agentsreblogs

[agentsreblogs]

Nnnnggghhhh!!!

This was so good! Short, sweet, and Dean's voice was just on point! I love how you let him lead the entire thing with the usual cool, and then he allows the facade to drop and show his heart.

Fantastic, thank you for sharing!

TASTE

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Vampire!Reader

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

AN: Surprise! Here’s a short drabble for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! (Moodboard created by Liane!) 💜🖤❤️

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, spiciness, set circa season 6, little twist ending…

A tease, a whisper of heated breath, a soft streak of cherry red lipstick drawing a lazy path to his ear; your lips brush against his jawline.

“Dean.”

His breath hitches. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the way you say his name, a sultry beckoning and a plea all at once, like a heady sip of Merlot somehow scarring down the throat.

Perhaps it’s the way you’ve caught him. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart,” he intones.

You can hear every uptick beat of his heart while his big hands find an achingly familiar stronghold on your parted thighs. You’ve always admired the strength in his hands, and the way he can move you even without their talents—with just his lips, his voice, his eyes.

He’s found you in this hovel. Deep down, you knew he would eventually. You have him trapped beneath you on this dingy couch, your long nails biting into chipped leather instead of his skin. You’re the one who’s stronger now. And no matter how many warnings blare like a fiery lashing in your mind, you can’t help yourself. You want him more than ever.

It’s a devastating hunger.

For every cell that no longer bleeds red inside you, there’s a demand for more. You crave his taste, now in more ways than one. It scares you. This scares you, more than you’ve ever been scared of anything—even though you’re the one who’s in control, grabbing his face with a slender hand. Your fingertips press into his jaw, digging firmly enough into his stubble-covered cheeks to have the jade of his eyes solely on you.

Your eyes are different now. Darker, sharper, a phantom haze of violet and crushed roses. You see the way he takes in your face, trying to find something recognizable in you besides your body.

“You shouldn’t have,” you finally reply, though there’s hesitation in your voice. Conflict. Pain. Need. A small vulnerability, slight tremble. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And yet, that deep pit of empty, vicious craving deep in your core compels you to move, to take what you need.

“I think we both know I can handle it,” Dean says. His grin is cocky and familiar in its teasing, but his eyes hold the weight of more. He can’t just let you go. His grip tightens on your thighs to deliberately shift you against him, guiding your clothed pussy against the generous, straining bulge in his jeans. You feel the warmth of him already. You utter a soft moan, your brows knitting together.

Fuck. It’s only been days, but you’ve missed him.

Just a taste.

A threat of a kiss against his lips devolves into hungry devouring. A grunt and a groan loosen from the back of his throat. His fingers delve into your hair and slip around the strands, the same way you suck his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand slips around his back to pull him closer. Your nails rake down his spine, gripping the red flannel of his shirt. He hisses at the red lines likely carving across his skin, but his eyes open to you. They’re wild, alive in a way you can’t be.

The scent of his blood is earthy, rich, tantalizing—too much to set aside. What your flesh wants is secondary to the kind of lust that courses through you, black ink of nightshade in your veins.

Your fangs descend on reflex.

Your head moves fast, but your heart manages to win out the slightest bit; your sharp teeth nearly break the skin of his shoulder instead of tearing at his jugular, the way your instincts demand. A visceral cry for blood is trapped painfully in your throat. Your heart tears even more when you realize that you’ve failed. You couldn’t keep yourself away. You couldn’t stop yourself from—

Dean’s grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t bother to try and pull you back.

He just jabs the needle into your neck.

A full dose of dark crimson liquid seeps into your sluggish veins, making you gasp in pure shock. Though, you really should’ve known. Dead Man’s Blood.

Your limbs quickly fall beyond your control, and you slump against his shoulder. Your eyes begin to close, no matter how hard you fight to flutter them open. You can still hear his heart beating wildly, even as he holds you.

“Thought you were gonna take a chunk outta me, huh?” he remarks, with a flash of his wry smile. “Well, it’s been tried.”

Still, there’s more tenderness in his calloused hand when he sweeps your hair away from your cheek. He looks down at you with a note of devastation, apology, regret…but also determination. It furrows his brows and presses his lips into a line.

He sits up with you gathered in his arms, and he swiftly carries you out of this terrible old shed. It was the only place you could find in the city to hide yourself, to keep you away from living, breathing, movable feasts.

“It’s okay, baby. We found the cure,” he says. His voice is firm, reassuring, if holding the remnants of grit. “We’re gonna fix this. Just hold on…”

Your eyes have closed against your will, but his voice manages to move your heart that one inch. Hope.

Just hold on…

AN: Finally something short from me, right? 😂 Though it's actually the first time I've written a vampire reader. Felt like that's where the moodboard was leading me. 👌🏽

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[agentsreblogs]

I remember the pictures that sparked this story! This is such a silly premise, but the way Dean is so incredibly serious about it? Absolutely, unadulterated, 100% in character, imo.

Thank you for sharing this!

Crackfic: Dean Winchester's birthday treat

I saw an image. I had an idea. I wrote it. I am so sorry to give you this mental strain.

Characters: Dean Winchester/OFC

Summary: Dean Winchester presents his girlfriend with the thing he wants her to wear for his own birthday.

Word count: 582 words

Warnings: Silliness.

Dean Winchester's birthday treat

“What the hell is this?” Her face is screwed up as she takes in the newly opened gift from Dean. The more she reveals from the paper, the more confused she becomes. The colours are almost cartoonish green, tan, red, brown, tomato? Yep, that’s a tomato, is that cheese!?

Dean, meanwhile, can hardly stand still and is grinning from ear to ear, waiting for you to catch on. He’s practically bouncing from foot to foot.

