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actuallybean · 11 days ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part Fourteen

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage Part Fifteen Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

After days of silence, hushed prayers, and dread cloaking every hallway, the morning brought something that almost felt like peace. The faint gurgle of the coffee maker, the metallic scrape of forks over plates from the kitchen, the low rumble of Led Zeppelin leaking from someone’s headphones — these were the small signs of life coming back to center.

You stretched, warm under your blanket on the couch, still nestled between the comfort of old flannel and the rhythmic sound of Sam’s quiet breathing beside you. His long frame had somehow folded into the couch, and one of his arms still rested protectively across your thigh, his hand lightly curled over the swell of your belly. You smiled, fingers brushing over his knuckles. Safe. At least for now.

Eventually, you slipped out gently from under his arm, careful not to wake him. You wandered barefoot through the hallway, hoodie slung over your sleep shirt, a soft chill crawling over your legs. One hand instinctively supported your bump as you descended the steps into the war room.

Dean was already there.

He stood over the war table, eyes narrowed at a thick manila folder while sipping coffee from a mug that read ‘Best Monster Hunter In The Midwest.’ His laptop screen showed several open tabs: midwife forums, natural birthing articles, even one titled ‘How to Birth in a Barn if the World Ends.’

“You planning on becoming a doula now?” you teased.

Dean didn’t even look up. “Only if I get a cool vest and a walkie-talkie. Pretty sure that’s standard.”

You grinned, slowly stepping closer. “You know that’s not what doulas do, right?”

“Well, excuse me if I don’t have a uterus. I’m working with what I got here.”

You laughed, then perched on the edge of the war table. “Where’s Sam?”

You gestured toward the hallway. “Still out cold on the couch. I’m giving Sleeping Beauty his rest. He was up until 3AM reading about cervical dilation like it was the Da Vinci Code.”

Dean raised a brow. “Wow. That’s dedication.”

“Yeah, well,” You sighed and sat down. “This ain’t exactly a ‘wing it’ situation. No hospitals. No docs. No anesthesia. Just good old-fashioned pain and prayer.”

There was a beat of silence.

You swallowed. “You think it’s stupid that I came down here to talk baby names?”

Dean looked up, his expression softening. “No. I think it’s the most normal thing you’ve said in days.”

You hesitated, brushing your hair behind your ear. “If it’s a girl… I was thinking Mary. For your mom. If that’s okay.”

Dean blinked — just once — and something flickered behind his eyes, something sharp and fast and grateful. He cleared his throat, looking away for a second like he needed the composure.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower. “That’d be real nice.”

“And for a boy… I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe something strong. Biblical, but not like plague and doom biblical.”

Dean chuckled. “No Abaddons or Malachi Jr.’s?”

You rolled your eyes, hugging your hoodie a little closer around your stomach. “Definitely not.”

“Okay, okay,” came a sleepy, gravel-dragged voice from behind. “What about something classic? Like… Chris”

You turned your head to see Sam padding barefoot into the war room, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an old MIT sweatshirt and the faint imprint of the couch’s armrest pressed into his cheek. He rubbed the back of his neck and blinked at the table full of research.

Dean snorted. “Chris? Really? That’s the hill you wanna die on?”

Sam shot him a look. “It’s a solid name.”

Dean took a long sip from his mug and muttered, “Yeah, real solid… just rolls off the tongue while someone’s yelling at you.”

You laughed, grateful for the familiar rhythm of their banter. For a moment, it felt like old times — before Heaven came knocking, before prophecies and visions, before divine pregnancies and holy warnings.

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I want something meaningful, but not heavy, you know? Something that doesn’t carry too much history, but still feels strong.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What about Jesus the Second?”

Sam stopped mid-step, eyebrow arched. “You’re kidding.”

Dean grinned. “I’m just sayin’. You are the modern-day Virgin Mary. Feels like the natural progression.”

You deadpanned. “Dean. I’m not naming my kid Jesus the Second.”

“But think about it,” he pressed, dramatically gesturing to the air like he could already see the name in lights. “You’re in a Walmart, someone calls it out — the entire store partly kneels. That’s power.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed off the war room walls. Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a grin tugging at his lips as he came to sit beside you on the edge of the table.

“Don’t encourage him,” Sam said as he gently bumped your knee with his.

Dean raised both hands. “Hey, I’m just brainstorming here. You don’t like Jesus the Second, we can always fall back on something classy. Like Chad.”

You groaned. “Please no. I’d rather name the baby Lucifer before I name him Chad.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s fair.”

There was a lull — a warm, thoughtful silence.

Sam gently placed a hand over your bump, just as Dean had done last night. His palm was large and careful, as though he could feel every flutter beneath the surface.

“You feeling okay this morning?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… needed to see you guys. Needed to laugh a little. Things felt normal again, for a second.”

Sam offered a faint, hopeful smile. “We can still have that… as much of it as we’re allowed.”

Your heart softened. You reached for him, brushing your fingers gently against his cheek before leaning in to press a tender kiss to his lips — soft, brief, but full of warmth.

Dean stood and reached across the table for a notebook, flipping to a half-scribbled page. “Okay, what if we made an actual list? We got time. We workshop it like a movie script. Something with gravitas.”

You grinned, propping your chin on your hand. “Something that sounds good when you yell it across a playground or whisper it during a prayer.”

Dean raised his mug like a toast. “To the future badass, whatever their name ends up being.”

Sam added, “And to you. For still being able to laugh through this.”

