’ll take a few hours to finish.” She was cross-legged on the floor, all the ingredients spread out around Her as she worked. “Can you-“ She swallowed. “Please sit with me?”

Dean sighed, and nodded. It was the least he could do, because he couldn’t do much. And he fucking hated it. The itch over his skin of just sitting there as She mixed everything together and started talking in Enochian, before grabbing Her blade and passing it to Dean. She held Her palm open to him, a silent request on Her face, and the dread was starting to fester.

He muttered Her name, and She shook Her head.

“I raised him.” She whispered. “It will work. And the cut needs to go right over the scar, but I don’t think I can get the angle. Please.”

Dean swallowed down some bile, and gave a short nod. He had to. She’d asked him to. 

He still had never felt like such a horrid fucking lowlife as when he sliced Her hand open, and She made a small sound of pain.

“I’m-“

“It’s okay.” She drew Her hand back, and let the blood fall over the fancy bone of an extinct animal Cas had found. “It’ll take a few hours, then it should be like- sort of a compass. Can you-“

Dean nodded, and ran to grab the stitch kit. She didn’t fight it, when he helped Her to sit on the edge of the mattress, and dabbed the rubbing alcohol on Her hand. “Not deep enough for stitches.” He muttered, and She hummed. 

He glanced up, and found Her watching him. Shiny hair falling over Her face and blinding eyes, something gentle in Her face that was rare to see. The was the same position he’d kissed Her in, this first time. 

He wanted to kiss Her now. To show Her, best he could, that he didn’t want to leave Her either.

And he didn’t know how to say it right.

He’d fuck it up.

He’d make it sound like he had a claim to Her instead of God, or She owed him to stay after everything they’d been through. Like Paradise wasn’t something She was worthy of, when he didn’t know anyone who deserved it more. He’d been barely better than a demon in hell, and She’d been made for fucking Heaven, but She was still here with him.

But Dean was good at doing things.

And She was so close, and She smelled so good, and Her breath was hitched and lips parted and-

Fuck it. 

He tugged Her carefully down, winding his fingers between Her’s and starting soft. Just a light press of their lips together, telling Her that he was here. Even when it hurt, Dean was here. 

She let out the sweetest little gasp, Her fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, then kissed him back. 

She was kissing him back.

Her lips were soft and already a little swollen from chewing and crying, but goddamnit, they fit perfectly against Dean’s. And the kiss was a slow and unhurried, letting Dean taste every bit of salt and fruit on Her lips and his hands to wander. Skimming right under Her shirt and savoring Her small shiver. How She angled Her head back to try and carefully push his tongue between Her lips. 

She opened for him in a second, then moaned. Right down his fucking throat, with Her fingers tugging at his hair when he moved to sit on the edge of the bed and pulled Her into his lap, without ever breaking the kiss. Dean was getting dizzy from the high of Her skin—soft and warm and so goddamn responsive, it was going to drive him insane—and body pressed right to his, and She’d started to squirm, and-

They broke apart with ragged breaths, their brows pressed together, and She let out a high, breathy giggle.

“Good?” He rasped, because he had to check, and She nodded.

“Good, De. I…“ Her lips ghosted over his as She trailed off, her eyes fluttering in that way that make his cock twitch.

She squeezed his hand three times, and Dean dragged Her wounded hand up to kiss Her knuckles, and neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Now wasn’t the time to have the Conversation, either. 

So She curled into his side, Dean kissed the top of Her head. He watched the bone on the floor as the night crept on, and drool began to fall from Her lips. He shifted Her to lay down on the bed, moving the hair from Her face, and let out a long, slow sigh. 

He was never going to be worthy of Her. Born in the mud, likely going to die in the mud, too. Dean was selfish. He knew he was selfish. The angels and demons had spent years warning them to stop letting Her fight, the Horsemen had said this wasn’t Her fight, but he’d dragged Her into it because he’d never wanted to lose Her. And now he was going to lose Her no matter what. She was going to do all the work to save their asses, and Sammy was going to try and take a bullet he didn’t deserve, and Dean was going to do jack fucking shit. 