“Wait… is this clothing?” She holds up what is unmistakenly a bra. Its cups are tan with little white dots on it, the lacing is replaced with what can only be described as tomato, lettuce and cheese fabric.

Dean starts nodding eagerly. “It’s a bikini, that’s also a…” he looks at her expectantly, his eyebrows raised and teeth shining in the widest boyish grin you’ve seen.

As she picks up what must be the bottom part of the bikini, she sighs heavily and closes her eyes in defeat: “Hamburger.”

“Yes! Isn’t it awesome?” Dean can’t hold himself back anymore and reaches forward to grab the thin, green fabric still left in the wrapping paper: a garter belt. It’s a salad patterned garter belt.

“And you… you want me to wear this?” Her eyes move from the bra and bottom in her hands to the garter belt in his, taking in the ridiculous garment he had somehow found somewhere online. The fabric feels soft and stretchy, and she cannot fathom how this could be what he wanted.

Dean nods eagerly, still grinning like. “Yes! It’s my birthday and you said I could buy you underwear and that you’d wear it.” He approaches her slowly, still smiling but now with something else – something darker in his eyes. “Please?”

She never stood a chance.

5 minutes later, she exits the bathroom feeling very self-conscious. Dean is waiting on a lone chair in the small motel room, but as soon as she opens the door he is on his feet and moving towards her.

“This is fucking ridiculous, Dean.” “No, I think you mean fucking awesome,” he corrects her, taking her hand and lifting it above her head to encourage her to spin. She obliges, of course. When Dean Winchester wants to look at one’s bikini covered body, one listens. As she returns to face him, his emerald eyes have grown dark with desire.

“You look delicious,” his voice dripping with unspoken intentions as he wets his lips while making sure he sees every bit of her dressed up in his wildest dream. His love for burgers is only outmatched by his love for her, and combining the two has his mind reeling.

She has no smart comeback, not when he’s looking at her like he’s about to dive headfirst into the greatest buffet ever. For a moment, the air thickens as they look at each other, then as one they find the other’s lips. Barely stopping for breath, Dean guides her to the bed while they both work on removing his belt and jeans. Eager hands make short work of it, and soon she is flat on her back on the bed while Dean is surveying his birthday present. An idea comes to him and she can see the glint in his eyes as if someone turned a sudden light on.

“What?” she laughs.

Dean chuckles: “Say it with me: Burgkini!” They both start giggling before he launches into his birthday meal, taking no hostages and leaving no crumbs behind.

-The end-

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I present to you: The Burger Bikini, picture from Reddit.

Sorry 😂

[agentsreblogs]

Look, I've been trying to give some love to all stories below 1K... and this is above my limit... but you know what? I make the rules, and I get to break them.

This was so fun to read! I especially love Gabe being a whiny bastard, without ever missing a beat, or a chance to be cheeky. Could hear the voices in my head, so... thank you for this, and thank you for sharing!

First Cold

Fandom/Ship: Supernatural - Sam Winchester & Gabriel

Rating:Teen

Word Count: 1,104

Warnings and Tags: sick fic, angst, self-pity, stuffy nose, post Asmodeus, cannon divergent, platonic bed sharing, past sexual relationship, complicated relationship, Gabriel gets sick, Gabriel low grace/powered down, human Gabriel, Sam takes care of Gabe, he is the worst patient, flu, sneezing, mentions of vomit, nausea

Summary: Of all the human things Gabriel was stuck with after being enslaved in Hell, being able to catch a cold was definitely the worst.

Written for @spnfanficpond May prompt: Being sick!

Author Note: You could probably read this as straight up sabriel, but in my head they've gone from enemies with benefits to friends with benefits to almost relationship to just friends/trauma bonded. I honestly didn't know how to tag that.

Read, First Cold, Rated Teen, in full below or on my Ao3.

*note, this story (and all of my others) on Ao3 is locked for registered Ao3 users.

First Cold

All in all being subject to temperature wasn't too bad, stealing Sam and Dean's clothes was fun after all, having to eat wasn't bad at all it just meant he had a reason to eat all the things he loved even if Sam was beginning to complain about how much of what he ate, and even the bathroom had its upsides –Gabriel found he adored a hot shower. Before catching a cold from some horrid human at the supermarket, Gabriel had thought the worst of it was the sleeping, being stuck with memories turned nightmares that had him crying out at all hours and being woken by Sam's pitying face was… uncomfortable to say the least. But now, after the sniffling horror in the store, the last archangel could firmly put the lack of immunity to any and all diseases at the top of his list.

"Ugh," a groan left him and then a sneeze seized him, echoing through the hallow walls of the bunker. "Fuck," he grumbled, resettling into the pillows he was propped up with against the headboard. 

"Here," Sam said, pushing more tissues at Gabriel with a wince. "And try to cover your mouth and nose… please."

The ‘please’ was tacked on as an afterthought, having reminded the archangel too many times to continue being polite. There was no way that he wasn’t going to catch Gabriel’s cold by the end of caring for him. A grimace pulled on his lips and slummed his shoulders, not looking forward to the prospect of catching whatever flu the archangel had come down with.

Out of all the annoyances of having Gabriel here, this was probably Sam's biggest one. The brunette had thought the worst of it was Gabriel's unhealthy eating habits. The archangel forgetting that he had to actually eat food for fuel and not just fun had been driving him off the deep end with concern and worry, but having the youngest of the ancient celestials with what seemed like a virus far surpassed that. Gabriel was worse than Dean when he was sick, and Sam had the urge to stick the archangel in a bubble the next time Gabriel insisted on coming with him for a supply run just to avoid ever being faced with the miserable entity.

Gabriel whined, taking a tissue from the offered box with a huff before doing his best impression of an elephant. "How long is this gonna last, Sam?" he bit out, wiping his nose and tossing the dirty tissue angrily towards the tin trashcan before taking another from the box.