You smiled at them both — your family, your protection, your anchors — and felt something shift inside you. Something not divine, not holy or prophesied. Just simple, grounded hope.

Then — the room began to shimmer.

Not physically — not in light — but in pressure. Like the air had suddenly thickened. The blood drained from your face before you could even process it.

Sam noticed first. “Hey—hey, are you okay?”

Your lips parted, but the sentence never came.

Your head jerked back. Eyes wide — and then rolling white.

Sam lunged forward just in time to catch you as your knees gave out.

“Shit—SAM!” Dean shouted. “She’s seizing!”

Sam caught your head, gently cradling it, panic flashing across his face. “She’s not shaking—she’s stiff. It’s a vision. She’s having another vision!”

Dean’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. “Goddammit. Come on, sweetheart. Breathe!”

✦

The world came in pieces. Disjointed. Blinding.

Blood. Heat. Your own scream ripping through the air like thunder.

You were in labor — that much was clear. Harsh white light burned your eyes as your legs trembled, braced and pulled back by steady hands. The room swam in sweat and panic, thick with urgency.

Sam’s voice pierced the haze — desperate, breaking, somewhere close. Dean was shouting, but you couldn’t tell if it was at you, at God, or just into the chaos.

You couldn’t see the baby. Not yet.

But you saw yourself — hunched forward, spine curved like a bow drawn to its limit, your face ghost-pale and drenched in effort. There was blood. A terrifying amount of it, dark and slick and spreading fast between your thighs. You gripped the sheets, soaked and clinging, as if they were the only thing anchoring you to life.

A baby cried — high, alive, echoing somewhere just out of reach.

But before your eyes could find them, before your arms could reach, your vision blurred. Your breath caught. You watched yourself collapse back against the mattress, still breathing — but barely. Still here — but only just.

And then, like a pane of glass cracking from within, the light shattered — and the vision was gone.

✦

Your body seized once—an uncontrollable jolt that shot down your spine like a current—and then everything went limp.

The world dropped out beneath you.

You collapsed fully into Sam’s arms, boneless and trembling. His warmth surrounded you instantly, strong arms pulling you tight against his chest as your body shuddered and your lungs fought for air.

“Hey—hey,” Sam breathed urgently, holding you like something fragile. “You’re okay. I got you. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered open, but they didn’t register much at first—just shapes, shadows, the golden ring of the war room lights spinning above you like halos.

Then Dean’s face came into focus, hovering just over Sam’s shoulder. His eyes were wide with panic, jaw clenched, trying not to look as scared as he felt.

“You with us?” he asked, voice rough, grounding. “C’mon, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

Your lips parted on a ragged, gasping breath. “I… I think so.”

Sam exhaled with visible relief, adjusting his grip so you were cradled closer against him, one hand curled behind your head, the other rubbing gentle circles into your lower back.

Dean stayed kneeling beside him, tense and ready. “What was that?”

Your eyes darted between them. Your voice came out cracked, hoarse like it had been scraped raw from the inside. “I think I had a vision... I saw the birth. But this time…”

Your stomach lurched. You tried to sit up but Sam anchored you carefully, his large hands warm against your ribs. “Take it slow,” he murmured.

You blinked up at them, dazed. “This time… I felt it. The pain. All of it.”

A beat passed.

Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But you made it, right? Like—like in the vision? You’re okay in the end?”

You hesitated. The silence stretched too long. The edges of your fingers tingled from leftover shock. Your heart thundered like it had been chasing something holy and horrible at once.

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered, trembling. “There was so much blood…”

Dean’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked at Sam, who didn’t say anything—just held you closer, like he could protect you from a prophecy with sheer will.

Dean finally spoke again, his voice tighter this time. “You’re not gonna die, alright? Mary didn’t die, so why would God change that now? Huh?”

His words felt like a question aimed more at Heaven than at you. Like he was praying someone—anyone—was still listening.

Sam let out a breath through his nose, and when you looked up at him, he gave you the smallest, softest smile.

“You’re here,” he said simply. “That’s what matters right now.”

He shifted your weight slightly so your legs weren’t folded uncomfortably beneath you. You realized only then how badly you were shaking. Your knees felt like water, your hands cold and useless against the heat of Sam’s chest.

His fingers found your side and moved in slow, grounding strokes—up, down, up again—anchoring you to the present, to him.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated. His lips brushed your hair. “I’ll always have you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder. His flannel was soft, and it smelled like cedar and safety. For a moment, you just breathed—his heartbeat thudding steady beneath your ear, his hand never still against your side.

But Dean was still watching.

You lifted your eyes to him, quietly wrecked.

“There was a moment… when I thought I was going to die. Not from fear. From purpose. Like I wasn’t meant to survive it.”

Dean’s face twisted, like your words physically hurt him. “Don’t talk like that. You hear me?”

“I saw it, Dean,” you whispered. “I felt the crown of thorns. I felt… fire and light and pain like nothing human.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. His hand paused for a moment, then resumed.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said, almost fierce. “I don’t care what God showed you. You are not doing this alone.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Not when the ghost of divine agony still echoed in your womb, your lungs, your soul.

But you held on to him—held on—and closed your eyes against the memory.

And for now, that was enough.

✦

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and old coffee — familiar, homey, but also tinged with the faint, ever-present undercurrent of bunker life: exhaustion, battles fought, prayers whispered in the dark. The morning light filtered through the narrow, barred window, casting long, golden shafts that stretched lazily across the worn linoleum floor and pooled on the kitchen table where you sat.