Dad had been right. He was just a weapon, and he wasn’t even an effective one. All that skill and talent to hurt the people he hated and protect the ones he loved, and She was in pain, and he was on the edge of losing Sam. He was nothing. 

But he still loved Her. And She might be designed for people to love and want Her, but Dean loved Her best. He knew Her. He’d do anything for Her. 

Including, when the bone started to glow, one end turning black and spinning on the ground to angle East, something that was going to get him yelled at. But he was sick of just sitting here. Of making Her do everything, when this wasn’t Her fight. And it was like Pestilence. Dean knew She had nightmares about Death. He was just keeping Her from having more.

And She was going to kill him. Bobby was going to kill. Hell, Cas was going to kill him. 

But he was doing it anyway.

He had to.

The bone stayed on Baby’s dash for the entirety of the drive. Dean’s phone started lighting up in Iowa, but he didn’t look at the messages. Sammy might trace the call with all his nerd shit, and send Cas to come grab him. And if it was Her, She’d yell at him for doing the exact thing he always got pissed at Her for doing. But it was different. Dean had a solid plan of get the ring, even if he had to make another deal, and She had other ways to help. Dean was keeping them all out of the line of fire. It was Death, they didn’t know what the hell he was capable of, and every time She’d faced off with a horseman She’d come out sobbing and clinging to Dean in the dark.

The calls died down when he got to Illinois, the sun long over his head. He’d apologize. He’d come back with the ring, and let Bobby and Sam shout at him, let Cas glare and say low words of disappointment, and let Her shove him and scream until she decided She was done. But Dean was keeping Her from more pain.

He’d rather have Her furious with him than not have Her at all. 

And the bone kept spinning, guiding him to Death, and Dean kept coming up with ways they be pissed, and ways he’d apologize. He’d be fine. His whole life had been jumping in front of bullets, then letting blows land on him for daring to protect the people he loved.

If the bullet was Death, he’d see if it stuck this time. And if it didn’t, he’d go back and pray they still wanted him around.

The bone wasn’t turning anymore. It was spinning around and around as Dean circled a block in Chicago, and it was angled towards a Church.

Dean knew this church.

He’d been dreaming about it lately.

A lot.

And the rain was coming down right so hard he was soaked the second he stepped out of the car, but it didn’t matter.

The second he stepped through the doors, he was dry as a bone. 

This had been a horrible idea. One of his worst. He should have brought Her—She’d raised Death, for Christ’s sake—or at least a bigger gun. His steps were echoing of the walls, his seeming to be the only living soul in the whole building.

But not the only person. 

Because sat in the very front row, the was a man. Thin, pale, weedy black hair. And Dean froze in the aisle, but it didn’t matter anyway.  

“Dean Winchester.” The man’s voice was cool. Measured. Dean didn’t think he was made of anything but the dread anymore. “You’re early. I appreciate that.”

“Uh,” Dean cleared his throat. Chicago was such a stupid place to die. “You haven’t killed me.”

“I admire your bravery.” Death shrugged. “You are less than a bit of dust, floating in the air, but you are a very brave and stupid piece of dust. And I would call you inconsequential, but for a piece of dust, you are quite important. By association, of course.”

“Because I’m Michael vessel?”

Death let out a dry laugh. “No. That is like calling the shoelaces of a toddler important. He will get other shoelaces. If fact, he may have already.”

Dean swallowed, and took a slow step forward. He really was a dumb piece of dust. “Then what?”

“Hm. I’d prefer you sit first, before we talk.”

“But-“

Death turned, and his face was sunken. Bored. Almost skeletal, his eyes locked onto Dean’s. “Sit.”

Dean nodded, and half scrambled down the rest of the aisle, before dropping on the pew at Death’s side. It was really fucking weird. Death turned back to the dais with a small nod and sigh, and Dean just waited. This didn’t feel like an icebreaker situation. 