"A week or two, hopefully," the hunter grumbled, frowning at the other as he threw the crumbled balls of tissue, sighing when at least one of them actually made it into the trashcan. "Think you can keep some food down?"

“Ugh.” Gabriel's lip pulled up with disgust at the thought of food, turning slightly onto his side and curling his knees back up to his chest. "No more of your damn broth, Nurse Sam," he grumbled, wiping his face on the pillowcase closest to him.

Sam mirrored the archangel's expression, biting back his protest to Gabriel wiping his dripping nose over their shared pillows. After a month of night terrors and running down the hall, Sam had thought it would be easier for them to simply share. It wasn't like they hadn't been in bed together before, granted that was under much different circumstances, but being a gentle reminder of what was real wasn't a role that Sam was unhappy with filling, nor was it one he didn’t understand needing, and Gabriel had been more than happy to reciprocate whenever Sam was trapped in his dreams. 

"I thought Cassie was gettin' me medicine?"

Sam nodded at the other's half muffled, half grumbled words. "Yeah, he and Dean made a run for some more cold stuff," his eyes went to the bedside clock and sighed. "I'll check on them and be right back…" he stood from the edge of the bed, putting the tissues within Gabriel's short reach, "With more of my damn broth."

"Ugh, I want a different nurse," Gabriel complained, curling the blanket's closer to himself.

"And I want a less whinny patient, preferably, one that doesn’t miss,” he complained, bending to scoop up the tissues that hadn’t made it into the trash with a disgusted twist of his lips. “But we can't all get what we want," Sam snarked at him, using a wet wipe to disinfect his hands before looking back to the pouting sniffling archangel. He frowned, walking back to him and placing the back of his hand on Gabriel's clammy forehead. "I'll get you a cloth, too," he mumbled, thinking about where Dean had left the thermometer last time one of them was sick. His frown only deepened when Gabriel leaned towards the press of his hand, running his fingers through the archangel’s hair. “I promise this will go away eventually too, Gabe,” he said in a gentle whisper. “You just gotta deal with it a bit longer, alright?” He asked, offering a weak half smile and cupping Gabriel’s cheek, disliking how warm he felt. 

Gabriel closed his eyes, enjoying how cool Sam’s hand felt against his face, only now realizing he probably had a fever again. “No choice,” he grumbled, opening his eyes when Sam pulled his hand away. He looked over the concern he still couldn’t get used to seeing in Sam’s eyes while being directed at him, but unable to say he didn’t like it. “Thanks… for taking care of me,” he said, gaze dropping to the trashcan and then to the bucket Sam had cleaned for him after his first attempt at broth this morning. “Try my best not to get you sick.” 

Sam chuckled a humorless laugh. “I think that ship has sailed, Gabe. Maybe just try to not sneeze directly on me anymore?” He smiled, resuming his way out of the room. “Or at least promise you’ll return the favor when I get sick,” he added after a moment, not thinking that the archangel would agree. 

“I would gladly be your nurse after this Sammy,” Gabriel huffed through his stuffy nose, grabbing another tissue and surprising Sam, causing him to pause in the doorway. 

The brunette stood watching Gabriel as he groaned into the tissue before throwing it, seemingly trying harder to actually aim for the trashcan than simply around it. He smiled at the archangel who snuggled back into his blankets, hesitating on leaving him before quickly moving from the archway so he could return all the faster to the whimpering ancient.

[agentsreblogs]

Benny, like Crowley, Gabriel, Balthazar and every single woman or POC in this goddamn show, deserved so much better.

Thank you for allowing Dean to at least pay homage to him!

Dead Daisies Don't Talk

Summary: Dean sits at Benny's grave for a moment.

WC: 437

Warnings: angst?

Read on Ao3!

A/N: written for my Title Writing Challenge because I'm bored and needed inspiration.

--

It’s a nothing town in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana. The kind of place that pretends it’s dead so death won’t bother coming. Cracked roads, half-empty bars, air thick with swamp rot and something older, heavier.

Dean steps out of the Impala and breathes in the rot like it's penance.

The graveyard isn’t marked. Not on maps. Not even with real names. Just a crooked wooden sign that says Whisper Hollow like it’s a joke only the dead would get.

There’s no headstone. Just a patch of dirt and a mess of wild daisies, half-dead, tangled like fingers clawing their way up from below.

Dean kneels down slow. Bones aching. Soul heavier than it’s been in months.

“This is stupid,” he mutters. “You’re not even here.”

But he still comes. Every year. Like it’ll fix something.

Like it'll bring him back.

Benny never asked for flowers. Never cared for sentiment. Said he didn’t believe in graves.

"Ashes to ashes, brother. After all I been through, I ain’t afraid of where I end up."

Dean used to laugh when he said that. Now it just makes him want to scream and cry and punch metallic thins until his knuckles bleed heavy in scarlet liquid.

Purgatory still clings to him in dreams. The echo of blades, the press of breath against his back. Benny at his shoulder, always steady. Always watching. Always just an arms length away.

There weren’t words for what they were down there. There didn’t have to be.

Trust. Blood. Loyalty that wasn’t asked for, just earned—every damn day.

Dean remembers the way Benny looked at him after a fight—blood splattered, hands shaking—and how Dean sometimes couldn’t breathe under the weight of it. Like Benny saw everything, even the parts Dean tried to bury six feet deep.The ones not even Sam asked about.

He sets a single daisy down in the dirt. Crushed petals. Bent stem. Something about it feels appropriate.

“You still got your hooks in me, you son of a bitch,” Dean says, voice rough. The wind stirs. Silent. Mocking.And for a second, just a second, he swears he hears Benny’s voice behind him.