You were wrapped in one of Sam’s oversized flannel shirts — soft and worn just like you liked — and your favorite leggings, stretched thin in places but still the only things that felt comfortable against your growing belly. Four months along now, and the weight of this new life was becoming more real with every passing day. You traced the curve of your stomach with a gentle hand, feeling the baby’s quiet movements beneath the fabric, a faint flutter that made your chest tighten with equal parts awe and nervousness.

Beside you sat a chipped ceramic mug, stained with the ghosts of a hundred early mornings. Steam rose in delicate curls from the lukewarm tea inside, but you weren’t really drinking it — more holding it like a lifeline, warming your hands against the coolness of the bunker’s still air. The warmth seeped slowly, a quiet comfort on a day that felt both ordinary and extraordinary.

In front of you rested the battered, well-loved baby names notepad — your little project, your secret notebook of hopes and dreams inked in the margins of your life. Its pages were creased from folding and unfolding, smudged with grease from late-night snacks and fingerprints from endless brainstorming sessions.

The notepad was a patchwork of your and Dean’s scribbles, a mixture of the ridiculous and the sincere. There were names scrawled in Dean’s unmistakable bold, all-caps handwriting — names like “JESUS THE SECOND” that had been heavily crossed out with dramatic, angry lines of ink, and a frowny face doodled beside them, almost certainly Sam’s doing. Another of Dean’s ideas, “WINCHESTERELLA,” was similarly obliterated beneath your own impatient, frustrated scribbles. And there, mocking the seriousness of the page, was “BABY YODA,” again in Dean’s handwriting, followed by your emphatic “NO.”

The absurdity of it all made you smile despite the heaviness that hung in your chest. Dean’s attempts at humor — trying to lighten the burden of what was coming — reminded you that no matter how strange and terrifying this journey was, you weren’t walking it alone.

But beneath the layers of crossed-out jokes and silly nicknames, real contenders had begun to emerge. Names you’d carefully collected from ancient scriptures, forgotten saints, prophets, and angelic tongues whispered only in the most secret scrolls of Heaven. Some were circled with hopeful certainty, others lightly erased as second thoughts crept in, but the last two names you’d written remained clear, crisp, and untouched by doubt — the ink darker than the rest, written in your softest cursive.

For a girl: Zahaviah.

The name felt like a secret treasure you’d discovered tucked deep in the pages of a dusty, forgotten biblical lexicon hidden in the bunker’s library. Delicate and rare, it was Hebrew in origin, meaning “golden one of the Lord.” The syllables rolled off your tongue gently, like a prayer and a promise all at once. It felt holy and fierce, a name fit for a child born into battle but kissed by divine light — someone who would carry the fire of faith with a quiet strength.

For a boy: Eliorin.

This name was far more obscure, whispered only in the footnotes of ancient angelic hierarchies and old, secret texts. Derived from El, meaning God, and or, meaning light, the poetic suffix gave it an almost ethereal softness. Light of God. It didn’t carry the weight of judgment or the threat of fire, but rather hope — a beacon shining steadily through the shadows. It was a name that sounded like a promise of peace and protection in a world that desperately needed both.

You stared down at the names for a long moment, your thumb tracing the corner of the page absentmindedly. Beneath the flannel, your belly shifted softly, the baby moving — stretching or kicking, or maybe just reminding you, quietly but insistently, that you were not alone. That life was growing here, fragile but fierce.

Somewhere down the hall, faint music drifted in — Sam’s voice humming along to an old classic from the library where he was probably buried nose-deep in another ancient tome, researching everything he could to keep you safe. Dean was likely elbow-deep in the garage, working on some ridiculous project or trying to figure out how to deliver a baby with nothing but duct tape and a first-aid kit. You could almost hear him muttering under his breath about ‘winging it’ and ‘doing this the Winchester way.’

But here, in this quiet, golden morning light — with just the scratch of pen on paper, the faint warmth of tea, and the gentle rhythm of a new life inside you — something like peace settled over you. It wasn’t the peace of certainty or safety; it was the peace of love, fragile and fierce, anchoring you against the fear.

You picked up the pen again and wrote beneath the names with careful, deliberate strokes:

“Let them be born into love, not fear.”

Your eyes flicked to the margin next to “JESUS THE SECOND,” where you doodled a tiny, mischievous halo. You knew Dean would see it later, probably laugh until he nearly choked on his coffee. For now, that small moment of levity was enough — a reminder that even in the darkest times, laughter was still a kind of salvation.

You sighed softly, setting the pen down, and laid a hand gently over your belly. No matter what came next, you’d face it — with hope, with love, and with family by your side.

✦

The warmth of the kitchen lingered even as the day wore on, but eventually, the pull of routine—or at least the closest thing to it—guided you toward the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom.

You stood for a moment in the doorway, blinking slowly at the fogged-up mirror and the faint scent of eucalyptus from Sam’s body wash. The overhead light hummed softly above you. Your body felt heavier lately, slower, like it was moving to a rhythm only the baby understood. You were beginning to learn the language of discomfort—how to arch your back just right to ease the ache in your spine, how to breathe through the pressure in your hips, how to hold your belly like it needed reassurance even when you were alone.zz

The mirror was already fogged around the edges, but the middle strip still held a reflection — soft, watery, real.

You stood in front of it barefoot, slowly peeling off the oversized flannel shirt you’d stolen from Dean’s closet again that morning. The cotton fell from your shoulders like a curtain, pooling at your feet beside your leggings and underwear, folded with care on the closed toilet lid. The hum of the bathroom light above you was the only sound, along with the slow start of water heating behind the glass pane of the shower.