“I supposed you’re here about the ring.”

“Uh,” Dean felt sort of light-headed. Maybe Death was just getting him slowly. “Yes.”

“I am willing to give it to you.”

He blinked. “What?”

Death sighed. “I will give you my ring. That is one of the reasons you are not dead. You are a piece of dust that can swirl up quite the hurricane, if I direct you on the right wind.”

“Can we, uh- Drop the dust thing-“

“No.” Death turned to him with another, painfully blank expression. “Lucifer has me in a bind, I would like the ropes cut free. By putting him back in the cage, you will be doing me a favor, and I will let you continue to breathe until your time comes to a bloody, natural end.”

“Putting him back?”

“Letting Sam go on with his little plan. Not doing anything selfish to stop it.”

Dean opened his mouth, and Death shook his head. 

“People will die, if he does not. It is that simple.”

“But-“

“There is no but. I give you the ring, Sam goes in the pit. If you find another way, you may explore it, but not at the cost of the war lost. Understood?”

Dean nodded, glancing down the ring on Death’s finger. “There are other ways, though? That might work.”

“Not for you, Dean.” Death sighed. “As I explained, you are less than dust.”

“You said I was important.” Dean pushed back, because he could never shut the fuck up. “By association.”

Death gave him another bored look, and said Her name. Dean’s hands curled into fists. He couldn’t sworn that outside, thunder clapped. 

“I don’t-“

“You are of quite some significance to her.” Death said carefully. “More than I think you can understand. Killing you would be… a poor decision.”

“You- you know about her-“

“Of course I know about her. I was there when God decided he wanted her. She will likely be there when I reap him.”

“Reap God?”

“One day, yes.”

Dean felt sick, as he whispered Her name. “Does she- One day-“

Death tilted his head. “I am not sure. But you have yet to answer my question. Will you take the ring, and do whatever it takes.”

“You said there was another way-“

“Not for you. Just as there will never be another way for you to keep your princess. Not with a gun, or a bargain. She is the Bride of God, among other things. It is not something she will be. Not something that can be replaced, or worked around.” Death gave him an almost pitying look. “I like her, Dean. If I am being honest, I would happily spend eternity with her. And I do not think he deserves her, but I did warn him. Now, the ring?”

Dean felt like he was drifting. He took the ring with a weak smile and nod, and he made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep, but he didn’t feel it. Death vanished, leaving Dean alone in the church, but he didn’t move for a long, weighted moment. 

No other ways. There were no other ways. 

Not to save Sammy. 

Not to keep Her. 

He checked his phone, before he started the drive back. It was a lot of missed calls from everyone, and a bunch of messages he didn’t bother to read. They’d tell him all that to his face when he got back. The only important one—not worrying about him or telling him to get back now—was at the top anyway.

Sam

Adam’s missing. Get back now.

New shoelaces. Backup plan.

Fuck. 

He drifted through the drive back, too. He brought the bone back—pissing Her off more by losing her magic bone didn’t seem like a good idea—and kept the ring in his pocket, trying not to think about any of it. He didn’t want to lose Sam. He’d promised Death he’d let the plan go forward, and that didn’t seem like a good promise to break. There was no way for Dean to keep Her, even if he didn’t see anything bright through the storm if it wasn’t Her. 

And the rain had cleared, but the sun had set. The clock on the dash read 1am, when he pulled into Bobby’s yard. And all the lights were off in the house, except for one. 

The lamp in the library. 

She just looked up at him. Nothing on Her face that he could read, not a single shout or scream. Only a heavy, exhausted expression and bright eyes tracking Dean’s movements around the room, as he shed his jacket and crossed the room. She wasn’t saying a single fucking word.

It was worse than shouting or hitting.

It was made of the dread. 