"Ain’t about hooks, brother. It’s about hearts. And yours ain’t never stopped bleeding."

But when Dean turns, there’s nothing but shadows and crows.

He leaves the grave with dirt under his nails and silence in his throat. Dead daisies don’t talk. But that doesn’t stop him from listening, silently begging to God himself to bring Benny back to life, just for him, whether human or vampire, Dean didn’t care. He just wanted his creature back..

[agentsreblogs]

I genuinely don't remember if I reblogged, commented, or else, or I just read it and left this wash over me for the bittersweet gem that it is.

I've always had a fondness for fics where real life intrusions hit harder than usual, especially when they have such a soft way of offering comfort. Sure, things won't change. There's no happy ending in sight.

But there's softness. There's comfort. And those tiny specks of care are everything.

Thank you for sharing such a soft piece.

Death is Quiet When You Hold Me (Crowley SPN)

Summary: Crowley comforts you in your last moments

Warnings: angst, heartbreaking angst

WC: 505

A/N: title used as a prompt from this Challenge of mine

thanks to my beta reader @mermaidxatxheart ilysm <3

Read on ao3!

--

It always rained where you met him.

Maybe it was just coincidence. Or maybe the sky knew that something about Crowley—the King of Hell, the dealmaker, the devil in a sharp suit—softened when he was near you. And rain… rain was soft, in its own way. Rain felt like home.

You sat at the edge of an old motel bed, legs swinging off the side, eyes fixed on the streaked window. The storm outside matched the one in your chest.

You were dying. Not in the poetic way people say when they’re heartbroken. No—your body was failing. Slowly. Quietly. And no spell, no sigil, no deal had worked.

Not even his.

“I could rip apart Heaven and Hell for you,” he had said, voice barely above a growl. “But apparently… some things are still off the bloody table.”

And now he stood at the door, watching you like he always did when he thought you were asleep. Like looking too long might curse him. Or save him.

You turned, reaching out a hand.

“Don’t just stand there like a ghost,” you whispered. “Come here.”

He crossed the room in three strides. Always dramatic. Always fast when it was you. Everything mattered when it came to you.

Crowley knelt before you, hands cradling your knees like you were something breakable—like maybe you already had. He was always gentle with you.

“I thought I had time,” he murmured, voice tight, rough around the edges. “Should’ve known better. Time is a vicious thing. It's so cruel that humans are so vulnerable.”

“So are you,” you said, brushing your fingers through his hair. “But not with me.”

He smiled. It was crooked. Sad. “No. Never with you.”

You slid off the bed, curling into his lap. The floor was cold. His arms were colder. But somehow, it was the warmest place in the world.

You buried your face in his neck, breath shallow now, barely there. “Do you think… when it happens… I’ll see you again?”

Crowley exhaled like the words carved into him. “If there’s any justice in this world, you won’t.”

You looked up, eyes shining with something softer than fear.

“I want to.”

That broke him.

He held you tighter, like he could barter your life back just by keeping you close. Like death wouldn’t dare take you from his arms.

“Then I’ll find you,” he whispered. “Wherever you go, whatever form you take—I’ll find you, love. I swear by it.”

Silence fell between you, thick and tender. Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. But inside?

There was only the sound of rain.

And the soft, steady breath of a demon holding onto a heartbeat that was almost gone.

Death is quiet when you hold me, you wanted to say.

But by then, your eyes had already closed.

And Crowley, for the first time in centuries, prayed.

--

Tag List

[agentsreblogs]

Absolutely fucking love me some Demon Dean who's not struggling at all with the dark side, and in fact quite likes it. It's such a pleasure to read him!

Thank you for sharing, Cappy!

Edge of Glory (Deanmon)

Summary: Dean taunts you mercilessly.

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Reader

Prompt: “Say one more word and this knife is going down your throat.” from this list

Warnings: Dark, Angst, Tension, dean taunts the reader

WC: 338

Read on ao3!

The air in the motel room was thick with the scent of whiskey and something darker—something twisted.

Dean sat in the chair by the window, legs spread wide, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he twirled the silver knife between his fingers. His eyes—black as night, soulless—watched you like a predator sizing up its prey.

You should’ve left. You should’ve run the second you saw what he’d become.

But you didn’t.

"You’re staring, sweetheart," he drawled, voice edged with amusement. "Miss me that much?"

Your hands clenched into fists. "This isn’t you."

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. "There it is. The you can fight this, Dean speech." He tilted his head, dragging his gaze over you. "Gotta say, not very original. You really think you’re the first person to try?"

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t look away. "I know the real you is still in there."

Something in his expression shifted—just for a second. Then he was up, moving so fast you barely had time to react before he had you pinned against the wall, the cool blade of the knife pressing against your throat.

His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in. "Say one more word," he murmured, voice dangerously low, "and this knife is going down your throat."

Your pulse pounded, but you refused to flinch.

Dean grinned, tilting the blade just slightly, letting the sharp edge graze your skin. "You’re not scared, are you?"

"You want me to be?" you shot back, voice steadier than you felt.

He chuckled, dark and amused. "No. That’s what makes this fun."

The knife lingered for another agonizing moment before he finally pulled back, stepping away as if nothing had happened.

"Careful, sweetheart," he said, twirling the blade between his fingers once more. "You keep pushing me, and one of these days, I just might push back."

You exhaled shakily, never taking your eyes off him.

Because deep down, you knew—this wasn’t a warning.

It was a promise.

[agentsreblogs]

Oooofff. This hurts, but there's still so much sweetness in it. I love how you depicted it. And, of course, how the final sentence doesn't seem to be about the objects at all.

Thank you for sharing!

Dean dreams of the lake often. It's a peaceful place that exists in an eternal mid-afternoon, full of warm and gentle sunlight. He always sits on a chair at the end of the little wooden pier, fishing rod in one hand, beer in the other, and feels all the pressures of the waking world fade away.