You looked at yourself.

Really looked.

Four months. It was undeniable now. Your body wasn’t what it had been before. Your waist, once soft and unremarkable, had given way to a gentle curve pushing outward — your belly round and firm like the moon. A subtle line now bisected the skin from ribs to hips, that faint linea nigra marking the quiet miracle underneath. Your breasts were fuller, heavier, nipples darker than you remembered. The skin stretched across your stomach was taut and warm, sensitive to the touch, like it belonged to someone else and only recently returned to you.

Your hips had widened too, and your thighs touched just a little more, your balance just a little off-center. There were tiny, half-moon indents on your lower belly where your nails had unknowingly pressed in recent nights, holding yourself as you dreamed of things too big to say aloud. Sometimes you felt beautiful. Other times foreign. Like a home being renovated while still living in it.

You exhaled softly, resting a hand on the side of your stomach. The baby shifted — not quite a kick, not yet, but a whisper of motion that reminded you they were there. Growing. Becoming.

You turned sideways, cupping your belly from underneath, watching the gentle silhouette of creation. You didn’t feel like a goddess, but you understood why people once believed women who gave birth held divinity in their blood. Because even now, even after everything — the fear, the danger, the impossible story you were living — this felt sacred.

Steam curled around you as the shower reached its rhythm. You stepped inside, letting the warmth spill over your shoulders, your back, sliding down your skin in ribbons. The water clung to your lashes, kissed your collarbones, filled the air with that comforting sound of safety. You pressed your palms to the cool tile and just stood there for a while, letting yourself feel everything and nothing at once.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you knew him.

Sam’s voice came gently above the rush of water, quiet enough that you had to turn your head toward the sound. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You blinked the steam from your eyes, and he was there — bare-chested, barefoot, loose pajama pants riding low on his hips, hair a little damp already from where he’d run his fingers through it. His eyes were gentle, almost shy, his hands fidgeting slightly by his sides like he wasn’t sure you’d want him there.

“Come in,” you said, smiling softly.

Sam entered like the air itself bowed to his frame. He stepped in, slow and careful, reaching out to slide the glass door shut behind him, enclosing the two of you in mist and warmth. You felt his body heat mingle with the shower’s. Felt his hesitation melt the moment he saw you — all of you — and did not flinch.

His hands, large and warm, rose to rest lightly on your sides. Then, without asking, he lowered them, palms spreading gently across the curve of your belly, reverent and slow. His touch wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was sacred.

“They’ve grown,” he whispered.

You smiled, a little laugh in your throat. “So have I.”

He glanced up, his gaze sweeping over you as if taking stock of every inch of your changed form. “You’re beautiful,” he said. And he meant it — every syllable.

“You have to say that,” you teased.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I do anyway.”

His thumbs brushed delicate circles across the roundest part of your belly. Your skin quivered under the touch, and you felt the baby move faintly again — not a kick, just a hello.

Sam dropped his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. The water streamed over both of you, clinging to his shoulders, running down your spine. “I love you,” he murmured. “I love this baby. I love this—us.”

You rested your head on his chest, your hand over his heart. “Do you think it’ll ever stop being terrifying?”

“I hope not,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “Because if it stops being terrifying, it means we stopped caring.”

There was a silence — soft, comforting. Then, almost too casually, Sam added, “So… I was thinking. You know. When this is all over. When you’re not glowing like the Virgin Mary and terrifying Heaven on a daily basis…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…maybe you’d wanna marry me?” he said.

Just like that.

No ring. No kneeling. No plan. Just Sam Winchester, half-naked in a shower, hands on your belly, offering his forever like it was the most obvious next step.

You blinked.

He cringed a little. “Okay, okay — that sounded better in my head.”

You started to laugh. You couldn’t help it. “You asked me to marry you in the shower. While I’m huge. And naked.”

“And glowing,” he offered.

You rolled your eyes and pulled him down into a kiss — slow, full, grateful. It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t hurried. It was quiet and clean and lovely.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his again. “Yes.”

He froze.

“Yes?” he repeated, like he hadn’t heard right.

You nodded, and this time tears swam in both your eyes.

“I’ll say it again when we’re dry and you’re not worried about soap in your eyes,” you teased. “But yeah. Yes.”

And in the warmth of that small bunker shower, under the water and hope and steam, Sam kissed you again. His hands stayed over your stomach the entire time. And the baby moved, ever so slightly, like they knew — like they understood that love was being built all around them.

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redilepsy · 1 year ago

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#dean coded dean devoted #dean winchester #happy birthday #happy birthday dean #supernatural #spn #spn family #spn fandom #it's best boys birthday!!!#january 24th #comfort character

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greypistacchio · 1 month ago

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Castiel, Angel of the Lord, is the autistic rep we deserve

DEAN.- The general vicinity? That's all you've got? CASTIEL.- Yes, which is why I need your help. It seems this is gonna involve talking to people (...). But it seems I lack a certain... DEAN.- Skill?

how wonderful that there's no self-deprecation in Castiel's voice as he acknowledges this, nor is there an ounce of shame! instead he sounds puzzled, like he can't put his finger on exactly what it is that he's getting wrong about human social interactions? he has been studying Social Skills 101 through TV shows, which will surely be enough to pass as A Human Man!