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly, dropping to his knees before Her. He wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch Her right now. “I trust you, Princess, and I woulda brought you with me, but Pestilence and Famine, those sons of bitches fucked you up, and-“ He didn’t know what he was saying. It was going to be the wrong thing. He couldn’t stop. “It fucking kills me, when you’re like that and I can’t do shit about it. But I got it. I got the ring. And I know you’re pissed, and you can kick my ass and I’ll sleep on the couch, but- I’m sorry.”

There was a long, horrid moment of silence, and he’d lost Her. She wouldn’t be in pain, but this had been the thing, the one that was always going to happen, and She’d leave, and Dean was never going to get to hold Her again-

“I thought you left.” She whispered, and Dean’s gaze shot up. “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Son of a bitch. Dean could see it now. The red of Her eyes, the rattiness of Her hair and shine on Her cheeks, combined with the raw skin on Her wrists. 

She’d been crying.

Dean was never supposed to make Her cry.

“I didn’t leave-“

“You said we’d go together.” She cut him off with an almost pleading tone. “And I- I had a freakout last night, and I told you God’s watching me, and we-“ Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We kissed and I- I thought-“

Dean grabbed Her hands, rising up a little higher on his knees. “Look at me.”

She shook Her head, and they done this dance before. A lot.

Dean would keep doing it, as long as he got to keep touching Her. To brush the hair from Her face, take Her face between his hands, and angle Her gaze onto his. He’d do it forever.

“I’d never leave you, Princess.” He muttered, keeping his words low and firm. “I don’t give a shit that God’s watching you. I’m with you. All the way down.”

“Oh- okay.” She took a shaking breath. “I’d never make you sleep on the couch, De.”

He sighed. “You don’t gotta-“

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbled, Her gaze still locked onto his. “Needed you.”

Fuck.

Dean could be needed. He could nod, and carry Her to bed, mumbling a lot more apologies, because he was a piece of shit, but he was Her piece of shit. And once he was in bed, he changed fast and crawled into bed, because this wasn’t going to be his to keep, but he had it now. Her in his arms. Her face in his neck. 

And there had to be another way. Death said there wasn’t, but there always was. Maybe not for Dean, but for someone else, doing him a favor. There had to be another fucking way, because if the smell of fruit haunted him like this for the rest of his life, just out of his reach and crying for him to come save it from the tree, he’d drive himself mad. 

“I’m mad at you.” She grumbled against Dean’s shoulder, and he sighed.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” She paused, Her arms wrapped around his torso, and he would fight for this. 

He loved Her. 

And if Dean was good at anything, it was breaking things for people he loved.

“De?”

He grunted, and She propped her chin on his shoulder. 

“Happy birthday.”

He let out a long breath, and took another stupid risk. It was his birthday, and the world was going to end, and She was looking at him so pretty in the dark, and-

Son of a bitch, he just wanted to be selfish. That was the only real reason. 

And it was worth it. Because he sat up carefully, until he was propped over Her on an elbow, and leaned down. Slotted his lips gently over Her’s and taking it lazy and slow, kissing Her just to kiss Her. To taste Her and know She was here and, for now, Dean’s. 

She let him. She fisted his shirt and pulled him deeper, until he was half on top of Her and he could hear only his heartbeat, and all those amazing sounds he was somehow allowed to pull from Her.

He didn’t pull away this time. Not fully. Dean kept his lips hovering over Her’s and folded his hand into Her’s, giving Her his best, widest, most come fucking love me, please, because I’ll love you until I don’t have a soul anymore, grin.

“Thanks, Princess.” He murmured, and he’d stay here forever. 

With Her. 

In the dark, as the end of the world drew closer, but the whole universe was in his arms, and he never wanted to let it go.

End Note: What a beautiful, rare win for their communication skills. Two whole kisses. They're going to be so normal about this.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney @funkenniffler

[sigma-rat-blog]

I was in hell looking at heaven

[feelbokkie]

I haven't even touched my ask box in a week but here's a gift anyways cause I know you deserve it (menacingly)

if i say one, single thought that’s going through my head right now, i’m going to get canceled and someone is going to have me committed