(Dean's embarrassed to admit that it's his favourite dream.)

But now, ever since that first time Cas did his freaky Dreamwalking thing, he pops in sometimes too. At first Dean tells him to get out and let him fish in peace, but secretly he's glad that Cas keeps coming back. It's kinda nice to have the company.

After a while, another chair appears at the end of the pier.

"Make yourself at home why don't ya," Dean says, rolling his eyes.

"I didn't dream it here," Cas replies gently, sitting down in the new chair beside Dean. "You did."

A little while after that a second fishing rod appears next to the chair. Another beer bottle in the cooler.

Whenever Dean has The Lake Dream it's never long before Cas joins him. Sometimes they don't speak much, sometimes not at all, and sometimes they talk and talk and Dean wakes up feeling even more tired than before. (He feels happy though. He always wakes up smiling.)

Eventually the chairs draw closer together.

Cas asks him why he doesn't dream any fish into the lake, but Dean just shrugs and says that the fish being there isn't the point. Cas stares at him and tilts his head like he doesn't get it. Dean isn't going to explain.

The night after Cas confesses his truth and sacrifices himself, when Dean finally falls into an exhausted, drunken sleep, clutching the bloody handprint close - the chair beside him remains empty. The sunlight has gone, the lake churns dark and deep, and the second fishing rod sits abandoned, propped up against the empty chair.

Dean throws the rod into the lake, kicks the chair in after it, and collapses onto the pier, sobbing alone.

They hadn't even made a splash. Just disappeared like they'd never been there at all.

[agentsreblogs]

There's so much to explore here, and I'd be intrigued to get deeper into this. Thank you for sharing it!

Forgetful

Fandom/Ship: Supernatural/ Sam Winchester/Gabriel

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 257

Warnings and Tags: post season 13, older Sam, allusions to dementia, early symptoms, prompt fic, almost drabble, forgetfulness, grace, angst, whump, established relationship (only if you squint), bittersweet

Summary:  They all had been noticing how forgetful he was lately. Inspired by @fanfictionlibrary01 drabble prompt: Forgetful.

Author Note: Ah man, I wrote one happy thing and then immediately returned to my bittersweet love fest. Heh, well it's bittersweet for me, I just love the idea of an immortal being staying with an aging human forever and the human still being human. It just soothes me, so have some aging Sammy and the forever young and ancient archangel.

Read, Forgetful, Rated Teen, in full below or on my Ao3.

*note, this story (and all of my others) on Ao3 is locked for registered Ao3 users.

Forgetful

It was happening more often. 

Sam had never really been forgetful before, sure there were little things here and there. A spell, a birthday, and the ever present: "Where did I leave my keys, again?"

However, lately it had been more frequent. Like a fog was settling over his every thought, shrouding memories long cherished in secrecy. It was all on the tip of his tongue, right there but forever out of reach.

He found himself talking, laughing as he retold one of his favorite hunting stories, and then in a blink, it was gone. His brows furrowed, his tongue limp in his mouth and his jaw slightly slack. He shifted his feet, a stutter of disbelief leaving him as his eyes dashed from side to side, attempting to jog his mind back into action. Regardless of how much he tried, or how long, it as gone, vanished like a shell swept out to sea by the tides.

"It was a cat, wasn't it, Samheart?"

A warm hand touched the back of his, and he blinked at the spark that seemed to push the fog from his memory, spreading through him via the archangel's touch. He blinked, looking from concerned patient faces towards the celestial’s reassuring and timeless smirk, the entity commanding the vast tides of his mind to push the shells back to shore.

The brunette nodded, slowly focusing on the reassurance of Gabriel's easy smile. "Yeah, yeah right," he swallowed, pushing away everything except the spark Gabriel had relit within his mind. "So he’s screaming…"

[agentsreblogs]

Benny deserves so much softness! 🖤🖤🖤

Sleepless Nights (benny lafitte)

Summary: Neither you or benny could sleep tonight... until you have each other's company.

Warnings: just fluff

WC: 950

Read on Ao3!

-

The small Louisiana town was quiet, save for the soft hum of crickets outside your window. The air was heavy with the warm scent of the bayou, but it was peaceful, like the world had settled into a calm rhythm for the night.

You were curled up in your bed, the soft sheets bunched around you as you tried to sleep, but something wasn’t quite right. Your thoughts were swirling, restless, and no matter how many times you turned over, you couldn’t seem to drift off.

The knock on your door came out of nowhere, soft and hesitant. You sat up, frowning at the unexpected visitor at such a late hour. Rubbing your eyes, you slid out of bed and padded to the door, pulling it open.

There, standing in the soft glow of the porch light, was Benny.

His dark hair was a little tousled, and the usual calm expression on his face was replaced with something more vulnerable, almost nervous. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his jacket, and when his deep blue eyes met yours, there was a gentleness in them that made your heart skip a beat.

“Benny?” you whispered, surprised to see him there in the middle of the night. “What are you doing here?”

He gave you a small, sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head, your concern growing. “Is everything okay?”

Benny shrugged, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he looked back up at you. “Yeah, cher. Just… one of those nights, you know?” He paused, then, in a quiet voice, he added, “I can’t sleep. Can I stay here?”

Your heart softened at the sight of him. Benny was always so strong, so sure of himself, but seeing him like this—unsure and in need of comfort—made something stir inside you. You nodded, stepping back to let him in.

“Of course, Benny. You can stay as long as you need.”

He stepped inside, his large frame seeming to fill the small space of your living room, but he moved with such care, like he didn’t want to intrude. You closed the door behind him, and when you turned around, he was already looking at you with that warm, grateful smile that made your stomach flutter.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Benny said softly, his deep voice tinged with guilt.