(spoiler alert, it doesn't, because you can have an amazing repertoire and still mess up by not knowing how to tell what is and isn't appropriate depending on the context and the people you're with)

the beautiful thing about Castiel's trouble adjusting to the human world is that he never beats himself up about how unexpectedly difficult it seems to be for him. he's aware that his "people skills" are "rusty", and what does he do about it? he asks for help without it becoming a big deal.

something in the very chill way he goes about this makes me super happy. unlike lots of other autistic-coded characters, Castiel doesn't feel dismayed whenever his lack of social skills gets in the way, and what's more! his friends never shame him for it! yes, Castiel often says things that are inadvertently funny to everyone else for reasons he can't figure out. yes, Castiel misreads social cues more often than not, and whenever he explains his thought process about them out loud it's clear that he has been trying to build himself a mental handbook about Human Interactions For Dummies. yes, Castiel tends to clarify figurative language for others despite it not being something he was asked for, and yes, he often takes sayings at face value and struggles to understand what they mean because he's going off of literal meaning.

and you know what's beautiful about all of this! the fact that neither Dean nor Sam give him hell about it!!

even though there is never any label assigned to Castiel per se, which on the other hand makes sense because when exactly would he find the time and motivation to go get diagnosed... the show makes it clear enough that he is, in fact, on the spectrum. the way he talks is described by alluding to Rain Man, which is about an autistic man played by Dustin Hoffman. Castiel's favourite Heaven is that of an autistic man who's happy to fly his kite in a beautiful meadow for eternity.

Castiel is as explicitly autistic as he can be, and he's never made to feel bad about the struggles that come with it. what's more, though! many of Castiel's most beautiful qualities and choices are directly related to autistic strengths.

for example, the strong sense of justice. Castiel has got a heart of gold that's in the right place, and he can't bear the idea of falling back into line if it means not doing what's right. but he isn't an arrogant assbutt about it. instead of trying to preach some holier-than-thou crap, he thinks out loud about what's right and what's wrong and the consequences that each option comes with. he is genuinely invested in doing what's right.

or the unwavering loyalty and devotion to those he cares for. Castiel loves the Winchester brothers deeply, and Dean in particular, because they listen to him and have actual conversations about the stuff Castiel asks himself questions about. they are the first people who treat Cas as an equal, as a friend, as family. and so Castiel does the same. he loves them enough that he'd rather swallow Purgatory whole to stop Raphael, who is planning on resuming the Apocalypse, than let his brother put Dean and Sam in the line of fire. he would rather protect the family he's found than comply with the Heavenly Plan.

or his extraordinary ability to notice the smallest things. as shown often enough whenever Castiel is taking his time to appreciate what's around him, he has an extraordinary eye for the subtlest details. even when he uses his powers, he is immediately able to figure out stuff in very precise detail.

or his boundless empathy. what enabled Castiel to rebel against Heaven in the first place was his inability to ignore how much Dean was hurting. nevermind how many times Uriel snapped at him for giving the mud monkeys too much credit, or how utterly racist most angels seemed to be towards human beings. Castiel was immediately struck by the pain that Dean felt, and in the end he stood up for what he figured was right because of his willingness to put himself in Dean's shoes to understand his point of view.

or his genuine authenticity. no matter how many times others screw him over and take advantage of how very sensitive he is, and how badly he wants to do what's right and will save people, Castiel still wears his big heart in his sleeve. in a world where most characters lie and deceive and betray and pretend their way through things, Castiel remains genuine in his quest to do the right thing. he keeps being open about his feelings and his motives and what he longs for, even though it is something that can and will be exploited to his detriment, because he doesn't know how to not be his true self.

or his complex and intense emotions. even though Castiel admittedly struggles to express his emotions in a typical way, and at first had trouble identifying and naming them too, there is never half a doubt that he feels them deeply. everything Castiel does is imbued with so much emotion, and if there's one character with a strong sense of transcendence it's him. if there's one character who created free will and stopped Fate dead in her tracks out of love, it's him. if there's one character whose fury was enough to decimate Heaven, it's him. if there's one character whose embarrassment was strong enough to keep him in Purgatory, it's him. there is an explicit acknowledgement, in fact, that Castiel has a larger-than-life heart that's always been a core part of who he is. no matter how many times it lands him in trouble or brings him great distress.

or his great tactic ability to analyse situations. as shown time and time again, Castiel is an extraordinary asset to have in one's team due to his sharp intellect regarding strategic planning. he is Team Free Will's brains, and every time he's involved in a case or an offensive he voices all the foreseeable concerns and possibilities so they can be ready for them. whenever someone is upset or conflicted, and by someone I mostly mean Dean, Castiel is able to analyse everything that has happened to figure out what Dean might be feeling and why. from the very first time they meet, Castiel is able to put together the many pieces of Dean Winchester at the speed of light, and when he himself makes mistakes he has an insane sense of introspection that enables him to realise what happened or didn't happen so he can improve moving forward.

and let's not forget his expressiveness. yes, Castiel's voice is often flat and monotonous. yes, he makes interesting word choices that don't quite land in many contexts. all of this is a clear result of his trouble with unspoken social cues regarding what is and isn't "appropriate" in a certain situation, or with certain people, but he nonetheless expresses so much all the time. in fact, I'd say that he's one of the most emotionally aware characters in this whole show, and he has a fucking ton of lines that are absolute bangers and capture really, really nuanced and complex thoughts and feelings beautifully.

all in all, Castiel is beautiful autistic rep, and I'm so very happy that he exists!!