You shook your head, brushing it off. “I wasn’t really asleep anyway. You’re always welcome here.”

His eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his presence somehow comforting in its familiarity. “Thanks, darlin’. You’re too good to me.”

You smiled and gestured toward the couch. “Do you want to sit down, or…?”

Benny hesitated for a moment before he glanced toward your bedroom door, his voice a little quieter. “If it ain’t too much to ask, I’d rather be closer to you.”

Your breath caught at his words, warmth flooding your chest. Benny wasn’t one to ask for help, and the fact that he was being so open, so vulnerable, made you want to do anything to ease whatever was weighing on him.

You nodded, your heart beating a little faster as you led him back into your bedroom. It felt strange, but in the best possible way, like something intimate was happening between you two without a word being spoken. You both climbed into bed, and even though the space was small, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Benny lay down beside you, his broad shoulders almost touching yours, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him, his presence grounding you in a way that chased away the restlessness from earlier.

“Is this okay?” you asked quietly, turning to look at him.

Benny’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, he just stared at you, something soft and unspoken passing between you. Then he nodded, his voice low and full of gratitude. “Yeah. This is perfect.”

You lay there in the darkness, the sound of your breaths filling the quiet space. Neither of you spoke, but the tension you had felt earlier, the swirling thoughts in your head, had melted away. Having Benny here, so close, made everything feel… right.

After a few minutes, you felt him shift beside you, his hand brushing against yours. His touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you gently laced your fingers with his, and you felt him relax next to you, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Benny murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You squeezed his hand gently. “You didn’t. I’m glad you came.”

He was silent for a moment before he spoke again, his voice soft and honest. “I feel safe with you.”

The words hit you with a gentle force, making your heart swell. Benny, the strong, unshakable vampire, felt safe with you. It was a confession that meant more than you could express.

“You’re safe here, Benny,” you whispered back, turning your head to look at him. “Always.”

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that lit up his face, and in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains, he looked at peace for the first time that night.

As the silence returned, the weight of sleep began to settle over you. With Benny beside you, his hand in yours, the restlessness you’d felt earlier faded completely. You felt safe too—safe and cared for in a way that you hadn’t realized you needed.

And just before sleep claimed you, you heard Benny’s soft voice, a quiet promise meant just for you.

“Merci, cher. I ain’t never leavin’ your side.”

[agentsreblogs]

There's something about a broken character finding some respite that's just too beautiful to me.

Thank you for this, Cappy!

You Feel Real to Me (Soldier Boy)

Summary: Ben is broken beyond belief.

WC: 759

Warnings: PTSD, emotional breakdown, guilt, self-loathing, hurt/comfort

Read on ao3!

--

The nightmares never left him. Not really. He could drown them in booze. Bury them under blood and fire. But they always came back.

Tonight, they hit him harder than usual.

He woke up swinging — gasping, snarling, soaked in cold sweat — fists striking at invisible enemies.

It took him a full minute to realize where he was.

Not the jungle. Not the war. Not in some goddamn lab, strapped down and screaming into the dark.

He was in the shitty motel you found for the two of you. A dump, sure — but it was safe. Safe because you were there. His breathing tore in and out of him like a broken machine. His knuckles ached where he’d punched the headboard. Splinters of cheap wood stuck to his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to get a handle on himself. Tried. The mattress shifted beside him.

You. You were still there. Your warmth seeped into him, even across the narrow gap he’d put between you — because he didn't trust himself not to ruin you if you got too close. "Ben...?" Your voice, soft, still fogged with sleep.

He turned his head — barely — enough to see you propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes blurry but alert. Worried. Always worried. He hated that he made you look at him like that.

A lie so obvious even he hated hearing it.

You didn’t call him on it. You just shifted closer cautiously until your hand hovered, uncertain, over his arm. An invitation, not a demand. It shattered him. He twisted toward you — grabbing your hand, pulling it against his chest like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.

You made a soft, wounded sound at the back of your throat and curled into him without hesitation. And for the first time all night, Soldier Boy breathed.

You ran your fingers gently through his hair — steady, soothing strokes — and he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. But fuck if he could make himself let go.

"Ben," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It's okay. You're safe."

The words hit harder than any bullet. He shook his head minutely against you. Safe? He wasn't safe. He was a walking bomb. A fucking monster.

But you — You made him feel something. Something besides anger. Something besides that endless, gnawing hollow inside his ribs. Something real. The only thing that felt real anymore.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice cracking open. "Christ, I'm sorry."

"For what?" you asked, blinking up at him.

He looked away — jaw tight, throat working like he was swallowing broken glass.

"For... this," he said finally, bitter and raw. "For being... me."

You sat up slightly, bracing yourself on one hand. The motel lamp cast a soft halo around you — made you look almost unreal.

Like something he’d dreamed up.

"You don't have to apologize for surviving," you said simply.

He huffed out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob.

"Survivin'?" he echoed, voice twisted. "That what you call it?"

He dragged a hand through his hair, rough and shaking.

"You don’t know the shit I’ve done, sweetheart. You don’t... you wouldn’t look at me the same if you knew."

You reached out and cupped his jaw — gently but firmly, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"I know enough," you said, fierce and soft all at once. "I know who you are now."

Something cracked inside him. Deep and jagged and bleeding. He surged forward — grabbing you like he was afraid you'd disappear — burying his face against your neck, arms locked tight around your waist. You held him. Without fear. Without flinching. Just held him.

He didn’t realize he was shaking until you started murmuring nonsense into his hair — soothing, rhythmic sounds — rocking him slightly like he was something fragile and precious.

Ben had been called a lot of things in his life. Hero. Weapon. Monster. Mistake. Never precious. Not once. And hearing those words coming out of your beautiful mouth broke him.

"You don’t have to fight alone anymore," you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of it. "You have me. You’ll always have me, you, beautiful boy."

And it broke him. Utterly.

He clutched you tighter, like if he let go for even a second the whole world would collapse around him again.

"You’re the only thing that feels real," he whispered against your skin so raw, so broken that it barely sounded like his voice. "The only goddamn thing."

You kissed his temple. And for once, Soldier Boy — Ben — let himself believe it.

--

// PLEASE GIVE THIS A REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED\\

[agentsreblogs]

Are you frustrated you can't leave second kudos on AO3? or third kudos? or whatever-who's-counting kudos?

Well, have I got the html for you!

Plop any of these in a comment (by copy&pasting the code) to make an author's day and show your appreciation!

Second kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/tHMjbb6/second-kudos.png" alt="second kudos">

Third kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/52bggQH/third-kudos.png" alt="third kudos">

nth kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/6y7qGtC/nth-kudos.png" alt="nth kudos">

yet another kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/wKtcj0s/yet-another-kudos.png" alt="yet another kudos">

It will look something like this (and will be transparent with white outline on dark backgrounds):

Feel free to spread and use these as much as you like! (and if you have ideas for other variations, let me know ✌️)

[agentsreblogs]

Your Blood On My Hands (Your love is my salvation) Masterlist

This is the masterlist for a mini multichap.

Rating: Explicit

Ship: Lucifer/Dean

Word count: 2985 (ongoing)

Written for: This was written for @spnrareships Rare Ship Friday

Tags and Warnings: Dom!Lucifer, Sub!Dean, Blood play, blood, Dom Drop, Hurt/Comfort, Dom/sub, safewording, tell me if i need to add more tags

Summary: After Dean safewords, Lucifer’s thoughts start spiraling. Despite that, he still needs to take care of his Sub… And, in the end, they might have to take care of each other.

Beta by @playwithdarkfire and IudexInferalis on AO3. Thank you!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 - Coming soon

Read on AO3

To have updates on my fics, make sure you follow me and join my Discord Server to have bonus snippets, deleted scenes, make requests, and the like. It’s FREE.

If you’d like, donate me a Ko-fi

[agentsreblogs]

Kiss Me Tender (Castiel)

Summary: you confess to Castiel that you're in love with him.

Warnings: fluff <3

WC: 690

Read on Ao3!

-

The quiet hum of the bunker surrounded you, a stark contrast to the chaos that often came with hunting. Tonight, however, was different. Sam had gone off to research something, and Dean was off on a supply run. It left you alone with Castiel, the former angel who seemed to understand both the beauty and sorrow of the world better than anyone you’d ever known.

You sat in the library, surrounded by old books and maps, pretending to focus on something, but your mind kept wandering to the angel across from you. His intense blue eyes scanned through ancient texts, but every so often, you’d catch him glancing your way. There was a gentleness in his expression that made your heart flutter, something you tried to push down for far too long.

“What are you reading?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Castiel blinked and looked up at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “I’m researching a new demon sigil Dean wanted me to examine. It’s... fascinating.”

You chuckled softly. “Fascinating? Demons aren’t really fascinating, Cas. They’re kind of the opposite.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Yes, but their sigils are intricate. There’s something beautiful about how even the most malevolent beings can create something complex.”

That was Castiel—always finding beauty in unexpected places. The way he saw the world never ceased to amaze you. But it wasn’t just his perspective that drew you to him; it was his kindness, his loyalty, and his growing humanity.

He shifted in his seat, closing the book and setting it aside. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated. There had been a tension building between the two of you for weeks, an unspoken energy that neither of you dared to address. And now, sitting alone in the dimly lit library, you felt it more than ever.

“I’m fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. It wavered, carrying a weight that you couldn’t hide anymore.

Castiel’s eyes softened as he stood up, moving closer to you. He knelt by your side, his gaze locked on yours. “You don’t seem fine.”

Your breath hitched as his hand gently touched yours. His warmth seeped into your skin, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You had no words, no witty remark, no excuse. Only the truth you had been running from.

“I think I love you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You immediately regretted it, feeling the air between you grow thick with uncertainty. But Castiel didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away or seem confused.

Instead, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch steady. “You think?”

A small laugh escaped your lips. “Okay... I know I love you.”

His expression softened, and his eyes shone with something you couldn’t quite place. Was it surprise? Affection? Or something deeper? You weren’t sure.

“I’m... not very familiar with love,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost vulnerable. “But I know how I feel when I’m with you. It’s... different. Strong.”

Your heart raced as he continued.

“I feel... grounded. Like I belong. You’ve shown me things I never understood before—feelings I never knew I could have.”

You could barely breathe as he spoke, every word drawing you closer to him.

“I think I love you too,” Castiel finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without thinking, you leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you. His lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss, filled with all the unspoken words between you. It was gentle at first, but as he deepened the kiss, you felt the weight of his confession, the purity of his affection.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested against each other. Neither of you said anything for a moment, basking in the warmth of the moment.

“I’ve waited so long to say that,” you whispered.

Castiel smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his entire face. “Then let’s not wait anymore.”

--

Like this? Consider supporting me and buying me a coffee!

[agentsreblogs]

Weekly Pond Newsletter

I've got a baby in my house, I'm madly in love with him, and apparently, baby brain can happen to anyone living in the same house as the baby. You really don't need to be directly related to the baby. It's just contagious. Please bear with me for the next few years until he's no longer a baby and I stop being high on all the hormones floating around. 🤣

(Side note: Do NOT go into the gif search and look for "diaper." I'm scarred for life, now. 😱)

Old Business:

SPNFanFicPond Fic Highlight - We post a fic highlight that was a present for @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes's birthday a really long time ago, and it's for a Destiel AU fic that deals with some serious topics. Click here to read our review and get a link to the story!