#yea i know that the show doesn't give out the label but #the patterns are patterning #and it's not like autistic people need to be introduced as such in real life to be autistic #castiel is a handbook example of what low support needs autism can look like and. he is so very loved as he is. he is so very loveable #it fills my heart with happiness whenever he acts in a clearly neurodivergent way and is just. allowed to be A Bit Different #because he is NEVER portrayed as inferior in any way for it #instead he is THE character of all time #insane show for insane people #gee watches supernatural #supernatural analysis #supernatural #spn #spn season 8 #castiel #castiel angel of the lord #autism #autistic characters

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majosullivan · 3 months ago

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So I wrote a whole ass dissertation in the tags of your post (which will be posted in a couple of days bc I'm focusing on fundraisers rn) but I wanted to do another tangent here bc I'm sooooooooo mad that lenore very probably didn't kill annabel >:( like it would make only sense in a kind of double suicide situation Or in a "I'm killing us both to save us from our fate bc they just discovered that I'm a woman and they’re gonna lock us up and I want to save you from that, but I'm never gonna tell you making it Look like a betrayal" kind of way, but then it wouldn't work narratively bc then the story should have focused a lot more on Annabel's feeling of betrayal to have a big reveal moment where they explained what was actually going on. And that didn’t happen. Annabel was immediately hopelessly devoted to lenore so I think it wouldn't make sense.

BUT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO FUN!!!!!!!!!! STILL BEING DEVOTED TO THE ONE YOU LOVE BC YOU IMMEDIATELY UNDERSTAND WHY SHE KILLED YOU. OR EVEN IF YOU DON'T IT DOESN'T MATTER BC YOU TRUST HER ANYWAYYYYYYY WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALLLLLLLLLLL

Congrats on the childhood friend for killing them in the most homoerotic way possible. I guess. Fuck you. I hope you at least got to have a rage fueled duel with a lenore blinded by grief. Grrrrr

(I think he's the guy who killed them bc the fact that he was even mentioned and the fact that they spent so many speech bubbles on a guy who hasn't even appeared makes me suspicious. I think we have a full season that needs to be filled with flashbacks still and I think he's gonna meke his appearance. Motherfucker. Stupid chekhov's gun coded ass.)

Up until episode 91, I always kept going back and forth on theories surrounding the idea that Lenore was the one that killed Annabel. It is such an intriguing idea but there was always something that didn't sit right. It continually felt like every time there was a piece of evidence that could shift the scale to one side, there was always another piece that would balance things out for me.

Even if Lenore didn't kill Annabel though, it appears we're still getting a similar route to 'still being devoted to the one that killed you whether you understand the reason or not' from Annabel. After all, Merry did state how it was fascinating it was that despite every reason they have given to Annabel to make her distrust Lenore, her convictions have only deepened. It is difficult to say for certain if the memories shown in episode 91 are the only ones Annabel remembered when she manifested or if there were further ones we haven't been shown yet. Solely going on what was present to us though, Annabel had memories of her death triggered for her and remembered that this girl she met at Nevermore's shores and immediately felt some sort of connection was apparently was the one that murdered her and went 'despite what the Deans made me remember, I also remember how I feel about Lenore, and how I feel about Lenore tells me that no matter what truly happened, a second life without her would be pointless'. The Deans just weren’t prepared for the endless power of sapphic devotion.

You are so damn right that Annabel's childhood friend being such a Chekhov's gun coded character. While Ira is currently my main guess for the person that killed Annabel, the detail we are given about him in episode 42 makes him stand out in such a suspicious way.

It would be one thing if it was simple established that Ira had prepared a suitable suitor for Annabel if no one manages to beat her at chess by the end of her third social season. It helps set up a time frame for Lenore's plan to save Annabel and it establishes more of Ira’s character before we’re officially introduced to him. Him being someone Annabel used to play with when she was younger? Fine enough detail to add on. Makes sense that Ira would prepare a suitable backup suitor from a family he is familiar with/already has a good relationship with. However, stating how he has been defeated by Annabel multiple times and in Annabel word's 'is terribly persistent'? Now that immediately caught my eye. It is the perfect early detail to start building the foundation that this man could potentially start causing problems/get violent if the woman he has desperately been trying to win the hand of and who was so close to being promised to him got engaged to this somewhat suspicious 'man'.

Like I mentioned, it's hard to make a further case about him given that we haven't heard about him since, but every time I think through theories around Annabel's and Lenore's deaths, I keep coming back to him in some form because it feels like he has to have some role in the future, I just don't have anything to prove it yet.

If he is the one that shot Annabel, god hoping that Lenore was at least able to shoot him before she died (ideally in the dick but I'm not picky)

#if/when this guy makes his first appearance I am going to be on such high alert #I’m working on responding to your tags right now #because you are brilliant as always and I need gush about some of the things you mentioned #and you also reminded me of a few things that I didn’t mention in the post but have been on on my mind #and I would love to hear your thoughts on them #nevermore #nevermore webtoon

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virtualreader · 2 years ago

Text

silver blade

deanwinchesterxfem!reader

summary: reader heroically kills a shapeshifter to save Dean, but not without getting hurt in the process. When the blood covering the reader's hands, nearly triggers a panic attack, Dean is quick to comfort her.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: gore, not natural creatures (if u know, u know), anxiety, panic attack, blood, grotesque killing, wounds, emotional shock. could be read as romantic or platonic.

a/n: i live for hurt/comfort fics. also, i thrive on feedback, so don't think twice and send me some! constructive criticism is also welcomed!

"Dammit, Dean," you cursed under your breath as you tried calling Dean, only to be sent straight to voicemail once again. To say you were exasperated was an understatement. You couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that was starting to creep up on you. “Where the hell are you, guys?”

As little as a single missed call was enough to seed concern within you. One—they had probably walked into a crowded bar. Two—Dean had most likely found a chick worth flirting with. Nine in the span of two hours? Nine voicemail messages and no sign neither of the brothers were still alive? Now that was downright worrisome.

You slid the combination 11-02-83 into the lock, and it opened immediately with a subdued click. You had been with the Winchesters long enough to have figured out the access code to the weapons compartment. Nonetheless, you were still finding your feet in the supernatural world, not having ever seen any of the creatures you read about.

With one hand, you scrambled to lift the bottom of the trunk, gaining access to the secret compartment John had built in the '67 Impala Dean insisted on nicknaming baby.

If there was anything you had a grasp of, it was lore beyond doubt. Therefore, you sifted meticulously through the vast array of weapons until you finally laid your eyes on the one you had been seeking—a glistening silver knife, ornately engraved. Legend has it both silver bullets and silver-bladed weapons were lethal to shapeshifters, the very creature Sam and Dean were after.

As you became aware of your scarce fighting skills, you hesitated for a moment and second-guessed your brash decision to defy the blunt order to stay in the motel the Winchesters had given you. Instead of backing down and following said instructions, you headed towards the nearest sewer cleanout driven and determined, and trawled the cover aside with great effort.

With the silver knife in hand, you descended into the sewers, climbing down the rank, rusty ladder, diligently making it to the bottom. You jumped off onto the ground, which you found to be swamped with turbid water. Or at least that was what you hoped the muddy puddles soaking your feet up to the socks were.

The air was humid, and the sewer halls were silent except for the rhythmic dripping of leak drops splashing on the concrete. You took a deep, shaky breath, wondering how Sam and Dean managed to remain level-headed during hunts, especially given the unforeseen aftermath.

You were undoubtedly scared—terrified even. You bore in mind all the plausible deadly outcomes facing a creature as powerful as a shapeshifter entailed. Yet, not even that did withhold you from sacrificing your own safety for the sake of the two boys who had become your family over the past year.

You were willing to pay your weight in blood if it was their lives at stake. Without them by your side, life would only be reduced to a meaningless solitary existence. So you might as well devote yourself to wrestling them from the peril you sensed they were in.

You crept through the dark, dank sewers, your grip on the silver knife tightening with each step, refraining it from slipping from your moist trembling hands. You couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was watching you, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce at any moment.

The stench was overwhelming, and you had to cover your nose with your free hand to avoid gagging. But you knew that giving up was not an option. You had come too far to turn back at this point.

You dropped your gaze to the concrete beneath your feet, scrutinizing the ground in search of any signs indicating Sam and Dean’s whereabouts.

One, two, three blood droplets stained the cement and left behind a vague trail. It was a somewhat chilling sight, and your thoughts immediately went to the possibility of the guys being wounded.

Barely a few feet before you laid a mucilaginous shred of skin. Next to it was a clump of dark hair, matted and tangled, still attached to its corresponding patch of torn skin. You shuddered at the realization that those gruesome remnants irrefutably belonged to the shapeshifter.

Faint grunts died out in the distance. It sounded human, and you recognized them as Dean’s. You tensed up, gripping the small bladed weapon steady in your hand.

With an adrenaline rush pumping through your veins, you crept towards the direction of the sound. The grunts grew louder, and you could now hear the pained sounds of Dean's voice as clear as day. Your heart leaped into your throat, and you picked up the pace, sprinting through the dark corridors.

You skidded to a stop as you came upon the scene. Eyes narrowed and brows raised, you did your utmost to wrap your head around the commotion you witnessed before you.

Sam laid sprawled on the floor, his mouth stuffed with a smudge rag. There was sweat and blood coating his face and clothes and his chest inflated and deflated frantically as he struggled against the plastic flange restraining his wrists.

Your attention then turned to Dean, who was pressed against the wall with his body tense with pain and fear. There was another loud thud, the broad creature gripping Dean's jacket collar tossed him onto the ground, the sound echoing throughout the sewer's hallways. Dean gasped in pain, and your heart sank even further at the sight of his helplessness.

“Y/n…get outta...here...” he spoke falteringly in a hushed tone when he registered your presence.

You followed his gaze, and your eyes locked with the shapeshifter's dusky ones. The creature’s features were practically indistinguishable under the dim light seeping through the storm drains, yet the illumination was sufficient for you to discern its current shape.

It was not human, you acknowledged that fact in its entirety. But it sure resembled a person, and not just any person. The shapeshifter, whose eyes were currently fixated on your unnerved shaky figure, had taken on Sam's form with such accuracy it left you utterly bewildered, propelling your mind into an insurmountable surge of confusion.

Its gaze was intense, almost otherworldly, and it seemed to be studying you with a cold detachment that sent shivers down your spine. The shapeshifter seemed to be waiting for your next move, but you froze, clueless as to how to act in the face of his defiant demeanor. And with each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to engulf you in a tidal and paralyzing wave of haze and dread.

You felt compelled to pin your hopes on your self-reliance in order to beat the creature down. After mustering all your courage, you leaped to Dean’s defense. Without hesitation, you charged forward, brandishing the silver knife that you had retrieved from the Impala's weapons compartment.

The smug laugh of the shapeshifter only fueled your determination to protect the brothers at any cost. You saw red. With a swift motion, you plunged the blade into the shapeshifter's chest, slicing and carving it wide open out of fury, and it let out a bloodcurdling screech as it fell to the ground, lifeless.