#FlashFicFriday prompts - Here are your #FlashFicFriday prompts for last week! A psychic in a library AU? They don't give you the book you want to read, they give you the book you NEED to read!

New Business:

Competitive Writing Sprints - Admin Marie will be hosting writing sprints later today, focusing on the monthly prompts for May! Since this is the first time we're doing this, it's a bit up for grabs about how it's going to work. Come join Marie and help to make this into something you'd have more fun doing!

Coming Soon - The New Member Spotlight post will happen sometime soon! Promise! Really!

US holiday - This weekend is Memorial Day weekend here in the US, with the official holiday happening on Monday, and it marks the official start of summer here! We hope everyone has a good weekend, whether it's a holiday for you or not!

(Divider by @glygriffe!)

That’s all for this week! To see all Pond events, and also other SPN-related things like conventions and online concerts, check out our Google calendar! Click here for a static view in Eastern US/Canada time (desktop only, no mobile app access, sadly), and click here to add our calendar to your own Google calendar! We try to keep it as up-to-date as possible. If there’s something you want to see on the calendar that’s not there (maybe a convention we missed, cast birthdays, or something similar), send us an ASK and let us know!

Hope you have a great week! - From your Admins and Manta Rays, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @mariekoukie6661, @heavenssexiestangel, @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes, and @manawhaat!

[agentsreblogs]

Who's The Devilish Of Them All?

Art by @enteselene and words by @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell

Summary: There is a portraiture in Winchester Manor that bears a resemblance of a man in black, holding a carnation, with flames surrounding him. No one knows where Man with Carnation came from, whether it’s a mirror or a portrait, or even what time period it’s supposed to be from. But it’s in Winchester Manor, and Man with Carnation has advised three generations of Winchesters under the moniker Crowley. This is that story.

Rating: M

Relationship(s): Gen

Tags: Canon-Compliant Violence, Canon-Compliant Events, On-Screen Deaths, Not Main Character Deaths, Crowley lives, God!Crowley, Imprisoned!Crowley, Fairy Tale Style Retelling of the Story

Admire the art here!

Enjoy the story here!

And, as always, leave the artists some love!

[agentsreblogs]

The Bare King

As anticipated, the Crowley Reverse Bang is live! And we kick it off with the fantastic art by @midnightsilver and the story it inspired, written by @walkingaline!

Doesn't that look fantastic? Well, just so you know... there's a lot more!

Enjoy reading about the most important game of chess ever played, and don't forget to admire the art!

Summary: When Crowley wakes up, out of the Empty, he barely remembers his final moments. Still, when he finds himself staring at a very special chessboard, he knows that the stakes of the game will be impossibly high.

Characters: Crowley, Billie

Warnings: none

Tags: Chess metaphors, The Empty, Hope, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Chuck Shurley being an asshole

Admire the art here

Find the story here

And please, reblog and help us spread the word: the King is back!

[agentsreblogs]

To Make the Devil Behave (Crowley)

Summary: You needed to find a way to release your brother from the grips of the mafia lord himself.

Warnings: angst, a devils bargain

WC: 583

Read on ao3!

--

The chandelier in the centre of the grand dining hall cast a golden glow over the polished marble floors. You adjusted your gloves nervously, the faint hum of the gathered guests doing little to settle your nerves. You weren’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t your world—this was his.

And yet, here you were, standing on the devil’s doorstep.

“Darling, if you keep fidgeting like that, someone might think you’re nervous.”

The smooth, unmistakable voice sent a shiver down your spine. You turned slowly, and there he was, Crowley.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that fit him like a second skin, he exuded power and danger in equal measure. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he offered you a glass of wine, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he continued, taking a sip from his own glass.

You lifted your chin, refusing to let him see the crack in your armour. “You left me no choice.”

“Ah, yes.” Crowley gestured to a table in the corner, away from the prying eyes of his associates. “Let’s discuss this little… misunderstanding.”

The way he said it as if holding your brother’s life over your head was a minor inconvenience, made your blood boil. But you followed him, your heels clicking against the floor as you moved to the secluded spot.

Once seated, he leaned back in his chair, entirely at ease. “So, what is it you propose, darling? A trade? A plea? Or perhaps something more… creative?”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m here to make a deal.”

Crowley chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Of course you are. But the question is—what do you have that I could possibly want?”

You reached into your clutch and pulled out a slim envelope, sliding it across the table. He raised an eyebrow, taking it with a languid movement. As he opened it, his expression shifted, the smirk faltering for just a moment.

“Well, well.” He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

The envelope contained incriminating photos and documents, evidence that could unravel parts of his empire. It was a dangerous gambit, but it was all you had.

“You let my brother go,” you said, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart, “and this stays between us.”

For a moment, Crowley was silent, studying you like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, slowly, he set the envelope down and steepled his fingers.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “But you’ve made one critical mistake.”

You stiffened, your stomach twisting. “What mistake?”

Crowley leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You think you can make the devil behave.”

The air between you crackled with tension. But then, to your surprise, he leaned back, a grin spreading across his face.

“Lucky for you, I find that kind of audacity… intriguing.”

“What does that mean?” you asked warily.

“It means,” Crowley said, standing and buttoning his jacket, “I’ll release your brother. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. But don’t think this means you’re off my radar, darling. You’ve caught my attention now, and that’s not something easily undone.”

As he walked away, leaving the envelope untouched on the table, you exhaled shakily, unsure whether you’d won or simply delayed the inevitable.

Because making the devil behave was one thing. But keeping him interested? That was a game you weren’t sure you could win.

--

this is your kind reminder that reblogs give me life.