What seemed blatant moments ago became now an incertitude, as you saw what appeared to be Sam's inanimate body on the concrete. Even if the real Sam drew breath a stone's throw away from you, growing ever more relieved as Dean aided in freeing him from the restraints, the thought of having killed the younger Winchester brother eclipsed your brain.

“I’d never peg you as the stabbing type,” joked Dean trying to alleviate the tension in the atmosphere as he helped Sam to get up, earning a sheepish 'thank you' from the younger brother. He then turned his attention to you. “Jeez, y/n, white paint has more color than your face.”

You took a step backward staring down to your hands, absolutely unable to hear what Dean was saying, let alone fathom it out. Blood was all you saw, blood drenching your hands from the very fingertips all the way up to your elbow.

When your only response to his jokes was silence, Dean began to realize that something was off. In a desperate attempt to get you to snap out of your distressed paralysis, he grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you slightly.

You looked at him, trying to discern his worried features through your foggy vision. You felt trapped inside your own mind, unable to break free from the suffocating weight of your thoughts.

"Everything's spinning, De," you muttered as you managed to loosen the knot that had formed in your throat. "Please, make it stop.”

"I promise you—your head is the only thing spinning right now," he said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. "You did good, y/n/n. You saved my ass back there."

Your usually regular and calmed breathing pattern developed into a shallow, rapid one. You could feel your heart hammering at great speed in your chest, which caused the veins in your neck to throb and made you feel rather light-headed.

"Hey, hey, hey. I've got you. I've got you," Dean whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace not willing to let you fall when he saw you swaying, and losing balance. "Just listen to my heartbeat, okay?"

You hummed in response, utterly unable to voice your distress. You could hear and feel the wallop of his heart, forcefully rapid yet steady and calming, along with the resounding sounds of his voice inside his chest. You clung to him for dear life, feeling his strong arms around you as you kept a white-knuckled grip on his plain flannel.

"That's it. Just focus on that," he reassured you, rubbing his hand up and down your back, your breathing gradually returning to its even pattern. "You're safe now. It's over."

As soon as you were out of the sewer, Dean ushered you to the Impala opening the door for you to enter the back passenger seat. As much as he loved baby, getting her bloodstained was not a problem as long as he got you safe and comfy.

The ride lasted hardly ten minutes, although to your clouded senses it felt everlasting. You made a futile attempt to divert your attention from the dry blood coating your hands to the sparse traffic outside, before your mind was dragged into the abysmal hole of anguish that the earlier incident had dug into your psyche one more time.

Throughout the ride, Sam kept asking if you were okay every now and then, displaying a genuine concern for your well-being. He knew how traumatic the experience must have been for you and wanted to make sure you were coping. His kind words and comforting presence helped soothe your frazzled nerves, even if only slightly.

Truth was you were far from okay. You were grappling with a multitude of emotions that were threatening to consume you, and the weight of your thoughts felt suffocating.

Meanwhile, Dean would occasionally shoot glances your way through the rear-view mirror, silently checking on you to make sure you were holding up. Despite his tough exterior and being kind of rough around the edges, he was quick to show his caring and nurturing side when it came to you.

The car rolled down the highway, the engine humming softly as Dean expertly downshifted gears, slowly bringing the vehicle to a smooth stop in the motel's parking lot.

You stumbled out of the car, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Dean rushed to your side, supporting you with a hand on your back.

"Easy there, champ," he said, concern lacing his voice. "Let's get you cleaned up and patched up, yeah?"

You nodded weakly, grateful for his support. It was then that you noticed the large gash on your forearm, which must have been incurred during the prior wrestling. How could you have missed it before?

The keys clattered as Sam unlocked the door to your assigned room, pushing it open gently. The three of you entered the motel's bedroom, steps heavy as your energy was depleted.

While Sam tended to his own injuries, Dean took you to the bathroom, where he turned on the tap and began to gently wash away the blood that coated your hands and arms. The touch of his fingers was soothing, and you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of relief as the water washed away the evidence of the shapeshifter's blood.

In spite of his sarcastic jokes, you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean was mad. And he had every right to be.

You looked up at him, feeling guilty for disobeying orders and putting yourself in danger. The instructions were clear—stay safe and focus on research. They had let you take charge of the investigation duty reluctantly, let alone get fully involved in the hunting business. But you found it impossible to resist the urge, you couldn’t stay in the motel doing nothing knowing they could be in trouble.

Notwithstanding the potential fallout, Dean didn't scold you. Instead, he patiently led you to the toilet, he retrieved the newly restocked first aid kit and gently placed it on the countertop.

“I'm sorry,” you said in a whisper. "You weren't answering my calls. I got worried sick. I'm sorry."

Dean leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"No need to be, sweetheart," he said softly, tossing his resentment for your disobedient behaviour to the back of his mind. "As much as I hate to admit this, you did what had to be done. You saved us back there."

He proceeded to tend to your wound, his touch light and careful as he cleaned and bandaged the gash on your forearm. You couldn't help but feel grateful for his presence, for his unwavering support and understanding.

As he finished up, he looked up at you with a small empathetic smile.

"You wanna crash in my room tonight?" he asked. "I promise to keep the nightmares away."

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

The knowledge that he was there with you, ready to support you through thick and thin, was a comforting thought. With Dean by your side, you knew you could get through anything.

#dean winchester #dean winchest x reader fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #spn #dean supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #sam and dean #supernatural #supernatural imagine #sam winchester #the winchester brothers

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